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!
----
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 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.
