You’re on your back, forearms flat on the bed, fingers digging into the sheets, and he’s pounding you, like, really pounding you, hands tight on the curve of your waist, pulling you up onto his cock with every thrust of his hips. You’re curled up towards him a little, shoulders off the mattress, watching his face, waiting. His eyes flick up, and you don’t even say it, don’t even say anything, just raise your eyebrows a little.
Yes. Do it.
He’s panting hoarse, breathy. You can feel the quick flutter of his heart where your breasts are brushing up against his chest. He drags one of his hands up your body and settles it over your throat, fingers set together, slides it a little more so his thumb is wedged up in the crease of your jaw.
‘Baby,’ he says, and shifts his shoulders forward, lets the weight of his body press against your throat. He holds the pressure steady till you’re gasping, sucking hard for dizzy, thready breaths. You can feel him watching your face, watching it hard, and the feeling makes something float under your ribs. There’s a thrum of adrenaline in your spine and a red fog behind your eyelids, blurring your vision, and your senses scutter and dissolve somewhere between the slick weight of his cock filling you, no, fucking you, and this sudden suffocation, sensory obliteration.
He’s pounding urgently, now, making punchy noises under his breath. He lifts his hand for a second, holds it above your throat, and you have time for two ragged breaths before he clamps it hard over your face, not just your mouth but your nose too, and something in your brain stem fuses out. Your body is bucking against him, wild, something apart from you. The world’s red-dark and your spine is alight and his hands, his hands are hard on your face and his cock is hard inside you, pulsing, and the ropey muscles of his arm are locked and quivering, holding you down, holding your breath inside you. You’re past all thought, soul-sprung cipher of screaming flesh, and he makes a great guttural noise and comes, comes, comes.