Mkopo
"His loan application is denied—insufficient collateral. The thick branch manager offers an alternative arrangement. Weekly payments, in her office, with the door locked. Interest compounds."
The loan officer shakes his head.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Osman. Your application has been denied. Insufficient collateral."
Three months of paperwork. Business plans. Financial projections. All denied by a computer algorithm that doesn't understand my business, my potential, my desperation.
"Is there anything—"
"You could speak with the branch manager." He doesn't look hopeful. "Mrs. Fatuma sometimes makes exceptions."
"Where's her office?"
"Third floor. But I should warn you—she rarely sees applicants directly."
I'm already walking toward the elevator.
Mrs. Fatuma's office is corner, prestigious, intimidating.
The secretary tries to stop me, but I push past. The branch manager looks up from her desk—and I stop breathing.
She's massive.
Not just thick—enormous. Breasts that strain her professional suit, belly that curves beneath her desk, hips that must require a custom chair. Fifty-five years old, gray in her hair, authority in her eyes.
"You must be the denied applicant," she says. "I was expecting you."
"You were?"
"Close the door." She gestures to the chair opposite her desk. "Let's discuss your... situation."
"Your collateral is insufficient," she says, reviewing my file. "Your business plan is solid, but you have no assets to secure the loan."
"I have my business—"
"Your business is the reason you need the loan." She sets down the file. "I've seen a thousand applications like yours. Young men with dreams and no backing."
"So there's nothing—"
"I didn't say that." She stands, moves around the desk. Her body is even more impressive standing—curves that seem impossible, a presence that fills the room.
"Mrs. Fatuma—"
"There are assets that don't appear on financial statements." She's standing directly in front of me now. "Assets that I accept as collateral in... special cases."
"What kind of assets?"
"You." Her hand finds my chin, tilts my face up. "You are young. Handsome. Healthy. You have assets that interest me."
"I've been running this branch for fifteen years," she explains.
She's unbuttoning her suit jacket, her massive breasts straining to break free.
"In that time, I've made exceptions. Approved loans that should have been denied. For applicants who could offer... alternative arrangements."
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying your loan can be approved." The jacket falls away. "If you're willing to make payments directly to me. Weekly. In this office."
"What kind of payments?"
"The kind that don't appear on bank statements." She unbuttons her blouse. "The kind that involve that door being locked and you on your knees."
Her breasts spill free—massive, dark, overwhelming.
"Interest rates are negotiable. But principal is due immediately."
I kneel before the branch manager.
She guides my face to her chest—buries me in flesh, in warmth, in power. I suck her nipples while she moans, while she grips my head.
"Good—this is a good start—"
"What else do I owe?"
"Everything." She pushes my head lower. "Let me show you the payment schedule."
I eat the branch manager on her executive desk.
Push her back onto quarterly reports and loan applications, spread her thick thighs, and taste my collateral. She's wet—has been since I walked in—and she comes in minutes.
"Interest payment one—oh God—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
Give her interest payment two, three, four. She comes each time, flooding my face, her thick body shaking. By payment five, she's begging.
"Principal—now—give me the principal—"
I fuck the branch manager on a stack of denied applications.
Her thick body beneath me, her massive breasts bouncing, her cries echoing off the walls. The corner office is soundproofed—one of her requirements, I realize now.
"Harder—show me your creditworthiness—"
I thrust deeper.
She comes on me—clenches, screams, claws my back. I pound through her orgasm, give her another, then another.
"Inside me—fill me—deposit everything—"
I make my deposit.
Fill the branch manager while she screams, while her body shakes, while somewhere below us bank tellers process ordinary transactions.
"Your loan is approved," she says afterward.
She's back in her suit, professional again. I'm adjusting my clothes, catching my breath.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." She slides paperwork across the desk. "Sign here. And here. And here."
I sign.
"What are the terms?"
"Standard interest rate." She smiles. "Plus weekly supplemental payments. In this office. Every Friday at closing time."
"For how long?"
"For the duration of the loan." She stands, moves toward me. "Five years. Two hundred and sixty payments. Think you can handle it?"
"I handled today."
"Today was the application fee." She kisses me deeply. "The real payments start next Friday. Bring more energy. I charge penalties for insufficient performance."
Every Friday for five years.
I report to Mrs. Fatuma's corner office. The door locks. The payments begin.
Sometimes on her desk. Sometimes against the window—thirty floors up, the city spread below while I take her from behind. Once on the conference table, after a board meeting—directors barely gone before she had me inside her.
"Your account is in good standing," she tells me at the three-year mark.
"I've never missed a payment."
"No. You haven't." She's riding me in her executive chair, her massive body bouncing. "In fact, you've earned a line of credit."
"What does that mean?"
"It means additional loans. No collateral required." She comes on me, shaking. "Just continued payments. To me. Forever."
My business thrives.
Every expansion funded by Coastal Bank. Every loan approved by Mrs. Fatuma. Every payment made in her corner office, on her executive desk, against her massive body.
"I'm retiring next year," she tells me one Friday.
"Does this mean—"
"This means my daughter is taking over the branch." She smiles. "She's heard about my... special arrangements. She wants to continue them."
"Your daughter?"
"Thirty years old. Even thicker than me." Her eyes glitter. "She saw your file. She's very interested in your... assets."
"I have a loan—"
"You have a legacy." She kisses me deeply. "Three generations of Fatuma women have run this bank. I've passed you down like an inheritance. Be grateful."
The daughter is everything her mother promised.
Thicker, younger, more demanding. Our first meeting lasts four hours.
"Mother was right about you," she gasps. "You're worth any interest rate."
"What are your terms?"
"The same as hers." She pulls me back inside her. "Weekly payments. Forever. Until the bank fails or you do."
"And if I want to pay off the loan early?"
"You don't." She clenches around me. "Trust me. You don't."
She's right.
I don't.
Some debts, it turns out, you never want to clear.
Some interest is worth paying forever.