Smut Saturdays #9: I Want To Make You Melt

Image is of a blade of grass in sharp focus with a single drop of clear liquid halfway down it as though it's about to fall off. The grass is bright green and the background is just a darker green blur.

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!

Last week, I wrote a post about bratty bottoms/subs. Then my period hit, and, as usual, so did a tonne of angsty, horny energy.

I started thinking about topping a whole lot more.

Specifically, I was thinking about topping a pliable, obedient bottom – someone like the unnamed sub from Smut Saturdays #6. My mind has been wandering during long train journeys and uni lectures alike to the image of a cute, wide-eyed and mostly unremarkable-looking guy lying on a bed, naked except for the rope or cuffs that would pin each of his limbs to a different corner of the bedframe, starfish-style. For the sake of clarity and convenience, we’ll just call him ‘A’.

I’ve been imagining myself clothed, kneeling next to the bed and skimming fingertips or fingernails up and down A.’s thigh, watching his face intently. He inhales sharply when my fingernails press hard enough to leave little raised stripes behind, but otherwise stays relaxed, his face neutral and his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. He’s excited to be here, and he’s putty underneath my scratching, pinching hands.

For a little while, I entertain myself just with his thigh, alternating between caressing, scratching and pinching, and occasionally yanking a thick, curled leg hair from its follicle (which makes him twitch and whimper, but the pain is so short-lived that he relaxes again as soon as I’ve discarded the hair and returned my hand to his leg). My attention span is woefully lacking, though, so before long I stand up and examine him. He just watches me, smiling shyly when I catch his eye. The trust that radiates from him is dizzying, and I almost feel guilty for all the things I’m about to do. But his twitching erection reminds me that there’s very little to feel guilty for, since he’s at least as enthusiastic as I am.

The bag of toys I’ve brought along for this encounter is already by my side, so I bend down (making sure that he gets a good few seconds to stare at my arse, which is probably clad in skin-tight leggings) and start rummaging. I want something thuddy and not too mean to start out with, so I pull out a mallet – the little rubber-coated kind you get for hammering tent pegs into the ground. I sit on the edge of the bed, my arse level with his waist, and hold the mallet in my right hand. (I have to bite my tongue to avoid making a joke about it being my dominant hand.) Still watching him intently for any sign of reluctance, I all but drag the mallet to the meatiest part of his quadriceps and raise it.

Then I bring it down again. Hard.

A.’s breath leaves him in a soft whimper and I pause, but he looks me directly in the eye. All his embarrassment about his nakedness and his throbbing cock seem to have evaporated, and his pupils are dilated with what I’ll later realise is lust. Our gaze meets just long enough for him to have the opportunity to safeword, and he doesn’t – so I hit him again.

And again. And again. I lose count of strikes and turn both his thighs a radiant pink. I get bored of that and choose something meaner – a knitting needle. 5mm, aluminium and stingy as they fuckin’ come, with a pointy end for poking and scratching.

“This is a lot stingier,” I warn him, and he nods, eyelids heavier now he’s in subspace, and he takes one… two… ten… twenty-something hits with the bastard thing, it and my wrist zipping faster and harder through the air. He starts off whimpering and ends up wailing, especially when I aim for the exact welt I’ve just made with the strike before.

A. whines, “Yellow,” and I put the needle down and lean forwards to kiss his forehead. There’s a thin layer of sweat there and I lick it from my lips as I sit back and consider my options.

I decide to untie him. He doesn’t seem to fidget much, and this way I can get him on all fours. The whole repositioning process takes a couple of minutes, which gives him a chance to recover slightly from the knitting needle. Then, once he’s on his hands and knees, his eyes on the pillow and his arse in the air, I give him a gentle-ish spank to reintroduce him to pain.

I won’t bore you with the half-hour or so of spanking, punching and bruise-yielding mallet wielding that follows, because it’s awfully repetitive – but I’ll mention that I often think, in great detail, about ending the scene by saying, in my best nurturing-dom(me) voice, “You took that so well and you looked so hot doing it. Would you like your ass eaten as a reward?”

And because this is my fantasy, A. always answers, “Yes, please, Sir – I’ve been thinking about your tongue for weeks.”