Owned by a Karen
Copyright© 2026 by Xanzibar
Chapter 3: Being Frank Part Two
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 3: Being Frank Part Two - Bianca and Carmen, Valdez-Delgado, a bi-sexual couple, who move to a very affluent neighborhood, get in a rivalry with their next door neighbors. The Karen and Frank Mitchell. A rivalry that escalates into an unlickely bet to be made, a parlay, three unlickely events that if they happen will force Carmen and Bianca to make good. Only they have no idea how depraved the winners of the bet will be if they win. There is no way all three legs of the parlay can happen? Right? Right?
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Fa/ft Mult Consensual Drunk/Drugged Reluctant Slavery Fiction Cheating Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching RAAC BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Interracial White Male White Female Hispanic Female White Couple Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Food Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Spitting Squirting Foot Fetish Leg Fetish Public Sex ENF Nudism Politics Transformation
Bianca stood on the Mitchell doorstep in the afternoon heat and listened to the silence on the other side of the door.
She counted her own heartbeats. She counted the seconds. She was aware, with a humiliating precision, of every inch of herself that was visible to the street: The flimsy mini-skirt and top that ended a full hand’s width above her knees, the four inches of heel that tilted her forward at an angle that made her look perpetually eager, the smeared makeup she hadn’t been able to fully fix because Karen had taken every last cosmetic product she owned and left a single tube of red lipstick on the bathroom counter like a taunt. She had put it on. Of course, she had put it on.
A car rolled past at the end of the cul-de-sac. She didn’t look to see whose it was.
The door opened.
Frank leaned in the frame with his arms crossed, jacket off now, t-shirt stretched across his chest, and he looked her over with the unhurried satisfaction of a man who had already won and was simply counting the winnings. His eyes moved from her face to her feet and back up again, and the smile that followed was not a kind one.
“Take ‘em off,” he said. “All of it. Except the heels.”
The words landed in her stomach like a fist.
She stood there for one full second in which everything in her body said no. Her body said turn around, said you have already given him too much, you have already given him things you cannot get back, do not give him this too, not on the doorstep, not in the open air where anyone with a window and a clear sight line could. Her pussy was giving her a powerful constant throbbing rebuttal.
Frank tilted his head. The smile didn’t waver.
Bianca reached behind her neck and found the zipper pull of the dress.
She twisted her arms behind her back, fingers scrabbling for the zipper pull. The flimsy mini skirt hung, then as she unzipped herself the fabric floated off her. She pulled the top off with little effort. The afternoon sun hit her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs.
Frank watched, arms crossed, one hand tapping his bicep. “You call that a striptease?” His voice was low, amused. “Next time, I want a show. Tease it off slow, make it sexy. You should be grateful you’re about to get some real cock in you, not that sad little vibrator you and your wife probably use.”
The air was cool against her skin, but her face burned. She forced her chin up, refusing to look away as Frank’s gaze raked over her, claiming her.
“Better,” he said, nodding. “But you’ve still got a lot to learn. Now get inside. Daddy’s got plans for you.”
He stepped back and held the door open, and she walked past him into the house, the heels clicking against the tile, her shoulders back because the alternative was to hunch, and she would not hunch.
The Mitchell house smelled so clean. She noticed in the mirror for the first time the cum caked on the inside of her thighs. The damn Fuck had dumped his load in her. She was not on birth control she had not needed to take it before. She would softly bring it up to Karen when they got back together again. He smiled as he told her that he took a special version of a pill that is way better than what everyone else gets over the counter. He wanted her to get ready for a marathon she had no idea that was coming her way. She could already see that man hammer rising to salute her. Bianca was gorgeous to most men she just did not dress to appease them, but slutted up like this, well, let’s just say any man looking at her would have a boner. Frank set the pill bottle on the kitchen counter with a small, deliberate click, the way a man sets down a winning card.
Bianca stood in the center of the Mitchell kitchen and tried not to look at herself in the glass of the oven door. She failed. The oven door gave her back a warped, darkened version of her red lips, bare skin, the obscene geometry of the heels forcing her weight forward onto her toes and she looked away before the image could settle into something permanent.
The kitchen was immaculate. That was the thing that kept snagging her attention, the way a splinter snags a fingertip. Every surface gleamed. The dish towels were folded in thirds and hung at identical angles from the oven handle. The fruit bowl held exactly four apples, arranged by size. There was not a single coffee ring on the counter, not a crumb along the back splash, not a magnet on the refrigerator that wasn’t perfectly level.
Karen’s house. Karen’s order. Karen’s rules applied to every square inch of this space, including, apparently, the square inches currently occupied by Bianca Valdez-Delgado.
Frank filled a glass with water from the tap and set it beside the pill bottle. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, which was almost worse than when he was. He moved around his own kitchen with a comfortable, unhurried ownership that made her feel like a piece of furniture he hadn’t decided where to put yet.
“You want water?” he asked.
“No.”
He shrugged and drank his own glass down, then set it in the sink. He picked up the pill bottle, shook one out into his palm, and tossed it back without ceremony.
Bianca watched him. The pill was small and white and he’d swallowed it without water, without comment, the way you swallow something you’ve swallowed a thousand times before. She thought about the cum drying on her inner thighs and her stomach clenched with a cold, particular dread that she needed to address before this went any further.
“Frank.” The pill bottle reminded her of a fact that made her heart stop.
He turned, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised, an indulgent expression of a man who expected whatever was coming.
“I’m not on birth control,” she said. The words came out flat and clinical, stripped of everything except the necessary information. She kept her voice level. She kept her chin level. She was standing naked in the man’s kitchen in four-inch heels and she was going to have this conversation like a functional adult if it killed her.
Something moved across Frank’s face. Not surprise. More like the small, private satisfaction of a man confirming something he already knew.
“I know,” he said. The fact seemed to make his boner rise faster the fucking asshole.
The two words sat in the air between them.
“So you are going to be a good lil fuck doll if you want us to give you the pill that will make sure you do not have little surprise., regardless I think I want you to refer to me as Daddy, all the time.” The word landed on her like a hand around the throat. He then added, “It is up to you if it will be literal or not.”
Daddy.
Bianca stood very still. The tile was cold under the balls of her feet where the heels forced all her weight forward, and the kitchen hummed around her with its terrible cleanliness, and Frank watched her from across the counter with the patience of a man who had nowhere else to be and nothing left to prove.
She thought about Carmen. She thought about where Carmen was right now, what Karen’s hands were doing, what sounds Carmen was making in the guest room of this immaculate house. She thought about the pill bottle sitting on the counter six feet away, small and white and conditional.
Regardless.
He’d said that word, too. She’d heard it. He wanted her to know that the pill was a courtesy, not a guarantee. That the leverage existed whether she complied or not. That the only variable was how much of herself she spent getting to the same destination.
Her jaw tightened.
She had spent thirty-two years being nobody’s anything. Not her mother’s good girl, not the neighborhood’s cautionary tale, not Carmen’s kept woman, not the club’s token. She had built herself from scratch with bad credit and spite and an overhead serve that could strip bark off a pine tree at thirty feet. She had made herself into something that people like Frank Mitchell looked at from across a net and quietly feared, even when they were winning.
And she was standing here, naked except for Karen’s shoes she was given, being told to say Daddy.
The worst part that sat in the base of her skull like a thumbtack was that her body was already answering the pill’s promise. She could feel it. The residue of Frank still warm on her thighs, the deep interior ache that hadn’t fully resolved, the way her pulse had kicked up the moment he’d said the word, not from fear, not entirely, not anymore.
That was the thing she couldn’t argue her way out of.
She looked at Frank’s face. Not his eyes, not the smug curve of his mouth, but his face as a whole, the way she looked at an opponent at the net cataloguing, measuring, deciding what she was willing to spend.
“And if I say it,” she said. Her voice came out lower than she intended, rougher. “I get the pill.”
Frank’s mouth curved. “You get the pill. But you are going to call me Daddy and I am going to make you earn that ‘Bi’, label you like to throw around.”
“Both of us. Me and Carmen.”
A pause. He tilted his head, reconsidering her the way you reconsider a piece on a board you thought you’d already won.
“Nope, you do not get to make demands. You get to please. Fail to do that and I will look at your stomach grow”
She didn’t believe him completely. She believed him enough.
She crossed the kitchen. The heels clicked against the tile with each step, and she was aware of every inch of herself moving through the space, the way the cool air moved against her bare skin, the way Frank’s gaze tracked her without moving his head. She stopped in front of him, close enough that she could smell the fabric softener on his shirt.
“Clean it off, slut.”
The words hit Bianca like a slap. She didn’t let herself hesitate. She’d lost the privileges of hesitation, and she knew it. Her knees bent as she lowered herself in those vicious heels, feeling the cool air, the obscene openness of her body above. Her heart was a wild animal in her chest, thumping against her ribcage with each inch she descended. She told herself that every humiliating moment on the tennis court, every lopsided score and sarcastic slow clap, had been preparation for this: the discipline to keep her face blank, her movements measured, even when she was dying inside.
Frank watched, hands on the counter behind him, his posture relaxed, but his eyes fixed on hers. He didn’t need to loom; the knowledge that he could was enough. Bianca hooked her fingers into the waistband of his gym shorts and tugged them down. His cock sprang free, already heavy and hard, glistening with the evidence of her last defeat. He didn’t help her or guide her. He just waited, leaving her to figure out what he wanted. The hair on his thighs was coarse against her cheek as she leaned in. She made herself focus on the mechanics, not the humiliation. This was just another game, another point to fight for, another thing to do perfectly or not at all.
She stuck out her tongue and lapped tentatively at the head, tasting the salt clinging to his shaft. She wiped it away with her tongue and lips, as methodically as if she were cleaning a wound. Frank’s breath left him in a hiss, and she could feel his body responding, the cock thickening and filling up ... He reached down, wrapped a hand in her hair, and pushed slowly at first, then with a steady, inexorable pressure that made her neck strain and her jaw ache. Bianca parted her lips and let him slide in, reminded with a bitter hilarity that she’d mocked girls for this exact thing in college, called them “mouth breathers,” and here she was, gagging on the dick of a man she hated.
“Choke on it,” Frank said, his voice casual, as if asking her to pass the salt. When she tried to pull back for air, he held her in place, his fist tightening at her scalp. The pressure on her throat was an ache that built and built until she thought her body would betray her and clamp down, but she forced herself to relax, to breathe raggedly through her nose, her eyes streaming. He started moving her, up and down, setting a pace that had nothing to do with her comfort and everything to do with his pleasure.
“Jesus, Karen was right,” he said, half-laughing. “You’re a fucking natural at this, Bianca. Maybe if your mouth was full, you wouldn’t need to open it around your betters. C’mon, you want that pill? That’s it. Get every drop.” He punctuated every phrase with a thrust, his hips snapping forward like a metronome set to humiliation. “Don’t look at me like that, you love it. Look at you, Bianca Valdez, all-state champ, on her knees where a real man can put that mouth to better use. Bet your dyke wife would lose her shit if she saw you now.” The word dyke landed like a slap, but there was something else beneath it, a dark thrill in watching her choke on the thing she’d spent a lifetime refusing to swallow.
Bianca’s mascara was running. She could feel it. Tears cut black ribbons down her cheeks, and still he didn’t let her go. Her arms ached from bracing herself against his thighs, her lungs burned, and her pride wailed inside her head that she could stand up and walk out, that no line of powder or bottle of pills or even the club championship trophy was worth this. But her body was shaking now, and she tasted the gathering salt of her own arousal even under the bleach and sweat. This was the fucked-up part: some part of her, deep and angry and starving, liked the degradation. Not all of her, not even most, but a part that had never had a name until now, a part she’d spent a lifetime denying.
Frank jerked her off his cock by the hair, just for a second, and let her gasp for breath, then steered her back down, harder now. The heads of his thighs clamped around her ears. “Swallow it all,” he said. “You want to be a good little fuck doll, don’t you? That’s the price.” He started degrading her, faster and louder, the words tumbling out in a rhythm with his hips: “Whore. Cunt. Choke. Milk it. Get it all. Show me you’re not just talk, Bianca.”
The sound of his voice, the relentless drive of his body, the shame of her own need, it all blurred together. She couldn’t remember how many times he’d made her swallow, or what it was that had ever made her think she was in control. He came with a grunt and a shudder, and the taste was worse than she’d anticipated, hot and bitter and final. She swallowed, because that’s what he wanted, and because she was not going to give him the satisfaction of spitting it back in his face.
He let go of her hair. She pulled back, coughing, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, paint-stripper red lipstick smeared across her knuckles.
Frank grinned down at her, not even out of breath. “Good girl,” he said, and set the pill bottle on the counter with a deliberate click. “Not bad for your first time. We are going to work on that a lot. I will not have my fuck sluts give such horrible top.” Bianca took the pill from the counter and swallowed it dry.
She didn’t ask for water. She didn’t look at Frank while she did it. She just picked it up, put it on her tongue, and swallowed, and then set the empty palm of her hand flat against the tile and looked at nothing in particular while her throat worked.
Frank said something. She didn’t track the words. She was aware of him moving around the kitchen, pulling his shorts back up, opening the refrigerator with the unhurried ease of a man in his own house on a Saturday afternoon. The refrigerator light fell across the tile and she watched it without interest.
Her jaw ached. Her knees ached. The inside of her thighs felt sticky and raw where the dried evidence of earlier had started to pull at her skin when she moved. She was aware of all of it with a clinical, itemized precision that felt like the only thing standing between her and something she couldn’t afford to feel yet.
Not bad for your first time.
She filed that away. She filed it in the same place she’d filed every loss she’d ever taken on a court, every condescending handshake, every time someone had underestimated her and been temporarily correct. She was good at filing things. She had a whole archive.
“Go down the hall and get the downstair shower running you can take off your heels to get in. Do not fucking think of locking the door.” Frank said, from somewhere behind the refrigerator door. “Down the hall, first left. Don’t touch anything on the counter.”
She stood. The heels made her ankles flex and her calves pull tight, and she noticed with a distant irritation that she was already more comfortable in them than she’d been an hour ago, as if her body were adapting to Karen’s domination like she did. Bianca’s legs felt like jelly. The bathroom was the only room on the first floor with a lock, but Bianca didn’t dare use it. Instead, she stepped inside, closed the door tight enough to click, and glanced up at the mirror. A ghastly raccoon stared back hair wild, lashes smeared, lipstick drawn off her face in a grotesque trail. She splashed cold water on her cheeks with trembling hands, blinking as the sting cut through her numbness. For one long, floating minute she just stood there, breathing, listening to the hum of the light fixture, the echo of her own pulse roaring in her ears. The world felt suspended, as if the rest of the house and its inhabitants had been left on pause, and only Bianca was permitted this brief, alien mercy.
She kicked off her heels. The restroom light was unkind, highlighting every bruise on her thigh and the red welt rising on her hip where Frank had pinched her, “for motivation.” She tried not to look at her own nakedness: the glisten left from sweat and spit, the marks already fading from her knees, the way her chest still rose and fell in angry little bursts. She was a mess, but she was used to being a mess; the trick was to restore order before anyone else noticed.
She stepped into the shower and cranked the hot water until it stung. The tiles were cold underfoot, but the steam wrapped around her like a shroud, erasing the rest of the house for a few precious seconds. She braced her hands against the wall and let the spray pound down on her shoulders. The water pooled at her feet, swirling away the sweat and the residue of Frank’s victory, a small, mean blessing. Bianca pressed her forehead to the tile and, for just a moment, gave herself permission to let go to feel the ache in her jaw and the bruised, hollow ring inside her chest.
It would have been perfect if it had lasted. She heard the door open and didn’t turn. She told herself it was habit: you never showed your back on a court. But she knew the truth was more complicated, and felt herself tense as she waited for the next humiliation. Frank made no effort to be stealthy; he strolled right in, jingling the pill bottle in his fist, then tossed it onto the sink with a casual clatter. She could sense him behind her, close enough to fog the glass even through the curtain of steam. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to do anything but let the water keep pounding her, but she felt him anyway, the way you feel the approach of a storm front, pressure dropping, air thickening by the second.
“Move your hands,” Frank said. His voice was soft, but the command in it was absolute.
She did as told, letting her arms fall to her sides, fists clenching and unclenching as she willed herself not to shiver. Frank stepped in behind her, still naked, his body a slab of muscle and arrogant ease. She braced herself for violence, or maybe just another round of insults, but instead he reached around her, took the showerhead off its mount, and let the blast of hot water run straight between her legs. Bianca gasped real, involuntary and tried to pull away, but he pinned her with one hand, palm splayed heavy between her shoulders.
“You were sloppy,” he murmured into her ear. “Next time, show me you can swallow without making a scene.”
She wanted to tell him to fuck off, to call him every name she’d ever thrown in his face courtside, but all that came out was a shuddering gasp. Frank nudged her legs apart with his knee, then cupped her breast in one big, wet hand and squeezed, pinching the nipple until she arched back against him. The glass door steamed up faster as her body jerked and twisted, her own breath painting frantic shapes on the inside.
She hated this, how wet she was getting and she was not thinking about the water.
Frank didn’t ask permission. He pressed her head against the glass until her cheek squashed flat and her vision swam. He lined his cock up already hardening again, as if he’d never spent himself at all and pushed inside her with a single, brutal stroke. Bianca bit back a cry, but the sound came anyway, muffled and desperate. He rammed her against the door with each thrust, the glass rattling in its frame, her breasts flattening against it with every impact. Her hands scrabbled for anything, finding only slick tile and the cold, unyielding pane.
“You like this?” Frank grunted, his voice thick with condescension. “Getting fucked just like some cheap pornstar. I can feel your pussy clenching my cock for more, you filthy bitch.”
She shook her head, a denial that dissolved into a choked moan as he thrust deeper. The words ‘no’ and ‘stop’ drowned in the spray and the slap of wet skin. His thumb found her clit, circling slow then fast, matching the rhythm of his hips. She bucked against the glass, a raw, submissive sound tearing from her throat, a moan she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Say it,” Frank growled into her ear, his breath hot. “Tell me you want it.”
She couldn’t form the words, wouldn’t give him that victory, but her body betrayed her with another helpless moan as he drove into her. “Don’t stop,” she heard herself beg, voice ragged and desperate. “Please, just,”
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