Yardwork

byattero©

Landscaping is shitty work. The pay is horrible and the labor is strenuous. The entire world looks down on you -- especially the clients, who view you as little more than a humanoid lawnmower. Still, it was better than starving to death.

When it came to customers who felt they were better than me, Emily was no exception. She was the artistic type and openly looked down on menial laborers such as myself. I had come to expect this kind of attitude from most of my clients, but with Emily it was especially grating. Where most of my clients could claim to have earned their fortunes in one way or another, Emily's ticket to the world of artistic expression came solely from being the daughter of a wealthy man.

Of course, she didn't see it that way. In her mind, she was a unique and talented artist who was above the need for petty things like money. People like me, on the other hand, were simply ignorant serfs, unable or unwilling to understand her creativity, much less emulate it. I don't think she realized that it's much more difficult to not care about money when you don't have a father that provides for your every financial need.

Most of my clients were happy to simply ignore me. This was a bit insulting at first, but I quickly got used to it. In a way, it was actually nice to not have to worry about being interrupted. Emily, however, did not afford me that courtesy.

She might have claimed that she was just being nice and sociable by talking to "the help", but any idiot could see that it was a lie. She'd speak with me frequently, but only to let me know what amazing new band she's been listening to or what brilliant new artist she just saw. These conversations invariably ended with a condescending explanation of how I've probably never heard of that artist, and I undoubtedly wouldn't understand it anyway. Despite the number of times that we had spoken, I don't think she even knew my name.

I was walking back from my truck with a weed whacker when I spotted her on the deck. I had just finished mowing their lawn and had no desire to speak with her, so I looked away and hoped that she hadn't spotted me. As I got closer, though, I noticed a familiar odor. Glancing up, I saw her smoking a joint.

It was a little surprising. Emily may have had the personality type to use drugs recreationally, but her father absolutely did not. He was the straight and narrow type -- awoke at dawn, worked hard, never touched alcohol or drugs. He was also very vocal about his feelings relating to drugs; my boss had told me that he was pushing to have us drug tested. God knows you wouldn't want someone mowing your lawn that had gotten high the previous weekend, after all.

Normally, I wouldn't care. I don't have any strong opinions on drugs one way or the other, and it wasn't my job to babysit my client's adult daughter. I was in an irritable mood, though, and I felt like blowing off some steam. She had made me feel insignificant in conversation so many times; it felt only fair to make her feel uncomfortable.

"Smoking pot, huh?" I called up to the deck.

Emily appeared startled; apparently she hadn't noticed me. Looking down, she seemed nervous until she saw that it was just me. Realizing that she hadn't been caught by anyone of significance she quickly calmed down and took a long drag off her joint, as if to demonstrate just how intimidated she was not.

"Actually," she corrected, "this is White Widow. I suppose it would technically be considered pot, but it's hardly comparable to the shit weed that you're likely used to."

"My bad," I replied sarcastically. "I should have known that a free spirit such as yourself would never lower herself to smoke the same kind of garbage that's available to unwashed masses. Where do you get such superior product, anyway?"

"Believe me," she smirked, "this is not for you. You could neither afford nor appreciate it."

"Don't know, huh?" I shot back. "Oh, I get it -- you probably don't buy it yourself. I'm guessing that much like everything else, your father buys it for you. It's cool, though. I'll just ask him when he gets home."

Having said my piece I went back to work. I liked the idea that she'd be stewing for a bit, wondering if I was actually going to rat her out to her dad. It seemed only right that she should have to experience some stress at some point of her life, anyway.

After a minute or so of trimming the edges I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I saw Emily standing in front of me, looking far more nervous than I would have expected. With a sigh, I released the weed whacker's trigger and put it down.

"Okay," she began, "I know you were probably kidding about asking my dad, but don't. He didn't buy it and he doesn't know where I buy it. So, just don't bring it up with him, okay?"

I had no intention of asking her father, of course. With what I had heard about him, asking him where to buy pot seemed like an excellent way to get fired. Still, I didn't need her to know that. I enjoyed watching her sweat, and didn't see a problem with dragging it out a bit.

"Maybe he'll know, maybe he won't," I shrugged. "Never hurts to ask."

"You don't understand!" she exclaimed. "Look, I'll level with you -- my dad doesn't know I smoke pot, and he absolutely would not approve if he did. Just please, please don't say anything to him."

"You're not my client, Emily," I reminded her. "I don't take orders from you. Your dad, on the other hand, is my client -- and I think he'd want to know if I found someone smoking pot on his property, especially if it's his own daughter."

"You can't!" she protested. "He'd kill me!"

"I doubt he'd kill you," I laughed. "He'll probably just ground you. I assume, at least. Can you actually ground a woman in her twenties?"

"He won't just ground me!" she insisted. "He'll kick me out. Look, I know that I've been kind of a bitch to you, and I'm really sorry. I'll tell you where I buy it. Hell, I'll give you an ounce for free. Just please, leave my dad out of it?"

She was really panicked. I suppose that I should have accepted her bribe and moved on, but I wasn't feeling merciful. I was tired of being shit on by the whole world, and eager to strike back. Realizing just how much power I had in the situation, I decided to abuse it. I calmly took a step towards her and slapped her hard across her face, sending her to the ground.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she screamed. "I'm so calling the police, asshole! Have fun in jail!"

I remained calm. Approaching her, I extended my arm to help her up. She looked at me in confusion and frustration; I think she expected me to be a bit more intimidated by her threat.

"No witnesses," I shrugged. "Maybe you'll get a conviction on your word alone, maybe you won't. If you do, though -- well, I doubt it'll be much comfort when you find yourself homeless."

"Are you really that stupid?" she spat. "As if my dad would believe the word of someone who assaulted his baby daughter."

"I wouldn't really expect him to, either," I shrugged. "Fortunately, there's home piss tests that you can pick up at any drug store. I'm thinking he'll trust the results."

Emily remained on the ground for a few moments, her face contorting in rage. I think she realized that she couldn't intimidate me, and she didn't like it. Eventually, she accepted my hand and rose to her feet.

"Fucking whatever," she growled. "We're even. I won't tell my dad you hit me, you won't tell him that I smoke. Deal?"

"Not even close," I laughed. "You promised me an ounce. I realize that such a lowly peon as myself is unlikely to appreciate its subtle bouquet, but I'm going to have to collect just the same."

"That was before you fucking hit me!" she screamed. "That ounce disappeared the second you rose your fucking hand, moron."

"Is that how it works?" I wondered. "So, I could either get a free ounce of pot -- I'm sorry, White Widow, or I get to slap you around. Is that correct?"

"You're finally catching on," she chided. "Now get back to work, dumbass."

Emily began to walk away, but I wasn't satisfied just yet. Grabbing her wrist I spun her around and jerked back. She greeted me with a look of pure contempt, hatred pouring from her eyes. I reciprocated by giving her another slap -- not so hard, this time, but hard enough to get her attention.

"That's unfortunate," I sighed. "But hey, if that's the deal, I'll take it. I'm not quite done slapping you around yet, though."

"Make sure you leave a mark, you fucking psycho," she dared me. "It'll make it so much easier to get the conviction."

I didn't think that she'd have the courage to actually call the police and risk having her father find out about her smoking habit, but I didn't feel like taking chances. Still gripping her wrist in my hand I pulled her in close and wrapped my arm around her neck. Leaning in, I positioned my lips next to her ear.

"I can think of all kinds of terrible things that I could do to you that don't leave marks," I warned. "And trust me, kiddo -- I'd be happy to demonstrate them all. You're sure that the pot is off the table, now?"

"Fine," she sighed. "You can have your fucking ounce. But I swear to god, I'm never speaking to you again."

"Somehow I think I'll survive," I laughed as I followed her into the house.

The inside of the house wasn't quite what I had expected. It was rare for me to see the inside of a client's home, but they typically all looked more or less the same: emotionless paintings, tasteful decoration, and expensive furniture. Her home was different, though. It actually looked like a place where people lived, as opposed to a hollow shrine towards financial success.

I followed her up the stairs and into her room, shutting the door behind us. As she reached around in her dresser for my pot I looked around. The walls were covered with her artwork. Surprisingly, she was actually a pretty decent artist. Her work conveyed both skill and emotion; if she hadn't been such a raging cunt in all the time that I had known her I'd have probably respected her.

"Here you go, asshole," she growled as she tossed me a bag of weed. "I hope you're happy, by the way. That's five hundred dollars right there."

"I'm thrilled," I replied coldly as I picked it up off the floor. "I'm a bit skeptical, though. We agreed to an ounce. This feels light."

"Tough shit," she spat back. "It's all I have; you can take it or leave it."

I probably should have just taken it, but it didn't feel right. I wasn't much of a pothead, and the truth was that I didn't really want it. What I wanted was to make her suffer, to make her feel small just like she had done to me all those times in the past. The slapping had helped a little, but I wanted more.

"I'm not stupid, you know," I began. "I mean, I'm sure you think I am -- after all, I push a fucking lawnmower for a living. You, on the other hand, support yourself with nothing more than a paintbrush and your creative genius -- and of course a trust fund that covers all the shit that some people have to mow lawns for. Still, I'm not an idiot. I know when you're lying to me, and I'm pretty goddamned sure that you're holding out. Maybe your father will find whatever you're not sharing when he gets home."

The mention of her father brought some fear back to her. She looked extremely nervous, obviously terrified that I might still rat her out. In hindsight, she was probably telling the truth -- I'm sure that if she had anything left she'd have happily given it over. Unfortunately for her, I didn't want more pot. I wanted more suffering.

"I swear to god, it's all I have," she blurted out. "You have to believe me, if I had anything more I'd give it to you. Look, I'm really sorry for how I treated you, and I really don't think that you're an idiot. I was wrong. Please trust me; I honestly don't have any more."

"Trust you?" I laughed. "Five minutes ago you were telling me that you thought I was an idiot, now you're telling me you don't. One of those things was clearly a lie. Why on Earth would I trust someone who is obviously comfortable lying to me?"

"I don't know," she cried, "but it's the truth! Go ahead and search my room, you won't find anything!"

I looked around. It could be fun rummaging through her stuff while she stood helplessly by, but it would be time consuming and I didn't have all day. Amazed that I had gotten away with my behavior so far I decided to press my luck.

"I probably wouldn't find anything," I admitted. "My guess is that it's because you don't have the rest hidden in the room, but on your person."

Emily immediately turned the front pockets of her jeans inside out. A couple twenty dollar bills and some change fell out of the left one; her keys fell out of the right. Raising her hands up in the air she faced me, a looked of mixed pleading and contempt in her eyes.

"See?" she demanded. "No pot. I swear to god, I'm telling the truth."

I didn't like the way that she was looking at me. Maybe I was just projecting but I saw judgment in her eyes, as if she still saw me as an inferior creature. More importantly, though, I saw the fear fading. Approaching her I grabbed her by the wrist. Without releasing my grip I sat down on her bed and pulled her over my lap, face down.

"All you've proven to me is that you don't have any pot in your pockets," I explained. "Hell, you haven't even proven that -- you've only shown me the contents of your front pockets. You could still have pot in your back pockets, hidden on your person, et cetera. If you're hoping to convince me that you don't think I'm an idiot, by the way, you might want to stop treating me like one."

"My back pockets don't fold out!" she protested. "Go ahead and check them, I swear to god they're empty."

I took her up on her offer and crammed my hand into her left pocket. Finding it empty, I checked the right. It was also empty, but I didn't really care. Leaving my hand in her pocket I crudely groped her ass through her jeans, hoping to illustrate just how powerless she was. She gasped a bit, but remained otherwise passive.

I enjoyed squeezing her ass, and let my hand linger. There was the base pleasure of simply grabbing a woman's ass, of course, but it was more than that. I enjoyed knowing that she still probably felt like she was above me, yet here I was groping her with impunity. Giving it another squeeze, I reminded her that she had no way to stop me.

"Now do you believe me?" she begged. "I really don't have anything."

I believed her, but I didn't really care. She was afraid, and I liked that. Removing my hand from her pocket I pushed her off of my lap and onto the floor. She looked up at me in surprise, clearly not used to such rough treatment.

"I believe you have nothing in your pockets," I specified. "It doesn't prove that you don't have anything, though. Strip."

I knew that I was pushing my luck, but I had to try it. Emily was the free-spirited type, anyway -- in theory, she should have no problem with nudity. The look on her face, however, suggested that I had overplayed my hand.

"Okay, you know what?" she spat. "I was wrong. You're not an idiot. You're a fucking pervert. Get the fuck out of my room and get back to work, and maybe I won't tell me dad about the shit you just pulled when he gets home."

"You're bluffing," I retorted. "And I'm willing to call you on that bluff. How about this: when your dad gets home I'll tell him about the drugs, and you can tell him that I tried to get you naked. Worst case scenario for me is that I lose my degrading, painful, minimum wage paying job. What's the worst case scenario for you, little girl?"

Emily glared at me, her face twisted in rage. I don't doubt that if she had a gun on her she'd have shot me dead right there, but she didn't. She knew she was trapped. With a heavy sigh she tore off her shirt and stripped out of her jeans. Standing before me with a look of perfect hatred on her face, she stared at me defiantly.

"Happy now, little pervert?" she hissed at me. "You got to see me in my bra and panties. Go ahead and take in the sight -- I doubt you get many chances to actually see a woman's body without paying for it. Does this make you feel like a big fucking man?"

I didn't like her tone. Grabbing her by her wrist I again pulled her over my lap and twisted her arm behind her back. Pinning her down, I held her steady as she tried futilely to free herself.

"Emily," I sighed as she continued to struggle. "I want you to understand something. I know that you think you're better than me, and hell, for all I know you might be right. Just the same, I don't like hearing about it. I don't appreciate you using that tone of voice with me, and I'm a bit sick of hearing the insults. Do I make myself clear?"

"Fuck you, pervert!" she shouted as she kicked her legs up in the air.

It was actually pretty impressive how much she was fighting. She clearly wanted to get free, and was apparently willing to do whatever it took to claw her way out. Unfortunately for her, I was a lot bigger, and I had a huge advantage due to my position. Realizing that she would run out of energy eventually, I simply held her still until she eventually stopped kicking.

"Have you learned your lesson yet?" I taunted.

"Just let me the fuck go already," she whimpered, clearly out of steam.

"I'd love to," I explained. "Sadly, though, there's a problem. If I let you go without you having learned your lesson then we'd have both wasted our time, and I'm sure you wouldn't want this entire experience to have been pointless."

"Fine," she complied. "I'm sorry that I insulted you. Will you please let me go now?"

"That's a good girl," I laughed as I stroked her hair as if she was a dog. "I knew even an ignorant little slut like you could learn -- it just takes time."

Apparently, my comment and action were a bit too much for her to accept. Letting out a primal yell she thrashed her head back and resumed her struggling. Laughing, I held her in place, knowing that she wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. After several seconds of struggling she gave up, lying on my lap and breathing heavily.

"Could you please let me go now?" she panted.

"See, there's that tone again," I lectured. "I would really, really like to let you go, Emily, but I can't -- not until you understand that what you did was wrong."

"What are you going to do, spank me?" she sneered.

I wasn't actually sure what I was going to do until she suggested that. It made sense, though. She was already in the position, and it would work towards my desire of humiliating her. Raising my free hand up in the air I brought it down hard on her ass, resulting in a satisfying cracking sound.

"You motherfucker!" she screamed. "How fucking dare you?!"

"It was your idea, little girl," I laughed as I spanked her again.

"It was fucking sarcasm!" she shouted. "Let me the fuck go!"

"It might have been sarcasm, but it's still a good idea," I explained. "You clearly need to be reminded of your place, and I think that this is an effective way to do so."

"My place?" she demanded. "Believe me, little boy, I know what my place is. If anything, you're the one that needs a reminder."

I was impressed that she still had some fight in her, but it was futile. I had her over my knee both literally and figuratively; she had no way to hit back. Hoping to drive that point home I spanked her as hard as I could, leaving a bright red mark on her ass.

"Poor Emily," I sighed. "You're clearly confused, so let me make things simple for you. Our old social dynamic, where you were the boss's spoiled daughter and I was the hired help? It's dead now. From now on, you are my bitch. I'll use you as I please, without the slightest concern for what you want, and you'll have no choice but to accept that. Do I make myself clear, bitch?"

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