The Prowl by Charlina Daitouah-Smith

She looked up and saw him, and then quickly lowered her eyes. Well-dressed man, nice haircut, expensive car, obviously a family man. He represented the essence of goodness. He represented what she could never hope to be. There existed a wide chasm between her, not just her, but what her “profession” had made of her, and what accepted morality said she was. One of her kind did not, could not, mingle with one of his kind.

Yet, she swayed her ample hips, encased in a red sheath and sauntered away, her body moving to a special rhythm, a rhythm all her own, the rhythm of the night.

And yes, oh yes! his eyes followed, followed and followed, while his heart beat fast, faster and faster still, like it would burst out of his body. His heartbeat became cultural drums beating wildly in his ears, beating a wild tune which vibrated from the masterpiece his eyes feasted on, intoxicating his senses and pushing him beyond the brink of reasoning, pushing him until he could take it no more. more...