Payback Is A Bitch Named Coleen

Seven years ago, at forty-eight, Coleen was cast out from the life she had built. The job she adored at the small, thriving printshop on Margate seafront was taken from her by Steven, the twenty-two-year-old son of her recently deceased mentor and boss. It was a bitter pill to swallow; she had been there from the beginning, helping his father transform a fledgling idea into a successful local landmark. Steven’s decision was swift and clinical, and it shattered her world.

In the aftermath, adrift and furious, Coleen sought solace in obscure online forums. It was there she was found by the Sisterhood of Nyx, a clandestine collective of women who subscribed to a single, unwavering principle: female dominance in all aspects of life. Under their rigorous guidance, Coleen reforged herself. The anger that had nearly consumed her was honed into a cold, strategic resolve. She channeled her energy into a new venture, and now, at fifty-five, she was the proprietor of a flourishing chain of ten coffee shops, her territory stretching from Sheerness to Canterbury.

But her success came with a price. A non-negotiable stipulation of her continued membership in the Sisterhood was that she must regularly and demonstrably assert her dominance over men. She had fulfilled this duty many times, each a small victory, but none of them compared to the ultimate prize that awaited her: the chance to bring her full wrath down upon Steven.

Fate was an ally. One evening, while visiting her newest and most profitable establishment in Canterbury, she saw him. He was the last customer of the night, looking tired and diminished, nursing a cold coffee in the corner. The years had not been kind to him. A slow, predatory smile touched Coleen’s lips. The opportunity she had dreamed of for seven years had finally arrived. It was time to put her plan into motion.

Stephen sat alone in the booth, oblivious to the woman serving him coffee. He drank it without recognizing her as Coleen, a patient predator watching him from afar. She observed as he drained the cup, her eyes keenly focused on the tell-tale signs of the drug taking effect. The slackening of his jaw, the dull, vacant look that washed over his features, and the tremble in his hand clutching the cup were all indicators that he was ready. The drug had done its work, leaving him pliable and vulnerable, a mere plaything for her twisted desires.

The sharp, stinging crack of a slap across the face jolted Stephen awake. His eyes flew open, disoriented and blurry, the lingering fog in his mind warring with the sudden, searing pain in his cheek. He blinked, and there she was—Coleen, her hand still raised slightly from the blow, her expression not of anger, but of cold, clinical observation. He felt a chill, shivering as he realized he was naked, exposed, and helpless before her. "What the fuck?" he yelled, a surge of adrenaline overriding the drug's haze.

 He lunged for Coleen, but his legs gave out, and he fell flat on the cold concrete floor. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and he cried out in pain, reaching for his twisted ankle.

Padlocked around his ankle was a heavy iron manacle, fixed to a thick, rust-spotted chain that disappeared into the wall. He pulled at the chain with all his strength, the metal biting into his skin, but it was bolted to the very foundation of the building. It gave nothing, a stark reminder of his utter powerlessness.

Coleen, now 55, surveyed the naked, 29-year-old Stephen—her former employer—and a slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. His body was lean and muscular, his hair thick, his cock well-formed and sizable. He would have been a prize for some young woman, if not for the fact that he was such a monumental arsehole. But that didn't matter anymore. His youthful perfection was no longer his to leverage; it was simply raw material, now entirely at her disposal, a tool for her to wield in her twisted games of control and humiliation.

“You are mine,” she told him, her voice devoid of warmth, a simple statement of fact laced with menace.  Her words hung in the air, a chilling promise of a future filled with submission and suffering.

Stephen's voice was raw with rage as he spat, "Let me go, you fucking crazy bitch! The second I get out of this, I’m going to—" His words were cut short by a violent jolt of pain, white-hot and electric, shooting from the collar around his throat. It silenced him instantly, sending him crashing to his knees. He clawed at the metal band, his body convulsing, a strangled gasp the only sound he could make. The pain was a brutal reminder of his helplessness, a stark warning of the control she held over him.

"Level one," Coleen purred, her voice a smooth, chilling sound that sent shivers down his spine. "You might want to rethink everything you do from now on, because you really won't like it if I turn it up a notch." Her words hung in the air, a menacing promise of further agony if he dared to defy her.

The buzzing in his ears subsided, replaced by a throbbing dread. He squinted, his head tilting as he focused on the woman watching him from a comfortable-looking chair, just out of reach. It couldn't be.

 "Coleen? Is that really you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, Stephen, it really is," she replied, her expression unchanging, her eyes cold and calculating. "And it would be in your favor to address me as Ms. Coleen." Her tone was final, leaving no room for argument or disobedience. 

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly, and took a step toward her. She met his gaze with unnerving calm, not moving a muscle. The chain at his ankle snapped taut, the cold metal biting into his skin as it reached the end of its length, stopping him dead in his tracks.

He looked her up and down, taking in the changes the years had wrought. She’d put on some weight, but it suited her, filling her out with an air of authority. New glasses framed her eyes, and she was dressed like a formidable older aunt: a tweed jacket over a cream blouse, a matching tweed skirt, and sensible black shoes—the picture of composed power.

"What the fuck are you doing, Coleen?" he demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear.

She didn't flinch. She raised her hand, showing him the small fob resting in her palm. He felt the faintest of tingles around his neck, a phantom promise of the buzzing agony from before. His hands shot up in surrender. "Sorry, Ms. Coleen," he whispered, his voice laced with trepidation.

"So, how is business, Stephen?" she asked, completely ignoring his outburst, her eyes glinting with a cruel amusement.

"What? Is that what this is about? Jesus, that was years ago," he replied, his voice a mix of disbelief and frustration.

"I asked you a question," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level, a warning laced with menace. "Please answer it." Her words were a command, leaving no room for defiance.

"It’s crap, if you must know," he snarled, the last ember of his defiance glowing in his eyes. "I’ll probably close it down later this year." His words were a desperate attempt to assert some semblance of control, a futile gesture against her overwhelming power.

"No, I don’t think you will, Stephen," she countered, her voice a silken promise of doom, a chilling whisper of the fate she had planned for him. "I will be taking things over pretty soon." 

Her words hung in the air, a menacing prophecy of his inevitable submission.

“What, you going to buy me out?" he asked, a sliver of hope piercing his dread, a desperate grasp at a chance to get out from under the mess he’s made of the business.

”No, Stephen, you misunderstand," she said, a chilling smile finally reaching her eyes, a smile that held no warmth, only cold, calculating intent. "I will be taking it over, and you will work for me." Her words were a final, crushing blow, a declaration of her absolute control over his life.

"You really are a fucking crazy bitch!" he roared, the words torn from his throat, a final, futile act of rebellion against her.

He didn't even see her thumb move. One moment he was standing, the next he was a writhing heap on the floor, every nerve ending screaming as level 2 tore through him. The pain was a brutal, relentless force, a searing agony that consumed him, reducing him to a trembling, helpless wreck.

Coleen looked down at his trembling form, her expression cold and disdainful, tinged with satisfaction. She tossed a plastic bottle of water beside him, a cruel, mocking gesture of her dominance. "I’ll come back in the morning," she said, her voice as cold and final as the grave, a chilling promise of the torment to come. "When you’ve learned some manners.”

Coleen turned away, a cruel, satisfied smile playing on her lips as she climbed the wooden stairs. Each step she took was a statement of her power, a reminder of the control she now held over Stephen. She ascended into the warm and comforting house above, leaving him in the cold, dark depths below. With a final, resounding bang, she closed the door behind her, sealing him off from the world and plunging the basement into a pitch-black void…