Streetwalker: A Day in the Life of a Prostitute

HigherTheHeels

AnalVids Pic(s)

The morning light was pale and unfeeling against her windowpane as Rebecca began the quiet transformation, her hands trembling slightly as she applied the makeup like a mask of resolve. Slipping into the fishnet bodystocking and the impossibly short skirt felt like shedding her own skin, each article of clothing a weightless armor. The red leather jacket, soft with fur at the collar, was the final piece, a bold contradiction to the nervous flutter in her chest. Out on the street, the chill air bit at her legs as she walked a slow, measured pace, the sharp click of her red heels a metronome for her racing heart. The cigarette smoke curled into the gray afternoon, a fleeting warmth that did little to calm the hollow feeling inside. When the car finally slowed to a stop, her breath hitched, a silent prayer caught in her throat as she met the driver’s eyes. His gaze was an appraisal, a transaction begun before a single word was spoken, and she offered a small, practiced smile in return. The room they entered was sparse and dim, the air thick with the ghosts of other encounters, other lonely souls. His touch was not unkind, but it was purposeful, his hands mapping a territory that her soul had vacated, leaving only her body to perform its duty. She lost herself in the performance, in the whispered nothings and the arch of her back, pouring every ounce of fabricated passion into the moment. A single tear escaped, tracing a path through her makeup as he finished, a silent testament to the profound emptiness that bloomed where intimacy was supposed to be.