Behind on Rent
"Two months behind. Eviction looming. His landlady has a proposal—one that doesn't involve money. By the time he agrees, he realizes she's been planning this since he moved in."
The knock comes at 7 AM.
I already know who it is. I've been dodging Mrs. Petrov for three weeks—leaving early, coming home late, pretending not to hear her knocking. But she has a key. And apparently, no patience left.
"Open the door, Kevin. I know you're in there."
I open the door.
She's standing in the hallway with a manila folder and an expression that could freeze water. Irina Petrov, fifty-four years old, Russian immigrant, owner of this building and three others. She's a big woman—tall, probably five-nine, and heavy in ways that her business suits can't hide. Wide hips. Massive chest. The kind of presence that makes you feel small.
"Two months," she says. "You owe me two months."
"I know. I'm working on it—"
"Working on it?" She pushes past me into the apartment. Looks around. "You have a PlayStation. A nice TV. You're not starving. You're just not paying."
"I lost my job—"
"Weeks ago. And you haven't found a new one." She turns to face me. "I have other tenants who want this unit. Tenants who pay."
"Please. Just give me more time—"
"Time won't help you." She sets the folder on my kitchen counter. Opens it. "These are eviction papers. I can file them today. You'll be out by the end of the month."
My stomach drops. "Mrs. Petrov—"
"Or." She closes the folder. Looks at me with those cold blue eyes. "We can discuss an alternative arrangement."
"What kind of arrangement?"
She walks to my couch. Sits down like she owns the place—which she does. Crosses her legs. Folds her hands in her lap.
"I've owned this building for fifteen years," she says. "In that time, I've had many tenants who couldn't pay. Young men, mostly. Students. Artists. Dreamers without money."
"And?"
"And I've learned that there are other forms of currency." Her eyes move down my body. Slowly. Deliberately. "You're young. Healthy. Attractive, in a rough sort of way."
My heart starts pounding. "Are you saying—"
"I'm saying I'm a widow. Fifty-four years old. My husband died six years ago, and I haven't been touched since." She uncrosses her legs. Parts them slightly. "I'm saying you owe me four thousand dollars. And I'm saying I know a way you can work it off."
"That's..." I swallow. "That's insane."
"Is it?" She stands. Walks toward me. "You have no job. No savings. No family to help. You'll be on the street in a month, and we both know it."
She stops in front of me. Close enough to smell—something floral, something expensive.
"Or you can spend a few hours a week doing something most men would beg for. And your debt disappears."
I should say no.
I should call a lawyer, report her, do something. But she's right—I have nothing. No options. No way out.
And she's... not unattractive.
Up close, I can see past the severity. Her eyes have laugh lines. Her lips are full, painted red. And her body, straining against that business suit, is the kind of body that stays in your dreams.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"Once a week. My apartment. You do whatever I ask." She tilts her head. "In return, I waive your rent. Current debt, future months. As long as our arrangement continues."
"And if I want to stop?"
"Then we go back to normal. You pay or you leave." She shrugs. "But I think you'll find the terms... favorable."
I think about sleeping in my car. About shelters and job applications and the crushing weight of failure.
Then I think about her body under that suit.
"Okay," I say. "When do we start?"
She smiles. It transforms her face completely.
"Tonight. 8 PM. Apartment 1A." She heads for the door. Pauses. "Don't be late. I've been waiting for this since you moved in."
Her apartment is nothing like I expected.
Warm colors. Soft lighting. Art on the walls and books on the shelves. She meets me at the door in a silk robe, and I finally see what she's been hiding.
She's massive. Three hundred pounds, easily—maybe more. Her breasts strain against the silk, huge and heavy. Her hips are wide enough to block the doorway. Her belly rounds out beneath the robe's belt, soft and substantial.
"You're staring," she says.
"Sorry. I just—"
"Don't apologize." She takes my hand. Leads me inside. "I know what I look like. My husband loved this body. I'm hoping you will too."
She stops in her living room. Turns to face me. Unties the robe.
It falls open.
She's naked underneath. All three hundred pounds of her—breasts hanging heavy, belly soft and round, thighs thick as tree trunks. She stands there, letting me look, completely unashamed.
"Well?" she asks. "Do you want to run?"
I should. I know I should.
I step forward and kiss her instead.
She tastes like wine and honey.
Her mouth opens under mine, and suddenly we're not landlord and tenant—we're just two people who want each other. My hands find her body, explore it, lose themselves in the softness.
"The bedroom," she gasps. "Now."
The bedroom is dominated by a king-size bed. She pushes me onto it, climbs over me, her weight settling onto my hips.
"Tonight, you do what I say." She unbuttons my shirt. "Every week, you do what I say. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good boy." She pulls my pants down. Her eyes widen at what she finds. "Oh. Very good boy."
She strokes me, slow and deliberate. Then she positions herself over me and sinks down.
We both groan.
She rides me like she owns me.
Because she does, in a way. I'm in her building, in her debt, in her bed. And she takes full advantage—grinding down, using me for her pleasure, her massive body bouncing and shaking above me.
"God—" She grabs the headboard. "I needed this—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me. Really fuck me." She stops moving. Looks down at me. "Make me forget I'm alone. Make me feel like a woman again."
I flip her over.
She gasps as I push her into the mattress, spread her thick thighs, and thrust deep. Her body surrounds me—soft and warm and overwhelming.
"Like this?"
"Yes—harder—"
I fuck her harder. Her moans fill the room. Her nails rake my back. I grab her breasts, squeeze them, bury my face in them while I pound into her.
"I'm going to come—fuck—"
"Then come."
She screams. Her whole body seizes, clenching around me, and I follow her over—filling her while she shakes beneath me.
Afterward, we lie tangled in her expensive sheets.
"Same time next week," she says. It's not a question.
"Same time next week."
"And maybe..." She traces a finger down my chest. "Maybe more often. If you're interested."
"My rent's covered either way?"
"Your rent was never the point." She props herself up. Looks at me with those blue eyes. "I've been watching you since you moved in. The job loss was just... convenient timing."
"You've been planning this?"
"I've been hoping." She kisses me softly. "There's a difference."
I should be angry. Should feel manipulated.
Instead, I pull her on top of me and start round two.
I never pay rent again.
But I earn it. Every week, sometimes more. In her bed, her shower, her kitchen. She's insatiable—six years of loneliness pouring out in demands and moans and positions that leave us both exhausted.
"Best tenant I ever had," she tells me one night.
"Best landlady I ever had."
She laughs. Climbs on top of me again.
The arrangement continues. Indefinitely.