You’ve been a bad girl. I told you not to fuck with it. I told you to leave it alone. And I come home and it’s a jagged mess on the floor, and you’re looking for a dustbin.
You’re dressed to go out with your school friends. White blouse, nice skirt, hair pulled back. Such an innocent face. You were hoping to get away before I got back. Too bad for you.
“Come here.”
“It was an accident!” Your soft Japanese accent is a reminder that you’re far from home. You get to stay here because I think you’re pretty, and we both know that there’s a kind of rent coming due, eventually. Looking over your body, I decide it’s now.
You hesitate.
“Here!”
You’re trembling. I’m older than you by at least fifteen years. You’re small and trim and pretty, with a firm little rounded ass, barely B-cup tits and long legs, for your 5’2″ height.
You think I don’t know about your fascination with older men. And American cock.
“What did I tell you?”
“To leave it alone,” you whisper. You can see how my eyes are moving over you. You lick your lips, nervously, as you walk towards me. I’m 6′ 4″ and looking up at me makes you feel tiny.
When I remove my belt, your eyes go wide.
I sit down and nod to you. “Lie across my lap.”
“This… no. Not legal… wrong…”
My hand tangles in your invitingly shiny hair, and pulls. You’re across my lap, ass up, shaking now. “Please no! Don’t! I’ll be good! ”
Yes you will, I think, as my hand brushes back the skirt and reveals black thong panties. Maybe you weren’t going out with your girlfriends at all. Just the sight of your ass has me hard, and I know you can feel it against your belly, low.
My hand traces the bared skin… lightly, slowly. You whimper, repeating “I’ll be good,” but the voice is softer, more little-girlish, this time. I slide fingernails along the curves, and then suddenly deliver a hard smack.
You cry out something in Japanese. That earns you another smack. “You have no right,” you whisper in a shaken voice, and that amuses me. I lift the belt, fold it double, and bring it down sharply. Three times. You’re panting now. Maybe you think it’s just fear and shock.
I go back to tracing the pretty curves, seeing pink stain the skin. My hand drifts, moving between your thighs. You’re suddenly silent… and the panties feel damp.
Another sharp smack. The moan you give this time is sensual, and you choke it off quickly. Two more slaps, and then I haul the thong down to your knees. “This is wrong,” you whisper, but your voice is so unsteady it’s hard to understand you. My fingers curl under you, find your clit, begin to rub.
It takes time, but suddenly I feel your belly begin to tighten. My fingers leave your clit, and spear into your pussy. Shuddering, you squeeze down. I rock my fingers against the tension, then yank them out and slap again. You cry out, and now you’re rocking your belly against the hardness of my cock. Maybe it’s unconscious, maybe not. Deep down you need to appease the angry male. And there’s only one way to do that.
I alternate between rough fingering, and slapping. I no longer need to hold you down, and my other hand slides over your torso, eventually sliding under you and finding those tight little titties. Your nipples are immediately hard, and yanking on them through the blouse makes you moan in a way you can’t choke off. Large, firm nipples on a small breast has always worked for me. Yours are obviously sensitive.
Maybe you really need the free rent. Maybe those times I caught you staring at the front of my jeans explain it all. Maybe you’re just a slut with an innocent face. But your hands are stroking my calves, and every slap causes a sexy little-girl breathy gasp that’s got me rock hard. I slide you to the floor, suddenly, to your knees, facing me. I unbutton the blouse, making you watch my hands as I do. I like the way your eyes are unsteady. I use the opened blouse and suddenly ruined bra to bind your arms behind you, then stand up and rip my zipper down. I take it out and slap your face with it.
Instantly you’re sucking. Badly. Don’t women suck cock in Japan? After a minute of your fumbling, I tip you over and impatiently push you to the floor. Panties at your knees, arms tangled behind your back, you won’t be scrambling off anywhere. Your eyes are huge now.
“Offer yourself, or I’ll make it hurt,” I growl. You raise your hips and try to make your face expressionless. You manage it fairly well; maybe there is something to the Japanese stereotype after all. Unless that’s Chinese. I don’t know and don’t care.
Your thong gets pulled down to your ankles, and I kneel in, between your legs. Grabbing you by the hips, I pull you to me, my cock at your slit. You weigh almost nothing. Your legs tense, on either side of me. Your eyes close.
There’s a game I like to play with small girls like you. I have you by the hips, and I rock you against my cock. It’s only in a half an inch. First I’m going to make you want it, against your will.
The big lump of hard meat at your slit bumps, over and over. It stretches your little opening. Your clit is out, and the movement of the head of my cock, under it, makes you shudder. Now I’m in an inch. You say something soft and frantic in Japanese. I give you another inch, and then pull out and start over.
Your eyes snap open. You just lost the fight against wanting it. Now you’re fighting not to let me know you want it. I slide a hand over, grab your clit firmly, and shake it. Your eyes unfocus, and I rock into you, deeper now. You lick your lips… your legs start to wrap around me. That’s a good girl.
I lean over you and fuck you. Your helplessness and trapped arms and little round mouth and breathy moans… your pretty little face and hard nipples… the tight waist, the helpless rocking of your hips… the lost, little-girl eyes. I pound you, and your moans turn frantic. Fuck yes. Bagged you, got you, took you down, and you love it.
I come on you. Not in you – you have to earn that. Then I pick you up like the little doll you are, and work your clit between my fingers as I force you to kiss me. You fight that, but that just makes it fun. The cum sliding down your skin… the way your dark hair flashes as you shudder… I bite down on your lower lip and that’s what finishes you. You come, suddenly and deeply. You shudder helplessly in my lap, and I bite and lick your ears, lips and neck. I make you come a second time, and as you do, I whisper in your ear “I think you broke it on purpose.”
You blush, deep red, even as the orgasm peaks. I smile, cruelly. “Go finish sweeping, and then shower. You sleep in my bed from now on.”
When your orgasm subsides, you become expressionless, and nod yes, eyes down.
+++
I’m in the backyard, dragging some iron rod over to the tractor. The Combine’s frame cracked and some of the supports snapped off, and they don’t make these old Roto-Thresh models anymore. Luckily they didn’t screw around in those days, and the thing was built like a tank. A few hours on it, and it’ll be back to work.
There’s different ways to do this, but for repairing cast iron I like acetylene-oxy and silver solder. It’s not fussy and the join will last forever. For the supports it’s going to be a little more work — heat the iron rod to red but not bright red, pound it out with a hammer to shape it, and let it cool slowly. Then braze it over the old support. For good measure I’m going to wrap some rod around the rotor drive, because if that thing ever cracks it could do some real damage. I like working iron; it’s fire and a hammer and some sweat and you get something that works. I have no love for working aluminum — I get that it’s cheap and rigid, but you need a fucking science lab to do repairs, with special flux and special gasses, and you can’t tell just by looking at it when it’s ready to be worked. One minute it’s the usual dull grey and two seconds later it’s melting and sagging to the floor. I like the older ways better; iron’s more honest.
I get into it, heating the rod and hammering it around a form. The September sun shines down. It’s a clear and hot day, but my charcoal fire, torch and the iron are hotter.
I know you’re watching me.
You’ve slept in my bed the last week. I’ve fucked you a few times. Last night I didn’t and I think that worried you more than the fuckings did. You’ve got it in your head that as long as you’re good in bed, we’re going to get along fine. It’s a good thought and I’m letting you keep it.
The iron takes the necessary shape, slowly and surely. It’s not necessary to be rough with iron — you heat and beat it, and it bends. It’s the heat that does the work; the hammer just provides direction. I like the sound of iron being pounded, and the occasional sparks. I can hear the echo of my strikes off the barn, and a fainter one from the cliffs a couple miles west. BANG-Bang…. bang.
BANG-Bang…. bang.
BANG-Bang…. bang. Squeak.
“If you’re going to stand and watch, come out and help.” I don’t need to shout it; you’re not far away.
You hesitate for a long time, but then make your way from the barn. You’re in tight purple jeans and a clean white tee shirt; how you kept clean in that barn is a mystery. If it’s not rust flaking off the pipe I store in the rafters, it’s pigeon shit, or something Willis managed to fling out of his pen. Where a pig learned he can throw something by biting it and tossing his head I don’t know, but the fucker’s aim is improving.
I’m struck, again, by your size as you walk over. You’re little. Five-two, in bare feet. I’ve seen you trying to look taller, in four inch heels, walking around the house — with the rough oak flooring, complete with knotholes, that’s not something I’d care to try, but it does make your ass look good — but it’s your tiny size that appeals to me. The iron bars I dragged over here for the repair weighs more than you do. My cock is as big around as your wrist. In a part of the country where women tend to run big and tall, you’re exotic. You’re just as fascinated by my six-four, broad and muscled frame. I suppose there’s not a lot of that happening where you come from.
“Hold the rod steady, here.”
“Burns,” you say, staring at the rod.
“Iron doesn’t work that way. The heat doesn’t travel much, it stays where you put it. Grip it firmly or it might whip around and sting your hands.”
You speak English fluently; I’ve heard you with your friends or on a cell phone. But with me you stick to short sentences and an expressionless face.
You grip the rod tentatively, find out I’m right, and then hold on hard. I get back to hammering.
After a bit I decide to take the shirt off. This is a dumb-ass move when you’re hammering hot iron, but there’s not a breath of wind today and the sweat is cascading down my face and back. I leave the jeans on, and the cut up leather chaps, because there are places I don’t want hot iron visiting no matter how warm I get.
After fifteen minutes I kill the torch and lay the hammer aside, and look at you.
Apparently watching a man work does things to you. I can see it in your eyes – even though you keep them cast down whenever I look at you — the fascination, the beginnings of arousal. The arousal amuses me. You don’t actually like me. The sexual attraction you feel is something you’d turn off… if you could.
“Never seen someone work iron?”
“No. I know a silversmith who does jewelry. It is very different.”
I know you’re from Japan, but you don’t look exactly like my stereotypical image of a Japanese girl to me. Maybe there’s some Russian in you. Or maybe my stereotype is crap; there aren’t many Asian girls around here. For someone without big boobs you’re pretty hot, with that sexy mouth and a great ass.
Every time I’ve fucked you, you’ve come. I’d have thought you were faking it, but you lapse into Japanese as you come and I don’t think you’d do that if you were performing. I got curious enough to look up some of the words — that was a pain in the ass, because I had no idea how to type in those sounds. The few I was able to translate… amused me.
“Why were you watching me.”
You look down and don’t answer.
I place my hand on your hip, and stroke up along your side, slowly. Your gaze stays down. You don’t move.
When people had asked around for a place to stay for a student who had money troubles, I’d said yes, sight unseen, on the condition that she’d do some housework and help around the farm as needed. You’d shown up on my doorstep, and you’d been very, very nervous… but there was something underneath. Hot little slut, I’d thought, without even knowing why. You’ll be earning your keep, soon enough.
You’re studying in this country, at a university an hour away. It took money to go there, and money to come to this country at all. Money troubles? You? Doesn’t seem likely. Did you just figure Americans are so generous we give pretty girls a roof and bed for nothing? Or is your financial situation that fucked up? Or is there something more going on? I don’t ask; it doesn’t matter that much to me. The way you reacted to your first spanking told me everything I wanted to know about our living arrangement.
I let my fingers trace the side of your breast. You continue to hold very still. I let my fingers press into the soft, slight firmness. Your nipple is already beginning to harden.
“I know why you were watching.”
“I was just curious.”
I brush my fingertips over your nipple. You swallow.
I smile, sarcastically. “You can’t get enough, can you.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Don’t do this. Someone could come and see.”
My other hand moves along your other side, settles against your other breast. My thumbs work both nipples, through the tee shirt. I don’t rush. You’re not going anywhere. I watch the flickers of anger and shame on your face.
“No one is stopping by. And this is your little turn-on. Having to. Being made to.”
You swallow again. “No. I don’t want this. But I know you’ll hurt me if I don’t let you touch me.”
“Yes I will. Oh… I’m curious. What does Ma-dashio ke-zis-ke-dut mean?”
You blush, bright red. “You pronounce it so badly I do not recognize any of the words.”
“Repeat it back to me.”
Your nipples are rigid now, under my thumbs. Even the thought of saying it hits you hard. Interesting, but somehow I’m not surprised.
“No.”
I rub, more firmly. “Repeat it back to me.”
“No,” you whisper.
“You’ve said it in bed enough times this week. Did you think I wouldn’t look it up?”
You don’t answer. I reach down and lift the tee shirt, slowly. You start to shiver. The bra clasps in front, and I open it.
“You are cruel,” you say, suddenly. “You know I can’t afford to go anywhere else.”
Now my thumbs are moving over your bared, hard nipples. You’re still looking down but that just gives you a view of the growing tightness in my jeans.
I pinch both nipples, slowly. Your gaze becomes unsteady, and there’s a soft whimper. “You are cruel,” you repeat.
“That’s why you like it.”
We both know it’s true. You can pretend otherwise if you like. Ma-dashio ke-zis-ke-dut means hurt me. Maybe I’m not supposed to know that. I twist your nipples, back and forth.
“No. It’s not true. Don’t d-do this!”
I pull on your nipples, suddenly; it forces you to step closer. I don’t have to baby you; you’re not made of glass. Maybe that’s the mistake boys your age are making — seeing the little slim body and then treating you gently, deferring to you, white knighting you until you want to scream. Fuck that shit. You have a woman’s body and I know what a woman’s body likes.
One hand goes into your hair, and I force your face against my chest.
“Lick my sweat.”
You close your eyes tight and bite your lip. Maybe the Asian stereotype about cleanliness has basis in reality. You always look like a polished perfect doll, after all. So maybe this revolts you. I grip harder, making sure the roots of your hair ache, and rub your face over my chest. Gasping, your tongue comes out, and you lick, shuddering.
“Pretty little tongue. Lick. Taste.”
You’re panting now. I slide my hand down your back and force your torso against mine, liking the feel of your hard nipples against my chest, and liking getting you slippery with my sweat.
You push away, frantically. I let you take a step back, but with my hand still in your hair. Then I reach down and claw your jeans open.
“Ever been fucked outside?”
That triggers something in you and you start to struggle in earnest. I just laugh. Your rendition of struggle in earnest isn’t very effective. Or believable. There’s a hammer two feet away from us if you really want to make an issue of this. Instead you’re slapping me with open hands. As you flail, I rip the zipper down, and jerk the tight jeans lower and lower by rough and skin-burning, painful inches. Once they are down to mid-thigh, I reach for the panties and tear them off you. You whimper.
I drop the ruined panties at my feet. “That stings, doesn’t it. And that’s why you’re wet.”
“No! Don’t do this! In bed only at night! I didn’t agree to anything else!”
I drop down on one knee, taking you with me, putting you over my thigh. My hand comes down on your pretty and sensitive ass. A quick application of Farmer Dan’s Instant Cure-All for Over-Talkative Women is in order here. You sob, and I whack your inviting ass again.
“Say it. That phrase in Japanese. Say it.”
“Please! Don’t! Stop this!”
Slap. “Say it. Don’t say anything else.”
“No- no-”
“Have it your way.”
I grab the panties off the ground, wad them up and force them into your mouth. Then I get back to your ass-slapping. You’re squealing. To my amusement, I hear Willis squeal in reply from the barn.
A pause, and I rub my calloused finger along your slit. The smell of hot girl mingles with the smell of hot iron and sweaty leather. You stop squealing, abruptly. So does Willis; it makes me wonder if you’ve been making friends with my Christmas dinner.
My finger plunges in. You’re very much like iron — apply the heat and then it’s just a matter of shaping you. My finger works inside you, firm strokes, over and over. Then I whip my finger out, rub it under your nose so you can smell what a willing, eager girl you’re becoming, and give you another slap. Your hands are clinging to my leg. I slide my finger in, again and again, and curl it hard.
“It’s a matter of time,” I tell you. “You’ll come and then you’ll be fucked. We both know what you like. You’re turned on being forced, made to. Big hard American cock and big hard American hands abusing your pretty little body, and you can’t help yourself. Molested, violated, tormented. You know all those words, don’t you.”
I slap your ass again. You’re rubbing yourself against my leg now, squirming helplessly. I reach under and grab your bare breast, and my fingernail begins to sink slowly into your nipple as I fingerfuck you. You start choking on your panties.
“I’ll take them out if you say it. Nod yes.”
You shake your head no. Brave of you, with your ass already pink-
Slap! Slap! Slap, slap slap slap SLAP SLAP-
You nod yes. I pull the panties out. You gasp, half sobbing.
“Say it!”
“Ma-dasheo k-ke-zis-ke-d-dot” you whisper.
I roll you off my knee and on to the ground, on your back. I straddle your hips, and slap your breast.
“A! Ah! Ah no please no!”
Again, and again, my other hand settling over your throat. You can say no all you want, but you’re turned on out of your mind. “Lick your lips if you want cock!”
“Please — bed — not here! Ah!”
“Think you’re too good for some honest farm dirt? Be glad I didn’t go to you in the barn.”
I slap your breast again. You howl… and stare into my face, shaking. The anger is gone. You lick your pretty lips, defeated.
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.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/ewtr5a/rent_comes_due_long