Chapter 32: Day 9: Night Payment
The stale air in the living room tasted like old pizza crust and defeat. My new body ached – a deep, unfamiliar ache that started between my legs after David’s earnest fumbling and Chris’s silent, efficient finish. My throat felt raw from swallowing. The cheap digital clock on the cable box glared 11:30 PM. Mark’s door hadn’t opened all fucking day. Panic, cold and slick, coiled in my gut, right next to the lingering nausea. One obligation left. The price of the roof over my head.
The sharp crack of his door unlocking made me jump. Mark emerged, stretching lazily, wearing just low-slung grey sweatpants. His gaze swept over me, sprawled bonelessly on the worn corduroy couch, and a slow, unpleasant smirk spread across his face. No playful flirtation this time. Just calculation.
"Cutting it close, Tay-Tay," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes lingered on the swell of my breasts under the thin tank top I’d thrown on hours ago. "Tick-tock. Deal was each roommate, every day. David and Chris get their taste, but I get stiffed?" He pushed off the frame, taking a few steps towards me. The predatory ease in his walk sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with desire. "Looks like you owe me rent for tomorrow. And packing boxes."
"No!" The word tore out of me, sharper than I intended. I scrambled up, the room tilting slightly. "Mark, please. I tried your door all fucking morning! It was locked! You know I tried!" My voice cracked. The thought of being homeless, like this, in this body, was pure terror. "Please. I’ll… I’ll do it now. Right now. Whatever you want. Just… don’t make me leave."
He stopped a foot away, looking down at me. I felt small, ridiculous in my desperation. His scent – sweat, cheap body spray, something inherently male – filled my nostrils. "Whatever I want?" he repeated, his voice dropping lower. "You sure about that, Ella?" He used the name my new face echoed, the name that felt like a stranger’s. "Because, see, I got bored waiting. Pent up. Took care of myself. A lot." He grinned, wolfish. "Five times, actually. Since you were… occupied."
My stomach churned. Five times. The sheer volume of it. The casual admission. "I... I can still... take care of you," I stammered, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "My mouth. I'll use my mouth. Right here. Make you cum again. I swear. I'll make it good. Please, Mark." I was babbling, the revulsion warring with the sheer, animal need to not be thrown out onto the street.
He chuckled, a low rumble that held no warmth. "Your mouth, huh? After five? You think that little magic tongue of yours is gonna work miracles?" He glanced pointedly at the clock. 11:45. "Alright, princess. Let's see it. Get on your fucking knees. And talk dirty. The filthiest shit you can think of. Convince me you actually want my cock down your throat."
The carpet scratched my bare knees as I dropped down, the motion making my heavy breasts sway. I looked up at him, at the tent in his sweats, the outline thick and intimidating. The plastic clock face seemed to pulse 11:46. Time was sand slipping through my fingers. I took a shaky breath, dredging up every crude phrase, every porn script forced into my brain since the change.
"Fuck," I breathed, forcing my voice lower, huskier, trying to sound like I meant it. "I need that big cock, Mark. Need to taste it." My fingers fumbled at his waistband, pulling the elastic down. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, thick and veined, the head glistening wet. The smell of him – musky, salty, pungent – hit me hard. "God, look at it. So fucking hard for me." I leaned forward, my long hair falling around my face. "Bet it tastes so fucking good. Want to suck you dry, baby. Make you shoot that hot load right down my throat." The words felt like ash in my mouth, but I spat them out, leaning closer, letting my breath ghost over his skin. "Make me choke on it. Fuck my face like the little slut I am for you."
I opened my mouth, my tongue flicking out tentatively to lick the bead of moisture from his slit. The taste was bitter, tangy, overwhelmingly male. I tried to take him in, my lips stretching wide. I focused on the mechanics: suck, tongue swirling around the head, hollow the cheeks.
"Harder," he grunted, his hand tangling roughly in my hair. "Use that fucking mouth. Show me how bad you need to stay."
I gagged as he pushed deeper, the thick head hitting the back of my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes. I fought the reflex, sucking harder, bobbing my head, trying to mimic enthusiasm I didn't feel. "S-so good," I managed to slur around him, drool starting to slick my chin. "Love your fat cock, Mark. Pump my throat. Fucking ruin me. Fill my slutty mouth with your cum." I felt him pulse, a tremor running through the shaft. Yes. Almost. Please, just cum.
But he didn't. He groaned, low and frustrated, and pulled himself roughly out of my mouth with a wet pop. I gasped for air, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening cock.
"Trying," he muttered, looking down at himself, then at me, kneeling there, a mess. "Fuck. I am tapped out." He glanced at the clock. 11:58. The red numbers mocked me. His smirk returned, wider, crueler. "But... a deal's a deal, right? You need to swallow my cum today." He stepped back, his cock already softening. "Be right back."
He disappeared into his room. I stayed on my knees, trembling, watching the seconds tick away. 11:59. He emerged holding a small, clear plastic cup. It was half-full with a thick, opaque liquid, pearly white shot through with streaks of murky yellow. Clumps floated in it like islands in a viscous sea. The smell hit me even from a few feet away – ripe, pungent, the concentrated essence of him. Five times.
"Midnight special, sweetheart," he said, holding it out towards me. "Swallow it down. All of it. Before the clock strikes. Or pack your shit."
My gorge rose violently. I retched, turning my head away, bile scalding my throat. "No... Mark, please... I can't..."
"58 seconds," he said, his voice flat, final. "Drink it, or get the fuck out."
The world narrowed to the cup, the clotted mess inside it, the relentless march of the red digits. Fear was a cold knife in my chest, sharper than the disgust. Homelessness. Alone. In this body. The image was paralyzing.
With a sob that tore from somewhere primal, I grabbed the cup. The plastic was cool, the contents inside unnervingly warm, almost body temperature. The smell was overpowering – salty, musky decay. I squeezed my eyes shut. Just a protein shake. Just a fucking disgusting protein shake. I tipped the cup to my lips.
The texture was the worst. Thick, gelatinous ropes sliding over my tongue, coating it instantly. Clumps caught on my teeth, my palate. The taste exploded – intensely salty, deeply bitter, a putrid tang that made every muscle clench in revolt. It was like swallowing warm, congealed snot flavored with battery acid and old pennies. I gagged violently, my body convulsing, trying to expel the violation.
"Swallow!" Mark barked. "Don't you fucking dare spit it out!"
I forced my throat open. The cold slime slid down, thick and heavy, leaving a burning, rancid trail. I gulped convulsively, desperate to get it over with, my eyes streaming tears. More clumps. More bitter slime. The cup was empty. I dropped it, clattering to the floor, and collapsed forward onto my hands, retching dryly, the awful taste cemented in my mouth, the slimy weight sitting like lead in my stomach.
The digital clock flickered. 12:00.
Mark laughed, a short, harsh sound. "There. Deal fulfilled. For today." He turned, walking back towards his room, adjusting his sweats. "Sweet dreams, Ella."
I stayed on all fours on the stained carpet, shaking, the taste of his spent, congealed need thick on my tongue and curdling in my gut. The apartment walls seemed to close in, the lingering scents of sweat and cum and old pizza suddenly suffocating. The clock glowed its indifferent red, marking the first second of another day. Another day of the deal. Another day in this cage.