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ââŹâđŻïž PUDDING.G1RLZIP(>àœ< â ) âżá©šđź

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STUCK
Idol : Isa/Lee Chae-young (Stayc)
Tags : Deepthroat, Rough Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Spanking, Ahegao, Face-Fucking, Creampie, Cum in Mouth, Cum on Face, Squirting, Multiple Orgasms, Public Humiliation, Corruption
Words : 2555
The bell above the minimarket door jingled as Isa slipped inside, pulling the hood of her oversized black sweatshirt further over her forehead. Three songs into the night's promotional cycle and her bladder was screaming. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting that sickly blue-white glow across aisles of ramen and chips. She didn't make eye contact with the cashier behind the counter â a guy in his late twenties, wiry, with a thin mustache and dead eyes fixed on his phone.
She found the bathroom at the back, past the coolers humming with soju and energy drinks. The door was half-open, the light already on. She pushed through.
The bathroom was a narrow closet of a room â a toilet, a sink with a rusted faucet, a single bulb flickering above a mirror cracked in the corner. And on the wall beside the toilet, a hole the size of a car tire. Dark drywall dust caked the edges where something had punched through from the other side â the stockroom, probably. The hole gaped open like a mouth.
She stared at it for a second, then laughed under her breath. What the hell.
On impulse â girlish, bored, playful â she crouched, stuck her head through, and pushed.
Her shoulders cleared the hole. Then her chest. The drywall scraped against her sweatshirt, showering her in white dust. She was halfway into the stockroom, her hands braced on the concrete floor on the other side, her lower body still in the bathroom.
She tried to wriggle forward and her hips caught.
She pushed harder. Nothing. She tried to pull back â her ribs ground against the jagged edges of drywall. She was stuck. Perfectly, completely wedged. Her ass was still in the bathroom, her arms stretched out into the stockroom, her sweatshirt bunched up around her ribs, leaving a strip of pale skin exposed between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans.
"Shit," she muttered, her voice echoing in the empty stockroom.
She pushed again, her sneakers scuffling against the bathroom floor. The drywall bit into her hips. No give.
The stockroom door swung open. A sliver of light from the main store bled across the concrete floor, illuminating cardboard boxes stacked against the walls. She heard footsteps stop.
"What the fuck?"
Male voice. Young. She recognized it â the cashier.
"Hey â hi," she said, forcing a laugh, her voice bright and embarrassed. "I know this looks crazy. I got kind of, um, wedged in here. Can you give me a push? From the back, I mean. Just â"
He crouched in front of her. His eyes widened. She saw recognition hit him like a physical thing â his mouth parted, his gaze tracing her face, the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the jet-black hair splayed across her shoulders, the full lips pulled into an awkward apologetic smile.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "You're Isa. From STAYC."
"Listen, I really need to â"
"Manager!" He was already on his feet, moving to the door. "Hyung, get in here! You won't believe this."
She heard footsteps approach, heavier. Another man appeared in the doorway â older, thicker, with a gut straining his polo shirt and a five-o'clock shadow darkening his jaw. The manager.
"Look," the cashier said, pointing at her like she was a sideshow attraction.
The manager's eyes traveled over her. First her face. Then the exposed strip of her stomach. Then the curve of her ass still visible from the bathroom side, her jeans pulling tight across her hips.
"Please," Isa said, her voice lighter now, the first thread of unease working through her composure. "I just need a shove from the other side. Or â can you break the wall a little more? Just enough for me to â"
The manager didn't answer. He looked at the cashier, and something passed between them â a silent calculation. The cashier grinned.
"Got your phone?" the manager asked.
The cashier pulled it out.
"Don't." Isa's voice cracked. "Don't â just help me out, okay? I won't tell anyone about this. I'll pay you. I can â"
The manager knelt behind her, his hands landing on the curve of her ass through her jeans. Not pushing. Squeezing.
"Pretty little idol," he said, his voice low. "Stuck like a rabbit in a fence."
"Get off me." She tried to kick, but her legs were useless â she could only scuff her sneakers against the tiles, trapped between the two rooms. "I'm serious. Let me go."
The cashier stepped closer, already recording on his phone. "Say hi to your fans, Isa."
Tears burned the corners of her eyes. She'd been taught how to smile through exhaustion, through ankle injuries, through vocal strain. No one had taught her this.
The manager undid her jeans.
The button popped open, the zipper rasped down, and his rough fingers hooked into the waistband, dragging denim and underwear down her thighs. The cold air hit her skin, and then his hand â calloused, warm â cupped her bare ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.
"Nice," he murmured. "Really fucking nice."
"Stop â please, I'm begging you â"
"Deeper," the cashier said, phone angled over her. "Get her face."
The manager shoved her sweatshirt up, baring her back, and his palm cracked across her right ass cheek. The sound echoed in the small room â a sharp, wet slap that sent a shockwave through her body, her hips jerking against the drywall. She gasped, the air punched out of her lungs.
"Look at that," the manager said, and hit her again. Harder. Her skin bloomed red under his palm. "Fucking perfect."
Her "no" came out strangled. But the third slap made her thighs clench, and the fourth â harder, aimed at the tender skin where her ass met her thighs â drew a sound from her throat that wasn't quite a scream.
The manager grabbed her hips, yanked them higher. She felt his cock against her â the heat of it through his pants, the thick shape pressing into the cleft of her ass.
"Open your mouth," the cashier said, shoving his phone in her face, one hand fisting in her hair, yanking her head back. "Open your mouth for your fans."
"No â"
He shoved the phone closer. "Say 'ahh.' Say it, or I'll make sure every STAYC fan sees this video. Your group's reputation. Your career. All gone."
She stared into the camera lens. Her reflection in the black glass showed her dark eyes wide, her mascara starting to run, her lips parted in a desperate O.
"Ahh," she whispered.
"Louder."
"Ahh."
He shoved his cock into her mouth.
The taste of him â salt and sweat and the faint chemical residue of soap â flooded her tongue, and she gagged instantly, her throat convulsing around the head. He was thick, uncut, and he pushed deeper without waiting, past her lips, past her teeth, into the hot wet cave of her mouth.
"Deepthroat that shit," the manager grunted from behind, and she heard his belt unbuckle, his zipper come down.
The cashier's hips bucked forward, and his cock slid down her throat. She couldn't breathe â couldn't â her hands scrabbled against the concrete floor, her nails scraping, her eyes streaming. He pulled back just enough for her to gasp and then drove in again, deeper, his balls slapping against her chin.
"There she is," he breathed, his voice rough. "You wanted this. Look at you â perfect idol slut, taking it like a pro."
From behind, the manager's hands spread her ass cheeks apart, and she felt the thick, blunt head of his cock press against her entrance â dry, too dry, and she whimpered around the cock in her throat.
"Wait â fuck â wait, she's tight as hell," the manager muttered. He spat into his palm, smeared it over himself, and pressed again. This time the head breached her, and she screamed â a muffled, guttural sound that vibrated around the cashier's shaft.
"Shh, shh, easy," the cashier cooed, mock-gentle, fucking her mouth with shallow strokes while the manager worked his cock deeper into her pussy. "You can take it. You're made for this."
The manager pushed. His hips met her ass with a wet slap, and she felt him seated inside her, impossibly deep, splitting her open. Her pussy clenched around him, trying to expel the invasion, and he groaned.
"Oh fuck â she's gripping me like a fist."
He started moving. Long, slow drags at first, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, each stroke a hammer blow that shook her whole body. The drywall scraped her ribs raw. The cashier's cock slid down her throat, cutting off her air, and when she gagged, both men groaned in unison.
"That's it," the cashier hissed. "Contract those throat muscles. Fuck, that's good."
The manager's rhythm picked up. His balls slapped against her clit with every thrust, and the friction â mixed with the spit from his hand, with her own wetness starting to respond â built a heat she didn't want to feel. Her body was betraying her, her pussy slickening around him, her nipples hardening under her bra.
"Recording this?" the manager asked, breath ragged.
"Every second."
"Get her face."
The cashier pulled his cock out of her mouth â a wet suction sound, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip. He angled the phone down at her, and she saw herself in the screen: her makeup destroyed, her lips swollen and red, drool running down her chin, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
"That's the face," he said. "Ahegao. Look at her â fucking gone."
She couldn't stop it. The expression her face was making â tongue lolling, eyes rolled back, cheeks flushed â wasn't a choice. It was the involuntary surrender of a body that had been pushed past resistance into something else. Something dark and melting.
"I â I don't â" she tried to say, but the words came out slurred.
The manager smacked her ass again, and she cried out â but it wasn't a denial anymore. It was a gasp. A want.
"Yeah," he growled. "You're starting to like it."
His hand snaked around her hip, fingers sliding through her wetness, finding her clit. He rubbed rough circles into the bundle of nerves, his cock still pistoning into her from behind, and the combination â the fullness inside her, the pressure on her clit, the degradation of being filmed â sent a shockwave through her pelvis.
"No, no, I'm not â I'm not â"
"Tell your clit that," the manager said, and pressed harder.
Two fingers pushed into her, alongside his cock, stretching her impossibly full, crooking up to find that soft spongy spot inside her front wall. She screamed â a broken, keening sound â and her body locked up, her thighs trembling, her pussy gushing around his fingers.
"Fuck, she's a squirter," the cashier said, voice reverent. "Look at that. Look at her."
A stream of fluid â hot, clear, gushing â sprayed out of her, soaking the manager's hand, running down her thighs, pooling on the concrete floor. She sobbed through the orgasm, her body wracked with spasms her mind hadn't consented to.
The manager didn't stop. He pulled his fingers out, wiped them on her ass, and kept fucking her through the aftershocks. "More," he said. "I want more."
He pushed her upper body flat against the stockroom floor, her cheek pressing into the cold concrete, and mounted her from behind like an animal. His cock rammed into her g-spot with every stroke, the head of him slamming against her cervix, her womb, a deep bruising pressure that made her see stars.
"Your womb is taking it," he grunted. "Feel that? Feel me hitting your fucking womb?"
She couldn't answer. Her mouth hung open, drool pooling on the concrete. Her eyes rolled back again. The cashier crouched in front of her, stroking his cock, his phone propped against a box to capture the full scene.
"Open," he said. "Tongue out."
She obeyed. Her tongue lolled out over her bottom lip, and he painted it with his cum â thick ropes landing on her tongue, her lips, her cheek. She tasted him, salt and bitterness, and swallowed without being told.
The manager was close. She felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, his hips slapping against her ass harder, faster, frantic. He pulled out, and she felt the sudden emptiness like a wound.
"Where?" he rasped.
"Inside," the cashier said. "Cream pie her. Mark her."
He shoved back in, three more thrusts, and then she felt it â hot, flooding, endless. His cum filled her, pumping into her pussy in pulse after pulse, dripping out around the base of his cock, running down her thighs. He stayed buried inside her for a long moment, breathing hard, before pulling out with a wet sound.
Cum pooled beneath her. Her own fluid mixed with his, a slick mess on the concrete.
The cashier picked up his phone again, zooming in on her face. "Say thank you."
She blinked at the lens. Her lips moved. "Th-thank you."
"Thank you who?"
"Thank you... for using me."
The manager laughed, a low brutal sound. He yanked her sweatshirt up, exposing her breasts â small, perfect, with pink nipples hard from the cold and the stimulation. He bent down and sucked one into his mouth, biting down on the peak, and she arched her back instinctively, pressing into him.
"That's it," he murmured against her skin. "Beg for it."
"Please," she whispered. "Please, I â"
He bit down harder, and she came again â a smaller orgasm, weaker, but real, her pussy clenching around nothing, her cum and his leaking out of her.
The cashier recorded it all. Her face, her breasts, the mess between her legs, the way her body shuddered with each aftershock.
They took turns for the next hour.
The cashier fucked her mouth again, deeper this time, holding her head still while he emptied himself down her throat. The manager bent over her back, spreading the creampie over her ass, spanking her until her skin was raw and red and she was crying openly, begging through the sobs.
"Please â no more â I can't â"
But her hips kept pushing back. Her mouth kept opening. Her body, stripped of pride and resistance, kept obeying.
When they were done, the manager zipped up his pants. The cashier pocketed his phone, a satisfied smirk on his face.
"Someone will find you," the cashier said. "Eventually."
They left. The stockroom door swung shut, plunging her into darkness.
She was still stuck in the hole, half in the bathroom, half in the stockroom. Naked from the waist down. Her sweatshirt bunched around her shoulders. Her hair â that long, straight, jet-black hair she'd spent hours perfecting for the music show â matted with sweat and cum and dust.
The fluorescent light in the stockroom hummed. The bathroom light flickered. Above her, the crack in the mirror caught the glow and threw it back in splinters.
She couldn't move. Couldn't even try anymore.
Sweat dried on her skin. Cum dripped down her thighs. Her pussy ached, swollen and used, a dull persistent throb that pulsed with her heartbeat. Her ass burned. Her throat was raw.
Somewhere, in the main store, the bell jingled. A customer's voice called out. Footsteps passed the stockroom door, oblivious.
She stared into the darkness of the stockroom, her cheek pressed against the concrete, and couldn't find the strength to call for help.
â â â łâŁâŁâŁ â łâŁâŁâŁ â łâŁâŁâŁ â â đâđ©âᩎ· â»ïžđ©·
@chaeryeos , đ©°đ âŻ àŒ ă â·
xikers OKay (2026)

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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