“Honey, You Need To Piss On Me More”: Templates For Talking About Kink

Being autistic has a huge, variable impact upon my communication skills.

Being anxious exacerbates this, but too often I neglect to have crucial conversations with people because I don’t know how to start. It’s hard to parse how much of the problem is rooted in autism stuff and how much is rooted in anxiety stuff, but I’ve always struggled with task initiation. I also struggle with expressing myself accurately and thoroughly, and I’m an absolute fucker for that autistic thing where you think that somebody knows something simply because it’s obvious to you. (Because everyone’s brain works exactly like mine, right?)

Fortunately, kink makes a lot of communication unavoidable for me. The first piece of advice any budding kinkster receives is usually, ‘Do your research,’ and upon doing said research, they find that the second tip is nearly always, ‘Communicate, a lot.’ Any partner who doesn’t want to hear about your thoughts, feelings, needs and boundaries – relating to sex, kink and life at large – is not a partner you want to keep around.

So, regardless of my reluctance to be ‘needy’ and all the autism things that make it hard for me to hold a conversation, I have found workarounds that make it easy (or at least, easier) to talk to partners about kink. One of them is using meta-communication strategies, voicing my anxiety so my partner(s) can understand why I might be stammering and hiding behind my blankie while I suggest a watersports scene. And others are a little more suited to people afraid of being direct:


Method #1: Blame somebody else

Sometimes, the scariest part of communicating about kink is just conveying the concept accurately to your partner without them thinking you’re super fucking weird. (It’s okay if you are super fucking weird, but I understand that a lot of people are anxious, especially in the early stages of a relationship, about the impression their partner is forming of them.)

So I hereby grant you permission to make it my fault.

Lots of sex educators say similar things, so you can pick from a bunch of ’em. Some ways to open this sort of conversation include:

“A friend of a friend of mine has started a blog, it’s about kink stuff, and uh, they wrote a really interesting post about threesomes…”

“I was reading around about sex and autism, and this one person online mentioned their Daddy kink, and uh, I thought that was really fascinating…”

“I saw someone’s cute tote bag on the tram and I Googled the name of the podcast that was on it, and suddenly I was listening to two people talk about wearing butt plugs in everyday situations…”

It might turn out that your partner has been just waiting for you to bring a particular kink into conversation so that they can voice their enthusiasm for it to you. In these cases, they might react excitedly, telling you that they’re a big fan of whatever you’ve mentioned, or that they’ve always wanted to try it.

If they don’t respond this way, it’s either because they’re not getting the hint, or because they have no interest in the thing you’re namedropping. If they’re squicked by it, or have it as a hard limit, they’ll probably make that clear, by asking to stop talking about it, or by abruptly changing the subject. If your partner outright states that something is a boundary of theirs, you should definitely stop talking about it, and accept that you can’t do that sex or kink act with that particular person.

If trying to gauge their enthusiasm (or lack thereof) about a kink from just this seems like it’d be a challenge to you (since it relies on a number of nonverbal cues), there are a number of other ways to communicate more explicitly.


Method #2: Just outright be nerdy about it

There are a wealth of Yes/No/Maybe list templates out there. Plenty of people will be receptive to the idea of filling one out, together or separately, and then comparing them. I like having this kind of conversation over a messaging app, so that you can seemlessly integrate the link to the template into your message about it. Like so:

“Hey, I found this cool template for a document where you can list which sex things you’re interested in: http://www.bextalkssex.com/yes-no-maybe/ I think it’d be really cool if we each filled it in and then swapped, so we have an idea of what’s on the table and what isn’t.”

If your partner doesn’t want to do this, it might be because they’re shy, in which case it might put them at ease to see yours first (because it’ll reassure them that most people have at least a couple of kinks). If your partner ‘forgets’ to fill theirs in after you’ve reminded them a few times, or if they state that they really don’t want to, it’s best to leave it, and let them talk to you about their sex and kink preferences in their own time (or maybe never).


Method #3: Slip it into sexting

It’s not respectful or consent-aware to turn a flirty or sexy conversation into one that’s about your specific kink if you’ve never checked that your partner is okay with the kink before. However, you can drop a kink briefly into a sexy conversation, and an ideal way to do this is to nestle it amongst other sexy things, so that your partner can just focus on those things if they’re not into the kink thing. For example:

You: I’d love it if you were riding me, slowly but so deep, and I could reach up, play with your nipples, maybe choke you, or grab your hips and help you to grind against me
Them: Ahh that’s hot, I love having my nipples played with! You could pinch them a little… and the hip-grabbing thing too, fuck

The hypothetical second person in that conversation expressed enthusiasm about the nipple play and the hip-grabbing, but completely neglected to mention the choking – so you can safely assume that they don’t want to talk or fantasise about them being choked at that particular juncture. If they don’t bring it up at any other point, you can probably draw the conclusion that being choked is not a kink of theirs.


Communicating about your wants and needs can be terrifying, but your partner can only say ‘no’ to anything you suggest. The best case scenario is, of course, that they’re as into the things you suggest as you are, and you have a grand ol’ time having safe and consensual sex and kink scenes.

The worst case scenario is that they’re judgmental and rude about your kinks, but in that case they’re probably kinda douchey anyway, and not somebody you need in your life.

Do any of y’all have any suggestions about communication methods and tools? I’d love to hear from you!

Smut Saturdays #2: The Submissive Slytherin

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.
If you’ve got any feedback or requests, put ’em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!


“Or perhaps in Slytherin,
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means,
To achieve their ends.”

Pottermore sorted me into Slytherin for, I imagine, the same reasons that the Sorting Hat suggested that Harry himself would have been a good fit for the most misunderstood house: I’m tenacious, driven and in love with winning. In the face of adversity, I make plans, and I make sure they work, no matter what. I’m competitive, I can schmooze, and I get my own way or nobody’s way at all.

So, when my Daddy told me that he was going to refrain from fucking me for an entire month, I took it as a challenge.

You have to understand, dear reader, that he explained why he wasn’t going to fuck me for a month. If he had been asserting a real boundary, I’d have listened. (Not all Slytherins are evil, and even the evil ones aren’t necessarily rapists.) But he brought it up to tease me, at first.

“I could go longer without fucking you than you could without fucking me,” he’d said, during an amicable dispute about which one of us was sluttier. “You’d be begging for it after a week.”

I had kept my eyes on my knitting, my fingers working away as quickly and purposefully as my mind was. “It’d depend on the conditions,” I’d said slowly. “But I think you’d cave first. Especially if we weren’t allowed to wank.”

“I could last a fortnight, easily.” (Did I mention what a dyed-in-the-wool Gryffindor my Daddy is?)

“I could go a month.” I had finished my row, so I’d finally glanced up at him, in his arm chair, whiskey on the table to his right. “Starting today.”

“I could easily not fuck you for a month.”

And thus, it began.


My Daddy and I have seen each other naked a lot.

He’s all body hair, so he gets warm easily. I’m autistic, and wearing bras, jeans or socks for too long makes me wish I didn’t have skin. We spend a lot of time in our underwear, me sometimes in a T-shirt of his, and we both sleep naked unless it’s literally freezing.

Simply getting naked might not have driven him wild, since he knew the sight of my body as well as the sight of his own. But, on Day Two, I tried it anyway.

Innocently, I slipped upstairs to shower (unlocking my collar all by myself, like a grown-up) while he worked on some academic stuff with Scrubs playing in the background. I shaved my vulva, more to draw attention to it than anything. I scrubbed myself down, exfoliated my face, sang songs from musicals and let conditioner soak into my hair before I stepped out and grabbed my towel.

I got as dry as I could manage, put my towel and facecloth back where they each belonged, and put my collar back on. Then, as naked as the day I was born but for the leather and padlock at my throat, I tiptoed down the stairs.

My Daddy lifted his eyes from his laptop screen as soon as I came into his peripheral vision, but his gaze didn’t last long. I crossed the living room, stood by his side, and waited for him to finish the sentence he was typing.

“I shaved my princess parts,” I informed him brightly, pointing at my hairless crotch. “Feel how smooth I got ’em.”

We’d hashed out the rules on Day One: groping of boobs and butts was allowed, as was kissing with tongue, but either of us touching my clit, labia or anus, or penetrating me with any item other than my menstrual cup all counted as losing; so did either of us touching Daddy’s cock, balls or anus (except, y’know, he was allowed to wash them in the shower) with body parts or toys. This effectively ruled out wanking, giving each other handjobs, fucking each other with toys, oral and PIV. There was also a caveat for no over-the-clothes wanking (since I can cum whilst humping my wand even with two or three layers of clothing in the way), and a general “stick to the spirit of the challenge” rule in place.

All these rules, I’m sure you’ve deduced, left room for my Daddy to stroke my now-smooth mons pubis.

He knew this too, and, grinning, he ran three fingertips from just below my belly button all the way down to where my clitoral hood began. I watched his face, partly to gauge his reaction and partly because his hand that near my cunt was just begging to be humped.

“Good job,” he said simply, and he returned his hands to his keyboard, but I could tell that his focus was shaken.

I had this in the fucking bag.


We hadn’t said anything about S&M stuff.

I realised this when we were in the kitchen together on Day Four, and I was pretending that I was going to eat my fancy, palm oil-free, very expensive Nutella substitute out of the jar with a spoon (like I might with real Nutella) before dinner was ready. Upon my third laughing, exaggerated attempt to open the cupboard, my Daddy simply grabbed my little throat with one hand, looping his other arm around my waist, and dragged me backwards. I giggled, until he tightened his grip.

Fuck.

I squeaked, “Okay, okay, I’ll be good!” but of course, he didn’t let go. “Daddy! We have to stir the vegetables!”

“Oh, so we do.” He let me go so suddenly that I barely kept my balance, and I knew without looking that I would be flushed and wide-eyed – the bastard could get me into subspace so fast. (And would undoubtedly beat my arse til it was as flushed as my face if I ever called him a bastard out loud.)

Well, okay, two could play at this game. My Daddy’s sadist streak ran wider than anybody I’d ever met, and I knew that nothing would get him as hard as my writhing and screaming.

So I wandered out of the kitchen and came back with my own plastic ruler.

This ruler lived in my rucksack primarily to stim with, being emerald green and excellent to chew on. It was not a designated impact toy – there were at least two bags full of those upstairs, ranging from canes to meat tenderisers to an actual fucking cricket bat. However, when I wandered into the kitchen with my big, spaced-out eyes and my plastic ruler in my salivating mouth, my Daddy’s face took on that evil glow that always made me tingle with that delicious masochistic fear.

“Does someone need a beating?” he teased, plucking the ruler from between my teeth and wiping my own drool across my face with it. “Is this because Daddy’s not fucking you?”

I did my best ‘clueless’ face, regarding him with a slack jaw and a slow blink. “I just like my ruler,” I said sweetly. He did not buy it.

“After dinner, baby.” He pointed to the cutlery drawer, indicating I should start laying the table. “I need to leave you with some marks for the weekend, don’t I?”


A while ago, I had been assigned a task: to brainstorm as many ways as possible that I could maximise my capacity for impact bottoming.

I had listed, in the back of my unicorn journal, a number of ideas, and most of them had been aimed at reducing overwhelm. I could take a pretty impressive beating as long as I was blindfolded, tied down securely, had something to bite into and wasn’t distracted by any sounds other than implements on my flesh and my Daddy’s warm, encouraging voice.

My Daddy was clearly desperate to bruise me before I went back to my hometown for the weekend, because he bound my wrists, ankles and waist to the bedframe so I was face-down in a sort of X-shape. Then he blindfolded and gagged me, gave me the repurposed clicker we used as a safe signal, and closed the bedroom windows.

Oh, and to reduce sensory input even further, I’d had to take off all my clothes.

I could hear the shuffling of the toy bag, but I didn’t know when the first strike was coming. I didn’t know what my Daddy was going to choose, or how hard he was going to hit me with it.

I was excited.

THWICK.

Cane. That was the only thought I could have: cane. He’d started with the cane. I hated the cane.

THWICK. I whimpered, my toes curling. I could take this. The post-strike tingling was nice, just that the strikes themselves were – THWICK. Fuck. I sucked in a breath through my nose, trying to keep my body relaxed. The endorphin high I’d get from this would – THWICK.

“One more,” I heard my Daddy whisper, and I nodded against the mattress. I could take one more. For my Daddy, I could take anything.

THWICK.

I clicked. It was more a brain thing than a body thing – my arse just felt hot with pain. Still, my Daddy appeared at my head, took the gag off me, and asked, “Yellow or red?”

“Yellow.” I breathed deeply, leaning my head against my Daddy’s nearby hand. “Just wanted a pause. Sorry.”

“No ‘sorry’, you did the right thing clicking. You’re so good.” I felt him kiss the top of my head. “I’m so proud of you.” Oh, that still made me glow, even after dozens upon dozens of beatings and scenes. “Shall we do more thuddy stuff?”

I nodded. He settled the gag back into my mouth and I remembered with clarity why I’d tempted him into beating me: to get fucked. And, more importantly (at least in my mind, in that moment), to win.

I wiggled my arse as much as the rope around my waist would allow.


It took about twenty minutes of beating my arse, thighs and shoulders for my Daddy to need a break.

He sat near my head and removed my gag and my blindfold. I saw his face, and noticed his heaving chest, and I knew that this was my chance.

“Can I have a ‘well done’ kiss?” I asked in my ‘little’ voice, soft and higher-pitched than usual.

He ducked his head down and pressed his lips against mine, but then started to pull away again. I whimpered, and let my lips fall open, sucking his bottom lip gently. Then, seemingly suddenly, his tongue was in my mouth and he was pulling on my hair.

Heaven.

“You’re evil,” he gasped, pulling away. “Are you just trying to seduce me?”

I blinked at him, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anybody. I didn’t really need to. “What does ‘seduce’ mean, Daddy?” I asked, faking coyness.

“Let Daddy show you.” He reached for the knots that held my wrists away from me. “Fuck this challenge shit, I want you now.”

I’d been impressed by how fast he’d tied me, but the process of untying was even quicker. He threw his rope into a careless pile on the floor (which any rope top will know is a true marker of desperation) and before I could even fully understand my victory, he’d flipped me onto my back.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmured into my neck; it took my subspacey brain a moment to process that his fingers were running up and down my slick, shaved vulva. “Look how wet that beating got you!”

“Does this mean I win?” I asked, grinding my hardened clit against his hand.

He pressed two thick fingers into my aching cunt, scooping them towards my swollen G spot. “I definitely feel like a winner,” he growled as he started to fingerfuck me. “You won’t be able to sit down tomorrow and I get to claim your tight little cunt again.”

I whimpered into his neck, unable to formulate any witty, gloating response. I just rode his hand, pathetically, soaking wet, towards my first orgasm of the night. As he pinned me down by my throat, causing little spots to appear around the edges of my vision, and pounded my G spot until my legs shook, I found myself filled to the brim with traditional Slytherin smugness. I had won the challenge, and the fingerfucking I’d wanted so badly. And only on Day Four.

But never fear, dear reader – especially dom-type readers out there, and double-especially my Daddy, if you’re reading this – the smugness faded less than an hour later, when I sat on the toilet to let the last of my Daddy’s cum drip out of my battered pussy, and I squealed out loud at the pain of putting my well-beaten arse on a firm surface.


Protocol Is Perfect For Me

I arrive at the train station, where I’ve agreed to meet one of my best friends. In my bag is a half-full bottle of vodka, saved from the last time she and I got up to no good, and clean clothes tomorrow. (I already have a toothbrush in her bathroom – we do this a lot.) She’s waiting for me, and because we’re not huggy people, we just grin at each other, pleased to be reunited for an evening.

“How drunk are you allowed to get tonight, then?” she asks me, as we make our way towards the gates at the exit.

I think back to the conversation I’d had with my Daddy earlier that day, and to my self-written scale of drunkenness. “A seven, maximum.”

She nods, understanding, and we start debating the best place from which to purchase mixers.


My best friend is quite vanilla, but everyone close to me – including my mum, and the girls at my knitting group – knows the deal. My partner, whom I address exclusively as “Daddy” behind closed doors, sets rules for me, and I follow them.

Vanilla people who are new to this concept are sometimes alarmed by it. 50 Shades Of Grey has certainly not helped – as well as being a poorly-written, poorly-researched garbage fire, its treatment of rules and contracts is fucking appalling. For those who have avoided the series and its bullshit (lucky you!) the dominant arsehole, Christian Grey, withholds all affection from naïve, lovestruck/Stockholm Syndrome sufferer Anastasia, until she signs a contract she barely understands, which promises Grey all sorts of things that Ana doesn’t really want to deliver.

This is, of course, abusive.

(I won’t give you the tired “50 Shades isn’t real BDSM” spiel, because it’s fantastically unhelpful. The thing is, this shit does happen in the real world, and if we try to claim that “Grey isn’t a real dom, he’s just an abuser,” then we imply that the two are mutually exclusive. They aren’t. People can and do identify as dominants, be known and respected within their local kink circles, and still be abusive, opportunistic, predatory cunts behind closed doors.)

The relationship that I am in, wherein my dominant partner decides how drunk I’m permitted to get, ensures I brush my teeth every day and orders me to send him photos of my meals in order to prove I’m eating well – that’s not abusive.

Because I chose it.

Because I love it.

I’m autistic. For me, structure is key in every aspect of my life that I can control. Routine makes me feel grounded, safe and satisfied. I struggle with executive dysfunction, so being reminded to do basic self-care, and knowing that somebody besides me is invested in my wellbeing, can sometimes get me on my feet even when it feels like doing anything is impossible.

I’m also a service-oriented submissive, someone who thrives on pleasing others, which means that being given clear, measurable, achievable tasks to perform, and performing them well, brings me no end of joy. I love making my Daddy proud. I love being told I’ve done a good job. I especially love performing D/s-oriented tasks when I’m away from my Daddy, when I go back to my mum’s for the holidays or when he drives down south to see his parents. I love all the small ways that my protocols pull him to the forefront of my mind, and me to the forefront of his – and I love dipping, just a little, into subspace, feeling calm and centred while carrying out a task I know exactly how to do.

My interest in protocol grew out of necessity when I was in a long-distance relationship. I wanted to be on his mind at intervals, and to remind him that I was still devoted to him even when it had been weeks since we’d seen each other in the flesh realm. I also wanted to explore submission, and it seemed like the obvious way to kill two birds with one stone. I brought it up, we thought out some rules, and I started to follow them.

My in-the-know vanilla friends were quick to point out that I could break the rules, if I wanted to. I was supposed to ask permission to eat confectionery (a misguided rule to apply to someone with an eating disorder, but one I still honoured), and my friends would always remind me that my boyfriend, some sixty miles away, would be none the wiser if I just bought some M&Ms.

My response was always simply, “But I’d have to tell him.”

I couldn’t imagine not telling him. Aside from the fact that I told him everything (a habit that I have yet to grow out of, with partners, friends and the internet at large), I had asked for these rules to be set out for me because I wanted them. I wanted to relish making my boyfriend proud, and that joy would be muddied and hollow if it was born of lies, or withheld truths.

Plus, he’d have asked about my day, and I’m way too autistic to hold a poker face.

The trouble was, my friends were encouraging me to flout my rules for good reason. Confectionery, I could live without, but one of my rules that was more misguided still was the one where I had to text my boyfriend for permission to use the bathroom. My boyfriend, who had a) very different sleeping habits from my own and b) a job. I’d be shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other outside the bathroom, waiting for my boyfriend’s response, and my friends would be mystified by my insistence that I had to wait. Or I’d give in, go and pee, and then confess to my boyfriend, who would punish me next time he saw me in person.

Punishing a sub like me, really punishing them, is a much bigger deal than this boyfriend seemed to know. The physical side was basically fine – I’m a masochist, and I have a knack for endurance besides – but the psychological effect of a punishment fucking stung. Whether I was writing lines or being beaten, my little heart was heavy with disappointment in myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d let my boyfriend down, even after the punishment had taken place and all was forgiven.

It was unsustainable.


That boyfriend and I broke up for reasons unrelated to our kink dynamic, but I do wonder if our differing styles of D/s put extra strain onto our relationship. He was much more interested in what happened in the bedroom – S&M scenes, humiliating a consenting sub, etc – and for me, kink happened everywhere. It meant something to me in a way that it just didn’t for him.

(It is, obviously, fine for people to enjoy kink in the bedroom and not in a lifestyle setting; but for me personally, especially when I was doing monogamy, it’s a deal-breaking difference from what I enjoy and crave.)

I was a little bit jaded towards the rules thing for a while after that. I wanted to feel small and subservient, but I didn’t want to feel shitty about myself. It took time, as well as listening to other people talk about their happy, fulfilling D/s, to warm back up to the idea of letting somebody else structure aspects of my life for me.

But when I did… oh boy.

I told my now-Daddy that I liked the idea of rules. We sketched some out with the intention of gently trialling them… and I never looked back. I suggested more. I typed them into a meticulously-formatted Google doc and sent the link, excitedly, to my girlfriend, who was overjoyed for me. I wrote a clause into them which specified that, should I want or need a beating, a humiliation scene or anything else, I could ask for one, rather than breaking a rule and dealing with the psychological sting of letting my Daddy down.


Hungover, I shuffle into my best friend’s kitchen to get my Daddy-sanctioned energy drink out of her fridge. She hands me a quesadilla on a Star Wars plate (because she is The Best), and I place it on the table, so I can take a photo. She doesn’t bat an eyelid, and we eat our breakfast in sleepy silence, one of us vanilla and one of us as kinky as they come, and both as content as each other.