The words scrape out of your throat like broken glass. "Please. Eugene, please. I need more time. Or—or let me work it off. I'll do anything."
He tilts his head, studying you with those dead eyes. "Anything?"
"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.
Eugene stands up slowly, walking around the desk. He stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell his sour breath and the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his wife-beater. "You know what I think, Carla? I think you need to understand your place here. Really understand it."
He reaches out and grabs a handful of your belly fat through the torn tank top, squeezing it. You flinch but can't move away—your body is too massive, too slow.
"Strip down to your underwear," he says casually. "I want to see what I'm working with."
Your stomach drops. Superman wouldn't do this. Couldn't do this. But Superman could fly away. Superman had dignity. You have nothing but five hours until rent default and the certainty that whatever comes next will be worse.
With shaking hands, you peel off the torn tank top. Your massive breasts sag in a dingy gray bra that's now far too small, the straps cutting into your shoulders. You struggle with the sweatpants, having to lean against the desk for balance as you work them down over your enormous thighs. They pool around your ankles.
You stand there in stained underwear, your body a monument to humiliation. Rolls of fat hang from your frame. Your thighs are so thick they press together from hip to knee. Your belly protrudes obscenely.
"Turn around," Eugene commands. "Show me that fat ass."
You turn slowly, the movement awkward and labored. You can feel his eyes crawling over every inch of your grotesque form.
"Now," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction, "here's the deal. You suck my dick, I'll knock two hundred off this month's rent. That's the best offer you're getting."
You close your eyes. Two hundred would leave you needing two hundred more. Still impossible, but less impossible.
"Okay," you whisper.
"On your knees, then."
Getting down is its own ordeal. Your joints protest, your massive body fighting gravity. You lower yourself slowly, bracing against the desk, until you're kneeling on the dirty linoleum. Eugene unzips his cargo shorts with deliberate slowness, his erection already visible through his boxers.