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Ankles, of all things. Bernie Wolfe feels like a time-traveling refugee from Victorian England. Suddenly, she sees women’s ankles as if for the first time. And blimey does she find them sexy!

In her distinguished 25-year military career as a trauma surgeon, Major Berenice G. Wolfe of the Royal Army Medical Corps, had never noticed women’s ankles. She’d seen her share of male and female viscera, bones, musculature, usually cordoned off by surgical draping. She saw plenty of women—in uniform, operating theater scrubs—but their feet and ankles were usually encased in “desert sand”-hued boots or the odd pair of trainers with scrub bottoms covering them.

Now, after her Army discharge in the wake of the unfortunate IED encounter and being outed as a lesbian, she seems to notice them every day. She confides her new obsession to an old RAMC friend, Jo Gannon, during a catch-up convo over hot-and-strong coffee when Jo was between tours. Jo snorts with laughter—her version of Bernie’s signature honk—and smiles knowingly at Bernie’s befuddled-and-blushing expression.

“Bernie mate, you’re a 51-year-old baby dyke!” Jo explains, putting a comforting hand on the trauma surgeon’s shoulder. “You are seeing the Wonderful World of Women for the first time. Just go with it, enjoy it!”

And she does. (Without being creepy, it goes without saying.) She shyly gazes from under her fringe of soft blonde bangs and sees ankles, calves, wrists, necks, earlobes and other gloriously feminine sights and appreciates them in a new way.

One woman’s bony and soft-tissue landmarks catch her hazel eyes again and again: Serena Wendy Campbell’s.

The vascular surgeon, deputy Hobly CEO and her clinical co-lead for AAU has beautiful lateral and medial malleoli—those asymmetrical joints commonly known as the ankle bones—as well as gorgeous hands, neck, calves, buttocks…Bernie never misses an opportunity to watch the intricate dance her co-lead’s hands perform in challenging surgeries. She finds the laugh lines bracketing Serena’s mouth intriguing. Her eyes linger over the tantalizing shadow of Serena’s cleavage when they sit across from each other doing their dreaded post-op paperwork.

And at this very moment, Serena Campbell has just left Berenice Wolfe gobsmacked as the velvet-voiced brunette pulls off her turquoise blue scrub top with a grumbled “I hate these fucking scrubs”. She balances first on one leg and then the other to yank off the equally (if not more so) offensive scrub pants. There she stands right in front of Bernie, wearing a burgundy lace bra and matching hipster panties, wading the OR clothing into a semblance of a ball and tossing them in a hamper. The bra cups her firm, ample breasts just so; the panties hug her womanly arse perfectly; a few dark hairs curl out from the front of her panties.

Despite the bounty before her, Bernie’s hazel eyes lock on Serena’s newly exposed ankles as she stands barefoot in front of her locker, reaching in for a fresh towel and toiletries bag so she can shower off the long day’s surgeries. The stretching elongates Serena’s muscular calves, Bernie dutifully notes. She imagines other activities that would cause the same delightful effect. Serena climbing the stairs to Bernie’s third-floor apartment. Serena crawling naked into Bernie’s bed. Serena arching her back and curling her toes as she climaxes…

“Earth to Berenice,” the husky-honey voice calls out. Serena figures her friend is simply daydreaming about a surgical technique or contemplating another double-shot latte from Pulse’s.

Getting no response, Serena snaps her fingers like a hypnotist as she sees Bernie’s blank stare. “Major! Eyes front, shoulders back!” With a dog-like shake of her blonde locks that renders them even messier than usual, Bernie resurfaces.

“S-sorry,” she mutters. “What were you saying, Serena?”

Serena rolls her eyes. “I asked whether you’re going to shower before we head to Albie’s for that drink I promised you. A bet’s a bet and you won that fair and square.”
Then Bernie remembers. They’d wagered on whether Sascha Levy’s loud-shirt-of-the-day would be a Hawaiian print or a Paisley. Bernie said Paisley and, sure enough, in the bear-like surgeon had sauntered that morning, flashing a nearly neon-bright Paisley-patterned button-down.

“Mr. Levy: the 1960s called. They want their shirt back,” Serena’d quipped, a cheeky grin chasing the remark. (She didn’t mind losing to her co-lead; win or lose, she got to have drinks with her and admire those long, slender fingers of Bernie’s and imagine what they could do to her eager body.) Bernie honked, causing Serena and Sascha to chortle. Dominic Copeland’s hefty sip of coffee made a hasty reappearance through his mouth and nostrils.

Bernie returns to the present. She sees goosepimples form on Serena’s bare arms and legs (Do NOT stare at her ankles, Wolfe!) and sees Serena’s nipples puckering inside their cozy satiny nests. Bloody hell…

“Um, er, yes, I’ll shower now,” she verbally stumbles along. She hurriedly strips to her underwear, grabs a towel and follows Serena into the showers. Making sure not to take the open stall right next to the vascular surgeon and her sexy ankles (and other parts), Bernie quickly turns the faucet to “cold” for a few seconds before gasping, shuddering and switching the knob to “hot”. Thank God Serena wore her usual slightly flowy black pants to work today, she thinks as she roughly scrubs herself as penance. Her eyes closed, Bernie doesn’t see Serena Campbell open the curtain to Bernie’s stall and poke her head and torso in.

“Sorry, forgot my soap. Could I borrow yours?” the matching drapes-and-carpet brunette politely queries.

“Jesus Christ, Campbell!” Bernie sputters. “Could you walk more loudly?!” She wipes soap from her eyes, grunts and grimaces as the suds burn before being washed away. Bernie doesn’t object to being seen naked. (Must be an Army thing.) But being startled out of her fantasy about Serena BY the woman herself…Bloody hell!

So desperate to stop her eyes from stinging, she misses the stunned expression on Serena Campbell’s face as the vascular surgeon and previously self-described dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual takes in the natural beauty of her friend. From Bernie Wolfe’s now-water-darkened blonde head to the rosy nipples on those perfect handfuls of breasts (accented by the sternum scar) to the smooth tummy (with its faded C-section scar), thatch of trimmed brown curls and legs that go on for days and those slim ankles…

“Here ya go,” Bernie blindly reaches over to the shower curtain and waves the soap in the direction of Serena’s voice. No hand reaches out to relieve her of the sudsy square. She shakes it again. Nothing. Re-wiping her face with her soap-less hand, Bernie opens her eyes to see Serena’s eyes roving up and down her body.

“S’rena?” Bernie blinks, cocks her head, confusion in her soft voice. Then, the proverbial light bulb clicks on. Dyed-in-the-wool my arse, Bernie thinks. A lopsided smirk appears on her face like a ray of sunshine.

“Oi Campbell: Admiring my ankles, are you?”

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Caught in the act of ogling her close friend, Serena surrenders to the thoughts, fantasies and daydreams she’s had about Bernie for some time now.

Admit it, Campbell, you’ve got a major crush on Bernie Wolfe.

“Not only your ankles, Major,” she purrs. Then, with a perky “Cheers for the soap,” she snags the bar from the slack-jawed blonde and dashes back to her own shower stall, cheeky dimpled smirk on her face. Good on you, Serena. You finally did it, she thinks.

“Right, OK,” Bernie mutters as she ducks under the water again. Inside her head a voice screams, “Serena Bloody Campbell likes you! She more than likes you! She wants you!”

Twisting the tap to “cold” again, Bernie thinks. What should I do? Ah…the freezing water hitting her face does the trick. With a lopsided smirk, she formulates a plan, turns off the faucet and hurriedly towels off. She’s dressed in clean undies and her black skinny jeans and still crisp white tunic faster than Serena could order a triple-shot latte.

With a breezy “See you in the office,” she practically runs out of the locker room and catches Pulses moments before closing.

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Meanwhile, Serena concludes that one can be dazed, horny and abso-fucking-lutely terrified at the same time. Fuck, what did you do? You practically undressed your department co-lead and friend with your eyes—damn, she WAS undressed and you essentially eye-fucked her. Wait, you just saw Bernie naked!

Panting, eyes widened in sudden clarity, she fully acknowledges to herself for the first time how much she has wished for that since a pink-coated, unlit-cig-in-mouth Bernie strutted over to her that day in the car park, making husky-voiced diagnostic queries about her car. Has stared at her darker eyebrows and wondered whether they matched other hair (they do), whether those go-on-for-days legs are really as toned as they seem in scrubs (they are)… Has wished for more than only seeing Major and Consultant Trauma Surgeon Berenice Griselda Wolfe naked. Has achieved earth-shattering orgasms over and over in her king-size bed fantasizing about more than that. Fantasizing about those long, slender fingers tickling, teasing, coaxing, those too-wide thin lips glistening with…

The reality of what has just occurred sends such a powerful surge of sizzling electrical current to Serena’s clit that her knees start to buckle, and she grips the tile wall for support with shaky fingertips. Serena flicks the knob to Artic and gasps as she returns to the present, wrapping the towel round her suddenly chilled body. Imagining Berenice Bloody Wolfe doing all sorts of things to her body was one thing. Reciprocating…she ruefully shakes her head as she roughly towels dry. Christ, woman, you’ve never even kissed a woman at a party in Stepney!

Serena hurriedly re-dresses, rams the towel into a bin and hastily applies lip gloss. She abruptly stops, mid-sweep in the gloss application. Gone is the frightened, shivering woman of a few minutes ago. The Serena Wendy Campbell who chews the heads off incompetent F1s and even a registrar or two, the one whose bedside table drawer boasts a curated collection of silicone toys and lube, and the who had often initiated sex with past male lovers.

You want Bernie Wolfe far more than you ever wanted Edward Bloody Campbell or Potato-Head Robbie! You know basic female anatomy—more than know it, intimately know it! Go get her, tiger!

And with that internal pep rally, off she dashes to their shared office on AAU.

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Back the co-lead office in a graveyard-quiet AAU, Bernie places the hot coffees on the desk and stows her duffel bag in a corner. Looks around, eyes squinting, mouth quirked to one side in thought.

She snaps the blinds shut. Turns off the overhead light, leaving only her desk light on. Retrieving her desk key from the key chain in her right trench coat pocket, she quickly unlocks the bottom drawer and grabs a couple of airplane bottles left from God-knows-what flight or train trek. A Grand Marnier and a Chambord. French liqueurs for Dutch courage, she thought with a satisfied hmmph. While not Serena’s beloved Shiraz or her own Islay single-malt, they’d do. She takes a deep breath and plops down on the narrow sofa, pulse racing, mouth dry, groin warm, as the silver door handle turns.

“Bernie…?” Serena is puzzled by the closed blinds and dimly lit space. She puts her bag down by the coat rack as Bernie rises to greet her and deftly pulls the door shut and locks it. Adrift in emotions, Serena lets Bernie guide her to the couch, gratefully grasps the lifeline of coffee the blonde hands her.

“S’rena…which would you prefer?” Bernie asks gently, pointing to the small plastic bottles on the desk. First things first, Bernie understands.

Serena manages a smile that winks a corner of her mouth. She leans forward and reaches for the purplish orb of Chambord. With shaking hands, she struggles to crack the deal at the top of the tiny bottle. Bernie steps in, opens it and begins to pour the liqueur into Serena’s coffee. Looks at the brunette for the “when” command.

“All of it, soldier,” Serena finds her voice, albeit a bit raspy. “It’s medicinal.” Bernie nods, keeps pouring til the orb is empty and clear. She does the same to her Grand Marnier, tossing the re-capped bottles into the waste bin. She sits sideways facing Serena on the couch, their knees touching, soft cotton to sturdy denim. They both carefully sip the still-hot coffee, the heat offering comfort, clarity and fortifying courage.

“Well,” Bernie starts, putting down her cup, her eyes crinkling to slits, a sweet smile creasing her mouth, which Serena can’t take her eyes from. “Looks like the elephant in the room is our undeniable sexual chemistry, hmm,” she says in that precise, clipped tone that Serena finds (Admit it, Campbell!) so bloody sexy.

“We could always confine it to the operating theater but…” Bernie continues. Her eyes pointedly make an inventory of all the landmarks on Serena that she wants—needs—to know intimately, from crown to toes.

“But…” Serena seems to have contracted Bernie’s tongue-tied trait. A locker-room self-coaching session was one thing but now her chocolate-brown eyes understand exactly what Bernie’s are doing. Serena’s is throat suddenly parched despite fortifying sips from the Pulses’ cup, her groin aching and warm. With one sentence (ok, and an unforgettable shower sight), Bernie has utterly melted the famed Ice Queen of Holby.

Bernie has picked up Serena’s usual flirty confidence and is running with it. The blonde leans forward, lightly relocates the cup from Serena’s hand to the desk and then closes the distance between them.

“But, I’d rather not leave it there,” the blonde ex-RAMC officer states. “Would be such a waste, hmm?”

Her lips, soft and flavored by Pulse’s best and subtle orange notes, touch down on Serena’s, gracefully coming home like a bird alighting a pond. As she feels a whimper emerge from the brunette’s throat, she wraps her strong arms ‘round Serena, one steady hand applying delicate circles to soothe the pulled-bow tautness from her back.

Several minutes of passionate kissing, pebbled nipples and a few pulse-point bruises later, Serena finally answers.

“Let’s not keep this confined to theater, this office, the locker room…anywhere. And let’s get the hell out of here now…Yours or mind, Major?”

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As Serena’s live-in nephew Jason was staying at his friend Alan’s home tonight, they opt for Chez Campbell. Ever the gallant officer, Bernie decides to follow Serena’s metallic lime Saab so she can leave when Serena wishes. Probably just as well, Serena thinks as she keeps an eye on the charcoal Mazda convertible in her rearview mirror: If she had to watch Bernie’s hand shift gears or hear her voice up close right now, she’d only be a puddle of cells by the time she reached her leafy detached. As it is, her panties are soaked with desire following the AAU office activities. She squeezes her thighs together to ease the ache between them but to no avail. Good God, Major, what you already do to me, she thinks as she steers into her quiet neighborhood.

Bernie can’t believe her good fortune. Cor, who’d have thought it?! Although Serena has flirted with her since that first day in the car park, Bernie knew the vascular surgeon cheekily flirted with nearly everyone. It was her modus operandi to cajole underlings and peers alike into doing her bidding, seeing things her way (or why it would be in their best interest to do something), be it freeing an operating theater, getting test results more quickly or making a mid-shift Pulse’s run. A comforting hand on an anxious shoulder, a congratulatory high-five, even an encouraging hug. Bernie has experienced all of these Serena Campbell moves.

And yet…and yet, it dawns on Bernie, there has been more.

Serena’s brown eyes lingering at the base of Bernie’s scrub-top V (hoping to catch a glimpse of the blonde’s bra and its pert contents). A too-long glance (that Bernie caught) to the ex-major’s firm ass as its owner casually perched on the corner of their desk. (At least someone can make scrubs look good, Serena had thought.) Serena staring in a daze at the tea mug that had just been pressed against those slim lips like a lover held to a wall and ravished.

Hmmph, thinks Bernie with a lopsided grin. Ankles indeed. Campbell’s been eyeing me for months and I just realized it. She honks her donkey-goose laugh as she turns down a cul de sac and parks the Mazda behind Serena’s Saab in the driveway of a Georgian brick home. As she exits the car, though, her visage becomes more thoughtful, not wanting Serena to think she was having a laugh at her expense. And as she sees the brunette bend to get her briefcase from the passenger seat, her mouth dries up, taking in the utterly feminine ass she so wants to grip with two hands.

“Well, um, here we are. Suburbia at its best, though nary a desperate housewife in sight,” Serena nervously quips. She knows where Bernie Wolfe’s eyes have landed and her self-confidence is momentarily dashed. Too many days of arse-planted paperwork and not enough steps achieved, she sourly thinks.

Bernie sees the anxiety flicker across Serena’s face. “Nope, only a very sexy vascular surgeon with a gorgeous arse I can’t wait to see sans burgundy panties,” she huskily murmurs into the brunette’s ear as they stroll up the walkway.

“Steady on, Major,” Serena recovers nicely. “If my knees buckle now, we’ll never make it inside.” But she manages to unlock the front door and usher Bernie inside. Barely. There’s a first time for everything and this is the first time this Harvard-MBA, esteemed vascular surgeon heralded for her technical prowess has had to mightily struggle to put a key in a lock and turn a door handle.

They kick off their shoes and drape their coats and bags over the hallway bench before Bernie gracefully turns Serena back against the front door, her lips searing a path from needy mouth to jawline and flushed nape.

“S’rena,’” the blonde rhetorically inquires, punctuating each word with a flicker of her hot tongue against Serena’s décolletage. Her tongue skips along the tops of the brunette’s full breasts, dances over sun-freckled skin and a couple of small birthmarks (the locations of which are now committed to the Bernie’s near-photographic memory). “How much I’ve wanted you but had no idea whether you felt the same—could only dream that you did?”

Serena responds with a guttural groan and quick nod as Bernie’s fingers find the top buttons of her silk blouse and her eyes ask permission to open them. “You snuck up on me, Major. And not only because of your quiet trainers. I had no idea I was into women—well, one specific woman—until…Oh God.” Bernie’s right hand has found purchase on one of Serena’s breasts, her thumb lovingly stroking it through its satiny hammock.

“Until…?” Bernie presses before her mouth takes over from her thumb, sucking and nipping at the hardened nipple. Her lowered voice shoots warmth straight down to Serena's clit.

“Wh-what was the question?” Serena’s voice has a far-off quality that Bernie finds incredibly sexy. She relishes seeing the usually buttoned-up, take-charge surgeon coming undone, especially knowing she’s the cause of that effect.

“I think a better question is this: S’rena, where is your bedroom?” Major Wolfe asks with a grunt; Serena Campbell’s legs are rapidly turning to jelly and Bernie would rather save her back for love-making rather than struggling to hold up the brunette.

Serena blinks several times to clear her head. She grabs Bernie’s hand and pulls her up the hardwood stairs to a second-floor master bedroom with plush carpet, a bay-window seat, updated en-suite bathroom and heavily pillowed king-size bed. Hands clasped, the women enter the darkened room; Serena clicks on a torchiere floor lamp, dials it only to a low setting. They stand facing each other by the side of the neatly made bed with its maroon coverlet.

With a moan, Serena summons courage to match her desire and presses up on the balls of her feet to plant a lingering kiss on the blonde’s mouth. Slowly, biting her lower lip in concentration, Serena begins unbuttoning Bernie’s white tunic shirt, her fingertips feathering down inside the shirt against the pale skin. Her eyes take in the faded tan lines as she moves over one bra strap, the sprinkling of brown moles that landscape the elegant notches and lines of Berenice Wolfe’s stunning clavicles like stars in a nighttime sky. Down, down to the black cups that hold perfect handfuls of firm breasts, separated by the raised pink fence of Bernie’s open-heart surgery scar. Serena releases the buttons to just south of the bra, using the barest touch of the backs of two fingers to flit over the nipple of one achy breast.

Bernie groans, spreads her long legs for balance. She sucks in a quick breath and involuntarily winces as Serena’s eager thumb and index finger tweak the small nipple. Bernie’s nipples are painfully sensitive; Serena’s sharp pressure is nearly too much. But she wants to build Serena’s self-confidence so she says nothing.

Serena, however, catches the micro expression of pain on her lover’s face and pulls back. She turns her head in shame. “I-I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry, Bernie. I’m rubbish at this.”
Bernie pulls her close, whispers in her ear, “No, you’re not, Serena. I’m just rather sensitive there. You couldn’t have known that. We’re both beginning to know each other, what we like…or love.” She thinks for a moment.

“S’rena. Please let me make love to you. I’m aching to touch you, everywhere,” Bernie’s voice is low and heavy with need. And exactly what Serena can respond to and still save face.
“How can I refuse an offer like that from a big macho Army medic like you?” Serena replies, heart lighter, libido restored. “I’m all yours, Major.” She steps back to see what Bernie will do next.

Bernie uses her lips and tongue to convey her gratitude and desire. Deep, sensual kisses that demonstrate all the passion the usually stoic blonde feels for the brunette, has felt for some time. (Even the BMAM is taken aback, truth be told, by her own fierce want.) She’s been holding out on me, hiding behind that fringe of bangs, Serena realizes with a moan.
At the same time, Bernie’s fingers eased open the buttons of Serena’s silk shirt, her tongue warmly greeting each new section of skin. With Bernie’s aid, Serena pulled the camisole over her head and then started to unhook her own bra.

“Mm-mm, no. I’ll do that,” the often-shy trauma surgeon asserts and deftly reaches around to release the hooks and slowly reveal the bra’s precious cargo. “Oh my, you are so beautiful,” Bernie murmurs a bit awestruck, her open palms cupping the C-cup orbs, feeling their dense, weighty beauty.

While one hand explores and caresses Serena’s left breast, the right breast is treated equally well by Bernie’s tongue. It skips, darts, flicks above, underneath and on the breast, whose owner now pants slightly, her knees weakening by the second. “Oh God, Bernie…”

The blonde utters words of endearment in between kisses. She unzips Serena’s trousers, helps her step out of them as well as her socks. Then kneels in front of the brunette. Gathers her womanly hips in her arms and gently places her cheek against Serena’s lower belly. She smells the heady aroma of Serena’s arousal through Serena’s panties, sees the darkened patch of silk between her legs, cups the mons within and presses her palm into it. Serena groans, nearly feels lightheaded. Sure, she has enjoyed sex with men. But she has never felt so treasured, so absolutely desired as a woman as she does now. Before she can articulate another thought, her knees give away as Bernie nuzzles the panties and plants kisses on them.

“Dear God, S’rena. You smell divine,” She kisses along the top edge of the underwear, hooks her thumbs inside the back and slowly eases them off, tongue traveling along every new centimeter of exposed warm skin. She turns Serena around so the brunette is now prone on the bed, her knees braced against the covers. Marvels at the sturdy back, the swell of hips, the meaty buttocks, open-mouth forges a path down Serena’s posterior body and then presses her still-clothed front against the brunette. Serena flips around, eyes roaming over Bernie’s body.

“YOU have too much clothing on,” Serena observes, tugging on the blonde’s shirt.

Bernie tsk, tsks. She likes that Serena has regained some confidence and asks almost shyly, “D’you want to help me with that?”

“You couldn’t stop me if you tried, soldier. Arms down, legs apart,” she replies in her best drill-sergeant voice. She quickly unbuttons Bernie’s shirt, flings it aside, helps her out of her tight jeans and socks, tosses them halfway across the room.

There stands Berenice Wolfe, nipples proud, shoulders back, legs parted. A 50-year-old with the trim body that a 25-year-old would envy—and her 50-year-old counterpart does. Envies and covets.

“Bra and panties too,” Serena commands for the enjoyment of seeing Bernie blush as she unhooks her own bra and then shucks off her panties to reveal glistening brown trimmed curls. At the sight and smell of Bernie Wolfe—her first of a woman this up-close and personal other than herself—Serena gasps and her confidence falters.

“Bed, darling,” Bernie takes over again. She pulls back the covers and nods for Serena to lie down on her back.

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Bernie gazes at Serena’s body as if studying the most beautiful painting in the world and then lowers herself on top of the brunette. Serena gasps into a groan as she feels another first: the melding soft strength of two women naked together. “Dear God, what.have.I.missed all these years,” she wonders aloud then hears Bernie’s rich chuckle vibrate and raise goosebumps along her neck.

“It’s so bloody marvelous, isn’t it?” Bernie agrees. Supporting herself on sinewy arms, she begins to move against Serena, gently nudges her legs apart to slide a strong thigh in between. Within seconds, Bernie’s leg bears the warm, slick evidence of Serena’s pleasure. “Oh, you’re so wet, S’rena,” the retired major growls approvingly.

“Have been since the shower,” Serena notes in between gasps as Bernie’s thigh glides from slit to clit again and again. Then, she groans deeply as Bernie’s lips tease her left breast, tongue flickering as the blonde’s front teeth lightly hold the nipple still. Ah, so this is how it’s don—bloody hell, Serena thinks, I could come from this alone, as sensation overrides higher brain function.

Then Bernie begins to suckle on the erect nipple, the whimpers emanating from the trauma surgeon’s throat like nothing Serena could imagine. She’s heard the BMAM bark out orders, plead with patient’s to accept life-saving procedures, confidently coach F1s, even laugh like a weird animal hybrid. Never had she expected to hear Aroused Bernie Wolfe, and she’s loving it. The mewing, groans, gasps…Serena swears she could record Berenice Wolfe’s bedroom sounds and sell it as a mind-blowing aphrodisiac for lesbians everywhere. But it’s here for her and her alone.

Bernie adores Serena’s breasts. She bathes them with the flat of her tongue, cuddles them with pursed lips, worships them with tongue and teeth. First the left, then the ever-so-slightly smaller right. Dips into Serena’s arousal and lovingly circles the brunette’s taut nipples with it. Licks off every millimeter. Could and promises herself she will devote whole evenings to the alter that is Serena Campbell’s magnificent breasts. But she feels Serena begin to squirm beneath her, angling her sex for more attention.

“Steady on, tiger,” she informs the brunette. “I’m getting there.” Bernie’s right hand moves down to brush against Serena’s naturally thick bush and travels lower still, out of Serena’s line of vision.

Suddenly, her clit feels like it’s shooting sparks: Bernie’s deftly thumbing it whilst her first two fingers pause outside Serena’s vaginal opening. (No awkward fumbling like Robbie or Edward.)

“You ok with this, S’rena,” Bernie needs to know. Wants to hear her say it. Needs to. Serena is momentarily unable to speak, her eyes glassy, lips parted, chest flushed and heaving.

“Do you want me to fuck you now, S’rena,” Bernie tries again. “Tell me.”

Serena swallows hard and stares into Bernie’s hazel eyes. “God yes. Fuck me, Bernie. Fuck me!”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Bernie responds verbally, smiling, while her fingers slide into Serena’s wet channel. The brunette’s vagina welcomes her with a squeeze, her hips rise up to encourage those long digits even deeper within. Bernie thrusts deeply, grunting with the effort. She adds a third finger to stretch Serena a bit more, loving the moan of approval she receives. She revels in the expression on Serena’s face—wonder, arousal, need—and in the sounds she makes as she nears her climax. What a marvel and privilege, Bernie thinks, to see the strong, articulate, beautiful Serena Campbell like this.

As her senses experience the rapid approach of Serena’s orgasm, Bernie curls her finger tips into the fleshy, engorged G-spot tucked against the front vaginal wall.
Her timing is perfect. With a guttural groan and then shouted “Bernie!”, Serena Campbell comes. Gloriously. Stunningly. Gushingly. Completely, as never before.

Serena Wendy Campbell is absolutely undone.

Chapter Text

Several minutes and a handful of aftershocks later, Bernie eases her fingers out of Serena. She samples her fingertips, much to Serena’s blend of pride, astonishment and tinge of embarrassment. Serena cringes slightly but Bernie reassures her that she tastes wonderful. Like smoked honey, she enthuses after another sniff at her fingers. Hints—more than hints—that she is very much looking forward to her tongue replicating what her thumb did.

For the time being, the women snuggle, ridiculously happy grins on their faces. Serena can’t remember being this utterly boneless after a first-time encounter with any previous sexual partner. Can’t believe how the evening’s gone from good (the promise of a few glasses with Bernie at Albie’s) to bloody beyond fantastic (Bernie in her bed, doing amazing things to her body).

Serena must have briefly dozed off for she wakes to find Bernie striding back from the en suite, perky breasts bouncing, and getting back under the covers next to her (next to her!).

“Glad you forgot your soap?” Bernie asks, giving Serena that slit-eyed smile.

“You have no idea. I may never bring my own soap to the locker room again,” the brunette replies with a grin. She sits up in bed finally and nods toward the bathroom. Her turn.
When she re-opens the bathroom door, Bernie’s eyes open and follow her back to bed. From slim ankles to fuller thighs and hips, gently sloped tummy to full breasts, the cleft chin, dark chocolate eyes…and Bernie feels her groin pulse anew.

Serena knows that hungry look. (She’s seen it often enough when her office mate craves a chocolate pastry from Pulse’s.) But the cause is new. And her own clit seems to stir in empathy. Now who’s hungry, she thinks.

She scoots into bed and straddles the blonde surgeon. Relishes the feeling of their groins so close. Loves seeing the big macho medic this close and being able to openly gaze upon her beauty. Runs her hands through Bernie’s love-tousled hair and kisses her deeply. This is something Serena Campbell knows and does well. Her slim lips capture Bernie’s, tongue probes then flirts with Bernie’s. Both women groan as their passion reignites.
But then Serena stops, pulls back a bit to get Bernie’s attention. Bernie grunts, eyebrows quirk.

“Bernie, I so want to make love to you,” Serena begins, placing her hands upon Bernie’s shoulders. “Obviously, I know basic female anatomy. But I don’t know what you like, I’m terrified of hurting you…will you help me? Guide me?”

Bernie smiles. Reaches out to stroke Serena’s cheek. “Of course.” She thinks for a moment. “Would you like a few pointers?” A grateful nod. Now it’s Bernie Wolfe’s turn to be nervous. Usually speaking in intimate terms was as alien to her as speaking Swahili, but for Serena, she will try. She exhales.

“Right, ok. Well…I like to be kissed here”—she takes Serena’s right hand and places it on her (Bernie’s) neck, just below her earlobes—“and here”—the now visible pulse points around her clavicles—“here”—slightly above her chest scar. She molds Serena’s hand into a cup and brings it to under her breast. “Here.” Then around her inverted navel. “Here.” Her mons with its wiry trimmed crop.

Serena has always been an outstanding student and now is no exception. She experiments, kisses each area with an open mouth, closed mouth, tongue flicks, tongue swirls (Bernie seems to particularly enjoy this around her belly button). Bernie moans appreciatively, urges on with groans, encourages with whimpers (particularly under her breasts and over her pubic region).

“How’m I doing, Professor?” Serena purrs into the blonde’s ear and is rewarded with a shuddery, dry-mouthed “A plus…another lesson?”

“Yes, please,” the brunette replies as Bernie shifts them. Now the trauma surgeon is lying flat on her back with Serena kneeling next to her, admiring the toned stomach, the neat little C-section scar. Serena places her palms on Bernie’s thighs, requesting with a glance and receiving a nod, she opens them wide. Bernie cocks one leg to the side, the other is spread wide, foot planted on the mattress. Even before she leaned over, Serena inhales the thick, rich scent of Bernie’s need. It’s a heady thought, knowing that what she’s doing is causing that wonderful effect. Lying down between Bernie’s legs, Serena gently parts the swollen outer labia so she can see the source of the silky wetness now coating Bernie’s private region.

Serena takes a leap. “Show me how you pleasure yourself.” (She can’t imagine saying that to a male lover—men are pretty straightforward. How many different ways can one hold a dick? But a woman…)

Chapter Text

Bernie’s eyes, half closed, now open wide. Her lips part. Close. Part again.

Berenice G. Wolfe has answered a lot of questions in her lifetime. No one has ever asked her this.

Although deeply grounded in science, Bernie also relies on her instincts. Her gut. And it’s telling her “You will be with this amazing woman for a long, long time. You can trust her. You can indulge her.”

Bernie takes a deep breath. “Well, I…there are several things, ways, things I like…” She stops, realizing words aren’t needed, this is a time for action.
She motions for Serena to lie down to the right of her. Serena’s hand starts moving toward Bernie’s crotch but Bernie stills it, places it on her own tummy. Gives an “I’ll show you” nod. Moves her own hand to her groin, swirling her index and ring fingers in her own moisture, covering her clitoral hood with the light dew. Closes her eyes to concentrate, to give the timid part of herself the illusion of privacy.

She strokes up and down, between vagina and clit, lingering longer at the clit with each pass. Her left hand begins to play with her right breast, teasing the nipple with a nipping motion. Serena reaches across the supine moaning figure to do the same to Bernie’s left breast. Serena is mesmerizes as she sees the flush rise on Bernie’s chest, hears her breath quicken, smells the lingering hints of coffee, orange, her own scent on Bernie’s lips…What a gift she is giving me, Serena thinks. She knows how stoic the former Army major is, how shy at times.

Bernie’s hips rock. She grunts with each pull of her fingertips at her clit. Nearly there…Almost…and then she is. “S’rena,” she manages through more soft groans. Her fingers swirl to catch every wave that crashes over her.

Serena watches, like someone seeing fireworks for the first time, recording to memory the magnificent sights, sounds and smells of Berenice Wolfe unraveling. She reaches between Bernie’s splayed legs, pausing at her vaginal opening. “May I?” she asks.

Bernie nods. “Fuck me, S’rena!” And with deep thrusts, Serena Campbell does just that. Gives Bernie her second orgasm of the night. Wants to keep going but Bernie eases her motion. Ah, too much for right now, Serena gets it. She scoots back up the bed to cradle a now-thoroughly-spent Bernie in her arms, planting sweet kisses along her damp hairline. Bernie groans, snuggles even closer, wraps her arms around Serena.

“You’re a quick study, Campbell. Thank you,” she murmurs. And then, “Never bring your soap to the showers” she mumbles before drifting off to a light doze.

Chapter Text

When Serena returns to the bedroom with wine and a cheese-and-apple tray, she smiles. Bernie is sprawled across the bed on her stomach, just-fucked-hair head on Serena’s own pillow, sheet and quilt pulled down to reveal the retired major’s firm, kissable, spankable arse. Bernie snores lightly, mutters adorably. Serena is enthralled. But getting a bit chilled stood there wearing only the flimsiest of dressing gowns. Ha! Serena smirks. She knows how to solve that.

Sliding out of the robe, she stealthy eases onto the bed, placing the front of her body right up against Bernie’s prone figure. Levers herself under and then over the blonde until Serena’s on top of the now-waking woman.

“…the devil?” Bernie mutters, then opens her eyes to find Serena straddling her again. Blinks several times.

“Blimey, woman…you’re insatiable,” Bernie grunts good-naturedly as she watches Serena hungrily stare down at her like a pirate eyeing a new-found cask of treasure.

“What can I say,” the brunette shrugs with a grin. “Perhaps you shouldn’t look so damned fit. Sit up,” she says, reluctantly getting up from Bernie’s lap to sit next to her. She plumps several pillows, arranges them behind their backs. “I come bearing sustenance. Neither of us really had dinner.”

On cue, Bernie’s stomach growls. She reaches for a slice of apple and some crumbly bleu cheese, crunches down on the morsel and moans with approval. Pops a candied walnut in her mouth and chews thoughtfully. Serena snacks too, her eyes feasting on being about to watch those lips so candidly. Imagines what they did to her early, the promise of what they can do in the near future.

“Why Ms Campbell. I do believe you’ve got a naughty streak a kilometer long,” Bernie snickers. In between bites, she’s let her eyes do the same cascade of Serena’s near-naked body as she never could study the woman so openly before. She notes a triangle of freckles on the outside of Serena’s left ankle, a small pitted childhood scar atop the knee, the untamed bush of dark hair, the---

“So, who knew all I had to do to get your attention was ask for a bar of soap,” Serena’s low voice curls around her thoughts.

“I-I must be the densest ‘baby dyke’ in the world. It took me til tonight to realize all the signs I missed,” Bernie admitts. She explains the description and her talk with Jo Gannon. “I thought I was alone in my less-than-pure thoughts—or purely lesbian thoughts.”

“And I suppose deep down I was waiting for you to make the first move without realizing it,” Serena acknowledges. “Why didn’t you?”

Bernie chews a shard of sharp cheddar, swallows a sip of Shiraz. “Two reasons, both equally important, besides the one I just mentioned. First, I did think you were a dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual.”

She takes a deep breath, exhales, tears come to her eyes. Second, I didn’t want to risk losing your friendship.” She turns fully to Serena, takes her hands in her own. “Serena, our friendship has come to mean so much to me. Except for a couple of Army buddies—male and female—I’m usually crap at friendship. But, we seemed to become friends so quickly, so deeply…it snuck up on me. Sort of the way you did tonight in the shower,” she adds with a lopsided, squinty eyed grin.

“Makes sense,” Serena nods. “It means so much to me too. And hey, YOU, need to walk more loudly at times too,” she laughs, pointing a finger at the blonde’s chest. Bernie grabs the finger, takes it into her mouth and sucks its length, watching the effect it has on Serena.

Bernie takes pity on her lover and releases the wet digit. Tilts her head. “So, this is probably the elephant in the room,” she speaks in that clipped, precise manner that signals her seriousness. “I don’t want to presume: Do you want ‘this’ to continue beyond tonight? And if so, how do we handle it at work? I mean, I know how I want to but…”
Serena looks into those deep hazel eyes. “To your first question, thank you for not presuming—yes, I do, want this to continue, to develop this relationship with you. Truly. To the work question, I’d rather keep it under wraps. You know what the Holby rumor mill’s like…Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cringes as she sees the frission of pain dash across Bernie’s face. She reaches to cup the blonde’s face in her hand.

Bernie relaxes into the sweet touch. “But, Serena, it is exactly because I know the damage rumors can do that I would prefer we be open and not hide our relationship from colleagues,” she ducks her head, recalling the awfulness of her outing by an agitated patient. “Not being honest and open cost me dearly—nearly cost me our fledgling friendship. If we are candid, we shut down the rumors. There may be a few days of Fletch betting on who came onto whom first but that’s about it.”

Bernie gets up, sees Serena’s startled expression. “Don’t worry, just need the loo. Be right back, sweetheart.” She kisses Serena’s bare shoulder, brushes it with her hand before lopping off to the en suite.

Chapter Text

Serena sips her wine as she takes in what Bernie’s saying. A mere few hours ago, she’d have been happy with a few drinks at Albie’s with Berenice Wolfe. Planning to sneak a peek at those slim, wide lips as they cozy up to a glass of single-malt, hope for a good-night hug, tuck away that outrageous laugh and the shy, behind-fringe smile in her mind to pull out for a rainy-day pick-me-up.

Now…now they’re discussing a full-on relationship. She runs her hand through her short brunette hair, smiles. Is surprised to feel the calm stillness within her, an undercurrent not of fear but excitement, happy excitement for things to come. She wants this woman, this strong, steadfast, courageous, bloody gorgeous woman, in her life, her bedroom, her heart.

Meanwhile, in the plush en-suite, Bernie takes in the huge walk-in shower with raindrop heads, the separate tub with jacuzzi jets, dotted with partial melted candles. Someone loves her creature comforts as well as her coffee and Shiraz, Bernie thinks, filing away possible gifts for her girlfriend—girlfriend?! The big macho Army medic smirks with pride, hmmphs to herself. Girlfriend. I have a girlfriend! A bloody brilliant, witty, beautiful girlfriend. Serena Campbell.

She washes her hands, splashes water over her face. Did I push Serena too far? Too far too quickly? Blimey, we were only going for drinks to Albie’s and I was admiring her ankles…
Steady on, Wolfe. Serena said she wants to have a relationship with you. Everything else is negotiable. Can be taken one step at a time. She dries her face, her hands. Brings her right hand to her nose, feels a rush of heat as she can still smell Serena Campbell’s musky sweetness. Smiles to herself and opens the door. Inhales sharply as she sees Serena standing right in front of her.

“S’rena?” Bernie asks, anxiety suddenly washing away her confidence, chilling her.

Serena looks up at the trauma surgeon, looks into the eyes that woke her up those months ago in the car park. She smiles.

“Bernie. I don’t want to keep our undeniable sexual chemistry confined to the operating theater. I don’t want to hide what I feel for you, have felt for you for months (though I missed all the symptoms). I want to be with you and don’t care a bloody fig who knows or what they think.” With that, she grabs the happily stunned blonde by the neck and pulls her into a passionate kiss.

Bernie’s heart leaps, her spirit soars…her groin heats up again. She turns them so she has the brunette backed up against the wall. Rubs them together, slowly, fervently. Bites down on the freckled nape of Serena’s neck and suckles, leaving a small souvenir of their first night as a couple. Serena moans with delight. Bernie growls and playfully nips at her earlobe, licks the tender flesh she’s just marked.

“I think,” Bernie says in that husky tone that already melts her girlfriend, mouth up against Serena’s ear, “I want to make love to you right now. I’m going worship every inch of you…starting at your feet…and ankles…”

“Only if you let me do the same, Major,” Serena leads the way back to bed, back to their future.