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Alison weakly lifts her tied hands a little.

“Want to try?” she asks.

Birgitte’s gaze doesn’t flicker. She’s intense and turned on. There’s hesitation. And reevaluation going on, as though Birgitte maybe didn’t expect to be this turned on. But there’s definite hesitance at the idea of being tied up. Maybe Birgitte finds this interesting, and even erotic, but she’s not so sure about giving up control herself.

Before Alison can adjust, Birgitte leans in closer. Closer. She kisses Alison with the same sense of courtesy and restraint as was evident when she used her fingers. It’s the opposite of the wild abandon on display from horny, drunk CCL girls. There’s all this subtext; a mindfulness of boundaries, a desire to secure consent, all this care not to overstep. It’s terribly, terribly civilized. Golda was kind of the same way.

Alison has never felt smitten this way, but that’s the only word for it. Not with a person, with sensibilities. She kisses Birgitte back with equal care, and it’s as though the Norwegian cook’s soft lips are shooting pleasure lasers into Alison’s core. Her heart skips a beat when Birgitte caresses her cheek.

The ropes are staying on Alison’s wrists. She’s not complaining, although her face and ears are so hot when Birgitte breaks the kiss that she can feel pins and needles and sweat under her clothes. It was one thing a couple of minutes ago in the heat of the moment. Now they’re both present and awake. The lights are on. Alison’s heart thuds out of control as Birgitte removes her fuzzy socks. Alison can’t really strip herself with her hands tied, after all. She lifts her hips to let Birgitte pull down her pants and underwear together, revealing her most sensitive parts to the cool air. It’s a red, wet, swollen mess down there and Alison is self-conscious about the thick smell of arousal, but Birgitte doesn’t seem to mind as she gently presses Alison to the mattress.

Sleeping with a beautiful older Norwegian woman last night seems tame compared to lying with her bottom half completely exposed for inspection by a relative stranger.

“Hah,” Alison gasps as she feels Birgitte’s tongue between her legs. Her legs kick and she lifts her tied wrists to her mouth to bite the ropes.

There’s less restraint now. Birgitte is not hesitant about this; it’s not the tip of a tongue probing at a delicate flower. Birgitte puts her face in there and firmly holds Alison’s damp thighs. It’s not enough to keep the bed from squeaking with Alison’s wiggling. She never thought of herself as especially theatrical, but she never expected to be expertly eaten out by a Norwegian cook.

Birgitte reduces her to jelly, then climbs on top and kisses her, wet face and all. Alison does her best, but there’s only so much she can concentrate on kissing when she just came that hard. Birgitte kisses Alison’s neck and strokes her thigh as she recovers, even sliding her hand into Alison’s shirt to touch her chest.

The ropes come off with a whisper, and Birgitte kicks off her pants and underwear. Still on top and now as bottomless as Alison, she takes Alison’s hand and places it between her legs before getting back to kissing. Alison feels a thick bush and damp, puffy lips. Birgitte firmly guides her, keeping a grip on her hand. Alison doesn’t think of herself as someone who needs this level of handholding, but she is more than willing to play by Birgitte’s rules.

Birgitte breaks the kiss and hunches when she gets close, all but humping Alison’s hand. She tilts her head back and arches her back, finally letting out a single, brief, high-pitched cry. Her thighs clamp on Alison’s hand and she grabs the metal headboard.

Still in that position, she takes long, deep breaths. Then she releases Alison’s hand and flops beside her, folding her hands on her tummy. Alison wipes her wet hand on her sweater. They lie side by side, dressed up top and naked below the waist, breathing.

Birgitte looks over at her and snorts with laughter. Alison still hasn’t gotten her breath back from what Birgitte’s tongue did to her.

Alison’s not at her most thoughtful or perceptive. Birgitte sigs up and pulls her sweater over her head, tossing it aside. Down to her undershirt, she reaches for the covers and covers them both. She looks over at Alison.

After a moment, she reaches out with a fingertip and touches the tip of Alison’s nose. Then she lies back down and turns off the lamp. Not snuggling or even touching at all; just side by side in the little bunk.

Alison’s not going to pretend to understand everything, but she’s not complaining. When in Antarctica, do as the Norwegians who’ve been there for a while do, she supposes.