It wasn't safe.
I had him by the throat, pressing him down against the bed. I felt his Adam's apple shift under my palm. It made my pussy wet.
It wasn't safe.
My other hand was around his cock. He was naked for me when I arrived, lying in bed, his penis soft, and lying to one side. Now he was rock hard, harder than I'd ever felt him. His face was turning just a bit blue.
It wasn't safe. But it was hot.
I released my grip, and his breath exploded in a quick gust. I arched my eyebrow and he gasped in, while my hand tightened around his neck. His hands clutched the bedsheets, half-grabbing them because he was scared and needed comfort, and half grabbing them because I'd commanded him to not touch me, and he was afraid he'd reach up to me in his lust. He loved my breasts, touching them, rolling my nipples around with his thumbs as I rode him. I liked it too, but not today. Today I wanted something more, something that just wasn't safe.
It wasn't safe, not by a long shot.
Most of what we do isn't safe. We walk to the store; we get in cars and drive at 70 miles per hour; we fly in planes; we eat food we didn't grow ourselves. Society keeps things safe. We follow rules: stay in your lane, on your side of the road. Restaurants get rated by the government. Pilots are trained to do their jobs. Society's mores keep us safe.
I could crush his throat right now. All I had to do was squeeze a little bit more. I'd been practicing. I had one of those little grippy toys on my desk at work, and one of the hand grip exercisers like bodybuilders use was on my night table at home. I could crush him with either hand, and I had my strong right hand wrapped around his throat. I grinned down at him, and he swallowed again.
I tensed both of my hands, squeezing cock and throat, and felt him tense up below me. I let out a single laugh then, and let him take another breath.
I didn't have to break his windpipe to kill him. I just had to wait a few seconds too long, and he would die. I could feel my own juices flowing down my thigh.
I'd removed my panties in his downstairs bathroom before climbing his stairs to find him in bed, just like I'd told him. It was nice to have a stay-at-home lover. He'd been working hard for a week, and needed a treat. I don't think he knew what he was getting into.
I'm sure that when he saw me in his bedroom doorway, my business suit still on, he was disappointed. My hair was still in a bun, my work glasses on: dorky and intellectual. My ash gray double breasted suit fit snugly against my own double breasts; my blue scarf was tied around my neck hiding the hint of cleavage that the cream blouse would have displayed. The work-appropriate thigh-length skirt ended just above my two inch heels. It was a suit designed to merge me into a man's world, lift me up, give me an advantage of height, and still display the fact that I'm very much a woman.
I hated it, but it worked: my power suit.
And I was a power -- at work, or here in my lover's house, in his bedroom where he lay supine and surprised to see me as I was by day. I strode forward, quick long steps until I was beside his bed, then on it. I smiled as his gaze shifted to my skirt riding up my leg as I knelt over him. In his distraction, I wrapped my hand around his neck and denied him the gift of breath. His cock hardened, and I grasped him there with my left hand. I squeezed his cock and it grew firm in my hand. I squeezed his throat and his cock pulsed.
The case was pretty simple. Strangulation. They matched the hand prints around her neck to those of the defendant. I saw the photos of her cyanotic face when they handed me the case to prosecute. The picked me, of course, because I was a woman. I'd be more sympathetic to the jury, prosecuting the murderer of a woman.