Cum Tribute Musings (For #KinkOfTheWeek)

A cartoon white splash, because I'm lazy and use stock photos but didn't get any results when I searched for "cum tribute"

I’ve never received a cum tribute.

Not because I wouldn’t like a cum tribute, but just because it hasn’t ever been at the forefront of my mind long enough to request one from somebody, and nobody has ever sent me one spontaneously, possibly for fear of being creepy. And, um, maybe it would be creepy… except it would be the exact kind of creepy I would find really fucking hot.

Let me clarify: strangers sliding into my DMs with unsolicited cum tributes would be the not-hot kind of creepy – the kind that gets you blocked instantly. But somebody I already knew, with whom I already had some kind of sexy connection, going out of their way to notify me that they’d wanked over my pictures? Oof. And providing visual evidence of just how much, how hard and where they came? Double oof.

There are two ways I think a cum tribute could be the hot kind of creepy. The first is the dominant way, the way that says, “I’ll use your photos however I like, and I’ll use your body however I like, too.” A spontaneous cum tribute sent by a dominant party to a submissive party can be read as a sort of sexy threat, an indication that the other party wants you so badly they’ll come all over a photo of you (even if that involves actually printing something, like people used to do in the olden days), with the implication that they probably won’t stop there. It’s the kind of gesture that says, “I am obsessing over every millimetre of your face and body,” and also, “Next time I see you, I’m going to pin you to any available surface and fuck you until you’re begging for my cum, then manhandle you onto your knees and milk my twitching cock onto your tongue.” It’s the somewhat entitled kind of creepy that fills me with CNC fantasies and tingly, erotic nervousness.

The other way in which a cum tribute could be the hot kind of creepy is, as you might have guessed, the submissive way. If I were to order someone to provide me with a cum tribute, it wouldn’t be creepy, it would just be very hot and possibly a little bit consensually humiliating for person doing the ejaculating. But if someone were, again, obsessing over me – but this time in an adoring, devoted-to-me sort of way – so much that they couldn’t help but wank about it, and then they also couldn’t help but send me a photo to demonstrate how desperate they were for me, my touch, my mouth… that would be deliciously creepy. It taps into exactly the same part of my psyche as my stalker kink does: I want to be lusted after to such a maddening extent that someone will do weird shit that flirts with, but doesn’t cross, my boundaries. I imagine this cum tribute would be offered timidly, apologetically, captioned something like, “I know this is really weird, but I just wanted to show you how hot I think you are,” and I also imagine there would be the greatest volume of cum a person could realistically produce in one sitting scattered across multiple nudes of mine, taken from my blog or my Twitter page. It would be charged with a very similar obsessive, “I want to pin you down and make you mine” energy, but tempered with the devotion and admiration inherent to this brand of submission. As well as being a display of lust, it would be a display of vulnerability and deference.

The cum tribute in the first scenario says, “I’m going to make you take my cum wherever I’d like to put it,” and the one in the second scenario says, “This is all I have to offer you, but I am desperately hoping you’ll decide you want it.”

There are all the other bits of a cum tribute that appeal to me too, of course: I love jizz and I want it in my mouth, like, always, and it would obviously provide me with the mental image of someone doing the coming in order to produce it… But, really, the thing that I find hot about cum tributes is their potential for creepiness. It’s one thing to say, “Oh, I jerked it to those nudes you posted,” and quite another to actually show me the proof. There are extra steps involved – whether or not you print an image, you still have to aim, to make sure the cum is visible, and then you have to take the photo of the results, and then you have to send it. It’s those extra steps that push it from sexy and flattering to sexy, flattering and the hot kind of creepy, and it’s the hot kind of creepy that motivated me to pick up this week’s Kink of the Week prompt.

(Speaking of which – thank you to Molly for running Kink of the Week, and thank you to Mx Nillin for inspiring this prompt! Make sure to check out the other Kink of the Week contributions, this time and every time – they’re always excellent.

Also, I totally wanted to name this post ‘This Is Not The Greatest Cum In The World, This Is Just A Tribute’, but I didn’t, for SEO reasons. Please applaud my sensible decision-making and strong resolve.)

The Kink of the Week badge, which is a red lipstick print with the words "Kink of the Week" on it


If you want to show your appreciation for my work but you’re worried about being the not-hot kind of creepy, consider signing up to my Patreon, buying me a coffee or following me on Twitter!

Skills I’ve Learnt By & From Bottoming

A chalkboard with a mindmap on it, with a lightbulb at its centre. The mindmap is titled "Bottoming Skills" and has six bubbles, which say "boundaries", "self-care", "balance", "processing pain", "communication" and "mindfulness" inside

Last month, I asked my Patreon people what they’d like to see a blog post about for the month of October, and they voted for “Skills I’ve learned or am learning, as a bottom and a human”. So, naturally, I… proceeded to go about three weeks without writing or posting anything. My brain has been on the fritz again and writing about bottoming has fallen to near the bottom of my to-do list (get it?), but at least I can spin it in my favour this time, because one of the most important skills I’ve learned as a bottom is understanding and asserting my boundaries.

Looking after my boundaries comes under the heading of “soft skills”, and it’s a soft skill I’ve had to battle to learn. That’s not a surprise; I’m assigned female and recovering from abuse on top of that, so I’ve spent a lot of time acquiescing on my boundaries for the sake of my safety. In kink, though, the best way to ensure your own safety and wellbeing (and that of the people around you!) is to recognise and assert your boundaries, so that you don’t say ‘yes’ to something you can’t withstand. If you, like me, don’t care much about your own safety or wellbeing, you might find it helpful to reframe it as, “Part of being a responsible bottom is communicating about my boundaries and limitations. It helps my top/dominant if I am forthcoming about what I can and cannot do.” This helps you grant yourself permission to assert your boundaries, and the more times you voice a boundary and have it respected (and even congratulated, with phrases such as, “Good pup for telling me”), the more you’ll train your brain to connect asserting a boundary with having a good time, which is hugely helpful in non-kink contexts, too.

That’s the thing about soft skills like these: I learn or build them whilst bottoming, but they improve my quality of life in vanilla contexts, too. Skills in a similar vein include communication and self-awareness, as well as mindfulness and staying present within my body – something I struggle with, since 1. I dissociate pretty frequently and 2. My brain is usually running at ridiculous speeds and is never fully focused on a single thing. When I’m bottoming, staying present and attentive to my body and brain is essential to my safety as well as my enjoyment of the scene, and this has the pleasant side effect of teaching me that being present inside myself can be a good thing.

Another skill that I practice whilst bottoming and that helps me in my day-to-day life is processing pain. I have hypermobile joints that cause me chronic pain, with acute flare-ups often occurring in cold weather, when I’m ill, when I’m stressed, when I’m not eating right, and/or seemingly at random. It’s hugely helpful to have pain processing strategies to hand for these – things like deep breathing, visualising pain as heat which is radiating from my body, and learning not to freak out because pain is not always equivalent to peril. I’m not learning to ignore pain – in kink, because pain is part of the fun; with my joints, because pain is informative – but I am learning to cope with it.

Bottoming is also teaching me to prioritise self-care. I’m a better bottom (more engaged, more attentive, able to push myself) if I’m well-fed, well-rested and managing my chronic pain appropriately. It’s sometimes difficult to grant myself permission to perform self-care, so, much like with the assertion of boundaries, it’s useful to reframe it as being useful to other people, as well as mixing in the incentive that if I do more self-care, I can do more BDSM.

I have also learned and/or developed “hard” skills from bottoming. Some of these things are as minor and context-specific as coiling my Daddy’s rope for them, but some are bigger – like rope stuff helping me to improve my balance and proprioception. Bottoming-related hard skills are ones I’d like to explore more thoroughly; things like bootblacking would aid my hand-eye coordination, help me to keep my own Doc Martens in good nick and, as a nice bonus, put me into a service-oriented headspace. There are so many ways that bottoming has the capacity to improve one’s quality of life beyond just the bedroom/dungeon/wherever you do kink, and I’m excited to keep exploring them.

The Best Days of Our Lives

Sometimes, when I’m quite tipsy and out on the town, I’m struck by the sense that my friends and I rule the world. The city is lit up and glittering just for us. We are fearless and stupid and hilarious and we love each other. I feel the swells of hope and bravery reach high tide in my chest.

The problem is, though, that emotional abuse conditions you a certain way. Whenever I start to feel brave, or hopeful, or – God forbid – happy, I also start to feel a cold dread leak into my bones. If you’ve lived through emotional abuse, you’ll know that abusers never let their victims’ happiness go unpunished. You’re used to knowing, consciously or not, that whatever positive emotion you’re experiencing is part of the cycle of abuse – you’re in the honeymoon phase now, but you know that soon, the sky will fall in. Every time you feel like you’re getting less small, someone cuts you back down to size. Eventually, you might stop hoping or laughing or feeling brave altogether.

So when I feel like I’m on top of the world with people I love, my brain tries to slam on the brakes. It isn’t my brain’s fault – it has been taught that the more elevated I feel, the worse the inevitable fall will injure me. My brain tells me, “You’ll grow out of this. Sooner or later, you’ll stop having nights out, stop drinking, stop dancing, stop loving these friends – sooner or later, you’ll lose this feeling forever.” 

The thought is like a bucket of cold water in that it startles me, makes my chest muscles tighten, makes me feel like shit. I know I won’t be a dumbass student full of Jagerbombs forever – my brain is right about that. What if it’s also right about never feeling like this again?


Play parties – especially the chill, lowkey rope jams I often attend – aren’t much like nights out. The music is quiet. The lights are dim. I’m stone-cold sober. 

I’m on a mat, lying on my back with one leg suspended above the rest of me. My Daddy is tightening ropes around my shin just to make me writhe and squeak. It fucking hurts. He closes his fist and starts punching the rope that will later bruise my skin. Harder and harder, up and down my entire lower leg. He squeezes my calf and I almost scream.

From my position on the floor, I make accidental eye contact with somebody else on the floor – another bottom, also being tormented, also writhing and squeaking. I’ve never spoken to them before, but they take one look at my agony-filled face and smile at me. I smile right back, knowing that they feel how I feel, knowing that we’ll both glow with pride and endorphins when we’re done.

When the ropes come off and I’m scooped into a hug, I feel so warm and in love with the world. My legs shake in time to the music. The other bottom, the one who smiled at me, is receiving aftercare, too.


I have nagged and nagged at my Daddy to go and play with someone he likes. I’m in lingerie and full makeup, but there’s an empty bathtub in the venue (for some reason) and I’ve found that it gives me exceptionally good autism to sit inside. I watch, fascinated, as other people play. I recognise one of the songs on the playlist and smile to myself. 

Sooner or later, someone I know reasonably well comes and joins me in the bathtub. We sit side-by-side in our sexiest underwear and talk for at least an hour. I make her giggle a lot. We point things out to each other – interesting scenes that are unfolding and other people’s cute outfits, mostly. Another person comes and joins the conversation, kneeling in front of the bathtub. I let sentences about sex and kink and queerness fall straight out of my mouth, completely unfiltered. 

Every now and then, I remember that one of the loves of my life is in the other room, having pulled with my help. I remember the fizz of affection I felt when I caught the eye of another bottom earlier. I remember that these are conversations I would never have anywhere else.

I might grow out of drinking and roaming the town, but the number of older kinksters surrounding me suggests quite firmly that I won’t grow out of this. Which is good, because right now, I feel like my friends and I rule the world. The dungeon is dimly lit and decorated just for us.