lips that somehow appeared sensuous, with vague promises of sheer pleasure if properly applied.
Douglas Hampton took his eyes off of himself, no easy feat, and redirected his attention back to the road. It thrilled him. Here he was in his Armani suit, silk, but tasteful. Not goombah silk. Italian loafers. Cartier Roadster watch. All of it, the whole package, right down here in the ghetto.
He could practically hear the 20 inch tires of his BMW crunching over used hypodermics. This part of town was so nasty leaves didn’t hang from the trees – used rubbers did.
Drug dealers and bums and dirty cops.
And hookers.
Lots of hookers.
The best part was, they came running to him. They saw the car, the clothes, the Kennedy head, and they could smell the fucking money. The scent of it poured from the tinted windows in great, phosphorescent waves.
They fought over him, sometimes.
Once, he added fifty bucks to the price for the winner of two hookers who were already nearly at blows (so to speak) over him. The fight had been bloody and fierce. In fact, the winner was such a mess, that he had driven off without paying either one.
Welcome to the hood, bitches.
Now, he turned onto a side street, then came back around to the best corner in this area. Where the pimps placed their Grade A merchandise.
And that’s all he was interested in. The crack whores did nothing for him, other than turn his stomach. He had no desire for the skanks whose skin and teeth were already ragged and shedding from crack or meth or hard time on the streets.
No, he liked them young.
Young and fresh and ripe, like a good piece of fruit.
Seedless fruit. He giggled a little, giddy with anticipation.
The Beemer’s halogen blue headlights automatically turned on their axis as they sensed the turning of the car itself, and illuminated his favorite spot for sweet young flesh.
She leapt out at him like a sailfish nailing a trolling lure.
White miniskirt, white tank top, blonde hair, and white skin. A pale smear in the dark shadow of hopelessness.
He didn’t even have to speak. He simply pulled up, rolled down the passenger side window and popped the lock.
As she sank into the luxurious leather seat, her smell of perfume and sex mingling with his scent of money and impeccable pedigree, he laughed again.
He thought of his ancestors, of the great Hampton hereditary line, now brushing up against this lost girl. Probably the daughter of drug addicts, garbage collectors, dive bar waitresses, folks with the IQ of a couple of egg yolks.
“What are you in the mood for tonight, honey?” she said.
He smiled. His teeth were a dazzling white, not quite perfect because he sometimes ground them at night while he slept, and along the very bottom edge of his front teeth the line was just a tad rough, not quite straight.
“I’m in the mood for everything,” he said.
She tried to scoot over across the center console, but he gently moved her back with a motion that appeared to be a caress.
She chattered as he drove for several blocks, but he barely listened, the thrumming in his blood filled his ears with thick insulation.
He pulled into the parking lot of a storage unit facility without having to stop for the gate. A shell corporation buried in his commercial real estate portfolio owned the place. Through a series of corporate memos, he had insisted the front gate be disabled and the security cameras removed. Cost-cutting measures, the memo had said.
The Beemer slid down to the very back of the parking lot.
He backed the car into the corner and turned to her.
“Let’s start with you giving me a BJ,” he said.
Hampton unzipped his pants as she bent her head across the center console. He turned his body to give her better access to his crotch and when his torso was turned, he corkscrewed back and drove his elbow into her jaw. He heard the sound of bone on bone and her eyes rolled into her head as she bounced back, then forward into his lap.
He pushed her
Douglas Hampton took his eyes off of himself, no easy feat, and redirected his attention back to the road. It thrilled him. Here he was in his Armani suit, silk, but tasteful. Not goombah silk. Italian loafers. Cartier Roadster watch. All of it, the whole package, right down here in the ghetto.
He could practically hear the 20 inch tires of his BMW crunching over used hypodermics. This part of town was so nasty leaves didn’t hang from the trees – used rubbers did.
Drug dealers and bums and dirty cops.
And hookers.
Lots of hookers.
The best part was, they came running to him. They saw the car, the clothes, the Kennedy head, and they could smell the fucking money. The scent of it poured from the tinted windows in great, phosphorescent waves.
They fought over him, sometimes.
Once, he added fifty bucks to the price for the winner of two hookers who were already nearly at blows (so to speak) over him. The fight had been bloody and fierce. In fact, the winner was such a mess, that he had driven off without paying either one.
Welcome to the hood, bitches.
Now, he turned onto a side street, then came back around to the best corner in this area. Where the pimps placed their Grade A merchandise.
And that’s all he was interested in. The crack whores did nothing for him, other than turn his stomach. He had no desire for the skanks whose skin and teeth were already ragged and shedding from crack or meth or hard time on the streets.
No, he liked them young.
Young and fresh and ripe, like a good piece of fruit.
Seedless fruit. He giggled a little, giddy with anticipation.
The Beemer’s halogen blue headlights automatically turned on their axis as they sensed the turning of the car itself, and illuminated his favorite spot for sweet young flesh.
She leapt out at him like a sailfish nailing a trolling lure.
White miniskirt, white tank top, blonde hair, and white skin. A pale smear in the dark shadow of hopelessness.
He didn’t even have to speak. He simply pulled up, rolled down the passenger side window and popped the lock.
As she sank into the luxurious leather seat, her smell of perfume and sex mingling with his scent of money and impeccable pedigree, he laughed again.
He thought of his ancestors, of the great Hampton hereditary line, now brushing up against this lost girl. Probably the daughter of drug addicts, garbage collectors, dive bar waitresses, folks with the IQ of a couple of egg yolks.
“What are you in the mood for tonight, honey?” she said.
He smiled. His teeth were a dazzling white, not quite perfect because he sometimes ground them at night while he slept, and along the very bottom edge of his front teeth the line was just a tad rough, not quite straight.
“I’m in the mood for everything,” he said.
She tried to scoot over across the center console, but he gently moved her back with a motion that appeared to be a caress.
She chattered as he drove for several blocks, but he barely listened, the thrumming in his blood filled his ears with thick insulation.
He pulled into the parking lot of a storage unit facility without having to stop for the gate. A shell corporation buried in his commercial real estate portfolio owned the place. Through a series of corporate memos, he had insisted the front gate be disabled and the security cameras removed. Cost-cutting measures, the memo had said.
The Beemer slid down to the very back of the parking lot.
He backed the car into the corner and turned to her.
“Let’s start with you giving me a BJ,” he said.
Hampton unzipped his pants as she bent her head across the center console. He turned his body to give her better access to his crotch and when his torso was turned, he corkscrewed back and drove his elbow into her jaw. He heard the sound of bone on bone and her eyes rolled into her head as she bounced back, then forward into his lap.
He pushed her
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