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On the battlefield, during training, and in strategy meetings, Fareeha very much enjoys being in control. When lives are at stake—when her life is at stake, and the lives of her friends and family are, as well—there is not a thing she would leave to chance, and not a chance she would trust someone else to better call the shots, when it comes to her area of expertise. One might think, knowing her professionally, that the same applied to all aspects of her life, but such could, frankly, not be further from the truth. There is, at times, something to be said for the ability to relax, and allow someone else to take control, to not worry about the consequences of her decisions, and just to be.
Or, that is how she might justify it, if she ever felt the need to.
The fact of the matter is, few of Fareeha's sexual partners have ever questioned her inclinations. Usually, her tendency to switch means that such conversations are avoided, and even when it does come up, most women accept her shrugging it off—after all, she is aware that to many, she does not seem the type who thinks too deeply about such things.
Of course, that could not be further from the truth. Fareeha not only thinks, but overthinks, all things in her life. Yes, being a soldier calls for quick decision making, at times, but when she is given the luxury of time Fareeha indulges in exploring all avenues of possibility before settling upon a course of action. Such thinking has, in fact, brought her to the point at which she stands right now—or, rather, sits—Angela across from her over a nice dinner.
(Angela knows, of course, how much Fareeha overthinks things, knows, by now, the arduous process of her decision making. They are alike, in this way. Neither of them often has the luxury to the second guess, on the job, so off of it, even decisions like buying a new couch can take them weeks.)
If Angela thought this were an impulsive suggestion, Fareeha knows, she would never go along with it; Fareeha is, often, far more adventurous than Angela, and more experienced to boot, and while, ultimately, she has yet to receive a hard no from Angela, she knows better than to spring this on her in the bedroom, knows that if she proposes it this way, the same habit of second guessing which has left the two of them without a couch for over a month and half now might swing this in her favor.
So, she makes it clear that this has been planned for some time, and explains it in such a way that it is plain she has experience—she knows what, exactly, she wants, knows what she is getting into, and knows how to express this to Angela in such a way that, using this method, she has yet to get a worse result than "I'll have to consider it."
(In truth, she does not yet have a definitive answer to that question yet, either, but she is relatively certain, if the search Angela accidentally left up on her holopad is any indication, it will be a yes, sooner or later.)
That Angela's answer is so swift and definitive, then, comes as a shock to Fareeha.
"I'm sorry," says she, "Could you repeat that?"
"No," repeats Angela, looking up from her quiche to make direct eye contact with Fareeha. "Absolutely out of the question."
Oh, thinks Fareeha, and tries not to look too put out. She respects Angela's boundaries well enough not to try and convince her otherwise but she is curious, still, "May I ask why?"
"It's too dangerous," says Angela, and takes another bite of her quiche, "I know there is a best practice, ways of limiting risk but—it is always a risk. I spend all day with other people's life in my hands, I'd rather that didn't follow me into the bedroom, thank you. Especially not literally."
"Ah," says Fareeha, and does not add anything more, because she was not, in truth, prepared for this result, and is not quite sure what to say in the face of an outright rejection.
"It's not that I don't see the appeal," Angela adds, after having had a sip of wine and wiped her mouth, apparently done with their meal, "Because I do—physiologically, at least. I just don't think I could relax enough to enjoy doing that to you."
"Understandable," Fareeha says, because she can think of little else to say, and it does make sense, really. "Would you like me to get your plate?"
"Please," replies Angela, and that is that.
(Or, so Fareeha thinks.)
Weeks later, the two of them relaxing in a post-coital haze, when the conversation all but forgotten by Fareeha, Angela broaches the subject again.
"I've been thinking," Angela says, running a finger in the valley between Fareeha's breasts.
"Damn," says Fareeha, "And here I thought I did a good enough job to stop you from doing that, just for a little while."
"Hush!" Angela laughs, and swats at her shoulder. "You were excellent, as ever, that isn't what this is about."
"Even worse!" Fareeha teases, "I'm here naked in front of you, and you aren't even thinking about sex."
"Please, Fareeha," Angela's tone is chiding, but her eyes sparkle with amusement, "If you would just listen I think you might appreciate what it is I have to say."
"In that case," Fareeha says, a hand moving to brush back a lock of hair obscuring Angela's face, "I'm all ears."
"It's about the—" Angela falters, as if thinking of the word for it, "breathplay."
Of all of the things Fareeha might have expected Angela to have been thinking about, this, certainly, was not it. After their initial conversation, and Angela's flat rejection, she assumed—incorrectly, it seems—that it would be quite out of the question.
"So you'd be willing to..." she dares not say it directly, lest she be misunderstanding somehow.
"Well, I still won't choke you," Angela replies, "But I've looked into it and we have... other options. To a similar effect. I don't know what it is about this that you enjoy, specifically, so I can't say for sure but—they might be to your liking."
"That's—more than I was expecting, to say the least."
"Yes, well, I suppose I am full of surprises tonight," Angela smirks.
"Angela," Fareeha whines. The surprise—both of them—had been very good, but Fareeha is far more focused on the topic at hand right now, rather than her partner's teasing.
"Turnabout is fair play, Fareeha Amari."
Well, Fareeha will show her turnabout, she thinks, rolling Angela onto her back and peppering her with kisses.
They can work out the specifics of what will be involved in the decidedly non-choking breathplay later, outside of the bedroom, where such negotiations belong. For now, Fareeha has other, equally pleasurable things on the mind.
They meet again over dinner—this time, it is Angela's doing, and they are out for a picnic in the gardens, waiting for some meteor shower or another which Angela insists will be lovely this year. Despite having the advantage of being Swiss, and having grown up in the Alps, Angela has claimed she is cold, and is curled underneath one of Fareeha's arms, ostensibly for "warmth."
(Fareeha suspects that in reality Angela just wants an excuse to use one of her breasts as a pillow, but far be it from her to complain.)
"I think breath control may be the way to go," says Angela, with absolutely no lead in whatsoever.
Having been in a relationship with Angela for more than two years now, Fareeha is used to such non sequiturs, and has been guilty of a few of them herself, but she still finds herself surprised by this one.
"Anything in particular that prompted this line of thought?" Fareeha asks her, genuinely curious, yes, but also stalling for time as she considers how to respond to Angela's proposal.
"I can feel you breathing," says Angela, "It's nice—steady. I like to listen to it, when I can, knowing that—that you're here, you know?"
Fareeha does not really know what to say to that, either, still is not comfortable, oftentimes, with addressing the way Angela's anxiety about her mortality manifests, is not sure what is safe to say, and what will make things worse.
So, instead of saying anything at all on the matter, Fareeha jokes, "Oh, steady, am I? That's very flattering. Just what everyone wants to hear from a beautiful woman."
Fareeha cannot see to be certain, but if she knows Angela—and she would like to think that she does—her eyes are definitely rolling right now. "Yes, yes, you're handsome, too, and beautiful, majestic, even. Does that satisfy you, Schäri?"
"It will do," replies Fareeha, feigning haughtiness for a moment.
"It will have to," a pause, and then, "But returning to the subject of my... counter proposal. Will it, too be sufficient?"
"Probably...?" Fareeha answers, "But I've never actually tried it so I don't actually know."
Angela hmms in reply, and whatever more she might have said is forgotten in the wake of the first meteor, burning across the sky.
When Angela kisses her, a few nights later, having pre-negotiated and pre-scripted everything, Fareeha still finds it a bit hard to relinquish control. Normally, it is easy enough for her to do, easy for her to allow herself some measure of vulnerability in front of Angela—they have come that far by now, at least—but knowing what is to come, a part of her still fights it.
To be vulnerable is one thing, and is hard enough, after years spent ever-watchful of slip-ups, lest the slightest hint of weakness be used against her as proof positive that she is not—will never be—her mother. To be afraid is another, and that is what Fareeha knows she will feel, at some point during this scene: fear. Not because she does not trust Angela; on the contrary, Fareeha finally feels as if she can allow herself to be truly afraid in front of Angela, can allow herself to finally let her guard down after years spent building it up, keeping everyone out. Still, to be afraid in front of someone, to allow oneself to be overcome, even if only for a moment, by pure instinct, is something that is difficult.
(But, Fareeha thinks, if she can do this, if she can overcome this one final hurdle, then perhaps she can better discuss her other fears with Angela, can open a dialogue about the thoughts that plague both of them. If she can do this, can brush with death on her own terms, perhaps they can both learn to accept the reality of it, and begin to move forward.)
So she surrenders, allows herself to relax and be led, as Angela pushes her backwards towards the bed, only breaking hard kisses to strip her clothing. Angela's hands are as strong and steady as ever, and Fareeha thinks, for a moment, of the times she has imagined those hands around her neck—that will not happen tonight, of course, or ever, but it does not hurt to picture it, helps her get into the mindset she wishes to be in, as Angela, clad only in a set of her black lingerie, pushes her back onto the edge of the bed and straddles her.
From there it is easier and easier to lose herself in the moment, to give herself over to Angela, if only for a little while, and to not have to think about anything.
Anything except, that is, the feeling of Angela's breasts pressed to hers, the hot breath brushing against the shell of her ear, the way Angela runs a finger over her neck, to tease her, a hint at what she truly wants. Against the cool air of their room, Fareeha shivers.
"Please," she asks, because there is no shame in asking, because the way she says it borders on a request and certainly never, never approaches begging.
"Not yet," says Angela, a whisper against the shell of her ear, before sharp teeth nip at the lobe. "Be patient. You've waited this long, haven't you?"
Fareeha nods in response, cheek brushing against Angela's as she does so.
"Good girl," replies Angela, and Fareeha feels the flush on her cheeks deepen in a way that is not unpleasant in response to the words, a blush spreading down to her chest. This, too, is something Fareeha has asked Angela to do: to praise, on occasion, and this, at least, Angela understands, and is more than willing to indulge—so long as Fareeha will continue to do the same for her, when they find their roles reversed.
"Now move to the center of the bed and lay back," Angela orders, moving off of Fareeha to make it easier.
Eagerly, she complies, brings herself to where the pillows have been laid out already, spreads her legs, and gives Angela her best sultry smile.
"Beautiful," whispers Angela. "Now, hold your breath for three seconds at a time."
Fareeha complies, knowing that this is only the warm up, as Angela trails two fingers from the tip of Fareeha's chin all the way down to the bottom of her ribcage in one long slow motion, again, and again. At the same time, Angela brings a knee to brush against Fareeha's center, close enough that she can feel it, just barely, but not nearly close enough to provide any pressure, and puts her other hand to Fareeha's right breast, fingers spiraling ever closer to the tip, lightly skimming Fareeha's areola before spiraling back outwards, teasing still.
When Angela brings her left hand back to Fareeha's throat for what feels like the thousandth time, repeating the same long stroke as before, she feels herself let out a whine, breaking the cycle of her breathing. It is intentional, for the most part, the punishment for doing such predetermined. It will move things forward, will free Fareeha from this cycle of waiting, wanting. Patience has never been one of Fareeha's virtues, and it is all she can do not to demand that they move forwards.
At the noise, Angela chuckles, tells her, "Five seconds," before shifting downwards, like Fareeha wants, the hand which was at her throat not stopping, this time, at the end of her ribs, but continuing downwards, over Fareeha's ticklish stomach—which elicits a squirm—and brushing just at the edge of Fareeha's pelvis. Angela is close to where Fareeha wants her, so very close, but at the last moment she brings her hand upwards to touch herself, instead, drawing across her own clit in tight circles and releasing a gasp which Fareeha is sure is entirely genuine.
This time, when Fareeha finds herself whining at the sight, it is entirely unintentional.
"Seven seconds," Angela orders her, voice slightly more breathless than before. To hold her breath for seven seconds is not difficult for Fareeha, does not yet push the boundary of what she can and cannot manage to keep regular, but still, she knows that she is quickly approaching the point at which the restriction becomes pleasurable not by virtue of being an order, but by its own merit.
A breath in. Angela moves her other hand off of Fareeha, drags it up her own body to tweak at one of her breasts.
A breath out.
Above her, Angela's own breathing is irregular, in contrast to her own, and quickening.
A breath in.
When Angela bites at her lip, Fareeha does the same, breathing only through her nose for now.
A breath out.
Angela's hand speeds up, and her brow furrows ever so slightly, eyes drifting closed in concentration.
A breath in.
Fareeha wants so badly to reach out, to remove her hands from where they grasp the headboard and touch her lover, but they agreed she would be still.
A breath out.
A compromise, between her wish to be tied up and Angela's desire that she not be restricted, the first time that they try this.
A breath in.
Angela's hips are rocking against her hand, and Fareeha has to focus very hard not to do the same against Angela's knee.
A breath out.
If she were to move, Angela might stop, and Fareeha does not want that, wants to see this through to the end.
A breath in.
A small whimper escapes Angela, and Fareeha has to fight to maintain the pace of her breathing in response.
A breath out.
Angela tosses her head back, her hips bucking, and what Fareeha cannot slow is the beating of her heart in response.
A breath in.
A satisfied, breathy sigh slips through Angela's lips, and Fareeha cannot help the slight groan she makes in response as Angela slumps back onto her haunches, wet core seated squarely on Fareeha's thigh.
A breath out.
"Nine seconds," says Angela, "Don't think I missed that."
A breath in.
Angela takes a moment to collect herself, and then brings a still sticky hand between Fareeha's own legs, and Fareeha—damn her instincts—gasps in response, unable to stop herself.
A breath out.
"Now you'll have to breathe when I tell you," Angela says, clicking her tongue, "Seeing as you can't be trusted to follow instructions," and oh now comes the challenge.
"Breathe for me."
A breath in.
Clever fingers flick across her clit, never fully withdrawing, teasing her with not-quite enough friction. At the same time, Angela moves to drape her body across Fareeha's torso, braces herself with a free hand, and brings her mouth to kiss and suck along Fareeha's still throat.
"And release it."
A breath out.
A bit of sweat trails down her skin, and her skin feels as if it were burning. If she could only draw more full breaths, she could cool down a bit, if she could breathe clearly this would not be so suffocating—but this is what she wants.
"Breathe again."
A breath in.
Heat and light and dizziness, and she is floating, floating, not sure where Angela's body on her ends and begins. Her lungs are full to bursting, and Angela shifts her hand to move inside her and now the feeling of fullness spreads.
"Release it."
A breath out.
"There's a good girl," says Angela, and oh Fareeha's heart could burst from the feeling, feels like it may anyway, with how fast it is beating, between the lack of oxygen and arousal. When Angela's fingers curl, she rocks against them, powerless to stop herself.
"Breathe."
A breath in.
Arousal curls in Fareeha's stomach, hot and tight, the throbbing in her clit matched only by the pounding in her head. Dimly, she is aware of her hands clenching and unclenching against the headboard, of the tightening in her thighs, the arching of her back.
"Release."
Air rushes out of Fareeha, and she pants, trying to catch her breath before—
"Breathe," says Angela, before Fareeha has a chance to collect herself.
A breath in.
"Well done," Angela coos, and Fareeha is so, so close.
A shiver moves up her spine, her shoulders jerking—fear, or arousal, she is not sure. A part of her wants to breathe, but the rest wants to follow orders, to be good, and so she stays still as she can. The choice is not hers to make, does not have to be, not here and now. She can trust Angela with this, can trust Angela with her life.
"Release."
She gasps once, twice, and then—
"Breathe," again, too soon, and she is not sure how much longer she can manage this, taking in so little breath at a time. Her head is spinning, now, and she is seeing black, and she wants to breathe, but she also wants to be good for Angela, does not want to disappoint her, so she keeps holding it in, feels the burning in her chest, and in the pit of the stomach.
"Now," whispers Angela, having moved her mouth from Fareeha's neck and back to her ear, "Let go for me."
A breath out, and Fareeha does, vision going black, then white, her whole body shaking as she gasps for breath, hips rocking and toes curling. In that moment, she feels both overcome by the sensation of her body and beyond it, as if, somehow, she were something more.
And then, abruptly as it began, it ends, and she is lying underneath Angela, still gasping for breath, as Angela toys with one of the beads in her hair.
"I'm proud of you, Fareeha," says Angela, shifting so she is lying by Fareeha's side, "You did beautifully."
Fareeha hums, content to just revel in the sensation for a moment longer, skin cooling in the places where the sweat has stuck to her body bringing a welcome relief from the heat of moments before.
She brings Angela's hand from her hair and to her heart, so she can feel it as it begins to slow to its normal pace, can feel the rise and fall of Fareeha's—now even—breathing.
"I love you," says she, and means I trust you, here and anywhere, with this, and with anything. "More than I can say."
"I know," says Angela, kissing her temple, "I love you too."
They lapse into silence, and Fareeha thinks that perhaps this was not what she asked for, but, in some ways, it has been more than.