You are my chair. That's not a metaphor. When I'm in the mood, your face is where I sit, and you stay exactly where I put you until I decide I'm finished. Do you understand?
There's nothing in this world like the feeling of settling my weight down onto a man who exists only to serve me in that moment. I feel your breath against me, hot and desperate. I feel you trying to be still, trying to be good, because you know that if you move wrong, I'll punish you. And I rock, slowly, taking exactly what I want, using you the way you were meant to be used.
When you call me for a facesitting fantasy, I paint the whole scene so vividly you'll swear you can feel it. I describe lowering myself onto you, the moment my thighs close around your head and the world goes dark and warm and perfect. I tell you to breathe through it. I tell you to keep your hands where I put them. I grind, slow at first, then harder, chasing my own pleasure while you lie there trapped beneath me, and there is nothing you can do but take it.
I love the power of it. Complete, total, physical dominance. You're not a partner in this scenario. You're furniture. You're my seat, my toy, my place to rest while I get myself off. I might talk to you while I ride your face, telling you how good you are at this, how lucky you are that I chose you. Or I might ignore you completely, lost in my own pleasure, reminding you that your comfort doesn't matter here. Only mine does.
And the smothering. Let's talk about the smothering, because I know that's what some of you really crave. I press down harder. Your air gets thin. You panic, just a little, and that panic is the hottest thing in the world to me. Then I ease up, just enough, and you gasp, and I laugh, and we do it again. I control your breathing. Think about that. I control whether you breathe.
Breath play pairs beautifully with this, and I know it. I'll sit heavier when you've been good and lighter when you need to recover, controlling your air like a faucet. Some of you beg for the full smother, and I give it to you in waves, letting you surface just long enough to gasp my name before I settle back down. Your lungs belong to me too.
Call the dispatcher and ask for Chanel. Get on your back. And don't move until I say so.
Chanel