Smut Saturdays # 19: In This Fantasy…

Stock image of a white-painted brick wall with a title overlaid on it which reads "Smut Saturdays #19: In This Fantasy..."

It’s often very nice to perform a meticulously planned scene, with a neatly defined start point and a script for me to follow, having collaborated on a fantasy for days, if not cock-teasing weeks, with you as my devious co-conspirator. I enjoy being led to the bedroom, knowing that you’re about to play your part and I am about to play mine, line by line, blow by blow, perfectly executed and immensely satisfying…

But this fantasy is not that.

This fantasy rarely takes place in a bedroom – instead it’ll be set in a stairwell, a nightclub toilet, an alleyway, an office… anywhere, because in this fantasy, it is all but impossible to make it to the bedroom. 

In this fantasy, you or I or both of us snap. There’s tension in the air, a look or a touch or a too-long hug drawing out every painful second until snap, and then our mouths are together. 

We don’t stop to exchange Yes/No/Maybe lists. We barely stop to breathe. It becomes less like kissing and more like grinding our faces together, biting each other’s lips and all but fucking each other’s mouths with our tongues. Your spit, or mine, or both is somehow all over my chin.

Meanwhile, we have either found a wall or a horizontal surface to support us. At the moment, I’m favouring the version of this fantasy where you press me into a wall, your knee between my legs, pinning me as though I’m not still clinging to you, pulling you in closer by your hips or your asscheeks or the belt loops on your jeans with absolutely no intention of running away. Still, your body sandwiches me against the wall as your hands find my hair, my neck, my tits, my waist, and we still have our faces entangled. 

It doesn’t take long, in this fantasy, for us to start yanking off clothes – our own or each other’s, it doesn’t really matter – and for me to feel your skin against mine. I drink it in and apparently so do you, running your hands over every inch you can reach while your torso is still flush against mine. Your mouth soon follows suit, and you finally pull away from me enough to kiss my collarbones, my neck, my tits. While my hands try out their fingernails on your back, your hands find my nipples and pinch. Everything is rough grabbing and grinding and biting and desperately, so desperately trying to envelop each other, to sate the burning hunger we both feel all over our bodies.

Obviously in this fantasy your cock is already achingly hard. It brushes against my stomach while we’re groping each other, leaving a light smear of precum behind. I run my nails across your lower back, around across one hip, and then I finally give in and grab it, hearing your breathing shift as I squeeze it lightly. Impulse leads me to start stroking it, at least as hungry for you to feel good as I am to feel good myself, and your hips follow my hand, fucking my half-closed fist. 

Your fingers aren’t gentle when they replace the knee between my legs and I don’t mind at all, widening my stance to give you access to the aching, soaked slit of my cunt. You find my hardened clit with your thumb  in seconds as you hook one rough finger, or even two, into the entrance of my vagina. Wherever my mouth is, against your neck or biting your shoulder or fused back onto yours, I make a small but heartfelt moaning noise. You make one back, and one or both of us escalates the matter.

Usually, this is the part in the fantasy where you manhandle me into turning 180°, grab my hair or the back of my neck and bend me, supported by the wall or over a table, a sofa, anything. Your hands are on both my hips and I can feel the wetness from my pussy on the fingers of one of them, smearing haphazardly across my skin as you line me up. You don’t savour the moment your cock enters me, instead shoving it in with such force that if it weren’t for your grip on me I’d probably fall, and you press yourself flush to me so that I feel every millimeter of your dick, from the thick shift holding the entrance of my cunt open to the reddened, taut head pressing against my cervix. 

The moans and grunts and “Oh, fuck”s start in earnest from both of us as you rock back and forth, slamming into me and into me and into me as deep as you possibly can, your balls hitting my clit and your nails digging viciously into my hips. Your sweat drips onto me. You spit onto your dick without slowing down.

Maybe we switch positions, maybe we carry on like this, but you don’t stop when I announce I’m going to cum. Instead, you growl something like, “Then fucking cum for me, you dirty bitch,” knowing that hearing that will help tip me over the edge and make my cunt tighten around your dick, raising the volume of my moans as everything white-hot and intense in my pussy and abdomen amplifies into a thrumming supernova for long, long, long seconds, my legs shaking underneath me. It feels a little like that swooping sensation you feel in your stomach as you come over the peak of a rollercoaster and down again, amplified and hot and a little further down. I don’t usually squirt or drip when I cum, but sometimes in this fantasy I’m lightly embarrassed by the sound of a droplet of my cum hitting the floor.

You pause and ask, sincerely, “Are you okay?”

I nod shakily, feeling my cunt contract around your cock again. I know you feel it too, because as soon as you have my reassurance that I’m fine, the very second my head bobs affirmatively, you return immediately to pounding me with the ferocity of someone whose arousal has dismissed their coherent thoughts and is driving their hips into the source of their overwhelming pleasure: my trembling, hot cunt, attached to my trembling body, situated between my trembling legs that are streaked bright red by your fingernails.

My whole cunt is still inflamed, and I all but wail at the acuteness of the stimulation as you pump your dick in and out of me, satisfied enough with how hard I just came to start fucking me selfishly, hungrily, like you’re using my body to jerk off with. You ignore the increasing volume of the incoherent sounds coming out of my mouth and I know that you don’t care that it hurts. You like that it hurts, and so do I.

You call me a dirty bitch again. I can tell you’re close, so I beg you to fuck me harder (“please, it doesn’t matter if it hurts, I want you to ruin my cunt”). If we’re still against a wall, you reach forward to clutch my hair, still bruising the inside of my vagina nonstop as you do so. I tell you more than once how good your dick feels inside me, how much I love getting fucked by you. You slap my ass and thighs while you call me a desperate little slut with a tight, slick pussy that you’re going to cum in – and then you do. Hard, pulling me flush to you again and jerking slightly as your twitching cock fills me with your cum, and all that keeps it from dripping back out is the aforementioned hard cock.

After savouring the feeling of my cum-drenched vagina for a few moments, breathing raggedly, you slowly withdraw your dick and cum drips onto the floor, trickling over my still-hypersensitive clit in the process. The warm feeling of it gushing out of me and down my thighs is delicious, and it makes me feel like the little slut you said I was.

This fantasy can branch off in many directions from here. Maybe you ask me to lick up your cum, whether that’s the cum coating your dick, the cum dribbling out of my cunt or the cum that dripped onto the floor. Maybe I play with your ass, or you play with mine, or both. Maybe you drag me by the hair to the shower to rinse me off, or to piss on me. Whichever direction it takes, the theme is always the same: raw, rough and desperate, messy and hungry as we’re drawn together like magnets, irresistibly.

And uh, there’s usually a lot of cum.


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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