City Rent

Scene 1 -- Good Girl Math

(Morning, Nia's apartment)

I don't know what day it is.

Rick says it's Thursday, but that doesn't mean much anymore. Time got blurry after the third week. Or maybe after the twelfth client. After a while, all the hotel rooms start to smell the same--like sweat, bleach, and whatever perfume I wore too heavily the night before.

Now, there's only one thing I measure: performance.

Five stars? The needle comes fast. I float. I forget.

Four? A delay. Cold silence.

Three? He doesn't say anything. Just watches me come apart without touching me.

I wake up on the couch again, limbs twisted in a blanket I don't remember pulling up. The cushion's got that permanent indentation now--like my body's learning not to take up space.

I sit up slowly, stretch until my bones complain. I feel everything--the ache in my hips, the tight pull in my lower back, the dull soreness between my legs. The body keeps score. And lately, I'm always in debt.

I wander to the bathroom. The mirror's fogged, but I know what I'll see.

I wipe it clean with the heel of my hand, and there I am--bare, bruised, and still too beautiful for the life I've fallen into.

My skin catches the light. That deep, rich shade where Black meets bronze--sun-kissed even in shadows. Smooth like polished stone, but not untouched. Faint bite marks at my shoulder. A fingerprint bruise at my thigh. I trace it absently, not sure which man left it. Maybe I don't want to know.

My frame is holding up, somehow. 5'7", long-legged, high-hipped, with the kind of body that made aunties cluck their tongues and men linger too long in the corner store aisles. 34C. 26. 37. A banger body, Rick calls it--like it's something I rent out by the hour, like it doesn't hurt when they use it too hard.

I lean in closer.

My face still surprises me sometimes. Full lips, soft jawline, lashes that curl even without mascara. There's a kind of defiance in my features. Like maybe, just maybe, I used to belong to someone proud. Someone whole.

But now my eyes look hollow. Like the girl behind them left weeks ago and just forgot to close the door.

On the counter, Rick's left me a granola bar and a bottle of water. That's a good sign. If I'd done poorly, there'd be nothing. Just silence and maybe the cold floor waiting for me again.

I eat it slowly, chewing even though my stomach's not sure it wants food. It's not about hunger. It's about staying upright for the next job.

Because I know the rules now.

Smile right = meal.

Obey fast = heat.

Perform perfectly = peace.

Rick doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. He's trained my body better than any leash could. One dose and I'll do anything to earn the next. And when I don't?

He teaches.

Nine hours on the floor last time, shivering, mind splitting open. I remember the linoleum pressing against my cheek, cold and sticky. I remember his voice, calm, like he was lecturing a child.

"This is how you learn," he said.

"Pain teaches. Obedience rewards."

And I did learn. I always learn.

Every moan, every sigh, every whisper of "thank you"--it's all choreographed now. A dance of survival. And I know the steps.

I finish the bar. Wash my face. Look in the mirror one more time.

There's still something fierce in my reflection. Faint. Flickering. But not gone.

And that's what scares me most.

Not that they're using me.

But that I'm starting to believe I need to be used.

⸻

Scene 2 -- The Ranch Job

(Evening, Nia's apartment -- post-shower)

The bathroom mirror is still fogged from the shower, but I can see enough.

My face looks older than I remember. Not in years, exactly. In weight. Like I've been dragging something invisible across my back every day and it's finally starting to show in my eyes.

I wipe the mirror with the edge of a towel and lean in close.

My skin's sallow, lips chapped. The eyeliner I smudged on yesterday is still clinging to my lower lids like it doesn't want to leave. I haven't worn makeup for myself in weeks. It's all part of the uniform now--like smiling, like silence.

Rick comes in without knocking.

I don't flinch anymore.

He doesn't look at me. Just drops a folded pile of clothes onto the counter.

"You've got a booking. Big one," he says. "He's paying for the full night."

I pause with the towel still wrapped around my chest. "Full night?"

Rick nods. He's watching the mirror, not me. "Out at a ranch. Hour outside the city. Client's bringing a friend. Two of them."

Something in my chest shifts. Not quite fear. Not quite dread. Just that same old drop in the stomach--like I've been pushed into cold water before I was ready.

I unwrap the clothes. Skirt. Knee socks. Button-down. Red ribbon. I already know what it is before I finish unfolding it.

A school uniform.

I look up at Rick through the mirror. His face doesn't change. He's not smiling. He's not frowning either. This isn't a joke. It's a request. A paid one.

"You'll wear it," he says simply.

I nod.

Because what else am I supposed to do?

He sets a phone down next to the clothes--cheap burner model with a cracked screen. "Car's picking you up at seven. Client wants confirmation before he opens the door. You'll call me when you get there. Use this."

I dry my hands and pick up the phone like it's just another prop.

"You'll come home with an envelope," he says. "Assuming you don't screw it up."

I don't respond. Just keep my face still. Neutral. Blank.

Rick studies me for a second, then softens. Just a little. "You do this right, you'll have the whole dose waiting when you get back. Full."

It takes everything I have not to show it--the way my fingers twitch, how my chest tightens. "And if I don't?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

He leaves the door open on his way out.

⸻

Scene 3 -- Arrival

(Dusk, the ranch)

The ride out is silent.

The car smells like leather and old smoke. The driver doesn't speak. Just taps the wheel occasionally like he's keeping time to a song in his head. He never looks at me, not once. Maybe he's trained. Maybe he's just smart.

The city fades behind us in pieces--streetlights giving way to shadows, skyline dissolving into low hills and long fences. It's darker out here. Not the kind of dark that hides things. The kind that watches.

We pull into a long gravel driveway. The house at the end is all sharp corners and fake rustic charm--wide porch, stone chimney, lights glowing like a catalog photo of "country peace." It's too clean. Too staged. Like everything inside it is going to be wrong.

The car stops. The driver doesn't get out.

"We're here."

I nod, even though he's not looking. My hand tightens around the little burner phone Rick gave me. It's warm now, like my grip alone is trying to conjure safety from it.

I step out.

Gravel crunches under my boots--low, black heels Rick insisted on. I smoothed the skirt once in the car, made sure the ribbon at my collar was tied just right. The uniform hugs my body like it was measured for me: pleated skirt barely covering anything, white shirt crisp and snug, fabric pulled just a little too tight across my chest.

I hear the door creak before I see him.

He's already outside. Early 40s maybe. Or older. Hard to tell with the tan. Button-down half open. Beer in one hand, the kind of smirk that says he thinks he's being charming.

"You're right on time," he calls out, like I'm a pizza delivery.

I walk toward him, slow and steady. Eyes low, shoulders back--just like Rick taught me. Present, not defiant. Polished, not proud.

"Go on inside, pretty girl," the man says. "You can call your man now if you need."

I don't say anything. I just nod and dial the number. Rick picks up on the second ring.

"Confirmation code?" he asks.

I recite it.

"All good," Rick says. "Be good."

He hangs up.

The man--Steve, he says, when I finally ask--takes the phone from my hand like he's handling luggage.

"House rule," he says, pocketing it. "No phones. No noise. My buddy's pulling up now. You've got time to get ready."

He points down the hall. "Guest bathroom. Change, freshen up. You know the drill."

I do. God, I do.

Inside, the air smells like wood polish and something faintly sweet--like bourbon or pipe smoke. The walls are lined with photos I don't look at. I find the bathroom, click the door shut behind me, and finally breathe.

The mirror over the sink throws me back at myself again. Under fluorescent light, the uniform looks even smaller. The shirt cuts into my arms, the hem of the skirt rides higher with every step. I re-tie the ribbon, tighten it just enough to look cute without choking.

I adjust everything until I look exactly like what they ordered.

A doll.

A memory.

A performance wrapped in soft brown skin and red silk.

I stare at myself. Try to smile. It doesn't quite land.

There's a knock on the front door. The second man has arrived.

And I am exactly where I shouldn't be.

⸻

Scene 4 -- "Uncle Josh"

(The Living Room)

I walk out of the bathroom.

And I see him.

Josh.

He's slouched on the couch like he owns the place--one arm thrown over the backrest, legs wide, drink sweating in his hand. The overhead light casts deep shadows across his face, but I'd know him anywhere. That sharp jaw. That patchy stubble. That smirk he always wore like a secret he wasn't supposed to have.

My chest stops moving.

"Well damn," he says, grinning slow. "Look at you."

The room shifts. Tilts. I'm still standing, but my body isn't here anymore. I'm somewhere else--Crossfield, seventeen years old, asleep on the last row of a bus returning from a family wedding. A drunk Josh comes by my side, one hand on my mouth and the other slips inside my dress. It hovers on my thighs and seeing fear in my eyes moves up to rub over my lace panty. A few minutes pass by before two fingers push the panty aside and slip past my pussy.

I am transported back to when I was sixteen, pulling laundry from the dryer when I feel him behind me. His hand pushes under my blouse and squeezes my right tit.

"Gotdamn, Nia," he'd murmured, voice thick. "You fillin' out fast, huh?"

I'd laughed it off. That scared, polite laugh girls learn to give men they can't afford to offend. Then I told my aunt, careful, half-joking. She'd just rolled her eyes.

"Oh, that's just Josh. He don't mean nothin'."

But he did.

He meant every accidental brush of his hand against my back when he passed too close in the hallway. Every "compliment" that came too late in the evening, after he'd had just enough bourbon to forget how related we technically weren't.

One night, when I was fifteen, I came out of the shower wrapped in a towel and walked straight into him in the hallway. He slowly unwraps it, looks me up and down, slow. Then leaned in and whispered:

"Bet you don't even know what you're doin' to me."

I knew.

But back then, I could run. Could slam the door. Could cry into a pillow and pretend I was still safe in my own skin.

Not now.

Now I'm standing in a rented house an hour outside the city in a uniform he probably fantasized about for a decade.

He leans forward. Studies me.

"Didn't believe it was really you at first," he says. "Saw the listing, clicked out. But I kept thinkin'... that has to be Nia."

He shakes his head, smiling like he just hit the lottery.

"Shit. I ain't seen you since your aunt's cookout, what, five years ago? You remember that dress you wore? Little sundress, yellow, barely coverin' your ass. Been thinkin' about that since."

My throat is thick. My legs feel miles away from me. I don't speak.

Steve--ranch guy--appears behind him, shirt halfway undone, watching like this is entertainment. Like this is a movie he's seen before and already knows how it ends.

Josh stands. Walks toward me. Slow. Like we're sharing something.

"You always had that look in your eye," he says. "Even when you were just a kid. All that fire. All that want."

I want to scream.

But I don't.

Because I know what happens when girls scream and no one's listening.

"I'm not doing this," I manage to say. My voice is low, shaky. I hate how small it sounds.

Josh doesn't even blink.

He shrugs, easy, like I've said something irrelevant. "Don't matter. You're here. You think Rick sent you for tea and cookies?"

He steps closer.

"You leave now, go back empty-handed? What you think Rick's gonna say? Hm? Think he's gonna pat you on the head and give you that sweet little drip you're craving anyway?"

My hands tighten at my sides. The ribbon at my throat feels like a leash.

He's right.

That's what makes it worse.

This isn't a choice. It's a transaction already processed. A delivery already made.

I feel the weight of the skirt. The bite of the heels. The way my bra digs into my skin. I wonder if he noticed how much I'm shaking.

Josh smiles softer now, like he's comforting me.

"I always said you were the prettiest girl in Crossfield," he says. "Guess I was just waitin' for my chance."

There's a couch between us, but it might as well be quicksand. I don't move. Don't breathe.

Because I understand something now:

I've spent all this time selling myself to strangers--men with wallets and fake names.

But tonight?

Tonight, I'm being collected by a man who's been waiting for me since before I even knew what I was.

⸻

Scene 5 -- "The Job"

Josh takes me first.

His hands are slower than I expected. Not tender--just intentional, like he's been imagining this moment for years and wants to savor every part of it. He peels my blouse half open inch by inch, knuckles grazing skin like he's afraid I'll vanish if he moves too fast.

I don't.

I stay still. My breathing shallow. My eyes focused on a knot in the ceiling beam above us, where the wood splits just slightly, like something tried to crawl out once and didn't make it.

His mouth finds my collarbone. Warm. Familiar in the worst way.

"You always smelled sweet," he murmurs. "Even as a girl. You remember that pink lotion you used to wear?"

I nod, because he wants me to. Because nodding makes things move forward.

He slides my skirt up around my hips and breathes in deep, like he's collecting evidence. My thighs part on instinct. Not invitation--just muscle memory. Rick trained me to open like this.

My body starts to respond before I can stop it. Heat curls low in my belly--unwanted, automatic. Skin flushes. My chest rises with each breath, nipples hardening in the cold air. I feel exposed and watched, not just by Josh, but by my own traitorous nerves.

He pulls me onto his lap, one broad hand cupping the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist. I don't resist. My legs drape over his thighs, like I'm meant to be here. Like I want it.

But inside, I'm gone. I'm floating above the scene, watching this girl in a school uniform arch against a man old enough to have raised her.

She moves well.

She knows how to grind just right, how to let her lips part like she's hungry for more.

She even moans on cue.

She's perfect.

And she isn't me.

His hands didn't wait. They came up fast, strong, gripping my hips like he'd been holding back all night. There was no hesitation in him, no slowness--just heat, direct and unfiltered, pressing up between us like a demand.

He leaned in, his mouth capturing mine with a hunger that felt sharp, impatient. His fingers dug into my waist, pulling me tighter against him, grinding our bodies together with a force that made me gasp softly against his lips.

I kissed him back because that's what was expected. That's what he needed. I gave him my lips, parted them for his tongue, let him take the lead like he always wanted. But even as our mouths moved together, I felt that small space inside me stay quiet--untouched. I noticed the way the fabric of his shirt scratched faintly against my bare thighs, the way his breath was hot and uneven against my cheek. I noticed everything, but didn't feel much of it.

He tugged open the buttons of my blouse, rougher than usual--like he couldn't be bothered with patience tonight. One button popped open too fast, the fabric pulling against my skin. I didn't flinch. I just let it happen. His mouth moved to my neck, his stubble grazing me, the pressure of his kisses a little too hard, like he was trying to leave something behind.

"You have been driving me crazy for years" he muttered into my skin, voice thick.

I smiled faintly, tilted my head to the side to give him more room. I knew the moves. I knew what men like him liked. My hand slid into his hair, fingers curling there just enough to make it feel real, even though everything in me was watching it all from somewhere just behind the moment.

He growled low under his breath, his hands slipping under my skirt, gripping my thighs like he needed to anchor himself. I gasped again--less from surprise, more from the pressure--but it came out like a sound I didn't recognize. Almost automatic.

I arched into him because I was supposed to. Because it made things easier. His body responded instantly, grinding against mine with raw hunger. I felt the pace picking up, the rough edge in him rising fast, and I stayed with it--not resisting, not encouraging--just being there, like a shadow moving with him.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, breath heavy, eyes wild. "You're so fucking hot Baby Doll, I've been waiting for this since you were thirteen." he said.

I nodded, brushing his cheek with my thumb like I was still part of the moment. Like I was still fully his.

But in my head, I was already somewhere else. I was thinking about my next fix.

I pulled back from him slowly, slipping from his lap with deliberate ease. His hands lingered on my hips for a second, reluctant to let me go, but I slid out of his grip like water. My feet touched the floor softly, grounding me--but I didn't feel grounded.

I turned my back to him and let my fingers travel to the hem of my skirt. I didn't look over my shoulder. I knew he was watching--eyes dark, jaw set. I could feel his gaze like heat along my skin.

I bent forward just slightly, enough to let the skirt ride up as my thumbs caught the waistband of my panties. I drew both down together--slow, fluid, like a dancer who knows she's center stage. The fabric peeled down the backs of my thighs, catching the air before pooling silently at my ankles. I stepped out of them without a sound, keeping the skirt hiked just high enough to tease.

When I turned back to face him, his eyes were locked on me. Hungry. Wordless.

I dropped to my knees between his legs, gently pressing them apart. He shifted forward as if he couldn't help it, and I let my hands trail up the inside of his thighs--slowly, softly, like painting.

He was already hard. Of course he was. I brushed against him with the backs of my fingers, light as breath, and he exhaled something sharp through his nose. I looked up at him then--not with need, not with affection, but with the kind of gaze a performer gives an audience. Controlled. A little distant. Beautiful in its precision.

I undid his belt, then his fly, every movement calm, unhurried. When I freed his cock, I wrapped my hand around it--warm skin, pulsing with want--and lowered my mouth to lick it.

I took it in slowly, letting the heat and weight of his thick cock fill the quiet space between us. He groaned low, hands gripping the edge of the couch like he might lose himself. I let my lips move rhythmically, hollowing my cheeks just enough, tongue gliding as I set a pace that was steady, sensual, unrelenting.

His hips jerked once, a sharp involuntary motion, and I stilled him with a hand on his thigh--firm, reassuring. Let me.

I didn't close my eyes. I didn't need to. I stayed there in the softness of it all--the wet heat, the slide, the rising sound of his breath catching again and again. I worked him like a song I knew well, giving him everything he wanted to see, to feel, to believe.