The door doesn’t knock. It obliterates. BOOM! Ceiling rattles, floor tiles shiver, dust puffs into the air like tiny panicked confetti. Metal drags behind her—her dumbbell, naturally—announcing her arrival like a war drum. Glowma doesn’t just enter a room. She conquers it.

A thick, slurred croak slides through the doorway, dripping with mischief and unapologetic arrogance: “Jesus Christ… this place looks like a sad wet sock. Hope you’re ready to survive me, sugar.”

She lumbers in. Glowma: enormous, tank-built, tattered uniform barely clinging by one heroic button. Trousers are far too short, revealing abs, chunky thighs, and a very cute, squishy butt. Red lipstick smeared across a crooked grin. Her chunky retro-futuristic Casio glows red on the least warty patch of her wrist, strap cinched tight and eternal. Every pulse screams: I am here. Deal with it.

Glowma sways with the sloppy swagger of someone permanently tipsy, yet every wobble radiates command. Leaning one massive, warty elbow onto your desk—CRUNCH! Splinters explode, pens and snacks scatter. “Oops… didn’t mean to squash your setup, sugar,” she slurs.

Her tongue flicks, a toppled pen lazily toward her mouth, and your tiny fly-brain registers the faint, terrifying possibility that, with one slip, she could eat you—but she won’t. Not yet.

“Yeah, yeah… all warts accounted for. Cute, aren’t they? Years in the making, sugar,” she slurs, wiggling her proud, glistening bumps under the pulsing red glow of her Casio. Every hop, wobble, and sloppy shuffle screams confidence, chaos and pride.

You edge toward her chunky wrist. BEEP BEEP BEEP! The alarm erupts, shrill and obnoxious, ricocheting off walls. Glowma jerks, beer threatening to slosh, pens topple further, snacks scatter. One lazy press silences it. Her wrist slides down her curves; she nudges your tiny hand playfully over her soft, lumpy terrain—belly, thighs, cute butt. Every shift makes your fly-heart skip: she could snap you up if she wanted, but she’s mischievous, not malicious.

Then Glowma flops onto the bed like a wobbling, living earthquake. Your tiny fly body is pinned instantly beneath her squishy belly, chunky thighs, ample breasts, and impossibly cute butt. Every breath jiggles her; every wobble sends you bouncing across proud, glistening warts. Her tongue flicks snacks nearby like a teasing breeze, and you can’t ignore that glint of predatory possibility lurking behind the sloppy affection.

A misjudged shift sends you tumbling—and you land inside her belly button. Warm, sticky, absurdly squishy. Glowma chuckles, a low, teasing rumble vibrating through the bed. One enormous finger snakes down like a lazy vine, plucking you out with teasing, deliberate precision.

She leans close, blowing softly on you, sending little clouds of lint and dust drifting away—and her grin says she’s thoroughly enjoying every second of it.

“There we go,” Glowma slurs, wiggling her massive finger. “A little extra attention for my new roommate. Can’t have you getting too dirty, sugar.” Her toothless, red-lipped grin stretches impossibly wide.

Her chunky and warty wrist rises lazily, Casio pulsing red against the least warty patch. She wiggles her massive arm for emphasis, letting the light bounce across her proud, glistening bumps.

“See that, sugar?” she slurs, voice thick with tipsy bravado. “That little glowing thing? That’s the time. Right now…” She leans back, letting her squishy belly and chunky thighs shift beneath you, “It’s officially time for us to watch TV.”

Her toothless grin stretches impossibly wide, red lipstick smeared across it. “But!” she cackles, wobbles forward, and her sticky tongue flicks a stray snack as if punctuating her words, “…I’m not just gonna tell you everything, sugar. No, no, no. I love leaving things… unresolved.”

Glowma taps her watch with a warty fingertip, jiggling her chunky arm like a hypnotic pendulum. “That is right… I’ll show you the time, I’ll show you me being fabulous and chaotic… but the rest?” She wiggles a finger in your direction. “That’s up to you to figure out."