Can you write a fem reader x Shtopor or Postal 3 dude please I beg of thee It can be NSFW or SFW I won’t mind
Snowed In (FemReader X Shtopor)
Fandom: Postal (Corkscrew Rules)
Credit: Shtopor art belongs to @stealyourmeal
Relationship: Shtopor/Female Reader
Warnings: NSFW, Dubious Consent Elements, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, Light Bondage, PIV Sex, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Toxic Dynamics
Tags: postal dude x reader, Enemies to Lovers, Size Kink, Hate Sex, Snowed In, Postal Fanfic, Corkscrew Rules, NSFW, Rough Sex, Minimum Aftercare, Dark Humor, Reader POV, No Use of Y/N, Dude is an Asshole, Penis in Vagina Sex, Russian Winter Setting, Second Person POV
Author's Notes: Inspired by a Tumblr request—since I've already written one with the Dude from Postal 3, I went with Shtopor this time. Hope you enjoy the chaos! ♡
Summary: You're a rookie photographer struggling to find a decent job to pay your debts and rent, so you accept a gig as a camerawoman at an adult film company. At the end of your first year, they decide to make a special Christmas film with infamous Russian actor.
Why would a town in the interior of Russia have an airport? Good question. But you had overdue bills screaming in your ear, and a three-month salary in the form of a camera hugged against your chest.
Working on the production of a Russian porn film in a lost little town was what was left for a beginner photographer like you. A bit soul-crushing for someone who dreamed about working in weddings.
That plane looked like scrap from a bus with wings, every gust making the thing shake. You didn't even feel safe leaving the equipment in the luggage compartment, but the promise of a fat paycheck, enough to ease your debts, reassured you enough to board that winged trap. Hugging the bag with the camera and taking deep breaths was the only way to stay calm; there was nothing to look at through the window besides endless snow and a gray sky.
The calmness of the rest of the team irritated you. Ashley and Pamela gossiped about the lead actor, Shtopor, oblivious to the chaos. Ashley commented on the size of Shtopor's "piece," laughing as she wrapped her scarf tighter. The Director snored, carefree.
You and the team were briefly greeted at the airport by a woman you judged to be Shtopor's assistant, Zhenya. She guided the group to an inn with stained carpet and the smell of cheap cigarettes mixed with artificial pine from the Christmas decorations — just to drop off the bags and head straight to the studio. Filming started right on the day of arrival.
The path to the cabin allowed a glimpse of the town of Muhosransk. Streets covered in dirty snow, old cars skidding, half-faded Cyrillic signs, a smell of diesel and fresh bread — the numerous worn-out posters in the streets added a further touch of decay. It was also odd the number of police officers on the streets, standing in groups, smoking and looking at everything with suspicion.
Upon checking the equipment when arriving at the cabin, you couldn't help but notice how strangely cozy the atmosphere of the cabin was: cheap plastic garlands hanging on the wooden walls and lights flashing out of sync, as if Santa Claus had given up halfway through.
As time passed, the lack of staff caught your attention. Just your group and Zhenya so far. When one of the girls knocked something over, the Russian woman pointed to the cleaning supplies while looking at you. ‘You take care of that.’
Keeping the cabin tidy plus the camerawork? That explained your raise.
You swallow the frustration and do a light cleaning. It wasn't the first time you had to act outside the assigned function, but this time the paycheck was worth it. The promised salary echoed in your head like a mantra while you held the broom.
After cleaning, you start preparing the filming equipment. With the tripod well set up and at the right height, you grab the camera and start checking the lens to make sure the image would be sharp. And your concern was valid; the lens had visible fingerprints.
You grab the microfiber cloth and look for a well-lit corner, next to the Director who was evaluating the covers Zhenya had in hand. All with tacky designs and a jumble of words: “Deep throat queen,” “Kitty Milf,” and others you didn't understand. A weird mix of English and Russian.
While prying, the lead actor appears: a man with an aggressive and intimidating appearance. Short reddish hair and goatee, wearing reddish dark sunglasses. His body is very muscular, with well-defined arms and shoulders; he wears a striped tank top, quite worn, but tight enough to highlight his physique. It was easy to understand Shtopor's fame; it wasn't just about his size, he was handsome in a raw way.
The Director called out to Shtopor as if they were old friends. He approached with a serious expression, contrasting with the Director's friendly smile. The conversation started professionally; you didn't pay much attention. Your interest was now focused on looking at the set, thinking about how to work with it — a genuine effort to do a good job — while slowly cleaning the lens.
You didn't notice when the conversation became more heated. Shtopor began pacing back and forth, gesturing aggressively. In a quick movement, his hand brushes against yours. The lens slips from your hands, spins dramatically in the air, and lands glass-side down.
You wanted to scream. It was clearly scratched. And worse, the Director didn't spare curses and yells for damaging company equipment; there went a chunk of your paycheck. Between his curses, you mention that you were careful enough to bring another lens with you and that you'd fetch it from the inn right now.
The town was confusing; it was a mistake to run out. You got lost in the corners until you reach the inn, and the same happens when you return to the cabin that served as the studio.
50 minutes late. When you returned, everyone's stares burned your back; you try to calm down so your hands don't shake.
'Don't fuck up! Don't fuck up! Don't fuck up! Don't fuck up! Don't fuck up!'
Your head pounded as you checked the equipment and the image quality. Your back still burned, and while you checked the new lens, your thoughts wandered… It wasn't entirely your fault... Everyone saw Shtopor gesturing like an animal; It wasn't fair you got chewed out like that…
You could already feel the exhaustion of two weeks of filming and cleaning on your back, and it felt worse knowing you'd have money deducted thanks to the damaged equipment. You thought of all the bad jobs you'd endured before: stuck-up actors on commercial sets, demanding perfect coffee while you ran with heavy equipment, and you always taking the blame for accidents that weren't just yours, to just hear a ‘my bad’ later; this injustice never sat well with you.
A masculine voice comes from behind you; it was Shtopor. He had a serious look and his voice was drawled; a cigarette was between his lips.
"No. The camera and tripod were already set up"
"Good, because I'm not waiting another eternity for a new lens. Try not to break anything again" He pauses to take a drag on the cigarette. “And I need my dressing room clean” he added, exhaling the smoke right in your face, as if talking to you was a favor.
Nothing more. Not even a ‘my bad’.
And he had the audacity to tell you not to break anything, as if that fucker wasn't just as guilty as you. You sweated cold getting chewed out in front of everyone, he remained untouched, like every fucking shit head actor.
A petty rage burned in your chest: the audacity to play boss! You'd worked with people like that before, but Shtopor managed to be the worst of them before filming even started. Your spirit was already at its limit with the financial pressure and constant humiliation in this shitty job for months; Shtopor's assholery seemed to be the last straw.
While the director gave orders to Pamela, Ashley, and Shtopor, you thought about how you could at least bite back. Your bills needed to be paid, and you needed to get back home; you couldn't throw it all away. Your retaliation needed to be silent, for the sake of your sanity you needed to strike back somehow. But... what if it went wrong?
The director was lenient, lazy even, approving angles without much questioning, focused only on the girls like it was a private show for him, but if he noticed something, he could send you packing. It is worth the risk? You hesitated, looking at the camera.
Yes, it was. At least once, you wouldn't accept the humiliation quietly.
The first scene didn't have much to do; classic plumber asking for a glass of water while eyeing the housewife's breasts. You take advantage of the scene to look more closely at Shtopor through the lens... Prominent chin... Broken nose... Narrow eyes… All the lessons on angles and composition run through your mind, and your first little revenge against Shtopor was plotted.
In the second scene, you were already executing your little plan. A perfect angle; you signaled to the director that you'd get closer. In the scene, Shtopor would come up behind Ashley, unbuttoning her shirt and exposing the actress's huge pair of breasts. With each button, you lowered the angle, giving full focus to Ashley's expressions and breasts, reducing the redhead to just a figure over her shoulder with flared nostrils like an angry bull, his broken nose bridge highlighted like a design flaw.
Thanks to his height; it was very easy to distort the perspective and composition of the image. Even being a handsome man, in that damned angle, the perception of his face proportions was totally unfavorable.
And you didn't limit yourself to just that, oh no.
It was two weeks of filming, and in the first three days of shooting, you outdid yourself; every comment or presumptuous attitude against you during breaks was retaliated during filming. One day it was the angle, the next the lights; on the second day, you even managed to give the impression that Shtopor had a mediocre performance—you adjusted the reflectors to shine right in his eyes, making him blink and frown, even disorienting him a bit. A small bite back for him sending you to town to buy food for him while the temperature was freezing.
Pamela noticed, giving a discreet chuckle when she saw you adjusting the reflector. You just smiled, feigning innocence.
The director applauded your effort in highlighting the actresses' bodies; maybe because he was a pervert, every breast bounce got a whistle from him during footage reviews.
Now it was the end of the third day, another review. A scene where you managed to reduce a man with a huge dick to a mere extra in the scene. That was truly the cherry on top so far. The focus and lights were totally on how Pamela's ass bounced with each thrust. Shtopor was just the hands; the actor could be swapped and it would remain the same.
A cough beside you reminds you that it wasn't just you and the director reviewing the footage as usual. Zhenya, with a very sharp and unpleasant look, was on the other side of the director.
"That’s not right" she says with a heavy accent, pointing at the screen with an accusatory finger "The next shoots can't continue like this. Shtopor barely appears in the images, and when he does, you can't even see his dick properly!"
The director scratches his chin, his eyes still fixed on the screen where Pamela's breasts bounced. The focus on the girls was too good; undeniable quality of your work. The director hesitates, murmuring: "Well, the material is great, girls hot as hell... But yeah, Shtopor needs to shine more, right? We didn't come all the way here for some random guy"
To defend yourself, you respond with a forced smile, your professional tone grinding through your teeth: "The scenes have rhythm and are very well choreographed" The director nods at the praise "Shtopor may have a huge dick, but there's not much to do if his performance doesn't help... Especially penetration scenes; it's not like you can highlight the size that much..." A clear lie; the belly bulge was fucking visible, but you made sure to not capture that on camera "I can't work miracles if the guy is... mediocre"
Zhenya narrows her eyes, crossing her arms with an irritated huff. "Mediocre? That's a beginner's excuse. His dick is the star; make it appear properly tomorrow" She turns her back to leave “Don't forget to clean the roof!” Zhenya shouts before slamming the door; you ignore the last part, it was too damn cold.
The director shrugs, still scratching his chin. "She's right about Shtopor, but... damn, the girls looked great. Keep it up, but balance it a bit"
Inside you, a sadistic little voice celebrated; it wasn't like Zhenya could do anything besides complain. Your mood was so good that you were humming while tidying up the cabin at the end of the day.
The next day, snow fell softly; it was still a bit dark when you left the inn. Your heart had calmed after three days of roasting the redhead in the footage, so you allowed yourself the small luxury of contemplating the town.
Even amid the chaos it radiated, cars skidding on dirty snow, distant engines coughing, you focused on the falling flakes, trying to ignore the anxiety still bubbling underneath. Bills to pay wouldn’t let your mind rest.
Opening the studio was a tedious task: arriving much earlier than everyone else so everything would be organized and clean for filming to start quickly. You cleaned diligently—swept, dusted, adjusted the Christmas decorations, positioned the camera and tripod.
Sitting on the sofa, you tried to call Ashley or Pamela, but in that godforsaken place there was no signal. All that remained was playing on your phone while waiting for the team to arrive.
The wind howled outside as if the whole town had frozen solid. The cabin felt smaller, more suffocating; the smell of old cigarettes made you restless. Time passed. You huddled tighter, the temperature dropping lower, the wind growing stronger. You checked the clock: almost 11:00.
At 11:30, the door opened. You expected the girls with the director, or maybe Zhenya.
He had a grumpy expression, shook snow from his boots as he entered, flakes tumbling from his broad shoulders. A faint smell of weak vodka hung in the air. You stayed quiet and tried to return to your game.
“You see anyone besides me?”
He grumbled something low before speaking again.
“Besides sabotage, now you want to play the smartass too?”
“Sabotage you?” You played the innocent card. “I did the best I could. Your colleague must have already told you about yesterday’s talk. I can’t work miracles.”
Shtopor approached—not just standing in front of you, but bending down to be face-to-face.
“Don’t play dumb!” he growled irritably. His hot breath hit your face directly, a sharp contrast to the cold seeping through the cabin’s cracks.
“I don’t need to,” you countered, even though the proximity cornered you, your heart racing with anger.
He pulled away, muttering what sounded like another curse, and headed to one of the cabin’s rooms.
The team arrived at noon. Ashley and Pamela came in complaining about the cold: “This snow is gonna kill me, I swear,” Ashley said, shaking her coat. The scene was more chaotic than usual as things got set up for filming.
When filming was about to start, you felt Shtopor’s presence behind you. You didn’t turn when he called; a firm hand spun your body abruptly.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, camerawoman.” He was already pissed. Of course he wouldn’t remember your name. You took a step back to meet his face, his hand still gripping your shoulder. “Zhenya will be watching you closely during filming from now on.”
She waved from behind him. He glared at you one last time before entering the set, waiting for any retort.
It was… nerve-wracking. Zhenya made a point to poke you whenever you tried to make things less favorable for Shtopor—a pinch on the arm here, a dry whisper there. And it was worse when a scene could highlight his performance more; she went so far as to push you lightly to adjust the angle. To avoid jeopardizing the recording, you complied… but each poke burned, reminding you that your job always hung by a thread. Worse: you felt trapped and stupid; your little revenge had turned into that woman breathing down your neck.
You adjusted the camera once more, feeling Zhenya’s gaze burning your nape like a constant reminder. Focusing on the dick of a man you hated so much made your blood boil—worse was focusing on it through the lens. He sat there all powerful, one arm lazily resting on the armchair, the other holding Ashley’s hair while she made that huge thing disappear in her mouth.
Your anger remained intact—for every rude gesture, every look that made you feel small in this shitty place. He made you want to break everything in this damn set. But… your mind wandered.
Looking at his biceps, at his cheeky expression, at his hands… You shook your head, squeezed your eyes shut. It was just exhaustion talking; the days of cleaning and humiliation leaving you vulnerable. You weren’t going to give in just because he was hot. Still, your eyes betrayed you, drifting back to him.
You left the camera in a position where Zhenya left you alone and tried to focus on something else. A feline curiosity, treacherous, imagining what it would be like if it were you there, choking or not… Why the hell now? He’s an asshole, you reminded yourself, but your mind betrays you. No, it’s the cold messing with your head, the isolation turning everything upside down. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms—anything to snap out of it. But the heat building between your legs said otherwise, a traitorous warmth that made you hate yourself almost as much as you hated him.
A choking sound caught your attention. Your eyes widened… Ashley choking?
You looked at the scene again, not through the camera lens. Ashley coughed saliva, teary-eyed, trying to compose herself… The redhead held her hair lazily, huge dick throbbing against her lips.
Shtopor… He smiled in a sly way. Not at the camera—any cheap actor knew you should never look at the camera. Shtopor smiled at you, narrow eyes, sly smile, as if he knew exactly what was going through your dirty mind.
Your gaze dropped, which seemed to stroke the guy’s arrogance even more. That thing… fuck, Ashley was the ‘Deep Throat Queen’ and without even moving his hips, he managed to choke her. In the previous days, your mission to burn him hadn’t allowed attention, but now… you wished to see more without lenses.
He’s a son of a bitch, a presumptuous idiot who treated you like trash from day one, blowing smoke in your face, ordering you to clean his dressing room. But here you were, imagining what it would be like if it were your mouth there, swallowing it all, feeling the throb against your tongue. Was it the stress of debts driving you crazy? The isolation of this frozen town, where everything smelled like cigarettes and failure? You bit the dead skin on your lips, trying to refocus, but the image persisted, an internal war that left your stomach churning and your body hot.
It seemed you'd become a hostage to Shtopor and Zhenya for the rest of the first week of filming. He appeared determined to make you pay for calling him mediocre.
The fear of the Director starting to question your skills stung. On the fifth day of filming, the Director showered the redhead with praises during the review. On the sixth day, you were asked to leave your chair for Shtopor to watch the day's footage.
You leaned against the wall, apprehensive: is this how you'd lose your job? Because of petty anger?
The sounds of moans from the footage were interrupted only by the Director's praises, then by the cut voice. The filming stopped. Footsteps headed to the door, then nothing more. Alone in that studio again, you started cleaning the set surfaces with alcohol while lamenting silently—whether from the cold or the idea of being reprimanded again.
You shared the inn room with Ashley and Pamela; it was even nice at first to have time alone, but on that specific day, you'd kill for your bed right now, even if it meant tolerating the two talking until late.
It was dark when the door opened again. It was Shtopor. You lowered your head and went back to cleaning, a bitter taste in your mouth. He kicked the door and slammed it shut with equal force; this time, you even heard something that sounded like ice cracking. He went to the camera and took the memory card with the day's footage. Before you could protest, he said:
You opened your mouth to say something, but outside, a loud boom interrupted you. Shtopor turned his head abruptly, practically flying to the door.
"You didn't clear the snow from the roof?" Shtopor asked, forcing his weight against the door. You stayed quiet. "You're responsible for taking care of the cabin!" He cursed before trying again to force the door open.
The cabin seemed to get colder. You checked your phone again: no signal. Despair and cold assailed you. Probably without a job when you got back home, burned in the lowest and easiest branch to enter possible, and now trapped.
Shtopor grumbled more things you didn't understand. He threw his coat in your direction. "They'll notice I'm taking too long… But the thermal insulation isn't that good for this much snow."
You only nodded and covered yourself with the coat. He sat beside you on the sofa and remained quiet. And you both waited, staring at the digital clock on the wall.
It was 23:00 when you felt tears leave your eyes. Your fingers grew more numb, your chest heavier. You could only hear the wind outside. A horrifying image of your fingers turning purple from the cold started running through your mind. You tried calling Ashley and Pamela, only for your phone to not even start the call.
You couldn’t hold back your cry after the failed call. Even pressing your face against your palms, your sobs were loud.
Shtopor moved beside you; he huffed before pulling you close like you were a pillow. His hand landed on the top of your head, fingers buried in your hair firmly. No gentleness; it was like he was trying to calm a nervous animal.
Somehow, that made everything worse. Your sobs only grew louder.
Your mind started racing again. It was a strange kind of kindness, coming from someone like him. You replayed your last interactions—the sharp words, the constant tension.
‘Did he really cause the lens incident?’
The doubt bubbled up, unwanted. And for the first time in days, you looked at him without leaning on your anger.
You thought about the cigarettes. Always there. The smell of alcohol on his breath, even early in the morning. The dark circles. You’d always used that as proof to yourself that he was not worth caring about. Now it was harder to do that.
You both were replaceable. It was obvious that he wasn’t coming out of this any better than you were—another cog in this sleazy machine, grinding away just like you. But admitting that felt like betrayal, like letting him off the hook for all the bullshit. Still, the guilt crept in, mixing with the cold, making you question if your anger was all justified or just a shield.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” you whispered, wiping your face with the back of your hand. You hated that it was him holding you. You hated even more that you needed it.
He froze for a second. The silence stretched. You could feel his chest rising and falling under your cheek—slow, controlled.
“It’s easy to lose your head when you’re mediocre.”
The sarcasm was still there, but it sounded tired. That, more than the insult, hurt.
You hated him. But there, in the cold, with his body warm against yours, you couldn’t stop thinking that he was just another product of the same place that was slowly grinding you down too.
Even with his sarcastic voice, there was no real venom. And that pity he had for you stung. You should hate him. But there, in the cold, with his body warm against yours... It was hard to keep so much hate.
He adjusted you on the sofa again, pulling you closer; now he had an arm around you. The heat was comforting. Your head rested against his torso, allowing you to hear his heartbeat—a steady, rhythmic pace.
"You know... in Muhosransk, we have a saying," Shtopor grumbled, voice drawled and sarcastic. "When it snows, even wolves share the den. Not because they like each other... just because they're smart. Otherwise, they freeze to death like idiots."
He shifted slightly, his arm tightening around you like a heavy fur coat. The smell of vodka on his breath was faint now, leaving just tobacco and a tone of mockery.
"...You're not so bad. For a mediocre camerawoman." A grunt that could be a laugh escaped him. "Stop the drama, huh? I'll kill the snow later. With my bare hands, if needed. Now shut up."
You huffed in frustration but laughed at the nonsense and his fake accent; your eyes burned, but no more tears. He seemed satisfied with himself for getting a laugh out of you and squeezed your shoulder.
"Good, good..." he said, sounding almost proud.
You both settled into a comfortable silence. The proximity was becoming strangely comforting. The steady beats of his heart under your cheek and the heat he emanated were making you want to sleep.
"Why are you being nice to me?" Your voice was low and sleepy.
He shrugged as if the answer was obvious, the movement nudging you lightly.
"Why not? We're stuck here. Can't let the camerawoman freeze to death, right?"
His hand continued to slide absentmindedly through your hair. The movement was almost distracted. Finally, he sighed, and you felt his chin rest on the top of your head.
"You're tired, aren't you?" His voice was a low murmur. His hand was still in your hair, and his body shifted again to hug you a bit tighter.
"Then shut up and sleep," he murmured, with his chin still resting on the top of your head.
He adjusted a bit, pulling you closer until most of your body was almost on top of his. One of his legs moved to fit between yours; you now felt surrounded by him. So much contact left you a bit... shy... The heat was so good... Too good.
He must have noticed how you stiffened, because he gave a soft chuckle, the deep rumble making your chest flutter.
"It's just thermoregulation, relax."
With a sigh, he shifted again, this time adjusting your whole body so you were sitting on his lap. Then, he wrapped his arms around you, pressing your head against his chest.
Your face grew hotter, and your mind started spinning.
He let out a low, husky laugh against your hair. "Don't be so dramatic; it's just social thermoregulation. In Russia, we call it Zvezda Vyzhivaniya... Star of Survival. It's pure biology, I swear." His voice dropped an octave. "Unless you're afraid to see a legendary dick? Ah, wait, you've already seen it on set."
You could feel his smile more than see it, that arrogant and irritatingly warm energy emanating from him, despite the cold cabin you were in.
He seemed to sense the shift in your mood, like a tiger sensing prey. One of his hands moved, sliding down your spine and stopping at your nape, fingers massaging the sensitive area firmly.
His voice was a low murmur in your ear. "You're shaking. Is the little camerawoman scared?" The words were mocking, and the touch was exactly that: mockery incarnate.
His other hand started to move, drawing lazy circles on your thigh, then sliding inward. A sigh escaped your lips in response; you bit the inside of your cheek to muffle it. His thumb brushed back and forth on your inner thigh, the touch irritatingly light. You could feel his smile against your ear now, a knowing and amused grin.
The hand on your nape rose, sliding through your hair, fingers grabbing a handful of strands and pulling your head back firmly, exposing your neck to him.
"It's cold," you replied softly, frustration evident.
He laughed again, a low rumble in his chest. His thumb still traced lazy circles on your thigh, climbing higher each time.
"Just the cold, huh?" He repeated, tightening his grip on your hair a bit more and tilting your head back, exposing more of your throat. "You're shaking like a leaf." His voice was a purr. "I don't think it's just the cold."
You felt his hot breath on your neck before his lips touched your skin. His mouth moved slowly and deliberately, as if savoring each motion. He traced a line of hot, wet kisses along your throat.
The hand on your thigh slid up, his thumb now dangerously close to the sensitive skin between your legs.
His lips were surprisingly soft, delicately tracing a path along the sensitive skin of your neck. Holding your hair, he had total control, tilting your head as he advanced, exposing every inch of your neck's skin. You hated how much you liked it. Hated him. But not enough to stop.
You melted between his kisses and caresses, your thighs parting at the command of his hand. He undid the button and zipper of your pants and groped your vulva.
Sighs left your lips as he explored the area, long and thick fingers poking your clit like a button, tracing the outline of your inner lips. Shtopor eagerly explored your intimacy; he inserted a finger when he passed your wet entrance.
A moan would have left your lips if not for him turning your head. Still with his other hand holding the root of your hair, he brushed his lips against yours, delighting in your eagerness for contact. His finger inside you went in and out very slowly. You complained softly, desperate for more intimate contact.
He took your mouth with total control, tongue dictating the rhythm while two thick fingers went in and out slowly, then faster; wet sounds filling the silence.
"Please..." You begged against his lips, digging your nails into his arm to pull him closer.
"Patience, woman... Or do you want me to stop and leave you freezing alone?" He threatened, pausing his fingers just to see you huff.
His index and middle fingers went in and out easily from your pussy, making wet sounds. His thumb found your clit in quick, precise circles. You came undone in seconds, body convulsing, muscles locking, but he held you firmly by the nape, not letting you escape. You could already feel how soaked you were; there was practically no friction anymore, his fingers sliding like butter in and out.
"Shtopor... Please, I want you," you whimpered against his neck, biting his earlobe.
He sighed, maybe a bit annoyed.
"You've seen the size, krasotka... It's not for just anyone to handle without crying."
He stopped for a second, removed your pants and panties, and guided you to sit on top of him, one leg on each side.
Shtopor held your hair by your nape again and turned his full attention to your clit. Quick and precise up-and-down movements; the wet sounds from your intimacy grew louder.
Your back arched as your pussy grew more sensitive. You sobbed with pleasure and convulsed, but he held you firmly by the hair. The tension started to build; your heart raced, your cheeks heated up. Your legs shook and trembled even more, until your orgasm arrived.
He held you in place; you complained—your desire was just to lie to the side—but he had other plans. He licked his fingers before opening his own pants.
His dick was hard and throbbing, fully ready, but you questioned if you could handle it inside you.
He adjusted your hips; your legs trembled with anticipation. When you felt the head, your body straightened. He huffed impatiently; Shtopor kissed your neck while guiding your hips down further.
You strived to stay relaxed while taking his member inside you. The beginning was a wonderful sensation, thanks to how lubricated you were. Your pussy throbbed with pleasure. He grunted low in your ear, seeming to enjoy the sensation as much as you.
But it seemed endless; there was still more and more for you to take.
You couldn't say, but soon you started moaning loudly; the head of his dick was already pushing against your cervix, but still more and more of him entered.
"I can't take it," you complained.
"Shhhh… hold on, camerawoman. You asked for this."
After a few more torturous minutes, you could affirm that your insides had been rearranged. It was possible to see a bulge in your belly just like it was possible to see in Pamela's belly.
He stopped for a while, letting you adjust; kisses traced your neck and collar—possessive, not gentle. When you relaxed minimally, Shtopor started giving small upward thrusts.
"No! No!" You screamed. "It's hurting me; not like this. Please!"
He nodded, but with an intense look. He guided your hands so you hugged him. Holding you while he stood from the sofa, he stayed inside you. The discomfort from the previous thrusts remained, but the feeling of being so full was wonderful.
Lying on the sofa, the worn fabric chilled your back, but his body covered you like a furnace. You looked at Shtopor adjusting on top of you—what a sight. His biceps caught your attention; the shadows from the dim light highlighted his muscles well.
When Shtopor started moving his hips, you held your breath and bit your lips. How did Pamela and Ashley handle this?
"Alright, now hold still quietly; I know you like it."
He said arrogantly. You adjusted beneath him, intertwining your legs on his back. An unspoken 'Don't get cocky,' and you pushed your hips up in challenge, making him grunt. He gave you reasons to be so full of himself.
As he established a rhythm, it became harder to keep your moans low; you bit your lip until it hurt when he hit your cervix repeatedly while your hips moved on their own, seeking more. Your fingers, still numb from the cold, found the heat of his skin, gripping his biceps hard, digging nails to mark.
One of his hands went to your belly, feeling even more the damage he was doing to you. You tried to maintain eye contact with him, but in your situation, it was even shameful; he stared fixedly, you babbled nonsense, and your eyes teared up.
Shtopor's hand rose from your belly to your breasts, squeezing, twisting, and groping your nipples. Drawing more and more scandalous moans from you. The sensations were too overwhelming. Your pussy started contracting again; another orgasm was coming; you grew more sensitive and more scandalous.
"Fuck... Too bad the camera's off."
You suddenly remembered where you were; right to your left, the camera was on the table, off, but pointing at you two on the sofa. Shtopor, happy with your surprised expression, added:
"Want to step out from backstage and join the scene with me, camerawoman?" He paused, eyeing your possibly sour expression.
"Oh, we are, front and center" He smirked, speeding up the rhythm, it was hard to keep your eyes open and not melt completely under him.
"You're out of line!" You cursed low and bit his shoulder in retaliation, which was met only with a deep grunt.
In your mix of indignation and shame from his teasing, a slap—a weak one — echoed in the cold cabin. For a second, you regretted it; then you saw his dark look and knew you'd poked the wrong wolf. His expression changed completely: more serious eyes, absolute focus.
Shtopor turned into some kind of animal; he pinned you under his weight, hips pressing yours even more against the sofa. He supported himself on his elbows, keeping his face very close to yours. His rhythm became more frantic and merciless. Your second orgasm was violent; your body stiffened, violent tremors running through every muscle, vision blurring while you dug your nails into his back, trying to anchor in the chaos. Shaky legs oscillated. You tried to match the rhythm by pushing your hips up, but he pinned you with a low huff before; you closed your eyes during your second orgasm.
"Hey, don't die now, krasotka."
Shtopor's hand shook your head gently. You blinked a few times, catching your breath.
"I just closed my eyes..."
Something hot was dripping from your pussy.
"Your lips turned pale, krasotka. Looks like you passed out." He looked attentively at your face, searching for any bad sign. "You look fine, great. Wouldn't want to cum inside a corpse. It'd be a waste—and look, this dick's already been stolen once; I don't waste."
That statement left you with several questions, but the pain between your legs and the weight of your eyelids were too much. You just wanted to curl up and sleep, and he seemed to feel the same.
After pulling out of you, he grunted, grabbed the tissue box, and cleaned himself with practical movements. You sat beside, legs trembling, picking up your pants from the floor while he cleaned between your legs without ceremony, as if it were routine.
Shtopor lay on the sofa, pulling you to lie on top of him without asking permission. He covered you both with a heavy coat. You nestled into his chest and closed your eyes, exhausted, sore, and satisfied.
End Notes/Disclaimer:
This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by the satirical universe of Postal, and the porn star aspect is used to explore themes such as power imbalances and exploitation. In real life, the pornographic industry is often predatory and oppressive: performers (mostly women) face a lot of abuse, lack of labor rights (no pension or security), and economic exploitation, with pornography reinforcing gender inequalities, normalizing sexual violence, and degrading participants. Studies and reports highlight how coercion, wage theft, and forced performances are common, with famous platforms implicated in hosting non-consensual content. Additionally, there are thousands of cases involving sex trafficking, where victims are tricked or forced into producing pornographic material, fueling demand that perpetuates exploitation. My stance is firmly against this industry, it exploits vulnerable people, romanticizes harm, and reinforces systemic misogyny. If you or someone you know needs help, seek resources such as support lines for survivors of sexual exploitation.
