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He was late on rent again. And this time, he didn’t bother making excuses. Instead, he called me.
“I know I’m in trouble,” he said, voice low, almost guilty. “Are you… angry?”
Oh, I was. But not in the way he feared.
I slipped into character immediately — heels on hardwood floors, clipboard in hand, disappointment in my voice.
“You’ve got two choices,” I said coldly. “Pay up, or earn it.”
He stammered, already hard, already imagining what was coming.
“I’ll earn it,” he whispered.
I made him kneel. Told him to address me as Miss.
He licked his lips when I said I was wearing a tight pencil skirt and a blouse that strained at the chest. I teased him with the sound of a cane tapping the floor. He whimpered.
“Hands on the table,” I snapped. “You’re going to learn some respect.”
What followed was punishment — light at first, then firmer. Words that stung more than the imaginary blows. His voice shook as I told him to bend over and take it, to apologise for being such a useless little tenant, to thank me for my time and effort.
“You’re lucky I don’t evict you,” I spat, “but I think I’ve found your true value.”
Then I told him how I’d use him. How I’d pull him apart, stretch his limits, and leave him aching in all the right places. He begged for it — pleaded to be treated like my personal plaything.
He came before I even finished describing the final scene. Breathless. Broken. Grateful.
“You can call me next month too,” I purred. “I have a feeling you’ll be late again…”
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