Shapeshifter's blog

I couldn’t breathe.

The increasing tightness around me conjured an image in my mind of a void, a pitch-black void around my lower rib cage that was slowly expanding. There was a heady mix of panic and pleasure as I realised, much to the joy of my heel, that his increasingly constrictive thighs had been expertly and intentionally placed to constrict around my diaphragm. They had delivered a prolonged and now increasing pressure which, with every exhale, drew his thighs a little closer together.

I was propped up on my elbows, facing down with my opponent to my right. My legs, which had initially been kicking as I squirmed against the constriction, now lay still, no energy could be wasted on a futile attempt at escape. My heel casually laid on his side, one arm on my back and the other propping up his head as he joyfully and intently watched the expressive interplay of pleasure, pain and panic across my face.

“Oh my god … I …” 'can’t breathe' I had wanted to say, but I couldn’t talk any further, the few words I had managed were deeper than my normal voice and cut short by the pure exhaustion of air, akin to trying to speak a full sentence in the dying two seconds of a full forced exhalation.

I tried again to draw breath but couldn’t, the increasing void in my abdomen had spawned a twin in my head as my peripheral vision began to swim and I tapped frantically, collapsing forwards as the thighs slowly eased up and I could gratefully take in precious air. The incremental release from around me was not to prolong the suffocation, it was to prevent a sudden recoil in my thorax. This man indeed knew what he was doing. His deadly thighs remained around me as he had warned they would. A tap, beg or call for submission would release the pressure, but not the hold.

“Perfect” I heard him say, a grin obvious in his tone but not seen by me as my face was sunk into the duvet. He shifted his scissorhold a little lower now and held me a moment, the heat from his thighs radiating through me before he began to apply his vice-like pressure again. I noticed he would do this rotation of positions, seldom focusing on the same place twice in succession. He wanted a gradual wear down, he wanted options, he wanted to revisit a site and it not be sore, not wanting me to volunteer too soon a surrender. This squeeze session was to be a lesson, this squeeze session was to be prolonged.

I had brought this entirely upon myself.

Prior to our meet I had been a typical cocky jobber, this natural affinity for winding guys up bolstered by the mental state I’d developed from spending more than a few recent occasions being more of a heel. I’d talked and met with guys more jobber than I who had wished to be on the receiving end of the facesits and headscissors I was most familiar with and fond of applying, and I’d applied these happily.
The dynamic of him being the heel in our conversations had been established early, indeed I’d suffered pleasurable defeat again and again in this man’s thighs in our first encounter, but that had been years ago. Through a variety of the meets I’d had since then and a consistent dedication to exercise I’d gained more size, strength and experience.

“You can crush me as tight and as long as you would like” I’d invited time and again “Apply any hold you want, I’m sure I can take it”

He’d tried to remind me of the previous defeat but I brushed it off, expecting at some point to turn the tables when in person once I’d had my fill of being a squeezetoy and making him mine, “I’ll show him who’s actually the boss this time” I’d thought to myself.

Now, as those thighs squeezed out another submission, I was reminded what it was like to be between the legs of a true scissor heel. This man knew not only how to apply a scissorhold, but where to apply that particular variation most effectively, which one to use and in what order to gradually wear an opponent down, how to play with positioning and the muscles of the thighs to alternate the pressure to effect the much desired weakening and extract the sweet submission.

As I tapped to the scissor across my torso I found myself manipulated to be laid on my back, him now behind as those long and capable legs effortlessly fashioned a figure four bodyscissor around me, his arms – though I tried to hold them off – wound just easily around my neck and applied a light pressure. This was his game. A constant and tolerable pressure to begin with that would hold you in a state of squirming and sap your energy until the gradual build up to crush out the submission. I laid as still as I could, I had learned early that increased movement brought increased pressure.

His deep and restful breathing behind me was a stark and audible contrast to my own almost choking gasps as he held me fast, ready to lock down in an instant if I was foolish enough to attempt escape. I hadn’t felt such control and containment for so long, such an inability to free myself and fight back. My body ached, my neck ached, I was slowly being squeezed and choked in this move of dual containment and I was loving it. I was excited and nervous of the power he had over me, fearing and craving it in equal measure.

It was a solid reminder of the skill of a true scissor master and above all, of being careful what you wish for.