Content note: This post describes various age-play headspaces, themes, and play dynamics. Several kinds of sexuality/BDSM (incl. blood play) are briefly mentioned as a part of that, but are not described in any detail. There is no mention of incest play or childhood abuse.
I’ve been an adult girl who was about eight years old; happy, curious, cute, giggly, and a bit shy. I’ve hid under blankets to be able to ask for what I wanted, and then I’ve got it, just like that. I’ve found out that saying what you need, deep down where it matters, feels very, very hard at first but then it also feels exciting and brave and afterwards you feel like you’ve won something important. I’ve said things I couldn’t say in any other voice. I’ve got permission to play, to not know, to cry, to need. I’ve boldly trusted my partner with my childish needs and desires and got so much love in return: cuddles and challenges, gold stars and pet names, near-endless patience and silly, silly jokes just for the two of us. I’ve never doubted that I mattered.
And then all of that became a distraction, an excuse, an easy way out of doing the things that were really hard. A way to avoid facing what needed facing. It became something I had to grow out of.
I’ve been an adult girl who was about sixteen years old; still curious and shy, with a secret heart full of hope for a boy who’d want to kiss me and ask me to dance. I’ve received hand-written love notes and adoring looks from a boy I liked. I’ve held hands and got breathless and trembling over the intensity of that. I’ve been looked at as if I was a most precious creature, as if this boy couldn’t believe I really said yes to their hands, their lips, their desire for me. I’ve shared first times, first steps into adulthood. I’ve been the awkward, ugly duckling who was suddenly transformed into a radiant, graceful swan under the gaze of a boy who loved me. I’ve been chosen and asked to dance by a prince, and it was everything I’d ever dreamed of, for a while.
And then I grew tired of teenage boys and fairy tales, because I needed an adult to work with me on a happily ever after in the real world. I needed to get off the princess pedestal and onto the ground and figure out how to dance there. (Also, the clock struck midnight and the prince shapeshifted into something that sadly didn’t respond to my magic anymore. But that is a different story.)
I’ve been an adult girl who was a different kind of sixteen years old; still curious, but also a lot more cynical about the world, and a lot less trusting of anyone. I’ve been a mess of barely articulate yearnings; hungry, and lonely, and in desperate need of belonging with someone. I’ve risked getting hurt on the off chance of being loved, over and over again. I’ve chosen to go where I wasn’t supposed to go and found exactly the kind of intense and dangerous connection I wanted, exactly the kind of challenge and acceptance I needed. I’ve broken my parents’ rules as I’ve followed the demands of my partners in crime. I’ve learned to tear open my heart for an irresistible stranger who chose me (me!); to spill its deep, red contents all over them while I absorb their impact, suck their cock, lick their boots, or let them make me bleed for real; then gather up the messy remains to take with me when daylight tells me it is time to leave again. I’ve learned that this usually hurts, a lot, but that it’s always, always worth it. I’ve learned that my heart is a sucker for hard and fast romance and that it is a resilient little fuck.
This is actually where it all started, all those years ago. And this is the one I’m not quite done with, apparently. Because this is the one I keep returning to whenever I find another irresistible stranger in a leather jacket who is just passing through town. (Because maybe, just maybe, one of them will keep coming back for me. And if they won’t — well, I know how to patch up my heart by now.)
I feel like I need to add some context for this one. The things I mention in this post are based on actual age play I’ve done at various points in my (and my partners’) adult life, but I’ve deliberately blurred the lines between different partners and situations. My goal here isn’t to tell the stories of specific scenes or to show how I make these kinds of age play work in the realm of real-life (and in-scene) consent, but to portray the different headspaces and emotional stories of the various girls I’ve been in a BDSM context. Because all the girls I’ve been before just have a lot of feelings.
I’m counting this as a catch-up post for one of the #Kinktober prompts I skipped before. The original prompt was “daddy kink.” And while I often appreciate daddy energy in others (and may write about that in the future), I chose to focus on age play more generally here, especially the girl side of that.
I’m also submitting this post for this week’s Wicked Wednesday (the prompt was “dreams” – and this post is about several dreams come true), which is my first time participating in that. And while this piece is probably not technically erotica, I still think it fits that theme closely enough.
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