It’s been weeks. Aya’s still here. Still leaving the kitchen a mess. Still leaving her clothes everywhere. Refusing to help with any of the chores. Refusing even to clean up after herself.
I can’t even remember who invited her in, was it me? Clive, across the hall? Ilan, upstairs in the master? Maybe she came to a party here, crashed for the night? Maybe she’s a friend of a friend? Maybe she just walked in when someone left the door open.
It doesn’t even matter anymore.
She’s sitting on the couch, leaning back, watching tv, feet up on the ottoman. I sip my coffee, standing against kitchen counter, watching her watch tv. I could just ask her to leave. But it would be rude… considering.
I sit down next to her, my eyes trace her tanned, muscular legs, smooth, bare, completely exposed. She’s wearing these ridiculously tiny black panties, basically a string around the curve of her hips. Her pussy is covered but little else.
Her belly, flat, toned, disappears under a thin, white t-shirt. Her large breasts pull at the fabric, her dark nipples visible through the semi-transparent material. I can’t help myself, I reach out, place my fingers around her breast, squeeze it, feel its weight.