Just One Hour a Wee

My estate agent winks at me as he says, 'this one's a little cheaper,' and doesn't reply when I ask him for a figure. Unlike the other places we've been he doesn't immediately start the sell, though he really doesn't need it: it's the best I've seen all week. The landlord is there, which is unusual, though he tells me he lives upstairs, which sort of explains it.

'So here's the thing, Grace, I don't need any money for this place, or really want any ...' He's very attractive: early thirties, with a bit of bristle, quite short technically but with a strange dominance in the room.

'Ok? ... You surely aren't just giving it away rent free?'

'Not quite. My proposition is that in exchange for the apartment, all bills included and with a weekly cleaner, you'll do something for me once a week?'

'Do something? ... '

'Yes. Well - specially, you'll do anything for me, for an hour a week?'

'Anything?'

'Yes. Obviously within health & safety, privacy, practicality, etc. '

'You want a ... slave, for an hour a week, in exchange for this place?'

He nods.

I'm looking at him, and I realise slowly that this isn't about chores, or bookkeeping, or whatever else a man could possibly need: this is sexual, purely sexual.

Do I want to whore myself out to this man for an hour a week in exchange for this place?

The idea seems completely wrong, and yet, I was already attracted to him before he made the offer, and just imagine having your entire salary as disposable income: the things I could buy, going out for dinner every night, the holidays (although I'd have to be back once a week ... maybe we can arrange something for that, anyway -)

'What day?'

And I sort of think, why the fuck did I ask that, it seemed so specific, and so irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. It must make me look like such a slag, unphased by the notion of it and already down to details.

'Wednesday evening. Nine pm.'

'Why so specific?'

He doesn't answer, at all: he had heard the question, and with his immovable silence tells me that it's none of my business.

Today is Monday: if I say yes then I've got 60 hours before he'll first ... 'use' me.

I make sure to take a few seconds to think on it, to know I'm making the right decision. Then, suddenly, he walks off, shouting 'tell Mr Jones by the end of the day.'

Mr Jones, my estate agent, walks me out. He tells me that he thinks I'll say yes, because so far nobody has gotten this far, everyone says no immediately, but the vibe of the room seemed different.

I move my stuff in the following day, and on Wednesday evening at 8:55pm I'm deciding what to wear and preparing to wander upstairs when there's a knock on the door.

'One second!' I shout, knowing who it is, and doing a final brush of the hair.

'I hadn't forgotten, errmm ... I don't even know your name, sorry. I was about to come up.'

'No. Down here. And you can call me sir.'

'Sir! Really?! It's not nine yet, surely you've got a real name?'

He does that not-answering thing again, just staring right through me.

'We stay down here!'

'Ok. Can I get you a drink?'

He shakes his head, and walks past me, nosing around with what I've done with his flat. I feel a bit embarrassed by my things, not entirely sure why: I think I'm worried that I seem a bit basic. I've never had the money to buy lots of things, though I suppose that will change soon.

His watch beeps, and he immediately turns to me. I am frozen at the sudden realisation of the time, stunned by the moment as though I hadn't known about it for 2 days now, as though it hadn't been all I could think about since I woke up. Last night, when I was fingering myself, I found myself fantasising about it a little bit, and when I came I whispered to nobody in particular 'anything you want, I'll do anything,' which thoroughly creeped the fuck out of me.

'Take off all of your clothes, now.'

And I do, but I'm being quite slow, because this is all a bit weird still, until he walks over and grabs my arm and says 'look, slut, an hour is an hour, we don't have time to fuck around.'

I apologise and undress quicker. I can feel a little wetness between my legs, caused by a combination of his hard grasp and his authoritative voice.

'Next week you will be naked before we start. It saves time.'

I think about arguing, saying that that would involve doing things before the hour started, but it seemed petty. Part of me already knows that come 10 pm I won't want it to stop.

'This is only the first week. I don't want to rush you into things. Today I'm going to fist you, is that understood?'

I nod. He slaps me in the face.

'Tell me you understand.'

'Yes, sir. I understand, sir.'

This is coming quite naturally to me, which I am shocked by.

'We will also do begging. On your knees, now beg me to slap you.'

I sink immediately to my knees, and look up at his cruel face.

'Please, sir, please slap me in the face. I want to feel your hand hard across my face. I want to feel the pain of it, sir, please, I beg you.'

I am quite good at this. Though I haven't done this sort of thing before, I know a lot from porn.

Eventually, after quite a lot more of this, he slaps me hard across the face, for which I immediately thank him though I am suddenly aware that he didn't ask me to.

He sits down in front of me and pushes apart from legs, placing, for the first time, his hands on my cunt. His hands are coarse, and his touch quite rough. I am embarrassingly wet, and within seconds he already has two fingers inside of me, quite quickly sliding in and out.

'On all floors!'

I rearrange myself, my legs much wider now, and his access to my cunt has increased rapidly. He moves from two to four fingers: he doesn't bother apparently with odd numbers, they waste too much time. I can feel myself stretching far more than I've ever had to before to accommodate these four large fingers. He starts to play with me with his other hands, slapping my arse, pinching my nipples, pulling my hair. The trusts are aggressive, and every time I feel his knuckles getting closer and closer to entering me.

As his whole hand enters me, not yet in a fist shape but with his fingers still pointed, he starts to whisper degrading things in my ear, telling me what a whore I am, and how easy it was for him to get his hand in, and how I don't even know his name, but I call him sir. It's all true stuff and It's real, not part of any situation, but I realise that this is real, I am his slave for an hour a week: it's not roleplay. Because the flat is real, and my paid bills are real.

He flips me over, onto my back, with my knees up and my legs open.

'I bet you're use to this position, hey?'

I tell him that I am, and that I'm a complete fucking slut. He makes a fist with his hand, and starts attempting to force it into my vagina, which currently is not having it. His method however is merely to keep going, spitting occasionally onto his fist, and hurting me above the waist with his free hand. I feel ashamed at having not taking his fist in: though we have barely started the hour it feels like he has been trying for hours, and I am thankful for the slaps and pinches that hurt me, hoping desperately that they console him a little to make up for the complete abject failure of my stupid cunt.

And then suddenly it just slips in, his whole fist, in one. He holds it there. Looking down at me with pride at his achievement, and then takes the whole thing out and walks off to wash his hand. My cunt is aching so much at this point, and I am desperate to cum. I know that just the smallest stimulation of my clit and I would, but I also know that that is most likely now under his control.

'Ok. Great! We still have 35 minutes left. Back on all fours.'

I turn around, a little bit confused, until I feel his thumb, wettened by spit, push against my anus ...