smutpeddlerx

[smutpeddlerx]

To break you is a gift

Songwriters find their best inspiration in the words of strangers. The distance allows them to hear more clearly. The subtle way a stranger will change the meaning of a word to fit their current world view and then change it back when it is convenient. 

It’s easy to imagine this modern day troubadour sitting quietly in a cafe staring down at a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee trying to make sense of the world as it happens around him. 

I’m not much different from him really, which I’m sure you’ll come to understand in time. The path of the righteous is both a blessing and curse. One, I am sure, you will bear with beauty and grace. 

To break you is a gift. For both me and you. This is the line you say. Not out loud, but to yourself. This is where I won’t go. And then I push you past it. I give you a reason that makes it worth it. Your eyes glow at the moment and your lips swell. It’s when the breaking happens. 

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. The rules of writing suggest we tell the audience where you’re headed before you take them on the journey. That makes sense when it’s a cheap flight to Vegas, but less so when I’m detailing how you’ll end up cum filled and in tears. The first step to breaking you is to notice you. The way your breathing changes as my hands move across your body. The way you squirm when I whisper into your ear the things I want to do to you when no one is around. And especially, the things I want to do to you when someone could be watching. A purpose. Too many beautiful women have lived a life without a purpose. But that won’t be a problem for you. I trace your jaw line and then slap you gently while looking into your eyes and reminding you to serve your purpose. I’m glad your beauty won’t go to waste. 

It’s easy to get wrapped up in a collar or a leash. Or being bent over my lap. To think that those are the kinks you should admit to. But you’re more complicated than that and that’s something I appreciate about you. The inspection. Your hands and knees against the cold table top. Your legs spread so I can see your cunt and asshole. My fingers touching and exploring. Looking down into your eyes. Your vulnerability spoken by the way you hold yourself for my judgment. My fingers trace your tight little cunt. I feel your wetness and continue to exploit your vulnerability. 

I love the way you say thank you for giving you the opportunity to be inspected by me. The way your cunt tightens as a slide a single finger inside it, only to pull it out and run it against your lips before you clean it off. I’m in no rush to finish, but you feel the cold air against every part of you. You feel naked and afraid of what comes next. I don’t stop touching you as I my finger tips play with your pussy. My cock hardens as you begin to moan into the empty air. I unbutton my pants and allow you to offer up your throat to hold my cock. I love the way you ask if I’d like to slide my cock into your throat. It’s pretty when you ask like that. And as I slowly fuck your throat, taking you and letting you serve your purpose, I feel your cunt get wetter. Wet enough to drip down your thighs and onto the table. When I notice the wetness pooling under you, I put the collar and leash on you before pulling my cock out of your throat. I then give you a simple task to clean up the mess you’ve made with your mouth. A tug on your collar speeds you up. I love your obedience and the way you follow my directions. So much so that even your orgasms are completely under my control. I can tell you to orgasm and without even touching you, you connect my words with your purpose and give into the orgasm that I’ve commanded. I remind you that you are at your prettiest when you are broken. That your best self is the mess of a woman you become when you’ve pushed past the point of your own dignity and you give into my desires.

[smutpeddlerx]

The smell of cattle and alfalfa in the summer heat never could have told the whole story. The rings left on the table right outside of the headquarters mixed the sweat from iced tea glasses with the sweat from ranch hands.

To the untrained eye, this is an unsophisticated place. There is no distinction between sweat from the hard work of a man breaking his body to move walking, mooing slabs of steak between fresh grass and old and the sweat that pours down a tea glass. It all pools the same in the cracks of the paint and turns the oak under a darker shade.

This lack of distinction creates space in this place. Place for the present. For noticing the way the coyotes sound closer at night and those sound dogs sing their lyrics for no one other than themselves. There's a selfish beauty there. And then you look at the ranch sign. Pillars that reach into the sky. Unassuming and clear. You've spent half your life looking for signs, but this sign says nothing about where to go or where you've been.

The point of the sign at the entrance gate is to remind you that you're leaving the open range and entering a place that demands obedience and respect. An arch overhead to communicate that there's something above you.

The hand on your neck. The way it tightens and releases like a wave that washes over you. Most men don't understand the art of putting your hands on a woman's neck. The subtle tease of a finger tips tracing targets to communicate intention between breaths and moans and the rearranging sheets that move the peaks and valleys of the bedroom into new configurations.

There's struggle and sacrifice in this moment. The grip tightens. The blood pushes against the pressure. He found the spot. Perfectly. Each time. The sides of the neck and just enough pressure to bring attention to that feeling in your head.

A forehead kiss softens the intensity of the moment. You're safe he says without words into your eyes. The feelings of fogginess that corrupt your brain into loving this, drift down your body. In a yoga studio in Manhattan, these thoughts would fill your mind. You'd question if you were more or less connected to your body in this moment as you relived it as a sweet, soft voice repeats the mantra into a room filled with the depersonalized voice transmitted through speakers in the ceiling.

This unsophisticated place with paper plates in the cupboards and mismatched throw pillows on the couch, is where you learned what it means to be present. To feel the hand of a stranger and mistake it for the hand of a lover. This is the place where collapse and rebirth sit next to each other as titles to old books on small shelves stuck in the corner. No one reads anymore, it is easy to think with your back against the sheets. The sweat that drips from him and from you make wings that turn you from whore to angel in noone's mind.

The simple truth is you're open. Exposed. Taken. Owned. It easy to describe sex in mechanical terms. The insertion. The shake of a body at the height of orgasm. The increase paced of muscles contracting chasing a shared goal.

But that's not why you came to this place. You came to this place to feel like you were under something. Under the spell of this place that lets you forget about the AM traffic jam. The excuse to why you were late to work today.

Instead, you came here to feel the secret shame of enjoying this. Morning sex. Afternoon sex. Anytime sex. The therapist said not to talk about it, just do it.

His hand never left your neck. Pinned down against the sheets. When you think back, you won't remember flannel or silk. You'll remember the way it feels to be spun around as if you don't exist. Put on your side and spread open at the same time his fingers wrap around your hair and pull your face back. Your lips swollen with excitement and the look in your eyes communicates why you came here.

You. The concept. The personality and hopes and dreams are gone. The primal desire to give in to something bigger and stronger than yourself takes over. You push back. Arching your back for him. The natural form and shape you take is organic compared to the hard, straight wood that creates the flat surface that you set your glasses on.

The room fills with what you wish would have left you years ago. The moans before you grab the sheets and collapse them into a rope that could be used to pull you out of this mess.

He whispers into your ear, "Leave behind the pieces you don't want to take with you." The only words he's spoken since this began. The last trust back against him forces you forward. Your body tightens. Tightens around the truth and tightens around him. Tightens around exactly what you want to keep, squeezing out the pieces you don't want to take with you.

Your body shakes you free. You lift your hips and feel his warm cum tracing your cunt as it drips onto the sheets. The race to the end was never about finishing. The journey started with a hand on your neck and ended here. The sore, tired mess of humans wrapped around humans. You turn on the ceiling fan. It shakes and creeks before it can begin the process of bring you back.

[smutpeddlerx]

There's a sense of self in everything we do. Almost every phrase could start with "Where I'm from..." and then whatever follows is justified by the time and place of the person.

"Where I'm from there is moss in the trees."

"Where I'm from there's a bodega on every other corner."

"Where I'm from I call her mama."

There is no way to argue with the sense of self. The weight that holds you in place until you can't move. It travels through your body and then stops. Somewhere between your stomach and your thighs and it sits there.

You closed your front door early in the morning. You don't have to count the stoplights to know there are too many. As you sit there and feel the time seeping into the pressure you apply to the brake pedal, you think about what is before you.

I lied. There is no "Where I come from I am a broken whore in desperate need," or "Where I come from, I choke on my own cum-covered panties as a sign of submission." It doesn't roll off the tongue. It doesn't justify how a woman like you could end up here.

You knock on the door. Softly at first. Your soft rap against the door is a desperate plea to be let into yourself. To be given the chance to find yourself no matter where that might be.

You were instructed to leave your panties at home. Folded up on your dresser next to the photos of family and friends. Between the vase and the trinkets from last year's summer trip. The thought of picking out the perfect pair of panties for today. For me, really. And then having to leave them at home, folded up nicely next to everything innocent and pure, leaves you soaking wet with nothing to to protect your thighs from your own corruption.

I allow you in. A single snap of my fingers and you fall down to your knees. You remember the hardwood floors and how they serve as your home away from home. I run my fingers along your jaw line and you instinctively open your mouth.

I open your mouth the rest of the way and tip your face up towards mine. We both love how I slowly take control of you and I spit into your mouth. You savor the opportunity to catch what is mine and make it yours.

There's tension in the air. The whir of a home appliance kicking on gets your attention and you lose focus. Your knees ache and the tracing of your skin with my fingertips sends chills down your body.

I undo my belt and wrap it around your throat. I push my cock against your lips and ask if you remember last time. You nod, unable to speak as you open your mouth and my cock consumes the open space. Pushing against your throat and down it as you choke. You gag. You struggle to breathe. I relax as you run your tongue against my cock and I pull your face forward.

Your world starts to go back as you struggle to breathe. This is the moment where the sense of self matters. My pleasure or your survival. Which will you pick to be your purpose today? You tap against my leg and I slowly pull my cock out of your mouth. Letting you suffer and struggle just long enough to know that you made the right choice when you chose my pleasure as your purpose.

The makeshift collar and leash around your neck tightens as I drag you on your hands and knees to the bedroom. I pull you up off the floor and whisper in your ear, "You are my property. You are broken and the only reason you exist is to show me that I made the right choice in owning you."

Bending you over my lap, I inspect your warm, wet cunt. I run my fingers up and down your slit. Feeling how wet you've gotten.

"I didn't know you enjoyed being denied life so much. I had no idea you'd get this wet from having my perfect cock down your throat."

Your silence just proves my point and I spread your legs wider. I run my finger over your asshole and press against it. You lift your ass higher. Inviting me to invade yet another one of your holes.

I spread your legs again. You closed them to lift your ass and when they are finally wide enough for you to feel the cool air against your wet cunt, I spank your clit. Grabbing ahold of your hair and pulling it tight as you yelp in pleasure.

"Again," your whore mouth whispers.

I strike you again. Harder than before. You knew it was supposed to hurt and now your cunt aches. More than before. More than you thought it should.

"Again. Please," you manage to say.

You're being inspected. Measured. I'm determining if you have value and what purpose you could serve. I run my fingers between your lips to see if you're worth fucking yet.

"Count."

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

Your focus is on some silly numbers as your cunt stings and aches for more. You can't focus on anything that's come before or anything after. You lift your hips and spread your legs instinctually. I see what a whore you are. What a whore you've always been.