After Brandon walked out of the security office, I lay there across the desk, trying to catch my breath and come to terms with what had just happened to me. Sure, I was traumatized by having Brandon's huge cock forced inside my virgin ass. But, on another level, I was more disturbed by my own response to it. I was lying there with my uniform pants around my ankles, my underwear ripped, in a pool of my own cum. There was no denying the powerful orgasm which had ripped through me as Brandon filled me with his load. What did it mean? I was straight. I'd been married for years. I had two kids, for God's sake, and I'd never done anything like this with a man. Was Brandon turning me into a fag as well as a boot licker?
I slowly got up and tried to put myself back together while surveying the damage. My underwear was in tatters from where he'd ripped them; my uniform pants, fortunately, were still intact. My shirt was another matter: it was soaked with my own cum. My ass felt destroyed, both outside from the vicious belting which had raised welts all over both cheeks and the back of my thighs; and inside, from the merciless pounded Brandon had given me. My hole felt like he'd turned it inside out, and it throbbed deep inside with each beat of my heart. His cum was still leaking out of me and running down my legs. I'd never felt more completely used and debased in my entire life.
Fortunately, there was no one else on the job site, so I was able to limp to the nearest bathroom and try to clean myself up a bit. When I inspected myself in the mirror, I could see my ass was bright, deep red, covered with both welts and the imprint from the basket-weave pattern of Brandon's belt, almost as if he had branded it into my skin. I doubted I'd be able to sit comfortably for a while. I cleaned as much of my cum as possible from my uniform, but my shirt was still clearly stained. Hopefully, the water removed most of the traces of my shame and my shirt would dry relatively clean, as I still had to finish out my shift.
Somehow, I made it through the rest of the night. At this point, all I wanted was to go home and forget about everything that happened. The daytime guard, Ben, was a country boy from Alabama. He'd dropped out of school and ended up working security part time when he wasn't working in a garage fixing cars. When he finally showed up to relieve me, he took one look at me and I could see on his face that he knew something had happened.
"Damn, boy, you look like you done been rode hard and put up wet! What happened to you," he asked, looking me over curiously.
"It was a long night," I replied evasively. "I really don't want to talk about it. I just need to get home." I limped over to the desk where I'd recently been grudge fucked and picked up my keys.
"What's that all over your shirt," he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Damn, son, you reek of sex. You been getting laid in here last night?"
I looked down and noticed the front of my shirt looked like one big cum stain. My attempts to wash it out had just made it spread more, and there was no way to mistake it for anything else. I felt myself begin to blush with shame. Between my cum and the load Brandon left inside me, I must smell like a cheap whore, Both the stain on my shirt and my bowlegged, limping walk probably painted a pretty clear picture for Ben that someone had fucked me and used me as a cum dump last night. I muttered some excuse about spilling a milkshake on my shirt to explain the stain, and left the office as quickly as I could, while Ben stared at me with a look of disgust on his face. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to look him in the eye again.
At least I was able to recuperate at home for a bit since I had that night off. My apartment, as crappy as it was, had become my oasis of safety, far from Brandon, his bullying, and the nightly humiliation of my job.
When I returned to work two days later, I prayed I wouldn't have to deal with Brandon. I was in terror he would want to fuck my ass again. No, I decided to myself. That was not going to happen ever again. I'd stand up to him if I had to, even if I got beaten as a result. I had to reclaim some of my dignity.
As usual, Brandon showed up around midnight, wearing his uniform of blue BDUs, tactical vest, and gun belt. And his black boots, of course - those boots which I'd gotten to know a lot better than I wanted to.
I'd made up my mind to stand up to him this time, both literally and figuratively. I wasn't going to be his boot licking bitch. I was a man, and he would treat me with respect, damn it!
When he walked in the office, rather than sinking to my knees as I'd done previously, I remained standing and looked Brandon in the eye with all the courage I could muster. He stared right back at me, and I could see the anger rising in his eyes. He started to clinch his jaw, then his fists, and I knew he was about to hit me.
I'm ashamed to admit that I broke, and I broke quickly. My plan of standing up to Brandon sounded great when he wasn't in the room. But here he was, and his commanding, alpha male presence, combined with his quick temper and his clear joy at inflicting pain to enforce his will, dissolved my courage instantly. I could feel my knees going weak with fear, which just made it that much easier for me to sink down, kneel at his feet, and kiss his boots like I was supposed to. Just like a good, obedient bitch.
I think this visit was Brandon's test for me. He came in not knowing what to expect after he'd beaten and raped me. Would I resist? Fight back? Refuse to obey him anymore? Hell, I hadn't even quit, but instead came back and worked my next scheduled shift, despite his abuse. Now, here I was, still bruised and welted from his belt, and once again I was obediently groveling at his feet and kissing his dirty boots. Brandon wasn't very bright, but he didn't have to be to figure out he obviously had me right where he wanted me. I heard him chuckle softly as he watched me kissing his boots.
