Fifty went to back rent. It felt good, but not great, to spend some of his hundred putting off getting kicked out by another month, a little towards his debt. It felt so good, in fact, that he blew another ten getting the lights turned back on in his rack box. There was a rare satisfaction as he swiped his card through the manager terminal in the lobby where, for what seemed like months, he wouldn't have to sit in a black box. Now, for ten Revalued dollars, he could have lights for a month.

Then Dusk walked the length of Cancer Alley for three hours.

Sometime in the past, Dusk had been told you could see the sky. Now though, the Alley pinched upwards - buildings on one side and the other, built up generation over generation, shanty on vertical shanty - until there was nothing but cardboard, plywood, plastic truck cocoons, and cheap-ass capsule hotels and no sky ... never, ever.

There were stars, though. Illiterate Dusk navigated by a thousand flickers from shorting, chopped power lines and greasy cooking fires.

Cancer Alley wasn't that long - just three miles from old St. Fluke hospital (one end) to the New Deal Toxic Recycling Facility (the other). But Dusk hadn't seen her yet, so just walked from one end to the other. It took him three hours of walking from the ghost of the old public hospital to the sound of screaming, breaking carcinogens, to find her.

He'd seen her before, of course, walking up and down this narrow stretch, proudly offering her charms. Dusk knew he had been struck by her, an electric and full-voltage attraction the first time he'd seen her but, then, walking in the always-twilight of the alley, he was hard-pressed to say why, and what, exactly, specifically, she looked like.

Then she was there and he was ... surprised by her. He didn't know why, but he was. He also didn't know why being surprised would make him stop for a second and just stare at her - look at her - as if he was seeing her for the first time.

Which, he knew, he wasn't.

Big eyes, full of available red. She was pure lust - excitement - for rent. Her legs were packed with muscle, defiant tension, covered with the high, reflective gloss of thick latex. Nasty three-inch heels. Her hair was smoke, a curly mass of black, drifting strands that surrounded her elegant face like a storm cloud wrapping a strong mountain peak. Her breasts were cream, big and full, pressed in a many-buckled shiny latex top.

She looked at him and turned, not picking Dusk out of the crowd, not seeing him since he didn't seem to have money. Her back was naked, save for the lashings of her top, to the fine dip of her coccyx. On her back, the tattoo of a single wing. It was so shaded, so realized, that Dusk had to look twice to make sure it was ink on skin, and not something else.

Not knowing what kind of self-protection software she might be running in addition to her whoreware, Dusk didn't do what he wanted to - which was tap her on her strong shoulder. Instead, he stepped behind her and cleared his throat.

"Yeah?" she said, voice rumbling with caution.

Dusk held up his debt card.

She took it, slid it through the narrow plastic slot on the checker bracelet on her left wrist. Her eyes went from red to green. Sufficient credit. Thirty minutes of her was his.

"This way, lover," she said, now with tones of warmth, of moisture, of heat.

This way was into the lobby of a grand, but now sad and frightening, hotel. Its name was long gone, and even the ghostly pattern of where it had been was scrubbed clean. Three flights, past three extended families living on two stairs and one hall, and then a door. 313. She slid her thumb down the jam and a solid bolt slammed back.

The room was sparse, the things in it a very short list: black futon on industrial rubber floor, yellow and black halogen work lamp, a bright red, plastic toolbox, and a large suitcase.

She turned and smiled, a beam of pure kindness. "Make yourself comfortable, darlin'."

Dusk sat down and kicked off his shoes as she walked with fluid temptation over to the toolbox and rummaged its contents. His socks went into his shoes (holes in both) as he watched her, trying to freeze the beauty of her actions in his mind. Standing, he pulled off his shirt, dropped it next to his shoes. Then belt, pants, underwear.

Naked, he stood. The room wasn't cold but he shivered anyway.

She turned, smiling comedy and lust at his hard cock. "Lay down," she said, motioning, with a quick move of her head, to the futon.

Dusk did, moving this way, that, on the lumpy surface until it felt reasonably comfortable. He noticed, absently, a huge yellow water stain on the ceiling, a curious parade of lights from something reflective on the street below. She walked - all elegance and steam - to stand next to his head. His eyes followed the fine geometry of her legs upward until they reached the shadowy mystery hidden by her dress.

With a graceful move, she put one foot on either side of his head, facing towards his feet. Even with the dancing lights on the ceiling, he couldn't see anything but soft shadows between her legs.

"Don't blink or you might miss me," she said, and a flash of pure, white light licked up one side of her left leg and showed him (blink, blink) the pale curves of her ass, the cream contours of her mons, the gentle folds of her majora. Then it was gone and there were shadows again.

She moved a bit more, and again the light flashed, and again Dusk was teased with a burst of white skin blending to pink, of gleaming moisture, of an outer opening just so... Darkness.

He realized that she had a small light in one hand, was using it to draw back the shaded curtain of her dress, showing herself with quick flips of a flashlight. Then he wished he hadn't realized that, understood the trick. Magic explained is a little less magical.

The light again, and this time he caught the butterfly flicker of her hand, and he saw something, in addition: blood-red nails on lovely, frosty-white fingers covering her mons, cupping herself.

The next beat, the next pass, the light stayed - lingering on the sight of her hand between her legs, her brilliant red nails. As he watched, (not blinking, not ever) the fingers moved, a massaging ballet on her obscured cunt. His imagination got up and ran fast and far away, and he dreamed an impossible view between red-painted nails and the churning, melting folds of her. He saw, but couldn't really have, her fingers stroke and tap the big pearl of her clit, press up and part her very pink and glistening lips.

Then, he did. Really. She parted her fingers and showed him, opening herself far above him, drawing back her majora to feast him on the sight of her hot, wet, inner self. Her clit was big, like one of her own red-painted nails. Her lips were fat and puffy, and her color - sunset red.

His hand found his iron cock, closed around it. He was there, holding his aching self for just a pound (two?) of his pulse - long enough to feel it in a strong vein - then she said, strong but firm, "No, no. Save it."

Turning, she smiled (humor, delight, steam) and carefully lowered herself down. Then, with her arms out like a laughing gymnast, she guided the flowered opening of her cunt over his nodding cock until her lips met and kissed his head. She stayed here, letting him gently tap and stroke her lips with his throbbing dick.

"Suck me?" he asked, his voice so soft and weak it scared him.

She shook her head, hair floating in the warm air. "Sorry, lover. Don't do that."

She continued to rub herself, allowing him to feel the contours of her cunt with his cock head until the ache in his balls started to change, started to build. The muscles in his back, chest, and groin felt knotted, bound up with a pounding tension ... yet all of his attention was focused on the subtle feelings of his screaming cock-head gliding over her moist folds, gently gliding past her wet cunt. He wanted to reach up and pull her down so he could get into her, but he held back, grabbing coarse handfuls of the futon. The torture was ecstasy.

Then she did. With that ballerina, gymnastic skill, she scooped up his cock with her cunt-mouth and pushed him up inside her with one long and hot stroke. He almost came, right then and there but, for some reason, he was able to reach down inside himself and still the straining urge.

Slowly, she withdrew again until his head again was out in the warm air. Then she pushed herself onto him again. Like that: in and out, all the way in (tap cervix), all the way out (warm air). His balls went from just yelling to maniacal screaming. His back went from knots to pulsing waves of agony. His cock was bigger than he was, taking up all of his feelings and nerves (his hands, fanatically clutching the futon, were as far away as the moon and felt just as alive) as she slid his cock in and out of herself.

She had been looking down at his chest, concentrating on the dance she was giving his cock, but after a short while, she looked up at him, locking her glowing green (paid) eyes at him. Smiling, she arched her back and carefully reached down and flipped the top of her (expensive) dress down, giving him a flash of her breasts, the soft slopes of her tits dotted by large, crimson, nipples.

He watched her fuck him, her big (but surprisingly not too big) tits gently lifting and falling, heavy and firm, as she did so. He watched and got lost in the feeling of her, the sight of her (green) eyes.

Then, when he felt the pressure build so much that it felt far too fucking good to hold it back any longer, he came.

When his heart slowed down enough, when his legs unknotted, when he pried his claws off the bunched fabric of the futon and he could breathe without wheezing, he regained his eyesight. She had taken a little packet of medicated wipes and had gently cleaned off his dick and balls. Then she helped him get up and into his clothes.

In the hall, he cleared his throat, asked her name.

"Wing," she said, tapping one shoulder, meaning her back, the tattoo. Then her eyes CLICKED red, his time was up, the sale concluded, and she said, "Get the fuck away from me, dickhead."