Rent's Due

End of the month, no excuses—she makes up the difference.

End of the month, no excuses—she makes up the difference.

⚠️ Content Warning: Explicit adult content (consensual rough sex, dominance/submission, transactional themes), strong language, and no aftercare. 18+ only. Reader discretion advised.

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Jerico had a talent for broken things. Shaky porches, paint that flaked like old sunburn, roofs that sulked under a decade of storms—he could see through the mess to the margin. Buy it sick, fix it quick, rent it steady. Most of the time the math behaved. Most of the time, people did, too.

Asper Lane was the exception and the rule at the same time. A squat little bungalow tucked behind an overgrown pear tree, it looked like it had crept half a step off the street and decided to stay there. Jerico had dragged it back to life with new windows and a patient hand, then handed the keys to Sharon.

She had a way of making the house look like it knew something.

Rent day always started with the same ritual. He sat in his truck a block over, engine off, watching the way late light pooled along the curb. His phone buzzed against his palm—calendar reminder he didn’t need. He already knew. End of the month. End of the patience. Start of the dance.

He typed:
—Headed your way. Picking up rent.

Three dots pulsed, vanished, returned.
—Door’s set, she replied.
A second bubble arrived with the same carelessness she used on everything that wasn’t eyeliner: a four-digit code and a winking emoji.

He stared at the code, then at the little house that liked to keep its own counsel. Sharon never had the full amount, and they both pretended the world spun just the same. On paper, Jerico disliked irregularities. In person, he understood the gravity between two bodies who had already said yes too many times to count.

He tossed the phone into a pocket and stepped out. Evening heat climbed his legs as he crossed the sidewalk, shoulders stretching his T-shirt, work boots tapping a steady measure. He had been called a lot of things—landlord, vulture, savior, hammer-with-a-bank-account. Handsome when it helped, invisible when it didn’t. Tonight, he was a collector with soft knuckles.

The pear tree shed one sticky leaf onto his shoulder; he flicked it away and took the three porch steps like he owned them. Which, technically, he did. The new keypad gleamed where the old deadbolt had once sulked. He keyed in the numbers, heard the latch snick with the crisp politeness of a good decision.

Inside smelled like linen and dust warmed by sun. Thin curtains breathed in the small breeze of the door closing. The living room remained a careful mess—magazines fanned on the coffee table, a throw tossed across the back of the sofa as if it had fallen asleep there. A lamp was on in the bedroom down the short hall, low and gold as a late-afternoon apology.

Jerico let his eyes adjust. He was not in a hurry. Money changed hands better when the room remembered who he was.

“Sharon,” he called, not loud.

“In here,” she answered, voice coming from the far side of the house, smooth as a ribbon dragged across a lip.

He moved past the mirror by the entryway. It caught his frame: tall, clean line, the day’s work still clinging to him in the cut of his jaw and the dust under his nails. He could make a home square with a level and a willingness to do it right the second time. He could make himself patient. He could make himself cruel, if the papers forced it. But Asper Lane had its own arithmetic.

When he reached the bedroom doorway, the lamp’s gold sank into shadow around the edges of the room. A window cracked open let in a sliver of evening and the faintest city hum. Sharon had arranged the bedspread neatly, a deliberate island in a room that otherwise believed in improvisation.

She knelt on the mattress facing away from him, framed by that lamplight—black lace tracing her back, straps converging between shoulder blades, fabric more suggestion than confession. Her hair was loose, a little mussed, as if the air had practiced with it. One hand rested on the sheet, the other lifted slightly, a half-wave that acknowledged him without breaking the pose.

She looked like a promise and a dare.

“Hey, landlord,” she said, not turning her head. On anyone else it would have sounded like mockery. From her, it landed like a habit they both wore on purpose.

Jerico put a shoulder to the doorframe and let the wood cool his back. He did a slow count. The trick to routine was pretending there was nothing tricky about it.

“You got my message,” he said.

“Mm-hmm.” She tipped her chin, a small nod. “You came fast.”

“Rent’s due.” He kept his voice even, the same voice he used to tell contractors they were a week behind, the same one that smoothed over scared first-time tenants. A voice with edges sanded down. “How we looking?”

Sharon exhaled a soft laugh—the kind that was warmer than it was loud. “Partial,” she said. “Utilities ate a hole in the envelope.”

He had known that before he parked. He knew it now like he could feel the weight of his keyring in his palm, the heft of decisions he wasn’t making yet. He watched the curtains breathe again, slow. Watched the lace along her back shift with the rhythm of her body, this steady tide that never reached the shore.

“What’s the number?” he asked.

She told him. It wasn’t a disaster. It wasn’t salvation. It was a reminder that life liked a middle ground.

“I can bring you the rest Friday,” she added, voice dipping at the edge, careful. Then: “Or I can make a deposit toward your understanding.”

He let silence do its work, measured, neither forgiving nor cruel. He thought about the ledger in his head—mortgage, taxes, the contractor who still hadn’t finished the fence on Brookview, and the text from his mother asking if he was eating enough. He thought about Sharon’s first month here, the way she had scrubbed the kitchen tile until the grout confessed its true color, the way she left a glass of water on the sill for no reason other than she liked the way sunlight went through it.

“Friday is good,” he said at last. He pretended he was talking only to the money. “But you know I don’t hold IOUs without collateral.”

He didn’t evict easy, but he didn’t bleed for free.

Sharon’s shoulders rose and fell. “I know,” she said softly.

He stepped into the room. The floorboard near the dresser sighed—his work, his house, his rules. He set his phone on the nightstand, face down, as if that mattered. The lamp threw a pale triangle across his forearm, turned the veins into careful blue lines.

Jerico reached the edge of the bed and stopped, close enough to smell her perfume—something clean, with a hint of citrus—close enough to see the faint string of lace along the small of her back. She shifted, just a fraction, a deliberate adjustment, a message he had learned to read without needing a translation.

“Is this what you are putting down?” he said, the line between ritual and respect drawn plain between them.

From where he stood, she was all intention made visible: back arched just enough to catch the lamp, lace sketching shadows along her spine, the clean line of her neck disappearing into that soft tumble of hair. Compact, balanced—like a beam he knew would hold. The black set framed more than it hid, banding a narrow waist and the patient curve of hips; a thin gold anklet winked against skin the color of warm honey. Burgundy polish—chipped at one edge—marked steady hands on the sheet. She didn’t fidget or play at coy. Just waited—like she knew his next move as well as he did, breathing slow.

The room carried her in pieces: a bright thread of citrus from her perfume, the cotton-warm smell of sun-dried sheets, and a faint pear-sweetness drifting from the tree outside. Under it, the house’s old-wood resin and clean soap, and—closest to him—the soft, buttery trace of shea on her skin where the lace warmed it. It was the kind of scent that settled on his tongue and named the evening before either of them spoke.

Outside, a car rolled by on low tires; inside, lace whispered when she breathed.

Sharon turned her head, met his eyes over her shoulder. No flinch. No joke. “It is. You collecting, or what? I don’t have all night,” she said.

The house settled around them, a quiet body exhaling.

He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, as deliberate as clicking a latch, and placed his hand on the small of her back.

His palm was warm and rough, a familiar weight that sent a visible tremor through her. The callused skin caught on the delicate black lace. A good start. He applied a gentle, unyielding pressure, guiding her down until her cheek pressed into the duvet and her ass rose in the air, a perfect offering framed by the thin straps of the lingerie.

“Keep it right there.”

His voice was low, a quiet command that brooked no argument. She shifted her knees wider, a silent acquiescence that made his dick throb against his jeans. The mattress sighed under her weight, a sound he knew as well as the creak of his own floorboards. He undid his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss, followed by the button and the rasp of his zipper. He shoved his jeans and shorts down to his thighs, his hard length springing free into the warm, citrus-scented air.

He reached for his wallet, the leather worn smooth. The foil packet made a sharp, crinkling tear that sliced through the room’s quiet hum. He rolled the condom down his shaft, the latex cool and tight, the faint chemical scent of lubricant a stark contrast to her natural perfume. He gave himself a single, hard stroke, a quick fit check that made his breath catch.

He moved in close, the heat of her body a palpable force against his skin. He gripped her hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to her entrance. She was already slick, heat a welcome he felt against the tip of his cock.

“Every month it’s the same thing with you,” he growled, his voice gravel. “This cunnie is going to pay the price tonight. You understand?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pressed in with one hard stroke, seating himself fully; the mattress caught the force.

A sharp, choked sound escaped her, part gasp, part moan, swallowed by the bedding. Her body locked down on him, heat tightening in hard, pulsing waves. Goddamn, how she stay so tight. He held himself there, buried deep, letting her adjust to the sudden, brutal stretch. He leaned over her, bracketing her body with his arms, his mouth near her ear.

“Rent’s due, Sharon. I’m fucking collecting.”

He withdrew almost all the way, until just the head of his shaft remained inside her, then slammed back in. The sound was obscenely loud, a sharp clap of skin on skin that matched the rhythm he set. The old bedframe began a steady, rhythmic complaint against the wall.

He set an exacting pace from the start, each thrust a lesson in possession. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, using his hold to pull her back onto his massive cock with every slam forward. The lace of her lingerie rasped against his knuckles. Her scent—shea butter, sweat, and her own unique musky fragrance—filled his head, a narcotic mix that fueled his rhythm.

“This what you wanted?” he grunted, his breathing already ragged. “Hmm? You get behind, you know I come to collect.”

“Yes—” Her voice was muffled, strained.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes… fuck…” she managed, pushing her hips back to meet his next thrust.

He rewarded the movement with a deeper, harder drive that made her cry out. “That’s it. Pay it. Pay what you owe me.”

He changed his angle slightly, and her response was immediate. A raw sound broke loose from her; she palmed her breast, thumb and forefinger working the nipple hard. Her back arched deeper, presenting herself to him completely. She twisted to look back at him, cheek dragging on the duvet, tongue slipping out over her lower lip. Her eyes were blown and glassy, focus gone like she’d stepped half out of the room; she panted there and let him see exactly where he had her.

The sight of him driving into her slick heat and drawing back, the way her body yielded to his, sent a jolt of pure possession through him. He took her with a focused intensity, each movement calculated for maximum impact, a transaction settled in the oldest currency.

A car alarm wailed somewhere down the street, a distant, frantic echo of the tension coiling in the room. It faded, leaving only their sounds: the blunt clap of bodies, the grind of the bed, their harsh, mingled breathing. Sweat gleamed on his back, dripped from his temple onto her spine. He slid a hand around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. She was swollen, hard, and soaked. He pressed the rough pad of his thumb down in a tight, relentless circle.

Her composure shattered. “Jerico… Jesus—right there—don’t— you’re gonna make me—”

Her voice broke into a long, raw moan. Words dissolved into a series of broken, pleading sounds. He felt her inner muscles start to flutter around him, a hard, rhythmic squeeze that pared his control down to a thread. He pinched her clit, just shy of pain, and her entire body seized. A ragged scream was torn from her lungs as her orgasm ripped through her, her pussy gripping him hard in wave after wave of intense, rolling contractions.

The fierce, milking sensation was too much. His control snapped. With a final, brutal drive, he seated himself as far as she’d take him; his release roared up his spine. He held himself there, grinding against her, as he emptied into the condom, a low, raw noise his only concession to the pleasure.

Quiet gathered; their breath rasped in the small room, sex and salt hanging with a faint bite of latex. The ledger was balanced. The debt was paid.

He pulled out of her with a soft, slick sound. He disposed of the condom in the small wicker basket by the bed without a word. He pulled up his jeans, fastened them, and retrieved his phone from the nightstand.

At the doorway he paused. “Friday’s clear,” he said. “You’re paid up.”

Sharon gave a small nod into the duvet, mouth parted, eyes heavy; loose-limbed and pleased. “Good,” she rasped. She breathed out, a thin, spent thread of sound. “See you next month.”

He didn’t look back at her.

The house was quiet again, the transaction complete.

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End of the month, no excuses—on Asper Lane, debts get collected. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #AsperLane #RentDue #DebtPaid #JericoAndSharon