Smut Peddler

You seem unsure how to move forward. It’s written all over you’re face. You never expected to even get this far, did you? Of course, you didn’t. Look at you. A squirming pathetic mess who can’t even own up to what’s between your legs.

The silence stretches and breaks only by your nervous swallowing. There’s the faintest tremble in your knees. Your body betrays you as if it too knows you’re in over your head. My eyes drift down and trace every humiliating inch of your exposed vulnerability.

“You owe me,” I say decisively.

“Wha-what do you mean?” you manage to get out, finally.

I stand and place a hand on my hip. “I mean, you owe me,” I repeat. “I can’t believe you even thought we’d fuck when that thing clearly isn’t enough to penetrate. At best, you’d have the saddest blowjob ever. You led me on.”

Your lips part, and some half-formed excuse dyes in your throat.

I tilt my head and smirk, leaning closer, the faint scent of my perfume invades your senses. You’re so easy to read—desperation mingles with shame as your hands flutter uselessly, caught between covering yourself and obeying.

You try pulling up your jeans but your jittering hands fumble, and I easily swat them away.

“No,” I command. “Take them off. Briefs too.”

You look at me quizzically.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I add, my voice dripping with icy authority. I cross my arms, the fabric of my blouse taut against my chest, a deliberate display of what you’ll never deserve. “Show me everything, little man. Don’t stop until I tell you to.”

Your hands hesitate, shaking, but you obey. Each motion is painfully slow as if dragging out your humiliation will lessen it. The air feels heavier, colder, and your skin prickles as you’re stripped bare.

I take a step closer. My heels click against the floor, the sound echoing in the suffocating quiet.

“Pathetic,” I breathe, crouching again to inspect you. My nails trail lazily down your thigh, stopping just short of your limp little embarrassment. “Tell me,” I demand, my gaze sharp as a blade, “did you really think you’d impress me with this? Or did you know all along I’d laugh at you?”

You stammer something incoherent, irrelevant, but the words crumble before they leave your lips.

I raise an eyebrow, lean in closer, and the corners of my mouth curl upward in a smirk. “Speak up,” I taunt, my voice syrupy with mockery. “Or is even that too much for you?”

Your lips tremble, and I see your throat bob as you swallow. Still, no answer comes. My eyes drop again, my fingertips grazing your inner thigh, so light it’s almost teasing. “Look at this,” I say, as if you’re not already painfully aware. “I’ve seen earthworms with more dignity.” My laughter comes sharp and sudden, like a slap to your ego. “Do you even know what to do with it? Or is this the first time someone’s ever bothered to notice you at all?”

Your body stiffens at that, a subtle flinch betraying the hit my words landed. My amusement grows. I rise to my full height, looking down at you—an easy feat, given how you’ve shrunk in every possible way. “You’ll need to make this up to me,” I say, brushing imaginary dust off my skirt. “I’m not leaving tonight empty-handed, and you’re certainly not capable of giving me what I actually want.”

“I… I can try,” you manage, the words so soft I almost miss them. Almost. But they only make me laugh harder, the sound cruel and cutting. “Try?” I echo, incredulous. “With what? That?” I gesture downward, and your hands twitch as though instinctively trying to shield yourself. “Oh, honey,” I coo, my tone mockingly sweet now, “you don’t ‘try’ with something like this. You serve. That’s the only thing you’re good for.”

I take a deliberate step forward, forcing you to backpedal until the edge of the couch catches you. Your legs buckle, and you fall awkwardly into the cushions, your pants still tangled around your ankles. “Now,” I say, towering over you, “if you really want to prove you’re not a complete waste of time, you’ll shut up and do exactly as I say.”

Your wide eyes meet mine, and I see the war of emotions playing out—humiliation, resistance, submission. It’s delicious. I place one knee on the cushion beside you, my fingers curling under your chin to force you to look up at me. “Do you understand?” I ask, my voice a whisper now, soft and deadly. “Because the next words out of your mouth had better be, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

For a moment, you just stare, caught in some internal struggle. Then, finally, you nod. “Y-yes, ma’am,” you stutter, your voice barely audible.

I smile, slow and predatory, and pat your cheek condescendingly. “Good boy,” I purr. “Now, let’s see if that mouth of yours is good for something after all.”

I slide my knee closer, pressing lightly against your chest as I tilt my head, inspecting you like a scientist would a failed experiment. “First,” I say, drawing the word out, “you’re going to make up for all the time you wasted tonight.” My fingers trail from your chin down to your lips, hovering there for a beat. “Let’s see if this tongue of yours is capable of anything worthwhile.”

Your face burns redder than before, and you stammer again, but I cut you off with a sharp glare. “No excuses,” I snap, my voice firm. “You don’t speak unless I tell you to. Got it?” Your lips part, but you think better of it and nod quickly instead. “Good boy,” I murmur, though the praise is laced with derision.

My hands drift lower, gripping the hem of my skirt. I inch it up deliberately, slow enough that you can see every shift of fabric as I reveal the lace edge of my panties. Your eyes widen, glued to the sight despite yourself. “Oh, now you’re paying attention,” I say, smirking. “But don’t get any ideas. You’ve already proven you don’t have what it takes to satisfy me. Your tongue, on the other hand… well, we’ll see.”

I take another step forward, closing the gap until I’m towering over you completely. The proximity makes you squirm, your hands gripping the couch cushions for balance. With one hand, I push your head back against the cushion, holding you in place as I settle myself over you. “Open your mouth,” I command, my tone leaving no room for hesitation.

You freeze for half a second too long, and my grip on your hair tightens—a sharp tug that makes you gasp. “Did I stutter?” I growl. The sharpness in my voice sends you scrambling to obey, your lips parting timidly. “Good,” I say, and lower myself the rest of the way, letting the fabric of my panties brush against your trembling lips. “Start slow,” I instruct. “And if I don’t like what I feel, you’ll regret it.”

Your tongue flicks out, tentative at first, and I can’t help but laugh—a soft, cruel sound that fills the room.

“Pathetic,” I murmur, rocking my hips slightly to press closer. “You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you? You’re so used to being useless that you can’t even figure out how to please a woman properly. Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous tonight. I’ll give you a chance to prove yourself.”

I adjust my position, grinding against your face just enough to guide you, and your efforts grow more desperate, more eager. “That’s better,” I say, though my tone still carries a note of mockery. “Maybe you’re not a total waste of space after all.” My fingers curl tighter in your hair, holding you steady as I take what I want. “But don’t get cocky,” I warn. “You’re nowhere near earning my forgiveness yet.”

The minutes stretch on, each one more humiliating for you than the last. My breaths quicken, but I make sure to keep my control, never letting you think you’ve gained the upper hand. When I finally pull back, your face is flushed, your lips glistening, and you’re gasping for air. I smirk down at you, utterly unimpressed.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling merciful tonight,” I say, adjusting my skirt as I step away. “But don’t think for a second that this means you’re off the hook.”

You slump back against the couch, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. The faint sheen of sweat on your forehead glistens under the dim light, and the way your hands nervously clutch at the cushions tells me everything I need to know. You’re broken—exactly where you belong.

I smooth my skirt with a deliberate motion, savoring the silence that hangs thick in the air. My gaze flicks back to you, and I let out a soft, derisive laugh. “Look at you,” I say, my tone dripping with disdain. “A trembling, pathetic mess, completely at my mercy. It’s almost sad. Almost.”

You flinch at the words, but you don’t dare argue. Your eyes stay fixed on the floor, too ashamed to meet mine. Good. That’s exactly where you should be.

“Clean yourself up,” I order, my voice sharp as a whip. I toss a tissue onto your lap, watching as your fumbling hands scramble to obey. “And pull your pants up. I’m done wasting my time on you tonight.”

You nod quickly, your movements awkward and frantic as you try to cover yourself. The sight of you, so utterly defeated, sends a rush of satisfaction through me. This is power, raw and unfiltered, and you’re nothing more than a plaything caught in its grasp.

I turn to leave, my heels clicking against the floor with each purposeful step. But just before I reach the door, I pause and glance back over my shoulder. “Consider this a lesson,” I say, my voice cold and final. “Next time you think about leading someone on, remember tonight. And remember that you’ll never be anything more than what you are right now—a pathetic little nothing.”

The door closes behind me with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet. And as I walk away, I don’t bother looking back. I already know exactly how you’ll spend the rest of your night—haunted by the weight of your own inadequacy.

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