Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

Her stance shifted as she wrapped her cardigan tighter. “I thought it was worth the risk.”

I never minced my words, not even under the draw of pretty doe eyes. “What cash sum did you have in mind as worth the risk exactly?”

Her eyes dropped, focused on the knot of my tie like an anchor in the darkness. “I heard your payment terms were generous.”

“Generous is a subjective term.”

“Sure, maybe, but I’ve heard you are… big payers,” she insisted.

I flicked ash onto the sand. “And where exactly did you hear that?”

I already knew, of course. I had no doubt that this dainty creature in front of me had heard Miss Lane’s mouth blurting. On the grapevine or direct, the details mattered little, sixty days with Rebecca was making the rounds.

“People have been whispering.”

“Someone has been doing a lot more than whispering,” I countered, then opted for provocation. “On the table here is ten grand. Five per month. Cash on completion. How generous does that sound?”

She stumbled beautifully, legs unsteady with such delicious disappointment that I had to fight the urge to reach out and grab her.

“Ten thousand? For the full sixty days?”

“Cash on completion,” I repeated. “I’m sure you are aware our demands are intense. I hope you’re prepared for that kind of commitment.”

She stepped back, supported herself against one of the struts. “I’m prepared for any commitment necessary, I just…”

Her voice tapered and died. I knew in that heartbeat her desperation knew little bounds. I’d usually push it. Use it. Use her.

But I didn’t.

“What is your price for sixty days?” I asked.

She didn’t have an answer. Her face turned away, eyes on the horizon. I had to quash the urge to take hold of her jaw and wrench her back to me.

“Don’t be coy, sweetheart,” I pushed. “Everyone has a price. Always. Tell me yours and stop wasting my time.”

“I need…” she began, then caught herself. “My price is more than ten.”

“How much more than ten?”

“I thought you gave more than that,” she said, and her voice was so wobbly with confusion it made me smile.

“How about we get off to an easy start,” I offered, and flicked the stub of my cigarette away.

Her eyes were firmly back in my direction as I dipped into my inside pocket and pulled out the wedge of notes. She couldn’t disguise the hunger as I thumbed them for effect.

A full thousand. I told her so.

A full thousand up for grabs right then and there.

“For what?” she asked, and there were those beautiful nerves again. “What do you want me to do?”

“Sixty days don’t come easy. They require all of you, without reservation. No pride, no barriers, no argument.”

“I understand,” she assured me, but she didn’t. She didn’t at all.

“Call this a trial run,” I said, and my tone was different now. Practised in its demand for complicity. “I want you on your knees, pleading for a mouth jammed full of cock. I want to believe you mean it. That you’re hungry for it. That you’re desperate for the throat fucking of the fucking century and desperate for it now.”

How she gulped in breath, hair flicking wild as she checked around for bystanders.

Even in the quest of such a seedy proposition the girl was clinging to modesty.

“What?” I quizzed. “Shy of taking a dick in the mouth? Surely not, sweetheart. There’s a lot worse than that waiting on the other side of an agreement with me, I promise.”

And just like that she was on her knees, shuffling in wet sand as she closed the distance between us. My cock strained in my pants as her palms landed on my thighs, head tipped back as she stared up at me.

“Please,” she whispered. “Whatever you want.”

I was plenty used to the generic language. The bleating offers of obedience.

I wasn’t used to what came next.

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, I swear,” she told me, and she meant it. The honesty dripped right through her words.

My fingers stopped strumming the notes.

“Please,” she continued. “Please let me taste.”

“My cock in your throat,” I said. “Tell me you want my cock stretching your fucking throat.”

Her silence spoke a million words.

Sixty-day girls were many things, but shy wasn’t generally one of them. These girls were pushed to their limits and far beyond at my hands, but they were never strangers to filthy talk or taking a good pounding to begin with.

This one had never talked dirty in her life.

The deep-throat in front of the neighbours under street lighting had certainly been nothing like I’d imagined from her application. I doubted she’d even taken a finger up her tight little asshole.

I should have turned her away right then and there, given her the grand for her trouble and sent her back to her university struggles. I should have told her she wasn’t the girl for this and never would be, no matter how bad she figured she needed the pay day.