If you're new here, don't forget to vote! It helps me write faster!

Enjoy the story!!

Grief has a strange way of making you grow up in an instant. Two years ago, I was just another twenty-something figuring out life, but a terrible accident changed the trajectory of everything. In a single moment, I lost my parents and my aunt, leaving me as the sole survivor and the only child to carry the weight of an entire family's legacy.

Now, at twenty-five, I am the owner of a small but sturdy apartment building—a gift from my late aunt, who had never married and had treated me like the daughter she never had. While my friends are out worrying about their next promotion or weekend party, I am busy with property taxes, leaking pipes, and the constant hum of responsibility.

The building is a modest three-story structure. I live in the ground-floor home, which is surrounded by a small garden that has become my sanctuary. It's where I spend my mornings before my 9-5 job, tending to my jasmine and succulents, finding peace in the soil. The first floor has two separate units, and there is a single, cozy bachelor's room perched on the terrace.

Being a young, female homeowner isn't easy. In a city full of modern PG (Paying Guest) accommodations, I have to fight to keep my rooms filled. I've dealt with all kinds—families who try to talk down the rent because they think I'm too young to know the market, and potential tenants who act like they're doing me a favor by staying there. But after a lot of trial and error, I finally found a decent balance of people.

My newest tenants are a couple in their early thirties. They were a breath of fresh air compared to the usual quirky or difficult applicants. They have a great sense of humor and a maturity that keeps things easy. They always greet me with a genuine smile, and we chat about the weather or the garden whenever we cross paths. They make the building feel a bit more like a home and less like a business.

The other two units are occupied by bachelors who keep to themselves. On the first floor, there's a man I rarely see; I call him the "Ghost Tenant." He's always traveling for work, using the room more like a storage unit for his belongings than a home. But I can't complain—the rent is always in my account on the first of the month, like clockwork.

Then there's the tenant in the terrace room. He works a standard day shift and is a man of few words. We have a polite, unspoken agreement of privacy; we just greet each other with a quick nod if we happen to cross paths on the stairs while I'm heading up to check the water tank or hang my laundry.

For two years, this has been my life—quiet, organized, and predictable. I've worked hard to heal the wounds of the past by keeping everything in its place. But as I've learned, life doesn't stay predictable for long. All it takes is one small oversight—one forgotten rent payment—to pull back the curtain on the lives my tenants lead behind closed doors.

***********

Two months had passed since the new couple moved in, and my quiet life had fallen into a comfortable routine. My "Ghost Tenant" on the first floor continued to be a shadow, sending his rent via wire transfer without a word. The bachelor on the terrace was just as reliable, handing me an envelope of cash every month after his shift.

But for the first time, my new tenants—the friendly couple in 1B—were late. It had been two days since the due date. It wasn't a big deal, but as a young landlord, I knew I had to be firm about the rules so they didn't get lax. Around 12:30 PM, I decided to head upstairs. I told myself it was just for the rent, but part of me wanted to do a quick "check-in" to see how they were treating the apartment.

I reached their landing and knocked softly. No answer. I knocked again, a bit firmer. Still nothing. Thinking maybe the wife, who was usually home, was in the shower or napping, I gave the door one last, heavy knock.

To my surprise, the door wasn't just unlocked; it wasn't even latched. It creaked open a few inches under the force of my hand.

"Hello? Mrs. Sharma?" I called out, pushing the door open a bit wider. I figured she might have just stepped out to the terrace or the kitchen.

I stepped into the living room and my heart stopped.

They weren't in the kitchen. They were on the sofa, right in the center of the room, completely lost in each other. They were half-naked, a tangle of limbs and heat. The shock was like a physical weight, pinning me to the spot. My mind went blank, my eyes lingering on the curve of her waist and the intensity of his grip on her before I finally found my voice.

"Oh! Umm..." I let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh, my face burning. "I am so sorry! I... I'll just come back later for the rent. Please, continue!"

I turned to bolt, but the woman's voice stopped me. It wasn't angry or embarrassed; it was breathless and strangely calm.

"Wait! Hey, it's okay," she called out. I heard the rustle of fabric as they moved. "Don't go. We're so sorry if we made you uncomfortable. We thought we had the afternoon to ourselves and forgot to bolt the door. Give us just a second?"

I stood with my back to them, my pulse thudding in my ears. After a minute of muffled whispers, she told me it was okay to turn around. When I did, they were sitting on the sofa, draped in robes, looking flushed but surprisingly welcoming.

I sat in the armchair opposite them, clutching my ledger like a shield. "I'm sorry to barge in," I cleared my throat, trying to regain my "landlady" persona. "The rent was due two days ago. I just wanted to make sure everything was alright with the apartment and maybe discuss a more reliable payment method? Like the online transfers my other tenant uses?"

"Of course," the husband said, his voice a low, steady rumble. He was leaning back, watching me with an unreadable expression. "That's much better. We just got distracted with the move-in... and other things."

Mrs. Sharma smiled—a slow, lingering smile. "Let me get you some water, honey. You look a bit flustered."

She stood up and walked to the kitchen. When she returned with a tray, she seemed to lose her footing on the edge of the rug. The glass tipped, and cold water splashed directly across the front of my thin, white silk blouse.

"Oh my god! I'm so clumsy!" she cried, setting the tray down and rushing toward me with a fluffy white towel.

"It's okay, really, I can just go downstairs and change," I said, looking down at how the wet silk was now clinging transparently to my skin.

"No, no, let me help," she insisted. She began to pat the towel against my face, then moved down to my neck. Her touch was soft, but as she moved to my shoulders, the movements slowed. She wasn't just drying me; she was stroking the skin.

The air in the room shifted. The "business" talk was gone. I looked up and saw her eyes—they were dark, heavy with a seductive heat. Before I could process it, she stepped between my legs and sat directly on my lap, her weight warm and firm against me.

"You've been such a good landlord to us," she whispered, her hands moving to my chest. She wasn't gentle anymore; she began to knead the soft tissue through the damp silk, her thumbs grazing me in a way that made a low moan catch in my throat.

I should have pushed her off. I should have left. But the sensation was intoxicating. Instead of resisting, I found my hands moving to her hips, pulling her closer, feeling the supple curve of her butt.

She leaned in and captured my lips in a deep, desperate kiss. The towel dropped to the floor, forgotten. Her hands were all over me, pressing and squeezing, while I felt myself melting into the chair.

I opened my eyes for a second, the kiss still ongoing, and saw the husband standing right behind her. He wasn't upset; he was smirking, his eyes roaming over the two of us. He reached out and gently took a handful of his wife's hair, pulling her back just enough to break the kiss.

"I think the landlady deserves a proper welcome, don't you?" he murmured.

They led me to the sofa, their hands never leaving my skin. I felt a flicker of logic—don't let him lock the door—but as he turned the deadbolt, the sound was strangely final and exciting.

"Why are you locking it?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Because," she whispered, sliding the wet blouse off my shoulders and tossing it aside. "We want to show you how much we appreciate this place. We're going to worship you today."

The Worship

The air in the room felt thick enough to taste, heavy with the scent of her perfume and the raw, masculine heat radiating from him. I was pinned against the soft cushions of the sofa, a position that should have felt vulnerable, but under their gaze, I felt like I was being placed on a pedestal. It truly was a deliberate assault on my senses; every time I tried to focus on one sensation, another would bloom elsewhere, leaving me breathless and reeling.

Mrs. Sharma leaned over me, her silk robe falling open to reveal the soft, glowing skin of her shoulders. She pressed her chest against mine, the friction of her skin against my sensitized peaks sending sparks through my nervous system. She began to whisper into my ear—words that were a far cry from the polite tenant I had known. She told me how beautiful I looked when I was undone, how they had watched me from their window and imagined exactly this. Her voice was a low, sultry purr, filled with "nasty" little praises that made my blood run hot.

"You're so perfect," she breathed, her lips grazing my earlobe. "So soft... we've wanted to do this since the day we signed the lease."

While she occupied my mind and my upper body, the husband was focused entirely on my lower half. I felt the weight of his large hands gripping my inner thighs, pulling me to the very edge of the sofa. The contrast was staggering—the delicate, flowery softness of his wife above me and the rougher, demanding strength of his hands below. When his tongue finally found my center, I let out a sharp cry, my fingers knotting into the wife's hair as I arched my back.

He was an expert, moving with a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. Every time the heat began to coil in my gut, every time I felt the pressure building toward a breaking point, they would sense it. He would pull back just an inch, his breath hot against my skin, while she would transition from teasing whispers to soft, lingering kisses on my neck. They were playing with me, balancing me on the very edge of a cliff and refusing to let me fall.

"Please," I finally whimpered, my head tossing back. "Don't stop... please."

They exchanged a look over my body—a dark, triumphant flash of shared intent—and then, they finally stopped the teasing. He increased the pressure, his tongue finding a frantic, driving rhythm, while she began to knead my breasts with a firm, possessive grip.

When the orgasm finally hit, it didn't just ripple through me—it shattered me. It was more intense than anything I had ever experienced, a white-hot explosion that made my vision blur. I felt my body shaking, my muscles seizing in a long, sustained release, and they both held me steady. He kept his hands locked on my hips, anchoring me, while she held my face between her hands, kissing me through the waves of pleasure until I finally went limp against the cushions.

The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of our synchronized breathing. But the heat wasn't gone; it had just evolved into something more communal.

I watched, dazed and glowing, as the dynamic shifted. They finally turned their attention toward each other, their bodies moving in a practiced, beautiful rhythm that spoke of years of intimacy. But they didn't leave me as an observer. They pulled me into the center of their gravity.

I reached out, my hands exploring the smooth curve of her back and the hard muscles of his shoulders. I found myself caught in a blurred mess of three people—my mouth finding his in a deep, salt-tinged kiss while my other hand moved to her, feeling the "jiggly" softness of her butt and the heat of her skin.

I leaned forward, my mouth finding her breast, tasting her while he moved behind her, his hands roaming over both of us. We were a tangle of limbs in the quiet afternoon light, the boundaries between owner and tenant completely dissolved. In that moment, there was no rent, no ledger, and no "Ghost Tenant" downstairs—there was only the feverish, beautiful chaos of the three of us, lost in a worship that none of us wanted to end.

By the time I finally walked back down to my ground-floor apartment, the sun was starting toset, casting long, orange shadows across my garden. I felt different—heavier, slower, and strangely empowered.

As I sat on my bean bag, I realized that my "predictable" life was gone, replaced by a secret that lived just one floor above me.

Epilogue: The Monday Morning Ledger

The following Monday, the sun was sharp and cold, a typical winter morning. I was dressed in my usual office attire—a crisp blouse and a pencil skirt—preparing to head out for my 9-5. I looked like the same responsible, quiet landlady I had been for the last two years. But as I locked my front door and stepped into the common hallway, my pulse began to quicken.

I heard the door to unit 1B click open.

I froze for a split second, my hand still on my keys, as the couple stepped out. They were dressed for the day too—he was in a sharp sweater and chinos, and she looked professional in a long trench coat. To any outsider, we were just a landlord and her respectable tenants.

"Morning," the husband said, his voice as low and steady as it had been on the sofa. He didn't stop, but as he passed me in the narrow hallway, his shoulder brushed against mine just a second too long. It wasn't an accident.

"Good morning," I managed to say, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my cheeks.

The wife followed behind him. She didn't just walk past; she stopped right in front of me, adjusting her scarf. She leaned in, ostensibly to check her reflection in the hallway mirror, but her eyes caught mine. That same seductive, "worshipping" glint from Saturday was back, hidden behind a polite smile.

"We sent the transfer this morning, honey," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Check your account. We wouldn't want to be... late again."

She reached out, her fingers grazing my wrist—right where the pulse was jumping—before she pulled away. "Or maybe we would. The 'penalty' was quite memorable."

The husband looked back from the stairs, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "The sink in the bathroom might be acting up," he added, his tone perfectly casual. "Maybe you should come by this evening to... inspect it?"

I watched them disappear down the stairs, the sound of their light laughter echoing in the quiet building. I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, the weight of the building's keys in my hand feeling heavier than ever.

I looked at my phone. The notification for the rent transfer was there, but my mind was already thinking about the "inspection" tonight. My quiet, predictable life was officially a thing of the past, and for the first time in two years, I wasn't mourning what I'd lost. I was looking forward to exactly what I'd found.

Since many of you enjoyed these ideas, I've decided to do something a little special with them.

The "locked out" situation will be the next incident which will be posted after the present incident ends here on Wattpad and the ScrollStack, so everyone can read it normally in the upcoming chapters 🤍

The "noisy neighbor" version will be written as an alternate version of the story, which will be available later as a paid story on my Scrollstack page.

Anyone who's interested can check it out ✨

Thank you again for all the votes and support — it really means a lot 🫶