Kinky Scribble installment seven! If you’re here for the sexy times, skip to the “read more.” Otherwise, continue below for an update on my inspiration for this story, why this is my first scribble in six months, and my hypothesis for why the sexy words finally, finally came. (Pun intended.)
Inspiration & Responsive vs Spontaneous Sexual Desire
On the surface, my inspiration for this story would seem to originate with this tweet and this tweet. If you ask to go deeper (please, deeper, harder) then I will share with you that the inspiration came from one of my first roleplay sessions with the talented @pseudo_size, a fellow polyamorous kink writer who has brought much inspiration to my life this year. You can read more of his work here, including a fantastic dark noncon commission he did for me in July. This weekend when I found myself fantasizing about two of the characters from that first February session, I messaged him privately to explore the concept, and he was very obliging with his response. It left me thirsty for more, in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
(Content warning for discussion of mental health.) My regular readers know that I’ve been struggling with trauma and a decreased desire for sex a lot this year. I won’t go into that in detail here, but I have learned a lot about the concept of sexual brakes and sexual accelerators, and how arousal works in relation to stress and mental health. My blog post Sexual Brakes, Trauma, & Kink in the Burning 20’s explores how I have used size kink in stress cycle exercises to release stress, fight depression, and find my way back to arousal.
Even with all that hard work and experimentation, in the last six months I have found my own turn-ons to be rooted firmly in responsive desire—when your brain only gets turned on when something sexy is already happening—and in my case, it’s mostly in contexts with people I trust a great deal, like my partners. Pre-pandemic, finding my turn-on for writing erotica was as easy as turning a faucet, most days. Spontaneous and fun. But in the last half year, the faucet has required some creative encouragement to function at all. For example, trying to find my turn-on for a sex scene in SizeRiot’s HistoricalJuly20 contest required patience, tremendous effort, and a lot of trial and error. It was a mental puzzle, not a physical inspiration.
So how the hell did I wake up Saturday morning spontaneously fantasizing about sex? After so long, how on earth did I finally feel inspired enough to dash off 1600 words of sensually charged erotica? With no deadline, no contest, no context of a loving partner hoping for my next kiss or my next paragraph?
I’ve only experienced spontaneous sexual desire a few times during the pandemic, and each time came directly after some stressor in my life resolved itself. The work crisis ended with a lucky break. The estranged family member answered my messages. I finally asked for help about something that had me burned out. Within 12-24 hours, each time I found myself experiencing wave after wave of spontaneous arousal. It was as if my body took a deep breath and said, “FINALLY! It’s safe enough for sexy times. Release the arousal!”
A door in my mind opened and erotica came flooding out.
When I shared the story with Pseudo afterward, I blushed hard at his response. “You really turned a quick few sentences about this concept from me into one of the sexiest pieces of size writing I’ve ever read.”
Kinky Scribble recipe & reasoning
A Kinky Scribble is a flash-fiction writing exercise idea I’ve been developing since January 2020, as a tool to break past my anxieties as a writer. Read my past Kinky Scribbles and search the #KinkyScribble tag itself on Twitter.
The strategy is to produce creative content in a short amount of time, give it minimal edits, and then release it into the wild for others to enjoy. My goals are to practice my fiction-writing skills, to produce more content while still reconnecting with the parts of writing I enjoy most, and to re-calibrate my sense of when something is “done enough” to share.
Feel free to join in! Don’t feel obliged to follow my same format of listing my word count and writing/editing times. It’s really useful to me to re-calibrate my time estimates, and to prove to myself that I can make good content in uncomfortably short time frames.
And speaking of comfort zones, I strongly encourage all #KinkyScribble creators to tag their content so that readers can opt in or out with fully informed consent. I’m not perfect about this, but practice has been helping, and I’m committed to doing better in the future.
Kinky Scribble: What Happens Next
(Content includes: F/M/f, cunnilingus, face sitting, teasing, begging, PIV sex, growth/shrinking, consensual non-monogamy, insertion)
1657 words; 1.5 hours writing time, 20 minutes of editing in two rounds
Her thighs slide sweet and hot against my blushing cheeks and ears, muffling the sound of her voice. “Lick me, and watch what happens,” she says, smirking down at me.
My heart is in my throat and I am too excited to find my words, especially with the solid weight of her 6’1 frame resting gently on my chest. Looking up her tidy trimmed bush, the slope of her abdomen and stomach, the swell of her breasts, the way she’s now licking her lips and watching me like a queen. She moves her hips and I inhale her tangy floral musk, my eyes drawn to her other lips. My mouth waters with a sharp ache of saliva as I imagine her flavor, as I wonder what will happen when I lick her thick, ponderously beautiful vulva lips. I can barely see a glimpse of her clit, and it makes me want to explore.
I open my mouth and push the tip of my tongue upwards. Lifting my head off the bed. She laughs, and holds herself just beyond my reach. I whimper and tighten my core, curling my hands around her thighs for leverage as I lift higher, hopeful.
She watches me. “Say it.”
I whimper again. The scent of her is heady, like beer or honey mead or something from a long ago poem. I can’t remember ever being this thirsty. I bring my knees together, clamping my own thighs around my desire as I writhe and force the words to work.
“Please,” I gasp. “Please let me lick you.”
She lowers herself benevolently onto my straining tongue. A single low dip of her hips. I lick hungrily from the lowest level of her vulva, up through her petals, and circle once around the shape of her hooded clitoris, taking in the flavor of her like the first sip of that poetic liquor. A tang of bittersweet citrus, a warm delicious musk. I lower my tongue to make a circuit but grunt in protest as my prize lifts up and away.
She laughs at my sound, and possibly the begging look on my face. “Watch what happens,” she says again, but her voice is lost into a moan before she can finish. She closes her eyes and rolls her head skyward. And then she grows.
Right there on my body. Her thighs sliding bigger, rounder, thicker as they frame my face. Her ass pushing outward against my chest, ever so slightly. The gravity of her increasing.
My hands tighten on her thighs as she lowers herself. I lick her again, slowly, savoring the flavors of her. Pulling one labia majora into my mouth, sucking and tickling, then releasing and pulling in the other for equal attention. Her juices swell like the tide and in moments I am slippery with her scent. Moaning. She doesn’t lift up this time as she grows. It’s not just evidence of her arousal that’s swelling, her whole body expands slowly above me. Incrementally. I lick her harder.
It’s not until I feel his enormous hands on my thighs, not until I watch him nuzzle her, leaning over her shoulder to kiss her ear and grin down at me, that I realize.
His hands are too big. He is too big. Just like her.
I try to twist my head to see the bed, the room. She lifts a little, but I’m still pinned underneath her. And as I pull back my tongue from her big, beautiful vulva, I realize that the thrill of arousal I felt earlier wasn’t from witnessing her growth. It was from feeling my own body dwindle beneath her weight.
I shrink. I moan. They witness my pleasure.
“Someone likes being small,” he observes with a hint of amusement. “You should see the way she’s writhing right now,” he says in her ear. They both grin down at me.
“You should see what happens when he fucks you… while you lick me.”
I grunt with reckless desire, looking back and forth between them. My body aching, wishing I had words to beg them for this. I nod, instead, giving them a pleading look.
“Oh, yes, it really does look like someone likes being small,” she says. “You want to see what happens? Little Lover?”
She lowers herself in that teasing way, so close to my mouth but with a question implied. Do I want it? Enough to reach for it?
“I want her to say it,” he says. Big hands on my thighs, pulling them open. Oh, God. I can feel the tip of his erect cock trailing lightly along the inside of my thigh.
They wait, poised with an avalanche of possibility hovering above me. I close my eyes and summon the words like precious stones from deep, deep within. “Please!” I say. My voice is close and small in the space between my mouth and her glistening body. “Yes!”
“Please, yes, what?”
I groan, as if polishing the words to make them sharp with my frustration and desperation. They come tumbling out in a sparkle of crystallized desire.
“Please fuck me. Please, please let me lick you! Please!”
They move in unison, tantalizing slow motion. The tip of his cock presses at my opening. Her clit sinks down upon my mouth, featherlight.
They move together. He thrusts inside me, a delicious filling up of my aching emptiness, and she presses lips onto lips. In moments I am slick in every way. Slick with my own juices, slick with hers, slick with the sweat of heat between bodies, my hands on her thighs and his on mine. We connect.
And then I shrink. Twice as hard, like a shudder of an orgasm I cannot have yet, my body contracts around his thick cock. Her clit, just now growing enough to peek through its hood, from the size of a peanut to the size of a grape.
I lick her again. Their hips move slowly, together, heavy and thick, powerful with each ounce of kinetic energy that they push into my body.
I lick her harder. I lift my hips to meet him as he strokes deep within me again.
Smaller. God. They both seem intimidatingly large now. I lick again, nuzzling her and moaning as I feel the way she seems to increase with weight and presence all around me.
Each lick I offer also offers so much more to her. To them both. Me, my body. Take both. Take my size. My presence in this world. Let me be an instrument of desire, let me worship you with this service of my pleasure. A gift of myself. Take my size.
I whisper the last part, but they hear me. Watching me, they move harder. As if it’s harder for us to resist any of this, once I began giving, all they wanted to do was take.
He’s huge inside me now, painfully huge stretching me in the best way, and each stroke pushes him larger, somehow a wave of movement that descends through her and down onto my face, my tingling lips, my aching body straining for breath, my dwindling body demanding from me that I lick her harder, I want her, I want him, I want to lose myself under this impossible weight and presence.
He groans as I finally shrink too small to hold him, and he slips out of me with an obscene “pop” and my loudest whimper. “Please,” I manage. “Don’t stop.” Offering everything I can, my words like the wealth of myself, all I have to offer besides my tongue. I lick and lick and lick and she does not stop.
I am so tiny now that I can no longer reach her without help. He comes around to the front of her, and helps. His huge warm hands lift me, holding me like an offering against her so that I can lick and lick and lick and never stop.
I shrink and shrink and shrink and never want that to stop, either. Her clitoris swells larger than an apple, and when I can no longer get my mouth around her, I make her moan with both hands, with still-eager licks, my face and shoulders and arms and chest and breasts all dripping with her powerful juices. Her clit is fully erect and red by the time it takes on the size and weight of a watermelon to me. I hug her. My arms working against her. Still licking. Still aching.
He holds me against his cock now. One hand bracing me as I straddle the thick head that forced its way so wonderfully inside me just moments before. I look up the long lines of their bodies as they hover close together. I watch them kiss and feel a heart-bursting wave of compersion, envy, pleasure, and rightness. It feels good and right that they are kissing. That they are big, and doing what they want to do. And even as part of me feels the loss of what I have relinquished, I feel the secret pleasure of this intimacy between giants. I look at where I am. I look at his thick cock, longer than my body, the throbbing vein under the skin and against my small, sensitive thigh in an echo of the way he pressed his tip against my skin earlier.
Hot blood, hope. Desire to fill. To penetrate. I look up at her now truly massive blossoming vulva, wet and red and pulsing with desire of her own. Desire to be filled.
I feel their eyes on me and look up the canyon formed by their sensual topography to meet their gazes.
“Do you want what happens next, little lover?”
I squeeze his cock firmly with my thighs and nod. They don’t ask me to beg for it any more.
They move together, and I move with them.
Lifting up. My body reaching the way my tongue reached before, every part of me saying “please,” as I push deep, deep within.