How I Blew My Rent, Literally!


So, it’s about a million degrees in my apartment and I’m sweating like Marlon Brando in “Apocalypse Now.” I have the concierge’s rancid, unwashed schlong in my mouth and his big perspiration-soaked beer gut banging against my forehead each time I thrust down onto his uncircumcised pant-turd. My tits are as red as springtime roses because he likes to slap at them mid-fellatio like they’re bald Whack-a-Moles. It’s so fucking hot I’d want to kill myself, even if I weren’t in the act of committing a sexual war crime. I hear this Eastern European grunt and I know what’s coming. Shit! That’s my cue to rake the underside of his balls gently with my long fingernails. Two seconds later Igor (not his real name) grabs the back of my head and shoots about a gallon of toxic, viscid cock-puke into the back of my throat. It takes a super-human inner-strength to swallow this noxious nut liquid and not elegantly spew it all over his really hairy feet. Gulp. Bleck! At least it’s finally over. Igor pats the top of my head and tells me I did well tonight and staggers off to drink even more vodka in his own shit dump of an abode across the hall. Thank God!

I lay there for awhile, naked and totally creeped-out on my worn-filthy carpet in a festering puddle of our combined bodily fluids. How had it come to this?

It all probably started the day I had this insane notion that I should stand up for what I believed in. It works for people in every movie I’ve ever seen – except for when they’re assassinated by the CIA or Tony Soprano. Me? I was shit-canned with extreme prejudice. No severance. No referral. Apparently, being right isn’t a defense in the corporate world. In fact, if makes them even more pissed at you. I was notified of my impending termination with, what I considered, a very uncalled for amount of glee.

So there I was, in the big heartless city, without a meaningful source of income and the rent due. While bivouacking on the rough in a hobo train yard had held some romantic allure in the halcyon days of my youth, upon further reflection as a fully grown adult, the rustic appeal of eating baked beans out of a rusty tin plate while being stung and nibbled on by piano-sized insects had somewhat dimmed. Even the desperately humble surroundings of my God-awful apartment looked sumptuous when contrasted with curling up around a billabong for warmth and sustenance. And believe me, my ultra-drab two rooms and a toilet were nothing to write the Queen about. Besides being cramped, damp and badly furnished, the decor was nothing short of cruel. The bad-acid-flashback floral pattern combined with its grisly, bordering-on-psychotic color scheme would have wiped the smile of a synchronized swimmer. Okay I’ll admit it, I actually had a few one-night-stands, just so I wouldn’t have to wake up in the morning and see that fucking wallpaper. But, even with all that said, I still coveted some sort of living arrangement that didn’t require me to wear clothes fashioned out of tree bark. I’m funny that way.

Oh, I suppose I could have eaten the spiritual equivalent of cold vomit and gone back to my old firm in the hopes of reclaiming my former executive-assistant position… In fact, as the days of the month ticked down to a precious few, I did just that. I unashamedly chowed down on several large buckets’ worth of the fridgiest chunk-lumps before my former “superiors” but to no avail. The inescapable problem was I couldn’t take back the fact that I was right. You can apologize and cry and beg forgiveness if you were wrong but if you were right… They’d always know that you knew that they didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about and that they could not forgive. Soon afterwards, I was offered and accepted an exceedingly prestigious position as a pancake waitress. My Dickensian salary barely covered all the extra syrup-removing spray I required.

As luck would have it, the exceedingly unremunerative month in question only had 30 days in it, so I was forced to knock on Ceausescu’s (not his real name) door 24 hours before I was fully physically and spiritually prepared for the ordeal before me.

I had never really gotten on well with the manager of my building. Mostly because I was an attractive young woman and he was a leering, smelly, rumpot pervert. There has not yet been a soap devised, Gaziantep Elden Para Alan Escort capable of washing the icky, grimy, unclean feeling off your skin after being trapped in his foul and fetid company. I am positive that my provocatively delicate underthings have many times been unspeakably violated and the helpless victims of dastardly and licentious liberties taken by that corpulent Iron Curtain troll. Not while I was wearing them, you understand. He had a key! Every morning, before putting on my unmentionables, I would have to inspect the cottony pouch for signs of greasy fingerprints. Yuck! I thought I was living in hell. But I was actually residing in a gold-plated penthouse suite at the Four Seasons compared to what was about to befall me.

Light knock. Even lighter knock. I almost turned away but I could hear one of his thunderous farts from within. It felt like I had a school of freshly-netted North Atlantic haddock flopping around in my stomach as the door slowly cracked open. God! The stink that ran out of that place and straight up my nose. It left me considerably disoriented and gasping for non-poisonous air.

“What you want? Got rent?” he politely enquired.

What kind of unholy gag-inducing goulash was he cooking in there? I couldn’t really tell, because my eyes were gushing like a New Zealand geyser, but I’m sure he was staring right down my top. Not a time to get offended, though. I put on a bright, friendly smile and responded in a warm and cheery voice. “Sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr. Pankevich,” (his real name) “but I’m afraid due to circumstances way, way beyond my control, that my rent money maybe a little late this month.”

“Get on your knees.”

This wasn’t quite the charitable response I was hoping for. I was pleading to the stars that I was misunderstanding his meaning. “Excuse me?”

“You get down on knees. You suck my cock, you stay. No suck, I break down door and throw your shit out onto street myself.”

Well, thanks a whole fucking bunch, stars!

I did what any self-respecting woman would do in that sort of intolerable situation. I told him to fuck off and slapped his bloated face and ran back to my apartment in tears.

It was only when I was a couple of Tuborg Golds into a six-pack that I began to rethink my appropriate but perhaps a mite strident response. If I called my father for money, he’d just sensibly tell me to come home. I’m a girl; I had a lot of shit. I didn’t really want it all over the street. Tuborg Gold number 3. My friends were all broke and lived in depressingly small places. Tuborg Gold number 4. I’d make a really, really bad roommate, anyway. Tuborg Gold number 5. Surely he’d only want me to do it once for a month’s rent. I mean, I’m really cute and I’ve received some very laudatory reviews over the years for my “gifting of head”. Tuborg Gold number 6. Food probably tastes really shitty out of a billabong.

So, I staggered back across the hallway and knocked on Mephistopheles’ door. When he finally swung it open, he was wearing a rather unfetching bathrobe and nary a stitch underneath and the hastily-tied, frayed and faded belt had failed to conceal his gruesome modesty. Yikes! This procedure was going to be a tad more distasteful than I had envisioned while polishing off my Scandinavian grog. .

“What the fuck do you think the time it is?” he greeted me.

“I am so sorry to bother you at this late hour Mr. Pankevich, sir. But I felt that I should not delay in saying to you my apologies for the regrettable but hopefully forgivable actions of me, earlier this evening.” Okay, it wasn’t perfect English, but my brain was sloshing around in a lake of lager and his stinky weenie was getting larger as I babbled on! Ewwwww!

This Snidely Whiplash smile cracked his turgid, unshaved chops and he once again leered at my feminine party favors. “So, you got no money?”

“No sir, I don’t. Not at the moment.” I was almost looking forward to getting down on my knees because standing in my present condition was becoming progressively arduous. “But if you were to give me just the smallest amount of time…”

“Take off clothes.”


“Clothes, off.”

“In the hallway?”

“It 4 in fucking morning. I want my blow job and then go to sleep. Hurry up.”

You could practically see me blush from space as I removed my bra and lower articles of clothing and stood sans-attire before Count Chocula.


I so wished I didn’t enjoy sleeping indoors as down I went to face his grey, wrinkly shit-stick. All the booze in the world couldn’t dampen the utter revulsion as he stuffed it into my mouth and ordered me to play with his balls. It was beyond horrific but I gamely pressed on, plying my lingual magic to erectus-disgusticus until he finally pumped his sickening sack-sludge down my mortified trachea. I was afraid all his grunting was going to bring other tenants out into the hall to see if a wounded hog had gotten loose in the building but we were left mercifully alone.

“Good.” He pronounced after he caught his breath. “You do this whenever and where I want and you keep apartment. First time you say no, you’re evicted.”

Before I could even offer up a counterproposal, he had slammed the door in my face, leaving me naked, alone, thoroughly debased and nauseous in the hallway.

The next few months were a very mixed bag.

Desperate efforts to procure far more lucrative and far less flapjack-oriented employment had thus far been about as successful as Lindsay Lohan’s rehab. But while my meager stipendium was forcing me to swallow hideous Baltic cum lumps to keep a roof over my hairdo but I did meet this really cute guy. He used drop by the restaurant around noon almost every day and order breakfast food. We talked and I flirted and I bent way over when I poured his coffee. After a couple of weeks, he picked up on my shamelessly unsubtle hints and asked me out. His name was Charlie and he was built like a brick shithouse. Beyond his obvious physical goodies, he was a really sweet guy and he made me laugh. And believe you me, this was a time in my life when I was in serious need of a few hearty chuckles.

It was a little bizarre going out on a date with Chas and then coming home to face cockzilla but I had to learn how to compartmentalize.

Things just seemed to get better and better between me and my pancake buddy but Charlie had a roommate and there was nowhere for us to go and spend some “quality time.” We’d make out hot and heavy in his car and I’d joyously stick my hand down his pants (and it didn’t take much groin groping to discover that Chas possessed a highly exciting piece of pant lumber.) but I just didn’t want our first bounce-fest to be a sleazy parking lot blowjob. I much preferred to do something really sleazy to him in more comfortable surroundings.

Finally, I got a night off from taking one on the tonsils from Vlad the Enslaver. He’d gone off for the weekend to some unpronounceable-name convention and I could invite the boyfriend over for a righteous schtupfest. To tell the truth, Chas had hardly put down his overnight bag before I had his pants around his knees and I was sucking on his Johnson like it was last Dove Bar before heaven. It was even bigger than I had estimated inside his Levi 511s in the Safeway parking lot. Yes! Debbie had hit the genital jackpot. What a difference it made, having a penis in my mouth that I didn’t want to bite off and spit into the electric fire. After five or ten minutes of bathing his bulbous beauty in my saliva, I dragged the poor fellow into the bedroom. He had no idea how much sexual healing he was going to have to lay on me. For an extra treat, I covered my tits in his favorite syrup before diving onto the mattress. “Dinner is served, big boy!”

The cunnilingus was utterly spellbinding. He brought me to the very edge of coming three times as he moistened up my love lagoon sufficiently to accept his deluxe-sized pleasure craft. I almost went cross-eyed with pleasure as he slowly guided it home and began to slip it in and out of me. Wow! It was practically banging up against my fallopian tubes. O joyous womb-walloping! I was on the verge of bucking him into the next apartment when I heard a key being jammed into my front door. (No, this is not a dirty metaphor.) An ice-cold river of complete panic ran through me. Oh my God, he was back! Chas had heard something too because he ceased rammin’ der clammin’. “Baby,” I whispered, “I have to go talk to someone. I’ll be back in a second, okay?” I put my finger to my lips to keep him quiet as I stealthily got up off the bed and slipped on my robe. There was a big fart and the sound of my fridge door being opened.

The evil Belaruffian was guzzling down my last beer as I entered the room.

“Ah, there you are my little slut-mouth.” Jesus, he was as charming as ever and staggeringly shit-faced. “My dinky was missing you, so I came home early.” He unzipped his pants.

“Mr. Pankevich sir, it’s a little late,” I tried to reason with him (because this approach had been so fucking successful all those other times). “I could come over first thing in the morning and…”

“No! You take robe off now or you can sleep in streets tonight, where you belong.”

I was almost in tears. My lovely Charlie was in the next room. I desperately searched for a solution as he played with his Peter-the-Not-So-Great to try and get an erection over all the alcohol he’d consumed. Plan B. “I could come over to your apartment. Right now. Could we just not do it here?”

He reached over and yanked my robe off. “Down or out, bitch!”

The tears really started to flow as I got dropped to my knees. I took his repulsive lap lesion into my hand, and was just feeling the soft-puffy foreskin touch my lips when I heard someone yell, “Freeze scumbag!”

It was Charlie and he was holding a gun. I almost shit. Not that that would have devalued my living room rug.

“Down on the ground now!”

Panky turned ghastly white and complied.

Before I could even blink, Charlie had pulled Igor’s hands behind his back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. “Mr. Pankevich, I’m arresting you for blackmail, forced sodomy, sexual harassment, indecent assault and innumerous violations of the Tenant’s Rights Act of 2006.”

“No, please!” Now it was this fucker’s turn to cry. Panky balled like a baby. “There is mistake.”

“And you just made it, asshole.” Chas looked up at me. “Are you prepared to press charges on this dirtball?”

I couldn’t believe it. My dear sweet Charlie was a cop! That explained the buff bod.

“There is arrangement. I have money.”

“Oh goodie! Bribery.”

“Tell me. Anything what you want. I do. No jail! Please!”

Boris Badenov seriously didn’t want to go to prison. I got free rent for life (in writing), new furniture, a better carpet and I even got him to agree to over and scrape off that goddamn wallpaper.

After petrified Panky limped off back to his hovel, I looked hopefully at my knight in naked armor. He reached over and kissed me tenderly.

“So, You’re not disgusted because I’ve been putting that asshole’s dick in my mouth? I know I am.”

He kissed me again. I was falling in love with this guy. Probably time to change the subject before he came to his senses.

“And how come you didn’t tell me you’re a cop?”

“I’m not a cop. I’m a male stripper. I had the gun and the handcuffs in my bag because I’ve got an office birthday party tomorrow across town.”

“A stripper?!” I almost pissed from laughing. Not that it would have devalued my soon-to-be-replaced carpet.

Chas held my hand and looked deep into my eyes. Swoon! “Hey, I have a hundred women a week go down on me to a funky Latin beat. If you can stand that, I can more than get over whatever happened between you and that Romanian reprobate.”

I dragged him straight back into my bedroom and rode him so hard, I’m surprised he had any strength left the next day for that poor woman’s birthday party.

Charlie and I are now a steady item. I even go to quite of few of his “performances.” He’s a pretty darn cute dancer up there swinging his sausage about. I actually get a little turned on watching all those greedy gals gobbling his engorgement (with or without whipped cream). And no matter how many of those horny hotties demand to wash his weenie, he always comes in my mouth as he finishes his shift. How’s that for romantic!

Now, when Chas comes over to spend the weekend, he always wears his cop outfit just to keep the creepy Cossack in line. I sometimes get him to fuck me up against the sink while Pankevich is vacuuming my living room. I can see the little bastard looking over and enviously glaring as Charlie’s enormous tallywhacker disappears up between my legs. We’ve even given our loud and nasty sexual liaisons in front of Ivan the Smellable a cute little nickname.

We call it having “Hanky Panky!”

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