guiltyresuspleasure

[guiltyresuspleasure]

So it seems our community has a holiday. June 1-June 7 is CPR/AED Awareness Week. In honor of uuuuuuhhh...spreading awareness, a bunch of cool people like @saphicresus @undeadandlovingit @chokingcpr and @blog-o-suffer helped put these daily prompts together The prompts span the whole month because i forgot cpr awareness was only a week long and went overboard and now here we are. If you want to join in you can draw/write/share a thought related to any of the prompts of any day of the month. Just thought it would be a fun thing to do! :) Edit: If you do any of the prompts, maybe add a tag like #cprawarenessprompt so we can see them?

[guiltyresuspleasure]

Rather Die Then Ask For Help PART 2

– NSFW AS FUCK MINORS DNI –

Themes/CWs: humiliation, mention of alcohol and drug/cigarette use and a general nightlife, tongue kissing, teasing/dry humping, grinding, choking, self heimlich, prolonged peril, drool, gum swapping, heimlich (and back slaps), group resus, cpr and defib (Hollywood style, more dramatic than realistic), will be some mention of arousal with someone who is partially/totally unconscious.

—

Delaney expected to find Vivienne having a meltdown of some sort in the bathroom - they’d been eying that hott bartender for weeks and being approached like that had to have been the craziest thing to ever happen to them.

Once they looked up from watching where their own feet were going, they blinked a few times, taking in the sight of Vivienne awkwardly lurched over a trashcan, their tits hanging on for dear life to the slightest little bit of remaining elastic black fabric of that tiny dress, their mouth hung open, tongue poking out and a long string of drool pouring from their lips.

“Viv–?”

The silly smile on his face dissolved into something more concerned. Maxine, giggling, followed soon behind Delaney through the bathroom door, getting quiet fast as she took in the sight of Vivienne bent over the trash can, in a fight for their life.

Nearly tipping herself and the trashcan over in the process, her body feeling suddenly too heavy to move, Vivienne managed to bring her trembling hands up to her throat, grasping it and lifting her head. It took a moment to focus her eyes enough to make out her friend’s face.

God, I must look so pathetic. Maybe… at least he will be able to get it out before Zara has to see… Please Delaney, help me out...

“Oh my God D, she’s choking!”

Maxine’s shrill voice was full of so much urgency and panic it startled some part of Vivienne’s dizzy brain back to the present, just as Delaney was coming up behind her, wrapping one of their big buff arms around her chest to keep her from falling over, and driving the other hand in between her shoulder blades. It was such a sharp and sudden pain it made tears flood over her cheeks reflexively, but didn’t do anything to the gum in her throat. He did it again and again and through the haze in her mind Vivienne was so frustrated with him for being too drunk to remember the key points of the first aid course they took together less than one year ago.

“Oh shit, oh fuck this is bad. Vivi, spit it out come on!”

Desperate, Vivienne turned toward Delaney, smacking his arm a few times to get his attention then dropping her hands to her belly, balling up a fist and showing him where to put it. Luckily, he seemed to immediately understand what they meant.

“Max, go get help!”

Vivienne heard Delaney’s voice crack with emotion as he yelled out, practically right into her ear.

“I've got you, we are gonna get it out, stay with me Viv…”

He was internally kicking himself for wasting any time with the back blows.

She felt their hands grab her roughly around her middle, the big ball of their fist rolling backwards and jerking her up so fiercely her feet left the floor for a moment.

Gyechhk

The most awful noise to escape her yet, and an absolute flood of drool just spilling from her lips, but still no give in her airway.

Her whole body felt so heavy she gave up finally, letting her head lull back against her friend’s shoulder, her hands fall limp at her sides, still trembling, flailing a bit with the second big upward thrust into her belly.

Gluurghh

She watched the string of drool connect to the dirty tile floors in the bathroom. She could feel one of her buns coming loose, her purple hair spilling out in a mess as she flopped around in Delaney’s arms like a ragdoll. Tears poured over her red cheeks. It occurred to her again;

I’m going to choke to death.

“Don’t you dare die on me, Viv. Come the fuck on!”

Delaney’s voice roared from behind her, freaking out at her sudden limpness.The next thrust was so hard it made her eyes bulge.

The pain was so sharp and intense Vivienne felt themselves come to a bit more again, just enough to look up and see the most beautiful face – the very last person she ever wanted to see her like this.

Zara’s face was flashing an array of different emotions, processing what was happening.

“Shit… how long were you like this?”

Zara walked up and took Vivienne’s face in her hands. Vivienne felt her bare nipple graze against the woman’s wrist – that meant at some point her tits had come bouncing free in all the ruckus. Embarrassment flooded over her. If she lived through this she'd never live down the shame of being this messy, this desperate, this much work to save.

“Hold her still for a second, let me see if I can fish it out.”

Vivienne was just barely conscious enough to focus her eyes on Zara’s. They felt her fingers pry open their lips and push past their teeth and into the back of their throat.

“Give her one more thrust as hard as you can.”

Ghleckkk

“Shit, I think my hands are too big. I might have just pushed it deeper. Maxine, come here and try. I’ll take over thrusts.” Zara’s heart sank realizing what was stuck at the back of Vivienne’s throat; It was her cinnamon gum.

Vivienne felt her limp body being roughly passed from Delaney’s arms to Zara’s. She felt so pitiful and helpless, too weak to move at all but just awake enough to know what was happening.

Maxine’s hands were on her face then, holding her head up roughly, her slender fingers pushing down Vivienne’s wet tongue and swiping at the back of her throat.

“Ready? Try to swipe in time with when I pull up, okay?”

Maxine nodded determinedly.

Glurrgghh

Vivienne felt her body slip in Zara’s slender arms for just a moment, and some of the force of the blow went to her ribs. The pain was so sharp and intense it made her vision white out and her ears ring.

“Hold on that one didn’t work,” Zara said frustratedly. Then, something so wire crossing and shocking happened that Vivienne almost believed it was a fantasy she made up in her apoxic state.

To balance Vivienne’s weight in her arms and keep a better grip on her, Zara put one leg forward, her thigh pressing firmly between Vivienne’s legs. Her arms anchored most of their weight backward toward her, wrapped tight around their mid-belly. Hidden barely under the pleats of her skirt, Zara was rock hard and it felt so gross and inappropriate but she couldn’t stop to think about it really. She had to focus on getting that gum out of Vivienne’s throat.

The last conscious thought that Vivienne had was how she could still feel slick wetness between Zara's leg and her core.

“Ready?” She asked.

“Ready.” Maxine confirmed.

Glehhhrkh

“Did that do it?”

“No, not quite…” There was an awkward pause, and Zara watched the woman slap Vivienne’s face a couple times, first softly then a bit harder. “Oh fuck I think she’s out.” Maxine said.

“No, No… No.”

Zara hadn’t really looked at the masc’s face until just then, and when she did she noticed it was wet with tears. He looked terrified.

“Is she…? Oh God, oh no… Vivienne no..” Delaney sobbed.

Vivienne’s eyes were still open, but they stared past Maxine at nothing, and her red flushed cheeks were starting to look a bit more purple. She was smacked several times, and never blinked or even twitched.

“Delaney listen to me. Get out your phone and call 911. Tell them we are doing cpr, tell them where we are. Do it now.”

He looked in shock, but nodded, fumbling for his phone.

Zara looked back across Vivienne’s slumped back to Maxine, who also seemed horrified but was managing to keep some composure.

“Ready? On the count of three we try again. 1… 2… 3!”

Gluhhrp

Vivienne's full breasts bounced at the force, their feet dangling inches above the ground, held up by Zara's strong grip and her thigh wedged into her crotch.

Maxine pulled her hand out of Vivienne’s very slobbery mouth, revealing the pink gum, now stuck to her fingernail. With her other hand, she slapped their face a couple more times.

“They still aren’t breathing.” She said, swallowing down a lump in her throat.

Gently, together, they lowered Vivienne onto her back on the dirty tile floor. Once she was down, Zara urgently scrambled to get to her face, cupping her cheeks in her hands. She pinched their nose shut and took in a deep breath, then sealed her lips over theirs, delivering one deep, and very much needed, rescue breath that made their belly inflate and their full and bare chest lift upward. Zara’s lips pulled away from Viv’s with a light pop, pretending not to notice the drool that connected in wet strings between her mouth and the mouth of this poor thing dying beneath her. She gasped in quickly just to lower back down and try it again.

They had been without air for so long and it was all because of the stupid piece of gum they stole from her, tongue kissing on the dance floor.

Why didn’t you just tell me you were choking? I was right there. Would you have really rather died then asked for help?

She pulled up again and her fingertips probed at Vivienne’s neck, trying to find any trace of a pulse. Nothing.

[guiltyresuspleasure]

When in doubt, doodle a man startled as he starts to choke.

[guiltyresuspleasure]

Brush With An Angel

How Catarina came to realize she enjoyed being resuscitated. Features F resus, multiple F rescuers, drowning, heimlich maneuver, hip lift method, mouth to mouth, CPR, victim POV. CW; suicide attempt.

Catarina’s life had become a drudgery of warm summer days. The last few weeks before autumn had been so perfect and bright, without even a rain shower, that she had become morose. All around her was color and flowers and blooming things, but she felt suffocated by them. By everything.

It was an ungrateful way of thinking, she knew, but the idea that the rest of her life would be spent looking at these dizzying arrays of wealth and perfectly manicured lives was more than she could take. She understood now why women went mad. She herself had taken to walking around with rocks in her pockets, and she’d touch the edge of the lake behind her estate with the tip of a shoe. Then she’d think better of it and weep in the shade of a tree.

Marjoline tried to console her friend. She visited all the time and took her on walks through her family’s garden, never knowing how the colors and liveliness of the place only served to depress Catarina more. They walked arm in arm and she pat her affectionately. “Life is so beautiful! How can you think to be sad?” But she wasn’t sad. She was empty.

So when her miles of dress and petticoats and drapery was caught by an ocean wave, she didn’t struggle. She’d waded out from the shallows until her feet couldn’t touch the bottom, and the water sucked her down, heavy as she was with the trappings of her finery. They had always been entrapments. Her corset snug around her waist, she couldn’t draw in much air even if she wanted to, and her ribs flexed and strained against the hard boning when her head went under. She tried to let the water in her mouth but it was hard to willingly swallow, her body rejecting the flood down her airway and convulsing as it tried to expel it. Her chest was too full. Panic, a primal sort she couldn’t turn off, made her kick and strain her arms for the surface, but it was too late. Her dress weighed her down and she was tangled in it now.

Catarina stared up at the sun dappling on the water as her body began to cease. Her throat flexed with the water filling it to capacity and her chest bucked weakly. No more bubbles escaped upwards, she had no more oxygen to give, and her face became a blank mask as her lungs seized. She could feel her heart swelling in her water logged chest. Still trying to pump even as the rest of her began to give in. Her eyes were wide as she floated limp in the water.

—

Marjoline was in a panic even before she saw the body on the shore. “No, no, no,” she was hurriedly whispering as she descended the small sand dunes to the beach. “Cat! God, Catarina!” She threw herself down beside her friend and took her under the arms, heaving her up to pull her further from the waters edge. It was a dreary overcast day, the first of real autumn, so the beach had been mostly deserted. No one saw Catarina. A small crowd were beginning to gather from the boardwalk now that they saw Marjoline hauling her limp body.

She deposited her on her stomach and began frantically pounding on her back. “Catarina, you foolish girl! God, my God, what have you done,” she babbled, sweeping her damp hair from her face. Her skin was utterly devoid of color, her lips bloodless and her vibrant eyes staring dully ahead. Water leaked from her slack mouth. Marjoline moaned a low, grief stricken noise and shook her. “No, no! You can’t have done this!”

She hooked her arm under the other girl’s stomach and hefted her backwards against her chest. She was sodden and heavy, utterly dead weight in her arms, and her head hung leaden against her chest, her once vibrant ringlets hanging in wet ropes across her face. Marjoline situated her and braced a balled fist against her stomach, grunting as she thrust inward under her ribs. There was a wet gurgle as water spilled into Catarina’s lap, but not much. The corset was providing resistance, not allowing the water trapped in her stomach a proper escape, or allowing Marjoline to thrust very hard. She was panting, already exhausted and too fevered with hysteria to even understand what she was doing wrong, so she jerked her arms hard around Catarina in a few quick pumps again. She lowered her head and began sobbing against her back.

“Here, let me help!” called a woman as she broke from the encroaching crowd and leapt down the sand dunes. She wore pants in the men’s fashion, and looked almost boyish enough Marjoline thought a young man had come to their aid. Her own heavy dress was making her rescue efforts more difficult, so she eagerly let the stranger replace her at Catarina’s back. The bystander made quick work of her corset, tugging it open from the back and ripping it away from her midriff. There was a gasp in the crowd at the vulgarity of this, but no one moved to stop her.

Free from their bindings, her stomach and lungs eagerly emptied their contents into the folds of her dress when the stranger thrust in against her belly. White foam burst up from her nose and mouth, and the stranger shook her gently after a few more pumps to ensure it all came out of her mouth. She grasped Catarina by the face and pulled her back, her head resting on her shoulder. She wiped away the foam still on her lips and in her nose, then pried open her bluish tinted mouth and swept her fingers inside. After clearing out a bit more of the obstruction, she probed further down her throat to make sure her airway was clear. Satisfied it was, she braced her head in one hand and checked her pulse with the other. It was sluggish, hard to detect with how weak it was, but it was there. She was still alive, but she wasn’t breathing. She began lowering her back to the sand. “Help me move her.”

Marjoline leapt back into the rescue efforts at the command and stretched out Catarina’s legs, and when she was on her side they rolled her back onto her stomach. The bystander bent one knee in the sand on one side of Catarina’s hips, bending the other so she sat partially against the limp woman’s knees. Then she grasped her by the hips and bent her back, drawing her rear end up towards the stranger’s pelvis. Marjoline flushed a bit at the display, and there were scattered murmurs from the crowd. Undeterred, the woman slid her limp body back into the sand and swept up in the same movement. She forced her lungs to depress, bringing up a bit more of the thick white foam. This Marjoline cleared away with a gloved hand, shivering at the cold wet feeling when she pulled away.

The bystander performed a few more of these hip lifts, drawing in little involuntary breaths and squeezing them back out. Catarina’s cheek wore a little pocket in the sand where her head slid back and forth from the efforts, and Marjoline now and again wiped her mouth and cleared flotsam off her tongue. “Cat,” she moaned lowly again, pained, “Oh, darling please wake up… please, you’ve got to breathe, oh Cat…”

Another bystander approached from the crowd. She was darker skinned, but still somehow looked ashen and sun deprived, and even though it was too overcast to even see the sun, she wore thick round sunglasses with red lenses. The other Good Samaritan glanced up, and found she couldn’t quite make out the woman’s features. It was easy to chalk up to panic at the situation, but her face was utterly without description, almost like clay merely suggesting the features of a person. It made her dizzy to think too long on it so she looked back at the smooth, pale back of the drowned woman and resumed her efforts.

“Her heart is stopped,” the stranger said. “What?” Marjoline squalled. “How do you know?” She offered no answer. Instead, she knelt in the sand and slid her arm under Catarina’s sopping body, lifting her easily up. The other bystander stumbled back off her as the strange woman flipped her with ease onto her back. With some hidden dagger or otherwise sharp implement, they all watched in horror as she swiped it across what remained of Catarina's blouse, spilling her milky breasts. The Good Samaritan paid them no heed as some people surged from the crowd like they might stop her. But suddenly, it felt to all of them like it would be very foolish to try and stop her.

--- Catarina ---

Blissful dark. It had been so black and cool in that nonexistence, she hadn't even been aware of it. She'd simply molded into the shadows and thought nothing. She was finally gone beyond the mortal world. At least, she thought she had. Why then did her body hurt? She no longer had one of those. Why did the sand abrade her skin? Why did her lungs feel so heavy in her chest? Darkness gave way to vague blotches of color, then shape, then suddenly she was looking up into the face of an angel. A halo of light limned her features, silver against her soft brown skin. Serpent eyes peered down at her from behind black pools. No... sunglasses. It was a woman. She was laid out on her back, with a woman kneeling over her.

Awareness came back slowly, but she soon realized the woman was shoving against her chest with a tremendous amount of force. The feeling of her ribs bowing became all too real, she wanted to shove the intruding hands away, but her limbs wouldn't obey her commands. She was at the mercy of this dark angel. That should have frightened her. But instead...

Instead she was transfixed. The sensation was incredible in its own way. With every thrust against her heart, (she had one of those, she recalled, and it was inert inside her chest) she felt the muscles at the center of her being shift. Pushing blood away, drawing it back in. It hurt, badly. But it was a thrilling sort of hurt. Her head shifted, inertia forcing her body to wobble all the way down to her toes, and she stared up at the angel's face as it swayed back and forth in her vision. She was dying, with no one but this savior in this moment. Something about that was as intoxicating as it was frightening. She wanted to live. She wanted this creature to make her live.

"Pinch her nose shut," the angel said in a heavy Parisian accent to someone Catarina didn't see, "Tilt her head back a bit, then put your mouth on hers and blow." "You want me to kiss her?" came the unseen reply. "I want her to breathe again," said the angel. There was a moment of hesitation before a shadow passed over her field of vision. She felt the pressure against her nostrils and the warm, wet mouth against her own. For that brief moment, it really was a kiss, and everything inside her wanted to reciprocate. Then hot air filled her mouth, swelled in her throat. She almost wanted to gag, cough it up, only she couldn't move. She just laid there as it whooshed into her lungs and she felt her ribs flex to accommodate it. The angel had stopped the assault on her chest briefly to allow her lungs to expand. "Let her breathe it out," said the angel, and the seal of their mouths was broken. It came undone with a soft pop, her windpipe releasing the forced air in a wet rattle. It almost sounded like a moan. She found she wanted to do just that, moan at the swirl of warmth inside her body. She was cold, but that oxygen, it was invigorating. Was this what trees felt when they had been robbed of a breeze for so long? What babies felt when they take their first breath? She felt it through her entire body, lighting up her cells. The whole thing gave her a head rush.

"Again," the angel commanded. Again. Again, again, a thousand more times. It happened again. Her throat once more creaked in an odd, noisy exhalation as it passed out of her once more. Just as delicious as the first. She felt her rescuer's hair tickle her nose as she listened to the breathing escape, smelled her perfume. Then the shadow receded and the angel was once more driving her hands into her chest. She heard, now that her lungs had oxygen to spare, as each pump squeezed the air out of her body in a quiet huff, huff, huff. Even the pain from the compressions was elevated and blissful. Light seemed to carry through her veins with every thump, filling her torso, then her head, then her limbs. She stared up at the dark angel as her face bobbed in and out of focus.

Are you in there? a voice boomed in the back of her head. Like it was piped in through her brain stem. The voice of the angel, though her lips hadn't moved.

I am, Catarina whispered in the darkness of her mind. I'm here. Are you... trying to bring me back to life? Am I dead?

Mostly, the darkness chuckled, the angel seeming to smirk as she continued battering her chest. Do you want to be alive?

She had thought the answer to that would be simple. It would have been only a few hours ago. But it didn't feel so simple anymore. If this was living... then yes, she did want it. She wanted these strong hands on her body. She wanted that light rushing through her blood. When Catarina looked up at that dark face and those barely concealed crimson eyes, she knew she wanted to come back. As if in reply, she felt her heart shiver under the assault, fighting the hands forcing it to compress and expand. The angel did smile then.

You like this? asked the angel. Cat could have screamed. She loved this. The angel's hand shifted just a little, her fingers situated so they not only nestled between her breasts, but brushed against one of her nipples as well. Do you want me to continue a little longer?

Yes, she moaned in her head. The angel looked up at the shadow on her other side. "Give her another breath. When you're done, prop her head in your lap." "Wh-Why?" "It will help with blood flow to keep it elevated." At first, Cat didn't understand. Then, after another round of oxygen flooding her system to the point of near ecstasy, she understood as her perspective shifted. No longer was she staring up at the angel's face and the cloudy sky above. She was looking down at herself.

From this new angle, she could see the angel's dark hands shoving into her chest. The way the force drove her belly up in a little mound, made her arms jerk slightly, made her feet roll back and forth on the sand. She wanted to blush when she saw her bodice and finery had been ripped down to her pelvis, and the barest hint of gold curly hair peeked out. Her body was so terribly white, her breasts two heaving moons that bounced obscenely with every downward thrust against her heart. It had started quivering again now, not quite beating. She wondered if it was natural after being so long without a pulse, or if part of the pressure she felt on her chest wasn't just from the angel driving her palms into her sternum.

If she focused, she could almost make out the shape of fingers, the sensation of resistance as her heart tried beating on its own. The angel wasn't letting it. Weak, starved for blood, the organ couldn't fight whatever magic was gently cradling it, and the valves snapped and shuddered against some invisible force. The angel would not let it beat without her say so. Warmth pooled in her lower stomach.

Are you wet, little dove? the voice cooed, Hard to tell with all this water still clinging to you. She was. It was a sensation no one else had ever coaxed in her. No man had ever really made her cum, and half of them hadn't cared if she was at all lubricated before sex. But this sensation, these hands, the helplessness, the warm light filling her body, she suddenly wished she could breathe on her own because she felt on the verge of orgasm. She saw the angel, holding back a smile, as she leaned in and captured her mouth. She was breathing into her, feeding her the breath she wanted, and the invisible hand let go of her heart. The pressure moved swiftly to her cunt, an unseen hand brushing the bud between her thighs. She gasped, her heart in a full gallop, her back arching up off the sand, as she unraveled in the angel's arms.

To onlookers, Catarina's recovery looked like nothing more than medical intervention. A woman roaring back to life after several long minutes of clinical death. She'd been without a pulse for twenty minutes, she learned later. Only she knew the truth of her angel. Catarina didn't even get to thank her- when she managed to open her eyes, panting and ragged in her afterglow, the dark angel was gone. All she had left was the hand shaped bruise decorating her sternum. Observing it in the mirror back at her estate, after she'd finally shaken Marjoline. she thought it was lovelier than any jewel she owned. And she vowed to find those life giving hands again.

[guiltyresuspleasure]

Hands On

A deaf person saves their choking partner. [Unspecified genders. Choking. Heimlich.]

Your hand on my shoulder startles me and I fumble my embroidery stitch, accidentally sticking my finger with the needle. There’s an urgency to your touch that fills me with dread even before I look up and see your watering eyes and scarlet cheeks. Your other hand flies up to grasp at your throat. I quickly flash the sign for cough it up. You shake your head and clasp your hands in front of your stomach, miming an abdominal thrust.

I rise from the couch and spin you to face away from me. Your stomach muscles tense in anticipation as I ball my hands into a fist just below your rib cage. I wrench my hands into your diaphragm and the force causes you to fold over my arms. I see your shoulders shuddering, feel your stomach lurch as your body tries to expel the object that stole your breath, but I cannot hear if you’re moving any air. You look back at me over your shoulder, your expression pleading, and I continue to thrust. After five or six attempts, you sink to your knees and I slide down to the floor with you.

I’m terrified as I think for a second that you’re passing out. How long were you choking before you came to find me? You lean forward and brace one hand on the floor while the other beats uselessly against your chest. I let go of you just long enough to pull my phone out of my pocket and hit the emergency dial button. 911 texting is available where we live, but I haven’t registered for it. No matter. My hands are busy at the moment anyway. I set the phone on the floor beside us and try to enunciate as clearly as possible.

“I am deaf. I need an ambulance to 65 Ashburn Street. My partner is choking.”

I repeat the phrase over and over as I continue to work on you. I bring the heel of my hand down firmly between your shoulder blades, casting glances over your shoulder to see if anything has rolled out of your mouth. The skin on the back of your neck is growing purple and splotchy from the lack of oxygen. I grab you around your waist and haul you into a kneeling position. My heart clenches as you flop back into me, heavy in my arms.

I try another abdominal thrust, but it’s difficult to get enough leverage now that we are no longer standing. I switch to chest thrusts and that’s a bit easier. Your head lolls forward and I quicken my pace, furiously driving my hands into your chest. In my frenzy of panic, I almost don’t feel your hands fluttering over mine, urging me to stop. You lurch forward and spit out a grape. The wet, shining fruit rolls to a stop a few feet away as your body shakes with hacking, silent coughs.

My arms circle around you once more and I bury my face into the back of your neck, drawing the scent of you deep into my lungs. Hot tears are streaking down my face. I lap at them as they run into my mouth, tingling with the taste of salt. A flash of light draws my eye to the window and I see an ambulance pulling up outside our house. I let out a sigh of relief as I melt into you, feeling the rise and fall of your lungs as they fill with breath.

[guiltyresuspleasure]

This one was actually for an audience of more than just me. Looking at you @saphicresus

Contents: WLW pairing, Heimlich maneuver, mtm, royal/servant pairing

🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷

While there were things in the world that were worse than a failure of a jester it was a short list. It was practically unheard of. After all, there was only one good use for a jester if they failed to entertain. Their head on a platter. Maybe banished if they were lucky.

Yet despite the fact she had yet to coax a single laugh from Queen Cecilia, she remained at the royal’s side.

Cecelia wasn’t a cruel woman by any standards. Hells, as far as nobles went, Lynette found she stood out with a fair hand and calm demeanor. If anyone in the court deserved a good laugh, it was her.

Yet she barely even saw a smile.

Lynette knew it wasn’t a matter of her act. It was hardly proper to give oneself too much praise but it wasn’t empty praise if it was true. Gods as her witness though, she was good at what she did! Her jokes were funny. Her commentary was witty. There was not another woman in the kingdom who could twist and tumble their body in such a way that earned such jovial laughter. But never her laughter.

Perhaps the Queen only kept her around because she also found comfort in their evenings together.

Truly, Lynette questioned if it was a lost cause. Even as she stood beside the queen in the quiet of her private chambers; a luxury so few received. The fact that Her Majesty still requested her presence gave her a shred of hope at the very least.

Cecilia was picking gingerly at the honey-coated cherries on her plate. Lynette herself had already eaten her fill and hummed a tune.

Tapping her toes against the floor, she tilted her head as she noticed the documents on the queen’s nightstand. Picking up one of the pieces of parchment she scoffed as she glanced over the contents.

“I swear, Lord Damien would commission a piece of his own naked body to hang above his bed if he could. Maybe he would finally leave a lady satisfied if he did.”

She startled at the soft huff of laughter from the table behind her. By the gods, it might have been the most beautiful sound she ever heard. The moment would have been nothing short of a perfect victory if the laugh was cut off by a sudden gag.

Neither of them moved. Then Cecilia leaned forward, lightly thumping her chest with her fist. It didn’t seem to offer her any relief as her other hand fumbled for the goblet on the table.

Her hand shook as she brought it to her lips and took a quick swig. It promptly dribbled back from her mouth as her throat twitched with each attempt to swallow.

For the first time standing there and acting like a fool was not an option. Even still, she stood dumbfounded for longer than she cared to admit. A strangled gag and hand slamming down flat onto the table spurred her into action.

Lynette stumbled as she scrambled over. Hands hovered over her as she tried to gather the nerve to actually touch the queen. Touch the queen. The mere thought had her head reeling yet there wasn’t entirely a choice to be made.

Her hand slammed down between her shoulders in a dull thud. It could barely be heard over the queen's struggle. She caught the woman’s gaze as she stared back at her with a wide eyed and frantic look.

Her eyes moved to the door. She could fetch the healer, but her stomach twisted at abandoning Her Lady in such a state of distress.

She grabbed her arm, easing the woman to her feet, “I’m here, I’m here-“

It never quite registered how much shorter the queen was until she stepped behind her. The top of her head barely made it past the shoulder. The black pinned curls tickled her nose. She could feel the warmth of her form as her arms slid around her waist.

She grasped her fist with her other hand, guiding the woman to bend forward. She yanked her fist back with as much strength as she could muster. Cecilia was lifted to her toes from the force. The woman was jerking and a soft almost snort sounded in her throat. Beyond that, there was nothing else to show for her efforts.

Undeterred she bent the woman further over the table to try and get a better angle. Still, her frantic blows were cushioned by the woman’s corset and the layers of her dress.

That wouldn’t do.

She took a half step back to grasp at the ribbons and metal fastens that held the corset so snug. Cecilia twitched and heaved, nails scratching into the table.

With a sharp tug, buttons and ribbons were pulled loose. It allowed her to make quick work of freeing her from the snug-fitting garment.

“Forgive me, my lady. It must be done.”

She quickly grabbed the neckline of her dress, sliding it down as well until the fabric pooled around her waist and her top half was bare.

Any attempts to avert her eyes were completely and entirely unsuccessful. She couldn’t draw her gaze away from the way the queen squirmed, chest heaving with each attempt to gasp.

Cecilia grew limp and her arms swung back and forth. Her upper half collapsed down onto the surface in front of them.

When Lynette stepped back the queen’s body slid along the surface of the table until it fell off the edge with little resistance.

She let her slump forward and used the dead weight on her arms to jerk her hands deeper into her soft belly.

Still, nothing changed.

She pinched the woman’s nose and sealed her lips over her mouth. She blew as hard as she could, trying to get any of the air down to her starved lungs. The Queen’s cheeks puffed out, the air seeping from any gap between their lips and her ears popping.

Adjusting her head and straightening her neck, she hoped that her second attempt would be more successful only to be met with the same results.

As the sharp thrusts to her belly continued, Lynette slowly lowered to kneel. She kept the Queen sat up, her head lolling with each sharp tug into her body. Her chin tucked over her shoulder to help keep her upright.

Each time she watched those lovely lips expectantly. Only to watch time and time again as they remained slack and blue beneath the layer of painted red.

Lowering the woman down to lay flat on the floor she swung her leg over her waist and settled to sit on her thighs. Face pinched in focus, her hands settled into her stomach, and thrust her hands up just beneath her ribs.

Her chest and shoulders heaved and bounced from the force, each hard blow causing a gurgled sound from the regal form beneath her. The tip of her tongue thrust past her slack lips in time with the force of her body’s movement.

“My lady, please!”

Both her face and chest had been dusted with a sickly blue hue. It made her stomach warm in a way she didn’t quite care to admit.

When the honey-coated cherry finally popped out of her throat she froze in shock. When it started to tumble back into her throat she dove back into action. Grabbing her jaw Lynette carefully swept her finger down into her mouth and scooped the fruit out.

Bowing down, she hovered for a moment as she waited for the queen to recover. She had expected her to sit up immediately and begin gasping. Instead, all she did was snort and barely wheeze.

Hands trembling the jester's gently combed her fingers through the Queen’s hair before pinching her nose once more. This time when their lips met there was no residence against the air she blew.

The queen’s chest swelled with the breath, lightly brushing against her arm. She lifted an inch, watching in slight fascination as her chest collapsed back down with the exhale.

Fingers grasped at her slender wrist as Cecelia moaned.

Undeterred, she continued. One breath after another until finally she felt her choke down a full breath of her own.

She gently rolled her onto her side with her head resting on her lap to cushion her from the floor below. Hands shaking and her own breath heavy, she rubbed the woman’s back, “There we go. You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

[guiltyresuspleasure]

Tiger and her serval gf.

[guiltyresuspleasure]

[guiltyresuspleasure]

[Backlog Posting - August 2022]

Shouout to @dreamresus for helping me make such wonderful characters <3

[guiltyresuspleasure]

[guiltyresuspleasure]

This one is for @unabashedmagazinedreamer , who, despite having completely different tastes than me in all of this, remains one of the kindest and most supportive resus friends I’ve made on Tumblr. I hope I’ve written something you can enjoy as well this time, if at least a little :)

ONE

“You’re quite the delicate little thing, aren’t you?”

The prince croons, tugging sharply on the rope in his hands, forcing the captured general to stumble as he walks stoically behind his horse. “After all I’d heard, I had almost expected you to rival a lumbering beast. I’m pleasantly surprised, you’re far more palatable.”

No response. The general walks on in silence, proud and resilient as the moment he’d been seized on the battlefield. He’s heard far worse than a lazy taunt like that.

The kingdom is days away. Treading through the meadows and the backwoods of the countryside seems like far less of an ordeal than what will no doubt await him when his captor inevitably reaches his homeland.

Almost as though privy to his musings, the prince speaks again. “Do you know what awaits you at my return? You will be my trophy. A precious thing like you? I’ll treat you well, you know.”

It’s not a kindness.

Frowning at the unabating silence, the prince brings his mount to a sudden halt, jostling the rope again. “This seems like a good place to stop for the evening.” He hops off easily, jerking the rope over to a nearby oak and looping its length around its thick, sturdy trunk, not bothering to stay out of his prisoner’s reach, despite their isolation together, after he’d sent his last surviving guard to run up ahead and warn the checkpoint two nights ahead of their arrival.

“That house we took for shelter last night? While you slept in, that sweet woman packed us a spread for dinner, from her own garden. Wasn’t that kind of her?” He rambles, absentmindedly pulling a blanket and a linen sac full of food out of his pack, setting it up on the summer-warmed ground by the oak, leaving the flowering expanse of the meadow ahead of them to keep an eye on. “A little taste of what you’ll have in my capital. Come here.” He grabs the rope again, and pulls it until the general falls to his knees atop the blanket he’d finished setting up. “Good boy.”

The lack of awkwardness in the air can only be explained by the prince’s pure, boundless arrogance as his voice permeates the evening scene, speaking of nothing and everything as he forces bites of sandwich into his captive’s mouth. “That’s it. You’ll be so happy with me. My pretty little thing, you were wasted on those troops.” He takes a bite of the sandwich once the general has swallowed, making sure to meet his eyes as he purposefully fits his teeth over where the other man’s had just been.

The rest of the sandwich falls to the blanket, dropped in shock as the prince suddenly stops chewing. The captured general watches, a confused wrinkle settling on his brow as he attempts to figure out the prince’s next move. It smooths as soon as he gets a good look at his face: his wide eyes, his open mouth, his straining throat. The prince slowly raises a fist to his chest, thumping on it a couple of times, before he looks up, horrified, to meet the gaze of his oldest enemy.

TWO

“Aw, what’s wrong?” The man in question finally speaks, his voice low and warm, amusement dancing dangerously in his eyes. “Are you choking?”

The prince nods frantically, tapping his chest again, his other hand coming up to wave around in the general’s direction. The meaning is clear. Help.

None comes. “Come on now, you’re a big boy. Use your words.” His prisoner taunts, sitting back against the oak, calm and pleased for the first time in many, many days. “I know you like to. It’s all you ever do.”

The prince’s eyes widen further, akin to saucers in his head, the hand on his chest coming up to wrap around his slender throat in desperation. His other hand continues flailing around, eager for his companion’s helping hand to take pity on him and step in.

“What, you want my help? Why don’t you just say that?” He asks, almost giddy with satisfaction at the sight before him. “I’m not easy. You need to do this properly.”

Lungs seizing, the choking prince falls forward on his hands and knees, back heaving like a cat with a hairball as he tries to force up the hunk of sandwich that had expanded in his throat to block off his windpipe. Nothing.

The general watches for another long few moments, just until the dark red hue of the struggling man’s face begins to tinge purple. “Oh, since you’re begging so nicely, even without words…”

Leaning forward, he holds up a hand over the silently heaving back, stopping before it can make contact.

“Look at me. Are you going to be a good boy and know your place when it’s out?”

The panic overtaking the prince’s air-starved mind doesn’t allow for outrage. He opens his mouth, pointing down his throat as his tongue hangs out of it, glistening with drool as his obstructed throat blocks its only way down.

“Ah-ah-ah. Yes or no, darling?”

He nods as hard as he can, his bloodshot gaze fixed upon his only potential saviour’s face at his order.

His oldest enemy looks at him for one last, long moment, before he nods as well, and brings his hand down sharply between his shoulder blades. He repeats the action, over and over.

The prince drops his head again, now that their eye contact has been broken, and arches his back up into the contact, ignoring the pain of the blows that knock him off balance in favour of savouring each one in the hopes that they’ll clear his airway. The pressure in his skull overwhelms his senses as his body writhes uncontrollably, suffocating, the universe slowing to revolve with the wad of bread in his throat at its focal point. The blanket below them absorbs the drool that’s begun to pour off of his outstretched tongue, dislodged with each hard blow to the back.

A cough. The hand stills, resting, warm and heavy on his back as they wait to see if the danger has passed, but it’s almost instantly clear that it hasn’t entirely.

“H-Help!” The prince wheezes out, hands flying back up to his throat again, clawing frantically at the lump of bread palpable through his trachea from the outside. “H-HUK! H-H-HEL-P!”

The hand begins to rub up and down, passing over the silk and velvet rhythmically as its owner snorts. “No, you don’t need help, you’re moving air. Cough it out, dear.” The pet name is thick with sardonic disdain.

Gargled croaks and half formed words spill from his lips as he struggles to cough, to speak, weak hacks and desperate wheezes the only sounds he can genuinely manage. It’s not enough. The colour that had briefly returned to his face quickly begins to fade again, replaced by that breathless, cloying purple.

Over and over again, he tries to speak, to beg, to breathe. Each attempt is met with less and less oxygenated blood pumping through his brain. His limbs begin to tingle as his panic reaches its ultimate high, unable to bear the teasing sips of air that slip through into starving lungs, keeping him in a state of frantic, uncontrollable submission.

His captive tsks, his tone losing its taunting edge as he gives up on conveying his sarcasm. The choking man is too out of it now to register it properly, anyway. “Come on, cough it up. You’re okay. You’re coughing. You’re making noise. Work it up.”

He can’t. Barely able to vocalize, he croaks out one last, pitiful “H…he-lp!”, his eyes beginning to roll in his head, losing the composure required to keep them focused as the pressure in his chest rages, fuelled by each miserable, insufficient gasp.

His back is struck one more time. “Out with it.” His unlikely rescuer orders, his tone growing impatient, despite his persisting lack of fear. The attempt is met with the prince’s hands lowering from his throat, gracelessly moving down to his torso to push against his own stomach, weakly, as darkness begins to creep in at the corners of his vision.

The general sighs, moving behind him, careful of the rope, to tug aside the bumbling, clumsy hands, tug open the man’s silk shirt, and wrap his arms around his waist in their stead, pulling him in to settle against his chest. “I’m right here. I’m ready to push at any moment. Just keep coughing, I’ll step in if I have to.” He reassures, low in his ear as he presses up against his back.

The position would be humiliating if the man experiencing it could breathe. The captured general really is as luxurious and ethereal as he’d declared, barely ten minutes ago. It’s a shame that he can’t properly appreciate him now.

“You’re not choking, I promise. You’re moving air. It’s only partial. Just keep coughing, you’ll be fine.” He breathes in his ear again, hands warm and heavy where they rest over his stomach. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. If at any moment I see you need me, I’m already in position. Cough.”

As quickly as the humiliation had come, it fades, leaving behind a strange warmth in its wake. Despite his slowly fading consciousness, or rather, because of it, the atmosphere shifts, suddenly intimate and vulnerable.

The struggling man opens his mouth, breathing in sharply to speak, and that’s when the obstruction finally decides to shift, the hunk of sandwich shooting down to seal off his throat like a cork. Instantly, he’s choking again.

The hands around his waist waste no time, immediately beginning to thrust firmly into his stomach as his prisoner grunts, calmly working on dislodging it again, but it’s no use. The last thing the prince sees is the fabric of the blanket below him rushing up to meet his face as he collapses forward over the general’s arms, and then there’s nothing.

THREE

The general huffs, lowering the unresponsive prince in his arms fully to the ground. In the dimming light of the evening, it’s still possible to make out the way he’s gone fully blue in the face, the rich colour originating at his lips and pouring out to paint up his slack cheeks. His eyelids flutter, bare hints of bloodshot white peeking out from under them.

It’s beautiful. He barely manages to tear his gaze away for a moment to shift back towards the base of the oak, slowly picking at the knot tying him to it. His fingers move with elegant, practiced ease, taking their time to tug it apart, regardless of the limited time remaining for the lifeless man fading away on the blanketed ground behind him.

As the ropes fall away, he rubs his wrists, breathing in deeply, finally completely and utterly free for the first time in days. The hint of a breeze picks up, ruffling his hair, the meadow breathing deeply with him, as though to further taunt the man who cannot. The horse, grazing gently on the grass a few feet away, flicks its ears, apathetic to its rider’s condition.

His eyes return to his captor and he huffs as he languidly squats down beside him, grabbing his shoulder and rolling him carelessly onto his back. He goes easily: unresponsive and in no position to protest at the rough handling. Swinging a leg over his hips, he straddles him and takes a few prolonged, unhurried moments to shift and settle, getting comfortable.

Settling his hands on the pale, smooth curve of the prince’s stomach, bare from when he’d tugged his fine shirt open earlier, he gives one solid, heavy thrust in towards his diaphragm, trying to aid his lungs in producing a hard, firm cough.

Almost instantly, the hunk of sandwich shifts again, easily, now that his muscles have lost their tension. His mouth begins to gape, strained and instinctive, mimicking deep, gasping breaths of air that his lungs cannot match. A raspy, quiet whistle sounds from deep in his chest with each near-worthless breath, the obstruction clogging his trachea still blocking the majority of air from reaching his floundering, shuddering lungs.

The captive general sits back immediately, pressing his weight down firmly on the prince’s hips, and watches, half fascinated and half amused, as the torso under him begins to move, jerky and helpless as the man remains unresponsive. His hand comes up, almost involuntarily, to stroke a firm line down the smooth chest in front of him, feeling the ribs beneath it strain and flex with every attempt at a long-awaited gasp.

“You’re so helpless right now,” he breathes, his eyes fixed on the blue lips as they tense and relax, “so vulnerable without me. You need me to save your life?” There’s no response, and he hadn’t expected one. Even with these useless, wheezing breaths, there’s not enough oxygen reaching the prince’s lungs. Flowing through his heart, keeping it pumping, strong and steady, the way it cries to under his sternum.

“Can you breathe?” He asks, the words intended to mock, but coming out airy and breathless as his fascination only grows, the sense of wonder clouding his mind refusing to abate. “Are you choking?”

There are certain undeniable truths about human existence: irrefutable rules built into the very fabric of connection. Regardless of kingdoms and of titles, of politics and wars… if he saves the prince’s life, if he reaches out a hand and clears his airways, breathes life back into his lungs… the prince will be his, forever. His life will be tied to his generosity, his willingness to gift his own energy and efforts to preserve the pitiful thing.

It’s too precious an opportunity to turn away from. The realisation strikes him sharply and startlingly, and he can’t help the way he grinds down hard over the prince’s hips, biting his lip to stifle a groan. His hand comes up again to stroke over his tensing throat, fingers brushing over the small lump visible just below his voicebox. He gags hard, and the general can feel the way it prompts his body to swallow involuntarily under his hand.

The flash of heat that burns through him at the sight sends him reeling, white stars bursting in clusters behind his eyes, nearly blinding him for a moment as he struggles to orient himself. Immediately he returns his hands to rest just below the prince’s ribs and pumps hard, rocking his body to add his weight to the force of each thrust.

It can’t be longer than a minute or two before the muscles beneath his hands shudder harder than they had before, the quiet whistling of the prince’s attempts at breathing shifting to loud, hoarse wheezing. Kneeling up on the ground and off of the prince’s hips, the general turns the prince over, still between his thighs, and waits for a moment, giving the man a chance to finally cough up the obstruction in his windpipe on his own.

When he still doesn’t, even through productive, wheezing breaths indicative of a true partial obstruction, he slides a hand back down over his stomach and thrusts it sharply above his navel as he lies on his side. Once, twice, and then a half-chewed lump of bread and cheese falls from the man’s mouth, and he begins to breathe.

His saviour has just enough time to climb off of him and heave him upright to lie back against the oak when the prince’s eyes crack open, bleary and red as his body recovers from the ordeal of his near-fatal asphyxiation.

“You’re awake! I got it out, I saved you!” He cries, overacting his relief a little, as though he hadn’t just had his fun with him for most of the time it had taken the sun to set.

“… You?” The prince’s hoarse voice is barely audible after a long moment as it passes through his raw, burning throat, grating like sandpaper.

He rolls his eyes, recalling that he’d been playing the reluctant rescuer when the prince had been conscious. “Yeah, me. You owe me.” He says, slipping a hint of snark into his tone.

The prince huffs, a little amused, mostly just weak. “Yeah… I guess I do.”

[guiltyresuspleasure]

a small series of assistance for choking. although, to be honest, the assistant is in no hurry to help

[guiltyresuspleasure]

Thanks so much to everyone I’ve spoken to who have encouraged me to post my writing, especially @heimlich99, who insisted that there was an audience out there for this and was kind enough to read it over for me <3

The candles on either side of the table burn tall, freshly replaced by your servants before you’d ordered them to leave for the night. I sit, well-mannered and composed in my chair, fighting to tamp down my discomfort as I watch you gulp down your wine and place the cup back down on the table, turning your wrist with little tact so I can see the jewels gleaming on your oversized cufflinks.

“And personally, I don’t care for the new proposals that came through from their ambassador this week. Honestly, this whole recession is their fault. If they had only listened to me, they would have known better.” You explain, scoffing, as though you can barely tolerate the thought of their supposed ignorance. I blink at you, nodding my head politely. The less I say, the faster this horrible dinner will be over. Your fork scrapes your plate as it skewers another chunk of pheasant, before being held out in my direction, your eyelids lowering seductively. “Don’t you agree, my Lord?” you purr, swaying it softly up and down as you speak. To avoid having to answer you, I part my lips, stiffly taking the bite into my mouth and immediately closing it to chew. Unfortunately, you wait in silence for me to swallow and answer you.

“Yes, my Lord. Of course. But I truly must insist,” I say instead, after a beat, “that you look over my proposal. I’ve the papers with me here tonight, let me just-”

“Ah-ah, we’re in no rush, are we?” You purr again, smoothing a hand over your collar distractedly. I turn away from my satchel, sighing, resigned to another hour of listening to you brag about your home, your chef, and your policies, instead of allowing me to finalize the trade alliance we had begun to discuss.

“Truly, you’ve never tasted a bird so tender. When I caught it– all by myself, mind you– earlier today, I nearly–” your fork falls from your hand and clatters loudly on your plate as you begin to cough, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as your eyes widen in shock. Distracted by the opportunity to brag once more, you’d failed to notice the large wing bone you’d shovelled down your throat alongside your life-changingly tender pheasant. Relieved at the interruption, I politely look away, raising my wine to my lips to give you a moment to recover.

When several long moments go by with no change, I subtly drag my gaze up to you, unable to suppress my growing amusement. “Oh dear. Wrong pipe?”

At the lack of verbal response, I carefully lean over the table and pat delicately between your shoulder blades a couple of times, taking care to avoid dragging my clothes through the elaborate meal you’d had prepared for the two of us. Without waiting for you to recover, I sit back down, crossing my arms across my chest. Your wide eyes shoot up to meet mine as I watch you, calmly. Your coughing is beginning to turn into short, breathless hacking, the occasional wheeze making its way through your partially-obstructed throat as a deep red flush slowly crawls up your neck. I frown innocently, tilting my head slightly. “No? Still stuck? Hmmm…”

The legs of my chair drag across the hardwood planks as I push it away from the small table, making my way over to you, as unhurried as I can manage.

“My my… seems like quite the predicament you’re in, hm? Shall we blame the cook, or the bird?” I quip, grinning out of your line of sight as I pat your back again, harder than before. My teasing appears lost on you as you pound urgently on your chest with your fist, truly beginning to panic as the bone lodged diagonally in your throat refuses to budge, even as you continue to gag and croak. Your glass of wine makes it to your hands again and you try to guzzle it down in one gulp, but the deep red liquid pours back out of your mouth as soon as it enters it, staining your expensive shirt. “What a waste.” I mutter, thinking of the label you’d proudly waved in front of me before pouring the wine for us. Having exhausted all your options, you turn your head up to look at me and gesture frantically at your throat, clutching it with shaking hands as tears begin to well in your eyes at the strain of your repeated attempts to gasp for air.

A smile tugs at my lips, almost affectionate, in some cruel, karmic way. My hand trails down from your throat to your chest, settling at your waistband before I begin to carefully tug open the ivory buttons of your shirt, revealing a rich, soft frame. “Someone’s clearly never gone hungry before.” I tease, setting a warm hand flat on your stomach, patting it a couple times to emphasize my point.

With slow, drawn out movements, I begin to pump my hand in and out, coaxing weak groans from deep in your throat. Momentarily you seem relieved, before your mouth drops open and remains that way as you begin to desperately thrust yourself against my hand, trying to gather enough pressure to pop the bone from your throat. Instead of stopping you or pushing harder, I shift my hand subtly so that your thrusting is in just the wrong spot, depriving you of the leverage you so desperately need without drawing your attention. “What a pathetic little thing,” I drawl, looking down at you, watching as you grow purple in the face, wine and drool mingling to paint twin streaks down your chin. “Look at you, so desperate. I bet you’re wishing you hadn’t been so greedy, hm?”

You croak loudly as I push my hand into your belly sharply a couple times, despite its positioning remaining unproductive. “If I’d known it was this easy to get you helpless like this, I would have fed you a bone like that on purpose. I’m almost disappointed I didn’t think of it myself.” My voice grows lower as I tease you, heat pooling in my gut at the sight of you, purple and frantic, pumping your belly against my hand as you choke on a pheasant bone.

The whites of your eyes slowly grow more and more prominent as they begin to roll back into your skull, your movements growing jerky and clumsy as you begin to lose the strength to continue. With a sigh, I pull my hand away and drag you around in your chair so that I can reach your back, and wrap my arms around your waist, beginning to thrust firmly and steadily into your stomach, in the correct spot this time. Your arms swing heavily at your sides with each thrust, jaw opening and closing as you gag, your lips beginning to turn blue. I take a moment to appreciate their colour before throwing your chest over my arm and pounding roughly between your shoulder blades, tilting my head to check if you can breathe before returning to thrusting into your soft stomach.

When several sharp rounds of this make no difference to your condition, I drag you out of your chair and throw you over my lap, beginning to wallop your upper back as hard as I can as you lie, helpless and unable to breathe over my knees. I refrain from taunting you, despite how badly I want to, simply because I know it will be wasted on you: you’re barely conscious, and certainly unable to understand me anymore. My hand connects with your back over and over again, slamming down between your shoulder blades, my rhythm calm and steady. I’m doing what needs to be done, but there’s no fear or panic: I’m almost reluctantly dutiful in my actions.

Eventually, after enough time has passed that most remnants of sound have ceased dragging themselves from your throat, a particularly hard blow to the back seems to cause the bone to shift in your windpipe, and I hear a sudden, choked wheeze as your body begins to try to suck oxygen down into your starving, convulsing lungs. I pause, listening to your pathetic attempts at breathing before I push you carelessly off of my lap and onto the hard floor, taking my time to kneel down on the plush rug beside you.

With another sigh, I wrench open your slack jaw and stick my fingers down your throat, feeling around for the bone you’d inattentively gulped down. I can feel it almost immediately, and crook my fingers to attempt to sweep it out, but it’s too far down for me to reach comfortably.

Withdrawing my fingers, I put my hands on my hips, tutting down at you disappointedly. “You’re truly going to make me do all the work?” I mutter, annoyed, but heave you over so you’re lying flat on your back, head tilted back, throat pointed up at the sky, begging to be cleared. I sit up straight and tug your shift further open, exposing your chest, and place my hands between your nipples, beginning to pump hard over your heart.

A few minutes go by, the only sound filling the room being my quiet panting as I pump your chest, and your strained, barely-audible wheezing, interrupted every few seconds by soft gags as your body unconsciously strains to clear its airway. A soft groan escapes my lips as I heave you over to lie on your side once again, and sweep my fingers down your throat. This time, they catch on the bone, having shifted enough from my chest thrusts to poke up through your windpipe and into the back of your mouth, and I easily tug it out, taking a moment to look at it. A wave of disgust washes over me at the reminder of your gluttony and greed, and it clatters somewhere as I toss it aside, wiping my hand clean on your fine, expensive sleeve.

Your airway cleared, I wait to hear you begin to breathe, and roll my eyes as I hear no such thing. Jerking your head to the side and opening your mouth, I hold your nose shut with my hand to avoid air escaping, and fit my mouth over your slack one, blowing air deep into your lungs. Blue lips spasm under mine as you suck in a breath of your own halfway through, and I pull away, giving you a moment to see if you’re recovering on your own. After a few silent seconds, I thump your back again with one hand, resting the other on your chest to support you as you lie on your side. “I don’t have all day. Take a breath.”

Bypassing holding your nose this time by simply sealing my lips over both your mouth and nose, I give you another slow, deep breath, feeling your lungs expand against my hand. As I pull away your chest shudders once, twice, and then you begin to gasp, loud and deep, finally breathing on your own.

Colour rapidly floods back to your face as properly oxygenated blood manages to flow through your body for the first time in several minutes, and I sit back on my knees, watching you, unimpressed. “If this was your attempt to impress me during this meeting, I can honestly say that you’ve let me down. You’re quite the joke, I’m afraid.”

When you open your eyes, bleary and unfocused, the candles have burnt down to their last few centimeters, and the food on the table is cold; the room empty. A signed and stamped contract lies beside you on the floor, outlining my final terms for our trade alliance.