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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Smut Saturdays #6 – Slick

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!


I have this fantasy. It’s vague, and quite possibly not as hot to other people as it is to me.

But it is unbearably hot to me, and follows on nicely from my post about precum, so I’ll try to articulate it for your reading pleasure.

I’m in bed, naked, with a sub. Not just any sub: a sub who is madly, utterly devoted to me. Obsessively so. I’ll probably unpack my stalker kink in another blog post, but I imagine this sub to be so infatuated with me that he steals my clothes to inhale the scent of my body while he touches himself, and hacks my laptop just so he can find out what’s on my birthday wishlist. And this is before we’ve so much as kissed one another. In this fantasy, the sub is lying on his side, facing me, and I’m on my back, gazing at the ceiling. We’re both naked, and under one thin blanket.

He isn’t touching me – he doesn’t dare. But he stares at me, and sometimes his hands twitch like he wants to reach out and stroke my skin. I’m just looking at the ceiling, sometimes stealing a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, absorbing his unwavering adoration. But my attention span proves much shorter than his, so I end up shifting onto my side, facing him, our bodies not touching but only inches away from it.

I can see him internally freaking out about the fact that now I’m facing him. He’s trying to look calm but his eyes are wider and he’s swallowing every few seconds, and I notice his eyes drifting down to my cleavage more than once.

“You can look,” I tell him, and I fold the blanket back so it’s doubled up over him and I’m completely without cover. He’s seen photos of me naked (they’re all over Twitter), but this is the first time he’s laid eyes on my naked body in real life, right in front of him.

He swallows again, so forcefully I can hear it. “You…” he whispers hoarsely, and I wait patiently for him to find the words, barely suppressing a grin. “You’re fucking radiant.”

“Language!” I scold him playfully, and I reach over and flick him, hard, with my middle finger, right under his collarbone. A noise escapes him and I can’t tell whether it’s a moan or not. I run my fingernail along his collarbone and towards his throat, watching his face the whole time. In spite of my nudity, his eyes are fixed on my face. I think briefly about putting my hand around his throat, but we haven’t talked about boundaries or limits and I’m too fond of him to make him genuinely uncomfortable (though I have no doubt he’d endure anything I chose to put him through).

He nibbles at his lip when my fingernail reaches his throat. It’s hot, but I won’t tell him that. “I-I’m sorry,” he whispers. I let my fingernail run down his chest, right between his nipples. “W-what…?”

“What am I doing?” I supply, letting myself smirk now. “It’s called foreplay. I thought the nakedness made it obvious.”

“I thought… you said…”

Ah, yes. Within this fantasy, I have at some point said that I can’t possibly fuck this guy, and he’s taken it very politely and never mentioned it again. The reason I give for not fucking him is incidental; the real reason is simply that keeping him waiting is too delicious to waste.

“Well, we’re not fucking, are we?” I point out, inching a little closer to him, but maintaining the gap between our bodies still. “I’m just poking at you a bit, really. Seeing what noises you’ll make…” And to illustrate my point, I pinch one of his nipples gently between my thumb and forefinger, and hold it until he whimpers.

“That’s… that’s okay, then.”

I pull closer still, and let one of my feet brush one of his. “I’m glad,” I say softly, and I mean it. Gazing into his big, hungry eyes, I feel myself melt a little inside. He’s so precious, and so desperate, and he only wants to do right by me. “There’s a lot of things that aren’t fucking, you know.”

As an example, I press my lips very softly against his.

He twitches, and I just know it’s taking all his might not to press his lips hard against mine, grab at me, run his tongue down my neck… I know exactly what he wants to do to me, but he lays very still and lets me place a tiny, gentle kiss on his lips.

I pull back a little to look at him. He’s somewhere between dazed and pained. I almost, almost want to put him out of his misery, and tell him that we can, in fact, fuck, and that I very dearly want us to. Almost.

Instead, I finally close the gap between us, laying an arm over his waist and pressing my chest against his, and I say, in a low voice, “I really rather like you.”

He stays still, letting me take the lead on every step. “I like you too.” We both know what an understatement it is.

We also both know that his rock-solid cock is poking me in the thigh.

A little bit of creative wriggling on my part places it between my thighs, right at the top, with the head of it nestled against my vulva. I’m soaking wet, and I know he notices. He looks like he’s about to say something.

“It’s not fucking,” I remind him quietly, “so it’s fine.”

I kiss him again before he can speak, and his cock twitches against my cunt. I smirk against his mouth and suck on his lower lip, then bite down on it. He makes the most delightful high-pitched noise, and his cock twitches again. Then, so do his hips.

I keep kissing him, and I slide my hand down to squeeze his arse. I use his arse cheek as a handle to pull him closer, then further away. Closer, then further away. As I brush my tongue against his, I’m encouraging him to rub his cock on the hot, slick outside of my cunt, his precum lubricating my inner thighs.

His timidity is wearing off now; he caresses my face with one hand and holds one of my boobs in the other. He moans against my mouth as I bite his lip again, and I don’t have to guide his arse any more – his hips are grinding, and he’s spreading his precum and my wetness all over my inner thighs, so close to and yet so far from being inside me.

I reach up and grab a fistful of hair, twisting it a little while continuing to kiss him. He whimpers, and the movement of his hips gets more and more jagged. I know what’s about to happen, but I pretend I don’t.

His fingernails dig a little into my boob, and he makes some noises that sound like he might want to talk, but I keep kissing him, knowing he’d call “Red” if it was urgent. I pull as hard on his hair as I dare to – I wouldn’t want to rip any of it out – and my cunt aches with desire as he rubs his throbbing cock against it.

He goes rigid, and quiet, and I press my thighs a little closer together as he shoots hot, thick cum all over my pussy, his tongue still resting in my mouth. I pull my head back a little and see that he’s pink, with his forehead dotted with sweat and a look of pure bliss on his face.

“It’s still not fucking,” I say quietly, “but you have made an awful mess. I think you could lick it up…”

Mess Me Up

Image is of shining droplets of water in sharp focus, with a blueish blurred background.

In the early spring of 2017, a friend from my hometown visited me in my unitown. I was dealing with Some Shit™ in a big way, so I had about five mixed drinks of steadily increasing strength while we predrank, then we got on a bus to a bar.

I was and am skinny and short, taking a hearty dose of antidepressant medication, and perpetually underfed and dehydrated. That night, I had eleven shots, and a couple more mixed drinks on top.

This is relevant because Drunk Morgan is a force to be reckoned with. They are, in essence, Sober Morgan minus the anxiety: they want all the same things with the exact same intensity, but they’re a lot less afraid of pursuing those things. In spring of 2017, I was enduring the slow and painful demise of a relationship with someone who was genuinely lovely, but who was always going to be incompatible with me – monogamous, uninclined towards lifestyle kink, probably frightened by the intensity of my feelings and maybe his own. So, in spring of 2017, every iteration of Morgan wanted to feel desirable.

Drunk Morgan didn’t want to dilly-dally about it.

I messaged a guy I’d fancied for literal years and laid all my cards on the table. Somewhere along the line my hometown friend managed to scoop me into a taxi and we both made it back to mine in one piece, still shy of 1am. When I woke up, Hungover Morgan found that Drunk Morgan had made plans to meet up with this guy I fancied that afternoon.

I was on the fence about shagging him for a number of reasons (lingering hope for the miraculous success of this doomed monogamous thing I was in, a somewhat alarming age gap, couldn’t go back to his place so we’d have to fuck quietly in my uni accommodation…) but reader, in the end, I did. I shagged him a lot. Lots of little things added up to lead me to this decision, but two things stick out in my memory:

  1. He called me “little miss” more than once. (When I told my girlfriend about this in a compersion-fuelled debriefing session, she made an odd sort of noise and said, “So you took him home immediately, right?”)
  2. He told me, after a bit of snogging and groping in the back row at the cinema, that when he nipped to the toilet before we went in search of food, a “huge glob” of precum dripped off him as soon as he took his dick out to pee.

The precum thing made me swoon. I actually said to him, somewhat petulantly, “You can’t say that. That’s illegal.” It was so. Hot.

That fling lasted only months before he broke up with me over WhatsApp in a distinctly unkind manner. I was heartbroken, naturally, and spent a number of days crying and insisting I would never date or fuck a guy again before simmering down a little and starting to unpick just why I was so devastated. The abrupt end of a lifestyle D/s dynamic was certainly a kick in the teeth, as was the seemingly inexplicable U-turn from “I’ll always be here to support you” to “You need too much support with your mental illness stuff and I don’t have the spoons.” I knew I could only sit with those feelings of abandonment and rejection until they subsided on their own, but something else kept nagging at me.

Yes, reader, it was the precum thing.

My thought process started with I miss the sex far too much, considering he was above-average at best and then broke my little heart. Then I asked myself why I missed the sex so much – what did I miss about it? Between the decidedly-taboo age gap, the frequency of the fucking and the precum thing, I realised that my focus was on how desired I had felt, not on the actual mechanics of the sex we were having. I didn’t miss the sex – I missed the evidence that someone wanted to have sex with me.

Once I arrived at that conclusion, I felt a whole lot less like an obsessive creep whenever his drips of precum crossed my mind, even if they did so while I was attempting to wank. I managed to incorporate hearty doses of precum into my sexual fantasies without incorporating my ex, aided by a slathering of lube on my vulva and the toy(s) I was using.

When I started seeing a penis-owner on the regz again (this time in a much more stable, well-negotiated D/s dynamic), I actually Googled something along the lines of “make more precum”, to see if there was a way I could encourage the production of the slick, clear fluid that produced such joy in me. One of the very first results was an article titled, “How To Deal With Your Boyfriend’s Excessive Precum”. (Bonus points for the cissexist assumption that a penis has to be attached to a male human, of course.) I literally felt my eyebrows rise in horror.

Deal with?

I confess, reader, I didn’t click on the link to find out whether the article simply said, “Eat it up, bitch!”, so it’s possible that the title was clickbait and the article was secretly in celebration of one of nature’s tastiest lubricants. Either way, the idea of “excessive” precum left me reeling. It was the first instance of shame-based “advice” that had surprised me in a while – maybe because I hadn’t come across many articles about ways that body parts commonly read as male or masculine are “wrong”, “gross” or otherwise undesirable, or maybe just because I can’t even comprehend someone disliking precum.

I like precum so much that I asked an ex to take me back because of it. I like precum so much that I Googled ways to create more of it. I like precum so much that I’ve written this ~1100 word blog post about how a cock dripping with its need for my attention turns me on like little else.

I like precum so much that I’ve used the word fourteen times so far within this piece (I think), so that if anybody else Googles a question about “excessive” precum, they will hopefully see that plenty of people are not only willing but excited to lap that shit up like it’s an Oreo-flavoured shot they’ve spilled all over the back of their hand.

I also like shots, and I might write about all the trouble they (and, by extension, Drunk Morgan) have gotten me into over the years.

One day.