tagNonConsent/ReluctanceRent Comes Due Ch. 02

Rent Comes Due Ch. 02


I decide Angelica is going to be a better playmate if I demand a visit every week or two, without too much warning. The next meeting will be tomorrow.

Of course, I'm assuming that Angelica is going to come when she's called for. But you assure me she will. "You fucked her up pretty good," you tell me, impassively. "She's the kind that's hypnotized by power and determination. It doesn't matter that you're not good for her. You're intense and make demands, and she's already hooked. She'll be here."

"Am I good for you?"

You just look at me. I've got a thing about people who don't answer questions, but for once I let it slide. You're supposed to be capable enough to make your own decisions, at your age- I was. If I'm not good for you and you're still getting my bed warm before I climb in, that's very much your problem.

Thinking back, though, not all my decisions at that age were the wisest. Punching Willis into a pile of old barbed wire, and leaving him to untangle himself, turned into a teachable moment for me, involving police and court. Not that the fucker hadn't had it coming. Eh... I'd probably do the same thing again. Maybe we don't really learn anything in life.

That had been a great punch, though.

I wonder, briefly, if I'd be good for Miss Ames. Doesn't seem likely I'm going to find out. I have your body when I want it, and maybe now Angelica's, too. Cocks getting what they want make romance and courtship a whole lot less interesting.

My father had been a womanizer before he'd settled down. He'd told me the stories, when my mother was out of earshot. He was old-school, even for his generation. "A woman," he said, "will fall in line if she's expected to. Most of them want to be told what to do, and then they're happy. Don't use a lot of words, raise your voice if you need to be obeyed, but never your fist. Then they'll eat from your hand and suck on your cock. The hard part is figuring out how to get your way when you need to, without treating them like shit. I figured that out with your mom so I married her."

Not bad advice, but it felt light on details. So I pick up the phone.

"Well. Is the sky falling?"

"Nice, Barbara. I have a question. What gets to women?"

There's a pause.

"You're an idiot, Henrich."

"Yeah?" I can feel my hand curling into a fist, but I force it to relax. It's Barbara; she's always like this.

"Yeah. There's no one answer, and all the good answers are already online. And why am I the expert?"

"You're the only woman I know that makes sense."

"Also the only woman you know who isn't smitten by your all-male, all-the-time asshole routine. Maybe there's a connection."

"I don't think Lynn is all that impressed with me."

"Oh, she thinks you're a piece of cow shit. But she still drools when you walk by, the poor dear. Leave her alone, she's got issues you'd never understand and her husband isn't shy about his right to carry that magnum of his."

"Not calling about Lynn."

"I know. You're calling because you're an idiot. You're so fucking male you don't have any idea what goes on with the other gender. You're proof that men are from Mars and have never stepped foot on Earth, never mind Venus. This is about Cal, isn't it?"

"Miss Ames, yes."

"Why do you call her that? I'm Barbara. Lynn is Lynn. Fuck knows what you call that poor child in your bed. But Cal's Miss Ames?"

"Don't really know. I called her that that first time I met her, when it all started with Willis. 'Sorry for the trouble, Miss Ames,' is how I put it at the time, and that's just who is she now."

She sighed at me. "Get around to your real question, if you're going to. What gets to women isn't a question, it's a title of a damn essay and I have eggs to collect."

"What will get to Miss Ames."

"Looking at her, for a start... oh Henrich. At your age you shouldn't need to be told. An unexpected gift at an unexpected time. Followed by slightly clumsy, awkward flirtation. Send her a dozen roses and then call her and talk to her about anything, never mentioning the roses until she does, and then act embarrassed. I know not one bit of that comes naturally to you, but that's what will melt her heart. Nothing a woman likes to see more than a guy leaving his comfort zone to impress her."

"Guys get by on pride and knowing what they are doing. Doesn't figure women would like seeing a guy get tongue-tied."

"Maybe not tongue tied. But it's all about making the women feel like she's an exception. We go through life knowing men rate us on tits, waistline, ass, and maybe eyes if we're lucky. We're all princesses on the inside, but you all treat us like hogs at a country fair. Let us believe that you've got everything you need, and even a disregard for women in general, but you've seen one that you just can't help wanting to talk to, even when it's obvious you're out of things to say, which don't take long with you. Look at her like you've seen someone worth knowing instead of something for your bed."

"Someone worth knowing. So don't it just figure that the girl I have now, is someone no one's ever really going to know?"

"A woman who won't tell you who she is, is keeping herself safe. A woman who can't tell you, is damaged goods. I told you this before. There's nothing good going on with her, I don't even have to see her to know it. Cal wouldn't make you wonder when you were going to get a knife in your belly. And I probably don't have to tell you this, but you don't approach her with that girl living in your house."

"Not the harem sort?"

"Not even funny. No self-respecting woman will put up with that."

"You might be surprised."

"I don't want to know, Henrich. And if you aren't ready to treat someone like Cal with respect, forget it. She deserves someone decent. Alright, I want to get those eggs before they get pecked."


Barbara reminds me of me; and she's right, we'd never have gotten along.

Suddenly there's a blur of motion and your mouth is over mine. It's an open mouth kiss and you're moaning into it.

The rules in this relationship are straightforward and you know them perfectly. You don't get to do this. You don't get to touch me without permission, let alone this.

So now you're over my knee, and my hand comes down on your ass, before I realize you're naked. You little slut. I look over and see the pile of clothing on the floor. You listened to the call, decided it sounded like a conversation about competition, and thought this was the best way to deal with it.

Unwise decision.

I've done my reading online, all the chatter about dominance and submission and all the fancy terms and rules the college educated like to plaster over the things the rest of us just do. What you're doing is called Topping from the Bottom. I figure you want the spanking and then some fucking and by then I'll have forgotten all about the phone call.

It amounts to you trying to control my cock. And that's not the way it works in my house.

By the third slap you figure out I'm legitimately angry, and your whimpering suddenly sounds more sincere. By the tenth you're silent, and you smell like fear. Your ass is a pretty pink. Not for much longer, though.

I wrap your hair in my hand and stand up, dumping you to the floor. I plant that fist on my hip and start walking; you scrabble, half crawling, after me.

I push you against the oak boards of the living room wall, where the hooks are waiting. You step back from the wall, but my hand settles on the back of your neck and slams you against it again, and this time you don't move.

Leather cuffs go on your ankles and wrists. These aren't pretty black cuffs with showy brass studs from Amazon. I banged these together out of leftover cowhide and pigskin and they don't look like much, but you won't be pulling out of them any time soon. Stainless steel rings mate with the hooks in the walls, and two leather straps, across the back of your knees and neck, drawn tight, keep you in place, breasts and knees tight against the wall.

I go to the closet and take out a long cardboard tube. What's inside rattles in that muted way that things do in tubes.

"How do you say 'rattan' in Japanese?"

That gets a whimper from you.

I draw it out and walk back to you. I've never used a cane on anyone before but the concept doesn't seem all that complicated. I swish it once in the air to get a sense of the spring, and then whip it against your ass.


I'm surprised by the sound of it. There's instantly a red mark on your ass, and your indrawn breath tells me I have your undivided attention.

"This is a punishment cane from Singapore. Like it?"


Your whimpering turns piteous. I'm not swinging it as hard as I can, or even close, but the two angry red lines and the way you're shivering tell me I'm getting through to you.


"This isn't just about the rules, 'Yuki. It's about the idea that you might think you have some business interfering in my social life. You're a whore, by your own choice. We get along ok. But if I ever decide I want a girlfriend, your choices are tolerate it or move out. Not to try to outhump her."


You're shuddering now, legs unsteady. Even if you collapse, the tethers and restraints will hold you up, but I'm keeping an eye on your legs anyway.

"How many," you whisper, almost incoherently.


"Haven't decided yet." Actually I have. It's going to be ten. But you don't need to know that.


"Please no more," you sob.

I run the cane, slowly, over the curve of your ass. Your shaking increases, and on a whim I slide the end of it between your legs, pressing it upwards, over and over. It only takes a few seconds: your whimpers turn to erotic moans.

I take the cane away, and swing it.


"I'll... I'll be good now," you say in a strange, almost little girl voice.

"Too late."



I take the vibrator out of the drawer and slide it between you and the wall. "Grind on it."

You do, helplessly. "Please, no more. I'll be good!"


"Too late to be good. Now you'll come."

You press against the vibrator, moving sinuously. I stroke your ass with the cane again. Within a minute you're gasping and sobbing, and when you come the sobbing turns to Japanese.


I put the cane away, then pause, and take it back out. You've sagged into your restraints, so I spend some time unbinding you and carrying you to the couch. Your ass is red welts and the beginning of bruises, and I put you on your belly.

"Kiss the cane."

You kiss and lick it like a cock, but you're shaking and your eyes are almost eerily empty. And it's strange, but for all your usual impassiveness, this is the most peaceful I've ever seen you look.


I set aside the cane and open up a book - I'm just that old-fashioned - and read about crop failures in the 1930s. They stripped away the vegetation and the top soil blew away, and things got worse and worse.

I glance over at you. You're shivering and looking at me with those pretty, empty eyes. I didn't think it was possible for you to be quieter than your usual self, but somehow you've taken silence to new heights.

I go back to reading. The desolation of the 1930's had ended when two things happened - people learned to take care of the land instead of stripping it, and a weather change dropped temperatures a little. Not much had been done until the dust from the storms rolled far enough east to make a mess of Washington DC, which had the feel of the hand of God smacking a few politicians across the face. We could do with more of that, these days, I muse; a bunch of them need it. Maybe it doesn't happen because people don't pray so much anymore. That's a question for Miss Ames, I guess...


I look at you. Empty eyes, shivering lips.

"Please what?"

You slip off the couch, approach me, kneel, and then settle prostrate at my feet, your face pressed against my ankle. You don't seem to have learned about touching without permission, but I want to see where this goes. After a moment, you close your eyes, and start shaking again. Your tongue comes out and licks my toes.

I saw this behavior in a dog once, after I rescued it from a few coyote.

Your ass is bruising up; I'd underestimated what that cane could do. But there was no broken skin.

"Please what?"

"Anything. Own me. You have... I'm a possession now."

"Also a human being."

You're still licking and whimpering.

"I don't know what to say to that."

I rest a foot on your back. "Don't know if I'm ok with that kind of ownership."

"But I am 'ok' as a foot rest?"

Looking at you, I half smile. Whatever would Barbara say.

"Just seeing what you'll put up with."

"Isn't it obvious? Anything."


You don't answer. You probably have no idea. I don't think I'm dealing with you as a full person. Whipping your ass somehow reduced you to instincts and emotions, without rational thought. There aren't any answers to Why questions in the land you're in, not that there were many in the land you were in before. Seems to me I might be able to fill in some clues for you.

"I figure it this way, Miyuki. Just a guess, but I think I see it. You're punishing yourself for something. Not clear how it all fits in with what you told me about an old boyfriend, and your mom and missing dad. But somehow whatever happened all became your fault, somehow it made you feel worthless. So you fall into my hands and now you're a slave. Because at least if you're owned someone cares what happens to you, right? People may or may not be worth a damn, but everyone cares about what they own."

You're licking my foot faster.

"Here's where it falls down. I'm not looking to own a girl. Or even be in a relationship with one. Not you and not the girl you eavesdropped about. If you're looking to find some kind of value in yourself by being valued by someone else... it's a bad plan for anyone, and it's definitely not going to work with me."

You moan, and rub your open mouth over my foot.

"I got it wrong, didn't I."

"Yes," you whisper, and start sucking on my big toe. I pull it back. "Then explain."


I pick up the cane. You cower. I pull you prone again and land one on your ass, and you scream in pain.

"I said, explain."

"Yes... I... I want someone to use me, not value me. Maybe I am punishing myself, but this is the only way I feel arousal."

I kneel down, take out my cock, and pull your face against it. I slap it across your lips. Instantly you're whimpering and frantically trying to suck it, and when I pull you back by the hair, you start sobbing.

"Please! Please I must have it! Let me suck you! I have to please you!"

I laugh, and press the cane between your legs. You grind against it and suck my cock.

I like this, that's my problem. I want more than just having my cock rubbed. You have to want what I dish out desperately, even fearfully. You have to be pushed to the point of brokenness, or eager to the point of self-humiliation. Something in me turns ice cold and brutal and pure when I see you like this, and it's not all that different from the sense of power I felt when I punched Willis so hard he topped backwards and crumpled at my feet. Conquest. It's not enough that I win - you have to know that I've won, you have to end up on your back like a dog, whimpering, eyes glazed. You're not my girlfriend - you're my prey.

"Let one drop spill and the cane goes back on your ass," I snarl, panting. You whimper, and your hand comes up and cradles my balls, the heel of your palm grinding at the base of my shaft.

It doesn't take long. I pour out into your sucking mouth, and then push you away and walk off, with the cane. The whimpering and gasping fades into the distance as I head for the shower.

I really wouldn't be good for Miss Ames, I realize.


You kneel on the floor for dinner. Sitting isn't an option. You do manage to make it look graceful, and your silence is somehow less hostile than usual.

After I finish eating, you remove your clothing, slip under the table, unlace my boots and get my feet bare. Quietly, you lick them clean.

Even this deep into autumn, there's still work to do on a farm and I'm not under any illusions about what my feet are like come evening. I lift the tablecloth and look down at you.

"You seem to know what I enjoy, I'll give you that."

"You are not difficult to understand. I know what you are."

"Got my personality all figured out?"

"Yes. Dark triad."

I pause, and then reach down and haul you out and to your feet, by the hair. "What did you say?"

You're shaking, but you meet my eyes. "If you are trying to prove I am right, you could not do better."

"Psychopathic, maybe. But I'm not Machiavellian. And I don't think you can make a case for narcissistic. The diagnosis you want is antisocial personality disorder."

"You have a diagnosis?"

"The courts suggested I get evaluated a few years back." I pull you to your tiptoes and then bend you over the table. "It's not a formal diagnosis, the nice doctor just suggested I practice empathy and maybe consider never getting married."

You whimper, as I run my hand slowly over your marked ass. Without warning I push a finger into your pussy. "I am the first psychopath to ever finger you?"

"I don't think so." I curl the finger inside you, and thrash it. You're already wet.

I take my finger out, and smack your ass. You whimper.

I smack again, harder.

"Trying to teach me respect?"

"Right first time." I whack again, harder. This time you don't whimper.


"Why teach you respect?"

"Yes. Why bother?"

"You need it."

You turn her head, looking back at me awkwardly. "Maybe. But so what? I'm nothing to you. What I think or even feel can not matter to you. So I'm disrespectful. So I have issues and flaws. So? You don't need to care because what I am is unimportant. You can just use me for sex. Why don't you?"

I just stand and stare, a little stunned. You're right. Why am I bothering?

From someone else I'd take this as an attempt to skip a whipping and get some cock. But it's hard to believe you want more cock. I'm not really sure you ever want cock at all, it's more about the shame and abuse. And you're not the sort to ask for sex. You dress provocatively, keep your eyes down, and wait to be used, in a way that feels like I'm raping you, every time. But you don't ask for sex, not with words.

"I use you for sex a lot. I don't want sex every minute. But I do like hurting you, almost all the time. I like forcing you to want cock, against your will. I like seeing the anger in your eyes turn to fear."

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid I'll fall into that feeling of submission and not be able to climb back out again."

I finger you again, my other hand tight in your fair, keeping the side of your face against the table. You're getting wetter; of course you are.

"You'll have Angelica here, tomorrow night. Let her know there'll be bondage and discipline. You'll be caned in front of her."

I let you imagine that. After a minute, you moan softly, your hips starting to shift. "Will you cane her as well?"

"I plan to play that by ear." Bruising the fuck out of you doesn't bother me in the slightest. But she's not under my thumb and might go to the police afterwards. They won't care about a few handprints, but the cane's got an impressive amount of bruising power. "You'd like watching her caned."

"So would you."

I chuckle, darkly. "Not as such. I'm less of a sadist than you think. But the thought of her fear making her compliant, teaching her to like what she should hate... yes. I like being a corrupting influence."

"I'm surprised you're not all over Miss Ames."

My finger comes out of you and I'm suddenly beating your already bruised ass with my open hand, with the kind of force I reserve for pigs, cows and iron. I don't stop until you're sobbing, and it doesn't occur to me until I'm done that that's just what you wanted.

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