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Buggered by the Bodega Man

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Amateur

CW: financial exploitation, physical roughness, WS, allusions to homophobic persecution in other countries. This is a nasty little one-off with a lot of findom elements and might not be your cup of tea.

On feedback: I can’t reply to anonymous messages, so if you want a question answered you need to use an email or leave a comment here. Thanks!

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The bodega at the corner was run by a mean old Polish man, a guy who looked to be in his late fifties. He was a nasty bastard. I never saw him without a scowl. His store was always empty. The place was small and dingy, and he charged ridiculous prices. He was always smoking cigarettes behind the counter, which I’m fairly certain is illegal.

It was convenient for me though, and as a closet submissive, there was something about his gruff mistreatment that I found enjoyable. I was always meek around him. I lived in a Polish neighborhood, and a lot of the people, especially the older men, clearly loathed the younger, more affluent newcomers like myself. The owner of the bodega certainly made no secret of his disdain for me, grumbling in Polish to himself, sneering at me, and likely overcharging me. I was always extremely polite and deferential to him, and made sure to call him Sir, which always gave him a twisted smile.

That night I was horny and frustrated, blue-balled by a guy I had been chatting with on the apps who had disappeared. A would-be master who had brought me to the edge only to leave me there. I felt ready to jump out of my skin, and elected to grab a six-pack to lubricate the rest of my Friday night w ank-fest.

“Good evening Sir.” I said, my usual greeting, my head low. He gave a raspy chuckle, glaring at me with dark-set eyes. As always, I took a quick peek at his bountiful crotch in his track pants, and then darted between the aisles. I was curious about his endowment and, shamefully, had masturbated quite a few times thinking about it.

I went to the refrigerator in the back and selected a six-pack of IPA. The cardboard holder was wet in my hand as I lifted it from the shelf- ice had melted all over the beer here. As I brought it out of the refrigerator one of the beers broke through the wet cardboard and fell to the floor, shattering. Foaming suds and broken glass spread along the grey linoleum.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry!” I called out to the owner, who stomped over.

“You fucking moron!” He bellowed, appearing in the aisle just a few feet from me.

“You break my merchandise, you make mess of my store?!! Clean this shit up, now!” His big form was blocking my exit from the aisle. His hard, broad face was furious.

“I’m really sorry…” I said, slowly approaching him. His hand shot at my chest, stopping me in place. He was about my height but he was much wider, barrel-chested, with a big beer gut. It wasn’t just his superior bulk – he had hardness to him, a toughness that I clearly lacked. I had never thrown a punch before, but he certainly looked like he knew how to. I got the sense that if I tried to push past him, he’d knock me on my ass. For some insane reason, I almost wanted him to. I took a few moments, petrified by his angry gaze, feeling his big hand on my chest. I wondered if he could feel my rapid heartbeat. Instead of taking my chances, I chose to submit. I would clean for him.

“Uh, OK sure. Do you have a mop?” My question made his face twist in disgust.

“And get fucking broken glass in my mop? Hell no!” He barked angrily, launching flecks of spit onto my face.

“Oh right… maybe just some paper towels?” I proposed.

“I am not wasting them on your idiot mistake! Use your stupid shirt.” He reached to my waist, grabbing the material of my t-shirt in his hands.

“My shirt?” I asked, confused.

“Yes moron your fucking tshirt! Take it off and clean up your fucking mess.” He shouted, as if this should have occurred to me.

I stood there dumbly, paralyzed.

“Now!” He yelled, and with surprising speed he brought his heavy hand up from my hest and slapped me across my face, temporarily blinding my vision. It made my ears ring. Shaking from the adrenaline, I lifted my shirt over my head, feeling the air conditioning on my bare skin. I felt all the more meek and pathetic to be bare chested before this big man. He smirked at me.

“Good. On your hands and knees. Clean!” I obeyed, getting down on all fours. I used my own tshirt to sop up all of the beer, wiping the grimy linoleum dry. I then carefully folded all of the broken glass into the shirt, squeezing it all together into a ball. My $50 t-shirt was now a filthy, wet rag. He laughed above me.

“Good. Throw it away in trash now.” He crowed, but when I started to stand he barked at me.

“I give you the permission to fucking stand? Hands and knees! Crawl. This how you learn your lesson, boy.” He pressed down on my shoulders, keeping me on all fours.

As I approached his thick legs, he did not step aside from his position blocking the aisle, made no room for me to crawl past him, so I had to brush my shoulder, waist and hips against him to pass. I looked up and he was smirking bahis firmaları at me triumphantly. As I turned the corner he spun around and gave me a swift kick to the seat of my pants. I scrambled away and then reached up to throw away my shirt into the trash can beside the bodega counter. I heard him lock the front door.

“Good job, kutas. Stay down there.” He stood beside me, placing the sixpack on the counter. He grabbed a beer and popped it open.

“You wanted beers, you pig? Have beer. Drink!” He then poured it over my head, dowsing my hair and face. I quickly leaned my head back and opened my mouth, swallowing the IPA.

“Tak, tak, drink you fucking kutas.” He kept the beer tipped back, draining it, forcing me to chug until it was empty. He removed the empty bottle from my lips and I belched quietly, wiping my lips with my forearm.

“Again!” He grabbed another, opened it. This time he took a long sip himself before emptying it down my throat. I gasped. I hadn’t chugged beers like this since college.

“And one more for the pig!” He said gleefully, drinking some then tipping it back. Again I had to down the entire IPA, whatever I couldn’t swallow quickly enough spilling out of my mouth and down my throat and chest. Soon my belly was sticky with beer and it stained the top of my paints. He opened his own beer, took a swig then spit some on my face, laughing. My head was swimming from downing three beers. My face felt flushed.

He seemed less angry now, like the beer had mellowed him out. He had me stand right next to him, pinning me against the counter, his crotch was pressed up against mine. He ran his hand over my bare chest. His big, hairy hand rubbed my chest, and his thumb and pinky tweaked my nipples in one motion, making me gasp. He dragged his big hand down to my belly, roughly kneading the skin.

“You are almost as hairless as boy. Not a man.” He remarked matter-of-factly, then took another drink from his beer and belched softly, blowing it in my face.

“Real men have hair like this.” He boasted, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show me the dense coat of curly black body hair that went to his neck. He grabbed my hand and placed it on the top of his chest.

“Here. Feel. This is man’s chest.” He said as he dragged my hand across the thick, sweaty hair there, raking it over the dense thicket. I had never felt anyone so hairy.

“Wow, you are so manly Sir. You’re incredible.” I said reverently. I was truly in awe of him. He shook his head, laughing at my fawning.

“You are faggot, yes?” He asked me, raising his eyes curiously.

“Yes Sir.” He cackled at my admission.

“I can feel your pathetic little faggot hard-on.” It’s true, I had been hard since he had forced me to my knees, and I was aching in my pants now, being so close to him. He took a fresh beer, popped the cap off, then brought it to my lips. He tipped it back and poured half down my throat. I struggled to down the beer.

He then held the beer by the mouth and brought the cold glass bottom to my right nipple, then my left, making me gasp.

“Your tits are like a woman’s tits.” He drank some of the beer, staring into my eyes. He put the bottle on the counter then attacked my chest with both hands, kneading my pectorals in his strong fingers. I moaned with pleasure at being felt up like this. He studied my face with a smirk, amused by the effect his hands had on me.

“You have nice breasts. You let men put their penises up in you?” I nodded, looking into his big hard face as he snorted in amusement.

“Sodomizowany. You have been sodomized. Willingly?” I nodded again, and quietly answered.

“Yes Sir.” The unfriendly smile spread on his hard face.

“Then long ago you gave up your manhood. To bend over for other men.” He chuckled and shook his head. He drank some of the beer then brought it to my lips and had me finish it.

“In my country, most men believe that faggot should be killed.” He remarked, and as he held me close to him I worked up to ask the courage if he believed this too. He smiled down at me indulgently.

“Some maybe yes, but some no. I believe there is a place for some faggot. The good faggot. Respectful faggot. Faggot who know their place.” He raised his hand and pointed his index finger up to make his point.

“Only place for faggot on this earth is below real man. To serve real man. To give real men all that they have. You agree?” He kept his hand tight around my hip, holding me close, as he pontificated.

“Yes Sir I agree. It is my place to serve men. Serve real men like you.” I answered eagerly. He liked my answer, nodding enthusiastically, and spoke rapidly, with excitement.

“You serve my cock, you serve my feet. You serve my wallet, too. You are mule for me, stupid donkey, work for me. I take what I want, yes?” As he spoke his big hands held my waist, squeezing it, feeling me up roughly. I nodded, pledging to serve him.

“Let us see.” He asked smugly, belching once more as he put his beer down on the counter.

His big rough hands grabbed my wrist, twisting it upside down and in an kaçak iddaa instant he removed the watch I was wearing. Looking me in the eye, he smiled cockily as he put it on. He then thrust out his arm, admiring it on himself.

“This nice watch, this mine now.” He declared, smiling with self-contentment.

“It look good on me, no?” He brought it close to my face, making me look at my property on his hairy forearm.

“Yes Sir, it looks very good on you.” I answered in a whispered croak. I was terrified by the power he had over me as I looked at the glinting platinum on his arm, the $300.00 he had taken from me.

He then took my chin in his hand, bringing his face to mine, staring at me intensely.

“There nothing you have I cannot take from you, yes?” His big nose pushed into mine.

“Yes Sir.” My voice was tiny. He laughed at this then shoved me off of him. I realized I was dizzy, both from the beer and the big man being so close to me.

“You live nearby? Alone?” I nodded, my stomach sinking when I realized where this was going.

The man opened the last beer, took a long swig, then poured the rest down my throat. I was more than buzzed now. He again belched in my face, smiling menacingly at me. He grabbed me again, felt me up along my waist to my chest again, then roughly patted the side of my face with both hands.

“First you need to pay for your beer, kutas.” He let go of me, staring me down expectantly.

“Yes Sir…” I answered, taking my wallet out of my jeans with trembling hands. I took out $45.00, the only cash I had, offering it to him. He roughly grabbed it, looking at it skeptically before stuffing it into his pocket.

He shook his head at me, crossing his arms. My stomach dropped.

“Not enough. ATM there. Take out maximum.” I paused, hesitating.

I could have walked right out the door, with no consequences. Never returned to this bodega. Cut my losses at a t-shirt. Instead, to my thrilling shame, I chose to obey his obscene command.

Like a fool I complied, ready to let this man take as much money from me as he demanded. I scurried over to the ATM and yielded my bank card. I almost gasped when I saw that the maximum withdrawal was $300.00. I took a deep breath, my face going beet red as I accepted the transaction.

I looked back to the man, who was closing up for the night, emptying the register and shutting down various machines. Though his hands were busy, he was watching me expectantly, his dark eyes vigilant for any hint of resistance.

My head swam as the transaction processed, then finally the machine shuttered to life. It spat out what felt like an endless stream of $20s.

Finally it stopped. The cash dispenser was filled to the top with twenty dollar bills. I opened the plastic case and several spilled out onto the floor. I carefully collected them all and laid them into a thick stack in my hand. On the display screen I winced at the hit to my checking account. I read the red letters, negative $300.00, and it felt like a punch to the gut. “Thank you for your business!” It read mockingly.

I stepped to the counter like a condemned man walking to death row. Walking the plank. He was grinning at me from behind the counter, a look of amused disdain on his hard face. I felt flush, feverish from the shame of what I was doing.

“Here you are, Sir.” I said, my voice cracking like a teenager. I was sweating. I lowered my head as I presented the money to him, the bills shaking in my nervous fingers. He laughed in my face as he snatched the cash out of my hand. I felt light-headed, having just handed this cruel bastard $300.00. He kept chuckling to himself as he folded the bills up and stuffed them into the pocket of his track pants. As he walked around the counter he patted my cheek condescendingly.

“Tak. It’s a start.” He said as he walked past me.

He grabbed another six pack from the fridge then led me out of his store.

“OK fuckface, let’s move.” He grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me out of the door. The sidewalk was empty but I was still self-conscious to be standing out there shirtless on the dark street as he locked up his store and pulled down a metal grate.

“Lead the way, idiot.” He ordered. I walked just ahead of him. My place was right around the corner. I turned to see him walking purposefully behind me. As when I had handed over the cash, I had a choice to make. Another chance of escape, to tell him this had gone far enough, to tell him good night. Letting him into my home was inviting disaster. Who knew what he would do?

Instead I said nothing. I wanted him to keep disrespecting me, to keep taking advantage of me.

Fortunately I didn’t see any of my neighbors as I brought him up to my building, his greedy hands squeezing my naked haunches as we walked, or prodding me in the rear end to send me ahead. I unlocked my door and he pushed past me. He flicked on the lights, looked around and whistled.

“Nice place, faggot. Definitely looks like a faggot apartment. Lots of nice faggot shit.” He remarked, looking around. I closed the door then stood in my kaçak bahis hallway mutely as he went through all of my drawers, touching the art on the walls with his hand, sneering at my photographs. He rooted around for a few minutes.

Every now and then he found something he liked, and took it. He grabbed a set of noise-cancelling headphones, several pairs of designer sunglasses, gold cufflinks, most of my ties, a silver rolex watch from my nightstand. He shoved them all into the pockets of his nylon jacket and track pants until the sides of his clothes were bulging ridiculously and he looked like a shameless shoplifter.

Eventually he grabbed a duffel bag from my closet so that he could pack my laptop computer and tablet. He then found another big bag – to my dismay, we had the same shoe size. The fat old bully decided to claim every pair of my shoes from my closet. Panic set in, a flurry in my chest and stomach, as I realized his goal was to take them all. He took nice leather dress shoes, boat shoes, rain boots, brand name athletic sneakers, even my most run down pairs, he left me with nothing. He filled a third bag with the stolen shoes alone.

He turned from my closet back to me, looked down at my feet and snapped his fingers, pointing. He snapped again, and I knew if I hesitated I would get slapped again, and maybe worse.

I felt nauseous, realizing that I was going to give him my last pair of shoes. The last pair of shoes I owned. My vision blurred as I teared up a bit, crying as I obeyed, sitting on the edge of my bed to unlace them and kick them off. He held open the third bag and I placed them inside.

“Good. You should not have such nice trainers on your faggot feet.” He explained to me chidingly, then turned back into my closet.

He rooted around until he found three more pairs of sandals and slippers – the last of any kind of footwear that I had. He then went through my drawers and took all of my socks – dress and athletic socks, all of them. He was intent on leaving me completely bare foot.

“Those socks too, mieczak.” I peeled them off my feet and he added them to his haul.

The man knew he was leaving me stuck at home without shoes of any kind or even socks- I would have to either remain at home until new shoes could arrive, taking off a day of work, or I could buy some tomorrow but leaving the apartment with bare feet.

With a very self-satisfied smile he handed me the three overstuffed duffel bags, ordering me to leave them by the door and come back. He had me write down the passwords for the electronics too. I dutifully delivered the bags, tabulating the robbery in my head. I was letting him take a couple thousand dollars worth of my possessions from me, without a word of protest.

When I came back I found him on my couch in the living room, his feet propped up on my ottoman. He had quickly ordered and purchased some foreign rugby game off of my cable. He put down the remote and sighed contentedly. He had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

He looked at me scornfully, belched loudly and blew a cloud of smoke at me.

“Strip naked. When you serve me you will be naked and humble.” I quickly dropped my pants and took them off, then lowered my underwear, revealing myself to him. He grinned at my strip show and burst out laughing at the sight of my dick.

“A penis like a child’s. You look like a little boy. A little faggot’s penis. Tonight you will learn what a real man’s cock is, kutas.” He threatened, shaking his big crotch at me in his track pants. He snapped his fingers and pointed to his feet on the ottoman.

“Rub my feet.” I obeyed, and he ignored me as he watched his game. Occasionally he yelled at the TV, cursing in Polish.

I carefully removed his shoes and socks, finding that his feet were huge and uncared for. I spent the next twenty minutes worshipping them in my own home. I kneaded the balls and heels of his feet, and gave each toe individual attention. He moaned with pleasure at my ministrations, kicking his legs out and thrusting his feet in my face. As his toes pressed up against my lips, I knew what he wanted.

“Lick.” He ordered. I closed my eyes and dabbed my tongue against the ball of his bare right foot. I had always fantasized about licking a man’s feet like this, a man like him. I got to work lapping at his dogs. He grabbed my hair, pointed out my erection and chuckled sardonically. He then squeezed my jaws and jammed his right foot into my mouth, making me gag and my eyes water. He hooked his left foot behind my neck, locking my head in place. From then on he was in control – his feet had their way with my mouth. They tasted like he had been standing on them all day, perhaps in a pair of socks he had worn all week.

One foot would hold the back of my head in place while the other would force itself into my mouth. Sometimes he would jam his heel into my throat, wrenching my lips and jaw open, choking me, taking the wind out of me. Occasionally he would make me worship all five of his toes at once, painfully stretching open my mouth, or sticking his heel against my teeth roughly. He snapped his fingers to make me look up, then snapped photos on his phone. He was rubbing a hardening bulge in his pants- I wasn’t sure if it was from the oral worship of his big feet or having memorialized by shame.

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