Smut Saturdays #12 – Girls Are Just Different

Stock image of a light purple orchid which looks vaguely similar to a vulva in sharp focus, with a blurry greenish background

I should write more about fucking girls. I should also write more about fucking cunts. (Not everyone with a cunt is a girl; not every girl has a cunt.) And at the moment, I have been thinking a lot about fucking girls who have cunts (usually, these are cis girls) and how much I enjoy it.
If I had to choose one gender, or one genital configuration, to fuck for the rest of my life, I sincerely don’t know if I could do it. (Being autistic and indecisive, I’d probably become overwhelmed, cry a bit and never fuck anybody again.) I am nigh-on obsessed with my Daddy’s cock, and foreskin, and the taste of cum; but I’m equally fond of slick, swollen cunts, tits bouncing in the same rhythm as whichever dildo I’m wielding, soft inner thighs I can bite and pinch…
The thing is, it’s easier to write about fucking dudes. I’ve done more of it, and I have a sort of script that I’m happy to stick to: rough making out, a bit of dick sucking, maybe getting choked a little bit, and then PIV til I come and so does he. Sometimes I deviate from this, but not often. I have a lot of data on how being penetrated by a cock feels, on how the weight of an erection in my hand makes me sigh with impatient wanting, on how I respond to getting pounded by someone who’s capable of pinning me to the bed one-handed.
I’ve fucked girls before, including girls with cunts and girls without ‘em, but not nearly as frequently. This is largely due to my own fear of “doing it wrong” and my complicated relationship to topping clashing with my intense desire to beat the life out of consenting women. I rarely, if ever, want to bottom to girls (partly because the kinds of girls I’m attracted to are usually natural bottoms/subs anyhow), and I’m still having to work hard on topping anybody without getting the nervous giggles and/or the irrepressible urge to curl up and sob. Even disregarding that, it’s a lot harder, statistically speaking, to find girls who want to play with my vagina than it is to find boys who want the same thing. My nervousness around topping and my nervousness around writing things I’m not convinced are well-researched enough have created a relative dearth of non-cock-centric content on my blog, which in turn has created a sense of guilt and queer Impostor Syndrome in me that I cannot shake.
All of this is to say that today, I will write in detail about fucking girls.
I just love cunts. (I love girl dicks too, but that’s a discussion for another day.) I love the sensation of a hardened clit under my tongue and the process of turning a girl on so her labia majora puff up with arousal. I love slipping my hand into a girl’s pants and feeling slick, hot desire. I love the way that girls’ knees drift apart when they want you to put a finger in them. I love the word “cyprine” and I love licking it off my fingers. I love the give, the squish in a girl’s G-spot when it’s as swollen as her clit is, and I love pressing, massaging, fucking it with my fingers until I feel and hear her cum.
And that’s just the cunt!
I also love how soft girls are. It doesn’t matter how much they weigh or what their skincare routine is; they’re just indescribably soft in a way that boys never are. I love the way that girls kiss, their lips as hesitant as butterflies, their tongues as gentle as their hands. I love the way girls’ tits look when I tie their wrists above their heads, rounded and lifted, and I also love the way tits look when their owner is slouching on my bed, spilling down their torsos, as relaxed and warm as can be. I love the amount of lovebite real estate bigger tits provide and I love the extra pain I can cause by pinching smaller ones. I love touching, kissing, biting or squeezing every inch of a girl other than the square six or so that constitute her vulva, perineum and anus, sucking on the shelf of flesh at the top of her thigh until she’s all but thumping her mons pubis into my head with desperation. I love teasing the anus first, providing we’ve talked about that, and moving lube-soaked fingers up and down the perineum while keeping my eyes focused on my partner’s face. I love girls’ faces, their widening eyes and their trembling lips and the colour rising in their cheeks, the way they sometimes shyly cover them up with their hands when they’re close to coming (like I do when I’m bottoming) and the way their mouths stretch open when I’ve tied up their wrists and covering up just isn’t an option. And I love the way girls’ lips look stretched around a dildo, whether it’s strapped on to me or in my worn-out hand after fucking them with it, and I love the way that they look covered in my own cum, when they look up from between my legs and smile proudly at the sight of me recovering from an orgasm.
I love the fact that every girl I fuck is different, but they all have things in common. I love the fact that our genitals match so I know my way around the neighbourhood, but our experiences differ so I still have to stop and ask for directions now and again. I love that girls giggle at my stupid jokes even when I’m telling them from between their legs. I love the camaraderie of fucking someone whose gender is near to mine and the affirmation of it not being exactly the same. I love cuddling with girls and commiserating about periods and the patriarchy and feeling like best friends and beyond.
And I love writing smut about them, so I’ll endeavour to do that more often.

Smut Saturdays #5 – Phone Sex

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!
This one is particularly special because I wrote it years ago to accompany a fanfiction I was writing. I’ve changed the names and some details but I will be thoroughly impressed if you can name the source fandom!


Ben

He was actually… this was actually happening… fucking hell…

I took another deep, steadying breath. I had been taking a lot of those in the past few minutes, but I couldn’t really help it. I was shaking hard, my entire crotch was pulsing like it just wanted to get free… “Are you going to be a good boy for me, Ryan?”

I heard him moan again through the phone. Oh, god, that was hot… “Y-yeah…”

“Good,” I purred, pressing the phone between my cheek and shoulder and reaching down to just squeeze my crotch just a little, biting hard into my lip. I wanted to last as long as possible for Ryan, but I didn’t fancy my chances with him making noises like that, clearly enjoying himself a whole lot… and just to think about what he was actually doing… “Now, what are you wearing?”

“Jeans… and boxers… why?” He was already shirtless. Mmmm. That would come in handy.

I squeezed a little harder, the other hand absently brushing over one nipple. I usually just stroke my dick until it stops bothering me, but tonight was a very special occasion that I wanted to make the most of. “Could you take them off for me?” I asked softly, listening to his gorgeous little grunts and the shuffling of fabric. “There’s a good boy…”

He moaned again. “I… I like when you…”

“When I call you a good boy?” I heard a noise that was clearly an agreement, and more soft panting. I was going to explode soon, but I was determined to be selfless. “When I call you my good little boy, doing as you’re told for me…” He moaned again, higher in pitch and volume… “Would you mind if I did what you’re doing?”

“N-no… go ahead… ah, ahhh…” Ryan managed to force out. I think he was having some issues with words, and I didn’t blame him. I could hear his hand on his cock now, and he was getting faster and faster. “Just… tell me about it?”

“Of course,” I said smoothly, shimmying off my jeans and underwear, not even bothering with my shirt – washable, or replaceable, anyway – and settling back comfortably against my pillows, phone still in hand. “Can you slow down for me a little? Wouldn’t want you getting carried away, at least not yet…”

Ryan’s breathing slowed a little and the almost-squeaky moans subsided a bit. I tried not to mind too horribly; after all, they would be back in full very shortly. “S-say things…”

“Say things? Does my good boy want me to say dirty things in my sexy voice?” I teased, starting to stroke my cock slowly, inhaling sharply when my hand first closed around it. “You want me to tell you what I’m doing?”

“Mhmm, please,” he almost whined, and I bit my lip. Keeping myself from coming was going to be something of a challenge, but I could do challenges. For Ryan, I could do anything.

“I’m stroking my throbbing cock to the thought of you,” I murmured, squeezing a little more, “and listening to you touching yourself for me like the good boy you are…”

“C-can I… I wanna… finish…” He sounded so cutely embarrassed that I had to bite back a chuckle. “I-I mean…”

“Go ahead, Ryan, come for me,” I whispered, tilting my head back against my wall as I listened to him moan and then gasp, his breathing deliciously heavy. “Does that feel good?”

“Y-yeah… Ben…” Moan my name like that again, fuuuck… “Ben, I want you to fuck me.” Or that… fuck, fuck… “Do you want to fuck me?”

I nodded frantically before remembering why I was clutching a phone in my free hand. “Yeah, yes, I do…”

“I’m not such a good boy really,” he said slowly. “If I were, I wouldn’t have started touching myself for you, would I?”

“Y-you’re trying to show me up…” I ground out, thinking that maybe I should stop touching myself, and touching myself anyway. “You want me to come faster than y-you did…”

“Shhh,” he said, and I shhhed, biting my lip and continuing to stroke as slowly as I could bear. “It’s a shame you aren’t here, I’ve got cum all over my stomach and no way of getting rid of it…”

“Lick it up yourself?” I suggested. I’d done it from time to time. It was all right, nothing special, but I was pretty convinced that Ryan’s cum would taste like the nectar of the gods themselves, only significantly less holy. “If you want, I mean…”

“It’s not bad,” he cut me off thoughtfully, in a voice that sounded like he had approximately two fingers in his mouth. Oh fuck, that was hot… “I think yours would taste better though. Now, lie back, and get ready to take orders.” I found myself dazedly thinking Yes, Master as I lay back, heart and dick throbbing in sync. “You’re going to do everything I tell you to do, understand?”

Oh, I like this…


Ryan

I had absolutely no fucking clue what I was doing, and I was thoroughly enjoying it. “Faster,” I said for about the five hundredth time, still lazily running fingers up and down my own shaft. “Still having fun?”

A series of incomprehensible moans and gasps followed that I took to mean yes. This phone sex this was a lot more fun than I had ever thought it could be. Ben clearly agreed, managing to murmur a faint “Ryan” as he kept going, listening to my voice and probably paying no attention to the actual words.

“You know what I want, Ben?” I asked, not expecting an answer. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t even walk. I want it slow and agonising at first, then fast and rough until I’m screaming so loud that the whole street knows what you’re doing to your good little boy.” I couldn’t even begin to describe how hot it was when he called me that. “You want that?”

“So… so bad,” he hissed. “Ry, I’m gonna cum –”

“Go on. Everywhere, like you would on me. You want to see me covered in your cum?” I asked, stroking myself a little faster. I wanted me covered in his cum. I had realised in the past thirty seconds or so that I really liked the idea of rough, messy sex, and it seemed that Ben enjoyed that idea too. I heard him cum, heard it splat on his stomach, and bit my lip. Oh, that was hot…

He chuckled. “Know what, Ryan? I think it’s your turn to take orders.” Gladly, I think I was kind of shit at giving them so maybe this will suit me better anyway. “Are you touching yourself right now?”

“Mhmm…” I admitted, looking down at my twitching erection and blushing a little. “Why?”

“Stop.” His commanding voice is unfairly sexy, I thought, taking both hands away from my dick in spite of the desperate need to get it down. “Now kneel up on your bed.” Somewhat puzzled, I did as told, phone between my shoulder and ear. “Suck on your middle finger.” Now I was beginning to get it… I followed the order, noticing just how much I liked following orders when a little bit of precum dripped onto my sheets. “Can you guess what I want you to do?”

“You want me to f-finger myself,” I muttered, already reaching behind myself. I’d never done this before, and I was terrified, but excited, as my dick was all too keen to remind me.

“That’s right,” his voice, fuck, “I want you to finger your tight little ass for me. Do you want to?”

I nodded slowly. “Mhmmm.”

“You want to fuck yourself for me, don’t you?” I moaned, pushing my finger in slowly… “Close your eyes, Ryan. It’s my finger. My finger in your ass, getting you ready for something bigger…”

“Ben,” I whined, “fuck me…”

“I will, Ryan. Where do you wanna be fucked?” he inquired almost casually. I wondered briefly whether he was still touching himself, but I was kind of distracted by my finger in my ass. “And how?”

I had been thinking about this for long enough to provide an answer instantly. “Your huge bed,” I breathed, “and hard, rough… I want you to punish me…”

“You’re a kinky little thing, aren’t you?” I loved that voice he did, like he was purring… mm… “Would you let me tie you up?”

“Y-yeah…” I moved my finger a little faster, moaning a little louder, shaking a little harder… “And… bite me… pull my hair… fuck…”

“Swear a little more for me, Ryan, it really turns me on.” I could barely even think, let alone form words. “Come on. Say, “Fuck me, Ben.””

“F-fuck me, A-ahhh… Ben…”

He chuckled again. “Beg,” he said shortly, and the command in his voice was enough to make me want to fall apart.

“Please… please, Ben, please fuck me, I need it so bad, I’ll do anything…” I shoved my finger in harder, gasping, and wrapped my other hand around my cock again. “B-Ben…”

“Good boy,” he murmured. “Keep going…”

I would keep going, all right. All night, all day, for week…

#PrideMonth: a love letter

Photo of red, orange, yellow, green and indigo round pieces of candy arranged into the shape of a love heart

I’m super fucking queer.

I use the word ‘queer’ deliberately, in the same way I describe myself as a ‘slut’. I know it’s a word that gets whispered behind my back, and occasionally yelled at me in the street. It’s supposed to hurt me, to make me feel like every fibre of my being is odd and unwelcome. Unfortunately for queerphobic assholes, I pride myself on being contrary, so I have stolen the word ‘queer’ with my gay little hands.

When they hurled it at me, I caught it. It’s mine now.


I’m bisexual.

I realised this the moment I found the language for it. Before then, I’d been weighing up my attractions, trying to figure out which gender I fancied more often, more intensely, more legitimately. I thought, for a while, that I was a lesbian who was just really bad at resisting the patriarchal imperative to have crushes on men. Before then, I’d thought I was straight, and that all my feelings of unease and fascination centred around women were a mix of admiration and envy.

I don’t remember where I found the word ‘bisexual’, but I do remember that it felt like suddenly remembering where I’d left my keys, fourteen years after losing them. As cliché as it sounds, identifying as bisexual felt like coming home.

I found the word ‘pansexual’ too, and toyed with that, but my attraction to all genders wasn’t attraction regardless of gender. I tended to have gooey, romantic, heart-eyes-emoji-esque feelings towards girls before any sexual ones, and the inverse when I fancied boys. Something indescribable separated my experiences of attraction to both of the genders I knew about at the time – and when I learned about nonbinary people, I experienced yet another set of feelings about them. (Plus, the pan flag has yellow in it, and I’m not a fan. I’d rather have the jewel-tone bi flag any day, and fourteen-year-old Morgan was very shallow.)

Armed with a word that accurately summed up how I experienced love and lust, I did what any confused autistic teen might do: I researched it. I found lists of celebrities and public figures who were (or were thought to be) bisexual. It was 2012, so I found memes. And, naturally, I found bigots. I had expected to run into homophobia, but I hadn’t expected to run into gatekeeping from the gay community itself. I wasn’t prepared to be told to ‘pick a side’ or that I was ‘actually gay’ and lying to myself. I wasn’t ready to be called ‘greedy’ when I’d had two relationships in my adolescence, one of which only featured a single, brief kiss. I wasn’t expecting to be hurt by people who knew what homophobia felt like.

And this, dear reader, is where this post becomes a love letter.

Because for every one voice that was calling my orientation greedy or fake or ‘not gay enough’, there were dozens more bi people and allies countering their bullshit. I was learning new ways to backchat biphobes all the time. I learned queer history, the split attraction model, new ways to define gender and more through the vocal dissent of people who were fucking sick of biphobia; and, more importantly, I learned that I had hundreds upon hundreds of strangers’ voices rallying around me and defending my existence. I found a community.

It was through this vocal, loving, ready-to-educate community that I ended up finding my gender identity. It took me three or four years after growing into the label of ‘bisexuality’ to realise that, on top of being super bi, I wasn’t cis – and in a lot of ways, it felt scarier. Either online biphobia had subsided somewhat in those four years, or I’d just got better at making my social media environment more welcoming; regardless, I felt very comfortable in my bisexual skin.

But even some bi people were insisting I couldn’t be nonbinary.

I was confident in my belief that there were more than two genders. I’d read plenty of material, ranging from nonbinary people’s blog posts to accounts of olden-days rejection of gender binaries to the abstracts of actual studies on the subject, so I was pretty certain that nonbinary people were A Thing™. The problem lay in whether or not I was nonbinary.

I’ve blogged about my experiences of gender before now, so I won’t repeat myself, but I will add that I was scared of claiming the labels ‘nonbinary’ and ‘trans’ for months. (I still sort of cringe when I call myself ‘trans’, waiting for someone somewhere to insist that only binary trans people ‘count’.) But, again, it was the loud, brave voices of other queer folk that comforted me, and made me realise the importance of claiming words that fit me. I realised that, being white and academically inclined, I could use my voice to legitimise nonbinary experiences; being a human being, I deserved to legitimise my own experiences too.


Again, I’ve managed to prune my social circles and my social media consumption so that a lot of cissexism doesn’t reach me, especially online. I’ve educated some of my IRL friends and given up on others, and I have done myself the enormous favour of swearing off dating straight men. I owe huge portions of my self-confidence, comfort and personal growth to the LGBTQ+ community.

We are brave. We are strong. We are loving.

We are also doing real fuckin’ badly on some fronts, like including people of colour, making Pride accessible and eliminating, among other things, cissexism, slutshaming, acephobia and gatekeeping.

I know we can do better than this, because I’ve been on the right side of it. When we put our energy into activism, into educating each other and the cishets, and into being compassionate and welcoming, we can do incredible shit. We can make kids like fourteen-year-old Morgan feel at home in their acne-prone, super-queer skin.

I guess this is a tough-love letter now. Let’s get our shit together, and make each Pride shine brighter than the last. We owe it to ourselves and each other, and I know – I know – we’re capable of it.