“I like your hand around my throat,” he said when I released his mouth and let him breathe.
So. Very. Hot.
There is an inherent vulnerability in the offering of the throat, the pulsing jugular, the potential for damage right there. I always thought of his hair as the most easily-grabbed, it was my go-to, my default, but having been with a man who suited a crop-cut, I unconsciously retrained myself. Now it’s the throat.
It is instinctual now, that my hand goes there. It is symbolic and thoughtless.
There is so much to love about it. I adore how it feels both possessive and threatening. I love that he has to raise his chin when I go there to give me fuller access: it’s a ‘here, take it’ gesture. I like the way my hand fits snugly into the curves of his neck, my fingers and thumb pressing up under his jaw, able to reach those sensitive spots just under his ears. I enjoy the feel of him swallowing under my palm: if he has a prominent adam’s apple, I can feel it moving, I know that just a little pressure will raise that edge of fear.
I like to use my grip to leverage his head up and back, I always like the awkward positions, the uncomfortable ones, the strange contortions. I like twisting his head too far to be comfortable, to where he has to fight himself not to push back. I like moving his head to the side to give me access to his neck, though I have to release his throat to bite him there. Small sacrifices.
I enjoy also the implied threat of my hand around his throat: the throat is like his soft underbelly, exposing it is a vulnerability, I like to see a little fear if he thinks I am going to squeeze, I like to take his breathe with my mouth so it feels like I am choking him of air.
All of that, all of it: My hand around your throat.