Skills I’ve Learnt By & From Bottoming

A chalkboard with a mindmap on it, with a lightbulb at its centre. The mindmap is titled "Bottoming Skills" and has six bubbles, which say "boundaries", "self-care", "balance", "processing pain", "communication" and "mindfulness" inside

Last month, I asked my Patreon people what they’d like to see a blog post about for the month of October, and they voted for “Skills I’ve learned or am learning, as a bottom and a human”. So, naturally, I… proceeded to go about three weeks without writing or posting anything. My brain has been on the fritz again and writing about bottoming has fallen to near the bottom of my to-do list (get it?), but at least I can spin it in my favour this time, because one of the most important skills I’ve learned as a bottom is understanding and asserting my boundaries.

Looking after my boundaries comes under the heading of “soft skills”, and it’s a soft skill I’ve had to battle to learn. That’s not a surprise; I’m assigned female and recovering from abuse on top of that, so I’ve spent a lot of time acquiescing on my boundaries for the sake of my safety. In kink, though, the best way to ensure your own safety and wellbeing (and that of the people around you!) is to recognise and assert your boundaries, so that you don’t say ‘yes’ to something you can’t withstand. If you, like me, don’t care much about your own safety or wellbeing, you might find it helpful to reframe it as, “Part of being a responsible bottom is communicating about my boundaries and limitations. It helps my top/dominant if I am forthcoming about what I can and cannot do.” This helps you grant yourself permission to assert your boundaries, and the more times you voice a boundary and have it respected (and even congratulated, with phrases such as, “Good pup for telling me”), the more you’ll train your brain to connect asserting a boundary with having a good time, which is hugely helpful in non-kink contexts, too.

That’s the thing about soft skills like these: I learn or build them whilst bottoming, but they improve my quality of life in vanilla contexts, too. Skills in a similar vein include communication and self-awareness, as well as mindfulness and staying present within my body – something I struggle with, since 1. I dissociate pretty frequently and 2. My brain is usually running at ridiculous speeds and is never fully focused on a single thing. When I’m bottoming, staying present and attentive to my body and brain is essential to my safety as well as my enjoyment of the scene, and this has the pleasant side effect of teaching me that being present inside myself can be a good thing.

Another skill that I practice whilst bottoming and that helps me in my day-to-day life is processing pain. I have hypermobile joints that cause me chronic pain, with acute flare-ups often occurring in cold weather, when I’m ill, when I’m stressed, when I’m not eating right, and/or seemingly at random. It’s hugely helpful to have pain processing strategies to hand for these – things like deep breathing, visualising pain as heat which is radiating from my body, and learning not to freak out because pain is not always equivalent to peril. I’m not learning to ignore pain – in kink, because pain is part of the fun; with my joints, because pain is informative – but I am learning to cope with it.

Bottoming is also teaching me to prioritise self-care. I’m a better bottom (more engaged, more attentive, able to push myself) if I’m well-fed, well-rested and managing my chronic pain appropriately. It’s sometimes difficult to grant myself permission to perform self-care, so, much like with the assertion of boundaries, it’s useful to reframe it as being useful to other people, as well as mixing in the incentive that if I do more self-care, I can do more BDSM.

I have also learned and/or developed “hard” skills from bottoming. Some of these things are as minor and context-specific as coiling my Daddy’s rope for them, but some are bigger – like rope stuff helping me to improve my balance and proprioception. Bottoming-related hard skills are ones I’d like to explore more thoroughly; things like bootblacking would aid my hand-eye coordination, help me to keep my own Doc Martens in good nick and, as a nice bonus, put me into a service-oriented headspace. There are so many ways that bottoming has the capacity to improve one’s quality of life beyond just the bedroom/dungeon/wherever you do kink, and I’m excited to keep exploring them.

On Top of the World: How Does Topspace Feel For Me?

Greyscale photo of Morgan, a white nonbinary human with piercings, holding a mini flogger and smirking at the camera to suggest they're in topspace

I’ve written before about all the difficulties I have with topping. It’s a headspace I find deeply nerve-wracking, which is part of why I don’t play with it all that often. But I do play with it – something keeps drawing me back towards topspace, despite my fear of it.

The thing is, I do have a sadistic streak. I love the faces that hot people make when they’re in pain. I love the way that bruises look on skin. I love the warm glow of pride at knowing that I did that, especially when a bottom is as pleased as I am with the results. More than that, though, I love the fact that someone likes me enough and trusts me enough to ask me to beat the shit out of them. The thing that really turns me on about sadism isn’t so much the amount of pain I inflict – it’s being permitted to inflict that pain in the first place. There’s something so beautiful about a bottom looking up at Topspace Morgan with wide, grateful, endorphin-flooded eyes, and it makes me giddy.

The same is true when it comes to other types of topping, including tying people up and bossing them around. I feel the same awe and childlike glee at my own power – physical or psychological – when I’m topping as one might feel when they’re in charge of the breaktime snacks in Year 6. And, just like with breaktime snacks, I also feel the full gravity of my responsibility to the bottom with whom I’m interacting – but that’s no bad thing. It adds to the sense of importance and effectiveness I feel, and makes the successful execution of whatever I’m doing even more satisfying. Plus, being in a position of responsibility automatically activates some primal, protective part of me, turning me into a nurturing (if slightly evil) top who only wants the very best for their bottom. When “the very best for [my] bottom” translates to “hitting them harder and spitting in their mouth”, it feels like the whole cosmos has aligned in my favour, because I can display my affection towards my partner by doing things that are going to get me soaking wet, whilst rendering them the same lust-drunk mess they turn me into just by whimpering and squirming.

Topspace is a much more coherent, “adult” headspace for me than any of the others I’ve included in this miniseries. I have to stay alert to every aspect of a scene – is my partner comfortable? Are their hands turning purple in their handcuffs? When did they last have a drink of water? How close are they to their limits? – which means that I can’t just let my brain melt into warm goo when I’m topping. Again, though, that has its advantages: namely, the vigilance that topspace forces me to maintain means that I enjoy every minute detail of a scene, rather than letting it all melt together from under a blindfold or through the blur of choking-induced oxygen deprivation. It makes me feel like a conductor, observing and managing every part of a gorgeous (and filthy) symphony. In topspace, when my anxiety lets me enjoy it, I feel so damn capable.

There’s also a hedonistic, super-indulgent element of topspace for me. There’s a human I fancy directly in front of me, and they want me to use them however I see fit. It’s like having an entire Terry’s chocolate orange to yourself, except sexier, slightly more challenging to navigate, and way less monotonous and sickening than eating an entire chocolate orange in one sitting would be. I feel a little bit like my arousal and satisfaction are the most important things in the world, or at least that they come in at a close second behind my partner’s enjoyment (and safety!). Topspace is a lot like some of my other headspaces in that regard, but the whole thing is flipped so that I’m in charge of whether and when I get fucked (or eaten out, or massaged…). It’s like the hedonism of pupspace put through a kaleidoscope, transformed and glittering and nearly unrecognisable, but still from a similar source, sharing a lot of the same colours and blurred shapes. (I recognise that this is extremely abstract, but it’s so hard to put words to these hugely emotional experiences!)

I love topspace in part because of how much it differs from other headspaces that I access more often. I also love it simply because it feels delicious, and I can wield it to make bottoms feel delicious, too. Writing this post has made me remember exactly how delightful topspace can be, and I’m glad I’ve put words to it, because these words will serve as encouragement next time I (or you, maybe!) really want to consensually beat someone up but feel frightened or inadequate or any-other-thing.


This post is the final-for-now installment in my Headspaces Miniseries! If you loved it, you could support me on Patreon, or follow me on Twitter to hear more of my thoughts about kink and sex and more!

Smut Saturdays #14: Through The Window (Part 2)

A window with beige curtains. It looks unassuming, but it's the focal point of this stalking smut, as you'll know if you read part 1.

This is part two of a story I started a few weeks ago, a hot piece of stalking smut that I’m quite proud of; part one is available here. It mentions stalking (naturally) and blood, but most of it is just filth. Enjoy!


I can’t parse how much of it is because he’s genuinely sort of cute, obviously thoughtful, whip-smart and witty via text… and how much of it is the turn-on of being wanted this badly. His eyes never leave my face. And he still has that doe-eyed, terrified look about him, a palable vulnerability that makes me want to hug him tightly and stroke his hair.

I don’t dare, though, but I do try to soothe some of his anxiety verbally: “Ant?” My voice is as soft as I can make it. “It’s okay about the blood. You don’t need to be worried about that. I thought it was… sweet, if kinda out there.”

His shoulders visibly fall several relaxed inches and he smiles. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve never had anyone gift me their own blood before. And the little vial you put it in, with the cork, that was a really cute touch.”

He finally looks away from me, down to his hands, and even my autistic ass can sense that he’s embarrassed. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I don’t need any more of it, though,” I say hurriedly. “One vial is enough. I want the rest of your blood inside you.”

His gaze jerks up to my face again and he nods solemnly. “Anything you say, Morgan.”

It makes me feel all kinds of weird when he says my name.

“Can I get you a drink of anything? I don’t have milk in, but I’ve got some instant coffee, and orange squash…”

Ant shakes his head, his fringe tickling his eyes. His hair is long-ish and wavy, and I don’t mean to psychoanalyse him, but he styles it like he’s trying to hide behind it. Even if we had properly met at uni, I don’t imagine I’d have remembered him. He shrinks into himself, and seems entirely ordinary.

Except I have a vial of his blood in my coat pocket, which would suggest otherwise.

“You sure?” I press. “I think I’ve got some biscuits, too.”

“I’m good.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward so much as suffocating. I don’t know if he knows that my cunt is tingling with want. I don’t know whether I want him to know, either.

The confusion and hesitation and shyness I feel when I fancy somebody I probably shouldn’t is delicious, though I’ll never admit that at the time. I’m never a particularly composed person, but there are no metaphors that are adequate to describe the squishy mess I become when I’m crushing on somebody I could have, but know I should steer clear from. I have enough experience with this feeling to know that I’m feeling it now, almost nauseous but in a bizarrely pleasant sort of way, so full of lust and fondness and inner conflict that I feel like I could crawl right out of my own skin.

I also have enough experience with this feeling to know that I have never once managed to resist it whilst alone with the person it’s about.

“Ant,” I begin slowly, “I feel like you should know that I do actually, y’know, fancy you.”

His face barely changes. “I know. Your body language gives that away.”

As a big ol’ autistic who can barely read the most obvious body language cues, let alone control the ones I give myself, I am a little taken aback. I continue talking regardless: “I’m just not sure how, you know, sensible it would be to do stuff with you. Because I’ve only met you twice, and you’re obviously very, very into me, and -”

“It wouldn’t be unethical to fuck me just because I’m a bit obsessed with you,” he interjects. How did he know that was my main concern? “I’m still capable of consenting. I can think clearly. I don’t need to say ‘yes’ to things that fall outside of my comfort zone, because you’re not monogamous – you can get those things elsewhere.”

I know people who are absolutely out of their minds with lust can still consent and set boundaries. I have been there. “What is out of your comfort zone?” I try to sound like I’m just making conversation, but I know it doesn’t work.

“I don’t have a sadistic bone in my body, so I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I have no interest in sounding, and scat and vomit are hard ‘no’s. Apart from that, I’m easy.”

He gives me a sly half-grin, and all of a sudden I feel easy too.

Like an idiot, I keep talking. “Do you have any feelings about, like, bedroom power exchange?”

He leans forward, and for the first time I see something other than timidness and awe in his eyes as he looks at me. I can only compare it to bloodthirst. “Morgan, I want you to own me. Inside the bedroom and outside of it, I want you to tell me what to do, where to be, whether I’m allowed to talk. I want to be your most treasured possession. I want to make myself irreplaceable to you.”

Oh. Fuck. My brain is moving at half-speed. My heartbeat is picking up the slack, though, and I can still feel it in my cunt. “I see.” I’m all but chewing on my tongue, trying not to say any of what’s on my mind. “I mean… we should probably spend some more time getting to know each oth-”

“I know everything about you.” He inches his chair closer and I have to move my knees to accommodate his. “And I’ll tell you everything about me. I’ve already waited so long for you, Morgan.”

I want to tell him he’s scaring me, but I also don’t want him to stop.

“Give me an hour,” he continues. “Just an hour to show you how well I know you and how much fun I could be to own. Let me show you, and then you can decide whether you want me.”

Out of a sense of obligation, I put up one final bit of resistance: “What if I decide I don’t want you?”

“Then I’ll leave, but I’ll keep trying. I’ll do anything to deserve you.” He reaches out, slowly, to give me a chance to stop him – but I don’t, and he takes hold of one of my hands in both of his. “You can tell me to leave now, if you want to, but I want to prove myself to you. And I want to make you feel good. I know you’ve had a long day…” He studies my face again, then looks back down to our hands as he says the last word. “Sir.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I lean forwards too, shrinking the gap between our faces. I lock eyes with him. “You shouldn’t have said that,” I whisper, letting my own lips curve into a devious smile.

I press my lips against his, hard, and tilt my head. He kisses me back, hungrily, and squeezes my hand in his.

When I pull back, he all but growls: “And you shouldn’t have done that.”

His hand is on the back of my neck, and then his lips are on mine again, and my mind is blissfully blank. I have no thoughts, no worries, and I’m just falling into this irresistible, forceful kiss, barely able to get close enough to Ant.

I pull back again, and his eyes are like a kicked puppy’s. “Don’t pout,” I say sternly. I stand up, tuck my chair in, and point to the bed. “Shoes off first.”

He kicks off his shoes and gets onto the bed within seconds, leaving me to tease the double bow of my own bootlaces apart with my disabled fingers. Usually I’m a smidge embarrassed by how much I struggle to get my boots off, but watching Ant pine for me in my peripheral vision whilst I slowly, methodically loosen my laces and wiggle my right foot free from my boot is delicious. I make a point to carefully place my right boot in its place at the bottom of my wardrobe and line it up as neatly as possible before starting on my left one.

Once my feet are bare too, I sit on the edge of my bed, about two hand spans away from Ant. He’s still just staring at me, obviously rendered as stupid by lust as I am. I spend a few moments trying to come up with some genius domly shit to do to him, or to order him to do to me – but then I remember that the point of being in charge of a scene is that you get what you want (within the negotiated boundaries, of course) so I fuck that off and just start kissing him again. They’re the kind of desperate, dizzying kisses that make it impossible to stay static, so we end up with our legs tangled together, my arm pulling his waist into me with all the strength I can muster, his hand on the back of my neck again like he’s scared I’ll run off otherwise. Our tongues meet, but his is shyer than mine. Every few moments (time is now a sticky and insignificant mess) I bite down on his lower lip and he makes a whimpering noise that causes me to grind against his upper thigh, just a little.

Eventually, greed gets the better of me and I pull away to yank my T-shirt over my head. I’m in a deodorant-stained sports bra, but the way Ant stares, you’d think I was in the very best lingerie. I’m too incoherent to give instructions, so I just point vaguely at Ant’s own T-shirt; he gets the idea, thankfully, and pulls it off, emerging with tousled hair. He’s lanky, with very little muscle, but what really catches my attention is his brown-ish, erect nipples.

I lock my mouth around one and he melts.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he’s obsessed with me or whether he’s just very responsive, but his arms go slack. He leans against the wall and moans as I flick my tongue back and forth across his right nipple. I do what seems like the only sensible thing, and lift my hand to caress and pinch the left one. Ant whines, so I pause, but he clamps his hand over the one of mine that’s on his chest and gasps, “Please don’t stop, Sir, fuck…”

It only takes me about a minute of playing with his nipples to form the educated guess that it might well make him come in his pants. I weigh up the pros and cons of this – I love the sight of cum-soaked underwear, and it would be so goddamn hot, and the fucking noises he’d make; but I also want to interact with his cock, and I’d have to wait for it to recover, and I don’t know the approximate length of Ant’s refractory period – whilst I close my teeth gently around the puckered flesh of his right nipple.

I decide against letting him come this early and pull away. (The look he gives me would be guilt-inducing if I weren’t fully in my dominant stride.) “Ant, take my trousers off for me.”

He nods and reaches for my waistband – I’m only in leggings, so he’s able to tug them down and past my ankles with ease. He still has that look in his eye like he’s starving, and it occurs to me that his restraint could run out soon and he could just…

But then my leggings are off and I stroke his hair, and his face softens a little. I didn’t really understand what it was for someone to be “putty in my hands” until this moment, I think dimly, as I kiss him again. He reciprocates, his naked torso pressed against my nearly-naked one, and his hand very shyly slips up to lock around my left boob. He massages it with the desperate clumsiness of a teenager. I do him the favour of unclasping my bra and discarding it, and he strokes and twiddles my nipple so gently, by contrast to the groping, that I almost giggle into the kiss we’re sharing.

Again, it’s me that pulls back. I get the impression that he’d make out with me for literal days if I didn’t put the brakes on. “I believe you had something to prove,” I say, before letting my eyes slide suggestively down to my underwear.

“Yes, Sir.” He doesn’t look nervous, like I was expecting him too. Instead he’s got that hungry look about him again, and he fluidly moves down my mattress and slides my pants down my legs. “Do you have any preference about, um…”

I give him what I hope is a condescending smirk and say, “Surprise me.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise, actually, when he plants his face into my vulva. I literally can’t imagine presenting him with my naked cunt and him wanting to do anything other than get his tongue on it, and it seems I’m right – he’s dragging his tongue slowly all the way up the slit, keeping south of my clit presumably because he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself when I might not be adequately warmed up.

Except I am warmed up; kissing Ant and toying with him has made me so fucking wet that I’m fully expecting to find a wet patch when I get up. I know without looking or touching that my labia are puffed up, swollen with want, and my clit is achingly hard. So, pushing the edges of my dominant persona a little, I say, “Do you want a map to my clit, or shall I just read you the directions?”

“I didn’t want to be too rushed when -”

“I know better than you.” I’m watching his face for any sign he’s genuinely hurt, but he just seems elated to be between my legs. “Further north.”

He nods. “Yes, Sir.” Then he places his lips around my clit and starts running his tongue up and down it. It’s a type of stimulation so direct that I can only handle it sometimes, and have to be incredibly aroused for it – but in this moment, it’s perfect. I tilt my head back a little and take a deep breath. “Would you like anything inside of you, Sir?”

“Two fingers,” I say breathlessly. He does as he’s told, and sinks them into me all the way to the last knuckle, curling them up a little in search of my A-spot. His fingers are broad, and they stretch me open without hurting me. And I have to assume he’s read my blog, because he starts to fuck me with them so firmly and consistently that, combined with his tongue on my clit, my legs start to shake. I’m minutes away from coming, if that.

He must somehow know that too, because he looks up from between my legs. “I want to make you come,” he growls. “I want to feel your cunt twitch around my fingers, I want to hear the sounds you make, I want to make you feel so good that you can’t think straight -”

Fuck,” I hiss involuntarily, grabbing a handful of bedsheet. “Harder.”

He obeys, relentlessly massaging my A-spot with his fingertips, and I can feel an orgasm mounting in my abdomen and in my feet (a weird quirk of mine, but not terribly rare as far as I can tell). I can’t stop myself from grinding my hips against his hand, and he continues talking (“I want you to wail, I want your neighbours to know how much I like you and how well I know you, I want you to come so hard that you feel aftershocks for half an hour”) until I grab a fistful of his hair and make a series of unintelligible noises that I hope will communicate to him that I’m going to come.

“Fuck,” he whispers against my mons pubis, as I convulse and twist the handful of his hair that seems to be the only thing tethering me to reality as an orgasm rips through me. “Fuck, Morgan, you’re perfect. Fuck.”

The soles of my feet burn as every bit of tension leaves my body through my twitching cunt. Ant is staring at my face in amazement. I let go of his hair and take deep breath after deep breath, struggling to regain my composure. My cunt, my upper thighs and probably my bed are soaked with wetness and all I can feel is a sort of pleasant ringing between my legs.

Eventually, Ant withdraws his hand, and without my even having to suggest it, he starts licking his fingers clean. It’s one of the hottest things I think a person can do with a cum-drenched hand, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he slips both fingers all the way into his mouth.

Fuck.

I manage to sit up. I still can’t think straight. I think vaguely of Ant’s cock and say, with minimal slurring, “Do you want to come?”

“If I try to fuck you, I’ll come within moments and be embarrassed about it.” I don’t have the brain power to notify him that I have some intense kink feelings about premature ejaculation in exactly this context. “But if you want to watch me make myself come…”

I nod enthusiastically, and he undoes his jeans. His cock is already rock-solid and straining against the fabric of his underwear, a dark patch indicating that he’s been leaking pre-ejaculate for some time. Oh, to have that in my mouth… But, given the circumstances, I want to let him set the pace for this section of the encounter.

He pulls his cock out of his pants. It’s fully erect, of course, and glistening at its head. I’m too lustdrunk to get any sort of realistic idea of how big it is; it just looks perfect.

It continues to look perfect as he strokes it in short, fluid movements, the motion of his foreskin bordering on hypnotic. I can’t look away from it, even though I wish I could see his face. He leans back, and within moments his hand is moving faster, his grip seems tighter, and then –

“Oh, god.” A stream of cum paints his stomach, followed by two heavy drips. “Oh, Jesus, Morgan…”

I let out a sigh. “Well, what are we gonna do with all this?” He looks at me blankly, obviously incapable of complex thought so soon after coming. “Someone’s gonna have to clean it up…”

As I start licking it up, he asks (with his voice thick and slow), “Did I do good, Sir?”

“Hmm, you did pretty good, but I think you could do more to impress me…”

I was going to withhold my approval until my cunt was too bruised for me to sit on hard chairs. And I knew Ant was going to love every moment of it.


Every fourth Saturday (mental health and life permitting, of course), I’ll be posting filth like this stalking smut for your wanking enjoyment! Got a suggestion for some smut? Hit me up on Twitter or use my Contact form!