Tables Turned

On the way back to the living room, I was livid. This resistance, this talking back!! It wouldn't do. I owned him, now, and everything around him. I wanted a clean, uncluttered space to work in, and I knew how to make it so. I spoke Bobby's "language", and knew what to do to set things right.

I'd more or less broken him on several occasions - turned him into a, beseeching, subhuman, blubbering pile of waste. But, it seemed now, it was to be an ongoing project. I was not in a hurry. Like a professional painter, I had a vision of what I wanted to create, and would take the time, the necessary steps, to realize it.

I took my chair, leaving Bobby on all fours before me, his leash dangling. I could tell that he sensed something serious was going to take place. He didn't move even a fraction of an inch, and he kept his face down.

The Mrs Rafferty episode was foremost on my mind. Just when I was beginning to think that this moron was getting the hang of being my dog, he retches up an unsavory slurry of sniveling and begging. To me, it was a grave failure. On my part, too, I suppose. But that was a matter for my own private reflection. Here, in the living room, we would focus on Bobby's shortcomings.

For certain, the "Mrs Rafferty challenge" was a new mark for Bobby to strive for. The woman knew so many people we knew; our schoolmates, their parents and families. Word would almost certainly spread; the strange relationship spoken of furtively, in low tones.

There had been previous tests that Bobby had passed satisfactorily. I once instructed him to kiss the feet of an old man while riding on a bus. Bobby got down on his knees before the geezer and got in one soft kiss on the well-shined shoe before the man shot up from his seat, alarmed and cussing like a sailor. There had been a sizable audience, too. I'm not sure how many saw what exactly had taken place, but the sideways glances and whisperings convinced me that at least those nearby did. I insisted that we ride to the end of the line so that I could relish their reaction.

So, his balking at the latest task showed me that more work was needed.

"You are one sad sack of shit, you know that?" I said.

"What made you think that you had anything at all to say?" I continued, rising from my seat.

"Ma'am, I..."

"Who the fuck told you you could talk, you spineless, ridiculous loser!?" My vehemence causing spittle to fly from my mouth onto his back.

Bobby stayed stock still.

"Get up onto your knees, loser boy."

He raised up onto his knees, his hands hanging docile at his sides. I unzipped my shorts and pulled them off over my ankles. I placed them over loser Bobby's head in such a fashion that he could see me through the leg hole. I stripped off my panties and shoved them into this hole so that they were bunched up right under his worthless nose. He could see me still, and he now had the subtle aromas of my cunt and my asshole wafting up his nostrils. This is how I break him.

When I led him back into the room he had been flaccid, Now, since he was suddenly transported to his very own perverted little heaven ( a heaven where there isn't even room to stand up straight, just room enough for his dick, his nose, and my panty stains), Bobby's penis was twitching and bobbing about as if it were conducting an orchestra. His eyes, through the leg hole were wild and feverish. I could hear his breath, short and labored. This was pretty much where I wanted him.

I drew the chair closer to him, sat down, and drew my feet up so that my heels rested on the cushioned seat. I was about a foot from Bobby's face. I arranged my labia so that the soft inner lips protruded slightly beyond the outer ones. For several minutes, I watched his eyes. They were fixed on my pussy, and he was making almost imperceptible moaning sounds. Finally I spoke.

"Are you enjoying my panties, shithead?" Do you like the way they smell?"

Bobby, unsure of what to do, remained silent.

"Answer me, you fucking moron!" I yelled.

"Yes! Yes, Ma'am! I like it very much!" he stammered, and the part of his face I could see was florid from his excitement.

I reached into the leg hole and, pulling the panties up to where I could see them, I arranged them so that the light stain from where my pussy had rested against it was visible. I carefully adjusted this so that it was draped over Bobby's nose. His reaction was immediate. He began to almost hyperventilate, his eyes wide with depraved lust.

Wanting to get things under control, I delivered several hard slaps to his face through the fabric. These were not as effective (or as satisfying!) as direct palm-to-face blows, but the force made up for it. I was whaling away at him and giving full rein to my rage. Finally, somewhat spent, I stopped. Bobby was now subdued and no doubt frightened. I noticed a spot of red on my panties, and it was growing wider. With chagrin, I realized that this panty-sniffing bozo was bleeding onto my underwear. Jeez!

"What do you think you're doing, asshole!?" I demanded, but Bobby just looked puzzled.

"You're bleeding from your nose onto my goddam panties, you fucking moron!?" I said, and gave hime a slap that had his head going a full 90 degrees.

Bobby's head hung down, and I could tell he was making a great effort not to cry. If he did make a sound, both he and I knew things would escalate quickly.

In a few moments, I could see that he had successfully suppressed his emotions. This was a good sign. Not that I wouldn't have minded getting the belt from its hook and giving him a good taste of it. Such sessions from the past brought the fondest memories. But it was good to see him more controlled. We were making slow and steady progress.