Breaking The Obstacle
Shin Ryujin (ITZY) × Male Reader
Rape, Drugged, Unprotected Sex
7,008 Words
Finally, I'm really back. I'm not gonna say much, my life got sorted out (at last).
So, I will be able to dedicate more time to managing this account. I truly appreciate everyone who waits for me.
Thank you!
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The bass is a throb in the floor that travels up through the soles of your dress shoes and into your teeth. Strobe lights cut through the haze, illuminating glimpses of sweat-slick skin, gyrating bodies, and the glint of expensive liquor.
You lean against a pillar, the cheap fabric of your rented black suit already itching. Extra bouncer. A fancy term for a glorified coat rack with a pulse. Your job is to look big, nod at the real security, and occasionally point some coked-up finance bro toward the bathroom. It’s boring, it’s demeaning, but the cash is good and it gets you behind the velvet rope of Oblivion, a place where connections are the only currency that matters.
That’s why your brain short-circuits when you see her.
Shin Yuna. Of ITZY. Standing near a low-slung booth, looking almost lost amidst the decadence. She’s dressed down in a fire-engine red cropped shirt that shows a toned stomach, and low-rise skinny jeans.
The simplicity is a lie. On her tall, slender frame, those jeans are a fucking masterpiece, clinging to the dramatic swell of her hips and the round curve of her ass. It’s a casual outfit that screams “look at me”. And you are. Your mouth goes a little dry.
What the hell is a top-tier idol like her doing in a pit like this? Oblivion is for has-beens, low-tier actors, idols, and influencers desperate for a taste of real scandal. Not for a star shining as bright as Yuna.
Heat uncurls in your gut. Maybe she’s here for the same reason everyone else is. The unspoken rule of Oblivion: everyone is fair game. The pretense of celebrity melts away under the lights, replaced by a raw, transactional hunger. She knows what this place is. She has to. Unless she’s naive, or playing some stupid game.
You push off the pillar, smoothing your suit jacket. Your task is nothing. You have time. A smile, polite and fan-like, is plastered on your face as you approach.
“Excuse me, Miss? I’m sorry to bother you, but… are you Shin Yuna? From ITZY?”
She turns, those doe-like eyes widening slightly. A tinge of surprise, then a practiced, professional warmth. “Oh. Yes, that’s me.”
“Wow. I’m a huge fan,” you say, the lie smooth as silk. “I just had to say hello. It’s an honor to see you here.” You keep your distance, respectful.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a shy gesture that makes your dick twitch. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“Are you enjoying the atmosphere?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the writhing dance floor.
“It’s intense,” she says with a light laugh. “A little different.”
You’re about to lean in, to ask if she’d like a drink away from the noise, when a shadow falls over you. A presence, sharp and protective. Shin Ryujin slides next to Yuna, her arm a casual but definite barrier. Her gaze, when it lands on you, isn’t warm. It’s assessing, cold, and utterly dismissive.
“Everything okay here, Yuna?” Ryujin’s voice is lower and flatter than her group mate’s.
“Yes, unnie! This gentleman is a fan,” Yuna says, her voice sweet.
Ryujin doesn’t look at you like you’re a fan. She looks at you like you’re a stain on the carpet. “That’s nice. The staff usually don’t bother the guests, though.” A direct hit, delivered with a razor-thin smile.
Annoyance, hot and acidic, burns in your throat. You want to wipe that superior look off her face. You rough bitch. But you keep the mask. The good guy. The harmless fan.
“My apologies,” you say, taking a step back, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just paying my respects. I will leave you to your evening.” You offer Yuna one last smile. “Really nice to meet you.” You turn and walk back to your pillar, the pleasant smile dropping from your face the moment your back is to them.
Cockblocking cunt.
You watch them from your post. Yuna sips a cocktail, Ryujin a vigilant sentinel at her side, her eyes constantly scanning the room. The game is delayed, not over. You wait. You have nothing but time.
The opportunity comes maybe twenty minutes later. Ryujin says something to Yuna, then stands, smoothing her own skirt. She weaves through the crowd, heading toward the hall where the restrooms are. Finally.
You don’t pounce. Amateurs pounce. You just shift your stance, catching Yuna’s eye from across the room. You hold it for a second, then look away, a faint smile on your lips. You do it again a minute later. She’s alone, a little adrift. She notices.
And then, to your surprise, she’s the one walking toward you. A flutter of triumph in your chest.
“Excuse me?” Yuna says, holding out her phone. She smells like fresh roses and earthy. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I got this message from the club system? I just want to make sure I’m reading it right. My English isn’t perfect.”
You take the phone. The screen glows with a simple, stark text from Oblivion Management: Shin Yuna. Your queue is now active. Proceed to the VIP elevator for ascension to Floors 3-5. Welcome.
Fuck. VIP. Of course. She’s not just visiting; she’s been upgraded. Your chance, your little fantasy is evaporating. The VIP floors are another world, guarded by real professionals, not extras like you. The anger is sudden and violent, a white-hot spike behind your eyes. But you keep it buried.
“Congratulations,” you say, handing the phone back, your voice filled with genuine-sounding awe. “You’re a VIP now. That’s a big deal here.”
Her face lights up with a mix of confusion and excitement. “Really? Oh! I didn’t expect that.”
“It’s an honor,” you say, the words tasting like ash. You see an opening, a sliver of a chance. “It can be a maze up there. I’d be happy to guide you to the elevator, make sure you get to the right place.”
She nods, grateful. “Thank you, that would be—”
“What’s going on?”
Ryujin is back. She inserts herself between you and Yuna, her posture rigid. Her eyes dart from Yuna’s face to yours, suspicion etched into every feature.
“Unnie! I got a message. I’m a VIP now! He was just helping me understand it,” Yuna explains, showing Ryujin her phone.
Ryujin scans the message, then checks her own phone. Her brow furrows. “I didn’t get anything.”
“I can wait with you,” Yuna offers immediately, lacing her arm through Ryujin’s. “Until your queue comes up.”
“Don’t be silly,” Ryujin says, though her jaw is tight. “You should go. It’s fine. I’ll wait here.” She forces a smile for Yuna. “Go have fun. I’ll call if I need anything.”
You seize the moment, layering on a coat of false courtesy. “With your permission, Miss Ryujin,” you say, tilting your head, “I can make sure she finds the VIP elevator. Wouldn’t want her to get lost.”
You see the conflict in Ryujin’s eyes. She doesn’t trust you an inch, but causing a scene, denying Yuna her VIP access with a staff member offering help, would look bad.
She hesitates, then gives a short nod. “Fine. Straight to the elevator. No detours.” Her eyes drill into yours, a silent threat.
“Of course,” you say smoothly.
You lead Yuna through the pulsating crowd, your hand hovering near the dimple of her back without touching it. You point out the matte-black doors of the VIP elevator, manned by a guard in a far better suit than yours.
“Right through there,” you say.
Yuna turns, giving you that dazzling smile. “Thank you so much for your help. Really.”
You nod, your own smile feeling like a grimace. “My pleasure. Have a good time up there.”
She steps toward the elevator. The guard looks at you, then at his tablet. He holds up a hand, stopping you both. “Staff clearance is for the main floor and basement only. You can’t go up.”
Fucking hell. The frustration is a live wire in your veins. One obstacle after another. Your molars grind together so hard you hear the scrape. You force yourself to breathe.
Yuna looks back at you, gives an apologetic little shrug, and then the guard scans a code on her phone. The elevator doors sigh open, revealing a plush, mirrored interior. She steps inside, turns, and offers a final, small wave.
The doors slide shut, swallowing her whole. Your prey. Gone.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at your own distorted reflection in the polished black metal. The throbbing bass, the laughter, the scent of sweat and perfume—it all feels suddenly abrasive, mocking.
You exhale, a long, slow stream of air that does nothing to cool the furnace now burning in your chest. You turn on your heel and walk back to your useless post by the pillar, your hands curling into fists at your sides.
The night is long. The VIP elevator has just swallowed your opportunity. But down here, in the gutter of Oblivion, plans can change. Rules can bend. And frustration like yours doesn’t just fade away.
The walk back to your pillar is a slow burn of simmering rage. Your eyes scan the room, not for trouble, but for a new target. And they find her immediately.
Shin Ryujin.
She’s back at the booth. One leg crossed over the other, a picture of composed impatience. But you see the subtle tells. The manner in which her thighs press together tightly, a slow, unconscious squeeze as well as the way her fingers tap a restless rhythm on the table.
She’s waiting, and she’s not happy about it. A few people stop by—a bleary-eyed actor you recognize from a third-rate drama, a giggling influencer with too much filler.
Ryujin offers them tight, polite smiles, exchanges a few words, but her eyes keep drifting toward the hall where Yuna disappeared. She’s the guard dog left behind, and she’s getting anxious.
A new plan, clicks into place in your mind. Yuna or Ryujin. It doesn’t fucking matter. One is sweet nectar, the other is spiked liquor.
Your cock, hard and aching with frustrated intent, isn’t a picky eater. It just wants to be fed. And to feed it, you need to get past those walls. You need to get on her good side, even if it’s just for a moment.
You move to the nearest service bar, your extra-staff lanyard getting you a nod from the overworked bartender. “Something for a guest,” you say, your voice all business.
You order a mocktail, something fruity and innocent-looking in a tall glass. While the bartender’s back is turned, crushing ice, your hand dips into the inner pocket of your cheap suit.
A small, clear vial. Two drops of a colorless, odorless liquid—a little something you “acquired” for nights just like this. It’s not a knockout drug. It’s a loosener. A greaser for the wheels of inhibition. You stir it with a straw, watching it vanish into the vibrant red liquid.
Glass in hand, you approach her booth. She sees you coming and her posture stiffens, that familiar cold assessment returning to her eyes.
“Miss Ryujin,” you say, placing the drink on the table in front of her with a respectful nod. “A complimentary drink. Non-alcoholic. You look like you could use a refreshment while you wait.”
She doesn’t touch it. Just stares at you. “I didn’t order this.”
“I know. My apology,” you say, taking a half-step back, putting your hands in your pockets in a non-threatening gesture.
You let your voice soften, lacing it with contrition. “For earlier. I overstepped. I let my fanboy side get the better of me when I should have been professional. It won’t happen again. I truly mean no harm.” You meet her gaze, holding it with what you hope looks like sincere regret.
She studies you for a long, silent moment. The music thumps around you. Finally, she uncrosses her legs, but the wariness doesn’t leave her face. She doesn’t say a word.
Good enough. You’ve planted the seed. “I’ll leave you to it,” you say, giving another small, polite nod. “Please, let me know if you need anything at all.” You turn, beginning to walk away, counting the steps in your head.
One. Two. Three—
“Wait.”
You stop, turning back slowly, an eyebrow raised in polite inquiry.
She’s looking at the drink, then back at you. “What’s it like?” she asks, her voice is quieter now, less confrontational. “Up there. On the VIP floors. Is the performance really that grand?”
Jackpot.
Her words are an electric jolt of victory straight to your groin. She has no idea. Neither of them does. It’s almost laughable, the sheer, shocking naivety of it. They walked into the lion’s den thinking it was a petting zoo.
You let a carefully crafted look of mild surprise cross your face. “I thought everyone who came here knew what Oblivion was about.”
Ryujin shrugs, a defensive gesture. “A senior recommended it. Said it was a good place for a side gig during our free time. To network.”
The lie you weave is smooth, effortless. “Ah. I see. Well, the VIP floors are exclusive. The performances are fancy. But,” you lean in slightly, lowering your voice as if sharing a confidence, “getting the queue message doesn’t always mean you will perform. Sometimes, you’re just invited to watch. To be part of the audience. Yuna might just be a spectator up there as we speak.”
She digests this, her eyes searching your face for deceit. You hold steady, the picture of a little awkward but helpful staff member. She gives a slow nod. “So it’s nothing shady, then.”
The laugh you suppress is almost painful. “Of course not,” you say, your voice the very sound of reassurance. A big, fat, beautiful lie. “It’s all about prestige. An experience.” You offer her a warmer smile. “Your queue will probably come through soon. They usually stagger invitations.”
Ryujin lets out a long, slow exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. The anxious guard dog is being soothed. Her eyes drop to the tall, red glass on the table. She reaches for it, her fingers wrapping around the stem.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice still guarded but lacking its earlier ice.
“My pleasure,” you reply. You watch, your heart hammering a violent rhythm against your ribs, as she brings the glass to her lips. She takes a sip. Then a longer, deeper drink, her throat working as she swallows. The fruity concoction must be to her taste, or her thirst is greater than her suspicion.
You don’t wait for her to finish. You’ve seen what you needed to see. The hook is baited and set.
“I should get back to my post,” you say quickly, giving her one last, professional smile. “Enjoy your drink, Miss Ryujin.”
You turn and walk away toward a shadowed alcove near the service corridor. From there, you have an unobstructed view of her booth. You lean against the wall, the cool plaster a contrast to the feverish heat under your skin.
She finishes the drink, setting the empty glass down with a soft clink. A few minutes pass. She checks her phone again, frowns, and sets it aside. She runs a hand through her dark hair, then rubs at her temple.
The first sign. A slight flush begins to creep up her neck, visible even in the strobe-lit gloom. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, the movement less controlled now. She fans herself briefly with her hand.
The chemical is doing its work. Not dulling her, not putting her to sleep. It’s peeling away the layers of control, of caution. It’s making the room warmer, the lights more hypnotic, the wait more intolerable. It’s softening the edges of her sharp vigilance.
You wait. You let the drug and the environment work in tandem. She declines another drink from a passing waiter with a shake of her head, but her movements are looser.
She leans back in the booth, her gaze drifting across the dance floor, no longer laser-focused on the elevator. The protective hawk is becoming a drowsy dove.
The good guy act has served its purpose. The apology, the free drink, the reassuring lies—they were the keys to the cage. Now, the cage door is swinging open. Your new prey is sitting there, her defenses chemically compromised, alone in a sea of predators where you are the one who knows the terrain best.
You push off the wall, adjusting the front of your trousers where your erection strains the fabric.
The chemical fire works its way through her system beautifully. You watch from the shadows as Ryujin’s composed edges begin to melt. A sheen of sweat glistens on her collarbones, exposed by her off-shoulder white shirt. She fans herself again, then presses her palms to her flushed cheeks. Her breaths, from this distance, look deeper, less controlled.
When she stands up, it is a swaying, unsteady lurch. Her hand slaps down on the table to steady herself, her cocktail glass tipping over. She takes one wobbling step away from the booth, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
This is your cue.
You’re behind her in three silent strides. Your arms go around her torso, ostensibly to catch her, but you pull her back onto your chest.
Her firm ass directly grinds the thick, rigid line of your cock straining your trousers. You rut against her ass once, a deliberate motion disguised as catching her weight.
“Whoa there! Easy, Miss Ryujin. Are you alright?” Your voice is right by her ear, thick with false concern.
She stiffens, a jolt of awareness fighting through the chemical haze. She tries to push your arms away, but her strength is sapped. “I’m… I’m fine. Just dizzy. You can let go.” Her words are slurred, her breathing coming in heavier pants.
“You’re not fine. You’re about to fall. Let me take you to the staff rest area, it’s quiet there,” you say, your hands sliding down from her ribs to her hips, holding her firmly.
“No,” she insists, a weak tremor in her voice. “I said let go.” She tries to wrench herself sideways, but her legs are uncooperative rubber.
“Too bad,” you murmur, the pretense of helpfulness evaporating like smoke.
You shift your grip, one arm locking around her waist, the other hooking under her arm. She’s tall, but you’re bigger, and the drug has made her dead weight.
You half-drag, half-carry her away from the main floor, toward a dim, soundproofed corridor marked ‘PRIVATE’ with a small, red light above the archway. The real VIPs go up. The extracurricular activities happen down here.
She mumbles incoherent protests, her head lolling. To test her, to taste her resistance, your hand on her waist slips down, roughly palming her full ass through her skirt, squeezing hard to make her gasp.
At the same time, you duck your head and press your wet, open mouth to the hot skin of her neck, biting down on the tendon before lapping at it, then sucking her earlobe between your teeth.
“S-stop… get off… Eugh!” she shouts, but it’s a weak, breathy sound, lost in the muffled bass from the main room. Her struggle is pathetic, a feeble twitching against your iron-clad hold.
You reach an unmarked door, shove it open with your shoulder, and kick it shut behind you. The room is small, utilitarian: a large, padded platform masquerading as a bed, a shelf with towels, a table with sex stuff, and harsh overhead lighting.
With a contemptuous heave, you shove her onto the padded surface. She lands on her back with a soft whump, her skirt riding high up her thighs. For a moment, she just lies there, dazed, chest heaving.
You stand at the foot of the platform, your eyes raking over her supine form. You pull your cheap suit jacket off and let it drop to the floor, your tie follows. You yank your shirt over your head, kicking your shoes off simultaneously. Your bare chest expands with a deep, anticipatory breath.
Ryujin tries to push herself up on her elbows, her vision swimming. “What… what are you doing…?”
You climb onto the platform, kneeling between her splayed legs. You don’t touch her yet. You just loom over her, a dark shape blocking the single light from the ceiling.
“Don’t worry about me,” Your voice is a low, cruel rasp. “Worry about Yuna. She’s probably having so much fun upstairs by now.”
Ryujin’s bleary eyes sharpen with a fragment of clarity. “Yuna…?”
You unbuckle your belt, the click-clack of the leather unnaturally loud in the small room. “Yeah. Pretty, tall Yuna. You know how many dicks in this club have set their eyes on her?
She’s one of the most popular gooning topics around here. Everyone’s had a piece of her in their fantasies. And now she’s up there, in the VIP rooms, where fantasies become receipts.”
Her brain, fogged and slow, struggles to parse your words. “What… what the hell do you mean by that?” she slurs, confusion and dawning horror warring on her face.
You don’t answer with words. You answer with your hands. Both shoot out and grab the bare skin of her exposed thighs, just above her knees. Your grip pinning her limbs in place.
“NO!” The scream is raw and sudden, fueled by a last surge of adrenaline. She tries to spring up, her legs kicking out between your arms, her feet scrambling against the sheets.
It only excites you more. Shifting one hand from her thigh to her throat. You don’t squeeze to choke yet—you press down, pinning her upper body to the bed, using your weight to immobilize her.
“Stay. Down,” you grunt.
Your other hand releases her thigh and goes to the side zip of her skirt. You yank it down in one harsh rip.
Her free hands fly up, clawing weakly at your solid, bare chest and shoulders. Her nails scrape harmlessly over your skin, a kitten’s protest.
Her eyes, wide with terror and chemical confusion, stare up at you as you loom over her, her skirt now open, her vulnerability laid bare beneath the denim.
The fight is leaching out of her, replaced by a terrifying, drugged helplessness
Normally, on nights like this, you like to take your time. Savor the fear, the trembling, the slow unraveling of a victim’s will.
But the image of Yuna disappearing behind those elevator doors, the sight of Ryujin’s haughty face cracking under the haze—it’s pushed you past the point of patience. You are a wire pulled taut, and she is the only ground.
You make quick work of her safety shorts.
Your hand rips at the thin, black fabric stretched over her hips. The material, meant to protect her modesty from the world, is no match for your raw strength.
There’s a loud, satisfying rrriiippp as you tear the sides apart, yanking the ruined scrap down her thighs and discarding it somewhere on the floor.
She’s left in nothing but her open, unzipped skirt bunched around her waist, her underwear—a plain, white cotton pair—damp with a hint of betrayal.
“No… get off… ugh!” she whimpers, her voice cracking.
You don’t even bother to remove the underwear. You just hook a finger under the crotch and pull it aside, exposing her pussy to the dim light of the room.
It’s smooth and puffy, freshly shaved or waxed or whatever idols do for maintenance. There’s not a single hair covering the soft, swollen lips. And despite her terror, her body is betraying her.
The flesh is glistening, sticky, and wet, a thin sheen of natural lubrication spreading down her crack.
The drug courses through her veins loosening every muscle, every nerve, turning her fear into a heat that seeps out of her most intimate places.
Her arm flails, hitting your forearm with weak slaps as your other hand maintains the pressure on her throat. She’s heaving, her chest rising and falling in panicked bursts, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
You loosen your grip on her throat to let her breathe, then slide your hand down. Two fingers find her slit. You rub them along her puffy lips, spreading the moisture, pressing to part them.
She jerks and thrashes beneath you, but her body is a rag doll. “Oh, look at that,” you say, a chuckle bubbling up from your chest. “You’re soaking already. You can tell me you don’t want this, but your cunt is singing a different song.”
You bring your slick fingers to your mouth. You suck them clean, tasting her sweet, drug-spiced nectar. “Fuck. That’s good.”
Her face contorts in a grimace of shame and horror. “N-No… don’t…” The words are barely a whisper.
“Relax,” you say, the command dripping with mock gentleness. “Or this might be painful.”
You fumble with your own trousers, yanking the waistband down, freeing your cock. It springs out, thick and hard, and engorged, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum. She sees it, her eyes widening in sheer terror. She tries to close her thighs, but you’re between them.
Your free hand guides the tip to her entrance. You nudge the slick flesh with the blunt, swollen head, teasing her, pressing just slightly before pulling back. Her body goes rigid as a board. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She shakes her head frantically, a mute plea.
“Shhh,” you coo. “It’s going to be okay.”
With a small push, your cockhead slips inside her pussy. Her body seizes. A strangled gasp escapes her as the thick crown stretches her entrance, forcing its way into her warm channel.
She is a virgin to this, at least to this kind of violation. Her pussy clenches around the intrusion, trying in vain to push it out. Tears finally spill from the corners of her eyes, rolling down her temples and into her hair.
She is fully aware now—the haze is not enough to dull the reality of the thick, foreign flesh invading her private body part. She is helpless. Raped. Her dignity shatters with every inch.
You release your cock, using that hand instead to grip her meaty inner thigh. You push it down on the mattress, spreading her wider, making her completely open and vulnerable.
Then you move your hips. A slow, grinding push. Your cock sinks deeper into her pussy, claiming territory her body has never surrendered. The tight, wet heat is intoxicating. A low groan drawn from deep in your chest escapes your mouth.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “I didn’t expect your pussy to be this good.” You laugh, a dirty sound that makes her grimace through the tears streaming down her face. “Look at you. Crying like a baby. But your body is loving every second of it.”
You pull back, then you snap your hips forward as the last remaining length of your cock spears into her pussy in one sudden deep thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin is loud.
She lets out a choked scream, her back arching off the bed, a pain so sharp and immediate it cuts through the drug’s fog.
Her nails dig into your forearms, not to push you away but just to hold onto something, anything, as the full length of you buries itself inside her, hilt-deep, pressing her cervix.
You pause for a moment, savoring the tight, raw feel of her convulsing. Her sobs are silent now, muffled by the hand you clamp over her mouth, the other hand pinning both of her wrists above her head. She is completely at your mercy, split open, filled to the brim, utterly consumed.
Your voice is a ragged whisper in her ear as you begin to move, slow at first, then with a building, merciless rhythm. “You’re going to take every last drop of my cum, and you’re going to hate yourself for how much you’ll enjoy it by the end.”
Your hips find a rhythm, a piston-like tempo that shakes the luxurious mattress. Each thrust is a reclaiming of every ounce of control she’s ever had. The room fills with the wet schlick-schlick of your cock driving into her soaked pussy, and the muffled, broken whimpers losing the battle against your palm.
“Mmnnngh—nngh, hngggh, s-stop—”
Her muffled pleas vibrate through your hand, through her skull, as her body jerks with every impact. Her eyes are rolled back, tears mixing with sweat, her makeup smearing into a tragic mess.
Her thighs tremble, spread wide and helpless, one pinned down by your hand, the other jerking weakly beside your hip. You pull your hand off her mouth to better enjoy her cries.
“Please, no, it hurts, oh god, it hurts, please, why are you doing this, please—” The words tumble out in a broken, shrill flood, each one punctuated by the crack of your balls meeting her ass.
“Because you’re a stuck-up bitch who thought she was too good for this club,” you snarl, your face hovering inches above hers. “You thought you could just sit there, looking down your nose at me, protecting your little princess Yuna? Look at you now. Look at what’s buried inside that cunt.”
Your hand cracks across her cheek. The slap is sharp, a bright red handprint blooming on her flushed skin. Her head snaps to the side, but your cock stays buried inside her, throbbing.
She sobs, a raw, ragged sound. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, please—I won’t—I won't tell anyone—please stop—”
You laugh, withdrawing your cock almost fully then slam home again, a single, devastating thrust that makes her entire body arch off the bed. “No, shit. Of course you won't. Just stay still, bitch.” You slap her other cheek for good measure, harder. Her head lolls, vision spinning.
Your thumb finds her clit, swollen and wet, and you press down on it as you continue fucking her. Her eyes go wide in shock, her mouth open in a scream that won’t come out. “No! Gahhh—No—! Stop touching me there! Oh shit— nnghh—”
Her words dissolve into a moan, involuntary and shameful. Her body betrays her, her inner walls clenching and fluttering around your shaft, coating you in another wave of creamy, drug-induced slickness. It leaks out around your cock, staining the sheets beneath her.
“Look at that,” you say, pulling out slightly to watch the milky cream gather at her entrance before ramming back in, making it foam. “Your useless cunt is weeping for me. Soaking my cock. And yet you’re lying there like a dead fish. A whore who can’t even admit she loves it.”
“I don’t—I hate it— aaahhhnngh—” She chokes on a strangled cry as you angle deeper, hitting a spot that makes her stiffen, her back arching so far it seems like a bow. Her hands ball into fists, her nails scoring the sheets, her knuckles white.
“Hate it? Hmm?” You slow down just for a second and pull her skirt up. You grip her chest through her off-shoulder shirt, roughly squeezing her small but firm tits, twisting her nipples through the fabric. She howls.
“You’re dripping, your cunt is strangling my cock, and you say you hate it? What will Yuna say when she finds out her unnie is a lying, moaning whore?”
At the mention of Yuna, Ryujin’s face contorts with a fresh wave of anguish.
A mournful sob escapes her. “Don’t—don’t mention her—please—she can’t know—she can’t— ohhh nnnghh—”
“She won’t know,” you hiss, your pace quickening again, reverting to the hammering. “She’s too busy being a pretty little doll for the VIPs. But you, poor Ryujin, they’ll find you here, pregnant with my cum, and I’ll tell everyone you begged for it.”
Her weeping intensifies, her body stiffening, a shudder running through her like an electric current. She tries to close her legs, but you wedge your knees between them, forcing them apart.
Your hand flies again, this time landing on her breast, a loud slap on the flesh that echoes in the small room. She whimpers, her mouth open, a string of drool running from the corner of her lips. Her eyes are unfocused, alternating between terror and a haze.
“It hurts… I’m so tight… you’re too big…” she gasps, her voice barely audible.
“That’s because you’re a tight little virgin,” you grunt, your strokes becoming shorter, faster, brutal. “A tight, pathetic little virgin who’s never been properly stuffed. Aren’t you grateful? I’m giving you this experience for free. My cock is worth more than your entire group’s revenue.”
Her hands weakly push at your chest, sliding off sweat-slick skin. “Please… slow down… I can’t… I can’t take it… mmmyyaaahhh!” A sharp moan escapes as you hit her deepest part again.
Her pussy clenches in a convulsive, convulsing spasm; not pleasure, but overwhelming stimulation burning through her nerve endings.
You feel your own building release, a tightening in your balls, a shuddering in your spine. You don’t slow down. You chase it, your hips a blur, your balls slapping her ass with wet thwacks. The room is filled with the sounds of your grunts, her broken sobs, the squelching of your pistoning cock.
“You feel that, slut?” you growl, leaning down to bite her neck, hard to bruise. “I’m about to cum. And I’m going to cum right inside your worthless cunt. I’m going to fill you up with my cum. You’ll be carrying my bastard, knowing every time you look in the mirror that you were too weak to stop me.”
She thrashes, a last, desperate attempt. “No! Not inside! Pull out! Please, God, no! I’m not on—I’m not safe! Please! AAAAHHH!” Her scream is piercing, her body going rigid, stiff as a board.
Her inner walls clamp down, not with pleasure, but with pure panic, a vice-like resistance that only makes your own climax more violent.
Your hand snaps out, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at you. “Look at me,” you snarl through gritted teeth. “Look at the man who owns you.”
Her tear-streaked face, contorted in agony, stares up at you with droopy, broken eyes. And you feel it. The surge, the peak, the explosion.
A groan rips from your throat as you slam deep one final time, your cock twitching violently as you pump load after thick load of hot, sticky cum deep into her womb.
She feels a hot, foreign flood spreading inside her, filling her to overflowing. Her body convulses, her legs shaking, her toes curling, a pathetic, strangled wail escaping her lips as she sobs through her own helpless climax of fear and overstimulation.
You stay there, buried to the hilt, panting, savoring the feeling of her spasming around your cock. Her body is limp, broken, a heaving wreck on the mattress. Cum drips out around your shaft, a viscous, creamy mixture staining the sheets.
You pull out slowly, letting the cum ooze out of her gaping, used pussy. “Don’t think this is over, Shin Ryujin. We have all night.”
You pull out of her pussy with a wet squish, your cock glistening with a mixture of her juices and your cum.
Ryujin lies there, a crumpled, trembling heap on the mattress. Her chest heaves with hitching breaths, her eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing. Her legs are splayed wide, cum slowly oozing out of her swollen, reddened pussy.
You step off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor. Your own breathing is heavy, a sheen of sweat cooling on your skin. You rummage through the pile of discarded clothes, your fingers closing around the familiar weight of your phone. You pull it out, the screen lighting up with a soft glow.
You unlock the phone, swipe to the camera app, and flip it to video mode. You hold it up, framing the scene before you.
Ryujin's splayed and shuddering frame fills the screen. Her off-shoulder shirt is bunched around her neck, revealing her small, perky tits with their hardened, abused nipples.
Her skirt is a wrinkled mess around her waist. Her thighs are smeared with a mixture of sweat, her own creamy fluids, and your cum.
Her pussy is a wreck; swollen and gaping slightly, a thick rivulet of white cream trickling down her tiny asshole.
Her face is a degradation, tear tracks cutting through smeared makeup, hair plastered to her forehead, lips swollen from biting back screams, her eyes are glazed, barely blinking.
You zoom in, capturing the details. The slap marks on her cheeks, the bite bruise on her neck, the convulsive twitching of her inner thighs. She's not moving, just lying there.
"Look at that. Shin Ryujin. One of the most famous idols in Korea. And now? Now she's just a used, cumbucket piece of meat."
She flinches at your words. Her hand twitches, trying to move, but it falls back. She doesn't have the strength to cover herself, to hide.
You pan the camera down, lingering on her quivering thighs, her messy cunt. You squat down, getting a close-up of the cum leaking out of her, mixing with her own slick. "This is what happens when you play guard dog for the wrong people. You should have minded your own business."
You reach out with your free hand, two fingers pressing her pussy hole, pushing them inside just enough to scoop up a generous glob of your mixed cum. You bring it to her lips, smearing it across her mouth.
"Taste yourself," you order. "Taste what happens to good girls who wander into bad places."
Her lips quiver, but she doesn't have the strength to turn her head away. The cum smears over her lips, some trickling into her mouth. She gags, a dry, retching sound.
You stand up, holding the phone steady, capturing her pathetic state. You will need this insurance - insurance that she won't talk, won't report. Insurance that the proud Shin Ryujin will be forever chained to this moment.
You drop the phone onto the bed beside her and climb back onto the mattress. Your cock, still slick and half-hard, hangs heavy between your legs.
You fist your hand in her tangled, sweat-soaked hair, and yank her upper body upward into a rough, sitting position. Her head lolls, her neck barely able to support itself, her eyes glassy.
"Wake up, slut," you sneer, giving her hair another tug that makes her whimper. "You're not done yet. You're going to clean me up. I need to get back to work."
She blinks, trying to process your words through the fog of violation and drugs. Her mouth opens, a weak protest forming, but you don't give her the chance. You guide your semi-erect cock to her lips, pressing the cum-coated head against her mouth.
"Open," you command, your voice cold. "Suck. Make it clean. Every last drop."
She hesitates, her eyes welling up with more tears. But the threat in your gaze is apparent. Her lips part, trembling, and you push forward.
The head slips past her lips, and her warm, wet mouth envelopes your shaft. Her hands come up weakly, clutching your thighs for support, her nails digging into your skin as she tries not to gag.
"Good girl," you murmur, your hips beginning to move in slow, shallow thrusts. "Use that tongue. You're an idol, right? You must know how to please. Show me."
She gags a wet sound, but you don't stop. You fuck her mouth, savoring the sensation of her soft lips wrapped around your shaft, her tongue clumsily attempting to clean the taste of her own shame from your skin.
Your cock is hardening again, the heat of her mouth and the sight of her tear-streaked face beneath you working its magic.
And while she works, you reach for your phone and hold it up, the camera clicking rapidly, snapping picture after picture. Ryujin, on her knees, her lips stretched around your cock, her hands clutching your thighs, her eyes red and vacant. Perfect blackmail material.
"It's hard not to get a second wind with a mouth this pretty," you say, "But I've got two hours left on my shift. Damn shame."
You pull back, your cock slipping from her lips. She slumps sideways, falling back onto the bed, gasping for air, drool stringing from her mouth.
You turn away, reaching for the small drawer beside the bed. It slides open with a soft hiss, revealing a handful of small, white pills. You scoop them up and turn back to her.
"Time for a little nap, Ryujin," you say, your voice almost casual. "You've got a long night ahead."
You climb on top of her again, straddling her chest, one hand gripping her jaw, forcing her mouth open. She struggles weakly, her hands batting at your arms, but she's too far gone to put up any real fight. You shove the pills past her lips, pressing them to the back of her throat.
"Swallow," you order. She chokes, her eyes wide with panic, but you hold her jaw shut, rubbing her throat until she has no choice but to obey. The pills go down dry, scraping against her esophagus, making her gag again.
You slap her face one final time, a stinging blow that makes her head snap to the side. Her eyes flutter, the drugs already taking hold. Her limbs grow heavier, her breathing shallower. Within moments, her eyes roll back, and she goes limp, unconscious.
You climb off the bed, pulling on your trousers, your shirt, your tie. You dress quickly, efficiently, adjusting your collar in the dim light.
You glance back at her, a broken, motionless figure on the mattress. Cum still stains her thighs, her face is a mess, and she's completely out cold.
You grab your phone, pocketing it after a final glance at the incriminating photos. You know she won't be going anywhere anytime soon. And when she wakes up, she will learn harder what happens to pretty idols who wander into the wrong den.