The grind and the gaze

The Grind and the Gaze

Serena’s alarm screamed like a goddamn banshee at 6:45 a.m., and she fucking hated it. She smacked the phone so hard it skittered across the nightstand, then lay there cursing under her breath, staring at that ugly water stain on the ceiling that mocked her like a middle finger from the universe. The apartment smelled of yesterday’s takeout and damp laundry that never quite dried right. One bedroom, a kitchen that doubled as a fucking war zone when she tried to cook, and a shower that spat lukewarm water like it was personally offended by her existence.

She dragged herself up, tits bouncing free under an old tank top as she shuffled to the coffee maker. While it hissed and spat, she scrolled her feed some billionaire prick jetting off to his private island again, another influencer bitch posing naked on a yacht with captions about “self love” that cost more than Serena’s yearly rent. “Eat shit, you cunts,” she muttered, pouring in the oat milk so hard it splashed. Vacation? Her last “getaway” was crashing on her friends’ couch upstate, eating burnt casserole and pretending she wasn’t drowning in bills.

She got into the shower and she soaped up roughly, hands sliding over her curves, lingering a second too long on her nipples because fuck it, the morning horn was real. Her mind flashed uninvited to strong hands that weren’t hers, expensive cologne, the way a powerful body pinned her down and made her scream. She bit her lip hard, shut the water off with a slap. Stop it, you hypocritical slut.

Black jeans that hugged her ass just right, a tight thrifted top that showed a hint of cleavage, boots worn to hell. Hair braided messily, mascara slapped on. Tote bag: laptop, sketchbook, half a granola bar, and that library book on how the ultra rich were bleeding the world dry. Toast with whatever was left in the fridge. She was out the door, heart already pounding with the usual urban rage.

The subway was a sweaty hellhole. Packed in like sardines, some asshole’s backpack jamming into her spine. Across the car, a woman in Louboutins and a coat worth Serena’s soul scrolled on her diamond encrusted phone. Serena’s blood boiled. Bet you’ve never had to suck up to a landlord for an extra week on rent, you spoiled bitch. She turned up her indie rock until it thrashed in her ears, but the resentment stuck like cum on skin.

The marketing agency buzzed with bullshit deadlines. Marcus, her decent enough boss, dumped another client revision on her desk before she even sat down. “Make it pop more, Serena. They want it sexier but not too slutty.”

“Got it, chief,” she said through gritted teeth, firing up her tablet. Priya slid over with coffee like a fucking angel. “You look like you need this and a good dicking, babe.”

Serena snorted. “Story of my life. Thanks, P.”

The morning was logos and mockups for some sustainable fashion startup. She crushed it vibrant colors, real body models, not those skeletal influencer types. In the team meeting, she went off. “We’re selling to actual fucking people, not trust fund kids. Show the single mom hustling two jobs, exhausted but still slaying. None of that polished billionaire fantasy crap that makes everyone feel like shit.”

Jamal fist bumped her. “Preach, girl. Fuck the one percenters.”

Lunch was a sad turkey sandwich at her desk while she sketched angry cityscapes tiny workers crushed under giant golden calves. Afternoon brought Lena, the eager intern, nearly in tears over crashed files. Serena fixed it, then they bitched over cheap vending machine chips. “These rich assholes,” Lena said. “My roommate’s getting evicted while some CEO buys another supercar.”

“Exactly,” Serena fired back. “They hoard everything, fuck over the rest of us, and call it ‘innovation.’ I’d love to see one of them survive on minimum wage for a month. They’d crumble like the soft pricks they are.”

By 6 p.m., she was wired and pissed. The crew hit their popular hangout spot sticky floors, loud music, nachos dripping with grease. Mia was already there, looking wrecked from teaching high school hellions. “To surviving this capitalist nightmare!” Mia toasted.

Serena slammed her glass down. “Are you fucking kidding me? These parasites whine while teachers buy their own goddamn pencils and nurses work doubles just to eat. They fly private, fuck models in penthouses, and lecture us about hard work? I’d shove their yachts up their asses.”

The table erupted in laughs and agreements. Priya leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Damn, girl. You on your period or just extra spicy?”

“Both. And tired of pretending it’s fair.” Serena’s cheeks burned. The rich were disconnected, greedy fucks who never knew real struggle. She volunteered at the food bank last week, sorting cans for families scraping by. Held Rosa while the woman cried about medical bills. That was real not some gala where billionaires jerked each other off over tax breaks.

But back home that night, alone in her dim apartment, the wine hit different. She stripped down to nothing, flopped on the couch, legs spread lazily as the fan whirred. Her hand trailed down her stomach, circling slowly. Thoughts invaded her mind the way Donato fucked her senseless on silk sheets, whispering filthy promises while his money and power made her wetter than she’d admit. How she’d ridden him hard, moaning like a whore, coming so intensely she saw stars.

“Why the fuck am I even judging them?” she growled at the ceiling, fingers moving faster now, angry and needy. She condemned their excess, their easy lives, their ability to buy pleasure and escape. Yet here she was, getting off to memories of exactly that world. Hypocritical cunt. She came hard, biting her arm to stifle the cry, body shaking with release and shame.

Panting, she stared at her sketchbook. Doodles of city grit mixed with shadowy luxury figures. She judged because it was easy. It kept her fire alive in this grind 9 to 5 soul suck.

Friday night she was back at The Anchor, a little drunk, a lot horny and conflicted. The group was rowdier. Someone mentioned a lottery winner story. Lena sighed dreamily, “Imagine never worrying again. Private jets, endless orgasms on demand...”

Serena laughed bitterly. “Yeah, and lose your fucking soul in the process. They’re all empty inside. Trust me.”

Priya eyed her strangely. “You say that with a lot of conviction lately. Got something you wanna share?”

Serena froze for a split second, then waved it off. “Nah. Just observant.”

Home again Serena had another furious session with her vibrator, cursing the rich man’s name and her own weakness as she shattered. Exhausted, she checked her phone one last time before bed.

A new message popped up. Unknown number, but she knew who it was. The words on the screen made her stomach drop and her pussy clench at the same time:

“I can’t stop thinking about how you felt last time. Meet me tonight I need to fuck the judgment right out of you and I know you want it too. Your move, Serena.”