Part One
Once Jack spotted on her street, he knew he would have her that night. She posed so delicately beneath the streetlamp -- delicately and wantonly at the same time. The streetlight formed a bit of an obscene halo around her voluptuous figure. Her hips flared out in an old-fashioned way, narrowing into a small waist, and flaring out again to her big bust. She looked vulnerable and oddly out of place on the on the street corner, though he knew immediately that she was a prostitute.
Her arms shyly crossed and recrossed her chest, standing awkwardly. Jack grinned sadistically. This would be an easy bird to prey upon, for sure. From his car, he spied her. Her long, wavy, red hair flowed along the back of her shoulders. The young prostitute did not see him, but instead shifted from foot to foot in her uncomfortable high heels and tight skirt and top.
He angled the rearview mirror towards himself and turned the light on overhead. He brushed his disheveled, light brown hair to its natural part toward the right side. No matter how he tried to tame his hair, it always looked unkempt. His brown eyes were small and shone in that hunter's way on nights like these. He held a rather thin mustache and light beard along the edges of his face.
It was on nights like this when we wore a suit. As a struggling artist he was hardly rich, but best not let the whores on the street know that; if it looked like he made a fast dime, then it was best spent on the most beautiful, sweetest, most voluptuous whores he could gather for himself. But he only wanted her. Only for tonight. Besides, he wanted to draw a most obscene sketch, and thought that this district would be the perfect place. In addition to a bit of blackmailing here or there.
Jack was 26 years of age. He had gone to prostitutes many times in his young life, and, on occasion, he sometimes went for "artistic purposes." No matter. For the right price, these women would do just about anything. He grinned that sadistic sneer once more that seem to angle to right side of his face. He opened his mouth and squirted it with a few shots of mint-flavored mouth spray. He tucked his tie up to his neck and got out of the car.
Approaching this unknown woman on the block, he knew no nerves. The night was young, around eleven o'clock, and by the time sun rose at dawn, he would have had her. She stood with her soft, curvy back to him. Standing behind her, he gently cleared his throat.
"Hello Miss."
She turned around and smiled at him as if they had known each other for years. "Hello Mister. What brings you here tonight?"
"Well, I was wondering, how much do you charge?"
Her eyes were a dark, olive color. At her height of only 5'3", he towered over her with his long, lean frame. Though he could tell she was just emerging from adolescence, her skin was a creamy, pale color, smooth and untouched. She smiled uncomfortably but replied with moxie.
"I charge what it costs, Mister." She paused. "What did you have in mind?"
"Well, the thing is, I'm an artist. A painter and a sketcher. I'd love to sketch a beautiful lady like yourself. Would you like to come back with me to my apartment?"
Once more, she shifted from foot to foot, looking about her uncertainly.
"I would," she admitted. "But first I have to know a few things. What is your name? How much are you willing to pay?"
"I have an idea. Why don't we discuss all that in that little café?" he asked, pointing to a French all-night café. "We can go there and talk a bit before we get our night started. Does that sound good to you?"
She unfolded her arms in a reassuring, almost trusting manner. She nodded quietly. They walked together to the nearby café, his big hand guiding the small of her back. It's best to catch these whores off guard, he thought to himself, hoping to open a trap for her to fall into when she'll have nothing to do but submit and obey his orders. He opened the door for her, and they sat down at a table, ordering a couple of coffees.
"So," he said, leaning back in his chair, relaxed. "What is your name, sweetheart?"
"I'm Isabelle."
"And I'm Jack," he said, clearing his throat. "And how old are you?"
"I'm nineteen."
"Wow. So young. Well, at least I won't be arrested for picking up jailbait."
She grinned. "No, but you could be arrested for other things."
Jack smiled at her, his sneer a bit more severe in the seedy shadows of the rundown café.
"That's true. You've got a fighting spirit, Isabelle. I like that."
She smiled once more, a big, beautiful, full-toothed smile. "And what do you do, Jack?"
He cleared his throat. "Like I said, I'm an artist. I'd love to sketch your beautiful frame, maybe get to know you a bit and see what happens from there." Jack glanced above his raised coffee cup. "Does, uh, does anybody know you're in this line of work?"
Isabelle shook her head. "No. I live with my elderly grandmother. We live above the record store on Shreevesburg. She doesn't know where my money comes from. Actually, with the money I make, we have just enough to get by. God, she'd strangle me with her wrinkled hands if she knew what I was up to."
Jack's ears perked up at this news, especially at the last bit. This type of information -- this type of data -- he could use to hold her hostage (metaphorically speaking) to his advantage. But that would come later.
"Isabelle," he broached, softly speaking with his utmost gentlemanly demeanor. "Isabelle, I'd love to sketch you. But I'm afraid I may pay you too little for you to pose for me." He paused. "How much would you go for?"
"I-I don't know, Jack. I'm somewhat new to this business."
He chuckled. "I can tell. No worries, though, we'll figure it out. How does fifty-dollars sound?"
She laughed good-naturedly. "You're getting off cheap tonight, Jack. Okay. Fifty dollars."
"My car is right out there, baby. The little Camry. See it?" He pointed.
She turned and looked through the dingy windows of the café. "Yes, I see it. Are we going back to your apartment?"
"Yes. It's rather small, but that's where my studio is."
Isabelle nodded. "Well, I'm ready to go anytime you are."
Jack chuckled at the obvious innuendo. "I like the way you think, baby."
They walked out to his car, the bigness of his hand placed on the small of her back once more. As they walked out to his vehicle, he noticed how short her skirt was. It hugged the curves of her bottom so invitingly.
On the short drive to his apartment/studio, they talked of regular, everyday things: what movies they liked, who their favorite musicians were, what foods they loved and hated. In the café shop, when they had talked, he was surprised how quickly the girl had opened up to him. It was as though she were waiting for someone to talk to. This, also, he could use to his advantage: once their defenses were down, that's when he knocked them out cold and surprised them with his forceful sadism and controlling nature. He knew of his duplicitous nature, and it intrigued him instead of discouraging him from his evil ways. He was, he knew, the devil in disguise.
He grinned to himself while the young whore talked on and on.
Part Two
Back in the splinters of his woody apartment, Jack set up his plan. He posed Isabelle, fully clothed, upon a chair: looking at him longingly; looking out the window; looking down at her fragile hands which he admired instantly from an artist's point of view.
The long, lanky Jack perched himself upon his stool, balancing the large sketchpad in his lap, trying to draw this young vixen. But no pose was coming to him. It was in his studio that his bullying nature came out. He could never get models to pose the way he wanted them to, in a satisfactory way. He looked at Isabelle with dissatisfaction.
"No, no, no, this is all wrong!" he yelled. He walked over to her, flinging his sketchpad onto the bed against the wall. "Look, just pose like a lady. I know you're not but do it anyway. Legs crossed...There you go, baby. Just like that. And look directly at me, don't break that eye contact. I want to draw those beautiful eyes. That's it."
He perched himself back onto his stool and attempted to draw her once more. She looked pathetically on, wanting so much to please him that it bordered on neediness. She never broke eye contact with him, posed in the small, curved, wooden chair. This model -- unlike so many of the others who had posed for him -- was agreeable and willing. She was not rebelling, not walking out on him. What a treasure he had found. But the appreciation of this revelation would be short-lived, he knew.
Jack shook his head once more. "No, no. I can't draw this for some reason." He paused. "It's your form."
"My form?" she held her taut waist. "What's wrong with it?"
"It's absolutely beautiful, baby. Just breathtaking. The problem is your clothes. They're in the way." He paused once more. "Would you consider posing nude? I'd pay you more, of course, if you did so."
She agreed. For a few extra dollars, she would pose nude for him. She was right -- he was getting off cheap. He grinned at this new find he had found. They agreed on one-hundred dollars for a nude sketch.
She gently undressed, struggling and wrestling to remove the tight clothes from her curvy figure. Now, her naked form before him, he looked at her admiringly -- with a man's eye, not an artist's eye. The young man was surprised by the prostitute's eagerness to undress for him. He thought it might take some prying, maybe a bit of coaxing, but that turned out not to be the case at all.
He walked to her and stood before her, pushing her to her knees; it was as if her knees were made of jelly -- she so willingly kneeled before him that it shocked him. Her legs tucked beneath her soft, smooth thighs and bottom, she looked up at him, her true nature exposed now that she was naked.
Once more, Jack perched upon his artist's chair, trying to capture her submissive position on paper. She looked up at him pathetically like a schoolgirl, but wanton like the woman of much experience. His stool was metal and erected high. It was with this advantageous point of view that he started to draw her looking up at him: her eyebrows clenched; her dark eyes begging for approval in their glints; her red, ruby lips slightly parted, and, in between, two sets of shining white teeth.
Underneath her bottom she had tucked her small, delicate hands. Her breasts, though full, were full and curvaceous with the beginning of womanhood. The "v" between her legs was completely shaved, the pinkness (the best part) peeking and glittering like a diamond. Her legs were shapely and flared naturally at the thighs. Her hair flowed along her soft, feminine shoulders and splayed along the swell of her breasts.
