Brittany left willingly from the bar where I met her as all the girls do. At twenty three years old, I’ve got those bad boy good looks in black jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket. The ladies like my strong shouldered rangy body and what they’ve described as ‘soulful brown eyes’. An easy smile in my scruffy face with a height of six foot, my genuine love of women, charm and the money I splash out makes me oh so attractive. So she came with me. Willingly. Brittany is a cute little thing; a former gymnast who grew too tall with tits and slate green eyes. She was now trying to make it as a model here in Manhattan. Blonde with the face of a spoiled pixie, she did turn heads as we walked the dark streets back to my place. She may’ve really had a chance of being a top model.
We walked a short distance down the busy streets back to the brownstone on a dark side street. Under the weak glow of a street lamp, we walked up the steps to the door which I unlocked, and we entered the quiet foyer. I turned on the light to reveal the dove grey walls and white and black checkered floor. It was neat and clean with fresh flowers in a vase on a side table.