Futile resistance lead to angry mistresses.

You stop dead in your tracks, not walking even a bit and for a moment the chain connecting to your neck to the leather loop which Charlie has a grip on is pulled taut, and you lean back increasing tension, and the chain wiggles like it might bust, but Charlie relents, causing you to drop your guard as well, and then she yanks hard, practically **** you and pulling you off your feet, where you eat asphalt.

You writhe helplessly on the ground, trying to get your hands to push you up into a position where you can better stand up, but Charlie puts her boot on your chest. Hard. It’s like having a brick on your chest. It’s hardEd to breath. The leather Doc Martens glisten from the harsh light, as the purple laces seem to be apart of the boot itself and not holding the boot tight on her foot. Charlie looks angry to say the least.

“Sammy, it was fun and all, what with you struggling but you are a total slut, just begging for it. You are a sissy and this scrape will be the least of your worries if you continue to defy me. So be a good little gurl and you’ll be fine. Mostly. If not, I’ll really put you through the wringer. Now up!”

She tugs hard on the leash, and your head by extension, so you rise reluctantly, with a scraped arm and upper chest and she pulls you into the lobby. You cross over a pedestrian bridge, thankfully, it’s past sundown, and the cars down below shining their headlights don’t light up the walkway. At least you tell yourself that.

Charlie hits a button for an elevator, waiting. The seconds feel like minutes, as you hope no one comes to wait as well, or that the elevator doesn’t have anyone in it. The ding arrives and your luck holds, and you realize you are sweating and have been since you’ve been cuffed. Charlie presses the top floor button, ‘Penthouse.’