Remind her firmly that the rent is past due

“Good morning, Alison.” I greet the pretty blonde when she steps into the kitchen to get her breakfast. She’s wearing a white tank top that curves nicely in the right places and a pair of jeans that have a half-dozen or so rips in them on each leg and that are cut so low on her hips that there is a two inch gap between them and where her shirt ends. Frankly, the look is pretty slutty and I wonder what her father would say if he saw his little princess showing off her body like this.

What would she do if a man took advantage of that unspoken invitation and just pushed his hand down the front of her jeans? Everything I knew about her sheltered upbringing suggests that she'd have no idea how to deal with someone who takes her up on her 'come an get me' attire. Luckily, she doesn't notice my lingering look as she takes her box of Strawberry Special K® from the cupboard and pours it into the bowl waiting for her at her seat. I hand her the milk and move back to the sink where my breakfast dishes are waiting and where I can watch her without her noticing.

“Thank-you Mr. P.” The alto voice is soft and smooth with a slight hint of Tennessee twang. “I’m sorry about last night...” her cheeks brighten, “Richard being so loud and all…” her gaze drops to the bowl in front of her as she stumbles to an awkward pause. We go through this ritual almost every morning after one of Dick’s booty-calls and I’ve come up with a standard phrase.

“Hey,” I put the milk back in the refrigerator for her, “this is a no judgment house remember? I’m not your dad.” Thank goodness for that, because the thoughts I’ve been having lately are most distinctly not fatherly.

“I know Mr. P,” (short for Patterson) she flashes me a shy smile that fades as quickly as it came, “I just wish he wouldn’t yell like that.” If I were her, my problem would be with the fact that I had yet to hear her cry out in passion, not the grunts and vocalizations of her boyfriend - no matter how loud.

As she picks at her food I finish wiping down the counter and putting away my breakfast dishes, trying to decide the best way to approach the topic of her rent. This is the one downside of being a landlord, but there is no point in putting it off.

“Hey Alison?” I begin carefully, “I know Outback is closed and all, but I’m wondering when I’m going to see a rent check?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. P, really I am.” Alison’s big eyes lift from her half-filled bowl and find mine with what I am beginning to suspect is a skill she’s developed over that past few years in her interaction with males. I’ve had plenty of experience with teary-eyed students wanting extensions on assignments, and for the most part I thought I was immune to this kind of emotional manipulation, but she’s good. “I’m starting a new job today, and I should get my first paycheck on Friday.” To be honest, I was a little disappointed that my plan to have my own personal sex doll was falling apart before I even got started, then I started listening to her again more attentively. “…the knives practically sell themselves so all I have to do is find the people to show them to.”

Luckily Alison misinterpreted my smile to be relief that I'd be getting my rent money. If she knew how few students ever made any real money selling those knives she have real reason to be concerned. As a teacher I've been contacted over a dozen times by former students and out of all of them only one student seemed to have the confidence and charisma to do the job with any success. Alison, as sweet and good natured as she was would be a horrible sales rep, and to do it all over skype or facetime or zoom made a difficult sell next to impossible.

I let her talk me into sitting through her sales pitch after classes that afternoon, and although I didn't buy anything I did offer her some helpful hints about what I thought were the best features of the knives.

“Thank-you for listening to me Mr. P.” Alison surprised me with a hug, "you've been really great about this whole thing." I held her against me for maybe a half second longer than was appropriate, but who was I to pass up on the feeling of her soft breasts pressing against my chest or her gasp of surprise in my ear as I squeezed her tight.

“I hope this works out for you, Alison.” I tell her as she packs up the demo kit. “If you can't find a way to pay me your rent I'm going to have to look for another tenant.”

“Please Mr. P, all I need is a chance.” The panic on her pretty face at the thought of being thrown out of her rooms is unmistakable. It is pretty clear that she doesn't have the resources to pay the first-last and security deposit required by most landlords. Over the two months that we've been sharing a roof, I've got to know a little bit of her background. She talks about how hard it was to meet boys in the single-sex religious schools that her parents sent her to all her life and that she had to fight to come to Wesleyan even with the generous scholarship that they offered. Her father had expected that she take classes at St. Theresa's and live at home and he was not at all happy when his little girl showed a spark of defiance. He would probably be delighted to have his little princess come home with her tail between her legs.

Her best option might be to move in with Dick, but that would be a damn shame, so I soften my tone a little to calm her down.

“Don't worry, Alison.” I smile paternally, “I'm sure everything will work out fine.”