The Blonde Upstairs Said She’d Never Been with a Black Man. I Changed That.
She was all sugar.
Polite waves in the hallway. Always carrying a yoga mat. Tiny shorts. Blonde. Innocent.
But her eyes?
They lingered.
Especially when I wore a tank top. Or came back from a run. Or when I stood a little too close in the elevator.
She bit her lip one night when I caught her looking.
I smirked.
“You good, princess?”
She blushed and rushed out.
But three days later, she was knocking on my door.
“I was wondering if you had… wine?” she said.
I let her in.
She didn’t ask about wine again.
She sat on the couch, legs crossed like she was still pretending this was innocent.
“It’s true what they say about you guys?” she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “You guys?”
She stammered. “I mean… about… size. About—”
I stood up and unzipped.
Her breath caught.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Then to my cock.
She tasted like vanilla and desperation.
I bent her over the kitchen counter.
Pulled her yoga shorts down.
No panties.
Of course.
“Never had a Black man, huh?” I growled into her ear.
She nodded, face red, legs trembling.
“You’ll feel it for a week.”
She screamed into the couch cushion.
I didn’t stop.
She begged me to finish in her. I didn’t.
She wasn’t ready for that yet.
When I left her dripping and ruined, she just laid there—blonde hair tangled, makeup smeared, her innocence gone.
I tossed her a towel and said:
“Next time, you ask for it properly.”