I discovered the idea of breath play as a precocious nine year old, reading Michael Crichton’s ‘Rising Sun’ by the dim illumination of the landing light, long after I was supposed to be asleep. I didn’t understand the thrill that swept through me when I read the description of Cherylynn’s sex games, but I knew it was something big and I liked it.
Fast forward a few years, once I’d learned to recognise sexual arousal, and the joy of wanking; I found that pushing my face into the pillow made me come twice as fast and three times as hard. True to my geeky nature, I experimented – although never with anything that could get out of my control. I have no desire to be found purple-faced and limp, to have my ribs cracked by CPR, and even less attractive is the prospect of meeting an untimely demise for the sake of a wank. So, nothing that fastens around the neck then. Don’t want to end up like Cherylynn.
I had a few bad experiences being ambushed by nonconsensual breath play in the past which has made me very wary of getting into this kink with anyone other than myself. The less said about that, the better – I was probably never in any danger of real physical injury, but it was just another horribly toxic thing in a thoroughly toxic relationship. I’ve mostly moved on, but I still prefer only a light touch to the throat, no squeezing and no pressing. Apart from being fucking dangerous, it brings back trauma that is the opposite of sexy. I don’t think I’ll ever trust another person to actively interfere with my breathing let alone take full control of it (I can’t even snorkel without freaking out, and scuba masks are a total no-no), but I’m OK with that.
Of course, I still fantasise about being held tightly by the throat, or a rope or belt around my neck, while I’m getting myself off. Imagining being unable to breathe at someone else’s mercy is fucking hot, and entirely safe within the confines of my own skull.
But there’s a middle ground I’ve discovered, and that’s obedience-based breath control. A form of honour bondage, no hands or equipment required, making it much safer and more intimate a connection. Fuck, yes….
“Take a deep breath,” he commands. “Hold it until I tell you to let it go.”
He pinches one of my nipples, hard, watching my face closely. Then the other, challenging me to hold it in. I wince but make no audible protest.
“Keep holding it.”
My pulse is starting to pound in my ears.
“Good girl.” he croons, and I can’t help it, I moan with pleasure. That doesn’t count as breathing, does it? Apparently not, as long as only sound and no air escapes me.
“Ok, you can let it go.”
With the outrush of air, my head swims and my blood surges.
“Control it. Long, deep breaths now.”
I want to pant and gasp, but more than that, I want to show him what a willing, obedient girl I can be. With effort, I force my breathing back to normal, despite being immensely fucking turned on right now.
“That’s it. Very good. Well done.” He knows the effect that praise like this has on me, slips a hand between my legs to confirm. “Oh, you’re so wet. Are you ready for me?”
“Turn over. Legs together, spread your cheeks apart”
I scramble to comply, eager to welcome him inside me and feel his weight pressing me down onto the mattress. When he slides his taut, twitching dick into me, we both sigh with delight.
“Now,” he says, settling himself into position, “I’m going to count to ten, and you’re going to hold your breath til I’ve finished. Can you do that for me?”
I nod. I’m sure I can.
“Here we go then. Deep breath. And….one.”
He fucks me hard and fast, pounding my cunt brutally, counting agonisingly slowly. “Two…….three….”
The need to breathe becomes urgent; the more I fight to keep the air locked into my lungs, the tighter my cunt clenches around him.
“….four…..five….” His own breath is coming fast, exertion and arousal, and maybe a bit of showing me what I’m missing out on too, flaunting his freedom to breathe while mine is bound by rigid self-control.
Urgency becomes desperation, I have to focus hard to override my body’s demands. Paradoxically, the more I fight to lock down the urge to empty and fill my lungs, the more my hungry cunt aches for more, harder, deeper, distracting my attention and loosening my grip on control.
“….eight…….nine…..nine and a half…”
Bastard! I whimper behind my closed throat and gritted teeth, feel the chuckle ripple through him as he drives himself deep.
Air explodes from me; I gulp and gasp for a replacement lungful, moan and cry out with the sensations flooding through me. His dick, my racing heart, his gripping hands, my aching cunt, relief and hunger surging in a tidal wave that builds and builds, and-
“I’m going to come-“
“You can breathe or you can come. Your choice. One or the other. If you want an orgasm, you have to pay for it. As long as it takes.” he growls into my ear. We both know what my answer will be. I take in another huge gulp of air, imprison it behind muscle and determination.
“Oh yeah.” Whether it’s my obedience or my suddenly-tensed body, or perhaps the anticipation of my orgasm, he’s gritting his own teeth with the effort of holding back. He doesn’t have to wait long, the first tendrils of electric heat are lapping at my core. Silently, I shudder, tipping slowly over the edge of control, slow-motion swan dive into the sweet firestorm. I open my mouth and howl, feel his own climax rising to join mine, and with a hoarse cry, he clutches at me as we collapse into the duvet together, laughing weakly at our wolf-chorus noises.
“Maybe next time I’ll count to twenty.” he grins.
Bring it on