You’re on your back, exactly where you belong, and I’m standing over you with my legs spread wide, looking down at your pathetic face. I tell you to hold still. Not a twitch. Not a breath unless I say so. And then I lower myself down, slow, until my thick thighs are framing your cheeks and my p*ssy is pressed heavy and hot right over your mouth and nose.

I grind down, sm*thering you c*mpletely, feeling you struggle beneath me. Your face disappears under my *ss, swallowed up by my flesh. I reach back and spread my cheeks wider, sealing you in tighter, cutting off every bit of air while I laugh at how weak you are. You try to gasp but there’s nowhere to go. I’m sitting on your face like a throne, and thrones don’t concern themselves with whether the furniture is breathing.

I lift up just enough for one cruel second, letting you suck in a desperate, ragged breath before I slam back down even harder. My p*ssy grinds against your gagged mouth, while I mock your tiny struggles. “Hold still, b*tch. I didn’t say you could move.” I control your oxygen like I control everything else you own. I count down while you’re trapped under me, making you hold your breath for longer and longer, feeling your body panic while your c*ck throbs harder against your pants.

I lean forward, sm*thering you deeper with my *ss, and tell you that this is the only way you’re allowed to breathe me. No air for you unless it comes from my *ss. No life for you unless I’m sitting on your face. You’re just a seat, a warm face, a piece of meat with a pulse that I play with when I’m bored. By the time I finally rise up, you’re gasping, covered in my sweat and my juices, your face red and your mind broken. I look down at the mess I made of you and smirk. “Good boy. Now stay right there. I’m going to sit on you again.” And I do.

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