SSSD - Show the book to Birgitte

Alison goes to retrieve the book and pauses in the corridor. She gazes down the long hallway toward the distant junction, where the locked lab is to the right. It’s getting late. She walks forward, going past the turn toward the sleeping quarters. She halts in front of the door to the radio room. To her left, the locked lab waits down the hall. To her right, Signe’s lab is past the map room. The lights are on in both. There’s something going on here that has the attention of the Norwegians, and it isn’t climate change. That bothers her.

Sure, the work that they do up here is tedious and not especially sexy. But she has to assume that by default these Norwegians are fundamentally better people than the Americans that Alison grew up around. Climate research is important; Alison didn’t come to Antarctica to hook up. She just as easily could’ve been sent to a research station full of old guys with beards.

It’s just weird. But she’s an intern. She could be pushy if she was the equal of the science team. She’s not.

Alison returns to her room and grabs her book and the one lonely rope that she brought along, as a visual aid. In the real world, she’d change into something cuter in this situation. In Antarctica, she just puts on some deodorant and checks her face in the mirror, then goes to Birgitte’s room.

She finds it surprisingly sterile. The Norwegians have been up here for several months already, but it’s as though Birgitte hasn’t really moved in. There’s so little in the way of personal effects. The only decorative item is a Fast and Furious-themed wall calendar with each day meticulously marked off. Birgitte’s room is like everyone else’s in that there’s nowhere to sit but the bed. She’s already there with a curious look on her face. She wears gray sweatpants and an undershirt, and it’s the first time that Alison has seen her in anything other than her white cook outfit and black apron.

Alison waves and walks over to join her with the book in her lap.

Birgitte looks on with interest. It’s clear that this is completely new to her.

“You tie them up and…” She mimes whipping with her hand.

“No. No, that’s not it. This is really just more of an art form,” Alison explains, patting the cover of the book, which is, naturally, two women bound up elaborately. “It’s more visual. Usually, the really big riggers are photographers too.” She hands the book over, and Birgitte begins to page through it with interest.

It’s just a coffee table art book, and it’s tasteful and explicit at the same time. It’s clear that Birgitte isn’t turned off by it, even if she isn’t quite as enchanted as Alison was the first time she encountered it.

They flinch as loud music begins to play on the other side of the wall. That’s Marit’s room.

Alison and Birgitte exchange a look and smile. Birgitte takes a breath for patience and keeps looking as the muffled music plays. Alison can picture Marit in there blazing it.

“You do this?” Birgitte asks.

“Not very often,” Alison admits. “It’s not something that couples do every night. It’s more performative. But sometimes the girls that I live with ask me to tie them up.” She leaves out the fact that CCL girls don’t really get Shibari and just consider it an extension of bondage. They usually have Alison tie someone up because they want to spank or whip them or otherwise play with them. Which is fine. It’s just that sometimes Alison feels like a fancy chef in a hot dog stand.

“Do you like to wear it?” Birgitte is looking at a photo of a tie that looks, admittedly, quite painful.

“It’s never my turn,” Alison says ruefully. She did not, after all, meet another equally passionate Shibari aficionado at CCL House, as she’d originally hoped. It’s pretty niche. She’s at peace with that. Life may take her to a bigger city after grad school, and maybe there’ll be a scene there. But in Gurlberg and Antarctica, she has enough sense to know that she’s probably going to be the one doing the tying. Unfortunately.

“Is it difficult?” Birgitte is on a double-page spread of three women suspended from the ceiling.

“Just depends. Some stuff is really simple. Here.” Alison offers Birgitte the rope. The cook takes it curiously. Alison offers her wrists as though to be handcuffed. “Just do what I say.”

“OK,” Birgitte says gamely.

Slowly and carefully, Alison talks Birgitte through the quickest, most basic double-column tie to bind her hands together in front of her. There’s not much to it, but it still looks very nice and official.

“Good job,” Alison tells her, holding up her hands. “Very good,” she adds, pulling experimentally.

Birgitte has the book in her hands again, but her eyes are on Alison. She looks a bit worried.

“You like this?” she asks skeptically.

“Like it?” Alison can feel her face heating up. “I kind of love it.”

Birgitte seems taken aback. A couple of long moments pass. She holds the book in her lap and Alison delightedly gazes down at the ropes binding her wrists.

Now Birgitte is enchanted. Not by the ropes, but by the effect that they’re having on Alison. They’re sitting close enough that they’re touching, and Alison can smell Birgitte’s hair: some kind of jasmine scent.

“I really like it,” Alison says, squeezing her legs together. “You can see for yourself.”

Birgitte hesitates, and it takes several seconds of intense eye-contact telepathy to reassure her.

“OK,” she says coolly. Finally, there’s some pink on her face as well. Tenderly, she slips her hand into Alison’s flannel pajama pants and cotton panties. Alison shivers at her touch as Birgitte’s fingers brush across her bush to reach the warm, damp situation between her legs.

Birgitte looks startled. Alison isn’t soaked or anything, but it’s obvious that she’s worked up.

“You do like it,” she says.

Alison bites her lip and nods.

There’s a pause in the music. In the quiet, Alison hears her own breathing as Birgitte gently explores down there with her fingers. She strokes and feels, but keeps her touching soft and almost polite. Alison has to do some communicating with her eyes, and Birgitte politely obliges.

Alison leans into her as Birgitte teases her clit. The music starts again, but they’re a little occupied at the moment. Alison lets out a gasp and shudders, and Birgitte puts her arm around her. The tiny motion of her fingertip on the fleshy hood of Alison’s clit is heavenly. It’s a lot, but it’s not overwhelming, and Birgitte is steady, pushing Alison closer. It’s embarrassing how quickly it goes from simply feeling good to Alison being helpless. Birgitte, a little flushed herself, hugs Alison firmly as she brings her off.

“Oh god.” Alison buries her face in Birgitte’s chest, hunched over awkwardly with her wet thighs squeezing the Norwegian’s hand.

Looking impressed, Birgitte withdraws her shiny hand from Alison’s pants. She holds her patiently while she recovers. Finally, Alison is able to look at her and focus. Her head is swimming with orgasmic bliss. That just hit harder and faster than she expected, maybe because her wrists are tied. She says nothing. Birgitte is silent. Alison’s chest heaves as she tries to get her breath. Birgitte is still holding her. The orgasm hasn’t done much to calm Alison down; if anything, she’s even more worked up now. There’s no question that it will be appropriate to return the favor.

Birgitte gazes back at her.

Should Alison offer to let her try being tied?

Or just kiss her?