I've always been a little wary of breathplay, given the level of associated risk, but I am now certain of its attractions. Controlled breathing is something I've always used in the past to calm myself down, to get me to focus on one thing or another so I certainly associate it with stronger and clearer ways of thinking and behaving. This makes whatever is being done during or straight after these moments very intense.
I'm kissing The Photographer, when he puts his hand around my neck, and the other around my nose. His lips form a seal, and I can't breathe. At first I relax into the sensation, playing with his tongue and sinking into a very comfortable (and strangely comforting) submissive space. Like being wrapped up in heavy blankets, all the world shut out and far away. He breathes out into my mouth, and I inhale. It is a fine and delicate moment. The exhalations contain some oxygen, but not enough, the lower mix and warmed air combined with the intimacy of it all serves to push me further under. I suck his tongue a little, eager for the continued kiss. I don't want him to let go of me, I don't want to stop being quite so physically dependent, to need him for breath itself is a powerful feeling and I'm high with it. Light headed.
I start to buck, unconsciously. He doesn't let go straight away and the physical panic of my struggling body becomes a genuine panic, I can't breathe. My lungs are full, ribcage extended, I can't take any more of his air into my mouth. I have a desperate need to breathe out. But I remain connected to him, unwilling to move away first: he is in control, he will decide when he wants to let go. When he does I am lost for a few seconds, panting as I recover, then overcome with a need to be very close to him, to try and reform that fragile bond of patterned breathing, his mouth to my mouth, recycled air and firm hands. I'm grinning. So we do it again. And again.
Abandoned to his fate in inescapable rope
3 months ago