Choking kink
“World Football Left Breathless: German Prodigy Michael Kaiser Dies Suddenly”
⚠️ Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content (non-graphic language), haters with benefis (does that name even exist?)/ hate sex dynamic, power play, choking kink, slight degrading , objectifying / demeaning language, subtle assumption that reader is famous, annnnnnd awkward dialogue (me aculpa).
Pairing: Michael Kaiser x fem!reader
You had never done this before. It's not a practice that appealed to you. It's not so much because of the violence or the domination—no, you can enjoy that. It was this, the throat itself. That fragile skin. The absurd certainty that a little movement, an overly eager impulse, could have made everything tip over. Besides, what could be so intoxicating about feeling the air slowly diminish beneath your fingers, about seeing tears and intertwining danger and pleasure? And get choked? Nah! Not a chance. Well, anyway, that's absolutely not what he asked for.
“Put ya hands on my neck and squeeze.”
Which one of you called this time? Ah, it hardly matters, now.
You despise each other; that much was certain. Every time you hear his harsh, abrasive accent, your entire body tense, and your eyes roll in their sockets. The least you can say is you don’t like Michael Kaiser. And he reciprocates it fully—though with nuance. Unlike you, what the German feels isn’t outright aversion, but a pronounced antipathy. It stems from neither a bad encounter nor any rational judgment. No. The Bastard München striker had simply decided he couldn’t stand you, and that was enough for him. And yet, more and more often, you end up like this. The bed dips under your combined weight, silent witness and creaking stage to your impetuous encounters. On the floor lies a synthetic jersey in Germany’s colors. The number on the back is hidden by folds, but it’s easy enough to guess: 10. Your bra rests on the edge of the mattress. A few inches from its strap, your panties— half pulled down— hangs from your ankle, captive to the scene.
Michael lies stretched across the large bed. His blond hair, streaked with azure, fanning around him like a majestic halo. His muscles are taut, light catching beautifully in the hollow of his shoulder. The upper curve of his chest is scattered with small plum and purple marks of suction. Your gaze settles on his face and that carnivorous smile.
What was there to dislike? He embodies everything you hate in celebrity: the oversized ego of the gifted, the outrageous narcissism of the adored, and the disdain of those in love with their own importance. Your lips press together as you rock your hips against him—almost as if to punish him for his flaws. The flesh of your outer thighs flushes white and pink as he presses you firmly against him. Almost to keep you from pulling away, as if you weren't already mindlessly entwined in each other. You lean forward, your hand pressed into the mattress next to his head.His eyes narrow slightly, shamelessly following the sway of your breasts. In a rushed motion, you wipe the sweat from your forehead.
“Aah… !” His hand has found your bosom, grabbing it so hard enough to throw you off balance. “You’re rough!” you moan, without any real complaint. On the contrary. Both of you know well: you love it.
A long growl scrapes him. “S’fuckin’ tight…!” His hips roll, insistent. As if he couldn't—mustn't—surrender the reins to you for long.
The air grows thick and hazy, laced with the hot, spicy notes of chili berries. Kaiser knows that scent well—your scent. Hints of Madagascan amber and candied cherry. He knows it even better when it mingles with your salty warmth. The sheets rumple beneath your twisted forms. You throw your head back, hair brushing down your spine. Everything blurs: the rocking of your hips, your breaths, the pulse pounding in the vein at his forehead. You know what's coming when his pelvis locks tight against yours— a muscular twitch the blond couldn't control. It isn’t the first time—and it won’t be the last. And it always ends the same way: you both reach that final shiver, before you’ve even caught your breath he pushes you off his hips. You go to the bathroom out of cautious habit, and when you return, he's already gone. End of story. Perfect. But as you’re already thinking about the rest of your afternoon, his voice cuts through.
“Put ya hands on my neck and squeeze.”
You stop abruptly, —a stillness that frustrates the striker, “Wha’?!”
His tongue clicks against his palate as he seizes your thighs again. “Hands on my throat. And squeeze,” he repeats.
“Like… choke you?” You're not moving anymore, letting his grip set the rhythm. Well, Mr Kaiser, you’re starting to know him.
Him and his perverse inclinations, sometimes crossing into outright deviance. You’ve been waiting for the day he mentions it. That, or some extreme form of bondage. And you were ready to refuse outright.
“Now” But you'd never ever imagined that, in his twisted fantasy, he'd ask to be the one on the receiving end.
“You’re sure?”The answer is nothing but a gesture: his hand clamps down on your thighs. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough for you to understand he doesn’t like repeating himself.
You shrug, your hands traveling up along his groin, feeling every contraction beneath them. You brush his torso, his stomach tightening ridiculously fast. When you reach his chest, your eyes fall on the sinuous line of his tattoo. With a bitchy frown, you carefully steer your fingers away, making sure not to touch it.
“I don’t like your tattoo,” you pointlessly say. “Well, I don’t like 'em in general. Kinda ugly.”
He stares at you before spitting, almost defensive, “Says the whore with spread thighs and filled cunt.”
He doesn’t appreciate your criticism—doesn’t like you acting entitled to an opinion just because he lets you ride him. As if you were anything more than a disposable body he’s about to fill. You’ll still be holding him inside long after his mind has already left. “I don’t see any icky flowers on that pretty dick.”
A sly, cruel smile spreads across your face as your hand reaches his throat. It makes you flinch: you could insult his father all you want without him reacting, but for that blue rose he wears like a coat of arms? He’s already calling you a whore.
“Choke me.”
Ah, you always knew something was seriously wrong with him. Still, you start pressing into his throat with your thumbs. Under your clumsy grip, the air grows scarce. Can you believe that the pretty arm necklace around his neck belongs to you? You don’t recognize your own hands. A strange heat crawls up your spine — part fear, part something darker you refuse to name. Still, you press.
“Don’t go soft!”, he exclaims. The strain in his voice is unmistakable.
It catches against the tight folds of his windpipe, breaks against his glottis, and echoes off his palate. You bite your lip, perfectly masking your nervousness. Each time his Adam’s apple bumps against your trembling thumbs, you immediately look at him, alert to the smallest signal he might send.
“Like this?” you ask, though you understood exactly what he wantes.Not a playful game, not a symbolic act. And certainly not a safe one.His pale face is already turning a deep red, a muscular roughness rising beneath your hold. The young man swallows thickly but struggles to do so properly. With him it’s always all or nothing. Merciless or pitiful. Oppressed or oppressor. Slave or king. Extremes. Seriously, is there anything else that draws him?
“Don’t fucking stop until I say.” Michael barks again. It almost makes you want to press harder to shut him up. Almost.
A strangled sound escapes him and it makes you jerk. “It’s dangerous.”
The palms that’ve been on your high hips slide over yours, forcing you to press with more force. “Watch yourself then,” he smiles. Too serene for someone demanding enough pressure to feel himself die—without loosening his grip on life.
You let out a small “But…” even if you let yourself be led. His index fingers correct your grip, lifting your thumbs from his trachea while the rest of his fingers press against the sides of his own throat.
“Like this! Y-aah, Ha’der.... ! ”, he thrusts his hips up against yours—a push that invites you more deeply inside yourself. He's so hard. “Keep riding.”
Your body takes up the rhythm again, a languid dance that awakens shivers. The final surge of your desire, because your legs can barely hold you anymore. Soon you settle fully onto his length, moving in slow circles. Perfect for chasing that ecstatic friction. That exquisite bundle of nerves. Your fever spreads—a halo across the surface of disturbed water. Soft at first, then pulsing. It seizes your muscles, tightens the damp threads of your hands. Everything grows erratic, beyond your control.
“About to cum?” a mocking little laugh escapes you, “How pathetic.” Almost instantly, you feel the base of his pelvis throbbing. His blue irises are swallowed by black. A silent exhalation left him.
“Dont ..stop, ”.
As if you had any intention of stopping—you had gotten caught up in it, captivated by the sight: Michael Kaiser, the condescending prodigy, writhing in pleasure beneath your carnal vise. His eyelids flutter, a wet cough resonates. Before you realize it, you lean on him to press down harder on his throat, poised beyond his climax. His release finally hits, flooding you with every hot, pulsing wave. His light lashes tremble over eyes that no longer truly see you, gaze slipping away in fits and starts. Every gulp costs him. You'd swear he’s about to cry. And looking closely… Oh! He is!
You can’t help the smirk curling at your lips. Your teeth nibble at your lower lip as you are tracking the path of his tiny droplets of water. They gather at the corners of his eyes and fall when he closes them. Isn’t it twisted, how much you savor this? But it’s so pathetic— a stifled orgasm. Coming so hard because you’re choking him. Heat rises to your cheeks. Not from any burdensome feeling: you reach your own peak in turn.
“Mmm, you could almost be beautiful like this.” It’s only when the grip on your wrists slacken and his gaze rolls back do you release his neck. A harsh, broken cough tears from his throat as he turns his head to the side, eyes still unfocused. It’s at that very moment you realize that if he died… you would certainly be to blame. But the thought of headlines like “World Football Left Breathless: German Prodigy Michael Kaiser Dies Suddenly” Paid off. Totally paid off.
All because he needs that to have a really intense orgasm.
“I hope you know how damaged your brain is.” you say, tying up your hair.
Kaiser straightens up, facing your sarcastic face. The wet edges of his eyelids almost soften you—you’ll be nothing but a pile of dust before you even admit how addictive his sharp little look is. With an angry motion, he shoves you aside. Your head thuds against the wall. With no further… interaction, he gets up and leaves the room. He's moving slower than usual, one hand brushing absently at his bruised throat. The familiar creak of the bathroom door sounds, followed by the whistle of the shower curtain. You rub your hand over the sore crown of your head, spitting a “Bastard!”.
The moment you stand, a viscous liquid seeps down your thighs, something you recognize and ignore. You bend forward, a little dizzy, and take his jersey. With it, you wipe your wet thighs—the sides, then the inner folds.
“What the hell are you doin’ ?!” interrupts Kaiser’s raspy voice. He’s back. Bare-chested, standing in the doorframe, shrouded in the steam escaping from the bathroom. His ridiculously thin eyebrows knit together in a suspicious look.
“Me?” Light glints off his neck, where faint bluish streaks have surfaced. A lateral scarlet spot has settled in the whites of his eyes. “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar,” you reply calmly, tossing the garment to him, neutral expression. He catches it and handles it with cautious slowness. “Damn I must have choked you really hard, did't I ? It’s just a shirt, you know.”
He looks away from you for a moment to glance at it out of the corner of his eyes. Something in your stance leaves him doubtful. “Mm.” In a quick motion, he puts it on before leaving.
Later, you sit on the edge of the bathtub, staring at your hands. The skin of your fingers still remembers the heat of his throat, the firm column of his windpipe pulsing under your thumbs. It would be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy it. Because you did—more than a little. And that only makes you despise it all the more.
Somewhere in the world, not long after, Michael Kaiser discovers the ivory-white residue—his own cum, now half-dried and coagulated—smeared deep into the fibers of his precious Germany jersey.
“Ah… so that’s why the dirty looks.” A slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face. Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar. “Bitch.”
©𝓮𝓷𝒕𝓮𝓷𝒅𝓼𝓶𝒂𝓻𝒂𝓰𝓮
𓂃✍︎ : 𝐗𝐗𝐈. 𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐌𝐌𝐗𝐗𝐕, 𝐈𝐈. 𝐈𝓴
➤: I’ve read it so many times, over and over again, that it’s starting to make me sick. I’m going to post it and read it again tomorrow or the day after. Sorry for any inconsistencies or spelling mistakes.…
⚠️In real life, real breathplay is dangerous. Also, this text is classified BT3HR — Been Translated; Hope it’s not too Heavy or Hard to Read. Open to thoughts and feedback if you have any.