Smut Saturdays #18: Intoxication

Three side-by-side images of Morgan posing sexily with a Jim Beam bottle for this week's Smut Saturdays on intoxication - one in which xe has xir legs spread, with the bottle covering their vulva, one blurry one of the bottle between xir tits, and one in which xe is sucking on the top of the bottle

Content note: This post goes into detail about intoxication, and sex whilst intoxicated. The ethical implications of pairing intoxication with sex are for another blog post – this one is just supposed to be fantasy-driven smut, but if intoxication squicks you out for any reason, please do give this one a miss 💙


We’re sitting on your sofa. Sort of melting into it, because we’re drinking, but still keeping a careful distance between our respective thighs. No part of us is touching, and the tension is absolutely crushing.

None of what we’re talking about is boring, but my mind keeps wandering. I find myself staring at your neck, your lips, your hands. I don’t know whether or not you notice.

I finish my drink. As with the last two that I finished, you swipe my empty cup off the coffee table almost as soon as it lands. “Another?” you ask, and it finally dawns on me: you’re trying to get me drunk.

I decide in that moment that I’m going to let you, and I say, “Yes, please,” with the most innocent smile I can manage, my mind full of your neck, your lips, your hands…

When you return from the kitchen with a vodka lemonade that’s even stronger than the last one you mixed me, I take it gratefully and resume the entirely vanilla conversation we’d been having. I already feel hazy – antidepressants have made a lightweight of me – but I don’t yet feel brave enough to close the gap between us, so we talk. And I stare. And my mind wanders.

I keep sipping at my eye-wateringly strong drink until it doesn’t taste quite as strong any more. I can feel the heat of tipsiness creeping into my face and I hope you don’t think I’m blushing. I don’t blush. I’m not flustered. I haven’t been closely monitoring the distance between us, watching you fidget yourself closer to me, longing for the moment our knees will touch. Honest.

I fuck up a sentence. I think it’s that I’ve said “par cark” in place of “car park”, like I used to when I was little. I laugh, and I admit, “I’m really tipsy,” and to illustrate my point, I very boldly lean my head on your shoulder, for a moment, while I’m overtaken by a fit of giggles.

“I know,” you say warmly. “You’re also really cute.”

I pull my head up and look you in the eye. Sober Me would find some way to brush the compliment off, or else change the subject. But Drunk Me blurts out, “And hot?”

You nod. “And hot.” You sip your own drink – beer, which is almost definitely not as strong as the vodka lemonade I’m nursing. “Very hot.”

I bite my lip. “So are you, though.” I’m fighting the urge to make sexy eye contact with you while I suck on my straw – but you’ve been stealing glances at my mouth every time I put anything inside it, and that’s been often, since I can’t go ten minutes without chewing on the pen I’ve been fiddling with.

The conversation moves away from how hot you are, but my mind doesn’t. Your neck. Your lips. Your hands, and the things they could do to me.

You say something that requires a response, but the vodka in me has elongated my processing time, and I’m extremely distracted. So instead of answering your question, I just say, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

I once had a creative writing teacher tell me that people don’t smirk in real life nearly as often as they do in fanfiction, and he was right – but the only word for the look on your face right now is ‘smirk’. A suppressed, slightly condescending curve of the lips, as you watch me grow more embarrassed by the second.

“Is that really a good idea?” you ask, an edge of teasing to your voice.

I frown. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re drunk.” 

“You got me drunk!” I can’t keep childish indignation out of my voice. “You got me drunk on purpose.”

You feign innocence even less convincingly than I do – or maybe you’re being sarcastic. I get more autistic when I’m tipsy, and I can’t compute subtext, and you know that. “Now, why would I do a thing like that?” 

“Because,” I say, leaning closer to you, “you want me to do a thing like this.”

I press my mouth against yours, clumsily, and I’m about to pull away and apologise for overstepping when you start kissing me back. Enthusiastically. With tongue, and then with your hand on the back of my neck, and then with your teeth digging sharply into my bottom lip, making me squeak in faux-protest. 

You pull away first, and you scrutinise my face – probably trying to assess how drunk I am, and whether it’s too drunk to meaningfully consent. But you know how much I like tipsy sex, because you read my blog, and you know how much I like you, because I’ve told you directly. After some excruciatingly long moments of thought, you say, “Maybe that was the plan, yeah.”

And then you kiss me again.

It all blurs together – kissing, tongue, teeth, you pulling my hair, your hands on my waist, my thighs, my tits, getting rougher and rougher as we go. I have my own hand on your thigh, timidly creeping closer to your crotch, and eventually my clumsy hands find the bulge in your jeans. I paw at it uselessly, too busy snogging you to try and unbutton them.

You laugh and pull back from the kiss, one hand still firmly holding my left boob. “Do you need some help?” you tease, moving your free hand towards your buttons.

I nod, my brain hopelessly fried by vodka and lust. “Please,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. 

I watch as you undo your buttons, seemingly in slow motion. There are four of the bastards, but with each one undone I see more of your underwear, and your hardened cock underneath. Its silhouette looks unbearably tempting, and the mystery is killing me, but you don’t reach for the waistband of your boxers. Instead, you pull me back into another kiss.

My hand drifts back to your crotch and starts caressing your dick through the fabric, eliciting sighs from you that make me even more incoherent. I’m not confident I could string a sentence together, especially when I feel your cock twitch under my fingers at the same moment as you dig your fingernails into the soft flesh of my hip. I take hold of your boxer-clad erection, squeezing gently, and you growl against my mouth. 

At this point, my cunt is aching with arousal. I can feel a damp patch forming in my own underwear. I pull away and, still struggling to form entire thoughts, I yank my T shirt off, messing up my hair in the process, in the hopes that this signals to you, I would like to move on from snogging now, please. 

But there’s more snogging, because you want to draw this out, and you’re amused and turned on by how much I’m suffering at this slow pace. I even writhe a little when you start pinching and twisting my nipples, trying to grind my still-fully-dressed cunt against your sofa. 

“Is there something you want?” you murmur into my ear, still playing with my nipples. I whimper. “Tell me what you want.”

I point vaguely to my crotch. “I’m… you… please…”

“That’s not a sentence.” Still, you reach for the leggings I’m wearing. “We’ll have to get these off you, won’t we?”

“I can do it myself,” I say petulantly, standing up on wobbly feet to yank my leggings down to my ankles. My thong comes down too, mostly accidentally, but you don’t look displeased to see me and my cunt entirely naked. You pull me back down onto the sofa by just grabbing one of my wrists and tugging gently, your mouth still quirked in that smirky, smug look, like you’re amused by how pliable I’m being.

Your hand creeps up my inner thigh until you make contact with my mons pubis. I bite my lip and refuse to look at you. I’m watching your hand, broad and strong, as it cups my cunt. You slide your fingers up and down the soaking wet slit between my labia, then start teasing my clit with one slick fingertip.

“Is that what you want?” you coo, as if you didn’t already know. “Do you want me to play with your cunt?”

I nod, still not looking at you. “Mm-hmm,” I manage, as you circle my clit a little harder and a little faster.

You use your free hand to take hold of my chin and gently guide it upwards, so I have little choice but to look you in the eye. “Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers?” you whisper, and as soon as I nod, you push your middle finger into me, slowly, until I sigh with relief and want. “Is that the spot?”

I nod again, and you start rocking your whole hand, massaging my A-spot with relentless precision. I whine and mewl and groan and gasp, and when you pause for a moment to slide off the sofa and onto your knees, I whimper dramatically.

“I just want to taste you,” you reassure me, as you return to finger-fucking me. Your mouth meets my clit, and I put a hand on my lower abdomen, pulling upwards to try and encourage it out of the clitoral hood. “You taste just as delicious as you look, you know.”

You slide in another finger, and you fuck me harder and faster, until my legs are shaking, your mouth always on or around my clit, all the sensations melting together in harmony. I feel like this could go on forever and I would be perfectly happy about it.

Until you pull back and say, “Am I going to get to feel your perfect little cunt twitch as you come on my fingers?”

You pair these words with continued hard, precise finger-fucking, and I can’t help but come in response, my whimpers building into wails as I grind my hips desperately against your hand. My legs shake as the orgasm peaks, and you keep fucking me until I’ve stopped humping your hand. The burn-tingle-pulse of pleasure radiates through me, and I can feel my own heartbeat in my clit.

Once I’ve collected myself a bit – only a little bit – you look down at your hand, soaked in my cum, and frown thoughtfully. “Now, I could get you to suck this off my fingers,” you tell me, “but, equally, I could use it to lube up my dick.”

“I vote option two,” I say, my eyes darting back to your open jeans and bulging underwear. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the fabric is darkening with the wetness of precum. It’s unbearably sexy.

You stand up, looming over me as I slouch, naked, on the sofa, and you pull your cock out with your non-soaked hand. I have to bite my lip hard to keep myself from moaning out loud with want – or from saying something filthy about where I’d like you to put it. “So fucking hard,” you murmur, more to yourself than to me, and I sigh. 

I watch you stroke the length of your shaft with the fingers that are coated in my cum, entranced. I keep glancing between your impossibly hard cock and your mildly strained face, and I find myself starting to stroke my own clit, which is still hard and wet and tingling a little.

“Where do you want this?” you ask, still toying with your cock. “Mouth? Cunt? Cleavage?”

The booze and the snogging have already made words difficult, but being in a post-orgasm haze and watching you mix my cum and your precum into a thick, shiny coating has left me literally speechless. Instead of speaking, I just mimic what you did a few moments ago, sliding off the sofa and onto my knees. In answer to your question, I just open my mouth, wide, and let my tongue hang out a little.

You grin down at me and stroke my hair with your dry hand. “You look so pretty down there.” Your cock is only centimeters away from my mouth, but you keep it there, out of my reach. “Do you want my cock in your mouth?” I nod. “Do you want me to fuck your throat?” I nod again, distinctly aware that I’m being teased. “Do you want to gag on it, you slut?” 

“Please,” I breathe, staring at the swollen head of it as your hand slips up and down.

The hand you’re using to stroke my hair turns into a fist, twisting my hair between your fingers and tugging on my scalp, as you pull my head forwards to meet your cock. You only let me have the head, at first, rubbing your frenulum against my tongue, but then you slowly give me more, and more, until you’re sliding the whole length in and out of my mouth, listening to me gag each time it hits the back of my throat. You pull my head in so close that I have to try and swallow the very end of your cock down, and I find that if I try really hard, I can flick my tongue against your balls at the same time. 

I also find that you like that – you groan, your grip on my head tightening, and you only let me come up for a breather when I can’t hold back urgent-sounding choking noises any longer. At that point, you tease me again, just rubbing the head of your dick on my tongue, until I’ve taken some deep breaths and seem ready for you to suffocate me with your cock again. Tears and eyeliner start leaking from the corners of my eyes each time we do this, and they end up rolling all the way down my cheeks.

“Do you want my cum in your mouth?” you growl during one of the short pauses we take between the cock-swallowing. I nod, and you yank my head a little further down. “Then lick my balls for me, bitch.”

I do as I’m told, making broad strokes with my tongue and managing to smear my own spit all over my cheeks, whilst you stroke your cock with ever-increasing fury. It’s not long before you guide my head backwards, place the head of your cock on my outstretched tongue, and shoot thick ribbons of cum into my mouth. I wait until you’re completely done to swallow, making sure you have a chance to admire my cum-covered tongue first. 

“Fucking hell,” you pant, sinking back onto the sofa. “That was so fucking good.”

I smile, and climb back onto the sofa next to you. “I did my best,” I say, as you scoop me into a cuddle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

You chuckle, and you brush some of my hair away from my eyes. “I think ‘liked’ is an understatement. I might have to get you drunk again soon.”


Every fourth Saturday (unless I need to take a break, which has been the case for the past couple of months, or unless I need to cheekily leave it ’til Sunday instead, which is the case this time…) I’ll be posting smut based loosely on the fantasies or sexy experiences I have, for your wanking enjoyment. Take a look at my last ‘Smut Saturdays‘ post by clicking the link, and maybe check out my Patreon too ($10 Patrons get access to my smut 24 hours before anyone else, so you can get a head start on enjoying it!)
Oh, and in case you wanted a clearer view of the header image for this month’s smut, here it is:

Three side-by-side images of Morgan posing sexily with a Jim Beam bottle for this week's Smut Saturdays on intoxication - one in which xe has xir legs spread, with the bottle covering their vulva, one blurry one of the bottle between xir tits, and one in which xe is sucking on the top of the bottle

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!