Monday, January 14, 2013

Rockin' the Suburbs

You wake up, languidly, to the dulcet sounds of a hip hop dance beat. It's an odd way to wake up -- slowly and peacefully, to the type of song that really demands you get out on that dance floor and shake it.

You know you should be concerned. Well, you know that you know you should be concerned. You hadn't fallen asleep with the headphones on -- in fact, the headphones are most definitely not yours -- but each beat of the song's bass, each whisper of its barely-audible words, seems to... it seems to... something. It's so hard to think, listening to such a good track. And it's just so hard to get worried. Instead you smile lazily and enjoy the electronic sex that's pouring out of the headphones and right into your brain.

And holy heck, are you horny. You're used to a little morning wood, but this... this is something else. It's like all your pent-up tension and worry is being washed out of your head, out your arms and legs, and into your butt, your pecs, your pecker. You know that sounds weird. But that's what it feels like, and it feels incredible. I should wake up like this every morning, you think, and your penis twitches in approval.

You try to muster the will to get up. You have some place to be, you tell yourself, something you have to do. But every time you imagine yourself getting up out of bed, your thoughts turn to images of getting yourself off to this music. The lyrics, still just inaudible, sound carefree, almost sing-song. The contrast with the track's heavy beat is distracting, intoxicating. Simultaneously refreshing and innervating. You feel your will ebb, and your hand begins to crawl under you, toward your long, hard cock, stiff with all of your worries and inhibitions and masculinity.

Something about that list just isn't right, you try to tell yourself, but now your hand is on your cock, pumping it up-down, up-down, in rhythm to the music. The music. Nothing else matters but the music. It's in you, filling you. The music swells, and you feel it swell inside of you. The lyrics were still there, and now you know what they're saying, what they're telling you to do. They're talking about asses, and on cue you lift your butt in the air. Your small, unassuming butt. That won't do, the music whispers, real sluts don't have flat butts. They have round asses, firm and tanned. Your back arches in need, the truth of the lyrics driving into you, warping you. Your butt -- no, your round, fuckable ass -- sticks further in the air.

Your hand slips off your short cock, but your long fingers -- so much longer than that stupid, icky cock -- find it again, stroking you closer and closer to climax. But that's not going to be enough, the music tells you, asses are just a start. You listen as the lyrics instruct you, mold you, reveal to you the new truth of your existence: A real ass for a real slut, real tits for a real tramp. Your night shirt falls open, and your exposed nipples hardened in the cool morning air. Nipples are nerdy, the music chides, and suddenly you can't believe you ever used such conservative language. Your small breasts feel great, bouncing in tandem with your cock's ministrations and the beat.

Breasts? Breasts are boring, the music giggles. Tits or bust, clamped or pierced, that's what a slut like you needs. You don't even blink as the quaint concepts of "breasts" or "mammary glands" are burned out of your memory, replaced by a compulsive need to articulate yourself like the slut you are. Shit, you think, reaching a hand up to knead your rack, Getting these bitches pierced was the hottest fuckin' think I've ever done. I'm such a fuckin' slut.

And shit, I've never needed to cum so badly in my whole slutty bitch life. The music is reaching a crescendo, and you're moments away from climax. But your fuckin' hand keeps slipping off your diddly cock, and you're moaning aloud in frustrated need. "I fuckin' need it," you're shouting out to no one in particular, babbling in a sexual frenzy. "Fuck me like the bitch I am, come on, suck my cock, suck that clit real good!" Your fingers slip inside of your, filling you like the music.

The music's still saying something, but it's too much -- you've lost control, governed by a torrent of sexual need. One hand filling your leaking pussy, the other brutally twisting your slutty tits. It's too much. You throw your head back, screaming in agonizing pleasure. Your back arches, and the headphones tumble off. It doesn't matter, nothing matters, the music is in you now. The song isn't whispering to you anymore, it's pouring out of your mouth, load and profane. "I'm a slut," you're screaming, hoping your neighbors hear, "Fuck me, fuck fuck fuucccccckkkkk."

It's a long time before you come down from your high, but eventually you're able to pause long enough to admire your new, punk body. The punk hairstyle, the beautiful tattoos crisscrossing your pale skin -- you're a bitch that isn't to be fucked with, unless you want to be fucked with. "Shit, I'm fuckin' sexy," you say, licking the sticky cum that soaks your hand. You giggle, proud of how loud and lewd you were, and how loud and lewd you will be. There's a new bitch in town, and she's you. You have fuckin' needs, and other people can either suck it or suck your clit. You so hope the neighbors heard. You hope you jostled their conservative, middle-class lives. Let them complain. Let them come down and knock on your door. Let them gape, as you open the door naked, your tits so inviting, your pussy dripping.

Let them... let them... you see the pink headphones, discarded on your cum-soaked sheets, and you smile a devious smile. You're up, moving toward your expensive sound system. There was a time that you worried about disturbing the neighbors, but that time has cum and gone, washed out of your sopping pussy. Now you really want to disturb them. Now there was only the Music, and everyone was going to get a listen.

Pictures are of Adria from Suicide Girls.

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