Black Book Diary Entry: WinifredbyPositiveThinker©
Black Book Diary Entry
"It's my final invoice, Mrs. Wainwright."
"Final invoice? Do you dare think you're done? Look at this mess. You've ruined my house."
"You're going to have to find another contractor to finish the job. I can't work under these abusive conditions. I refuse to put my men through another one of your temper tantrums."
"Maybe if your men did their job, maybe had you hired more skilled help, people who know what they are doing and who paid attention more to quality workmanship than to having coffee and taking long bathroom breaks, we wouldn't be standing here having this discussion."
"Just pay me the last of what you owe me, so that I can get out of this loony bin and put you behind me, where you belong."
"Loony bin? Behind you? How dare you? You and your ilk will always and forever be subservient to me and my kind. You're nothing but a common laborer, a blue collar man with his name painted on a pickup truck. Why you're no better than a gypsy."
She looked down at his invoice with as much contempt and loathing that she had for him. Then, she looked up at him and in a practiced manner, in the way that she has ended her relations with so many other businesses that have done work for her in good faith, she tore it in two.
"This is the final time that I'll ask you for payment of the work that I've done on behalf and the work that you contracted me to do."
"Well, then," she said handing him back his torn invoice. "You'll have to take the matter up with my attorney, won't you? He'll be in touch."
"Why you flat assed, rich bitch. I have a mind to--"
"You have a mind to do what, Mr. Costa," she said taking an intimidating step closer to him. "You have a mind to hit me, the way you settle all your barroom brawls?"
"I'm not one to hit a lady, Mrs. Wainwright, even one like you."
"Or do you have a mind to voice your powerless threats? Or do you have a mind to do nothing in the same way that you've carried out your inferior work here and coerced me to pay you for nothing?"
"We can end this right here, Mrs. Wainwright, if you just pay me what you owe me for the work me and my men have done for you."
She looked at him, as if he were a pile of old clothes that she had asked her maid to remove from her sight and donate to the shelter. She laughed her smugness, "You're powerless to do anything, Mr. Costa, powerless. I'm done overpaying you for inferior work," she said grabbing the torn invoice from his hand, crinkling it, and throwing it in his face. "And if you think that I'm going to pay you, then you're dumber than I thought. Now get out of my house and get your things off my property, before I summon the police and have you and your men arrested for trespassing."
Jim had been an accommodating and patient man, but he taken all that he could take. He cracked. He spun her around and in one fluid motion, he reached his hand down and lifted her dress and her slip by the hem and pulled them up and over her body and over her face. He quickly bunched up her clothes in his big hand and held them place over her head.
With her held arms flailing, she struggled in her feeble attempt to keep her dress down and her modesty in place, but unable to put them down, her arms went up over her head, along with her dress. He was just too strong for her. Then, while holding her in place with one strong hand, with his other hand, he grabbed his roll of duct tape from his tool belt and wrapped it around the bottom of her dressed and slip that was now fashioned over her head. With her white slip turned inside out and her blue dress collected inside, she looked so much like a tulip that hadn't bloomed, yet.
"What are you doing? Let go of me this instant. How dare you," she said, her protests muffled within her expensive custom tailored material.
With his client jumping around in the way an uncoordinated woman would competing in a one legged sack race, he took a step to admire what he had done. There was Winifred Wainwright, the daughter of Phineas Wainwright, the toast of the town, the socialite born to riches from old money, the unappreciative rich bitch who couldn't keep a man because she castrated every man she was ever with, standing before Jim Costa, sub-contractor specializing in custom renovations, in her custom made panty and bra.
Jim unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped his pants allowing them to fall to his knees. Then, with a thumb in the band of his underwear, he pulled down his briefs freeing his cock. He was already hard with the thoughts of what he was about to do to her. She'd pay him one way or the other, that's for sure.
With a hand to her waist band, he pulled down her panty. He could feel her physically cringe with his touch and her total exposure. He watched as she put her knees together in vain, while trying to squat down in her feeble attempt to hide her nudity from him. She wasn't so forceful now, was she? Who's the bitch now? Bitch.
Undeclared and unmarked territory, the forbidden place where no other man has gone before, her ass was as white as the priceless porcelain she displayed in the front hall. He turned her around and looked down at her pussy. She was bushy. Although she had a body that could wear one, while sunning herself on your yacht, it was obvious that her body had never seen the sun in a bikini, a tanning salon, or a nude beach.
Sequestered inside her 4 level, newly renovated, multi-million dollar townhouse downtown, she was too busy giving cocktail parties and planning debutant balls to go out much in the sun. He pulled out his pocket knife and, with a flick of his wrist, opened it. A familiar sound from hearing him routinely open his knife to remove the plastic wrap from the cabinets received from the cabinetmaker, she jumped and cowered at the thought, no doubt, that he was going to slit her throat.
He reached up and poised the sharp blade of his knife at the front of her padded bra and beneath the elastic that held her B cup breasts. As if releasing a prisoner who had been taken hostage, with one swipe, her breasts bounced free. He took a step back to look at her.
She was naked. More importantly, as if he was a dog marking his territory that had peed on her, claiming her as his, she was helpless and, for the first time, she was quiet. She was scared, he could tell. He felt her fear, smelled it. She was silently sobbing.
She had decent breasts for a slender woman her age. Still high enough up, they didn't sag very much. They looked natural. He pocketed his knife and then reached out his hands to fondle her breasts and finger her nipples, first one and then the other. Immediately, her nipples responded to his unwelcomed touch. His cock grew harder by the touch of her breasts.
"Are you excited for me, yet?" With his left hand still caressing her right breast, he reached his right down and cupped her pussy allowing his fingers to explore more of her. "You need a trim, Mrs. Wainwright," he said with a tone that she routinely mustered. "And you're as dry as your all that water damaged I fixed for you upstairs."
"Don't," she said. "Please don't," she pleaded.
"I wonder when was the last time you got fucked, not laid by a gentleman, but fucked by a real man. Well, we're going to fix that today. Maybe when I'm done with you, you'll be a better woman for someone else and not be such a ball busting bitch."
He turned her again and bent her at the waist and over his workbench. He spit in his hand and inserted his finger deep in her ass, before inserting himself. She recoiled with his finger and when he stuck his cock up her ass, she gasped by the size of him.
It was obvious to him that this New York socialite never had a cock up her ass and never felt the lustful desire of a real man. He pivoted back and with a big swing of his hips, as if he was getting ready to hoist a sledge hammer over his head and slam it down on a concrete patio, in one forward, lust filled thrust, he erased all the bad things she said to him and all the foul names she called his men. Having penetrated her anally, he was now deep inside of her.
"Oh, my God! You filthy pig. You fucked me up the ass with your thing. You foul, dirty, and loathsome animal. I'll report you to the police," she said squirming and trying to break free from his imbedded penis, in the way that a fish would try and shake off a hook before being pulled from the sea and plunked down on the boat deck. "You'll spend the rest of your miserable life in jail, you savage beast."
He grabbed a big handful of her slip and dress material, along with a mass of her hair and pulled her head back hard. Then, he humped her again, only this time harder forcing her stomach and tits to slide forward along the width of his sawdust covered and paint splattered workbench. Deeper his cock was buried up her virgin ass. Harder he humped her again and again, harder and harder, he humped her, until he was ready to release all the abuse he had quietly taken from this one spoiled, ungrateful, miserable woman.
He withdrew his cock and spun her to face him. She was still talking at him with muffled threats. This woman never shuts the fuck up. He couldn't imagined being married to her. After he was done with her, he'd rather kill himself than to spend another minute with her.
Again he took out his knife and flick his wrist. As if he was artfully cutting a hole in a piece of drywall or plasterboard, he cut a hole where her yapping mouth was. Like a siren on a car alarm, immediately, once there was an opening cut in her clothes for her mouth, she used the opportunity to lambaste him.
"You dirty animal," she screamed before spitting in his face.
He wiped the spit from his face and then slapped her across the face hard enough to make her realize that she was his now.
"Shut the fuck up!"
Looking so much like someone sticking their face in a cutout at a carnival, she looked like a nun imprisoned within the confining facial part of her habit. The image of her with her while slip and blue dress and arms duct taped in position over her head, her white, silk panties positioned down around her ankles, looked so much like spilt rich cream between her legs. Her handmade, custom fashioned bra cut in two and dangling in place from her shoulder with her exposed breasts looked so much like ripe fruit hanging from a tree. He pulled out his cell phone and took her picture.
"How dare you? You'd better not post that on the Internet. My lawyers will--"
"Shut the fuck up! Oops, you protested too late. I've already downloaded and posted your photo. Sorry," he said with a laugh.
"I'll ruin you, you son-of-a-bitch. Not only will you never work again, but my attorneys will take your house, your truck, your tools, every single thing you own before throwing your miserable ass in jail."
With one forceful hand to her shoulder, he pushed her down forcing her to her knees. With his other hand to the back of her head, he positioned his engorged cock by her mouth and, as she continued her never ending tirade, he shut her pie hole with his manhood. She tried to struggle her head away, she tried to evict his cock from her mouth with her tongue, but his big hand gripped the back of her head, as if he was holding a basketball away from a defender.
As if a baby sucking on a pacifier, finally, she was quiet now. It was obvious to him, just as this woman had never had a cock up her ass, she's never had a cock in her mouth before, either. What do these rich people do when they have sex? Or are they too polite and to refined that they don't have sex? Is it any wonder why this frigid woman has no children?
"Suck it. Suck it, bitch. Suck it," he said giving her a little slap to the back of the head. "Pretend my cock is your silver spoon and suck it. Yeah, that's right, Winifred, such my blue collar cock. Blow me, baby, and as soon as I cum in your rich mouth, I'll free you. Only, you must swallow because if you don't swallow my cum, if you spit out one little drop, then we'll have to remain here for another hour with you on your knees and your arms over your head, before we can try this again."
"Okay, okay," she said talking with his cock in her mouth. "Cum already and I'll swallow. I can't hold my arms over my head any longer."
"What? I don't know what the Hell you're saying, bitch. Oh, wait, oh, yeah, this is good. Right there, baby, blow me, suck it, give me some tongue action. Now, you're learning. Gees, this is so much better. Yeah that's it. I little more tongue. Oh, fuck, oh, God. Oh, yeah, baby that's great. Shit, fuck, holy Hell, I haven't cum like that in a long time," he said quickly untying his wife.
"Gees, Jimmy," said Winnie, "What the fuck? I thought you were never going to cum."
"Sorry, baby, but I was enjoying the fantasy just a little bit too much."
"Asshole," she said punching him in the shoulder.
"Why'd you have to slap me so hard? That fucking hurt."
"Sorry, baby, I was really getting into it this time. Your acting is getting better. I really thought you were Mrs. Wainwright."
"Yeah, well, tonight it's my turn," she rubbing her arms to get back some of the circulation.
"What do you mean?"
"Tonight, we're playing Mistress Winnie."
"Oh, gees, baby, c'mon, not that again. We just played that last week. I hate that one. That whip really hurts. My ass is still sore."
"Too bad. You had your fun. Now, it's my turn."