Payback Is A Bitch Named Coleen

Stephen stared into the grey, congealed mass in the bowl for what felt like an eternity. The salty, viscous fluids were slowly settling into the cold oats. 

His mind struggled to reconcile the present horror with the past. Why was she having this effect on him? He should hate her. He should be raging against the restraints, spitting in her face. Yet, when she touched him, when she commanded him, his body betrayed him instantly. It was as if his cock had its own will,  a will that bent to Coleen.

His thoughts drifted back seven years, to the day he sat behind the mahogany desk that still felt too big for him. He remembered the look on Coleen’s face when he fired her—stoic, almost pitying. At the time, he had felt nothing but disdain. He saw her as dead weight, a relic of a bygone era, a barnacle clinging to his father's coattails while he did the "real work" of building the business.

As he sat shivering on the concrete floor, the timeline clarified in his mind with painful precision. He traced the trajectory of the print shop’s failure. It wasn't the market. It wasn't the economy. There was a direct, undeniable correlation: the chaos began the week he sent Coleen packing. She hadn’t been a barnacle; she had been the rudder. Without her, he had steered the ship straight into the rocks.

He buried his face in his hands, the shame of his business failure compounding the pity of his current predicament. He was such an idiot.

His stomach roared, a violent, cramping reminder that he hadn't eaten in at least forty-eight hours. The hunger was a physical ache, sharp and demanding, overriding his pride. He knew he had to eat. If he wanted to survive this, if he wanted to find a way out—or even think clearly enough to formulate a plan—he needed fuel.

“Get over it,” He told himself. “It’s just protein. Just food”.

With a trembling hand, he reached down and picked up the bowl. He brought it to his lips, the smell of cold oats and sex filling his nose. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tipped the bowl. He took a large mouthful, trying desperately to swallow the cold porridge without tasting the slimy, salty addition that coated his tongue.

Upstairs, the atmosphere was one of indulgent luxury, a sharp contrast to the cold concrete below. Coleen sat back in her plush recliner, a glass of deep red wine resting in her hand, her eyes fixed on the monitor where Stephen was forcing down his meal.

She had prepared for her return to the basement. Gone were the t-shirt and joggers; in their place was a shiny black leather corset that cinched her waist aggressively, pushing her breasts up into a heavy, inviting shelf. Below, she wore transparent black panties, the fabric so sheer it did nothing to hide the slick wetness already gathering there. Her feet were arched in sharp kitten heels, and her hair was slicked back, her glasses removed to reveal eyes filled with a hunger.

Two days. That was all it had taken. He was already broken, weeping into a bowl of porridge. It was pathetic, really. She had hoped for a battle of wills, a bit of that stubborn spark she remembered in his eyes years ago, but he was hollow.

Her mind drifted inevitably to the man who had cast such a long shadow over both their lives. His father. Now that was a man. Even at sixty, he had been carved from granite—ex-military, posture like a steel rod, handsome in a rugged, weathered way. He was a true Alpha, commanding respect without ever raising his voice. Coleen felt a shiver run through her, not from the cold, but from the memory of the first time he had dropped the professional facade.

She remembered how he had taken her in his arms—not asking, but claiming. His kiss had been hard, conquering, stripping away her defenses until she melted against him. He had been a teacher of the flesh, showing her depths of depravity she hadn’t known she craved.

Her hand drifted down, sliding over the sheer mesh of her panties to touch her soaking cunt. Her breath hitched as the memories flooded her. 

Kneeling before him, begging for him. She could almost feel the phantom sensation of his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her throat open to accept all of him.

Her fingers worked a rhythm against her clit, faster now. A guttural sound rose in her throat. 

She recalled the night he took her anal virginity. It had been brutal, unforgiving, and absolutely transcendent. He had tied her down, used her for his sole pleasure, pushing her boundaries until she had no inhibitions left, only a desperate need to please him.

“Arrrrgh!”

The scream tore from her throat as the orgasm hit, a violent, shuddering release that arched her back off the chair. She rode the waves of pleasure, her body trembling in the silent room.

Slowly, she came back down to earth, her chest heaving. She lifted her hand to her mouth and slowly licked her fingers clean, savoring the taste of her own arousal, just as he used to make her do.

She turned her gaze back to the monitor, looking at the broken man-child wiping his mouth in the basement. She wondered if the old man would recognize either of them now. He would be disgusted by his son’s weakness, she was sure of that. But as she ran a hand down her leather-clad torso, she liked to think he would have enjoyed this new version of Coleen.