Cold (Warm?) Open

“In the shower, now,” he said when he came in the door.  The edge in his voice was sharper than usual.  I made my way to the washroom, pulling my shirt over my head.

“Faster,” he ordered.

“Someone’s in a mood,” I joked at his abruptness.  He didn’t laugh.

He was pissing on me before I even hit my knees.  The warmth coated me, a jarring contrast to the cool air on my naked skin.  I was admittedly surprised- he usually works up to watersports.  In a mood indeed.

I looked up at him, mouth open as he splashed on my face.  Being pissed on like that is somewhat akin to being waterboarded- breathing is difficult with piss threatening both your nose and mouth.  I thought about mentioning it, but knew he didn’t care.

I’m not sure he cared about anything at that point.

His cock hardened, forcing its way into my mouth when he was done.  He was in my throat before I had a chance to catch my breath; little did I know that I wouldn’t be given such a courtesy until he was done with me.

I shivered, presumably because of his piss cooling on my face and tits- though it could have also been his cock in my throat, of the ache of nervous anticipation between my legs as his energy continued to intensify.  

My body fought him as it always does at first- tension in my neck and shoulders pulling back as he fucks my face, futile efforts to breathe as he prevents it.  “Stop,” he ordered simply.

I made an effort to relax my neck, letting him lead me on and off of his cock instead of me trying to set the pace.  I focused instead on letting go of my need to breathe, surrendering that particular task for him to decide.  I found my center, relaxed my core, and took each breath deep into my lungs in the rhythm he permitted. He wiped my gag spit across my face, punctuating it with some of his own each time. 

Like a shaky foundation in the eye of a hurricane, I soon got caught up in the quiet fury of his vortex- one of my very favourite places to be.

He paused the face fucking for some open handed slapping on my tits, which hurts like hell before I am warmed up.  He slapped his fading bruises on each breast as I bit back screams with varying success.  I could see blood vessels already bursting, spreading across the bruises like glitter.

The only time I was permitted the choice of breath was when his hand was between my legs; I rose up on my knees, giving my cramped aching legs relief as he tortured my clit.  I played his usual game, begging for permission to cum, knowing that I would be denied a few times before he relented. 

“Beg,” he said simply after my first few attempts.

“Please Sir, I need it- please let me cum…please may I cum Sir?” I begged as his fingers furiously drew my orgasm.  

“You need it?” he mused with false consideration.  “How badly?”

“Really fucking badly,” I moaned.

“You can do better than that.  Aren’t you a writer?  How badly do you need to cum? Use some of those skills to tell me,” he taunted.  Upon reflection, it is wildly irritating when he taunts me.  In the moment, though, I was too focused on holding back my orgasm to feel anything but frantic.

It is rare that words fail me.  I have been told before that words are a fetish of mine, and I tend to agree- a few words spoken by a partner are an anchor in the hurricane, and can make me do impossible things- including surrender breath (more on that later).

I wracked my addled brain for something coherent, something compelling to share with him to convince him of my need.  My brain screamed its need for release, but nothing else.

“I can’t think,” I complained, each word clipped with the last shreds of my restraint.

He said something along the lines of “too bad,” and then removed his hand from my clit.

Did I scream?  Did I swear? Did I moan?  No idea- my brain short circuited, and I bent to my hands and knees to regroup.  Being denied an orgasm when you’re that close- and when you fully expect to get it- is akin to letting go of a balloon and watching it float out of reach.  

I took advantage of his seeming courtesy to take a few deep, centering breaths while on my hands and knees.  I was soaked in his piss and both of our spit, and now my own wetness as he wiped his soaked hand across my face.  I breathed deeply into my belly, a futile attempt to rid myself of the crushing disappointment of the edge.  

When I felt his piss down my back, it was somehow a comfort- wrapping me in his warmth after a frigid denial.  I need to think a lot more about the intimacy of watersports, but there is something twisted there- while it should feel humiliating, more often than not it feels connected.

He soaked my hair in piss, squishing it in and squeezing my curls so that I could hear it squelch.  He sat me back on my heels so that he could cover my face, then stuck his cock in the back of my throat to continue his stream.  I tasted his piss down my throat as I felt it drain from my mouth onto my tits.

When he returned to fucking my face I felt relief, if only because I no longer had to worry about drowning in addition to suffocating.  He found his rhythm in my throat, and I found mine as I again surrendered the urge to breathe.  He escalated his pace and ferocity, and I adjusted my posture and mind to meet him.  I felt proud that it is getting easier to surrender to him, both mentally and physically.  The mechanics of taking him down my throat come more naturally with practice, so my mind doesn’t have to fight him so hard- I guess that’s why they call it training.

As much as I am improving, I do still have limits to my abilities.  When I lose focus, or if he changes his rhythm, I need to re-adjust.  Sometimes I am able to get there, and sometimes my body starts to fight back.  He was pushing deeper into my throat, plugging my spit soaked nose and watching me squirm.  He demanded more, and I did my best to give it to him.

I used every strategy that I know to center myself, incremental surrender with each thrust.  He pressed into my throat, holding me on his cock by the chin and plugging my nose.  I closed my eyes, clearing my mind, releasing the burden of breath.  My throat pulsed first as my lungs demanded air, but I overrode it.  My body tried to pull me off of his cock, but he held me tight.  My core heaved as I tried catching breath through my nose to no avail.

I raised my hand to double tap his thigh, my signal that I need a breath.

“Not yet,” he said sharply, then more gently, “you can hold on.”

And I did.  My hand froze inches from his thigh as I held on to each of his words.  My body and mind were screaming, lungs burning and ears ringing from the lack of air- but I held on, because he said that I could.  I felt my head go light, my body lose strength.  Then I tapped his thigh. 

The breath that he allowed burned through me, and then he was right back down my throat.  My head was spinning, and I leaned into it, letting him use me as his sleeve.  I had reached the eye of the storm, my quiet within his noise.

Every thrust, every slap, the spit, the piss- it all blurred.  He edged me a few more times, pulling me up to my knees and spreading my legs to bring my clit right back to a promise, and then finger me hard instead, wiping his hand on my face or in my hair before putting his cock back in its sleeve.  I watched the balloon fly into the sky out of reach each time, but now with more of a quiet fascination than the earlier devastation.

It was none of my business when I breathed or when I orgasmed- it was up to him.  The burden of choice was no longer mine to bear; I knew that he would take care of me.

I was free.