The landlady punished the tenant

Andrei rented a one-room apartment on the fifth floor with no elevator. The building was old, paneled, with a perpetually smelly entryway and neighbors who listened to the television as if it were on full blast. The apartment was lousy, but cheap. And the landlady—a woman with a heavy gaze—wasn't intrusive into his life. Or rather, she wasn't until he stopped paying. At first, he just delayed it for a week. Then two. Then a month. He had money, but he squandered it: bets, beer, some idiot from a dating site who squeezed everything he had on his card out of him. And then she came. Tamara Ivanovna. 45 years old. Plump, with wide hips, a bob haircut, and arms that could clearly carry bags and much heavier objects. She didn't yell from the doorway. She walked into the kitchen, sat on a stool, and crossed her legs. Her high-heeled pump swung in the air. "Two months," she said. "Plus utilities. Total sixty-four thousand." "I don't have any right now," Andrey said. "There were delays at work. I'll have it all paid off by the end of the month." "You're lying," she replied calmly. "You won't give it up. I know people like you. One minute you're pulling the wool over my eyes, and a week later you're like, 'Tamara Ivanovna, just a little longer.' So let's do it differently." She took off her pumps. She wiggled her toes in the nylon. Her feet were small, but wide, with prominent bunions. For some reason, Andrey's gaze was fixed on them. She noticed. “Do you like it?” she asked. - What? - He flinched. — Leg. I see where you're looking. Don't lie, I can smell a lie a mile away. Andrey couldn't think of a response. His throat was dry. Tamara stretched her leg out in front of him, lifting her toe. The nylon glistened under the light. “You’ll work it off,” she said. “Not with money. Not now. You’ll do what I say. Here. When I come. For as long as I say. And then I’ll wait to pay you back. Or maybe I’ll forgive you. If I like how hard you try.” "Are you serious?" Andrey tried to smile, but it came out crooked. - Absolutely. - What if I refuse? Tamara chuckled, reached into her purse, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper—a copy of the lease agreement. "Then the local police officer will be here in a week, and you'll be out. With the debt. And I'll sue. And you know what's funny? My ex is a lawyer. So I won't just sue you, I'll wipe you out." She stood up and came closer to him. She smelled of sweat, sweet perfume, and something else, heavy and feminine. “On your knees,” she said. Andrey blinked. "On your knees," Tamara repeated. "This is your first assignment. Or I'll call my man right now." He knelt down, right on the dirty linoleum, where crumbs and cigarette ash lay scattered. Tamara ran her hand through his hair, like one might pet a dog. “There,” she said. “That’s better.” She sat down again, took off her second pump, and placed both feet in front of him. “Kiss,” she said. Andrey leaned over. The air smelled of shoes, nylon, and a hint of sweat. He pressed his lips to the instep. Tamara lightly pressed her toe against his lower lip. "Use your tongue," she prompted. "Try hard." He ran his tongue over the nylon. The taste was salty, with a hint of dust. Tamara leaned back on the stool and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted over him, settling in his hair. "Don't stop," she said. "Until I tell you to." She smoked silently, flicking the ashes into the sink, occasionally wiggling her fingers. Andrey licked his cigarette. His knees began to ache. His shoulders went numb. But he didn't stop. He felt like if he stopped, something would happen. Something that would make him lose control. “Enough,” she said finally. “Get up.” He stood up. His lips were burning. His penis, to his own surprise, was so hard it felt tight in his jeans. Tamara glanced at his fly and grinned. “This is your bonus,” she said. “For obedience. I’ll be back tomorrow at eight. Get ready. Wash the floor. And wash yourself. Don’t even think about drinking.” She slipped on her pumps, adjusted her skirt, and left. The door slammed behind her. Andrey was left standing in the middle of the kitchen. Ash remained on the floor. The taste of nylon on his lips. His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a friend, inviting him to a bar. Andrey hung up. He didn't want to go out. The next day she arrived promptly at eight. Andrey washed the floor, aired out the room, even laid out fresh sheets. He didn't know why. Tamara stepped over the threshold, looked around, and nodded. “Clean,” she said. “Good job. Get used to it.” She walked into the room and stopped by the bed. - Take off your clothes. Andrei undressed. His hands were shaking, but he tried not to show it. Tamara looked at him the way one looks at meat before cutting it. - Lie down. He lay down. Tamara stood at the edge of the bed and lifted her skirt. She was wearing no tights underneath. Only a pair of oversized panties, which she pulled off in one movement. She smelled strongly, feminine, not of perfume but of body. She climbed onto the bed, knelt over him, and spread her legs. “Lick,” she said. Andrey raised his head. Her crotch was right above his face, dark and wet. He stuck out his tongue. Tamara moved lower. She sat on him heavily. Not playfully. Her entire weight pressed down on his jaw, on his nose. He couldn't breathe. He moaned, twitched, tried to wriggle away, but she held him by the hair. “Where to?” she said. “You owe me. Work.” He licked. Somewhere between her legs it was hot, salty, slippery. Tamara moved, rubbing herself against his face. At some point, Andrei realized he couldn't taste anything. That his whole face was wet. That he was licking the drippings off her lips. That he no longer cared what it was. “Deeper,” she ordered. He pressed his tongue harder. Tamara moaned. Her thighs squeezed his head. For a second, he thought he would choke. Then she lifted slightly, letting him in, and sank back down. “Now lower,” she said. - What? "Lower," she repeated, thrusting her hips forward. Andrei's nose brushed against something soft. A groin, a crease, and then—darkness. He understood. He'd always told himself that never, ever, with any woman. But that was before. Before this apartment. Before this debt. Tamara pressed her palm against his forehead. - Come on, lick my ass. Andrei stuck out his tongue. She was there, behind him—warm, salty, with a different, sharper taste. He almost threw up. He swallowed. Pressed again. Tamara sighed contentedly. “That’s it,” she said. “Good. Very good.” She moved, and he licked. At some point, he lost track of where exactly. He simply worked his tongue as she commanded. She moaned again. Then she reached back and caught his cock. It was hard, hot. She squeezed it like a doorknob. "Don't discharge," she said. "Until I say so." He didn't run out of power. Although with difficulty. When she finally got off his face, he lay there as if wrung out. He was breathing through his mouth. His chin was glistening. Tamara stood up, straightened her skirt, and looked at him from above. "This is just the beginning," she said. "We'll continue tomorrow." She left without saying goodbye. Andrey was left lying there. On the ceiling was a yellow stain from a leak, which he had wanted to paint over a month ago. Now it reminded him of her face. And so it went. She came almost every evening. Sometimes every other day. He washed the floor, aired it out, and waited by the door. She came in, took off her shoes, and sat on the bed. He knelt down. He kissed her feet. First through the nylon, then without. She made him lick between her toes, lick the soles, and take her heel in his mouth. He did. She praised him rarely, but accurately. One "good boy" from her—and his insides clenched. Two weeks later, she brought a package with her for the first time. She handed it to him. "What is this?" Andrey asked, although he already understood. - Open it. There was a strap-on in the bag. Black, not very big, but thick. With straps. Andrey twirled it in his hands like a grenade. “I won’t,” he said. “You will,” said Tamara. “You owe me. Or have you forgotten?” - I'd rather find money. "You'll find it?" She narrowed her eyes. "And where? On the couch? At the bar? You don't even always have enough money for the fare, I can see that." She walked over and snatched the strap-on from his hands. “I’ll do it myself,” she said. “And you get on all fours.” Andrey didn't move. His mind was spinning: this isn't about duty anymore. Duty was there, at the beginning. Now it's something else. But Tamara didn't wait. She pushed him toward the bed, turned him around, and pressed on his lower back. - Doggy style, I said. He pressed his palms into the mattress. His knees buckled. Tamara stood behind him. He heard her fumbling with the straps, the clicking of the buckles, adjusting something between her legs. Then a wet sound. Lubricant. She was applying it to the strap-on, generously. "This is going to hurt," she said matter-of-factly, like a doctor about to give an injection. "But you'll have to bear it. You owe me one." The first pressure was dull, distending. Andrey clenched his teeth and buried his face in the crumpled sheet. Tamara held his hip, like a ram about to be sheared. The strap-on entered slowly, centimeter by centimeter. It burned inside. Andrey moaned. "Quiet," said Tamara. "Breathe through your mouth." He breathed. The air came out with a wheezing sound. The sheet was damp beneath his lips. Tamara took her time. She entered all the way, then pulled out almost completely, then again. The rhythm was smooth, like a machine tool. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s it. A good boy.” Andrey's fingers dug into the mattress. Sweat poured into his eyes. His legs trembled. Tamara sped up. Her belly slapped against his ass with a wet sound. The bed creaked, the headboard slammed against the wall. “Tell me who you are,” she ordered. Andrey was silent. She tugged his hair and lifted his head. - Tell. “I...” his voice broke. “I owe you one.” - More. - I... I'm working it off. - Good. Now tell me what you like. He didn't want to. But she tugged again, and his ass became so hot that he was ready to say anything. “I like it,” he exhaled. “I like it.” - What exactly? - When you do this to me... like that. - How? - When you have me. Tamara laughed. Briefly, deep in her throat. And she thrust into him even deeper. Andrey screamed. Tamara stroked her clit faster and faster. After a few minutes, she came. He could tell by the way her rhythm changed—it became ragged, erratic, and how she clutched his shoulders and froze, trembling. Then she pulled the strap-on out of his ass. Not right away. She stood there for a moment, pressed against him. Then she pulled away. Andrey fell onto his side. It was hard to breathe. His ass was burning. Between his legs was wet. Tamara removed the strap-on and threw it on the floor. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. “Now you understand,” she said affirmatively. "Understand what?" he croaked. - That this is your place. He didn't answer. He just lay there, staring at the black strap-on lying on the floor. Lubricant glistened on it. And something else. Tamara stood up and straightened her skirt. "Tomorrow at eight," she said. "And don't forget to wash the floor. I don't like it when it's dirty." She left. Andrey remained lying there. After a while, he pulled his knees to his chest and fell silent. His insides were still throbbing. He thought about how tomorrow he would be waiting for her at the door again. And that it wasn't about money anymore. A few days passed. She started bringing her own. She now had more than one strap-on. One day, she placed two on the table: a black one, already familiar, and a new one—larger, with some protrusions. “Choose,” she said. “The smaller one,” Andrey said. “No,” Tamara replied. “You’ll choose the second one. Because that’s what I want.” She put it on and ordered Andrey to kneel, this time facing her. She sat down in the chair and spread her legs. "Lick it," she said. "Until I tell you." He licked. She smoked and watched TV. Occasionally she moved her hips, pressing his head harder. Then she stubbed out her cigarette and pushed him away. - Now turn around. He turned. She grabbed his hips and entered. Immediately, almost without preparation. Andrey screamed. Tamara tugged his hair. "Shut your mouth," she said. "The neighbors will hear." He bit his lip. Water was running down his chin. Tears, drool, it didn't matter. Tamara pounded him as if she wanted to beat everything that was left out of him. And when she finished, she leaned over and whispered in his ear: - Now you are my slave. My toy. Andrey lay face down, unable to move. Tamara got ready, put on her shoes, and fixed her hair. "I'll come again tomorrow," she said. "Tidy up. And make dinner. I like to have a hot meal waiting for me after work." The door slammed. Andrey rolled over onto his back. His dick was hard. He didn't touch it. He simply lay there and stared at the ceiling, at the yellow stain from the leak. It looked like her face again. He knew it would be the same tomorrow. And the day after. And in a month. And he didn't want it to end.