Walthamstow Wildcat
"DJ Nia runs the hottest underground nights in East London. When music journalist Devon comes to interview her, she shows him there's a reason they call her the Wildcat."
The bass hit so hard Devon felt it in his chest before he even got through the warehouse doors. Walthamstow was supposed to be gentrified now, but down these back streets, the old spirit still lived.
And at the center of it all was Nia. DJ Nia. The Wildcat.
She was already behind the decks when he found her, a vision in neon—crop top barely containing her ample chest, high-waisted shorts that made her thick thighs look illegal. Her locs were piled high, glowing under the UV lights.
"You the journalist?" she shouted over the music.
"Devon! From Mixmag!"
She looked him up and down, slow and deliberate. Whatever she saw made her smile.
The interview happened in the back room—a converted office with threadbare furniture and walls covered in flyers from legendary raves. The bass still thumped through the floor.
"So what makes the Wildcat so wild?" Devon asked, recorder in hand.
Nia leaned back, legs spread like she owned the space. Because she did. "You want the press answer or the real answer?"
"Real. Always."
Her smile turned predatory. "The real answer is that I take what I want. Music. Money. Men." She stood, walking toward him. "And right now, I want you."
Devon's professionalism evaporated the moment she straddled him in that ratty office chair. Her kiss was aggressive, demanding, her tongue claiming his mouth like she was mixing him into one of her tracks.
"I watched your interviews online," she murmured against his lips. "Thought about this. About shutting that pretty mouth up."
Her hands were everywhere—under his shirt, on his belt, pulling him free. Her eyes went wide with appreciation.
"Now that's what I'm talking about. Big tune energy."
She pulled her crop top off in one fluid motion. Her breasts were heavy and perfect, dark nipples already hard. Devon's hands found them automatically.
"That's it, baby. Touch me like you mean it."
She rode him right there in that chair, her thick body rolling to the rhythm bleeding through the walls. She was loud, unashamed, her Jamaican patois mixing with London slang as she got closer.
"Fuck! Yes! Right there, don't stop, don't fucking stop!"
Devon gripped her waist, thrusting up to meet her. She threw her head back, locs flying, and the sound she made when she came could have been its own track—raw and primal and absolutely filthy.
But she wasn't done.
"On the couch. Now." It wasn't a request.
Devon obeyed. Nia turned around, giving him the full view of her magnificent backside before sinking down onto him reverse. The view almost finished him then and there.
"Hold on, journalist boy. This is the main set."
She rode him like she was headlining Carnival, relentless and rhythmic. Her arse bounced hypnotically, and she reached back to grab his hand and place it where she wanted it.
"Make me come again. I want to feel it while I'm taking you."
He obliged, and when she shattered the second time, she took him with her, both of them crying out as the bass dropped in the other room.
After, she passed him a water bottle, still half-naked and completely unbothered.
"So," she said, lighting a cigarette. "You gonna write something nice about me?"
Devon laughed weakly. "I'll write the truth. That you're the most intense experience I've ever had."
"Good answer." She took a drag. "Same time next month? I've got a new night launching. Could use some... press coverage."
"Your place or mine?"
"Mine. Always mine." She grinned. "This wildcat doesn't get caged, baby. But I might let you visit my den."
Devon was already counting the days.