cross-posted from: https://lemmynsfw.com/post/18582622

The knock on the door came unexpectedly, jarring me from my thoughts. I glanced at the clock; it was later than I had realized. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across our small living room. My husband, Mark, was still out at work, and I was alone, trying to figure out how we were going to make ends meet this month. The rent was overdue, and I knew what that knock meant.

I took a deep breath and smoothed down my blouse before opening the door. There he stood, Mr. Thompson, our landlord. He was a tall man, always impeccably dressed, with a stern expression that rarely softened. But tonight, there was something different in his eyes, something unreadable.

“Good evening, Mrs. Johnson,” he greeted me, his voice smooth as silk. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, no, not at all,” I replied nervously, stepping aside to let him in. “Please, come in.”

He entered, his presence filling the small space of our apartment. I closed the door behind him and turned to face him, folding my hands in front of me. “I suppose you’re here about the rent?”

He nodded, his gaze never leaving mine. “Yes, unfortunately, I am. You see, I have expenses too, and I need to ensure that my properties are maintained properly.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling a pang of guilt. “We’re doing our best, Mr. Thompson. Mark has been working overtime, but it just hasn’t been enough.”

He stepped closer, and for a moment, I felt a shiver run down my spine. There was an intensity in his eyes that made me uneasy. “I know times are tough for you, Mrs. Johnson. And I want to help.”

“Help?” I echoed, confused.

“Yes,” he said, his voice lowering. “There are ways we can make this situation work for both of us.”

I hesitated, unsure of where this conversation was headed. “What do you mean?”

He moved even closer, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. “Let’s make a deal, Mrs. Johnson. Say yes, and we can forget about the rent for a while. It will be our little secret.”

My heart pounded in my chest as his words sank in. “A deal? What kind of deal?”

His hand reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You know exactly what kind of deal, don’t you?”

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. This wasn’t what I had expected. But then again, nothing ever went according to plan these days. I thought of Mark, struggling to make ends meet, and the mounting pressure of our financial woes. Could I really do this? Could I say yes to Mr. Thompson?

Before I could fully process my thoughts, his lips were on mine, soft yet demanding. I gasped, my body reacting instinctively as his tongue slipped into my mouth. His hands moved to my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space between us. The kiss deepened, and I found myself responding, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“Say yes, Mrs. Johnson,” he whispered against my lips, his breath hot and urgent. “Say yes, and all of this can go away.”

I pulled back slightly, looking up at him. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions, but beneath it all, there was a certain clarity. I needed this. We needed this. With a shaky breath, I nodded. “Yes.”

His smile widened, and he kissed me again, more fiercely this time. His hands roamed my body, exploring every curve, every inch of skin. I arched into him, my own desires beginning to take over.

“Take off your blouse,” he commanded, his voice low and husky.

I obeyed without thinking, unbuttoning my blouse and letting it fall to the floor. My bra was next, and soon I stood before him in nothing but my skirt and panties. He admired me, his gaze hungry and appreciative.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, reaching out to cup my breasts.

I bit my lip, feeling a rush of excitement mixed with trepidation. “Is this really what you want?”

He leaned in, nipping at my earlobe. “This is exactly what I want.”

And with that, he lifted me, carrying me effortlessly to the bedroom. My legs wrapped around his waist as he laid me down on the bed, his mouth trailing kisses down my neck.

I could feel the weight of Mr. Thompson’s body pressing down on me, his breath hot against my skin as he moved inside me with a rhythm that was both demanding and strangely comforting. The sound of our bodies moving together filled the room, each thrust punctuated by a soft moan that escaped my lips involuntarily. The bed creaked under our combined weight, the old wooden frame protesting our frantic movements.

“Sarah,” Mr. Thompson whispered, his voice low and strained, “you feel so good.”

I closed my eyes, losing myself in the sensation of his hard length filling me, pushing me to the edge of something I couldn’t quite name. My hands were tangled in the sheets, knuckles white from gripping them so tightly. The scent of sweat and arousal hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint smell of cedar from the old furniture in the room.

Outside, I could hear the distant sound of a car engine fading away, but it wasn’t until the front door clicked shut that I realized Mark had returned home. My heart skipped a beat, my body tensing for just a moment before Mr. Thompson’s hand came up to cup my face, forcing me to look at him.

“Keep going,” he said, his voice firm, his eyes dark with desire. “Don’t stop.”

I bit my lip, trying to ignore the guilt that flared up in my chest. But there was something about the way Mr. Thompson looked at me, the way he held my gaze as he thrust into me, that made it impossible to resist. His confidence, his command—it was intoxicating. I found myself moving with him, matching his pace, letting the pleasure wash over me until I was breathing hard, my body arching up to meet his.

The sound of footsteps echoed faintly through the house, growing louder as Mark approached the bedroom. My breath caught in my throat, a mix of fear and anticipation flooding my senses. I wanted to stop, to pull away, but Mr. Thompson’s grip on me was unyielding. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear as he quickened his pace.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper. “He won’t know.”

The door creaked open, and I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that somehow Mr. Thompson was right. The footsteps paused just inside the doorway, and for a moment, everything seemed frozen in time. Then, slowly, the footsteps retreated, and the door clicked shut once more.

Relief washed over me, and I let out a shaky breath, but Mr. Thompson didn’t stop. If anything, he only moved faster, harder, driving into me with a renewed urgency that left no room for thought, only sensation. My nails dug into his back, scratching at his skin as I clung to him, lost in the moment.

“Come for me, Sarah,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “Let go.”

And I did, spiraling over the edge as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over me, my body trembling uncontrollably. Mr. Thompson followed me soon after, his release sending a shudder through his entire frame. For a moment, we lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, our breaths coming in ragged gasps.

But then, without warning, the front door slammed open again, and this time there was no mistaking the sound of Mark’s angry strides as he stormed toward the bedroom. The sudden noise jolted me out of my daze, and I struggled to push Mr. Thompson off me, panic setting in.

“What the hell is going on here?” Mark’s voice was a harsh whisper, dripping with betrayal and hurt.

Mr. Thompson didn’t answer, didn’t even seem fazed. Instead, he rolled off me, slowly pulling himself to his feet with an ease that infuriated me. He adjusted his clothing with calm precision, his eyes never leaving Mark’s.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mark demanded, his fists clenched at his sides.

Mr. Thompson smirked, a cold, calculated expression that made my blood run cold. “Taking what’s owed to me,” he replied, his voice smooth and unapologetic.

Mark took a step forward, his anger palpable, but Mr. Thompson held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “You’d be wise not to make this worse than it already is,” he warned, his tone leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, Mark hesitated, his eyes flickering between Mr. Thompson and me, searching for some kind of explanation. But I couldn’t offer one, not with the way my heart was pounding in my chest, the guilt and shame clawing at my insides.

“Get out,” Mark finally spat, his voice breaking. “Both of you.”

Mr. Thompson nodded, seemingly unfazed by the venom in Mark’s words. He reached down to help me off the bed, his hand lingering on my arm just a moment too long before he turned and walked out of the room without another word.

I stayed where I was, too numb to move, too ashamed to look Mark in the eye. The weight of his disappointment bore down on me, crushing any hope I had of making things right. I knew I should say something, apologize, explain—but my mouth felt dry, my tongue thick in my mouth.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mark spoke again, his voice hollow. “Why?”