At my first ever munch about – oooh, a million years ago now – the first question people asked was: “are you a top or a bottom?” As we mingled with a bunch of exceptionally friendly people, dressed in anything from jeans and t-shirt to ropework and pants, everyone wanted to know:

“Top or bottom?”

“Domme or sub?”

What are you?

For want of a better word, we both said ‘switch.’ Having done our research (read: furiously masturbated to a number of blog posts and forum debates) we figured that our ‘whatever we fancy at the time’ attitude probably best fit into that category. Neither of us was a particularly dominant person, nor were either of us comfortable being cast in the role of submissive, nervous that it would prevent us from having the same kind of playful back-and-forth that was a staple of our usual nights out.

Kinda silly, really, but we were young, and hadn’t a sodding clue what we were doing.

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This week’s guest blog comes from the brilliant Broken Sub. Her blog is searingly honest, and combines some straightforward, fun sex blogging with some fascinating reflective posts on BDSM and her submission.

I don’t want to say too much by way of introduction, because I don’t want to detract from her own words, but I should warn you that the blog includes discussion of abuse. It’s also incredibly personal, and very thoughtful. If you want to find out more, please do check out her blog.

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I’m clearly on a dominant roll with guest bloggers at the moment. No sooner has @EuclideanPoint sent me a gorgeous blog on female domination and orgasm denial, then another pops into my inbox, from a gentleman’s point of view. This particular gentleman wants to remain anonymous, but regardless of his name, some of the mental images he’s put in my head with this story will stay with me for a very long time.

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She didn’t just have me at ‘hello’, this week’s guest blogger had me at ‘we won’t be needing this pathetic cock…’ Some people seem to have a natural knack and talent for domming, and I can’t help but watch in semi-envious arousal. This is one of those times.

Please welcome @EuclideanPoint, with an intensely hot guest post on orgasm denial…

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The clinking sound of metal-on-metal gets me horny now. Ever since we got a spreader bar (far later in my life than I’d have expected to, given my intense delight in anything restraint-based). I rarely see him get it out, because before he does he’ll make a specific order:

“Bend over and close your eyes.” or “Lie face down on the bed.” or “Face the fucking wall.”

And I stand, trembling, waiting for him to lock my ankles in the stocks, and put me in an off-balance position.

I used to think that the point of spreader bars was to keep my legs open: giving easy access and a view that makes him hard. A display that’s a cross between arousing and humiliating for me: open and ready for him to touch, to stare at, to fuck. But it’s more than that: it’s not just about access but control.

With my legs spread wide by the bar and my wrists cuffed to it, every muscle in my legs and back is tense with the effort of staying balanced. Sometimes I’m on the bed, crouched with my face buried in the bedsheets and my back arched in a way I could never hold on my own, arms stretched beneath me reaching down to the bar. Twisted in a way that highlights my discomfort, and helps me embrace the shivering relief of pleasure as he fucks me with quick, long strokes.

Sometimes, though, I’m standing up – wobbling on uncertain tiptoes, relying on him to hold me still – hold me stable – while he fucks me.

There’s something about being slightly off-balance.

Strength, power, and spreader bar throatfucking

I’d like to say that I don’t care if he can fuck me with power and strength: that a gentle shag is as fun as an angry one. But I’d be lying. I like feeling weak and small and vulnerable. Trembling and wobbling and knowing that the only reason I’m upright is that he’s got a fistful of my hair.

He pulls my head back and forth. Quickly at first. Getting the full, satisfying length of his cock in my throat. Down right to the base so I choke, holding me there for exactly as long as I trust him to, then pulling me back. With my wrists and ankles restrained I can’t move away. I must stay until my eyes water and he deigns to pull me back – spluttering and drooling and covering him in wet spit.

Then more slowly. Holding me at the right position so I can just wet the tip. Licking around the head. Hair straining against his hand and the backs of my knees starting to wobble. And as they start to go he pushes me back down, until my face is buried in his crotch and he’s throatfucking me with care and precision.  The back of my throat contracting against him as he calls me a good girl.

I feel more solid on my feet, but it’s harder to breathe: a trade-off that he has the power to balance perfectly. He switches me between fast and slow – trembling and choking, secure and nervous. Happy and happier.

When he starts to fuck me, the tremble sets in again. I want to grip my ankles, or lift my hands to hold onto something: the bed, the wall – anything. But each stroke of him fucking me makes me tremble harder, feeling like I’m teetering on the brink of collapse. Muscles tense, cunt tightening, knees twitching and about to crumble.

He likes the twitching, I think. He can feel my muscles tense as he grips me, and he can feel me pushing back to take him further inside me – part satisfaction and part safety: the harder I push back the easier it is to stay stable. I think he likes the clinking sound of metal-on-metal too – it means my hands are still cuffed to the spreader bar, and the rapid tinkling as my ankles wobble and my legs start to really shake means I’m close enough to coming that he can speed up to bring himself there. Fuck me harder, faster. The swift, angry strokes that give me both release and permission. I can come because I know he’s about to. The twitching climax as I come on his cock brings him to a harder orgasm.

He grips my hips to keep me upright as he empties himself inside me.

He keeps his hands on me even after he’s done – maintaining balance, unlocking me from the spreader bar, and letting me gently down onto the bed, or the floor. I can feel his spunk dripping down the inside of my thighs, and his big hands on my hips and wrists and ankles. Perfectly balanced, and strong enough to keep me from falling.

This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or head to the audio porn page to find more sexy stories read aloud.