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From: Night Writer <night_writer99@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Surrendering Sarah {Night Writer} (nc, Fdom, humil) [14/?]
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Date: Mon, 22 Feb 2010 00:10:02 -0500
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                                      Surrendering Sarah

                                         by Night Writer


                                            Chapter 14

Sport's drive home wasn't much better than the rest of his day. After 
missing his exit, he nearly ran another car off the highway trying to 
catch the next one. His hands shook, and he had trouble focusing on the 
traffic ahead. Assuming hunger was the culprit, he stopped to grab a 
burger and a shake as he doubled back to his neighborhood. Shayla had 
warned him not cheat on his new diet, but hell, how would the bitch 
ever know? Two blocks from his house, he spotted the red and blue 
flashing lights of a police cruiser in his mirror. The officer eyed him 
with suspicion as Sport stammered and fumbled with his wallet, then 
wrote a ticket for $350. 

"Watch your speed, Bud. There are kids in this neighborhood - I clocked 
you at 58. You were probably going faster."

He sat for a while after the policeman pulled away, trying to calm 
himself, now thinking only about the hunger that gnawed at him and the 
aroma of the double burger escaping from the paper bag on the seat 
beside him. But the drugs Shayla added to his lunch-time salad still 
coursed through his system. She had access to a cornucopia of 
pharmaceuticals, many developed and used during her partnership with 
Finch. Sport's salad dressing contained a cocktail of a powerful, long-
lasting amphetamine and a dash of designer hormone which powerfully 
enhanced libido and erection in males. The third ingredient was 
Shayla's proudest achievement - SSRA. A distorted analogue of the SSRIs 
used to treat depression, her "selective serotonin reuptake 
accelerator" gradually eroded the subject's will and self-esteem while 
slowly smothering him with hopeless depression. As much as he was 
tempted to devour the filling fast food then and there, the nervousness 
and fear that nagged at him overpowered his hunger, and he headed for 
the safety of home, away from any more trouble that may come his way.

Once home, he entered the darkened house through the garage and headed 
for the kitchen. He fumbled for the light switch, then found it, 
squinting as the overhead fluorescents filled the room with blazing 
white.

"Oh good, I see you've brought my dinner."

Janey sat at the kitchen table. She took a long drag on her cigarette, 
smiled her crooked smile, reaching for the paper bag clenched tightly 
in Sport's shaking hand. She leaned back in the chair as if she owned 
it, legs crossed, dress hiked far enough above the knee to show plenty 
of perfect thigh. The gaudy floral pattern did little to hide two hard 
mounds of breast which clung to her slim torso like ripe, oversized 
grapefruits. Sport couldn't help thinking she was the consummate 
poster-girl for cosmetic surgery.

"I met a friend of yours today. Sounds like you're in deep shit to me.
Anyway, I know about your diet. So, if you hand over the food, maybe I 
won't go running to Shayla just yet."

Sport stood motionless, feet glued to the floor. He had never 
considered Shayla would go this far. And Janey, of all people. All hope 
seemed to drain from him, just as the color drained from his face. The 
room started to spin. He was moving forward, flashes of her wicked 
smile and bare thighs filling his field of vision, until he was only a 
few feet away. He released the paper sack immediately when she 
pulled it from his hand, apprehension now replacing hunger. Janey 
brought him the familiar salad from the refrigerator and ordered him 
to sit. It was a much larger serving than Shayla had provided at lunch, 
but after picking through the contents of the deep bowl, he found 
little 
but shredded lettuce swimming in a pool of thick, translucent dressing. 
It tasted of garlic and a tantalizing mix of spices, and strangely 
seemed to soothe his hunger a little more with each spoonful - so he 
ate quickly, scraping every last drop from the bottom of the bowl.

"I always suspected you were cheating on Sarah. You men are all alike. 
Every time she made an excuse to avoid a dinner invitation, I knew you 
were really behind it, trying to keep us apart. And don't even try to 
deny it. I saw you with that little blonde slut the other day when she 
dropped you out front. You could have at least put some clothes on.

"I'm not surprised that Sarah left you. She should have done it a long 
time ago. A girl like Sarah could have any man she wants. Shayla told 
me how hurt she was, and how she pleaded with Shayla to teach you a 
lesson. But, hell, I'm not complaining. Things couldn't have worked out 
better for me. Punishing you will be almost as satisfying as punishing 
my ex." 

His nerves frayed to the breaking point from the drugs and 
Shayla's day-long abuse, Sport shoved the empty bowl across the table 
and glared at her.

"You don't know Sarah! You don't know anything about us! Sarah didn't 
like you any more than I do - in fact, we did everything we could to 
avoid your mind-numbing tirades and trashy friends! Oh, and about 
Shayla - you *really* don't know Shayla. She's not your friend. You 
have no idea what she is, or what you've stumbled into!"

Even as his anger rose to a rolling boil, he couldn't look away from 
her creamy thighs as she uncrossed and crossed them again. And worse, 
his erection had returned, cramped and urgent, straining behind the fly 
of his slacks. He jumped from the chair and took a step toward her, 
hoping that some physical action might shake him from the effect she 
had on him. 

"Now get the fuck out of our house, you tacky bitch!"

Janey smiled at him. She reached out with a single digit and traced a 
firm straight line over his pants along outline of his swollen cock.

"Ohh, you're so cute when you're angry! But I think you like me a lot 
more than you let on, honey."

Her tits seemed to grow behind the flowered dress. They were so full 
and round. Perfect - with pouting nipples that hardened before his 
eyes, as if to tease him, to make sure he saw that only a flimsy layer 
of material stood between her flesh and his shaking hands.

Then, escaping from an instant of lust and indecision, he grabbed her 
wrist, jerked her from the chair, and dragged her kicking and screaming 
to the door.

"You son of bitch! You gonna hit me, big man? Slap me around a little? 
That's what you men do when do don't get your way, isn't it. Go ahead, 
hit me, you prick! Maybe you beat Sarah, but-"

He shoved her hard through the open door. She tripped and landed on her 
ass, the reds and oranges of her dress gathered about her slim waist, 
smooth inner thighs splayed wide in the light that spilled through the 
kitchen doorway. Sport feasted on the sight between them, a narrow 
space almost covered by transparent red panties, plump cunt-lips moist 
with juices that seeped from the parted slit between them.

"You'll be sorry! Just wait, you'll be - "

Sport slammed the door, freeing himself from the maddening voice and 
the flesh his body struggled to resist.



                                                 ***



Sport was at work thirty minutes early the next morning. He slept 
little the previous night, waking every hour from a restless sleep. 
Half way to work, he slipped off the freeway, gorged himself with a 
fast food breakfast, then continued on, remembering that Shayla 
expected him there early each day to greet her when she arrived. 

She was already in his office when he arrived, sitting back in his 
chair with her long legs propped up on the desk. Her dark skirt was 
even shorter than the day before, and she made no attempt to hide the 
dark, plump labia on display inches above the hem.

"Relax, Sport. You're not late. And for the last time, I'm warning you 
to ask politely before staring at my pussy."

He tore his eyes away and looked her in the face. She waited for his 
answer. He knew too well what she expected form him.

"P-please Shayla, m-may I look at your pussy?"

A familiar voice came from behind him.

"Take a good look, Sport. If you don't wise up, it may be the last cunt 
you'll ever see."

The words spun him around. Rock stood behind him, with a scowl that 
promised trouble. He moved closer, stopping a foot from Sport's face. 
Then there was that grin again, much like the first time Rock had 
peered into his car window.

Sport didn't see the blow that doubled him over. It caved in his 
stomach, then took his breath away. The pain came within seconds, 
followed by the violent vomiting that spewed his breakfast across the 
office floor. The second punch came before he had a chance to recover. 
The force of it knocked him to the floor. Gasping for breath, he rolled 
into a ball, trying to protect himself from another blow. 

"A friend of ours said you weren't very nice to her last night. She 
said you were rude. She said you assaulted her. That really pisses me 
off."

The toe of Rock's boot landed squarely between Sport's legs. The force 
of it sent pain racing through his body. He rolled onto his back 
moaning, hands clutched over his balls.

Sport watched Rock's heavy boots step closer, then gasped as Rock took 
him by the hair, pulling his face closer.

"It's so easy, dude. Just do what the ladies tell you to do. How hard 
can that be, even for someone like you? Now, tell me you'll behave. 
Let's hear it, Sport, or the next time I'll cut your nuts off."

Fear and nausea overwhelming him, he nodded two quick nods.

"I said tell me, you pussy. Let's hear it!"

"I-I'll behave. I'll behave, I promise," he croaked.

Rock looked down at him with disgust.

"Fuckin' wimp. I still oughta kick the shit out of you."

Shayla appeared beside him, placing a firm hand on Rock's bulging 
forearm.

"Let's wait and see if he's learned anything today," Shayla cooed. 
"He's such a pathetic little thing. I doubt he'll give us any more 
trouble. If he does, I'll let you finish him off, any way you like."

Shayla smiled down at Sport. He could see up her skirt again as she 
stood over him. Her slit stood open, its red center now shiny and wet.

"Agreed Sport?"

The pain caused his voice to waver.

"O-OK, S-Shayla."

When Rock let go of his hair, his head dropped back onto the floor with 
a crack. Rock wore a nasty smirk as he headed for the door.

"Stupid fuck. I'll be back. You can count on it."

Shayla helped him to his feet. She drew him close to her, holding him 
in her arms while he sobbed against the exposed valley between her firm 
breasts.

"Shhh, now, now, you'll be alright. Just do things my way from now on, 
and you won't have to suffer. Be a good boy and I'll see that Rock 
never hurts you again. I promise. OK?"

Sport nodded, his face still buried in Shayla's chest.

She clutched his shoulders and moved him away, holding him at arm's 
length.

"You must be starved."

Shayla glanced at the mess on the floor.

"From now on, please stick to your diet. Had Rock known about it, he 
might have seriously hurt you. Promise?"

Sport looked up at her with eyes full of tears and defeat, and nodded.

"Good boy. Now, let's get you some breakfast."



                                                      ***



In the days and weeks that followed, Sport watched helplessly as Shayla 
took the reins of his business. His employees watched just as 
helplessly as she ingratiated herself to some, and fired the rest. 
Those who remained were easy prey for her wiles. They stared at her 
achingly gorgeous body and face as she made swift daily changes to 
their routine, never questioning, never objecting to the next order as 
it slipped from her wide, full lips.

Sport continued to show up for work, on time, at first terrified to 
disobey Shayla, then, after a while, arrived blank and sullen, taking 
his chair in the corner each day as she smiled cruelly at him, 
demanding that he tell her every detail of the night before. And as 
much as Shayla owned his days, Janey now owned his nights. She 
was there every night when he stepped in the door, readying his special 
dinner of drug-laced salad, as condescending and insulting as ever. As 
the drugs did their work, Sport's mind lost all defense against her 
rants. As hard as he tried to filter her lies from the unending barrage 
of sarcastic banter, a few would always slip through, finding some 
small niche in his brain that would nurse them into planted truths and 
memories of Sarah and their past life together.

In time, Sport began to accept an undeserved guilt for losing Sarah. He 
worshiped her as an icon of physical perfection, but was eventually 
persuaded by Shayla and Janey that he was unworthy of her attention or 
love. As he slept, his drug-laced dreams were of a Sarah who ignored 
him, a golden goddess who could pick and choose cocks of more deserving 
men to satisfy her. She was the ultimate essence of raw, feminine 
sexuality, sacred and desirable, but impossibly, and rightfully, out of 
his reach. 

Existing on a diet of drug-laced salads and protein drinks, 
Sport's weight plummeted from 190 pounds to 140 as the weeks dragged 
on. The rumor among his employees was that he had cancer, but no one 
dared to ask. When his clothes began to sag on his rail-thin frame, 
Shayla came to the rescue.

"I have a present for you, Sport," she told him one day as he headed 
for his corner chair. He stopped and turned to her, eyeing the large 
white bag on her desk. Shayla shook her head and sighed. 

"Well, open it, Sport. I run a business here - I don't have all day."

He went to her desk and slid the contents onto glass desktop. Just 
below, his eyes were drawn to her firm, slim legs, stretched to their 
amazing full length, the smooth chocolate skin beckoning him to touch 
her. Shayla caught him looking, and spread her hands over the glass, 
blocking his view.

 "There'll be time for that later, Sport. Do you think I want you to 
touch 
me this early in the morning? Ugh - it's enough to make me lose my 
breakfast. Pay attention, Sport! Concentrate! Your present, 
remember? Honestly, I don't know how you were ever able to run this 
business."

He unfolded the items and held them up, one by one, before her. At 
first he didn't understand - a few pair of red spandex bicycle shorts, 
some T-shirts in a variety of pink and purple pastels, and a pair of 
white tennis shoes with pink eyelets.

"Well, do you like them?" Shayla asked, grinning slyly.

"I-I don't know - are they - you want me to wear this?"

"Of course, Sport! Why else would I waste my hard-earned money on you?"

"B-but, I can't wear these - I mean, I can't be seen in these - people 
would think - "

"What, Sport? That you're a sissy? That you're not a man? They'd be 
right, wouldn't they? Your own wife thinks so. Sarah never saw you as a 
real man. She told you that, more than once, remember?"

Sport struggled with past memories, trying to sort out the real from 
the imagined. In his mind, Sarah's face, the face he used to know, 
framed by soft, dark hair, was replaced in an instant by Barbie's big 
blonde hair and pouty red lips. And then the lips were moving, the 
words sultry and wanton. 

     "Ummm, I want you Rock, I want a real man, a real man who 
     can put his big hard cock inside me. Not like him! He was never 
     a man! He could never make me cum like you do! Never! Never!" 

She was pointing at Sport, shouting at him, accusing him of the very 
thing Shayla had told him. In the end, he no longer knew what Sarah 
had said, but the words seemed so familiar, and came back to him 
so easily. He had probably just forgotten them.

"Well, Sport, what are you waiting for? Try them on! Let's get a good 
look at the new you!"

"B-but, here? At work? What will everyone - "

"I run this company now, not you. No one cares, Sport. Not anymore. No 
one will even notice."

Sport knew she was right, but the truth still hit him like a sledge 
hammer. He didn't even know most of the employees anymore. Shayla had 
hired new workers to replace anyone who thought about objecting to the 
changes she brought. She hired a new engineer to replace Sport's life-
long friend, and he couldn't lift a finger to stop her. She called him 
Spike, and he quickly went about changing the product line from 
hospital beds and wheelchairs to sex paraphernalia of every size and 
shape. She had tripled the company's income in a month while Sport sat 
drugged in his corner, fidgeting nervously with a constant erection, 
staring up her skirt. It was what he lived for now - to watch her, to 
touch her, to please her. And in return, she would take care of him, 
protect him from Rock. And that was all that mattered.

Sport undressed in front of Shayla, his sense of modesty erased long 
ago by her skillful manipulations. When he reached for a pair of the 
spandex shorts, Shayla stopped him.

"You can't wear briefs under spandex, Sport! I hate panty lines. It's 
why I never wear them myself. You wouldn't want to look up my skirt and 
see panties instead of my bare pussy, would you, Sport?"

Sport got the message and stripped off his underwear. He reached for 
the shorts again, and again Shayla stopped him. She couldn't help but 
stare. His body had become wire-thin and soft, almost boyish in 
appearance. In contrast, his ever-present erection jutted forward, as 
hard and urgent as a sixteen-year-old's. It was a strange sight, she 
thought, this boy-man she had created. How bizarre he looked - such 
weak, androgynous, impotent flesh flaunting the rigid, pulsing organ 
that seemed oddly out of place, so wasted on such a pathetic excuse of 
a man. Her creation brought her pleasure, and she smiled at him.

"Turn around for me, slowly. I want to look at you." Sport did as she 
said, hoping that if he pleased her, she might reward him. As he 
continued to turn for her, she watched, still amused by the outlandish 
sight.

"Is your little prick always hard?" she asked him casually as he 
stopped to face her.

"Yes - I don't know why, but it is," he answered.

Shayla smiled wider. "I think it's because you can't stop thinking 
about me. Isn't that right? Do you want to fuck me with your little 
prick? Come on, you can tell me. I won't bite."

Sport tried to process her question, but his mind short-circuited. 
Would agreeing bring Rock's boot to his groin? Would declining be taken 
as an insult to Shayla? She had become his protector, the one safe 
place in his life where he could go for both comfort and the touch of a 
woman's flesh, however limited it might be. Could he dare hope for sex 
with her? 

"I-I want to, but I shouldn't," he finally muttered, looking down at 
his 
bare feet.

"And why shouldn't you?" Shayla asked, smiling as she guided their 
conversation to its usual end.

"Because you probably want men like Rock, not like me. You wouldn't 
enjoy it."

"And why do you think that, Sport?"

"Because women want that, women want - "

"Women, Sport? What women? Be specific. How do you know what women 
want? Tell me, Sport. How do you know?"

Sport shivered as he stood naked in the air-conditioned office. Shayla 
kept it cold, especially in the summer. But he shivered just as much 
from what he saw as he looked down over his pale, emaciated body, the 
outrageous erection ever-present, but the flesh so soft and afraid. The 
images again flooded his mind, and he told her what she wanted to hear, 
what he now accepted as the truth.

"Sarah wanted him. She wanted him instead of me. I know because she 
left me for men like that. I couldn't be that for her - I never can be. 
So I can't be that for you, either." 

Shayla smiled again and stretched her legs under the glass desk, 
letting her skirt ride high enough to tease him with a glimpse of her 
naked slit. She marveled at how simple it had been to break him, to 
convert this once proud husband of a beautiful woman into a weak, 
fearful shell of a man. She wondered how far he would go for her, to 
what depths of perversion he might descend for her. The possibilities 
made her wet as her mind raced with twisted flashes of depravity. If 
only there was time.

"Get dressed, Sport. You're insight is right on target, as usual. And, 
the sight of you naked isn't exactly stirring my appetite for sex, with 
a man, that is. I want to take a tour of the shop this morning, and you 
can come along, to take notes."

Sport shivered again as he thought of having to face the employees in 
the clothes Shayla had brought him. He dressed slowly, pulling the 
tight red spandex shorts up over his bobbing erection, then stretching 
a small pink T-shirt over his head and shoulders, tugging at it until 
it covered his thin chest and belly like a second skin. After lacing 
and tying the white tennis shoes, he stood up and faced her, afraid to 
think of the sight she must be enjoying. Shayla got up and went to him, 
this time circling him with slow, enticing steps, her hips swaying 
maddeningly beneath the tiny skirt. She stopped in front of him, 
looking down at the obvious outline of his erection under the spandex. 
Then looking up, directly into his eyes, she traced a path over his 
cock with a single finger, her finely-manicured nail grazing the 
underside of it, then moving slowly over the head until she felt the 
spandex grow moist with a droplet of the fluid she coaxed from him. 

"Now, you really don't want to fuck me, do you Sport?" she whispered, 
still circling her nail over the tip of his cock, spreading the pre-cum 
into an ever-widening spot on the front of his shorts. He was shaking, 
trying to contain the orgasm that threatened to explode from deep 
within his gut. His eyes were locked on hers, his body nearly out of 
control, but still, the fear of Rock's boot paralyzed him.

"P-please, no, I don't, I mean, I know you don't want me to - I know 
you want..."

Shayla suddenly burst into laughter, then carefully wiped her finger 
clean on the front of Sport's T-shirt. Turning back to her desk, she 
picked up a large clipboard and handed it to him. "Come on, Sport. 
Let's see what our people are up to this morning. I'm sure you're eager 
to give them a good look at the new you!"

Shayla led him around the shop, using all her wiles to ensure her new 
employees stayed compliant and loyal. Her smile melted every man she 
spoke to, and her mesmerizing voice had even the women eating out of 
her hands. Sport used the clipboard to try to hide his erection, but 
everyone's eyes were drawn to his new outfit, and as Shayla ordered him 
to take notes while they gave her their comments and suggestions, howls 
of laughter rose from the back of the shop. For her grand finale, 
Shayla called everyone together for one of her pep-talks, took the 
clipboard from Sport, and let everyone have a good long look. She 
ignored the sniggering and whispers as she talked, glancing at Sports' 
erection now and then to make sure her audience got the message. 

Whatever Sport had become, there was no question that Shayla was the 
boss, both theirs and his. But there were plenty of questions about 
Sport's sanity, as well as his apparent betrayal of Sarah. The few that 
still knew him either pitied him or wrote him off. Only Shannon 
continued to treat him with her familiar brand of acceptance and 
respect, smiling her gorgeous smile at him every morning, checking on 
him throughout the day, and always remembering to give him a cheery 
goodbye at closing. In time, she became his only anchor to reality, and 
to the past. In a world gone mad, Shannon's presence was the only thing 
that hadn't gone mad with it. She was the one and only bright spot in 
day after day of increasing hopelessness and depression.

As the drugs Shayla fed him did their work, Sport withdrew from their 
world into one where Shayla was the only safe refuge from the 
encroaching depression and fear. And those nights when Sarah came to 
him in his dreams, a strange pleasure filled him as he put her hand in 
Rock's, then watched as the rugged biker took her, using her perfect 
body the way she deserved, as only a real man could.






Previous chapters of Surrendering Sarah, along with other works by 
Night Writer can be found at /~Night_Writer/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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