Bathtub Foot Choke Fantasy

The bathroom held the night the way a cupped hand holds water. Past the cracked window the street lay dark and still, and inside, six candles burned along the rim of the tub and the low shelf, their flames steady in the windless air, laying warm gold over tile and wet skin. Warrick, twenty-two, rested against the sloped end with his knees drawn up, and Joanna, twenty-four, his girlfriend, settled between them with her spine against his chest, both of them bare. The water rode just beneath her breasts and around his ribs. Steam lifted off the surface and carried the faint clean bite of the cedar oil she had poured in before they climbed in. Her damp hair clung to his collarbone. His arms circled her waist, palms spread over the soft give of her stomach, and now and then she tipped her chin so his mouth could find hers. They kissed without hurry, open and easy, the kind of kissing that already knew the shape of the rest of the night.

They had laid it all out that afternoon at the kitchen table, sober and wide awake, the way they always did before one of them held the other's trust. Joanna named it herself, wearing the small private smile she kept for him. She wanted the bath and her feet: his mouth on her toes, deeper until he gagged, her telling him gently that gagging was fine, her hand on his cock, and then both feet around his throat in the hold they had rehearsed on the couch. He said yes before she finished. He wanted the pressure, the tile at the back of his head, her eyes on him while he finished in his own fist. They set the words and meant them. Yellow meant ease off. Red, from either of them, or two taps on her ankle, meant everything stopped at once and she held him until his breathing ran easy. Green meant keep going, and she would give him only what he asked. Nothing would happen tonight that he had not already asked for out loud.

Her fingers drew slow circles on his forearm under the water. His cock lay soft against the small of her back, warm and unhurried. She turned in the circle of his arms until they were face to face, water slipping over the rim and pattering onto the mat, and she kissed him longer, her tongue unhurried against his, one hand coming up to hold his jaw. When she drew back, the candlelight sat bright in her eyes.

"Green," she said, low, the word they had chosen for the start, the one that meant she was ready and was asking if he still was.

"Green," Warrick answered, and the roughness in his voice made her mouth curve. "I want all of it. Exactly what we talked about. Start whenever you want."

She kissed the corner of his mouth, a small pleased thing, and then she moved.

She slid out from between his knees and turned in the water, one hand braced on the rim so she would not slip, and settled at the far end of the tub, facing him. The candles leaned and steadied. Now he could see all of her: wet shine on her shoulders, the waterline cutting across her ribs, her knees rising on either side of his hips as she drew her legs along his. For a moment she only looked at him, fond and intent, and he looked back, his hands resting loose on her calves beneath the surface, his pulse already quicker.

Then she lifted her right foot clear of the water. It came up dripping, and she set the sole, warm and slick from the long soak, against his cheek. She drew it slowly down the line of his jaw, over the corner of his mouth, back up across his cheekbone, unhurried, learning his face with the arch of her foot the way she sometimes learned it with her hand. Water ran off her ankle and tracked down his throat. He turned his head into the touch without being told, and she felt the give of him, the way he leaned in, and her smile deepened.

"You like that," she said. It was not a question.

"Yeah." His voice had already dropped. "Keep going. Please."

She traced his lower lip with the ball of her foot, back and forth, a lazy stroke, and watched his face while she did it. Between his thighs, under the rocking water, his cock stirred and thickened, lifting off his belly, stiffening in one long unmistakable pulse. She saw it and her eyes warmed with plain delight.

"There he is," she murmured. She pressed her toes lightly to the seam of his mouth. "Open up for me."

He opened. Her toes parted his lips and slipped inside, three of them, warm and clean, the skin soft, carrying the faint mineral taste of the bath. He closed his mouth around them and sucked, greedy the way he got when she gave him something he had been turning over in his head since morning, his tongue working between her toes, drawing on them, his cheeks hollowing. A low sound vibrated out of him around her foot. His cock stood fully hard now, flushed and heavy, nudging up through the surface with each small shift of his hips, and the want of it made his hands tighten gently on her calf.

"Good," Joanna said, soft, her eyes on his mouth. "You're doing so well for me. Take it deeper. Nice and slow. I want more of my foot in there."

He nodded around her toes and opened wider, and she eased her foot forward, gentle, giving him time, sliding over his tongue toward the back of his mouth. The pressure gathered. His throat tightened on instinct and he gagged, a wet reflexive hitch, his eyes watering faintly at the corners, one hand settling on her ankle, holding, not tapping. She stopped exactly where she was. She did not push.

"That's all right," she said, warm and steady, affection plain in every word. "It's okay to gag, Warrick. I like hearing it. You're safe with me. Breathe through your nose, take what you want, and if you need me to back off you tap twice. If you want more, you squeeze once. You're in charge of how far this goes."

He dragged a breath through his nose, shaky and willing, and squeezed her ankle once. She smiled at him while the gag softened into another small helpless hitch, a real smile, tender and a little wicked, and she held still so he could set the depth himself. He sucked and adjusted and let himself gag again, leaning into it instead of away, and each time she praised him in that low voice and waited for his hand to tell her what he wanted. His cock throbbed in the water, a clear bead gathering at the head and trembling there.

She let him work at her right foot a little longer, murmuring that his mouth felt good, until his breathing settled and his eyes stayed up on hers. Then she drew that foot back, slow, a strand of spit catching the light before it broke.

"Other one," she said, an offer, not a push. "Do you want it?"

"Yes. Please. And touch me."

She reached under the water, wrapped her left hand around his cock, and stroked him root to tip, slow, her thumb gliding over the slick head. At the same time she lifted her left foot and offered it to his mouth. He took it eagerly, sucking her toes in greedier than before, and she fed him the foot the way they had agreed, unhurried, her fist working him in long pulls that matched his mouth.

"Deeper, if you want it," she said gently. "Gag on them for me. I want to hear you."

He squeezed her ankle once, and she eased forward. His throat clenched and he gagged, wet and honest, and she kept her hand steady on his cock and her eyes soft, smiling while he gagged, heat and care in the same look.

The water rocked against his ribs with every hitch of his throat. Candlelight slid over the wet curve of her calf and caught in the spit at the corner of his mouth, and she watched it with open pleasure, her fist never losing its rhythm on him. She told him again, low and warm, that he could gag as much as he needed, that it was good, that she wanted the sound, and each time he gave it to her she answered with a slower stroke and that same bright smile. His free hand stayed on her ankle, loose, asking for nothing but more.

"God, that's hot," she told him, voice gone low. "Hearing you gag on my foot while I stroke you. You look so good. You're doing exactly what you asked for, and I love it. Breathe. Again, if you want."

He squeezed, she gave him a little more, and he gagged again, louder, the sound breaking into a moan, his cock jumping hard in her fist. She stroked him through it, firm and slow, twisting at the head the way he liked, smiling the whole time, fond and wicked, like trusting her with this was the best thing she had seen all week.

"Color?" she murmured.

He eased off just enough to answer, her toes on his lip. "Green. So green. Don't stop."

"Then here's the part you asked me for," she said, and she waited for his nod before she moved. She drew her foot from his mouth and brought both feet up together, setting the soles warm and wet on either side of his neck, ankles crossing loosely behind his nape. With that gentle leverage she guided him back until his shoulders and the back of his head met the tile wall. It was their couch-rehearsed hold: her feet framing his throat, pressure from the broad arches and nowhere sharp, his hands free, one already resting on her ankle where the signal lived. She did not tighten yet. She held him there and looked him in the eye.

"This is the hold. I'll squeeze the way you asked, steady, and you breathe the whole time. Talk to me. Two taps and I let go instantly. Tell me you want it."

"I want it," he said, clear, no haze in him. "Choke me with your feet. Push me into the wall. I want to feel it while I cum. Green."

She smiled and tightened gradually, the way they had practiced, her arches firming around the sides of his throat in a broad warm squeeze, snug enough that he felt held exactly where he had asked to be held. She watched his face, adding pressure only while his hand stayed loose and willing on her ankle. His breath came in controlled pulls through his nose, chosen, his chest rising and falling, his eyes open and bright on hers. He spoke, a rough whisper past the hold.

"Green. Right there. That's perfect."

She praised him for staying with her, for using his words, for trusting her with the exact thing he had asked for that afternoon. The squeeze stayed broad and even, a collar made of her feet, and he leaned back into the tile and into her, breathing through his nose in the rhythm they had practiced, fully there, fully willing. When she shifted her grip a fraction he made a grateful sound, and she settled right back to the pressure he had called perfect. His cock throbbed untouched in the water, aching, and he did not reach for it, waiting on her word the way they had agreed.

"Good," she said softly, and held the pressure steady, not chasing it higher. Then she let go of his cock, and the absence made him groan. "Your turn. Stroke yourself. I want to watch you do it with my feet on your throat. Tell me if you need me to ease off."

"Yes," he said, and his hand found his cock and closed around it. He stroked, slow then deeper, her feet keeping that steady wanted grip, the tile firm behind his head. Every pull dragged a sound out of him, each sensation bigger under her hold, her eyes on him the whole way.

Her free hand slid between her own thighs. She touched herself openly, fingers finding her clit and circling it in the same unhurried rhythm he used, a flush climbing her chest, letting him watch her get needier while she held him to the wall and smiled.

She spread her knees a little wider in the water so he could see her fingers working, slick and unashamed, circling her clit while her feet held his throat. The sight pulled a broken noise out of him and his fist tightened. She told him to keep his eyes on her, and he did, watching her mouth part and her stomach tighten, matching her pace without being told twice. Heat climbed them both. The candles hissed softly. Neither of them looked away. She smiled at the way he obeyed, at the trust sitting easy in his open hand on her ankle, and she let him see exactly how much it turned her on.

"Look at you," she breathed. "Stroking that cock for me with my feet around your throat. You asked for this and you're taking it so well. Color?"

"Green," he said, rough but plain, his hand never stopping. "A little harder. Please."

She firmed the squeeze by exactly a fraction and checked his face and his hand: lucid, wanting, his fingers loose on her ankle, the sign to keep going. He breathed in short chosen pulls and stroked faster, the head of his cock breaching the water. She rubbed tighter circles, a soft sound slipping out of her, her smile wide and warm as she watched him climb.

"Keep stroking. I've got you, and the second you tap me I let go. You're safe. Give it to me."

It stacked in him: her feet snug around his throat, the wall at his back, her fingers on her clit, her gaze holding his. He stayed present for all of it, eyes open, breathing, his free hand easy on her ankle with no tap in it, choosing the pressure right to the edge. His fist quickened. His thighs shook. A raw sound tore out of him, half moan and half her name.

"Joanna, I'm gonna, green, don't stop."

"I won't," she said, steady, holding exactly the pressure he had asked for, rubbing herself, smiling like he was the only thing in the room. "Cum for me. I've got you."

He came.

It hit him all at once, a full-body pulse that bowed his spine against the tile and broke out of him in a long groan. His cock jerked in his fist and he erupted in thick jets that splashed up and fell back into the bathwater, striping his stomach and the rocking surface between them. She watched every spurt under that smiling, steady gaze, her feet firm around his throat for the length of it because he had asked her to hold him there until he finished, her fingers still circling her clit. He stroked himself through it, eyes never leaving hers, until the sharpness eased into aftershocks and his hand slowed.

"Easing off," she said, so he would hear it coming, and she loosened her arches, uncrossed her ankles, and drew her feet down from his throat to rest warm against his chest. He drew a long, steady breath, easy and full, and she leaned in to cup his jaw, searching his face with nothing but care.

"I'm here," he said, breathless and grinning. "I'm good. That was exactly what I wanted."

"Good," she murmured. She settled back, her hand returning between her legs, and touched herself in long lazy strokes while the candles flickered and the water calmed. He watched her, spent and devoted, his palm on her ankle in pure affection, and she held his eyes as the pleasure crested. Her hips rolled. She came quietly, a soft shuddering cry, then laughed once, low and amazed.

She laced her fingers through his under the water, flushed and shining.

"Same again tomorrow night," she said, smiling, daring and fond. "Or do you want my feet around your throat even longer next time?"