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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: The Rape Tape
Author: DeckerDary13
Content Warnings: This story contains scenes of nonconsensual nature for your fapping purposes
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This is a short story following my earlier story titled White Student Gang Raped!
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The Rape Tape
I knew the place by its smell—pork broth and ramen noodles, the dealer called himself Hideo, His shop was a converted JAV selling joint behind a defunct Ramen Stall, the glass door screeching like a dying animal when I shoved it open. Though most of his tapes were consensual, we both knew the actual rape tapes fetch far more money in the underground network.
Hideo didn't look up from his soldering iron. The iron hissed against a circuit board, sending up a curl of acrid smoke that made my eyes water. Or maybe that was the three-day-old adrenaline still buzzing in my veins. I tossed the tapes onto the workbench. They landed with a clatter, smearing fresh grease over Joon Woo's label.
"Those better not be home movies of your grandma knitting," Hideo muttered, finally glancing up. His pupils dilated when he saw the dark streaks on the cassettes. The soldering iron slipped, branding a black line across his wrist. He didn't flinch. "How many?"
I thumbed the play button on the topmost tape. The tiny screen flickered to life—static resolving into the shaky handheld shot of her bedroom door. Han Jiang breathing was loud through the mic, ragged with excitement. The camera panned down to capture my silhouette easing it open, the knife's edge catching moonlight like a silver grin.
The girl lay asleep under the moonlight, silk clinging to every curve. The camera zoomed in—her parted lips, the flutter of eyelids in dream. My knife entered frame left, sliding under the neckline of her silky red nightgown with a whisper of parting fabric. Hideo made a sound like a kicked dog when her breasts spilled free, nipples pebbling in the sudden air.
Static hissed from the screen as I adjusted the playback speed—slowing the moment her eyes flew open, the exact millisecond when innocence shattered. Hideo's throat worked as the knife glinted again, this time slicing downward in one clean motion. The silk peeled away like giftwrap, revealing the trembling movement of her milky white thighs. The camera didn't miss anything—not the goosebumps racing up her stomach, not the way her toes curled when cold steel kissed her inner thigh.
I paused it right then: my forearm muscles flexing as I hauled her legs apart, the lens catching every wet glisten as the tip of my cock breached her. Hideo's fingers twitched toward the screen, smearing fingerprints across her digital terror. "Jesus" he whispered—not to me, but to the girl frozen mid-scream, her mouth a perfect O of pain. The timestamp read 10:03:47 PM.
I traced the curve of her thigh on the screen, my nail leaving a hairline scratch through the blood beading along her inner flesh. "Tighter than a fist," I bragged, thumbing the play button again. The tape stuttered—then my hips snapped forward in HD slow motion, her body arching off the mattress like a bowstring. Hideo's coffee cup hit the floor when her muffled scream finally synced with the video, a raw, wet sound that didn't match her petite frame.
My tongue remembered the salt of her skin—that first terrified sweat rising between her breasts when I'd pinned her. Onscreen, my teeth glinted as they closed around her left nipple, biting just hard enough to leave crescent moons in the milky flesh. Hideo made a strangled noise when the camera zoomed in on the moment her areola darkened under my saliva, puckering tight as a wound. "Virgin cunt," I murmured, tapping the screen where her legs trembled. "See how she clenches? Like a bottle cap."
Hideo's belt buckle clanked against concrete as he dropped his pants, cock springing free already slick at the tip. The stench of his arousal mixed with the burnt-copper smell of my own dried blood under my nails. He didn't bother with subtlety—just gripped himself with greasy fingers, stroking in time to the onscreen rhythm of my hips slamming between her thighs. The tape's audio caught her choked whimpers perfectly, each one synced with the wet slap of skin on skin.
I bragged louder over the noise, recounting how her cunt had pulsed around me when I came—that first glorious eruption after breaking through her maidenhead. Hideo's breathing hitched as the camera zoomed in on the moment I withdrew, my glistening cock painting crimson streaks across her snow-white thighs. "Biggest load of my life," I was smirking confidently, watching his fist move faster. "Pumped her full so deep she'd remember me for life, there is your money shot my friend" as the camera panned around showing cum and virgin blood dripping off my cock onto her thighs and her bleeding vagina
Just as he cleaned off his jerking off—palm smearing thick ropes of cum across his stained workbench—I stopped the video with a theatrical click. Hideo's head snapped up, face slack with betrayal. "Wait—what the fuck—" he sputtered, cock still dripping onto the concrete. I tapped the remaining stack of tapes with my hand, watching his pupils dilate at the implication. "There's more," I murmured, leaning close enough to smell his acrid sweat. "Imagine what happens when 3 guys run through a virgin over the weekend, and not just her pussy." My eyes giving an evil grin
Hideo's hands hovered over the stack of tapes, fingertips brushing the smeared labels like gold bars. His breath coming in shallow pants. "How much?" His voice cracked on the second word. A drop of sweat rolled from his temple into the wiry nest of his beard.
"Five grand per tape," I said, watching his pupils dilate. "Thirty-five total. In Euros"
Hideo exhaled through his nose, the sound wet and ragged. Then he laughed—a sharp, barking thing that turned into a cough halfway through. "You're out of your fucking mind," he wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But his fingers were already twitching toward the combination dial of the floor safe hidden under a moldy carpet remnant. He knew good quality material when he saw them, and the DVD of a white college girl weekend gangbang would sell like hotcakes. The metal door groaned when he yanked it open, revealing bundled stacks of hundreds in different currencies.
He tossed the stacks of cash onto the bench. It landed with a thump beside the tape labeled "ACT III: KIMONO." I didn't bother counting. The weight was right. It was not my first dealing with him, my previous tape of recording the rape of a drunk Japanese Office Lady (OL) in her apartment sold spectacularly well to the clientele.
Han Jiang welcomed me back to the car as I left the shop. It was only 8 in the morning as the Shibuya district bustled to life. Hideo's muffled grunts chased me through the exit—the jack hammer pounding of skin on skin, the tinny screams leaking from his old speakers. By the time my key hit the ignition, he'd be elbow-deep in lotion, pausing only to rewind the money shots.
End
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I been busy with life a lot, so this is just a small bone to throw expanding on my Musketeers universe, enjoy
