The Submissive’s Perspective: Why Some Men Crave Being Smothered

There’s a moment, right before it happens, that fills me with trembling anticipation. She straddles my chest, hikes her knees forward, and locks eyes with me. It’s not a question. It’s not even a command. It’s just the inevitable truth: she’s about to sit on my face. And I’m about to disappear beneath her.

Most people think facesitting is about oral sex. About licking and pleasing. And yes, sometimes it is. But for many of us submissives, the craving for facesitting goes far deeper than tongues and orgasms. It’s about power. It’s about being used. And it’s about surrendering the self completely.

My Goddess loves sitting on me. And she knows exactly what she’s doing when she does. She doesn’t always grind for pleasure. Sometimes, she just perches there, full-weight, no discussion. My nose smushed between her cheeks, my air supply cut off. My arms are pinned. I can’t speak. I can’t move. My cock is usually caged, so even the smallest flicker of arousal becomes a torment. It’s not about my pleasure. But fuck… I get pleasure from it anyway.

And I’m not alone. Talk to any submissive man who’s experienced real, full-body facesitting; the kind where you’re not just licking, but being sat on; and you’ll hear variations of the same story. It’s intoxicating. It’s addictive. It can become a form of worship, of discipline, of comfort, and of erotic torture, all at once.

The Physicality of Being Smothered

Let’s start with the obvious. When she sits, there’s weight. Real, unrelenting weight. Her thighs lock into place, and the seal is total. Breathing becomes a privilege, not a right. Every second becomes a balance between wanting to survive and wanting her to never get up.

For some Dommes, they’ll hover. For others, they’ll plant themselves firmly, using a pillow underneath or locking you into a smother bench or under a queening stool. No matter the setup, the effect is the same: you are reduced to a seat. A tool. A warm, breathing throne.

The act creates intense sensory deprivation. Her scent is everything. Her heat is overwhelming. Time distorts. You lose track of minutes. You stop caring. Your world is her.

The Psychological High

Submissives crave a loss of control. Facesitting delivers that with brutal, beautiful simplicity.

You’re helpless. You can’t speak. You can’t beg. Even safe words become difficult when your mouth is pressed to her skin and your lungs are fighting for breath. That level of trust, knowing she controls not just your cock, but your air, is profound.

Many submissive men, myself included, find that this kind of erotic helplessness touches something primal. It obliterates ego. There is no room for pride or posture under her ass. It’s raw submission. You exist to hold her up, to take her weight, to provide pleasure or simply comfort.

There’s also a powerful reversal in the act. Society often tells men to take charge, to dominate, to be strong and upright. Facesitting reverses that entirely. You are pinned, smothered, silenced. She is above. She decides. She uses you when she wants, how she wants.

And when you crave that reversal, when it makes you feel more yourself than anything else, facesitting becomes more than a kink. It becomes a need.

Oral Service, with Limits

Of course, sometimes she wants to be licked. Sometimes she rides your face to orgasm after orgasm, clutching your hair and humping your tongue like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. That can be exquisite… when it happens.

But more often than not in my case, my Goddess uses me as a throne, not a sex toy. And because I’m locked in chastity, it’s never about me getting off. It’s about me giving. If she wants my tongue, she’ll take it. If not, I just lie there, suffering gloriously.

She’ll even tease me sometimes: “This is your reward,” she’ll say with a laugh, settling down heavily and cutting off my air. “You’re so lucky to be used like this.” And I am. I ache for it. I dream about it. I count the days between sessions like a hungry dog waiting for a scrap from her table.

Punishment and Humiliation

Facesitting isn’t always gentle. Sometimes it’s punishment. One time, I disobeyed a rule… something small, but disobedience all the same. She dragged me to the floor, sat on my face, and didn’t get up for fifteen minutes. No grinding. No licking. Just weight and silence.

When she finally stood, I was panting, dizzy, and shaking. She looked down and said, “Maybe next time you’ll remember who you belong to.” I never forget.

Other times, the humiliation is verbal. She’ll mock the way I twitch in my cage while she’s using me. She’ll laugh about how pathetic it is that I get off on being a chair. “You’re not even a man. Just a face to sit on.”

And yet, those are the words that bring me deeper under her spell.

Emotional Intimacy

Here’s the part few people talk about. Being smothered can be deeply emotional for a sub.

It’s not just about pain or humiliation. It’s about closeness. Intimacy. Her most private place pressed to your most vulnerable one. There’s something almost maternal about it, something sacred. It’s full-body devotion.

After she’s done, she often strokes my head or runs her fingers along my jawline. There’s tenderness there. Care. Even if she just used me roughly, even if she didn’t say a word while she sat, she always gives me that moment of connection after. And it means the world.

It reinforces what I already know: I’m hers. Fully. And she chooses to rest on me, not just use me. That distinction matters.

Why We Crave It

So why do submissive men crave being smothered?

Because it strips away everything false and leaves only truth.

Because it satisfies our desire to serve in the most intimate, physical way.

Because it reminds us of our place, and fills us with aching joy.

Because it’s erotic, humiliating, comforting, and real.

Because when she’s on top of me, and I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t cum, can’t do anything except be hers… I feel more alive than I ever have in my life.

And when she finally gets up… whether she’s wet from grinding, or calm from resting, or laughing at how desperate I look… I don’t beg for release.

I beg for her to sit again.