Cum Tribute Musings (For #KinkOfTheWeek)

A cartoon white splash, because I'm lazy and use stock photos but didn't get any results when I searched for "cum tribute"

I’ve never received a cum tribute.

Not because I wouldn’t like a cum tribute, but just because it hasn’t ever been at the forefront of my mind long enough to request one from somebody, and nobody has ever sent me one spontaneously, possibly for fear of being creepy. And, um, maybe it would be creepy… except it would be the exact kind of creepy I would find really fucking hot.

Let me clarify: strangers sliding into my DMs with unsolicited cum tributes would be the not-hot kind of creepy – the kind that gets you blocked instantly. But somebody I already knew, with whom I already had some kind of sexy connection, going out of their way to notify me that they’d wanked over my pictures? Oof. And providing visual evidence of just how much, how hard and where they came? Double oof.

There are two ways I think a cum tribute could be the hot kind of creepy. The first is the dominant way, the way that says, “I’ll use your photos however I like, and I’ll use your body however I like, too.” A spontaneous cum tribute sent by a dominant party to a submissive party can be read as a sort of sexy threat, an indication that the other party wants you so badly they’ll come all over a photo of you (even if that involves actually printing something, like people used to do in the olden days), with the implication that they probably won’t stop there. It’s the kind of gesture that says, “I am obsessing over every millimetre of your face and body,” and also, “Next time I see you, I’m going to pin you to any available surface and fuck you until you’re begging for my cum, then manhandle you onto your knees and milk my twitching cock onto your tongue.” It’s the somewhat entitled kind of creepy that fills me with CNC fantasies and tingly, erotic nervousness.

The other way in which a cum tribute could be the hot kind of creepy is, as you might have guessed, the submissive way. If I were to order someone to provide me with a cum tribute, it wouldn’t be creepy, it would just be very hot and possibly a little bit consensually humiliating for person doing the ejaculating. But if someone were, again, obsessing over me – but this time in an adoring, devoted-to-me sort of way – so much that they couldn’t help but wank about it, and then they also couldn’t help but send me a photo to demonstrate how desperate they were for me, my touch, my mouth… that would be deliciously creepy. It taps into exactly the same part of my psyche as my stalker kink does: I want to be lusted after to such a maddening extent that someone will do weird shit that flirts with, but doesn’t cross, my boundaries. I imagine this cum tribute would be offered timidly, apologetically, captioned something like, “I know this is really weird, but I just wanted to show you how hot I think you are,” and I also imagine there would be the greatest volume of cum a person could realistically produce in one sitting scattered across multiple nudes of mine, taken from my blog or my Twitter page. It would be charged with a very similar obsessive, “I want to pin you down and make you mine” energy, but tempered with the devotion and admiration inherent to this brand of submission. As well as being a display of lust, it would be a display of vulnerability and deference.

The cum tribute in the first scenario says, “I’m going to make you take my cum wherever I’d like to put it,” and the one in the second scenario says, “This is all I have to offer you, but I am desperately hoping you’ll decide you want it.”

There are all the other bits of a cum tribute that appeal to me too, of course: I love jizz and I want it in my mouth, like, always, and it would obviously provide me with the mental image of someone doing the coming in order to produce it… But, really, the thing that I find hot about cum tributes is their potential for creepiness. It’s one thing to say, “Oh, I jerked it to those nudes you posted,” and quite another to actually show me the proof. There are extra steps involved – whether or not you print an image, you still have to aim, to make sure the cum is visible, and then you have to take the photo of the results, and then you have to send it. It’s those extra steps that push it from sexy and flattering to sexy, flattering and the hot kind of creepy, and it’s the hot kind of creepy that motivated me to pick up this week’s Kink of the Week prompt.

(Speaking of which – thank you to Molly for running Kink of the Week, and thank you to Mx Nillin for inspiring this prompt! Make sure to check out the other Kink of the Week contributions, this time and every time – they’re always excellent.

Also, I totally wanted to name this post ‘This Is Not The Greatest Cum In The World, This Is Just A Tribute’, but I didn’t, for SEO reasons. Please applaud my sensible decision-making and strong resolve.)

The Kink of the Week badge, which is a red lipstick print with the words "Kink of the Week" on it

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My Stalking Kink, Part 2: The Paradox

Stock photograph of a cracked egg on a shiny black surface, its shell in two halves either side of the yolk and the beater of an electric whisk in the background. It is a vague allusion to the "chicken vs egg" conundrum and also was one of the first results when I searched a stock image site for "mess".

Last week, I finally wrote about my stalking kink, after turning it over in my mind for months. It’s tricky to effectively communicate exactly what it is in practice, but I did my best to communicate the principles of it: namely, that I want to be obsessed over by someone who utterly, unreasonably adores me.

The problem with a fantasy like this one is that you can’t actually fulfil it.  Much like rape fantasies, you can kinda-sorta role play it in a way that juuust about scratches the itch, with negotiated limits, safewords and aftercare. (I once knew someone who negotiated a rape role play scene with somebody she’d never met, who burst into the hotel room she’d told him she was staying at and played his part brilliantly. She had a brilliant time, but I can’t reasonably say I endorse this as the safest way to satisfy a rape/consensual non-consent kink.) The trouble is that if you’ve requested it, negotiated it and put safety measures in place for it, no matter how good you and your partner(s) are at pretending, you will never capture the essence of the fantasy you have. You’ll have a really fucking hot scene, and that might well be enough for you, but in my experience, at least, you will never quite reach the place you want to go, because you can’t without it becoming unsafe and quite possibly unpleasant.

With my stalker fantasy, the paradox is thus:

  1. I want someone to stalk me because it will make me feel desired.
  2. If someone does stalk me in real life, the chances of me actually enjoying it, rather than being terrified and feeling violated, are slim as hell.
  3. If someone I know and trust stalks me in real life upon my request, it would feel hollow, since they aren’t driven by their obsession with or adoration of me.

So what can be done?

Role play doesn’t cut it. It would be super hot, of course, to have someone I definitely trust and fancy pretend-follow me home and for me to pretend I don’t know who they are or how they know all the things they know about me, but knowing in real life that they have all this information because I gave it to them sucks the scene dry of any real conviction that the “stalker” is truly, ridiculously obsessed with me.

I’ve even thought to myself, “Surely the amount of time and communication and effort it would take to set up my perfect stalking scene would be proof positive that the other party really, really likes me, right?” but have always concluded that it’s not the same kind of liking. I don’t want someone to like me… collaboratively. I don’t want them to like me in part because I like them back and I show them affection. I don’t want them to like me in any part because of how I behave towards them. I want this liking to be wholly unearned – I want to know that they like me enough to break into my home based only on my social media profiles, my browsing history, my blog and my selfies. I want that to be the starting point.

And then I want to be so kind and patient towards them that it only gets worse.

To some extent, it’s a power thing – but not like the one-way power exchanges I usually play with. I want a stalker who is so unreasonably attached to me that they might stab me and keep my body frozen in their garage if they lose control of themselves, which would indicate the power existing in their hands, but then I want them to be so unreasonably attached to me that I would only need to say the words and they’d kill for me, or worse – so then the power is in mine. This fantasy revolves around an odd back-and-forth power dynamic with high stakes and an incredibly precarious balance. It is, at its core, a fantasy about danger.

There are other ways I can feel enormously wanted (rape role plays, pouting and asking for compliments, that time that somebody sent me a bunch of money through my Ko-Fi after I retweeted something with the sentiment, “If you’ve jerked off to my pics you owe me a Christmas present” attached to it) and there are other ways I can experience danger (suspension bondage, needle play, choking…) that don’t involve this frustrating, paradoxical fantasy. And I do those things. A lot.

But I keep coming back to this.

I know exactly where it comes from, of course, but that’s next week’s topic. This week, I just wanted to air my frustrations at the paradoxical nature of fantasies that have an element of non-consent to them, because it’s a frustration that isn’t often talked about. I don’t mean to diminish the fun and importance of consensual non-consent role play scenes, of course, which are usually the recommendation for frustrated rape fantasists, as they are for my niche kink. It’s just that role play, by design, has limits, and we don’t actually want what we think we want – or, at least, we have no safe way to find out whether what we want is truly to have our consent disregarded, because people who disregard our actual, real-life consent won’t stop where your fantasy stops (and also deserve to be eaten by worms, but that’s by-the-by).

I’m not sure if any of what I’ve said makes sense because it’s paradoxical and recursive and being written in the midst of assessment season at uni, but I hope it resonates, and I hope y’all will join me next week in unpacking where this kink came from and whether or not that matters.

Smut Saturdays #11: Pegging and Pretending

Stock image of a brassy buckle on a black strap, very close up indeed and with a blurry background.

Content note: This story details consensual ageplay and imitation of nonconsensual sex & kink acts (namely, you know, pegging) between two very consenting adults. If that’s hard for you, please do give this one a miss and join me next week for something different!

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!

We like to play pretend.

This is already evident in the fact that I call him ‘Daddy’, growl like a puppy when the postman comes, and beg him to stop hurting me without ever actually using my safeword. We have constructed a handful of different pretends that we move through and between fluidly, especially when we’re playing.

We pretend I’m tiny and innocent and don’t know what a cock is.

We pretend I don’t want him to hurt me, or to fuck me, or to make me cum.

We pretend I’m a human-dog hybrid, desperately humping his thigh, unable to express how badly I want to get fucked.

Today, we are pretending that he’s in a bad mood and that I’m small. I want to placate him. He wants to relieve himself of tension.

“I want to cheer you up,” I start, locking my widened eyes onto his face. “I like it when you’re cheered up, Daddy.”

In my pretend-mind, my character’s mind, my little mind, he’s had a hard day at work and he hasn’t yet unwound. Maybe I could rub his back, or make him a nice cup of tea, or sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks whilst he plays Angry Birds. When he’s in a bad mood like this, he might hurt me, and then I might have to pretend not to like it. In my little mind, I have to pretend not to like it, because liking it makes me weird and because he might hurt me more and more if he finds out. If anybody sees the bruises, they won’t let us spend time together. And I’m slightly pretend-worried he might go too far and kill me, even though he always promises he wouldn’t break his “favourite toy”.

He’s scrolling absentmindedly through something on his phone and doesn’t look up to reply, “How do you plan on doing that?”

“I could give you a back rub,” I offer tremulously. “Or make you some tea.”

He still doesn’t look up. I’m beginning to feel stung. “I don’t think so, little one,” he says. “I don’t fancy tea, and a back rub won’t cut it.”

I know that when he’s in this mood, it takes more than a back rub to cheer him up, but I don’t ever want to be the one to offer the solution he wants. I can’t let him think I want it. “Well, would you like some kisses?”

“I suppose.”

I’m pretend-stung even deeper this time. My kisses are priceless; I’m a princess! How can he only suppose that he wants me to kiss him? Doesn’t he love me to absolute pieces? (Bloodied, tear-stained pieces at that…) Doesn’t he usually demand kisses from me?

I let my bottom lip jut out. “Only suppose?” I ask.

He rests his phone on his knee and fixes me with an intense glare. “You know I want more than kisses, little one.”

“…cuddles?” I posit, still playing dumb.

He raises an eyebrow. “You know what I want.”

He wants to fuck me. He wants to slap me and spit on me and cum in me. I know this. But I cannot let him think I want it.

“I don’t, Daddy.”

“Come upstairs.”

The phrase “come upstairs” is essentially synonymous with “I am going to fuck you,” but I always pretend I haven’t figured that out yet. I stand up and wait for him to lead the way out of the living room and up the staircase, following a few steps behind him. I think I can feel my heartbeat in my clit. I tell myself that it’s fear, not lust, as we reach the threshold to the bedroom.

Wordlessly, he reaches into the bag of “toys” he keeps by the bedroom door. Sometimes I pretend not to know what he means by “toys” and ask if there’s a Rubik’s Cube or a bouncy ball in there, but today I watch silently because he’s in a bad mood and there’s a meat tenderizer in there.

To my intense relief, he doesn’t pull out anything scary. Instead, there’s a fistful of black fabric and straps that looks a bit like weird underwear, and the curved purple thing he sometimes puts inside me.

“We’re going to play a different game today,” he explains, as he fiddles with the items he drew from the bag. “Do you know what pegging is?”

In real life I do, but right now I don’t. I shake my head, biting my tongue to prevent me from making some quip about laundry.

He has somehow fitted the purple toy into the weird underwear, and hands the whole ensemble to me. “Put this on,” he says, “but take your clothes off first. Make sure you adjust the straps so they fit comfortably. I’m going to go into the bedroom and get ready.”

A tingle of excitement zips through me. He closes the bedroom door and leaves me on the landing to strip down and step into the underwear-like thing with the purple appendage jutting out of it. It takes me a hot minute, on account of the probably dyspraxia and my little brain making my hands slow and uncertain, but I get it up around my hips, figure out how to tighten the straps so they bite into my flesh and keep the whole thing secure, and then I stand there for a minute wiggling my hips so the purple thing wobbles up and down. It makes me giggle.

“You can come in,” my Daddy calls through the door. I ease it open, one hand covering my nipples so I can pretend I don’t want him to touch them, and I see him lying in bed with no clothes on, his cock unfathomably hard and something nestled between his butt cheeks. “Does the harness feel okay?”

So that’s what it’s called, thinks my little brain, a harness. I nod, staring at whatever is between his cheeks. He notices, puts a finger on the base of it and wiggles it.

“You know how I put things inside you and you love it?” I stay silent, not wanting to admit I love it. He continues regardless, “Well, Daddy likes to have things put inside him, too.” He’s still wiggling the thing that is, I realise now, inside his butt. His cock wiggles too, and I’m unsure if it’s because of the wiggling motion itself or because his cock is happy. “Come here, come sit on the bed.”

I do so. I can’t take my eyes off the thing in his butt. He seems smug about that, and starts pulling on it. It’s got a round bit at the bottom, and as he pulls it out I see that it gets thinner, then wider again, but then thinner again. It looks a bit like a Christmas tree, but black. Once it’s all the way out, he places it on a nearby towel and puts one hand on his cock.

“You are going to put that purple toy inside Daddy,” he tells me. “And you’re gonna fuck me, just like I’ve fucked you so many times, until I cum. You owe me, after all.”

I let a frown pass over my face. Owe himthinks little brain. I don’t owe him, I never want him to do that! Even if it does make me all squeezy and tingly…

“Don’t look like that,” he says sternly. “Come and kneel between Daddy’s legs.”

I do as I’m told.

“Daddy,” I say slowly, “what if I’m not as good at fucking as you are?”

“You will be.”

“But -”

“The only but involved here is my butt, and you’re going to fuck it.” He reaches forwards and grabs me by the throat, cutting off some of my air intake and making me cough a little. “You said you wanted to cheer me up, bitch.”

I have to pretend I don’t like it when he calls me ‘bitch’.

I am losing sight of why I pretend, though.

I line the purple toy up with his asshole. I’m nervous about doing it wrong and nervous I’ll enjoy doing it right. I don’t want him to keep asking me to do this. I don’t want him to get me to do more stuff to his butt: it’s weird, and butts are supposed to be dirty, and I don’t want to be like those girls on TV who just can’t stop doing sex.

Why don’t I want to be like them, again?

I slide the toy into him and he groans so loud I’m worried I’ve hurt him. Sometimes it hurts when he fucks me, but I kind of like it… After a moment, though, it becomes evident that it was a happy groan. He’s let go of my throat but the reprieve doesn’t last long – as soon as the toy is seated firmly inside him he grabs the short hair on the back of my head and pulls my face close to his.

“Now you’re gonna fuck me, and you’re gonna make me cum, and then you’re going to lick it up like the slut you are,” he growls, and I can only whimper in response – his grip on my hair is painful. “Start moving back and forth like Daddy does.”

I obey. He makes noises that suggest that he likes it. He sets the pace by wrapping his legs around mine and pulling me into him, over and over, harder and harder.

My thighs are shaking with the effort of staying upright and my knees aren’t happy about the motion of my hips. I start telling my Daddy this, “My legs are hurting and -”

“Bitch, you’re going to fuck me until I cum or I’ll put you in the garage for a week,” he snarls, moving his hand to grip my throat again. “Is that what you want?”

I have to pretend that there’s not a bit of me that kind of does want that.

In spite of the pain shooting through my legs, I thrust and I thrust until his thighs start to shake. There’s sweat beading on his forehead. I know he’ll cum soon.

He still hasn’t let go of my throat.

After an eternity of it, after black spots have started to swim through my vision, after he tells me again that if I dare to stop he won’t feed me for a week and he’ll make me bleed and, and –

He cums. He shoots cum all over his own torso and over my belly, some of it dribbling onto the harness. He all but howls with the pleasure and the release of it, and squeezes my throat one last time before letting it go.

We pause. We make eye contact. I can’t pretend any more, and I break into giggles. I’m incredibly pleased with myself and I am wet through after the choking, never mind the hot, thick cum he’s painted me with.

“Was that okay?” he asks, in his real-life voice now.

I revert to real-life me too: “That was so fucking hot, Daddy. Can I lick you clean now?”