Bob

I’d worked with Bob for nearly a year. We ran heavy equipment, excavating for new construction, roadways, anything involving moving a lot of earth. Bob was short, maybe five-foot-seven and kind of slightly built. Bob was definitely one of the guys though; loud, sexist, foul-mouthed and always on time with a filthy joke or observation. Bob loved girls and could spot something wiggling along in a pair of yoga pants a mile away.

Smaller jobs got a two-man crew. Bob and me were often sent to handle them, we ended up working together a lot. This meant overnights in various parts of the state, staying until the work was signed off by an inspector and the project manager. Me and Bob got to go drink a lot of beer every night on these trips, and that’s what ultimately got Bob into some trouble.

We had rooms in a fleabag motel that was right next to a big country-western bar. We’d been out until way too late, drinking and dancing with the local redneck girls and Bob had let his macho get in the way of his good sense; he’d matched me drink for drink all night. That was a bad idea, I weigh around two hundred pounds, at least fifty or so more than Bob. Bob was really, really drunk as I steered his laughing, singing, stumbling ass back to the motel at three a.m.

“I’ll race you, fucker!” Bob declared and spun out of my supporting hands. He careened off and before I could catch or warn him, he wiped out into a muddy, horrible-smelling water mitigation pond that was in the lot between the motel and the bar. I was pretty soused myself and collapsed on the bank howling with laughter at Bob, who was trying with little success to crawl up out of the deep, stinking baby-shit mud. I managed to get my phone out and narrate about the swamp creature I’d discovered as I filmed it trying to emerge from the pond. The swamp creature was alternately consumed by laughter and yelling “John you fucker! Get a goddamn stick or something to pull me out! Don’t just sit there and film me you fucker!”

Bob stank, and I mean rotten egg, “Holy fuck what is that smell?” kind of stank, and he had a stomach full of hard liquor. He passed out as I got him into the tub in his room. Tempted as I was to let him wake up like that, you just don’t do that to a buddy. I turned the water on, got his unconscious and mumbling ass basically rinsed down, and then commenced with the distasteful task of getting his disgusting, sopping wet and smelly clothes off him. Fucking Bob was going to owe me for this! I snapped a couple pictures of him looking like a drowned rat for when I would be telling the story over beers later.

I got him out of his shirt and undershirt and wondered why he had an ace bandage wrapped around and around his upper chest. It was soggy, but I left it for the moment and got him out of his shoes and socks. I noted that for some reason, Bob wore shoes a lot bigger than his actual shoe size, and that they were stuffed with cloth to take up the extra room. I’d be teasing his ass about that, too! I got his belt undone and worked his wet, slimy pants down. This was not easy and I was getting a nose full of the disgusting smell. Fucking Bob was definitely going to owe me for this! Drunken-ass weasel. Holy fuck! I thought to myself as I peeled off his last lower layer. Goddamn Bob’s got a pussy!

It turned out that goddamn Bob also had a small but perky set of tits that were apparently quite pleased to be free of the stinking and very wet ace bandage that had been confining them. I soaped up a washcloth and scrubbed Bob down. She mumbled and giggled at my touch as I cleaned her up. One final rinse, more pictures, and a good toweling off finished up the bathroom portion of the night’s adventure. I picked her up (not easy to do with someone who’s mostly limp) and deposited her in the bed. I left her wrapped up in the blankets with the trash can staged next to the bed, ready for the vomiting that she’d be doing when she woke up. I also left a big glass of water, a towel and asprins. I doubted that I’d have added those extra touches before I knew that Bob was a girl.

Bob had a rough morning. I didn’t envy the maid that was going to have to deal with Bob’s room, which reeked of pond mud and vomit. Fortunately, all we had to do was drive home, but that was the length of the state away. We’d done our usual big greasy breakfast and more headache remedy and a lot of water and coffee. I’d regaled Bob with the harrowing tale of being pursued by a swamp creature that wanted to drag me into it’s pond the night before. Despite her pounding head, Bob laughed and laughed at my video of the event. She didn’t remember much of it, or anything that happened afterwards.

We were on our way home in the truck when I broached the bigger subject. “So, Bob. Nice pussy. Cute titties you’ve got there, too.”

“John, swear to me that you won’t tell anybody.”

“What’s the deal?” I asked, “You don’t need a dick to run an excavator.”

“You do need one to get a job running an excavator,” Bob answered.

“What’s your real name, anyway?” I asked.

“It’s Bob!” She barked and held her throbbing temples.

Over the rest of the drive, Bob went through being angry at me for having gotten her out of her filthy, sopping clothes (I pointed out that she’d possibly have died of hypothermia if I hadn’t) and then being angry that I knew her secret, and then just generally angry for the rest of the trip. Finally, about a half-hour from home, she said “Fuck! Just fucking fuck!”

“What now?” I asked, tired of being in a truck with someone who was pissed off at me.

“I liked this job, I liked this company, I liked the crew, including you, John. Now I fucked it all up by being stupid and getting drunk.”

“We’ve gotten drunk lots of times, the difference was you never fell into a stank-ass mud pit before and then passed out.”

“Yeah well, now you’re gonna’ run your mouth and instead of just being ‘Bob’, I’ll be ‘that cross-dressing lesbian weirdo’ and everything will be all fucked up and I’ll be gone in a month.”

“Who says I’m gonna’ tell anybody?” I asked. I was starting to get pissed off at Bob’s attitude and her pity-party. 

“Oh, sure, and what’s that going to cost me?” Bob rolled her eyes.

“Look I don’t like what you apparently think of me,” I snapped, now pissed off. “But okay Miss Bob, if you want it to cost something, here y’go. Bring your ass over to my house, Saturday at say, eight a.m., you can pay for your secret by cleaning my house, doing my laundry, washing my truck, and anything else I want, all day.”

Bob narrowed her eyes and glared at me. “So I have to come over and be your fucking slave all day on Saturday, and you’ll keep your mouth shut about me?”

“Slave, I like that. Yeah, that’s the deal, eight to eight on Saturday and as far as everybody will ever know, you’re just good ol’ Bob.”  

Bob’s face lost a little of it’s hard edge. “You swear to me John? You really won’t breath a word, not to a single person?”

“I swear it,” I said, and stuck out my hand.

Bob shook it and sighed with relief. “You’re a good guy John, thanks for taking care of me last night.”

“Well, you can’t leave a buddy in a pond.”

“Yeah, about that. How much to not ever show anybody that video?”

“Comedic gold. Not for sale.”

Bob laughed, which was really nice to hear after eight hours of sulking, snapping and snarking. We both knew I wouldn’t be showing that video around; it’s poor form to be that drunk while out on a company trip.

Saturday morning arrived and so did Bob, right on time. “Okay, lets get this over with, where do you want me to start?” she asked, accepting the cup of coffee I handed her. She was wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a button-up work shirt. As usual, her dark hair was cut in a high-and-tight military style.

“Here’s your work uniform for the day,” I answered, “Put it on after you’ve hit the shower. Your first task is to get in there and shave your legs, pits and pussy. You look like a bigfoot.”

Bob’s mouth dropped open as she took the large, ziplock bag from me. Inside was a tiny, white t-back bikini, a tube of long-wearing lipstick, some all-day eyeliner, and a pair of white strappy sandals with five-inch tall stiletto heels. Bob had given me a weird look earlier in the week when I’d asked her shoe size, and now she knew what I’d been up to. “Oh fuck, John!” she said, exasperated. “Seriously? You’re really taking this ‘slave’ thing all the way, aren’t you?”

“Suit up, Buttercup,” I answered and pointed towards the shower.

I hadn’t noticed how nice Bob’s body was when I’d been scrubbing the mud off of it. I’d been preoccupied with the disgusting smell and then taken aback by my discovery of her gender. I also wasn’t ready for Bob’s face to be pretty, all painted up with the inexpertly applied makeup. The tiny white t-back bikini was an amazing exclamation point to how shapely and very female Bob was. She was having some trouble walking in the stiletto sandals and I told her to get her knees straight or it’d be a spanking for her. “You fucking wouldn’t dare!” I nodded that indeed, I would dare. She immediately straightened up.

Wiggling around uncertainly in the high heels, Bob went to work doing my laundry, cleaning and mopping my house, scrubbing out my bathrooms and making lunch. She took issue with being made to go outside in her ‘uniform’ for the purpose of washing my truck, mowing my lawn and pulling some weeds, but she did it. My neighbors sure got a show. She looked amazing, and slowly she got the hang of walking like a girl in her new shoes. I was at least half-hard all day, watching her. At four o’clock I declared that it was cocktail hour. “Bob!”

“Yes ‘Master” she said with a note of sarcasm. [I’d been making her call me that all day.]

“Whip us up some rum and cokes!”

“Finally, thank god. I’ve been needing a drink since I got here.”

We drank those, and then a couple more. “Bob, you’ve done a great job on my place today, and you look amazing in your uniform.”

“Thanks, but I’m still not happy about all the pictures and video you took of me.”

“All just for me, nobody else, I promise. So, that brings us to your next slave girl assignment.”

“Oh gawd, now what?” with accompanying eye-roll.

I explained to her that she was to touch up her makeup then go and position herself in front of the full-height mirror in the bedroom. She was to dance erotically in front of it while removing her bikini, her high heels were to stay on. She was to play with herself and bring herself to the point where she was about to cum, and then she was to position herself on the hassock by the bed with her ass in the air.

“John, I’m gay!”

“I know, but you’re also my beautiful slave girl today.” She shook her head at the compliment. “The agreement was ‘Anything I want’, remember?”

“I remember.”

“And yes, I remember that you’re gay. That’s why you’re in charge of your own foreplay, looking at the hottie in the mirror. When you’re on the hassock, pretend I’m an especially big, butch bitch with a very realistic strapon.”  

To Bob’s credit, she snickered and smiled at this. “Very thoughtful, John. Alright, one more rum and coke and I’m in.”

The sex went really well, my work-around on Bob’s being a lesbian actually came off perfectly. To my delight, so did Bob, about four times. She complained a little at first about how big and very, very hard I was, (her fault, I watched her ‘mirror’ show) but she was a good sport about the handcuffs and the ballgag, and even managed to cum with a pair of tight little clamps on her long, dark-pink nipples.

She actually had a lot more trepidation when I presented her with the short little dress she was to wear out to dinner. “John, I don’t know what size you think I am but this is really short and tight!”

“You look amazing,” I replied and she could tell that I meant it.

She was so squirmy and girly at the restaurant, blushing and trying to keep it pulled down below her butt cheeks. She was truly bent out of shape when I’d ordered her to stop trying to conceal her hard nipples; she had an amazing pair of high beams going, tenting out her thin tight dress in a really delightful way.

“You should’ve at least let me wear some underwear John! Fucker!” she hissed as the breeze blew on her newly-shaved pussy.

“No panties for slave-sluts,” I replied matter-of-factly.

She grudgingly thanked me for taking her out to such a nice restaurant, a trendy place on the waterfront.

“Sure, this was fun for me too. I don’t get to go to places like this as a single guy, and if I did, I wouldn’t get to be myself. I’d have to be all polite and nice and  not drink as much as I want and not talk about trucks and not stare at my date’s tits or the waitresses ass.”

“She does have a nice ass!” Bob agreed, “And you’re right, this is a good time, except for having to obey your every whim, especially this dress.”

We’d sat outside, and the evening air had made her nipples really hard.

“Okay, but if you didn’t have to obey my every whim, including and especially that dress, none of this would ever have happened. My house would still be a mess, (Bob giggled) we wouldn’t have had that great sex, and we’d have probably ate something crappy, by ourselves, without any nice wine.” I held up my glass, and she touched hers to it. We drank. “So,” I said, “think about where you’d like to eat next Saturday, after you’re done cleaning up my place.”

“Wait, what?”

“Um, duh? Saturdays, slave girl, eight a.m. to eight p.m.?”

“I thought we were agreeing to one Saturday!” She hissed.

“No, all of them. Or if you like, one Saturday buys you a solid, air-tight week of my complete silence regarding the person known as Bob.”

She glared at me. “Fucker!”

“What? You agreed to it, and today didn’t really suck did it?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know.”

“You got fucked by a huge bull dyke,” I teased.

“Snort! Shit, John! Don’t make me laugh when I’m drinking, you made me shoot wine out my nose!” She glared at me some more. “Alright, fine ‘Master’ I’ll be your slave every Saturday.”

“Good girl.”

“Fucker.”

The end.

The post-script:

That first Saturday was only one of a lot of really great Saturdays. I’ve slowly but surely turned the reluctant-but-horny Bob from being all-lesbian into being my submissive, bisexual bondage pet; first came the tongue and nipple rings, then the matching one through her clit. She was made to go get her pits, legs and pussy lasered clean of hair. Then came the newer, larger, irremovable rings with a stainless connecting chain between her nipples and having ‘SLAVE’ tattooed right above her pussy in two-inch letters. Her tiny white t-back bikinis only cover the ‘A’ in the tattoo, and it still shows through the fabric. She hates wearing them when I make her work outside or take her to the beach, which I do quite a bit.

She’s moved in with me and is now my full-time high-heeled, scantily-clad slave girl. She spends a lot of time in bondage, ankle hobbled, handcuffed and gagged while she does her chores.

At work though, she’s still just my buddy Bob, a loud, foul-mouthed and crude heavy equipment operator.  No one would guess that Bob is wearing a corset, stockings, tiny panties and a fat butt plug under those heavy construction overalls.

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25.03.18