I wanted to tell of another afternoon and early evening of fun with at Mr. Rahmed the Pakistani corner shop keeper I worked for and then fucked with, I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 16, still in high school, and I’d been working part-time there for a few months to earn some extra cash as I have already explained in chapters in my ‘Teen Days’ experiences. The shop was this cramped little place on the edge of town, shelves stacked high with jars of lentils, bags of basmati rice, and a healthy newsagent section with top shelf magazines, which he loved looking at with me.

Mr. Rahmed, the owner, was in his early 60s, a heavy-built man with a broad chest and a protruding belly, his arms thick and hairy, skin darkened from years under the sun. His face was round, with a salt-and-pepper mustache that twitched when he smiled, and eyes that always lingered on me too long.

From my very first shift, he’d been flirting—sliding extra sweets my way with a wink, calling me ‘beautiful girl’ in his thick accent, his rough palms brushing my waist as he showed me how to stack the shelves. It hadn’t taken long for those touches to turn into something more. A week in, he’d cornered me behind the counter during a slow afternoon, his hand slipping under my skirt to squeeze my thigh, whispering how soft my skin was. By the end of that month, we’d crossed the line, fucking in the dim back room after hours, his weight pinning me down as he thrust into me with grunts of satisfaction. Since then, our secret had grown bolder, his hands claiming me whenever the shop allowed.

That day, I arrived straight from school, my uniform crisp and proper: the grey pleated skirt swishing against my legs as I walked, stopping just above my knees; a white blouse buttoned to the collar, tucked neatly into the waistband; my school tie knotted in a perfect knot; the navy blazer draped over my shoulders; white knee-high socks hugging my calves; and polished black leather shoes clicking on the pavement. The after-school crowd was already filtering in—teenagers snatching up fizzy drinks and chocolate bars, elderly neighbours chatting about the weather while picking through the vegetable bins. Mr. Rahmed spotted me the moment I pushed through the door, his gaze raking over my body like he was appraising fresh stock. ‘Ah, my favourite little slut,’ he whispered to me, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder as I shrugged off my backpack. His fingers lingered, sliding down my arm to squeeze lightly, then lower, brushing the side of my breast through the blazer before pulling away with a chuckle. ‘Fuck, look at you in that tight uniform. Makes my cock twitch just seeing those perky tits bounce.’

I felt a familiar heat flush my cheeks, but I smiled, tying on my apron and getting to work, my pussy already starting to throb from his dirty words. The fondling started almost immediately, subtle at first but building with the rhythm of the shop.

I was restocking the crisp aisle, bending at the waist to slide packets onto the lower shelves, my skirt riding up just enough to expose the backs of my thighs. He appeared behind me like a shadow, his bulk blocking the light as he reached past me for a box on a higher shelf. But instead of grabbing it, his hand dropped to my hip, fingers digging into the fabric of my skirt, kneading the curve of my ass cheek firmly. ‘Careful, you little tease, don’t strain that tight ass,’ he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, breath warm against my ear. His palm flattened, sliding inward to cup my entire buttock, squeezing hard enough that I felt the pressure through to my skin. ‘Shit, feel how fucking soft this is. I’ve been dreaming of groping this all day, you dirty schoolgirl.’