Kissing: The Devil Is In The Details

A lipstick kiss mark, from, you know, kissing

Welcome back to my new miniseries, The Devil Is In The Details! Last time, I went into unreasonable depth about cum – what I love about it, and about everything surrounding its production – and now, we’re taking a look at an oft-overlooked but extremely sexy aspect of fucking: kissing.

Not just kissing, of course – I’m also thinking of snogging (or, for the non-Brits in the audience, making out) and everything that entails. I’m thinking of the transition from bumping your dry lips together to opening your mouth and sharing spit. I’m thinking of the wet warmth of a tongue against my lower lip. I’m thinking of the sounds a person makes when I bite down on theirs.

Kissing is hot because it just is, but also because it serves as the spark that turns the dry kindling of want into the roaring flame of need, giving you fuel to grab a fistful of someone’s hair and yank on it. A good snog is the perfect time to try growling at me for the first time, while one hand grasps the back of my neck like I’m a misbehaving kitten and the other tries desperately to unbutton my jeans. It’s also a great time to shove a hard, unrelenting knee into the gap between my thighs, and to hold it there, perfectly still, while I start trying to grind my fully-clothed cunt against it.

You can kiss softly, gently, reverently, whilst you grab and twist my nipples. You can move from laying butterfly-soft kisses on my lips to laying them on my chin, cheeks, neck and collarbone, all while you drag your fingernails across my flesh so hard that I can’t hold back a whimper of pain and want. You can kiss every inch of my body, as long as you come back to my mouth sometimes. And when you do, you can stick to those soft, restrained kisses, and you can keep pulling your head away every time I try to tilt and kiss you more deeply – even if I let out a frustrated whine. No – especially if I let out a frustrated whine.

I also love aggressive kisses – the ones that go from 0 to 100 in the time it takes for me to process that we’re kissing. I love when someone abruptly decides that they want me now and jams their mouth against mine. I love opening up my mouth and having their whole tongue plunge in, slick and hot and desperate, like they’re trying to lick my uvula. Kisses like these ones should hurt my jaw a little, leave my lips feeling bruised from the force with which they were pressed into my teeth, and leave me dizzy and lustdrunk and thirsty for more. These kisses are well-suited for quickies, because they say, “We don’t have much time, and we need to do this now,” but they are equally well-suited for a long, exhausting, sweaty fuck, wherein they say, “I want you so badly I can barely see straight, and I am going to have you.”

Other kisses I like include the one I get after swallowing somebody’s cum, which can say, “You taste like my dick and I love that,” “You did an excellent job and I’m proud of you,” and/or, “I’m not finished with you yet.” These kisses are best served while I’m still on my knees, with you leaning down from above, forcing me to crane my neck up to meet your mouth. Maybe your fist is in my hair, or maybe it’s wrapped around my neck, cutting off my air supply because my breathing is secondary to your need to taste my mouth again. This is also a perfect time to kiss me tenderly, and then to mess with my head by holding my jaw open and spitting straight onto my tongue, just because you can.

But, if we’re talking about tender kissing, I also like the slow, soft kind of kiss that sometimes happens after sex, or first thing in the morning, when I’m in bed with someone and my hair is a mess. This one is a slowdance of lips, interrupted by gazing at each other’s faces with a blend of fondness and awe – a kiss that says, “God, you’re beautiful,” in between us saying the same thing out loud. This is the kind of kiss you share as aftercare, as a way to say, “We’ve just done some fucked up shit to each other, but only because we really like each other.” Those kisses feel like the warm bath of sunlight on my face, and I love them as much as all the other kinds of kisses – if not, secretly, just a little more.

The pandemic and subsequent lockdown that’s going on right now means that I’ve lost a lot of work opportunities (because every other fucker at my agency is snagging jobs before I can). If you also want to give me a birthday present four months early, consider buying me a coffee or commissioning transcripts or captions from me!

Smut Saturdays #6 – Slick

Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. If you’ve got any feedback or requests, put ’em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought… you said…”

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

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

“That’s… that’s okay, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smut Saturdays #3: Wet and Warm

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.
Content note: This week’s Smut Saturdays post is about watersports, or, in layperson’s terms, piss. If that squicks you, feel free to give this one a miss, and come back next Saturday for a regular post or in a month for the next Smut Saturdays story!

PLUS, this week I’ve been lucky enough to be featured over at Girl On The Net, with a piece about my first time doing needle play:

If you’ve got any feedback or requests, put ’em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!

The bathroom is cold.

I know you could make it less cold. I know that you could turn the heating up with that app on your phone, or that you could shut the bastard window. This means that I also know that you’re enjoying my coldness. I’m completely naked – we’ve even left my collar on your mattress – and you’re in your pristine, drool-inducing suit. I’m on my knees on the cold, hard shower floor, and you’re standing in front of me, hand on your belt buckle.

The hairs on my forearms are standing up, and so are my nipples. I’m not sure whether it’s the cold, or whether it’s the anticipation.

It started innocently enough. I poured you a glass of water and thrust it at you, an act of service not outside the ordinary. Then I sat at your feet, facing away from you and towards the TV, pretending to pay attention to Scrubs while I listened to your sips. You stroked my hair absentmindedly.

Then you set your glass down on a coaster, and I sprang to my feet to refill it.

You caught on then. Usually, I don’t refill things without being asked: not out of laziness or brattiness, but out of an autistic lack of initiative and a my-mum-raised-me-right aversion to waste. My sudden interest in keeping you hydrated raised your eyebrow, and you watched my naked arse disappear into the kitchen again with mild intrigue.

By the time I’d arrived with your second brimming glass of water, you’d figured it out.

“Are you hoping I’ll piss on you?” you asked, smirking because you already knew the answer.

I pretended to be embarrassed. I looked at the carpet and shrugged. But we both knew you were right, and I handed over the glass without a word.

It fills me with glee that I only have to ask. And sometimes, not even that.

I don’t want to misbehave. Even playfully, I don’t want you to frown at me, raise your voice or scold me. I don’t want to feel, even for a moment, even in play, that I’ve let you down. I want to demonstrate, constantly and through action as well as words, that I am devoted to you and to my submission to you. Misbehaving suits a lot of subs, but it has never suited me.

I can be cheeky, I’ll own that. I stick my tongue out and talk back and I plead with you for permission for things even after you’ve said ‘no’. But I follow my rules, and I follow your orders. I try to make you feel spoiled. I don’t want my submission to feel like a struggle. I want it to feel like a warm bath, soothing and surrounding you.

So I truly love that, when I want to be hurt or humiliated, I just have to ask. Or hint. Or bring you a third glass of water.

You ordered me upstairs after that third glass. You had your keys in your fist, and you let me go first, so you could watch my arse up the stairs. I had been naked since before you got home, simply too tired to tolerate clothes, but now more than ever I felt your eyes on my skin.

We reached your bedroom, me still in the lead, and you had me sit down on your bed. You didn’t have to say anything, just pressed your broad right hand onto my left shoulder til I caught on and sat. Then you jangled your keys.

“We’re gonna take your collar off,” you said softly. It struck me how loving you could be, even as you prepared me to be hosed down with your piss. I tilted my head up so that you could slot the tiny key into the padlock glimmering at my throat. “Good puppy.”

I feel as naked as anybody else with no clothes on, but whenever I take my collar off, it’s like I’ve lost a finger.

You must have been aware of this, because you raised the collar to my lips and had me kiss it before you held the bathroom door open for me.

And now we’re here.

Shivers run through me. I’m gazing up at your hand on your belt, unable to tear my eyes away to see your face. It doesn’t matter all that much anyway; I know your sadistic grin well enough that I can fill in the gap where my peripheral vision ends. I’m so cold that I’m almost eager for the warmth of your urine on my skin.


See, the thing I love about piss is that I hate it. You know this, which is why you have your sadist face on. You know as well as I do that the fun of pissing on me lies in the way I recoil from it, the disgust I can’t keep off my face once you start to aim the stream at my mouth. The reason we both find watersports irresistible is its significance: I’ll do anything for you, even this.

You ease your belt out of its buckle and slide down your zip. I watch your hands methodically shift the fabric of your boxers so that your cock can spring out. At the sight of me kneeling, fully naked, at your feet, it’s half-hard.

“You ready?” you whisper, like there might still be time to back out. But you have a full bladder, and the cold bathroom air has hit your dick. I know I could dart out of the way, let your piss run down the drain, but I want it. I want it all over me, making me grimace, making me squirm.

So I nod.

You let it go. I can tell you’re letting it go, rather than pushing it out, from the relief that passes over your face. That’s what I focus on as it pours over my tits, the warmth as comforting as I predicted, the smell just as strong. You look like you’re enjoying yourself, and I feel like a good pup.

I feel like that even more so when you say, “Dirty slut. Open your mouth.”

Instinct tells me not to. I know I hate the taste. But devotion overrides it, and I let my tongue hang out.

It’s bitter, and sort of like beer, and near impossible to describe. Its colour is pale from the water I had you drink, something I feel distantly smug about as it drips off my tits. I scrunch my eyes shut but I keep my mouth open, except when I force myself to swallow a teaspoon’s worth just to prove that I can.

It lasts about twenty seconds, but it feels so much longer than that.

At last, the sensation and the sound of liquid running over me both stop. I open my eyes, and you’re letting the last drops fall off your foreskin, holding your cock loosely, staring at me.

“Clean it up,” you command, so I do.

I suck gently at the head of your dick, my nose wrinkling involuntarily at the taste. I know later you’ll tell me it was cute. I do as thorough a job as I can bear, then pull away.

You look satisfied. “That’s a good little slut.” I glow. “Now, you get nice and clean in the shower. Daddy will be waiting for you in the bedroom.” I must be staring at you blankly, because you explain: “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”