His Plaything ||18+

1. Shame Application: Selling My Body

SNEAK PEEK•••

"You're nothing but my pawn, my slut, and a convenient hole for my pleasure." I scoffed, dragging my finger slowly across her trembling lips, letting it linger just long enough for her to taste herself on it. "You're replaceable, but you'll be loyal to me and me alone. I don't care if other men touch you, but only I get to fuck that tight little cunt of yours. Is that clear?"

Bianca nodded slowly, her determined gaze fixed on mine as though she'd not heard a derogatory word uttered.

"I only want you body, no more. Understand?" I looked down at her small form before me, noting how perfectly proportioned she was for my tastes.

She nodded again like an obedient little pup—and it was getting on my nerves. All I wanted to do was shove my boner down her throat to get more sounds out of her mouth. 'How slow can this woman be?' No matter how desperately she craves my touch, there had to be a limit to how pathetically needy someone could become.

A devious smirk formed at my lips as my second hand gripped her hair tightly, watching her wince was satisfactory—I couldn't wait to hurt her, to turn that flawless skin red from spanks and strokes. I needed to break her, to watch those wide blue eyes fill with tears, pleading for mercy that would never come.

***
[Bianca]
***
'The donor's dying wish was that their identity remains anonymous, so please don't ask about it.' The doctor had said, flipping over to the next page of the written report in his hand. His nose wrinkled as he squinted behind his glasses.

'Is there a problem?' I asked, catching the hesitant look in his gaze.

'The donor didn't have any heart problems, rest assured, and the operation was impromptu so after you're discharged, try to take it easy. You might feel slightly different in the case that your outlook on life differs from what it used to be, but it would be merely a lingering feeling and nothing to worry about.'
***

My brows furrowed, recalling the words of the doctor who performed my heart transplant. My name is Bianca Campbell and I'm twenty-seven years old.

People used to call me "America's sweetheart." Blonde hair, blue eyes—a face people wanted to see in magazines, to admire from a distance. They even named me the most beautiful woman in North America once. I used to believe it all meant something. That it was... me. But now? Now I felt like I was standing on the outside, looking in on someone else's life, trying to remember how to play the part.

Five years ago, shortly after gaining my title, my heart had begun to act up. From unnaturally high blood pressure to extremely low ones. The severity of my condition peaked about a year ago.

Oh, I had it all! Money, fame, sponsorship and a dazzling future ahead—even a fiancé, Christoph who I'd thought to be my soulmate. The only thing I didn't have was time.

My heart, they said, was failing me, and without a transplant, I wouldn't make it past a year. The irony wasn't lost on me—

I remember the despair, the nights spent lying awake, clutching my chest as if I could will my heart to beat just a little longer.

My health had deteriorated to the point where I couldn't leave the hospital at all. At the time, my popularity helped me gain donations and sponsorships to finance the hefty medical bills—but you know what they say about fame. The quicker you reach it, it's faster you lose it.

No one wanted to assist a woman who visibly wasn't getting better, leaving me to my own devices.

For those excruciating six months, I'd lived on life support. I was my crutch and very own sympathiser. The lower you go, the faster you realize how fleeting life could be.