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.”

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.

Smut Saturdays #6 – Slick

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!


I have this fantasy. It’s vague, and quite possibly not as hot to other people as it is to me.

But it is unbearably hot to me, and follows on nicely from my post about precum, so I’ll try to articulate it for your reading pleasure.

I’m in bed, naked, with a sub. Not just any sub: a sub who is madly, utterly devoted to me. Obsessively so. I’ll probably unpack my stalker kink in another blog post, but I imagine this sub to be so infatuated with me that he steals my clothes to inhale the scent of my body while he touches himself, and hacks my laptop just so he can find out what’s on my birthday wishlist. And this is before we’ve so much as kissed one another. In this fantasy, the sub is lying on his side, facing me, and I’m on my back, gazing at the ceiling. We’re both naked, and under one thin blanket.

He isn’t touching me – he doesn’t dare. But he stares at me, and sometimes his hands twitch like he wants to reach out and stroke my skin. I’m just looking at the ceiling, sometimes stealing a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, absorbing his unwavering adoration. But my attention span proves much shorter than his, so I end up shifting onto my side, facing him, our bodies not touching but only inches away from it.

I can see him internally freaking out about the fact that now I’m facing him. He’s trying to look calm but his eyes are wider and he’s swallowing every few seconds, and I notice his eyes drifting down to my cleavage more than once.

“You can look,” I tell him, and I fold the blanket back so it’s doubled up over him and I’m completely without cover. He’s seen photos of me naked (they’re all over Twitter), but this is the first time he’s laid eyes on my naked body in real life, right in front of him.

He swallows again, so forcefully I can hear it. “You…” he whispers hoarsely, and I wait patiently for him to find the words, barely suppressing a grin. “You’re fucking radiant.”

“Language!” I scold him playfully, and I reach over and flick him, hard, with my middle finger, right under his collarbone. A noise escapes him and I can’t tell whether it’s a moan or not. I run my fingernail along his collarbone and towards his throat, watching his face the whole time. In spite of my nudity, his eyes are fixed on my face. I think briefly about putting my hand around his throat, but we haven’t talked about boundaries or limits and I’m too fond of him to make him genuinely uncomfortable (though I have no doubt he’d endure anything I chose to put him through).

He nibbles at his lip when my fingernail reaches his throat. It’s hot, but I won’t tell him that. “I-I’m sorry,” he whispers. I let my fingernail run down his chest, right between his nipples. “W-what…?”

“What am I doing?” I supply, letting myself smirk now. “It’s called foreplay. I thought the nakedness made it obvious.”

“I thought… you said…”

Ah, yes. Within this fantasy, I have at some point said that I can’t possibly fuck this guy, and he’s taken it very politely and never mentioned it again. The reason I give for not fucking him is incidental; the real reason is simply that keeping him waiting is too delicious to waste.

“Well, we’re not fucking, are we?” I point out, inching a little closer to him, but maintaining the gap between our bodies still. “I’m just poking at you a bit, really. Seeing what noises you’ll make…” And to illustrate my point, I pinch one of his nipples gently between my thumb and forefinger, and hold it until he whimpers.

“That’s… that’s okay, then.”

I pull closer still, and let one of my feet brush one of his. “I’m glad,” I say softly, and I mean it. Gazing into his big, hungry eyes, I feel myself melt a little inside. He’s so precious, and so desperate, and he only wants to do right by me. “There’s a lot of things that aren’t fucking, you know.”

As an example, I press my lips very softly against his.

He twitches, and I just know it’s taking all his might not to press his lips hard against mine, grab at me, run his tongue down my neck… I know exactly what he wants to do to me, but he lays very still and lets me place a tiny, gentle kiss on his lips.

I pull back a little to look at him. He’s somewhere between dazed and pained. I almost, almost want to put him out of his misery, and tell him that we can, in fact, fuck, and that I very dearly want us to. Almost.

Instead, I finally close the gap between us, laying an arm over his waist and pressing my chest against his, and I say, in a low voice, “I really rather like you.”

He stays still, letting me take the lead on every step. “I like you too.” We both know what an understatement it is.

We also both know that his rock-solid cock is poking me in the thigh.

A little bit of creative wriggling on my part places it between my thighs, right at the top, with the head of it nestled against my vulva. I’m soaking wet, and I know he notices. He looks like he’s about to say something.

“It’s not fucking,” I remind him quietly, “so it’s fine.”

I kiss him again before he can speak, and his cock twitches against my cunt. I smirk against his mouth and suck on his lower lip, then bite down on it. He makes the most delightful high-pitched noise, and his cock twitches again. Then, so do his hips.

I keep kissing him, and I slide my hand down to squeeze his arse. I use his arse cheek as a handle to pull him closer, then further away. Closer, then further away. As I brush my tongue against his, I’m encouraging him to rub his cock on the hot, slick outside of my cunt, his precum lubricating my inner thighs.

His timidity is wearing off now; he caresses my face with one hand and holds one of my boobs in the other. He moans against my mouth as I bite his lip again, and I don’t have to guide his arse any more – his hips are grinding, and he’s spreading his precum and my wetness all over my inner thighs, so close to and yet so far from being inside me.

I reach up and grab a fistful of hair, twisting it a little while continuing to kiss him. He whimpers, and the movement of his hips gets more and more jagged. I know what’s about to happen, but I pretend I don’t.

His fingernails dig a little into my boob, and he makes some noises that sound like he might want to talk, but I keep kissing him, knowing he’d call “Red” if it was urgent. I pull as hard on his hair as I dare to – I wouldn’t want to rip any of it out – and my cunt aches with desire as he rubs his throbbing cock against it.

He goes rigid, and quiet, and I press my thighs a little closer together as he shoots hot, thick cum all over my pussy, his tongue still resting in my mouth. I pull my head back a little and see that he’s pink, with his forehead dotted with sweat and a look of pure bliss on his face.

“It’s still not fucking,” I say quietly, “but you have made an awful mess. I think you could lick it up…”