Sharon beats Johhny.

John's body convulsed, his muscles screaming in agony from the restrictive bondage. His cock throbbed painfully, hard and traitorous. He didn't know about the Viagra—only that his body was betraying him in the most humiliating way possible.

Sharon watched his suffering with bright, hungry eyes as she slowly fucked his mouth. "That's it, break for me. Break into pieces, you worthless fuck. You're not a man. You're not even a person. You're a mouth for my brother's cum and a toy for my amusement."

She pulled the dildo out and smeared the remaining filth around his lips. 

"James, look at this bitch. It can't even control its own cock. It’s getting hard from eating your shit. That's how low pathetic it is."

She kissed him tenderly, her voice shifting to warmth. "My perfect boy."

John knelt there, broken, filthy, his mind fracturing under the weight of her absolute contempt, while they celebrated their twisted love over his complete destruction.

The gag was rammed back into his mouth, the straps cinched even tighter than before. John slumped, finally broken. He’d do anything they asked now; he knew they owned him completely.

His fate was sealed from that first slap at the restaurant. The thought echoed in his skull as he knelt there, blindfolded and bound. Sharon had controlled every second since, and he’d been too stupid, too arrogant to see it. She'd written the entire story, and he’d just been dragged along for the ride, helpless.

She even controlled his house, now drilling holes into the walls and installing her own hardware into the studs. The sound of James working downstairs vibrated through the floorboards. What else did she have planned? What other violations would she and her freak of a brother inflict?

He heard her moving nearby, the whisper of silk. He flinched instinctively, even though he couldn't see her. The blindfold made it worse—every sound was a threat, every rustle of fabric a promise of fresh humiliation.

The straps around his body loosened one by one.  Each release sent fire through his muscles as blood returned, and he whimpered. The chain unclipped from his collar, and he collapsed to the floor like garbage, his arms still cuffed behind his back.

She let him lie there for a moment—easier to move when he wasn't completely cramped. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the rubber-clad thing at her feet with pure, satisfied contempt. “How the mighty have fallen.”  This pathetic worm had actually thought he could control her, manipulate her, use her as some disposable secretary. Now he was nothing but a bound, broken toy in his own bedroom.

Her gaze softened as she heard  James move efficiently through the house, doing her bidding. “My perfect boy.” So devoted, so beautifully trained. Her chest swelled with a fondness that made her throat tight. He'd had every chance to leave, to find some normal life, but he'd chosen this—chosen her—every single time.

A memory flickered through her mind, sharp and sweet. She'd been sixteen, James just fourteen. She'd had him naked on his knees, hands tied behind his back, her soiled knickers shoved in his face as she whispered degradations that made him blush crimson. Then the door opened, and there was their mother, standing in the doorway with that sharp, knowing look.

Sharon had frozen, expecting fury, punishment, shame. Instead, her mother had sat on the bed beside her, taken the knickers from Sharon's hand, and placed them properly over James's head—gusset right over his nose. She took Sharon's hand. "He's just a boy. They need to be taught their place." and led Sharon from the room, calling back over her shoulder: "Stay where you are, boy."

James had obeyed, of course. He always obeyed.

Sharon smiled at the memory, then looked back down at John. “You never had a chance,” she thought with cold satisfaction. “This was always your destiny. From the day you took the first penny that didn’t belong to you.”

"Get up," she ordered, her voice dripping with contempt. "Crawl to the bathroom.

She undid the blindfold and threw it on the bed. He scrambled to obey, trembling, his cock still hard and leaking. She didn't need to see his face to read the humiliation. He crab crawled on his knee, the best he could with his hands still cuffed behind his back. The chain rattled from the steel collar around his neck. 

“That's right, Johnny boy. You're nothing. And you'll never be anything again.” She thought.

In the bathroom, Sharon stripped John of his rubber prison with clinical detachment, her lip curling as his sweaty body broke out in goosebumps. She smiled and thought how pathetic he was; he didn’t even have the spine to fight anymore. When she uncuffed him to peel off the gloves and dress, he just stood there limp and broken—no resistance, no pride, nothing.

She freed his cock from the rubber panties, and it sprang out, hard and proud. The Viagra was doing its job perfectly. She stroked it a couple of times, delighting in his confusion. "I think Johnny boy likes being treated like a piece of shit," she purred, her voice dripping with mockery. "Well, you're in the right place, aren't you?"

He winced and cried out as she squeezed and twisted his full balls, savoring his pain. He stood there naked, hair matted, face smeared with lipstick and filth, breath reeking of shit and cum. She cuffed his hands behind his back again—tight enough to hurt—and left him shivering in the cold bathroom while she hauled the rubber gear back to the bedroom.

"James, baby," she called, her voice warm with affection. "Come help me."

When she returned, she grabbed John's cock and dragged him into the shower like a disobedient dog. She looked him in the eye, watching his face change as she drove her knee up between his legs. He bent forward, and she shoved him to his knees, smirking as his tender knees hit the tile.

James appeared in the doorway, his eyes only for her. "Yes, Ms. Sharon?"

She undid her gown, slid it off her shoulders, and handed it to James with a tender smile. "Thank you, my perfect boy."

She put her foot on John's shoulder and forced him into the corner of the shower. "Look up, bitch."

He hesitated. She backhanded him hard across the face, the crack echoing off the tiles. "I said, look up."

He obeyed, his eyes hollow and dead.

"Open your mouth."

Another hesitation—just a flicker. She raised her hand, and he opened immediately. She could see the defeat in him, the knowledge that all choice was gone. Yet his cock stayed hard as a rock. “Perfect,” she thought with cruel satisfaction. “The Viagra turned him into a living mockery of himself.”

She positioned herself above him and glanced at James, her expression softening with love.

The hot piss flowed freely from her cunt onto John’s face, into his open mouth, down his throat. He closed his mouth to swallow—a natural reaction that made her laugh. The piss covered his face, ran down his body, soaked his hair. His head fell in disgust, and she grabbed his hair, yanking it back up.

"Don't you dare look away from me," she hissed. "You take every drop, and you thank me for it."

When she finished, she stepped back and whispered to James, "All over."

James replaced her, took his cock in hand, and pissed with the precision of a fire hose, covering every inch of the pathetic creature cowering at his feet.

Sharon watched with cold satisfaction, her hand stroking James's hair tenderly and kissing the back of his neck, above the collar.

"Such a good boy," she murmured, her voice thick with love. "My perfect, perfect brother.”

John sat shivering on the cold tiles, his hands cuffed painfully behind his back, their combined piss cooling on his skin like a second layer of filth. He hung his head and sobbed—dry, racking sounds that hurt his throat.

He wanted to curl into a ball and die. Just cease to exist. But even that was stolen from him. The cuffs made it impossible. They made it impossible. His cock throbbed against his thigh, hard and traitorous, pulsing with a rhythm that felt alien—like it belonged to someone else. The Viagra was still working its chemical humiliation, but he didn't know that. All he knew was that his body was mocking him, proving them right. “Maybe I am just a piece of shit. Maybe I do like this.”

The thought made him gag. He was losing his mind. That had to be it. No sane person would still be hard after this. No sane person would just kneel here and take it. But he wasn't a person anymore, was he? He was a thing. A toilet. A toy. The piss dripped from his hair, ran down his back, and pooled beneath him on the tile. He could smell it, taste it, feel it seeping into his pores. His breath came in short, hitching gasps, mixing with the stench of shit and cum that already coated his throat.

“I'm going insane,” he thought, and the thought itself felt like proof. “This isn't real. This can't be real.”

But the cold tile was real. The cuffs biting into his wrists were real. The throbbing ache in his balls was real. And the sound of Sharon's tender voice, murmuring praise to James in the other room—that was real too He was nothing. He had nothing. And his cock wouldn't even let him have the dignity of hating it properly.