Sharon beats Johhny.

John Smyth awoke with a jerk, his body convulsing against the chains that held him in the cold bathtub. The first thing that hit him was the smell—stale piss, dried cum, the sour musk of Sharon's cunt on his face. The second was the pain: his shoulders screamed from the awkward angle, his jaw throbbed from last night's workout, his cock was sore and half-hard despite everything.

Then the noises filtered through his fog of despair. The front doorbell. Muffled speech. Heavy footsteps in the kitchen—more than one set. Heels clicking on the stairs, walking past the bathroom door. His bedroom door is open. The shower is running. A female voice humming a tune he didn't recognize.

He groaned as his body tried to stretch against the restraints, the leg chain rattling against the faucet. A single sob escaped his throat as the memories came flooding back: the slap, the gun-lighter, the taste of her spit, the way she'd used his face until she came, the piss—the endless, humiliating stream of it, filling his mouth, his nose, his lungs.

The bathroom door opened. Sharon stood there, wrapped in one of his towels, her hair wet from his shower.

"Morning, Johnny," Sharon chirped, wrapped in his towel as she'd just spent a night at a spa. "Sleep well?"

John stared up at her from the bathtub, crusted in her dried juices and his own shame, his body aching in ways he hadn't known were possible. He couldn't believe how fucking cheerful she sounded, like this was just another Saturday.

"I did," she continued, examining her nails. "Your bed is excellent. I could get used to that."

She leaned forward, her tits swaying under the towel, and pulled the plug. The stale piss drained away with a gurgle. She released his legs, moving them manually—they'd stiffened overnight, locked in position. Then she hauled him up with a grunt of effort, her muscles flexing, and forced him to kneel in the tub facing the faucet. His arms remained cuffed behind him, shoulders screaming. He slumped forward, his forehead nearly touching the cold metal.

“You’re a bit of a mess, Johnny. We need to get you cleaned up a little”.

She took the loose end of his leg chain, threaded it through the links between his wrists, and reattached it to his ankle. He was now folded over himself, arse in the air, completely immobilized. He couldn't stand, couldn't straighten, couldn't do anything but kneel there like a sacrifice.

She turned on the shower. Cold water hit his back like needles, and he jerked. She adjusted the temperature, the hot water mixing in until steam rose around him. She aimed the spray directly at his face, washing away the crust of last night's degradation.

As the water cleared his eyes, he looked down to see the yellow stain of her piss still pooled around his knees, swirling toward the drain. His bladder ached from holding it all night. Fuck it, he thought, and let go. His own stream arched out, mixing with hers, the two waters blending as they disappeared down the drain—a final, humiliating merger of their fluids.

She turned the water warmer, the spray beating against his sore skin,

“I’ll be back in a bit, Johnny, just going to dry off and get dressed.

The water had gone cold as a grave when Sharon returned, but she wasn't alone. Behind her stood a young man—maybe twenty, lean and muscled, wearing nothing but a stainless steel collar padlocked around his neck and a black metal cage that trapped his cock. His hands were clasped behind his back in a posture of perfect submission.

Johnny looked up when he heard her voice, then immediately shrank into himself when he saw the almost-naked man. He tried to make himself smaller, to disappear into the enamel, but there was nowhere to hide.

Sharon looked like a different person. She wore an expensive designer summer dress, her hair brushed out in glossy waves, her makeup subtle and devastating. She smelled of perfume that cost more than his car payment. This was not the uncouth moron he'd hired. This was a predator in full plumage.

"This is James," she announced, her voice crisp and cultured. "He's going to get you dried and ready for me, Johnny."

Johnny just looked up at her, shivering, his teeth chattering so hard he thought they'd crack.

"Now I expect you to be on your best behavior for him," she continued, her tone making it clear this was not a request. "Or I will be very angry. And you wouldn't like that."

She turned to James. "Bring him down to the kitchen when he's ready."

"Yes, Ms. Sharon," James replied, his voice flat and empty.

Once Sharon left, James leaned in and turned off the shower. He unlocked the ankle cuffs, pulled the chain loose, and let it clatter to the floor. He helped Johnny stand and step out of the bath, his gloved hands moving over Johnny's body with the impersonal efficiency of a man handling livestock. Johnny stood shivering, his cock shriveled to nothing.

James wrapped a bath towel around him and began patting him dry. Johnny felt himself getting a semi when James paid attention to his groin—just the brush of a gloved hand, the rough texture of the towel. He hated himself for it.

While James was kneeling, patting his legs dry, Johnny tried to plead his case in a whisper. "Can you help me out of this? She's crazy. I think she's trying to kill me."

"No speaking," came the reply.

"C'mon, man, just let me out of these things. I'll pay you—"

James's hand shot up and squeezed Johnny's balls—hard. Johnny groaned and doubled over, the message clear: no help today. No help ever.

James stood, dropped the towel, picked up the key from the sink, and undid one of Johnny's wrist cuffs. He held the wrist in an iron grip while he reached for something in the holdall. Johnny saw his chance—his only chance. Adrenaline flooded his system.

He shoved back with all his might. James's legs tangled in the towel and he fell backward with a thud, his head cracking against the tile. Johnny was on him in a second, scrambling for the dropped key. His fingers closed around it. He undid the other cuff, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it.

He was free.

He punched James in the face—a weak, desperate blow, but it connected. Then he rolled the man over and cuffed his arms behind his back, the metal snapping shut with a sound that was sweeter than any music. He grabbed a facecloth from the sink and shoved it in James's mouth.

One glance at the prone, gagged man, and Johnny was moving. He poked his head out of the bathroom door, listening. Sharon's voice drifted up from downstairs—she was on the phone, sounding cheerful and cultured, discussing delivery times like she was ordering furniture.

So far, so good.

He crept along the hallway to his bedroom, his bare feet silent on the carpet. He could call the police—but she had his phone. And like most modern households, there was no landline. He gave a quiet curse, his mind racing.

Still listening, he tiptoed into his walk-in closet and found joggers and a sweatshirt. He pulled them on, the fabric rough against his sore skin. His shoes were in the cupboard by the front door. He'd figure that out later.

He crept down the stairs, avoiding the creaky third step by instinct. Sharon was still on the phone in the kitchen, her voice bright and animated. He reached the front hallway, his hand on the doorknob, his heart hammering so loud he was sure she could hear it.

He turned the knob.

"Zap."

Pain exploded through his body—a white-hot lightning bolt that turned his muscles to water. He was on his knees before he knew what had happened, looking up into Sharon's eyes. She stood there in her summer dress, a black taser in her hand, the electrical current arcing between the prongs with a malevolent crackle.

She had a big smile on her face when she bent down and poked him with it again, the prongs pressing into his neck.

The world went black.