Chantel

"Anything?"

"Any... thing," she says slowly. You nearly got arrested just an hour ago, spared only thanks to the fact that the female officer waved you off before you could get tackled by whatever policemen were hiding nearby. As such, you're a bit skittish about talking to this one: she looks young in the semi-darkness of Lower East Side street lamps, or perhaps she's just too petite and lithe to convince you that she's legal. You were about ready to call it quits on her only a minute ago until she desperately yelled her price, in broken English, in the middle of a night.

"So... a thousand dollars, and you don't care what I do to you?"

She looks at you with fear-filled eyes, as if she understands what you mean. She can't possibly, but that doesn't seem to be enough to make her take it back. Crestfallen, already broken in spirit within a minute of talking with the likes of you, her eyes cast down to your shoes. "Any... thing."

~ 30 minutes later ~

The elevator starts, and you cast a glance at your latest catch: a girl who claims to be eighteen, which you hope is a marketing pitch for someone older (and not cover for something horrible). She looks healthy, too: no makeup on her, not even a shade of red on those puffy lips, and straight black hair cut into a bob. Her outfit, a tragedy of glittering purple, was little more than a conservative bikini and a skirt that rode almost up to her panties, if she was even wearing any. It's made from thin cuts of plastic, and does nothing to hide her lithe body: B-cups threatening to drop a cup size, narrow hips, and a flat butt that would be a tragedy for some of your friends. She wore fairly normal-looking heels, too, and her smooth-shaven legs catch your eye as you continue to ogle her, all the way up to her terrified glance. Her stomach growls as the elevator groans, and you wonder how dire her straights were when you picked her up. You probably look like a predator to her{if@ Morality < -20}; she'd be right to think that.{else@}, so you do your best to ease off on the oppressive leering. What that means for someone who wants to fuck her into slavery is a moral dichotomy that's beyond you right now.{endif} You're nearly at your floor when an unfamiliar groan sounds from the elevator gears... only you realize it isn't the elevator, but her stomach. How dire was her situation until you found her?

How dire is it now that you did, you ponder without amusement. You find yourself unlocking your apartment door a moment later, and only then does she finally dare to speak. "Now," is all she manages.

You look back, eyebrow raised. "Now? What, like... out here?"

"N-No... yes! Now pay me. Pay me now." She looks at you with an almost offended defiance, as if you had broken some etiquette in not paying her before walking into the apartment. Considering it's her last chance to make a clean break for the stairs or the elevator, you understand... to a point.