The notice was white paper, red letters, taped to her door. Three days. Twelve hundred dollars. She stood in the hallway reading it, the pink micro bikini top barely covering her, pigtails swinging as she shook her head. The hoops in her ears caught the fluorescent light.

She knocked on his door. Unit 2B. Mr. Carver, her landlord, sixty-something, divorced, always polite when he p*ssed her in the hall. Always looking. She'd made sure of it, walking around with the blinds open, letting him see her in the morning, letting him imagine.

He opened the door. His eyes went to her immediately-the bikini top, the pigtails, the hoops swinging slightly as she shifted her weight.

"I saw the notice," she said. "I need to talk to you about it."

He let her in. She sat on the edge of his couch and explained. The job that fell through. The check that bounced. The twelve hundred she didn't have.

"I've been a good tenant," she said. "I pay on time, usually. I keep the place clean."

"You do walk around with the blinds open," he said.

"That bother you?"

"No," he said. "No, it doesn't."

They sat in silence. She could hear traffic through the open window, the city continuing indifferent to her problems.

"Is there something I could do?" she asked. "To make it up to you. I don't want to leave. I know you don't want me to leave either."

She watched him understand. Watched the shift in his face, the calculation, the decision.

"A bl*wjob," he said. "Sloppy. You do that, I'll c*ll the twelve hundred paid in full. One time offer."

She didn't hesitate. Didn't pretend to think about it. She was already on her knees in front of him, the carpet rough against her skin, reaching for his belt.

He was hard before she got him out. Thick, heavy in her hand, the skin hot and slightly flushed. She looked up at him, made eye contact, the hoops in her ears swinging as she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

She worked him with her tongue first, swirling around the head, getting him wet. Then she went deeper.

The first gag surprised her. He was bigger than she'd expected. Her throat closed around him, her eyes watered, and she pulled back with saliva already stringing between her lips and his c*ck. She went back to it. Took him as deep as she could, felt him h*t the back of her throat, gagged again, kept going. The sound was wet, obscene. She let the saliva build, let it spill from her mouth, used it to coat her hands as she stroked what she couldn't fit.

He started moving his hips. Slowly at first, then harder, f*cking her face. She tried to relax her throat, tried to take more of him, but he was thick and she was struggling. Tears ran down her face, mixing with the spit, her mascara starting to run. She kept her hands on his thighs, steadying herself, letting him use her mouth.

The bikini top stayed on. The pink triangles, the matching hoops, the pigtails-he seemed to like the picture she made, ruined and still accessorized. She looked up at him when she could, when he pulled back enough to let her breathe, and the expression on his face told her this was worth twelve hundred dollars to him.

He pulled out suddenly, wet and shining with her spit. She gasped, lungs b*rning, and he grabbed her hair-hands in the pigtails, using them to position her.

She wrapped both hands around him, still slick with saliva, and started stroking. Fast, tight. He was close-she could feel it in the tension of his thighs, the way his breathing had gone ragged.

He came in her mouth first. She'd opened to breathe, and he took the opportunity, thrusting between her lips as he spilled. Then he pulled out and kept coming. Across her cheek, her chin, her closed eyelids. She kept her hands moving, milking him, and he directed the rest onto her chest, onto the pink bikini top, onto her breasts where they swelled against the triangles of fabric.

It was everywhere. In her hair, dripping from her chin, pooling in her cleavage. She kept stroking him until he was finished, until his hands relaxed in her pigtails and his breathing started to slow.

She looked up at him. C*m on her face, her massive tits covered in it, the pink bikini top soaked and stained. She smiled, despite everything, despite the taste in her mouth and the b*rn in her throat.

He looked down at her. At the mess he'd made, the picture she made, the hoops still swinging slightly in her ears.

"Paid in full," he said. "I'll mark it down."

She stood up slowly, legs numb from kneeling, and walked to his bathroom to clean herself off. The blinds were open across the courtyard. She made sure to stand in front of them while she wiped her face, while she adjusted her bikini top, while she fixed her pigtails.

Twelve hundred dollars. One bl*wjob. Rent was due, and it was paid.

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