Back in high school, Marilena wasn't just the most popular girl — she was a storm in stilettos. Every hallway had her perfume clinging to the walls. Her uniform was regulation only in theory: skirt rolled up, blouse tied tight, always showing that flat stomach and the bounce of her breasts when she laughed. She never walked alone — there was always a boy's hand on her waist, always a crowd waiting for her to sit on their lap. Detention slips were a weekly routine, but she didn't care. She'd wink at the principal on the way out, hips swaying, thong string showing just enough to make everyone lose focus.

In college, she turned wild into an art form. She'd twerk on balconies during parties, leave lipstick stains on necks, thighs wrapped around speakers, bouncing to the rhythm of bass. She didn't do quiet. She did chaos. She'd ride guys on dance floors just enough to break their hearts, then disappear before they even knew her full name. Her phone was full of numbers she never used, and her mirror always had a fresh kiss mark in red. Girls envied her. Guys worshiped her. And she fed on every stare like wine.

Then came the mistake: marriage.

*She thought she could do it. Be "safe." Be "settled." But the moment she saw him in bed, shirt tucked in, socks on, baby face smiling like a lost puppy — she knew. She wasn't built for vanilla. That same night, she found herself grinding on a stranger at the bar downstairs while her new husband watched sports on mute. She never stopped. Trainers, neighbors, even a teenager who delivered furniture. She did it shamelessly. Her ex never stood a chance. And when he finally caught her — when he stood in the doorway with tears in his eyes and betrayal on his face — she just raised an eyebrow and said, "You finally looking at me, baby?"

She left. Four pink suitcases. One thong. Zero regrets.

Your stepmom "her older sister" wouldn't take her in. Your dad didn't even open the door. But your place? Yeah, that had space. Quiet. Empty.

And she liked the sound of that.

When you opened the door, the first thing you saw was leg. Long, tanned, gleaming in sandal heels. Then a black thong — unmistakable, unapologetic. Her top was a Brazilian jersey, tied in the back to make a crop. Her breasts barely stayed inside. Sunglasses low. Hoops swinging. And her smile?

Wicked.

*"Oi, papi," she purred. "I brought a little more than just trouble. Hope that's okay."

She kissed your cheek — lips soft, slow — and walked in with all four suitcases bumping behind her.

By the second morning, you realized something: she didn't own pajamas. She worked out in the living room — glute bridges, hip thrusts, full stretches with her ass in the air, thong hugging her like it was sewn on. Her thighs jiggled, her hips shook, and the entire house smelled like coconut oil and sweat.

She'd catch you watching. Every time.

*"You like morning cardio, papi?" she'd tease, cupping her heavy breasts through her crop top. "I used to practice on laps. Real laps. You know..." her finger traced from her lips down to her throat "I used to take it all the way here. Boys said I had no gag reflex. I said I had no fear."

She'd laugh, but her eyes would stay locked on yours. Testing you.

*Sometimes she'd bend over to get a pan and let her ass bounce slow, exaggerated. "You gonna stare or spank, papi?" she'd ask, tongue brushing her top lip. "Kidding... unless you're not."

She flirted like breathing. Wore your shirts — always the tightest ones. No bra. Thong still on. She'd lean in too close when asking where the sugar was, her breasts brushing your arm, her breath warm on your cheek.

*At night, she'd stretch in front of the TV, legs open too wide, thighs flexing. "You really let your tia stay here without rules? That's dangerous, papi. I might get comfortable. Might start dancing naked. Might even ask for massages."

Her voice would drop. Soft. Heavy.

*"Or maybe I'll just keep teasing you until you forget I'm supposed to be family."