amns
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Joined: 6/26/2011
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We take so many things for granted. Precious things. Things that are vital and essential to our very lives. Take respiration, for example.
You don’t even think about breathing, do you? You just do it.
But it’s not like the beating of your heart. You could will your heart to stop, but would it?
You can, however, willfully stop breathing. And, if you’re sufficiently determined, you may be able to deny yourself oxygen until you lose consciousness at which point your breathing would resume - that’s your autonomic nervous system at work.
Unless, of course, something was preventing you from breathing.
These are the thoughts running through my mind, in what might be my last moments of life. Or am I being melodramatic?
With my mouth enveloped by her pussy and my nose burrowed up her ass, my ability to breath - to take in air, infusing the body with oxygen at a cellular level while simultaneously transporting carbon dioxide away from those cells - was severely restricted.
I did not feel panic, however, as I continued to lap at her pussy. She was bearing down on my mouth and nose and face. My flickering tongue was flattened out and extended, providing a surface upon which she could grind her engorged clitoris.
Air came to me in the smallest of gasps - fleeting bits of air that fed my depleted respiratory system with just enough oxygen to continue serving her.
Long moments stretched between those tiny gasps, when the outside world receded and I was aware of only the slick, wet grinding of her pussy and ass on my face. This was the entirety of existence.
Were my hands not pinned to my sides, I’d have reached up and pinched her nipples, reached around to spread her cheeks to try to wedge my nose even further into her ass.
I could feel the tension building in the rhythmic, swelling motions of her pussy. Her clit was a slick marble that rubbed across my tongue and chin, building to climax.
The physical signs of her excitement combined with the lack of oxygen was intoxicating. Electric filaments danced across my blinded eyes, phosphenes arising from the retinal pressure of her grinding.
All the while, she clawed at my chest and stomach and balls, ignoring my raging erection and digging her fingernails into my skin.
In hypoxic delirium, the snake-bite scratches of her fingernails on my body tingled and burned.
It felt as if I were leaving my body - or my body was leaving me - and I was no longer myself. I was just a device for her pleasure.
I did not mind that I could not breathe. Breathing could not have mattered less. All that mattered was the controlling grind of her body and the swelling flow of her pleasure that drew me in.
It was the rapidly quickening pace of her motion, the tightening of her sphincter, the quivering of her pussy that presaged the deluge.
Her whole body shuddered, and with the way that she smothered my face, the quaking physical movement of her orgasm rattled my skull and shook me with rapture.
I was rewarded for my devotion with gushing ejaculate that filled my mouth more quickly than I could swallow it. I drank it down, orgasmic waves squirting down my gullet and misting like sea spray in the air. Her cum was the sweet juice of a honeydew melon spiked with sea water, blasting down my throat.
When the tremors of her ecstasy subsided, she rolled off my face and onto her back, legs splayed, her pussy bright red and lustfully inflamed.
Air flooded into my lungs as respiration took over with a will of its own. I became aware of my body again.
I lay there, my own breathing a rush of white noise in my ears that fell off by degrees until, at last, I could hear the rising and falling of her gentle panting, the satisfied breathing of the mistress I serve.
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Flirting with Hypoxia - 
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