The soft hum of the minibar filled the silence after she left. George lay half-dressed on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above. The sheets were a tangled mess of sweat, perfume, and regret. The call girl—what was her name? Tasha? Tanya?—had gone twenty minutes ago, her stilettos clicking down the hallway like a gavel pronouncing judgment. He reached for his wallet on the nightstand,...

Every time he stepped on the scale, he felt his stomach drop. Would it be enough? Would she be pleased? And every two weeks, Libby would cane him, her strokes precise and unforgiving. She never missed a beat, never gave an inch. You're doing well," she said one night, inspecting his bruised and battered body. "But you still have a way to go." He nodded. "Yes, mistress." "I'll be watching you," she warned. "Every bite you...