Cum Tribute Musings (For #KinkOfTheWeek)

A cartoon white splash, because I'm lazy and use stock photos but didn't get any results when I searched for "cum tribute"

I’ve never received a cum tribute.

Not because I wouldn’t like a cum tribute, but just because it hasn’t ever been at the forefront of my mind long enough to request one from somebody, and nobody has ever sent me one spontaneously, possibly for fear of being creepy. And, um, maybe it would be creepy… except it would be the exact kind of creepy I would find really fucking hot.

Let me clarify: strangers sliding into my DMs with unsolicited cum tributes would be the not-hot kind of creepy – the kind that gets you blocked instantly. But somebody I already knew, with whom I already had some kind of sexy connection, going out of their way to notify me that they’d wanked over my pictures? Oof. And providing visual evidence of just how much, how hard and where they came? Double oof.

There are two ways I think a cum tribute could be the hot kind of creepy. The first is the dominant way, the way that says, “I’ll use your photos however I like, and I’ll use your body however I like, too.” A spontaneous cum tribute sent by a dominant party to a submissive party can be read as a sort of sexy threat, an indication that the other party wants you so badly they’ll come all over a photo of you (even if that involves actually printing something, like people used to do in the olden days), with the implication that they probably won’t stop there. It’s the kind of gesture that says, “I am obsessing over every millimetre of your face and body,” and also, “Next time I see you, I’m going to pin you to any available surface and fuck you until you’re begging for my cum, then manhandle you onto your knees and milk my twitching cock onto your tongue.” It’s the somewhat entitled kind of creepy that fills me with CNC fantasies and tingly, erotic nervousness.

The other way in which a cum tribute could be the hot kind of creepy is, as you might have guessed, the submissive way. If I were to order someone to provide me with a cum tribute, it wouldn’t be creepy, it would just be very hot and possibly a little bit consensually humiliating for person doing the ejaculating. But if someone were, again, obsessing over me – but this time in an adoring, devoted-to-me sort of way – so much that they couldn’t help but wank about it, and then they also couldn’t help but send me a photo to demonstrate how desperate they were for me, my touch, my mouth… that would be deliciously creepy. It taps into exactly the same part of my psyche as my stalker kink does: I want to be lusted after to such a maddening extent that someone will do weird shit that flirts with, but doesn’t cross, my boundaries. I imagine this cum tribute would be offered timidly, apologetically, captioned something like, “I know this is really weird, but I just wanted to show you how hot I think you are,” and I also imagine there would be the greatest volume of cum a person could realistically produce in one sitting scattered across multiple nudes of mine, taken from my blog or my Twitter page. It would be charged with a very similar obsessive, “I want to pin you down and make you mine” energy, but tempered with the devotion and admiration inherent to this brand of submission. As well as being a display of lust, it would be a display of vulnerability and deference.

The cum tribute in the first scenario says, “I’m going to make you take my cum wherever I’d like to put it,” and the one in the second scenario says, “This is all I have to offer you, but I am desperately hoping you’ll decide you want it.”

There are all the other bits of a cum tribute that appeal to me too, of course: I love jizz and I want it in my mouth, like, always, and it would obviously provide me with the mental image of someone doing the coming in order to produce it… But, really, the thing that I find hot about cum tributes is their potential for creepiness. It’s one thing to say, “Oh, I jerked it to those nudes you posted,” and quite another to actually show me the proof. There are extra steps involved – whether or not you print an image, you still have to aim, to make sure the cum is visible, and then you have to take the photo of the results, and then you have to send it. It’s those extra steps that push it from sexy and flattering to sexy, flattering and the hot kind of creepy, and it’s the hot kind of creepy that motivated me to pick up this week’s Kink of the Week prompt.

(Speaking of which – thank you to Molly for running Kink of the Week, and thank you to Mx Nillin for inspiring this prompt! Make sure to check out the other Kink of the Week contributions, this time and every time – they’re always excellent.

Also, I totally wanted to name this post ‘This Is Not The Greatest Cum In The World, This Is Just A Tribute’, but I didn’t, for SEO reasons. Please applaud my sensible decision-making and strong resolve.)

The Kink of the Week badge, which is a red lipstick print with the words "Kink of the Week" on it


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Smut Saturdays #14: Through The Window (Part 2)

A window with beige curtains. It looks unassuming, but it's the focal point of this stalking smut, as you'll know if you read part 1.

This is part two of a story I started a few weeks ago, a hot piece of stalking smut that I’m quite proud of; part one is available here. It mentions stalking (naturally) and blood, but most of it is just filth. Enjoy!


I can’t parse how much of it is because he’s genuinely sort of cute, obviously thoughtful, whip-smart and witty via text… and how much of it is the turn-on of being wanted this badly. His eyes never leave my face. And he still has that doe-eyed, terrified look about him, a palable vulnerability that makes me want to hug him tightly and stroke his hair.

I don’t dare, though, but I do try to soothe some of his anxiety verbally: “Ant?” My voice is as soft as I can make it. “It’s okay about the blood. You don’t need to be worried about that. I thought it was… sweet, if kinda out there.”

His shoulders visibly fall several relaxed inches and he smiles. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve never had anyone gift me their own blood before. And the little vial you put it in, with the cork, that was a really cute touch.”

He finally looks away from me, down to his hands, and even my autistic ass can sense that he’s embarrassed. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I don’t need any more of it, though,” I say hurriedly. “One vial is enough. I want the rest of your blood inside you.”

His gaze jerks up to my face again and he nods solemnly. “Anything you say, Morgan.”

It makes me feel all kinds of weird when he says my name.

“Can I get you a drink of anything? I don’t have milk in, but I’ve got some instant coffee, and orange squash…”

Ant shakes his head, his fringe tickling his eyes. His hair is long-ish and wavy, and I don’t mean to psychoanalyse him, but he styles it like he’s trying to hide behind it. Even if we had properly met at uni, I don’t imagine I’d have remembered him. He shrinks into himself, and seems entirely ordinary.

Except I have a vial of his blood in my coat pocket, which would suggest otherwise.

“You sure?” I press. “I think I’ve got some biscuits, too.”

“I’m good.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward so much as suffocating. I don’t know if he knows that my cunt is tingling with want. I don’t know whether I want him to know, either.

The confusion and hesitation and shyness I feel when I fancy somebody I probably shouldn’t is delicious, though I’ll never admit that at the time. I’m never a particularly composed person, but there are no metaphors that are adequate to describe the squishy mess I become when I’m crushing on somebody I could have, but know I should steer clear from. I have enough experience with this feeling to know that I’m feeling it now, almost nauseous but in a bizarrely pleasant sort of way, so full of lust and fondness and inner conflict that I feel like I could crawl right out of my own skin.

I also have enough experience with this feeling to know that I have never once managed to resist it whilst alone with the person it’s about.

“Ant,” I begin slowly, “I feel like you should know that I do actually, y’know, fancy you.”

His face barely changes. “I know. Your body language gives that away.”

As a big ol’ autistic who can barely read the most obvious body language cues, let alone control the ones I give myself, I am a little taken aback. I continue talking regardless: “I’m just not sure how, you know, sensible it would be to do stuff with you. Because I’ve only met you twice, and you’re obviously very, very into me, and -”

“It wouldn’t be unethical to fuck me just because I’m a bit obsessed with you,” he interjects. How did he know that was my main concern? “I’m still capable of consenting. I can think clearly. I don’t need to say ‘yes’ to things that fall outside of my comfort zone, because you’re not monogamous – you can get those things elsewhere.”

I know people who are absolutely out of their minds with lust can still consent and set boundaries. I have been there. “What is out of your comfort zone?” I try to sound like I’m just making conversation, but I know it doesn’t work.

“I don’t have a sadistic bone in my body, so I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I have no interest in sounding, and scat and vomit are hard ‘no’s. Apart from that, I’m easy.”

He gives me a sly half-grin, and all of a sudden I feel easy too.

Like an idiot, I keep talking. “Do you have any feelings about, like, bedroom power exchange?”

He leans forward, and for the first time I see something other than timidness and awe in his eyes as he looks at me. I can only compare it to bloodthirst. “Morgan, I want you to own me. Inside the bedroom and outside of it, I want you to tell me what to do, where to be, whether I’m allowed to talk. I want to be your most treasured possession. I want to make myself irreplaceable to you.”

Oh. Fuck. My brain is moving at half-speed. My heartbeat is picking up the slack, though, and I can still feel it in my cunt. “I see.” I’m all but chewing on my tongue, trying not to say any of what’s on my mind. “I mean… we should probably spend some more time getting to know each oth-”

“I know everything about you.” He inches his chair closer and I have to move my knees to accommodate his. “And I’ll tell you everything about me. I’ve already waited so long for you, Morgan.”

I want to tell him he’s scaring me, but I also don’t want him to stop.

“Give me an hour,” he continues. “Just an hour to show you how well I know you and how much fun I could be to own. Let me show you, and then you can decide whether you want me.”

Out of a sense of obligation, I put up one final bit of resistance: “What if I decide I don’t want you?”

“Then I’ll leave, but I’ll keep trying. I’ll do anything to deserve you.” He reaches out, slowly, to give me a chance to stop him – but I don’t, and he takes hold of one of my hands in both of his. “You can tell me to leave now, if you want to, but I want to prove myself to you. And I want to make you feel good. I know you’ve had a long day…” He studies my face again, then looks back down to our hands as he says the last word. “Sir.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I lean forwards too, shrinking the gap between our faces. I lock eyes with him. “You shouldn’t have said that,” I whisper, letting my own lips curve into a devious smile.

I press my lips against his, hard, and tilt my head. He kisses me back, hungrily, and squeezes my hand in his.

When I pull back, he all but growls: “And you shouldn’t have done that.”

His hand is on the back of my neck, and then his lips are on mine again, and my mind is blissfully blank. I have no thoughts, no worries, and I’m just falling into this irresistible, forceful kiss, barely able to get close enough to Ant.

I pull back again, and his eyes are like a kicked puppy’s. “Don’t pout,” I say sternly. I stand up, tuck my chair in, and point to the bed. “Shoes off first.”

He kicks off his shoes and gets onto the bed within seconds, leaving me to tease the double bow of my own bootlaces apart with my disabled fingers. Usually I’m a smidge embarrassed by how much I struggle to get my boots off, but watching Ant pine for me in my peripheral vision whilst I slowly, methodically loosen my laces and wiggle my right foot free from my boot is delicious. I make a point to carefully place my right boot in its place at the bottom of my wardrobe and line it up as neatly as possible before starting on my left one.

Once my feet are bare too, I sit on the edge of my bed, about two hand spans away from Ant. He’s still just staring at me, obviously rendered as stupid by lust as I am. I spend a few moments trying to come up with some genius domly shit to do to him, or to order him to do to me – but then I remember that the point of being in charge of a scene is that you get what you want (within the negotiated boundaries, of course) so I fuck that off and just start kissing him again. They’re the kind of desperate, dizzying kisses that make it impossible to stay static, so we end up with our legs tangled together, my arm pulling his waist into me with all the strength I can muster, his hand on the back of my neck again like he’s scared I’ll run off otherwise. Our tongues meet, but his is shyer than mine. Every few moments (time is now a sticky and insignificant mess) I bite down on his lower lip and he makes a whimpering noise that causes me to grind against his upper thigh, just a little.

Eventually, greed gets the better of me and I pull away to yank my T-shirt over my head. I’m in a deodorant-stained sports bra, but the way Ant stares, you’d think I was in the very best lingerie. I’m too incoherent to give instructions, so I just point vaguely at Ant’s own T-shirt; he gets the idea, thankfully, and pulls it off, emerging with tousled hair. He’s lanky, with very little muscle, but what really catches my attention is his brown-ish, erect nipples.

I lock my mouth around one and he melts.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he’s obsessed with me or whether he’s just very responsive, but his arms go slack. He leans against the wall and moans as I flick my tongue back and forth across his right nipple. I do what seems like the only sensible thing, and lift my hand to caress and pinch the left one. Ant whines, so I pause, but he clamps his hand over the one of mine that’s on his chest and gasps, “Please don’t stop, Sir, fuck…”

It only takes me about a minute of playing with his nipples to form the educated guess that it might well make him come in his pants. I weigh up the pros and cons of this – I love the sight of cum-soaked underwear, and it would be so goddamn hot, and the fucking noises he’d make; but I also want to interact with his cock, and I’d have to wait for it to recover, and I don’t know the approximate length of Ant’s refractory period – whilst I close my teeth gently around the puckered flesh of his right nipple.

I decide against letting him come this early and pull away. (The look he gives me would be guilt-inducing if I weren’t fully in my dominant stride.) “Ant, take my trousers off for me.”

He nods and reaches for my waistband – I’m only in leggings, so he’s able to tug them down and past my ankles with ease. He still has that look in his eye like he’s starving, and it occurs to me that his restraint could run out soon and he could just…

But then my leggings are off and I stroke his hair, and his face softens a little. I didn’t really understand what it was for someone to be “putty in my hands” until this moment, I think dimly, as I kiss him again. He reciprocates, his naked torso pressed against my nearly-naked one, and his hand very shyly slips up to lock around my left boob. He massages it with the desperate clumsiness of a teenager. I do him the favour of unclasping my bra and discarding it, and he strokes and twiddles my nipple so gently, by contrast to the groping, that I almost giggle into the kiss we’re sharing.

Again, it’s me that pulls back. I get the impression that he’d make out with me for literal days if I didn’t put the brakes on. “I believe you had something to prove,” I say, before letting my eyes slide suggestively down to my underwear.

“Yes, Sir.” He doesn’t look nervous, like I was expecting him too. Instead he’s got that hungry look about him again, and he fluidly moves down my mattress and slides my pants down my legs. “Do you have any preference about, um…”

I give him what I hope is a condescending smirk and say, “Surprise me.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise, actually, when he plants his face into my vulva. I literally can’t imagine presenting him with my naked cunt and him wanting to do anything other than get his tongue on it, and it seems I’m right – he’s dragging his tongue slowly all the way up the slit, keeping south of my clit presumably because he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself when I might not be adequately warmed up.

Except I am warmed up; kissing Ant and toying with him has made me so fucking wet that I’m fully expecting to find a wet patch when I get up. I know without looking or touching that my labia are puffed up, swollen with want, and my clit is achingly hard. So, pushing the edges of my dominant persona a little, I say, “Do you want a map to my clit, or shall I just read you the directions?”

“I didn’t want to be too rushed when -”

“I know better than you.” I’m watching his face for any sign he’s genuinely hurt, but he just seems elated to be between my legs. “Further north.”

He nods. “Yes, Sir.” Then he places his lips around my clit and starts running his tongue up and down it. It’s a type of stimulation so direct that I can only handle it sometimes, and have to be incredibly aroused for it – but in this moment, it’s perfect. I tilt my head back a little and take a deep breath. “Would you like anything inside of you, Sir?”

“Two fingers,” I say breathlessly. He does as he’s told, and sinks them into me all the way to the last knuckle, curling them up a little in search of my A-spot. His fingers are broad, and they stretch me open without hurting me. And I have to assume he’s read my blog, because he starts to fuck me with them so firmly and consistently that, combined with his tongue on my clit, my legs start to shake. I’m minutes away from coming, if that.

He must somehow know that too, because he looks up from between my legs. “I want to make you come,” he growls. “I want to feel your cunt twitch around my fingers, I want to hear the sounds you make, I want to make you feel so good that you can’t think straight -”

Fuck,” I hiss involuntarily, grabbing a handful of bedsheet. “Harder.”

He obeys, relentlessly massaging my A-spot with his fingertips, and I can feel an orgasm mounting in my abdomen and in my feet (a weird quirk of mine, but not terribly rare as far as I can tell). I can’t stop myself from grinding my hips against his hand, and he continues talking (“I want you to wail, I want your neighbours to know how much I like you and how well I know you, I want you to come so hard that you feel aftershocks for half an hour”) until I grab a fistful of his hair and make a series of unintelligible noises that I hope will communicate to him that I’m going to come.

“Fuck,” he whispers against my mons pubis, as I convulse and twist the handful of his hair that seems to be the only thing tethering me to reality as an orgasm rips through me. “Fuck, Morgan, you’re perfect. Fuck.”

The soles of my feet burn as every bit of tension leaves my body through my twitching cunt. Ant is staring at my face in amazement. I let go of his hair and take deep breath after deep breath, struggling to regain my composure. My cunt, my upper thighs and probably my bed are soaked with wetness and all I can feel is a sort of pleasant ringing between my legs.

Eventually, Ant withdraws his hand, and without my even having to suggest it, he starts licking his fingers clean. It’s one of the hottest things I think a person can do with a cum-drenched hand, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he slips both fingers all the way into his mouth.

Fuck.

I manage to sit up. I still can’t think straight. I think vaguely of Ant’s cock and say, with minimal slurring, “Do you want to come?”

“If I try to fuck you, I’ll come within moments and be embarrassed about it.” I don’t have the brain power to notify him that I have some intense kink feelings about premature ejaculation in exactly this context. “But if you want to watch me make myself come…”

I nod enthusiastically, and he undoes his jeans. His cock is already rock-solid and straining against the fabric of his underwear, a dark patch indicating that he’s been leaking pre-ejaculate for some time. Oh, to have that in my mouth… But, given the circumstances, I want to let him set the pace for this section of the encounter.

He pulls his cock out of his pants. It’s fully erect, of course, and glistening at its head. I’m too lustdrunk to get any sort of realistic idea of how big it is; it just looks perfect.

It continues to look perfect as he strokes it in short, fluid movements, the motion of his foreskin bordering on hypnotic. I can’t look away from it, even though I wish I could see his face. He leans back, and within moments his hand is moving faster, his grip seems tighter, and then –

“Oh, god.” A stream of cum paints his stomach, followed by two heavy drips. “Oh, Jesus, Morgan…”

I let out a sigh. “Well, what are we gonna do with all this?” He looks at me blankly, obviously incapable of complex thought so soon after coming. “Someone’s gonna have to clean it up…”

As I start licking it up, he asks (with his voice thick and slow), “Did I do good, Sir?”

“Hmm, you did pretty good, but I think you could do more to impress me…”

I was going to withhold my approval until my cunt was too bruised for me to sit on hard chairs. And I knew Ant was going to love every moment of it.


Every fourth Saturday (mental health and life permitting, of course), I’ll be posting filth like this stalking smut for your wanking enjoyment! Got a suggestion for some smut? Hit me up on Twitter or use my Contact form!

Smut Saturdays #13: Through The Window (Part 1)

Stock image of a wine glass on its side with corks spilling out of it. The background is plain black and the corks are a traditional corky brown.

Content note: This is a fantasy story which portrays stalking in detail and makes mention of blood. If either of those are difficult for you, give this one a miss! We’ll be back next week with a post on my new protocol proposal system, and in the meantime, you can always follow my Twitter for anecdotes, memes and more.


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!




I have my laptop on my pajama-clad thighs, and I’m in the process of signing on to the agency through which I do some of my freelance captioning work. The pickings are slim: it’s a Saturday, after all, so there are fewer business-y projects to caption, and the vlog-type ones left available are being snapped up before my dyspraxic fingers can reach the ‘claim’ button. I allow myself to be distracted by Twitter for a few long moments, until I hear something at the window.

I pause. I’m not often perturbed by odd noises – I’ve been living with mild, usually stress-induced psychosis for a couple of years now, so I often assume that my brain is misfiring when I hear or see things that don’t make sense. And something at the window doesn’t make sense: I live in a weird, labyrinthine, formerly industrial building and my window opens onto, seemingly, more building.  Unless it’s a bird or a squirrel (in which case it can’t harm me anyway), it’s likely to be a hallucination. I make a mental note to mention it to my Daddy when he phones me after work, and I turn my attention back to my work website.

The noise – which is, by turns, tapping and scuffing against my window – persists. I’m too anxious to check it out, and too comfortable, so I jam my earphones into my ears and claim a five-minute Pixlr tutorial to caption. Once I’ve finished, the noise has stopped.


I sleep lightly and have nightmares every single night, unless I get drunk or high – and even then, it’s 50/50 as to whether I’ll wake up in a cold sweat. So when I snap awake at what my microwave clock tells me is 2:49 a.m., I assume it’s my brain and shut my eyes again.

Until I hear a whisper.

“Morgan.”

I scrabble for the light switch, adrenaline forcing the taste of blood into my mouth. In only a second, I think about where I left my kitchen knives (on the draining board, fuck), where my huge steel dildo is (at my Daddy’s house, fuck) and whether I could fend off an attacker with a four millimetre knitting needle from my bedside drawer. (The fuckers bend – I know that from sitting on them.) My fingers find the switch and flood the room with light. I squint against it, anxious to see who spoke my name.

At nearly 3 a.m., common sense does not suggest that this could be a hallucination or a nightmare. But that’s fine, because common sense would have been wrong anyway.

Standing at the foot of my bed is a stranger.

I wonder if I should scream, but I don’t know who he is, what he wants and whether he would kill me if I did. So I slowly, slowly sit up, and take in his face. It’s a narrow face (if you were being unkind, you might call it scrawny) with a beard, a beanie hat covering his hair, and huge, huge eyes staring right back at me. I try to gauge his height based only on where my bedframe comes up to him: he’s probably not that much taller than me. Even in his big hoodie, he looks slim, and I’m already mentally rehearsing what I’ll do if I need to: eyes first, bollocks second, get to the door while he’s incapacitated, scream for my corridor-mates to phone 999. I run my thumb over the fingernails on my right hand, and mercifully, I haven’t bitten them off recently, so I could theoretically dig them into his skin.

Except he isn’t moving. He isn’t speaking. There is a bizarre moment in which I think he might be as scared as I am.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, in a parody of my own Britishness, “I’m not sure who you are.”

“You don’t know me,” he says, still staring unabashedly at me. I’m glad I slept in pajamas rather than nude, even if it means another human witnessing my ratty knitting society T-shirt. “I’m sorry. I just, I couldn’t help it any longer. I’ve been following you.”

I press my thumbnail into my fingertip, hard, and it hurts. Not dreaming. “Oh,” I say. I still can’t gauge how dangerous this man is. “Why?”

“Because, um.” He finally stops looking at my face and instead becomes intensely interested in his own hands. “I’m in love with you.”

Well, you’re not, I think. We’ve never interacted. At best, you’re infatuated with me.

Out loud, I only say, “I see.”

I can’t tell by my bedside light, but I think he might be blushing. “I know it’s stupid, and weird, and I know how fucking creepy it is that I’ve broken into your flat, but -”

“Well, you haven’t exactly broken in. I left the bloody window open.” God, he’s got such big, sad eyes. He looks like a puppy straight out of a Dog’s Trust ad. “Um, can I ask your name?”

“It’s Anthony. Friends call me Ant.” He finally looks at me again. “I’m really sorry I came in. I wasn’t even going to wake you, but you looked like you were having a nightmare and I couldn’t bear it.”

I pull some sort of weird, rueful face at that. “If I was woken up every time I had a nightmare, I’d never get any sleep at all.” I’m still not convinced this is really happening. “Ant, it’s been lovely to meet you, but I need to be up at seven tomorrow.”

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I’ll head off. Uh, through the door, rather than the window this time. But, you know, if you ever want to talk, um.” He pulls something out of his pocket. I take it from him, leaning forwards and trying only to bring my hand, nothing else, close to him, just in case, and I see it’s a business card. A fucking business card. It holds his name, his number and his email address. “Thank you for not freaking out.”

I nod slowly. “I’m just glad you weren’t burgling me. There’s fuck all to burgle here anyhow.” I glance towards the door. My flat is so small that I can see my kitchen from my bed, and the only door other than the front one leads to the bathroom (sans bath). “D’you know how to get out? I think there’s fire exit signs that should point you in the right direction.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t get out of bed just for me.” He starts towards the door, but pauses with his hand on its handle. “Morgan?”

“Yeah?”

“I will make you love me.”

And with that, he left.


I don’t tell anybody.

At first, I assume it’s a dream. I crawl out of bed at 7:20 and open a can of Relentless before I even think about breakfast, as is my tradition. I get dressed. I have nearly half a crumpet in my mouth when my eyes fall on his business card.

A fucking business card.

After that, I don’t tell anybody because I know they’ll worry. They might call the police. There are CCTV cameras on my corridor – they could find him. And he really didn’t seem to mean any harm.

Maybe my blasé attitude regarding a stranger breaking into my home is exactly why everybody would worry about it.


I don’t call or email him. I don’t Google him. I lie down for bed every night, hoping for and dreading a visit from him.

Three days after our first meeting, he starts leaving me gifts.

The first is in my postbox. It’s a large bar of salted caramel Galaxy (my favourite) with a note sellotaped to it.

Wanted to make sure you don’t forget about me. Loved the dress you wore yesterday.

– Ant

I carefully peel off the note and stash it in my coat pocket. I don’t want anybody to see it (least of all my Daddy, who would worry the most) but I would feel exceptionally mean just throwing it away.

I share the chocolate with my 20th Century Poets And Politics seminar group, and I don’t tell them where it came from. It tastes amazing.


The second gift comes only a day after the first, again in my postbox. This time it’s a giftcard – to Ann Summers. The note reads:

I know you want their new baby pink lingerie line and I know you don’t want to give them your money. This should work online. If you want me to see you wearing it, post pictures on your Twitter or email them to me – otherwise, just enjoy.

– Ant

How the fuck did he know that?

Has he actually, physically been following me? Was he a few feet behind me in the city centre when I lamented to a friend that I wanted that bra so bad but didn’t want to put my money into a company like Ann Summers? Was he listening to me through my phone? Was he canvassing my friends about my lingerie tastes?

The reality begins to set in now: he really has been following me.

I am scared by how little this realisation scares me.


The gifts stall for two days and I begin to overthink it. Maybe he’s hurt that I haven’t acknowledged the first two. Maybe, because he’s hurt, he’s going to hurt me. Or someone I love. That thought makes me so cold with fear I can ignore the other nagging worry I’ve begun to have: maybe he doesn’t like me any more.

I bite the bullet and text him. It takes me twenty minutes to compose a 62-word message.

Hey Ant, I wanted to say thank you for the chocolate and the giftcard. I would have said something sooner but (as I assume you already know) I’ve got that mad anxiety 😂 Sorry it’s taking me a while to adjust to the news that you’re in love with me. Can we text for a bit and see how it goes? Morgan x

I don’t know why I put a kiss on the end. Britishness? Being AFAB? I don’t stop to consider any other reasons for it.


Hey Morgan, no worries about the presents – they’re gifts, I don’t expect anything in return for them! I would love to keep texting. There are lots of other things I would love too, but I know you don’t know me as well as I know you 😉 Ant xx

We start flirting.

I tell my partners I’m flirting with a boy (because I’m not a douchebag) but don’t mention how we met. I learn that he’s at my university, which is where he became interested in me, so I tell people that he has friends in my seminar groups and that’s how we got chatting. It’s only sort of a lie. He keeps leaving gifts – sweets and chocolate, giftcards to places he somehow knows I want to shop, six balls of some yarn I decided was too expensive to buy six balls of – and includes notes with them:

I don’t know what you did with your hair yesterday but it was stunning. I couldn’t choose between the white chocolate and the milk so I got you both – feel free to share them with friends/partners or to save them for a rainy day.

– Ant

 

Literally cannot stop thinking about you. I saw you trying to befriend that cat near the tram stop – that was too cute for words. I think I got the right colour yarn but I’m not sure it’s the right thickness – I can always exchange it for you if not.

– Ant

Once, when I’m hungover, he leaves me orange Lucozade, paracetamol and a voucher for a bacon sandwich, with a note that reads:

I cannot find a compliment that’s appropriate about the way you looked last night. They all involve wanting to do stuff to you that we haven’t talked about yet. Anyway here’s some hangover supplies – if you need anything else I can come over. Or if you don’t want me over you could always get in touch with your partners, I know they have your back. (And I would be honoured to be their metamour) Have a gentle day

– Ant

Eventually, I can’t deal with the tension any more. I want to pick his brains – what does he know about me? How has he found it out? What made him fall for me like this? I give everybody the necessary heads-up that I’m inviting a boy over, and I text him:

Want to come to mine to talk? I’m actually dying to see your face again. I’m free on Wednesday nights and alternate Fridays xx

His reply, unnervingly fast, is, Absolutely. Please. Wednesday? Any requests for snacks or anything? xx

When I tell him No, I’ve got plenty to eat, but that’s sweet of you xx, he responds, You know I’d do anything for you. ANYTHING xx, and I’m stupid enough to shoot back: You can prove that on Wednesday 😉 xx


On Wednesday morning, about seven hours before Ant will knock on my door, I find another gift in my postbox.

It’s a little vial. It’s filled with dark red liquid. It has a cute cork keeping it airtight.

I realise it’s blood.

The note says:

Okay I 100% realise logically speaking that this is probably not what you meant when you said “prove it on Wednesday” but I got it into my head that I could give you some of my blood and I couldn’t shake the idea. I’m really sorry if this grosses you out, I’ll happily take it back and get rid of it, or I’ll show you the results of my most recent blood tests if that helps. Just, I really, really mean it – I would do anything for you. I would do anything to be yours.

– Ant

I stand so my body shields my postbox from view and nobody can see what’s in my hand. I tilt the vial this way, then that, watching its glass sides get painted red. I wonder whether he knew this would evoke good autism feelings in me – I have a real fondness for deep red tones, especially when they’re translucent or glittery – and how he collected the blood. There’s only, at a guess, 5 millilitres in there, which is less than I tip out of my menstrual cup after a good night’s sleep.

I slip the vial into my coat pocket and head to class, sometimes stroking the smooth, cold glass as a stim while I walk.


When I arrive home, he’s in my bedroom. This is not a surprise, although I know it should be. I hang my coat up and kick off my trainers. He’s just standing there, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed on the furniture. He’s still in a big hoodie and jeans, like the last time I saw him; I feel a weird yank in my midriff, like fondness, as I pull out my desk chair and point to it.

“Sit,” I say, and I notice with a wince that it’s my dom voice – the same one I use when I’m bossing a submissive partner around. I pray he doesn’t know this. “Do you want a drink or anything?”

I hear him swallow. His anxiety is palpable. “No, thank you,” he says. I pull out my only other chair and perch on it. “This is the first time I’ve ever been this close to you.”

He’s right – when he stood at the end of my bed, his body was at least four feet from mine. Now our knees bump together when I move. I have goosebumps and raised arm hairs even though it’s warm in here, and I’m pretty sure I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.

Yeah, everywhere. I realise, in a sinking sort of way, that I want him. Badly.




In spite of the option of serialising this story losing the poll I ran on Twitter about it, I’m going to leave this hanging until next Smut Saturday. I recognise that it’s not terribly smutty thus far, but the fanfic writer in me can’t resist a slow burn, and I personally might need to go wank based on the stalking setup alone. Let me know what your thoughts are on longer-form smut and on serialising Smut Saturdays pieces!