Sharon beats Johhny.

"Sharon, this has gone far enough," John pleaded, his voice raw with desperation. "Now let me out of these things, and let's talk like adults."

She placed the lighter-gun on the table next to his drink, took a long drag of her cigarette, and backhanded him hard across the face with her gloved hand. The leather cracked against his skin, a sharp sting that made his cock jerk involuntarily. His head snapped to the side, and he had to fight to keep his balance on his knees, the leg cuffs rattling.

"You do not get to make demands anymore, Johnny boy," she said, her voice low and thick with control. "In fact, it would probably be in your favor if you didn't say anything until I ask you a question."

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look up at her. Their faces were inches apart. He could smell the cognac on her breath, the leather of her coat, the sharp scent of her arousal.

"Is that understood?" she purred.

He nodded as much as he could with her grip on his hair.

"That's not good enough, Johnny boy. I want you to tell me you understand.""I understand," he said through clenched teeth.

"You understand what? And you better start showing me some respect by addressing me as Ms. Sharon."

"I understand I shouldn't speak Ms. Sharon."

She could hear the defiance in his tone, and it made her smile. "Good. Now open your mouth."

He hesitated, and she yanked his hair harder until his jaw dropped open with a gasp of pain. She looked down into his eyes, her own dark with power, and let a thick string of saliva fall from her lips. It landed on his tongue, hot and wet, and slid down the back of his throat. She let go of his hair with a push and laughed as he gagged, trying not to swallow, his throat working convulsively around her spit.

"Swallow it," she commanded. "Every drop. That's the taste of your new position, Johnny boy.”

She held his gaze, unblinking, as her gloved fingers worked the buttons of her coat—one by one, slowly, deliberately. The leather parted like a curtain, and she shrugged it from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet.

Her tits were massive, heavy, and firm, the nipples dark and erect as bullets. John's eyes dropped automatically, expecting rolls of fat, the soft spillage of an indolent body—but there was none. Her plus-size frame was solid, muscle beneath the curves, a body that could wrestle a man to the floor and fuck him into submission. Another subterfuge. She'd been deliberately making herself look as unappealing as possible, hiding this weaponised flesh beneath polyester and slouch.

His gaze traveled lower. Her pussy was a dark, bushy triangle, and he could see beads of moisture glistening on the curls—she was wet, aroused by his degradation. Her boots were riding boots, polished black leather that hugged muscular calves and ended just below the knee, the kind worn by women who commanded horses and men.

He felt a twitch in his own cock, a treacherous surge of blood. His body was attempting to betray him, to respond to the raw, dominant sexuality she exuded like perfume.

She picked up her cigarette from the edge of the table and took another long drag, blowing the smoke up into the air like a claim on his space. John watched the blue-grey cloud float toward his ceiling and winced. Nobody had ever smoked in this house. Ever. She looked at the glowing tip, then stubbed it out into the tulip glass, ruining what remained of his thirty-year-old cognac with ash and lipstick.

She fished her phone from her coat, took a quick picture of him—naked, cuffed, on his knees—and made a call. Her eyes never left his body as she waited, assessing him like a piece of meat she'd just purchased. She was deciding which toy to use next; he could see it in the tilt of her head, the way her tongue touched her upper lip.

"Oh, hi. This is Sharon. I believe the Sisterhood told you to expect a call from me."

"Yes, they did. I take it everything went to plan?" The voice on the other end was female, cultured, and amused.

"Like taking candy from a baby. Did you get the picture I sent?"

"I did. The Ladies told me you were good."

"Five-star review, I hope." She laughed, a low, dirty sound that made John's cock twitch against his will.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Just a personal joke. But you know, it's easy when it's a labor of love."

"Well, I imagine the Sisterhood will be in touch soon to compensate you."

"I'm sure they will. Anyway, when would you like to take delivery?"

"I'm away for a few days. Back late Monday night. If you could have him situated for Tuesday morning, that would be perfect. I'll send the details. There will be staff on hand to help."

"Will they be okay with this?"

"Oh yes. They've been personally trained by me. Completely loyal to the Sisterhood. And to me."

"Okay. Any restrictions on how he should be treated between now and delivery?"

"I'd like him to remain intact, if you understand my meaning."

"I do. Anything else?"

"No. You enjoy your time together."

"Will do. I'll be there Monday evening. Bye for now."

"Bye bye."

The first thing John noticed was that Sharon's voice had lost every trace of her chav accent. She sounded like she'd gone to finishing school, like she summered in Tuscany and wintered in Gstaad. The transformation was chilling.

"Fuck this bitch," he thought to himself, but the thought was hollow, because his cock was hard, and his arse was clenching around nothing, and he was more terrified than he'd ever been in his life.

Sharon looked down at her captive, naked, cuffed, on his knees. She felt the giddy rush of a kid on Christmas morning, surrounded by toys she couldn't decide between. Should she start with the paddle? The crop? Or maybe just a little head-fucking first, softening him up with hope before she crushed it.

She had everything she needed. Every file, every transaction, every dirty little secret he'd squirreled away for ten years—all documented, duplicated, and sent to the Sisterhood’s board. The proof was filed, sealed, and already working its way through the system. He was finished. He just didn't know it yet. That was the delicious part.

She watched him watching her, his eyes darting from the gun-lighter on the table to the holdall to her naked body, his mind clearly racing through bargaining chips he thought he still held. Maybe he could offer her money. Maybe he could offer her a partnership. Maybe he could beg.

It might be fun, she thought, to let him try. To watch him lay out his pathetic offers, to see the hope flicker in his eyes when she pretended to consider them. To let him believe, for just a moment, that he had a way out. Then she'd take that hope and fuck it raw.

She walked to the holdall, her boots clicking on the marble, and pulled out a simple leather collar. Nothing fancy—just a strip of black leather with a steel D-ring. She held it up for him to see.

"See this, Johnny? You put this on, and we can start negotiating. You refuse, and I make a phone call that ends your life as you know it."

She could see the calculation in his eyes. The desperate weighing of options. The tiny, pathetic flame of hope that maybe—just maybe—if he played along, he could still win.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice broken. "I'll wear it.”

“Yes, what ?”

“Yes, Ms Sharon, I'll wear it, “ He corrected himself.

She smiled. "Good boy. Now crawl to me."

He did, the leg cuffs making him shuffle on his knees like a crab, his cock swaying between his thighs. When he reached her, she buckled the collar around his neck, tight enough to be felt, loose enough to let him breathe. Then she attached a leash.

"Now," she said, giving the leash a sharp tug that made him gasp. "Impress me."

He started talking. Money, property, promises, deals. Each word was a little gift she unwrapped slowly, savoring the desperation behind it. She let him talk for ten minutes, nodding occasionally, letting that hope grow and swell.

When he finally ran out of steam, she leaned down and whispered in his ear: "That's a very generous offer, Johnny. But the thing is, Johnny, I've already accepted a previous offer, and unlike you, I am a person of some integrity and reputation in my own circles.”

The look on his face—that moment when hope died, and pure, animal terror took its place was almost as good as an orgasm.

"Now," she said, unzipping the holdall to reveal an array of gleaming toys—whips, clamps, gags, things he couldn't name and didn't want to know—"we have three wonderful, undisturbed days together. It's going to be so much fun."

John's stomach dropped. Three days. The words landed like a life sentence. He'd been clinging to the hope that this was a night, a few hours of horror and then release. But three days meant she had plans. Three days meant she wasn't just taking what she wanted—she was taking her time.

She pulled out a small whip with three vicious-looking leather strands, the kind that left welts in triplicate. She let the strands trail across his back, a whisper of pain to come. Goosebumps erupted across his skin, but it wasn't from cold—it was from the terror that had turned his blood to ice water.

"How about a bit of foot worship for your new Mistress?" She pushed her boot up to his face, the leather sole scuffed and dirty from the road.

"Lick."

The command was soft, almost gentle. When he hesitated, she flicked the whip across his cuffed wrists, just hard enough to sting. He flinched, his cock betraying him with a twitch. He closed his eyes, bent forward, and stuck out his tongue.

"Eyes open, Johnny. I want to see those pretty blues while you clean my soles."

He forced his eyes open, staring up at her as his tongue made contact with the leather. It was dry, sucking the moisture from his mouth, leaving his tongue feeling like sandpaper. He tasted grit, dirt, the residue of the street. He gagged as some of it slipped down his throat, his stomach heaving.

She made him suck on her heels, the leather smooth and bitter in his mouth. All the while, she gave him little stinging flicks with the whip across his shoulders, his cuffed arms, the back of his neck. Each one was a promise of worse to come. He yelled when she brought it down hard across the small of his back—3 lines of fire that made his vision go white.

Then she kicked him onto his back, her boot connecting with his ribs. He landed hard, the breath knocked from his lungs, his cuffed hands trapped beneath him.

She stood without a word and poured herself another ounce of brandy, her movements unhurried, like she had all the time in the world because she did.

"You thirsty?" she asked, looking down at him.

He nodded frantically, his mouth parched, his throat burning.

"Excuse me?" She raised an eyebrow.

He forced the words out, each one a humiliation. "Yes, Ms. Sharon, may I have a drink, please?"

She bent down and ruffled his hair like a dog. "In a minute, Johnny. But first, I've got an itch that needs scratching. Then it's time for bed, I think."

She pulled on the leash, then she sat down on his leather sofa, spread her legs wide, and slid her gloved fingers through her soaking, bushy lips. She was dripping wet, the dark curls matted with her arousal. She groaned, her eyes fluttering closed as she fingered herself.

The leash jerked forward, his face inches from her cunt. He didn't need direction. He knew what she wanted. He bent forward and pressed a tentative kiss to her lips, tasting her for the first time.

She grabbed his head with her wet fingers, pulling him in, crushing his face against her soaking pussy. "Make me come, Johnny. And if I don't come in five minutes, you get ten lashes. Starting now."

He started to lick, his tongue clumsy with fear, his mind screaming that this couldn't be happening, that he was John Smyth, that he didn't do this, that he was in control. But the leash tightened, and the whip was within her reach, and he realized with a sinking horror that he had no control at all.

He avoided a beating—she exploded on his face within two minutes, her cunt clenching around his tongue as she came with a guttural groan that vibrated through his jaw. But she kept him there for another ten, grinding her soaking pussy against his mouth, using his face like a toy until she was spent and trembling. He sat back, resting on his bent legs, his face dripping with her juices, his jaw and tongue aching from the workout. His traitorous cock stood at full attention now, thick and purple, bobbing against his stomach with every ragged breath.

Sharon finally moved, closing her legs and leaning forward. She took his head in her gloved hands and kissed him hard, her tongue raping his mouth, tasting herself on his lips. She pulled back, her eyes dark with satisfaction.

"Not bad, Johnny boy. Not bad at all."

"Up you get," she said, pulling on the leash. He struggled to his feet, his cuffed hands making balance impossible, so she bent down and helped him up, her tits pressing against his chest for a moment. He remembered to whisper, "Thank you, Ms. Sharon."

She ignored him and pulled him toward the stairs, the leash taut. He stumbled behind her, his cock swaying with every step, his balls heavy with denied release. On the first-floor landing, she led him into the guest bathroom and walked straight to the bathtub. In the back of his mind, John was wondering how she knew so much about the layout of the house.

She put the plug in, reached into her boot, and pulled out a small key. She bent down, her tits swaying, and undid one of the leg cuffs. "Step into the bath, Johnny."

He did, his cock leading the way. She noticed and took his balls gently in her gloved hand, rolling them like dice. He closed his eyes.

"Keep looking at me, Johnny," she commanded. Then she bent forward and took the head of his cock in her mouth, her tongue flicking the slit like a serpent. His knees buckled. Her hand pulled the foreskin back, and she sucked firmly, moving down the shaft with agonizing slowness. He was close, so fucking close, his hips starting to thrust involuntarily. She could feel it, his cock pulsing against her tongue.

So she pulled her mouth away with a wet pop. "Sit down in the bath."

He jerked at the cold enamel on his arse. "Lie down."

Panic flared. He'd seen her put the plug in. She could drown him so easily with his arms cuffed behind his back.

"Relax, Johnny. You're safe with me. Remember, you have an appointment on Monday night. So lie down."

He recalled the call, delivery to someone. Whatever that meant. He scooted forward and lay down, the cold metal against his back making his nipples hard. 

She picked up his legs, threaded the chain of the manacles through the shower/faucet combination, and clipped the loose cuff around his free ankle. He was now lying helpless in the bottom of the bath, his hands locked behind him, his legs chained up, his cock still standing strong and leaking pre-cum onto his stomach. 

Sharon stood back to admire her work. "Look at you. All trussed up and nowhere to go.”

She ran a gloved finger up his shaft, collecting the fluid with deliberate slowness. Her other hand clamped over his mouth and nose, pressing down hard. His eyes bulged, his nostrils flaring as he fought for air while she stroked him with expert cruelty. The leather glove tasted of expensive hide and his own terror. Her massive tits hung over the tub's edge, swaying with each pull of her fist—hard, then soft, then hard again, a rhythm designed to break him.

He arched his back as much as the chains allowed, his hips thrusting into her grip. He was so close, the orgasm building like a scream behind his teeth. She pinched his nostrils shut completely, her palm sealing his mouth, denying him even the smallest breath as she pumped him mercilessly. Panic exploded in his chest, real, primal fear. His vision tunneled. He felt himself teetering on the edge of consciousness as his cock betrayed him completely, exploding in thick ropes that flew up his chest, splattering his chin.

She kept pumping as she released his mouth. He gulped air in huge, ragged gasps, his head spinning, his lungs burning. She finally let go of his twitching, oversensitive cock and examined the mess on her glove with clinical disgust. Then she pushed her fingers, coated in cum, into his panting mouth.

"Lick."

The command was soft. The taste was alien, salty-bitter, and humiliating. He wanted to gag, to refuse, cuffs bit his wrists and ankles, and he realized with sickening clarity how precarious his existence was. He licked.

She stood and looked down at him, lying in the tub, his face crusted with her drying juices, his own cum liquefying on his chest and chin, mixing with his tears. She seemed to make a decision. She climbed into the tub, crouching so her knees pressed into his shoulders, her full weight pinning him. She grabbed a fistful of his hair to hold his head in place.

"Here's that drink I promised."

She released a hot, yellow stream of piss directly onto his face. He tried to turn away, but her grip was iron. It went up his nose, burning, forcing him to open his mouth to breathe. He spluttered and choked as it flowed freely down his throat, filling his mouth, his sinuses. It went on and on—on his face, in his hair, pooling under his shoulders, soaking into the tub. The stream finally stopped with a few last humiliating drips on his neck.

John grunted as she shifted her weight, grinding her pussy down onto his closed mouth to wipe the remnants of her piss on his lips. She stayed there, using his face as her personal towel, until she was satisfied.

She climbed out and looked down at him, smiling. "You're lucky I don't need a shit."

She glanced at her boots, noticed a few droplets of piss on the shiny leather, and thought aloud: "There's something for you to lick off tomorrow."

She turned off the light and left him there in the dark, the sound of her boots echoing down the hallway. As he lay in the quickly cooling piss, the plug holding it all in, he sobbed. He finally understood why she'd put it in.