Her Romantic Breathplay Choke

The candles were already burning when Rebecca took Barrett’s hand. Twenty-four, barefoot on the runner, she looked back at him with that slow, knowing smile that had started all of this weeks ago, when they had stayed up late on the couch and traded the things they wanted and the things they were afraid to want. He was twenty-two, and he had said yes with his whole chest. Breathplay. Her hands. Her rules. A word if he needed out, and the promise that she would listen for it even when his voice went thin. She led him down the short hall of her apartment and into the bedroom, where the lamps were off and a dozen small flames stood in glass along the dresser and the windowsill, throwing honey-colored light over the white sheets and the dark posts of the bed.

“Undress for me,” she said, soft and certain.

He did. Shirt first, then pants, then the rest, folding nothing, just stepping out of it onto the rug while the candlelight found the line of his stomach and the already-interested shape of him. Rebecca watched without rushing. She peeled her own dress over her head and let it fall. No bra. Pale panties she hooked with her thumbs and drew down her thighs, stepping free of them so that she stood naked in the warm flicker, twenty-four and entirely in charge, the dark curls between her legs already a little damp. Barrett’s mouth went dry. She came to him, kissed him once, deep and unhurried, then took his wrists.

“On the bed. Arms out.”

He lay back. The sheets were cool. She drew his right arm toward the post and looped the soft cuff she had set out earlier, buckling it snug but not cruel, then walked around and did the left the same way, so he was spread for her, open, unable to gather his hands to his chest. She tested the give. He could shift his shoulders. He could not reach her. The restraint sent a hot, helpless thrill straight through him, and his cock lifted against his belly in plain view. Rebecca’s eyes dropped to it and warmed.

“Good,” she murmured. “You look exactly how I wanted you. Eager. Mine.”

She climbed onto the mattress at his side, the candles painting gold along her hip and the underside of one breast. Barrett pulled once, experimentally, and the cuffs held. His pulse kicked. She swung a leg over him and settled her weight on his chest, not yet on his throat, just high enough that he could feel the heat of her and see, between her parted thighs, how slick she already was. The smell of her reached him, clean and musky and intimate. He swallowed.

“You remember what we agreed,” she said, palms braced on the mattress above his shoulders. “You want this. You asked me to take your air. If it’s too much, you tap the sheet twice with your fingers, or you say the word if you can. Until then, I decide when you breathe.”

“I want it,” he said. His voice came out rough. “I want you to.”

Rebecca smiled, small and wicked and fond, and shifted forward.

She moved up his body in one smooth slide until the soft weight of her settled directly over his throat. Barrett gulped. The sound was involuntary, a wet click under the sudden, shocking heat of her. Her pussy was soaked. The lips of her parted against his windpipe, slick and plump, and the first press stole the easy path of his next breath. Not a slam. A deliberate lowering, her hips finding the angle that put pressure where it mattered and left his nose just barely clear, then not even that when she rolled forward. Candlelight trembled on the ceiling. He stared up at her face between her breasts, at the flush already rising on her chest, and his hands flexed uselessly in the cuffs.

“There,” she whispered. “Right there. God, you feel good under me.”

She began to grind. Slow. A long drag of wet folds over the column of his throat, then back, smearing him, painting his skin with her. Each pass tightened the world. Air came in thin, insufficient sips when she lifted a fraction, and vanished when she sat. Barrett’s chest hitched. A wheeze escaped him, high and desperate, and Rebecca’s eyes went dark with pleasure at the sound.

“Listen to you,” she said, voice gone husky. “That little gasp. Do it again.”

She ground down harder, circling, letting the swollen bud of her clit catch against the ridge of his throat while her opening kissed and smothered him. He tried to draw breath and got almost nothing. His vision edged with sparkles. Panic and want braided together so tightly he could not have said where one ended. His cock, untouched, thickened until it ached, the head flushed and leaking against his stomach. She felt the way his body strained and laughed, low and delighted.

“You’re getting so hard while I choke you. I can see it. You love being my good boy with no air, don’t you? Nod if you can.”

He managed a tiny motion. She rewarded him by easing up just enough for one ragged inhale, then settled again, heavier, wetter. The sound of her pussy against his throat was obscene, a soft slick rhythm under her moans. She talked to him the whole time, sultry and precise, telling him how pretty he looked turning red, how much she loved owning every breath, how his wheezing made her clit throb. Every desperate noise he made seemed to pour straight into her. Her thighs trembled. A fresh rush of wetness slid down over his jaw. She rocked faster, teasing him with the promise of air and then taking it back, watching his eyes water, watching his cock jump and strain and weep.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” she breathed. “This part is mine. You just lie there and let me use that throat. Let me hear you fight for it.”

He fought. The cuffs creaked. His hips twitched. Another thin, broken wheeze scraped out of him, and Rebecca’s head tipped back, a shudder running through her as if the sound had stroked her from the inside.

She rode him harder then, no longer teasing at the edges but claiming the whole of his throat with rhythmic, grinding pressure. Her pussy sealed over him, hot and dripping, the lips spreading wide as she worked herself in tight circles and then in longer strokes that dragged from the hollow under his jaw down toward his collarbones and back up. Barrett’s world narrowed to the weight of her, the taste of her on his lips when she slipped low enough, the burn in his chest, the roaring in his ears. He could not get a full breath. What he got were stolen scraps when her hips rose on the upstroke, and even those were thick with the smell of her arousal. His fingers scrabbled at the sheet and did not tap. He did not want out. He wanted exactly this, the terrifying sweetness of her deciding, the way his cock throbbed in time with the pulse hammering in his neck under her cunt.

Rebecca moaned, open and unashamed. “Fuck, Barrett. You’re so good. So still for me. I’m going to come on your throat. I’m going to soak you while you can’t breathe.”

She planted her hands on his chest and bore down, grinding her clit in frantic little circles against the firm column of his windpipe. The pressure was relentless. Spots danced at the edges of his sight. His lungs screamed. A raw, airless sound tore out of him, half groan, half plea, and it undid her. She chased it, hips snapping, the wet slap of her pussy against his skin loud in the candlelit quiet. Her thighs clamped. Her stomach tightened. She gasped his name and ground down through the first hard clench of her orgasm, shaking, flooding him, her cunt pulsing and dripping while she held him under her and took what she needed.

Only when the peak broke and she was crying out, voice cracking, did she lift. Not far. Just enough. Barrett sucked in a tiny, desperate breath that rasped like sandpaper, one thin ribbon of air while she shuddered above him, aftershocks rolling through her hips, her wetness smeared from his chin to his chest. She looked down at him, wrecked and glowing, and smiled through it.

“There,” she managed. “You can have that. You earned that.”

She let him have two more shallow gulps, his chest heaving, eyes wet, cock jerking helplessly in the open air. Then she settled back onto his throat, reclaiming it, the freshly soaked heat of her sealing over his windpipe again and cutting the air off clean. Barrett’s freshly filled lungs emptied in a shocked rush he could not replace. The denial hit harder for having been interrupted. His hands fisted. A strangled wheeze died under her.

“Again,” she said, tender and ruthless. “I’m not done using you.”

Her hand found his cock. She wrapped her fingers around the throbbing shaft, slick already from the precome that had pooled on his stomach, and stroked him firmly from root to tip while her pussy choked him. The combination was obliterating. Pressure on his throat, the relentless glide of her fist, the sight of her above him still trembling from her own climax, candlelight gilding the sweat on her breasts. She pumped him in long, tight strokes, thumb sliding over the swollen head, then faster, twisting at the top the way she knew undid him. His hips bucked. He could not moan properly. What came out were broken, airless noises that seemed to feed her all over again. She ground down in slow circles while she jerked him, listening, smiling, getting wetter at every gasp he could not quite finish.

“Look at this cock,” she murmured. “So hard it hurts. You’re going to come for me while I sit on your throat. While you can’t breathe. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? My good boy, coming with no air, because I said so.”

He was close already, had been close since she first settled on him, and her hand was merciless. She stroked him hard and steady, the wet sounds of her fist obscene beside the softer sounds of her cunt working his neck. His vision grayed at the edges. His balls drew up. The orgasm gathered low and vicious, a bright wire pulled tight. Rebecca felt it in the way he swelled in her palm, in the frantic little thrusts he could not stop, and she bore down, giving him nothing, owning the last of his breath while she dragged him over.

He came like something breaking. The first pulse tore through him so hard his whole body bowed against the cuffs, come striping his stomach and her wrist in thick, hot ropes while his throat worked uselessly under her pussy. She kept stroking, firm and sure, milking every spasm out of him, choking him through it, watching his face go slack and desperate and beautiful. He spurted again, and again, a shattering release that seemed to empty him from the inside while the air stayed hers. A last weak wheeze shivered out of him and died. Rebecca rode the aftershocks of his orgasm with small, greedy rocks of her hips, her hand slowing only when he was spent and twitching, oversensitive, still pinned beneath the wet weight of her.

She held him there one heartbeat longer, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse against her cunt, then lifted off his throat entirely.

Barrett gulped air in great, grateful draughts, chest heaving, the room rushing back in color and sound. Aftershocks rippled through both of them. Rebecca’s thighs still trembled. His cock jerked once more against his stomach, spent. She swung off him carefully, knelt beside him, and unbuckled the cuffs one at a time, rubbing the marks on his wrists with her thumbs until the circulation sang. Then she curled against his side, one leg over his, her hand stroking his chest in slow, tender passes while he breathed and breathed and breathed. Candlelight moved over them. She pressed her mouth to his shoulder.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “My good boy. You surrendered so perfectly. You let me have all of it.”

He turned his face into her hair, still shaking, still hers.

She had taken his breath and given him back a want he would never be able to live without.