Chapter 9: Convenience Store Communion
The fluorescent hum of the minimart felt like a physical pressure against Rifki’s skin. He shuffled on the cold linoleum, the crotchless jilbab doing nothing to shield him from the refrigerated air biting at his wet, sore cunt. “Looking for this, mbak?” A voice echoed from behind a chip display. It was the two night cashiers, Ari and Doni, their eyes black with exhaustion and sudden, vicious interest. Ari held up a bottle of generic lube, grinning. “Abang sent you for supplies? We can help.” Doni was already moving, cutting off the aisle exit. “We accept alternative payment.” Rifki’s protest died as Ari grabbed his hair, yanking him towards the storage area, the heels skidding on the floor. They pushed him over a teetering pallet of rice sacks, the rough burlap scratching his falsies. “Security feed loops for ten minutes,” Doni muttered, unbuckling his pants. Ari spat into his hand, slicking his cock before driving into Rifki’s asshole with no preamble, the dry stretch a white-hot tear. Rifki screamed into the rice, his body a bowstring of pain. “Shut up and take it, sissy,” Ari grunted, pounding him, each thrust jolting the tower of sacks. Doni shoved the lube bottle at Rifki’s face. “Open.” He fed his cock between Rifki’s swollen lips, fucking his throat in a rough, shallow rhythm that made Rifki gag. They used him in sync, a brutal, grunting machine, the only sounds their flesh slapping and the relentless hum of the freezers. Ari came first, pumping his spend deep with a final, grinding push. They switched places without a word, Doni’s thicker cock spearing Rifki’s freshly filled hole, stretching it wider. “Filthy little rabbit,” Doni sneered, pounding faster, his fingers leaving bruises on Rifki’s hips. He pulled out suddenly, finishing across Rifki’s back and the corporate-branded rice bags. Ari tossed the lube bottle onto Rifki’s trembling spine.
Ari tossed the lube bottle onto Rifki’s trembling spine. The stockroom door swung open, hitting the wall with a plastic crack, and the manager, Bima, stood silhouetted by the fluorescents, his expression unreadable. “The fuck is this noise on my floor?” he growled, his eyes moving from the cashiers’ undone uniforms to Rifki’s spent, dripping form over the rice.
Ari scrambled back, stuttering. “She was stealing, Pak!” Bima ignored him, his polished shoes clicking on the linoleum as he closed the distance, his hand gripping Rifki’s jaw, forcing his face up. He studied the smeared lipstick, the terrified eyes, then kissed him.
It wasn’t like the Imam’s punishing ownership or the boy’s clumsy hunger; Bima’s mouth was a hot, demanding invasion that crushed Rifki’s swollen lips against his teeth, his tongue mapping the roof of his mouth with a shocking, proprietary intimacy. A fluttering, weak warmth ignited in Rifki’s gut, a traitorous ripple of something like thrill beneath the shame, and he went slack, a soft moan escaping into the manager’s mouth.
Bima broke the kiss, his thumb wiping spit from Rifki’s chin. “My office. Now.” He dragged Rifki by the arm past the silent cashiers, down a short hall into a cramped, windowless room smelling of old coffee and dust. He bent Rifki over the metal desk, scattering invoices, his hand pushing the jilbab up to his shoulders. “Those idiots just take,” Bima muttered, unzipping his trousers. “I’m going to make you feel it.”
His cock, thick and veined, pressed against Rifki’s ruined entrance, still slick from the cashiers, and he pushed in with a single, deliberate stroke that was somehow more intimate than any violent thrust. He fucked him with a slow, deep, grinding rhythm, each measured withdrawal and penetration sparking that strange flutter again inside Rifki’s chest. “You’ll come back,” Bima grunted into his ear, his pace increasing, his fingers digging into Rifki’s hips. “You’ll ask for it.” He came with a shudder, filling him.
He came with a shudder, filling him, and the warmth pooling inside Rifki’s gut felt disturbingly different from the anonymous dumps in the stairwell or the storage room. Bima stayed buried within him for a long moment, his breath hot on Rifki’s neck, a strange and silent intimacy in the stale office air. When he finally pulled out, the loss was a cold, physical ache that made Rifki’s hips twitch forward, seeking that fading heat.
It was a sick, gravitational pull towards this man who had seen him ruined and had kissed him like he meant it. Rifki’s breath hitched, a desperate little sound, and he dropped to his knees on the gritty office floor, his nails scraping Bima’s belt. “Let me,” Rifki whispered, his voice unfamiliar even to himself, a high, trembling thing as he nuzzled the damp fabric of Bima’s trousers. He worked the manager’s softening cock free with his mouth, sucking it gently to fullness again, tasting his own lingering salt and the cashiers’ filth on Bima’s skin before pulling off with a wet pop.
Turning, he bent forward over the desk again, his own sore hole presented, and reached back with slippery fingers to play with his own stretched, twitching anus, pushing two digits inside to open himself wider, making a lewd, inviting show of it. “It’s all for you, Pak,” he moaned, the tone impossibly feminine, a schoolgirl’s pleading giggle layered over obscenity. “Make it yours again, please.” Bima’s grip was instant, forceful, yanking him back onto his cock in one brutal stroke that punched the air from Rifki’s lungs. This penetration was different, a claiming that burned through the numbness, and Rifki came instantly, harder than he ever had in his cage, a silent, convulsing wreck against the desk as Bima fucked him through it. “Oh god, yes, yes!” Rifki shrieked, one hand flying up to clutch the back of Bima’s neck, his fingers tangling in the short hair there, anchoring himself to the man’s brutal, intimate rhythm.
His other hand smeared pink lipstick across Bima’s cheek as he twisted, his lumpy, collagen-filled bimbo lips begging for a taste, mouthing desperately at the air. “Kiss me, please, your mouth,” he babbled, arching until Bima’s lips, salty with masculine musk, crashed down onto his, their tongues and saliva mixing as Bima emptied into him a second time with a final, possessive grind.