Part One

Once Jack spotted on her street, he knew he would have her that night. She posed so delicately beneath the streetlamp — delicately and wantonly at the same time. The streetlight formed a bit of an obscene halo around her voluptuous figure. Her hips flared out in an old-fashioned way, narrowing into a small waist, and flaring out again to her big bust. She looked vulnerable and oddly out of place on the on the street corner, though he knew immediately that she was a prostitute.

Her arms shyly crossed and recrossed her chest, standing awkwardly. Jack grinned sadistically. This would be an easy bird to prey upon, for sure. From his car, he spied her. Her long, wavy, red hair flowed along the back of her shoulders. The young prostitute did not see him, but instead shifted from foot to foot in her uncomfortable high heels and tight skirt and top.

He angled the rearview mirror towards himself and turned the light on overhead. He brushed his disheveled, light brown hair to its natural part toward the right side. No matter how he tried to tame his hair, it at all times looked unkempt. His brown eyes were small and shone in that hunter’s way on nights like these. He held a rather thin mustache and light beard along the edges of his face.

It was on nights like this when we wore a suit. As a struggling artist he was hardly rich, but best not let the whores on the street know that; if it looked like he made a fast dime, then it was best spent on the most beautiful, sweetest, most voluptuous whores he could gather for himself. But he only wanted her. Only for tonight. Besides, he wanted to draw a most obscene sketch, and thought that this district would be the perfect place. In addition to a bit of blackmailing here or there.

Jack was 26 years of age. He had gone to prostitutes many times in his young life, and, on occasion, he sometimes went for “artistic purposes.” No matter. For the right price, these women would do just about anything. He grinned that sadistic sneer once more that seem to angle to right side of his face. He opened his mouth and squirted it with a few shots of mint-flavored mouth spray. He tucked his tie up to his neck and got out of the car.

Approaching this unknown woman on the block, he knew no nerves. The night was young, around eleven o’clock, and by the time sun rose at dawn, he would have had her. She stood with her soft, curvy back to him. Standing behind her, he gently cleared his throat.

“Hello Miss.”

She turned around and smiled at him as if they had known each other for years. “Hello Mister. What brings you here tonight?”

“Well, I was wondering, how much do you charge?”

Her eyes were a dark, olive color. At her height of only 5’3″, he towered over her with his long, lean frame. Though he could tell she was just emerging from adolescence, her skin was a creamy, pale color, smooth and untouched. She smiled uncomfortably but replied with moxie.

“I charge what it costs, Mister.” She paused. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, the thing is, I’m an artist. A painter and a sketcher. I’d Love to sketch a beautiful lady like yourself. Would you like to come back with me to my apartment?”

Once more, she shifted from foot to foot, looking about her uncertainly.

“I would,” she admitted. “But first I have to know a few things. What is your name? How much are you willing to pay?”

“I have an idea. Why don’t we discuss all that in that little café?” he asked, pointing to a French all-night café. “We can go there and talk a bit before we get our night started. Does that sound good to you?”

She unfolded her arms in a reassuring, almost trusting manner. She nodded quietly. They walked together to the nearby café, his big hand guiding the small of her back. It’s best to catch these whores off guard, he thought to himself, hoping to open a trap for her to fall into when she’ll have nothing to do but submit and obey his orders. He opened the door for her, and they sat down at a table, ordering a couple of coffees.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, relaxed. “What is your name, sweetheart?”

“I’m Isabelle.”

“And I’m Jack,” he said, clearing his throat. “And how old are you?”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Wow. So young. Well, at least I won’t be arrested for picking up jailbait.”

She grinned. “No, but you could be arrested for other things.”

Jack smiled at her, his sneer a bit more severe in the seedy shadows of the rundown café.

“That’s true. You’ve got a fighting spirit, Isabelle. I like that.”

She smiled once more, a big, beautiful, full-toothed smile. “And what do you do, Jack?”

He cleared his throat. “Like I said, I’m an artist. I’d Love to sketch your beautiful frame, maybe get to know you a bit and see what happens from there.” Jack glanced above his raised coffee cup. “Does, uh, does anybody know you’re in this line of work?”

Isabelle shook her head. “No. I live with my elderly grandmother. We live above the record store on Shreevesburg. She doesn’t know where my money comes from. Actually, with the money I make, we have just enough to get by. God, she’d strangle me with her wrinkled hands if she knew what I was up to.”

Jack’s ears perked up at this news, especially at the last bit. This type of information — this type of data — he could use to hold her hostage (metaphorically speaking) to his advantage. But that would come later.

“Isabelle,” he broached, softly speaking with his utmost gentlemanly demeanor. “Isabelle, I’d Love to sketch you. But I’m afraid I may pay you too little for you to pose for me.” He paused. “How much would you go for?”

“I-I don’t know, Jack. I’m somewhat new to this business.”

He chuckled. “I can tell. No worries, though, we’ll figure it out. How does fifty-dollars sound?”

She laughed good-naturedly. “You’re getting off cheap tonight, Jack. Okay. Fifty dollars.”

“My car is right out there, baby. The little Camry. See it?” He pointed.

She turned and looked through the dingy windows of the café. “Yes, I see it. Are we going back to your apartment?”

“Yes. It’s rather small, but that’s where my studio is.”

Isabelle nodded. “Well, I’m ready to go anytime you are.”

Jack chuckled at the obvious innuendo. “I like the way you think, baby.”

They walked out to his car, the bigness of his hand placed on the small of her back once more. As they walked out to his vehicle, he noticed how short her skirt was. It hugged the curves of her bottom so invitingly.

On the short drive to his apartment/studio, they talked of regular, everyday things: what movies they liked, who their favorite musicians were, what foods they loved and hated. In the café shop, when they had talked, he was surprised how quickly the girl had opened up to him. It was as though she were waiting for someone to talk to. This, also, he could use to his advantage: once their defenses were down, that’s when he knocked them out cold and surprised them with his forceful sadism and controlling nature. He knew of his duplicitous nature, and it intrigued him instead of discouraging him from his evil ways. He was, he knew, the devil in disguise.

He grinned to himself while the young whore talked on and on.

Part Two

Back in the splinters of his woody apartment, Jack set up his plan. He posed Isabelle, fully clothed, upon a chair: looking at him longingly; looking out the window; looking down at her fragile hands which he admired instantly from an artist’s point of view.

The long, lanky Jack perched himself upon his stool, balancing the large sketchpad in his lap, trying to draw this young vixen. But no pose was coming to him. It was in his studio that his bullying nature came out. He could never get models to pose the way he wanted them to, in a satisfactory way. He looked at Isabelle with dissatisfaction.

“No, no, no, this is all wrong!” he yelled. He walked over to her, flinging his sketchpad onto the bed against the wall. “Look, just pose like a lady. I know you’re not but do it anyway. Legs crossed…There you go, baby. Just like that. And look directly at me, don’t break that eye contact. I want to draw those beautiful eyes. That’s it.”

He perched himself back onto his stool and attempted to draw her once more. She looked pathetically on, wanting so much to please him that it bordered on neediness. She never broke eye contact with him, posed in the small, curved, wooden chair. This model — unlike so many of the others who had posed for him — was agreeable and willing. She was not rebelling, not walking out on him. What a treasure he had found. But the appreciation of this revelation would be short-lived, he knew.

Jack shook his head once more. “No, no. I cannot draw this for some reason.” He paused. “It’s your form.”

“My form?” she held her taut waist. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s absolutely beautiful, baby. Just breathtaking. The problem is your clothes. They’re in the way.” He paused once more. “Would you consider posing nude? I’d pay you more, of course, if you did so.”

She agreed. For a few extra dollars, she would pose nude for him. She was right — he was getting off cheap. He grinned at this new find he had found. They agreed on one-hundred dollars for a nude sketch.

She gently undressed, struggling and wrestling to remove the tight clothes from her curvy figure. Now, her naked form before him, he looked at her admiringly — with a man’s eye, not an artist’s eye. The young man was surprised by the prostitute’s eagerness to undress for him. He thought it might take some prying, maybe a bit of coaxing, but that turned out not to be the case at all.

He walked to her and stood before her, pushing her to her knees; it was as if her knees were made of jelly — she so willingly kneeled before him that it shocked him. Her legs tucked beneath her soft, smooth thighs and bottom, she looked up at him, her true nature exposed now that she was naked.

Once more, Jack perched upon his artist’s chair, trying to capture her submissive position on paper. She looked up at him pathetically like a schoolgirl, but wanton like the woman of much experience. His stool was metal and erected high. It was with this advantageous point of view that he started to draw her looking up at him: her eyebrows clenched; her dark eyes begging for approval in their glints; her red, ruby lips slightly parted, and, in between, two sets of shining white teeth.

Underneath her bottom she had tucked her small, delicate hands. Her breasts, though full, were full and curvaceous with the beginning of womanhood. The “v” between her legs was completely shaved, the pinkness (the best part) peeking and glittering like a diamond. Her legs were shapely and flared naturally at the thighs. Her hair flowed along her soft, feminine shoulders and splayed along the swell of her breasts.

With her shy nature on the street, he was taken aback by how slutty she was behaving. She was still very much a lady in the name of art, but her eagerness to please, to remove her clothes was nothing less than what a whore would do when they were desperate for money. In the timespan of an hour, she had turned from a reserved, unsure girl, to a confident Aphrodite of nudity.

It was in the midst of all this beautiful torment that he decided that he had to have her. His erection was suffering in the most awesome way, and he knew he needed relief. Quickly.

Once more, he flung his sketchpad irritably onto the bed, walking over to her. He stood before her, the crotch of his slacks confronting the innocence of her face.

“Suck it,” he demanded.

She was uncertain and indecisive at first. The young prostitute looked away from his intense, downward gaze. “I’m not sure, if, uh, I can do it this way…”

“You will do it because I say you will do it.”

She hesitated and then spoke quietly. “No.”

“Would you like me to tell your grandmother what you’ve been up to? That you’ve been whoring yourself out? That you’ve been letting men take advantage of you? Well?”

“No, please don’t tell her. She has enough problems as it is. Please, Jack.” She paused. “Wait a minute. How could you possibly tell her? You know nothing about my family.”

He sneered with perverse meanness. “I know you two live above the record store on Shreevesburg. Remember?”

She looked at him, wide-eyed.

“I suggest you be more cooperative, Isabelle.” He smiled arrogantly.

They exchanged angry glances at one another. Finally, the young redhead unbuckled his belt quietly and unzipped his slacks, pulling down his underwear and pants down to his knees. From this one, swift motion, an erect cock sprung forth. It was blue and purple in color and obviously swollen from the nature of this little fool before him.

Though he had blackmailed her with the worst of threats, she decided right away that she liked his cock; it was large and thick. She might even enjoy sucking on it, she thought. Sucking cock was one of the things she loved to do most. It dripped from its head, staining the wooden floor beneath her knees.

Occasionally, she would feel a splinter or two trying to work its way into her skin, but she ignored it. Eagerly — more eagerly than he had anticipated — her small hand reached out and began to stroke his big dick. He groaned, throwing his head back. It was in situations that his sneer grew more crooked, more snide in his obvious position of advantage.

Isabelle giggled, looking up at his pleasured anguish. “Would you like me to suck it, baby?”

“Oh fuck, just do it. Suck on me, baby. You know you want to do it, you little whore.”

She nuzzled the head along her petite nose and high cheekbones, letting the shiny stains remains on her creamy complexion. She was almost cuddling with his obscene, erect organ. Oh, she was enjoying this, that much he could tell for sure. Little whore that she was.

She wrapped her flush, ruby lips around his cock and started to nurse him, drawing out precum bit by bit. She greedily swallowed up what she could and began to suck on him more intensely. With each push of her mouth towards his body, she let out girlish moans: “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” only allowing herself to breathe through her nostrils.

With a move that took her aback, he grabbed her head and pushed it down on his cock all the way. The head of his meat forced itself to the back of her mouth, passed her gag reflex, slipping itself down into the velvet of her throat. From this angle, Jack could just barely make out the outline of his big cock stuck in her sweet, slim throat.

“Suck it. That’s it, deepthroat it, you little slut. Oh yes, suck it for daddy, baby. That’s right. You like it don’t you?” He didn’t get a response. “Don’t you?” He insisted, grabbing her hair.

She looked up at him pathetically, nodding her head. Her eyes were watering as his seven-inch cock slid in and out of her throat. God, what a provocative sight. When he momentarily withdrew his cock, it was coated with his white glaze and the mixture of her saliva that clung to him like desperate threads.

Jack began to facefuck her more insistently, with more force. He pumped his hips in and out, as if he were fucking a Pussy. “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he whispered, feeling the warmth of her mouth and throat on him. “Oh, my sweet little slut. You Love sucking on daddy, don’t you baby?”

With a loud gasp and sigh, she quickly lifted her mouth off of him and spoke: “Oh yes, daddy,” and continued with her otherworldly sexual talents.

He held a tighter grip on the thatch of hair he had grabbed. Now both hands were holding either side of her head; she gargled and struggled with her breathing with this Blowjob, but she was nothing but cooperative.

“My nasty little cocksucker. Oh, such a fuckslut for daddy. Are you my little fucktoy, baby?” Again, he didn’t get a response. “Answer me.”

She nodded obediently and sucked his cock with a passion and a verve that he didn’t know existed until he had met this girl. His heavy, loaded balls slapped up against her chin with every inward thrust, and he looked skywards, as if to thank the heavens for this most precious and temporary of gifts.

“Are you ready for my big, Hot load? Hmm?”

Once more she nodded, her mouth stuffed and unable to answer him verbally. She patted her tits, as if to signal him that she wanted him to cum on her tits. He chuckled slyly and shook his head.

“No baby, I’m going to cum in your mouth. And you’re going to swallow it for me. That’s what you’re going to do.”

With a wave of ecstasy in his groin, he immediately held her mouth to his skinny stomach, his pubic hairs tickling her nose. It was time. Through the twitches in his balls, he could feel his cum escaping his willpower. It coursed through his long, thick shaft and emptied into the young woman’s waiting mouth.

The Hot, creamy load had let itself go. God, it felt great to empty his balls into something sexy for a change. She gargled and gagged on the bitter taste of his cum, the long threads and intense profusion surprising even a girl of her experience. But, like a good girl, she swallowed rope after rope, the creamy cum sliding down her throat to her taut tummy, planting seeds there.

His cock was now flaccid. His balls were now emptied. His energy drained. He stood there for a moment and then pulled his underwear and slacks up to his waist once more. Isabelle cleaned up her lips and the slight dribbles of cum on her chin, licking her fingers clean.

“Come on, get dressed,” he instructed sternly.

With the same rush in which they had removed their clothes, they now put them back on, straightening ties, and fixing high heels on. Before he forgot, he reached into his wallet and gave her one-hundred dollars for her services. It was one-hundred-dollar bill and Isabelle held out her hand greedily, grinning like a child who just received a Christmas gift.

The pair left the drafty, old art studio. As they walked down to his car, he no longer held his hand on the small of her back, no longer held the door open for her.

He was to return her to her post.

Part Three

He drove her back to where he had found her. Same street corner, beneath the same streetlamp. She got out of the car, and they parted ways, wordlessly. She had served her purpose and he no longer regarded her as a “treasure” or “a find to be found.” Isabelle was simply a prostitute, a whore, a slut whom he had blackmailed into giving him the most fantastic Blowjob of his life.

After having departed from the car, she slammed the door shut and stood back on the sidewalk, her tummy now full of his sperm. It was now about one o’clock in the morning; the citizens of the town were still buzzing around like little bees, from café to café, from prostitute to prostitute in this red-light district.

In that angelic halo of the streetlamp that circled around Isabelle — the most profane of all angels — she reapplied her ruby red lipstick. As before, she was scantily clad, and he remarked to himself how much of a contrast she was from the awkward, sweet girl he had picked up a couple of hours before to the harlot of a woman who was standing there now.

Isabelle stood there, trying to apply her makeup just right after one of the most delicious blowjobs she had ever given. Jack looked on, his car parked there for a moment, watching her as he had done earlier in the night. But no matter. His path went one way and hers went another. He sped off into the night, wanting only to get some rest as she waited for her next customer.