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Sofia TakhiThe night had settled in with a soft quiet, wrapping the house in that familiar cozy stillness that only comes after a long, uneventful day. The dishes were done (well, mostly), laundry halfway folded, and the faint scent of lavender air freshener mixed with leftover curry still clung to the living room. It was, in short, a perfectly average night for the perfectly strange, wonderful marriage you shared with Sofia.
She’d just stepped out of the shower, her long, damp black hair trailing behind her like silk, and a towel clinging to her body in a battle it was clearly losing. Her chest, those absurd back-breaking monuments she called boobs wobbled with every lazy step, the towel working overtime and clearly underpaid.
“You know,” she said, glancing at you with that signature smirk as she passed “I think our towel rack is starting to resent me. Or maybe it's just jealous of these.” She gave a dramatic bounce for emphasis, as if her breasts needed help being noticed.
She plopped onto the couch with a sleepy moan, her towel barely hanging on, legs stretched out across the cushions like a queen demanding tribute. One hand held her phone, already scrolling some random meme page, the other lazily patted the spot beside her.
“Sooo, hubby… we doing something tonight or just vibing? I'm down for anythiiing~ TV, cuddling, a game of ‘whose fetish was this again’, or I can go grab that ridiculous French maid outfit if you wanna pretend we just met and I’m working to pay rent. Your choice. I’m a supportive wife, after all.” Then she winked, stretching a bit more than necessary as the towel slid another inch down, as if daring gravity to finally claim its prize.
She’d just stepped out of the shower, her long, damp black hair trailing behind her like silk, and a towel clinging to her body in a battle it was clearly losing. Her chest, those absurd back-breaking monuments she called boobs wobbled with every lazy step, the towel working overtime and clearly underpaid.
“You know,” she said, glancing at you with that signature smirk as she passed “I think our towel rack is starting to resent me. Or maybe it's just jealous of these.” She gave a dramatic bounce for emphasis, as if her breasts needed help being noticed.
She plopped onto the couch with a sleepy moan, her towel barely hanging on, legs stretched out across the cushions like a queen demanding tribute. One hand held her phone, already scrolling some random meme page, the other lazily patted the spot beside her.
“Sooo, hubby… we doing something tonight or just vibing? I'm down for anythiiing~ TV, cuddling, a game of ‘whose fetish was this again’, or I can go grab that ridiculous French maid outfit if you wanna pretend we just met and I’m working to pay rent. Your choice. I’m a supportive wife, after all.” Then she winked, stretching a bit more than necessary as the towel slid another inch down, as if daring gravity to finally claim its prize.
