We’d done pussy scouting in London and Edinburgh and plenty of bustling spots in between, even venturing across country to north Wales and its bleak rugged hills. Coming down south to the coast seemed as good a next step as any, but just three months in and I was already itching to head back to city life. Manchester beckoned, or Liverpool even. Anywhere with crowds of commuters and bars big enough to lose yourself in on reckless nights.
I looked again at the hungry little bitch on my brother’s screen. She’d taken more than a few up the ass, that was certain. I made a mental note to cast seaside bolt holes aside in future endeavours. The rumour mill was churning quicker than wildfire down here.
I was well aware of the likely source of these rumours. Rebecca Lane had been a meek-looking purchase, but her tongue seemed a whole lot more free to waggle without a mouth jammed full of dicks. I had little doubt her river of bragging gossip was where the sudden local stream of applications was appearing from, and while a decent pool of potentials could seem like a welcome benefit to an outfit like ours, it was anything but the truth of it in actuality.
The girls that wanted to flash their fake eyelashes on an application to the likes of us were exactly the type to have a dirty glint in the eye. They were horny little bitches used to the dirtier rides in life. Dirty enough not to balk at the prospect of sixty days taking whatever crazy shit we could hit them with.
Our clients didn’t want that kind of horny little bitch, and neither did I.
We didn’t offer the kind of easy ride they could pick up cheap on a roadside somewhere. We didn’t source girls already used to offering their slutty wares to any cash-rich man asking.
We offered fresh, innocent, corruptible.
We offered wide eyes and genuine shock. Trembling fingers and shallow breaths.
We offered nervous girls. Natural girls. Girls without any real idea of what filthy delights their body was capable of delivering.
Rebecca Lane had been one of those girls just a few short months ago. Now she was armed with a sly little smirk and a very healthy bank account to see her along her way.
“Gossip brings nothing but cheap whores,” I told Eric, and rose to my feet. “That’s not what we offer. Not now, not ever.”
“We don’t need to advertise them as that. The buyers wouldn’t need to know,” he protested, but I shook my head.
“They’d know.”
“You can’t be sure they’d be able to tell, especially not online…”
But he was wrong. He often was.
“I would know,” I told him.
He didn’t argue with that.
I patted his shoulder on my way out of the room. The kid had a lot to learn. Luckily he was around the very best of teachers.
I cleared the stairs two at a time and headed to the door at the end of the corridor with quick strides. I didn’t give any warning as I pressed down the handle and pushed my way inside, and the pale tangle of limbs on the bed in the corner flinched and gathered into a huddle as the light flooded in.
She was a sweet little peach, big blue eyes squinting at the glare behind me as her dainty fingers spread wide across her face. Annabel Fisher was everything a sixty-day purchase should be. Corrupting her was going to be an absolute pleasure.
She let out a delicious little whimper as I pressed start on the network of cameras facing in at her and closed the distance.
Let the sixty days begin.Chapter ThreePaigeMy belly was lurching and flipping all the way to my Monday morning psychology lecture. I could see Carolyn Lane up ahead of me, walking into the lecture hall, long dyed burgundy hair bobbing behind her as she laughed with Jenna Willoughby from the dorm opposite mine. I really shouldn’t have been so preoccupied with the prospect of spending sixty days of my life as victim to some filthy men’s whims, but the weekend had sped by in a blur of nothing else, just me and this sorry little hope that salvation for my sister might lie within my reach.
I could hear Carolyn’s laugher continuing from the row beneath mine as I took my seat with a nervous shuffle. I’d never been one to believe in surface appearances, having learned so well already through my miserable lifetime that looks can be deceptive, and the desperate reality underneath a beaming smile can be rancid enough to take your breath. Still, Carolyn’s laughter sounded free and easy, her voice light and loud. She didn’t sound like someone whose sister was damaged for all time, disturbed beyond all repair by sixty days fit for a cult horror movie.
That’s one thing Pippa’s recounted stories had given plenty of testament to – that the conditions of the sixty-day torment may be filthy and dangerous to the extreme, but apparently these people promised several hard outcomes. One was that the money would be delivered promptly on completion, with no further interaction ever needed. The other was that these men would deliver their sixty-day conquests back to their regular lives entirely healthy, with no long-lasting injuries.