A Little Bit Naughty: How Does Littlespace Feel for Me?

Morgan, i.e. me, a white person with big hazel eyes, in littlespace with an adult pacifier in their mouth.

It’s here: the return of my headspaces miniseries. This time, we’re gonna explore littlespace, the headspace accessed by consenting adult kinksters who are into ageplay – playing at regressing to a much younger age. Personally, I don’t have a clear idea of what my “little age” actually is. I think it fluctuates between three or four (speaking in full sentences but can’t be left unsupervised) to about eleven (occasionally stroppy, but excitable, witty and precocious). Some people have a clearer idea, and some don’t – but, regardless of the age I regress to, how does it feel?

Well, you know how some friend groups have a designated “mom friend”, who always has painkillers and snacks and who looks after the rest of you? I’ve always been the “baby friend”. I cry easily and often; I need reminding to eat, wear a jumper in winter, and refill my meds; I hoard sparkly, fluffy and chewy objects (which makes me a very easy person to buy gifts for). I never mean to be an absolute mess, but my friends all seem to know that I am one, and they’ve all taken me under their collective wing. I think that’s an oddity for ageplayers. I think, a lot of the time, people who are little in scenes are very big the rest of the time, and littlespace comes as a welcome break from being sensible and responsible and rational. And I am big, when I absolutely have to be – but I struggle with it, and I spend a lot of my time on the periphery of littlespace.

I discussed littlespace with a therapist once. She was one who’d already reacted positively to mentions of BDSM and polyamory, but I was still nervous to bring up the fact that I sometimes pretend to be a small child. I had already disclosed that I grew up with some, um, less-than-ideal father figures around, and you can pretty much tell just by meeting me that I have an anxious-preoccupied attachment style that is almost certainly a result of my turbulent childhood. My therapist was, thankfully, very understanding of the role of littlespace in my life as a means to relax into myself and experience the joyful, carefree childhood I’d missed out on when I was actually a child. She told me that it was only a problem if I felt it was a problem, and that it sounded like a comfort and a useful tool for me. Viewing littlespace as a tool for healing, rather than as a simple indulgence or, worse, an unhealthy coping mechanism, reflects more closely my perspective on other aspects of BDSM: that it’s both a valid, healthy pastime and a way for me to connect with my body and my self.

Littlespace feels, for me, like being myself, but magnified. I let myself lean into my sensory-seeking behaviours. I get incredibly excited over little (ha) things, like purchasing sweets or a new stuffed toy. I’m always letting adult things fall out of my mind as a side effect of the autism, but when I’m little, I all but shove them out. It’s a happy, peaceful headspace for me. The paraphernalia associated with littlespace is a dream come true, too – I own half a dozen pacifiers and so many stuffed toys, which are perfect from an autistic sensory-seeking standpoint. I also love colouring, as so many littles do, and having something repetitive and creative to focus on can quiet the loud voices of anxiety and depression in my brain. Being little is like being in a warm bath: I’m comfortable, at home in myself, and under no pressure from the outside world beyond having to brush my teeth and be in bed on time.

And, on the topic of being in bed: some people don’t mix littlespace and sexy stuff. The taboo surrounding children engaging in sex acts is, for some people, too strong, and that’s understandable – but it’s the taboo that can make ageplay scenes so appealing for so many people. I like pretending not to understand what’s happening during a littlespacey fuck, letting my adult-brained partner do all the hard stuff like removing my clothes and figuring out what position we’ll take. I relish the idea that I’m so irresistible that my Daddy cannot keep his hands off me, no matter how little and wide-eyed and innocent I am. It’s not as straightforward as some consensual non-consent scenes are, though: most of the time, Little Morgan really wants to do the sex stuff. They like how it feels, and they love pleasing their Daddy. But it remains a CNC scene nonetheless, because I’m feigning an innocence that prevents me from giving informed consent. Even at my oldest, when I’m in littlespace, I’m too “young” to meaningfully consent, which is what makes it so deliciously taboo. And it is delicious – so delicious that I revisit the same corruption of innocence storylines in roleplay with my Daddy over and over again, asking, “Why’s that hard?” and “What are you gonna do?” until, fuckdrunk, I abandon all pretence and beg him not to stop whatever he’s doing, even if I’m too little to ask for permission to cum.


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Smut Saturdays #15: The Beauty of a Blindfold

Stock photo of a piece of light brown rope arranged in a heart shape, lying on a darker brown bench. The background is out of focus but looks greenish. It's cute, and suits this smut about a blindfold nicely.

Ready for some blindfold smut? 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 acknowledge that it is no longer Saturday. In fact, at the time of writing, it is Tuesday. But what could be more on-brand – for #AutismAcceptanceMonth especially – than running three days late on a self-imposed deadline?)


It hurts.

Of course, I know that it’s supposed to hurt. There is only one wrap of rope around my upper thigh, and through it is the weight of my entire leg. I feel like my skin might split, but it won’t give me the satisfaction – I probably won’t even bruise.

My Daddy and I are playing in his living room. I’m on the floor under his suspension frame, naked, with my right leg hoisted into the air and my left one resting on the ground, so my vulva is readily visible. It’s relatively quiet and calm in here, but the pain is still overwhelming me, and I’m worried I’ll reach my limit soon. I suck in short, sharp breaths, pulling air through my teeth, as I try to adjust to the feeling that my upper thigh is about to get ripped in two. I want to be good. I want to take this.

“Daddy,” I say timidly, watching as he begins to uncoil yet another rope. He pauses. “Could I have a blindfold, please?”

Asking for things mid-scene is not my strong suit. If we’re being brutally honest, asking for things at any time is not my strong suit. I want to take up as little space as possible, and make as little fuss as a person can; but this directly contradicts my desire to be as honest with my Daddy as possible and to process as much pain as a person can. So I ask for the blindfold, and I tilt my head up willingly when he pulls it from the rope bag.

“Good Puppy for asking,” he tells me, his voice both warm and condescending. He lays the fabric carefully over my eyes, aiming to block all light out of my vision but also to avoid compressing my nose and compromising my ability to breathe (because that would come later). He knots the blindfold tightly behind my head, so it hugs my skull and blocks out some sound by virtue of lying over my ears. I could still hear my Daddy if he raised his voice, but I can no longer hear the clock ticking, nor the hum of the refrigerator in the other room. All I can really perceive is the pain in my thigh.

I breathe in. I breathe out. I start to let go of the panic I had originally felt as a result of this seemingly unconquerable pain. I think, I hope this bruises and, Oh, it eases off if I press my left hip into the carpet and I’m such a good little masochist, all while my Daddy starts to tie my wrists together, silent and deft.

With one sudden, fluid motion, my wrists are pulled up, and with them, so is my entire torso. I yelp, but more importantly, without thinking, I twist, so that both buttcheeks are firmly on the floor and my wrists are comfortable above my head without threatening to pull one of my hypermobile ribs out of place. In the process, I obviously rotate my poor upper thigh, twisting it and dragging my flesh across the rope that encased it, and now I know it’ll bruise. I’ll be lucky if I haven’t made it bleed. I whimper, only somewhat soothed by the indomitable familiarity of ropes swaying and jostling whilst my Daddy locks off an upline that’s connected to my body. (For those not well-versed in rope-related words – some of which I might be bastardizing or making up entirely – the upline is the one that goes up to the suspension point. Locking it off involves doing things to it so it doesn’t move, unravel or otherwise drop your bottom on their, uh, bottom.) I’m disgruntled about my thigh – shearing (the dragging of rope across skin) is a type of pain I do not remotely enjoy – and I keep whimpering until the familiar movement above my head stops. Then there is a very long pause, and I blink against the fabric of my blindfold, against the darkness.

My Daddy takes hold of my chin. I don’t know whether he’s standing over me or kneeling by my side. I do know that him gripping my chin like this can only mean one thing. He holds it for long enough that I can object if I want to, but I stay silent. I’m such a good little masochist.

Crack. The sound of his palm across my cheek. I’m so full of endorphins that I interpret pain as warm, and sigh heavily at its pleasant radiation through my face. I know what’s coming next.

Crack.

It’s going to happen soon. It’s not the pain so much as the shock of it that gets me – and the intimacy of it. Being slapped across the face is completely inescapable. You hear it more loudly than any other slaps. When you’re not blindfolded, you see it. And I think it activates some primal instinct that arse-slapping just doesn’t achieve, because it usually only takes —

Crack.

Yep, three strikes and my eyes well up behind the blindfold. I can feel my lower lip wobble. My Daddy shifts his grip from my chin to my hair, and I know the next slap will make me cry.

He pauses for so long that I whisper, “Green,” in case he’s unsure. And then, crack. Across my face. Knocks the tears right out of my eyes. Knocks a loud sob out of my mouth. And I know that if I weren’t blindfolded, I’d call “Yellow,” because I’d be overwhelmed. But all I can feel is heat in my cheek and an unbearable level of anticipation, and I tilt my head up a little bit to indicate I’m ready for another.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

And now I’m fully sobbing, and I can feel my Daddy’s hand brushing hair out of my face. “Oh, look at you,” he says softly. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

“I’m trying my best,” I wail, as is my custom when I feel sufficiently little and deep in subspace. “I’m trying really hard.”

“I know, baby.” There is some shuffling. His hand isn’t in my hair any more. “Do you know what else is really hard?”

I giggle even though there’s snot leaking from my face. “Daddy!” Then there’s a hand in my hair again, but this time it’s pulling. I can barely remember that my thigh is hurting, and I only re-become aware that my wrists are tied above my head when I move to scratch something and realise I can’t. “My brain is stupid,” I report honestly.

“That’s okay. You don’t need a brain for this.”

My hearing isn’t muffled enough to disguise the sound of him pulling down the zip on his jeans, and I open my mouth readily, my tongue stretching down my chin.

And that’s where I’ll leave you, friends, because some things are sexier when they’re unseen.

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.