Nutmeg

Your foot taps to the sound of her open-mouthed chewing of her bubblegum. You're on the elevator of your own apartment building, next to a woman who can't even be 5'3" save for the absurdly high-heeled boots she wears. You take inventory of your troublesome find: she has a voluptuous shape, thanks to a little bit of nature and a whole lot of padded, leopard-print clothes that did nothing to match the purple-sequin purse at her side. Her ribs show clearly in an almost skeletal mid-riff, and her face is gaunt enough to justify the caked layers of foundation and blush she uses to seem appealing, even healthy. Her blonde dye job is already showing black at the roots, she stunk of B&M cigars, and were it not for your sixth sense you might've worried that she was actually a very convincing transvestite. You aren't sure what she's on, but you know she's hardly sober beyond knowing her prices and not letting you cop a feel without paying. Though she has to be younger than you, maybe not even old enough to drink, it's clear that she's a veteran. If not for your recent encounters, you would feel more self-conscious in her presence.

The hour that preceded this awkward elevator ride involved you being nearly arrested for solicitation, got you too close to two bum fights, and ended with "Nutmeg" here introducing herself with that fake name, even as a heavy-set whore on the same sidewalk called her "Lana" before declaring that she was a greedy cunt. By 11:49PM on a Saturday, you were just happy to clamor into the Uber with your hard-earned prostitute, who quickly cussed you out when you tried to call her by her real name. She pointed out, while the Uber driver headed to your apartment building, that you would need to pay for the hotel as well as her rates, an expense you really didn't think about ahead of time.

Which brings you to now, on the elevator ride up to your apartment. You're pretty sure it's a terrible idea, as New York is practically the home of every horror story surrounding prostitutes and criminal side-jobs pulled on Johns. You're one of those Johns now, but the worries are smothered by the key advantage you have in this: you don't see her getting to report anything to anyone, or robbing you herself, after tonight. Uh-oh, that sounds more like a psychopath who murders hookers. Right. Well, the point is you weren't hiring her just for jollies, and she'd see it your way in time. You keep that in mind as you lock the apartment door behind you.

"Heee-eeey, look at you with the apartment all to yeself!" she declares loudly, looking all around. Despite her statement, she's still got her hand in her purse, which worries you. Perhaps you should involve your ****{if Mothers > 1}s{endif} after all, in case this whore intends to attack you and flee with whatever she can carry. "All these fancy toys, too... you're into tech, bay-bee?" She slides her hand across the smooth surface of one of Devi's devices, and you nod dumbly, praying she doesn't ask you to try and identity whatever the Hell it is. "And- oooh, this here..." She reaches down and picks something up from under the coffee table... and a smooth vibrator makes it's presence known. You face freezes as your mind races. "This your kink, or... should we be expecting company? I hope it's just you and me... right sweetie?" She makes a sharp click or pop with the gum between her teeth.

You shake your head, eyeing her purse without hesitation or subtlety. "Just you and me... roommate's gone for the night," you lie, and obviously so. She narrows her eyes... and follows your gaze to her purse.

"Roommate..." She inhales slowly... and cocks her head, as if she just considered something. She considers the vibrator... and moves it closer to her face, as if she just noticed something curious. She smiles. Her hand shifts inside her purse, away from whatever she intended to use, to pull out a pack of condoms. "Don't worry, daddy, we're here for fun and transactions, and you want fun, right?" You nod dumbly, trying to regain your composure in your own domain. She grins too wide to be natural, showing off all her good teeth. "Yeah... Alright, so y'know the prices," she quickly declares, sweeping her gaze back around your living room, "a'hundred to get blown, two to get fucked, and four to... miss, if ya know what I mean." She winks and giggles at her own joke, and you try to share the laugh, making it more awkward. You make a mental note to ask her how this encounter really went once she has **** but to tell you the truth.

"Peck?" Hearing your last name alarms you, and you see she's bent over seductively, her face hovering over a pile of your mail sticking out from underneath a stainless steel canister of some sort. She gives you a bit of side-eye and, with another grin, another popping noise from her chewing gum. "Such a big, strong name, for a big strong man."