Skid Roche

She wore a tight pink skirt, garter belt, black fishnet stockings, knee-high boots and a tight electric blue vinyl bustier. Her hair was ratted out and bleached blonde, and her makeup was caked on thick and heavy. She had a neon green purse slung at her side.

The cop stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, and they would have locked eyes if his hadn’t been behind the mirrored sunglasses. The whore’s eyes flickered from the guy’s chiseled, clean-shaven face down his muscled physique in the tight tan uniform, to the knee-high black leather boots polished to a flawless sheen.

A wry look passed the whore’s face and her full, pouty lips, painted cocksucker red, twisted in a smile. She took a drag of her cigarette and put her wrists out, holding them together.

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