Managing Rent

It really was a good deal. The apartment was in the heart of the city, huge and fully, even opulently furnished. It was a safe neighborhood, with a front desk manager 24/7, near where I worked, with a cleaning service and more amenities than I even had time to use, all at a rent the same I’d been paying at my diner waitressing job back home in Iowa. With what I was earning in my city job it meant savings, insurance, security. There was only one condition, and, to be honest, I’d thought it would be a deal breaker at first: 

Any time I was home, whenever the phone rang 3 times quickly – and I mean any minute I was home, I had to stop what I was doing – make excuses and kick out any guests I might have – and be ready to greet my next Visitor in 30 minutes. “Ready” meant freshly showered, awake and smiling. “Ready” meant lying back on my bed, naked, legs spread, on display to the Visitors Only door in my bedroom bay the time it opened.

As soon as my Visitor arrived, I was His until His come was on me – or inside me, or wherever he wanted it to be. I was never to ask names, never to speak unless asked or told to. Each one was Sir to me, unless they said different, and I was… whatever name they chose for me, if they didn’t use ‘slut’, or ‘whore’, or ‘bitch’, or ‘daughter’, or ‘little girl’, or not use words at all.

I’ll admit it was pretty rough the first few times – not the Visitors, though. Honestly, almost all of them were consummate gentlemen. What was rough was thinking about what, in effect, I really was. But, you know? Spa treatments downstairs in my own building, and a roof pool with a view of the city at night… they helped me not care about names. Visitors who left behind gifts like Broadway tickets, or pretty baubles, or ‘forgotten’ money clips, helped, a lot. The turning point may have been one particular Visitor who insisted on cooking a gorgeous meal for me, waiting on me in his impeccable suit while I sat naked across from him and just talked, like we were fast friends. It was only after after he spoon-fed me some unpronounceable but heavenly handmade dessert, the platinum of his wedding band glinting in the candle light, that he bent me over the cleared table and fucked me like a savage from behind. I usually came – or could make myself cum – when with any of the Visitors, and some of them were quite attentive or inventive lovers. But my “Chef” had me crying in delirious, animalistic orgasm long before he rooted and came inside me.

So, yeah. If I have to suddenly cancel plans with you some evening, now you know why. And you also know why I’ve never let my parents or sister stay over to visit in three years. I tell them it’s weird rent control sublet rules, but I don’t know if they believe me. On the other hand, the ‘landlord’ told me an apartment was coming open in a couple months, and slyly asked if my sister was looking to move to the city.

I haven’t told her about it. Yet.

Categories: Cassie Andra, Erotic Fiction, The Wrong AlphabetTags: , , ,

Cassie Andra

Old enough to know better and not care. Vanilla on the outside. Vanilla through and through, except for the mind. You don't want to go there, but I'll give you peeks. Be warned: erotica themes include standard fun, but also the taboo-est of the taboo. Coming of age, infidelity, family relations, dubious and non-consent. Every throbbing inch of it is, however, fantasy, and should be treated as such.

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