Rent Comes Due

I get off you, pull your shoes and jeans off you. I open my zipper and pull out something I already know you like. I force your lips against it. You mouth me, frantically; you can't help yourself now. In this state your only thought is to please me, and that's just the way I like you.

My finger sinks into you again. Obedient girls deserve a little pleasure, after all. I set the pace for your mouth and tongue with my finger, and you quickly settle into some eager movement that I like.

"You need the pain, don't you. It gives you permission to be the cock-sucking, cum-craving slut I'm guessing you weren't allowed to be where you come from. Do I have that right? Take it deeper, slut. You look good that way. Work for my cum."

I slide my finger out of you. Your clit is a hard, begging nub and I press my fingers around it, making you focus your attention there, and then squeeze, roughly. Your hips arch. I give it to you again and again, and you're shuddering, twisting, trying to get my finger back inside you; suddenly your eyes turn up towards me and you're pleading with them-

I kneel, haunches on ankles, and twist and drag your body over the stones so your legs are parted over me and you're on your belly. Ruthlessly I work my cock against your slit, making you crave it, knowing you hate wanting it. When you're shuddering in need I push it ruthlessly inside you, and then slap your tender ass, driving my cock deeper into you with each slap, and feeling it suck me with the action of your bucking hips. Over and over.

"Speak only in English," I snarl.

"No- no- don't make- ah! Ah! I can't -- think - Big. So big! Hurts! No more slaps, please!"

I slap faster, quick stinging fingerwhips now. You arch, tightening, slowly and helplessly.

"No -- more- I'll- please! Mustn't come! Please no!"

You lapse into Japanese. That's fine, you weren't saying anything either of us believed anyway.

A rough slap, and then I force a finger up your ass and curl it, while grinding up into you. You're screaming and convulsing around my cock and finger, hair tossing, body helplessly responding to my ruthless violation. One last slap and you thrash, sobbing, and then fall silent and spent.

As you settle, I take you by the hips and work my cock with you, until I jet inside you. You twitch as it happens, whimpering. You love cum.

+++

After a bit I get up, realizing that I've been kneeling in stony soil and even the leather on my knees doesn't make that comfortable. Your tits probably enjoyed it even less, and as I stir you do, too, rolling over. The front of you is dimpled all over from the stones. No blood, though.

You brush yourself off, give me the most hateful look you dare, gather your clothing and flee to the house. The ruined panties are left behind.

I stretch out. Shit, I have brazing to do, and it's hard to want to move after fucking you like that. But as always, the orgasm frees up my mind, and I can think and plan out the job. That's a funny thing about being a guy -- when you want sex, you get dumber and dumber until you get laid, and then suddenly you're this genius with your brain all shiny and clean and running at top speed. With my houseguest around I was going to be fucking brilliant.

I line up the worked iron rod, bang it a few times to cold-work a little adjustment into it, and fire up the torch. This combine is going to be needed soon; harvest doesn't wait.

+++

I head towards the kitchen. It's nine pm and I'm as hungry as a big dog that chased rabbits all day and didn't get one. It cooled off fast outside after sunset -- autumn making itself felt after an Indian Summer day. Coffee and a hamburger is my plan now.

I smell coffee. And not the burnt smell, so I didn't leave the old percolator going this morning. You're more of a tea drinker, so this is strange. I walk into the kitchen.

You're there, dressed in different jeans and a sweat shirt -- I don't keep the kitchen warm -- and there's food steaming on the stove. Something a lot more complicated than a hamburger. And in the oven -- holy pigshit, that's bread baking.

I just stop and stare at you. You look expressionlessly back, and then turn and stir something on the stove. There is no way it's all for you; hell, you could feed four people on that mess of food. And homemade bread? I know how much work that is. And I don't even have yeast in the house.

"Where," I say quietly, "did you get yeast?"

"Your neighbor," you reply, not turning around. "You mentioned he makes beer."

"I didn't hear you drive off." My neighbor is six miles down the road.

"I waited until you started the... machine. The harvester."

Yeah, I wouldn't have heard that little car of hers over that. Good thing, too. I'd have assumed she was driving to the police station.

"Did he charge you for it?" Hans was part Scottish, part Norwegian, and one hundred percent skinflint.

"No. He said the shock you'd have when you saw the bread would be worth thirty milliliters of yeast."

I walk over to the stove. Chicken, dressed in vegetables -- onion, peppers, spinach, something round and white. Another pot has Mashed potatoes. Chicken gravy in a gravy boat, sitting in hot water. Pudding for dessert. I'd forgotten I even had that packet of butterscotch pudding mix.

"I've seen you cooking a few times. You like soups. Some of those Asian vegetables, I don't even know what they are. Rice. You don't eat a lot of meat."

"Usually yes, I eat like I do at home. But this is for you, not me."

"I can't eat this much."

"It will keep for a few days."

"And where did you learn to cook all this?"

"It isn't hard. Internet. And I cook chicken at home sometimes too. It isn't that different."

I wasn't asking the big question. You're clearly waiting for me to. I've heard of hate-fucks. Did women do hate-cooking?

"Three more minutes," you say, "But the bread is not ready yet and the pudding needs more time to cool. I didn't time everything correctly."

I just look at you, sigh, and do what I'm supposed to do.

"Why did you do all this?"

"You worked hard today. I watched you for a long time. You worked and worked and worked, stopping only to... and then you worked for seven more hours. You must be starving."

"I am. But I'm used to putting in long days, especially as I get into autumn. I don't expect this of you."

You just stir. I smile at myself, ironically; I finally found a woman who talks less than I want her to.

I wash up at the sink, looking at you. You move off, to set the table for one.

"Have you eaten?"

"No. I will eat after this."

I look at you some more.

"I don't know anything about your culture. I've heard of geisha girls-"

"That was a long time ago. And I'm not pretending to be one."

"Eat with me."

"This is for you, not me."

"Fine, it's for me. I'll share it with you."

She looks at me, expressionlessly. Suddenly I walk over to her.

"Hold still." I lift your sweatshirt. There's one very small bruise where a stone caught her rib, but no other marks. You're clean and spotless. I drop the sweatshirt and start carrying dishes to the table, setting it for two.

"Seeing if I am clean enough to eat with you?"

There's straw in my hair, I'm covered in dried sweat and my shirt is covered with rust stain from the iron rod. Your hair is washed and glistens, your face is made up and you redid the nail polish on your fingers. You're clean enough to eat with royalty. I don't smell like royalty at the moment.

"Just seeing if you're bruised."

"Very little."

I settle at the table. "You cooked a feast. Bring it on."

Silently, you serve up. For one.

I tap the plate I set for you. Expressionlessly, you put about an ounce of chicken on it and a small pile of vegetables. I look it over.

"Is that how you stay so pretty?"

"You think I'm pretty?"

"You think I'd have insisted you share a bed otherwise? Look around you. Do you see rooms full of ugly women lining up for my bed? Trust me I could arrange that if I wanted it. Widow Willow can be here in fifteen minutes if I indicate she's wanted. Sit and eat. And I think another piece of chicken wouldn't kill you."

"It might make me ugly, like Widow Willow."

I look over you, critically. "Safe to say you have a long ways to go in that department."

You sit, and eat, silently.

I decide you're quite an education. You know exactly how to be silent to be insulting, or disapproving, or whatever the fuck you call it. An American girl would have raised her voice at me by now, and gotten the back of my hand for it. Maybe that's why I don't chase local skirt. Too mouthy.

I don't feel pressure to make conversation; I'm just not that way, especially when I eat. And you've got Silence as a Wall down to a science.

It's a well cooked meal, though, and my mom slapped one thing into me growing up, so-

"This is very good."

"Thank you."

"Thank you. You didn't actually my question earlier."

"It was not a good question."

"I still expect an answer."

You look at me, steadily. "That is very... American of you, I think."

"Well, you're pretty damn Japanese at the moment."

"What does that mean?"

"You're being... the word is inscrutable, I think."

"You have your stereotypes mixed up. That one is Chinese. Japanese girls don't know when to be quiet."

"I'd be lying if I told you I could tell the difference or knew a damn thing about either. I know a well cooked meal though, and where I come from, women cook these to be kind."

"That's true everywhere."

"Then you're being kind to me. Why?"

You hesitate. "In my culture... we believe certain questions should not be answered in words."

"You're here now, and in my culture when I ask you a question you answer it. Your ass is much too sore to find out what happens if that rule is broken."

She nodded. "That's your answer to everything. Beat it until it does what you want."

"It works. Now answer the question."

"Maybe I like you."

"Doubt it. I'm not stupid."

"Does farming require a lot of being smart?"

"Only if you want to make money at it. Which I do. You know, I kind of enjoy spanking you. But I sated myself on you pretty good earlier and I'm just not feeling much need for more. So if I do spank you it's going to be hard enough and long enough to teach you a lesson, and there won't be an orgasm at the end."

She looked down, and nodded. "You win. You will always win. Very well. You have made me your slave in bed -- and not even in bed, anywhere you want me. So I will be a slave, and serve you in other ways too."

"Huh. If that's supposed to shame me into kindness or something, just understand right now, it won't work."

"No. I'm just understanding my place."

"What else will you do?"

"Whatever you need."

"I don't need much, pretty. I take care of myself. Sex is the thing I don't enjoy alone. But I guess I'm not going to turn down meals like this one. I've never had myself a slave before."

"I've never been one so... openly. You will probably like it."

"So far I do."

You hesitate again. "You never use my name. Why?"

"Don't think I'd pronounce it right."

"That's the only reason?"

"That and the fact it is just the two of us and I don't need to use it to get your attention. When I speak, you listen. Hell, when I speak, you start to get wet."

Your eyes get cold. I ignore it. They get colder.

"It's pronounced Miyuki."

"Yup. I'd make a mess of that."

"You don't mind making a mess of me, but you won't make a mess of my name?"

I look at you. Maybe my eyes get cold, too. Not being a girl, I don't practice this shit in the mirror, the way you clearly have.

"When I make a mess of you, you come hard. You try not to but somehow you lose that battle every single time. Maybe you resent that, and maybe you only pretend to, but you've been responding to me since the first time you entered my house. You spent two weeks staring at the front of my pants, and I know what girls want. So don't try to sell me on not getting turned on out of your mind by the mess I make of you. But screwing up your name is just impolite and no one's going to get off on that. So I don't."

"I fake orgasms to make you stop."

"Pigshit you do. If you really wanted me to stop you'd lie there without moving and wait for me to finish. Don't lie to me, Mi-you-key. Why you need the sex to be the way it is, is your business, but don't pretend the things I do to you don't get you off hard, every time."

"And you like that."

"Hell yes."

"Why?"

"Which part? Are you asking why I like it when you come, or why I like slapping it out of you?"

"Why you like it when I come."

"Dunno. Give me a minute to think about it."

The meal is too good to talk much over, and I munch while I think. You eat slowly, but there's so little on your plate that you're already finishing up. I'm guessing you won't go for fresh buttered bread or pudding, either.

"It's like this. I'm not a gentleman. You spend enough time swatting a cow on the ass to get it to move, or shoving your hand up a pig's cunt to try to shift a breeched piglet, and you end up with a very straightforward view of things. Equipment works or it doesn't, crop grows or it fails. I'm not subtle, I never went to university, and I don't overthink things. I keep it simple when it comes to sex, too. Sex is simpler when the girl gets off. She becomes more willing to have more sex, and there's less fussing and pissy whimpering right afterwards. So I do what I can to make sure you come, whether you like the idea or not."

"So it is dominance. You seek to control me through my body."

I think about that. "Fancier words, but yeah, that's a good way of putting it."

"And you don't care if I object."

"You're wet, aren't you."

You stare at me.

"Check," I suggest. "Or I'll do it for you."

Slowly, hatefully, you stand up, and open the jeans. You didn't put panties on, I notice; you're probably tired of having them ruined. Your hand slides down, a finger slips in, and comes out shiny wet.

"Take everything off."

Seething, you obey me.

"I'm to be fucked among the dirty dishes?"

"I'm not going to fuck you. I had a nice hard orgasm earlier -- maybe you remember since you were there for it and all. And I don't like fucking on a full stomach. This is about you, Mi. It's cool in the house and being naked will remind you, every second, that you're allowed to stay here because you're pretty and fuckable. I want you to feel exposed, vulnerable and shamefully wet. You hate it, but standing there naked for me makes you even wetter, doesn't it."

"You enjoy shaming me. And you have no fear I'll poison you next time I cook for you?"

"Isn't that a Chinese stereotype?"

"It is Japanese as well."

"I'm not really worried about it. You want this. You don't actually hate me, you hate that you get off on what I do. Maybe no one's ever spanked you and fucked you without giving you flowers first, I don't know."

"I have enough hate to spend some on you."

"That just makes it hotter when I fuck you."

I stand up, step over to you, and wrap my hand in your hair. My other hand slides down your torso, and my finger penetrates you, easily. Staring into your pretty, angry eyes, I finger your tight little pussy. You stare back into my eyes as long as you can, but in the end, you're shaking and your eyes close, slowly. You desperately want not to come. I speed up, but at the last moment, take my finger out, wipe it on your breast, and walk away.

"So much for making me compliant by getting me off," you hiss. "Now I have to do it myself."

"You won't. You know you're not allowed to. I never even had to say it, you know that's how it is. Your sex is mine. All of it. Whenever I want it. I don't happen to want it now, and the fact that you do doesn't change that."

I clean up. No reason to add that to your duties, and I'm particular about where the dishes go on the shelves.

+++

That night you get into my bed, naked, and curl up near me, not touching me. The temptation to touch you simply because I can is strong, but I don't want to ruin this with pointless handling. You'll do better if I touch you when I want you, or when you need to be put back into line, and not otherwise.

Humans and animals aren't so different, I reflect. Show either one clearly who has the authority, and there's rarely any trouble...

I wake, suddenly. Your hand is fumbling between my legs, and you've already got me hard. Why I didn't wake up the instant you touched me, I don't know. I was pretty tired, but I can't imagine being that tired. You must have a very, very light touch.

You must be aware that I woke up, but I wait to see what you do. To my surprise you keep going, running a fingertip along the underside of my cock, then rubbing very gently against the frenum. And then down, petting with that one fingertip over my balls. It's fucking effective. When your finger slides up again, it strokes over the head of my cock, and it's slippery. You're panting, very softly. It sounds more like fear than arousal. It's a hot sound, either way.

Suddenly I twist, finding your hair in the darkness and forcing your mouth brutally over the erection you gave me. It fills your little mouth to choking, but I just grind in deeper. My other hand finds your breasts, and your hard nipple gets a slow, rough twist.

"Touching requires permission," I snarl. You're too busy gagging and gasping to protest. I punish your other nipple, and then pull your head back, letting you breathe. And then force your mouth over me again, snarling. You sound deeply frightened now, and I finger your pussy, roughly. You're very wet. The fingering quickly makes you more desperate for air, and your noises get frantic.

I push you back on the bed, get up, and pull some heavy waxed twine for leatherwork from my closet. In the semidarkness you can't see what I got, but I wrap some around your wrist a few times and you figure out what's coming. I loop it around a bedpost and knot it. You squeal in rage, but I overpower you easily and in a couple minutes you're spread eagle on your back, helpless. Helpless and wet and panting, with very hard nipples.

"Fuck me," you hiss.

My cock wants to. And it will, because I'm not going back to sleep with this erection. But you aren't in charge here.

"Hold still. That's not some nice soft bondage gear, that's waxed twine and if it tightens up it will fuck with your circulation. Another word out of you and I'll stuff your mouth with my underwear, which I promise you will be even less fun than yours."

I grip your hair to hold your head back against the mattress, and I start in on you. Slow nipple twisting, fingernails moving lightly under your arms, sudden rough fingering and then a very light clit massage. Nibbling on your nipple and then slapping your belly. Unpredictable touches meant to highlight your helplessness.

And then the combination of rough nipple sucking and the flicking of my fingernail against your clit. It gets to you, hard. Then rubbing, then flicking again...

"No...!" you moan.

"Be quiet. You woke me up, now you find out what that means."

In a few minutes you're shaking. I slowly drag you towards orgasm, whispering in your ear about hot and fuckable and helpless you are. I stop at the last possible moment, and then spend time tracing my fingers over your lips, cheeks, throat, breasts and belly. When I finally get back to your clit, you whimper urgently.

I bring you to the edge of orgasm again, nibbling your achingly hard nipples, fingering you and rubbing your clit, very fast, but not quite hard or deep enough. In the end you're sobbing. When you're drenched in sweat, I slide two fingers into you, and curl and thrash them inside you ruthlessly, snarling into your ear that you must not come. Your sobs turn piteous.