Thread: This Skin is Stained

Danica Maltiere knew it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was in jail for the first time in her life. Sure, she'd been arrested before as a teenager, but she'd always been brought home with the threat that if she fucked up again she was toast. Well, here she was! But did she honestly care? Probably not. She'd been working the street for the past couple months, trying to find any way to deal with the horrible pain in her chest, but nothing ever worked for long. The guy had been a real charmer, too. All submissive and shit, doing it like she wanted and how she needed. Those were the guys that found her the submissives who needed to be told what to do and how to do it. The ones who needed to give up their control. She'd been given the street name of Whip for what she did, and she had been doing pretty damn well for herself. She scored at least three clients a day and made some pretty heavy cash. Too bad that fucker had gotten them caught by being too goddamn loud. Now she was here, in this cell that smelled like piss and nightmares. And she didn't even have her pills anymore to get high and fade out for a bit. Bummer. At least she still had her cigarettes. She sat on the little bench inside the cell, still looking pretty damn gorgeous despite the rough treatment and smeared make up. Her hair, brilliant red and natural, wasn't so stylish now, but wasn't so horribly mussed. But her skin was. She had bruises around her wrists that covered over old and new cuts, bruises on her legs, too. She had tattoos on her hips of tribal butterflies, tattoos on her back that weren't visible even with the barely-there-top she had on. Of course, no tattoo artist wanted to go near the marks around her neck from when she'd attempted suicide and someone had stupidly saved her ass and put her into rehab. Not like it had worked. She'd just pretended it had. Her corset skirt wasn't too short, but it did show a lot of skin, while her top dipped low and plumped up her ample cleavage. Black on porcelain skin brought out the brightness of her amethyst eyes that took in the surroundings of her cell with a deadpan look. Did it matter where she was? Hardly. But some little part of her conscience said, you used to be a good woman. Look what you've done. She could hear the guards down the hall way talking to each other about god knows what, and so she lit up while they were distracted. Her cigarettes weren't laced, but she wished sometimes that she could take that extra step and just put some H in them. But she liked to control her highs. That control was what she liked. She couldn't give it back to anyone. Not since him. Maybe not ever. Maybe that was why she was so fucked up now. Who knew? Taking a heavy drag, she leaned back against the wall and stretched out, popping some vertebrae as she did. It was gonna be a long night. Good thing she had already taken off her knee-high boots with their four inch heels. At least she didn't have to worry about getting underwear up her ass. It wasn't like she was wearing any. She smirked at her mindset before taking a nice long drag, letting the toxic smoke full up her already abused lungs. The heat and smoke felt and tasted delicious, despite the havoc it was wreaking on her system. She wasn't a heavy smoker by any means, but she did enjoy her cigs. Besides, it was keeping her warm. This place was cold enough to freeze her tits off. Her kohl rimmed eyes looked away from the filthy ceiling to the officer randomly speaking to himself. They liked to do that, though the people he was referring to were passed out cold from their night of binging. She'd love to be in their shoes and just black out for a little bit. But, nope, she didn't have her pills. She barely spared the cop a glance as she shut her eyes and kept on smoking, thankful she had just bought the pack she'd stuffed into her cleavage. They also had her phone, so she couldn't see who might have called her since she got picked up. She hadn't made much of a scene, but it wasn't like she'd been all that quiet either. Still, she was in here and she just had to fucking deal with it. Soon, the back of her lids weren't all that appealing and so she checked out her recently painted fingernails. They were bright blue and shimmery, making her think of brilliant ocean water. She studied them all for cracks and chips and was thankful that there were none. She'd hate to have to get them painted. Again. It was then that she heard the cop stutter in his speech and make a sound like he was leaning and so she turned her head and found herself staring at a friend of hers and she found herself cursing loudly before she felt herself putting her head in her hands. Son of a bitch! Not you.