An 18+ fanfiction by an author under the pseudonym of Mary Dalton, republished with her permission.
Still Here
A short scene with Annie Sprinkle
The low evening light in the small Oakland apartment softened every edge. Annie had kicked off her boots and still wore the loose linen shirt from the workshop. Mara sat on the rug, watching her the way you watch someone you have learned to trust with the parts that matter most.
“I want the rope tonight,” Annie said. “Wrists only. Not too tight. I need your eyes on me the whole time. If I look away, you stop. And if my breathing changes in that way you know, you ask before you go further.”
Mara nodded. “Green for go, yellow for slow, red for everything stops. I will check in with my voice before any new pressure. Anything else you need named?”
“If I start floating too far, pull me back with your voice. Not your hands. Just talk. I want to stay inside my body with you.”
They both breathed in. The agreement settled between them like a third presence, something they had built together.
Mara took the soft jute. She sat behind Annie, knees touching. First she ran the rope across Annie’s open palms so she could feel the texture. Then she began. Slow wraps around the wrists, never cinching, only holding. Every pass she checked the color in Annie’s fingers and the rise of her chest.
“Still with me?”
“Still here. I can feel how careful you are. The care itself is doing something to me.”
The vulnerability sat unguarded between them. Mara did not rush to fill it. She rested her forehead against Annie’s shoulder until Annie’s body softened. Agency moved both ways: Annie named the limits, Mara chose how to honor them, and both kept listening.
When the wrists rested bound, Mara moved to face her. One hand stayed over the knot. With the other she traced Annie’s collarbone, then lower, mapping what opened and what held back. Annie’s eyes never left hers. The room narrowed to that single line of attention.
Annie’s breath hitched. Mara went still.
“Yellow.”
Mara’s hands stayed but made no further demand. “I’ve got you. Nowhere else to be. Tell me what you need.”
“Just stay. Keep looking at me.”
They stayed until Annie’s shoulders dropped and the word returned: “Green.”
Only then did Mara continue, slower still, letting every touch ask and every answer shape the next moment. Power moved in small exchanges. Annie offered the quiet of her bound wrists. Mara offered the steadiness of her gaze and the refusal to take more than was given. Care became the temperature of the room. This was not spectacle. It was the practice of staying present while desire and limit spoke in the same breath.
When it was enough, Mara loosened the rope. She rubbed the faint marks, pressed her palms to Annie’s pulse, then simply held her. Annie’s forehead found the curve of Mara’s neck.
“Thank you for staying with me. For treating the negotiation as part of the wanting.”
Mara’s answer was almost too quiet. “Always. That is the point of us.”
Outside the city kept moving. Inside the negotiation still lived between their bodies, clear, imperfect, and chosen again.