Cum: The Devil Is In The Details

Selfie taken by Morgan where the top half of xir face is cut off and xir cleavage is covered in a lube which looks a lot like cum

Welcome to my new miniseries, The Devil Is In The Details, where I get unreasonably in-depth about certain aspects of sex or kink that fascinate me! This week, I’ll be talking about cum…


I have a complicated relationship with cum.

In theory, I love it. I fantasise about all the different ways I can interact with it – about being spitroasted and having cum squirt into my mouth and my cunt simultaneously; about being splattered with it in unrealistic quantities by one or more parties; about going for a walk straight after being creampied and feeling it ooze through the fabric of my pants and start to dribble down my leg. In all of these fantasies, I am enthusiastic about it, because in all of these fantasies, it isn’t cum-textured.

I might be alone in this, but I find there’s a particular squeakiness to cum on skin that gets my autistic hackles up somethin’ fierce. It’s akin to the creak of teeth against fabric – something I also can’t stand – and it turns my stomach every time I experience it. I love the sensation of being covered in or filled with something thick and wet and hot – but I can’t stand it on my skin for any longer than a few long, sexy moments. I can cope with it in my cunt, as long as I don’t have to touch my cunt, or have it touched by anyone else. I do, however, like the sensation of it dribbling out of my cunt, especially if it’s then caught up by fingers and fed to me (be they my own fingers or someone else’s).

The ideal place to put your cum, though, is my mouth. I love the taste of it – the way that some notes of it differ between each person while the bass line of human-tasting tanginess remains the same. (Forgive the weird music analogy – I have a lot of synaesthesia around tastes, smells and sounds.) I have no objections to the feel of the actual substance in my mouth, and I relish the moment that it hits my tongue, whether it be sucked out of someone and pulsing gently towards the back of my throat or shot hard into my mouth as a reward for someone’s handiwork – be it me, the person who’s coming, or a third party. I love letting it drip off my lower lip as I stare, dumbstruck by lust, at the person who put it there, but I also love dutifully swallowing all of it, including those last few drops that can be squeezed out at the end of an orgasm.

The other thing I love about cum is this: it’s tangible, physical proof of a job well done. It’s hard to argue that I’m not sexy or that I’m bad at sex when somebody has just ejaculated inside or all over me. Sometimes, in role play, I act as though I dislike or am indifferent to my partner’s cum, and that it only exists as a necessary byproduct of my obedience when ordered to suck them off or lay still for them – but it’s definitely acting. I definitely want the cum. I’m therefore far more comfortable in the role of desperate slut, whose sexual greed knows no bounds and who can only think about getting their holes filled, getting to come and getting covered in and filled with the cum of another person (or other people, plural) – which, to be honest, is kind of the case for me a lot of the time anyway. If you catch me daydreaming, there’s a solid 60% chance that you’ve caught me thinking about the tingle at the back of my tongue that cum can sometimes give me, or the way a dick looks when it’s twitching and spraying cum everywhere, or any other thing related to cum and how much I love it.

Who knows; you might even have caught me having that one recurring fantasy where I jerk someone off in the shower and then lick their cum off the tiled wall.


The pandemic and subsequent semi-lockdown that’s going on right now means that I’ve lost a lot of work opportunities (because every other fucker at my agency is snagging jobs before I can). If you also want to give me a birthday present four months early, consider buying me a coffee or commissioning transcripts or captions from me!

Smut Saturdays #1 – I’ll Drive You Home

Very very vaguely based on real-life events or fantasies of mine, Smut Saturdays will feature a monthly piece of erotica written by yours truly, for your wanking enjoyment. The characters are intentionally nondescript so that you can project your own fantasies onto them (and because I’m a lazy writer). If you have any suggestions or requests, let me know on Twitter, @KinkyAutistic!


Christine felt like the date had gone okay-ish. She’d giggled too much, exposing her wonky teeth, and she’d spilt a small amount of her orange juice with vodka on her cream-coloured top – but Johnny was still smiling warmly at her, and she still felt the weight of his hand on her thigh under the table, so all hope was probably not lost.
“It’s getting late…” she sighed, prodding one of the ice cubes in her glass with the end of her straw. “I should head back to my place.”
Johnny nodded, pushing his emptied glass (he’d had a mocktail, having driven into the city) to the centre of the table, so it sat by Christine’s. “Yeah, I have work tomorrow,” he said, and Christine met his gaze again. “How far out do you live?”
“It’s only half an hour by bus.” They’d discussed the merits of maintaining a car versus using public transit earlier in the evening. Johnny had gently teased her about her inability to drive, but had conceded that her ability to drink on their date was enviable. “I’ve had a really lovely time this evening.”
Johnny, whose left eyebrow had arched up when Christine had said “half an hour”, pulled his car keys from his pocket. “I could give you a lift, if you like.” He jangled them enticingly.
Christine knew that getting into the cars of boys from Tinder was ill-advised at best, but she also knew that Johnny lived in the same neck of the woods as she did, that the wait at the bus stop would be rainy and miserable, and that she’d spent the whole evening judging Johnny’s character and hadn’t gotten any bad vibes from him as of yet.
“If you’re sure…”
Another jangle. “C’mon, gorgeous. I’ll drive you home.”


Christine also knew that inviting boys from Tinder into one’s home for “coffee” is ill-advised, but Johnny had kissed her lips and then her neck in his car, and she could only think about creating a situation wherein he could kiss body parts further south.
“Do – do you – wanna come in?” she stammered, awkward and blushing. She knew that he knew that she was inviting him indoors for sex.
Johnny’s face split into a smile, and he unclipped his seatbelt. “If I’m welcome,” he said. Christine could only nod, and watch his perfectly-shaped ass as it exited the car. He moved around to her side of the car and opened the passenger door. “Lead the way.”


Somehow, Christine entirely avoided making the stuttered excuse about “putting the kettle on” that she had been dreading. As soon as the pair were over the threshold, his hands were at her waist, under her jacket, and she was tilting her head to welcome his tongue deeper into her mouth. Boldly, she slipped her hand into the back pocket of his jeans, and he growled in approval, pulling her closer, bringing her body flush against his.
She pulled away only when a hazy thought about neck-kissing crossed her mind, and she stood on tiptoes to press her lips against his throat. Johnny let out a barely-audible murmur, and his hands skated – tentatively, as though giving Christine time to object – up her sides, closer together, until he was cupping both her breasts through two layers of fabric. She’d worn a black bra under her cream top very deliberately, and clearly it had got his attention – as she kissed up his neck, towards his earlobe, he squeezed gently with both hands. She sighed, her breath warming his ear, and he shuddered pleasantly.
“Are you cold?” she teased, breathing against his ear again.
Another shudder, and he said, “Actually, I’m too warm.” And he reached behind his head, grabbed the neck of his T-shirt, and yanked it over his head.
“I feel like ‘hot’ might be more accurate.” Her eyes drank in every inch of his bare skin, his raised nipples, his dark, curled chest hair. “Very… hot.”
He pulled her closer again, hands firm on her waist, and their lips met, clumsily, hungrily. Christine started to unbutton her shirt, thinking only of more of her skin against more of his. His tongue brushed hers as her shirt fell to the floor alongside his.
“Christine,” Johnny gasped, in one of the rare moments where their lips weren’t magnetically joined together. “Do you wanna…” and he kissed her neck, “take this to your bedroom?”
She looked into his eyes, alight with desire, and briefly wondered if she should keep him waiting.
The urgent ache of desire in her cunt wouldn’t let her, of course, and she replied only by kissing him again, pulling him by his beltloops towards the stairs. He followed her up, and she was sure she could feel his eyes on her arse. When they reached the landing, she turned around to ask him to excuse the mess, and before she could speak, he caught her face with two gentle hands and kissed her again.
Giggling, she pulled back. “We’re still not at my bedroom yet.” She reached blindly for the door handle behind her. “But we are close.”
“Not close enough,” Johnny purred, kissing her again.
They shuffled backwards in tandem, faces locked together, until Christine felt the fluffy throw she kept on her bed brush against her leg. At that point, she drew back, looked Johnny in the eye, and sat on the edge of her bed. Then she reached up, and, without breaking eye contact – by some miracle – she undid his belt, exposing his trousers’ top button.
The corner of Johnny’s mouth was pulled into a sly smile. “What do you intend to do down there, Missy?” he asked teasingly.
“What would you like me to do?” she rejoined coyly, tracing the circular outline of his button with one finger.
A sincerity stole over his face. “Anything you like,” he said softly. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Her heart warmed by this, and the rest of her still warmed by the passionate kissing and groping, she undid his button, unzipped his jeans and unleashed the outline of his hard cock, pressing through his underwear. Then, mouth all but watering, she tugged the waistband of his underwear down too, so that his erection was in front of her face, separated from her lips only by the space between them.
She hadn’t thought very hard about what she’d expected of his dick. It was definitely longer and thicker than she might have guessed, hooded with foreskin, outlined with the same thick, dark hair that grew on his chest. Christine sighed with desire.
“Um…” Johnny started. “I feel a bit… self-conscious. You still have your bra on, and I’m…”
“We can fix that,” Christine said quickly, standing up to shimmy out of her skirt. She let it fall to the floor, unclipped her bra, and sat back on her bed, in only a black thong. “Better?”
Before Johnny gave an answer, Christine engulfed the head of his cock with her soft, wet mouth. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned, placing a gentle hand on the back of her head. “Th-that’s good…”
She giggled as she opened her mouth a little wider, leaning in, his shaft sliding along her tongue. Gently sucking, she wrapped one small hand around the base of his dick and squeezed softly, listening keenly for noises of appreciation.
Christine’s blowjob technique was based on enthusiasm, so when she got bored of bobbing back and forth, she took his shaft out of her mouth and instead ducked down to meet his balls with her tongue. Hungrily, she licked at them, unphased by the hair – she was a great deal more concerned with eliciting those delicious noises, those “Fuck”s and “Yes”s that Johnny was letting past his lips with building frequency and volume. Her hand slid up and down his shaft, faster and more firmly than her mouth had, and his hand gripped her hair, tugging pleasantly.
“Christine, if you keep – I’m gonna –”
“Do,” she murmured, returning her attention to the head. Her lips teased the precum-soaked skin as she said, “Cum for me, Johnny, I want to taste it.”
She wrapped her lips back around the head of his dick, tongue moving up and down along his frenulum, and she could feel his legs start to tremble. Keeping her pace steady, a hand cupped gently around his balls, she moaned with need, and he grabbed her hair with his other hand, too.
She felt and tasted his cum, his cock twitching against her tongue as he came. It spurted, warm and thick, into her mouth, and she kept stock-still, reluctant to overwhelm him, until the final drops pumped out and he pulled away.
“Oh god… oh my god.” Sighing, Johnny threw himself onto the bed beside Christine. “That was… oh, god.”
Christine giggled. “Worth the price of the fuel to drive me home?”
“God, yes.” Johnny reached for her thong. “How can I make this evening worth your bus fare?”