Smut Saturdays #19: In This Fantasy…

It’s often very nice to perform a meticulously planned scene, with a neatly defined start point and a script for me to follow, having collaborated on a fantasy for days, if not cock-teasing weeks, with you as my devious co-conspirator. I enjoy being led to the bedroom, knowing that you’re about to play your part and I am about to play mine, line by line, blow by blow, perfectly executed and immensely satisfying…

But this fantasy is not that.

This fantasy rarely takes place in a bedroom – instead it’ll be set in a stairwell, a nightclub toilet, an alleyway, an office… anywhere, because in this fantasy, it is all but impossible to make it to the bedroom.

In this fantasy, you or I or both of us snap. There’s tension in the air, a look or a touch or a too-long hug drawing out every painful second until snap, and then our mouths are together.

We don’t stop to exchange Yes/No/Maybe lists. We barely stop to breathe. It becomes less like kissing and more like grinding our faces together, biting each other’s lips and all but fucking each other’s mouths with our tongues. Your spit, or mine, or both is somehow all over my chin.

Meanwhile, we have either found a wall or a horizontal surface to support us. At the moment, I’m favouring the version of this fantasy where you press me into a wall, your knee between my legs, pinning me as though I’m not still clinging to you, pulling you in closer by your hips or your asscheeks or the belt loops on your jeans with absolutely no intention of running away. Still, your body sandwiches me against the wall as your hands find my hair, my neck, my tits, my waist, and we still have our faces entangled.

It doesn’t take long, in this fantasy, for us to start yanking off clothes – our own or each other’s, it doesn’t really matter – and for me to feel your skin against mine. I drink it in and apparently so do you, running your hands over every inch you can reach while your torso is still flush against mine. Your mouth soon follows suit, and you finally pull away from me enough to kiss my collarbones, my neck, my tits. While my hands try out their fingernails on your back, your hands find my nipples and pinch. Everything is rough grabbing and grinding and biting and desperately, so desperately trying to envelop each other, to sate the burning hunger we both feel all over our bodies.

Obviously in this fantasy your cock is already achingly hard. It brushes against my stomach while we’re groping each other, leaving a light smear of precum behind. I run my nails across your lower back, around across one hip, and then I finally give in and grab it, hearing your breathing shift as I squeeze it lightly. Impulse leads me to start stroking it, at least as hungry for you to feel good as I am to feel good myself, and your hips follow my hand, fucking my half-closed fist.

Your fingers aren’t gentle when they replace the knee between my legs and I don’t mind at all, widening my stance to give you access to the aching, soaked slit of my cunt. You find my hardened clit with your thumb in seconds as you hook one rough finger, or even two, into the entrance of my vagina. Wherever my mouth is, against your neck or biting your shoulder or fused back onto yours, I make a small but heartfelt moaning noise. You make one back, and one or both of us escalates the matter.

Usually, this is the part in the fantasy where you manhandle me into turning 180°, grab my hair or the back of my neck and bend me, supported by the wall or over a table, a sofa, anything. Your hands are on both my hips and I can feel the wetness from my pussy on the fingers of one of them, smearing haphazardly across my skin as you line me up. You don’t savour the moment your cock enters me, instead shoving it in with such force that if it weren’t for your grip on me I’d probably fall, and you press yourself flush to me so that I feel every millimeter of your dick, from the thick shift holding the entrance of my cunt open to the reddened, taut head pressing against my cervix.

The moans and grunts and “Oh, fuck”s start in earnest from both of us as you rock back and forth, slamming into me and into me and into me as deep as you possibly can, your balls hitting my clit and your nails digging viciously into my hips. Your sweat drips onto me. You spit onto your dick without slowing down.

Maybe we switch positions, maybe we carry on like this, but you don’t stop when I announce I’m going to cum. Instead, you growl something like, “Then fucking cum for me, you dirty bitch,” knowing that hearing that will help tip me over the edge and make my cunt tighten around your dick, raising the volume of my moans as everything white-hot and intense in my pussy and abdomen amplifies into a thrumming supernova for long, long, long seconds, my legs shaking underneath me. It feels a little like that swooping sensation you feel in your stomach as you come over the peak of a rollercoaster and down again, amplified and hot and a little further down. I don’t usually squirt or drip when I cum, but sometimes in this fantasy I’m lightly embarrassed by the sound of a droplet of my cum hitting the floor.

You pause and ask, sincerely, “Are you okay?”

I nod shakily, feeling my cunt contract around your cock again. I know you feel it too, because as soon as you have my reassurance that I’m fine, the very second my head bobs affirmatively, you return immediately to pounding me with the ferocity of someone whose arousal has dismissed their coherent thoughts and is driving their hips into the source of their overwhelming pleasure: my trembling, hot cunt, attached to my trembling body, situated between my trembling legs that are streaked bright red by your fingernails.

My whole cunt is still inflamed, and I all but wail at the acuteness of the stimulation as you pump your dick in and out of me, satisfied enough with how hard I just came to start fucking me selfishly, hungrily, like you’re using my body to jerk off with. You ignore the increasing volume of the incoherent sounds coming out of my mouth and I know that you don’t care that it hurts. You like that it hurts, and so do I.

You call me a dirty bitch again. I can tell you’re close, so I beg you to fuck me harder (“please, it doesn’t matter if it hurts, I want you to ruin my cunt”). If we’re still against a wall, you reach forward to clutch my hair, still bruising the inside of my vagina nonstop as you do so. I tell you more than once how good your dick feels inside me, how much I love getting fucked by you. You slap my ass and thighs while you call me a desperate little slut with a tight, slick pussy that you’re going to cum in – and then you do. Hard, pulling me flush to you again and jerking slightly as your twitching cock fills me with your cum, and all that keeps it from dripping back out is the aforementioned hard cock.

After savouring the feeling of my cum-drenched vagina for a few moments, breathing raggedly, you slowly withdraw your dick and cum drips onto the floor, trickling over my still-hypersensitive clit in the process. The warm feeling of it gushing out of me and down my thighs is delicious, and it makes me feel like the little slut you said I was.

This fantasy can branch off in many directions from here. Maybe you ask me to lick up your cum, whether that’s the cum coating your dick, the cum dribbling out of my cunt or the cum that dripped onto the floor. Maybe I play with your ass, or you play with mine, or both. Maybe you drag me by the hair to the shower to rinse me off, or to piss on me. Whichever direction it takes, the theme is always the same: raw, rough and desperate, messy and hungry as we’re drawn together like magnets, irresistibly.

And uh, there’s usually a lot of cum.

If you liked this, you might like other Smut Saturdays posts of mine, and it might be worth following me on Twitter to be the first to know when I post something new! Which I’m finally doing a little more often! Yay!

Erections: The Devil Is In The Details

Welcome back to my new miniseries of blog posts, The Devil Is In The Details, where I explore sex- and kink-related topics in way more depth than anyone asked for! Today, as you can guess from the title, I’ll be talking about erections and why I love them.

I love my own erections. I came with a vagina and a clitoris pre-installed, rather than a penis, and for the most part, I’m happy about that – my vagina has brought me a lot of joy over the years, and I wouldn’t want to get rid of it even on my most dysphoric days. My clit, too, has brought me a great deal of joy, mostly while it’s been erect. I love starting to masturbate and feeling my clit slowly harden and peek out of its little hood. I find my own erections affirming on my masculine days, but they aren’t so obtrusive or gendered in my mind to be off-putting on my feminine days. Plus, obviously, they’re a lot of fun to play with.

I love other people’s clitoral erections too, of course. Whatever the gender of the person I’m fucking, I love playing with their clit in a way that makes them squirm. I love that clitoral erections are a little bit harder to find and get my mouth around than penile ones, because it makes it all the more rewarding when I find that hard knot of flesh with my tongue.

Penile erections, though – that is, erections happening to a penis – are delicious in their own right. As well as saying, in a way I cannot refute, that I’m sexually attractive, an erection says to me that foreplay is going well. I love how obvious they are, how incontrivertible and, well, solid the proof is that sex is still going okay. (Note: erections are not a substitute for ongoing communication. However, they are a substitute for nervously asking, “Do you fancy me?” or “Is this neck-licking thing doin’ it for you?” dozens of times during a single fuck.)

I also love the sensory experiences an erect penis can provide. There’s the halfway-there erection that gives way just a little under your fingers, the tissue springy but firm. There’s the rock-solid erection that twitches in your mouth (did I mention how much I love to put anything in my mouth? Never lend me a pencil.) and which shoves any foreskin out of the way, just inviting you to roll it back and forth over the head of a cock with your hands, your tongue, your tits…

Ahem.

Then – and this might be cheating – there’s the taste of an erection. It’s not just the texture of my spit, mixed with precum, on my tongue, against a dick – a unique sensory experience, the only word for which is “slick”. Erect dicks taste different to flaccid ones, at least in my experience, which might be because of sciencey things to do with pheromones or precum (which I did once write an entire blog post about – I fucking love precum), or which might just be to do with the magic of having a hard dick in my mouth. Either way, erections taste hot and human and different on everybody, and the sight of an erection immediately gets my mouth watering – what might this dick taste like? When am I going to find out?

I don’t know whether I have an oddly sensitive tongue or an oddly detail-oriented mind or whether this is a universal thing, but I also love feeling out all the different parts of a dick with my tongue – the curve of the head, the slit down the middle, the tautness of the frenulum, all the way down the shaft and then to the balls (which maybe don’t count as part of an erection, but don’t you just love the texture of a scrotum? The way it gives and folds? The fact that sometimes you can feel individual hair follicles with your tongue?).

Oh, and obviously: erections look hot as sin. Dripping precum, hidden in boxers, in the mouth of another hot human – all unbearably hot.

Y’all might have to excuse me. I have blowjobs to think about and an erect clit to deal with.

Keep up with my The Devil Is In The Details series by following me on Twitter, and support my work through Ko-Fi or Patreon if you want me to keep writing stuff that turns even me on!

My Stalking Kink, Part 3: The Origin

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.

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.

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!