Girl on the Net

Sometimes, after we’ve fucked and I’ve come good and hard round his cock, he pulls out and lies back on the bed, holding me tight around the shoulder or waist with one arm, and stroking himself with the other. I like to watch him come. And while he’s pushing himself to come, if I can tear my eyes away from the sight of his beautiful hand gripped skilfully round the head of his fuck-wet dick, I put my lips right up against his. Almost – but not quite – kissing. Feeling his body tense and shake, inhaling as he breathes into my mouth.

I love the taste of his kisses. I adore the smell of his breath. This isn’t something we talk about much – if you say someone’s breath has a distinctive smell, usually you invite self-consciousness or paranoia. Like so many bodily smells and noises, there’s a default societal idea that we should stamp them out entirely. Be weirdly plastic Barbie-and-Ken creatures whose scent – if noticeable – is only ever floral and fresh.

Fuck that.

The people we love are people – biological, warm, active. Composed of flesh and blood and sweat and saliva and spunk.

I love the way his breath smells in the morning.

I sleep with a blindfold, because I’m a precious princess who is sensitive to light. In the early hours, while I’m dipping in and out of dreams, if he’s facing me in bed I sometimes catch a gentle hint of the scent of his breath. That familiar, delicious, horny-as-fuck bouquet – the prelude to kisses from my boyfriend – gives me a kick of ecstatic realisation: he’s here! With me! I cannot see him, but I know he’s in bed. If I want to, I can roll over and wrap my arms around his warm, soft body and plant a kiss wherever my mouth meets his skin. This burst of instinctive joy is often enough to drag me fully awake, causing me to shuffle blindly towards him – leaning my head on his pillow so I can hunt for his lips with my own.

I love the scent of his breath.

Breath play is not all choking and danger

Breath play is underrated. It’s also frequently mis-sold. Ask the average person what they think about ‘breath play’ and they’ll probably say something about erotic asphyxiation – choking or restricting someone’s breath so they get high on it as they fuck. Maybe a touch of light drowning. I’ve enjoyed that myself in the past – I even bought a nose clip for the purpose! That kind of kinky breath play is fun, I think. Dangerous, but fun. I don’t recommend that you do it, mainly because one of my wise, spoilsport friends has told me in no uncertain terms that I should stop getting choke-fucked myself. Boo hiss to her, for caring about my safety, but she’s right. I don’t request choking any more.

But not all breath play’s like this. There’s a powerful intimacy in taking that phrase literally – playing with someone’s breath. Breathing in and out with them. Matching your inhale to their exhale, and vice versa. Some people would call this tantric, but that word has too hippy a connotation for me. I prefer to call it mindfulness. Or playfulness.

Or blowbacks.

Shortly before Christmas, I taught my new boyfriend about one of my favourite things: taking it in turns on a lungful of weed smoke. You take a toke of a joint, then hold it in your lungs while you give them a delicate kiss. Pressing your lips softly against theirs as you feel it start to seep into your blood. The substance gets you giddy and emphasises that happy tingle – the one that comes when you’re stoned and horny and in love.

Then you part your lips slightly, and they open theirs in return. And slowly, patiently, without pushing or blowing, you let your breath and the smoke fall gently out of your own mouth and into theirs.

They hold it in for their own giddy moment, then breathe out. And as they breathe out you break apart, look them in the eyes, and allow that flash of sparkling high to dawn on both of your faces. Vibrate over your skin in the places your bodies are touching. You let the grin spread on your face, and watch for a matching one on theirs.

And then… ahh then. You hand the joint over and do it all in reverse. Inhale, exhale. Exhale, inhale. Breathing the same air and the same smoke and the same atoms.

Breathe into my mouth

Sometimes, after we’ve fucked, when I’m spent and trembling from how hard I came while I rode out my own climax, he pulls out and lies back on the bed: his turn.

Having enjoyed the physical pleasure of clenching around him as the waves of orgasm wash over me, I now get to drink in the visual treat of his delicate fingers skilfully pulling at his cock. I watch him doing this, and I lay my head in the crook of his shoulder, feeling the hot thump of his heartbeat in his chest. And I listen to him breathing: inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale. All the while tugging at the fat, hard meat of his erection.

Inhale, exhale. I can taste it in my mouth.

Inhale, exhale. It smells like kisses and love and fucking and him.

Inhale, exhale. He strokes at his dick and he pulls me in tighter.

Inhale, exhale, then faster – inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale – until suddenly his breath catches and he’s holding it.

… holding it…

Holding.

Lips pursed in concentration, eyes closed for focus. Right hand clasped around me and crushing me into his side as his left hand tugs faster and harder and faster and faster and faster in an attempt to wring out those first thick ropes of hot spunk.

And when he does this – when I know he’s almost there – I let myself turn my face upwards to his, and move towards him, oh so gently onto his pillow. Hunting, as I do each morning, for the scent of his breath and the taste of his kiss and the touch of his lips on my own.

He holds his breath with purpose, because he’s so so fucking close. And I don’t let myself kiss him – I cannot bear to distract and throw him off course. I just hold my lips five millimetres from his own, and let him pull me tight and yank his cock and disappear into his own little world. That place of total abandon where nothing matters except the speed of his stroking and the sensation in his dick and the urgency with which he wants to get there.

Get there.

Just… fucking… get there. 

Then a beat, a pause, a temporary hitch in otherwise linear time, as he slows down the pace of his rubbing and whispers – directly into my mouth so it’s like I am eating his words:

“I’m gonna come.”

Then exhales.

Long and deep and intense, like weed smoke he’s held in while kissing me. Like the first breath I smell in the morning, just after I tell him ‘I love you’. Like the distilled essence of all his efforts in the whole fuck right up to this point.

He breathes into my mouth, and I suck it greedily down: that release of pent-up energy. That sigh of satisfaction.

Then I turn my gaze to where his beautiful hand grips his cock – just in time to see the first ropes of spunk burst forth from the fuck-wet tip. Where the taut, red, aching head spits cum all over his stomach.

And I breathe in again. And then out. And then in.

And I sigh and I throb and I marvel at my luck. That I should be alive right now, doing this right now. With him. That I get to watch something so precious and hot, so closely.

I’m not just in the same room while he does this, I’m not just held tight in his arms: I am breathing the very same air.

 

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