Facilitating by Lady Axelle

                        by Axelle Paramour

I watch as the hands of the clock rhythmically tick by, counting the small increments of time.

Forty two,
forty three,
forty four,
forty five,
forty six,
forty seven,
forty eight,
forty nine,
fifty.
Fifty one,
fifty two…

It’s here where I feel the first bit of resistance. This is not her first time, so she has managed to remain relatively calm 'til now. I tighten my grip on her hair and brace myself, leaning in a bit, using my body as leverage. I can imagine the burning in her chest has crept in, setting off those instinctual commands to her nervous system, releasing the chemicals one needs to fight for their life. But therein lies the rub, because what she stands to fight isn't an opponent, but herself.

On paper I’m a Dominant, but more than anything I consider myself a Facilitator. I help guide and lead my submissive through moments like this, these moments of panic and euphoria. These small brushes with death. She begins to violently shake her head under the water and buck against the restraints. I look to her hands, all splayed out and wiggling, like a dancing starfish. The thought makes me chuckle and I give her behind a swat.

There’s a certain point when one is being held underwater that the instinct to close your eyes fades away and you lids fly ajar. When I’m able, I like to position myself so I can witness this, even for the briefest of glances. And it comes. I watch as her face unclenches, her brows smooth, her eyes open so wide that they become the entirety of her face. This is always my favorite part: the part that lifts me from the mortal plain when I become transcendent.

That look of fear, of sheer and utter horror. I have to remind myself to breathe sometimes. When her vision finds mine there’s a flicker of stillness and I know she’s clawing at her will, trying desperately to please me. The effect only propels me upwards, the power becoming intoxicating. This only lasts so long before she loses out to that innate human desire to live. Her mouth opens and I hear the tell tale sound of bubbles rising to the surface, her fight begins to wean and her struggle becomes less.

Eighty nine,
ninety,
ninety one,
ninety two.

I look to her hands. I’m reminded they say that your heart is the size of your fist just then, because of how true it seems. Clenched this way, shuddering from the adrenaline, her hands look as if they could pump blood.

I pull on the harness that covers her chest, closing my eyes to savour the sound of her lungs gasping for air, it’s sharp and sudden intake. Her body teeters back over the side of the clawfoot tub as water cascades everywhere. Her ribs billow and collapse with breath as I carefully cut away at the ties. I run my fingers through her dripping hair as she coughs and spit up water, small coos and reassuring murmurs escaping from me.

When the room is hushed and our breathing becomes the same, I slip out of my heels and kneel across from her. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't see me, lost in her own serenity. The contentment painted across her face helps quell the rising fear in me; I scoot back a bit and lay my head in her lap anyway. She strokes my hair idly, knowing I need this small act of reassurance. We hold this space for far longer than the actual scene that has taken place.  We bask in our own little worlds. Separate, but together.