Smut Saturdays #3: Wet and Warm

Content note: This week’s Smut Saturdays post is about watersports, or, in layperson’s terms, piss. If that squicks you, feel free to give this one a miss, and come back next Saturday for a regular post or in a month for the next Smut Saturdays story!

PLUS, this week I’ve been lucky enough to be featured over at Girl On The Net, with a piece about my first time doing needle play: https://www.girlonthenet.com/2018/05/25/needle-play

If you’ve got any feedback or requests, put ’em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!


The bathroom is cold.

I know you could make it less cold. I know that you could turn the heating up with that app on your phone, or that you could shut the bastard window. This means that I also know that you’re enjoying my coldness. I’m completely naked – we’ve even left my collar on your mattress – and you’re in your pristine, drool-inducing suit. I’m on my knees on the cold, hard shower floor, and you’re standing in front of me, hand on your belt buckle.

The hairs on my forearms are standing up, and so are my nipples. I’m not sure whether it’s the cold, or whether it’s the anticipation.


It started innocently enough. I poured you a glass of water and thrust it at you, an act of service not outside the ordinary. Then I sat at your feet, facing away from you and towards the TV, pretending to pay attention to Scrubs while I listened to your sips. You stroked my hair absentmindedly.

Then you set your glass down on a coaster, and I sprang to my feet to refill it.

You caught on then. Usually, I don’t refill things without being asked: not out of laziness or brattiness, but out of an autistic lack of initiative and a my-mum-raised-me-right aversion to waste. My sudden interest in keeping you hydrated raised your eyebrow, and you watched my naked arse disappear into the kitchen again with mild intrigue.

By the time I’d arrived with your second brimming glass of water, you’d figured it out.

“Are you hoping I’ll piss on you?” you asked, smirking because you already knew the answer.

I pretended to be embarrassed. I looked at the carpet and shrugged. But we both knew you were right, and I handed over the glass without a word.


It fills me with glee that I only have to ask. And sometimes, not even that.

I don’t want to misbehave. Even playfully, I don’t want you to frown at me, raise your voice or scold me. I don’t want to feel, even for a moment, even in play, that I’ve let you down. I want to demonstrate, constantly and through action as well as words, that I am devoted to you and to my submission to you. Misbehaving suits a lot of subs, but it has never suited me.

I can be cheeky, I’ll own that. I stick my tongue out and talk back and I plead with you for permission for things even after you’ve said ‘no’. But I follow my rules, and I follow your orders. I try to make you feel spoiled. I don’t want my submission to feel like a struggle. I want it to feel like a warm bath, soothing and surrounding you.

So I truly love that, when I want to be hurt or humiliated, I just have to ask. Or hint. Or bring you a third glass of water.


You ordered me upstairs after that third glass. You had your keys in your fist, and you let me go first, so you could watch my arse up the stairs. I had been naked since before you got home, simply too tired to tolerate clothes, but now more than ever I felt your eyes on my skin.

We reached your bedroom, me still in the lead, and you had me sit down on your bed. You didn’t have to say anything, just pressed your broad right hand onto my left shoulder til I caught on and sat. Then you jangled your keys.

“We’re gonna take your collar off,” you said softly. It struck me how loving you could be, even as you prepared me to be hosed down with your piss. I tilted my head up so that you could slot the tiny key into the padlock glimmering at my throat. “Good puppy.”

I feel as naked as anybody else with no clothes on, but whenever I take my collar off, it’s like I’ve lost a finger.

You must have been aware of this, because you raised the collar to my lips and had me kiss it before you held the bathroom door open for me.


And now we’re here.

Shivers run through me. I’m gazing up at your hand on your belt, unable to tear my eyes away to see your face. It doesn’t matter all that much anyway; I know your sadistic grin well enough that I can fill in the gap where my peripheral vision ends. I’m so cold that I’m almost eager for the warmth of your urine on my skin.

Almost.

See, the thing I love about piss is that I hate it. You know this, which is why you have your sadist face on. You know as well as I do that the fun of pissing on me lies in the way I recoil from it, the disgust I can’t keep off my face once you start to aim the stream at my mouth. The reason we both find watersports irresistible is its significance: I’ll do anything for you, even this.

You ease your belt out of its buckle and slide down your zip. I watch your hands methodically shift the fabric of your boxers so that your cock can spring out. At the sight of me kneeling, fully naked, at your feet, it’s half-hard.

“You ready?” you whisper, like there might still be time to back out. But you have a full bladder, and the cold bathroom air has hit your dick. I know I could dart out of the way, let your piss run down the drain, but I want it. I want your hot piss all over me, making me grimace, making me squirm.

So I nod.

You let it go. I can tell you’re letting it go, rather than pushing it out, from the relief that passes over your face. That’s what I focus on as it pours over my tits, the warmth as comforting as I predicted, the smell just as strong. You look like you’re enjoying yourself, and I feel like a good pup.

I feel like that even more so when you say, “Dirty slut. Open your mouth.”

Instinct tells me not to. I know I hate the taste. But devotion overrides it, and I let my tongue hang out.

It’s bitter, and sort of like beer, and near impossible to describe. Its colour is pale from the water I had you drink, something I feel distantly smug about as it drips off my tits. I scrunch my eyes shut but I keep my mouth open, except when I force myself to swallow a teaspoon’s worth just to prove that I can.

It lasts about twenty seconds, but it feels so much longer than that.

At last, the sensation and the sound of liquid running over me both stop. I open my eyes, and you’re letting the last drops of piss fall off your foreskin, holding your cock loosely, staring at me.

“Clean it up,” you command, so I do.

I suck gently at the head of your dick, my nose wrinkling involuntarily at the taste. I know later you’ll tell me it was cute. I do as thorough a job as I can bear, then pull away.

You look satisfied. “That’s a good little slut.” I glow. “Now, you get nice and clean in the shower. Daddy will be waiting for you in the bedroom.” I must be staring at you blankly, because you explain: “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

Finding My Kinks: A Case Study

How did I find my kinks? Where did they come from? Let’s look at a few examples to pin down how one can find the things that turn them on the most.

Power Exchange

When I first started intentionally seeking out things that gave me sex feelings, as a teenager with a shiny new laptop all their own and a burning curiosity about that burning in my loins, I started with guy-on-guy fanfiction. I was already deeply invested in the Kingdom Hearts and Harry Potter fandoms, and it seemed like erotica about characters I already cared about would be far more engaging than poorly-lit heterosexuals having bad sex on Pornhub. Whilst in a lot of ways not ideal (riddled with misogyny, fetishisation, abuse apologism and deeply questionable grammar), so-called “yaoi fanfiction was the first patently sexy thing I ever engaged with. As well as helping me to realise that I was nonbinary (because I identified so strongly with masculine-of-centre protagonists, regardless of the sexy fictional characters they were boning), my fascination with erotic fanfiction unlocked a number of my kinks before I’d ever even been naked with another person. The Off The Cuffs podcast refers to things like this as being one’s “radioactive spider bite”.

Guy-on-guy fanfic, and especially guy-on-guy fanfiction written by misinformed teenage girls who have never spoken to a gay man in their lives, features power exchange all over the damn place. Teenage girls apparently still haven’t received the memo that gay sex is, y’know, gay, which means that you don’t need a dedicated dick recipient and a dedicated dick deliverer like you do when having hetero PIV. Spreading a misconception like that around isn’t great, but it did mean that there was very often a struggle for dominance taking place before or during sex scenes. I found myself re-reading passages which featured characters being pinned down, lovingly bitten, or otherwise physically overpowered – sometimes more often than the passages which featured actual genitals doing actual fucking. By the time that I was talking to other people about sex (and doing sexy text-based roleplay things), I thought you pretty much had to be a top or a bottom, and by extension, either dominant or submissive. I was taken aback when I learned that some people weren’t into “that kinky stuff”.

Being the nerd that I undeniably was and still am, I took to Google to investigate “kink”, and from there “BDSM”, and from there all sorts of resources that were much more fact-based and accurate than fanfic written by virgins. Erotica was my gateway, sure, but it didn’t tell me how to compose a Yes/No/Maybe list, or what aftercare was, or that wanting to be tied up and gagged while your partner hits you with a flogger does actually count as straying off the beaten path. (Get it? Beaten path? I’ll see myself out.) I found things that made my cunt drip on fanfiction.net, but I didn’t know how to apply any of them in my own sex life until I did further research.

The Daddy Thing

You know that text-based roleplaying I mentioned earlier? Yeah, it turns out that when you identify as a girl (which I mistakenly did until my very late teens) and your nerdy online guy friends find out you have a keen interest in sex stuff, they fall all over themselves trying to add you on Skype. Skype, of course, facilitates more than text-based roleplay. You can video call people.

Enter Blue (not his real name, obviously). Blue was a li’l older than me (eighteen when I was sixteen, an age gap I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about), he rocked a dark beard, and he showered me with attention while I went through a messy breakup. (All the breakups that sixteen-year-olds go through are messy. I was not good at communicating, and I still thought I owed it to boys who’d hurt me to let them down gently.) We had a couple of chatty, fully-clothed video calls before things escalated, and then we were having Skype sex.

I was already okay-ish at Skype sex stuff, having been in a long-distance thing and blossoming into an exhibitionist before making friends with Blue. I wasn’t surprised when he told me to say his name as I orgasmed, or when he wanted me on all fours, or when he wanted me to do things to my nipples. I was, however, surprised when he gasped, “Call me ‘Daddy’!”

I knew that that was A Thing People Did, but only because it was joked about in movies and on TV. I’d called people ‘Sir’ before, and in the moment, I thought ‘Daddy’ was pretty much an equivalent. So I did as I was told, and Blue was very pleased about it.

Later, I returned to Google. I found the term DD/lg, which stood for Daddy Dom/little girl, and I fell down the Tumblr rabbithole. Initially, I was spooked by all the photos of skinny white girls in nappies (I wasn’t that tiny, and I wasn’t – at that point – into watersports in any sense) – but I was drawn to the sheer perverseness of it, the fact that it sent a “This is weird” tingle straight to my clit. I was fascinated by the idea of roleplayed innocence being “corrupted”, and by the idea of being so irresistible that a Daddy figure had to have me even if it was very, very wrong. I also immediately noticed that self-identified ‘littles’ had a great deal in common with me, like a fondness for colouring, a need to be looked after and nurtured, and a desire for power-exchange-filled sex with older, bearded guys.

I was full of trepidation. I had grown up without a decent father figure – my dad died when I was three, after doing the Hokey Cokey in and out of my life for years, and the two partners my mum had after him were evil bastards who shaped me into the people-pleasing, needy, somewhat traumatised kid I was at sixteen. Did being into “the Daddy thing” mean I was fucked up? So many littles on Tumblr were insisting that their kink wasn’t rooted in “Daddy issues” – what if mine was? Would it be unethical to pursue my interest in it? Would it damage my psyche even more?

My advice to you, dear reader, as well as to Past Morgan, is – worry less. You should definitely proceed with caution if your kink has ties to a complicated past or a mental health issue, but don’t fret if your kink doesn’t originate from some vacuum, devoid of any complication or relationship to real life. Most kinks are tied up in psychological weirdness – is it okay to be turned on by being humiliated, when so much of sex positivity discourse revolves around empowerment? (Answer: yes.) Why are people, especially women, turned on by being called sluts in the bedroom? (That’s different for each individual, but it’s basically inextricable from society’s slut-shaming bullshit.) Do women want to submit to men partly because the patriarchy says that they must? (Kate Sloan, of the Dildorks, remarked that in a patriarchal society, most people have Daddy issues of some sort.)

After things came to a messy end with Blue, too, I met another guy, and I explained in full my interest in DD/lg, and my chequered history with actual father figures, and we decided we were going to give the Daddy thing a whirl.

Now, four years on with a different partner, I own a multitude of pacifiers and I sit in my Daddy’s lap to watch cartoons. My kink isn’t entirely detached from the lack of paternal love and nurturing that was present throughout my childhood – but it’s healing, and sexy, and that’s okay.

Masochism

My relationship with pain has been as complicated as my relationship with dads and Daddies. I have a long history of deliberate self-harm, but none of it ever turned me on. The idea of masochism, of having a pain kink, mystified me more than the whole Daddy thing did.

Until I tried it out.

The first time I really enjoyed pain was pretty much an accident. I’d been fucked, hard, by my boyfriend at the time, for maybe the third time ever. When the fucking was happening, I was preoccupied by what was happening to my G-spot – but afterwards, I noticed a deep, bruisey, delicious soreness.

I mentioned it to him over text the next day, and he apologised. I reassured him that I wasn’t complaining – I loved the reminder, the regular ache that whispered “You got fucked yesterday,” deep in my battered vulva. He was turned on by that, though he never identified as a sadist – and we started exploring more by way of hickeys, spanking during sex, hair-pulling and more.

This is probably the most straightforward of my “core” kinks in terms of how I discovered it – it happened sort of by mistake, I liked it a lot, and so I tried different things along the same lines. Still, I grappled with similar doubts to the ones I had about CG/l stuff – what if this was somehow too close to self-harm? What if this made me a “bad” kinkster? Eventually, I came to the same conclusion, too – that kinks can never exist in a vacuum, and that as long as every participant was safe (psychologically and physically) and having fun, I could do whatever I liked with my body – including allowing other people to hurt it.

How did you discover some of your favourite kinks?