City Rent Ch 03

Warning: This is a very dark story containing many disturbing themes such as noncon, humiliation, degradation, corruption, sexual slavery, misogyny, sadomasochism and more. Do not read this story unless you are okay with extreme content relating to the listed themes.

I do not condone or endorse any of the activities described in this story. Sexual fantasies can be a fun and safe way to explore fetishes but always treat real people with respect. Fantasize responsibly.

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Scene 1: The Craving

The sheets were twisted around my legs like they were trying to hold me down. Sweat slicked the back of my neck. My mouth was dry, tongue thick, throat like sandpaper. My skin felt wrong--itchy, electric. Too tight in some places, too loose in others.

I sat up too fast. The room tilted sideways.

My hands shook.

Not nervous-shake. Not cold-shake. Something deeper. Something bone-deep and hungry.

The kind of shake that came from something missing.

I staggered to the kitchen. No lights on. No note. Rick was gone.

The black case wasn't on the table.

I opened the fridge--empty, except for ketchup and a bottle of water with no cap. I drank it anyway, gagged halfway through, then leaned on the counter while my stomach rolled.

Every inch of me buzzed. My heart thudded in my ears like it was looking for a fight. My thoughts spun too fast to hold onto--images, sounds, pieces of nothing.

I tore through the drawers. Checked the bathroom. Lifted couch cushions like a junkie in a crime show. I was.

My hands hit the floor next to the couch and just... stayed there.

He took it with him.

He knew.

He knew what was coming.

He knew what I'd feel when I woke up without it.

And he wanted me to feel it.

Not because he hated me.

But because he wanted me to need him more than I feared him.

And it was working.

I curled up on the cold tile, cheek pressed to the linoleum, breath coming in shallow gasps.

This wasn't withdrawal.

This was ownership.

Scene 2: Rick Returns

The key turned in the lock like it always did--slow, steady, unhurried.

I didn't move.

I was still on the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, arms wrapped around my knees like they might keep me from splintering apart.

The door swung open.

Rick stepped in without looking for me first. He locked the deadbolt, dropped his keys in the bowl by the door, then set two plastic bags on the counter. The smell hit me before I saw what was inside--fried chicken, mashed potatoes, something sweet.

He finally looked down.

Saw me.

Eyes cool. Not surprised.

"You sleep down there now?" he asked.

My throat worked around a reply, but nothing came out. I just blinked at him, dizzy, fingers twitching in my lap like they wanted to reach but didn't know what for.

He knelt beside me, one knee creaking on the tile. "You feelin' it?"

I nodded. Once.

He sighed like a man with a full to-do list and a stubborn engine. "Told you it hits hard if you don't pace yourself."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab him by the collar and make him fix it.

Instead, I whispered, "Please."

He tilted his head, watching me.

"Please what?"

My chest heaved. "Please, Rick. I just--I need it."

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Closer to satisfaction.

"You hungry?"

I shook my head.

"Thirsty?"

"No."

He stood slowly, walked to the kitchen table, and pulled out the black case. Same one as before. He opened it like it was nothing--just another errand. The metal glinted in the low light.

I crawled toward it before I realized I was moving.

He didn't look at me as he prepped the syringe. Just said, "Say it."

My voice cracked. "I need it."

He filled the vial. Flicked the air bubble out. Calm as Sunday morning.

"Say it again."

"I need it." Louder this time. Harsher.

He crouched in front of me, reached for my arm, fingers brushing over the track he'd used before. My skin was slick, feverish.

"You gonna keep needin' it, Nia," he murmured, pressing the needle against my vein. "That's the price of peace."

I didn't answer.

He pushed the plunger down.

Warmth bloomed in my veins, slow and golden, like honey melting across glass. My limbs loosened. My spine stopped screaming. My brain went quiet for the first time all day.

I sagged against the cabinet. Barely breathing. Floating.

Rick brushed my hair back from my face. "There she is."

I couldn't move. Didn't want to.

He stood again, unwrapped a box of chicken, set it on the counter like a reward.

"You get through this, you eat."

Then he walked to the couch, sat down, and turned on the TV like it was any other night.

But it wasn't.

Because now I knew what he was waiting for.

And I knew I'd say yes.

Scene 3: The Cost

I was still on the kitchen floor, high enough to stop shaking, low enough to feel the weight of it all pressing into my skin.

Rick didn't rush.

He let the silence settle. Let me marinate in that floaty, helpless state--body limp, mind slow, too comfortable to resist anything.

He turned down the TV. Didn't look at me yet.

"You feel better now?"

I nodded, voice somewhere in my chest. "Yeah."

"That's good," he said, stretching out on the couch. "You were real close to a bad day."

I didn't answer.

He reached for the food, peeled back the box, and ate a piece of chicken like he had all the time in the world. Grease on his fingers, fingers he licked slow. Watching me now.

"You know what that stuff costs?"

I blinked. The high fogged up the math. "No."

He held up three fingers.

"Three bills a vial. That's without the needle. Without the prep. Without me."

That number hit even through the haze. I hadn't seen $300 since I left Crossfield.

He leaned back, tossed the bone in the box.

"I ain't mad about what you used. You needed it. I gave it to you." He paused. "But now we're in a rhythm, baby girl. And that rhythm? It ain't free."

The warm turned to cold somewhere in my gut.

"I can pay," I said too fast. "I'll work more shifts. Halo's been picking up, I'm getting better--"

He cut me off with a look. Calm. Not unkind. But final.

"That club? It's pennies. The tips keep your lipstick fresh. Not your veins full."

I swallowed. My fingers curled on the tile.

He stood. Walked toward me. Crouched again.

"There's better money," he said, voice low, like a secret just for me. "Real money. For girls who look like you. Who move like you. And who got the mouth to say yes when it counts."

I didn't respond.

Not right away.

"Rick..." My voice cracked. "You mean... like--?"

"I mean you make a choice," he said softly. "One night. One client. I pick him. I vet him. I make sure he plays clean and pays right."

He reached out, tucked a curl behind my ear.

"You do that? You don't worry about food. Or rent. Or clothes. I keep the case stocked. I keep you safe. All you gotta do is smile and say thank you."

The words hung between us like smoke.

"I'm not--" I tried.

"Not what?" he asked gently. "Not that kind of girl?"

I looked away.

"You're not that kind of girl," he said again, more to himself than me. "Not yet."

He stood, walked to the counter, pulled a smaller case from his jacket.

Opened it.

Inside: two vials. Three clean syringes. A folded dress in plastic wrap. New. Black. Tight.

"You say no?" he said, voice even. "You go back to sweating and shaking and begging for crumbs."

He paused.

"You say yes?" His eyes softened, dark with certainty. "I make sure you never feel empty again."

I stared at the case.

At the dress.

At the line in the sand.

And then I heard my own voice say:

"Okay."

Scene 4: The Confirmation

The dress was softer than it looked.

Black with a little shimmer in the thread. Thin straps. Low neckline. Tight at the waist, like it wanted to remind you what you were worth. Rick didn't say a word as I held it up to the light, fabric slipping between my fingers like water.

"You got heels?" he asked.

I shook my head.

He walked to the closet near the door--his closet--and came back with a box. Not new, but nice. Leather. Tall enough to make me taller, sharp enough to make me dangerous.

"You wear these," he said, placing them at my feet. "Keep your chin up. Don't bite your lip, it makes you look scared."

I nodded, clutching the dress to my chest like a shield.

"Client's name is Marcus. Clean. Been around. He pays well to be first."

My stomach clenched. "First?"

He looked at me. Quiet. Measured.

"You're new, baby girl. That makes you expensive."

I didn't speak. Just walked to the bathroom with the dress in hand.

The mirror didn't show me Nia from Crossfield.

Not the girl who dreamed of fashion shows or city lights. Not the one who ran away from slow Sundays and nosy neighbors. This girl didn't smile. Didn't tremble. She moved slow, deliberate.

Hair pinned back. Skin glossed. Lips painted full and red like a warning.

When I stepped out, Rick was waiting near the door. Leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

His eyes tracked every inch of me.

He didn't smile. Didn't touch.

Just nodded once. "You'll do."

I reached for the syringe.

His hand stopped mine. "After," he said. "You earn it tonight."

That hit harder than I expected. But I nodded.

He stepped forward, fixed the strap on my shoulder, then looked me in the eye.

"You do what he says. No attitude. No games. And when he's done, you come straight back here."

I nodded again.

Rick leaned down, kissed my cheek. "Don't forget who you belong to."

The car was waiting outside.

Black. Tinted windows. Clean leather seats. The driver didn't speak.

I sat in the back, hands in my lap, heart pounding like it was running out of time. The city blurred through the tinted window like it was trying not to look at me.

I sat in the back of the black sedan, dress smooth against my thighs, heels pressing little bruises into my toes. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I rubbed them against my knees.

Then I reached into my purse.

Tucked into the side, exactly where Rick said it would be, was a tiny plastic pouch--thin, folded foil, sealed tight.

"A little courage," he'd said before the door shut. "Just enough to get you through the door. Don't embarrass me."

I opened the foil.

One line. Off-white. Smooth.

I leaned forward, braced against the leather seat, and did it fast--sharp inhale, sting in the nostril, that second of burning pain--

Then the drop.

Like warm metal behind my eyes. My spine eased. My jaw unlocked. My thoughts stretched out, slower, more golden. My heart still raced, but it felt distant. Like someone else's problem.

Scene 5: The Client

By the time the car rolled to a stop, I was ready.

Or I could fake it better.

The elevator was private.

Twenty-fourth floor.

One hallway. One door. One chance.

I knocked.

The door opened on the third beat.

Marcus.

He looked exactly like Rick described--neat, pressed, and polished. A man who never hurried because the world moved at his pace.

He let the silence hang before saying, "On time. Good."

"I didn't want to keep you waiting," I said, adding a little lift to my voice. Flirty. Sweet. Safe.

He didn't smile. Just stepped back and let me in.

The suite was clean and cold. Chrome accents. A bar stocked to the teeth. A single leather chair positioned near the window, like it was waiting for a show.

I stepped out of my coat and draped it neatly over the nearest armrest. My dress shimmered in the low light--tight, high-slit, backless.

"You look expensive," Marcus said.

I turned toward him, letting him see the full shape of me. "That's the idea."

He tilted his head. "Rick says you're new."

"I learn fast," I replied, stepping toward him. "And I take instruction well."

"Do you?" His eyes didn't waver. "Or do you just say what you think men want to hear?"

I smiled again, soft. A little breathy. "Only when they're paying."

That earned me a faint nod. Maybe approval. Maybe amusement. Hard to read.

"Take off the heels."

I obeyed, one hand on the back of the couch for balance.

"Walk."

"Where?"

"To me."

I walked slowly, deliberately, hips swaying just enough. Every step echoed louder in my mind than in the room. But behind my smile, I was counting minutes. Minutes until I got back. Until Rick handed me that syringe. Until my brain went quiet again.

When I reached Marcus, I stopped.

Knees slightly bent. Posture practiced. Smile still painted on.

He sat in the chair, legs apart, one arm slung across the backrest like he belonged to the world and not the other way around.

"Kneel," he said.

I sank to my knees, the carpet soft against my skin.

"You look like you're pretending," he said. "Like you're acting."

I kept my voice light. "You don't like a little performance?"

"I like honesty. I paid for obedience, not a showgirl."

My stomach flipped, but I didn't show it.

"I'm trying to make you enjoy yourself," I said, eyes on his. "Isn't that part of it?"

He studied me. "You're trying to be liked."

"I thought that was the job."

"No," he said flatly. "Your job is to follow orders. If I wanted flirtation, I'd go to the bar. I didn't pay for charm. I paid for surrender."

The silence wrapped tight around us.

I felt the heat crawl up my neck. My mouth opened--an apology, maybe.

But I stopped myself.

Instead, I leaned forward. Slower this time. Eyes lowered.

Hands moving to his belt.

"You want obedience," I whispered. "I can give you that."

I unbuckled him carefully. Fingers steady now. Not because I wasn't scared.

Because every second I obeyed got me closer to the high waiting at home.

He watched me.

Let me work.

His cock was thick, already hard, heavy in my hand.

I licked my lips. Lowered my mouth. Felt his hand slide into my hair--not yanking, just guiding.

"Don't stop," he said. "Don't gag. Don't talk. Just show me you understand your place."

I opened wider.

And did what I had to do.

His cock filled my mouth fast.

Thick, pulsing, slick against my tongue. I kept my jaw wide, breath slow, lashes low.

Marcus didn't moan. He didn't praise. He just watched.

Every inch I took was a test.

He gripped the back of my head with one hand, steady pressure, holding me there--halfway down, tip nudging my throat.

"No teeth," he said quietly. "Keep your tongue under. You're not here to play."

I adjusted.

Breathed through my nose.

Slid down farther.

My throat tightened. The reflex flared. I swallowed hard--don't gag, don't choke, don't disappoint.

He held me still, cock buried deep. My eyes watered. I blinked fast, but didn't pull back.

He finally eased off. Let me breathe.

Then: "Again. Deeper."

I obeyed.

My lips stretched wider, my mouth full, throat clenched. Tears ran hot down my cheeks now, and spit slipped past my lips.

He groaned low--not loud, not needy. Just satisfied.

"Better," he murmured. "You might be worth the price after all."

That flicker of heat in my chest--I clung to it.

Let him be pleased. Let this be over soon. Just make it good.

Because if it was good, Rick would reward me. He said so. The case would be open. The needle would be clean. I'd float again. I'd stop thinking. Stop shaking. Stop needing.

I moaned softly around Marcus's cock, letting the vibration coat him in sound.

He reacted.

Hand tightened.

Thrust once--hard. Then again. And again.

Fucking my mouth now. No more holding back. No more guidance.

Just use.

Each stroke forced a wet gag from my throat, and I kept my hands at my sides, fists clenched. I wanted to touch him, to brace--but I remembered Rick's warning.

Obedience. No games.

So I took it.

Took everything Marcus gave me--gripping my hair, fucking my mouth fast, shallow grunts from deep in his chest. My jaw ached. My chin dripped. My throat felt raw.

But I didn't stop.

Because I could see it--Rick's case waiting for me back home.

Shimmering behind my eyelids.

A reward for being good.

Marcus slowed.

Then pulled out--slick, flushed, saliva-streaked.

He tapped my cheek with the head of his cock. Not affectionate. Just to remind me where I stood.

"You ready for more?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Use your voice."

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, sir."

He stood and grabbed me by the arm--firm but not rough--and led me across the suite. The rug was soft under my knees as I crawled behind him.

He pointed to the couch.

"Bend over."

I bent.

Hands flat on the cushion. Head down. Ass up.

I heard the crinkle of foil behind me.

A condom.

A second later, his hand slid up the back of my thigh, slow and assessing.

"Still shaking," he said. "You're scared."

"No," I lied again.

He laughed once--quiet and sharp.

"You're scared," he said again, stepping closer. "But you're wet."

His fingers slid between my legs.

And I was.

Embarrassingly wet.

"See?" he said. "The body always tells the truth."

Then I felt the head of his cock at my entrance.

One thrust.

Slow.

Deep.

I cried out--part pain, part something else.

He didn't slow down.

Hands gripped my hips. He set a rhythm fast, relentless. His thighs slapped mine, every thrust brutal and precise. I gasped with every push, eyes squeezed shut.

"Take it," he growled. "You know what this is."

And I did.

I knew exactly what this was.

Rent. Reward. Submission.

My body clung to him, soaking. My pussy fluttered around him, helpless to stop. Every slap of his hips jolted something loose in me. Every grunt from his chest felt like a win.

"Good little worker," he muttered. "So tight. So fucking eager."

I whimpered.

"Say it," he demanded.

"I--I want it," I gasped.

"Say what you are."

"I'm yours--tonight, I'm yours--please--don't stop--"

The high from the powder buzzed again in my blood. Everything turned golden and soft around the edges. My fear blurred. My thoughts slowed.

All I could feel was him.

Owning me.

Filling me.

Proving I was worth the price.

Scene 6: The Job

Marcus didn't pause.

Didn't check if I was ready.

He pulled out of my soaked pussy, cock slick and throbbing, and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking me upright with one hand while the other gripped my ass.

"You think we're done?" he said, voice low in my ear. "You haven't even earned it yet."

I didn't speak.

Couldn't.

My mouth was dry. My body already shaking. But I nodded--because that's what he wanted. Because I needed to finish the job.

He removed his condom and threw it on thr floor, right where I could see it. He spit once--hot and thick--between my cheeks. Rubbed it in with two fingers, slow circles around my tight hole. My breath caught. I wasn't ready for this. Not fully. Not like this.

I clenched on instinct.

His hand came down hard--a slap across my ass, sharp and echoing.

"Relax," he said. "You'll take it. Because I paid for every inch of you."

He kept working me open with his fingers, slow at first. One finger, then two. I gasped, hips twitching, legs trembling.

My mind screamed stop.

But the powder whispered: it's fine. You're fine. Just breathe. Just take it.

And behind that whisper, the only image: Rick's black case. The needle. The floating. The reward.

When Marcus pressed the tip of his cock to my ass, I froze.

He didn't ask again.

He shoved in.

Hard.

Deep.

I screamed--face buried in the couch, hands clawing the cushion, muscles clenching around him. The pain lit up my spine. My whole body jerked forward.

But he held me.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned. He started to move.

Short, brutal strokes that made my legs go numb. Every thrust drove the air from my lungs. I gasped, moaned, whimpered--but I didn't say no.