Smut Saturdays #2: The Submissive Slytherin

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.
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“Or perhaps in Slytherin,
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means,
To achieve their ends.”

Pottermore sorted me into Slytherin for, I imagine, the same reasons that the Sorting Hat suggested that Harry himself would have been a good fit for the most misunderstood house: I’m tenacious, driven and in love with winning. In the face of adversity, I make plans, and I make sure they work, no matter what. I’m competitive, I can schmooze, and I get my own way or nobody’s way at all.

So, when my Daddy told me that he was going to refrain from fucking me for an entire month, I took it as a challenge.

You have to understand, dear reader, that he explained why he wasn’t going to fuck me for a month. If he had been asserting a real boundary, I’d have listened. (Not all Slytherins are evil, and even the evil ones aren’t necessarily rapists.) But he brought it up to tease me, at first.

“I could go longer without fucking you than you could without fucking me,” he’d said, during an amicable dispute about which one of us was sluttier. “You’d be begging for it after a week.”

I had kept my eyes on my knitting, my fingers working away as quickly and purposefully as my mind was. “It’d depend on the conditions,” I’d said slowly. “But I think you’d cave first. Especially if we weren’t allowed to wank.”

“I could last a fortnight, easily.” (Did I mention what a dyed-in-the-wool Gryffindor my Daddy is?)

“I could go a month.” I had finished my row, so I’d finally glanced up at him, in his arm chair, whiskey on the table to his right. “Starting today.”

“I could easily not fuck you for a month.”

And thus, it began.

My Daddy and I have seen each other naked a lot.

He’s all body hair, so he gets warm easily. I’m autistic, and wearing bras, jeans or socks for too long makes me wish I didn’t have skin. We spend a lot of time in our underwear, me sometimes in a T-shirt of his, and we both sleep naked unless it’s literally freezing.

Simply getting naked might not have driven him wild, since he knew the sight of my body as well as the sight of his own. But, on Day Two, I tried it anyway.

Innocently, I slipped upstairs to shower (unlocking my collar all by myself, like a grown-up) while he worked on some academic stuff with Scrubs playing in the background. I shaved my vulva, more to draw attention to it than anything. I scrubbed myself down, exfoliated my face, sang songs from musicals and let conditioner soak into my hair before I stepped out and grabbed my towel.

I got as dry as I could manage, put my towel and facecloth back where they each belonged, and put my collar back on. Then, as naked as the day I was born but for the leather and padlock at my throat, I tiptoed down the stairs.

My Daddy lifted his eyes from his laptop screen as soon as I came into his peripheral vision, but his gaze didn’t last long. I crossed the living room, stood by his side, and waited for him to finish the sentence he was typing.

“I shaved my princess parts,” I informed him brightly, pointing at my hairless crotch. “Feel how smooth I got ’em.”

We’d hashed out the rules on Day One: groping of boobs and butts was allowed, as was kissing with tongue, but either of us touching my clit, labia or anus, or penetrating me with any item other than my menstrual cup all counted as losing; so did either of us touching Daddy’s cock, balls or anus (except, y’know, he was allowed to wash them in the shower) with body parts or toys. This effectively ruled out wanking, giving each other handjobs, fucking each other with toys, oral and PIV. There was also a caveat for no over-the-clothes wanking (since I can cum whilst humping my wand even with two or three layers of clothing in the way), and a general “stick to the spirit of the challenge” rule in place.

All these rules, I’m sure you’ve deduced, left room for my Daddy to stroke my now-smooth mons pubis.

He knew this too, and, grinning, he ran three fingertips from just below my belly button all the way down to where my clitoral hood began. I watched his face, partly to gauge his reaction and partly because his hand that near my cunt was just begging to be humped.

“Good job,” he said simply, and he returned his hands to his keyboard, but I could tell that his focus was shaken.

I had this in the fucking bag.

We hadn’t said anything about S&M stuff.

I realised this when we were in the kitchen together on Day Four, and I was pretending that I was going to eat my fancy, palm oil-free, very expensive Nutella substitute out of the jar with a spoon (like I might with real Nutella) before dinner was ready. Upon my third laughing, exaggerated attempt to open the cupboard, my Daddy simply grabbed my little throat with one hand, looping his other arm around my waist, and dragged me backwards. I giggled, until he tightened his grip.


I squeaked, “Okay, okay, I’ll be good!” but of course, he didn’t let go. “Daddy! We have to stir the vegetables!”

“Oh, so we do.” He let me go so suddenly that I barely kept my balance, and I knew without looking that I would be flushed and wide-eyed – the bastard could get me into subspace so fast. (And would undoubtedly beat my arse til it was as flushed as my face if I ever called him a bastard out loud.)

Well, okay, two could play at this game. My Daddy’s sadist streak ran wider than anybody I’d ever met, and I knew that nothing would get him as hard as my writhing and screaming.

So I wandered out of the kitchen and came back with my own plastic ruler.

This ruler lived in my rucksack primarily to stim with, being emerald green and excellent to chew on. It was not a designated impact toy – there were at least two bags full of those upstairs, ranging from canes to meat tenderisers to an actual fucking cricket bat. However, when I wandered into the kitchen with my big, spaced-out eyes and my plastic ruler in my salivating mouth, my Daddy’s face took on that evil glow that always made me tingle with that delicious masochistic fear.

“Does someone need a beating?” he teased, plucking the ruler from between my teeth and wiping my own drool across my face with it. “Is this because Daddy’s not fucking you?”

I did my best ‘clueless’ face, regarding him with a slack jaw and a slow blink. “I just like my ruler,” I said sweetly. He did not buy it.

“After dinner, baby.” He pointed to the cutlery drawer, indicating I should start laying the table. “I need to leave you with some marks for the weekend, don’t I?”

A while ago, I had been assigned a task: to brainstorm as many ways as possible that I could maximise my capacity for impact bottoming.

I had listed, in the back of my unicorn journal, a number of ideas, and most of them had been aimed at reducing overwhelm. I could take a pretty impressive beating as long as I was blindfolded, tied down securely, had something to bite into and wasn’t distracted by any sounds other than implements on my flesh and my Daddy’s warm, encouraging voice.

My Daddy was clearly desperate to bruise me before I went back to my hometown for the weekend, because he bound my wrists, ankles and waist to the bedframe so I was face-down in a sort of X-shape. Then he blindfolded and gagged me, gave me the repurposed clicker we used as a safe signal, and closed the bedroom windows.

Oh, and to reduce sensory input even further, I’d had to take off all my clothes.

I could hear the shuffling of the toy bag, but I didn’t know when the first strike was coming. I didn’t know what my Daddy was going to choose, or how hard he was going to hit me with it.

I was excited.


Cane. That was the only thought I could have: cane. He’d started with the cane. I hated the cane.

THWICK. I whimpered, my toes curling. I could take this. The post-strike tingling was nice, just that the strikes themselves were – THWICK. Fuck. I sucked in a breath through my nose, trying to keep my body relaxed. The endorphin high I’d get from this would – THWICK.

“One more,” I heard my Daddy whisper, and I nodded against the mattress. I could take one more. For my Daddy, I could take anything.


I clicked. It was more a brain thing than a body thing – my arse just felt hot with pain. Still, my Daddy appeared at my head, took the gag off me, and asked, “Yellow or red?”

“Yellow.” I breathed deeply, leaning my head against my Daddy’s nearby hand. “Just wanted a pause. Sorry.”

“No ‘sorry’, you did the right thing clicking. You’re so good.” I felt him kiss the top of my head. “I’m so proud of you.” Oh, that still made me glow, even after dozens upon dozens of beatings and scenes. “Shall we do more thuddy stuff?”

I nodded. He settled the gag back into my mouth and I remembered with clarity why I’d tempted him into beating me: to get fucked. And, more importantly (at least in my mind, in that moment), to win.

I wiggled my arse as much as the rope around my waist would allow.

It took about twenty minutes of beating my arse, thighs and shoulders for my Daddy to need a break.

He sat near my head and removed my gag and my blindfold. I saw his face, and noticed his heaving chest, and I knew that this was my chance.

“Can I have a ‘well done’ kiss?” I asked in my ‘little’ voice, soft and higher-pitched than usual.

He ducked his head down and pressed his lips against mine, but then started to pull away again. I whimpered, and let my lips fall open, sucking his bottom lip gently. Then, seemingly suddenly, his tongue was in my mouth and he was pulling on my hair.


“You’re evil,” he gasped, pulling away. “Are you just trying to seduce me?”

I blinked at him, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anybody. I didn’t really need to. “What does ‘seduce’ mean, Daddy?” I asked, faking coyness.

“Let Daddy show you.” He reached for the knots that held my wrists away from me. “Fuck this challenge shit, I want you now.”

I’d been impressed by how fast he’d tied me, but the process of untying was even quicker. He threw his rope into a careless pile on the floor (which any rope top will know is a true marker of desperation) and before I could even fully understand my victory, he’d flipped me onto my back.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmured into my neck; it took my subspacey brain a moment to process that his fingers were running up and down my slick, shaved vulva. “Look how wet that beating got you!”

“Does this mean I win?” I asked, grinding my hardened clit against his hand.

He pressed two thick fingers into my aching cunt, scooping them towards my swollen G spot. “I definitely feel like a winner,” he growled as he started to fingerfuck me. “You won’t be able to sit down tomorrow and I get to claim your tight little cunt again.”

I whimpered into his neck, unable to formulate any witty, gloating response. I just rode his hand, pathetically, soaking wet, towards my first orgasm of the night. As he pinned me down by my throat, causing little spots to appear around the edges of my vision, and pounded my G spot until my legs shook, I found myself filled to the brim with traditional Slytherin smugness. I had won the challenge, and the fingerfucking I’d wanted so badly. And only on Day Four.

But never fear, dear reader – especially dom-type readers out there, and double-especially my Daddy, if you’re reading this – the smugness faded less than an hour later, when I sat on the toilet to let the last of my Daddy’s cum drip out of my battered pussy, and I squealed out loud at the pain of putting my well-beaten arse on a firm surface.