Day 6: Helena (Just Say No, part 1)

You return to Sabine’s apartment early the next morning with a new perspective, and a new attitude. While it wouldn’t be entirely true to say your doubts are gone, your reticence is. As is any pretence that you’re doing anyone any favors by thinking someone is untouchable because of a chair. You’d like to say it’s because of the conversation you had, and that’s partly true… but you haven’t been able to get that damn archer pic out of your mind all night and in the end it’s that, the image of a woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone and does expect you to deliver, that turns your slouch into a march.

You knock. This time, there’s no hesitation. No internal debate, no rehearsed lines. Just desire. The door opens. Sabine’s in a tank top and shorts—sleep clothes, casual but not careless. Her hair’s a little rumpled. Her eyes are wary.

Before she can say a word, you take her face gently in your hands and kiss her—fierce, claiming, hungry. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move away. When you break the kiss, her breathing’s changed.

For a moment, Sabine says nothing. Then, “You didn’t ask before kissing me.”

“No,” you say. “I didn’t.”

“I could press charges,” she says, voice cool but testing.

“You won’t,” you say. “Because you already told me what you want. You just needed to see if I’d stop playing the careful saint and finally act like a man who’s been dreaming about you for days.”

Her brow lifts, but she doesn’t speak.

She rolls back from the doorway. “Then come in. But just because you’ve got fire doesn’t mean I’ll help you burn.”

You follow her inside. The apartment’s sunlit now, golden light pooling across the plants and laminate flooring. She closes the door behind you and turns, arms crossing loosely. “So what changed?”

“I thought about what you said yesterday. And I figured… you want this. Or you’d have said no. Then you invaded my damn dreams and made it crystal clear what I wanted too. So I’m here. Fully. If I’m wrong, just say no. Tell me to go away and I will. Otherwise—let me in.”

Her mouth twitches. “Go on.”

“The game represents women with playing cards and with bio cards. Your bio says 20% availability, kinkiness in the 60s. They saw the chair and decided disabled meant untouchable… and if anyone went there it was freaky. I saw it too. And I was just as much an idiot as they were. I’m learning.”

Sabine tilts her head, studying you. “So show me what you’ve learned.”

You pause. “You want me to—?”

She grins, predatory now. “Strip. Let me see what I’m getting into. If you want to be in my bedroom, I should at least know if it’s worth the trip.”

You laugh, then nod. Your hands move to your shirt. You take your time, peeling it off slowly. Then you unfasten your jeans, step out of them, stand before her in just your briefs.

Her eyes travel the length of you. “Not bad. Shame you spent so long pretending I was untouchable. You could’ve been in there two days ago.”

She turns her chair and wheels toward the hall. You follow, heart pounding.

Her bedroom’s modest but purposeful. A few hanging prints, a poster for an indie band, and in the center—suspended from the ceiling with careful rigging—is a sturdy, padded sex swing.

You stare.

Sabine follows your gaze. “After the hospital, I kept thinking about the Hoyer lift. How it moved me, supported me. One night, I found this online. Turns out, sometimes you find inspiration in the weirdest places.”

You step closer to her. “You planned for this?”

She shrugs. “I like sex. I’ve always liked sex. The meds I’m on just kicked my libido into higher gear. Lucky me, I’ve got more than one regular fuckbuddy who knows how to treat me like I matter.”

You take her hand gently. “I don’t want to replace anyone. I just want to be someone who sees you. All of you.”

“Then lose the briefs,” she says, fire in her voice now. “Let’s see if it’s only your speech that’s big. And help me into the swing.”

You let your underwear fall, standing before her naked. “I thought size didn’t matter?” you say, chuckling.

She gives you an appraising look and touches your already erect cock with her fingers.

“Partly true,” she says. “Skill and sharing matter more. And girth’s more important than length. You’ll do.”

She leans back in her chair, one arm resting on the bedframe, the other gesturing lazily toward the swing.

“Well?” she says. “You’ve got hands. Use them.”

You step closer, but not presumptively. You wait, giving her room to direct the next move. Her eyes flicker down to her tank top.

“Start there,” she says.

You reach, slow and deliberate, sliding your hands beneath the hem. She lifts her arms above her head—not shy, not trembling, just offering. You peel the tank away, exposing skin inch by inch, until it’s off completely and her arms come back down to the chair’s rests.

No bra. No need. She's not posing. Just existing—solid, sensual, real. And you reach out for her. You feather the backs of your fingers down the slope of her breasts, curving them around their swell to savor every inch of her. She’s beautiful, and you’ve never been happier to have been slapped sensible in your life.

You lean forward and kiss her. Your palms graze across her nipples and you smile as they harden under your touch. Butterfly kisses trail down her chest until you claim one of her buds in your lips, sucking hungrily. She gasps and then sighs deeply. Her hands pull you against her breast harder, encouraging you to keep nibbling. For a while you do, then pull back.

You hesitate only for a second. She notices.

“Keep going,” she says.

Her shorts are next. She plants both arms and lifts herself just slightly off the cushion, letting you hook your fingers into the waistband. You begin to roll them down. She shifts one arm to stabilize herself, then the other, moving in that see-saw rhythm you realize she’s done a hundred times. She doesn’t need your pity. Just your patience.

When the fabric’s past her knees, she nods. “You can finish.”

You kneel. Slide them down. Gently. She’s completely nude now, still seated, entirely composed.

You meet her gaze. “Still want in?”

“I’m the one naked in a chair,” she says. “You tell me.”

You don’t speak, but let your body answer instead. You lean in against her hairy mound, the dark curls tickling you as you plant a kiss on her slit. Your tongue delves inside her for a moment, seeking her clit. Flickering licks draw another gasp. You savor her musk and her growing wetness for a moment before pulling back.

She motions to the swing.

“Lift from under my thighs,” she says. “And don’t try to carry me like a fireman unless you want a pulled groin.”

You follow her instructions, supporting her weight with steady hands and moving her only as directed. Her arms wrap around your shoulders—not clinging, not weak, just anchoring herself. She murmurs small adjustments as you transfer her, and when she’s in position, she loops her own arms into the swing's overhead cuffs, adjusting tension with practiced ease.

“I’ve done this before,” she says. “Told you. My sex life didn’t stop with the accident. I learned to adapt. This was part of that. Works better than a lot of beds, honestly. Once you’ve tried this... missionary’s just nostalgia.”

You step back, and take her in.

She’s suspended—cradled by the swing, arms resting in the loops above, body poised between tension and release. Light from the window glints off the curves of her, from shoulder to breast to the faint shadows where her body meets the harness.

And she’s looking at you like a challenge.

Not ‘prove you’re a man.’ Not ‘prove you’re not afraid.’ Just… Show up. See me. Want this.

And you do. God you want it. Desperately.

You step closer. Her breath quickens.

“After this ridiculous game is over…” you murmur, voice low against her ear, “I’m coming back for more.”

She tilts her head, lips ghosting close to yours. “Then don’t waste this round.”

You kiss her again—slower this time, exploratory. Her mouth yields, then presses back. Her fingers curl in the straps, and her hungry mouth encourages you to go further. You let your hands roam gently down her sides, then across her breasts. She sighs into your mouth, the sound low and unmistakably demanding.

“I want you to see me,” she murmurs between kisses, “but I want you to touch me too.”

You draw back just enough to see her, really see her—suspended in the harness, skin flushed with anticipation, arms looped above in poised surrender. Your hands glide down her belly, then trace the inside of her thighs. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shy away. Her body answers.

You lean in, lips brushing the soft slope of her neck, then lower. A kiss at her collarbone. Another at her sternum. You work your way down, slow, reverent. Her breathing grows faster.

“Jesus,” she whispers. “You’re taking your time.”

“You deserve it.”

She smirks, but there’s a flicker of something warmer in her eyes. ****, but proud. Wanting.

You kiss your way to the juncture of her thighs, exhaling warm breath across her. She jolts—just slightly. One hand tightens around a loop of the swing.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Stop asking,” she says, voice a little ragged now. “Just do it. I know how to say no.”

Your tongue meets her again, tentative at first as you try to assess the impact of the swing, then firmer as she opens to you. Her scent is clean, heady, undeniable. You taste her arousal, feel the tremor in her thighs where the swing holds them. Her hands clench above. She breathes out your name in a hiss.

When she gasps and swears, you ease up—not out of doubt, but because you want her aching for you.

You rise, eyes locked to hers. She’s flushed, lips parted, chest heaving.

“You’re dripping,” you murmur.

She laughs breathlessly. “Shut up. This isn’t a debate.”

You position yourself between her legs, one hand bracing her hip, the other guiding your length to her entrance.

“You ready?”

“God, yes.”

You push in, slow and careful. She arches slightly in the swing, exhaling hard through her nose. Her body welcomes you—warm, tight, alive. You settle fully inside her, and the look on her face says more than words could: This is happening. This is real.

And when you start to move, she matches your rhythm—not with legs, but with every part of her that can move: arms tugging the straps, torso rocking subtly, breath syncing to yours. The swing creaks gently. Her voice rises.

There’s passion, yes. But more than that—there’s connection.

This isn’t about making a point. It’s about making love.

And you’re not leaving anything behind.

Your pace builds. Each thrust elicits a breathier moan, a sharper gasp. Sabine’s arms flex with effort, muscles taut as she rides the rhythm with you, using every inch of strength in her shoulders and core to meet you halfway. The swing rocks slightly with the motion, cradling her in motion and tension, letting her body receive everything you give.

She doesn’t ask for mercy. She asks for more.

“Harder,” she pants, and you give it to her.

Not punishing—present. Intentional. Wanting.

She meets you with fire, with focus, with a glint in her eye that dares you to keep up. You lose yourself in the sound of skin against skin, in the creak of the straps, in the heat of her and the wild beauty of this moment. You feel her tightening around you, body straining, eyes wild.

Her orgasm hits without warning. She cries out, shuddering, her whole body clenching in waves. Her arms tense in the straps above her, her back arches, and for a moment she looks utterly unbound.

You don’t stop.

You keep moving through it, only letting yourself go when her climax crests and begins to fall, when her breaths are no longer sharp but stuttered, blissful. That’s when you let go—your release crashing through you, hot and raw and deep.

You gasp her name. Once. Twice. Then everything stops.

Silence, but for the slowing rhythm of breath.

You don’t pull away immediately. Just stay there—inside her, pressed close, both of you suspended in warmth and sweat and something that lingers just beyond definition.

Eventually, you ease out of her and help ease the swing to a more reclined position. She relaxes into it, skin flushed, hair damp, expression soft.

She blinks at you, a lazy grin forming. “Told you it beats a bed.”

You lean down and kiss her forehead. “Not arguing.”

A pause. Then: “Seriously, though. After this game ends…”

You meet her eyes.

“I meant it,” you say. “I’m coming back. If you’ll have me.”

Her grin turns sly. “Well, you’re not bad. Bit preachy at first. But you finish strong.”

You laugh, leaning your head against hers. “Then let’s say I’m not finished yet.”

Sabine closes her eyes. “Good. Because I don’t fuck guys who pity me. But I do keep the ones who learn fast.”