Making the Rent Ch. 02

Credit to Conversations, who gave me the idea behind this story, and who also wrote the delightfully funny "Saving Miss Stacey," which I highly recommend you read first. Although she quite literally stole my character from me, who now presumably resides in hiding, I suppose being a near-omnipotent, certified narrator has its benefits...

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Stacey, who lived in a small apartment near the downtown diner where she worked as a waitress. Stacey was a blonde Midwestern beauty with big blue eyes, a cute button nose, and full red lips. She possessed a wholesome charm that immediately made her a hit with the gentlemen. But neither a winsome smile nor a bubbly personality made her quite enough money to cover the rent.

"Yeah, that's right. Say it: say your check bounced, so you're bouncing like a whore!" ordered Frank, the odious apartment manager.

"Wait a minute, this is all wrong. Didn't this happen already? And besides, I'm in the Federal Character Protection Program!" protested Stacey in confusion, not realizing that among a certified narrator's many powers is the ability to move through time—namely, to chronicle any number of hot and nasty sexual tales set before the naughty little minx got away with an interloping... author-seductress. As our heroine was quickly discovering, you can never really escape your narrator.

"What... oh my God, you asshole... you wrote an interquel?" exclaimed Stacey. "And now you wanna make me fuck all over again? And how did— Ahhh! Who the hell is this?"

Our naked heroine squealed as she finally took notice of the muscular man lying beneath her. Carl, a plumber, had come to fulfill a work order, although he was not doing it quite the way she had in mind. Stacey found herself in the bedroom in the classic DP position: she straddled Carl, his massive cock deep in her tight pussy; while Frank's equally big dick was plugged firmly into her, wait for it... flawless ass. The naughty little tart had paid neither rent nor utilities, so it was altogether fitting for the manager and plumber to, let us say, snake the delectable blonde's pipes together.

"It was a leaky faucet, you idiots!" she snapped. "I don't need my 'pipes' snaked, metaphorically or otherwise! Is anyone even proofreading— Oh, who am I kidding? I'm having a threesome with my landlord and the plumber to make the rent—probably not dealing with a literary masterpiece here. Guess it's too much to ask to be written into some decent erotica that... that... mmm, that feels kinda good actually..."

As the two men began to fuck her, alternating their thrusts into her ass and pussy like pistons in an engine, Stacey began to remember that she was written into a male sex fantasy. She panted quietly at first, biting her lip in a futile attempt to conceal her enjoyment. Soon, however, she lifted herself up onto her hands to brace against their powerful thrusts, pressing back against Frank—and giving Carl a great view of her bare, jutting breasts. Frank's odor filled her nostrils, and she shuddered at the touch of his thick chest hair against her sleek shoulder blades. Before long, she began to vocalize her pleasure, each moan louder than the next, as they banged her with increasing ferocity.

"Are you a whore?" grilled Frank. "Look at you. You're a little whore, aren't you? Tell daddy you're his little whore."

"Oh God, the 'daddy' thing again," groaned Stacey, and then reluctantly: "I mean, yes daddy, I'm your little whore."

"Attagirl. Now sweetheart, you understand why daddy had to share you with one of his friends today, right?" asked Frank with mock concern, pulling her golden hair back into a handheld ponytail as he continued to screw her. "Tell that nice man under you why daddy's pimping you out."

Stacey sighed as Frank yanked her head into eye contact with Carl. Stacey found her new sexual acquaintance reasonably attractive—but more on that later. (Earlier?) She was repulsed at being used like this, but nevertheless struggled to rein in the pleasurable sensations that simmered with growing intensity in her nether regions. Before she knew it, she was ramming herself back onto their hard shafts, a willing participant in her own exploitation. She felt herself mounting toward climax as she fumbled for a response to Frank's question.

"Ummm... well, I still don't know why my check would have bounced," wondered Stacey, a glimmer of sass still left in her strained voice, "and it definitely covered the utilities... mmm... I don't know. I'm confused. You just started this thing in the middle! One minute I think I'm done banging Frank... ahhh... and the next I'm in a threesome with him and some guy I've never met? Oh God, that feels so good... Tell you what: can we just go back to the beginning?"

"Man, this girl is smoking hot, but does she always gab like—" Carl began to ask, baffled; but Stacey quickly hushed him with a finger to his lips.

"So? What do you say?" continued Stacey. "I know, I know—this is a 'sexy' story... mmm... but if I'm gonna end up getting fucked anyways, I might as well enjoy it, which is hard to do when you've written me into something that reads like a bad porno. On the other hand... oh yeah Carl, like that, right there... if you do me a few narrative favors and let me have some fun, I promise everybody's gonna get a good show!"

She slyly lifted an eyebrow at the narrator to accentuate her point, and then broke into a moan as she neared orgasm. Our heroine had made an intriguing offer, one that the narrator was obliged to accept on behalf of the readers. If she failed to make good on her pledge to put on a steamy performance, one could always reel her right back into filthy, hardcore porn. But first one must start, as requested, at the beginning of the story.

"What, right now? Oh, come on! Right when I'm about to cum? No wait, just a few more..."

* * *

One afternoon, Stacey returned from an aerobic workout at the apartment gym to find an overdue rent notice taped to her door, even though she had just submitted a check for SIX-HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE and 0/100 DOLLARS—the same check she had tried to use the last month. She was dressed rather provocatively in knee-high socks and a thong-backed lavender leotard that showed off her firm, shapely buttocks.

"...seconds. Fuck. I hate flashbacks," muttered Stacey, rubbing her headband-clad forehead. "And lavender? What am I, a bar of fucking soap? This is lilac. And they're supposed to go with leggings, you perv. But thank you, I work out a lot."

Our heroine passed an old lady in the hallway, who shook her head disapprovingly at the provocative attire. She knocked on the door to the management office near the front of the building and entered. Frank's workspace was predictably slovenly: empty beer cans on the floor, crumpled balls of paper next to an overfilled wastebasket, and glossy photos of scantily-clad or nude models plastered over the walls.

Frank looked up from his desk as she shut the door. Dressed in a wife beater and blue jeans, he was a tall, handsome man—early thirties, dark hair, muscular build—generally agreeable to Stacey's eye but for a creepy mustache that simply gave her the shivers. The calendar behind him featured a busty, bikini-clad beach blonde, who bore a fair resemblance to our heroine.

"Great. I guess I'm his type," grumbled Stacey with arms folded, before she addressed the apartment manager. "What do you want, Frank? I know I paid the rent this month—the narrator just said so," she announced as she glared at him.

"What are you wearing?" inquired Frank, ignoring everything the bodacious blonde said as he admired her... lilac... gym outfit, trying to peer around her hips. "Do you always dress like this when you work out?"

"No, but I'm guessing this is how you guys picture me dressed while you're all jacking off, so here you go. Hey—up here!" said Stacey with a snap of her fingers. "Focus, Frank. What did you do with the check I gave you?"

"You mean this check?" replied Frank, holding up Stacey's check—which now had the words "INSUFFICIENT FUNDS" in bold red letters stamped diagonally across it.

"What?" blurted Stacey as she snatched the worthless paper out of his hand, struggling to come to terms with the fact that her check really did bounce this time. "But it was just payday! How is there nothing in my bank account?"

"I think that's a conversation you need to have with your boss. Maybe you were a bad little waitress..." Frank replied, licking his lips suggestively.

"Shut up, I wasn't talking to you," dismissed Stacey. "This isn't fair!" she whined, waving the bad check at the narrator for emphasis. "You can't just make up reasons why I'm gonna get banged if they don't make any sense at all!"

The protests were puzzling: Stacey knew well that her sexy fate was already written. But since it was so important to her, let everyone be assured that the source of her troubled finances would be addressed—later. First, however, it remained to be discussed with the lusty landlord how our heroine could possibly get herself out of the desperate circumstances in which she now found herself.

"Fine, whatever. I just want everyone to know this stupid porn setup makes zero sense," said Stacey before releasing a sharp sigh. "But I guess it's gonna happen whether I like it or not—I don't know why I thought 'Making the Rent Ch. 02' would be any different. All right, what's next?"

She stared at Frank, upturned eyebrows signaling him to act. She waited as he stood and came around to her. She watched, bemused, as Frank took the check from her hand and held it edgewise before her lips.

"Put this in your mouth, and get on all fours, bitch," he ordered.

"Okay, can we tone down the degrading stuff?" said Stacey, cocking her head to one side. "It's kinda hard to get turned on with all the name-calling. I know this is a sex story, and I promise I'll be a 'good girl' and do what I'm told, but you don't have to humiliate me!"

Frank cleared his throat. "I mean, could you please place this in your mouth, and get on your hands and knees, young lady?" he asked, mystified by his own unnatural choice of words.

"And you thought I was a smartass," deadpanned Stacey. "I guess it's an improvement," she concluded with a shrug, opening her mouth to take the check. "And can I get some leggings under this thing? I look like a stripper dressed as a pole dance instructor."

Our heroine was certainly pushing her limits. Calling her leotard lilac was enough of a compromise of narrative integrity, but to magically invent clothing to feebly prop up some vain pretense of modesty? Preposterous.

"Oh, you're one to talk about narrative integrity," snorted Stacey. "I have a bush that's literally phasing in and out of existence on my pussy! And I don't care what color you think my leotard is—you can call it fucking fuchsia if you want!"

Stacey's request (regarding the color) was accepted, as was the existence of her bush (oops), just as she finally accepted the rent check with her teeth. She obediently faced about and got on all fours—by now, a very familiar position for the naughty tenant—allowing Frank to feast his eyes on the beautiful blonde's bare buttocks. Clad in a fuchsia leotard, of course.

"Now crawl," ordered Frank as he opened the door. "I want to see you wag that pretty ass of yours all the way back to your apartment."

"Oh come on," complained Stacey, letting the check fall from her mouth. "First you won't let me wear leggings, and now you want me to crawl out there in the hallway with my ass popping out of this outfit? We just talked about humiliation—how could this be any more humiliating?"

Frank went to his desk drawer and pulled out a studded collar and a wooden paddle—

"All right, all right, I'm going!" interrupted Stacey, alarmed. "You made your point—you can put that shit away. Ugh, why couldn't I have been in a nice romance novel instead of this smut?"

So Frank followed Stacey as she slinked her way down the hallway, check between teeth, ass swaying pleasingly as she went. A young couple passed them. Stacey recognized them from next door: they always woke her with loud sex in the wee hours of the morning. The girl giggled as she looked at Stacey; the guy nodded approvingly, giving Frank a congratulatory fist bump. Finally, after what felt like a mile to Stacey, they reached her number: sixty-nine.

"Sixty-six, asshole," corrected Stacey as Frank retrieved the check from her mouth.

She yelped as Frank hoisted up her by her hair and shoved her against the door. He slowly licked first the check, then the nape of her neck as she fumbled to retrieve her key—from where in that skimpy outfit, no one knows. She shuddered as she felt the brush of that repulsive mustache. Finally, she managed to get the door open. Frank dropped her hair, and slapped the moistened check onto her bare ass. She went inside, speechless. He followed, shutting the door behind him.

"Now," started Frank, unzipping his jeans, "I want you to pop them big titties out and get on your knees. I got something for you right here."

Frank dropped his jeans and freed his already-hard cock from its denim prison. Stacey sighed as she stared at his massive, familiar manhood. Surely, she could not have expected to get through this story without sooner or later showcasing her expert, well-honed oral skills, skills she must have perfected on countless men through—

"'Countless?'" she challenged, incredulous. "I will have you know, I've banged six men in my whole life, including this sleazeball here. That's hardly 'countless.'"

"Hey, who're you calling sleazeball?" said Frank angrily as he pulled his shirt off.

"Sorry," she replied hurriedly, before turning back to the narrator. "I'm just tired of this porn-flick checklist we seem to be going through: she blows him, he bangs her one way, then another way—oh what's this? Another guy? Okay, now she's gotta blow both of them, they fuck her at the same time, and then everybody cums all over her face. That sound about right?"

It did. Stacey pouted for a second, but then smiled, pulling the straps of her fuchsia leotard off her shoulders.

"Tell you what: you do me right, and I'll do you right," she proposed, allowing her "big titties," adorned with perfect little pink nipples, to slip out of her leotard as demanded by the manager. "How does that sound?"

Frank grinned stupidly at the sight of Stacey's bare breasts before he realized what she was saying. "Ugh, fuck that. I ain't no rug-muncher!"

Stacey ignored him, looking hopefully at the narrator instead. It seemed a fair enough request: she would certainly not be excused from her mandatory blowjob duties, and a little pleasure of her own might lead to a more, shall we say, inspired sexual performance? If only she could remember what her correct apartment number was... She stared confused for a moment before a knowing smirk crept across her face.

"It's sixty-nine," she replied with a roll of the eyes. "I'm in apartment sixty-nine."

* * *

Stacey moaned and bit her lip as she savored the flits of Frank's tongue over her throbbing clit. He caressed and circled the nub with skillful precision, each lick sending little jolts of pleasure through her body. They were on her coffee table: he on his back across the length of it; she prone atop him (red-stamped check still stuck to her ass), inverted so that her generous, round breasts were mashed against his bare stomach. He was surprisingly good at this, although whether that was always true or a simply gift from the narrator remained unclear to her. She did not care. She wriggled her pussy in his face, a look of sexual bliss on her flushed face.

"Ugh, I hate eating pussy!" groaned Frank as he tugged the crotch of Stacey's fuchsia leotard to one side, allowing him to lap at the womanly nectar within. "It's so wet up in here!"

"Shut up!" she snapped back at him. "I thought that's how you like my pussy! Hey, can you have him not talk? Like, at all? I don't need the sports commentary—I just need him to lick my pussy... Ohhh yeah... mmm, oh yeah, just like that... oh fuuuck..."

Stacey was talking quite a bit herself for someone who had promised to give as well as she got. She smirked again, as if just now remembering the massive, upright cock literally under her nose. Pulling off her headband and letting her lustrous hair fall free, she gingerly slipped her lips over Frank's manhood, wrapping the whole thing in her warm, wet mouth. She bobbed up and down the whole length of it, sloppily coating it in her saliva. Occasionally, she would pause at the top, lightly circling the glistening head of his penis with her tongue, sampling the salty male fluid oozing out.

Now both parties were enjoying themselves. Each moaned in approval of the other's oral skills, which in turn added a pleasing vibration to their own performances. Stacey had started the race early, however, and now she neared the finish line as Frank's tongue threatened to send her over the edge. She gasped for air as she pulled her mouth from his dick, arching up onto her hands and thrusting her hindquarters down in anticipation of climax.

"Oh my God, I'm gonna cum. Faster. Faster! Get that fucking mustache in there!" she shouted, bursting into laughter. "Yes, yes, yes..."

Her buttocks visibly quaked as she came, her senses overwhelmed with pleasure. She practically screamed proof of an orgasm, nearly smothering Frank with her dripping pussy. Her cries reverberated through the whole building for all to hear. Her head dropped back down to his groin, her silky hair grazing against his privates. As she slowly regained her wits, she found Frank still lapping mindlessly at her tender clit. She reflexively hopped up on her knees to escape the sensory assault, driving her ass tantalizingly into the air (and finally flinging away the rent check). Glistening strands of her excitement stretched from her trembling pussy down to Frank's face.

"Well, I guess it's your turn now," said Stacey as she finally lifted her head, still panting.

Grasping his rock-solid manhood, she opened her mouth, preparing to, ahem, cum-plete her exquisite blowjob, when the doorbell rang. Both heads turned to the door. Who might it be?

"Obviously, that's Carl," announced Stacey. "You know, the plumber you already 'introduced' me to in the beginning, er, middle? I fucking hate time-skipping."

"Oh yeah, I called him to um, hehe, snake your pipes like you've been asking," remembered Frank, snickering. "How'd you know his name? Anyway, he's gonna want some of this. Come on in, man!"

"Seriously?" groaned Stacey. "We're on top of the coffee table doing a sixty-nine, I'm wearing a 'fuchsia' leotard that covers literally not one private part on my body, you have a raging hard-on right in front of my face, and you want to invite a stranger in? I should just glue your mouth shut. And again, I don't need my 'pipes' snaked!"

The visitor entered. It was indeed Carl, with whom Stacey would soon become quite familiar. He was a younger man, a bit closer to Stacey's age, dark, handsome and muscular like Frank, but without any hair, even on his head. He was dressed in a light blue jumpsuit. He was a little more to our heroine's liking, although her exasperated look did not show it.

"Oh shit!" he exclaimed, dropping his toolbox. "Um, what's going on, man?"

He certainly had not expected to see his friend beneath a naked blonde. He clumsily shut the door behind him like he had just done something bad. He walked over to the coffee table to get a better look at Stacey. He stared at her upturned buttocks, nodding approvingly at her exposed Brazilian wax. (Yes, neatly trimmed, not clean shaven.) He had a silly grin on his face. Evidently, she was quite to his liking as well. Mesmerized, he ran his hand over her firm, smooth ass.