Nao Jinguji: Filthy Bitch Creampie Sex Slave for Cruel Collector. The heavy velvet curtains blocked out the afternoon sun, leaving the room in a perpetual, leering twilight. Nao Jinguji stood before him, her simple dress feeling like a flimsy barrier against the weight of his gaze. He wasn’t just a man; he was the cold, calculating force that held her husband’s fate, and now, her own body, in thrall. Mr. Yamashita, the Cruel Collector.
“Weekends, Nao,” he’d reminded her just moments ago, his voice a low rumble that promised only degradation. “That was the deal. Your husband’s debt… reconsidered… in exchange for your… cooperation. Until you’re carrying my child.”
She swallowed, her throat tight. The terms were brutal, simple, and inescapable. Her husband’s life, their future, rested on her becoming what this man demanded. And what he demanded was laid bare by the title she knew he savored internally: Nao Jinguji: Filthy Bitch Sex Slave for Cruel Collector.
His eyes drifted down her body, lingered, then lifted back to her face, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Undress, Nao.” It wasn’t really a request. It was a command, delivered with the same finality as his financial judgments.
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons, each snap a tiny tremor of humiliation. The dress slid down, pooling at her feet. Then the slip, the bra, the panties. She stood naked, exposed not just physically, but utterly. The air in the room felt thick, charged with his intent.
He didn’t move closer immediately. He just watched, and Nao felt the heat rise on her skin, not from arousal, but from sheer mortification under his clinical, possessive stare. He was cataloging his new acquisition.
Finally, he rose from his chair, a large, imposing figure. He didn’t rush. He came to her slowly, reaching out a thick finger to trace the line of her jaw. His touch was cold, devoid of warmth, yet it sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with temperature.
“Good,” he murmured, his voice closer now. He slid his hand down her neck, over her collarbone, coming to rest just above her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple lightly, once, twice. It tightened involuntarily, a betrayal her body couldn’t help.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound. “Responsive,” he noted, as if discussing livestock. “That’s good. Makes the process… more efficient.”
He didn’t bother with foreplay in the usual sense. His hand moved lower, pushing her legs slightly apart. He knelt before her, his face level with her hips. He didn’t look at her face, his focus entirely on the soft curls between her thighs.
Nao bit back a gasp as his fingers parted her, finding her already slick from nerves and a perverse, unwanted anticipation of the inevitable. He probed, testing her readiness with a brutal efficiency that was more medical than sexual. Then his thumb found her small bud, pressing down firmly, rubbing in a hard, insistent rhythm that had nothing to do with her pleasure and everything to do with asserting control.
She swayed slightly, her hands instinctively reaching out to brace herself on his shoulders. He didn’t stop, just kept the steady, heavy pressure, his other hand pushing deeper inside her, stretching her open.
“You understand, Nao,” he said, his voice gravelly, close to her core. “This is about… securing my investment. About filling you. Over and over. Until my seed takes hold.”
He stood up, his gaze never leaving her lower body. He unbuckled his belt with a swift, practiced movement. Nao watched, paralyzed, as his erection sprang free, thick and dark. It loomed before her, the instrument of her sacrifice.
He stepped closer, positioning himself between her legs. He held her hips firmly, tilting her slightly. Nao tensed, bracing for the invasion.
He didn’t ease in. He plunged, a single hard thrust that stole her breath. It was deep, filling her completely, stretching her in a way that felt both violating and intensely physical. Nao let out a choked cry, burying her face against his chest.
He didn’t pause. He began to move, a relentless, pounding rhythm that drove deep inside her. Each thrust was heavy, purposeful, aimed squarely at her womb. There was no tenderness, no build-up of mutual desire. This was purely carnal, driven by his cruel agenda.
“Feel that?” he grunted, his voice strained with effort, not passion. “Feel how full you are? That’s mine now. Every inch.”
He kept pounding, faster, harder. The sounds in the room became elemental – the wet slap of their bodies, Nao’s ragged breathing, his harsh grunts. He held her tight, preventing her from pulling away, burying himself inside her with brutal persistence.
Nao closed her eyes, trying to retreat inside herself, but the physical reality was too overwhelming. The sensation of him deep within her, filling her again and again, was inescapable. She could feel her body starting to respond despite her will, a traitorous heat building, threatening to ignite.
He drove into her one last time, a tremendous, shuddering thrust that went deeper than ever before. Nao felt the hot rush inside her, a thick, heavy deposit that pooled deep within her womb. He held her still for a moment, burying himself as his body convulsed with his climax, ensuring every drop stayed inside.
He withdrew slowly, leaving her feeling empty and aching, yet still full of him. He didn’t look back, didn’t offer a word of comfort or acknowledgment. He just turned, walked back to his chair, and began to adjust his clothes, his face impassive.
Nao stood there, trembling, the sticky wetness running down her inner thighs. The silence in the room was deafening after the raw sounds of moments before. She was just… left. Left with the physical aftermath, the heavy weight inside her, and the crushing knowledge that this was just the beginning. This was her weekend reality now. This was her life under the cruel terms of Nao Jinguji: Filthy Bitch Sex Slave for Cruel Collector. And it wouldn’t end until his goal was achieved.
