Ms. J was not my type. I don’t think that she was anyone’s type or that anyone was her type. By the way she dressed, I would have guessed she was a lesbian—and not the lipstick kind. My life and spank bank were full of taller, blonder, nicer women. How did I end up where I am with her and why do I stay here?
Ms. J is not her name. She lives in apartment J, which is right above mine. It’s a classic three-story walkup: garden apartments below street level, a half-flight stoop that leads to my level, and a further full flight of stairs up to hers.
When I first moved in, I introduced myself to the other tenants.
“Hi, my name is Tom Fenner. I’m the new guy in F.” was enough to get their names and maybe some small talk. But Ms. J hardly acknowledged me.
I didn’t know what to call her on those few occasions I needed to.
“Miss, could you hold the door?” when I was walking up the stoop with hands full. She didn’t.
“Ma’am, you dropped something,” when a piece of mail slipped out of her bundle. No thank you, just a dirty look when she turned around to pick it up.
She was reclusive, and the other tenants didn’t know her name or much about her. She had lived there for a long time and didn’t bother anybody, so it was live and let live.
I started thinking of her as Ms. J. One rainy day, she had set her wet umbrella aside when she picked up her mail. Seeing her half-way up the steps, I grabbed it and ran after her, “Ms. J! You left your umbrella.”
She seemed oblivious to me and kept walking. I held out the dripping item as I approached her, catching up as she got to her door.
“I’m Tom Fenner in F,” I repeated my earlier introduction, hoping to elicit a response. “I think this is yours.”
“It is,” she said flatly, taking it from me. I felt she was waiting for me to leave before opening her door, so I gave up expecting any thanks or acknowledgment and turned to go.”
“What did you call me?” she asked the back of my head.
“Ms. J,” I replied, pointing at the J on her door.
“I see,” she said dismissively. She pretended to fumble with the key until I was back on my floor. I heard the door open and close.
Her usual attire of shapeless shirts and generic jeans would have pegged her as a lesbian, but with no visible piercings or tattoos, and chaotic chin-length dark black hair, she didn’t fit the mold. I never saw her with another person of either sex.
One night, I brought home Jane, a friend with benefits. We’re both probably sevens, and happy to satisfy each other’s needs. It had been after midnight at the bar and I saw she was resisting the guy that was hitting on her. Catching her eye, I shrugged, indicating I was out of luck as well. She was walking out the front door by the time I brought my car around.
A friendly, blonde girl-next-door, with a sweet face and average boobs and butt, she enjoyed drama-free sex and gave as good as she got. She often was loud when she showed her appreciation, especially when she had too much to drink, which also might be the reason we were having sex. I was lapping her stubbly pussy—she was due for a wax—when she was suddenly silent and grabbed my head.
“Listen,” she whispered. Sure enough, sounds were coming from upstairs. The bedroom in apartment J would be right above mine, and the rule is if you can hear them, they can hear you.
It wasn’t a TV, but it was hard to discern particular words. The rhythm and intensity sure suggested someone doing what we were doing. Jane giggled and I got back to business, albeit at a lower volume.
Despite the interlude, Jane’s hands urged me to the main event, so I moved up on top of her. Slipping into her familiar cunt, I planted my mouth over hers, to remind her of the need for restraint. I don’t know why, but the idea of Ms. J doing it right above us turned me on, and I’m afraid I erupted sooner than I would have liked.
When it became clear my cock wasn’t going to do the job, I slid out of Jane. Not wanting her to lose momentum, I replaced my dick with three fingers and pressed the heel of my hand over her clit. Sucking her nearest nipple and half her tit into my mouth, I tongued the tip as I gently ground my right hand against her. She bucked against it; I quickly moved my left to muffle her squeal as she climaxed. Both satisfied, we spooned as she fell asleep.
With our silence, I could hear the sound from upstairs for a few more minutes. It just seemed to trail off with no final crescendo, so it left me no more certain what exactly we heard. But the idea of Ms. J with someone—man or woman—stoked my imagination.
After seeing Jane off early the next morning, I camped with my homemade café latte near my door, hoping to spy Ms. J’s visitor making a getaway. I saw only the usual tenants on their morning routines.
I cannot explain my growing obsession with Ms. J at this point. I did not find her attractive or interesting or even civil. As she was, she was probably a three; with a makeover, you might get her to a five. The kind of person who fills in spaces between people you might care about.
But things took a turn that changed everything.
It was my fault. I had an undeserved date with a redhead. Tall, thin, always well-dressed, she did payroll for a company I used to work for. I ran into her on the street and somehow talked her into having dinner with me. It was a surprise that she agreed, and I was acting like a girl, changing my outfit (do guys even think of it as an outfit?) several times, wanting to make a good impression. It took too long, and I was worried I would be late. In a rush on my way out, I yanked the front door of the building open. Unfortunately, it had Ms. J’s hand firmly attached to it, and I sent her sprawling to the floor.
“Fuck! Shit! Ow!” she screamed in monosyllabic pain. When she saw me, she switched to “Asshole! Cocksucker! Motherfucker! Shit-eating douchebag!” with ever longer and more descriptive attacks.
I profusely apologized and offered to help her back on her feet, but it was soon clear that it was more than a bruise.
“What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?” she whined to herself, over and over. The look of anger turned to something else—bewilderment, maybe fear.
“Should I call 911?” I asked, hoping the answer was no. Being on the hook for EMS was going to be expensive. I mentally sighed in relief as she definitively shook her head no.
“What can I do to help? Do you want me to call someone? I could drive you to the emergency room,” I was desperate to get her up off the floor.
Ms. J tried to stand up by herself but winced in pain. “Okay,” she said reluctantly, “help me get up.”
Her left leg was the problem, but she was able to use her right. By lifting under her arms from behind, we were able to get her upright. She couldn’t step on her left foot at all.
“Ms. J, I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything you want,” I was imagining the medical bills and the lawyer bills. Suddenly, she was calmer than I was.
“Look, what’s your name again?” she asked. The initial panic was gone, and she was back in control.
“Tom Fenner,” I replied.
“Tom,” she looked me up and down, trying to decide what to do. “Here’s the situation,” she paused, not sure how many details she needed to give me. “You said you have a car. There is somewhere you can take me.”
It was a blur helping her hop down the front steps and sitting her down until I could double-park my car and help her into it. She was short, maybe 120 pounds, so I could have carried her, but I wasn’t going to push my luck. She gave me an address to drive to and was talking to someone on the phone to let him know we were coming.
“What’s your phone number?” she asked, and she entered it into her phone. As we pulled up to the address, she said “Wait nearby. I’ll text you.”
The address was a restaurant. A burly waiter and a burlier busboy came out and pretty much carried her into a side door. I drove around the block looking for a place to park.
In the hour I had to wait, I had time to remember my date with the redhead. I called and apologized profusely, saying a friend had a medical emergency. Although half-true, it would not save me and I mourned that I’d never get another chance with her.
I also had time to feel stupid and guilty and to imagine various worst-case scenarios. Why was that restaurant or the door next to it the place to go for a medical diagnosis? If either of the pair that helped her inside decided I needed to be punished, I was in trouble.
The text Ms. J sent had no caller id, so I saved the number. When I drove around to pick her up, I was surprised to see her on crutches and with an orthopedic boot that went half-way up her left leg. I helped her into the car. She was clearly upset and sounded depressed as she mumbled “Three months” and “How am I gonna?” She shook her head, obviously wondering how to deal with this. I was trying to think of a scenario where I wasn’t in debt for 20 years.
“Pull over here,” she said when she saw a parking space. We weren’t yet half-way back to the apartment building. “Turn off the car. I need to figure something out.” I did as instructed.
After a few minutes of silence, she seemed to reach a decision.
“Okay, I assume you aren’t secretly a billionaire who can just write me a big check so I can get on with my life,” she didn’t wait for me to answer. “So the only way I can finish what I’m working on is…” she paused, thinking how to phrase it. “You’re going to be my slave for the next three months or however long it is until I’m back to normal.”
She waited a moment for the words to sink in. “I can’t move somewhere else. I can’t afford the time to relocate. I can’t take the disruption. I can’t be walking up and down those steps. So,” she didn’t give me time to analyze what she was saying, “you will be at my beck and call, twenty-four seven. Whatever I need, you’ll get. Whatever errands I want you to run, you’ll do. I don’t care if you have to take a long vacation or quit your job, this is non-negotiable.”
As a contract software developer, I set my own schedule and can mostly work at home, so it seemed like I could arrange it.
“You need to commit now, and I mean commit,” she emphasized. “I don’t want to use Plan B, and you wouldn’t like it either. But if I have to switch to Plan B in a month or two, it will be even worse—for both of us.”
“Ms. J,” I said, wishing I knew her name, wanting to sound sincere, “I will. Whatever you need, whatever you want me to do, anything I can do to help, just say it and I will drop whatever I’m doing and run up the stairs.”
Her small hand grabbed my right wrist, squeezing it like a pipe wrench, pulling my hand away from the steering wheel where it had idly rested while we talked. She turned to look at me; for the first time, her dark eyes fixed on mine.
“I take promises very seriously,” she said.
“I promise,” I said. She released my wrist and I had to rub it to relieve the pain of her grip.
“Take me home,” she said.
I double-parked while I helped her up the stoop and through the door. I was going to help her all the way to her door, but she dismissed me, saying “I’ll text you.”
I watched her go up, a step at a time, methodically, but without difficulty.
The rest of the evening, I tried to assess my situation. I didn’t have any immediate deadlines or meetings, so I was pretty flexible for the foreseeable future. If all my mistake cost me was running errands for Ms. J for a while, I figured I got off easy. I finally called it a night.
Sleep was elusive as I replayed the events of the evening. I must have finally dozed off because I was asleep when my phone woke me at 2 AM. It was a text from Ms. J. “Take a shower, shave, brush your teeth, come up. 10 minutes.”
I wondered if she was a night owl, in which case I would need to adjust my sleep schedule to hers. I jumped out of bed and moved as fast as I could. I didn’t want to make noise knocking on her door at that hour, so I sent a text “Here.”
“It’s open. 2:12,” she pointed out I was two minutes late.
Stepping into her apartment for the first time, I tried not to look like I was inspecting it. It seemed ordinary enough, nothing fancy, nothing expensive. My eyes were focused on Ms. J, however. She sat on the couch with her boot and other leg up on it, in a long, bright red, quilted robe with Japanese flowers, certainly the most colorful and feminine thing I had ever seen her wear.
“Come here,” she pointed to a spot on the floor in front of her, plainly not inviting me to sit. “Tom, I am a private person, for many reasons,” at least she remembered my name. “Circumstances,” the word seemed bitter in her mouth, “have dictated that I must reveal some things to you. You must understand that with my trust come severe consequences if you violate that trust.”
“This is a test,” her voice was ominous. “Once the test begins, if you fail the test, or if you subsequently fail to meet your commitment to me, you will incur those consequences. You must make your choice now. Leave immediately, and I will change to Plan B, in which case your life will become ten times more miserable than the problems you have caused me.”
Her eyes bored a hole through my head as she gave the ultimatum, “Or say ‘I am your slave, Ms. J’ and I will begin the test.”
So many things crashed through my mind. Severe consequences, failure, slave. I knew nothing about Ms. J. Yes, she had called herself that. What had I gotten myself into? The undefined Plan B might not be as bad for me as the dire consequences of failing at Plan A, but she clearly wanted to make Plan A work.
I needed more information, but the intense expression on her face told me I wasn’t going to get any. Her eyes demanded an answer.
Frozen, my mind on overload, I heard myself say “I am your slave, Ms. J.”
She seemed to relax a little, perhaps relieved of the fear that I would have chosen to leave.
“Kneel here,” she pointed to the floor in front of the couch. “Lock your hands behind your back.”
As I got into position, she stretched out on the couch, rolling onto her left side facing away from me. She unwrapped the robe; suddenly her naked ass was right in front of me.
“Lick my asshole,” she ordered.
How many shocks can one brain handle in a few seconds? Ms. J had just shown me her asshole and commanded me to lick it. Thick, black hair filled the crack of her ass and ran toward her pussy. Fine black hair also seemed to cover all of the olive skin that I saw from her ass down to her slippers.
I had licked assholes before, but none on a first date. I prefer shaved or waxed but have encountered hairy ones. But none were like this.
I don’t know if I hesitated a noticeable amount of time, but she didn’t comment on it. Angling my nose toward her tailbone and trying to maintain my balance on my knees as I leaned over her, I pressed my mouth to the target, extending my tongue into the tangle of fur.
The taste of soap suggested she had recently bathed, but her natural flavor was still apparent. Dampening and parting the hair somewhat let me find the puckered opening. It would have been easier if I could have used my hands to spread her cheeks and position myself, but her instructions had been clear.
This was a test, as she said. Unlike cunnilingus, which I love to do for the taste and smell and intimate contact, analingus is something I do for someone else to enjoy. It usually took the right woman and the promise of something in return to get me to sign up for that duty. With whatever compelled me, I showed Ms. J my technique, licking, using my nose and lips, exploring from the top of her crack to the back of her cunt.
The abruptness with which it started gave me no chance to know what the point was. Did she intend to enjoy it or was she just confirming my submission? As she let me continue, I was wondering if I should probe deeper.
“Stick your tongue in,” Ms. J preempted my decision. She moved her right leg forward, giving me better ingress as I pushed my face into her hairy crevice. My chin pressed against her taint, and I felt her fingers graze it, revealing her activity on her pussy. Inspired that this was more than just a test of my willingness to follow orders, I drove to breach her sphincter.
As most do reflexively, her anus resisted the penetration. Circling and repeating the probe a few times caused her to relax and allow me to reach the limits of my tongue. She pushed her ass back against me, moving to give me the most access. I fucked it with my tongue a half-dozen thrusts, then withdrew and flicked and teased before starting again, each time adding a few more fucks.
Her first moan distracted me, uncertain if it was a command I had missed. As her breathing became more irregular and the moans got louder, I knew I should stick with what was working. It became more challenging as her ass squirmed in anticipation of her climax. I wanted to sink my fingers into those round cheeks so I could stay on target, but I kept them laced behind me.
She held her breath and I felt her ring tighten on my tongue, forcing me out. I fought back in and kept battling against the clenching, continuing until well after the main spasms had finished. It grew easier as she relaxed and sighed with the pleasure of her orgasm.
Without warning, she slowly rolled onto her back, shoving me away. Her eyes half-closed, she was unaware or unconcerned how she displayed herself to me. The robe was open; her large breasts flopped to the sides. I would not have guessed their dimensions from the loose shirts she usually wore. The lush delta of her crotch had a tributary descending from her navel. With the wild coating of hair from her waist down, she was primal, untampered, untamed.
I tried not to gawk as I waited for her to recover. After a few minutes, she sat up and closed her robe.
“Be here at 8 AM with a double cappuccino, one sugar,” she said. “Do not let anyone see you coming or going. You will always present yourself clean, shaved, teeth brushed, properly dressed. When you are summoned, the door will be unlocked. Text me when you are coming and then enter.”
With a wave of her hand, she dismissed me.
That trip upstairs hadn’t made it any easier to sleep. On top of the guilt, worry, and confusion, I just couldn’t resolve my feelings about Ms. J. Was that sex or was that something else?
A test, she said. I guess I passed—if that was the end of it.
