The Rental Agreement

We've done things like this before; exaggerated flirting done to a ridiculous scale to disarm each other's self-consciousness when faced with a roommate of the opposite sex. But the flirting morphed from a farcical reenactment to something that ran deeper. Often the interactions would come up after Cassandra was teasing me about my sex life.

Since I moved in, I've had a few flings and tinder dates, but nothing serious. Boys my age don't want anything serious, or if they do, they are the ambitious sort that is rabidly following politics and ready to settle down to check off a box on their adult to-do list. One morning after one of my tinder "dates", Lionel saw me just as I'd come home. Another smirk and a comment about my commute home taking inordinately long. Very long, I joked back.

Was it long enough? He'd asked with a raised eyebrow.

I could tell he'd been drinking, the glossy sheen still present and the hangover not quite taking hold as he cleared his throat. That's when he says shit like that. Sober Lionel is the polite gentleman; drunk Lionel is the miserable bastard who hates what he's become.

I gave him a toss of my hair, not letting him bother me with this little dig.

Long enough to make it worth it, I replied.

He cracked up; a little chuckle and a shake of his head. Then he smiled at me, almost sadly, regretfully, and wandered back to bed.

Tonight, I keep my game face on after witnessing his fork routine. I don't blush or sputter, but I feel it inside. How much I want more. Imagining his hand reaching under the table again, those long fingers going up my thigh and higher, not stopping until they find their way beneath my clothes. I'd reach across the table and take his face in my hands, to taste those lips lightly covered in a sheen of oil, to run my tongue over his. Instead, I take a large sip of my wine. Then I pick up my bowl, get up, and take it back to the kitchen.

I'm rinsing out the bowl when Lionel saunters back into the kitchen. He hands his bowl off to me, and I load our dishes into the dishwasher. The kitchen is too small and too convenient, and we both know this. I keep the lid of the dishwasher open, blocking his path to me. He's leaning against the counter, taking another swig of his wine while watching me. I can feel him waiting for the moment, waiting for me to look back at him. When I close the door to the dishwasher, I already have my statement prepared.

"I'm going to take a shower, get the sand off my feet."

He casually nods his head with some amusement, knowing this is my excuse to escape. I'm forced to walk past him as I exit the kitchen, feeling my skin prickle when we are inches apart. Just as I step past him and out into the hallway he speaks.

"Enjoy your shower."

Another quiver inside me as his low voice hushes this benign statement.

The shower cleanses my body and face, it cools down my skin. But I want someone else's fingers to wash all the aching places that I can hardly touch for fear of igniting more selfish longings. Sometimes masturbating would help to calm me down, but tonight it will only stoke up my appetite. The hunger that knows something bigger and better could fill the empty spaces inside me. Something that doesn't need batteries, something hot to the touch, reactive to my movements. Its own sounds coaxed forth when I give it what he wants. What we both want.

God, I want him.

After one last blast of cold to calm myself, I shut off the water. I comb my long hair out and leave it wet. I dress in boring cotton pajamas; a retro style in pale green with a short-sleeved button-up top and matching shorts. Something safe enough to wear in front of him. Except, I fear nothing is safe anymore. Nothing is containing me anymore but the thinnest moral dilemma and a selfish sense of career preservation.

There's music playing in the living room when I exit the bathroom; the high notes of a soprano sailing over thrashing violins. Opera. This is what he plays after a fight with Cassandra. Dramatic. Loud. The musical equivalent to having a tantrum.

I go into my room and plug my phone into its charger, futzing through my usual bedtime routine. Lotion on my legs and hands, setting out my tablet for reading or watching. Getting a glass of water. Shit.

There's no point in tip-toeing around. I know he's still up; I can see from the hallway the lights are on in the living room, albeit dimmed to a cozy level for someone inebriated. I can go into the kitchen without being seen from the living room but it's the sound that gives it away in the small condo. Opening the fridge to get the water pitcher, the sound of me refilling the pitcher that someone else left nearly empty. The opera has already been turned down a few clicks when he's heard my movements.

I stand in the dark kitchen, paralyzed with indecision. Earlier today, I'd traded texts with Cassandra. The usual status check-in where I told her Lionel was fine and she texted me a photo of a Mimosa served in a glass large enough to be a fish bowl. No check-in to see how I'm doing, how I'm feeling whilst being left alone with her boyfriend. What if he'd been accosting me, or trying to solicit sex for financial favors? She entrusts me with her boyfriend with the assumption that I have nothing better to do, based on the unflattering assumption that I am not a temptation. I'm trustworthy, sure. But am I his type? Of course not. Only Cassandra is capable of drawing men in with her blond hair and four-inch heels.

Anger is more powerful than fear. Anger easily blends into the building impatience my body feels, the fever that won't be doused by recriminations or promises. What I want is in the room next door. What I deserve is only waiting for me to realize this.

I grab a popsicle from the freezer and walk into the living room. Lionel is sitting on the couch with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, but he's awake; that much I can tell by the restless movements of his hand that grips a glass. He's switched from wine back to either scotch or bourbon. He glances up as I sit down on the low slung chair that sits kitty-corner from the leather couch. Behind his glasses there is a gleam in his eyes, a vague smile on his lips. I noisily unwrap the plastic wrapper of my fruit popsicle, purposely making even more noise when I see him wrinkle his brow at me in feigned annoyance.

"Having fun with that?" he asks.

I shrug ambivalently as I take a suck of the orange flavored ice. The moment I put the unintentionally phallic-shaped item in my mouth, I can see him become more alert. He sits up a little higher, taking a breath of composure.

We sit in silence, Lionel glancing down at the nearly empty highball glass he keeps rolling in his palm, while I quietly nibble on my popsicle, trying not to make it as overtly suggestive as I feel.

"How's the liquid nourishment?" I ask, knowing he's probably on his fourth or fifth drink of the evening.

"Very nourishing," he replies dryly. After a pause he adds, "How is the frozen liquid stick?"

I draw the popsicle out of my mouth. "Very frozen."

The corner of his mouth turns up, and he keeps my gaze as I continue to suck on the orange ice cock. I know I shouldn't, but it's too tempting to pass up, too perfect an opportunity to tease him. I take an exaggerated lick with my tongue sticking out, licking upwards from the middle of the popsicle up to the tip. Lionel takes in a breath, a little twitch in his jaw. The subtle narrowing of his eyes as I try not to grin.

"How does said frozenness taste?" he asks in a low voice.

The words resonate in my chest, their sarcastic meaning twisted into something else as it creates a heat in my belly that travels south. He's leaning forward just slightly, daring me to give him some equally loaded response.

"You tell me," I reply, stretching my arm out.

For a moment, he remains still, debating. Slowly, he leans forward and sets down his glass on the coffee table in front of him. Then, he twists to his side and cranes his neck out, leaning towards me. Opening his mouth. I lean forward to close the gap between us, keeping my arm extended.

Lionel keeps his mouth open, waiting. I carefully ease the smooth tip that's been rounded down by my efforts onto his tongue. He closes his lips around it, and briefly suckles, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. When he releases, there's a quick swipe of his tongue across his bottom lip, a glittering look of amusement in his eyes.

My stomach cartwheels in the pleasant way you get after going over the crest over a rollercoaster, the rush of excitement to know you narrowly escaped death. But I don't want the rush to be over, I don't want the ride to end.

I place the popsicle back in my mouth, keeping my lips open as lick up and down. The orange phallus goes across my lips as I pull it out to tease the tip of it, closing my eyes briefly as I plunge it back in my mouth. I go down to my fist, hollowing my cheeks as I pretend it's reached the back of my throat, gasping for breath when I pull it back out. When I meet his eyes after my exaggerated eating performance, I can tell the teasing has gone far enough. And I'm secretly delighted.

He's breathing faster, a hardened line of his lips that are equal parts amused, angry, and aroused. He remains motionless for long enough that I take another suck, if just to catch the syrupy drip running down the shaft.

In one quick movement, he picks up his glass and takes one last swig of his drink, then runs a hand over his mouth. Before he puts the glass down, he gives me a sideways glance, debating something as I continue to suck with slightly less sexual flair as before. I can see a twinkle in his eye, a little spark of something I want to ignite. I smile with my lips parted but still holding the popsicle in the opening of my mouth, pausing at the gaping cavity that could hold something even bigger and longer in its jaws.

He stretches an arm out and aims for my crossed leg that dangles over my left knee. With deliberate execution, he slowly glides the cold, wet glass along my shin, leaving a streak of moisture on my skin. I flinch, and muffle the gasp with my closed lips. Doubling down, he switches to my other leg, going up the ankle of my left leg. This time I barely contain my gasp, but I can't help grinning as I bite my lip. He waits for my move, and when I take too long, he decides for me. The empty glass is set down on the coffee table, and the mostly melted popsicle is plucked from my hands. He plops the orange stick into his empty glass, and turns his attention back to me. I realize he's got his hand on my wrist, holding on firmly. He pulls me towards him, bringing his other hand up to my face. Both of us lean towards the other, letting our sticky lips finally meet.

The flavor of bourbon and popsicle is a delicious combination as his warm lips nibble on mine. Warm and soft, but strong, an assertive technique that opens and closes like a gentle bite. After the second pass, he barely separates with a pointed look. I smile at him, feeling a flush in my cheeks that gets hotter when he grins back. We've decided after sampling a taste, we'd like to taste more. A lot more.

We briefly debate who should come over to whose seat. Clearly there's more room on the couch, but before I can move, he slides off the couch and remains crouched in front of me. It's logical enough for him to remain kneeling, and it's easy enough for me to part my legs and allow him to move in closer. My knees are on either side of his hips, my hands go up to his face. He patiently allows me to remove his glasses, a shared chuckle as I still accidentally snag one of the temples in the soft waves of his hair. The soft brown hair I'm now running my fingers through as he kisses me. Kisses that get longer and deeper, as I begin to moan into his lips as his right hand goes between my legs.

It stays on top of the cotton fabric of my shorts, but the fingers palpate my mound, locating my clit with a confirmatory swirl. Those long fingers keep gently working as our tongues keep tasting one another, a pleasant flavor of sweetened alcohol. He likes hearing my breath come up short, a rumbling chuckle as I whimper and flinch from his expert handiwork. Only when the cotton fabric is thoroughly moistened by my juices does he stop.

Our lips separate so I can pant with relief, his eyes on fire with devious joy. There is a moment of pause, however brief, where we collectively glance down at ourselves, seeing how we are still both fully clothed. We are still no further than a groping's worth of fun. Not even a dry hump. But we want more. I can see it in his eyes, I can feel it in his fingers when they touch me.

Feeling brave, and reckless, I go for his belt. He makes a feigned gasp of coquettish surprise, to which I roll my eyes at him. I unbutton and unzip, and his smile is kept at bay while he gasps again, this time more genuinely when I go right to his cock. I slide my palm up and down once, choking up on the tip to playfully squeeze him. All the things I want race through my mind. All the positions and all the feelings. All the ways I want to use him and be used in turn.

Seeing as how we are at this phase of still being mostly clothed, he works around it by sliding his right hand down my belly and forcing his way under my shorts. Down into my panties across my bare skin, tugging the waistband down, stretching the fabric beneath his wrist. His middle finger goes right to my naked clit, jiggling teasingly before it swipes lower and gets lubricated by my juices, then goes back up to rub my throbbing nub.

It feels so perfectly careless and slutty to spread my legs apart, letting him snake his finger between my folds until he pushes inside me, slowly fingering me with delicious precision. Meanwhile I choke up and down on his hard cock, leaning into his chest so I can keep my eye on his handiwork below.

He's whispering praise that is both filthy and thrilling, he's telling me how it feels to pleasure me. He cruelly teases me by withdrawing his hand, only to lick it and return it with a second finger.

"You like that, don't you?" he whispers hotly.

I can only whimper and nod in agreement as the fingers gently pump.

"You would like more than my fingers, though," he asks with just the right amount of teasing and a genuine request for confirmation.

We've come this far, I might as well lay my cards on the table. There's no more moves to make other than the obvious one, no other place for my queen to hide on the chess board.

"I want you to fuck me," I whine.

"Here?" he asks with a sweet kiss to my ear.

"Now," I answer, cutting to the chase.

We each release the other so we can both stand and shimmy out of our undergarments, a naughty chuckle when he kicks his briefs off his feet. Without hesitation I turn around and crawl into the chair, staying on my knees with my ass sticking out. I don't ask for a condom, I don't want to wait another fucking second. I just peek my head over my shoulder and watch him line up, licking his lips with glee.

Despite the amount of booze consumed, he's as hard as I could hope for, a groan of pleasure when he pushes his way in. The chair isn't the steadiest thing I could be on as he begins to pitch back and forth, but it only adds to the feeling of fervent madness. The feeling of sordid debauchery when he yanks up the hem of my pajama top so my breasts are revealed, cinching the fabric into his hands like a leash against my spine, yanking on it as he fucks me with abandon. One hand leaves the leash so it can go around and cup my tits, each of us groaning to feel what we'd only imagined till now.

Finally, my fantasy is coming true. Finally, Lionel could take no more. At last, bent over and speared by his dick, my tits gripped in his greedy hands. Our bodies shaking furiously, a fucking so vigorous it almost hurts.

Through my moans, I tell him how much I've wanted this. I admit that I needed this. He acknowledges this by pulling my arms back and cinches an arm behind my elbows. Tugging my torso up, shaking my tits as he thrusts upwards aggressively. This version of Lionel is done with manners and propriety. This Lionel growls into my ear, not so much asking but warning that we want it harder. And I do.

I'm pleading with him, demanding this fuck be as hard as possible, to let the agonizing desire we feel combust into this carnal depravity. He's dragging his teeth over my skin, biting my earlobe, digging his fingers into my flesh as he presses me against him.

But my moans get louder and whinier, his grunts more crazed and animal-like. He warns me he's going to come, to let me know he's going to pump me full of cum unless I say something.

"It's fine," I blurt out. Give it to me. Give me whatever that ungrateful bitch can't take. And so he does.

He slows down as the warm fluid drips out of me, as my pussy regretfully feels him pull out. He leans his hand on the wall in front of me, panting and cussing. I run a hand through his hair while he kisses my ear, his hot breath tickling my skin.

"Jesus fucking Christ..."

I laugh at his unusually crass statement. He's leaning down, trembling a little, probably exhausted. But I'm far from it. And in his intelligence, he knows this. Slowly he turns me around, pulling me off my knees. Gripping me in his arms, he backs up to the couch and sits down, guiding me onto his lap.

"I want to see your face," he whispers. "I want to see when I make you come."

Just hearing him say that and I'm already in ecstasy as he begins to swirl his fingers over my clit once again. He takes his time to keep me pleasured, while in turn getting gently stroked by me. The joy of kissing him and looking into his eyes isn't lessened by his chatty observations. The way he describes my body and my reactions, the compliment that he can't stop touching me. And I don't want him to. Cassandra could walk in that door right now and I'd stay right where I am. Naked and pinned on his lap, one hand teasing my puckered hole while his other hand claims territory in my slippery cunt. His naked body covered in a light sheen of sweat, a grin a mile wide on his adoring and very satisfied face. Waves of pleasure sent to my core, delivered by his vengeful fingers.

We keep going, fingering and stroking, perching myself up so he can take my breasts in his mouth. Sucking on my nipples makes him hard enough we can fuck again, a slow and steady pace with kissing and giggling. Laughter because we've knocked into the coffee table and tipped his glass over, spilling the melted popsicle onto the carpet, leaving a little stain of pale orange on the light beige fibers. A little memento we'll be able to see later, to remember how that stain came to be. A reminder of how he fucked my brains out while his cheating girlfriend pretended to be out with the girls.

I'll have to break the news to her tomorrow when she checks-in via text. Everything is just fine. Just a little stain on the carpet. A simple accident. She can add it to next month's rent.

The End