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. 

I’m more than willing to suspend my disbelief to enjoy a good TV show. I’ll ignore loud explosions in deep space, grin and bear anachronisms in historical dramas, and even nod through a paradox or two. But one thing I refuse to believe is that at no point in his long long life has Doctor Who gone back in time to fuck himself.

I mean COME ON. He used to look like DAVID TENNANT, for crying out loud! And Matt Smith: all gangly limbs and twinking nerdery. You would, wouldn’t you?

One of the things I enjoyed most about the book The Time Traveler’s Wife (if you haven’t read it then it’s about a dude who accidentally time travels) is that in it, when his teenage self meets another teenage self, they wank each other off. It’s not described in detail, but it’s straightforward enough that it made me go ‘omg realistic portrayals of identical-selves masturbating is exactly what has been missing from all time travel.’

So, in that spirit, here are a few of the sexual encounters that would happen if I had a time machine.

Time-travel threesomes

I don’t really want to have sex with myself, if only because I don’t tend to fancy women that often, and I suspect I am exactly the kind of person who would annoy myself by being obnoxiously loud and eating all the nice crisps at parties. So I don’t think me and me would make a good couple. However what we WOULD make is an excellent threesome double-team.

In the past I’ve turned down amazing sexual opportunities because I’m too jealous of the other girl involved, or because I’m scared that the guy I’m with will enjoy the other person more and be permanently disappointed with my own mediocre vagina. However, with a time-travel threesome, I wouldn’t need to worry about that, because I am basically the same person.

I’d pick and choose some of the less exciting fucks I’ve had in the past, and spice them up by introducing my future-self halfway through and watching the guy’s eyes widen with delight as he realised all the tingling possibilities. I’d join an ex or two in some double-penetration, strapping one on so I could fuck me while I was being fucked. I’d head to the first time I used a strap-on at all, and sit heavily on that guy’s dick at just the moment his prostate pushed hard squirts of spunk out of him. I could pop back to last night, when I ground heavily onto my partner’s dick while he wanked me off with a Doxy. Past-me could still do that: I wouldn’t want to ruin her fun. But while she was doing it I could be biting his nipples or letting him suck mine.

Being the first

Is this creepy? I think perhaps this is creepy. In my head it’s super-romantic, but I don’t think we need to worry about creepiness given that time travel is impossible, so if you’re thinking of writing angry letters, please save them for the day when we manage to break all the laws of physics and invent an actual Tardis.

It’s 2002, or thereabouts. A guy who – in 2002 – I’ve never met, is masturbating furiously and desperately wishing he could hurl away his virginity. Late one evening on his way home from a friend’s party, he runs into a woman. Old enough that he wouldn’t usually look twice, but young enough that he definitely would. She invites him into her Tardis, and because he is probably only 18 at this point, I will spare you the pervy details.

What’s important though is not necessarily what happens then, but what happens years later, when he runs into me for what he thinks is the first time.

“Wow. You… you look really familiar.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You look like this person I knew once, ages ago.”

“Oh really? What was she like?”

“It’s kind of a funny story actually. It’s how I lost my virginity…”

Fixing mistakes

Picture the scene: it’s three AM outside a shitty nightclub – in one of those vaguely Mediterranean ‘party towns’ that are magnets for young people who want to get drunk and sweat on each other. Two girls who are far too young to be there are sitting on the laps of two guys who can’t believe their luck. The guys are young too – not yet mature enough to realise that if you really want to get laid you need to avoid drinking twelve shots of AfterShock. They’re all snogging, and having a whale of a time.

One of these girls enjoys it so much that she tries to take the guy somewhere quieter to fuck.

“Give me a sec,” she whispers erotically, then runs to the bins and sprays rainbow-coloured vomit  in a decorative arc over the pavement. She wipes her mouth.

“I’m done. Let’s go.” The guy nods, looking a little queasy himself, but clearly game. The girl leads him to what she thinks is a secluded spot. They snog again, briefly, before he backs away. It might be the taste of her sick-washed mouth, but our heroine decides it’s probably just because he’d rather do other things. She pushes his head down between her legs, pulls her knickers to one side, and he licks at her with eager enthusiasm – this is clearly a dude who’d rather taste cunt than cocktails.

In the faint distance she can see the nightclub lights illuminating her best friend and the other guy, snogging on a chair. Her cunt twitches with pleasure but she’s far too pissed to notice.

At this moment the sky splits, and a time machine appears. An older version of the girl leans her head out of the time machine and – in the manner of a Mum yelling at her kids to get inside for dinner – she shouts:

“You fucking idiot! Everyone can see what you’re doing! You’re not in a secluded spot at all, you’re in a field right next to a busy road! Go home and sober up or in ten years’ time you’ll have to write a blog post about how much you regret this whole sordid incident!”

Time travel sex – watching and wanking

Of course it wouldn’t just be about joining in or changing the path of history – that’d kind of imply that my sex Tardis would mostly be about regrets. I’d probably spend most of my time popping back to my favourite moments. That first ever threesome with two guys, which fulfilled a list of long-held sexual desires so spectacularly that I still remember it in a sleepy, dreamlike way. I’d watch as they kissed each other, and look out for the expression of shining delight on my face. I’d take mental photographs of every beautiful moment: as they fucked me, as they fucked each other, as we all tangled together in a huge pile of happy fucklust.

I’d visit a few fetish clubs to watch myself get beaten.

Head to old bedrooms in which I frotted tirelessly against exhausted ex-boyfriends.

Watch a few of the hottest boy snogs I’ve ever seen.

It would be like having a live-action replay of some of the best fucks, and the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. Hot and horny but also tinged with wistful nostalgia.

Maybe one of the best things I could do if I had a sex Tardis would be to leave little notes for myself on the morning of each hot encounter, saying:

“This one, tonight: this one’s special. Drink it in. It’ll never happen the same way again.”

You know how sometimes a particular smell evokes a really specific memory? Hot days smelling like childhood holidays, Baileys smelling like Christmas or – if you want to be less saccharine and cheesy about the whole thing – dick that smells exactly the way your ex used to?

I have a style of skirt that reminds me of my first spanking. No, really. It was grey, and patchwork – silk and corduroy and cotton and linen all sewn together in a rough pattern, draped perfectly over my hips and arse. It was one of the best items of clothing I’ve ever owned, and I can’t work out if that was because it sat just right on my bum, tight enough to cling so I could feel it when I walked, but loose enough that the material would billow out around my thighs when I walked somewhere, or if it was the best because it reminded me of spanking.

The first spanking

I’d been slapped before – occasional smacks on the bum as I walked naked to the bathroom. Boys who’d slap it when we were flirting after school, or boyfriends who’d give it a whack when they ironically ordered me to the kitchen for beer. But I’d never before had a proper spanking.

I arrived at his house at the usual time – what we’d have called ‘after work’ because we were students, but something far closer to 3pm. I’d been away for a week or so and I couldn’t wait to see him. This guy. This dream-come-true. This person I jokingly called The One when he was out of earshot.

He didn’t think much of me back then. We were mates who fucked, but while we were both equally enthusiastic about the fucking, I suspected there was a serious imbalance on the ‘mates’ front. He was my best and my almost-only – the one I’d seek out and chase and invite to every occasion. I was the one he ditched when something more interesting came along.

Still, we were pretty happy, not least because each time one of us came up with something new to do with each other’s genitals it would be greeted with an enthusiastic and husky ‘fuck yeah.’

When I came in he gave me a brief hug. We did some small talk. He told me to bend over a chair and flip up my patchwork skirt.

He could almost certainly feel the wetness through my knickers. He ran his hand over me quickly – not savouring the feel of my cunt through the fabric, just planning where his first slap would fall. He pulled down my knickers and settled for my left cheek.

Smack.

Firm, stinging, perfect. I yelped.

He adjusted my skirt, hitching it higher to stop the hem falling back down over my thighs. I was bent almost double over the chair – the wooden back digging into my stomach, hands gripping the front legs to try and keep my balance.

Smack.

He was testing us both. Trying something that neither of us had done with this level of seriousness. Playful slaps turned to full-on, powerful blows and I made enough of a racket that he asked me to sssh. His housemates weren’t in but that didn’t mean the neighbours weren’t.

Smack.

I imagined him rolling up his sleeves.

Smack.

One stroke fell slightly left of its mark, half of it catching me in the crotch where I was wet and sensitive and raw.

Smack.

This time right in the middle of the cheek. Satisfyingly thuddy and good enough to make me wriggle.

Smack.

Enough of this now.

Smack.

I said ‘enough.’ I said ‘I really need you to fuck me.’

Smack.

He held me firm – one hand on the crumpled skirt pulled up to the small of my back.

Smack.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes. I like it. But I need you to fuck me.’

He paused for a while, and I could almost hear his indecision. Feel the stiffness of his cock pushing through his jeans and against my hip as he took a step to stand beside me. He ground his dick into me and my legs started to tremble. I asked again. ‘Please fuck me.’ Note the ‘please’. I asked nicely. I choked out the ‘please’ like if he didn’t fuck me, I’d cry. To be fair, I would have.

He told me I’d get six more slaps and that I’d have to count them. And he said they’d be hard enough to sting his hand.

After he’d delivered the spanking, I was a mess of arousal and emotions and red, raw pain. I pulled down my knickers as quickly as I could and pulled him into me, feeling his dick fill me up seemed to push the pain away. With each stroke I twitched and tensed the muscles in my legs, worried that I’d knock the chair over.

As he fucked the frustration out of me, and came hard into my aching cunt, his hands gripped the patchwork skirt around my waist, pulling my sore arse back to the base of his cock, to get the most pleasure possible with each angry stroke.

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At about nine o’clock, most people are gathered outside in the garden, smoking loose roll-ups or cheap cigarettes that come in packets of ten. The supply of supermarket vodka has been depleted and someone’s started a whip-round so they can run to the shop to top up our stock with some clear, petrol-tasting cider and another pouch of tobacco.

While college-age guests scrabble for booze, the party host is surveying the damage and praying they’ll get it all cleared up before their parents arrive home on Sunday afternoon. Inevitably, as the drunken groping escalates to second or third base, one or other of us asks the host:

“Mate, which room is the sex room?”

“Front living room. But there’s four other people in there at the moment so you might want to take a blanket or something.”

“Ta.”

Sex parties that aren’t sex parties

There’s a huge difference between deliberate swinging and the kind of sex parties that my nostalgic self longs for. Parties where the main aim is to get drunk, but the side show involves hustling your giggling other half across a room full of silently copulating others – others too horny to wait until everyone’s gone home or fallen asleep. Others who are used to fucking in front of people because – hey! We’re eighteen! Life’s really fucking short so let’s not go short on fucking!. I miss those parties.

The casual ease with which you’d step over a friend, her legs twitching with pleasure as her latest squeeze buried his face beneath a blanket and deep into her crotch. The ‘sorry’s as you’d make your own room in a tiny sliver of space – feeling not just your partner’s eager hands but the clammy heat from couples either side of you.

At one party, I fucked my boyfriend on one of those deep tub-shaped armchairs. The duvet spread over the top of the chair provided a vaguely private tent, and I slipped my knickers to one side and sat down on his dick, burying my head in his shoulder to muffle my heavy breathing. Raising myself only ever-so-slightly with each stroke, I fucked an inch or so at a time, until his cock was swollen with desperation and his toes curled – visible by everyone else as they stuck out of the bottom of the duvet. It took me twenty minutes of this slow, controlled fucking to come, and when I did, the small shudder of our makeshift tent gave no indication of just how amazing it felt.

Not swinger’s parties

I miss this stuff as an older person – the sex you have to have right now because you’re so horny. The knowledge that there’s a room upstairs you can sneak off to, and still hear the chatter and laughter from the party downstairs. The quick, urgent, silent fuck you share on a pile of coats in the spare room, or over the bath, or – best of all – in a room with other people. All of you groping and kissing and fucking – not sharing each other, but sharing the experience.

I’ve had it once as an adult – a late drunken new year’s party with so many guests missing last trains that they spilled over into my bedroom. Mates I loved (and had probably fucked at one point or another) giggling and groping on the floor, maintaining casual conversation with me and my boy.

“Are you fucking?” One asked me, halfway through a casual conversation.

“Hmm?” I replied, clenching my cunt around the tip of his dick, which he’d inched slowly, cautiously inside me.

I made a quick shuffle that could be passed off as rearranging the bedclothes, and pushed my arse backwards to take the full length of him into me. He coughed to try and cover up his satisfied sigh.

I’ve been to swinger’s clubs, but never a party that’s explicitly labelled a ‘swinger’s party’ – the idea of group sex is deeply hot, but there’s something about the explicit planning inherent in the whole thing that turns me off. Perhaps it’s all the impromptu fucks I had as a youngster that have killed the idea for me, but sex parties seem far more fun when the ‘party’ comes first.

I don’t want to bare all and stride purposely through a group of likeminded people, picking which of them I might invite to join me in a slippery tangle of limbs. I want something spontaneous to happen when some of us are horny enough – no swapping or swinging, just a mutual desire to fuck, and an aching need to do it right now. Not because others are there, but despite it.

I want to slowly lower myself onto his dick, and have him stifle a gasp. I want him to work eager hands into my bra and pinch my nipples when he thinks no one else can see. To whisper and giggle and fumble in the dark.