Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
She didn’t argue, just slipped from the bed with the care of someone who’s taken a decent battering and began her way across the room. She shied away just a breath as she passed my body with hers. I felt the heat from her, the nerves from her, the fucking everything from her. She was unnatural in her magnetic meek femininity. A siren with a soft smile and wide eyes, grateful for the most pathetic little morsels life had to offer her.
I hated the thought of being an idiot fucking sailor, strung along by the siren’s call.
I’d never be an idiot fucking sailor, strung along by the siren’s call. Once had been more than enough for this lifetime already.
I watched her take a piss with my arms folded, eyes unapologetic as they ate up her nudity. Her cheeks flushed as she resisted the pull of my gaze, the tinkle of the stream in the toilet bowl clearly being held steady as she did her best to appear in control. I knew her asshole would be hurting along with her bruises. I knew her tits would be more than tender to the touch as her nipples tightened to the cooler air. Still, she didn’t show it. She didn’t show a thing as she finished up and reached for the toilet roll. She wiped as demurely as she could, but I saw enough. I saw that pretty little cunt still puffy from yesterday’s action. I saw the tension in her sweetly bruised thighs as she prepared to raise to standing.
She washed her hands. Towelled them dry thoroughly. Padded her way back through to the bedroom with a lowered gaze.
“When do we begin again, sir?” she asked.
“This evening,” I told her, and she nodded.
“And until then, sir?”
I wondered what she’d have done by choice in the interim hours. I wondered if she was a TV watching girl with an interest in some stupid comedy channel or another. If she was a reader with her nose always buried in some flouncy poetry books from the library. If she was a crossword girl. A walking on the beach kind of girl. A volunteering around campus and raising money for endangered species kind of girl.
Like I should give two fucking shits what a girl like her enjoyed doing.
“Until then you’ll rest that slutty little body of yours and prepare for the next performance,” I said.
She nodded again. “Ok, sir, thank you.”
If she was bored at the prospect of relaxing through a daytime with nothing to occupy her, she didn’t show it. She settled back on the bed with a calmness that shouldn’t have been there, letting out a soft sigh with a smile on her face.
I felt the pull to join her with a calmness that most definitely shouldn’t have fucking been there to match.
It disgusted me. Everything about the calmness in my want for this sad little whore disgusted me.
I ditched it. Kicked it to the kerb with every scrap of will in my deviant fucking mind. Told my filthy soul to get a fucking grip and forget she was anything more than a piece of pussy meat for the selling.
That’s what I needed to do.
Sell the pussy meat.
The calmness had gone by the time I’d locked the bedroom up with her inside it and made my way back downstairs to business.
It had well and truly fucking vanquished when my common sense came back hard enough for me to approve the list of waiting client bids one click after another. Every single fucking one of them.
Chapter Eighteen
Paige
I knew the evening was going to be a tough one. I also knew that resting my body in the interim was essential.
That’s what I did. Hours of rest in that rich, plush bed. Hours of rest alone with my brain churning over life, the world and everything.
Brandon Grant’s words were still hurting me. His humour at my take on love and life was still cutting me deep. Maybe he was right. Maybe my optimism about family and the waves of love from one person to another were nothing short of me being a stupid idiot in a cruel world.
Maybe he was right about my sister too. Maybe he was right that she didn’t give a shit about me beyond what I could do to help her in her own horrible life.
But no. I remembered us as young girls huddled together in my old grimy bed, whispering stories to distract us from our drunken dad downstairs as he turned the place upside down looking for bits of cash he needed for his drink habit.
If I could have said to my sister way back then that she’d be joining him on the addiction front just as soon as she was old enough, she’d have burst into tears in horror, and so would I.