Proposing Rules In A D/s Dynamic

Image is a screenshot of a Google Form titled "Puppy's Rules Proposals". It asks "What is the rule?", "Why is Puppy proposing it?" and "Are there any proposed consequences for breaking the rule?" and it appears there are more questions not visible onscreen.

I fucking love Google Docs, Google Sheets and Google Forms.

I have a Google Doc outlining my D/s protocols. I have a Google Sheet tracking my sex toy collection (with pie charts for materials, colours and method of acquisition). And now I am bizarrely excited to announce that I have a Google Form for proposing new rules and protocols to my Daddy.

I love Google Drive for all the obvious reasons (its ease of use, its availability anywhere at any time, the fact that it is impossible for me to misplace important documents) but I love using it for D/s in particular because typing up rules or proposing new ones can feel like an act of service in and of itself. Creating the Google Form for my rule proposals felt servicey; updating my rules document feels servicey; formatting everything consistently and neatly feels servicey. And proposing rules through a Google Form feels great because of how formal (pun not intended) it can feel: this method seems to carry more gravitas than just dropping into conversation that I’d like my nicotine intake monitored more closely, or making any other proposal verbally.

I’m going to provide an outline of the Form that I’ve created for my D/s dynamic that other people could theoretically use as a template or jumping-off point for something similar that suits their own purposes. Naturally, you might find that you’d like to include more detail, to ask different questions or to tweak the phrasing of a section, but this is how I’ve structured my Form to make it as useful as possible to me and my dynamic.

Question 1: What is the rule?

This is the most obvious question to lead with, and it’s where I outline the rule that I’m proposing (for example, “Puppy may only ask permission to use Daddy’s vapes once per week. They may not ask again and they unequivocally may not pout if the answer is no”). I like to input these in the third person for ageplay reasons (using my nickname of “Puppy”), but again, this is a tool to help enrich your existing D/s dynamic, so you can do whatever suits you and your partner(s).

Question 2: Why is Puppy proposing it?

I feel that this section is important even if the rule seems self-explanatory, because it can highlight any needs that I feel aren’t being fully met in my D/s dynamic and demonstrate a self-awareness to my Daddy that I sometimes have to work hard to achieve. It also prompts me to stop and think about how the rule is going to benefit me, so that even when I’m grumpy about having my substance use limited or a bedtime instated, I can look back at my own explanation for the rule and recognise its perks.

Question 3: Are there any proposed consequences for breaking the rule?

This question only requires me to tick a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ box, because an outline of the proposed consequences is requested in the next question. As a service-oriented sub with PTSD and not a bratty bone in their body, punishments are often quite challenging for me on a psychological level, so if I propose a consequence, it’s usually the removal of a fun thing (for instance, having permission to orgasm withdrawn for a number of days) rather than my Daddy actively applying an unpleasant stimulus. For the most part, though, my particular D/s dynamic benefits more from rewards for good behaviour than punishments for bad behaviour, which is why I have the option to select ‘No’ in answer to this question.

Question 4: If yes, what are the consequences?

This is where, if you are a submissive who benefits from punishments/consequences, you can outline what they might be – as long as your dominant knows you well enough to recognise when you’re cheekily suggesting a “funishment” rather than a punishment. (Funishments are allowed in this category, of course, but it’s worth talking to your dominant about what they’re hoping to achieve by setting you rules with consequences. If you’re trying to quit biting your nails and the ‘consequence’ for an infraction is a pleasant beating, you’re not going to be motivated to leave your nails alone. Like every other D/s tool out there, this should be used to facilitate conversations about your dynamic rather than to avoid them entirely.)

Terms and Conditions

This is probably the most optional part of the Form, but it’s my favourite. In order to be able to submit the proposal, I have to tick a box specifying that I understand that the purpose of our D/s dynamic is to keep me safe, happy and healthy, that I recognise my Daddy’s right to suggest changes to all or part of a proposed rule, that I accept responsibility for updating the Google Doc which details all of my rules and that I love and appreciate my Daddy very much. A nurturing, ageplay-centric D/s dynamic can often lead to ‘tough love’ situations wherein my Daddy has to say a firm no to late nights, booze, extra caffeine or any number of other things I want but don’t need, and ticking this box reminds me and him that I understand why he says no and that I appreciate it even whilst I’m pouting and whining and trying to explain why staying up til 3am on a schoolnight isn’t that bad, really, in the grand scheme of things… (I may not be bratty, but I am the first to admit that I’m cheeky as fuck.) Of course, you can rework this section or give it a miss entirely, but it works really well for the purposes of our dynamic.

And that’s it! Unfortunately, this post was not sponsored by Google, but if any of their people want to hit me up, they can find my details here – which is also where you can find me if you’re not a Google employee, so you can follow me on Twitter, email me with questions and, if you really want to boost my ego, let me know that you’ve used information from a blog post of mine to enrich your own kinky lifestyle.

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

A faceless picture of a curvy-ish white person (Morgan) lying on their side in bed, naked but with the duvet obscuring their nipple.

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.

Smut Saturdays #4: The Orgasm That Made Me Cry

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!

It was meant to be a quick one. It was a reward for dragging my greasy, depressed self into the shower – my Doxy wand pressed against my clit, wiggling against it until I came once, or maybe twice. I had asked for a bribe when my Daddy had ordered me to shower, and he had (naturally) suggested an inexpensive, easily-obtained orgasm.

It all started simply enough. I lay on my side with the head of my wand wedged between my legs, my hair still damp and my skin smelling of citrusy shower gel. My Daddy acted as my big spoon, alternating between fiddling with my nipples and changing my wand’s intensity whilst murmuring filth into my ear. I humped my wand lazily, wandering towards orgasm, and asked permission in a whisper, in my ‘little’ voice.

“Daddy, can I – can I –?”

The word ‘cum’ wouldn’t leave my lips. I couldn’t pinpoint why, but it was no problem – my Daddy growled into my ear, “Let it happen, baby. Go on, cum for Daddy.”

My toes curled as all the tension in my lower abdomen was eked out of me by the spasming in my cunt. I shook a little, and whimpered, and curled in on myself. It was good.

My Daddy pointedly refrained from pulling the wand away from my clit, and I didn’t have my wits about me nearly enough to move it on my own. I whined, writhing, and tried to form the words, “It’s too intense,” but my brain was soup. My words weren’t coming.

Until I blurted out, “I’m too small.”

It came out a little pathetic, somewhat pleading, but it wasn’t a safeword or anything resembling one so my Daddy didn’t move the vibe. “You’re teeny,” he whispered. “You’re safe. Daddy’s here.”

I felt safe. I knew logically I was safe. But I also felt psychologically tiny, and somewhat worried that the intensity of the sensation in my clit would rip my body in two. It almost burned. I squirmed, and pushed at the handle of my wand, and managed to roll onto my back.

“Too small,” I said again, in my soft, high-pitched little voice. “Daddy…”

He pulled the wand away from my bits but didn’t turn it off. I heard, more than felt, him kissing my damp hair, and he reached down the side of the bed.

“Would you like your metal toy?” he asked, one of his seemingly huge hands finding the box.

I sort of shrugged. I didn’t want to concede that I knew what he meant. I didn’t want to be someone ‘big’ enough, wise enough, worldly enough to know what a dildo was, let alone want one (and especially let alone spend my own money on one, or several…). My Daddy, knowing the look in my eye and the spread of my legs well enough to judge my receptiveness, opened the box up and held the curved rod of metal out towards me.

I held it close to my chest and examined its shininess as he found my silicone lube and slathered his right hand with it. I pretended not to understand what the lube meant, too. I was deeply in little space – my elaborate performance of vulnerability was turning into real vulnerability. I was unphased by my own nudity and all the things I usually disliked about my body. I lay on the bed with my boobs squished under my arms, still studying the toy I’d been given, warming its steel surface with my hands.

Daddy had shifted so that he was sitting next to my legs, one arm hooked over my thigh, lubed-up hand hovering near my clit. He glanced at me again to check I was still onboard (I was) and then his fingertips made contact with my clit.

For someone who regularly beats me up, chokes me and makes me bleed, my Daddy is capable of being otherworldly gentle when he wants to be. He stroked gently up and down the full length of my vulva, starting at my clitoral hood and sliding his wet fingers all the way down to just above my anus. I twitched every time he made contact with the head of my clit itself, still able to feel my heartbeat in it after that first orgasm. When he was satisfied that I was relaxed enough, or that his fingers were soaked enough, or maybe just that I was sufficiently desperate, he sunk one thick finger into my cunt.

I sighed, my eyes flicking between his adoring expression and his disappearing finger. Still feeling infinitesimally small, I frowned at his hand between my legs. “Where’s it going?” I asked, as though I didn’t know full well. “What’s inside there?”

My metal dildo still rested in my hands, on my chest.

“It’s just you,” Daddy said simply, starting to fuck me a little more firmly with his finger. “It’s just… your parts. Is it nice?”

“Mhmm,” I managed, trying to suppress the ache for more.

He must have known somehow, because he pushed a second finger into me. “Is this still nice?”

“It hurts a little,” I gasped, which was not untrue. I have some connective tissue problems which make tearing a regular concern, for one, and my cunt was still swollen and incredibly sensitive from cumming just minutes ago. “But it’s good.” That wasn’t untrue either. His fingers were stroking my G spot, which he knew full well, and bringing me near to wanting to cum again, which I’m sure he knew too.

He slid his fingers out after some slow but deliberate fingerfucking, and, ignoring how soaked his hand was with lube and my wetness, held out his hand for my metal toy. “Give that to Daddy,” he instructed, and I did.

He took the time to line it up perfectly with my hole, so it just sank in effortlessly. I couldn’t keep a low moan from slipping out. He held it still for a moment, and it took me a moment to realise why – with his other hand, he was finding my Doxy. When had he turned it off? Where had he left it? I stopped thinking about the logistics as soon as he pressed its head, buzzing again, against my clit.

I took it from him and shifted it so that it was making contact more with my clitoral hood than my clit itself, otherwise I might have screamed. This way, the vibrations were pleasantly diffused, and I could focus on my Daddy starting to rock the toy in my cunt back and forth, back and forth. He’d found my A spot with more ease than I could have done myself, and he was massaging it like it was a knot in my back.

Naturally, it felt so much better than a knot in my back.

“I can’t –” I babbled between moans, “make the noises – ah! – stop – I keep just – oh, Daddy, I –”

“It’s okay, little one, the noises are natural.”

His tone, and his face, and his mastery of my body made me feel so small and so safe. My orgasm was inevitable – like he was drawing it directly out of my cunt. I was powerless. I just watched, and felt, and shook, until it started.

“I’m –” I began, but I never finished. He looked me in the eyes and ordered me to cum, so I did. Hard. For long, long seconds that felt like minutes. It ripped through me, irresistible, enormous, uncontrollable. I just shook and whispered as my Daddy slowed his movements, knowing I was nearing an end.

He smiled at me. Not a condescendingly domly smile (though I love those too), but a heartfelt, gleeful one that lit his eyes up. “That was a big orgasm,” he told me softly, as though I might not have noticed.

“I feel like I’m gonna cry,” and as I said it, tears did start to sting the corners of my eyes, “and I’m not even sure why.”

“It’s okay! Orgasms are big, and intense, and you can cry if you need to.”

It was all the permission I needed. Sobs shook my chest, and tears dripped down my cheeks, and my Daddy eased the dildo out of me and then held me until the crying subsided.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, which nearly started me off again. “You did so well.”

I think maybe part of the reason I started crying was because, after reaching that hugely vulnerable part of my psyche and enjoying it, I was proud of me too.