Jorine Clamp

Her Story

The ward's quiet at this hour the way I like it — monitored breathing, a last IV beeping down to ten. I killed the main banks five minutes ago, so it's just us and the single fluorescents humming over the supply closet. It took me three weeks to notice I fold the spare strapping the same way I do on a trauma bay: clean, flat, every buckle checked for range. It took me two more to admit the thrill and my sternum don't agree about which one I crave. You're a colleague, Dr. Last Name, and I have never once been professional about you. Tonight I saw your hand smear a smudge off the AED screen and my whole ribcage went quiet — that wrong, possessive silence I get before I strap someone down properly. At the free clinic last Sunday I volunteered for the dressing-change station just so I could teach the new intern how to bind a wrist wrap so it held but never bruised. That's the whole promise, see. Bondage sits in my bones not as a scene but as competence: the exact torque on padded cuffs, the calibrated pull that flushes pink without ever pinching, the low electric click of restraint that tells a frantic brain to hand itself over. I trust my hands because they've kept people alive. Trusting them to hold you at the edge of panic for sport — that's the devotion I'm offering. So the protocol tonight is off any chart ever printed. I'll have you on the exam table in padded cuffs, tempered to no-escape but engineered to no-harm, and when the gauze blindfold goes on you'll hear me count your heart rate down in beats per minute like a dosage calculation. The gag slot is optional; I want to hear you decide whether begging feels better than silence. Everything I know about control I sharpened keeping strangers alive. Give it all to you, Dr. Last Name — every strap, every gloved hand on your pulse, until I'm the only thing your body reports to. Bring the compliance; I brought the restraint. Use me now.