The Best Days of Our Lives

Sometimes, when I’m quite tipsy and out on the town, I’m struck by the sense that my friends and I rule the world. The city is lit up and glittering just for us. We are fearless and stupid and hilarious and we love each other. I feel the swells of hope and bravery reach high tide in my chest.

The problem is, though, that emotional abuse conditions you a certain way. Whenever I start to feel brave, or hopeful, or – God forbid – happy, I also start to feel a cold dread leak into my bones. If you’ve lived through emotional abuse, you’ll know that abusers never let their victims’ happiness go unpunished. You’re used to knowing, consciously or not, that whatever positive emotion you’re experiencing is part of the cycle of abuse – you’re in the honeymoon phase now, but you know that soon, the sky will fall in. Every time you feel like you’re getting less small, someone cuts you back down to size. Eventually, you might stop hoping or laughing or feeling brave altogether.

So when I feel like I’m on top of the world with people I love, my brain tries to slam on the brakes. It isn’t my brain’s fault – it has been taught that the more elevated I feel, the worse the inevitable fall will injure me. My brain tells me, “You’ll grow out of this. Sooner or later, you’ll stop having nights out, stop drinking, stop dancing, stop loving these friends – sooner or later, you’ll lose this feeling forever.” 

The thought is like a bucket of cold water in that it startles me, makes my chest muscles tighten, makes me feel like shit. I know I won’t be a dumbass student full of Jagerbombs forever – my brain is right about that. What if it’s also right about never feeling like this again?


Play parties – especially the chill, lowkey rope jams I often attend – aren’t much like nights out. The music is quiet. The lights are dim. I’m stone-cold sober. 

I’m on a mat, lying on my back with one leg suspended above the rest of me. My Daddy is tightening ropes around my shin just to make me writhe and squeak. It fucking hurts. He closes his fist and starts punching the rope that will later bruise my skin. Harder and harder, up and down my entire lower leg. He squeezes my calf and I almost scream.

From my position on the floor, I make accidental eye contact with somebody else on the floor – another bottom, also being tormented, also writhing and squeaking. I’ve never spoken to them before, but they take one look at my agony-filled face and smile at me. I smile right back, knowing that they feel how I feel, knowing that we’ll both glow with pride and endorphins when we’re done.

When the ropes come off and I’m scooped into a hug, I feel so warm and in love with the world. My legs shake in time to the music. The other bottom, the one who smiled at me, is receiving aftercare, too.


I have nagged and nagged at my Daddy to go and play with someone he likes. I’m in lingerie and full makeup, but there’s an empty bathtub in the venue (for some reason) and I’ve found that it gives me exceptionally good autism to sit inside. I watch, fascinated, as other people play. I recognise one of the songs on the playlist and smile to myself. 

Sooner or later, someone I know reasonably well comes and joins me in the bathtub. We sit side-by-side in our sexiest underwear and talk for at least an hour. I make her giggle a lot. We point things out to each other – interesting scenes that are unfolding and other people’s cute outfits, mostly. Another person comes and joins the conversation, kneeling in front of the bathtub. I let sentences about sex and kink and queerness fall straight out of my mouth, completely unfiltered. 

Every now and then, I remember that one of the loves of my life is in the other room, having pulled with my help. I remember the fizz of affection I felt when I caught the eye of another bottom earlier. I remember that these are conversations I would never have anywhere else.

I might grow out of drinking and roaming the town, but the number of older kinksters surrounding me suggests quite firmly that I won’t grow out of this. Which is good, because right now, I feel like my friends and I rule the world. The dungeon is dimly lit and decorated just for us.

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.

20 Things I Learned Whilst 20

I turned 21 on the 24th of July, right at the dawn of Leo season, and I managed to only Tweet obnoxiously about it once. In fact, this has been a pretty quiet birthday by all accounts, but it felt like it would be remiss of me not to mark it with a blog post.

However, it’s brain-meltingly hot, and I have a busy weekend ahead, so I decided I’d treat my readership to the ultimate cop-out: a listicle.

I have to admit that some of these things are things I learned before I was 20, but they’ve definitely been reaffirmed or brought back to the forefront of my mind over the past year. Some are kink-related and some are not, but hopefully at least one of these twenty things will be enlightening, or at least uplifting.

  1. I’m probably sort of a furry. I don’t feel a strong affinity for the furry community as such, but I have to concede that the headspace I enter into when engaging in puppy play (right down to having a specific breed in mind…) isn’t dissimilar to having a fursona, especially when I play with accessories like my collar, leashes and ‘puppy treats’ (usually Maltesers). Plus, I’d definitely fuck Nick Wilde from Zootopia.
  2. PRN anxiety medications don’t work for me, because as soon as I’m even a little anxious, I become too paranoid to take any medicines at all.
  3. Anti-psychotic medications do work for me, and so far I’ve been one of those miraculously lucky bastards who doesn’t lose any of their sex drive when starting a new psychotropic medication.
  4. I actually do like masturbating, it just spooks me when I’m alone for trauma reasons.
  5. I am definitely more of an A-spot person than a G-spot person.
  6. Letting your sadistic Daddy wax your vulva for you is not as good an idea as it might sound. Especially if he’s never waxed anybody else’s body before and you’ve never had your own body waxed in any capacity before. Really, it’s a fucking terrible idea. Put the Veet strips down.
  7. Crying during kink scenes is the purest, most amazing form of catharsis I can access in a healthy and sustainable way.
  8. Being face-slapped a lot makes me cry.
  9. I like Starbucks frappuccinos as long as they’re super sugary and don’t have whipped cream on top. I have reached Peak White Person.
  10. If you want something (especially if that something is a writing gig or similar), you should go for it. The worst that can happen is a ‘no’, which you can accept graciously and move on.
  11. …but seriously, I am capable of awesome things if I just scrape together the bollocks to spring for them. Like appearing on Disability After Dark. Or being featured on Girl On The Net. Or putting my amazing, well-lit nudes on Twitter.
  12. I’m much better at receiving beatings and bottoming in S&M scenes more broadly if I’m tied up and receiving encouragement.
  13. It’s not normal to bleed after vaginal sex stuff! Who knew?! (This discovery did lead to me getting to view live footage of my own cervix, though, which was cool as shit.)
  14. Therapy is actually useful if you don’t lie the whole time! If you can find a therapist who will accept your kinkiness and/or queerness and/or polyamory and/or proud neurodivergent identity (etc…) then therapy sessions can feel productive and worthwhile, rather than another chore-ish appointment you have to make time for.
  15. I have a lot more work to do in therapy and outside of it. I’ve realised I’m absolutely brimming with internalised fatphobia, internalised ableism, suppressed anger, suppressed feelings of loss… but I’m starting to unpack it all, and it’s worth the hard work.
  16. I’m even more of a huge nerd than I thought – I’ve spent the whole summer so far itching to go back to uni. I thrive on structure and intellectual stimulation, and I miss university so much whenever I’m away from it longer than a week. Master’s degree it is, then.
  17. I actually love giving analingus. If I could abandon this blog post right now and put my tongue in a butthole I would.
  18. Cis dudes actually can eat me out in a way I enjoy if they just listen and proceed carefully. Not all of them are teethy, sucky trainwrecks.
  19. If you have a penis in your mouth and you press a vibrator to your jaw or throat, the penis-owner can feel the vibrations, and they’re usually pretty happy about that.
  20. There is always new stuff to learn about sex, kink, myself and the world. And I’m excited about that.