Smut Saturdays #18: Intoxication

Three side-by-side images of Morgan posing sexily with a Jim Beam bottle for this week's Smut Saturdays on intoxication - one in which xe has xir legs spread, with the bottle covering their vulva, one blurry one of the bottle between xir tits, and one in which xe is sucking on the top of the bottle

Content note: This post goes into detail about intoxication, and sex whilst intoxicated. The ethical implications of pairing intoxication with sex are for another blog post – this one is just supposed to be fantasy-driven smut, but if intoxication squicks you out for any reason, please do give this one a miss 💙


We’re sitting on your sofa. Sort of melting into it, because we’re drinking, but still keeping a careful distance between our respective thighs. No part of us is touching, and the tension is absolutely crushing.

None of what we’re talking about is boring, but my mind keeps wandering. I find myself staring at your neck, your lips, your hands. I don’t know whether or not you notice.

I finish my drink. As with the last two that I finished, you swipe my empty cup off the coffee table almost as soon as it lands. “Another?” you ask, and it finally dawns on me: you’re trying to get me drunk.

I decide in that moment that I’m going to let you, and I say, “Yes, please,” with the most innocent smile I can manage, my mind full of your neck, your lips, your hands…

When you return from the kitchen with a vodka lemonade that’s even stronger than the last one you mixed me, I take it gratefully and resume the entirely vanilla conversation we’d been having. I already feel hazy – antidepressants have made a lightweight of me – but I don’t yet feel brave enough to close the gap between us, so we talk. And I stare. And my mind wanders.

I keep sipping at my eye-wateringly strong drink until it doesn’t taste quite as strong any more. I can feel the heat of tipsiness creeping into my face and I hope you don’t think I’m blushing. I don’t blush. I’m not flustered. I haven’t been closely monitoring the distance between us, watching you fidget yourself closer to me, longing for the moment our knees will touch. Honest.

I fuck up a sentence. I think it’s that I’ve said “par cark” in place of “car park”, like I used to when I was little. I laugh, and I admit, “I’m really tipsy,” and to illustrate my point, I very boldly lean my head on your shoulder, for a moment, while I’m overtaken by a fit of giggles.

“I know,” you say warmly. “You’re also really cute.”

I pull my head up and look you in the eye. Sober Me would find some way to brush the compliment off, or else change the subject. But Drunk Me blurts out, “And hot?”

You nod. “And hot.” You sip your own drink – beer, which is almost definitely not as strong as the vodka lemonade I’m nursing. “Very hot.”

I bite my lip. “So are you, though.” I’m fighting the urge to make sexy eye contact with you while I suck on my straw – but you’ve been stealing glances at my mouth every time I put anything inside it, and that’s been often, since I can’t go ten minutes without chewing on the pen I’ve been fiddling with.

The conversation moves away from how hot you are, but my mind doesn’t. Your neck. Your lips. Your hands, and the things they could do to me.

You say something that requires a response, but the vodka in me has elongated my processing time, and I’m extremely distracted. So instead of answering your question, I just say, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

I once had a creative writing teacher tell me that people don’t smirk in real life nearly as often as they do in fanfiction, and he was right – but the only word for the look on your face right now is ‘smirk’. A suppressed, slightly condescending curve of the lips, as you watch me grow more embarrassed by the second.

“Is that really a good idea?” you ask, an edge of teasing to your voice.

I frown. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re drunk.” 

“You got me drunk!” I can’t keep childish indignation out of my voice. “You got me drunk on purpose.”

You feign innocence even less convincingly than I do – or maybe you’re being sarcastic. I get more autistic when I’m tipsy, and I can’t compute subtext, and you know that. “Now, why would I do a thing like that?” 

“Because,” I say, leaning closer to you, “you want me to do a thing like this.”

I press my mouth against yours, clumsily, and I’m about to pull away and apologise for overstepping when you start kissing me back. Enthusiastically. With tongue, and then with your hand on the back of my neck, and then with your teeth digging sharply into my bottom lip, making me squeak in faux-protest. 

You pull away first, and you scrutinise my face – probably trying to assess how drunk I am, and whether it’s too drunk to meaningfully consent. But you know how much I like tipsy sex, because you read my blog, and you know how much I like you, because I’ve told you directly. After some excruciatingly long moments of thought, you say, “Maybe that was the plan, yeah.”

And then you kiss me again.

It all blurs together – kissing, tongue, teeth, you pulling my hair, your hands on my waist, my thighs, my tits, getting rougher and rougher as we go. I have my own hand on your thigh, timidly creeping closer to your crotch, and eventually my clumsy hands find the bulge in your jeans. I paw at it uselessly, too busy snogging you to try and unbutton them.

You laugh and pull back from the kiss, one hand still firmly holding my left boob. “Do you need some help?” you tease, moving your free hand towards your buttons.

I nod, my brain hopelessly fried by vodka and lust. “Please,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. 

I watch as you undo your buttons, seemingly in slow motion. There are four of the bastards, but with each one undone I see more of your underwear, and your hardened cock underneath. Its silhouette looks unbearably tempting, and the mystery is killing me, but you don’t reach for the waistband of your boxers. Instead, you pull me back into another kiss.

My hand drifts back to your crotch and starts caressing your dick through the fabric, eliciting sighs from you that make me even more incoherent. I’m not confident I could string a sentence together, especially when I feel your cock twitch under my fingers at the same moment as you dig your fingernails into the soft flesh of my hip. I take hold of your boxer-clad erection, squeezing gently, and you growl against my mouth. 

At this point, my cunt is aching with arousal. I can feel a damp patch forming in my own underwear. I pull away and, still struggling to form entire thoughts, I yank my T shirt off, messing up my hair in the process, in the hopes that this signals to you, I would like to move on from snogging now, please. 

But there’s more snogging, because you want to draw this out, and you’re amused and turned on by how much I’m suffering at this slow pace. I even writhe a little when you start pinching and twisting my nipples, trying to grind my still-fully-dressed cunt against your sofa. 

“Is there something you want?” you murmur into my ear, still playing with my nipples. I whimper. “Tell me what you want.”

I point vaguely to my crotch. “I’m… you… please…”

“That’s not a sentence.” Still, you reach for the leggings I’m wearing. “We’ll have to get these off you, won’t we?”

“I can do it myself,” I say petulantly, standing up on wobbly feet to yank my leggings down to my ankles. My thong comes down too, mostly accidentally, but you don’t look displeased to see me and my cunt entirely naked. You pull me back down onto the sofa by just grabbing one of my wrists and tugging gently, your mouth still quirked in that smirky, smug look, like you’re amused by how pliable I’m being.

Your hand creeps up my inner thigh until you make contact with my mons pubis. I bite my lip and refuse to look at you. I’m watching your hand, broad and strong, as it cups my cunt. You slide your fingers up and down the soaking wet slit between my labia, then start teasing my clit with one slick fingertip.

“Is that what you want?” you coo, as if you didn’t already know. “Do you want me to play with your cunt?”

I nod, still not looking at you. “Mm-hmm,” I manage, as you circle my clit a little harder and a little faster.

You use your free hand to take hold of my chin and gently guide it upwards, so I have little choice but to look you in the eye. “Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers?” you whisper, and as soon as I nod, you push your middle finger into me, slowly, until I sigh with relief and want. “Is that the spot?”

I nod again, and you start rocking your whole hand, massaging my A-spot with relentless precision. I whine and mewl and groan and gasp, and when you pause for a moment to slide off the sofa and onto your knees, I whimper dramatically.

“I just want to taste you,” you reassure me, as you return to finger-fucking me. Your mouth meets my clit, and I put a hand on my lower abdomen, pulling upwards to try and encourage it out of the clitoral hood. “You taste just as delicious as you look, you know.”

You slide in another finger, and you fuck me harder and faster, until my legs are shaking, your mouth always on or around my clit, all the sensations melting together in harmony. I feel like this could go on forever and I would be perfectly happy about it.

Until you pull back and say, “Am I going to get to feel your perfect little cunt twitch as you come on my fingers?”

You pair these words with continued hard, precise finger-fucking, and I can’t help but come in response, my whimpers building into wails as I grind my hips desperately against your hand. My legs shake as the orgasm peaks, and you keep fucking me until I’ve stopped humping your hand. The burn-tingle-pulse of pleasure radiates through me, and I can feel my own heartbeat in my clit.

Once I’ve collected myself a bit – only a little bit – you look down at your hand, soaked in my cum, and frown thoughtfully. “Now, I could get you to suck this off my fingers,” you tell me, “but, equally, I could use it to lube up my dick.”

“I vote option two,” I say, my eyes darting back to your open jeans and bulging underwear. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the fabric is darkening with the wetness of precum. It’s unbearably sexy.

You stand up, looming over me as I slouch, naked, on the sofa, and you pull your cock out with your non-soaked hand. I have to bite my lip hard to keep myself from moaning out loud with want – or from saying something filthy about where I’d like you to put it. “So fucking hard,” you murmur, more to yourself than to me, and I sigh. 

I watch you stroke the length of your shaft with the fingers that are coated in my cum, entranced. I keep glancing between your impossibly hard cock and your mildly strained face, and I find myself starting to stroke my own clit, which is still hard and wet and tingling a little.

“Where do you want this?” you ask, still toying with your cock. “Mouth? Cunt? Cleavage?”

The booze and the snogging have already made words difficult, but being in a post-orgasm haze and watching you mix my cum and your precum into a thick, shiny coating has left me literally speechless. Instead of speaking, I just mimic what you did a few moments ago, sliding off the sofa and onto my knees. In answer to your question, I just open my mouth, wide, and let my tongue hang out a little.

You grin down at me and stroke my hair with your dry hand. “You look so pretty down there.” Your cock is only centimeters away from my mouth, but you keep it there, out of my reach. “Do you want my cock in your mouth?” I nod. “Do you want me to fuck your throat?” I nod again, distinctly aware that I’m being teased. “Do you want to gag on it, you slut?” 

“Please,” I breathe, staring at the swollen head of it as your hand slips up and down.

The hand you’re using to stroke my hair turns into a fist, twisting my hair between your fingers and tugging on my scalp, as you pull my head forwards to meet your cock. You only let me have the head, at first, rubbing your frenulum against my tongue, but then you slowly give me more, and more, until you’re sliding the whole length in and out of my mouth, listening to me gag each time it hits the back of my throat. You pull my head in so close that I have to try and swallow the very end of your cock down, and I find that if I try really hard, I can flick my tongue against your balls at the same time. 

I also find that you like that – you groan, your grip on my head tightening, and you only let me come up for a breather when I can’t hold back urgent-sounding choking noises any longer. At that point, you tease me again, just rubbing the head of your dick on my tongue, until I’ve taken some deep breaths and seem ready for you to suffocate me with your cock again. Tears and eyeliner start leaking from the corners of my eyes each time we do this, and they end up rolling all the way down my cheeks.

“Do you want my cum in your mouth?” you growl during one of the short pauses we take between the cock-swallowing. I nod, and you yank my head a little further down. “Then lick my balls for me, bitch.”

I do as I’m told, making broad strokes with my tongue and managing to smear my own spit all over my cheeks, whilst you stroke your cock with ever-increasing fury. It’s not long before you guide my head backwards, place the head of your cock on my outstretched tongue, and shoot thick ribbons of cum into my mouth. I wait until you’re completely done to swallow, making sure you have a chance to admire my cum-covered tongue first. 

“Fucking hell,” you pant, sinking back onto the sofa. “That was so fucking good.”

I smile, and climb back onto the sofa next to you. “I did my best,” I say, as you scoop me into a cuddle. “I’m glad you liked it.”

You chuckle, and you brush some of my hair away from my eyes. “I think ‘liked’ is an understatement. I might have to get you drunk again soon.”


Every fourth Saturday (unless I need to take a break, which has been the case for the past couple of months, or unless I need to cheekily leave it ’til Sunday instead, which is the case this time…) I’ll be posting smut based loosely on the fantasies or sexy experiences I have, for your wanking enjoyment. Take a look at my last ‘Smut Saturdays‘ post by clicking the link, and maybe check out my Patreon too ($10 Patrons get access to my smut 24 hours before anyone else, so you can get a head start on enjoying it!)
Oh, and in case you wanted a clearer view of the header image for this month’s smut, here it is:

Three side-by-side images of Morgan posing sexily with a Jim Beam bottle for this week's Smut Saturdays on intoxication - one in which xe has xir legs spread, with the bottle covering their vulva, one blurry one of the bottle between xir tits, and one in which xe is sucking on the top of the bottle

A Little Bit Naughty: How Does Littlespace Feel for Me?

Morgan, i.e. me, a white person with big hazel eyes, in littlespace with an adult pacifier in their mouth.

It’s here: the return of my headspaces miniseries. This time, we’re gonna explore littlespace, the headspace accessed by consenting adult kinksters who are into ageplay – playing at regressing to a much younger age. Personally, I don’t have a clear idea of what my “little age” actually is. I think it fluctuates between three or four (speaking in full sentences but can’t be left unsupervised) to about eleven (occasionally stroppy, but excitable, witty and precocious). Some people have a clearer idea, and some don’t – but, regardless of the age I regress to, how does it feel?

Well, you know how some friend groups have a designated “mom friend”, who always has painkillers and snacks and who looks after the rest of you? I’ve always been the “baby friend”. I cry easily and often; I need reminding to eat, wear a jumper in winter, and refill my meds; I hoard sparkly, fluffy and chewy objects (which makes me a very easy person to buy gifts for). I never mean to be an absolute mess, but my friends all seem to know that I am one, and they’ve all taken me under their collective wing. I think that’s an oddity for ageplayers. I think, a lot of the time, people who are little in scenes are very big the rest of the time, and littlespace comes as a welcome break from being sensible and responsible and rational. And I am big, when I absolutely have to be – but I struggle with it, and I spend a lot of my time on the periphery of littlespace.

I discussed littlespace with a therapist once. She was one who’d already reacted positively to mentions of BDSM and polyamory, but I was still nervous to bring up the fact that I sometimes pretend to be a small child. I had already disclosed that I grew up with some, um, less-than-ideal father figures around, and you can pretty much tell just by meeting me that I have an anxious-preoccupied attachment style that is almost certainly a result of my turbulent childhood. My therapist was, thankfully, very understanding of the role of littlespace in my life as a means to relax into myself and experience the joyful, carefree childhood I’d missed out on when I was actually a child. She told me that it was only a problem if I felt it was a problem, and that it sounded like a comfort and a useful tool for me. Viewing littlespace as a tool for healing, rather than as a simple indulgence or, worse, an unhealthy coping mechanism, reflects more closely my perspective on other aspects of BDSM: that it’s both a valid, healthy pastime and a way for me to connect with my body and my self.

Littlespace feels, for me, like being myself, but magnified. I let myself lean into my sensory-seeking behaviours. I get incredibly excited over little (ha) things, like purchasing sweets or a new stuffed toy. I’m always letting adult things fall out of my mind as a side effect of the autism, but when I’m little, I all but shove them out. It’s a happy, peaceful headspace for me. The paraphernalia associated with littlespace is a dream come true, too – I own half a dozen pacifiers and so many stuffed toys, which are perfect from an autistic sensory-seeking standpoint. I also love colouring, as so many littles do, and having something repetitive and creative to focus on can quiet the loud voices of anxiety and depression in my brain. Being little is like being in a warm bath: I’m comfortable, at home in myself, and under no pressure from the outside world beyond having to brush my teeth and be in bed on time.

And, on the topic of being in bed: some people don’t mix littlespace and sexy stuff. The taboo surrounding children engaging in sex acts is, for some people, too strong, and that’s understandable – but it’s the taboo that can make ageplay scenes so appealing for so many people. I like pretending not to understand what’s happening during a littlespacey fuck, letting my adult-brained partner do all the hard stuff like removing my clothes and figuring out what position we’ll take. I relish the idea that I’m so irresistible that my Daddy cannot keep his hands off me, no matter how little and wide-eyed and innocent I am. It’s not as straightforward as some consensual non-consent scenes are, though: most of the time, Little Morgan really wants to do the sex stuff. They like how it feels, and they love pleasing their Daddy. But it remains a CNC scene nonetheless, because I’m feigning an innocence that prevents me from giving informed consent. Even at my oldest, when I’m in littlespace, I’m too “young” to meaningfully consent, which is what makes it so deliciously taboo. And it is delicious – so delicious that I revisit the same corruption of innocence storylines in roleplay with my Daddy over and over again, asking, “Why’s that hard?” and “What are you gonna do?” until, fuckdrunk, I abandon all pretence and beg him not to stop whatever he’s doing, even if I’m too little to ask for permission to cum.


Thank you for reading! To help me produce more content like this, have a look at my Patreon page – every penny helps.

Smut Saturdays #17: Four Hot Ways To Fuck In Summer

To depict the essence of having a fuck in summer: ice cubes on a black background with orange flames all over them, because I am a sucker for dramatic stock images.

I’m gonna be real with you: I am not a summer person.

I don’t like to be sweaty. The inevitable increase in visible insects freaks me out. I don’t want any of my confectionery to be melted and sticky. I get headaches very easily and I’m not good at staying hydrated. I would much rather it be autumn or winter, so I can wear oversized jumpers and huddle up under blankets. Personally, I’m not super excited to fuck in summer when I could just sit in front of a fan.

However, a lot of people seem to be extra horny in summer, so I thought I’d list some summer-specific ways to get it on, if you can bear to leave the freezer aisle of your local Tesco.

  1. At night

The sun goes in at night. You’re in bed, the fan still on, grateful for the few degrees’ difference in the temperature. It’s too hot to sleep with clothes on, so you and your partner lay naked, side by side, talking about your day. You realise that this is the closest you’ve been to their body in the past 12 hours, and you shuffle closer still. You reach out a hand to touch their thigh. Then, cautiously, you slide your hand further north, towards their cock, which you can already feel hardening under your fingertips. Soon, your hands are all over each other, and their thigh is wedged between your legs. Not long after that, the duvet is on the floor and you’re in doggy style (because it’s too hot for anybody to be on top of anybody else) and you’re building up an aggressive rhythm. Neither of you has turned the light on, so you’re blindfolded by the darkness of the bedroom, all your focus on the crescendo you’re both building to.

Later, the cum and sweat all over your thighs is highlighted by the fan, and you thank the heavens for evaporative cooling.

2. Coldly detached

You’ve had a long day. You’ve only been home twenty minutes, and your partner is across the room, doing nothing productive on their laptop. You watch the cute crease in their brow as they read something a little too sophisticated for the brain-melting summer heat and you’re overwhelmed by the desire to help them turn their brain off. You snap your fingers to get their attention.

“On your knees, here,” you order, pointing to the space in front of the sofa between your legs.

They all but throw their laptop down and scurry over, wide-eyed and eager to obey. They watch, transfixed, as you unzip your trousers and pull out your cock. You know you’ll taste like sweat, and you know they’ll secretly savour it. 

As they work on you, sucking and stroking and licking and occasionally gagging, you don’t so much as put a hand in their hair. You spend a little time looking at ice cube trays on Amazon, but you spend more time pretending to look at your phone, unable to actually take any information in, as your partner diligently licks your balls, their hand sliding up and down your shaft with only their own spit for lubrication. 

By the time you come, your phone has slipped out of your hand. You growl. Your hands are still nowhere near touching your partner, but you let your leg bump against them as you zip back up.

“Good job, pet.”

3. On your own

Sometimes it’s so hot that the thought of another person’s body heat within two metres of your personal bubble is disgusting. You lay in bed, directly in front of the fan, and plug your favourite vibrator into the wall. You press its thrumming head hard against your clit and grind against it, thinking of all the dirty things you want to hear somebody say when it’s finally cool enough to let their mouth within a few inches of your ear. “Come for me, you desperate slut. That’s it, it’s building, isn’t it? I can see how close you are, how your toes are curling… that’s right, little girl, come for me. Good.”

Your orgasm rips through you, and with your non-vibrator-wielding hand, you clutch the sheets so hard that they might rip, too. You realise you’ve been moaning loudly and the window is open, but you cannot summon the energy to care.

4. With ice

This one is self-explanatory, but I’ll leave you with the thought of an ice cube buried deep in your cunt, slowly melting, with water dripping out of you and mingling with your increasing wetness. Your partner is watching some sports thing on TV, but occasionally throws you a sly glance, especially when she notices you squirming. You know that soon, your soaked thong will be in your mouth as another ice cube – or something else – is slid inside you, to press against your G-spot and make you squirm again.


Every fourth Saturday (mental health and life events permitting, of course) I’ll be posting erotica here for your wanking enjoyment, based loosely on my own experiences or fantasies. Feel free to get in touch via Twitter if you have a theme to suggest, and remember to check out my Patreon page if you’d like early access to exceptional filth!