Buy My Soul (Sixty Days 2)

I soaked in the state of her under decent lighting.

Her eyes were puffy from tears, a smear of dirt down her cheek from the grime of the alleyway. Her dress was skewed messily across her tits, showing a scrap of lace bra underneath, and her leggings were torn.

She was a fine specimen of distress, hitching back another bout of waterworks as I glared down at her.

“I could destroy you in ways you can’t even imagine,” I said, but her eyes didn’t leave mine.

“You saved me,” she whispered and I gritted my teeth at another dick twitch, fighting back the urge to fuck her raspy little throat until she choked up bile. “Thank you for saving me.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” I hissed, but her eyes remained wide in their gratitude.

“I know these sixty days are whatever you want them to be, and I don’t care. I just want you to know that I’m grateful. Grateful you came for me.” She paused. “I’m really surprised you were there… that you cared… I thought I was alone…”

Oh, how hard I pinched her face in my fingers, puffing up her teary cheeks like a desperate little chipmunk as I leaned in close.

She flinched as I laughed.

“I care about my investment, nothing more. You’re a product and I’m the owner. Don’t for a second make the mistake of thinking I’m a man who cares a shit for the dirty little girls on his payroll.”

She couldn’t disguise the hurt. It burned through her eyes. “Thank you anyway, sir,” she said, and there was that fucking softness in her tone again.

There was no softness in mine as I barked out the orders.

“Strip out of those filthy fucking clothes and show me the damage.” I let go of her cheeks with a shove, eye contact broken.

Her fingers were dithery as she wrestled to tug her dress up and over her head from her kneeling position. She cast it to the side without a sound, then tugged her bra up and over her head without even reaching for the clasp.

Those perky little tits were a delight, rising and falling with her breaths as she squirmed to pull her leggings down and off along with her shoes. Her knickers came with them, and she adjusted herself, rising higher on her scuffed knees and dropping the rest of the scrappy clothing onto the pile.

How I admired that battered little body kneeling naked for me.

Her eyes tried to follow mine as I circled her. My mouth watered at the yellowing bruises on her thighs and ass, belt come good.

“If you want to help your sister, you’ll do as you’re fucking told,” I told her. “I don’t want to hear another peep out of your pretty little mouth about her until your days are done, understand me?”

She twisted just enough to feast on my stare, unable to hold back the horror. I didn’t give her time to think.

“Understand?” I barked. “You want the money to help the skanky bitch out of shit, then you’d better get earning it.”

“But, sir…” she began and I cursed over her.

“Under fucking stand?”

A tiny nod. Finally. “Yes, sir.”

“Hands behind your head,” I said, and she did as she was told, her fingers clasped daintily at her nape, thighs straining to hold her high. “This is how you wait for me, always.” I kicked out at her feet and nudged them wider. She shuffled her knees apart, and the outline of her puffy pussy lips was a welcome sight. “You always offer me that hungry little cunt,” I said. “No matter how much I make it hurt.”

Another tiny nod. “Yes, sir.”

She dared to look around her, taking in the space, and I noticed the setup of the room along with her.

I had jackets hung up on the wardrobe door and a row of shoes at the bottom of the four poster. I had toiletries on the dresser and an empty suitcase standing in the corner beyond.

This was no room for dirty little bitches in for sixty days of filth. This wasn’t a caged-in playpen with a wall of cameras waiting to feast on pain. This was me. My space. My personal quarters.

And she knew it.

It was written all over her face, like childish wonder. The unspoken knowing that she was out of place here. A witness to a world she had no business being a part of.

Time to remedy that as quickly as fucking possible.

I grabbed a pen from the dresser and pulled the freshly printed paperwork from my inside pocket.

She didn’t attempt to move her hands as I held page one up for her viewing. I watched her eyes scanning the text until she reached the bottom, then switched the pages.

If she was taken aback at the strength of the contract she didn’t show it. She was silent as she read through the agreement, taking just a short, sharp breath as the signatory page appeared.