A convenience store advertising lotto tickets. You feel certain you'll get lucky there

Rounding the corner the first thing to catch your eye is a storefront with the words 'Lotto tickets sold inside'.

"Like a sign from God," you murmer with a giggle. Feeling almost certain that you should go there you find your feet walking on their incredibly high spike heels across the cracked and broken pavement until you push through the door.

A bell jangles loudly above you, dumping small amounts of dust onto your dark hair, and for a moment you stand silhouetted in the doorway, taking in the scene.

The optimistic feeling flutters in the face of the cramped store with its dirty floors and faded labels. About the only thing that doesn't look old is the top shelf of the magazine rack, which rains filthy words down upon you like the cum from the countless dicks they depict ravaging small teenagers.

None of the three men within look up at you as you enter with trepidation. Two of them are thumbing through the magazines, occasionally rubbing their crotches as some pretty girl takes on a group of guys.

Behind the counter sits a skinny older man who looks like he couldn't care less if you were a paying customer or someone here to rob him.

"Uh, excuse me?" you say quietly, feeling almost as if you might have stumbled upon a film set. "I saw the lotto sign."

"You wanna get lucky?" the man you presume to be the proprietor asks, and you nod vigorously.

"Yes please."

"Five bucks."

"Five...?" you repeat, your voice dipping into a whine. You're not even sure you have two! "Do you have anything... cheaper?"

"You can rub them," the man says, motioning to the side, toward the two men, whose eyes you can now feel raking over you as you fidget with your scanty clothes.

Straightening abruptly your mouth flops open in shock at the man's suggestion, and you're about to sputter out a rebuke when you realize his hand is hovering over a second tray of tickets, this one containing the kind that you scratch.

"Oh. Right. Um, how much?" you ask meekly, embarrassed by how easily your mind leaped to such a dirty conclusion.

"Two-fifty," he says, and as if not caring about your decision he turns back to his newspaper. Even that seems old, with a yellow color to the pages.

Grimacing you dig into your little purse, pulling out change as you find it and plunking it onto the counter. Your body itches from the eyes upon it, but you feel another itch, one that tells you that this could be a momentous occasion.

It reminds you of the feeling you had on freshman orientation day, when you 'persuaded' the housing clerk - via an enthusiastic blowjob - to look harder for an apartment. No sooner had he splashed his load down your throat than he became inspired to make a phone call, finding you your current apartment.

That he shared a last name with your landlord seemed a good omen, confirmed by the fact that as you stood to exit his cubicle you bumped into none other than Jacob, who immediately asked you out.

"You look short," the proprietor says, not a trace of irony in his words. Feeling the two presences move hungrily closer you scrabble for more change, like it might be hiding inside the few items of makeup. You could always use your credit card, but it's down to its last legs and it'll be iffy whether or not it'll have enough on it to pay your rent.