Smut Saturdays #16: Possession

Two trainers are placed on a rain-covered pavement, and appear to be empty, but the shadow that is cast by them appears to feature a whole human silhouette, standing in the trainers.

This piece of smut contains themes of possession and controlled by a supernatural entity. I know that can be a paranoia/psychosis trigger for some people, so I want to stress that this is purely fictional, but that you can definitely skip it if that’ll be hard for you to read.


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!


It slipped into me in the library.

Not some spooky library, nothing with books on the occult or anything thematically relevant. Just my university library, on the ground floor where the cafe is, whilst I was working on some coursework. I don’t know where It came from, but I felt a shift in my torso, and I heard Its voice:

“Jesus Christ, you live in this thing?”

At first I thought I had overheard a snippet of conversation, or maybe that I was hallucinating. (I sometimes do, after all, especially when I’ve had too much caffeine; I eyed the two empty Monster cans on the table with suspicion as It continued to talk.)

“Everything hurts! Like, everything! The hips, the knees, the knuckles, even one of your toes hurts!”

I was now leaning away from the possibility that it was a conversation on another table I was hearing. This left only the theory that I was hallucinating, so I ran through my mental checklist: I’d taken my anti-psychotics, I’d had a decent night’s sleep, I was only a little stressed and I hadn’t had any other sensory disturbances in the past few days.

Odd.

“You’re not hallucinating,” It insisted, Its voice as clear as if It were in the seat next to me. “I’m inside your body. I’m… I suppose you’d call me a demon. I’m a consciousness without a body, so I thought I’d try yours out. But I can’t believe how much your joints hurt! Are you seriously only 21?”

Cottoning on to the notion that this thing could hear my thoughts, I replied internally: Yep, I have a disorder. This is a pretty moderate pain day, too – it gets a lot worse. You might want to find another host.

Suffice to say, It did not do that.


It proved Its nature as a real thing, rather than a hallucination, as thoroughly as it could. It puppeteered my body, but I knew that could be a delusion. It had me stand in front of the mirror whilst It manifested as visibly as It could, a shimmering sort of stain in the air, but I knew that could be a hallucination too. That’s the problem with having occasional symptoms of psychosis: you can never really enjoy the truly weird things that life throws at you.

Still, It resided in my body for a few weeks, telling me in snippets about why It had wanted a physical form. It was, essentially, a manifestation of some kind of metaphysical force – chaos or something, as far as we could figure out. It didn’t really know, and I joked that I knew the feeling, being nonbinary and lacking the vocabulary for my experiences of gender. It responded, “I had noticed that. You have a lot of confusion in here.”

Since It shared my body, It also shared all my body’s sensations. I realised this when It said, firmly, mid-paragraph in the library, “We have to pee.”

It can wait, I thought, my fingers not faltering on the keyboard.

“It can, but it shouldn’t.” It froze my fingers, so they hovered, splayed, over the keys. “We’re going to the bathroom.”

I didn’t like the feeling of paralysis when It influenced my body’s movements, so I got to my feet of my own accord and, as petulantly as I could manage, made my way to the bathroom.


“We could get you out of me,” I suggested (out loud, because I was alone in my flat, and it made the conversation feel a little more real.) “Find you a new host whose body doesn’t suck, or else figure out somewhere to put you where you don’t have to possess people at all.”

“I don’t want that,” came Its deep, stubborn voice. “This body is fine.”

“You could do better than fine.” I tried to shut my thoughts up before It heard them: that I actually didn’t mind Its presence in me that much, that Its constant nagging to give in to every impulse I had was kind of funny and sometimes useful, that it was nice to only be alone when It rested. “You could possess some leader of something and actually cause chaos, rather than compelling me to rearrange those mugs with letters on them in Tesco’s to spell swearwords.”

It replied, “You wouldn’t like that. You’d feel guilty if anybody came to harm because I was breakdancing in Theresa May’s body.” What a fantastic mental image. “Besides, I don’t want to get out of you.”

“Why not?”

It made a sort of non-committal grumbling sound. “Not important.” I could sense that It wanted to change the subject, but I was intrigued now. “Morgan, shush. You should do some knitting.”

“I want to know why you don’t want to leave my body! It hurts all the time, you can’t override my dyspraxia and you have to sit through Linguistics lectures with me. What are you gaining here?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

I rolled my eyes at It. “You’ve been with me in the bathroom, while I’ve made the most dumb-ass Google searches and during one of my snotty, hysterical meltdowns. If I have to be embarrassed, so do you.”

It was thinking. “I don’t want to say it.”

I thought back to the only time It had locked me out of my body completely – during the aforementioned meltdown, when It realised that the only thing that could help was my meds, and It couldn’t convince me to take them. I had suddenly lost consciousness, falling into a black and marshmallowy abyss until It had pushed a sedative down my throat, at which point It gently brought me back and told me what It had done. (I probably should have been annoyed at It, but I was impressed, both by Its initiative and Its ability to lock me out.)

“You could shut me out of the body and write it down.”


When I came to, there was a note in my own handwriting on a page of my journal, which lay in front of me on my duvet.

Morgan,

This is hard for me to admit, but I’ve grown fond of you. Exceptionally fond. It’s lonely, being disembodied, and living alongside you is a blessing. I love hearing your thoughts, feeling all that empathy and compassion, being part of your life. It’s worth every moment of joint pain and every time you walk into the bed frame. And I like the feeling that I’m helping you by getting your meds into you, walking you to the bathroom, insisting that we eat. If I were to leave, I’d miss you terribly. And that wouldn’t be very chaotic of me. It would just be sad.

Oh.

I read it in silence, knowing that It could feel what I felt and hear what I thought.

What kind of fondness are we – I began, but It interrupted.

“When you’re asleep, sometimes I take over the body just to enjoy it. I like looking at it. I think it’s the kind of fondness you think it is.”

Okay, so the demon that lives inside my body now fancies me. That’s neat.

It responded, even though the thought wasn’t directed at It. “Yes, I fancy you, okay? Can we move on now?”

But It also heard my next thought, which was, Hey, I’d fuck a demon. Not sure how, but I would.

“I could…” Oh, now It was really embarrassed – I could feel it. “I could fuck you from in here. In your body. I could like, control your hands and stuff.”

I struggle with fucking myself. It knew this, of course, and had previously sympathised with me about it. The idea of allowing It to take the wheel, attuned to all my preferences and desires but separate enough from me to negate the feeling of weirdness I have whilst wanking was unbearably tempting. And, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want a chaos demon whose whole raison d’être was encouraging people to succumb to base impulses to fuck them silly?

It was listening to my internal debate, and chimed in, “Plus, this could be a good exercise in overcoming that fear of yours. Like therapy.”

“Oh, yeah, we have to fuck for therapeutic reasons,” I responded, rolling my eyes at It.

It pulled me gently further upright, so I wasn’t slouching, and cast my eyes around the room. “You’ve got that mirror on the wardrobe,” It observed. “We could do it in front of there.”


I assembled a small nest of blankets, cushions and sex toys on the hard flooring in front of my wardrobe, anticipation building in my torso and in my cunt. I could feel Its nervous excitement too, although It kept pretty quiet as I dug the lube out of my bedside drawer and placed it alongside the two dildos I’d picked out, accompanied as always by my trusty Doxy wand. I had lost sight of quite how odd the whole procedure was, distracted by the unending feedback loop of Its desire and my own. Every time I noticed how excited It was, I felt a little more wanted, and a little more turned on, and every time It noticed my body getting more aroused, It flashed hot with want, stirring inside me.

I was barely even self-conscious as I stripped, clumsily but with haste, in front of the mirror. I was ready to sit down and get to work when It growled, “Wait.”

It wasn’t just a request – it came out like a command. I froze in place, naked and wide-eyed, as It took control of my left hand. Slowly, as though It wanted to give me a chance to take control back if I wanted to, It slid my left hand up my side, soliciting goosebumps, and then held my left boob gently, weighing it in my hand.

“So fucking soft…” It murmured to me, Its control creeping into my right hand as well.

I watched, transfixed, as It trailed my own fingernails along my abdomen, just shy of my mons pubis. It would know just as well as I did how wet I was getting, but It wasn’t half as shy as me. I could only stare, and let my cunt do its near-involuntary, desperate clenching, as It took Its sweet time caressing my sides, my tits and my stomach. In spite of the heat in my room making nudity a welcome change, I was all goosebumps, complemented by two erect nipples – nipples It was carefully avoiding, obviously teasing me for as long as It could.

“I know how badly you want it,” It said. “I can feel that ache in your cunt and the wetness between your thighs. I can feel your heartbeat changing. I can hear your innermost thoughts, and I know how badly you want me to play with you.”

I nodded (pointlessly – of course It knew), but I couldn’t resist a spot of cheek. “I can feel how badly you want it, too.”

It actually growled through my vocal chords, rather than inside my mind. “You have no idea how badly I want this,” It told me, Its voice back inside me again. “God, the amount of restraint it’s taken me not to just -”

But It stopped short, because it heard me thinking, Oh, so you can do restraint. Have I taught you that?

That’s the problem with being possessed by a very attentive demon – you can’t even be a sarcastic little prick in your own head.

I could feel It feeling around in my head, trying to get a read on something, and then, before I knew it, my own fingernails were being dragged across the skin just under my tits, hard enough to leave four long, parallel welts in the flesh.

Ah, of course – It was trying to determine whether I’d be okay with It using my hands to punish me for my cheek. And It knew I would be.

It also knew that this sudden burst of pain had made my clit tingle, and that if It wasn’t in charge of my hands, I’d probably already be starting to masturbate. But, since It was, I could only stand there, struggling not to pout, as It continued stroking up and down my stomach with my own fingertips.

I realised, with all the hazy slowness of someone who is about to slip into subspace, that I had full control of my legs. Maybe if I sat in my little blanket nest and spread my legs in front of the mirror, It wouldn’t be able to resist…

I landed heavily and awkwardly on my arse, knees akimbo, and directed my eyes towards my exposed cunt. A fine layer of fuzz was visible on my labia majora, but like a lot of people, my inner labia exceeded those, sticking out cheekily like a tongue in a bratty selfie. You could tell (or at least, I could) just by looking that I was aroused – everything was pinkened and puffy, and if you strained, you could probably see my clit poking out of its hood, hardened and eager to be touched.

“I know what you’re doing,” It told me firmly, but It still slid my hands further down my abdomen, closer to my mons pubis and my desperately wet cunt. “I’m in charge here.”

Oh. That particular facet of the situation hadn’t fully sunken in – that It was capable of manipulating any part of my body, and that I had no way of making It leave. That I was trapped, in my body, just watching it be touched.

“I meant that in a sexy way,” It added hastily upon sensing my thoughts. “Like that I’ll be the boss here. But I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t one hundred percent want, you know.” Oh, I wanted to trust It, but… “Besides, you’re much better company when you’re enjoying yourself, so I’d never do anything you disliked – it wouldn’t be half as fun.”

Ugh. It knew Its way around my brain too well. I couldn’t relax into this scene for my own sake, but of course I could relax for It.

So I did. I leaned back against my stack of cushions to give It a better view of my cunt in the mirror and watched my own left hand as it picked up a vibrator. Instinct tilted my pelvis upwards a little, giving It fuller access to my clit. My own thumb turned the vibe to its lowest setting, but I wasn’t going to get off that easily – It dragged the vibe across the fold between my thigh and my stomach, and then around every inch of my vulva other than my clit, with such deliberate slowness that I whined out loud at It: “Please just fuck me!”

It laughed at my desperation and let the very tip of the vibe skim over the very tip of my clit, not even lingering there before progressing to another thigh-fold. I made a far less coherent whining sound than my previous one had been, and my hips twitched without my say-so (a motion which would have betrayed me and my horniness if my current partner weren’t literally already inside my body and brain).

I could feel It running out of patience at a rate similar to my own, inching towards a loss of control that I had no objections to. I just didn’t expect It to suddenly, ferociously, press the vibe directly to my clit, using my own thumb to turn it up, up, up…

It only took about fifteen seconds after reaching the vibrator’s most powerful setting for my toes to curl and the burn of orgasm to spread through my cunt and thighs. It spurred me on with every filthy thing It knew I liked to hear: “Oh, that’s right, fucking come for me, you’re such an easy little bitch, come, I want you to come, I’ve wanted to watch you come since the moment I saw you…”

I wailed, It gently pulling my eyes open, as I came hard in front of the mirror, watching my own cunt spasm and twitch in time with the waves of pleasure. It all but purred with satisfaction.

“Oh, you’ve gone and fucking done it now,” It said, as I lay back in my nest and gazed at the ceiling. “Now I know how fucking delicious it feels to make you come, and how good you look, we’re going to do everything.”

My mind jumped from the largest dildo I owned to my array of butt plugs and all the things It could use to cause me pain. The shiver those thoughts sent through me re-hardened my softening nipples, which I noticed mostly because It picked my hands up – gently, allowing me joint control – and started to pinch at them.

“Yes,” It said, pulling so hard on the left one that I whimpered, “everything.”

Smut Saturdays #13: Through The Window (Part 1)

Stock image of a wine glass on its side with corks spilling out of it. The background is plain black and the corks are a traditional corky brown.

Content note: This is a fantasy story which portrays stalking in detail and makes mention of blood. If either of those are difficult for you, give this one a miss! We’ll be back next week with a post on my new protocol proposal system, and in the meantime, you can always follow my Twitter for anecdotes, memes and more.


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!




I have my laptop on my pajama-clad thighs, and I’m in the process of signing on to the agency through which I do some of my freelance captioning work. The pickings are slim: it’s a Saturday, after all, so there are fewer business-y projects to caption, and the vlog-type ones left available are being snapped up before my dyspraxic fingers can reach the ‘claim’ button. I allow myself to be distracted by Twitter for a few long moments, until I hear something at the window.

I pause. I’m not often perturbed by odd noises – I’ve been living with mild, usually stress-induced psychosis for a couple of years now, so I often assume that my brain is misfiring when I hear or see things that don’t make sense. And something at the window doesn’t make sense: I live in a weird, labyrinthine, formerly industrial building and my window opens onto, seemingly, more building.  Unless it’s a bird or a squirrel (in which case it can’t harm me anyway), it’s likely to be a hallucination. I make a mental note to mention it to my Daddy when he phones me after work, and I turn my attention back to my work website.

The noise – which is, by turns, tapping and scuffing against my window – persists. I’m too anxious to check it out, and too comfortable, so I jam my earphones into my ears and claim a five-minute Pixlr tutorial to caption. Once I’ve finished, the noise has stopped.


I sleep lightly and have nightmares every single night, unless I get drunk or high – and even then, it’s 50/50 as to whether I’ll wake up in a cold sweat. So when I snap awake at what my microwave clock tells me is 2:49 a.m., I assume it’s my brain and shut my eyes again.

Until I hear a whisper.

“Morgan.”

I scrabble for the light switch, adrenaline forcing the taste of blood into my mouth. In only a second, I think about where I left my kitchen knives (on the draining board, fuck), where my huge steel dildo is (at my Daddy’s house, fuck) and whether I could fend off an attacker with a four millimetre knitting needle from my bedside drawer. (The fuckers bend – I know that from sitting on them.) My fingers find the switch and flood the room with light. I squint against it, anxious to see who spoke my name.

At nearly 3 a.m., common sense does not suggest that this could be a hallucination or a nightmare. But that’s fine, because common sense would have been wrong anyway.

Standing at the foot of my bed is a stranger.

I wonder if I should scream, but I don’t know who he is, what he wants and whether he would kill me if I did. So I slowly, slowly sit up, and take in his face. It’s a narrow face (if you were being unkind, you might call it scrawny) with a beard, a beanie hat covering his hair, and huge, huge eyes staring right back at me. I try to gauge his height based only on where my bedframe comes up to him: he’s probably not that much taller than me. Even in his big hoodie, he looks slim, and I’m already mentally rehearsing what I’ll do if I need to: eyes first, bollocks second, get to the door while he’s incapacitated, scream for my corridor-mates to phone 999. I run my thumb over the fingernails on my right hand, and mercifully, I haven’t bitten them off recently, so I could theoretically dig them into his skin.

Except he isn’t moving. He isn’t speaking. There is a bizarre moment in which I think he might be as scared as I am.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, in a parody of my own Britishness, “I’m not sure who you are.”

“You don’t know me,” he says, still staring unabashedly at me. I’m glad I slept in pajamas rather than nude, even if it means another human witnessing my ratty knitting society T-shirt. “I’m sorry. I just, I couldn’t help it any longer. I’ve been following you.”

I press my thumbnail into my fingertip, hard, and it hurts. Not dreaming. “Oh,” I say. I still can’t gauge how dangerous this man is. “Why?”

“Because, um.” He finally stops looking at my face and instead becomes intensely interested in his own hands. “I’m in love with you.”

Well, you’re not, I think. We’ve never interacted. At best, you’re infatuated with me.

Out loud, I only say, “I see.”

I can’t tell by my bedside light, but I think he might be blushing. “I know it’s stupid, and weird, and I know how fucking creepy it is that I’ve broken into your flat, but -”

“Well, you haven’t exactly broken in. I left the bloody window open.” God, he’s got such big, sad eyes. He looks like a puppy straight out of a Dog’s Trust ad. “Um, can I ask your name?”

“It’s Anthony. Friends call me Ant.” He finally looks at me again. “I’m really sorry I came in. I wasn’t even going to wake you, but you looked like you were having a nightmare and I couldn’t bear it.”

I pull some sort of weird, rueful face at that. “If I was woken up every time I had a nightmare, I’d never get any sleep at all.” I’m still not convinced this is really happening. “Ant, it’s been lovely to meet you, but I need to be up at seven tomorrow.”

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I’ll head off. Uh, through the door, rather than the window this time. But, you know, if you ever want to talk, um.” He pulls something out of his pocket. I take it from him, leaning forwards and trying only to bring my hand, nothing else, close to him, just in case, and I see it’s a business card. A fucking business card. It holds his name, his number and his email address. “Thank you for not freaking out.”

I nod slowly. “I’m just glad you weren’t burgling me. There’s fuck all to burgle here anyhow.” I glance towards the door. My flat is so small that I can see my kitchen from my bed, and the only door other than the front one leads to the bathroom (sans bath). “D’you know how to get out? I think there’s fire exit signs that should point you in the right direction.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t get out of bed just for me.” He starts towards the door, but pauses with his hand on its handle. “Morgan?”

“Yeah?”

“I will make you love me.”

And with that, he left.


I don’t tell anybody.

At first, I assume it’s a dream. I crawl out of bed at 7:20 and open a can of Relentless before I even think about breakfast, as is my tradition. I get dressed. I have nearly half a crumpet in my mouth when my eyes fall on his business card.

A fucking business card.

After that, I don’t tell anybody because I know they’ll worry. They might call the police. There are CCTV cameras on my corridor – they could find him. And he really didn’t seem to mean any harm.

Maybe my blasé attitude regarding a stranger breaking into my home is exactly why everybody would worry about it.


I don’t call or email him. I don’t Google him. I lie down for bed every night, hoping for and dreading a visit from him.

Three days after our first meeting, he starts leaving me gifts.

The first is in my postbox. It’s a large bar of salted caramel Galaxy (my favourite) with a note sellotaped to it.

Wanted to make sure you don’t forget about me. Loved the dress you wore yesterday.

– Ant

I carefully peel off the note and stash it in my coat pocket. I don’t want anybody to see it (least of all my Daddy, who would worry the most) but I would feel exceptionally mean just throwing it away.

I share the chocolate with my 20th Century Poets And Politics seminar group, and I don’t tell them where it came from. It tastes amazing.


The second gift comes only a day after the first, again in my postbox. This time it’s a giftcard – to Ann Summers. The note reads:

I know you want their new baby pink lingerie line and I know you don’t want to give them your money. This should work online. If you want me to see you wearing it, post pictures on your Twitter or email them to me – otherwise, just enjoy.

– Ant

How the fuck did he know that?

Has he actually, physically been following me? Was he a few feet behind me in the city centre when I lamented to a friend that I wanted that bra so bad but didn’t want to put my money into a company like Ann Summers? Was he listening to me through my phone? Was he canvassing my friends about my lingerie tastes?

The reality begins to set in now: he really has been following me.

I am scared by how little this realisation scares me.


The gifts stall for two days and I begin to overthink it. Maybe he’s hurt that I haven’t acknowledged the first two. Maybe, because he’s hurt, he’s going to hurt me. Or someone I love. That thought makes me so cold with fear I can ignore the other nagging worry I’ve begun to have: maybe he doesn’t like me any more.

I bite the bullet and text him. It takes me twenty minutes to compose a 62-word message.

Hey Ant, I wanted to say thank you for the chocolate and the giftcard. I would have said something sooner but (as I assume you already know) I’ve got that mad anxiety 😂 Sorry it’s taking me a while to adjust to the news that you’re in love with me. Can we text for a bit and see how it goes? Morgan x

I don’t know why I put a kiss on the end. Britishness? Being AFAB? I don’t stop to consider any other reasons for it.


Hey Morgan, no worries about the presents – they’re gifts, I don’t expect anything in return for them! I would love to keep texting. There are lots of other things I would love too, but I know you don’t know me as well as I know you 😉 Ant xx

We start flirting.

I tell my partners I’m flirting with a boy (because I’m not a douchebag) but don’t mention how we met. I learn that he’s at my university, which is where he became interested in me, so I tell people that he has friends in my seminar groups and that’s how we got chatting. It’s only sort of a lie. He keeps leaving gifts – sweets and chocolate, giftcards to places he somehow knows I want to shop, six balls of some yarn I decided was too expensive to buy six balls of – and includes notes with them:

I don’t know what you did with your hair yesterday but it was stunning. I couldn’t choose between the white chocolate and the milk so I got you both – feel free to share them with friends/partners or to save them for a rainy day.

– Ant

 

Literally cannot stop thinking about you. I saw you trying to befriend that cat near the tram stop – that was too cute for words. I think I got the right colour yarn but I’m not sure it’s the right thickness – I can always exchange it for you if not.

– Ant

Once, when I’m hungover, he leaves me orange Lucozade, paracetamol and a voucher for a bacon sandwich, with a note that reads:

I cannot find a compliment that’s appropriate about the way you looked last night. They all involve wanting to do stuff to you that we haven’t talked about yet. Anyway here’s some hangover supplies – if you need anything else I can come over. Or if you don’t want me over you could always get in touch with your partners, I know they have your back. (And I would be honoured to be their metamour) Have a gentle day

– Ant

Eventually, I can’t deal with the tension any more. I want to pick his brains – what does he know about me? How has he found it out? What made him fall for me like this? I give everybody the necessary heads-up that I’m inviting a boy over, and I text him:

Want to come to mine to talk? I’m actually dying to see your face again. I’m free on Wednesday nights and alternate Fridays xx

His reply, unnervingly fast, is, Absolutely. Please. Wednesday? Any requests for snacks or anything? xx

When I tell him No, I’ve got plenty to eat, but that’s sweet of you xx, he responds, You know I’d do anything for you. ANYTHING xx, and I’m stupid enough to shoot back: You can prove that on Wednesday 😉 xx


On Wednesday morning, about seven hours before Ant will knock on my door, I find another gift in my postbox.

It’s a little vial. It’s filled with dark red liquid. It has a cute cork keeping it airtight.

I realise it’s blood.

The note says:

Okay I 100% realise logically speaking that this is probably not what you meant when you said “prove it on Wednesday” but I got it into my head that I could give you some of my blood and I couldn’t shake the idea. I’m really sorry if this grosses you out, I’ll happily take it back and get rid of it, or I’ll show you the results of my most recent blood tests if that helps. Just, I really, really mean it – I would do anything for you. I would do anything to be yours.

– Ant

I stand so my body shields my postbox from view and nobody can see what’s in my hand. I tilt the vial this way, then that, watching its glass sides get painted red. I wonder whether he knew this would evoke good autism feelings in me – I have a real fondness for deep red tones, especially when they’re translucent or glittery – and how he collected the blood. There’s only, at a guess, 5 millilitres in there, which is less than I tip out of my menstrual cup after a good night’s sleep.

I slip the vial into my coat pocket and head to class, sometimes stroking the smooth, cold glass as a stim while I walk.


When I arrive home, he’s in my bedroom. This is not a surprise, although I know it should be. I hang my coat up and kick off my trainers. He’s just standing there, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed on the furniture. He’s still in a big hoodie and jeans, like the last time I saw him; I feel a weird yank in my midriff, like fondness, as I pull out my desk chair and point to it.

“Sit,” I say, and I notice with a wince that it’s my dom voice – the same one I use when I’m bossing a submissive partner around. I pray he doesn’t know this. “Do you want a drink or anything?”

I hear him swallow. His anxiety is palpable. “No, thank you,” he says. I pull out my only other chair and perch on it. “This is the first time I’ve ever been this close to you.”

He’s right – when he stood at the end of my bed, his body was at least four feet from mine. Now our knees bump together when I move. I have goosebumps and raised arm hairs even though it’s warm in here, and I’m pretty sure I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.

Yeah, everywhere. I realise, in a sinking sort of way, that I want him. Badly.




In spite of the option of serialising this story losing the poll I ran on Twitter about it, I’m going to leave this hanging until next Smut Saturday. I recognise that it’s not terribly smutty thus far, but the fanfic writer in me can’t resist a slow burn, and I personally might need to go wank based on the stalking setup alone. Let me know what your thoughts are on longer-form smut and on serialising Smut Saturdays pieces!

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.