Buy My Soul: A Sixty Days Novel

by West, Jade

  “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.

  “A decent bathroom is needed to scrub the shit off you,” I grunted, and she nodded but didn’t believe my motives. Not entirely.

  Hope. There was a weird shimmer of hope in those pretty eyes of hers.

  That pang in me throbbed again and I hated it all over again. Hated everything about this sorry fucking spectacle and how I’d got involved with her in the first place.

  Her sister was in plush fucking rehab at my bidding. Rescued from carnage at my bidding.

  My business partner was likely still chomping at the bit at my tampering with the watertight logistics of our operation.

  My previous sixty-day pay-out was nothing but a hole in my pocket, tossed free on my own fucking whim without a care for the debt the girl could have paid willingly at my hands these coming weeks.

  All for her.

  Paige Emmerson.

  A sad little college girl with a tender heart in her chest and a sweet little pussy begging for punishment.

  I cast off my jacket and tossed it to the bed, pacing through to the bathroom with gritted teeth.

  She followed but lingered in the doorway as I turned the shower on full, pelting the bathtub with a stream strong enough to splash my trousers and cling the fabric tighter to the swell at my crotch.

  Her eyes went to the toilet. No surprise there. She must have been fucking desperate.

  “May I, please?” she asked.

  I nodded and she darted right over. She sat down in a hurry, closing her eyes as the stream hit the pan.

  “I, um…” she began. “Maybe you should…”

  I smiled my most evil smile. “I’d lose your shyness of bodily functions, if I were you, Miss Emmerson. I’ll be well acquainted with every little part of you long before the sixty days are through.”

  I could see her blush through the grime as she closed her eyes and did her business. It entertained me deep to witness her discomfort at my presence.

  She’d have a lot more of that discomfort to come.

  I made sure I stared all the while she wiped herself and struggled to keep her privacy as watertight as possible from across the bathroom.

  I waited until the flush was finished and she was back on her feet before I clicked my fingers and pointed.

  “Here,” I barked. “In the fucking shower, let’s get you fucking scrubbed.”

  Sad little Paige Emmerson did exactly what she was told.

  She was a meek little beauty as she stepped up over the bath lip and edged herself under the water jet. I was amazed at the full extent of the grot and sweat on her as the stream hit hard, her shoulders first. Her skin was a perfect picture underneath, her paleness countering the darkness of her blooming bruises like a masterpiece for my viewing.

  It was glorious.

  She was fucking glorious.

  Her tits were mottled from my hand slaps. Her thighs were reddening into bruises. Her pussy was puffy from my assault, pink and swollen and making her groan as she spread her legs for the torrent.

  I didn’t even need to ask her to.

  She had the freedom to move however she wanted, but she didn’t move for her. Her eyes stayed away from mine, but her performance was all for me. I knew it was. I could sense it a mile off.

  The way she moved. The way she turned to let the water find her. The way she was sure to direct her body to mine in exactly the way that would serve me best.

  She was learning. Already the minx was learning to please me.

  Yet still she was innocent. Unsure. Unsteady.

  I squeezed a huge glob of liquid soap into my palm and reached in to lather her up. My sleeves were soaked in seconds, but I didn’t give a shit, focusing on my own roughness as I worked her skin with suds. She moved like an obedient youngster to offer herself to my touch, eyes on me with some semblance of gratitude that had my dick pulsing all over again.

  Grateful for this? How the fuck could a girl like her be grateful for this? For basic cleanliness? For basic attention?

  “Thank you, sir,” she said over the hiss of the jet as I soaped up her arm. “That feels nice. It feels nice to be clean. I um… I like being clean…”

  I soaped her well, turning her full circle and lathering everything from her tight little ass crack to her tender cunt. I washed her thoroughly, until she was gleaming. Until the bathtub was rinsed clean of the grimy water and running clear as a summer’s fucking day.

  “On your knees,” I grunted and reached for the shampoo bottle.

  She dithered. I offered my arm as support as she lowered herself, dropping to her knees and slipping just a little with the torrent. I wasted no time in lathering up her hair, and she closed her eyes, tipping her head back as though it was some great honour worthy of genuine thanks, just to have her scalp clean.

  Her life really was pitiful if such pleasure could be so easily given.

  I hated the zing of the question that rose from the back of my mind. The question of when I last felt such pleasure myself, even if hers was so fucking pitifully obtained.

  “Thank you again, sir,” she told me as I rinsed the shampoo clear. “It really does feel great to be clean.”

  I turned off the flow of water and handed her a towel from the rack, leaving her to rise and wrap herself as I unbuttoned my soaking shirt. Her eyes were on mine as I removed my cufflinks and placed them neatly on the windowsill. They were on my torso as I shrugged the fabric clear and tossed it to the floor by the towel rack.

  “Use the toothbrush in the pot and dry yourself off thoroughly before you get in bed,” I barked, dropping my trousers with my back to her as I headed for the shower and turned the jets back up. She remained in the corner of my vision as I lathered myself up with the same ferocity I’d shown her minutes earlier. I didn’t grace her with a single look as she did as she was told at the bathroom sink.

  My toothbrush.

  I couldn’t believe I’d actually instructed her to use my toothbrush.

  Her efforts were serious. She brushed her teeth for an age before swilling her mouth out and turning her attention back to her towelling.

  I felt her eyes all over me as I lathered my swollen cock and made sure
not to grip too fucking tightly. It was only when I’d finished washing my hair and reached to turn off the water jets that she seemed to realise how long she’d been gawking. She abandoned the towel on the rack and retreated to the bedroom in a hurry.

  She was under the covers and staring at the bathroom door when I’d done my own teeth and towelled myself dry enough to head on through after her.

  I flicked off the overhead lights in favour of bedside lamplight and climbed in my own side, stretching out beside her as she rolled to face me.

  The distance on the mattress between us thrummed. I could feel her thoughts churning over how much more she would have to deliver this evening.

  The answer was nothing.

  I told her as much.

  The answer was that the sixty days were about money from end viewers and performances on webcam, not for personal pleasures off screen in my private chambers.

  “Our prior interactions were merely for training and testing,” I said with a flat tone, allegedly disinterested. “I am concerned with my clients’ pleasure. Not my own. Your being here is for end users and certainly not for me, sweetheart.”

  I expected at least some relief. Not for the hurt and embarrassment that flashed across her face.

  “But I… I thought you…”

  “You thought what?” I prompted. “Thought I was personally interested?” I forced a laugh. “This is a business, little girl, not a fucking hobby.”

  I raised a leg under the covers to hide my still present hard on.

  Again, I could feel those thoughts ticking over in her head. Tick-tocking. Spinning like dancing pixies behind her eyes.

  I changed the subject.

  “Was the pasta sufficient? Your nutrition is essential if your performance is going to be worthy of the viewers for the coming weeks.”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  “You can earn nice meals here,” I said. “You can also earn the reward of eating them at your own leisure.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she repeated.

  My fingers would have gladly forced pasta into that wet little mouth all over again, but I kept my tone nonplussed, a professional at work and nothing more.

  “Sleep,” I instructed. “Tomorrow will require another serious performance from you.”

  She shuffled. Edged a little closer.

  Her eyes were filled with something more in that moment.

  Filled with her afresh.

  Paige Emmerson.

  Student.

  Young woman struggling to make her way through life.

  Sister.

  I knew what was coming before it came, but oh fucking hell she didn’t know what was coming in return.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Paige

  I picked the wrong moment, not that there ever could have been a right one with a man like Brandon Grant.

  I was lulled into a false sense of security. Lulled into the moment by a man who seemed calmly business-like as he lay beside me.

  It wasn’t just about the business, and I knew it. I felt it.

  It was underneath his cold tone as he told me I was nothing more than a cash cow to make him money on screen. Underneath the iciness in his eyes as he told me this was business for money and nothing more. Not about pleasure. Not about want. Not about me.

  But I knew it was about more than that. I’d felt his hardness, and that wasn’t just for the cameras. I’d seen the swell of him in the shower and I’d felt it in his touch on the mattress earlier; it was about so much more than the people watching from a distance.

  I guess it gave me a little bit more boldness than it should have. Should have ever had. But I needed it. Needed the boldness.

  I needed it for my sister.

  “Please, sir,” I said, and his eyes burned mine, flashing with instinct. Like he knew what was coming.

  Maybe he did know.

  Maybe he’d known it all the time.

  Maybe he’d been waiting. Poised for the time it would head in his direction. Poised for the time he could tear me down all over again.

  I didn’t stop talking. I couldn’t stop talking.

  “Please, sir, I know I shouldn’t mention it. I know I shouldn’t. But my sister. Please. If there is anything I can offer in exchange for making sure my sister is ok… to you, I mean… not offer for the viewers, because I’m already due to give everything to them…” I closed my eyes. I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t face it. “What I mean is… for you, sir. Please. If I can offer anything to you in exchange for making sure my sister is ok… I’ll do anything.”

  I wasn’t ready for the pounce. I’d never have been ready for the pounce. Not then. Not ever.

  He was so strong as his body landed on mine. I squeaked like a scared little mouse as his hand pinned my wrists to the headboard and the other took my throat and pressed tight.

  “What I demand is fucking obedience, little girl. You have nothing to offer me but fucking obedience. I take what I want, for sixty days. And what I want is a decent fucking fuck slut for my clients. A filthy fucking slut who does what she’s told in front of the cameras and realises she’s absolutely nothing to me when she’s not.”

  He was angry. Really angry.

  Scary and horrible and everything that made me shiver.

  My heart pounded like a freight train. My breaths came out hissing.

  It hurt.

  Everything hurt.

  Bruises. Tender skin. My head. My heart.

  My fears were screaming for Phoebe. Screaming out to please a man who was a demon and nothing else.

  I didn’t realise I was crying until his body rose enough that his knee pressed hard between my legs. That hurt too.

  “You think you have any leverage over me?” he snarled. “You think you have anything worth shit to offer a man like me that’s seen fucking everything? Been offered fucking everything? Taken fucking everything?”

  I couldn’t shake my head. His grip was too tight.

  “The world is a dark place,” he continued. “It’s a shit hole of sin and pain and greed. People are cunts. Those who get furthest in this world are the biggest cunts of all. I’m one of the biggest cunts of all. I didn’t get to this position in life by fawning over slutty little offers in fucking bed at night.”

  He was right. Right about greed. Right about the world. Right about those at the top of it.

  I hated how right he was.

  The angel on my shoulder was dead to me in that moment. My optimism for life come good shrivelled and faded as my eyes met his.

  And then I saw it.

  The pain.

  Underneath the rage, and the spite, and the sadism. Underneath the control and the disgust. Underneath the power.

  Pain.

  He was hurting too. Deep.

  Deep enough that it was nothing more than a shadow. A hint. A metallic taste under the beautiful musk of him.

  The monster pulled away from my throat and I rasped in a breath. He kept his grip on my wrists but raised himself from my chest, his knee still tight between my legs as I gulped in air.

  I should hate him. Part of me wanted to fight and lash out, telling him I was done with this sixty day filth and needed my sister, fuck whatever the consequences on the outside world because love is love and we’d make it through together. That somehow we’d make it through together.

  But I didn’t say a word.

  The tears kept coming as I looked up at him, and they weren’t just for me and Phoebe. They were for him too. They were for the vileness of the world that had made a man such a dark god as this one.

  It was sad. Sad that he had the potential to be so much, since he was so strong and powerful. He’d been such a beacon of light to me in that alleyway of scum when I’d needed a saviour. He’d been a greater saviour than anyone I’d ever known.

  He could have been whatever he wanted to be in this world. So much good to so many people. So much good to himself.

  Yet here he was. A
nd here I was. Both of us playing in the depths of seedy cash to pick up whatever rewards we could.

  I blinked a fresh round of tears as he glared down at me, and that’s when I knew it. When I felt it for the first time in the heart of me.

  He’d told me earlier that submission had nothing to do with defeatism. Nothing to do with me coasting through the hours with the acceptance of whatever was coming.

  I understood it in that moment. I understood how submission meant nothing if I valued it as nothing. How my time in this place meant nothing if I was giving myself up with the resignation of a cow heading for the bolt gun at the abattoir.

  It was in those seconds our eyes locked in pain and his burned deep that I registered the spark in the pit of me. The spark of life. The spark of value. The spark of me.

  It wasn’t self-confidence, or any real grasp of self-worth. It wasn’t me deciding I was worthy of everything this place had to offer my bank account.

  It was the belief in deeper things than that. My own strength. My own loyalty. My own love and optimism in the face of suffering.

  My love for my sister.

  And more.

  I felt my soul. I felt the value in the honesty of my spirit.

  I felt its purity and its darkness both at once. The purity in how it craved love. The darkness in how it craved this man’s vicious touch all over me.

  Because I did.

  Even then, I did crave his touch all over me.

  I didn’t care I was still crying as I let my thighs fall open and arched my back with a breath.

  “I said you had nothing to fucking trade,” he hissed. “Pleasure means nothing. People mean nothing. Cash is all that means anything in this life. All that ever means anything.”

  My voice was weak when I spoke, “I’m not trying to trade. Not anymore.”

  His eyes swept down my naked torso. I didn’t need to follow them to know how hard my nipples would be, straining up toward the ceiling.

  “What are you fucking doing then?” he grunted. “You’re playing a dangerous fucking game right now.”