But it was getting excessive.

Gunderson had her over a barrel and he expected a blow-job every morning. And it seemed to Crystal – although, being an innocent small-town girl, she couldn't be sure – that she ought to have at least a two-bedroom place, or even a penthouse, in return for swallowing a load of cum every morning.

Then, too, Gunderson was not an attractive man.

His prick was okay, though. It was big and tasty, and he never took very long to get his rocks off. So if she closed her eyes, or kept her gaze on his balls, while she made believe he was a movie star, it wasn't so bad.

If only he were a bit more polite and gentlemanly about it, she thought. But, being a slumlord, Gunderson knew nothing of civility. He demonstrated that now.

He rapped more demandingly on the door. "C'mon, you deadbeat bitch! I know you're in there!"

She sighed and saw no way out of it. "Come on in, Al," she called. The door flew open and Gunderson stepped in, an evil grin on his ugly face.

He was a big brawny fellow, wearing his customary outfit of baggy tweed trousers – his shooting britches, Crystal wryly called them – and a stained undershirt under the suspenders that held the pants up.

The top of his head was bald and he had a fringe of hair, like a slipped halo, circling the dome just above his jutting ears. His eyebrows were bushy, as if to compensate for his slick skull, and he had bristles of hair sticking from his nostrils.

Still, it could have been worse.

Suppose she had had to fuck him in the missionary position, face to face?

Even when she was down on his prick, the garlic on his breath was overwhelming. Crystal, a delicate young lady, would never, ever have kissed him on the lips.

It was bad enough to kiss his cock.

Gunderson strode up to the bed, where she was sitting cross-legged, the newspaper spread out on her lap like a paper chastity belt.