True Sex Stories: Breathing Exercises

I met Amadeo through Craigslist. He answered a submissive for dominant ad with a fantasy about breath play.

He wanted to hold my head under the water in the bathtub while he pummelled my cunt from behind. We haven't done this; we may never - the scenario is so far out of my comfort zone that it orbits a distant star.

Controlling my breathing during sex is, nevertheless, a favorite game of his. I enjoy it, too, because of how it makes me feel: I surrender myself to my lover. The oxygen that fills my lungs enters the bronchi through his agency and consent. Amadeo clutches my throat as he fucks me with his cock. The pressure his fingers apply to my windpipe leaves me wide-eyed and aroused. He covers my mouth and nose with his hand and smothers me with an iron grip. He gags me with my underwear and has me wear the discarded black stockings over my head. He tugs at the frayed ends and tightens the winter scarf around my neck while I scream at him to pound me harder.

Often, the impulse to panic elicits an automatic response. My arms flail. Fingers clutch at his forearm while I struggle beneath his mass. I gasp. I pant. He has me drowning for air.

I feel light in my head.

I feel vertiginous.

I am floating above myself.

I am euphoric.

Last night, Amadeo wrapped my bra around my neck. The cups folded about my throat, and the elastic wound around. He slipped my hands through the arm holes and had me pull at the bra straps, constricting the passage of air through my trachea. I choked myself while he squatted on the bed. He grasped my feet, pulled my legs over his thighs, and dragged my cunt down the length of his prick.

He cuffed my cheek playfully. He kissed me amorously. His tongue took possession of my mouth. He ate my pussy and fucked me some more. My cunt detonated all around him.

Republished with permission from Leah Lays London. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo from Tristan Taormino's "Rough Sex."