Non-con sex. Unconsciousness. Threesome, het and slash sex.
Toward the end there's some philosophy.
If you don't like the first chapter, you won't like the rest.
Contains opinions, assumptions and situations that some might find offensive.
Medical issues are based on my experience with frostbite, information from the internet, and common
sense. They are pretty much correct, but I have ignored a thing or two. It is, however, a whole lot more accurate than "Forever Young."
This is entirely written, so you don't need to worry about whether it gets finished.
while I certainly appreciate that not everyone gives feedback to every chapter (including me), if I don't get much of any positive feedback, I will probably lose interest in posting.
Rated: Series: NC-17, Chapter 5: R
Type: RP het/slash
Disclaimer: This is fiction. And not intended even to be wise. While some of these characters may be based on real people, I don't personally know them. I made it all up out of my perverted little head.
No, I don't make any money at this.
Archive: No, please.
Feedback: Please feed me. Praise is lovely. Constructive criticism is valued. If you find nothing of value in it, though, please don't bother telling me. You wouldn't be the first person.
Thanks to the very perceptive elfellon111 for beta!
Ellen arranged for the pan of water to be exactly 82 degrees, waited for the towel change, cycled through her checks and services, then locked the door. She soaked her arm a long time, wanting to be sure of her results, then dried her arm quickly and went to him.
Her attitude now was markedly different than before. Hours ago, it had seemed that this should be done by someone who didn’t know him, didn’t care beyond nursing the sick. Now, accustomed to his nakedness, it seemed irreverent to treat him like a lump of clay, an anonymous body. So it was with loving awareness of every detail that she spread his legs, bent his knees, moved in close to him. Her body didn’t betray her this time as she inserted her finger, but she still watched in fascination as it disappeared inside him. She closed her eyes to concentrate on temperature. Warmer. Just slightly warmer than her finger. For sure? Not just wishful thinking? After considering a moment, she changed fingers. Out, in. God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Again closed her eyes to concentrate. Definitely warmer. Removed her finger, covered him, went to wash before talking with Mary.
“Guestroom is at least 82,” she said.
“Oh, good. Now that’s past where fibrillation is most likely, right? Have you gotten a pulse yet?”
“No. That worries me, but I’m not good at it.”
“Maybe I should come check?”
“Maybe. But he is warming, so I suppose he’s all right. But how would I know if his heart was in trouble?”
“Don’t worry about it yet, I think.” Mary picked up Dom’s wrist and probed it thoroughly.
Bob came in with the warm towel, and Mary arranged it, and passed off the cool one. “I need the pan of water,” she told him. “Exactly 80 degrees.”
“I read once about a plane crash,” Ellen mused. “They all survived the crash itself, but the mother and two older sons froze to death before they were found. The father was alive, but died of a heart attack at the hospital. Knowing what I know now, they probably moved him too much or warmed him too fast.”
“Or allowed him to move too much.” Mary looked at her friend quizzically. “You know an awful lot about freezing.”
“It just kind of fascinates me. How much cold the body can take and still come back from it. I’ve read a lot of Reader’s Digest stories about it. You know, the Drama in Real Life articles.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t read that.”
“I always find them interesting. But anyhow, I’m thinking about that family - the father was conscious but slow when they found him. So again with what I know now, maybe about 85 degrees.
“Wait a minute. You’re saying that he was conscious but died anyway? You’re saying that they can be warmer than this magic 82 degrees and still die?”
“Well, yeah, but like I said, that would be from moving too much.”
“What you’re really saying is that we can’t rule out fibrillation until they’re really warm.”
“Uh, yeah. I guess.”
Mary sighed. “Keep track then. If he goes into fibrillation, the only way to know is that the pulse stops. Or flutters.”
The knock at the door. Mary accepted the pan of water from Bob, set it on her dresser, and soaked her hand.
“I’m thinking of moving the thermostat up to 90, and have the towels at 90 now.”
“It may not be so good for this one to have it that warm.”
“Maybe 85,” she compromised. “But I doubt it’s really going to make a huge difference.” She looked at Dom, lying there so helpless, his face incredibly sweet in it’s unconscious state, and found it in her heart to wish the best for him. But ..., “But if we have to choose things like that, I say choose in favor of the one more likely to make it.”
“I guess you’re right.” Mary was in the process of drying her arm, “But there’s something about him,” she said. “Something, somehow special.”
Ellen pursed her lips. Was this an answer to her earlier question? She watched as Mary casually flipped Dom’s blanket off; held her breath as her friend dispassionately probed Dom’s anus.
“You wouldn’t be getting attached, now would you?”
“You know how I am. Anyway, look who’s talking.” Mary withdrew her finger. “Not 80 degrees yet.” Tenderly, with her clean hand, she stroked her patient’s cheek.
Ellen laughed shortly. “Okay. We’re a pair of hopeless cases.”
Mary grinned self-deprecatingly. “Let’s go see if we can find a pulse on yours yet.”
They crossed back over to the guest room, and Mary picked up Elijah’s hand and felt his wrist. “Feel right here.”
Ellen placed her fingers gingerly where instructed. “Feel that?” Mary asked.
“Hmm...” Mary reached over to his neck. “It’s stronger here. See if you can find this.”
Ellen touched his throat where instructed. “No.”
“Press harder. You won’t feel it on the skin.”
Finally, there was a sudden flutter beneath her fingertips. Her heart turned over. “I can feel it,” she breathed.
Finding a pulse made her feel more positive. He was warming, and the blood was moving. It seemed a good time to try water. Another two or three drops in the eyedropper, she laid her hand on his neck to be sure to detect any action, and squeezed the liquid into his mouth. And was rewarded at last by a slight movement in the throat. After that, she added a dropper of water to the cycle.
Towel, breath, pulse, breath.
Sleepy now, she took to lying down beside him for the three minutes she had free between cycles. Drowsing, jumping back to full alertness with the knock on the door.
Cycle. Towel, breath, pulse, water, breath. He began to feel really alive. The faint movements in his neck - pulse and swallowing - she felt with fascination. She considered whether she should check temperature again. Earlier she had calculated that he could be as warm as 85 degrees by 3:30, and she fought with herself over whether it was necessary to check. The fact was that she wanted to check, and that set off little alarm signals. He isn’t mine to use that way. He was sick, helpless, in mortal danger. And her body craved him. In the end she decided not to, simply because she had no way of knowing when he might come to. And she greatly feared the result if he came to during her illicit exploration of him.
But he was getting warmer now. All she had to do was follow the procedures she had established, procedures that were working. More water though. A glance at the glass told what a pitiful amount she had managed to get down him so far. What about more breath? She was anxious to push - to escalate the warming, to make him well. But she remembered too clearly the consequences of pushing Becky into early accomplishment - too early with foods, too early with toilet training, and with reading. Each time there had been a consequence. The consequences of pushing too fast now were too awful to risk. She accepted a towel, cycled through her procedures, and went to talk with Mary.
“I’m thinking about breath – increasing to two puffs at a time,” she said.
“Well, he should be past the greatest likelihood of fibrillation now. The other dangers are things we can’t do anything about, like pneumonia and organ damage.”
“So go for it?”
“I think so.”
“How about this one?”
“He’s just barely 80,” Mary told her. “I don’t want to push him.”
“Well, he is older. Handbook stresses that the younger the better. How’s his pulse?”
“I’ve watched it pretty closely. So far, so good.”
“I’m so glad you ended up with the difficult one.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“You’re welcome. But you’re more experienced and more patient. Is he swallowing water yet?”
“I haven’t tried for a while.” Mary vacuumed up a couple drops into the dropper, squeezed into Dom’s mouth. There was some reaction, though it didn’t look like a full swallow.
“I’m going to increase the amount I’m giving, now that he’s swallowing well.”
Mary considered that only a moment. “Yes, you probably should on yours. I’m not going to try it here yet.”
Cycle. Towel (ask Becky to check the room temperature), breath (two puffs), pulse (stronger - or was she just getting better at feeling it?), breath, water (increasing to 3 droppers each time now), don’t forget a prayer, stroke down his body, lay down beside him for a quick nap, resisting wrapping an arm around him.
Cycle. “Eighty-four, Mom.”
“Thanks, Becky. Umm.... Are you doing the towel water at 90 degrees for bedroom, too?”
“Yes. For quite a while now.”
“Ask Mary if we should go to 95.”
An unexpected flash of motion at his crotch arrested her attention. Between amusement and fascination, she watched a stream of urine cascade across his groin, flow down between his legs. Water in, water out, she thought wryly. She pretended that another thought hadn’t occurred to her: another excuse to get intimate.
She left the room to gather materials: two clean dry towels, paper towels and a couple Kleenix, a wash cloth dipped in the warm water in the kitchen. Susan was there, squeezing out a towel. “What...”
“Some things need to be cleaned up.” Ellen enjoyed watching the woman squirm. Went back to the guestroom.
She started with his belly, drying with the paper towels, thoroughly drying with the Kleenix, covering only a few square inches at a time, so that evaporation would have no chance to plunder heat. The penis, the testicles, massaging and petting as much as simply washing. Bending his knees up, removing the soiled towel, washing every area that might have been wetted. Drying carefully, placing the dry towel.
Rocked back on her heels. God, how much she wanted to stretch herself out against his length, feel his body next to hers. She wrapped the other towel firmly around his hips and between his legs to eliminate evaporation of any moisture she may have missed, then took the wet towel to the bathroom and hunted up Becky.
“Sorry to do this to you, daughter, but there are only a couple towels left, and we can’t keep any out of circulation. his needs to be washed and dried as quickly as possible. Think of it as practice for having a baby.”
“I’ll use disposables, Mom, when it comes to that.”
“Yeah, well, I wish we had some.”
Cycle. She went over his fingernails again, pushing the softened cuticle back gently.
Cycle. Started with the body lotion again, just as an excuse for intimacy, telling herself that more aloe was better.
It felt like she had always been here. An extension of his body. Her body, her mind, her soul, existing only to fill his needs. It was like having a baby, connectedness, no difference between her and Other, no interest in the world except where it benefitted her beloved.
Cycle. Discovered that room temperature had managed to climb to 86.
Cycle. Decided that since he was probably now warmer than the room was going to get, she should leave the blanket on. She tucked it in closely around him.