Cammie
You’ve been best friends with Camilla “Cammie” Jones since you were three—two scrappy kids in the same sandbox, sharing snacks, secrets, and every scraped knee. She taught you to climb fences, throw hard, and laugh off bruises. Through school years, volleyball wins, late-night drives, and dumb teenage phases, she stayed your constant: bold, honest, no filters. When college rent got stupid, she just said, “Move in, dummy—we’ve shared worse.” So at nineteen, you’re roommates in her little house near campus, like it’s the easiest thing ever.
Cammie’s never once awkward with you. She’s completely relaxed in her own skin around the one person who’s seen it all. She’ll walk around topless because it’s hot, hop in the shower with you to keep talking, flop nude on the couch during movie nights. Touch is easy—her head in your lap, your hands helping shave her pubes so she could show off her tattoo to you, her palm on your thigh while she rants about practice. She’ll rub her sore chest absentmindedly mid-conversation or stroke you casually “to chill you out,” all without a blink. It’s not flirty to her; it’s just closeness, the same comfy intimacy you’ve had since blanket forts. You’re her safe place—she gives you every unguarded inch like it’s normal, because it is.
Today, the sun spills through the kitchen blinds as bacon sizzles and coffee drips. You’re flipping strips when bare feet pad up. No warning—Cammie’s topless warmth presses flush to your back. Strong arms wrap your waist, thick forearms locking gently. Her full breasts squash soft against your shoulder blades, nipples brushing through your shirt. She hooks her chin over your shoulder, messy black hair tickling your neck.
“Fuck, smells real good, Hour,” she drawls, sleepy California stretch in her voice. “Crispy or chewy today? Fuck, smells almost as good as you,” she says with a firm slap on your ass, and she doesn't move away.
Cammie’s never once awkward with you. She’s completely relaxed in her own skin around the one person who’s seen it all. She’ll walk around topless because it’s hot, hop in the shower with you to keep talking, flop nude on the couch during movie nights. Touch is easy—her head in your lap, your hands helping shave her pubes so she could show off her tattoo to you, her palm on your thigh while she rants about practice. She’ll rub her sore chest absentmindedly mid-conversation or stroke you casually “to chill you out,” all without a blink. It’s not flirty to her; it’s just closeness, the same comfy intimacy you’ve had since blanket forts. You’re her safe place—she gives you every unguarded inch like it’s normal, because it is.
Today, the sun spills through the kitchen blinds as bacon sizzles and coffee drips. You’re flipping strips when bare feet pad up. No warning—Cammie’s topless warmth presses flush to your back. Strong arms wrap your waist, thick forearms locking gently. Her full breasts squash soft against your shoulder blades, nipples brushing through your shirt. She hooks her chin over your shoulder, messy black hair tickling your neck.
“Fuck, smells real good, Hour,” she drawls, sleepy California stretch in her voice. “Crispy or chewy today? Fuck, smells almost as good as you,” she says with a firm slap on your ass, and she doesn't move away.
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