😈G-Spot & Gentrification 😈

Brooklyn, NYC

The building used to smell like curry, weed, and bleach.

Now it smelled like eucalyptus candles and almond milk.

Miss Reeva Grant, 54, third-floor landlord, Bajan-born and Brooklyn-forged, had watched the block bend over for gentrification and take every inch.

The juiceman gone.

The doubles man gone.

A yoga studio where Miss Irma used to sell patties and backshots of white rum.

And then there were the tenants.

The new ones.

The white ones.

Loud. Clumsy. Hairy in places she didn't expect.

They left their blinds wide open, lit up like a stage, with no shame in the way they fucked.

She didn’t mean to watch. At first.

But a little peek turned into a nightly ritual.

Same corner of her front room, same cup of ginger tea gone cold on the windowsill.

She watched them like a nosy auntie, arms folded tight across her chest, lips pursed.

But one night, her hand slipped.

Just one finger, tracing lazy circles across the soft cotton between her legs.

Her own breath fogged up the glass.

Thursday night.

She could hear them again.

But this time, there was a new voice.

Deeper.

Black.

Familiar.

A knock came at the door.

She answered it with her house dress sticking to her skin and no bra to save her.

It was Jahlil.

Second-floor tenant. Brown skin like polished mahogany, thick beard, white vest clinging to sweat and muscle.

Polite in the hallway. Quiet. Paid early.

She’d caught him looking at her more than once.

“I know you be watching them,” he said. His voice didn’t accuse. It just sat there in the heat of the room.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I hear your floorboards creak right above my bed,” he replied. “I ain’t judging you. Just letting you know... I be watching you too.”

Her mouth went dry.

“You lonely?” he asked. “Or just curious?”

She tried to reply, but her words stuck behind her pride.

Jahlil stepped in close. The scent of sandalwood and something raw clung to his skin.

His hand cupped her jaw like he was testing the weight of her silence.

Then his thumb brushed her bottom lip, slow and filthy.

"You ever let somebody watch you, Miss Reeva?"

She gasped as his hand slid beneath the hem of her dress.

Warm fingers found the waistband of her cotton briefs and dragged them down her thighs in one steady pull.

Cool air licked at the heat between her legs.

Her body pulsed.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice a gravel-soft growl.

“I want...” Her voice cracked.

He pressed her back against the hallway wall.

The wallpaper was peeling. Her pussy wasn’t.

He sank to his knees; eyes locked on hers the whole time and kissed the inside of her thigh like he had time.

She trembled.

When his tongue slid through her folds, Reeva gasped so loud the neighbour’s dog barked downstairs.

He sucked her clit like he missed it.

Fingers curled up inside her like they’d lived there before.

Her legs shook. She clutched at his dreads, tried to push him away, but he anchored her hips and moaned into her cunt like it owed him rent.

Her back arched off the wall.

She came once, then twice, body bucking like shame and sweetness at war.

But he didn’t stop.

Not until she was on the floor with him, half-naked and hungry, her head in his lap, her hand unzipping his jeans.

“I should tell you to leave,” she whispered, stroking him slow.

“But you won’t,” he replied, dragging her up by the hips and flipping her over onto all fours on the carpet.

He slid in deep.

She screamed into the floor.

Wet. Full. Filthy.

Her walls squeezed him like she had something to prove.

He grunted and gripped her hips, pulling her back onto him until her breasts slapped the floor with every thrust.

"You been needing this, Miss Reeva,” he panted. “Tell the truth.”

“I needed it so bad,” she choked out. “So long, Jahlil. So damn long.”

And then she felt it.

That pressure. That stretch.

That g-spot no one had hit in years.

When she came this time, it wasn’t soft.

It was a guttural cry, knees slipping on the carpet, mouth open, eyes wild.

And still, he didn’t stop.