Beg for air or cock — which do you crave more?

So you know that moment when your brain just short-circuits and you can’t tell if you’re drowning or flying—that’s exactly what happened the other night, and I’m still thinking about how I had to beg for air or cock because my body honestly couldn’t decide which one it needed more. We were in that raw doggystyle position, face pressed into the pillow, and every thrust pushed me further into this haze where breathing became this conscious effort, like I had to remind myself to inhale before the next wave hit. He wasn’t rushing, just this steady, deep rhythm that kept building, and I could feel my lungs burning while simultaneously craving him even deeper, that primal clash between survival and want. I remember trying to lift my hips to meet him, but my arms were shaking so bad I could barely hold myself up, so I just let him take control while I buried my face in the sheets, muffling these desperate sounds that kept slipping out. There was this split second where he paused, and I gasped so hard my whole body shuddered, and in that tiny window I realized I’d been holding my breath without even noticing, my chest heaving as I tried to fill my lungs. But then he moved again, slower this time, teasing, and I felt that ache deepen—that hollow need that only he could fill—and I knew I’d trade air for that fullness every single time. The way my thoughts fragmented, everything reduced to just the next push, the next pull, the pressure building low in my belly, it was like my mind went quiet and all that was left was this pure, animalistic hunger. I wasn’t thinking about anything else, not the day’s stress or tomorrow’s to-do list, just the wet sound of our bodies and the heat radiating between us, and how I’d happily forget to breathe if it meant feeling that stretch again.