Rent Due
"He's three months behind on rent. She's a landlady who knows exactly what she wants. When she offers an alternative payment plan, he discovers that some debts are meant to be paid in person."
The eviction notice came on a Tuesday.
I stared at it for ten minutes, the paper shaking in my hands. Three months behind. Final warning. Vacate by the 15th or face legal action.
The signature at the bottom: Gloria Vasquez, Property Owner.
I'd been avoiding Gloria for weeks. Dodging her calls. Pretending I wasn't home when she knocked. But now I had no choice.
I had to face her.
She lived in the building—first floor, corner unit. The best apartment in the complex, because of course it was. She owned the whole thing.
I knocked. Waited. Tried not to think about how fucked I was.
The door opened.
Gloria was fifty-three, Dominican, and built like a woman who'd never apologized for taking up space. Wide hips that stretched her housedress. Breasts that hung heavy, barely contained. An ass that made every man in the building look twice when she walked past.
She was also terrifying.
"Tyler." She leaned against the doorframe. "Finally decided to show your face."
"I got your notice."
"I know. I sent it." She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up. "Three months, Tyler. Three months of excuses and promises and nothing."
"I know. I'm sorry. The job fell through, and then the next one didn't pan out, and—"
"I don't care." She cut me off. "I've heard every story. Sob stories, fake stories, stories about dying grandmothers and stolen wallets. None of them pay my mortgage."
"I have some money coming. A freelance job. If you could just give me—"
"Two weeks?" She laughed—harsh, bitter. "That's what you said last month. And the month before."
"This time is different."
"It's always different." She stepped back. "Come inside. We're not doing this in the hallway."
I followed her in.
Her apartment was nicer than mine. Obviously.
She sat on the couch—a leather sectional that probably cost more than my car—and gestured for me to sit across from her. I did, sinking into a chair that was too soft.
"Here's how I see it," she said. "You owe me $4,800. You don't have $4,800. And I'm tired of waiting."
"I can get it. I just need—"
"Time. I know." She leaned forward. Her housedress gaped at the neckline. I saw the swell of her breasts, the dark valley between them. "But time is money, Tyler. And I'm running out of both."
"What do you want me to do?"
She studied me. Her eyes—dark brown, almost black—traveled down my body. Slow. Deliberate.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Twenty-six."
"You work out?"
"When I can."
"Are you seeing anyone?"
I blinked. "What does that have to do with—"
"Answer the question."
"No. I'm not seeing anyone."
"Good." She stood. Walked toward me. Her hips swayed with every step. "I'm going to make you an offer, Tyler. You can say no. If you say no, you have until the 15th to vacate, and I'll take you to court for what you owe. But if you say yes..."
She stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume—something spicy, warm.
"If I say yes?" My voice was hoarse.
"Then we work out an alternative payment plan." Her hand came to rest on my shoulder. "I'm a widow, Tyler. Twelve years now. My husband was a good man, but he was... small. In every way. I spent thirty years married to a man who couldn't satisfy me."
"Gloria—"
"I've watched you since you moved in. Young. Handsome. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention." She leaned down. Her breasts were inches from my face. "I've been thinking about what I would do if I ever got you alone."
"And what would you do?"
"Everything." She pulled back her housedress. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. "The question is: what would you do?"
I should have said no.
Should have walked out, found the money somewhere, preserved whatever dignity I had left.
Instead, I grabbed her hips—those wide, impossible hips—and pulled her onto my lap.
She gasped. Laughed. "I knew it. I knew you wanted me."
"I've wanted you since I moved in."
"Then stop talking." She kissed me. "Start paying."
Her body was a revelation.
Heavy breasts that overflowed my hands. A soft stomach that pressed against me. Thick thighs that squeezed my hips as she ground against me.
"You have no idea," she panted, working at my belt, "how long I've waited for this. How many nights I've lain awake, thinking about you, touching myself—"
"I've thought about you too."
"Liar."
"I'm not." I pulled her housedress over her head. She was completely naked now—all curves and heat and hunger. "Every time you knocked on my door. Every time you walked past in those dresses. I've imagined this."
"Then stop imagining." She freed me from my pants. Stroked me. "And make it real."
She rode me on that leather couch.
Sank down slowly, taking every inch, her eyes rolling back as she bottomed out. She was tight—impossibly tight—and wet, and hot.
"Dios mío," she breathed. "You're everything I dreamed—"
She started to move. Rising and falling, her thick body bouncing, her breasts swaying in my face. I grabbed her ass—each cheek overflowing my hands—and helped her move, guided her rhythm.
"Yes—yes—" She was loud, shameless. "Fuck me, Tyler. Fuck me like you mean it—"
I flipped her onto her back. She cried out—surprise, delight—as I pinned her to the couch and thrust into her.
"Is this what you wanted?" I demanded.
"Yes—"
"Is this how you imagined it?"
"Better—" She wrapped her legs around me. "Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"
She came three times before I finished.
Each one louder than the last, until I was sure the whole building could hear. But I didn't care. Neither did she.
When I finally came—inside her, deep—she pulled me close and held me there, trembling.
"That was..." She couldn't finish.
"Yeah."
"We're doing that again."
"I figured."
She laughed—a real laugh, warm and satisfied. "Your rent for this month is paid. In full."
"And next month?"
"Same arrangement." She traced a finger down my chest. "If you're willing."
"I'm willing."
"Good." She kissed me. "Same time tomorrow. And Tyler?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't be late."
Six Months Later
I don't owe Gloria anything anymore.
Not because I've been paying rent. I haven't paid a dime since that first night.
I moved in with her three months ago. Her apartment, her bed. She tells people I'm her "property manager." Nobody believes it.
"They know," she says sometimes, lying in my arms after we've exhausted each other. "The neighbors. The other tenants. They all know."
"Does it bother you?"
"No." She traces patterns on my chest. "Let them talk. I spent thirty years caring what people thought. I'm done."
"Good."
"Besides." She climbs on top of me. I'm already getting hard again. "I have more important things to focus on."
"Like what?"
"Like making sure my tenant is... satisfied with his accommodations."
I pull her down for a kiss.
Rent is never going to be a problem again.