The Arrangement
"He can't make rent. She has an alternative in mind. Half her age, exactly her type — and completely at her mercy."
The envelope under my door says FINAL NOTICE.
Two months behind. No job. No savings. Nowhere to go.
I'm fucked.
Mrs. Volkov lives on the first floor.
Sixty. Russian. Built like a Soviet propaganda poster — wide hips, heavy breasts, thick arms. She's been my landlady for a year, always polite, always professional.
She's also the one who decides if I'm on the street by Friday.
I knock on her door at 8pm.
"Ah." She looks unsurprised to see me. "The boy who cannot pay."
"Mrs. Volkov, I can explain—"
"Explain what? That you lost your job? That you have no money?" She steps back. "Come in. We will talk."
I follow her inside.
Her apartment is the opposite of mine.
Rich colors, heavy furniture, art on the walls. It smells like cooking and perfume and something else. Something warm.
"Sit." She gestures to a plush armchair. "Drink?"
"No, I—"
"I insist." She pours two glasses of something amber. Hands me one. "Now. You are how much behind?"
"Two months. Almost three."
"And you have?"
"Nothing. I'm looking for work, but—"
"But nothing." She settles into the chair across from me. Her robe falls open slightly. She doesn't adjust it. "You cannot pay. I should evict you."
"Please. Just give me more time—"
"Time will not create money." She sips her drink. "But there are... other arrangements."
"Other arrangements?"
"I am a practical woman." Her eyes move over me. Appraising. "And I am alone. My husband is dead ten years. My children are in other countries."
"I don't understand."
"Don't you?" She sets down her glass. "You are young. Strong. Handsome." A pause. "And you owe me money."
My mouth goes dry. "You're suggesting—"
"I am suggesting an arrangement." She stands. The robe shifts again. "You give me companionship. I forgive the debt. Everyone wins."
"That's—"
"Practical." She crosses to where I'm sitting. Towers over me. "You are shocked. I understand. Take time to think."
"I don't need time."
She raises an eyebrow. "No?"
"Is this really what you want? A guy half your age who can't afford his rent?"
"Age is irrelevant. What I want is someone warm in my bed. Someone who will touch me like I am worth touching." Her voice softens. "It has been a long time since anyone touched me."
I should say no.
This is exploitation. Coercion. Wrong on every level.
But she's not ugly. Not at all. The fullness of her body, the confidence in her eyes, the way she's looking at me like I'm something worth having.
And I really can't afford to be evicted.
"What exactly would this involve?"
She smiles. Knows she's won.
"Three nights a week. You come here. You stay the night. You do whatever I ask."
"And in return?"
"In return, your debt disappears. And your rent is reduced to whatever you can afford."
"For how long?"
"For as long as we both want it." She extends a hand. "Do we have arrangement?"
I shake it.
"Good." She doesn't let go. "Now. Come to bedroom. We begin tonight."
Her bedroom is all silk and velvet.
A massive bed dominates the space. She moves to stand beside it, unties her robe.
It falls.
She's naked underneath. Every inch of her on display.
"Well?" she asks. "You like what you see?"
I should lie. Should pretend this is just obligation.
"Yes."
"Good." She gestures. "Now you."
I undress while she watches.
She doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend modesty. When I'm naked, she nods approvingly.
"Come here."
I cross to her. She pulls me close, and I feel her body against mine — soft, warm, surprisingly strong.
"Tonight, you learn what I like." She pushes me onto the bed. "I will teach you."
She's demanding.
Not cruel, but specific. She knows exactly what she wants and she's not shy about saying it.
"Slower there. Yes. Now harder. Use your tongue like — yes, like that."
I've never had a woman direct me so clearly. It's strange. It's also incredibly hot.
"Good boy," she murmurs as I work. "You learn fast."
When she finally pulls me up and positions me between her thighs, I'm harder than I've ever been.
"Now," she says. "Fuck me."
I do.
She's tight despite her age. Wet. Hot. Her body welcomes me like it's been waiting.
"Yes," she breathes. "Like that. Don't stop."
I don't stop. I fuck her the way she's taught me she likes — deep, steady, building.
When she comes, she grabs my hair and says something in Russian that sounds like a prayer.
When I come, she holds me inside her and whispers "Good boy" again.
After, she runs her fingers through my hair.
"You did well."
"Thanks. I think."
"You will do better." She kisses my forehead. "Practice makes perfect."
"Is that what this is? Practice?"
"This is arrangement." She pulls me closer. "But it can be more, if you earn it."
"What's more?"
She smiles. Mysterious.
"You'll see."
Weeks pass.
Three nights a week becomes four. Then five. Then I stop counting.
It's not just sex anymore. It's dinner together. Movies. Conversations that last until 2am.
She tells me about her life. Her dead husband, who never appreciated her body. Her children, who call once a month if she's lucky. Her loneliness, which I'm starting to fill.
I tell her about mine. My failed career. My empty apartment. My fear of being worthless.
"You are not worthless," she says one night. "You are young. You have time."
"I'm your charity case."
"You are my arrangement." She cups my face. "And you are becoming more."
Three months in, she surprises me.
"You should move in."
"What?"
"Your apartment. It is waste of space. Move down here. Save money."
"People will talk."
"Let them." She pulls me close. "I am tired of hiding. You make me happy. I want you here."
"Mrs. Volkov—"
"Natasha." She kisses me. "If you are living with me, you use my name."
"Natasha." It feels strange on my tongue. "Are you sure?"
"I am always sure." She starts unbuttoning my shirt. "Now. Come to bed. We celebrate."
I moved in that weekend.
My stuff barely filled one corner of her closet. She bought me new clothes. Better food. Started talking about the future like I was part of it.
"This job interview," she said one morning, adjusting my tie. "You will do well."
"It's just a temp thing."
"It is a start." She kissed my cheek. "And when you are successful, you can take care of me for a change."
"Is that what you want?"
"I want you." She smoothed my lapels. "However you come."
I got the job.
Then a better one. Then one that actually paid enough to contribute.
"I can pay rent now," I told her. "Real rent."
"The arrangement—"
"Is over." I took her hands. "We're not landlady and tenant anymore. We're not arrangement."
"Then what are we?"
I kissed her. The woman who took me in when I had nothing. Who taught me to be better. Who wanted me when no one else did.
"Whatever you want us to be."
The neighbors still whisper.
The young man and the old Russian woman. The age gap. The rumors.
We don't care.
She's happy. I'm happy. We take care of each other.
And every night, in that big bed with the silk sheets, she still tells me I'm a good boy.
And every night, I prove her right.