This story is an original work. It should not be reposted or reproduced in whole or in part without the author's consent. Copyright 2020 by Jeff Hamby. All rights reserved.
Warning: This story contains sexual acts between adult males and/or females. If you do not enjoy this type of material, or if it is illegal in your country or place of residence, please stop reading immediately. This story is not in any way an accurate depiction of reality, and any relationship to real persons or acts are unintentional. This story is fiction.
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Brandon's Boots
Chapter 5
I honestly couldn't believe my eyes. It was like a nightmare had come true right in front of me. Brandon was lying in my bed, completely naked, sprawled out fast asleep. I had no idea what he was doing there, nor even how he'd gotten into my apartment.
I was furious. I started into the bedroom to wake him up and demand some answers. But, suddenly, common sense got the better of me. Let sleeping dogs lie, they say; the same is true for sleeping bullies. I didn't know what Brandon would do if I woke him up, but I figured there was a high likelihood it wouldn't be good. I decided I could use both some peace and some rest, so I might as well get it while I had the chance, even if it meant sleeping on my own couch. I made myself a spot on the couch and crashed out just as the sun was coming up.
I was awakened several hours later by something smacking me in the forehead repeatedly. I tried to swat it away, but it kept thumping me, so I finally opened my eyes, only to see Brandon towering above me, completely naked, smacking me in the forehead with his semi-hard cock.
"Get the fuck up, bitch. I'm hungry. Get me some food," he demanded, smacking me again with his cock. Even mostly soft, his cock was a formidable club. As soon as I became coherent enough to realize what was going on, my anger returned. I jumped up off the couch and confronted him.
"Why are you even here? How did you get into my apartment, and what makes you think you can just walk in here, sleep in my bed, and then demand food? Are you crazy, Brandon?" I demanded to know.
I should have seen the slap coming. He backhanded me across the face. While I was reeling from the slap, he punched he twice in the belly, very quickly. All the air went out of my body, and I collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping and groaning. I cradled my stomach in a fetal position on the floor, while Brandon stood over me, completely silent and calm. Once he could see I was getting my breath back, Brandon lifted his right foot and placed in squarely on my head, pressing the side of my head down onto the floor. All I could see was his bare foot, and the smell of his foot sweat filled my nostrils.
"Listen up, cocksucker, cause I'm not going to say this but once, so pay fucking attention," Brandon said flatly. "My wife and I are splitting up, so I need a place to stay. I've decided I'm staying here. End of discussion. You're going to deal with it like a good faggot, or I'm gonna beat the shit out of you. Then I'll stay here anyway, and you'll still have to deal with it. Understand me, cunt?" he asked, pressing his bare foot harder into my face.
"Yes, Sir," I grunted as best I could, his big foot distorting my face with its pressure.
"Show me that you understand what's happening, faggot, so I don't have to beat your ass some more. Stick out your fucking tongue and start licking my foot to show you're happy I'm staying here," he ordered.
What could I do? I hated the idea of dealing with Brandon at all, and now I was going to be forced to live with him for God knows how long. But what else was I supposed to do? Call the police? Yeah, they'd remove him from my apartment, just the same way he'd remove me from my job and leave me completely broke. I'd be lucky to hold on to this shitty apartment, let alone pay my child support. Plus, he'd probably come back and beat the hell out of me just for the fun of it. Better to avoid the medical bills altogether and just put up with him for a few days.
It took every ounce of will I could muster to force my tongue out and start licking the sole of his bare foot, which was crushing my face. Every fiber of my being was telling me not to, but my brain was telling me this was the only way I'd survive, so I carefully licked the bottom of his foot in submission to his will. Pleased with my acceptance, Brandon lifted his foot slightly off my face, then stuck his big toe in my mouth. I didn't need instructions. I started sucking on his toe.
Brandon said, "That's better fag. Suck my toe like you suck my cock. Show me you know how to behave so I don't have to kick your ass again."
I sucked on his toe, using my tongue to lick all around it as he moved it in and out of my mouth, fucking my face with his foot. Brandon wasn't a very tall guy, but he had surprisingly big feet and hands, with long fingers and toes. He shoved his big toe into my mouth almost far enough to gag me on it.
Once he was certain I'd be obedient, Brandon removed his foot from my mouth. "Now go get me some breakfast, bitch," he demanded. I got up and made my way to the kitchen. I scrambled four eggs and made two cups of coffee, divided the eggs on two plates and carried them into the living room. Brandon was sprawled on the couch, still completely naked, playing on his phone. I set his food and coffee down on the coffee table in front of him, and then took a seat on the couch next to him to eat my own.
Brandon reached over and grabbed me by the ear and started twisting it. I yelped from the sudden, unexpected pain. Brandon started pulling me towards the ground. "What the fuck do you think you are doing bitch? I didn't give you permission to sit on the couch and eat with me. Make yourself useful. Get your faggot ass down there on the floor where you belong and give me a foot massage while I eat," he commanded. He dragged me by my ear down to the floor, then stuck his bare foot in my face. I started rubbing his feet as my ear throbbed from the pain of him twisting it. I massaged both his feet and his calves while Brandon ate his eggs. I heard him scrape the eggs I'd made for myself on to his plate and eat those, too.
"My feet are still sweaty from last night, so you better clean them too, cocksucker," Brandon remarked while sipping his coffee. Indeed, his feet were still pretty nasty from a long shift in combat boots, and I could smell they needed to be washed. I hated licking sweat off his nasty feet even more than I hated licking the dirt from his boots, but, as usual, he really didn't give me any choice. I knew if I slacked off, he'd punish me, so I made sure to suck each one of his toes and even licked between each of them as well, getting myself a mouthful of sock lint in the process. I cleaned both of his feet top and bottom, even running my tongue all the way around his heels.
When he had finished eating, Brandon grabbed my hair and pulled my head up into his lap. It was clear what he wanted, so I put his soft cock in my mouth and started sucking on it. It was quite manageable like this, but in just a minute or two it grew big enough in my mouth to make sucking it difficult. I knew how important it was for me to guard against scraping his cock with my teeth, but the huge knob of Brandon's cockhead was big enough to almost completely fill my mouth on its own. Fortunately, Brandon seemed in a relaxed mood, and didn't try to face fuck me as usual, but instead kicked back on my couch while I blew him, learning to accommodate his huge cock at my own pace.
Previously, when he made me suck him off at work, the experience was mercifully short, if painful and overwhelming. However, here in the privacy of my living room, Brandon was evidently determined to enjoy himself and draw out my attentions to his cock. He kicked back with his legs spread wide and put his hand on my head to keep me on his cock, but fortunately didn't force it down my throat. He made sure I kept sucking, though. I'd learned my lesson about not taking his dick out of my mouth for any reason. At one point, he pulled my head off his cock and put my mouth on his balls, and I started licking and sucking on them. After several minutes of having me suck his huge nuts, Brandon pulled my head back on his cock, put his hands on both sides of my head, and started fucking my face. Once again, he shoved his massive log down my throat until the head of his cock completely blocked my airway, then held me there, watching as I turned red and began thrashing for air as I started to black out. His cock was so big I wasn't even gagging or trying to bite; my mouth and throat were stretched too far. I think this time I actually passed out on his cock, because when I came to seconds later, only the knob of his cockhead was in my mouth, along with the taste of bile from where I'd gagged. I could hear Brandon laughing above me, but couldn't look up due to the vise grip of his hands on my head. He plunged his cock back down my throat until I passed out again. He was obviously enjoying my fight for air and the spasms my throat made on his cock as I gagged and heaved. He repeated this process four or five times, each time waiting for me to regain consciousness before choking me again. I was certain I was going to die on his dick, or at least throw up all over him, which would probably result in being beaten to death. Neither happened, but the last time I came to, I could taste vomit in my mouth, mixed with the taste of Brandon's precum.
"Fuck yeah, bitch! Eat my load, you stupid fag!" Brandon growled, pulling his cock out of my throat until just the head was in my mouth, stretching it wide. He shot his load of cum on my tongue, rope after rope of it, until it felt like I would drown in it. He then pulled his cockhead out of my mouth. "Show me, fuckhead," he ordered. I opened my mouth so Brandon could see his cum still coating my tongue. "Good fag," he said. "Down the hatch, bitch." I swallowed his cum, then opened my mouth again to show him it was gone.
Brandon seemed pleased. He was having a good morning, after all. He had a new place to live, breakfast cooked for him, and a nice long blowjob on demand, not to mention a foot massage. He relaxed on the couch with a contented look on his face as his cock started to soften.
I, on the other hand, was truly miserable. I had no idea how I was going to get rid of Brandon, and really couldn't tolerate him living with me, or even being around me. Plus, the asshole had eaten my breakfast, then raped my throat, which was so sore at the moment it felt like I had strep. I had the pervasive taste of his cum in my mouth, too. But there was one thing worse than all of that put together, one single fact that truly horrified me to no end.
I had an erection that wouldn't go away.
Brandon seemed to truly be turning me into his fag. From the moment he stuck his cock in my mouth and I began sucking on the massive head of it, my dick had been standing at attention against my will. Brandon noticed this as he was relaxing on the couch. He'd never cared in the least about my dick, but now it was the center of his attention. He started laughing as soon as he saw it tenting my boxers.
"Look at that little faggot dick," he laughed. "Get up and get those fucking clothes off, bitch!"
I stood up in front of him and removed my undershirt and boxers, which were what I'd slept in since I had to crash on the couch. Standing in front of Brandon naked, I was actually more fearful than I'd been the first night he raped my ass. I was totally exposed, completely vulnerable, and he was in my home. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, no place safe from him as I stood there for his inspection, my raging hardon betraying me. I was straight; I'd never been with a man before Brandon forced himself on me. I'd had a wife and kids and looked at women on a daily basis before all this started. And yet this bully, this kid who had barely passed high school, had taken control of my life. He'd raped both my mouth and my ass, fucking both holes like they were pussies, and filled me from both ends with his cum. And just now, I'd licked sweat off his feet, followed by him nearly choking me to death on his cock. Despite all that, my dick was as hard as it had ever been, throbbing and bouncing in time with my heartbeat, eager for release. No matter how much I tried to will it soft again, it stayed rigid, even when I concentrated on my hatred for Brandon and how he treated me. As Brandon looked me over with a smug sneer on his young face, I felt wave after wave of shame wash over me, and realized I was crying.
Ignoring my tears, Brandon reached out with his right hand and smacked my erection down, hard. I let out a gasp and a groan. "Look at that useless little dicklet on you, bitch. Hard to believe any woman let you put something that small insider her," he laughed. My dick was only about five inches long fully erect. Brandon grabbed his own cock, which was already soft, and waggled it at me. "See, fag, this is a real man's dick. Shit, mine's bigger soft than yours is fully hard. What a loser!" It was true, and Brandon started laughing out loud at the comparison. What shocked me, though, was that the intense shame and humiliation I was feeling wasn't making my erection go away -- it was making it even harder. My dick throbbed. I hadn't jacked off in several days, trying to recover from Brandon's abuse of my mouth and ass. I was intensely horny. I hated that I was so turned on by his bullying and abuse, and even more turned on my by own shame.
Brandon reached out his thumb and forefinger and flicked me hard on the very tip of my dick. The pain was intense, and it was one humiliation too many. I felt my dick explode from his painful touch, and I shot my load all over the floor as a massive orgasm wracked my body.
Brandon started laughing as soon as I began to cum and didn't stop until I had caught my breath. He apparently thought it was hilarious. "Fuck, bitch, I wish I had that one video!" he laughed. "That was the most pathetic thing I've ever seen. Well, don't just stand there, stupid, lick that shit up. Or do I need to teach you another lesson?", he added with a note of menace.
I sighed, then dropped to my knees. Eating Brandon's cum was horrible; licking my own shameful load off the floor while he watched was even worse. I quickly lapped up every drop, including a few which landed on Brandon's feet, all the while listening to him continue to laugh while standing over me. Once I was certain it was all cleaned up, I stood back up, only to discover Brandon had been recording the whole thing on his cell phone.
"OK faggot, listen up," Brandon said. "Here's the deal. I'm going to take a shower, then head over to my house and get some more of my stuff before that bitch throws it out in the yard. Take my bag over there into my bedroom and put my stuff away neatly. Hang it up and put it in drawers and shit. That's my bedroom now, and my bed. Got it?"
"But...but, Sir, where am I supposed to sleep? This is my apartment. You can't expect me to sleep on the couch!" I protested.
"I do, and you will, faggot, unless you want me to send your ex-wife and kids copies of your little video from just now. You better be glad I'm even allowing you to sleep on the couch and not making you sleep on the floor where you belong. And get this through your stupid head, faggot: this is MY apartment. That's MY bed, and you are MY bitch. I make the decisions, and you obey, or I'll beat the fuck out of you some more. Questions about that, fuckhole?"
"No, Sir," I sighed.
"Good," Brandon said. "Now you're learning your place, bitch. What are you forgetting, though?"
I thought hard, and it finally occurred to me, just as I could see Brandon starting to get angry at my failure. I immediately dropped to my knees and kissed both of his bare feet.
"Thank you for your cum, Sir," I said.
Brandon gave no acknowledgement, but also didn't hit me. He turned and walked off, and I heard the shower start. I pulled on my boxers and undershirt and grabbed his very heavy duffel bag and lugged it to what was once my bedroom. I had to move a bunch of my clothes in order to make room for Brandon's stuff in the closet and the dresser. I piled my clothes up in the corner the best I could, then neatly folded and hung his clothes. He'd left the bed a mess, so I made the bed up, too, and generally straightened up my bedroom...no, his new bedroom, I guess it was now.
Brandon finished his shower and came into the bedroom. I showed him where I'd put his things and got a terse nod of approval. Then he reached over and grabbed my undershirt in his powerful hands and ripped it in half. He pulled it off of me, then did the same thing to my boxers, leaving me once again naked and fully exposed.
"Faggots don't get to wear clothes in the house, cunt. Remember that or I'll rip them off of you just like that," Brandon stated matter-of-factly. "Now get out of my bedroom and go clean up the rest of this place. I want it presentable when I get back."
I looked down at the tattered remains of my underclothes, then walked out of the room in shame. I started cleaning the kitchen, my nudity a constant reminder that I was no longer allowed to make choices, even in my own home.
After Brandon dressed, he walked out the door without locking it. I heard him drive away. As soon as he did, I made sure to lock the deadbolt on the door. Hopefully, that would bring an end to this. He'd return and find himself locked out, and he'd get the message this charade was over. I was standing up for myself at last. I then went in the bedroom and got some of my clothes from the pile I'd made in the corner. I got dressed, then finished cleaning the apartment, which, Brandon's orders notwithstanding, really did need a good scrubbing.
I felt proud of myself for finally deciding enough was enough with Brandon. Something was weighing on my mind, though, nagging at me just below the level of consciousness. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I was prepared for a confrontation when he returned, but at least I'd have a nice, solid metal door between us when it happened. I'd worry about what happened at work later. First, I had to get this damn bully out of my home!
I was cleaning up the last of the dishes in the kitchen when I saw Brandon's truck pull into the parking lot. The thing nagging at the back of my brain suddenly burst to the forefront of my mind, clear as a bell: he has a key! Of course he does, I suddenly realized. He had to have one, or he wouldn't have gotten inside in the first place. I'd been so concerned with why he was in my apartment, I'd never given much thought as to how he got in. There wasn't any forced entry, and I'm very diligent about always locking the door. So, he had a key. He must have made one when he took my keyring the night before in order to make sure I stayed at the job site.
This sudden realization, mere seconds before Brandon was about to walk in, changed the equation completely. He was going to use his key to walk right back in like he owned the place and see me wearing clothes in violation of his direct orders. Suddenly, I wasn't set for a confrontation, but bracing for a beating. I practically tore off my clothes as quickly as I could and hid them under the sink so he wouldn't know I'd been wearing them. Hopefully, he was in a good mood.
But I couldn't be so lucky. He came in, using a key to unlock the deadbolt, just as I predicted. He saw me naked at the sink and practically barked at me.
"Faggot! Get over here!"
I rushed over and knelt at his feet. He was wearing an old pair of dirty white Nike Airs, and I kissed the tops of both of them respectfully.
"That's better, bitch. Rules are the same here as at work. If I walk into the room, you better hit your knees and kiss my feet to show proper respect, got it?"
Yes, Sir," I replied.
"Good," he said. "Now, throw on some clothes and go get my shit out of my truck and bring it in. Put it away in my bedroom."
I grabbed some shorts and a shirt from the bedroom and went outside to Brandon's truck. I lugged several boxes and a couple of bags of his stuff back inside, then sorted the clothes and put them away. From the amount of stuff he brought, it seemed Brandon was serious about moving in. I had to completely remove all my things from the bedroom closet and dresser in order to accommodate his belongings. The bedroom was now really and truly his, with my stuff either piled in a corner or stuffed away in the small linen closet.
When I finished moving Brandon's things, I returned to the living room, where he was sitting on the couch with the TV remote in one hand, his cell in the other. He was idly flipping through the channels.
"Get over here and get my shoes and socks off, queerboy. I want my feet licked," he said.
I knelt and removed his Nikes and peeled off his white ankle socks, then started licking his feet. Brandon's feet were pungent and damp with sweat, and I recoiled from having to lick his sweaty feet again, but knew I'd pay a painful price if I didn't obey, so I began sucking his toes.
Above me, Brandon started making some phone calls while I cleaned his feet with my tongue. Little did I know how those calls would change my life.
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Please contact me at jeffhamby1025@gmail.com