Mollena Williams' story "Breath" is about a breath play at a kinky event and is one of the most intense stories in Serving Him: Sexy Stories of Submission.
Previous excerpts: "Duo" by J. Sinclaire, "Room #3" by Emily Bingham, "Shining in the Dark" by Bex vanKoot, "Pinky by Kissa Starling, "I Always Do" by Kiki DeLovely, "The Golden Ruler" by Giselle Renarde, "Safe, Sane and Consensual" by Ariel Graham, "Run, Baby, Run" by Vida Bailey, "The Letter" by Tiffany Reisz part 1 and part 2, "Under Direction" by Teresa Noelle Roberts, "Chattel" by Errica Liekos, "The Coffee Break" by Kristina Wright, "What You Deserve" by Lori Selke and "Subbing" by me.
From "Breath" by Mollena WilliamsYou can preorder Serving Him from Amazon and Bn.com. The Kindle ebook edition will be out on February 18th. THANK YOU!
This particular event was held, as so many kink events are, in a hotel. I found myself on the floor in a playspace that had been assembled thanks to the labor and intentions of a close-knit group of people who run the event. My dominant is one of them, and so taking time off from the work of running an event to stop and play is a precious connection indeed.
There isn’t anything particularly special about a hotel ballroom. And there sure as hell wasn’t anything special about the hideous carpeting in said ballroom.
But there is magic when you realize that you are being pushed into the aforementioned hideous carpet and you feel every inch of skin being abraded against it as you writhe on the floor, trying to breathe. I was past coherency. I didn’t think about anything clearly except how it was becoming more and more difficult to inhale. I was surprised to learn that my previous issues with breath-play had been neatly circumvented. I was aroused to see him smiling at me, calmly, as I struggled for breath.
How did I wind up in a breath-play scene? Why can’t I breathe? He isn’t choking me… What is happening? Oh, god.
This did not start out as a breath-play scene at all. It started out with one of my favorite toys, a flexible-handled cat-o’-nine-tails. A thuddy whip will get my attention every time. We’d started out with a silly opening to our scene, a playful teasing series of orders to strip, which I obeyed with a faux reluctance, a wink and a smile. The long crimson and saffron scarf that floated about my shoulders wound around my throat as I found the other end of it wound around his hand, but of course he wouldn’t strangle me with it…that was off the table.
Warm-up consisted of the whip finding its flicker-tongued way across the back of my thighs, eliciting sighs and squeals alike from me. But there was an odd impermanence to the rhythm and before long he had put down the whip in favor of availing himself of my pain with his hands.
Fair enough, I thought, since his hands are fairly fucking formidable. This thought was followed by my wailing scream as he dug his fingers deep into the big muscles of my thighs, fingers pushing with insane force into the crease where my hip socket hid within muscle and tendons, pushing me to the place where speech becomes an eel in my mouth and I can’t quite manage words, stuttering and spitting syllables to beg for…what? Mercy? That is a fucking laugh because when I start to feel that real pain; when I can see him observing the edges of my composure fraying: it is just getting good, and mercy simply isn’t in the cards.