Buy My Soul (Sixty Days 2)

One reason only.

Him.

She’d given her very sanity and taken a host of vile, disgusting men because of him.

Because he told her to.

And for that split second, right there and then — that one tiny split second before he pulled away and said goodnight to the viewers at the end of round one — I knew I would too.Chapter TwelveBrandonI hated how hard my dick was when I moved from that fucking bed. The girl was a ragged, writhing mess, struggling to catch her breath as I pulled away. She whimpered afresh as I withdrew from my position next to her, even though she was stippled pink, burning bright from my assault. Her body moved instinctively, straining for more contact as I retreated, no matter what the cost.

It amazed me how the ragged, writhing mess on the mattress was such a beautiful little petal, unfurling for more of my abuse. I recoiled like a snake, my mask firmly made of steel as I moved on autopilot to terminate the webcam feeds.

Despite my unmoved bravado, I knew she wasn’t fooled. She’d felt my breaths against hers. Felt my swollen fucking dick craving the depths of her tight virgin asshole.

I didn’t turn to her, not for one single second as I busied myself powering down the cameras. I couldn’t bear the thought of gracing her with my attention. Couldn’t stand the prospect that she saw what a horny piece of shit I was for her.

Control.

It was all about control.

All about poise and power and serious fucking restraint.

Restraint was a joke that evening, all considered — seriously fucking lacking on my end. I’d hurt her far worse than I’d intended for the first live broadcast. My hands had taken on a life of their own, slamming down so fucking hard on her grimy skin as she’d shuddered and shaken and whimpered for me.

Her clit would be sore from my vicious fingers. Her thighs would be so fucking tender from the smacks. Her tits would be a wreck of promised bruising.

And still I wanted much more.

“That was an acceptable performance for your first broadcast,” I barked over, like it was her first poxy day at summer school.

There was no answer from her and I didn’t expect one.

She’d rolled onto her side by the time I eventually turned to face her, eyes wide as she stared. I couldn’t hold back from more vile provocations.

“You can thank me for stopping at three fingers in that tight little asshole when you use the bathroom later. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

She didn’t blanch. Didn’t flinch even a little.

I should’ve left her there to recover alone, sending up another glass of water and a humiliating bed pan and little else for the sorry night ahead. I should have retreated for a glorious cigarette on the front porch without another thought, and waited for the flurry of bids to come in via my idiot brother, hard on long forgotten.

I didn’t do either.

“You’d better start using that tongue in your head to speak,” I told her, “or I’ll find a much dirtier use for it.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “Sorry, sir. I’m just…”

Her hand raised to her chest, pressing flat. My mouth watered at the thought of her pounding heartbeat, tongue hungry to bury deep in that tasty little cunt of hers and quicken up the pace all the more.

Tongue hungry to make her come against my face.

Like I should give one flying fuck about her coming for me. I shouldn’t give one flying fuck about anything other than the stream of seedy cash set to fly in my direction from viewers around the globe.

“You can tell me how your first experience was,” I prompted. “Tell me how strong you’re feeling about the sixty days ahead after that little spectacle.”

I don’t know what I wanted her to say. Whether I wanted bravado. Tears. An admission that she didn’t want this. Didn’t expect this. Couldn’t cope with this.

Whether I wanted the challenge of a shrug and a brush off. The promise that she was a tough girl who’d make it work, no matter what the cost.

She gave none of it.

Her fingers dipped between her legs, covering up that tender little pussy without overtly playing with herself.

A shield maybe, but it wasn’t. Her parted lips said it all.

She wanted to touch. Wanted to play. Wanted to succumb to her own dark urges and finish the filth on a high note.

“I wanted to be good,” she whispered, and I found myself stepping closer. “I wanted to please. To be good enough. To give myself however you wanted me. However they wanted me. I think I was. I hope I was.”

“Proud little girl,” I said. “Pride often comes before a fall. I’m sure you know that.”

She shook her head. “It’s not pride. I’m not proud… not like that. It’s more…” She took a breath. “I want to deserve the money. I always want to deserve everything I’m given, sir.”