Smut Saturdays #7 – How Does Slutspace Feel For Me?

This post, in addition to being part of my Smut Saturdays series, is also part of my headspaces miniseries (wherein I explore the nuanced variations upon subspace I experience in different contexts). As always, if you have suggestions for a Smut Saturdays piece (or any other kind of post, for that matter), hit me up @KinkyAutistic on Twitter or in the comments section here on WordPress!


Unlike ropespace, masochist-space or service space, ‘slutspace’ is a term I haven’t actually heard anyone else use. I might have made it up. It refers to a particular kind of subspace that I access through genital stimulation (my own or others’), or through (consensual) degradation or humiliation. And, because I have apparently invented this term and thus nobody else has written about it, I’m finding it hard to explain and explore.

So let’s look at an example.

I’m lying on my back on my Daddy’s bed with my head dangling over the edge. I’m naked except for my collar, and he’s naked except for his boxers. The silhouette of his stiff dick is visible through the grey fabric, making my mouth water, and I don’t take my eyes off it. I can’t.

Until, of course, he pulls it out of his underwear and fucks my mouth and throat. Then I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting my gag reflex and getting drunk on the taste of his cock. At some point (time is as much a slushy mess as I am, in this moment) he manages to reach down my little body and press the head of my Doxy wand against my cunt. I try to make a delighted sound but I just choke on his shaft a little. He turns it on, and I writhe against the vibrations, unsure whether I’m overwhelmed in a good way or a bad one. It doesn’t matter. I love that it doesn’t matter.

At some point, my Daddy gets bored of fucking my throat. Maybe I cum or maybe I don’t – it doesn’t matter. He drags me upright with a fist full of my hair, then yanks and shoves til I’m on my knees in front of him. The wand is discarded on the bed, because it wasn’t there for my pleasure, or even for my pain – it was there to help me generate pretty noises while my lips were around his dick. Now I’m kneeling below said dick, my eyes streaming from all the repressed choking, and he wants more pretty noises, so he slaps me. And he slaps me. And he slaps me. And I don’t know whether it’s the pain or the shock or the overwhelm, but I start to sob. He pauses and looks at me, so I whisper one of the only three words I can hold in my mind: “Green.”

I am barely a person in this scene. I don’t want to say that I’m ‘not doing anything’, because I am – I’m responding to everything best I can, like undulating my tongue whilst my throat is fucked and making eye contact with my Daddy between the hard slaps. But that’s about it. I’m not active, and I’m not thinking. I follow instructions like, “Open your mouth,” or, “Don’t flinch this time,” and I look pretty, and I am used.

And I love it.

That’s the thing – I do love it. That’s what makes it slutspace, rather than masochist-space or some kind of humiliation space. I am desperate for this to continue in some capacity or another. My tear-stained cheeks aren’t half as wet as my swollen cunt. If my Daddy were to walk away now, with me on my knees on the bedroom floor, I would only be able to shuffle after him, maybe grabbing at his legs, maybe whimpering, maybe crying some more. In slutspace, the whole world shrinks – all that remains is my body, and whoever’s dominating me finding uses for it.

It’s incredibly freeing. In slutspace, I don’t have the capacity to be self-conscious. I am no longer in control of my body. If I’m clumsy, it doesn’t matter – my partner can just take control, or can use my clumsiness as humiliation fodder, or both. If I gag on whatever’s in my mouth, I assume that was the goal of whoever put that thing there. All I can ever think about is being the best tool possible for the person using me, and about my own mounting arousal as they’re doing so.

My Daddy, in this example, fucks my throat a little more, then decides he wants my cunt. He manhandles me onto the bed – on my back, so he can pin me down by my throat. He slides into my cunt with ease because it is (as I am) desperately, ridiculously aroused – and then he fucks me, deep, and I wail and I sob a little more and I can feel an orgasm on the horizon. I can’t form words at all now, so I point helplessly towards my mons pubis in the hopes that it counts as asking permission.

My Daddy leans forward and growls, “Cum on my cock,” and his grip on my throat gets tight. I see spots and even in this useless, cockdrunk state of mind I know that he’s getting close. He doesn’t care whether I cum for the sake of cumming; he wants me to twitch and clench around him whilst he cums inside me.

It’s in the essence of slutspace that I crave abundance, so I try to drag my orgasm out as long as possible. I think (in a dim sort of way) of my vaginal walls contracting as I cum and milking the semen out of my Daddy. In this moment, in slutspace, getting filled with cum seems like the most important thing in the world.

And, naturally, I achieve it.

Slutspace doesn’t have to be about fucking, or about genitals at all – but it really swiftly activates mine. As soon as I slide into the greedy, one-dimensional, sensation-oriented state of mind that is slutspace, my clit tingles, my whole abdomen aches and my mouth waters at the thought of other people’s genitals anywhere near me in any configuration they choose.

It’s a little more vulnerable than some other headspaces because I really do surrender a lot of power as an active participant; slutspace functions as a prolonged objectification scene and my only power lies in the use of safewords. As such, once I have a cunt full of cum and I’ve caught my breath, in this example I stumble to the bathroom, clean up, and then get under the covers and make my Daddy watch me play Animal Crossing.

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