Read Online Blood Sacrifice by By Rick R. Reed - Free Book Online
Authors: By Rick R. Reed
Tags: Fiction
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lust, not bothering to conceal their salacious interest. Why bother? She isn’t worthy of discretion, out here selling it as she is. Elise braces herself for the catcalls and whistles, the verbal filth showered on her like a cascade of excrement.
Only moments pass before a motorcycle’s rumble drowns out all other sound.
The engine cuts and for just a second, it’s as if all the sound in the street cuts as well. Elise turns.
A man, impossibly beautiful, is astride the motorcycle. Leather and chains, boots. Not the type of man she would fancy in her other life. (
And what life is that?
Elise wonders, realizing suddenly this
is
her life and perhaps there is no other; that the “other” there once was has shrunk away to almost nothing…and that little is perhaps irretrievable.) He looks her up and down, his gaze frank. A smile, or a smirk, plays around the corners of his full lips.
He must fancy himself quite the prize. Cheekbones sharp and defined, skin almost too smooth to be real, white in the light from the moon.
Poseur.
Elise turns away; this is not the sort of trade she deals in. No, Elise is a lower class of street trade, in spite of her youth and beauty. It’s the role she has directed herself in for years now. Giving herself as a gift to worthless, ugly men somehow seems right. She doesn’t quite know why, and doesn’t choose to explore why she abases herself this way.
Perhaps she won’t like the answer.
A gloved hand, fingers cut away, caresses her shoulder. Elise shrugs the hand away and whirls to face the stranger. Her eyes spark. He grins. Warily, she smiles back.
“I’m not certain you’re in the right part of town,” Elise says.
“I’m not certain you know what you’re talking about. I know where I am, and it’s right where I choose to be, sweetheart.” His deep, resonating timbre distinguishes itself from the sounds of urban night. “How much?”
Elise shakes her head, her laughter mocking, derisive. “Again: I’m not so sure. You get right to the point, don’t you? Hasn’t anyone taught you the rules? Or were you too busy playing macho on your motorcycle?”
“The games I like to play are a bit more sophisticated than you can imagine, which is why I do get right to the point. Now, how much?”
Elise pulls hair from her neck, where it’s stuck with the glue of her sweat. Vice? Will it matter if she asks him? Contrary to popular belief, cops aren’t all angels of veracity. They lied to her before, when she was just starting out and relied on the rumor that, if asked, an officer of the law must divulge his occupation.
So what point would there be in asking? She could name a price for a specific sexual act and could be run in, end up cooling herself in a cell with other streetwise sisters for a few hours while the arrest is processed and then get sprung out into another humid night. Or, she could ask him to prove he isn’t a representative of the Chicago police force, vice division. He could respond with something clever, eyes growing wide, something like, “Me? You gotta be kidding. Now, why would you ask a thing like that?”
Just get it over with. She’s been run in before. An inconvenience. The arrests stop no one. In her desire to hasten the bust, Elise blurts, “Fifty dollars for a blow job, a hundred and up for more. Depends on what you’re into. Anal’s extra, but I’ll do it if the price is right.”
He doesn’t blink. Reaching into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket, he pulls out a wad of bills. Elise recognizes a hundred on the outside of the roll. He tucks it into her cleavage. “Got someplace we can go?”
The money between her breasts is enough to free her for several nights. Yet, they still haven’t discussed what it is he wants. What if he’s into heavy S&M? Elise looks at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in all the leather; his deathly white pallor speaks of parties in dungeons. In spite of being a cheap whore, a streetwalker, she
Only moments pass before a motorcycle’s rumble drowns out all other sound.
The engine cuts and for just a second, it’s as if all the sound in the street cuts as well. Elise turns.
A man, impossibly beautiful, is astride the motorcycle. Leather and chains, boots. Not the type of man she would fancy in her other life. (
And what life is that?
Elise wonders, realizing suddenly this
is
her life and perhaps there is no other; that the “other” there once was has shrunk away to almost nothing…and that little is perhaps irretrievable.) He looks her up and down, his gaze frank. A smile, or a smirk, plays around the corners of his full lips.
He must fancy himself quite the prize. Cheekbones sharp and defined, skin almost too smooth to be real, white in the light from the moon.
Poseur.
Elise turns away; this is not the sort of trade she deals in. No, Elise is a lower class of street trade, in spite of her youth and beauty. It’s the role she has directed herself in for years now. Giving herself as a gift to worthless, ugly men somehow seems right. She doesn’t quite know why, and doesn’t choose to explore why she abases herself this way.
Perhaps she won’t like the answer.
A gloved hand, fingers cut away, caresses her shoulder. Elise shrugs the hand away and whirls to face the stranger. Her eyes spark. He grins. Warily, she smiles back.
“I’m not certain you’re in the right part of town,” Elise says.
“I’m not certain you know what you’re talking about. I know where I am, and it’s right where I choose to be, sweetheart.” His deep, resonating timbre distinguishes itself from the sounds of urban night. “How much?”
Elise shakes her head, her laughter mocking, derisive. “Again: I’m not so sure. You get right to the point, don’t you? Hasn’t anyone taught you the rules? Or were you too busy playing macho on your motorcycle?”
“The games I like to play are a bit more sophisticated than you can imagine, which is why I do get right to the point. Now, how much?”
Elise pulls hair from her neck, where it’s stuck with the glue of her sweat. Vice? Will it matter if she asks him? Contrary to popular belief, cops aren’t all angels of veracity. They lied to her before, when she was just starting out and relied on the rumor that, if asked, an officer of the law must divulge his occupation.
So what point would there be in asking? She could name a price for a specific sexual act and could be run in, end up cooling herself in a cell with other streetwise sisters for a few hours while the arrest is processed and then get sprung out into another humid night. Or, she could ask him to prove he isn’t a representative of the Chicago police force, vice division. He could respond with something clever, eyes growing wide, something like, “Me? You gotta be kidding. Now, why would you ask a thing like that?”
Just get it over with. She’s been run in before. An inconvenience. The arrests stop no one. In her desire to hasten the bust, Elise blurts, “Fifty dollars for a blow job, a hundred and up for more. Depends on what you’re into. Anal’s extra, but I’ll do it if the price is right.”
He doesn’t blink. Reaching into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket, he pulls out a wad of bills. Elise recognizes a hundred on the outside of the roll. He tucks it into her cleavage. “Got someplace we can go?”
The money between her breasts is enough to free her for several nights. Yet, they still haven’t discussed what it is he wants. What if he’s into heavy S&M? Elise looks at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in all the leather; his deathly white pallor speaks of parties in dungeons. In spite of being a cheap whore, a streetwalker, she
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