Smut Saturdays #16: Possession

Two trainers are placed on a rain-covered pavement, and appear to be empty, but the shadow that is cast by them appears to feature a whole human silhouette, standing in the trainers.

This piece of smut contains themes of possession and controlled by a supernatural entity. I know that can be a paranoia/psychosis trigger for some people, so I want to stress that this is purely fictional, but that you can definitely skip it if that’ll be hard for you to read.


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!


It slipped into me in the library.

Not some spooky library, nothing with books on the occult or anything thematically relevant. Just my university library, on the ground floor where the cafe is, whilst I was working on some coursework. I don’t know where It came from, but I felt a shift in my torso, and I heard Its voice:

“Jesus Christ, you live in this thing?”

At first I thought I had overheard a snippet of conversation, or maybe that I was hallucinating. (I sometimes do, after all, especially when I’ve had too much caffeine; I eyed the two empty Monster cans on the table with suspicion as It continued to talk.)

“Everything hurts! Like, everything! The hips, the knees, the knuckles, even one of your toes hurts!”

I was now leaning away from the possibility that it was a conversation on another table I was hearing. This left only the theory that I was hallucinating, so I ran through my mental checklist: I’d taken my anti-psychotics, I’d had a decent night’s sleep, I was only a little stressed and I hadn’t had any other sensory disturbances in the past few days.

Odd.

“You’re not hallucinating,” It insisted, Its voice as clear as if It were in the seat next to me. “I’m inside your body. I’m… I suppose you’d call me a demon. I’m a consciousness without a body, so I thought I’d try yours out. But I can’t believe how much your joints hurt! Are you seriously only 21?”

Cottoning on to the notion that this thing could hear my thoughts, I replied internally: Yep, I have a disorder. This is a pretty moderate pain day, too – it gets a lot worse. You might want to find another host.

Suffice to say, It did not do that.


It proved Its nature as a real thing, rather than a hallucination, as thoroughly as it could. It puppeteered my body, but I knew that could be a delusion. It had me stand in front of the mirror whilst It manifested as visibly as It could, a shimmering sort of stain in the air, but I knew that could be a hallucination too. That’s the problem with having occasional symptoms of psychosis: you can never really enjoy the truly weird things that life throws at you.

Still, It resided in my body for a few weeks, telling me in snippets about why It had wanted a physical form. It was, essentially, a manifestation of some kind of metaphysical force – chaos or something, as far as we could figure out. It didn’t really know, and I joked that I knew the feeling, being nonbinary and lacking the vocabulary for my experiences of gender. It responded, “I had noticed that. You have a lot of confusion in here.”

Since It shared my body, It also shared all my body’s sensations. I realised this when It said, firmly, mid-paragraph in the library, “We have to pee.”

It can wait, I thought, my fingers not faltering on the keyboard.

“It can, but it shouldn’t.” It froze my fingers, so they hovered, splayed, over the keys. “We’re going to the bathroom.”

I didn’t like the feeling of paralysis when It influenced my body’s movements, so I got to my feet of my own accord and, as petulantly as I could manage, made my way to the bathroom.


“We could get you out of me,” I suggested (out loud, because I was alone in my flat, and it made the conversation feel a little more real.) “Find you a new host whose body doesn’t suck, or else figure out somewhere to put you where you don’t have to possess people at all.”

“I don’t want that,” came Its deep, stubborn voice. “This body is fine.”

“You could do better than fine.” I tried to shut my thoughts up before It heard them: that I actually didn’t mind Its presence in me that much, that Its constant nagging to give in to every impulse I had was kind of funny and sometimes useful, that it was nice to only be alone when It rested. “You could possess some leader of something and actually cause chaos, rather than compelling me to rearrange those mugs with letters on them in Tesco’s to spell swearwords.”

It replied, “You wouldn’t like that. You’d feel guilty if anybody came to harm because I was breakdancing in Theresa May’s body.” What a fantastic mental image. “Besides, I don’t want to get out of you.”

“Why not?”

It made a sort of non-committal grumbling sound. “Not important.” I could sense that It wanted to change the subject, but I was intrigued now. “Morgan, shush. You should do some knitting.”

“I want to know why you don’t want to leave my body! It hurts all the time, you can’t override my dyspraxia and you have to sit through Linguistics lectures with me. What are you gaining here?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

I rolled my eyes at It. “You’ve been with me in the bathroom, while I’ve made the most dumb-ass Google searches and during one of my snotty, hysterical meltdowns. If I have to be embarrassed, so do you.”

It was thinking. “I don’t want to say it.”

I thought back to the only time It had locked me out of my body completely – during the aforementioned meltdown, when It realised that the only thing that could help was my meds, and It couldn’t convince me to take them. I had suddenly lost consciousness, falling into a black and marshmallowy abyss until It had pushed a sedative down my throat, at which point It gently brought me back and told me what It had done. (I probably should have been annoyed at It, but I was impressed, both by Its initiative and Its ability to lock me out.)

“You could shut me out of the body and write it down.”


When I came to, there was a note in my own handwriting on a page of my journal, which lay in front of me on my duvet.

Morgan,

This is hard for me to admit, but I’ve grown fond of you. Exceptionally fond. It’s lonely, being disembodied, and living alongside you is a blessing. I love hearing your thoughts, feeling all that empathy and compassion, being part of your life. It’s worth every moment of joint pain and every time you walk into the bed frame. And I like the feeling that I’m helping you by getting your meds into you, walking you to the bathroom, insisting that we eat. If I were to leave, I’d miss you terribly. And that wouldn’t be very chaotic of me. It would just be sad.

Oh.

I read it in silence, knowing that It could feel what I felt and hear what I thought.

What kind of fondness are we – I began, but It interrupted.

“When you’re asleep, sometimes I take over the body just to enjoy it. I like looking at it. I think it’s the kind of fondness you think it is.”

Okay, so the demon that lives inside my body now fancies me. That’s neat.

It responded, even though the thought wasn’t directed at It. “Yes, I fancy you, okay? Can we move on now?”

But It also heard my next thought, which was, Hey, I’d fuck a demon. Not sure how, but I would.

“I could…” Oh, now It was really embarrassed – I could feel it. “I could fuck you from in here. In your body. I could like, control your hands and stuff.”

I struggle with fucking myself. It knew this, of course, and had previously sympathised with me about it. The idea of allowing It to take the wheel, attuned to all my preferences and desires but separate enough from me to negate the feeling of weirdness I have whilst wanking was unbearably tempting. And, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want a chaos demon whose whole raison d’être was encouraging people to succumb to base impulses to fuck them silly?

It was listening to my internal debate, and chimed in, “Plus, this could be a good exercise in overcoming that fear of yours. Like therapy.”

“Oh, yeah, we have to fuck for therapeutic reasons,” I responded, rolling my eyes at It.

It pulled me gently further upright, so I wasn’t slouching, and cast my eyes around the room. “You’ve got that mirror on the wardrobe,” It observed. “We could do it in front of there.”


I assembled a small nest of blankets, cushions and sex toys on the hard flooring in front of my wardrobe, anticipation building in my torso and in my cunt. I could feel Its nervous excitement too, although It kept pretty quiet as I dug the lube out of my bedside drawer and placed it alongside the two dildos I’d picked out, accompanied as always by my trusty Doxy wand. I had lost sight of quite how odd the whole procedure was, distracted by the unending feedback loop of Its desire and my own. Every time I noticed how excited It was, I felt a little more wanted, and a little more turned on, and every time It noticed my body getting more aroused, It flashed hot with want, stirring inside me.

I was barely even self-conscious as I stripped, clumsily but with haste, in front of the mirror. I was ready to sit down and get to work when It growled, “Wait.”

It wasn’t just a request – it came out like a command. I froze in place, naked and wide-eyed, as It took control of my left hand. Slowly, as though It wanted to give me a chance to take control back if I wanted to, It slid my left hand up my side, soliciting goosebumps, and then held my left boob gently, weighing it in my hand.

“So fucking soft…” It murmured to me, Its control creeping into my right hand as well.

I watched, transfixed, as It trailed my own fingernails along my abdomen, just shy of my mons pubis. It would know just as well as I did how wet I was getting, but It wasn’t half as shy as me. I could only stare, and let my cunt do its near-involuntary, desperate clenching, as It took Its sweet time caressing my sides, my tits and my stomach. In spite of the heat in my room making nudity a welcome change, I was all goosebumps, complemented by two erect nipples – nipples It was carefully avoiding, obviously teasing me for as long as It could.

“I know how badly you want it,” It said. “I can feel that ache in your cunt and the wetness between your thighs. I can feel your heartbeat changing. I can hear your innermost thoughts, and I know how badly you want me to play with you.”

I nodded (pointlessly – of course It knew), but I couldn’t resist a spot of cheek. “I can feel how badly you want it, too.”

It actually growled through my vocal chords, rather than inside my mind. “You have no idea how badly I want this,” It told me, Its voice back inside me again. “God, the amount of restraint it’s taken me not to just -”

But It stopped short, because it heard me thinking, Oh, so you can do restraint. Have I taught you that?

That’s the problem with being possessed by a very attentive demon – you can’t even be a sarcastic little prick in your own head.

I could feel It feeling around in my head, trying to get a read on something, and then, before I knew it, my own fingernails were being dragged across the skin just under my tits, hard enough to leave four long, parallel welts in the flesh.

Ah, of course – It was trying to determine whether I’d be okay with It using my hands to punish me for my cheek. And It knew I would be.

It also knew that this sudden burst of pain had made my clit tingle, and that if It wasn’t in charge of my hands, I’d probably already be starting to masturbate. But, since It was, I could only stand there, struggling not to pout, as It continued stroking up and down my stomach with my own fingertips.

I realised, with all the hazy slowness of someone who is about to slip into subspace, that I had full control of my legs. Maybe if I sat in my little blanket nest and spread my legs in front of the mirror, It wouldn’t be able to resist…

I landed heavily and awkwardly on my arse, knees akimbo, and directed my eyes towards my exposed cunt. A fine layer of fuzz was visible on my labia majora, but like a lot of people, my inner labia exceeded those, sticking out cheekily like a tongue in a bratty selfie. You could tell (or at least, I could) just by looking that I was aroused – everything was pinkened and puffy, and if you strained, you could probably see my clit poking out of its hood, hardened and eager to be touched.

“I know what you’re doing,” It told me firmly, but It still slid my hands further down my abdomen, closer to my mons pubis and my desperately wet cunt. “I’m in charge here.”

Oh. That particular facet of the situation hadn’t fully sunken in – that It was capable of manipulating any part of my body, and that I had no way of making It leave. That I was trapped, in my body, just watching it be touched.

“I meant that in a sexy way,” It added hastily upon sensing my thoughts. “Like that I’ll be the boss here. But I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t one hundred percent want, you know.” Oh, I wanted to trust It, but… “Besides, you’re much better company when you’re enjoying yourself, so I’d never do anything you disliked – it wouldn’t be half as fun.”

Ugh. It knew Its way around my brain too well. I couldn’t relax into this scene for my own sake, but of course I could relax for It.

So I did. I leaned back against my stack of cushions to give It a better view of my cunt in the mirror and watched my own left hand as it picked up a vibrator. Instinct tilted my pelvis upwards a little, giving It fuller access to my clit. My own thumb turned the vibe to its lowest setting, but I wasn’t going to get off that easily – It dragged the vibe across the fold between my thigh and my stomach, and then around every inch of my vulva other than my clit, with such deliberate slowness that I whined out loud at It: “Please just fuck me!”

It laughed at my desperation and let the very tip of the vibe skim over the very tip of my clit, not even lingering there before progressing to another thigh-fold. I made a far less coherent whining sound than my previous one had been, and my hips twitched without my say-so (a motion which would have betrayed me and my horniness if my current partner weren’t literally already inside my body and brain).

I could feel It running out of patience at a rate similar to my own, inching towards a loss of control that I had no objections to. I just didn’t expect It to suddenly, ferociously, press the vibe directly to my clit, using my own thumb to turn it up, up, up…

It only took about fifteen seconds after reaching the vibrator’s most powerful setting for my toes to curl and the burn of orgasm to spread through my cunt and thighs. It spurred me on with every filthy thing It knew I liked to hear: “Oh, that’s right, fucking come for me, you’re such an easy little bitch, come, I want you to come, I’ve wanted to watch you come since the moment I saw you…”

I wailed, It gently pulling my eyes open, as I came hard in front of the mirror, watching my own cunt spasm and twitch in time with the waves of pleasure. It all but purred with satisfaction.

“Oh, you’ve gone and fucking done it now,” It said, as I lay back in my nest and gazed at the ceiling. “Now I know how fucking delicious it feels to make you come, and how good you look, we’re going to do everything.”

My mind jumped from the largest dildo I owned to my array of butt plugs and all the things It could use to cause me pain. The shiver those thoughts sent through me re-hardened my softening nipples, which I noticed mostly because It picked my hands up – gently, allowing me joint control – and started to pinch at them.

“Yes,” It said, pulling so hard on the left one that I whimpered, “everything.”

My Stalking Kink Part 3: The Origin

Stock image of a pink and orange explosion on a black background.

Content note: This post refers to being groomed and sexually abused online and briefly makes mention of the death of a parent and emotional abuse by father figures. Feel free to give this one a miss if any of those things will be hard for you; your wellbeing always comes first <3


My stalking kink is one of the few whose origin I can easily identify. It’s a two-factor thing, but this blog post is going to have three sections: fiction and culture, wanting to be wanted, and whether we should care about the origins of kinks at all.

If you haven’t yet read the other parts of my Stalking Kink series, part one, The Abstract is hyperlinked here and part two, The Paradox is hyperlinked here. If you’ve been avoiding this series for any reason (it doesn’t interest you, it freaks you out, you know all that there is to know on the subject of stalking kinks already…) then don’t worry, because this is its final instalment – and next week, we return to our regularly scheduled smut.


  1. Fiction and culture

My stalking kink blossomed organically alongside my adolescent sex drive. You see, when I first started exploring sexy things, I began with fanfiction, like many teenagers (especially assigned female ones) did and do. I already identified with the characters at hand, so smutty fanfiction felt more emotionally intimate than your typical PornHub fare, and reading it rather than watching it made it feel, among other things, more intellectual and less conspicuous than video-type porn.

However, I first started reading (and getting off to) fanfiction in around 2011, which was near the peak of the popularity of one hugely influential young adult novel series: Twilight. I was mostly reading fics from the Harry Potter and Kingdom Hearts fandoms and I regarded Twilight with disdain, so never actually interacted directly with it or the fanfiction it spawned… but the same can’t be said for the authors of the stuff I was reading. Twilight introduced, or at the very least fuelled, a trend of passionate romantic and sexual desire being conflated with possessiveness and, yes, stalking in young adult fiction. Even if I wasn’t reading it, I was reading things influenced by it, and I too was absorbing the message that stalking was a valid expression of desire.

I naturally moved away from believing that on a conscious level as I gravitated towards feminist media and feminist media criticisms. Feminist YouTubers and essayists convinced me that stalking and possessiveness were dangerous and abusive behaviours which often escalated and which were not remotely romantic, a belief which my Logic Brain still holds. But in repeatedly wanking to fanfiction where possessiveness and stalking were plot devices used to convey desire, especially in the formative years of my sexuality, I created a Pavlovian association between stalking and arousal.

A good eight years later, the thought of someone stalking me still gets me hot under the collar.

2. Wanting to be wanted

Fanfiction wasn’t the only thing that shaped my adolescent desires. When I was 15, I was groomed online by someone older than me. My first ever orgasms were achieved through his instructions. I explored my sexuality almost exclusively under his guidance.

He used the common abuse tactic of going “hot” and “cold” on me, sometimes showering me with affection and compliments and other times ignoring me, implying I was needy or otherwise putting me down. It left me confused and wounded and always striving to be “good enough” to meet his unknowable and impossible standards.

You can see where this is going, right?

On top of the borderline personality aspect of my mental illness, the fact that my dad didn’t stick around even before he drank himself to death and the typical teenage fear of dying alone, I was convinced I was unwantable, undesirable and unlovable. It is a conviction that has stuck with me, even now I have three loving partners and some admirers besides. I know for a fact that a lot of my stalking kink is rooted in a desire to be wanted at any cost and to the point of dysfunction.

3. Should we care about the origins of kinks?

Put simply: it depends. It depends on a number of things, including how problematic a kink’s origin is, whether using a kink to cope with its origin is preventing us from finding lasting closure, and how much we’re enjoying the kinky practices that have emerged from dubious origins.

In this case, I think it kinda matters. The fiction and culture aspect is more interesting than indicative of any real problems, but the part of my psyche that still sort of wants to be good enough for my abuser, even in a roundabout way, is a part that I’m wary of feeding. I don’t want to reinforce to myself that I have to be sexually or romantically desired to be a worthwhile person, or that sexual and romantic desire only manifest themselves in the dysfunctional ways that my stalker kink wants them to. It’s important to my long-term healing to maintain an awareness of those things and to avoid slapping the band aid of kink onto the psychic wound of being groomed and sexually abused. That isn’t to say that I can’t explore this kink at all; it just means I have to explore it carefully, and make decisions that take into account my emotional, psychological and physical safety rather than just ones which will fulfil some aspect of my stalking fantasies. I have a responsibility to myself and to the people I play with to be self-aware and cautious with something so psychologically charged.

On the other hand, even kinks with deep and complex origins like my Daddy kink are psychologically safe for me to practice. Yes, I grew up with one dead father figure and two abusive ones, but nothing is going to entirely negate my need for the approval of nurturing, authoritative older men, especially whilst society operates as a patriarchy. As long as I choose Daddy doms based on whether they’re safe, kind, caring people to play with, rather than simply for their Daddy-ish qualities, and as long as I acknowledge that this kind of play is no substitute for introspection or therapy, I consider it to be safe and even healing to explore my need for male approval within the framework of kinky roleplay.

I wholeheartedly believe that it’s the responsibility and choice of every kinkster to decide how closely they want or need to examine their desires, and to make choices from there about which ones to act out within kink. I’m a fragile person with a complicated past, and I don’t want partners to do me any unexpected harm that might in turn worry or harm them, so I’ve done a lot of introspective work to ensure that I know why I want to pursue kinks and whether those whys are healthy. I don’t believe in the implication drawn from the motto “Safe, Sane and Consensual” that kink has to be sane, or practised by sane people, but I do adhere to the “Risk Aware Consensual Kink” model, and I consider psychological introspection to be a part of making sure I’m aware of the risks of a scene or dynamic.


I really hope y’all have enjoyed this miniseries on my stalking kink! I recognise that it might be a little obscure, but I love hearing about kinks that aren’t my own and I know that other people feel the same.

As always, I always want to hear your thoughts in the comments or elsewhere, and I’ll see you all next week for Smut Saturdays #12!

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.