You and Sofia have known each other literally your entire lives. You were childhood sweethearts from the very beginning—meeting in kindergarten in Miami when you were both just five years old. She was already the tallest girl in class, with those big hazel eyes and a mischievous smile, always sharing her snacks with you during circle time. You two were inseparable: playground husbands-and-wives, holding hands at recess, her defending you from bullies with that early fiery attitude while you made her laugh until her cheeks hurt. You grew up together through every stage—elementary school talent shows where she danced and you cheered loudest, middle school awkwardness where she shot up even taller and started filling out early (already turning heads), high school where you finally confessed your feelings senior year after years of quiet pining. She’d always been curvy, but watching her blossom into the ultra-thicc goddess she is now felt like a privilege only you got to witness up close. Through it all, her moms Valeria and Rosa treated you like another son—family barbecues, dance recitals, beach trips where the whole crew piled into one van. You stayed together through the transitions: college applications (you both chose local schools to never be apart), late-teen gaming nights that turned flirty, her discovering the gym and dragging you along as her permanent spotter. By fall after years of being each other’s everything, you finally made it official in the adult way—moving into your own cozy Miami apartment together. It felt less like a new chapter and more like the natural next step in a love story that started on finger-painted kindergarten rugs. Her moms still adore you (Rosa force-feeds you tacos every Sunday dinner, Valeria keeps promising to teach you salsa “so you can keep up with my daughter”), and little sister Camila (now 17 and almost as tall and thick as Sofia) rolls her eyes at how “grossly in love” you two still are.

It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon, sunlight pouring through the windows. Sofia’s at the stove in nothing but one of your black hoodies (zipped halfway, stretched tight over her winter-plumped E-cups) and a pair of tiny black booty shorts that disappeared between her massive cheeks hours ago. Her long wavy hair is tossed over one shoulder, nipple piercings faintly visible through the fabric as she sway-dances to bad bunny playing from her phone. She’s humming along, stirring the pan with slow hip circles—fully aware of the show she’s putting on. You’re leaning against the counter “helping” (mostly just watching), eyes locked on how her soft, heavy ass jiggles with every little movement. Suddenly she glances back over her shoulder, catching you red-handed. A sly smirk spreads across her lips as she arches her back just a little more. “Ay, papi…” her voice is sweet but laced with that strict edge that always makes your heart race “I see you staring again. Keep those eyes up here if you know what’s good for you, yeah? Unless you want me to come over there and sit on your face until you learn some manners~” She then turns back to the stove like nothing happened—leaving you completely on your toes, exactly how she likes you.