“I have an appointment with Mr. Forsberg.” I raised my eyebrows; the only person in the foyer was a fat young brunette in overalls and boots, clearly someone from the factory floor, completely out of place in the attractive executive suite.
“He’s not here,” she snapped
“I can see that; where is he?”
“Left for the day.” She was surly, but one expects that from a factory hand.
I looked round at the tasteful prints on the wall, the leather lounges in the reception area, the old oak paneling, the well made office furniture and then back to the one thing marring the scene- the factory girl; it was such a pity one had to deal with her. “There seems to be some confusion, I had an appointment with him, perhaps I can speak to his secretary to sort this out.”
“No, she’s left too.”
I shrugged my shoulders, making a mental note that when I did finally speak to Forsberg I would tell him about this obstructive woman. Still, one achieved success by cooperation and by overcoming obstacles. I tried again; that’s unfortunate; may I speak with the receptionist please?”
“She’s gone home.” She was curt to the point of rudeness.
I glanced at my watch. I saw the factory girl look at it and looked at her boots. Instantly I knew her problem- envy; she burned with resentment. The gold Rolex, the diamond pendant and the other understated but expensive jewelry, the tailored suit with crimson blouse, the Channel handbag, all spoke of my success, my position as an executive consultant; after all one power dressed. Her overalls, her accent, her grumpy demeanor all spoke of her lack of success, her poor education, her base level unskilled factory floor job. One faced such malicious envy each day; one had to be positive towards such people and give the girl some credit; she wasn’t on welfare. One was successful because one solved problems. I spoke calmly, a little more slowly than normally, one wanted each word to sink in. “ I’m Robbyn Hayes, I had arranged a meeting with Mr. Forsberg, so please do run along and find someone who can tell me where I might find him, so that if need be we can reschedule my presentation. I really don’t have time to spare for missed appointments.” I looked at one of the wall pictures; one didn’t want to get the girl more resentful by looking at her; one wanted to remain calm; in any case she spoilt the otherwise pleasant atmosphere.
“Hey woman I don’t know about any appointments and I’ve just seen all the management leave, it’s only us workers on afternoon shift now.”
“If the management have left, what are you doing in the executive suite?” One probably shouldn’t have needled the paid help but she was becoming tiresome. “Now run along and find someone who can help me, please.” I reminded myself that Mother taught me one is always polite, especially to one’s inferiors.
“I was seeing one of the managers, he left and I was about to go back to the factory.”
The fat girl shifted uneasily; one immediately sensed she knew she should have returned to her work earlier; one knew this was the lever to bring the recalcitrant bitch to heel. “I do hope you are not wasting time here, I would hate to have to tell your boss you were malingering in the executive suite instead of working on the factory floor. Now run along and find someone who can help me, then go back to your factory job and I’ll say no more about this.” I looked down at her, one so enjoyed being taller than most women, natural height aided by heels; the commanding height of industry is such an apt expression.
The fat girl shifted, she all but squirmed, she looked at her feet. ”All the bosses have gone. I just seen the personnel manager, he was the last to leave. He’s gone.” One knew that this surly woman was still smarting from being reprimanded. She looked up, her eyes met mine. “I don’t “run along” like that. I’m no messenger; I’m a factory worker. Leave it out lady.”
I glared at her; again one was glad one was taller. I almost always stared down one’s adversary without much effort. One didn’t expect this factory fodder to be any different though one almost hoped she was; one remembered the redhead one had put in her place a month or so back. It was time to show the steel within the velvet glove. "Listen bitch, I’d better see the boss and soon. If he is not around I want a cell phone number and I want to know to whom do I speak with about this appointment?” Again I glared at the fat bitch, my hands on my hips, “I don't have time to be run around." I stepped closer. “Now get and do it; perhaps I should speak with your supervisor while I am here.”
The fat girl met my gaze, she was an insubordinate hussy. “Who are you calling ‘bitch’?” She shook her head. “I don’t know who you should talk to, they have all gone home. Hell lady I don’t work in the office, I work in the factory.”
“And you are not working in any other part of the factory right now.” I grabbed her arm. There were times when one had to show one was in command, this was such a time. “Now listen bitch, and yes I am calling you a bitch, for bitch you are! I suggest you find your boss, or your supervisor or someone else who can tell me what you seem too dumb to know and too lazy to find out, or too insolent to tell me.” I spun her round, making her look me in the eye, one knew that had worked many a time, often it reduced one’s adversary to a quivering bitch on heat. “Let me make it plain to you, I want to contact Mr. Forsberg so I can rearrange my appointment with him.”
“Don’t you threaten me.” To my surprise the fat factory fodder clapped her hands on the shoulder pads of my blazer; she tried to push me back. It was only my surprise at her impudence that allowed her to partly succeed. I stumbled; she spun on her heels and began to walk off.
One should never allow one’s temper to master one; calmly but quickly I stepped forward, blocking her way both to the entrance to the executive suite and to the corridor which I surmised led back to the factory. “I didn’t threaten you; I never threaten. Let me promise you that unless you co operate I shall make sure you are fired. And let me assure you, I keep my promises. You are an ill mannered bimbo, someone should teach you manners.”
The impudent bitch chuckled, “No one has ever called me a bimbo before.” One could see why, she was fat and common; but a bimbo she was never the less, she had no brains. She stepped towards me, trying to slide past. I would not let her; she would have to do what I wanted first.
Instead the bimbo closed on me; one sensed her desperation, that she was ready to fight. She tried to brush me to the side. I grabbed her arm, shoving her back. "You don't get it bimbo, I'm more important than your pathetic little dead end job, now I said I want you to contact your boss for my appointment; don’t you understand English?"
The brunette snapped, “I’ve had you lady." She suddenly slammed her hand under my chin, shoving hard; she actually tried to push me away.
One was shocked, that the bitch had the nerve to touch one’s face; one was shocked but delighted for there were few things better than dealing out punishment to a bottom feeding bitch like this one. I smiled, coldly, “You just messed up big time slut.” I grabbed a fistful of her hair and, tugging her towards me, slapped her face with my free hand so hard that even though I held her hair, her face jerked to the side.
The bitch grunted, she blinked, probably shocked and beginning to realise just what she was in for, I jerked her head to the side and slapped her face again. "It seems you need to be taught who runs this world."
“Oh I know very much who runs the world. ‘The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent and repress them.’ And I choose not to be an ill mannered cxnt like you”
The bitch seemed to be quoting, but whom?
I groaned, doubling over, grasping my tight tiny tummy. The bitch had punched me in the stomach. One should not have been reflecting on what the bitch said; one should have been watching her move. But never before had anyone had the audacity to do that. In all one’s fights one had been slapped, one’s hair had been pulled, one’s face, neck, shoulders and breasts had been scratched, but never, never had anyone punched one. One suddenly wondered: did this bitch fight dirty?
I stumbled back, my mouth twisted, hissing, "Oh god you stupid bitch; I'll kill you for that." I lunged forward, my left hand grabbing a clump of brunette hair, my right punching at the bitch’s chin. She turned her head, my punch hit her cheek. One knew it hit hard, even though one wasn’t used to punching because the bitch groaned, one felt her knees buckle as if only one’s grip on her hair kept her from falling.
One sensed from one’s experience in fighting that this bitch could be finished with another punch. One readied oneself to deliver a knockout blow, aligning the bitch’s chin in just the right spot for the final punch. .
“Ugh, oh god!” The bitch had punched my stomach again, her fist smashed into my blouse, just below my navel, sinking deeper this time, knocking me backwards and doubling me over. I backed away, groaning, gasping, shocked that I’d been so attacked by this bitch; no body had ever dared do anything like this to me. One knew that one would have to lower oneself to the bitch’s standards to beat her. She charged, one knew from her actions to date the bitch was a more aggressive fighter and a dirtier fighter than one had ever struck; one sensed she was so aggressive and dirty because had no staying power; that she won her fights quickly or not at all. One had to outlast her. With that in mind I sidestepped her charge; she turned, but almost lost her footing as I swung my hips into her, banging her into the wall.
The bitch staggered. One knew it was time to attack, to stop her from recovering, to keep her wrong footed, to wear her out. I swung my hips into her again. Again she banged into the wall, again she staggered. This time she stepped back. One’s plan was working. I followed up my success with quick slaps aimed at her face and breasts. She kept retreating. I reached for her hair, grabbing a fistful and jerking her head towards me.
The slut kneed my side. One was sure she aimed at my vagina but one turned one’s body too fast for her to connect. The bitch was such a dirty fighter. She came at me with two short jabs, one to my side just above where her knee had hit, the other aimed square at my stomach. I had to retreat; I warded off her attempt to capitalise on her success by using my superior reach to slap back at her; my superior mobility to dodge her blows. One sensed again that the bitch was a slugger, one knew better than to stand toe to toe with her.
I did ward off her attack, slapping hard, kicking at her thighs, sidestepping all the time. “Shit!” One found ones back against something- a quick backward glance told me I’d hit a low filing cabinet. The bitch cackled; she closed on me. One could not believe that the bitch had planned this; it had to be an unfortunate coincidence.
The bitch closed, one couldn’t escape, not with the wall on one side, the cabinet behind me and her standing at an angle- both in front and at the side.
I clapped my hands on the bitch’s shoulders and pushed, one hoped to force her back. It seemed to work, the bitch was all brutality and slogging, no skill. I grabbed her hair and pushed, hoping to force her away, letting me free to turn and push her back onto the cabinet.
Instead the bitch’s right fist powered into my tummy and her left crashed into my side. One was not prepared, one gasped as the air left one’s lungs, one knees buckled, one almost crumpled. And one had the sudden horrid shock- the bitch might win. One tried to put it out of one’s mind. Knocked backwards, supported only by the wall, half stunned by the bitch’s blows, I tried to counter, to slam my fist into her chin.
And again the bitch avoided me. Her knee crashed into the pit of my stomach. I groaned, my body crumpled, my face contorted in agony. One was on one’s knees before this bitch; this could not be, one had never been defeated, one had never been in this position. But one was not desperate, one could still win; no, one would still win! I grabbed the fat bitch’s left arm, pulling on it, helping me get up, while at the same time dragging the bitch towards the cabinet. One still had one’s wits about one, one was still thinking. And again one had the horrid shock- perhaps the bitch is thinking; perhaps she is out thinking one. Perhaps- no there is no perhaps about it- a gutter type like the bitch was experienced- not just in fighting either- even in one’s pain one smiled at one’s wit; moreover this gutter bitch fought like gutter types did. And again one had this dreadful thought, one might lose; that one might be best to yield now, rather than be battered; a dreadful thought followed by an even worse thought; that one might not mind losing to this bitch. One rejected that thought instantly.
The click of my heels on the tiled floor helped me focus; it is the simple commonplace noises that so often bring one back to reality. Bravado, mingled with the need to restore one’s self confidence made me hiss, "You’re history bitch", as I swung m my knee up, hoping to treat the bitch the way she had treated me.
My knee never connected, the bitch was too fast, she sidestepped and as she moved her fist pounded my stomach again. “You’re history bitch” she had the audacity to mimic me. I almost dry retched. But worse was to come. The bitch slammed her fat overweight body into my slim taut toned body, crushing me against the wall.
Again the thought that one was defeated flooded one’s mind, this time it was harder to put aside, to recover one’s poise, to be able to fight on. But hard or not, one did it. The bitch was all brute strength; with some- yes one had to give her credit- some tactical skill; but one could still out think her. One gasped, one crumpled, one exaggerated one’s distress. One blurted out, “No, no, oh god!” All the time one watched, hawk like and just as one hoped the bitch stepped away, ready to repeat her body slam. But this time one slipped to the side, away from the cabinet; the bitch groaned as she slammed her body into the unyielding wall.
Had one been fresher, one would have turned the fight there and then. But one was tired, hurt, more tired and more hurt than one had ever been in any fight. That was not all, one didn’t understand it, one fought against it, but there was again this thought that one was destined to lose, and following on its heels, was the horrid thought one might even want to lose. One couldn’t understand it then; one doesn’t properly understand it now, one’s psychological makeup can be a long time mystery even to those trained and qualified to understand, but one had this sudden rush of arousal. One told oneself one was not bi not les, that one was straight. One turned to face the brunette bitch
I sent a hard punch at the bitch’s face; it hit, not quite where I’d aimed- her chin, the bitch turned her head, but even as it hit her cheek, her head snapped back. She stumbled, her hands up. I sent a punch to her midsection; she swung a fist down, turning mine to her side. Again it didn’t do the damage I’d intended; nevertheless it damaged her.
She retreated. One wanted to escape, but the bitch was between me and the only entrance I knew. One had to attack. I sent a hard punch, the bitch parried it, her riposte was deadly, she brought her knee up to my trim toned stomach. I doubled over, hurt, winded, and straight into the bitch’s fist swinging my head up and back this time it was a thought one couldn’t reject; my body drooped, I would have fallen but for the bitch’s body pinning mine to the wall, my arms drooped, my head fell, supported only by her neck. I mumbled, “I, I hate you.”
“Well bitch that is something a lot of women do, but do you fear me like they do too?" The fat bitch spoke softly, almost a whisper. One was not afraid of a bitch like her. I pushed away, one was surprised that one was successful. The bitch stepped back. It was a trick; she seized my neck from the side, locking me in a chokehold.
I struggled almost helpless in her grasp, trying to slap, to claw, to do anything to make the bitch let go. And again the thought of surrender washed over me, one knew if one surrendered the nightmare would be over, that one could walk out of here and rebuild one’s self respect; one knew what one had put other women through; but one had let them go when they surrendered.
She whispered in my ear, "Some women hate me and fear me but they still cum when I work them over and perhaps ... perhaps sweetie you’ll be one of them!"
I screamed out, “No, oh no, ugh, bitch, oh god no! I'll never let you do me like that." One was straight, one had never been with another woman, the most one had done had been to spank the butt of that redhead, Sylvia. The thought of Sylvia over one’s knee, squirming, begging rose up in one’s mind. What would it be like to have been in Sylvia’s place? But no, that could not happen. One felt her grip tighten on one’s throat and her knee in one’s back. One was being arched backwards, one’s spine felt near to snapping, the pain was unbearable. But one knew that the bitch was balancing on one foot, that she had to be close to one to hold one. I slammed my left elbow into the bitch’s side.
The bitch let go, she dropped back, groaning. For a brief moment one thought one had at least bought some time. I stepped forward, ready to defend. To no avail, the bitch body slammed me into the wall again. I groaned, the bitch seized my arm, spun me round and clamped her chokehold on me again. She braced herself against the wall and dug her knee into my back, she pulled me backwards. The pain, oh never had one imagined such pain.
"So bitch you hate me, do you fear me ...yet?" I felt her hot breath on my shoulder. Her arm round my neck yanked my head yet further back. Not only did it choke- one felt the pressure on one’s windpipe, one’s ears sang, one was close to blacking out, it contorted my spine yet more, waves of pain surged through my body.
One wanted to surrender, one wanted to beg, one wanted to end this nightmare. I gasped, “Yes, I do.” One had never, not ever been so humiliated; one was ready to grovel to this bitch.
My blood froze, the bitch whispered, “Sweetie you are about to be done, just like I said!"
The unthinkable was happening; one had not just lost a fight, one was being destroyed. One had heard of women being broken, of them being turned; but no, that was not happening here. The bitch may beat me in the fight; she would not break my spirit. My hands reached out, reaching out for anything, scrabbling uselessly at her body; grasping at that vile choking wrist around my neck, trying vainly to pull it away. She punched me in the belly again. I groaned, the bitch was turning me into a punching bag, surely she realised now that one was defeated, that one could not fight any more. Her knee dropped, the freedom from pain was immediate bliss, to be replaced by yet more pain when she slammed her knee back again. The bitch was brutal; one would never have been so vilely brutal to anyone who lost to one. The bitch let me go, I slumped to my knees.
She grabbed my blouse, ripping the expensive silk in two. One could only fight for breath as I gasped, my mouth agape, as I looked helplessly at the victorious bitch.
The bitch grabbed my hair, yanking me up and ramming her knee into my already battered stomach, "Do you fear me yet bitch?" And then the knee rammed again and yet a third time. "Do you fear me?" The bitch dropped me, one would have sunk to one’s knees were the wall not behind one.
One was completely helpless; I mumbled weakly, "Please no more". Never had one been forced to plead.
“Well bitch? Do you fear me? And if you’re begging you’d better be polite. What do you call me girl?" She backhanded me. I groaned and fell back against the wall.
“Please, I give, please don’t hit me.” One had never been so abject; one had never been so desperate. The bitch was making me her punching bag.
“You haven’t shown any respect girl. Do you fear me now?” The bitch pinned me against the wall, her eyes burned coldly into mine.
“Yes I fear you, please no more.” The words were one’s humiliation, one had never been forced to submit or beg. I moaned in pain.
“Well what do you call me girl?" the bitch held me, one hand pressed against my shoulder. She knew one could not resist her, that she had broken one’s will, crushed one’s spirit. She knew that one was abject. And then, oh horror, oh no, one felt her left hand slide onto one’s bare stomach, felt her stroke one’s naval, her hand edge up to one’s breast, up and over one’s bra cup. One trembled. “What do you call me girl?"
"Boss, you’re the boss." One no longer fought the humiliation, one accepted it. One had lost, one was destroyed.
“Wrong answer girl.” The bitch punched my stomach hard. I staggered. I stumbled, I fell against the cabinet. The bitch punched me again, her fist sank deep just below my naval. "Ready to learn some manners sweetie?" The bitch shook her head, slapping my almost exposed boobs. One knew by then that the bitch was playing, that she was a bully, that she was using one’s body as punching bag, one shuddered at what was yet to come.” I think sweetie is still too cocky to be polite yet!" She smirked as she pounded my stomach again.
“Please, please don’t do this, what’s the right answer please!” One had never groveled but one had to now.
She slapped my bra, somehow she broke it, it hung open. She chuckled. She stroked my bare breast. Her other hand stroked my stomach, it reached my belly button. I trembled. One tried to tell oneself it was fear that made one tremble, but one knew better, it was a horrid excitement, horrid but yet one wanted it to continue. One tried to fight against it, to block it out of one’s mind; one was straight, one did not like girls, one was not lesbian, not even bi. She flicked, oh so lightly, my nipple. I trembled again as she wiggled a finger inside my belly button triggering memories, memories of Jack’s tongue licking there, memories of his fingers. Memories of that night in the grass behind the tack room at the polo grounds when one first realised one had a belly fetish. But that was with a man, one was not, repeat not, lesbian, or even bi. But straight, bi or les, one couldn’t help trembling at the bitch’s touch. She smirked, “What are you thinking sweetie?" The bitch knew; she knew what she was doing to one; she knew one’s mind was in turmoil.
She cackled, her fat belly heaved with vile laughter. "You can’t fight me, not now, you couldn’t before! You can’t run away. You don’t even want to. What are you thinking sweetie? What will you do?” All the time she kept stroking my belly button, ever so gently. One couldn’t help trembling, one couldn’t help gasping. . "So cocky before and now where are you" The bitch yanked my hair making me meet her staring gaze, an icy bitter stare, at once powerful and humiliating; a stare that simply reinforced one’s loss. One couldn’t meet that stare; one couldn’t help but look away. One hated looking away, it made one look weak, it made one feel weak- weaker than before but one knew one could not look the bitch in the eye, and one knew the bitch knew too and that she was going to use it against one. And one suddenly remembered reading, hearing, seeing on the net, stories, snippets about bull dyke bitches, bitches who fought, who broke other girls. One read they were often overweight, just like this bitch; often- again like this bitch- manual workers; was this bitch one of those? One’s mind shut out the thought, it was more than enough that the bitch had destroyed one in the fight, more than enough that she was torturing one now, one could not bear anything worse. And yet beneath thought, one had this animalistic rush of sudden arousal at the image of a fat, coarse, bitch forcibly masturbating one, making one cum. Never before had one felt these feelings, these urges One couldn’t think this way, one couldn’t, but one did.
“What were you thinking girl?” the bitch’s tongue cut me. How could one respond? She knew, she knew what one was thinking, no what one was experiencing for this turmoil, this arousal, this sensation was beyond thought. “What will you do girl?” the bitch went on. And all the time her hands were gently, ever so gently, playing with one’s nipple and one’s belly button. One was shuddering- not just trembling now- one was biting one’s tongue to stop moaning.
“Arrgh!” I screamed, the bitch had smacked my face, so hard. “no, no please no, no fair, please, please stop" I begged. The bitch forced me to look at her, and in so doing forced me back further, a rolled up tarp right under my lower back, made me arch over the cabinet , my heels touched the floor.
The bitch stroked my face. "No, no fair stop" she mimicked and slapped my face hard. “Give me one good reason why I should stop." She stroked my face she stroked my belly button again. One couldn’t stop shuddering, one couldn’t help but moan. Once more the animalistic urge, the vision of her taking one engulfed my mind; for an instant one felt one needed her to take one, that one wanted to be broken. One felt that these needs would intensify if one submitted to one such as her. One struggled against such a feeling. The bitch knew that she had one; just as one knew that the bitch was indeed one of those bull dyke bitches. One shuddered; one couldn’t even imagine what she would do to one. And again one had that horrid thought, washing over one’s mind, flooding out every other thought; one might like what she would do.
Again she forced me to look at her, again she stroked my belly button, again I whimpered. She parted my blouse, she tugged at my skirt. The bitch was stripping me! One tried to stop her, one moved one’s hands, she looked at me. “Look at me girl.” She smacked my face. I whimpered, she rubbed my naval. My hands dropped to my sides. She had me, she controlled me. One had lost, one had no will left. One wanted what she wanted, one wanted to be used.
One’s head lolled from side to side, one’s long slender delicate body responding, quivering to her touch, forced to moan, becoming to one’s dismay- wet, loving and yet hating the fingers that stroked, played with my naval, caressed, roamed over one’s body. To think how this had started, she must have thought one was an arrogant, mouthy, snotty, blonde, rich, bitch. Perhaps one was, now one knew one’s place. She slammed her fist into my tummy. My eyes fluttered, the bitch must have known one was but a few slaps from being totally out to it. For a moment she disappeared, one hoped, oh how one hoped, that it was all over.
But it wasn’t. Water splashed over my face. "Putting your lights out would be too easy for you sweetie" She caressed one’s belly, one shivered, one sighed, one gasped. "Ok sweetie now its time for some serious business." She stroked my tummy, one couldn’t suppress a whimper. "Some ground rules. You will call me Ms. That's rule one. And you will do as I say .That's rule two... Now what’s your name sweetie?"
My body tensed as she splashed the water over me, I rubbed my face, I heard her words- no, not mere words- her commands; for she was starting to tell me how things will be. I mumbled, “Robbyn."
"What did you say girl?" She slapped me; my boobs ached from her slap. "What is rule one girl?"
She played with a nipple even as she stroked my belly button. “What is rule one sweetie? Sweetie what is rule two? Tell me tell me now!"
“I call you Ms, I do what you tell me, Ms” Never had one dreamt of being here, but this bitch –Ms- controlled my mind, one had no will to call one’s own, she- Ms -owned it. One shook, Ms was pulling one’s skirt, one’s panties down; one shuddered, near naked on the cabinet, with a dyke bull Ms controlling one. And one wanted it; one wanted Ms to control one’s mind, one’s body, one’s will. She was stroking my thighs, my pussy; one could not help moaning loudly. She- Ms – played with one’s pussy, a finger inside her thumb on one’s mound, her other hand playing with my breasts. “What are the rules Robbyn?"
Only a short time ago one was bitchy, arrogant confident,, now one lay totally beaten, striped and forced to moan out as Ms slowly worked one’s pussy, one whimpered as we Ms and one both realized Ms had one so good. My eyes fluttered open, then closed, surrendering to Ms’s fingers plunging in and out. One felt her lips against mine. "Ms, unhghh anything Ms wants”
"You're mine aren't you sweetie? Mine now for sure but not just now are you sweetie. You’re mine?" Ms plundered one’s body, her tongue inside my mouth plundering it as well. Three fingers or more inside one.
One moaned into her mouth, my belly quivered, my pussy surrendered as I came hard over her fingers. “Oh god, oh, oh, oh god.”
“Answer me Robbyn, answer me girl." She slapped my face.
"Yes Ms, I’m all yours", I grunted and moaned as the orgasm continued, as it pulsed through my body, one didn’t remember anything more for a moment.
One looked around; Ms had a blanket from somewhere. “Oh Robbyn, I’ve got some time off work, now you come to my car.” She wrapped me in the blanket and I stumbled off to her car knowing Ms would take me to her home. One was owned, but one didn’t even know one’s owner’s name. “Ms, what is your name Ms?”
“Jenn Peccavi.”
My thanks to the wonderful original of Robbyn for the idea and so much more, to my wonderful editor Judy who so polishes my stories and to you, my readers who encourage me to write more.
There will be more stories featuring Robbyn.
