Own My Soul (Sixty Days 3)

Hurting me.

I told myself to calm down. I had to keep toeing the line, albeit slowly. Anything to keep Mr Sinister from diving in with me and pushing me for more.

The clothes waiting were white and frilly. Laced with innocence. The stockings were sweet and dainty and not fishnet. The knickers were layered with frills upon frills like I was some kind of needy little girl waiting for enlightenment. The bra was a balcony with the nipples exposed, seemingly not as innocent as the rest of it.

There was a full-length mirror opposite. I turned to survey myself in my nakedness, my cheeks burning up at the sight of my blotchy skin, still recovering. I had crop marks scattered across my thighs and ass. Bruises both flared up and fading on my tits and stomach.

I felt like a wreck. Exhausted and raw.

All I wanted was Brandon Grant. His hands on me in the bathroom. His arms around me in his bed.

Him.

I wanted him.

I hoped he really was coming for me. His brother’s words felt so far away now. Far enough away to fill me with doubts.

I told myself to stay calm, to take it slow, and I prayed for a miracle.

I tugged on the stockings gently, bringing them to rest mid-thigh. I slipped up the frilly knickers and made sure they were positioned right on my hips, one of the crop marks jutting up and out of the back of them. The bra I put on and twisted to the front, grimacing as the straps grazed my ribcage bruises.

My hair was a mess. A scatty mess of fine hair dancing around all over the place. My eyes were wired, my lips puffy, my whole appearance clearly on the more worrying side of life.

I sat and waited. Waited for a miracle. My heart thumping hard, dreading what was really coming. Dreading his touch and his laugh and his punishment and whatever else was due after.

I flinched as the door into the room swung open, expecting him standing there and ready for me to deliver, but it wasn’t, it was Brandon’s brother who came pacing in, and his expression was almost as worried as mine felt.

His eyes flitted all over the place, his voice low as his mouth pressed to my ear.

“I don’t have long,” he said. “Drake is through with his loaded fucking friends upstairs, promising them a damn good fucking time. I’m holding him off best I can, hoping Brandon’s gonna fucking get here before it’s too fucking late to stop this shit going down.”

“He’s on his way?” I asked, my voice quaking.

I hated the shrug that came in return. “I dunno, but I fucking hope so. He’s doing his best, I know that much.” He looked about the place once more before he whispered again. “I’ll be doing my best too, just keep it together as best you can, alright?”

I nodded, but had no idea whether he saw me. He was already back out of there in a flash, tugging the bolt back across the door on the other side.

My fingers were shaking when I dared to check out my hands in front of me. My whole body was shivering, even as I tried to calm myself. What would even happen if Brandon managed to show up here?

There was no illusion here. This wasn’t amicable. Whatever was going down here certainly wasn’t amicable.

I forced myself to trust in the outcome. I had to. Brandon Grant was strong. Powerful. Every bit the force that was needed to come through all of this shit.

Every bit the force that was needed to save Rebecca from her bouts of pain too.

I just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

The dressing room had no windows. No way of knowing how the time was rolling. There was only my tumble of thoughts and my swinging legs as I tried to stay in control of myself. My bladder needed release, but I didn’t want to risk drawing any attention to myself by asking for the bathroom. I wanted to sit as quietly as possible and hope that the next face I saw would be Brandon Grant’s as he burst in to release me from all this.

Oh, how I wished it would be Brandon Grant’s as he burst in to release me from all this.

But it wasn’t.

Of course it wasn’t.

The bolt creaked to the back of the door and the swish sounded as it swung inwards and the steps that walked in there were anyone’s but Brandon Grant’s.

They were the security guard’s, some handcuffs swinging from his hand as he gestured on out to the corridor.

“This gonna be the easy way or the fucking hard way?” he asked, and I flinched, scrabbling further back along the table.

And he laughed. He actually laughed at me.

“Guess it’s gonna be the fucking hard way,” he said.