Smut Saturdays #13: Through The Window (Part 1)

Stock image of a wine glass on its side with corks spilling out of it. The background is plain black and the corks are a traditional corky brown.

Content note: This is a fantasy story which portrays stalking in detail and makes mention of blood. If either of those are difficult for you, give this one a miss! We’ll be back next week with a post on my new protocol proposal system, and in the meantime, you can always follow my Twitter for anecdotes, memes and more.


Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. They’ll all be under the category ‘Smut Saturdays’ and if you’ve got any feedback or requests for smut scenarios, put ‘em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!




I have my laptop on my pajama-clad thighs, and I’m in the process of signing on to the agency through which I do some of my freelance captioning work. The pickings are slim: it’s a Saturday, after all, so there are fewer business-y projects to caption, and the vlog-type ones left available are being snapped up before my dyspraxic fingers can reach the ‘claim’ button. I allow myself to be distracted by Twitter for a few long moments, until I hear something at the window.

I pause. I’m not often perturbed by odd noises – I’ve been living with mild, usually stress-induced psychosis for a couple of years now, so I often assume that my brain is misfiring when I hear or see things that don’t make sense. And something at the window doesn’t make sense: I live in a weird, labyrinthine, formerly industrial building and my window opens onto, seemingly, more building.  Unless it’s a bird or a squirrel (in which case it can’t harm me anyway), it’s likely to be a hallucination. I make a mental note to mention it to my Daddy when he phones me after work, and I turn my attention back to my work website.

The noise – which is, by turns, tapping and scuffing against my window – persists. I’m too anxious to check it out, and too comfortable, so I jam my earphones into my ears and claim a five-minute Pixlr tutorial to caption. Once I’ve finished, the noise has stopped.


I sleep lightly and have nightmares every single night, unless I get drunk or high – and even then, it’s 50/50 as to whether I’ll wake up in a cold sweat. So when I snap awake at what my microwave clock tells me is 2:49 a.m., I assume it’s my brain and shut my eyes again.

Until I hear a whisper.

“Morgan.”

I scrabble for the light switch, adrenaline forcing the taste of blood into my mouth. In only a second, I think about where I left my kitchen knives (on the draining board, fuck), where my huge steel dildo is (at my Daddy’s house, fuck) and whether I could fend off an attacker with a four millimetre knitting needle from my bedside drawer. (The fuckers bend – I know that from sitting on them.) My fingers find the switch and flood the room with light. I squint against it, anxious to see who spoke my name.

At nearly 3 a.m., common sense does not suggest that this could be a hallucination or a nightmare. But that’s fine, because common sense would have been wrong anyway.

Standing at the foot of my bed is a stranger.

I wonder if I should scream, but I don’t know who he is, what he wants and whether he would kill me if I did. So I slowly, slowly sit up, and take in his face. It’s a narrow face (if you were being unkind, you might call it scrawny) with a beard, a beanie hat covering his hair, and huge, huge eyes staring right back at me. I try to gauge his height based only on where my bedframe comes up to him: he’s probably not that much taller than me. Even in his big hoodie, he looks slim, and I’m already mentally rehearsing what I’ll do if I need to: eyes first, bollocks second, get to the door while he’s incapacitated, scream for my corridor-mates to phone 999. I run my thumb over the fingernails on my right hand, and mercifully, I haven’t bitten them off recently, so I could theoretically dig them into his skin.

Except he isn’t moving. He isn’t speaking. There is a bizarre moment in which I think he might be as scared as I am.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, in a parody of my own Britishness, “I’m not sure who you are.”

“You don’t know me,” he says, still staring unabashedly at me. I’m glad I slept in pajamas rather than nude, even if it means another human witnessing my ratty knitting society T-shirt. “I’m sorry. I just, I couldn’t help it any longer. I’ve been following you.”

I press my thumbnail into my fingertip, hard, and it hurts. Not dreaming. “Oh,” I say. I still can’t gauge how dangerous this man is. “Why?”

“Because, um.” He finally stops looking at my face and instead becomes intensely interested in his own hands. “I’m in love with you.”

Well, you’re not, I think. We’ve never interacted. At best, you’re infatuated with me.

Out loud, I only say, “I see.”

I can’t tell by my bedside light, but I think he might be blushing. “I know it’s stupid, and weird, and I know how fucking creepy it is that I’ve broken into your flat, but -”

“Well, you haven’t exactly broken in. I left the bloody window open.” God, he’s got such big, sad eyes. He looks like a puppy straight out of a Dog’s Trust ad. “Um, can I ask your name?”

“It’s Anthony. Friends call me Ant.” He finally looks at me again. “I’m really sorry I came in. I wasn’t even going to wake you, but you looked like you were having a nightmare and I couldn’t bear it.”

I pull some sort of weird, rueful face at that. “If I was woken up every time I had a nightmare, I’d never get any sleep at all.” I’m still not convinced this is really happening. “Ant, it’s been lovely to meet you, but I need to be up at seven tomorrow.”

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I’ll head off. Uh, through the door, rather than the window this time. But, you know, if you ever want to talk, um.” He pulls something out of his pocket. I take it from him, leaning forwards and trying only to bring my hand, nothing else, close to him, just in case, and I see it’s a business card. A fucking business card. It holds his name, his number and his email address. “Thank you for not freaking out.”

I nod slowly. “I’m just glad you weren’t burgling me. There’s fuck all to burgle here anyhow.” I glance towards the door. My flat is so small that I can see my kitchen from my bed, and the only door other than the front one leads to the bathroom (sans bath). “D’you know how to get out? I think there’s fire exit signs that should point you in the right direction.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t get out of bed just for me.” He starts towards the door, but pauses with his hand on its handle. “Morgan?”

“Yeah?”

“I will make you love me.”

And with that, he left.


I don’t tell anybody.

At first, I assume it’s a dream. I crawl out of bed at 7:20 and open a can of Relentless before I even think about breakfast, as is my tradition. I get dressed. I have nearly half a crumpet in my mouth when my eyes fall on his business card.

A fucking business card.

After that, I don’t tell anybody because I know they’ll worry. They might call the police. There are CCTV cameras on my corridor – they could find him. And he really didn’t seem to mean any harm.

Maybe my blasé attitude regarding a stranger breaking into my home is exactly why everybody would worry about it.


I don’t call or email him. I don’t Google him. I lie down for bed every night, hoping for and dreading a visit from him.

Three days after our first meeting, he starts leaving me gifts.

The first is in my postbox. It’s a large bar of salted caramel Galaxy (my favourite) with a note sellotaped to it.

Wanted to make sure you don’t forget about me. Loved the dress you wore yesterday.

– Ant

I carefully peel off the note and stash it in my coat pocket. I don’t want anybody to see it (least of all my Daddy, who would worry the most) but I would feel exceptionally mean just throwing it away.

I share the chocolate with my 20th Century Poets And Politics seminar group, and I don’t tell them where it came from. It tastes amazing.


The second gift comes only a day after the first, again in my postbox. This time it’s a giftcard – to Ann Summers. The note reads:

I know you want their new baby pink lingerie line and I know you don’t want to give them your money. This should work online. If you want me to see you wearing it, post pictures on your Twitter or email them to me – otherwise, just enjoy.

– Ant

How the fuck did he know that?

Has he actually, physically been following me? Was he a few feet behind me in the city centre when I lamented to a friend that I wanted that bra so bad but didn’t want to put my money into a company like Ann Summers? Was he listening to me through my phone? Was he canvassing my friends about my lingerie tastes?

The reality begins to set in now: he really has been following me.

I am scared by how little this realisation scares me.


The gifts stall for two days and I begin to overthink it. Maybe he’s hurt that I haven’t acknowledged the first two. Maybe, because he’s hurt, he’s going to hurt me. Or someone I love. That thought makes me so cold with fear I can ignore the other nagging worry I’ve begun to have: maybe he doesn’t like me any more.

I bite the bullet and text him. It takes me twenty minutes to compose a 62-word message.

Hey Ant, I wanted to say thank you for the chocolate and the giftcard. I would have said something sooner but (as I assume you already know) I’ve got that mad anxiety 😂 Sorry it’s taking me a while to adjust to the news that you’re in love with me. Can we text for a bit and see how it goes? Morgan x

I don’t know why I put a kiss on the end. Britishness? Being AFAB? I don’t stop to consider any other reasons for it.


Hey Morgan, no worries about the presents – they’re gifts, I don’t expect anything in return for them! I would love to keep texting. There are lots of other things I would love too, but I know you don’t know me as well as I know you 😉 Ant xx

We start flirting.

I tell my partners I’m flirting with a boy (because I’m not a douchebag) but don’t mention how we met. I learn that he’s at my university, which is where he became interested in me, so I tell people that he has friends in my seminar groups and that’s how we got chatting. It’s only sort of a lie. He keeps leaving gifts – sweets and chocolate, giftcards to places he somehow knows I want to shop, six balls of some yarn I decided was too expensive to buy six balls of – and includes notes with them:

I don’t know what you did with your hair yesterday but it was stunning. I couldn’t choose between the white chocolate and the milk so I got you both – feel free to share them with friends/partners or to save them for a rainy day.

– Ant

 

Literally cannot stop thinking about you. I saw you trying to befriend that cat near the tram stop – that was too cute for words. I think I got the right colour yarn but I’m not sure it’s the right thickness – I can always exchange it for you if not.

– Ant

Once, when I’m hungover, he leaves me orange Lucozade, paracetamol and a voucher for a bacon sandwich, with a note that reads:

I cannot find a compliment that’s appropriate about the way you looked last night. They all involve wanting to do stuff to you that we haven’t talked about yet. Anyway here’s some hangover supplies – if you need anything else I can come over. Or if you don’t want me over you could always get in touch with your partners, I know they have your back. (And I would be honoured to be their metamour) Have a gentle day

– Ant

Eventually, I can’t deal with the tension any more. I want to pick his brains – what does he know about me? How has he found it out? What made him fall for me like this? I give everybody the necessary heads-up that I’m inviting a boy over, and I text him:

Want to come to mine to talk? I’m actually dying to see your face again. I’m free on Wednesday nights and alternate Fridays xx

His reply, unnervingly fast, is, Absolutely. Please. Wednesday? Any requests for snacks or anything? xx

When I tell him No, I’ve got plenty to eat, but that’s sweet of you xx, he responds, You know I’d do anything for you. ANYTHING xx, and I’m stupid enough to shoot back: You can prove that on Wednesday 😉 xx


On Wednesday morning, about seven hours before Ant will knock on my door, I find another gift in my postbox.

It’s a little vial. It’s filled with dark red liquid. It has a cute cork keeping it airtight.

I realise it’s blood.

The note says:

Okay I 100% realise logically speaking that this is probably not what you meant when you said “prove it on Wednesday” but I got it into my head that I could give you some of my blood and I couldn’t shake the idea. I’m really sorry if this grosses you out, I’ll happily take it back and get rid of it, or I’ll show you the results of my most recent blood tests if that helps. Just, I really, really mean it – I would do anything for you. I would do anything to be yours.

– Ant

I stand so my body shields my postbox from view and nobody can see what’s in my hand. I tilt the vial this way, then that, watching its glass sides get painted red. I wonder whether he knew this would evoke good autism feelings in me – I have a real fondness for deep red tones, especially when they’re translucent or glittery – and how he collected the blood. There’s only, at a guess, 5 millilitres in there, which is less than I tip out of my menstrual cup after a good night’s sleep.

I slip the vial into my coat pocket and head to class, sometimes stroking the smooth, cold glass as a stim while I walk.


When I arrive home, he’s in my bedroom. This is not a surprise, although I know it should be. I hang my coat up and kick off my trainers. He’s just standing there, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed on the furniture. He’s still in a big hoodie and jeans, like the last time I saw him; I feel a weird yank in my midriff, like fondness, as I pull out my desk chair and point to it.

“Sit,” I say, and I notice with a wince that it’s my dom voice – the same one I use when I’m bossing a submissive partner around. I pray he doesn’t know this. “Do you want a drink or anything?”

I hear him swallow. His anxiety is palpable. “No, thank you,” he says. I pull out my only other chair and perch on it. “This is the first time I’ve ever been this close to you.”

He’s right – when he stood at the end of my bed, his body was at least four feet from mine. Now our knees bump together when I move. I have goosebumps and raised arm hairs even though it’s warm in here, and I’m pretty sure I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.

Yeah, everywhere. I realise, in a sinking sort of way, that I want him. Badly.




In spite of the option of serialising this story losing the poll I ran on Twitter about it, I’m going to leave this hanging until next Smut Saturday. I recognise that it’s not terribly smutty thus far, but the fanfic writer in me can’t resist a slow burn, and I personally might need to go wank based on the stalking setup alone. Let me know what your thoughts are on longer-form smut and on serialising Smut Saturdays pieces!

Smut Saturdays #12 – Girls Are Just Different

Stock image of a light purple orchid which looks vaguely similar to a vulva in sharp focus, with a blurry greenish background

I should write more about fucking girls. I should also write more about fucking cunts. (Not everyone with a cunt is a girl; not every girl has a cunt.) And at the moment, I have been thinking a lot about fucking girls who have cunts (usually, these are cis girls) and how much I enjoy it.
If I had to choose one gender, or one genital configuration, to fuck for the rest of my life, I sincerely don’t know if I could do it. (Being autistic and indecisive, I’d probably become overwhelmed, cry a bit and never fuck anybody again.) I am nigh-on obsessed with my Daddy’s cock, and foreskin, and the taste of cum; but I’m equally fond of slick, swollen cunts, tits bouncing in the same rhythm as whichever dildo I’m wielding, soft inner thighs I can bite and pinch…
The thing is, it’s easier to write about fucking dudes. I’ve done more of it, and I have a sort of script that I’m happy to stick to: rough making out, a bit of dick sucking, maybe getting choked a little bit, and then PIV til I come and so does he. Sometimes I deviate from this, but not often. I have a lot of data on how being penetrated by a cock feels, on how the weight of an erection in my hand makes me sigh with impatient wanting, on how I respond to getting pounded by someone who’s capable of pinning me to the bed one-handed.
I’ve fucked girls before, including girls with cunts and girls without ‘em, but not nearly as frequently. This is largely due to my own fear of “doing it wrong” and my complicated relationship to topping clashing with my intense desire to beat the life out of consenting women. I rarely, if ever, want to bottom to girls (partly because the kinds of girls I’m attracted to are usually natural bottoms/subs anyhow), and I’m still having to work hard on topping anybody without getting the nervous giggles and/or the irrepressible urge to curl up and sob. Even disregarding that, it’s a lot harder, statistically speaking, to find girls who want to play with my vagina than it is to find boys who want the same thing. My nervousness around topping and my nervousness around writing things I’m not convinced are well-researched enough have created a relative dearth of non-cock-centric content on my blog, which in turn has created a sense of guilt and queer Impostor Syndrome in me that I cannot shake.
All of this is to say that today, I will write in detail about fucking girls.
I just love cunts. (I love girl dicks too, but that’s a discussion for another day.) I love the sensation of a hardened clit under my tongue and the process of turning a girl on so her labia majora puff up with arousal. I love slipping my hand into a girl’s pants and feeling slick, hot desire. I love the way that girls’ knees drift apart when they want you to put a finger in them. I love the word “cyprine” and I love licking it off my fingers. I love the give, the squish in a girl’s G-spot when it’s as swollen as her clit is, and I love pressing, massaging, fucking it with my fingers until I feel and hear her cum.
And that’s just the cunt!
I also love how soft girls are. It doesn’t matter how much they weigh or what their skincare routine is; they’re just indescribably soft in a way that boys never are. I love the way that girls kiss, their lips as hesitant as butterflies, their tongues as gentle as their hands. I love the way girls’ tits look when I tie their wrists above their heads, rounded and lifted, and I also love the way tits look when their owner is slouching on my bed, spilling down their torsos, as relaxed and warm as can be. I love the amount of lovebite real estate bigger tits provide and I love the extra pain I can cause by pinching smaller ones. I love touching, kissing, biting or squeezing every inch of a girl other than the square six or so that constitute her vulva, perineum and anus, sucking on the shelf of flesh at the top of her thigh until she’s all but thumping her mons pubis into my head with desperation. I love teasing the anus first, providing we’ve talked about that, and moving lube-soaked fingers up and down the perineum while keeping my eyes focused on my partner’s face. I love girls’ faces, their widening eyes and their trembling lips and the colour rising in their cheeks, the way they sometimes shyly cover them up with their hands when they’re close to coming (like I do when I’m bottoming) and the way their mouths stretch open when I’ve tied up their wrists and covering up just isn’t an option. And I love the way girls’ lips look stretched around a dildo, whether it’s strapped on to me or in my worn-out hand after fucking them with it, and I love the way that they look covered in my own cum, when they look up from between my legs and smile proudly at the sight of me recovering from an orgasm.
I love the fact that every girl I fuck is different, but they all have things in common. I love the fact that our genitals match so I know my way around the neighbourhood, but our experiences differ so I still have to stop and ask for directions now and again. I love that girls giggle at my stupid jokes even when I’m telling them from between their legs. I love the camaraderie of fucking someone whose gender is near to mine and the affirmation of it not being exactly the same. I love cuddling with girls and commiserating about periods and the patriarchy and feeling like best friends and beyond.
And I love writing smut about them, so I’ll endeavour to do that more often.

Smut Saturdays #11: Pegging and Pretending

Stock image of a brassy buckle on a black strap, very close up indeed and with a blurry background.

Content note: This story details consensual ageplay and imitation of nonconsensual sex & kink acts (namely, you know, pegging) between two very consenting adults. If that’s hard for you, please do give this one a miss and join me next week for something different!


Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. They’ll all be under the category ‘Smut Saturdays’ and if you’ve got any feedback or requests for smut scenarios, put ‘em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!


We like to play pretend.

This is already evident in the fact that I call him ‘Daddy’, growl like a puppy when the postman comes, and beg him to stop hurting me without ever actually using my safeword. We have constructed a handful of different pretends that we move through and between fluidly, especially when we’re playing.

We pretend I’m tiny and innocent and don’t know what a cock is.

We pretend I don’t want him to hurt me, or to fuck me, or to make me cum.

We pretend I’m a human-dog hybrid, desperately humping his thigh, unable to express how badly I want to get fucked.

Today, we are pretending that he’s in a bad mood and that I’m small. I want to placate him. He wants to relieve himself of tension.

“I want to cheer you up,” I start, locking my widened eyes onto his face. “I like it when you’re cheered up, Daddy.”

In my pretend-mind, my character’s mind, my little mind, he’s had a hard day at work and he hasn’t yet unwound. Maybe I could rub his back, or make him a nice cup of tea, or sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks whilst he plays Angry Birds. When he’s in a bad mood like this, he might hurt me, and then I might have to pretend not to like it. In my little mind, I have to pretend not to like it, because liking it makes me weird and because he might hurt me more and more if he finds out. If anybody sees the bruises, they won’t let us spend time together. And I’m slightly pretend-worried he might go too far and kill me, even though he always promises he wouldn’t break his “favourite toy”.

He’s scrolling absentmindedly through something on his phone and doesn’t look up to reply, “How do you plan on doing that?”

“I could give you a back rub,” I offer tremulously. “Or make you some tea.”

He still doesn’t look up. I’m beginning to feel stung. “I don’t think so, little one,” he says. “I don’t fancy tea, and a back rub won’t cut it.”

I know that when he’s in this mood, it takes more than a back rub to cheer him up, but I don’t ever want to be the one to offer the solution he wants. I can’t let him think I want it. “Well, would you like some kisses?”

“I suppose.”

I’m pretend-stung even deeper this time. My kisses are priceless; I’m a princess! How can he only suppose that he wants me to kiss him? Doesn’t he love me to absolute pieces? (Bloodied, tear-stained pieces at that…) Doesn’t he usually demand kisses from me?

I let my bottom lip jut out. “Only suppose?” I ask.

He rests his phone on his knee and fixes me with an intense glare. “You know I want more than kisses, little one.”

“…cuddles?” I posit, still playing dumb.

He raises an eyebrow. “You know what I want.”

He wants to fuck me. He wants to slap me and spit on me and cum in me. I know this. But I cannot let him think I want it.

“I don’t, Daddy.”

“Come upstairs.”

The phrase “come upstairs” is essentially synonymous with “I am going to fuck you,” but I always pretend I haven’t figured that out yet. I stand up and wait for him to lead the way out of the living room and up the staircase, following a few steps behind him. I think I can feel my heartbeat in my clit. I tell myself that it’s fear, not lust, as we reach the threshold to the bedroom.

Wordlessly, he reaches into the bag of “toys” he keeps by the bedroom door. Sometimes I pretend not to know what he means by “toys” and ask if there’s a Rubik’s Cube or a bouncy ball in there, but today I watch silently because he’s in a bad mood and there’s a meat tenderizer in there.

To my intense relief, he doesn’t pull out anything scary. Instead, there’s a fistful of black fabric and straps that looks a bit like weird underwear, and the curved purple thing he sometimes puts inside me.

“We’re going to play a different game today,” he explains, as he fiddles with the items he drew from the bag. “Do you know what pegging is?”

In real life I do, but right now I don’t. I shake my head, biting my tongue to prevent me from making some quip about laundry.

He has somehow fitted the purple toy into the weird underwear, and hands the whole ensemble to me. “Put this on,” he says, “but take your clothes off first. Make sure you adjust the straps so they fit comfortably. I’m going to go into the bedroom and get ready.”

A tingle of excitement zips through me. He closes the bedroom door and leaves me on the landing to strip down and step into the underwear-like thing with the purple appendage jutting out of it. It takes me a hot minute, on account of the probably dyspraxia and my little brain making my hands slow and uncertain, but I get it up around my hips, figure out how to tighten the straps so they bite into my flesh and keep the whole thing secure, and then I stand there for a minute wiggling my hips so the purple thing wobbles up and down. It makes me giggle.

“You can come in,” my Daddy calls through the door. I ease it open, one hand covering my nipples so I can pretend I don’t want him to touch them, and I see him lying in bed with no clothes on, his cock unfathomably hard and something nestled between his butt cheeks. “Does the harness feel okay?”

So that’s what it’s called, thinks my little brain, a harness. I nod, staring at whatever is between his cheeks. He notices, puts a finger on the base of it and wiggles it.

“You know how I put things inside you and you love it?” I stay silent, not wanting to admit I love it. He continues regardless, “Well, Daddy likes to have things put inside him, too.” He’s still wiggling the thing that is, I realise now, inside his butt. His cock wiggles too, and I’m unsure if it’s because of the wiggling motion itself or because his cock is happy. “Come here, come sit on the bed.”

I do so. I can’t take my eyes off the thing in his butt. He seems smug about that, and starts pulling on it. It’s got a round bit at the bottom, and as he pulls it out I see that it gets thinner, then wider again, but then thinner again. It looks a bit like a Christmas tree, but black. Once it’s all the way out, he places it on a nearby towel and puts one hand on his cock.

“You are going to put that purple toy inside Daddy,” he tells me. “And you’re gonna fuck me, just like I’ve fucked you so many times, until I cum. You owe me, after all.”

I let a frown pass over my face. Owe himthinks little brain. I don’t owe him, I never want him to do that! Even if it does make me all squeezy and tingly…

“Don’t look like that,” he says sternly. “Come and kneel between Daddy’s legs.”

I do as I’m told.

“Daddy,” I say slowly, “what if I’m not as good at fucking as you are?”

“You will be.”

“But -”

“The only but involved here is my butt, and you’re going to fuck it.” He reaches forwards and grabs me by the throat, cutting off some of my air intake and making me cough a little. “You said you wanted to cheer me up, bitch.”

I have to pretend I don’t like it when he calls me ‘bitch’.

I am losing sight of why I pretend, though.

I line the purple toy up with his asshole. I’m nervous about doing it wrong and nervous I’ll enjoy doing it right. I don’t want him to keep asking me to do this. I don’t want him to get me to do more stuff to his butt: it’s weird, and butts are supposed to be dirty, and I don’t want to be like those girls on TV who just can’t stop doing sex.

Why don’t I want to be like them, again?

I slide the toy into him and he groans so loud I’m worried I’ve hurt him. Sometimes it hurts when he fucks me, but I kind of like it… After a moment, though, it becomes evident that it was a happy groan. He’s let go of my throat but the reprieve doesn’t last long – as soon as the toy is seated firmly inside him he grabs the short hair on the back of my head and pulls my face close to his.

“Now you’re gonna fuck me, and you’re gonna make me cum, and then you’re going to lick it up like the slut you are,” he growls, and I can only whimper in response – his grip on my hair is painful. “Start moving back and forth like Daddy does.”

I obey. He makes noises that suggest that he likes it. He sets the pace by wrapping his legs around mine and pulling me into him, over and over, harder and harder.

My thighs are shaking with the effort of staying upright and my knees aren’t happy about the motion of my hips. I start telling my Daddy this, “My legs are hurting and -”

“Bitch, you’re going to fuck me until I cum or I’ll put you in the garage for a week,” he snarls, moving his hand to grip my throat again. “Is that what you want?”

I have to pretend that there’s not a bit of me that kind of does want that.

In spite of the pain shooting through my legs, I thrust and I thrust until his thighs start to shake. There’s sweat beading on his forehead. I know he’ll cum soon.

He still hasn’t let go of my throat.

After an eternity of it, after black spots have started to swim through my vision, after he tells me again that if I dare to stop he won’t feed me for a week and he’ll make me bleed and, and –

He cums. He shoots cum all over his own torso and over my belly, some of it dribbling onto the harness. He all but howls with the pleasure and the release of it, and squeezes my throat one last time before letting it go.

We pause. We make eye contact. I can’t pretend any more, and I break into giggles. I’m incredibly pleased with myself and I am wet through after the choking, never mind the hot, thick cum he’s painted me with.

“Was that okay?” he asks, in his real-life voice now.

I revert to real-life me too: “That was so fucking hot, Daddy. Can I lick you clean now?”