Chapter 3
Chapter three
My Porn Star Tenant
Teyonah
Lord, I just saw my tenant stroking himself like he was auditioning for Pornhub.
I stood in the doorway with the garbage bag still in my hand and the porch light painting everything too bright to pass for a dream.
Did that really just happen?
The trash bag sagged against my thigh.
I had to blink, once, twice, but the picture didn’t go away.
Lord, if my body didn’t just light up like a damn Christmas tree over my tenant’s cock. . .
I was wet already, shamefully wet, from nothing but the sight of Dominic losing control.
My heart pounded hard enough to shake my earrings.
I rushed down the steps.
My slippers thudded against the stone path.
I got to the side of the house, yanked the bin open with one sharp tug, and dropped the trash in.
And. . .damn his cock was big. . .huge. . .like. . .what are you doing with all of that, Dominic?
The lid slammed.
I turned on my heel and even with the trash behind me, I couldn’t shake the vision—his knuckles shiny, his cock’s head leaking, obscene and gorgeous in the porch light.
Looked like his fingers were wet and sticky. Semen was dripping out the tip.
I cleared my throat.
God help me, the flash came back clear as sunlight.
Dominic’s hand wrapped around that big, thick shaft, his knuckles tight, his cock’s head swollen and slick.
I saw the way his muscular chest heaved, the way his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself, the raw hunger in his eyes when they locked on me.
It hit me in the belly—heat, sharp and low—like a match flicked too close to kindling.
My breath hitched, shallow and fast, like the memory alone had fingers on my throat.
I checked my left.
Next door, Mrs. Patterson’s window glowed the way it always did at night.The woman never slept. She sat there like a retired lighthouse keeper, watching the neighborhood waves for shipwrecks.
She’d been a pastor’s wife once—First Baptist over on Monroe Street. Her husband, Reverend Calvin Patterson, had dropped dead one Sunday afternoon after biting into one of her chocolate-chip cookies.
The coroner—her first cousin—said it was a heart attack.
However, the congregation whispered other things—about the arsenic rumors, about the way the Reverend’s young mistress fainted at the funeral, and about how three different female choir members cried a little too long over his coffin.
After that, Mrs. Patterson stopped going to church but never stopped watching. Her blinds became her pew, her window her pulpit. Once when I spoke to her, she’d confessed that she had insomnia, so she spent many nights reading and watching re-runs of games shows.
She kept on baking cookies, too.
When I got home, I always smelled the scent of them in the air.
Sometimes she brought over a plate of cookies, smiling with her lipstick just slightly crooked, insisting they were her husband’s favorite.
I always politely took them. . .and when she left. . .I threw them away.
Tonight she sat down by the window in a floral robe and waved at me with a warm smile.
Did you see Dominic’s cock too? Or did you just miss it?
I doubted it. If she had, she would have been on the phone with the police.
Whatever peace she’d lost in that kitchen years ago, she hunted for it in everyone else’s sins.
Alright get back in the kitchen.
I had to move.
If I stood there another second, I would combust.
Back in the house, I shut the door because I needed a wall between me and the night, between me and what I had just seen.
Wow. Now this is a Mother’s Day that will go down in the history books as the hottest one yet.
The lock slid into place with a click that sounded calmer than I felt.
I pressed my back to the door, trying to breathe. And then the absurdity of it all crashed over me.
Again and again the memory circled back: his hand, that cock, those eyes.
My nipples tightened against the fabric of my blouse, a small ache begging for the kind of mouth I had just seen shaping groans.
Heat crawled up my neck and stung my cheeks.
What is he doing now? Is he downstairs in the basement finishing what he started?
The thought hit me like a punch to the chest. I could see it clear in my mind—Dominic down in the basement, naked muscular body sprawled across that old leather couch, the same one where I once sat too close to him during the lease signing, where his thigh brushed mine and I pretended not to notice.
Now that couch was slick under his back, his head thrown back, jaw tight, fist working his big cock with a rhythm so desperate it made the cushions groan.
His breath would tear out of him, rough and hungry, bouncing off those low walls.
Oh damn. That’s hot.
I imagined the exact moment his control snapped—hips jerking, muscles clenching. Cum erupting from the swollen tip in molten white spurts, painting his fist, spraying across his abs, spilling onto the cushions, and staining the couch with his ruin.
The sight burned into me.
My pulse stuttered.
Alright. Alright. Calm down.
The kitchen was waiting, the kids were upstairs, but my body refused to leave him behind.
Still, I dragged myself into the kitchen to make sure everything was clean and tidy. The space smelled like citrus from the chef’s vinaigrette and roses from the trail the kids had tracked around on their socks.
The clock on the stove blinked 8:32.
I exhaled once, then again.
Why did he do that outside? What was going on in his mind? And. . .he was facing the window. My window. Was he looking at me? I mean. . .what else? No way he was jacking off to me?
I laughed before I meant to.
The sound slipped out of me low and wild.
I covered my mouth, but the laugh came again, warmer this time.
I think. . .he was jacking off to me. . .
The words shocked me even more than the memory. But once I thought them, I couldn’t un-think them.
And that thought—it didn’t terrify me. It thrilled me.
I laughed harder, realizing it was the first time in a year my body remembered how to feel anything but tired.
In fact, the sound surprised me. It was pure, reckless joy—something I hadn’t tasted since before lawyers and late-night tears became my diet.
And suddenly I wasn’t the woman with bags under her eyes and bills stacked on the counter—I was just a woman happy to be alive for one unholy moment.
For several beautiful seconds, I was weightless, reckless, alive.
Then. . .soon. . .the laugh faded, leaving silence thick around me.
Dominic. Dominic.
For a breath, I just stood there, stunned that joy had made a home in me again, even if only for a moment.
Oh Lord. If he was jacking off to me. . .all I can say is. . .alright, Dominic. Watch yourself. With all this ass. . .I am a ride your young ass may not survive.
But. . .I knew he was no punk either. The man lifted 300 pound weights three times a week.
He wasn’t just sexy. . .he was smart as fuck and very fucking strong.
And those hands.
Those knuckles shining in the porch light.
If just watching those hands grip that huge cock could make me ache, what would those same fingers feel like playing with my pussy?
And God help me, the thought didn’t stop at his hands—it slid straight to his mouth. The way his lips would close over my nipple, the way his tongue might lap at me like I was the sweetest secret he’d ever been given.
The way he licked his lips sometimes at breakfast—just an unconscious swipe—suddenly rewrote itself in my mind. That tongue wasn’t made for casual gestures. No, it was made to spread me open, to drink me down like a meal he’d been starving for.
I closed my eyes, hoping to calm myself.
I wanted to know how his mouth tasted when it was desperate. I wanted to feel his lips dragging heat across the softest parts of me, his breath catching against my skin. I wanted him pressed between my thighs, undone and unholy, because of me.
A low, traitorous throb lit up between my legs, sharp as if my pussy had just remembered it was alive.
Wow.
I poured water and drank half the glass in one go.
The cold steadied me.
I set the glass down and felt the tremble in my fingers. I braced them on the counter to stop it, but the tremble had already moved lower, a hush through my belly and a warmth that I did not want to name.
And. . .I almost asked if he needed help with that. . .
Of course that would not have been smart. The kids were upstairs getting ready for bed. They were slow because they would be horsing around, but they didn’t need to come downstairs and catch Mommy stroking their buddy Dom’s very erect cock.
Wow. So. . .I have to talk to him about this.
It would have been one thing to do that if I didn’t have kids in the house. It was another thing with them being upstairs.
I didn’t want to talk to him about it. But I also couldn’t stop seeing him, fist tight, cock swollen, looking at me like I was the only thing he’d ever needed.
His face hit me again. That look did something to me I did not want to analyze with the lights on.
No man had looked at me like that in years, not even before my marriage crumbled. Dominic looked at me like I was more than tired eyes, love handles, and stretch marks—like I was worth losing control for.
In that moment, I wasn’t invisible, I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t worn out—I was the center of his universe.
And his cock yearned to meet me.
And God help me, I liked it. I loved the reminder that someone could still want me so much the rest of the world fell away.
Yeah. . .he was jacking off to me. . .
His cock might’ve been in his fist, but his hunger was all over me, every drop of it screaming my name.
My pulse jumped as the memory edged closer. I pushed it away, and it returned, stubborn and bright.
Damn. . .
I grabbed a dish from the drying rack and turned on the water to rinse a plate that did not need rinsing.
The faucet hissed, but at least the sound covered the thoughts I could not control.
And I had already planned on going down to the basement to thank him. . .
I thought about the dinner Dominic had clearly arranged—the chef with his crisp apron and polite bow, the roses, my babies in their little suits and red bow ties.
I thought about how quickly I had accepted a man I didn’t know in my kitchen, all because my children swore they’d saved up their allowance and hired him, when I knew the whole time Dominic was pulling the strings.
My ex-husband would never. He was too busy trying to make my life a living hell.
If Rochelle or Cadence had done it, they’d have been sitting right there eating with me.
And my children? They couldn’t even order a pizza, let alone buy rose petals or hire a chef.
Add the fact that Dominic had been watching them all Sunday, and the answer was obvious—he was behind it all.
My heart swelled with gratitude and tenderness.
Dominic had orchestrated a night that felt like a dream.
Then. . .you decide to jack off in the backyard? Does surprising people make you horny or something?
The absurdity pressed a laugh into my chest again, and this time it did not ask permission.
I let it go.
The laugh broke open the fear, and when it passed, curiosity stood where fear had been.
Oh Dominic. What am I going to do with you?
He’d been haunting my nights for weeks, slipping into my dreams like he owned them.
Every damned morning, I woke with wet sheets and a pulse between my legs, all because of him—my tenant, my temptation, the man in my dreams that kept bending me over a hundred different ways.
In fact, Dominic had been guest-starring in my dreams so often I should’ve been charging him rent for that too.
And it wasn’t just his big cock—it was the way he carried himself, strong, young, and confident like the world hadn’t broken him yet.
Plus, Dominic had the kind of shoulders I could lean on, and the kind of eyes that made me feel like I had never truly been seen before.
Even the way he moved around my kids—gentle, patient—was enough to make me look twice, though I had scolded myself every time for it.
In the end, he was too young, too fine, too close to my home, my sacred space. . .but that never stopped my eyes from finding him when he came up the stairs, sweat darkening the front of his gym shirt, big cock swinging in those gym pants.
This is what you get. This is karma.
My attraction to him had made me a naughty landlord.
I always hugged him longer than I should have, especially the night he told me about his parents.
I tried to stop myself but. . .I held him, breathing in the clean soap and sweat of him like it was oxygen I’d been starved of.
I had told myself it was comfort, but deep down I knew I was stealing a moment.
Every breakfast, it seemed, I found some excuse to lean across him, brushing my breasts along his arm as if reaching for the orange juice required full-body contact.
I swore I heard him groan a few times, but it could have been my overactive imagination lustfully wishing.
Once, when he carried in groceries for me, I let my hand rest a beat too long on his back—just to feel the flex of muscle under my palm, just to remind my pussy that not all hot guys only existed in books.
And whenever I thanked him for helping with the kids’ homework, my fingers squeezed his shoulder like punctuation—firmer, fonder, more lingering than politeness demanded.
And now, he had given me a front-row seat to his self-made peep show.
What am I going to do?