Bratty Bottoms and Me

Image is of two brown, horned mammals (possibly goats) butting heads, both their gazes directed at the ground. The background is just beige dirt.

I used to identify as ‘mostly dominant’.

This probably comes as a shock to anyone who has known me or known of me (in real life or online) for longer than about 20 minutes. I’m collared. I’m in a 24/7 power exchange dynamic wherein I’m the submissive one. I’m very often cruisin’ for a consensual bruisin’ and I love bottoming in humiliation scenes. Nowadays, I identify as ‘a sub-leaning switch’, but the things I actually do paint me as a sub with an occasional willingness to do some service topping.

What happened?

Well, for one, I actually tried submission. When I was insisting that I was the Dommiest Dom™, it was on a purely theoretical basis – I’d not yet done any kink except some weird (and sometimes ethically dubious) text-based roleplay. I picked out the label of ‘dominant’ when I was fifteen or sixteen, absolutely bubbling over with teenage angst alongside my fascination with kink. When I started playing in real life, I gave submission a go “for science” and fell in love with it instantly.

I didn’t lose my love of topping and domming, though. When my first serious relationship became non-monogamous I almost immediately sought out cute subby humans to flirt and sext with. When that relationship fell apart, I ended up in my first triad, dating two other switches.

It was a disaster.

The thing is, some of the play was awesome. I did more impact topping, power exchange, butt stuff topping and humiliation topping than I’d ever done before, and some of it was amazing – hot, exciting, addictive. But some of it wasn’t.

The girl from that triad I’m no longer seeing was the person I beat up more often, spat on more often and more often demanded she call me ‘Sir’ (and, on occasion, ‘Mummy’ – but that’s another post altogether). This was partly a matter of logistics; our other partner (whom I’m still dating) was living a couple hundred miles away, whereas we were often within an hour or two of one another. It was also because she initiated play a great deal more often, in person and over messages, which eventually turned into pressuring me & our girlfriend into things… which is, again, another matter altogether.

She was my first sub, though that power dynamic wasn’t 24/7. She was also the person I’d impact topped most intensely, the first person I’d topped in a CG/l scene and the first brat I’d ever tried to top. The emphasis is on “tried”, because I wasn’t very successful.

I’m a Slytherin and a Leo. I don’t know how to process being unsuccessful. It’s something I’m working on, but if I’m unsuccessful at a non-essential activity or skill (like bowling, swimming or domming), I’ll usually drop it and conserve my energy and resilience for being unsuccessful at things it is essential I master – like referencing in MHRA format or crossing roads safely. When faced with a bratty sub, who was resistant to punishments and obsessed with backchatting me, I felt unsuccessful – especially since this was my first real-life experience of power exchange and topping. So, for quite a long time, I dropped it.

The problem is not with bratty subs. I love bratty subs – I love watching them interact with their dominants in play spaces, I love their energy, I love the idea of them challenging a dominant partner and helping that dominant grow. My personal style of submission leans away from brattiness, but I wouldn’t have a problem with topping or domming a bratty sub – except in a situation where the brattiness was unexpected. The above-mentioned girl I was playing with would sometimes be impeccably obedient and eager to please, and then, with no warning or negotiation or indication of why, she’d switch to brat mode and I’d get overwhelmed. The problem was one part me (a baby dominant, insecure at the best of times and very often riddled with Top Impostor Syndrome, struggling to understand brattiness from a sub’s perspective) and three parts lack of communication. If she had conveyed to me what she liked about being bratty, that I was doing everything ‘right’ and/or that she still respected me as a top, a Dom and a partner, I would almost certainly have relished topping/domming her in Brat Mode as much as I did in Obedient Mode. As it stood, scenes would end with me confused and frustrated, unable to understand what had gone ‘wrong’ and why I couldn’t get her back into Obedient Mode, and I didn’t feel able to voice any of it. I thought I was just a bad Dom.

So now I’m a little scared of topping or domming. I still love it as an idea, but I’m worried about having that same sense that I’ve done it ‘wrong’, leaving scenes hurt and insecure instead of happy and uplifted. It sucks to feel that you’re not good enough in any context, and topping/dominance is a particularly vulnerable context to feel that in. I’m especially intimidated by the thought of topping brattier bottoms, even though I’ve seen firsthand how much fun they can be, because I’ve somehow conflated brattiness with a lack of negotiation and even a disregard for my consent – just because the first and only bratty bottom I’ve played with was being bratty without my consent (and violated my consent in plenty of other ways to boot). That’s a whole bunch of My Problem, of course, and I recognise how illogical and unfair it is that I have this unease around bratty bottoms – but I wanted to write about it, in case any other tops out there had played with bottoms who were unexpectedly bratty and/or behaved non-consensually, and who felt or feel the same way I do. It’s pretty normal to mis-attribute feelings of unease, insecurity and hurt, but I know from hanging out with them that there are plenty of bratty bottoms who are good communicators, consent-conscious and respectful.

At least, they’re respectful outside of a scene. 😉

Smut Saturdays #8 – Okay, So I Have A Foot Fetish…

Image is of a pair of feet belonging to a white person (Morgan) bound together with hemp rope, some of which runs between the toes and binds one wrist to one ankle as well. Morgan is wearing teal nail polish on their fingers and none on their toes, and the background is a black patterned floor mat.

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, and all under the heading ‘Smut Saturdays‘. If you’ve got any feedback or requests, put ’em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!

Content note: this post refers to a ‘Daddy’ but has no other explicit ageplay, and features foot stuff, consensual degradation and, y’know, fucking. Just so y’all are aware.


One of my favourite ways to flirt with people is to gaze longingly at them whilst licking and/or sucking on something. It works well enough on people with vulvae, who are (I hope) enticed by the intensity of my gaze and the thought of my lips and tongue on their junk – but it works even better on people with penises, because you can (if they let you) steal one of their fingers and simulate fellatio by sucking on it and moving it in and out of your mouth. You’ve got to already be at the physical flirting stage, and you’ve got to move their hand towards your mouth super slowly so that they have a chance to opt out of hand-to-mouth contact… but something about having fellatio imitated on one of their appendages makes them extra desperate to have the same happen to body parts further south.

Incidentally, one of my favourite ways to hang out with my Daddy is sitting on the floor whilst he sits on the sofa, in spite of there being two perfectly good armchairs only feet away. It doesn’t matter whether I’m so far into pupspace that I’ve forgotten how my thumbs work or I’m fully in Adult Human Mode™ after a long day at uni; sitting on the floor whilst a dominant partner is on furniture makes me feel small and secure. I’ll retreat to an armchair if my joints hurt too much to endure the floor or if I have things to do that require lamplight or similar, but otherwise I stay on the carpet while we watch Masterchef, Don’t Tell The Bride or various foodie vlogs.

D’you see where this is going yet?

My attention span is woeful at the best of times, and it only gets worse when I’m horny or stressed – and sometimes, reader, I am both of those things at once. Sometimes I’m cruisin’ for a (consensual) bruisin’ as a way of relieving both sexual tension and being-a-grownup-is-hard tension. And sometimes my Daddy lies on the sofa with bare feet, his toes just… there. Right there.

So once, I wrapped my mouth around one of them.

The biggest toe. I laid my lips around it slowly so that he could stop me, but he just sort of… watched. I couldn’t tell whether he was turned on or bewildered or whether he was both. I dropped my tongue down a little and took his whole big toe into my mouth. It was broader than a finger, and rougher, but it wasn’t a challenge to give a mini blowjob to – so I did, for a few intense and strange moments, until he pulled his foot away.

I lowered my head, unsure whether I was in (consensual) trouble and unsure of how I felt. When I suck on people’s fingers, I sort of feel like a powerhouse of irresistible sexual energy – sort of how I imagine sirens must feel whilst they’re luring men to their deaths. With my mouth around a toe, though (and especially a toe belonging to my Dominant), I felt… smaller. Lower. Subjugated. And, even though his toes were clean and entirely neutral in smell and taste, it felt more like an endurance – like a sign of devotion.

I guess he was on that wavelength, too, because he tapped my cheek with the side of his foot. Gently, experimentally. I lifted my eyes to look at him but barely tilted my head, and I stayed stock-still as he tapped my cheek with his foot again. Harder. And again – this time hard enough that you could possibly categorise it as a kick.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been kicked by an impact top, but it was the first time I’d been kicked in the face by an impact top, and also the first time that so much of my attention was on the foot in question. I watched his expression change from detached amusement to sadistic glee as he kicked my face harder, and harder, until it was an effort to keep my neck steady and my head in place. The last kick was so hard that my teeth felt jarred, and I was so deep into subspace that all I could say was, “Thank you, Daddy.”

“On your hands and knees.” He was already sitting up and unbuckling his belt. My brain was too subby to process it fully, so I just shifted myself into doggie style and pressed my face into the prickly, acrylic-y fibres of the carpet. “You’ve got me hard, you fucking dirty bitch.”

Being called a dirty bitch is as inclined to make me do the heart-eyes emoji as being called “Princess” or “angel”. I half-lay, half-slumped there with my butt in the air, and I mumbled, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“No need to be sorry; it just means you need to fix it.” He got to his knees behind me and peeled my leggings off my waist and arse, leaving them bunched around my knees. I knew my cunt was wet but I couldn’t find my wits long enough to be embarrassed about it.

My own toes curled in anticipation at the sound of his zip coming down. It took minimal effort to cram his cock into me, but not minimal pain – I squealed and writhed, a familiar burning at the very entrance to my cunt, but he grabbed my hips with hands bigger than my head – so unless I safeworded, I was stuck. I took breaths in through pursed lips as he began to fuck me, and slowly the pain was replaced by deep, delicious A-spot stimulation.

How did I land myself in this predicament? I wondered vaguely, in between scrunching my face up and moaning. Oh… I sucked his toes. He likes his toes sucked. I like sucking his toes… a lot.

“Daddy?” I asked, in a small voice. The thrusting paused. “Do you think you could put your foot… on my face?”

It’s worth noting that my Daddy is 6 foot something and I’m about 5’6 on a good day. He’s also flexible, and strong, and obliging, so it was only sort of a surprise when his weight shifted behind me and then, still in doggie style and still with his cock buried in me, he managed to press the ball of his foot into my cheek, my head turned to one side and pushed into the carpet. It felt oddly right, like lots of other D/s things: all I could think was, Now I’m really getting under his feet. Heehee.

He carried on fucking me, and, whilst it was awesome, it would be very boring to transcribe here. Rock-hard dick going in and out, front wall of my cunt aching pleasantly, feeling his fingertips dig into my arse as he grew closer to cumming, etc., etc. When we came to a wet, panting, wonderful end, he lifted his foot from my face and brought it back towards himself, whilst withdrawing from my cunt. In the crossfire, I felt and heard a drip, and sat up to turn around.

Cum had dripped onto his foot.

Reader, I lit up with joy. I asked permission to lick it off. And I was forced to concede, as my tongue flicked its way between his toes, that I definitely have a thing for feet.

Help Wanted: How Does Service Space Feel For Me?

Image is a green Philips brand iron lying on top of a white item of clothing.

This post is part of a miniseries exploring the nuances of different headspaces I access through kink! You can find all the other posts in this series by clicking here, and I hope this one serves you well. (Get it? …I’m sorry.)


I grew up assigned female, disabled and queer in a misogynistic, ableist and queerphobic society. I also attended a fee-paying high school solely because of some inherited money that was tucked away in a trust fund, which did not automatically equate to living in a wealthy (or even, uh, financially comfortable) household. Society and my peers made it clear to me from day zero that there were aspects of my life and my identity – of the very foundation of my being – that were undesirable, unworthy or wholly unacceptable.

This did not make for a very sturdy foundation upon which to build self-esteem, as I’m sure you can imagine.

One of the most harmful concepts that our capitalist society presses upon us is that our value as human beings is directly and inextricably linked to our “productivity”. I’ve read a lot of leftist theory and done a whole lot more psychotherapy, but I don’t think it makes me a bad anti-capitalist punk to admit that it’s going to take me a very long time to truly unlearn this particular faulty concept. It’s everywhere.

I’ve already talked a fair bit about the relationship between my disability and my service, but I haven’t actually unpacked what service space feels like for me, or why I enjoy it. It starts with all of the above: in a society that values “productivity”, whatever that means, and with disability already holding me back from being productive in any sort of traditionally capitalist manner, I was desperate to be worthy.

This manifested in my vanilla life first. Some of the things I was doing were all well and good, like donating blood regularly and knitting for charity… but others, not so much. I continued emotionally draining, outright harmful friendships wherein I acted as an unqualified therapist and/or crisis worker because I was desperate to make a difference. I took on responsibilities I couldn’t or could barely carry out because of my disabilities, like staffing a bake sale (which my joints, anxiety and autism all prevented me from doing) and helping my mum redecorate her house from bottom to top. As a pattern of behaviour, it was unsustainable.

Enter service submission. I stumbled across the term during one of my many blog binges and realised I was already kinda-sorta enacting it in the relationship I was in at the time – when I visited my then-boyfriend, it made me feel a great deal less anxious and burdensome to tidy up a little, do some dishes or massage his back. I slowly came to notice that I was deriving a sense of satisfaction from these acts of service that was similar to that which I experienced when doing helpful things in vanilla life – but it felt more profound.

When I’m in service space, I often hyperfocus. In other settings, hyperfocus is a double-edged sword, because I can end up overexerting myself, or forgetting to attend to other things. Under the watchful eye of a dominant partner, though, I can hyperfocus for the length of time it takes to complete a specific task, and then be gently pulled back into reality. It borders on hypnotic. I can immerse myself in the minute details of a task with the safety net of being ordered to stop if it seems like I’m at risk of exhausting or hurting myself.

Within a 24/7 dynamic, my Daddy and I have been able to account for my tendency to hyperfocus even when he isn’t supervising. Sometimes, this involves him being very specific about the level of energy he wants me to put into a task – he might explain that he wants the kitchen “quickly cleaned”, which means that I load the dishwasher and wipe down the countertops – but only the countertops, not the microwave or the toaster or the cupboard doors, etc. Sometimes it also involves him reminding me to check in with myself about whether my joints are hurting and how many spoons I have left, and he specifically tells me that stopping when my mind and/or body want me to stop is included in the service task.

I feel useful when I serve, in the exact ways I was seeking to feel useful in vanilla life. Service space also feels a lot more psychologically safe because it’s so predictable and the parameters are so clear: I am given a task. My job is then to complete this task to the best of my ability, and/or to communicate with my Daddy about any difficulties I’m having with its completion. My Daddy commends me for my execution of the task and/or my insight and communication, and I glow with pride at having done a good job. My experience of service space is almost entirely psychological – the sensory components (like wiping things til they shine, or the smell of citrus dish soap) are a bonus, but entirely incidental to the headspace itself. With a partner giving me specific, achievable goals, I feel like the embodiment of that capitalist myth: a cog in a well-oiled machine. And because my service submission is entirely removed from capitalism, I feel like I’m at liberty to set boundaries and I can even run the risk of “failing” without worrying about the loss of my livelihood. I feel intensely, deliriously safe in service space.

I also feel genuinely pleased with myself for my tangible impact on my dominant’s life. Formalising acts like a back massage or loading the dishwasher by doing them within subspace can help to keep their significance in the forefront of both our minds, meaning that my partner rarely overlooks my labour and so I rarely feel taken for granted. My tangible impact on him and his praise in response to it starts to fill in the cracks in that foundation I mentioned earlier. It’s not a substitute or a replacement for self-worth, but it gives me somewhere safe and reliable to start rebuilding my self-worth all on my own.