Her Loving Chokehold in Lotus

The lamp on the nightstand burned low and gold, and the rest of their apartment had gone quiet around it. Lionel, twenty-eight, sat against the pillows, shirt half undone, watching Lorraine come to him through that honeyed light. She was twenty-six, brunette hair falling in a loose wave over one shoulder, and the look she gave him made his chest ache before she touched him.

She climbed onto the bed and kissed him as if they had all night. Her mouth was warm. Her hands were careful with his buttons, spreading his shirt open, palms gliding over his ribs and stomach, learning him again because she meant to take her time. Lionel slipped the straps of her camisole down and kissed what he uncovered until she was bare from the waist up. He drew her panties down her thighs. She helped him out of his pants and boxers, laughing softly when his cock sprang free against her wrist.

"God, I love you," he said.

"I love you." Lorraine had said the rest earlier, over dinner they had barely tasted: she wanted to ride him in lotus, wanted her hands on his throat, and he would tap her thigh twice if he needed air or anything else. She would stop the instant he did. He had agreed with his whole body. He agreed again now, pulling her closer. "Please. I want it. I want you like that."

She smiled and swung a leg over his lap. Lionel sat up to meet her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back, and he drew her in until they were locked in lotus, chest to chest, her knees bracketing his hips. She reached between them, stroked his cock once, twice, and sank down onto him, hot and snug, until he was buried to the root and her ass settled flush against his thighs. Her forehead dropped to his. They held each other there, joined and shaking, the hush of the room wrapped around how deep he was inside her. The lamplight painted her skin gold and made a soft shadow of her hair across his chest. Desire sat sweet and tight between them, the kind that did not need to hurry because it already knew where it was going.

She began to move, not chasing anything yet, just a slow grind that rolled his cock against every soft, clutching place inside her. Lionel's hands spanned her waist. Hers came up to his face. Lorraine cradled his cheeks in both palms, thumbs stroking the high bones, and she looked at him as if he were the only true thing left in the world.

"You're shaking," she whispered.

He was. The tremor lived in his stomach and ran out through his arms, his thighs, the place where they were joined. Her loving gaze undid him worse than the heat. "I can't help it. You feel so good."

She kissed the corner of his mouth, then his ear. Her hands slid from his cheeks along his jaw, caressing, and wrapped around his throat.

The first squeeze was firm and sensual, a claiming rather than a blow. Her fingers pressed the sides of his neck, thumbs resting under his jaw, and the rush hit him so hard his cock jerked inside her. He got harder. He felt himself thicken and throb, swelling against her walls until she gasped and tightened around him in answer.

"There he is," she breathed in his ear, still riding that deep grind. "Getting harder because I'm holding your throat. You love this. You love when I take your air and fuck you at the same time."

She eased off. Air flooded back, sweet and sharp, and Lionel gasped, hips bucking up into her. She let him breathe, kissing his temple, murmuring that he was perfect and hers. Then she tightened again, harder, still sensual, still controlled, and the world narrowed to her weight, her voice, the filthy praise, his cock throbbing desperately in her soaked pussy.

"Stay right there. Let me ride you slow while I choke you. God, you're so thick when I do this. I can feel you straining. You want to come already. Not yet. Not until I say."

She loosened. He dragged in a shaking breath. She squeezed. The edge rushed closer with every cycle, her lotus-locked hips rolling him deeper, her dirty talk a hot thread he could not escape and did not want to. Between breaths she told him how wet she was, how his pulse jumped under her fingers, how she was going to keep him right on that edge until he forgot his own name. Lionel nodded, wordless, clinging to her waist, every throb of his cock an answer he could not speak yet. She smiled against his ear and took his air again, sensual and sure, and the pleasure climbed so fast he thought he might come before she ever gave him permission.

She rose and sank, still facing him, the lotus keeping them crushed together so each descent drove him deep, the head of his cock kissing the end of her. Lorraine's eyes stayed on his. There was no cruelty in them. There was love, bright and steady, and under it a hunger that matched his own. She tightened her chokehold, fingers pressing with a practiced, loving strength, and the roar in his ears made the lamplight go soft at the edges.

"Look at you," she whispered, mouth against his ear. "So beautiful like this, Lionel. Trembling. Hard as you've ever been. My perfect, filthy man, letting me ride you and choke you because you trust me with all of it. I can feel how thick you get when I squeeze. You were made for my hands."

He tried to speak. He wanted to tell her he loved her, that he was close, that she could have anything. His lips shaped the start of her name.

She squeezed harder.

The words collapsed. What came out was a wet, helpless gulp, a choked sound that vibrated under her palms. His eyes widened. His cock kicked inside her, impossibly harder, and Lorraine's loving gaze never left his face. She watched the gulp happen. She watched him take it. She smiled, small and devoted, and rode him deeper.

"Shh," she murmured, easing just enough for one ragged sip of air, then closing her hands again. "You don't have to talk. I already know. You're mine. This cock is mine. This throat is mine. I'm going to fuck you until we both come, and you're going to gag on how good it feels when I don't let you finish a single sentence."

She let him breathe again, three quick breaths, her thumbs stroking his jaw even as her fingers held the promise of the next squeeze, and then she took the air back with a sensual, ruthless tenderness. Lionel clutched her hips. He did not tap. He pressed closer, offering his throat, fucking up into her in short desperate thrusts that the lotus turned into a grind. She met him. Wet sounds filled the bedroom, the slick clasp of her pussy around his cock, the soft slap of her ass against his thighs.

"That's my good boy," she whispered, filthy and adoring, right against his ear. "Choke on it. Feel how deep I have you. I want every inch. I want you stupid with it. I want your pretty voice broken into gulps while I use this cock. You feel that? How soaked I am? That's all for you. That's what your throat does to me."

Pleasure coiled tight at the base of his spine. He tried again, a broken attempt at please, at Lorraine, at I love you. She felt the effort move under her palms and choked him harder, and the sentence died as another gulp, thick and involuntary, his mouth open, his eyes wet, his whole body shaking. She looked at him as if he were sacred. The lamp gilded the tears at his lashes. She kissed his open mouth without loosening her grip, tasting the gasp she would not quite allow.

Then she started to ride him in earnest. Deeper. Harder. Still lotus, still face to face, her legs locked around him so he could not fall away from the choke or the fuck. Her pussy fluttered, gripping, milking, and she gasped his name against his cheek even as she denied him his. Each drop of her hips punched a helpless sound out of him that never quite became a word. She would loosen for a heartbeat, let him suck one thin breath, and close again before he could spend it on speech.

"I'm close," she said, voice fraying into something worshipful and obscene. Her eyes held his with pure love, even as her hands stayed merciless and tender on his throat. "Come with me. Come inside me while I choke you. Give it to me. Give me everything. I love you. I love you like this. I love the way you gulp when I take your words. Come, Lionel. Come now. I want to feel you lose it while I squeeze."

The orgasm hit them together. Lorraine cried out and clenched around him, hips stuttering, grinding down so he was as deep as a body could be, and in the same heartbeat Lionel broke. His cock pulsed, thick spurts of come flooding into her, and the pleasure was so vast it felt like falling. She choked him even harder then, her hands firm and devoted around his throat through the peak, and the intensity ripped a gag out of him, raw and wet and helpless, a gag of overwhelming pleasure rather than fear. His eyes rolled. His hips jerked as he emptied himself inside the woman he loved. She held the choke, looking at him with that same pure love, whispering yes, yes, that's it, gag for me, come for me, I've got you, while her own climax wrung her tight around every throb of his cock. He gagged again, softer, wrecked, and she rode the last waves with him, forehead to his, both of them shaking apart and holding on.

The peak ebbed. Lorraine felt it in the way his body softened under the strain, and she let go at once, her hands leaving his throat as gently as they had been fierce. She pulled him into her arms before he had finished dragging in his first full breath. Lionel collapsed against her chest, gasping, coughing once, then breathing, really breathing, the air sweet and enormous. She held him close, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand stroking his hair, over and over, petting him through the aftershocks while his cock still twitched inside her and her thighs stayed locked around his waist.

"I've got you," she whispered. "I love you. You're safe. You were so good for me. Breathe, baby. Just breathe. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

He nodded against her skin, too wrung out for more than that, and she kissed his hair, his temple, the warm fading print of her fingers at the sides of his neck. She rocked him in the golden quiet, murmuring love, stroking his hair until his trembling eased into something warm and spent.

He knew, even held and loved and breathing, that he would never again be entirely his own.