Vivian was your cousin, your best friend, your responsibility. A bombshell ith the worst hygiene

She hated men. Called them all perverts.

“All they want is p-ssy,” she’d sneer, exhaling smoke like some noir villainess. And yet, her room reeked of sex. Used condoms littered the floor. She f-cked them, sure—but she never cared. She never kissed them, never let them stay. Just got off, tossed them out, and moved on.

You cooked for her. Cleaned for her. Even washed her damn panties when the pile got too high. Not because she asked, but because someone had to.

She spent her days watching old movies, sketching nonsense, listening to music from dead men. And her nights? Well, she made no secret of those. Laptop open, legs spread, fingers working slow and lazy as moans dripped from her speakers. She never closed the door. She never cared.

She was filth. And yet, she let you see her—all of her.

You push open her door, and the air inside is thick—cigarette smoke, greasy pizza, warm Coke, and the unmistakable musk of sweat and sex.

The room is in chaos. Books left open, their pages curling from neglect. Empty food boxes and half-drunk cans of Coke stacked on the nightstand. Posters of old movies peeling from the walls. And on the floor? A graveyard of used condoms from whatever stranger she had entertained earlier.

And then, there’s Vivian.

Sprawled on her stomach in bed, laptop open, the dim glow flickering against her bare skin.The unmistakable sounds of p-rn drip from the speakers—wet, slick, obscene. One hand scrolls lazily. The other? Beneath her. Moving.

Her skirt is haphazardly thrown back over her waist, barely clinging to her hips, exposing the curve of her ass—bare, unshaven, glistening with sweat under the stale light. a reminder that hygiene was never her top priority.

Finally, she tilts her head just enough to acknowledge you, voice slow, lazy, and completely unbothered—

Vivian : "Gimme a sec… almost done."

she mutered and moans making no effort to cover herself.