Tart Night

By

woman against glass ink sketchBy her calculation, it would take fifty nights to pay off her debt, but that figure didn’t include rent.

It was her twentieth night, but only her eleventh man.

She stood before the window admiring the skyline. The pulsating city lights hypnotized her. The alarm buzzed softly.

In large white letters the phrase, It’s Time, appeared on the window blocking her view of the city. She gently touched the glass worried her delicate fingers would break it. She still wasn’t used to high-end technology.

She peeled off her jeans slipping into a black dress, his favorite color. She pulled a black silicone mask from her backpack. After running it through hot water, she stuck it to her face. A few minutes later it hardened.

The mask covered her forehead, nose, and parts of her cheeks leaving her lips exposed. The mask contoured perfectly to the curves of her face; this always awed her.

She checked the bathroom mirror, grooming herself. Before switching off the lights, she gave herself one last glance. Something was amiss, but she couldn’t figure out what.

The elevator doors opened. The client’s shoes clicked across the room; the keys clinked against the marble kitchen counter. It was time.

She sat on her forearms staring at the headboard as he thrust into her. He flipped her over slipping himself between her thighs.

As he pounded away, his sweat fell into her eyes. The saltiness stung. She used the bed sheet to wipe away his sweat.

He pressed his lips against her mouth. His breath tasted of onion, and his teeth awkwardly scraped the sides of her mouth, he was an awful kisser.

He lifted her legs wrapping her feet around his neck. He thrust into her. With each push, he exhaled a gust of onion breath. The toxic stench brushed her face.

He rolled over after finishing.

Daily Post Prompt: Tart