Is there anything in life more tedious than a conference call for a job you hate? You’re half involved in something you barely care about, and most of the people involved wouldn’t notice if you simply logged out. But – like fantasising about teachers during lectures – you can spice up even the dullest conference call with the addition of a dirty story…

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How did I chat people up before? When I was single, and I had to put some effort in beyond just saying “Your dick. My mouth. Now”?

I think I probably started with a hint: a story about this one time at college, leading to a detailed breakdown of who did what. But where there were strangers, now there’s one guy. Where there were hints, now there’s directness:

“Your dick. My mouth. Now.”

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This week’s guest blog (by an anonymous writer) has some intense, filthy, hot BDSM of the kind I wish I could write every day. It captures a million and one of the raw, dark, sexy things that happen in my head, and to make things even more fun it’s a true story.

I’ll give you the heads-up that it’s got some extreme dominance and submission – all consensual, of course. It also has some language which, as we discussed on Wednesday (keep up!) might not be your kind of thing, so please bear that in mind before you read on. If it is your kind of thing then I’m pretty sure you’re going to love this one…

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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.