Own My Soul (Sixty Days 3)

I should have felt the similarity between this environment and the one just gone. But I didn’t.

“Good, isn’t she?” Mr Sinister asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, and I wasn’t lying. Rebecca Lane was trying hard and doing well. Doing what was asked of her. Delivering what was needed.

But they weren’t doing well for her in return.

“I hope you’re learning how you need to speak to your masters,” he said. “There will be no more I love you rubbish on my screens, girl.”

His words burned through me. Brandon’s dark eyes boring into my soul.

“You understand, Miss Emmerson?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and the very thought of I love yous made my stomach turn.

They fucked Rebecca on the other side of the mirrors and hurt her and fucked her some more. They stretched her throat with their dicks until she was a spluttering wreck, and then stretched her some more.

I watched it all. And I felt less and less as the show unfolded. It made sense. Of course it made sense.

Money. This was all about money. All about a payday for taking other people’s shit on demand. This was what it should have always been about, for me as well as the rest of them, but wasn’t.

Money.

Always about money.

Never about Brandon Grant.

Rebecca was a weakened mess back on the mattress by the time the guys came all over her face and made her groan her thanks all over again. They held her tight in position for a few seconds, grunting at the cameras as they finished shooting their loads before the whole scene fell into a weird cruddy version of normality and I could imagine the viewers’ screens fading to black.

They eased up. All three of them eased up, pretty much dropped her and discarded her as nothing. She wiped their cum from her face with the back of her hand and scuttled away up the mattress as they grabbed their shirts and got dressed. They didn’t even give a shit, just laughed amongst each other.

No.

This really was absolutely nothing like Brandon Grant’s way of operating.

I tried to keep my expression neutral as Mr Sinister turned in his chair to face me.

“I hope you are looking forward to your show later, Miss Emmerson,” he said. “This little performance has no doubt given you a good taster as to what is coming.”

“I’ll have the same performance, sir?”

He laughed a little.

It gave me a chill.

“Oh no,” he said. “Not at all. You have much more coming your way than that.”

And I’d have taken it. I’d have taken all that and more. I’d have taken a whirlwind of pain and humiliation and pounding.

If only it was Brandon Grant who’d be giving it.

My expression must have been obvious to read, despite my best intentions. I couldn’t shake it, not far enough, not even now.

“Oh dear,” Mr Sinister said, shaking his head. “It appears Mr Grant really has got under your pretty skin, hasn’t he? He’s got a habit of doing that.”

He didn’t pause for me to answer, just leaned in close enough that I felt his lips against the shell of my ear, his fingers gripping tight around my shoulder.

“I think it’s about time I filled you in on a few little details about dashing Mr Grant, sweet girl.”Chapter EightBrandonThe notification sat under my fingers, waiting for the mouse click.

One push of the button would send it through to the entire client base. Everyone who had bid on a session with Paige so far. Everyone who’d been accepted and scheduled. Everyone who was still weighing up an offer.

This was it. The threshold moment. One that would define everything. One that would destroy any hopes of ever repairing my relationship with Henry Drake. Destroy the sheen of perfect professionalism I’d developed with a filthy rich client base over too many years for sanity.

Destroy any chance of settling back into my regular filthy life with my regular filthy work ethics.

Was she worth it? Truly worth it?

Was filthy sweet Miss Emmerson really worth the sacrifice?

I tapped my finger against that mouse button like a drumbeat, but not hard enough to press send.

The knowing was in my gut, deep. The knowing that I wanted her. Wanted to save her. To help her. To protect her.

To own her?

Was that what this was about? Was this some fresh fucked up degree of ownership? Was that what I really wanted under the surface?

Did I want her on her knees at my feet for the rest of her days? Did I want that shiver of nervousness from her sweet little body every time I stepped foot in a room?

Was that the only thing I knew how to desire anymore? Had I really lost my grip on anything else in this world worth having?

Was I lost? Absolutely lost to life? Any semblance of regular life, that is.

My brain churned, tumbled over and over. Thinking. Reasoning. Challenging itself.