Working Girl On The Rocks

You know the type of girl I am, you can tell just by looking. The exaggerated sway of my ass with each step of my “fuck me” heels. The thin piece of red fabric that barely passed for a skirt, and hugged my ass so tight as to leave nothing to the imagination. My bare belly, pale and free of blemishes, exposed for all to see and tempting the eyes to picture what lies below. A cheap, black shrug hugs the upper half of my torso. It’s fluffy, glittery, and more than a size too small for me. It can barely close and makes it hard to breathe, but does absolute wonders at accentuating and presenting my cleavage. My bright red lipstick, the excessive blush on my cheeks, and my dark and lazy mascara and eyeliner make me look almost clownish. And the noticeably trashy perfume that completely enveloped my body. It’s too clear, I’m a cheap and desperate girl. The perfect target.

I’m standing under a streetlight, in a bad part of town on a cold and windy night. You pull up in your car and lower your driver’s side window. I saunter over and bend down at a ninety degree angle, you can tell I’m trying to show off my cleavage. We have a brief, straightforward conversation. After deciding on a location and price, I walk around to the passenger’s side and hop in. As we drive, you try to make casual small-talk with me, but I seem unusually reserved for a hooker. You assume I must be relatively new to this, you feel yourself get a semi at this realization. You chose well tonight.

We pull up to a lakeside beach.