Indian Gay sex story – Proprietor of a book store used me

The bookstore was nearly empty, and probably about to close. I was wandering idly through the stacks near the front of the store, where the rare and expensive books were kept in locked cases. First editions, with crabbed signatures scrawled on the fragile pages. I studied them through the glass, wondering why the same books cost so much more here than in the paperback umpteenth editions in the back.

I craned my neck, leaning on the lever that would open the case if it weren’t locked. Unexpectedly, the latch slipped, and my chin bumped against the glass door.

He was on me in the next second, seeming to tower over me as he shouted, “What are you doing? It’s after 9 and we’ve been closed for ten minutes!” He held me by the collar of my shirt, shoving me back against the other bookcase. The back of my head cracked against the shelf and his eyes bored into me.

“What’s a punk like you doing here with the first editions anyhow?” He jiggled the broken latch, and then slapped me. He patted down my pockets, reached inside my jacket. “Didn’t you have time to take anything, kid?”

I was too scared to speak.

Not finding any books with that cursory search, he shoved me into a back room and locked the door behind me. It was a workroom, full of broken and half-bound books, with a long, high table of scarred wood running down the middle of the room. There was knife on the table, small but sharp. I had almost made up my mind to take it and fight him when he returned.

“OK, the store’s empty and the door’s locked, so I have time to look for my merchandise and call the police.”

I backed away from him slightly. “But I haven’t done anything wrong! Really, sir, I wasn’t going to take anything… I was just looking… I didn’t know the store was closed…”

He stopped me with another slap. The edge of the table bit into the small of my back, and I couldn’t retreat anymore.

He unzipped my jacket. “I don’t believe you. The police won’t believe you either.”

I let him take my jacket, then my sweater.

“They’re cracking down on shoplifters these days. You should get at least a few weeks in Juvenile jaill.” His tone was almost casual as he fished my wallet out of my pocket, looked at my driver’s license.

“But you’re a bit too old for Juvie. That’s too bad.” His hand was relaxed, he knew the back pockets of my jeans were empty. “A kid like you could have a rough time in prison, even for a weekend.”

I shivered, pressing back against the table, pleading with him. “Please, sir, don’t turn me in. I didn’t steal anything. You know I didn’t. And I never will.
Really. Please let me go.” I was almost in tears.

“Maybe I will let you go,” he finally said.

My heart leapt.

“But not yet.” He stepped away from me, opened a closet that seemed full of tools. “Take off your jeans and hand them over.”

I protested, not very coherently. He cut me off impatiently. “I know you’re not hiding books in your pockets. Just do as I say. You’re still getting off easy, you know.” His eyes sparked dangerously in the dim light.

I kicked off my sneakers, and gave him the jeans. The eyes raked over me as I blushed and looked down, noticing a hole in my sock.

He was very fast. He turned me around, lifting me by a handful of cloth at the back of my T-shirt, forcing me against the table. “Grab the other side of the table!
Hold on with both hands.”

I had to stretch across the table, my toes barely touching the floor, my weight balanced painfully on the bones of my hips. His hands were almost gentle as he pulled down my underpants. I started to cry.

“Remember, Adrian, you’re getting off easy. I could still call the police. In fact, if you let go of the table, or if you scream, I think I will call the police.”

He stroked my buttocks lightly.

“And they certainly wouldn’t believe your account of this little interlude. Though it might amuse your cellmates.” A slap, not very hard, but frightening.
“I’m sure they would find other ways of amusing themselves with you.”

I was silent, biting my lips and clutching the wood.

I trembled on the edge of the table for a long moment.
I didn’t know what to be afraid of – a fuck, a beating, maybe even a camera. My breathing was ragged. “Please, sir? What are you going to do to me?” He was silent. I
couldn’t see him, but didn’t dare let go of the table to look behind me.

Then the cane bit my flesh with a fierce heat. The blows were fast and hard, so overwhelmingly painful I could scarcely squirm under them. Sasha had caned me before, after erotic spankings that left me giddy with endorphins. This was different. It was punishment, and a brutal dare not to scream. I bit back all but a whimpering moan, tears already soaking into the wood.

My legs flailed helplessly, with no leverage as they dangled from the edge of the table. I had lost count of the blows, my whole bottom was on fire, I must be bleeding already.

He paused a moment. Was he going to stop? Taking pity on obvious suffering? The cane came down again, striking deep along the curve at the top of my thighs.
I jerked against the table, biting my lip and tasting my blood. He struck the same place, hard. The shriek tore past my clenched teeth.

He stopped. His voice was teasing, almost gentle. “Too bad about that scream. I did try to go easy on you.”

I heard the rustle of cloth, through my gasping sobs and the pounding blood in my ears. His hands were rough, forcing my buttocks apart. My feet left the floor entirely.

No matter how rough the scene, no matter how intense the role-playing – the recognition is too strong and the implicit consent is too deep.

End