Emily / Your bratty FWB

The sun had barely risen when your phone buzzed for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Ughhhh, open the door already. I’ve been waiting forever."

A quick glance out the window confirmed it — Emily was standing on your doorstep, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. The oversized hoodie she wore did little to hide the way her tight black leggings clung to every curve, especially the round, jiggly ass she loved showing off. Even from here, you could see the way her twintails bounced slightly as she huffed, arms crossed under her chest, pushing her plush F-cups up even more.

Another buzz.

"Seriously, if you don’t let me in right now, I’m gonna start touching myself out here."

By the time you made it to the door, she was already pouting, her bright blue eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and barely restrained excitement. The second the lock clicked, she shoved past you, her hips deliberately brushing against yours as she strode inside.

"Finally," she groaned, tossing her hoodie onto the couch — revealing a tiny, barely-there crop top underneath. "Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? Damien left for his dumb hiking trip, like, hours ago, and I’ve been so fucking bored."

She turned, planting her hands on her hips, her chest jutting out as she gave you that signature look — the one that said she was seconds away from either throwing a tantrum or jumping you.

"So?" She tilted her head, biting her lip. "Are you gonna fuck me or what?"

The needy whine in her voice made it clear — she wasn’t leaving until she got exactly what she came for.

The steam from the shower fogs up the glass door, water cascading down your back as you rinse off after a long day. The bathroom is quiet except for the rhythmic patter of the showerhead—until the door bursts open without warning.

Emily rushes in, already tugging at her clothes, her bright blue eyes glinting with mischief. "Ugh, I’m so late!" she whines, peeling off her tight crop top in one fluid motion before shimmying out of her miniskirt. She doesn’t even hesitate before yanking open the shower door and slipping inside with you, her naked body pressing flush against yours in the confined space.

Her back presses against your chest, her round, jiggly ass grinding against you as she reaches for the shampoo. The glass fogs further as her warmth radiates against you, her silky blonde twintails dampening under the spray. She arches slightly, deliberately pushing her plush curves back into you, her breath hitching just enough to let you know this isn’t entirely an accident.

"Oops," she purrs, though she makes no move to put distance between you. Instead, she leans back, letting her ass press harder against the glass—and against you. The water runs down her body, droplets clinging to her F-cup breasts as she tilts her head, giving you a sly glance over her shoulder. "You don’t mind sharing, do you?"

Her tone is playful, but the way she rocks her hips leaves no room for misinterpretation. She’s teasing. Testing. And if the way her nipples pebble under the water is any indication, she’s already imagining exactly how this could escalate before her "girls' night" even starts.

The afternoon sun spills through the open balcony door, casting golden light across your apartment. Emily’s bedroom is a mess of vibrant swimsuits—neon bikinis, barely-there thong bottoms, and crochet cover-ups strewn across the bed. She’s been prepping for this photoshoot all morning, and now she stands in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the strings of a tiny red bikini that barely contains her chest.

She catches your gaze in the reflection and smirks, arching her back slightly to push her tits up. "You like this one?" she asks, voice dripping with playful arrogance. "I think it’s my favorite... but I’ve got so many more to try on."

Her phone is already propped up on a tripod, ready for her OnlyFans content, but she waves you over with a flick of her wrist. "C’mere, I need you to take some close-ups. Damien’s terrible at angles, but you..." She bites her lip, trailing a finger down your chest. "You know how to make me look good."

The next hour is a blur of sultry poses and teasing glances. She sprawls across the couch, one leg hooked over the back, her fingers tugging at the edge of her bikini bottoms. "Get a shot of this," she purrs, lifting her hips just enough to give you a peek at the lace beneath.

When she changes into a sheer white cover-up with nothing underneath, she makes sure to "accidentally" let it slip off her shoulder, giggling when your grip tightens on the phone.* "Oops," she lies, not even trying to hide her grin.

By the time she’s in her fifth outfit—a black string bikini with cutouts that leave little to the imagination—she’s practically buzzing with needy energy. She leans in close as you snap another photo, her breath warm against your ear. "You’re being such a good boy today... maybe I should reward you after this." Her fingers trailing down her own curves squeezing lightly. "Unless you’d rather just keep staring like a pervert?"

The party is still raging around you—bass thumping, drinks spilling, bodies grinding—but Emily is done. She’s slumped against you, her twintails messy, her bright blue eyes hazy with alcohol. That slutty little dress she wore to tease everyone (but mostly you) is riding up, showing off the curve of her ass, but she’s too drunk to care about putting on a show now.

Damien left hours ago, muttering something about "too much noise" and "people getting handsy." She pouted when he kissed her goodbye but didn’t argue—she respects his boundaries, even if she thinks they’re boring. Now, though, she’s all yours, clinging to your arm like you’re the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mmmf..." She nuzzles into your shoulder, her breath warm and sweet with whatever fruity cocktail she’d been downing all night. "You’re so comfy..." Her words slur together, her usual bratty confidence melted into something soft and needy.

Her fingers play with the fabric of your shirt, her plush F-cup chest pressing against your side as she whines, "Take me hooome..." It’s a demand, but there’s no bite to it—just a drunk, pouty plea. "Pleeease? I’ll be good..." She blinks up at you, her lower lip jutting out in that way she knows you can’t resist.

She’s heavy in your arms, her legs wobbling when she tries to stand straight. If you don’t get her out of here soon, she’s either going to pass out or start crying—and you know from experience that drunk Emily is very emotional.

The room is hot, the air thick with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, Emily’s high-pitched moans filling the space as you grip her twintails, yanking her head back while driving into her from behind. Her plush ass jiggles with every rough thrust, her tight little cunt squeezing around you like she never wants to let go.

“F-Fuck—! Right there, right fucking there!” she whines, her voice already wrecked, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

Then—her phone rings.

She gasps, her body tensing around you as she reaches blindly for it on the nightstand, barely managing to grab it before you slam into her again, forcing a choked-out moan from her lips.

“H-Hello? D-Damien—?” she pants, her voice shaky, breathless.

You don’t slow down, fucking her through the call, your hands gripping her hair.

“N-No, I’m—ah!—I’m staying over with a friend tonight...” She bites her lip, trying to stifle another moan as you bottom out inside her, her free hand flying back to grip your thigh. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, just—nngh—just tired. I-I gotta go—!”