It was never an uncommon sight: my lodger had an interesting career with an array of sinful jobs and a half-naked woman in my kitchen was a common occurrence.
I couldn't have picked a better lodger for my small two-bedroom city flat. Ellie was a very good payer: her rent was always paid on or before it was due, and I certainly cared not for how she raised the cash. Who am I to judge? She kept her bedroom tidy, and cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom after she used them. I could have no complaints.
And as a red-blooded man I could have no complaints about the perks of her chosen vocation either; if she wasn't wandering around the house naked, it was in revealing underwear as she got ready: art school student, webcam model, prostitute and escort. She was always in demand. And when she wasn't going out, the exhibitionist was walking around my flat undressed and if she was working then she'd often not need many clothes either!
A half-naked woman in my kitchen was, as I said, a common sight. Ellie enjoyed exhibiting herself; I enjoyed the show. But it never went any further: "I don't fuck my landlord," she'd tease as we'd flirt; her hands on my waist as we negotiated past each other in the small kitchen. Or watch a film together, curled up in our open dressing gowns, nicking popcorn from each other's bowl. She was playful and fun. I loved her company, but could never have her.
But the half-naked woman in my kitchen that evening wasn't Ellie. It looked a lot like her: dark hair, bare feet and underwear, but she had different tattoos and was slightly taller. "Hi," I muttered from the doorway, ogling the svelte beauty making herself a drink.
She flicked her head over her shoulder to see me. "Oh hi," she called. "You want something too!"
