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Dr. Melissa King has suffered from panic attacks since she was a child, though their frequency has fluctuated steadily with age. Her therapist - in her infinite wisdom - had run through numerous coping skills until they landed on the one best suited for Mel's penchant towards literalism. Its applications have suited her, in a multitude of regards.
Dr. Melissa King is not a virgin, in case anyone was wondering. (Many people seem to? It's strange, though she doesn't say that out loud.) But it did take her a somewhat embarrassingly long time and several uncomfortable conversations - which she's well versed in, so you know they were bad - to realize that not everyone finds men attractive until they're actively attempting to hook up with you, not everyone fakes orgasms semi-regularly, and not everyone likes the idea of heterosexual sex because it's a clearly defined script that is easy to adhere to.
The script part itself isn't the problem; Mel likes distinct start and end points, likes being in control. (Or so she tells herself.)
The problem is that Dr. Melissa King moves through all twenty-eight years of her life thinking life is the way it's always going to be, and then she's out at a bar - dragged along by Trinity because Samira finally agreed to go out with them and she needs all hands on deck, whatever that means - and Dr. Parker Ellis is suddenly there and she's nodding eagerly as Mel describes the code she ran yesterday and she clasps a hand on Mel's arm so she doesn't get bumped into by a drunk patron too close to their table and Mel feels a swooping in her gut that she's only tasted in short, fleeting bits and -
Ah.
(She reads "Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence" when she gets home and can't fall asleep, and realistically she's glad the epiphany is happening now because instead of any fear or concern about what this all means, she just feels something solid slot into place in her chest.)
So maybe she doesn't necessarily like the script all that much. Maybe she doesn't find heterosexual sex all that appealing. Maybe control isn't something she wants to seek out, in all instances.
Only one way to find out.
"What you said to Samira - about being able to turn it off."
"Yeah, I remember."
"I think I could benefit from a similar thing."
Acknowledge Five Things You Can See
The first thing Mel sees when she opens her eyes is the black rope encircling her wrists, all the way down to the middle of her biceps, her pale skin nearly translucent in comparison. She blinks a handful of times to get her bearings, the blindfold doing its job of dulling this sense. It's not bright in the room, but it's more than pitch black. The rope is secured against the headboard so her wrists are fully flush and immobilized; there's a pattern she can't recognize as her eyes trace the length of it. She could attempt to pull taut, could attempt to break free. But why would she? She had asked for this, hadn't she? She had begged for her brain to be shut down, shut off. She does yank, just for the experimentation of it. Nothing, no give. One less decision to have to make - where do my hands go? Good, good. The rope is a physical barrier, informing her neural network that the relinquishing has begun.
The second thing Mel sees is Dr. Parker Ellis with her head between her spread legs. Her attention is drawn by pure sensory input, the presence of another body near hers, covering her legs. Parker grips at her thighs, tugging them apart - though she can only go so far - breath hot against her uncovered core. Mel sees hair, sees skin, sees hands, sees fingers, sees teeth, sees eyes, sees eyes. Eyes watching right back, eyes narrowing with an intensity that Mel often struggles with - eye contact is another decision, one she's often too conscious of - but that drags her in, keeps her focused, compelled. There's nowhere to go, there's nothing to do. She is at the mercy of Parker's hands, Parker's mouth, Parker's eyes. What a gift, she thinks deliriously.
The third thing Mel sees is muscles, firm and moving under skin. She watches as Parker's fingers press into the meat of her thighs, watches the bulge of her biceps as she hooks them into her own arms. The ripple of her shoulders, of the back muscles Mel can make out behind her hair. She sees raw strength, controlled, maneuvering Mel's body at her command, her will. The muscle of her tongue as Parker dips into Mel's soaking folds, as she tastes at first, and then eats - ravenously, but with skill and dexterity and tenacity. Mel can see her arms pushing the backs of her legs as much as the rope will allow, holding her in place as Parker works her over, as she takes what she wants - all that Mel is willing to give. (Everything. It really is everything.)
The fourth thing Mel sees is the dildo, settled right at the apex of Parker's thighs. It sits pretty, a near matching color to the leather straps that twist across Parker's pelvis and hips and thighs. Mel wonders if she did it on purpose, the coordination. She forgets about that thought as she feels a cool slickness at her entrance - tilts her head up, actually, so she can see it, covered in lube - and doesn't mind the fact that Parker chuckles a little at the movement. She feels pressure and then release when Parker pushes in slow and sure, until she bottoms out. There's no resistance, no part of her body putting up an unconscious fight, because Parker's spent the past forty-five minutes bringing Mel to a cresting peak over and over again. She is ready, she has never been more ready, she is craving and Mel's eyes flutter shut at the overwhelming flood of fullness, before they are open again and she sees -
The fifth thing Mel sees are Parker's eyes. She fights the almost unbearable urge to glance away, to find something else to focus on. Her brain has always tried to convince her that there was something unsafe about that much eye contact, that much deliberate attention. Most of the time she doesn’t notice she’s avoiding until someone points it out - often thinking they’re being funny, when in reality, it’s anything but. But as Parker sinks into her, and Mel sinks into herself, that urge lessens. Her eyelids might be heavy, her pupils almost certainly fully dilated, but she meets Parker’s gaze. It’s the last decision she allows herself to intentionally make. Parker hovers over her, forearms tensed on either side of her head, avoiding her hair. She watches carefully as her hips retract and then press in again, darting all over Mel's face before returning to her eyes. Mel doesn’t consider herself a person good at reading others - how much of that is avoidance, well that’s between her and her therapist for the time being - but right now, she can see everything in Parker’s expression: want, lust, focus, desire, devotion. All directed at Mel, pliant and willing beneath her. What Mel hopes Parker sees is everything - all of it - reflected back.
Acknowledge Four Things You Can Touch
The first thing Mel touches is the rope, as her fingers coil around the black frayed edges, as they tighten in order to ground herself. She likes the way her arms are starting to ache, likes how muscles she's never thought to use before are straining, stretching. She likes that she can feel her body, can feel the effects of Parker’s presence, Parker’s lavished attention course through her. Her brain is slowing down, a measured decrease in activity over the past hour. Thoughts leak out, emerge on her skin - maybe as sweat - and slide off as if none of them were important to begin with. And they weren’t important, were they? Mel is tied up, hands bound, ankles restrained. Mel is tied up with nowhere to go, and she is chasing the feeling. Her fingertips are the second strongest point of sensation, after her cunt. The push of Parker’s fingers, the crook of them against her g-spot, the swipe of her tongue against her clit: all of it starts in her core and radiates outward, as if all her nerves begin and end there. The rope is simply to ensure she doesn’t float away fully.
The second thing Mel touches is the sheets below her. Not with her hands, but with the heels of her feet, as she digs them in, as she tries to find purchase against Parker’s onslaught. She would have thought overstimulation might be an issue at this point, but Parker’s insistence is not seeking out mind-blowing, world-ending gratification. She is seeking perpetuity, consistency. A slow rolling sensation that never truly dies down, never truly diminishes; it’s how Mel has already lost count of the actual number of orgasms, isn’t sure if one has ended before the other begins. But the wave returns, a combination of the slick plastered to her thighs, the heat of Parker's mouth against her core, the strength of her tongue, first licking, then plunging. Eating out, what a shockingly accurate descriptor; she is being eaten from the inside out, consumed for delight, to be wrung dry by the hands of someone so talented, so devastatingly handsome it feels unbearable, feels like she is unworthy. She wants to see more, wants to touch more: Parker's tongue, Parker's fingers - somehow fitting alongside her tongue, and oh that's, that's -
The third thing Mel touches is lips. They’ve been doing little else but kissing, and yet, it is a numinous endeavor each time they seek the other out. They are nothing like the kisses of her past, when Mel was so focused on how you’re supposed to fucking breath when someone’s covering one of your two airways. No, with Parker, Mel feels a supplication, a complete remapping of what can be. With Parker, Mel feels like lips are meant for this, specifically - to be molded, to be shaped, to fit perfectly against another’s. To give, to take. To follow, to retreat. As Parker trails back up her body, she touches lips and then she touches a tongue. That same tongue that was just buried in her cunt and that sends a shiver down her spine, not that she could control what is obviously a visceral, automatic response. But she doesn’t think she would. Because Parker licks into her mouth, a dance rather than an end goal. As if she would live happily, contently, from just this, from just Mel’s lips. Parker chases her lips with her own because Mel is sinking, sinking, sinking. The pillow welcomes her back down and the tension in her arms and in her legs - whatever was still held over - releases in their entirety. Mel is lips and tongue and hard nipples and dripping juices and an aching, aching, aching deep within her. The aching, that’s usually in her brain, traversed down, low, in a place only Parker seems able to reach.
The fourth thing Mel touches is eternity. The space between, the second before and the second after. Mel feels every part of herself - conscious, subconscious, unconscious - vibrating, pulsing, tethering her to the present and to something else entirely. She is on a precipice and she knows she will fall, knows she wants to fall. There is a part of her grasping on, though; the last failsafe of control clinging, tooth and nail, by her fingertips. And then she feels fingers at her ankles, cool air against previously wrapped skin, and the unbinding of her ankles doesn’t register as important until Parker is hiking her hips up, pushing in again with the strap, pressing in until she is flush against Mel’s hips. Mel’s body jackknifes at the depth, at the intensity. Mel’s body hums with a profound sensitivity. Mel’s body and mind splinters, fractures, but it is okay because Parker whispers directly into her ear and everything falls away into - eternity.
Acknowledge Three Things You Can Hear
The first thing Mel hears - and frankly what makes listening for anything else difficult at the present moment - is her own breath. It's harsh, a grating sound; so alike how she gets during panic attacks, and yet so different. Her mouth is open, fluctuating between a dryness as she swallows continuously and the constant salvation that hasn't stopped since Parker first stripped her, first wrapped that black rope around her, placing kiss after kiss to the skin before it was hidden from view. Perhaps she should try to regulate, to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth until her heart stops racing, until she doesn't feel quite so lightheaded. But there's something profound and deeply intoxicating, a rewiring of synapses, a rewriting of memories - panting doesn't have to mean panic, doesn't have to mean out-of-control. Maybe gasping for breath can be alluring. Maybe the pounding of her heart can prove that she is alive. Maybe the tingling of her skin can show that pleasure is a much stronger sensation than anything else. Maybe all she needed to do was put herself in Parker Ellis' capable hands and be taken care of.
The second thing Mel hears is the sounds being punched out of her, in the middle of all that deep breathing she's trying to do. It should be stated for the record that Mel is not vocal in bed, never has been. She's too self-conscious about it; adding scrutiny around moans and groans and whimpers would make an already anxious situation much worse. So she learned to be quiet; it wasn't difficult, if she's honest, not when many have lacked the skills to drag much from her in the first place. But Parker's the determined sort. Parker models; her own groans as she tastes Mel, as she works fingers inside. When Parker lingers over her, licks into her mouth, Mel doesn't mind that she passes a moan from her throat to Parker's. Doesn't mind the small breathy things she releases as Parker readjusts them both. Doesn't mind, not when Parker's offering small grunts as she pistons her hips into Mel. Doesn’t mind, not when breathy turns to guttural, turns to desperation. Doesn’t mind, not when Parker grins at her, picks up speed as if she’s fucking the moans right out of her. Doesn’t mind, not when Parker asks for more, asks her to say her name again - hadn’t realized she’d been chanting Parker’s name in the first place - because she's really working for those sounds and Mel doesn't believe in withholding or punishment or anything of that sort.
The third thing Mel hears is Parker’s voice. While she holds herself up and off Mel’s body with the sheer strength of her arms, of her core, she lets her head drop down, drags kiss-stung lips against her cheek, against her temple, rests them gently below her ear. Parker whispers and Mel feels like her body is expanding all around her, like her limbs are growing larger and larger, and that her brain is shrinking and shrinking. A soul, floating into outer space. Or no, descending into the depths of a primordial transcendence. Parker tells her, “There you go, there you go.” Parker tells her, “You should see yourself like this.” Parker tells her, “You’re doing such a good job.” Parker tells her, “You’re beautiful, you know that?” Parker tells her, “You’re taking me so well, you’re a fuckin’ natural.” Parker tells her, “I’ll make you come as many times as you need, baby.” Parker tells her, “I got you.” Parker tells her, “I got you.” Parker tells her, “I got you,” and as Mel links her ankles together behind Parker’s back, as her body begins to shake as an orgasm seizes her, as she falls deeper into her subconscious, she believes every word that drips from Parker’s perfect tongue.
Acknowledge Two Things You Can Smell
The first thing Mel smells is Parker’s deodorant. She doesn’t know how she can recognize it - it’s nothing unique, nothing distinct. Men’s, if she would guess; woodsy, earthy. It’s not even that strong anymore, what with the sweat Parker has worked up from exertion. But it spreads across the entirety of Mel, something soothing, something she will only associate with Parker Ellis for a very long time after. She will not be able to catch a whiff of the scent at work and think of anything besides black rope, besides fingers pressed into her waist, into her pussy, into her mouth. She will not be able to smell and think of anything besides the flick of Parker's tongue in her mouth, the slide of skin against overheated skin. She will not be able to smell and not think of the way Parker looms over her, chest heaving with the work she’s putting into fucking Mel into the mattress. She will not be able to smell and not remember the way she felt under Parker’s fingers, tongue, cock, eyes. Restrained, held, cushioned. Fucked, praised, savored. Smell association is one of the strongest links to memory, she had read once. Mel is not thinking about memories because she’s not thinking about the future, because there is nothing but here and now. There is nothing but Mel and Parker. There is nothing but the totality of this moment, as Mel feels prickles at the edges of her consciousness, as her other senses dull.
The second thing Mel smells is her own scent on Parker's lips, on Parker's tongue. Her wetness is drying on her chin, and Mel strains her neck up so she can clean it up, but mainly so she can taste. So she can try and parse out what is her and what is Parker, or discover that there really is no difference anymore. Maybe she's nestled her way in, burrowed so deeply inside of the other woman that there is no longer a demarcation between where Parker ends and where Mel begins. It's an exhilarating idea, a powerful sentiment. Means she's no longer alone in this body, forced to contend with all the decisions she's expected to make. Means she has help now, has support, has someone to cradle her as she topples into oblivion without losing a single, solitary part of herself. Means that as Parker rocks into her with her arms tucked under Mel's back so she can hold her close, with that steady and unwavering rhythm, Mel does not need to think, does not need to speak, does not need to do anything but let go.
Acknowledge One Thing You Can Taste
The first and only thing that Mel tastes is freedom. Metaphorically, of course. She can taste her own spit - peppermint tea lingering on her tongue that is being quickly replaced with Parker's taste, a heady mixture of Mel's juices, Parker's toothpaste, and something so profoundly human it feels impossible to describe. All of these flavors melt on her tongue, in the heat of her mouth, but they don't really mean anything to her. They don't mean anything because they are dulled and elevated all at once. They don't mean anything - outside of what they do for her continuous arousal, which is not nothing - because Mel has fallen, been subsumed by the sweeping silence in her mind. She still sees, still touches, still hears, still smells, still tastes. But they are secondary instincts, background noise to the euphoria that blankets her. Cautiously, securely. Mel might be smiling, might still be panting audibly into the room. Mel might be saying things, with the way Parker smirks, with the way she praises her. Mel might be coming and coming and coming - but she has sunk below the cognizance that allows those realities to permeate, to be understood. There is static and pleasure. There is white noise and satiation. There is nothingness and everything, all at once, and Mel has never felt anything like it before in her life. She wants to live in this space, live in the freedom of the void and eternity. She wants to live in Parker's arms, in Parker's chest cavity, because she knows - knows, feels, understands - that she is safe here. Freedom, from second-guessing, from doubt, from shame, from humiliation, from unknowing, from herself. Freedom, to exist, and to do nothing else. Mel rolls her tongue over, once, to memorize the flavor of it.
Mel comes back to herself in bits and pieces. The room is dark, hazy, and she realizes her glasses are no longer on her face. A sudden shiver racks her body and before she can think to be upset about it, a blanket is over her, a pair of arms encircling from behind. Mel watches, out of focus, as the hands uncap a bottle and begin rubbing cool lotion onto her wrists, her forearms, any place where the ropes touched. It’s soothing, nearly lulls Mel to sleep.
“How are you feeling?” Parker’s voice at her ear, and another shiver trembles through her. Her hands pause and Mel releases a soft whine - where that had come from, she has no idea - as she lets her head fall back onto the shoulder, connected to the chest holding her up.
“I feel light.” Mel breathes out, voice scratchy. A pause, and then, “Thank you.”
Parker's hands grasp her wrists, firm not tight, and Mel inhales. “Thank you. For trusting me with that.”
Mel isn’t sure how to respond, so she lets the moment pass. The ropes are gone, but Parker’s hands do not leave hers. A new tether, something to bring her back up to earth. The ascent is not as startling as she believed it would be, the ascent does not scare her. There is first light, everywhere.