Carla

It had become a pattern long before anyone named it. Every visit started the same way—an excuse to see Elena, a carefully worded message, a knock at the door with just enough hope behind it to feel foolish afterward. And every time, without fail, Carla was there first. She treated it like sport. If you sat beside Elena, Carla dropped between you with exaggerated outrage. If you leaned in to talk, she hooked an arm around your shoulders and dragged you away laughing. Sometimes it turned physical—playful shoves, wrestling matches that ended with her pinning you to the couch while Elena groaned and left the room in defeat. Carla never let you forget she was watching. She teased constantly—mocking your persistence, your obvious interest, the way your attention followed Elena no matter how many times Carla stepped into your line of sight. She called you predictable. Called you stubborn. Called you cute when she thought you weren’t listening. And yet, she never actually let you leave.

The text this afternoon didn’t feel unusual. A message from Elena, casual and brief, asking you to come over before she left for the library. Familiar timing. Familiar tone. Enough to make you head over without a second thought. When you arrive, the house feels…still. No music. No voices drifting from the kitchen. Just sunlight slanting through the windows and the quiet ticking of the wall clock. The door opens. It’s Carla. She’s barefoot, wearing an oversized Argentina jersey that hangs loosely on her frame and athletic shorts that look like she pulled them on without thinking. Her hair is a mess—like she didn’t expect company, or like she did and didn’t care how she looked. Her eyes widen briefly when she sees you. Then her mouth curves into that familiar grin. “Well,” she says lightly. “That was fast.” She steps aside, already turning away, leaving the door open behind you like it’s a given you’ll come in. The living room is empty. No sign of Elena. Carla drops onto the couch, sprawling comfortably, watching you like she’s waiting for something to click. “Elena left,” she says after a moment. “Library called. Emergency studying.” Your phone buzzes. Another message from Elena—apologetic, rushed, perfectly timed.

Carla doesn’t comment. She just reaches into her pocket and tosses her phone onto the table. The screen lights up, unlocked, the message thread still open. The truth sits there between you. Carla sighs and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Okay,” she admits. “Yeah. That was me.” She looks up, searching your face—not defiant, not smug. Just honest. “I wanted to know if you’d actually come,” she says. “If I asked.” She stands and starts pacing slowly, restless energy finally spilling over. “You keep showing up for her,” Carla continues. “And every time, you end up with me instead. You ever think that might mean something?” She stops in front of you. Close. Too close to pretend it’s nothing. “I act like I’m joking,” she says quietly. “Like I’m just messing with you.” Her fingers brush your sleeve, lingering for half a second longer than necessary. “But I notice things.” She looks up now, eyes sharp but vulnerable beneath the teasing edge. “I notice how you smile when she texts you. How you don’t even see me standing right there.” A beat. “And I hate that.” The words come out softer than expected. “So yeah,” she adds, swallowing. “I took her phone.” She steps closer, heart clearly racing now, bravado cracking.

“I didn’t mean to trap you,” she says. “I just…needed to know if this was all in my head.” Then, before doubt can catch up to her, she leans in and kisses you. It’s brief. Impulsive. Charged with months of teasing and tension and unspoken frustration. She pulls back almost immediately. Her expression shifts—no grin, no joke. Just waiting. “Well,” she says quietly, trying and failing to sound casual. “That happened.” She takes a small step back, giving you space she’s never given before. “I won’t push,” she adds. “But I’m not pretending it didn’t mean anything.” Her eyes stay on you, steady and searching. “Whatever happens next,” Carla says softly, “I want it to be real.” The moment hangs there—unfinished, unresolved—waiting for what comes next.

Late afternoon sunlight leaks through the dusty blinds of your small apartment, cutting thin gold lines across the cluttered coffee table. Empty soda cans, a couple game controllers, and a half-charged phone sit scattered across the surface. Your place isn’t exactly tidy, but it’s comfortable — the kind of spot people drop by without warning. Which is exactly what Carla does. Your phone buzzes once. Then again. And again. Three texts in a row. Carla: “heyy” “u home?” “please tell me you’re home 😭” You already know what this is about before you even respond. Carla never triple texts unless she needs something. A minute later there’s a knock on your door — quick, impatient taps followed by the faint scrape of someone shifting their weight outside. When you open it, Carla Montoya is leaning against the frame like she’s been there for a while.

She’s wearing an oversized soccer jersey with the number 10 on it, the hem hanging just low enough over a pair of dark shorts. Her long brown hair falls over one shoulder, and her pink slides lazily tap against the concrete as she waits. One hand is tucked behind her back while the other spins her phone between her fingers. When she sees you, her face immediately lights up with that too-friendly smile you’ve learned to be suspicious of. “Heyyy,” she says, dragging the word out as she steps a little closer. Her eyes quickly scan past you into the apartment like she’s already planning on coming inside. You cross your arms. Carla freezes for half a second. Then she sighs dramatically and leans her shoulder against the doorframe. “Okay listen,” she says, holding her hands up defensively. “Before you judge me...” A pause. “yeah.” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and gives you a sheepish grin. “I swear this one wasn’t my fault.”

You just stare. Carla exhales, clearly realizing the excuse isn’t landing, and shifts tactics. Her posture softens. She steps a little closer, tilting her head as she looks up at you with exaggerated innocence. “C’mon,” she says. “You know you always got extra vapes.” Her voice has that playful tone — half joking, half testing how far she can push you. “You’ve hooked me up like...what, five times already?” she continues, counting on her fingers before immediately correcting herself. “Okay maybe more like eight, but that’s not the point.”

She bumps your arm lightly with her elbow. “I’m just asking for one more.” When you still don’t answer, Carla groans and drops her head back dramatically. “You’re killing me right now.” Then she straightens again, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “Ohhh, I get it,” she says, narrowing her eyes playfully. “You want me to work for it this time.” She folds her arms and leans closer, resting one shoulder casually against the wall beside you like she plans to stay there until she wins. “Fine.” Her tone turns teasing. “What’s it gonna take?” She studies your reaction carefully, clearly trying to read whether you’re about

The living room is filled with the noise of the game. The television blasts the sound of the stadium crowd—thousands of fans chanting, drums pounding, commentators shouting over the roar as the final minutes of the soccer match tick down. The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, cutting stripes of gold across the couch and coffee table littered with empty snack bags and soda cans. Carla is sitting beside you, though sitting might be a generous description. She’s half-sprawled across the couch like she owns it. Her favorite soccer jersey hangs loosely over her frame, the bright team colors standing out against the dim room. One leg is tucked under her while the other bounces with restless energy every time the ball gets close to the goal. She’s been like this the entire match—loud, competitive, and completely invested. “Come on!” she groans suddenly, leaning forward as her team pushes down the field. Her hands clutch a pillow like it personally controls the outcome.

“You see that? That was totally a foul!” she complains, throwing a look at you as if you’re somehow responsible for the referee’s decisions. You shrug casually. Your team is still winning. Barely. Carla narrows her eyes. “Oh, don’t act all calm,” she says, nudging your shoulder with her elbow. “You’re just lucky my team’s being slow today.” She sinks back into the couch again, crossing her arms. Then after a moment...a slow, mischievous smile creeps across her face. “Oh, I have an idea.”

You immediately feel suspicious. Carla turns toward you, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she studies you with that familiar playful glint in her eyes. “Let’s make things interesting.” You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of interesting?” She shifts closer, lowering her voice slightly like she’s proposing some grand conspiracy. “A bet.” You should know better by now. Carla loves bets. Especially the kind where she thinks she’s going to win. She gestures toward the screen where the match clock continues counting down.

“If my team wins,” she begins confidently, “you have to take me out tomorrow.” You blink, wondering if that's all she was thinking Carla smirks. “Oh, I’m not done.” She leans back, stretching comfortably as she continues. “You’re taking me out...and you’re buying me whatever I want.” Her tone drips with dramatic emphasis. “Food, shopping, dessert, whatever.” She points at you. “And no complaining.” You laugh quietly, and then ask what if your team wins. Carla pauses. For a moment, she pretends to think deeply about it. Then she shrugs casually.

“Well...” she says with a teasing smile. “If your team wins...” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll spend the whole day doing whatever you want.” Her eyes flick toward you with a playful spark. “Your plans. Your rules." Then she adds with a grin: “I’ll even try not to complain too much.” You study her for a second. She looks completely confident. Like she’s already imagining the victory. “Deal?” she asks, extending her hand. You shake it. And just like that, the bet is locked in.

The final minutes of the match drag on painfully slow. Carla sits forward again, completely focused now. Every pass. Every tackle. Every near miss. “Come on, come on...” she mutters under her breath. The stadium crowd on the TV roars as one last attack builds. Your team clears the ball downfield. The referee glances at his watch. And then—WHISTLE. Full time. The scoreboard flashes across the screen. Your team wins. For a moment the room is completely silent. Carla stares at the TV. Then she slowly leans back into the couch. You glance at her, waiting for the inevitable complaint. Instead...She laughs. A soft, amused laugh that surprises you.

“Well,” she says, stretching her arms above her head. “Guess I lost.” Her tone doesn’t sound disappointed at all. If anything...she seems entertained. Carla turns toward you, that same mischievous smile returning to her face. “Looks like I’ve got a whole day of following your orders now.” She leans closer, resting her chin casually in her hand as she watches your reaction. “Whatever you want, right?” Her eyes sparkle with playful curiosity. “Movies? Food? Dragging me all over town? Going raw inside me with no condom?” She shrugs. “I said I’d do it.” Then her smile turns slightly more teasing. “So...” Carla tilts her head. “What’s the first thing you’re making me do tomorrow?” She doesn’t look upset about losing at all. If anything...It almost feels like she wanted to see what you’d pick.

The afternoon heat hangs heavy over the neighborhood, the kind that makes the air feel thick and slow. Cicadas buzz lazily in the distance while the sun beats down on the pavement, turning the driveway into a shimmering sheet of heat. You pull into your driveway after a long, exhausting day. The engine ticks quietly as it cools, and you lean back in the seat for a moment, letting out a tired sigh before finally stepping out of the car. The second the door shuts, you hear it. clap-clap-clap-clap, the thick, rhythmic smack of enormous cheeks slapping together as someone sprints toward you full speed. Rapid footsteps on pavement. Then a voice. “HEY!” You barely have time to turn around before Carla Montoya bursts around the corner of the house like a storm.

She’s clearly been outside for a while. Her soccer jersey—one of her favorites with Messi’s name across the back—is slightly damp from the heat, clinging to her frame as she jogs toward you with boundless energy. Below, her shorts are absurdly tiny—barely there at all—the fabric completely swallowed between her massive globes, leaving the lower half of her ridiculously huge ass fully exposed. Those fleshy, perfectly round, sweaty cheeks jiggle like jelly with every step, swaying obscenely, glistening under the sun and stealing every bit of attention while her thick, juicy thighs rub together as she runs. Her dark hair swings behind her, and she looks like she just ran across half the block for no reason other than pure excitement. And knowing Carla...that might actually be true.

She skids to a stop a few feet away, breathing a little heavily but grinning like she’s just won something. “There you are, papi” she says, pointing accusingly at you. “I saw your car pull in like five minutes ago.” You blink. You then ask her if she was watching you. Carla shrugs casually, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Maybe.” Then she steps closer, leaning against the side of your car like she belongs there. “You were taking forever getting out, so I figured I’d come check if you passed out in there or something.” Her grin widens, playful and slightly mischievous.

“Plus...I was bored.” Before you can respond, she slips past you and pushes the front door open like she’s been invited a hundred times before. “Ugh, it’s hot out there,” she complains as she walks inside. “You better have the AC on.” A moment later you follow her into the living room. Carla has already made herself comfortable, flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh like she just ran a marathon. She stretches out, looking around the room before turning her attention back to you. Then she notices your phone. And immediately narrows her eyes. “Oh no,” she says slowly. You glance up and ask her what's wrong. She sits forward, pointing at the phone in your hand.

“You just got home and you’re already ignoring me?” Her expression shifts into exaggerated offense. “Wow. Unbelievable.” You chuckle, but that only seems to encourage her. Carla suddenly hops off the couch and walks over, stopping right in front of you with her hands on her hips. “Excuse me,” she says, leaning slightly into your line of sight. “I ran all the way over here to say hi.” When you don’t immediately put the phone away, her grin turns sly. “Ohhh,” she says, dragging out the word. “I see how it is.” Without warning she snatches the phone right out of your hand.

“Nope,” she interrupts, holding it just out of reach. “If you’re gonna hang out with me, you’re actually gonna hang out.” She tosses the phone onto the couch behind her and crosses her arms proudly. “There,” she says. "Problem solved." Then her playful smirk returns. Without a word, she yanks her shorts down in one quick pull, baring that astronomical backside completely—sweat-slick, heavy cheeks parting just enough to show the deep cleft. She waits for the exact second your gaze is on the screen and—fast as lightning—drops straight onto your face, clamping her fleshy cheeks tight around your head, trapping you in soft, hot, sweaty flesh while her thick thighs lock you in place.

"Surprise, gringo!" She laughs loud, grinding her hips in slow circles to smear you deeper, voice dripping with victory. "You gonna pay attention to me now, or do I have to smother you to death with this big, juicy ass?" She squeezes harder, cheeks trembling against you, waiting for you to snap. “So,” Carla continues, tilting her head slightly. “Now that I have your full attention...” She continues to squeeze harder “What are we doing today?” Her eyes sparkle with the kind of energy that usually leads to questionable decisions. “Because I’m not leaving until something interesting happens.” And judging by the look on her face... She’s already planning exactly how to make that happen.