For an anxious person, like yours truly, the first thing that is forgotten in an anxiety-inducing situation is the simple act of breathing. I know this for a fact, it’s why I wear a sterling silver bracelet on my left wrist that simply says Breathe. Often for an anxious person, again—such as yours truly, a person can help immensely. Just one person. That certain person. That’s the person who can ‘talk you off the ledge’ so to speak.
I don’t need to say who my person is, now do I? I didn’t think so.
All of these things were the root of my Slave Girls story Breathe. The erotic element that comingled with the simple concept of breathing and a safe person was, of course, breath play. Some people won’t touch it, so I wasn’t sure I’d ever see the inside of this book. Yes, it can be a risky type of play. However, in a situation with that one person—that right person—it can be perfection. I won’t tell you how I know this, you can just trust me on it if you’d be so kind.
I reread the story to prepare for this post and D.L.’s blog tour. I’ll cop to the fact that a lot of times I only vaguely recognize my own stories. I think my mind, like the minds of so many others I know, can only hold so much information. So if it’s holding the stuff I want to write it often dumps the stuff I’ve already written. When I reread my work so that I could speak about my own story without sounding like a doofus, this stuck out to me. It’s been long enough that this story did not read as mine and I found myself rereading the following section a second time. So I’m posting it for you today. I figured if I read it twice, you might like to read it once…
From Breathe by Sommer Marsden
Nick moves toward me slowly so my eyes have a chance to track every single step he takes. He pushes me back roughly. This is not sweet and tender lovemaking. This is not prom night. This isn’t romance. This is what I need, fucking and writhing and the feel of him deciding when I can draw a big gulp of air and when I can’t.
This is about trust. Utter, blind belief in another person’s ability to dictate what you can and cannot do. This is freedom.
My back hits the bed, my long brown hair fanning out and a bit of it falling forward to cover my eyes. He brushes it away with a firm flick of his hand. He likes to look into my eyes. He likes to watch me watching him, submitting to him.
“Breathe,” he says again.
I take a deep breath and then feel the start of his fingers pressing to my neck, trapping my thumping pulse beneath his thick fingertips.
For more about D.L. King and her amazing Slave Girls and the full lineup go HERE: http://dlkingerotica.blogspot.com/