Miss Jenkins, I swear—this ain’t about the rent this time, Mr. Holloway wheezed, leaning against the doorframe of her apartment like a deflating balloon. His sweat-stained undershirt clung to his belly, and his belt buckle barely clung to his pants at all.
Tasha Jenkins didn’t even look up from her laptop. Then why you knockin’ at nine PM, Mr. Holloway Ain’t you got somewhere else to be Like, I dunno, anywhere but here She tapped her nails against the keyboard, the neon pink polish catching the dim light of her desk lamp. The TV murmured in the background—some true crime documentary about a guy who got what was coming to him.
Mr. Holloway’s grin spread like spilled grease, his yellowed teeth glinting in the dim hallway light. Now that’s more like it, he slurred, already shuffling forward before Tasha had fully stepped aside. The scent of cheap whiskey and unwashed skin rolled off him in waves as he squeezed past her, his belly brushing against her arm. She forced a smile, her fingers tightening around the doorknob behind her back.
The apartment was warm, lit only by the flickering TV and the soft glow of her laptop. Holloway’s eyes darted to her unmade bed before landing on the half-empty wine bottle on the coffee table. Well ain’t this cozy, he chuckled, collapsing onto her couch with a wheeze. The springs groaned under his weight. Tasha closed the door softly, locking it with a quiet click.
Mr. Holloway shifted his bulk on the couch, his thighs spreading wider as his meaty palm slid down his sweat-dampened pants. The fabric strained against the unmistakable outline of his erection, thick and insistent beneath his grip. He let out a low chuckle, fingers kneading himself through the cloth with a grotesque familiarity. See what you do to me, Tasha His voice was syrup-thick, a mockery of charm. Ain’t no woman got me this hard in years.
Tasha didn’t flinch. Her fingers, still curled around the doorknob, went perfectly still. The TV murmured something about a suspect’s alibi crumbling—how convenient. She exhaled through her nose, slow, measured. Mr. Holloway, she said, voice flat as a pressed penny, you best take your hand off yourself before I take it off for you.
Holloway’s grin widened, his fingers still working himself through his pants as his gaze flicked to the pair of strappy black heels kicked off near the door. Oh, you wear these for me, Tasha he slurred, leaning forward with a wet sniff. Smells like you been walkin’ all day in ’em. His tongue darted out over his cracked lips. Bet they taste even better.
Tasha’s jaw tightened, her fingers flexing against the doorknob. The TV droned on about forensic evidence—fibers, fingerprints, the kind of patience it took to build a case. She inhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate, the way she did when counting reps at the gym. You’re gonna wanna step back, she said, voice low as a power line hum.
Tasha took one deliberate step forward, her bare feet silent on the creaky floorboards. The dim light from the TV played across her face, sharpening the angles of her cheekbones. Alright, Holloway, she said, voice steady as a sniper’s breath. Spell it out for me. What exactly do you want here
Holloway’s fingers finally stilled against his crotch, his grin sliding into something wetter, needier. C’mon, baby, he wheezed, spreading his thighs wider until the couch springs shrieked. Ain’t it obvious You been teasin’ me for months—wearin’ them tight little sweaters, bendin’ over to get your mail—
Tasha let her shoulders relax, her lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile as she slid onto the couch beside him. The cushions dipped under her weight, pressing her thigh against Holloway’s damp, meaty leg. You know what, Mr. Holloway she purred, tilting her head just enough to catch the flicker of surprise in his bloodshot eyes. Since you’re already halfway there—why don’t you let me help you out Her fingers trailed lazily up his thigh, stopping just shy of the straining fabric of his pants. You want my hands… or my feet She hooked one bare foot over his knee, flexing her toes inches from his crotch. Go on. Stick it out. Let me see what all the fuss is about.
Holloway’s breath hitched, his jowls quivering as his grin turned rabid. Atta girl, he slurred, fumbling with his belt buckle. The metal clinked, loose and pathetic, before he yanked his pants down just enough to free his erection—thick, flushed, and already glistening at the tip. He groaned as the air hit him, his hips jerking upward like a dog begging for scraps. See that, baby All for you. Been dreamin’ ‘bout them pretty lips wrapped around—
Tasha’s stomach lurched as Holloway’s cock sprang free—veiny, flushed pink, and curved slightly to the left like a question mark. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip, catching the blue glow of the TV. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and forced her lips into a slow, impressed smile. Well now, she murmured, tilting her head like she was admiring a particularly grotesque museum piece. Ain’t you just fulla surprises
Holloway wheezed out a laugh, his belly jiggling as he stroked himself with clumsy enthusiasm. Told you, baby. Still got it. His fingers left damp trails on his shaft, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet apartment.
Tasha let her bare foot drag lazily up Holloway’s inner thigh, her toes curling just shy of his twitching cock. The skin there was clammy, the coarse hair damp with sweat. She could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the sour musk of unwashed skin and cheap liquor. Holloway’s breath hitched, his hips jerking upward as if pulled by strings.
Like that, huh she murmured, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness that didn’t reach her eyes. Her toes brushed the underside of his shaft, the skin oddly smooth compared to the rest of him. A shudder ran through Holloway’s body, his fingers digging into the couch cushions as he let out a wet, whimpering moan.
Tasha’s toes stopped just as Holloway’s hips bucked wildly, his cock twitching against her skin like a dying fish. She could see the telltale flush creeping up his chest, the way his balls tightened—pathetic, really, how predictable men were when they thought with their dicks. She withdrew her foot with deliberate slowness, watching his face crumple like a deflated whoopee cushion. Oh no you don’t, she crooned, tapping his thigh with her big toe. We’re just gettin’ started, Mr. Holloway. You don’t get to pop off that easy.
Holloway whined, his fingers scrabbling at the couch fabric as if he could claw his way to release. C’mon, baby—I can’t— His voice cracked, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. A thin string of pre-cum stretched between her toenail and his tip before snapping, landing on his belly with a wet plop.
Tasha stretched like a cat, arching her back until Holloway’s gaze locked onto her breasts straining against her tank top. Stay right there, she murmured, brushing her fingertips along his sweating forehead. Gonna grab somethin’ to make this real special for you. His choked groan followed her as she sauntered to the kitchen, the sway of her hips exaggerated just for him.
The freezer door hissed open. Ice cubes clattered as she dumped them into a ziplock bag, her other hand already sliding the largest butcher knife from its wooden block. The blade caught the overhead light—cold, sharp, decisive. She tested its weight before tucking it beneath a dish towel in the crook of her arm, then yanked two frayed jump ropes from the junk drawer. Their plastic handles clicked together like teeth.
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