There was gum in her hair. Her skin was cold and covered in flowering bruises. Around her wrists were wraps of seaweed. Listless, lazy eyes beckoned, saying, “Yeah, I like it rough.” That’s what got her here. Her catlike strut in the dead of night down a busy street. The way she would wink at a lonely, middle aged man as he waited at a red light. She couldn’t feel the beads of sweat on his brow or pooling down his back. She didn’t know how the long, lean muscles of her calves made his hands tremble at the wheel. She knew what she was doing. He said to himself, just this once, it’ll be quick.
She had to laugh. As he grunted and slammed into her she lay there with a bored look. When he asked for anal, she had to sneer. He hit her that first time and pink adhesive popped out of her mouth. A bemused, unconscious look spread on her face.
Stupid, crack whore.
At the scene, the other officers held their nose at the acrid smell of the sea and grime stuck under her fingernails. I could only smell Strawberry Splash.

View this story's 4 comments.