That’s what her uncle comes home with every damn day after work

Her uncle walks in, still in his work boots, smell of sweat and diesel clinging to him. No words—just a grab, a push against the wall, and he’s got her bent over, panocha already wet from the way he looks at her. He doesn’t bother taking off his belt. She knows the routine: he rides her hard, grunts like a beast, and leaves her shaking. No one else knows. Not the neighbors. Not her mom. Just her, the floorboards creaking, and that vergota slamming into her all afternoon.