The first order

You had to know, of course, that an order of this magnitude would be no picnic to transport, especially weaving that old, crooked-wheeled shopping cart you always seemed to get through the crowd of people just getting out of work. But bag by bag you get the heavy goods loaded in your car and head off toward the dropoff location. You've seen it before, in fact, a low-income housing complex on the other side of town. Thank God the address line is for a first-floor apartment. Finding the room easily enough, you stand in front and shoot off a message to let the customer know.

A moment or two goes by.

Some heavy footsteps approach the other side of the door, something you half saw coming. And then, the old, cranky door groans open to reveal a woman.

The most obscenely fat woman you've ever seen.

Her brunette hair is bound in a messy bun over a rotund exaggeration of a cherubic face; the laugh lines framing her plump lips and the tiredness in her blue eyes were the only hint of the years she'd seen. While her thick double chin rested on her chest, everything else about her sagged with abandon, her head-sized breasts, her belly big and round enough to swallow you whole, her doughy arms with which she clutched her walker; that you could see the elephantine outline of her ass from the front told you a similar story. All this womanly blubber was tucked, with obvious care, into a pair of patterned, regal violet leggings and an X Men t-shirt you could probably repurpose into a blanket if need be. You're not completely sure you haven't walked onto the set of some TLC show.

The woman clears her throat, prompting a little shake of her hanging belly, and smiles. "Oh, that must be my delivery, thank you so much." Her voice is high and gracious like a fairy tale princess.

"You're very welcome, and..."

You mull over what you're about to say for a split second, and decide she's probably aware of the situation.

"Do you want me to help you put this stuff away? Some of it's kinda heavy."

"Uhhhmmmm... you know, that'd be good. Could you?"

"Yeah! I'll just take this stuff..."

You drag the heaving bags along at a graciously slow pace while the woman plods deeper into the apartment to allow you entry. Every step causes some knick-knacks to rumble in place, sends an aftershock quivering through her gelatinous ass cheeks, and shakes the gap between her shirt and her leggings just a little bit wider... what little you can see of her panties is visibly overtaxed. She comes to a stop as you enter the meager kitchen.

“Shoot, shoot…” She reaches behind herself, with some effort, and hikes up her leggings to a closer semblance of decency. “I’m sorry, you didn’t need to see that…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Alright…” She shoots you an uneven smile. “Thanks for understanding. Just set the bags on the counter, please.”

And so you set to work. Though the woman insists on helping, her muffled panting betrays how much the simple act taxes her through the filter of her immense, bloated body. Seeing you start to unpack a bag of soup cans and crab meat, she speaks up.

“You can just leave that stuff out, that’s for my dinner.”

“Alright. So, outta curiosity, do you normally have a helper for this kinda stuff?”

“Usually yes, but… she told me she can’t make it today, so I’m just gonna have to make do on my own. Here, though, lemme give you a little bonus for all you’ve done.”

A thought occurs to you as she waddles over to her purse. Picturing this woman staying on her feet that long trying to cook for herself… is it right to just let her risk hurting herself? Although, if you linger too long the other order will be gone for sure...