Smut Saturdays #3: Wet and Warm

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.
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:

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.


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 it 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 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.”