Fimi

The car hummed along the road, the rhythm of the engine matching the gentle bounce beneath us. Jovel shifted in her seat, her sly grin catching the faint glow of passing streetlights. It was the kind of smile that could brighten the darkest corners of the night.

“Yuh know seh mi fren dem nuh normal, right?” she said, her patois thick and musical, each word laced with playful warning. “Dem free-spirited…always ready fi enjoy life to di fullest. Yuh ready fi dat kinda vibes?”

Her words piqued my curiosity, though I couldn’t hide a hint of hesitation. “What exactly does that mean?” I asked, leaning in, drawn by the way her lips curled with every syllable.

She chuckled low, the sound warm and teasing. “It mean seh yuh jus’ haffi go wid di flow. No question, no hesitation. Jus’ live, yah man. Tonight a go mad.” She settled back into her seat with a confident smirk, her eyes daring me to keep up.

As we turned into a gated community, the houses grew grander, their sleek façades glowing under the soft halo of streetlights. Jovel’s hand brushed lightly against my arm. “Dis a di kinda place weh dreams tun reality,” she murmured, her voice softer now, full of quiet promise.

The car came to a stop, and the house loomed ahead—a striking blend of modern architecture and subtle mystery. The door swung open before we knocked, and a wave of patois-filled banter washed over me. Jovel’s friend greeted her with a wide grin and rapid-fire conversation that I struggled to catch. Then her friend’s gaze turned to me, curiosity lighting her expression.

“Yuh cyaan stay quiet tonight, star,” Jovel teased, stepping closer with a playful nudge. “Mi waan see how yuh keep up.”

The deck was alive with energy so thick it was almost tangible. The heavy bassline of dancehall music thumped through the night, a pulse that seemed to synchronize with every heartbeat. Popcaan’s “Party Shot” blasted from the speakers, pulling people into its infectious rhythm. Voices rose and fell in bursts of laughter and animated conversation, blending seamlessly with the beat.

“Yuh see how di vibes set up, right?” Jovel said, handing me a shot glass filled with Wray and Nephew Rum. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Dis yah ting a nuh joke, so sip light.”

The rum’s sharp, sweet scent filled my senses as I raised the glass. “Cheers,” I said, downing the shot. The fiery warmth rushed through me, bold and unrelenting—an exact match for the energy of the night.

“Mi like di way yuh handle dat,” she said with an approving grin, nodding toward a table piled high with Red Stripe bottles and an ice bucket glistening in the warm night air. “When di heat start get to yuh, grab a beer. Mi cyaan have yuh drop out too early.”

Her laughter spilled over me like the music, light and effortless. The air was rich with the scent of rum, smoke, and the faint spice of jerk chicken wafting from somewhere nearby. A small crowd had gathered near the speakers, bodies swaying and twisting to Ding Dong’s “Fling Yuh Shoulda”. Each motion seemed effortless, a perfect harmony of rhythm and release.

Jovel grabbed my hand without warning, pulling me toward the center of the crowd. “Come, mek mi teach yuh fi move,” she said, her hips already catching the beat. Her body flowed like water, every movement so fluid and natural that I felt clumsy in comparison.

I tried to follow, mimicking her rhythm as best as I could, but she only laughed, warm and teasing. “Yuh nah bad,” she said, moving closer, her body brushing against mine. “But mi can show yuh fi get better.”

The crowd around us faded as if the music belonged only to us. Her energy was magnetic, and I found myself drawn into her orbit. The sway of her hips, the way she owned every beat, made the world disappear. For a moment, there was nothing but her and the rhythm.

As the song shifted to Vybz Kartel’s “Fever”, the night’s intensity seemed to deepen. Jovel leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. Her words, a tantalizing blend of patois and invitation, sent a shiver down my spine. “Yuh feel it, nuh true? Dis is weh di real vibes start.”

I nodded, heart pounding, the rum buzzing warmly in my veins. The party seemed infinite, a night that would etch itself into memory. Jovel handed me another drink, her grin daring me to loosen up.

“Tek a shot an’ relax yuhself. Tonight nah mek fi hesitation.”

The crowd began to thin as the hours passed, and the energy shifted. Jovel’s hand found mine again, her touch firm but inviting. “Come,” she said, her tone quieter now. “Mi show yuh di real party.”

She led me inside, the pulse of the music softening to a murmur as laughter and conversation filled the space. The air felt heavier here, charged with something unspoken. The faint scent of incense mingled with the lingering spice of the night.

“Mi waan yuh fi remember tonight,” she said, her voice softer, almost tender. Her fingers trailed up my arm as she leaned closer, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that was as fleeting as it was electric. It left me breathless.

Before I could respond, she pulled away, her grin widening. “Hear dat?” she asked, tilting her head toward the faint sounds coming from upstairs.

I nodded, the noise a mix of muted voices and distant music. It called to me like a siren’s song.

“Den follow mi,” she said, tugging my hand as her steps lightened. Her voice carried a playful edge, full of promise. “Mi tell yuh—dis a go be di maddest ting yuh ever experience.”

Her words echoed in my mind as we climbed the stairs, the sound growing louder with each step. My heart beat in rhythm with the night, anticipation rising with every moment…

Meet Jo

Meet Jo

When I first arrived in Montego Bay, the energy was electric. The streets were alive with music and movement. There were several clubs, including the well-known 2727, a Margaritaville nearby, and a few casinos open around the clock. As I wandered, I came across a man selling Campari and rum on the street. His name was Troy.

“Wah gwaan, boss? Mi have di best ting ya need,” he said, his tone sharp and inviting as he held up bottles.

Troy was a hustler, the kind who could get you anything—women, drugs, drinks, you name it. “Anything yuh waan, mi sort it out,” he told me with a grin, confidence oozing from every word.

We started talking, and soon we were throwing back shots—Wray & Nephew, Appleton, even Campari mixed with rum, a bitter concoction that Troy insisted was a local thing. The drink itself wasn’t great, but sharing it in that moment made it unforgettable.

As we talked, I shared a bit about being from America, and Troy shared his perspective on Jamaica. His view of my country made me reflect on my own sense of identity—or lack thereof. I’ve always admired how countries in the diaspora hold onto both their nationality and culture. Being Black in America feels different, like the culture is fragmented. But in places like Jamaica or Brazil, there’s a deep sense of belonging, and I couldn’t help but envy that.

After a while, Troy offered guy to take me to Club 2727. “Mi know di owner. Mi get yuh in easy,” he said, leading the way. True to his word, he hooked me up with a table and drinks. The club was packed, the music pounding. Jamaican artist Spice was there, not performing but vibing with her friends in a VIP section. Thanks to Troy, I got close enough to take it all in. It was a surreal moment, even though I didn’t know much about her music beyond her appearances on Love & Hip-Hop.

When I left the club, Troy was still outside, loudly shouting, “Jefe! Big boss!” in front of everyone. That’s when I noticed a woman standing nearby, her eyes locked on me. She didn’t look away, and after a moment, I called her over.

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” I asked, grinning.

She smirked. “Yuh look like somebody worth lookin’ at.”

We both laughed, and just like that, I met Jovel.

She was from a small mountain town near Kingston but had moved to Montego Bay to work. As we talked, I found her easy to connect with. After about 15 minutes, we decided to cross the street to a casino. On the way, I caught a proper glimpse of her figure and couldn’t help myself. “Girl, I ain’t know you was draggin’ a wagon like that!” I said, laughing. She turned around, giving me a playful look, and we both cracked up.

The casino was quiet, so we didn’t stay long. Instead, we went to a local corner shop to grab some rum, chasers, and beers. This wasn’t a tourist-friendly spot—it was raw, the kind of place where locals gathered. The area had a reputation for being rough, but that didn’t bother me. It felt authentic, a far cry from the sanitized resorts.

We found a spot outside, sat down, and started drinking. Jovel opened up about her life—leaving her son in the countryside to work in the city, losing his father to gang violence, and struggling to support her family. “Mi haffi do weh mi can fi mek it work,” she said, her voice tinged with determination. She mentioned being suspended from her call center job that day over an investigation, which explained why she seemed reserved at first. But as the rum flowed, so did her smiles—each one radiant enough to light up the night.

As we drank and talked, the scene around us grew livelier. Locals came by, curious about the American hanging out in their space. They shared jokes, stories, and even a toast or two. It felt like I had slipped into a completely different world, one that tourists rarely get to see.

Suddenly, four pickup trucks rolled up, filled with heavily armed military police. Soldiers jumped out, barking orders for everyone to raise their hands. “Jus’ cool,” Jovel whispered to me. “Dem deh jus’ do di checks.” I complied, raising my hands as one of the officers approached.

“Yuh American?” he asked sharply.

“Yes,” I replied, showing him my passport when he asked for it. After a brief look, he waved me, Jovel, and her friend off, allowing us to leave.

“Yuh good now,” Jovel said as we walked away, her voice calm but firm. “Dem always deh round yah.” It was clear this wasn’t her first time dealing with something like this.

Jah-Bliss

The air upstairs is thick with the kind of energy that pulls you in, whether you’re ready or not. As we climb the stairs, the faint sounds of moans and laughter from earlier become clearer, sharper. By the time we reach the top, it’s as if we’ve crossed into another world.

The room is alive, a symphony of passion playing out before me. Bodies intertwined, the heat radiating off them like a living, breathing organism. I stand there, frozen—not out of fear, but awe. This is surreal, like I’ve stepped into some kind of fever dream, the kind of story that feels too wild to retell but too unforgettable to keep to myself. From the club to meeting Joe, to this… whatever this is, it feels like I’ve stumbled into a travel story for the ages.

The scene is overwhelming but impossible to look away from. Women everywhere, maybe six or seven, and just two men. It’s a free-for-all, unapologetically uninhibited. And then there’s Jo, right beside me. I can feel her energy shift before I even see her move. Her hand slips from mine, and she steps forward. She turns to me with a smirk that says everything, her one-piece dress sliding off her shoulders as effortlessly as her inhibitions. Nothing underneath. She lets the fabric pool around her feet and strides straight to a woman lounging on the couch, legs parted in invitation.

Jo doesn’t hesitate. She kneels between the woman’s thighs like it’s second nature, burying her face there without preamble. The sounds that follow—sucking, slurping, the wet smack of lips and tongue—are impossible to ignore. She eats this woman like a starved predator, devouring her with a skill that’s as mesmerizing as it is arousing. The woman’s moans escalate into screams, her back arching as Jo pushes her past the point of control. Every cry of pleasure makes the room pulse with more energy, and I feel my own arousal build just watching them.

Jo glances back at me briefly, mouth glistening, her eyes daring me to do something—anything—but I can’t move. She smirks, wipes her lips, and dives back in, her friend’s legs trembling as she nears another climax. Around us, the chaos continues: women on women, a strap-on driving one woman into a frenzied state, and the two men taking turns with another woman whose cries rise above the rest. It’s raw, unfiltered, and wild, like a living porno unfolding in real-time.

I can feel my body responding, the tension in my pants becoming undeniable. My hands betray me, slipping down to adjust myself, and that’s when Jo notices. Her eyes catch mine, sharp and knowing. She pauses, leaving her friend trembling on the couch, and starts walking toward me, slow and deliberate. She never breaks eye contact, her gaze locking me in place as she crosses the room, still glistening from her earlier escapade.

She stops in front of me, close enough for me to feel the heat of her body. Her hand reaches out, brushing against my pants, testing me, teasing me. Her touch is firm but unhurried, like she’s savoring the buildup. Her fingers work my button loose, my zipper sliding down with an agonizing slowness. She pulls me free, her eyes dropping just for a moment to take me in before her lips press a soft, deliberate kiss against the middle of my shaft. Then the tip. Just light pecks, like she’s tasting me, teasing me.

I’m barely holding it together when she finally takes me in her mouth, inch by agonizing inch. The warmth, the wetness—it’s almost too much, and yet I can’t bring myself to stop her. Around us, the room continues to pulse with activity: a woman screams in ecstasy as the two men double-penetrate her, her cries cutting through the air. Another couple is tangled in a frenzy of limbs and straps, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the walls. But all I can focus on is Jo and the way she’s devouring me, her movements steady, her pace relentless.

This is unreal, I think to myself, my mind spinning. Nobody back home will believe this. Hell, I’m not sure I believe it, and I’m living it.

After what feels like forever, she pulls back, her lips leaving me with a final kiss. Her eyes meet mine again, and she asks, “You ready to leave?” Her voice is steady, casual, like she hasn’t just turned my entire world upside down.

I hesitate, glancing around at the chaos, but she doesn’t wait for my answer. “Let’s go,” she says, tugging me toward the door. As we pass through the room, I catch one last glimpse of a woman being utterly destroyed in the best way possible, her screams echoing in my ears as her eyes roll back in pleasure. It’s a sight I know I’ll never forget.

We make it to the stairs, but Jo isn’t done yet. Halfway down, she stops me, drops to her knees again, and takes me in her mouth like it’s the only thing she wants in the world. This time, there’s no teasing. She’s insatiable, her tongue and lips working me until I can barely stand. When she finally stops, she tucks me back into my pants, zips me up, and looks up at me with a wicked grin.

“Let’s go,” she says again, her tone dripping with satisfaction.

The night hadn’t let go of us. It clung to my skin, thick in my breath, tangled in the charged silence between us as we slid into the backseat. Jovel moved beside me, slow and deliberate, her presence like gravity, impossible to resist. Her scent—coconut oil, sweat, the remnants of rum—wrapped around me, intoxicating, suffocating in the best way. My pulse pounded. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.

I felt the heat of her body before I even touched her. My fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh, her breath hitching just slightly. She shifted, parting her legs just enough to let me know—she was ready for whatever came next. She exhaled a quiet, knowing laugh. Testing me. I clenched my jaw. If we weren’t in this car— She bit her lip, eyes dark with challenge. She already knew. We weren’t going home yet.

Jovel had one last stop in mind. The car pulled up to a roadside food stall—far from the tourist-heavy strips, deep in the city’s heartbeat. Smoke curled from oil drums, thick with the scent of pimento, charred meat, and the sharp sting of Scotch bonnet peppers. The air was sticky-hot, thick with voices and music, basslines shaking the ground beneath us. Behind the grill, a woman worked with practiced speed, sweat glistening on her skin, cleaver flashing as she chopped meat with precision. She glanced up and spotted Jovel, lips curling into a knowing smirk.

“Mi know yuh woulda come,” she said, grabbing a cleaver. “Yuh late tonight.” Jovel smirked back. “Mi haffi show mi fren di real ting.” The woman’s gaze flicked to me, taking me in with a single glance. She knew exactly what I was about. She grinned. “Him can handle it?”

Jovel’s smirk deepened. “Oh, him handle everything.” I smirked back. “Damn right.”

The woman cackled, her cleaver hitting the board in sharp, rhythmic chops. The air thickened with spice and grilled meat, hot, rich, intoxicating.

A man at the next stall was arguing over pepper sauce. “Mi seh mi want pepper, but mi nuh want mi nose a run!” The vendor laughed. “Tek it or lef it, star.”

Jovel dipped a finger in the sauce, brought it to my lips. “Taste.” I let her press it against my tongue—sweet at first, then heat creeping slow before hitting hard. I swallowed, jaw tight. That shit burned. She smirked. “You good?” I refused to react. “Like I said. I handle everything.” She laughed, low and knowing. “We gon’ see.”

The second we pulled up to the Airbnb, the mood shifted. We should’ve been inside already. We should’ve been on each other. But the driver had different plans.

“Five t’ousand,” he said, leaning against the hood. Jovel’s posture changed instantly. She inhaled slow, deep—too deep. The kind of breath you take when you’re deciding whether to let something slide or burn it all the way down. “Eh?” her voice razor-sharp. “Tonight different,” the driver muttered. That was all he said. But we both knew.

Jovel exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. Letting the fire build. “Yuh did haffi do dis?” The driver shrugged. “Tings raise up, man.” Bullshit.

He saw me—the chain, the kicks, the fact that I wasn’t from here—and decided to take his shot. But he forgot one thing. He wasn’t dealing with me. He was dealing with Jovel. “Mi pay yuh di same ting every time,” she said, voice low and dangerous. The tension snapped. Fast patois, sharp as a blade, slicing through the air like gunfire. “Mi use yuh all di time an’ yuh never pull dis!” The driver sighed. “Jo—”

“Bloodclaat!” Jovel ripped the bills from her purse, slapped them against his chest, and turned away. “Move from yasso!” She stormed inside, still muttering under her breath. “Mi cya believe di fuckery—tink mi a some eediat gal—damn disrespect…” I followed her in, caught her wrist before she could pace. “Breathe.” Her chest was still rising, still burning with fire—but when her eyes met mine, that fire shifted. Something hotter. Something darker. Something hungry.

We barely made it to the bathroom. She pushed me back first. My spine hit the tile, water running over my shoulders as she sank to her knees. Hands gliding up my thighs, mouth inches from where I needed her. She waited. Let me feel it. “Jovel.” She looked up, all challenge. “Wha? You not ready?” My jaw clenched. She was testing me. Again. I grabbed her wrists, flipped the moment on her. Had her against the wall now, water streaming down her body, rolling between her breasts, over her stomach, down her thighs. Pinned. Mine. She moaned into my mouth, hips rolling, friction unbearable. I spun her around. “Wash mi back,” she whispered. I dragged my hands down her spine, over the perfect arch of her back. Gripping her waist. Kneading. Owning every inch.

She turned, lathering her hands, sliding them over me. Over my chest, my abs—lower. Her fingers wrapped around me, tight, slow strokes, teasing, gripping, dragging her nails up my length, watching my face like she knew she was driving me insane. “You feel ready,” she murmured. I gripped her throat lightly. “Jovel, stop playing with me.” She licked her lips. “Then take me.” I threw her onto the bed—gently, but with purpose. She landed with a soft gasp, and I positioned her further up, spreading her legs wide before sinking to my knees. And then, I devoured her.

Starved. Deprived. I indulged in her the way a man does when he’s been waiting, needing, craving. I savored her like a tasting menu at a Michelin-star restaurant, every flick of my tongue a course, every moan a review. And she was vocal. Her body spoke in ways that words never could—moaning, squirming, fingers clawing at the sheets before grabbing at my head, then the air, unsure where to hold on. Like she was unraveling under me, coming apart at the seams. That only made me hungrier. And as I licked, sucked, flicked, I thought about something. There’s a stigma—that Jamaican men don’t do this. I wondered, for a brief second, if that was why she responded like this. Was this an entirely new experience for her? Had the men before me never taken their time to worship her the way she deserved? If so, that was their loss. Because right now, I was the only man in the world who knew exactly how good she tasted. Her clit—larger, rounder, extra sensitive. The kind you can suck, roll, flick in slow teasing circles just to watch her body shake from the aftershocks. And she did shake. Every flick of my tongue sent another ripple through her, her thighs trembling, her hips lifting, chasing my mouth like she couldn’t stand the distance. She had earned every inch of my tongue tonight. And I gave it to her.

After the slow, teasing buildup, I went deeper, faster, harder, pushing her to that place where her pleasure stopped being soft and pretty and became something raw and desperate. Her back arched, her hands twisted in the sheets, and when she came, her body locked up completely before she shattered. I didn’t stop. Not yet. One last flick. One last roll. A final cry—louder, sharper. Then I let her breathe. By the time we moved to the main event, the room was dim, the only light a faint glow from the full moon creeping through the curtains. The fabric was thin—anyone standing outside could’ve seen us. We didn’t care. We moved like we had something to prove. Like the night wasn’t just pulling us in—but consuming us whole. We switched positions, reversed, tangled, untangled, reconnected. Animalistic. Instinctive. When she got on top, she rode me with precision, hips moving in slow, deliberate circles before picking up speed. And she was dripping. I could feel it—every movement, every climax, every time she lost herself and let her body take over. It got messy. And messy was good.

At some point, she slowed, chest heaving, and pulled off me. Slid down. And then her mouth was on me. Wet. Warm. Insatiable. But it wasn’t just that. It was how she did it. The way she licked herself off me. The way she locked eyes with me as she did it—deliberate, slow, letting me know exactly how much she enjoyed it. How much she enjoyed us. I groaned, hand tangled in her hair, hips twitching as she worked me. It was damn near impossible not to lose it right then and there. But there was one thing I had been waiting for since the moment I met Jovel. And now it was time.

She pulled away, wiped her lips, and climbed onto the bed. Face down. Ass up. Her back arched perfectly, knees spread, body ready, waiting. And the moonlight—faint but strong enough to catch the curve of her back, the roundness of her ass. If this had been a photo, it would have been the perfect shot. But this wasn’t a photo. This was our moment. And I went for it. Slow at first. Deep strokes, listening to her rhythm, her breath, her moans. Learning her. Then I started playing with it. Two short strokes. One long, deep thrust. She gasped. Two more short. Another deep. She moaned louder, body pushing back against me, matching my movements, matching my hunger. And then we found the rhythm. The right balance. And I went all in. Filling her, stretching her, slamming into her in powerful, deliberate strokes, the sound of our bodies clapping against each other the only thing filling the room. No music. Just us.

What Dr. Lee said—one sound, one rhythm, one band.

The sound was us—the slap of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed beneath us, her moans rising, my breath catching, the steady, primal beat of our bodies in sync. No hesitation, no missed notes—just movement, fluid and undeniable. One rhythm. The way my hips met hers, the push and pull, the give and take. Each thrust, each roll, a beat in the song we were creating with our bodies. One band. The way she matched me, the way we anticipated each other’s next move without words. The way her fingers clawed into the sheets the moment I drove deeper. The way my grip tightened on her hips just as she arched back for more. There was no need for a conductor—we were the music. The sound, the rhythm, the band.

I could feel it rising, that tight pull in my gut, the explosion waiting to happen. She was gripping me so tight, so wet, so ready for it. Her body was already begging. My fingers dug into her hips, teeth clenched. I let the words drag out, slow, commanding. “You feel that? “All this dick stretching you out? “ “Cum for me, wicked girl.” She whimpered, voice low and filthy, that thick patois dripping from her lips like honey. Mi…waa…feel yuh—”She gasped. Another thrust. “Breed mi—deep—choke mi—” Her voice broke. “Mek mi cum til mi cya move” That was it. That was the fucking trigger. I snapped my hips into her, deep, deliberate, punishing. She screamed. “Fuck mi! Fuck mi deep! Ooh mi a cum—lawd, mi a cum!” Her body convulsed, jerked, then collapsed forward, legs shaking, pussy clamping down on me so hard I nearly blacked out. I let go. Final thrust. Deep. Buried. No holding back.

My muscles locked, every nerve in my body on fire, pulsing, drowning in her heat. The pressure burst, white-hot, rippling through me in waves as her walls squeezed every drop from me. She collapsed onto the bed, face-down, still spasming, still moaning. I pulled out slowly, every nerve in my body on fire, then dropped onto the mattress beside her. Neither of us moved.

For a long time, all we did was breathe. My chest was still rising too fast, my heartbeat still pounding in my ears. Her body twitched against me, still caught in aftershocks, still lost in it. Then, finally, she sighed, deep and heavy, like a woman completely spent. A slow, lazy smile crept across her face. And that’s when we turned toward each other. And burst out laughing.

I woke up with my head still buzzing—not just from the weed, but from everything that had gone down last night. The party. The music. Jovel. The way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she looked at me like she already had me figured out. I stretched, body sinking deeper into the mattress, but when I glanced across the room, my breath caught for a whole different reason. Jovel was sprawled on the couch, naked, legs folded beneath her, rolling a spliff with slow, practiced ease. The news flickered on the TV, but she wasn’t paying it any mind. The early afternoon light slipped through the curtains, spilling over her deep brown skin, turning her into something golden. Effortless. Unbothered. She must’ve felt my eyes on her because she glanced over, a slow, knowing smirk curving her lips.

“Mawnin’,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s afternoon.” She just shrugged, twisting the paper between her fingers, sealing the spliff with a slow lick of her tongue. “Yuh still wake up chat off yuh mout’ early,” she teased, eyes flicking up at me, amused. I smirked. “Still tryna catch up to you.” “Gwan chat,” she muttered, shaking her head, but I caught the way her lips curled, the way her eyes lingered. She sparked the spliff, inhaling deep before leaning back into the cushions, stretching like a damn cat. She exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “How yuh rest?” she asked. “Well.” I sat up, rubbing a hand over my face. “More than well.”

And there it was—that damn smile. Slow, knowing. Like she already had me caught in her web and wasn’t about to let me go anytime soon. My stomach tightened, heat curling low in my gut, but I played it cool, pushing off the bed and settling beside her on the couch. We fell into easy conversation, laughing about the party, the people, the absolute madness of the night before. She passed me the spliff, and I took a slow drag, letting the smoke settle deep in my lungs before exhaling. “Yuh bun weed regular?” she asked, tilting her head. I smirked. “Come on now, I’m in Jamaica. Pass me di ganja.” She let out a full belly laugh, head tipping back against the couch. “Yuh a idiot, yuh know dat?” I grinned. “Nah, just tryna blend in.” She sucked her teeth, but she was still smiling. “Yuh too fool.”

We sat like that for a while—legs stretched across the couch, high settling in, the heat of the afternoon pressing against the windows. Then the conversation deepened. I found myself wanting to know everything—the moments that shaped her, the things she loved, the shit she’d been through. I asked about her past. About her future. About who she was when she wasn’t just the woman in front of me, rolling blunts and making me feel something I hadn’t in a long time. She answered in her own way—some things direct, some things left in the spaces between her words. But I listened. I wanted to. At some point, she turned the questions on me. “How yuh like Jamaica so far?” I let my head fall back against the couch. “It’s hot as hell.” She laughed, the sound rolling through the room. “And sticky,” I added.

She propped her elbow on the back of the couch, chin resting in her palm, watching me. “But?” I exhaled slowly. “But it’s real. I feel… connected here.” Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Connected how?” I glanced at her, searching for the right words. “The energy, the vibe—it’s different. It’s not just a vacation spot. It feels… alive in a way I wasn’t expecting.” She smirked. “What yuh did expect?”

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I hesitated, running a hand over my jaw. “I don’t know. A tropical getaway? Pretty beaches, resorts, rum punches. That’s the version they sell you.”

She sucked her teeth, shaking her head. “Yuh tink we one big all-inclusive?”

I chuckled. “Before I got here? Maybe a little.”

Her expression softened, though the teasing didn’t leave her eyes. “Yuh learn fast.”

I nodded, letting my gaze drift. “Yeah… the minute I stepped off the plane, I felt it. The rhythm, the way people move, how everybody just exists here—like they know who they are, where they belong.”

I paused, glancing at her. “It was nice. For the first time, I wasn’t the minority. Everybody looked like me. A whole country of Black people, just… being.”

Jovel studied me, rolling the spliff between her fingers before tapping ash into an empty coconut shell on the table. “Dat nuh odd fi mi,” she said finally, her voice softer now. “Mi grow up seein’ mi face reflected everywhere. Mi skin color normal here. But mi know dat nuh true fi everybody.”

I nodded. “It’s not. Where I’m from, you’re always aware. Even when it’s not loud, it’s in the background. A feeling you can’t shake.”

Her eyes searched mine for a beat. Then she exhaled, stretching her arms over her head. “Mi cyaah imagine leavin’ mi yaad an’ feelin’ like mi don’t belong.”

I let that sit between us.

“What about you?” I asked. “How do you feel about Jamaica? What’s it like living here?”

She snorted. “Dat depend—yuh want di tourist version or di real version?”

I smirked. “Give me the real one.”

She stretched her legs across my lap, shifting so she could meet my eyes. “Jamaica sweet, yuh see. Mi love mi country. Di food, di music, di people—di way we move, how we talk, how we feel tings deep.” She tapped her chest. “We nuh hide emotion. We loud when we happy, loud when we vex. We live wid sense of freedom, even when nutten easy.”

Her tone shifted, and she glanced toward the window. “But…”

I caught that hesitation. “But?”

She sucked her teeth, shaking her head. “Jamaica rough too. Mi nuh go sugarcoat it. Mi love mi island, but mi know seh it hard fi plenty people. People fight fi dem future here. An’ di government?” She let out a dry laugh. “Mi nuh even start pon dat.”

I watched her, listening not just to her words but to the way she said them—how her body relaxed when she spoke about what she loved, how her jaw tensed when she touched on the struggles.

She glanced at me. “Mi tink tourists see Jamaica one way. A place to party, eat jerk chicken, smoke weed. But di real Jamaica?” She exhaled. “Di real Jamaica is a survivor.”

That hit me. “That’s powerful,” I said quietly.

She shrugged, but her eyes softened. “Is true.”

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle. “This place is special,” I murmured.

She grinned. “Yuh finally get it now?”

I smirked. “I’m starting to.”

She studied me for a moment, then leaned in, her voice lower now. “Mi tell yuh dis—Jamaica nuh just somewhere yuh visit. If yuh let it, Jamaica tek yuh over.”

Her gaze locked onto mine, and for the first time, I wondered if she was just talkin’ about the island… or about herself.

A quiet beat passed, and then she stretched her arms over her head, the motion making her curves shift, skin catching the golden afternoon light. My stomach tensed.

“Yuh hungry?”

I let out a breath, rubbing a hand over my chest. “Yeah… actually, I could eat.”

She scoffed. “Mek sense. Yuh belly must weak after all dat smoke.”

Her lips curled. “I want yuh to get a real taste of Jamaica.”

I smirked. “I thought that’s what last night was for.”

She rolled her eyes, smacking my arm. “Yuh always full ah talk.”

I grinned. “I’m just sayin’.”

She slid off the couch, slipping on a thin dress that clung to her body. When she bent to fix the hem, she did it slow. Too slow. We locked eyes, and everything in the room got heavier.

A pause. A smirk.

“Mi soon come. Try nuh move,” she said, slipping on her sandals. “But mi know yuh go siddung deh and dream ‘bout mi.”

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. “Not a chance.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and I let my body sink deeper into the couch, eyes slipping closed. I must’ve drifted because by the time she returned, the scent of something good filled the room.

She cracked the container open, and my stomach clenched. A whole snapper, fried perfectly, bathed in Escoveitch sauce. The sharp tang of vinegar, the slow burn of peppers, the deep, smoky scent of the fish—it all hit at once. The plate was piled with rice and peas, steamed cabbage, and fried plantains.

I took a bite, the crisp skin cracking under my teeth, the vinegar biting my tongue before the slow heat of the peppers kicked in. Sweet plantains followed, cooling it down just enough—like a rhythm, one flavor chasing the next.

I let out a low groan. “Damn.”

She grinned. “Mi tell yuh.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “I ain’t doubting you again.”

We ate, trading more stories, small back-and-forth jabs. At some point, her eyes drifted to my hair—six months into my loc journey, no retwist in sight.

“Yuh head look mash up,” she teased, reaching to run her fingers through my roots.

I exhaled through my nose, rubbing a hand over my scalp. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Got a wedding coming up.”

She smirked. “Mi know a place in Montego Bay. Mi tek yuh tomorrow.”

“Cool, cool.” I nodded. But my mind wasn’t on tomorrow. It was on her.

The TV droned on, some old reggae tune slipping through the static. But all I could hear was the slow, measured sound of her breathing. The way her lips parted slightly, waiting.

She stretched, shifting her weight just enough to make the thin fabric of her dress slide higher up her thigh. She didn’t adjust it. Didn’t fix it. Just let me look. Her lips curled.

“Come ’ere,” she murmured.

And fuck, did I want.

I didn’t move at first. Just sat back, watching her, letting the tension stretch between us like the heat pressing against the walls. My fingers flexed against my knee, aching to touch. To grab. To take.

She knew it. Her smile deepened, slow and knowing, a flicker of challenge in her eyes. “You waitin’ on an invitation?” she asked, voice dipped in honey, thick with tease.

I exhaled through my nose, steadying the pulse hammering in my chest. “No,” I said, voice low, even. Then I stood.

The moment stretched as I closed the space between us, deliberate, controlled. My fingers brushed over the edge of her dress, tracing the thin fabric before I took my time pushing it higher, letting her feel the heat of my palm against her bare skin. She shivered. Not from cold.

I pressed my knuckles against her thigh, dragging slow, feeling the way her muscles tensed, waiting. Anticipating. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t move. Didn’t rush. Just let me take my time.

“Turn around,” I murmured.

A pause. Not hesitation—just her making me wait now, stretching the moment. Then, with the slightest tilt of her head, she obeyed, her back pressing against my chest, her curves fitting against me like they belonged there.

I slid my hands up, tracing the dip of her waist, the softness of her stomach, until my fingers splayed just beneath her ribs. “Still want me to come closer?” I asked against her ear, my lips grazing the sensitive skin there.

Her answer wasn’t words. It was the way her body melted against me. The way she tipped her head back, exposing her throat, her breath warm against my jaw.

And when I finally let my hands roam lower, gripping her hips, pressing her back against me with nothing but control and slow, deliberate pressure—She gasped.

And I knew, without a doubt, she wanted this just as much as I did. Wanted it deep. Slow. Unapologetic.

And I was more than ready to give her exactly that. Her body was warm beneath my hands, soft in all the ways that made me ache. But I didn’t rush. Didn’t give in to the way she pressed against me, the way her breath hitched when my hands roamed lower.

I wanted her to feel this. Every. Damn. Second. My lips hovered just above hers, teasing, tasting the heat between us before pulling back. She made a sound—frustration, need, something deep in her throat that had my grip tightening on her hips.

“Bruce…” A warning. A plea.

I smirked against her skin. “Patience,” I murmured, dragging my mouth along her jaw, then lower, down the line of her throat, where her pulse fluttered against my tongue. She exhaled sharply, her fingers clutching at my shoulders, pressing closer, but I didn’t let her take control.

Instead, I caught her wrists, pinning them gently against the wall, holding her there—still, waiting, feeling. Her breath stuttered.

“You feel that?” I asked, voice thick, lips tracing the curve of her collarbone.

She nodded, barely.

I pressed closer, making sure she felt every inch of me against her, the heat of my body teasing hers. “I want you to need it,” I whispered against her skin. “Not just want it.”

She let out a shaky breath, her body arching into me, her wrists flexing against my grip. “Then take it,” she murmured, voice just as low, just as demanding.

I did. I let go of her hands, let my fingers slip beneath the hem of her dress, dragging it up, higher, exposing more of her, feeling the heat of her bare skin beneath my palms. My mouth followed, tasting her shoulder, the dip of her clavicle, my tongue tracing slow, deliberate paths that had her trembling beneath me.

Her hands tangled in my shirt, pulling, desperate, but I caught them again, guiding them above her head, pressing them against the wall. “Let me,” I said, voice low, rough.

She stilled. And in that moment, she gave it up—gave in. Her body softened against mine, her breathing uneven, her lips parting as she let me take control.

And when I finally—finally—moved my hand between her thighs, brushing slow, teasing, testing—She gasped.

Loud. Sharp. Her nails bit into my shoulders, her head tipping back against the wall, her body shaking beneath my touch. “That’s it,” I murmured, lips ghosting over her jaw. “Now you feel it.”

And I wasn’t stopping until she had to beg me to. Her breath came fast now, uneven, the kind that slipped out between parted lips without permission. A soft tremor ran through her, thighs tensing, heat pooling against my fingers as she pressed closer, seeking more.

I held back. Let her feel the weight of my control, the way I wouldn’t just give in because she wanted me to. Not yet.

Instead, I dragged my lips up the side of her neck, slow and deliberate, letting her feel the heat of my breath against her skin before I whispered, “You ready for me?”

She whimpered—soft but desperate—and when she nodded, I still didn’t give in. “Say it,” I murmured, my fingers teasing the edge of her underwear, tracing just beneath the band, pressing where she was already warm, already waiting.

Her breath hitched, her lashes fluttering. And then—finally—she gave me what I wanted. “Yes,” she breathed, barely a sound but thick with need. “I’m ready.”

I didn’t make her wait anymore. I slid my fingers between her thighs, slow but deliberate, parting her, feeling the heat of her, the slickness. Her body clenched in response, her gasp sharp as she grabbed at my shoulders. That sound—breathless, desperate—sent a tight pull through my chest, made something inside me snap. I had to have more.

I gripped her tighter, fingers moving, pressing, stroking just the way I knew she needed, guiding her through every slow wave of pleasure. Her name fell from my lips in a whisper, my mouth trailing along her jaw, my other hand steady at her hip, holding her close, making sure she felt me, making sure she couldn’t pull away from what I was giving her.

Her moans came soft, breathless, lips parting, eyes closing as she let go—bit by bit, breath by breath. “That’s it,” I murmured against her lips, my fingers circling, pressing deeper, dragging her into it, pulling her under. “Let it go, baby.”

Her head hit the wall, her breath breaking into pieces, her body coiling tight—too tight—until it snapped, pleasure rolling through her in waves, pulse after pulse, wrecking her from the inside out.

A long, shaking gasp, her fingers digging into my skin, her legs locking around me as she took it, as I gave it, as her body pulsed, trembled, broke in my arms. I held her through it, letting her ride the wave, whispering against her ear, my hands steadying her, keeping her from slipping too far.

And when it was over, when her body finally sagged against mine, breathless, sated, her skin hot and damp against me—I pressed my lips to her temple, whispering, “Told you I wasn’t stopping till you begged.”

She laughed, soft, spent, still catching her breath. And then she reached for me—And I knew she wasn’t done yet.

She was still catching her breath, body loose and warm against mine, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. But there was something in her touch—something slow, searching, greedy. She wanted more. So did I.

I ran my hands down her sides, feeling the subtle tremor still lingering beneath her skin, the aftershocks of what I’d just given her. She was soft, pliant, wrecked—but not satisfied. Not fully.

Her fingers slipped lower, tugging at my waistband, her lips brushing against my jaw. “You ready for me now?” she whispered, voice thick with exhaustion, with want.

I exhaled, slow, steady, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, my lips dragging down the column of her throat. My hands found her thighs, lifting her easily, pressing her back against the wall. She gasped, legs wrapping around my waist, locking me in.

I could feel her—heat pressing against me, her body open, aching. I teased her first, dragging myself along her center, making her feel every inch of what she was about to take. She whimpered, hands gripping my shoulders, her breath a soft plea. “Bruce…”

I pressed my forehead against hers, holding there, keeping her waiting just a little longer. “You sure?” I murmured, voice low, rough.

She tipped her head back, breathing deep, body trembling, and then—Her gaze locked on mine, dark, daring. “Stop playing and give it to me.”

I did. I slid into her slow, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her, feeling her body tighten around me, take me. Her breath broke, her fingers digging into my back, her nails biting, but she didn’t tell me to stop. Didn’t tell me to slow down. She just took it. All of it.

And when I was buried inside her, when she clenched around me, gasping, shaking—I stayed there. Made her feel it. Made her take it. Her lips parted, her breath hitched, a shudder running through her body like she was already close again, like I’d barely done anything and she was already there.

She tightened her arms around my neck, pressing her forehead against mine, her voice breaking on a whisper. “Bruce… move.”

I did. Slow at first, dragging my hips back, feeling the way she clenched, the way she fought to keep me inside, then pushing back in, making her take me deep. Her breath stuttered. Then again. Then she broke, her whole body snapping tight, her breath catching, her hands fisting in my hair, pulling me closer like she couldn’t take it, like it was too much—but she still wanted more.

A sharp, shaking cry ripped from her throat as her body clenched, held, dragged me with her—pulling me so deep I nearly lost myself right there. I groaned, gripping her hips, barely holding myself back. She was still shaking, still moaning, still coming undone around me—but I wasn’t done with her yet. Not yet.

I pressed her harder against the wall, angling myself deeper, and when I moved again, when I thrust, it wasn’t slow anymore. She choked on a gasp. Then a moan. Then my name—over and over, broken, breathless, like she couldn’t hold on to it.

And then—I felt it slipping. My grip on control, my grip on everything, unraveling with every tight pull of her body around me. I tried to hold back, tried to breathe through it, but she dragged me under—took me under. And I lost it.

A deep, guttural groan ripped from my throat, my body jerking, crashing into hers, helpless against the heat tearing through me. Every muscle tensed, tightened, my hips locking against hers as pleasure wrecked me—pulse after pulse, dragging me under, pulling me into her, making sure she took everything I had to give.

The only thing left was the sound of our ragged breathing, the reggae song humming in the distance—muted, far away, like we’d left the rest of the world behind. Her body was still trembling against mine, her skin damp, heat lingering between us, like the moment refused to let go. Like we refused to let go. Spent. Satisfied. Mine. And I knew—I’d never get enough of this woman. Not tonight. Not ever. We smiled. And just breathed.

---

The next morning, we woke up in silence. No lingering words. No playful teasing. Just the quiet hum of a slow-moving sun stretching over Montego Bay.

Something thick and unspoken sat between us. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… there. Like a question neither of us wanted to ask.

Jovel stretched, unbothered, slipping back into her skin like nothing had shifted. She reached for her clothes with the same easy fluidity, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off the night.

“Get dressed,” she murmured, her voice still husky from sleep. “Mi nuh wait pon yuh, Bruce.”

I smirked. “You sure? Seem like you enjoy bossin’ me around.”

She side-eyed me, slipping into a snug crop top that hugged every curve. “An’ yuh love followin’ mi lead, so move wid it.”

I let her win. Again.

We stepped outside, the sun already burning high. From the upper deck of my condo, the city unfolded below—Montego Bay stretching toward the sea, cruise ships creeping into port. But getting down from here? That was another story.

The hill was steep. No sidewalks. Just a narrow road with blind corners, where taxis and scooters whipped past like pedestrians were an afterthought. I kept close to the edge, cautious. Jovel, on the other hand, barely glanced at the traffic.

“You good?” she asked, peering back at me.

“I’d be better if we weren’t playin’ chicken with these cars.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Bruce, stop move like yuh fraid. Walk like yuh know where yuh goin’.”

Easy for her to say. She moved with the confidence of someone who had walked this path a thousand times, her steps light, effortless.

At the bottom of the hill, the city pulsed with life. Vendors called out to early-morning shoppers, the scent of fried dumplings curling into the air. A group of men lounged outside a rum shop, already arguing about the day’s football match. Then it happened. “Fimi!”

A deep, gravelly voice called out from across the street, and suddenly, it was like the whole city saw her. A vendor manning a fruit stall whistled. A group of women standing by a shop door grinned as they waved. I glanced at her, confused. Fimi?

She didn’t even break stride. Just smirked as the fruit vendor leaned over his stall, grinning wide. “Ayyye, mi nah see yuh in weeks, Fimi! Yuh dash mi weh or wah?”

Jovel scoffed. “A lie yuh a tell, man. Mi pass ya di odda day, yuh just blind.”

The man grinned. “Yuh betta buy supm’ now, mek up fi yuh disappearance.”

She rolled her eyes but plucked a mango from his stall, tossing him a bill before he could even argue. “Gimme one sweet one, nuh di likkle bruk-up ting.”

I watched the whole exchange, something clicking into place. Jovel wasn’t just moving through the city—she was part of it. “Fimi?” I murmured as we walked away.

She licked mango juice from her thumb, throwing me a lazy glance. “What?”

I tested the name on my tongue. “So, Fimi…”

She stopped mid-step, her eyes flicking to mine. Just for a second. A flicker of something unreadable. Then she smirked. “Yuh haffi earn dat.”

The way she said it, it wasn’t just a name. It was a part of her I hadn’t unlocked yet. Before I could respond, she veered toward a narrow street where an old woman sat on a stoop, watching the morning unfold with quiet patience.

“Miss Patsy,” Jovel greeted, crouching beside her. “Yuh good?”

The old woman nodded, eyes soft. “Mi deh yah, chile. Mi see yuh runnin’ up an’ dung di place again.”

Jovel laughed, pressing a few bills into her palm. “Mi a keep busy, Miss Patsy. Mi tell yuh grandson check pon yuh?”

“Yuh did, yuh did.” The woman patted Jovel’s cheek. “Yuh a good gyal, Fimi.”

I stood back, watching. It wasn’t just the men on the street flirting with her, or the shopkeepers greeting her like she was their own. It was this. The way she moved through Montego Bay like it was stitched into her bones. She didn’t just belong here. Here belonged to her.

We walked on, and I was still thinking about it when she glanced up at me. “Yuh see how mi run mi city?”

I shook my head, smirking. “Starting to.”

Another voice called out, this time a woman’s. “Fimi, mi chile!”

Jovel grinned, slipping effortlessly into Patois. “Miss Ling! Mi did haffi bring mi fren fi come taste di good good soup.”

Miss Ling waved a hand at me. “Mi hope him can handle it—yuh know mi nuh water down mi seasoning fi nobody!”

Jovel laughed. “Dat’s why mi love it!”

She placed our order—two big bowls of chicken soup with extra spinners—then turned to me with a knowing smirk. “Yuh gon’ feel di spirit when yuh drink dis.”

The soup was fire—rich, spicy, packed with flavors that settled into my bones. I wasn’t usually one for foreign food when I traveled, but this? This was something different.

“You still doubtin’ mi taste?” Jovel asked, watching me over her spoon.

I scoffed. “Never said that.”

Her grin was lazy, knowing. “Yuh didn’t haffi say it.”

When we finished, we stepped outside, and before we even got to the road, someone else called out to her. “Fimi, look how yuh just glowin’ inna di sun! Wah gwan, baby girl?”

A man leaning against a shop entrance smirked at her, his eyes raking her up and down. I tensed on instinct, but Jovel just laughed. “Mi good, mi good,” she called back. “How di wife?”

The man winced, grinning. “Yuh just haffi call mi out like dat?”

Jovel smirked, already moving past. “Gwan home, man.”

I shook my head. “Everywhere we go, it’s Fimi this, Fimi that.”

She winked. “What can mi say? Mi own mi place.”

She flagged down a route taxi, the driver already nodding before she even spoke. We slid in, and the city blurred past, shifting from the heartbeat of the streets to something even deeper.

She led me down a side street, then turned into an alley—no signs, no storefront, just a staircase leading up. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out in Patois. “Mi deh yah fi di bess hairdresser pon di island!”

A woman leaned against the doorway, rolling her eyes. “Fimi, yuh come fi di bess, an’ mi nuh see yuh fi months?”

Jovel laughed, striding up the steps. “Mi busy, man. But mi bring mi fren fi fix up him headtop.”

Inside, the shop buzzed with movement. Barbers working. Kids playing. Stray cats stretched out like they owned the place. The scent of hair grease and warm air wrapped around me. A few kids stared at me, eyes wide. I smiled at one, and she grinned back before hiding behind her mother’s chair.

Jovel’s friend ran her fingers through my hair, assessing the length, the texture. She smirked. “Yeah, mi fix dis up proper.” Then she disappeared downstairs for supplies.

Jovel stood to leave, but before she did, she leaned in, her voice close to my ear. “Call mi when yuh done.” Then she was gone, and I was alone in a room full of strangers.

A kid sat across from me, watching me like I was some kind of puzzle. “Yuh not from yah, eh?” he finally asked.

“Nah.”

He nodded like he already knew. “Mi coulda tell.”

“How’s that?”

“Di way yuh siddung quiet.” He grinned. “Americans always quiet ‘til dem get comfortable.”

Bruce C Bee

Author of Burn Me Whole — exploring love, masculinity, and transformation across borders.