Che soave zeffiretto

He said I may blog about my breath.
He was here today, and as he prepared to leave
he said I might blog about my breath.
And only about my breath.

He said... I can't quite read my own handwriting, what I scrawled after he was gone so I would remember exactly except I was in another place... he said something like he had other attractions he meant to focus on today but it became about my breath. It's always about my breath...

And he gave me a little escape clause.

"If you don't understand, say that you don't understand."

Which is true.
I don't quite understand.

He has had a thing about my breath since very early on. My breath. My voice. My voice which I never had thought of as very breathy, and frankly I don't think it was very breathy. But he changes me. He has been changing me all along.

I think it was nervousness.
I think it was awe.

Around 19 months ago (imagine that), very soon after we met through the kind auspices of FetLife, he called me. Or had me leave him a voice mail. Honestly, everything is rather fuzzy today. And my voice went up and was soft and somewhat breathy and I always had this problem with positioning the phone so that he often couldn't distinguish my words but just got this voice. This breathy voice. And it made him crazy. And then it was just my breath...

He would allow me to touch, he would allow me to cum, but I had to cum for him in a voice mail. And he would hear my breathing, my gasping, the pitch going higher, the air rushing through my throat as I came closer and closer and then I would cum and sob and there would be these deep inhalations with little vocalizations behind... he would say my voice was killing him... but it was my breath... the breath behind and within the voice...

It belongs to him, he said today. And he has shown me that it belongs to him. But that has changed, too. He used to take it as a sadist does, in a show of power. I always gave it willingly, with love in my eyes, as he would close his large hand around my throat, as he tightened his grip and blocked my airways... but there was a roughness to it. A flavor of violence. He was strangling me. I would struggle even as I trusted. Even as I surrendered. But lately, and today...

He wasn't taking my breath.
My breath belongs to him.
He held it in his hands like a baby bird,
he pressed his finger against that magic off button in my throat,
but only enough to show that it belonged to him.
Only enough to show how much he... treasures it.

And do I understand?
Do I understand his obsession.
Do I understand his passion?
Maybe.
I'm not sure.
Some of it,
perhaps.

He loves beautiful things. He loves beauty in so many forms... and my breath...I don't know why it entrances him so... my breath... my voice... I hear it now, you know. The breathiness. Because my voice has changed. The breathiness has taken up residence. And I hear it at shul, when I sing... I hear the breathiness and I know I am changing... being changed... becoming more of the things that please him most. Not deliberately. It is just happening.

Perhaps because he is guiding me towards being who I really am.

And my breath?
Aside from its aesthetic value?

I think it has to do with vulnerability.
With pure, unguarded being.
With an essence that is just
there
And with my life
given freely
placed in his hands
whispered in his ear
offered to that one finger
pressing
softly
as my eyes say I love him
and my lips say I love him
and my hand says I love him
and my gasps say I love him
and this time
today
he took just enough breath
to say that I belong to him.

I'm probably all wrong, of course. I don't really understand. But I'm sitting here now in front of my laptop, knowing that I've utterly failed in understanding and making you understand. And I sit here and listen to my breathing, and suddenly (this is true, this isn't me trying to be all clever and artsy)... suddenly it sounds different. Suddenly I can hear it. I can hear my breath and it is so exquisitely beautiful, and honest and unprotected and generous and it glides out my nose and sighs from my throat and then floats gently between my lips and I am hearing it in a way I never did before.

This is my breath, this gentle breeze, and it belongs to my Master - who like any true artist, enables me to see things in ways I never did before.