It’s her designated night alone. Jason is at Alan’s every Wednesday and Elinor will no doubt be off partying into the early hours, and even if she wanted to see her Serena would arrange for her to come another night. Tonight, she wants to spend alone.
The moment she walks through the door she feels the tension start to lift; the pressure in her shoulders leaving her as she shucks the coat from her arms, as soon as she pulls off her scarf.
Pulling out the leftovers from last night from the fridge and putting it into the microwave, she allows herself to think briefly of Bernie. She almost regrets being so harsh on her about Jason, and Serena hardly ever regrets anything she says.
If this microwave could just hurry the fuck up, she thinks. She’s hungry, but she’s also incredibly horny, something she can thinks she can put down to hormones, for now. She just about resists the urge to turn off the microwave and take care of the mess that is no doubt in her knickers and have dinner later, but then she registers that the microwave is beeping, signalling it’s finished.
“Thank god,” she mumbles to herself, pulling out the risotto and grabbing a fork from the drawer. Every time she takes a step towards the stools at the kitchen island, her clit throbs, and when she sits down, the seam of her pants provide just a modicum of the pressure she wants – needs.
The risotto is just as good as it was yesterday, but she barely tastes it in her haste to finish dinner, and she leaves her bowl and fork on the island (something Jason would despise.)
Two stairs at a time is quicker, and she’s found from previous nights like this that it rubs her clit just that little bit more. She shuts the bedroom door behind her, leans back against it and breathes a deep breath out. She knows it will only take a few strokes of her clit to get her off, she’s been so desperate for this since she gave Bernie that massage earlier, but that’s not something she wants to think about now. No. Now, she shucks her blouse and singlet, then shimmies her pants down her legs until she’s left in her underwear. She takes off her bra next, then knickers, and she slides naked under her duvet, her right hand going straight to her clit, with no hesitation. Her clit is so sensitive, and she is so wet, and it’s almost too much, but her need for pleasure overcomes her, and with a few hard strokes of her clit she comes, harder than she can ever remember coming before, and before she knows it she’s stroking her clit again and then coming again, this time coating her fingers and no doubt her sheets with wetness.
Normally, one or two orgasms would be enough, but today something is different, and her mind fleets to blonde hair and toned muscles before she can stop herself.
No one will know, she tells herself as she pulls her vibrator out from her bedside table. No one will know you got yourself off thinking of Bernie Wolfe.
And during her third orgasm of the night, with a vibrator inside her and her own fingers rubbing her clit, she finds herself thinking of Bernie.
The trauma unit has just opened, and as chaotic as the ward is, she finds herself wanting just a few minutes to slip into the bathroom and get herself off. It’s just the way Bernie was looking at her when Henrick was speaking about the trauma unit, she feels flushed just thinking about it.
She thinks this is the most stressed she has been in a long time, with Jason and Celia and the board and the trauma unit, but she just can't help the feeling that she needs an orgasm, maybe six. The ward is too busy though, she can't just slip into the bathroom, and she’d probably feel eternally guilty for masturbating in the hospital if she did, so she decides to wait until tonight, to wait until she gets home and can be in the comfort of her own bed.
If she thought the looks Bernie was giving her in the trauma unit were bad, she has another thing coming. She thinks she might actually come in her pants, in the middle of Albie’s, with her nephew sitting next to her. Bernie must know exactly what she’s doing to her, exactly what reaction those looks she’s giving her over her glass of wine are getting. She’s so desperate to either drag Bernie into the bathroom and well and truly fuck her, or just drag her sorry arse there and get herself off.
“Now that was you Serena, I just, lit the touchpaper.” The way Bernie’s lips close around the words have her fighting to keep her hands to herself, and with Jason nagging to hurry up before the fish and chip shop closes she wants to scream, though out of arousal or something else she doesn’t fully know.
“I’ve got a bit of a headache Jason, I think I had a little too much wine, I’m off to bed,” she says, patting him on the shoulder as not to distract him too much from his episode of Countdown and his leftover chips.
She does not, however, have a headache. The only ache she has is the persistent throbbing of her clit. Once she’s up the stairs and in her bedroom with the door firmly shut, she wastes no time in shucking her clothes and slipping naked into bed. She’ll have to be quiet, Jason is just downstairs and it won’t be long before he too comes up for bed.
She half-expects to have to stroke herself wet, at least partly, but as she slides her fingers over her clit and through her folds she finds herself swollen and soaking. She feels eternally guilty for it, that she’s using Bernie, her best friend, in the way that she is, imagining her over her, in her, kissing her, touching her. But it’s the only thing that’s worked for the past few months. She’s tried fantasies about men, she’s tried erotic literature, she’s even, much to her distaste, tried porn. Nothing is getting her wet enough anymore other than thinking of Bernie.
She sinks three fingers deep into herself without hesitancy, curling them and arching her back at the delightful stretch. She imagines Bernie using her fingers on her, in her, and finds herself close to the edge. She imagines Bernie using her tongue on her, in her, and finds herself falling, crashing, over the edge, bucking her hips and contracting around her fingers.
She keeps going with one hand inside of herself and brings the other one to her nipples and pinches hard, tugs them enough to make them stand to firm peaks and enough to make them hurt in the morning. She doesn’t care though, she’s chasing this next orgasm, it’s in reach, she’s so close, she knows her clit, or at least her g-spot will be sore tomorrow, and the thought of the constant reminder of what she had done to herself the previous night while thinking of Bernie pushes her to come again, harder than the first, if she even thinks it’s possible.
She has thought of women a few times before. She has read lesbian erotica, has watched lesbian porn, has touched herself thinking of a woman her age, maybe Helen Mirren, or Nigella. She had never thought much of it, always passed it off as hormonal or desperateness for a partner, never taken it as seriously as she is now. Because now, she realises that she has a little more than a passing fancy on Bernie Wolfe.
Bernie kissed her. Berenice Wolfe had kissed her, and she had kissed her back. How should she feel about that? Its conflicting enough without the added knowledge that she’s been masturbating while thinking of Bernie for the past few months. She can feel that she’s wet, she knew as soon as she felt Bernie’s lips on hers for the first time she was wet. They were so much better than she imagined, and she has imagined, done nothing but on her Wednesday nights alone. Bernie’s lips on hers were soft, perfect, real. Bernie’s lips on hers is something she decides she wants for the rest of her life.
With her head propped up on her left arm, water flowing down her back from the scorching shower, and her right moving frantically on her clit, she realises she is in love with her best friend. She comes, her legs shake and she can’t hold herself up anymore, she slips down the wall and sits on the floor of her shower, her eyes screwed shut as the water drips down her face.
She so desperately wishes Bernie was here with her, that she hadn’t bolted the minute the next theatre team knocked on the door.
Her arousal dealt with, for now, she realises she is angry. She is livid. Bernie can't just kiss her like that and run away? Leaving her; and her underwear, a mess.
She wonders what it will be like, tomorrow, will she push Bernie against the door to their office and give her a piece of her mind? Will Bernie?
Stumbling blindly out of the shower and the bathroom, she aims to reach for the bottle of wine beside her bed, but picks up her vibrator instead and decides to get to work.
She likes it best when she’s sleeping; when she can dream of Bernie without the guilt that plagues her when she’s awake. Dream Bernie is in love with her, when she doesn’t know if real Bernie is. Dream Bernie touches her, kisses her, fucks her, in the way that she longs for real Bernie to. Tonight, dream Bernie has pressed her into the sheets, is holding her hands above her head while she fucks her with a substantially sized trauma-blue strap-on. The leather of the harness is tight around her pert backside, and Serena longs to reach her hands down and tug it, encourage Bernie to fuck her harder. They are both grunting, grinding, panting, and Bernie is looking down at her through her sweat matted fringe as she drives Serena into a frenzy. She feels so wet, and she can hear it in the moments of quite between the noises they are both making. She’ll come like this, she knows she will, the flared base presses against her clit with each thrust and the rounded tip grazes her oversensitive g-spot.
She can tell Bernie is close too, her grunts are closer together and her eyes are screwed shut. If she’s learnt anything about dream Bernie it’s that she always lets Serena come first, come harder. Bernie prioritises her over her own pleasure, and the thought on its own almost tips Serena over the edge.
The thing that does, though, is when Bernie brings her thumb down to roll her clit, and the finally constant pressure that she’s been craving is there, and she comes with a wail that she hopes Jason won’t hear.
When she wakes up, her hand is down her pants and there’s a wet patch under her hips. She can't shower, it’s some ungodly hour of the morning, and it would no doubt rouse suspicion with Jason, so she shuffles to the other side of the bed and goes back into a fitful sleep.
She’s had too much wine. She had more than she should have when she was at the hospital, had more than she should have when she had gotten home. She feels she deserved it though, after Bernie had all but crushed all her hope of a relationship. Why hadn’t she been assertive? Why hadn’t she stood up and told Bernie the truth? She’s had no trouble telling people – men – where to stick it in the past. She barely makes it through the door tonight, and although she feels guilty for doing it, especially since Bernie has now made it clear that there’s nothing between them, she shoves her hand down the front of her trousers as soon as the front door clicks shut. She’s lucky Jason is out, because this is definitely not a position she wants her nephew to find her in. She can feel the alcohol and the pleasure making her dizzy, and decides to plant herself on the sofa to avoid the possibility of an embarrassing drunken-horny injury.
She’ll probably regret it in the morning, when her back is stiff and she finds she can't ever look at her couch the same way again. Tonight, she is too drunk to care though, and she finds she hardly even cares about the guilty feeling that comes after thinking of Bernie when she touches herself. She unabashedly imagines Bernie fucking her, as she fucks herself, imagines Bernie using her mouth to bring her over the edge as she rubs her own clit, imagines Bernie using her fingers, or a toy, to fuck her six ways from Sunday.
She imagines Bernie’s tongue making small circles of her clit as her fingers glide inside her, as she brings herself closer and closer to orgasm. “Fuck, Bernie.” She grimaces as she clenches around her own fingers, as she comes, hard, but thankfully not hard enough to leave a mark on the sofa.
She’s sated enough for now, so she makes her way into the kitchen to satisfy her ravenous hunger. She’s hoping food will help to contradict the effect drinking on an empty stomach has on her, too. She looks out at the stars as she tosses the vegetables in the pan. It’s dark, but the stars are bright in the clear sky. If she knew what she was looking for, she might be able to find Coma Berenices, but Jason had only mentioned it in passing and she reminds herself to look it up later.
After dinner, she tucks herself under the duvet and closes her eyes, trailing a hand down her sternum, then through the course hair at the crux of her thighs. She decides she can handle teasing for a while, and moves her hands back up her chest to graze over her breasts, pinching her nipples. She lets out a shaky breath as she twists the hardening buds under her fingers; she’s always liked lovers doing this, remembers asking for it during foreplay, or doing it herself if they were, otherwise occupied. She can't help imagining what it would feel like to have Bernie do this to her, to do it to Bernie, and the thought heightens her almost painful, and persistent, arousal.
She just can't resist anymore, so slides her hand down and sinks three fingers into herself. Her wrist already aches from earlier, and she knows it’ll be worse in the morning, but the way her palm presses against her clit as she curls her fingers inside herself makes her think that it’s worth it.
She so wishes Bernie could be doing this to her, so wishes she could do this to Bernie. She knows now that Bernie doesn’t want her, that Bernie doesn’t like her the way she likes Bernie, and it makes it so much worse now that she can't stop thinking about her, her hair, her eyes, her lips. Thinking about Bernie’s lips is something Serena will spend the rest of her life doing, even if she can never feel them against her own again. She doesn’t realise she’s about to come until her hips start bucking and her body starts to shake, she was too caught up in thoughts of Bernie to realise how close she was.
She still feels a little drunk as she tries to fall asleep, though whether on the images of Bernie, naked, or the alcohol, she doesn’t know.
She thought that getting drunk with Robbie would be a good idea, thought that taking him home would be a good idea, but as he ruts above her she finds herself wanting to run into the bathroom and throw up her dinner. She used to like him, she used to love him, and he used to make her feel satisfied. But now she can't help but resent herself for calling him. She feels a prang of guilt because she is still thinking of Bernie, even now, even when she’s in bloody Ukraine, even when Robbie is doing his very best to hold himself back so she can, maybe, get close to coming. She knows there’s no way she will though, he just isn’t listening, and no matter how many times she asks him to rub her clit he just won’t.
She fakes it, in the end. She feels a little guilty, as she screws her eyes and clenches her muscles a little, arching her back in what she hopes will fool him into thinking she’s come. She didn’t used to care, but as she feels him come inside of her she feels her stomach churn, the thought of how Bernie would be so much better stuck in her head.
She doesn’t vomit, but she comes close. Presses her head against the cool tile of the bathroom wall and feels tears drip down her face. She just wants Bernie, she just wants Bernie to hold her, kiss her, love her.
Robbie is snoring next to her, and she feels like bursting into tears again. She’s sure Bernie wouldn’t snore, is sure Bernie would be perfect in all ways when there’d be a bed involved. She gives up on trying to sleep and goes back into the bathroom, turns the shower on and steps into the spray. It’s scorching, and it almost hurts, but she feels the desperate need to wash off the smell of Robbie. She hears him stop snoring and then his heavy footsteps, hears the bathroom door open and he steps into the steamy room, still naked.
“You okay?” He says, and she considers herself lucky he had come in now, because she was about to detach her showerhead and take care of what he hadn’t.
“Yeah, couldn’t sleep, is all,” she says, turning her body slightly to cover herself, even though the steam on the glass surrounding the shower should make her a blur to anyone in the room.
“You need help in there?” She can hear the smirk in his voice, can hear what he is insinuating. She is sure she would have been happy, delighted, even, if he had done this a few months ago, but she is sober now, and in love with someone else, and she doesn’t want to have shit sex twice in one night.
“I'm okay, thanks, be out in a mo’.” She prays he won’t push, won’t say something to do with her hormones, or how much she seemed to be enjoying herself before. Luckily, she hears him agree and then plod out of the bathroom, hears him slide back into her bed and then hears him start snoring again. She won’t regret tonight, what she did with him, what she used him for, because as bad as it was – as he was – she now knows she won’t settle for anyone but Bernie Wolfe.
As her ex-boyfriend-turned-one-night-stand sleeps in the next room, she moves the shower head to the crux of her thighs and shakes as she brings herself to orgasm.
Bernie pushes her up against her front door as soon as they’re through. As much as she doesn’t want to be thinking of Fletch right now; with Bernie’s lips finally crashing against her own, she silently thanks him and Raf for opting to take Jason out to trivia for the night. They won’t be dropping him home until late, and its only seven, which means Bernie and her have at least three hours; three delicious hours that they can spend in bed together, or maybe on the sofa, or against the kitchen bench…
Bernie’s groan as she reaches behind Serena and squeezes her backside brings her out of that frankly lovely train of thought, and she responds by attempting to manoeuvre them out of the hallway and towards the stairs.
“Fucking hell Bernie,” she whispers against Bernie’s lips as they continue their assault on her mouth, down her neck, then back up and across her jaw to suck an earlobe into her mouth. “Just let me-” She struggles to break away enough to slip Bernie’s shirt over her head, but Bernie gets what she’s trying to do and shucks it, then does the same to Serena until they are left standing halfway up the stairs in their trousers and bras. “Come on.” She takes Bernie’s hand, leading her up the rest of the way and into her bedroom. She’s glad she made the bed this morning, glad she cleaned up the wine stain on the carpet next to the bed, glad she remembered to put her vibrator away after her eventful dream earlier that morning. Maybe we might use that later, she thinks, imagining pumping the soft silicone into Bernie as she eats her out.
She only just registers that Bernie is unbuttoning and then unzipping her trousers, only just registers her own hands doing the same to Bernie’s impossibly tight jeans and slipping them down her legs.
“I knew it,” Bernie says, face bright with mirth as she takes in the sight of Serena in her matching lacy underwear. “Planning this, were you?”
“I can’t say I wasn’t hoping.”
“Maybe I’ll have to come home from foreign countries and snog you more often, then, if this is what you reward me with.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got first,” Serena says, then finds herself pushed down onto the bed with Bernie looming above her. She leans up to kiss her, and Bernie slips her hands underneath her back to unclasp her bra. Serena does the same to Bernie, and then tugs her to lie fully on top of her, enjoying the feel of a softer body on hers, smoother in places than she’s used to, with men. She groans a little when she feels their nipples brush, and feels silly for forgetting for a moment that Bernie has breasts.
She’s always liked breasts, has spent a great deal of time touching her own, and they had always been something she’d envied about older girls whilst growing up. Bernie’s are smaller than hers, but as she brings her hands up to knead them, her thumbs sweeping her nipples, she finds she doesn’t care in the slightest. They are soft and warm in her hands, and the mews that her touch are bringing out of Bernie are nothing short of exquisite.
“That’s so good,” Bernie whispers, bringing her own hands up to touch Serena’s breasts and pinching her nipples a few times. “These now?” she asks, slipping her fingers into the waistband of Serena’s lacy pants and tugging them down when Serena nods. The first brush of her knuckles against Serena’s bush feels just as good to her as it does to Serena; who keens and bucks her hips at the feint touch. Bernie longs to slide down and bury her face between Serena’s creamy white thighs, but Serena is panting and she knows it won’t take her long, and she wants the first time she uses her mouth on Serena, that way, to last.
Serena is so desperate, her clit throbbing insistently, and she’s so tempted to slip her hand down and touch herself, to see the look on Bernie’s face as she watches her bring herself off. But just as her hand brushes down her stomach and towards her mons, Bernie sinks two fingers into her, deep. She cries out and her hips buck, her head thumping back onto the pillow, it so good, by far better than her own fingers, and with the slightest curl of Bernie’s fingers she cries out again. She knows she won’t last much longer, knows that it won’t take much effort from Bernie to tease more than one orgasm out of her, knows that Bernie could keep her coming and coming all night long if she wanted to.
Bernie does have to work her there a little, though; she spends a while pumping her fingers in and out, then starts to curl them intermittently when they’re knuckle deep inside Serena. The final push Serena needs is when Bernie presses her palm against her clit, rubbing it deliciously as she drives her fingers into Serena.
Serena doesn’t think she’s come so hard in her life, and she loses track of the number of orgasms she’s had by the time Bernie pulls out of her. Bernie’s the first lover to not stop at one, the first lover to just get what she needed, how fast, how hard, when. When she does come back to herself, she looks down to see Bernie grinding softly against her thigh, her eyes screwed shut and her fingers pinching her own nipples.
“Well hello,” Serena says, her voice warm. Bernie stops and smiles a little, then leans down to kiss Serena. Serena tastes herself on Bernie’s lips, and she realises that Bernie must have licked her fingers clean. “S’okay, keep going if it feels good.” Bernie nods and starts to move again, and Serena can feel Bernie’s wetness gathering on her thigh. She wants Bernie to come, to enjoy their first time, but she also desperately wants to touch Bernie, to feel her come around her fingers, on them. She reaches down and starts to thumb Bernie’s clit, feeling the rhythm of her hips stutter, her breathing becoming increasingly erratic. Serena didn’t realise just how keyed up Bernie was.
“Shit, I’m going to-” She’s cut off by a loud moan as she comes, coating Serena’s fingers and her thigh with a flood of wetness. She rides out the orgasm, continuing to grind down on Serena’s thigh as the waves of pleasure roll through her.
“Oh gosh,” she says when she looks down at the mess she’s made of Serena’s – no doubt very high quality – sheets. “That’s only happened a few times before, oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” she rambles, but when she looks down at Serena she is smiling that glowing smile, and she returns it apologetically.
“That’s certainly interesting,” Serena says, “It’s okay, I don’t mind, it happens to me sometimes, too.” She remembers the first night she thought of Bernie while she touched herself, remembers that this happened on her second orgasm that night. Bernie huffs out a small laugh and flops down beside her on the bed, cringing when she rests her hip in the – puddle?!, she thinks – of wetness. “Here, why don’t you go and get us some water and I’ll do the sheets,” Serena says, kissing Bernie lightly before sauntering her way across the bedroom and out to the landing. She’s still naked, and Bernie takes a moment to appreciate the sway of her hips before getting out of bed herself. She can't quite resist it as she passes Serena on the way down to the kitchen, so pats the bare arse on show as Serena reaches for the fresh sheet.
Serena wakes up with the glorious knowledge of what her and Bernie did last night, but realises when she properly wakes that Bernie isn’t beside her, but under the covers, delicately stroking her swollen clit with just the tips of her fingers. She shifts her hips a little and rolls onto her back to give Bernie more room, spreading her legs and opening herself up for her. She isn’t expecting it, and starts at the first press of Bernie’s tongue. She’s had men go down on her before, she’s come from men going down on her before, but the feeling of smooth cheeks pressed against her is delightful, and as Bernie sweeps the wetness gathering at her entrance up to her clit, she decides that Bernie’s mouth is by far the best she’s had on her. She groans and throws the duvet off of them both, and she can now see Bernie’s smug eyes, filled with mirth, and love, gazing up at her from between her thighs.
“Is this okay?” Bernie asks, leaning her head to the side and spreading Serena with her fingers. Serena nods and her eyes roll back as Bernie probes her entrance with her tongue, pushing in as far as she can and bumping her clit with her nose, before replacing it with her fingers and focusing her tongue on Serena’s clit. She swirls around it, then lays her tongue flat on it and moves back and forth, mimicking what she would do to herself with her own fingers, what she imagines Serena might do to herself. When Serena mews and bucks her hips more incessantly, she sucks the nub into her mouth and flicks the tip with the tip of her tongue, curling her fingers at the same time. Serena comes and she feels her clench hard around her fingers, feels her clit twitch and throb in her mouth. She continues to slowly massage Serena’s swollen folds with her tongue after she comes, until Serena reaches down and tugs at her head, encouraging her to slide up the bed and cuddle up next to her. Serena kisses her slowly, tongue sweeping the taste of herself around Bernie’s mouth.
“Good morning to you too,” she says, growling as she pushes Bernie onto her back and straddles her, deciding to show her just what a good morning it is.