Teaching a Bitch a Lesson

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Teaching A Bitch A Lesson

It was 5:00 AM. My overnight shift as security supervisor at a large warehouse complex was nearly over. I sat at my desk beginning the required paperwork before my shift ended. Just two more hours and I’d be off for a three-day weekend. It had been a cold and windy night with nothing to break the monotony of my routine. Security work can be exciting at times, but usually it’s just lonely and boring.

Someone staggering across the parking lot caught my attention. Except for an occasional trucker, no one was expected or allowed on warehouse property at that time of day. The intruder must have been dropped off somewhere near the front of the warehouse complex. Since the warehouses are located a few miles out of town, it was unlikely this stranger had found my work site accidentally. Obviously either drunk or high on some drug, the stranger took a purposeful but zig-zag course across the lot toward the Security Office door. The intruder seemed to know where they wanted to go but couldn’t navigate well enough to get there.

The visitor was dressed in blue jeans and a dark colored hooded sweatshirt. The hood of the sweatshirt was pulled up and covered the visitor’s head. The sweatshirt and its hood prevented me from getting much of a description of the wearer.

The office door opened and the subject stepped in. I could then see my visitor was a young, light-skinned, Hispanic, female. She was about 5’4″ or 5″ and had a slender build. Though the company I worked for employed several Hispanic workers, I didn’t recognize this woman. Besides, no one, other than myself, was authorized to be on company property overnight. So, it was unlikely she had any legitimate reason to be here.

As the lady jerked open the Security Office door, I smiled at her and said. “Good morning. May I help you?”

She immediately began yelling in Spanish and waving her arms around in the air. She reeked of alcohol and was somewhat unstable on her feet.

“No comprende Espanola.” (I don’t understand Spanish). “Se habla English?” (Do you speak English?) I asked. With the exception of just a few other words, that’s pretty much the extent of my Spanish. I feel that since I’m an American, in America, and the language of America is English, I have no need, or desire, to learn Spanish, or any other foreign language.

The young lady only seemed to get more agitated. She got louder and leaned forward supporting herself on my desk.

“Lady, calm down, and I will try to help you.” I told her.

She slammed her purse down on my desk and continued her unintelligible tirade.

Using verbal commands and hand signs my German Shepard dog understands, I pointed to a chair against the far wall and firmly told her. “No! Silencio!” My loud stern voice stopped her ranting for a few seconds. “Sit! Stay!” I sternly commanded while using my dogs hand commands. Instead of sitting, the damn bitch took a swing and slapped me across the face. I guess my dog is a little smarter than this bitch.

“Policia.” I told her as I picked up the phone. I intended to call the cops to have this nut case removed.

She seemed to get even madder, if that was possible. She knocked the phone from my hand and drew back to hit me again.

I’d had enough. Nowhere in my Standard Operating Procedures does it say I have to take a beating from some drunken out of control bitch. As she drew back to take another swing at me, I snapped out my right hand and soundly backhanded her across her right cheek.

Though my backhand startled and knocked her back, she quickly recovered and came forward again.

Jumping out from behind my desk, I grabbed her right wrist as she swung at my head. Twisting her arm behind her back into a hammer lock, I pushed her hard up against the wall. Using my weight to pin her struggling body against the wall, I retrieved my handcuffs from their holster on my belt. I quickly attached them to her right wrist. I then pulled her left arm behind her back and cuffed her left wrist to the right.

When I released the pressure I had on her back, she spun and tried to kick me. Out of instinct, I lashed out and slapped her left cheek, hard. Taking a fist full of her sweatshirt just below her neck, I pushed her back to the wall hard. I got right up to her face and yelled. “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

She tried to kick me again.

I was fed up with this bitch’s bullshit. I grabbed the phone and began dialing the local police. Then, I had an evil idea. Why not punish this wild little bitch myself. Besides, if I called the cops, not only would I have to deal them, I’d have to write a lengthy report. All of which would mean staying over several hours.

I slowly hung the phone up, turned to glare at the girl, and grinned. She went silent, her eyes widened, and immediately she seemed to calm just a bit.

Mostly to myself, I said. “Let’s see what we have here.”

I reached out and jerked the hood of her sweatshirt off her head. She was rather cute. She appeared to be in her late teens or early 20s, with light tan skin, dark brown eyes, and long silky black hair. She stood about 5’4″ and weighed about 115 to 125 pounds. Other than the strong smell alcohol, she seemed to be well groomed.

Grabbing her by the left arm, I led her to my car. When I opened the trunk of my car, she started yelling and tried to kick me again. I roughly shoved her into my car’s trunk. I found an old piece of rope there and began to tie her up. She struggled until I had her ankles tied together. I then ran the rope from her ankles to the cuffs on her wrists. A couple of dirty shop rags made an effective blindfold. A piece of duct tape brought blessed silence when it was slapped over her mouth. I threw her purse into the trunk with her, smartly patted her ass, and slammed the trunk lid closed.

When I was relieved at 7:00 AM, I made no mention to the oncoming officer of the little wildcat secured in my trunk. Hell, he would have wanted a piece of my little wildcat himself. So, I reported a quiet night and left for home.

I drove to a nearby 24 Hour adult bookstore located next to the local truck-stop. I didn’t have a specific plan for my captive, but I knew I’d need a few things they sold. Leather restraints and other bondage equipment and adult toys found their way into my cart. After paying for my bag full of adult goodies, I headed home with my captive still in the trunk.

I live in a rural area, and the last two miles of the drive home are over a rough dirt road.