Buy My Soul (Sixty Days 2)

A weird pang hit my gut, and I hated it. I really fucking hated it. Hated how the sorry little minx made me feel anything at all.

The girl wasn’t given anything in life as far as I could see it. It didn’t seem like she’d been graced with much at all in fact, since her sorry creation. Her dregs of an older sister. Idiots at college who barely knew her. Idiot guys on a beach wanting a piece of that tight, wet cunt and chasing her down in the aftermath.

“I’ll make sure you earn what you’re given,” I told her. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Her nod was pitiful. “Thank you, sir.”

“You can stop shielding that puffy little slit from me now. Your performance is done.”

“I’m not shielding it…” she protested, and pulled her hand away in a flash. “I wouldn’t shield anything. Your command is everything. I know what I signed up for, sir.”

It was then that I felt the resignation behind her words.

Her stance had changed, just like that. She was tossed on the waves of a confused mentality, struggling to make sense of the crazy highs and lows.

It wasn’t submission from her. Not any longer.

Not the hungry, squirming, natural submission that had consumed her body as mine made her suffer.

That was fading. Replaced by this. This miserable, pitiful acceptance.

This nothingness.

The same nothingness that had lead me to shove Italian cuisine down her throat before the cameras went live.

She’d wallow in it all night and I knew it. She’d stare up at the ceiling as though the minutes were worth nothing more than ticking towards the end goal all those days from now, feeling that all she needed to do to endure it was accept that she was a nobody at my mercy.

Fuck that.

Fuck her miserable disassociation.

I closed the distance between us, climbing up on the bed despite my common sense screaming for the opposite.

“There is nothing noble about defeat,” I hissed. “Nothing strong in pitiful subservience driven by the sad little prospect of giving up.”

“It’s submission, no? Giving up?” she asked, and it was a genuine question. “Defeat is giving your will to another’s, no? Isn’t that what this is about?”

I laughed aloud. A vicious laugh. Savage in its humour.

“There is nothing defeatist about genuine submission,” I told her. “There is no value in someone giving themselves to another if they don’t value themselves to begin with.”

She shifted at my words. Her eyes tightening on mine.

“I’m not interested in flogging a dead horse,” I continued. “I’m not interested in taking someone’s soul as my own and pushing them to their limits if they’ve given it up to the dust already. Neither are my clients.”

My fucking hard on pulsed again as she nodded.

She understood. Of course she did. She was a sharp little cookie in a soft little shell. The shell of a dreamer. A shell of shyness to protect her in a world full of hard edges. A ridiculous level of optimism in a girl who’d seemingly been subjected to nothing but shit over the years.

“My clients will be bored shitless if I’m toying with a weak willed piece of meat,” I said. “And so will I.”

Once again I forced myself away. Rising to my feet with my dick still fucking straining.

“I won’t be that…” she called after me, rising to her knees. “I promise I won’t be that, sir. I’m more than that. I can be more than that.”

I raised an eyebrow, hating how my eyes roved all over her.

Her elfin hair was wild and wispy, framing her sweet little face covered in spit and grime and pasta sauce. Her tits were tight, nipples hard as they moved with her breaths. Her thighs were darkening under the grotty layer of filth on her skin.

I should have walked away.

I should have told her she’d be wise to stick to her promise and give me all of herself and more, defeatist outlook be damned.

I most fucking definitely shouldn’t have held out a hand to her and beckoned her up with my fingers.

She took them without a word, folding her dainty little digits in my bigger ones with the blind faith of an angel in the dark.

I tugged her from the mattress and onto her wobbly legs, glaring down at her as she adjusted to being vertical.

“You need cleaning up,” I told her in a pathetic explanation as I headed to the doorway. She covered her eyes as we stepped onto the well-lit landing, following meekly as I took a turn for my own bedroom for a second sorry evening with her in tow. “I can’t present a scruffy little slut for two performances running. We need to get you in some kind of presentable order.”

She was as still as a statue as we arrived at my suite and I got the door and stepped inside. I had to reach back and pull her in far enough to slam the door closed behind her, cursing myself for the visible shock on her face at the realisation she was in my own private quarters all over again.