![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Anniversary.
Original fiction by Ephemera written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
agent5, who wanted medical kink fic.
******************
"do you trust me?"
"yes"
It really was that simple, and not even the exaggerated roll of the eyes he gave me could undermine the immediacy and surety of that reply. We were in the car, ostensibly on the way to pick up ice cream and cigarettes. In actual fact I had been planning this for weeks, ever since we met Kerry pretty much, and I have no idea what I'd have done if he'd said no. Not that he would. Do you trust me has been the opening salvo of our play since the beginning.
"good. put this on."
I dropped a blindfold in his lap and made a show of focusing on the road and not looking to make sure he did as he was told. The small sounds of his movements and the sure knowledge that he had were enough to ratcheted the excitement in my belly up a notch. It was an effort of will to drive to the clinic with enough attention on the traffic to be safe.
Kerry took over as soon as we got there, her hands sure and skilled, her voice clipped and level. The same commanding tone to tell me to go and change as to tell Phil to lie back and she'd take care of him. For all he was already reacting to the voice and the webbing straps clipping him to the gurney his fingers lingered on my wrist.
"nothing we haven't already talked about" I reassured him, and then glanced apologetically to Kerry. "sorry sister."
"Your uniform, nurse ramos." was all the forgiveness I was going to get. Something I've always admired about Kerry, the way that nothing shakes her out of a character once the play's begun.
The lights in the corridor were dimmed, most of the side rooms dark and deserted. I'd never asked Kerry how she came to have access to this place, but not even the lilies at the empty receptionist's desk could mask the disinfectant and fear tang in the air. If this was a set someone had worked miracles. The changing area added old sweat and municipal soap to the perfume, the one open locker framing the heavy white nylon of my uniform. Getting dressed was when the nervous excitement started to solidify into arousal, and when I checked myself over in the mirror - crisp, clean, tight packed clothes and green uniform haircloth wiping away all the other traces of self - my cheeks and the base of my neck were starting to pink. I doubt the gloves and mask I found in the scrub room hid that from Kerry. The sound of my throat contracting at the sight of Phil would not have gone unnoticed by either of them.
But what a sight - still blindfolded on the gurney, but naked except for the strip of sheet laid over his hips to preserve whatever modesty he might claim to have. His feet were twisted together, the toes intertwined, but his hands lay loose and open by his sides. Kerry had painted the chemical foam over his chest and belly, and as I approached handed me a single sleek razor.
"prepare him please nurse."
Somehow my breathing, my heartbeat didn't drown out the slow scratch of blade over skin as I shaved him. Small, slow, intimate movements, following the rise and fall of his ribs. Kerry's preparations - steri-pacs ripping open, the chime of steel on steel, the rattle of plastic on plastic - sounded very distant. The sound of the discarded razor falling into the kidney bowl was louder, the drip of water as I wrung out a flannel to rinse off the foam residue, the crinkled packaging of the sterile wipes that followed.
There's something about the sound of rubber wheels on metal flooring that's particular to hospitals, and as Kerry and I moved the gurney, counted three and lifted from the knees and hips, pulling Phil onto the operating table the thin protection of his sheet was doing little to hide his response to the sounds, the scents, the sensations. His fingers found the stainless steel edges of the table, stroking the cool surfaces like the most precious skin.
"IV please" Kerry interrupted the moment, hands firm on Phil's skin, little auras of white around her blunt fingertips, and I hurry to my station, passing the prepared tray, holding the valve while her sure movements drive the needle home, settling with a ridge in the pale forearm. Clamp, twist, intubate, check and recheck the flow, and Phil's elevated breathing has not so much to do with discomfort. "just a little something to take the edge of the pain." she murmurs, and Phil's hesitant 'not too much' says everything.
He drops his head back on the folded sheet - the same hospital green as the masks and the towels covering the trays.
"clean' Kerry instructs, and that's my role - more antiseptic wipes this time with the long steel tongs that catch the light and send it back at crazy angles, tracing the contours of Phil's ribs, the long dip of his diaphragm, the hollow of his navel, all at a foot removed. His skin is almost waxy, smooth and gleaming.
I move aside, anticipating the "scalpel" that's the next note in this symphony of perfect planning. the one phrase that might take this from wonderful unreal to tv show comedy. She doesn't say it, instead takes the first thin handled blade from the steel tray, and presses the back of it against his ribs. Phil shivers. I think I do too.
"you agree to this?"
Phil nods sharply. Eager. And then the line is traced once more, but this time traced with red. So bright on that pale smooth unreal skin. The deep breath he takes pulls it enough that the beads spill almost immediately.
My head's spinning, that moment of hyper focus that makes everything so much more. The glowing moments where you can almost here the blood flow, smell the steel of the scalpel, see the melody of swirling scents.
Kerry keeps us stable, on path, directing with calm low words. "scalpel" "swab" "scrape" "slide" and for minutes that feel like forever there is only silence and breathing and metal on metal and glass and plastic and skin.
We talked about stitches, about the advisability of me swallowing my lover down while Kerry's needle entered his skin, and for all I knew the reasons, practical and emotional, why I had to stand, my hands sticky inside latex, while pink tinged butterfly strips outlined the cuts, the disappointment still twisted in me. Distant, though, almost like the ghost of a feeling, because everything else was taken up with the mosaic taking shape under her hands - skin and blood and tape, five long lines a ladder on either side of his abs. So very, very beautiful.
Before we leave the clinic, but after Phil has come, shaking inside me as I pull the UV clear to drip slowly onto the floor, Kerry will present us with a pair of sealed glass frames, each holding five iodine-stained slides, scrapings of his skin.
***** ***** *****
13th August 2003
Original fiction by Ephemera written for
agent5, who wanted medical kink fic. ******************
"do you trust me?"
"yes"
It really was that simple, and not even the exaggerated roll of the eyes he gave me could undermine the immediacy and surety of that reply. We were in the car, ostensibly on the way to pick up ice cream and cigarettes. In actual fact I had been planning this for weeks, ever since we met Kerry pretty much, and I have no idea what I'd have done if he'd said no. Not that he would. Do you trust me has been the opening salvo of our play since the beginning.
"good. put this on."
I dropped a blindfold in his lap and made a show of focusing on the road and not looking to make sure he did as he was told. The small sounds of his movements and the sure knowledge that he had were enough to ratcheted the excitement in my belly up a notch. It was an effort of will to drive to the clinic with enough attention on the traffic to be safe.
Kerry took over as soon as we got there, her hands sure and skilled, her voice clipped and level. The same commanding tone to tell me to go and change as to tell Phil to lie back and she'd take care of him. For all he was already reacting to the voice and the webbing straps clipping him to the gurney his fingers lingered on my wrist.
"nothing we haven't already talked about" I reassured him, and then glanced apologetically to Kerry. "sorry sister."
"Your uniform, nurse ramos." was all the forgiveness I was going to get. Something I've always admired about Kerry, the way that nothing shakes her out of a character once the play's begun.
The lights in the corridor were dimmed, most of the side rooms dark and deserted. I'd never asked Kerry how she came to have access to this place, but not even the lilies at the empty receptionist's desk could mask the disinfectant and fear tang in the air. If this was a set someone had worked miracles. The changing area added old sweat and municipal soap to the perfume, the one open locker framing the heavy white nylon of my uniform. Getting dressed was when the nervous excitement started to solidify into arousal, and when I checked myself over in the mirror - crisp, clean, tight packed clothes and green uniform haircloth wiping away all the other traces of self - my cheeks and the base of my neck were starting to pink. I doubt the gloves and mask I found in the scrub room hid that from Kerry. The sound of my throat contracting at the sight of Phil would not have gone unnoticed by either of them.
But what a sight - still blindfolded on the gurney, but naked except for the strip of sheet laid over his hips to preserve whatever modesty he might claim to have. His feet were twisted together, the toes intertwined, but his hands lay loose and open by his sides. Kerry had painted the chemical foam over his chest and belly, and as I approached handed me a single sleek razor.
"prepare him please nurse."
Somehow my breathing, my heartbeat didn't drown out the slow scratch of blade over skin as I shaved him. Small, slow, intimate movements, following the rise and fall of his ribs. Kerry's preparations - steri-pacs ripping open, the chime of steel on steel, the rattle of plastic on plastic - sounded very distant. The sound of the discarded razor falling into the kidney bowl was louder, the drip of water as I wrung out a flannel to rinse off the foam residue, the crinkled packaging of the sterile wipes that followed.
There's something about the sound of rubber wheels on metal flooring that's particular to hospitals, and as Kerry and I moved the gurney, counted three and lifted from the knees and hips, pulling Phil onto the operating table the thin protection of his sheet was doing little to hide his response to the sounds, the scents, the sensations. His fingers found the stainless steel edges of the table, stroking the cool surfaces like the most precious skin.
"IV please" Kerry interrupted the moment, hands firm on Phil's skin, little auras of white around her blunt fingertips, and I hurry to my station, passing the prepared tray, holding the valve while her sure movements drive the needle home, settling with a ridge in the pale forearm. Clamp, twist, intubate, check and recheck the flow, and Phil's elevated breathing has not so much to do with discomfort. "just a little something to take the edge of the pain." she murmurs, and Phil's hesitant 'not too much' says everything.
He drops his head back on the folded sheet - the same hospital green as the masks and the towels covering the trays.
"clean' Kerry instructs, and that's my role - more antiseptic wipes this time with the long steel tongs that catch the light and send it back at crazy angles, tracing the contours of Phil's ribs, the long dip of his diaphragm, the hollow of his navel, all at a foot removed. His skin is almost waxy, smooth and gleaming.
I move aside, anticipating the "scalpel" that's the next note in this symphony of perfect planning. the one phrase that might take this from wonderful unreal to tv show comedy. She doesn't say it, instead takes the first thin handled blade from the steel tray, and presses the back of it against his ribs. Phil shivers. I think I do too.
"you agree to this?"
Phil nods sharply. Eager. And then the line is traced once more, but this time traced with red. So bright on that pale smooth unreal skin. The deep breath he takes pulls it enough that the beads spill almost immediately.
My head's spinning, that moment of hyper focus that makes everything so much more. The glowing moments where you can almost here the blood flow, smell the steel of the scalpel, see the melody of swirling scents.
Kerry keeps us stable, on path, directing with calm low words. "scalpel" "swab" "scrape" "slide" and for minutes that feel like forever there is only silence and breathing and metal on metal and glass and plastic and skin.
We talked about stitches, about the advisability of me swallowing my lover down while Kerry's needle entered his skin, and for all I knew the reasons, practical and emotional, why I had to stand, my hands sticky inside latex, while pink tinged butterfly strips outlined the cuts, the disappointment still twisted in me. Distant, though, almost like the ghost of a feeling, because everything else was taken up with the mosaic taking shape under her hands - skin and blood and tape, five long lines a ladder on either side of his abs. So very, very beautiful.
Before we leave the clinic, but after Phil has come, shaking inside me as I pull the UV clear to drip slowly onto the floor, Kerry will present us with a pair of sealed glass frames, each holding five iodine-stained slides, scrapings of his skin.
***** ***** *****
13th August 2003