Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

I forced my shoulders back enough to stare down at his shadowy attack on my tits. I loved how his fingers looked so big and fierce against my pale skin. I loved how my nipples were hard for him, betraying my silence over every vile fantasy I’d ever had.

“I’ll hurt your tits so fucking bad you’ll cry at the thought for the rest of your life,” he said, and gripped so tight I held my breath.

His thumb made a traitor of my clit. The angel on my shoulder was long-gone as I felt the shudders from deep.

I strained for my own balance, but found nothing but the strength in his frame dwarfing mine.

The idea that the three college jerks on the beach could have saved me from this beautiful monster was enough to make me smile. He took it as a laugh, I’m sure he did.

The way he gripped my face had my eyes like saucers. He crushed my cheeks, making my mouth a gulpy little goldfish as he glared down at me.

“Something tickling you, little girl?” he hissed, and jammed his knuckles so deep between my legs that I cried out.

“No,” I managed to say.

“Good,” he told me. “Or I’d have to wipe that smile right off your dirty little face.”

He didn’t let go. My face stayed in his grip, my expression his for the taking. I couldn’t shake him off. Couldn’t move my head away.

My pussy felt destroyed but my clit was buzzing sky high.

My first whimper of climax was ugly. Weak and sad from my fish-pout lips.

It was his turn to smile. There was nothing funny about his expression as he ate up my discomfort and squeezed my cheeks tighter for more.

“I love pretty faces so much better when I’m fucking them up,” he said, and it was too much.

The orgasm was everything it shouldn’t be, rocking through my body like an electric current gone wild. I juddered on weak legs, crushing him with desperate arms as I bounced against the thumb on my clit.

My pussy ached so bad I felt like I’d swallowed his whole fist up there, but I didn’t care about that. All I cared about was doing what he wanted, taking what he wanted.

Being what he wanted.

The man really was a monster. His breath was loud against mine, his lips barely an inch away as he pinned me hard to the wall.

And then I felt him.

The length of him.

Monster was an apt word for the swell of him. Suddenly the finger-pounding didn’t seem nearly so bad.

With that realisation he tugged his hand from between my legs and jammed his thigh in its place, rubbing so hard against my battered pussy that I cried out loud again.

I knew I was soaking him. I knew the fabric of his suit trousers would be covered with wetness, and sweat, and maybe even blood too.

If I thought his thumb was good, the grind of his body was heaven.

I closed my eyes as the peak claimed me whole, cursing out a hiss as I ground against him right back.

“It’s always the quiet little girls,” he breathed, but I was lost to the statement, wriggling like a fish on a line until the electric was all gone.

I panted. Loud.

Really loud.

The pain caught up in a heartbeat, stomach clenching tight as my legs gave out.

He didn’t let me fall.

“Two hundred and fifty grand doesn’t come easily,” he told me, and it snapped me back to my senses.

“It doesn’t need to,” I managed to say, and the spell was broken.

I let go of his shoulders and supported myself against the wall, daring to test my pelvic muscles were still vaguely functional as he pulled himself away.

They were.

They hurt like a hundred hells, but they were.

He brushed down his wet trouser leg with a smirk.

“I should make you lick me clean,” he said. “But I think you’ve earned your money just fine for one evening.”

I’d forgotten all about the notes in his pocket earlier. My heart soared in relief as he pulled them out.

I reached for them but he held them back with a smirk. I felt more like my desperate junkie sister than I’d ever felt in my life.

“There’s a shit ton of fine print to talk through,” he remarked before slipping the wad of cash in my ruined neckline. The notes felt so seedy against my skin that I shivered all over again. “I don’t have a sixty-day vacancy for well over a month. You’d do well to prepare yourself for the start date.”

“More than a month?! But I need…” I began, and realised I must sound like my desperate junkie sister as much as I felt like her.

“More than a month,” he repeated. “Plenty of time to plan for the experience. Many girls like to schedule time out from their regular routine. College may be interested to know you intend to pull a hiatus, for instance.”