Isabel

Isabel

Her skin is as pale as snow. Her lips are red like the blood of a buck after the hunter claims his life. Curly locks of her midnight mane frames her face. The flowing red feathers from her boa sashay in the air as she glides provocatively from her room, down the stairway into the establishment. The black dress she wears is made of satin; it slinks down her slender body. Her bosom is lavishly overflowing out of the top of the dress.

Isabel, age nineteen, lives upstairs from the speakeasy which she works. She has been doing this sense she was fourteen when she was tossed out like a piece of trash from her parents. They told her she had to go because they didn't have enough money to support her. She was left as an adolescent to care for herself during The Great Depression.

After almost five years she has made many regular customers. Some were easier for her to be with than others. One of these suitors, Fredrik Jameson, bootlegged his own whiskey into the particular speakeasy in which she lived, and worked. Not a big shot comparable to the likes of Capone or Moran, but did well on his own. He did better than most.

Unlike most of her suitors, Fredrik was clean. His was a beautiful man who could have his woman of choice, but has been in love with Isabel since he met her a year ago. His cloths were always washed and he was always bathed and clean shaven. Most importantly, he chewed on mint leaves all day so his breath was like heaven. He visited Isabel frequent enough to support her on his own. Yet, he never got enough courage up to tell her that he was in love with her.

Isabel leans her body over the bar, brushing up against Fredrik as she throws back a shot of whiskey. She slams the glass back down. As Isabel turns around, she grabs Fredrik's coat and leads him to her room.

After entering the room Isabel locks the door. She kisses him passionately, just as their sex is. They