“Breathe in,” he says. “Take it out of me.” He’s offering me blowbacks, but not in the way I am used to them.
He slides his fingers into my hair, smoky-smelling from the bonfire and the weed. He leans in closer and I look into his eyes and my stomach throbs with longing. I want to do more than just breathe in. I want those sucking, desperate kisses. I want his hands all over my hazy, tingling body.
“Breathe in,” again – a request that’s almost an order. He takes a long, thick drag on the joint, pulls his hand away, and squashes his lips onto mine to give me blowbacks.
I breathe in. Of course.
It’s odd. Gentle at first – a thin trickle of hazy smoke going from his mouth to mine. From his lungs to mine. Each molecule something he’s had already. I shiver at the knowledge that this has been inside him.
His hand grips my hair tighter as it’s time to breathe out – willing me not to turn away and cough this connection into the darkness.
I breathe out.
Weaker, there’s still a taste of smoke as I exhale into his mouth. My hand on his chest moves as he fills his lungs. He shifts as his dick grows hard in his jeans.
He breathes out again, and I suck back in. The taste of him, and the smoke, in a new combination now.
It’s been twenty seconds since I had fresh air, and the ache is starting to pull behind my ribcage. I might spin if I don’t get fresh air soon, but my nipples are rock solid and pressing tight against my bra and I don’t want to be the first to break away.
When we were teenagers, we called these gestures ‘blowbacks’ – but even in our horny haze they were never as sexy as they are in this very moment.
I exhale. He sucks. I feel the stronger rush of him pulling the breath out through my lips. Gulping, sucking, desperate for those last few molecules.
He hands the joint to me and I do the same. Taking creamy smoke into my mouth and passing it back to him. It feels odd, this weed-infused breath play – nurturing and destructive at the same time. He sucks it from me like he’s feeding – slow and deep. Savouring the taste, pushing himself closer into me as if he can squeeze more out. I squeeze back, when it’s his turn. Pulling the smoke out of him and locking my hands round his neck, pressing my palms hard into him as if I’ll be able to feel his pulse.
In. Out. In. Out.
And I don’t know which of us is which, and whose turn it is, and the pace quickens. We breathe into each other, and suck back out. Faster. Harder. More desperate. Inhale. Exhale.
Over and over until we’re panting and gasping like the end of a heavy fuck.
And again: his toke this time. The build up, climax, desperate rasps of breath as we break apart. The feeling of wetness soaking through my knickers, and the twitching, itching sensation of being stoned and horny and unsated. Then again: my turn. More breathing. Harder clutches. The seam of my jeans pressing tight against my throbbing clit. Faster. Fuzzier. Inhale. Exhale.
Needing to breathe but wanting not to. I’m horny and dizzy and desperate, but I can’t remember what I’m desperate for: all I want to do now is breathe in.
Inhale, exhale. In. Out. Pause. Spin. Ache. Breathe.
Holding the kiss, and our breath, until the last molecule of oxygen has been absorbed by one of us, and we can finally break apart.