Tag list: breathplay, face sitting Summary: here's a lot a man can do with an NCR standard issue rawhide belt looped 'round his neck.
--
Craig thought that he'd probably been born to it - he'd had his umbilical cord wrapped tight around his neck when his ma birthed him onto the kitchen tiles, and he guessed that just set him up for life with a taste for the sensation of struggling for breath.
Polly was the one to turn him onto it when he was all of fourteen, his hands clumsy on her hips, heels digging for grip in the soft sorghum piles as she bounced on his cock and slicked his still-sparse pubic hair with her wetness. She'd slipped and caught her balance with a hand hard on his windpipe, and the shock of gulping for breath and finding nothing but a closed throat made his eyes fly open and his dick harder than 'bout anything he'd discovered yet. A decade and change later and not much hard changed, 'cept Polly was probably an iron-handed brahmin rancher with a squad of kids and not much of a sense of humour left. Besides, he didn't think it would be seemly to turn up on her doorstep and ask if she remembered that time behind the barn and would she be amenable to a rematch.
Since then, well. Experimentation and practice makes perfect, and there's a lot a man can do with an NCR standard issue rawhide belt looped 'round his neck with the ends in the hands of a pretty girl encouraged by caps or curiosity or both. It wasn't needed, wasn't required, but gods almighty, Craig Boone swore that nothing short of rapture could compare to the kind of orgasm he got when his chest burned for air and the stars themselves were exploding behind his eyelids.
Carla wanted nothing to do with it, of course, saying she'd rather slap some sense into him than choke him. He'd given up trying to explain it - s'not about hurting me, sweetheart, it's about... control. Losing it. You know I trust you with my life, Carla... - and after a while resorted to grabbing her hand as they fucked, clutching it to his throat in a kind of mute plea to indulge him just once. He didn't press the issue after she'd fallen pregnant. Seemed a bit off then. Being a gasper felt a bit bent when there was a baby on the way.
That'd been then, a long time ago. It'd been months since he kissed Carla goodbye that night, and now there was no one around to keep him on the straight and narrow. No one to keep him grounded, and no little chime of you're gonna be a daddy to temper his appetite away from edging into outright destruction.
The casino apartment was empty and he knew he had a good hour to himself. Cass and the doctor were in, Raul too, all getting a day or two of rest before going back to whatever it was they did when Courier wasn't around. Thick as thieves, all of them. Day and night in every way, but they clicked and spent their time sitting in the back garden lounge at The Tops, pants cuffed up and their feet dangling in the pool. They didn't invite him, and that was ok. He didn't have much to talk about.
So a few hours free until they came home drunk off Courier's dime, weaving into the master bedroom to listen to the radio with the volume right up and laugh at their own jokes. That was ok too. A couple of hours to do the deed and tidy up, steal some healing salve from the doctor's supply and slather it on any bruises. By the time it worked he'd be out like a light, sheets pulled hard up under his chin and his back facing the guest room door. No one's found him out yet, and with a bit of luck none of them ever would.
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timeasmymeasure
Boone - 'Gasper' - 1/3
Date: 2012-04-04 04:41 am (UTC)Summary: here's a lot a man can do with an NCR standard issue rawhide belt looped 'round his neck.
--
Craig thought that he'd probably been born to it - he'd had his umbilical cord wrapped tight around his neck when his ma birthed him onto the kitchen tiles, and he guessed that just set him up for life with a taste for the sensation of struggling for breath.
Polly was the one to turn him onto it when he was all of fourteen, his hands clumsy on her hips, heels digging for grip in the soft sorghum piles as she bounced on his cock and slicked his still-sparse pubic hair with her wetness. She'd slipped and caught her balance with a hand hard on his windpipe, and the shock of gulping for breath and finding nothing but a closed throat made his eyes fly open and his dick harder than 'bout anything he'd discovered yet.
A decade and change later and not much hard changed, 'cept Polly was probably an iron-handed brahmin rancher with a squad of kids and not much of a sense of humour left. Besides, he didn't think it would be seemly to turn up on her doorstep and ask if she remembered that time behind the barn and would she be amenable to a rematch.
Since then, well. Experimentation and practice makes perfect, and there's a lot a man can do with an NCR standard issue rawhide belt looped 'round his neck with the ends in the hands of a pretty girl encouraged by caps or curiosity or both. It wasn't needed, wasn't required, but gods almighty, Craig Boone swore that nothing short of rapture could compare to the kind of orgasm he got when his chest burned for air and the stars themselves were exploding behind his eyelids.
Carla wanted nothing to do with it, of course, saying she'd rather slap some sense into him than choke him. He'd given up trying to explain it - s'not about hurting me, sweetheart, it's about... control. Losing it. You know I trust you with my life, Carla... - and after a while resorted to grabbing her hand as they fucked, clutching it to his throat in a kind of mute plea to indulge him just once. He didn't press the issue after she'd fallen pregnant. Seemed a bit off then. Being a gasper felt a bit bent when there was a baby on the way.
That'd been then, a long time ago. It'd been months since he kissed Carla goodbye that night, and now there was no one around to keep him on the straight and narrow. No one to keep him grounded, and no little chime of you're gonna be a daddy to temper his appetite away from edging into outright destruction.
The casino apartment was empty and he knew he had a good hour to himself. Cass and the doctor were in, Raul too, all getting a day or two of rest before going back to whatever it was they did when Courier wasn't around. Thick as thieves, all of them. Day and night in every way, but they clicked and spent their time sitting in the back garden lounge at The Tops, pants cuffed up and their feet dangling in the pool. They didn't invite him, and that was ok. He didn't have much to talk about.
So a few hours free until they came home drunk off Courier's dime, weaving into the master bedroom to listen to the radio with the volume right up and laugh at their own jokes. That was ok too. A couple of hours to do the deed and tidy up, steal some healing salve from the doctor's supply and slather it on any bruises. By the time it worked he'd be out like a light, sheets pulled hard up under his chin and his back facing the guest room door. No one's found him out yet, and with a bit of luck none of them ever would.