RITUAL

Let’s be clear: you’re well aware of what a monumentally stupid idea this is.

For you, it’s just a job. You’ve been fired from plenty before, and there’ll be plenty more after.

But for her, for Yujin, it’s her career. Her life. Everything.

And yet, you’re here—crammed in a bathroom stall, one hand palming her ass, hers diving down your jeans—and you can’t shake the nagging suspicion that maybe that’s the fucking point.

“How much time do we have?” Yujin’s lips are on your neck. Tiny, hot breaths tickling your skin, nimble fingers at your waist, negotiating with your zipper.

“We had fifteen minutes, an hour ago,” you remind her. “We’re gonna miss soundcheck.”

“It’ll be fine.” Yujin’s unbothered, dismissive of anything that isn’t freeing your cock from its denim prison. “They’ll wait for me. They always do.”

There’s arrogance, the unshakeable confidence of youth, the invincibility this comes with being this absurdly hot. You can’t blame her one bit.

What Yujin wants, she gets.

You’ve seen it firsthand—it’s one of the many, many things you’ve learned about her since this whole thing started.

Well, one of the few that don’t concern how spectacular her cunt feels when she’s riding you, or how her eyes roll to the back of her head when you hit that spot just right, or the way her voice goes hoarse when she screams your name and you make her cum so hard it becomes a problem.

“Oh, it’s so perfect.” Yujin’s seen your cock before—tasted it, taken it, had it ruin her in every way she could. But she still stares at it like it’s the first time, can’t stop her eyes lighting up the second she sees it springing free, standing tall and throbbing painfully. “I’d say this is worth being late for.”

You’ve got a groan for her when she takes you into her hand, her grip firm and familiar. A half-hearted protest, too: “Yeah, but if we’re late, Princess Yujin gets a slap on the wrist, whereas I get fired.”

She scoffs at that. “Well, I am your boss, so I think I get the last say if it comes down to it.”

Part of you wants to correct her, wants to explain that technically you’re not her employee but an independent contractor hired by the touring company. However, that part of you needs to shut the hell up, because the intricacies of employment contracts for musicians-for-hire really don’t seem pertinent at this moment.

Besides, it all becomes trivial in the face of Yujin. So annoyingly, unfairly pretty, not even the harshness of the fluorescent lights overhead are capable of marring her in the slightest.

You’d probably give her the world if she asked.

She’d happily settle for your dick.

Her hand’s moving now, fingers dancing around your shaft, mapping the contours of your cock, and she’s forcing you to concede: “Your logic, as always, is flawless.”

“See?” Yujin smiles up at you—wide and fearless. That grin that’s been plastered on a million posters, graced every magazine cover and screen, and is now laser focused on you. “I’m always right, aren’t I?”

She seals it with a firm squeeze, stroking you in that achingly familiar rhythm—quick, precise, dangerously efficient. Like she was built for this. Made to tease your cock.

As natural for her as breathing, really.

Yujin’s had plenty of practice, after all—on the morning of every concert, in the evening back at her hotel, on tour buses and in dressing rooms. On a plane once, even. It’s the same torrid routine that’s now become a required pre-show ritual.

A gap in her schedule and a quiet spot, a secluded room—she steals you away, bringing you to the brink and back.

And to think it all started because she asked you to help her ‘calm her nerves’.

Or more correctly, fuck all the worries and concerns out of her pretty little head.

Still, she’s never pushed it this far, never cut it this close.

You lean back against the stall door, breath catching as the cheap plastic gives under your weight. Outside you can hear it, the venue coming to life—staff rushing, equipment clanging, fans roaring in the distance. But in here, none of it matters. It’s all swallowed by the slick sound of her palm gliding along your shaft, wet with spit, and it fills the small space, echoing off the cold tiles.

She’s undeniable—you know you’ve spoilt her. Let her get her way with you far too many times, let her push this arrangement past any semblance of professionalism. Let her poison your mind with whispered sweet nothings that have you pounding her into the nearest available surface whenever she gets a twitch of stage fright.

But you’re also acutely aware of the fact that without these moments, without the promise of her tight, wet cunt wrapped around your cock, you’d be out there on that stage sleepwalking through just another concert with nothing but a drum kit and a bunch of songs you could play with your eyes closed.

“Fucking hell, Yujin, you look too good doing that,” you manage to get out, doing your best to endure her fingers gliding along your length, to last under the microscope of Yujin’s dark, hungry eyes.

Another thing about Yujin: there’s a special thrill she gets just from watching you, eyes glued to your face, taking in every single nuance of agony she’s wringing out.

“So fucking—” you settle on the most obvious word in your lexicon, “pretty.”

Yujin keens at the praise, her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, her teeth graze the soft skin of her bottom lip. It’s hardly new for her to hear this, to have people rave about how she’s the hottest piece of ass this side of the equator. Yet there’s something about hearing it from you that has her eating up your words every time. “Am I, now?”

You nod, voice cracking, failing you as she keeps pumping your cock, grip steady and relentless, like she’s milking you, milking every desperate sound right from your lips.

And it should be more concerning, you still haven’t pinned down what it is about you that unwinds her. That makes her chase you so hard.

Maybe it’s because you’re slightly older, a touch more mature than the usual plastic smiles that try to charm her out of her pants.

Or maybe it’s because you said ’no’ the first time she sniffed in your direction, and then made her scream ‘yes’ every time after.

Whatever it is, it has Yujin’s other hand reaching up to fiddle with the choker at her neck, flooding your mind with memories of your hand around her throat, her gagging on your length, her eyes watering while you fuck her face.

“And what about this outfit?” She asks, oh-so-innocently. “You think the fans will like it?”

“Yujin,” you say, like she doesn’t already know the very obvious answer. You’ve seen her in it all—tiny hot pants, tight little bralettes, that fucking leather catsuit. Yujin’s a fucking goddess in anything she wears, even a blind man would burn from the sheer heat radiating from her body. “You look fucking incredible, as always.”

“But?”

“No buts.”

“I heard a ‘but ’,” Yujin ponders, her hand still working your cock like it’s her favourite toy. “Like: ‘but the shorts are too short, and everyone’s gonna see my cheeks when I bend over’.”

A blatant invitation to take a glance, to look down, down at those denim shorts so tight against her curves, the fabric stretched so taut that it might split open at any moment. Look down at her thick thighs, the way they flex and release as she jerks you off, every movement making the material cling tighter to her skin, moulding themselves around the outline of her perfect, round ass, those juicy cheeks that you’ve had the honour of spanking and biting and bruising.

“Or is it: ‘but your top is cut too low, your tits are gonna spill right out’?”

She draws your eyes upwards—over that smooth, creamy stretch of her stomach, the flimsy, little excuse of a top. It clings to her, dips just enough to tease the tops of her breasts, squeezed together so nicely and pushed up by her bra. And it’s so thin, wrapped so tight around her, showing the stiff peaks of her nipples pressing through, stiff and begging for your tongue.

“Or maybe it’s: ‘the outfit looks good, looks nice and slutty, but you’d much rather rip it off me and just fucking ruin me like I deserve?’“

Yeah, that’s more like it.

You reach for the hem of her top—you need to see those tits, feel their warm weight in your palm, fuck, you have to have her stripped and laid bare.