Waiting To Exhale

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

Those were the words she uttered, almost sheepishly, as they chatted one afternoon. He didn't made much of a comment to her in response, not wanting to over react or let the conversation take a turn from the friendly tone they enjoyed. But suddenly a sort of tunnel vision set in. He couldn't recall the comments immediately before, or those immediately after, her statement. His heart skipped a beat and he felt his head grow light at the thought of her being so needy that her breathing... just... stopped.

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

Those words haunted him in the days and weeks afterward, springing to mind at the most inopportune times. In a meeting - what did she look like when it happened? Driving down the road - what was happening to her to make her be so close to coming that she just... froze? At dinner - was she masturbating, being eaten, or being fucked? In the darkness, when he should be sleeping - what would it be like to be the person to create that much pleasure and to cause "it" to happen?

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

He wanted to experience that. He wanted to be there, to see her in the throes of passion, to HEAR her stop breathing, the abrupt silence. How long would it continue? Would it be with a sudden gasp, an intake of breath and then... "nothing"? And then a great rush of air as her body finally relented? Would she moan? Would she murmur under her breath? Or would she just... stop... at some point, perhaps just as she had exhaled? And then a shuddering inhalation as she fought to breathe again? Would her head roll back, her back arch, her fingers blindly clutch for something, anything, to hold on to? How would those fingers feel, grasping his ass as he pumped into her? How would they feel entwined in his hair as he ate her? Or would they hold on to the headboard, white-knuckled, as she rode him?

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

Once in a while, he would speak to her by phone and catch her just as she came back into the house from an errand, or as she had carried a load of laundry upstairs. Mundane tasks in a routine day. But he found that her slightly-out-of-breath words were incredibly arousing... as if... she was slightly... winded. Her breathy little pants invoked images that were decidedly erotic.

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

He decided that his favorite image was of her supine form on a rumpled bed, lying back as he went down on her. He could imagine her thighs over his shoulders, her feet drumming on his back as he feasted on her pussy. He could envision her hands twisted in the sheets as she clutched at something to hold on to or, yes, pulling on his hair as she guided him to the spot she liked best, coaxing him to eat her... just... *so*. He imagined playing her body with his lips and tongue and teeth, playing it as a musical instrument: "adagio", "accelerando", "allegro", "arpeggio"... the images the "a's" alone created were arousing to him. He wanted to take the melody all the way to "crescendo".

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

He closed his eyes as he imagined her reaching for her own breasts, caressing them softly at first, then perhaps more firmly, teasing her oh-so-hard nipples. What a view he would have as he peered up from between her legs, across her soft milky white belly, past her heaving breasts to her face - flushed with arousal. Her long red hair partially obscuring her features as she rolled her head from side to side, the silky tresses sticking slightly to her face, moist with that infamous "delicate glow" that was the trait of Southern women. He licked his lips as he thought of how she would taste - musky, almost smoky, with a hint of sweetness. He would drink her in and savor her unique bouquet. Drink her in until he was drunk with her essence. He was entranced by her pussy - he had never been with a woman before who was completely shaven and he loved the sensation of her bare nether lips as he ran his lips and tongue over them. He delighted in teasing her clit, hidden at first, but with the proper coaxing it gradually came out to play, to dance with his lips and tongue. And in this dance, *she* was the lead - he was attuned to the motion of her hips and the tension in her thighs, her ass cheeks flexing as he cradled them in his big palms. He let her body lead and he eagerly, skillfully followed.

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

She was closer now and as his fantasy played out he was barely aware that he was stroking himself, feeling his own urgency rise. In his mind's eye, he felt his hips moving in time with her own, her hips rising to meet his face, his hips pushing down against the sheets. Faster. More urgently. Then... he heard it. Sensed it more than heard it. The faltering breath, the loss of rhythm, the catch in her throat. And then... "nothing".

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

"Nothing" except her taut thighs clamped to his head and a sudden gush of wetness against his face. He drank it down and probed for more. He groaned low and deep, a guttural, primal growl. His senses reeled with it all - the taste of her, the scent of her, the feeling of her body rigid in his arms and under him. And most of all the sound of.... "nothing".

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"

His eyes fluttered open. His cock was still hard in his hand, but his fist and thighs and belly were covered in great rivulets of his cum. He felt a tightness in his chest and as he gasped for air he suddenly realized it was true...

"Sometimes, I forget to breathe"