Not choking – strangled.

Last night, with His cock buried in my cunt and His hand wrapped tightly around my throat. My own hands lay unrestrained and limp at my sides, the idea of reaching up to pull at the fingers locked around my throat not even entering my mind.

It’s interesting, the thoughts that type of surrender allows. I can become so much more focused on the sensation rather than the fear, quelling the rising panic to identify and feel each passing second. Live it in each excruciating detail as the seconds tick by in agonizing slowness.

I notice how the very second His hand brushes against my throat, I instinctively inhale in a great gasping rush, filling my lungs before He blocks it off.

I notice when He presses down hard, pinning me by my neck to the mattress under me, I pull up a mental picture of a butterfly pinned to a board.

I notice that my body goes still and quiet as there is no use flailing around, wasting precious oxygen. His hand, and the arm it is attached to, is stone, solid and unmoving.

I notice the bright blooming pain that fills my throat. Scary pain, sharp pain, the kind that makes my eyes water. Pain that I can still feel today with each labored swallow.

I notice how my face begins to feel hot and swollen as His squeezing fingers restrict the circulation. I hear a rushing in my ears, feel pressure inside my head, my lips gasp open and my eyes fall shut and my chest begins to burn, my lungs screaming out the need for air.

I try to squeak out a moan, and I cannot. I try to swallow, and I cannot. I try to wiggle.. and I cannot. And that’s when He leans in, just when fear bursts open in my belly, pressing just a bit harder as He lies on top of me until His lips find my ear and His voice penetrates the roar in my head and He starts fucking me, hard and fast, using my neck as a handle to bounce me up and down and still He squeezes and squeezes and tells me to come, come now, come hard if I want to breathe -

And there’s just a moment of I-can’t, oh-my-God-I-can’t-come-I’m-dying panic that fills me and it’s then, and only then, only when the full depravity of being choked and fucked half to death and liking it, wanting it, slams into me that an orgasm chases right on it’s heels and it’s only then, after Master feels the rhythmic pulsing of my climax twitching around His buried cock that He lets go of my neck, and light and air and clarity floods back in.

He smiles and pets me as I heave in ragged breaths and blink tears from my watering eyes. He coos in my ear and bites at my nipples and smacks at my sweaty skin, leaving bright red handprints on my flesh. His palms meet my cheeks in a rapid succession of cracks, first one side and then the other, my hair whipping into my mouth and into my eyes as my head rocks from side to side, until my jaw and my teeth ache and I cry out.

Finally satisfied with the tears and the sweat, the tousled hair, the deep red ring around my neck and the handprints across my body, pleased with the look in my eyes and the compliant form lying in front of Him – He comes Himself, and we lay for a moment in a tangled mess of limbs and trickling wetness and rapid breathing.

The toybox was never opened. Not a rope or a cuff or a crop in sight. Yet today I bear the marks anyway. Tiny red dots are scattered across my neck, my cheeks and surround my eyes. My eyes themselves are puffy and bloodshot. My throat burns. My nipples and my cunt are throbbing.

Please, Sir, may I have some more?

~cunt

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“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away”

Last night we engaged in some breathplay.

…..

…..

I’ve been sitting here for longer than I should be and that’s as far as I’ve gotten. Last night we engaged in some breathplay.

I feel like I should flood the post with warnings about the risks of breathplay and links to websites that lay out scary statistics about heart attacks and death. I have them, too. Links that is. Links that want to frighten *me* out of doing it. But letting those fears creep in after the fact is taking away from the heady, high-flying headspace I currently have . So. All I will say is this – Be smart when you play. We are.

~~*~~

It was the oddest thing, really. The whole experience. Mindfuck extraordinaire.

Though he will often do some amount of cutting off my air when we’re fucking, it’s done at key moments close to orgasm. It heightens it, makes the world *pop* into color and it’s amazingly intense and personal. But this time there was no fucking (or at least not yet)… no intimate touching, no build up to a toe-curling climax, no whispered words of ownership. There was nothing except him…

He circled me constantly as I sat, securely tied to the chair. I’d never felt more like prey than I did during that hour. He’d never looked more dangerous, more like a predator. Always circling, circling, reaching out one moment to stroke the hair off my sweaty forehead with gentle hands, only to turn on a dime and wrap his giant hands around my neck and squeeze.

Hard.

I couldn’t move any further than turning my head, couldn’t stop him in any way. Over and over again, he choked, smothered, strangled me breathless, and then slapped my face, and the world, back into focus.

There was one crazy eerie moment when he’d just let me take a breath and as my cloudy brain cleared, the lyrics of the song on the cd slammed into my ears. These lyrics “every breath that is in your lungs is a tiny little gift to me” and I about popped out the chair with the need to tell him “do you hear? are you listening? did you hear what that just said!?” but as I opened my mouth to say it, he slammed his hand over my mouth and nose and it was lost again in the gray hazy world of being smothered.

(This morning, I had to listen to the cd again, song by song, word for word, half convinced I’d had a hallucination from lack of oxygen. But I found it, I DID hear it, and it was this song here)

But those words began to circle. I don’t think I heard another song after that, just the beat and those prophetic words “every breath that is in your lungs is a tiny little gift to me” as over and over again, he made those lyrics my reality.

Today – my throat is tight, scratchy. My neck and jaw are achy, my head throbs with a slight hangover-ish headache, and my face is puffy, red, and is faintly mottled with purple-red dots from tiny burst capillaries.

But inside where it counts? I’m full. Sated. Time and time again he showed me how easily and perfectly he controls me, my life – and that was music to my starving soul.

If breathplay isn’t your thing, don’t go behind the curtain. It’s very picture intensive.

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