Buy My Soul: A Sixty Days Novel

by West, Jade

  His hands were gods to me. I moved to their whim as they directed me. I turned. Slowly. My bare back pressed to his suited chest at his command, and I shivered. His fingers slipped around to raise my chin to the camera on the nearest bedpost.

  “You look at them. You always look at them.”

  I managed a nod.

  My skin felt wretched, soiled with grime and sweat. My tits were ready through the pain, nipples hard and begging as his palms swept down from my throat. They jolted as he caught them with his fingers, but he didn’t linger. My belly lurched as he swept lower, but he didn’t touch between my legs. Instead he took my wrists and raised them, hooking them back over his shoulders to cross behind his neck. I had to stretch to hold the stance, rising up on my knees.

  “If you need tying in position, you’ll regret it.”

  I managed a nod.

  “Show the clients those pretty eyes. So many people ready to enjoy your pain, can you feel them?”

  Another nod, but this time it wasn’t enough. He twisted my nipple so hard I whimpered, then stuttered out the words.

  “Yes… y-yes, sir. I can feel them.”

  “Tell them, dirty little girl. Tell them you’re ready to hurt for them.”

  But it wasn’t them.

  It wasn’t them I was ready to hurt for.

  It was him.

  He was the one I was ready to hurt for. That I wanted to hurt for.

  I could feel the swell of him through his suit trousers, ridged against my ass. I wanted him inside there. Wanted him to be the first to fuck my ass like a hungry little whore who could take it.

  “I’m ready, sir,” I said, being sure to keep my eyes on the camera ahead of me. “I’m ready to hurt for them.”

  His palm mashed my tit to my ribs and ground tight. His grip was painful, tugging so hard my flesh burned.

  “Tell them you want to hurt for them.”

  “I want to hurt for them, sir.”

  “Such grime all over you from that filthy fucking alleyway. I hope you realise how much this suits a dirty little slut.” He paused. “That’s what you are now, little girl. A dirty little slut. A pitiful, cheap, dirty little slut. All for the cameras. All for me.”

  For him.

  His slap was hard on my thigh. I wobbled but didn’t loosen my grip behind his neck. The next was harder. The one after that made me cry out.

  “Show them that pretty little cunt,” he growled, and I did. I shifted my knees as wide as my position allowed, caring nothing for the way his fingers splayed me and tugged at my pussy lips.

  I could imagine the cameras zooming. Could imagine the onlookers staring at the most private parts of me and passing judgement. Exposed. I was so filthily exposed.

  Maybe I was pretty enough. Dirty enough. Cheap enough.

  Maybe I was good enough. Could be good enough.

  Maybe I was more of a slut than Rebecca Lane and it would be enough for them to enjoy me. Enough to want more.

  Maybe their enjoyment would please him. The god at my back.

  My god.

  The one I wanted to please, even though I knew I was crazy. More than crazy.

  His voice was a whisper in my ear. His breath hot.

  “So it begins.”

  And so it did. I focused on the pain in my nipples as he pulled and twisted and made me whimper. I focused on the pulse of my clit between my thighs as he addressed the audience on the other end of the cameras and told them how I was going to be their dirty pleasure for sixty days. Their dirty, slutty, begging little slut promising to take their cum however they were willing to give it. Take their pain however they wanted to dish it out to me.

  His voice was vile satin. His words were foul and made my heart pound through my ribs.

  His touch was hurt. So much hurt. Lashing my inner thighs with heavy palms. Pinching my clit until I shivered. Crushing my tits so hard I gulped in breath.

  Slapping me, over and over. Hard. Hard enough that my cries out came free and wild.

  But I didn’t lower my arms, not for anything. They stayed locked behind his neck, my stance secure no matter what.

  My eyes watered as he twisted my clit in his fingers. I pressed my back to his chest, an anchor in the storm as he hooked three fingers between my legs and plunged them deep.

  It felt better than it should.

  I wanted it more than I should.

  “I love the smell of filth on such a pretty little body,” he said, and his laugh was low. “Grimy little whores need to beg for cleanliness. If you beg nicely, maybe you’ll get your reward later.”

  I couldn’t beg. Couldn’t do anything but whimper and writhe.

  “Enjoy her pain,” he said to the cameras, and I moaned as his fingers pulled out of me.

  It was quick. Quick enough that I choked as those same fingers thrust between my parted lips and slammed to the back of my throat. Finally I lost my grip behind his neck, instinct bringing my hands forward to grip at his wrists.

  His response was lightning fast. His hands wrapped around my throat and slammed me flat to the mattress in one movement. I struggled for a heartbeat before his knee pinned my wrists taut above my head and his palm rained slaps down my torso hard enough that I cursed and cried and wriggled.

  “Spread your dirty fucking thighs,” he snapped and I tried. The seconds were long as I strained to spread them wide.

  The seconds it took before he slapped my aching pussy weren’t nearly long enough. My eyes watered and spilled, my breaths in grunts as I fought to submit to him.

  And that’s when the adrenaline flared.

  It zinged through my body in waves. Blooming loud as my screaming nerves struggled between pleasure and pain. The midway point between the two was an ocean of hungry shock. The world slowed, ears ringing as I adjusted to the sensations.

  I coasted there. Felt the smile grace my dirty lips.

  Free.

  I felt free.

  My eyes focused on the green light of the nearest camera. My senses dulled and sharpened at once, my breaths louder than the slaps of his hands as he punished me.

  I stared at them. The people beyond. The people watching me from afar.

  I stared into the void of technology and felt the gaze of dirty rich men enjoying my hurt.

  I didn’t know I was still smiling until he pinched my cheeks and called me out for it. Until his eyes were in mine and burning and his body was laid down next to me.

  “Lift your fucking knees,” he grunted, and this time it wasn’t the viewers’ benefit he was speaking for. It was mine. “Pull them to your chest and give me your filthy little asshole.”

  My smile disappeared. My eyes stayed hard on his, rules forgotten.

  I lifted my knees to my chest and he yanked them wide before his arm pressed them tight to my tits. My lower back lifted from the mattress and presented my ass to the cameras.

  Presented my ass to him.

  I’d never had this. Never done this. Never had my ass pounded by anyone or anything.

  My fear was palpable. My mouth was dry when he licked two fingers and slipped them down between my ass cheeks.

  I wasn’t ready. Not for a single finger, let alone two.

  I wasn’t ready for the burn as they pushed deep inside and stretched me raw.

  I grunted. He cursed under his breath, his eyes still on mine.

  “Dirty girl,” he said, and again his words were for me. “I’m going to enjoy destroying your tight little hole.”

  The cameras disappeared into the background as I whimpered for him. The world was just him as I struggled to take the third finger pushing deep.

  It was like needing the toilet in the most painful of circumstances. It was like a hot bolt of hurt burning deep.

  And then it wasn’t.

  My pussy clenched and my clit sparked. My body moved of its own accord.

  “Steady,” he whispered. “Act like you want more and I’ll give you enough to regret it.”

  But I
did want more. Despite the pain, I wanted everything.

  His fingers tugged free and slammed back in again. My breath met with his, my lips parted to match his.

  How I wanted him to kiss me. To land his mouth onto mine and force his tongue deep enough to match his fingers. Two holes at once consumed by the monster.

  He didn’t.

  “Fucking your ass raw is going to be an absolute pleasure,” he told me. “Making you beg me to stop is going to be reward enough for the world of fucking shit you’ve pulled me through.”

  I had no idea what world of fucking shit I’d pulled him through. Facing off to the scum in the alleyway just a day previous had seemed like water off a duck’s back to a beast like him. Barely worth him breaking a sweat over.

  My world was a universe of fucking shit. Had been for as long as I could remember.

  His world seemed anything but.

  I cried out loud as he circled his fingers in my ass and stretched me wider. My muscles tightened around them involuntarily, and he liked that, I saw it in his eyes for a long moment before he turned his attention back to the cameras.

  “Call this a taster,” he said to the viewers. “A taster of the finest sixty-day experience you’ll ever fucking witness. Such a filthy little beauty begging to be destroyed.”

  His lip curled into a scary smile.

  “I’m going to show you so much of this desperate little whore that you’ll be dying for the plane ride over here. Get your bids ready, because they’ll be coming in from every fucking where. Some of you will strike lucky. Some of you won’t.” He paused. “All of you will want in, believe me.”

  Bids.

  The thought hit hard.

  I mean I knew it. I knew it from Rebecca Lane and her tales of her own sixty days at his mercy. I knew that submitting to the will of this gorgeous monster was only the first stage in the sixty day whirlwind of obedience.

  I’d have to take whichever cock was given, in whichever way it was offered.

  I’d have to give myself to whoever came calling in and whichever way they made me give myself.

  She’d told me there were many men. Many horrible men. Vile men. Disgusting men.

  Men who’d made her forget her very sanity in her bid to earn her money.

  Men she’d pleased for reasons beyond that. For one reason beyond that.

  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 Twelve

  Brandon

  I 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.”

  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.”

&nb
sp; “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.