The House – Pay up Elias

I

My name is Rosa, and I’m a calico who – for better or worse – runs a lodging house. It used to belong to my parents, and I grew up here, but since their passing I’ve taken it upon myself to restore the house back to its original glory. The lodgers are a temporary solution to fund the work, or they would be, if any of them actually paid rent.

Not that I have many left. With the flood, they’ve now dwindled down to two. There’s Jen, who is an aging hippie who “pays” me with spirit stones and occasional produce from her garden, and then there’s Elias.

Elias is a stray, a stray and a slacker. He tells me he’s a fisherman, but he did also tell me he was eighteen when he moved in, and I find both of those facts dubious at best. He does catch enough to keep himself fed, and for the past three months, has also “paid” his rent with the occasional fish. Understandably though, fish does not go a long way in repairing the plumbing.

The stalled renovations and the lack of proper lodgers are far from my only frustrations. The flood has made us quite isolated, and Jen and Elias are the only people I’ve seen for quite some time now. I’m in my thirties, for a little while more at least, quite physically active, and, well, what I suppose I am trying to get at here is that I do get quite restless at times. 

Oh alright. Horny. I get horny.

There are of course ways to deal with that. Some of my tools serve a dual purpose, especially those with the big rubberized grips, but they are just temporary solutions, quick fixes, like much of my work around the house now.

And there’s Elias, wandering around in just that stupid beanie of his, a towel wrapped around his waist. A towel that shifts with the presence beneath, especially when he comes down the stairs. Clearly a notable presence as well, the way it pushes at the fabric while swaying underneath. He does have a good body too, a good chest, effortlessly fit in the way men (or barely men) around his age often are.  

I know none of this excuses any of what I did, and I am not trying to say it was in any way justified, but  what happened, happened.

II

The plumbing at the house is at best temperamental, so it is hardly unusual for me to be working on Elias’ bathroom. With him fishing down at the pier, it was ever so easy to pick a nice, shady spot in the wall, and then drill through it to the empty rooms next door.

I barely slept that night, worried I might miss him getting up in the morning. Not that he does. Elias almost always sleeps into the afternoon, having stayed up with Jen watching TV until all hours. I used to do that with them, but being unable to hire builders to help me now, I rarely have the energy or the inclination.

I must have sat on the floor of that empty room for an hour, just leaning back to the wall with my head next to the peephole, my ears flicking at every creak, until I finally heard the soft thump of his footsteps. Looking through the hole, which afforded me a perfect view of the shower, I could see him drop his towel and step into the tub.

That blackfurred rump spoke of every hour he had spent squatting on the pier, the firm muscles shifting under his short fur as he lifted first one foot in, and then the other, a brief glimpse of a weighty sac there. I could see so much more though as he turned his side towards me, sporting a glorious example of morning wood.

I gasped a little, I could not help it, looking at that thing. If I had rushed in with my tape measure, I could have handily made sure, but even a visual appraisal put him soundly at eight inches. And what a good, solid eight inches too, with a dark, upward curving shaft and plump glans, full of eager need that I could well idenfity with.

While I got onto my knees and opened up my shorts, he ran a little water and soaped up that length, starting to stroke it slowly with a low groan the kind I had never heard him make before.

I slid a hand inside my panties, caressing my already slick folds as I kept one eye focused on the stolen performance, on how he stroked his hard cock while rubbing his other hand over that lovely chest. He was muttering something as he pleasured himself, but it was too indistinct for me to make out.

I did not care though, kneading on my needy flesh as I watched him do likewise. My tongue slid from my mouth as if to try and reach for him, imagining tasting that dark cock, the mustyness of the night still on it. Guiding it into my mouth and sucking off this “fisherman”, this slothfull boy who lived under my roof.

Even with my overflowing excitement, he arrived first, as one would only expect of a youth like him. But what a glorious arrival it was, heavy ropes of his seed launching forth and hitting the tiles in front of him, landing on the faucets and hanging from them in obscene strands. Was some of what I had thought to be limescale just remnants of mornings like these?

Biting my lip, I managed to keep my moans contained until he turned on the water and hid them from his ears. I peaked while watching him lean his hands to the wall, his spent cock bucking and swaying as it slowly lost its firmness, the water making his black fur glisten.

My afterglow was soon soured though, as he grasped his shaft and began to relieve himself down the drain.

That little shit!