Own My Soul (Sixty Days 3)

His hands dropped away, my legs bandy as all hell as he loosened the overhead shackles, then leaned in just long enough for a few more words.

“He says he loves you,” he whispered. “And he fucking means it. Believe me, he fucking means it.”Chapter TwentyBrandonI was ready for the broadcast, parked up in some cliffside car park on the Welsh coast, deserted and exposed to the elements, comfortable in my car with my phone ready for the action.

The notification had sounded, the link live and ready, and I’d clicked on it, ready and waiting and well fucking primed for the live event.

Or so I thought.

Seeing my sweet Paige Emmerson holed up in a dungeon room with my brother — shacked tight to the bedposts in slutty red underwear — was enough to bring the bile to the back of my throat.

My stomach was a pit of disgust. Jealousy pounding high. My whole fucking body reeling from the distaste at seeing such a rancid fucking spectacle.

It ate me up. Swallowed me whole. My heart raced like a fucking freight train as sweet little Paige stared up with wide eyes at another man. Wanting another man. My brother.

I should’ve turned it off. Should’ve counted on Eric being the brother of mine he’d claimed to be and purely doing the job he’d set out to do. I should’ve bailed on the whole sorry lot of it and carried on into the small little seaside shit hole to track down Amelia George’s sister and the age old evidence I needed to take down Drake and get this whole stinking cesspit over with.

But I fucking didn’t.

I didn’t bail on any of it.

I couldn’t tear myself away for a heartbeat.

My eyes were glued to the screen, sucking in everything. I barely managed to blink as I watched my brother slap the shit out of the woman I loved until her skin turned lobster pink. Until she cried for him. Begged and whimpered and offered such perfect obedience that it cut me up inside.

I watched him play with the tight little pussy I’d come to crave so fucking hard it drove me crazy and push her close enough to the edge that she whimpered like a wanton little whore for him.

I watched him truss her to the ceiling, high up on her sweet little tiptoes. Watched him press tight behind her and claim her gorgeous little body with hungry fingers.

Watched her give him everything he ordered. Sucking his fingers. Begging for more. Begging for pain and pleasure and everything in between like a girl with no cold hard limits left whatsoever.

Oh, how I fucking wanted her. How I fucking needed her. How I felt like a broken boy watching his brother run away with his favourite fucking toy in the world.

Only that’s not how it happened from there on in.

I guess it was the way that his trousers stayed up high right through the action. The way his mouth kept its distance from hers, tongue not even venturing out for a single little taste of her. Not her mouth, not the glorious sheen of her skin, nor her tasty little cunt.

It was the way he focused purely on the pain hungry show for the viewing public, and not on throwing himself in deep for his own pleasure, despite how fucking tempting a girl like sweet Paige Emmerson must have been.

There’s no way Eric could have kept that dick in his pants without some serious fucking motivation to keep it there, not in a million years.

It was a plume of light in my darkness. A plume which saw a smile on my face, despite the bitter fucking misery.

I wound down the car window and let the cliff top wind drown out some of the video sound as the girl I loved begged my brother to let her come for him, and lit up a cigarette as he gave her permission.

Oh, how I fucking missed her as she came hard and fast. It was real. Genuine. Her body writhing like a delicious little flower as she ate up every scrap of his rhythm.

Even in the midst of my disgust, I found myself pleased with his efforts.

His rhythm was plenty good enough to see her shivering and writhing. Another tick in Eric’s learning box. A whole lot fucking better than his attempt with Annabel Fisher just a short fucking time ago.

Shit, how long ago it felt like Annabel Fisher was my sixty-day project.

I was still smoking my cigarette when the broadcast cut out to black. The text was a single liner up on screen, again so fucking predictable I could have guessed its content a mile off.

Get your bids in now. Make them worth it. Booking up fast.

I had no doubt whatsoever that they would be booking up fast. I imagined every client was tripping over themselves to have a go on such a sweet little specimen, my prior notification be fucked in light of her asking them direct for it.