A Bakery, Ruminations & Fucking...

(Seriously, okay? if you've never heard her, just search online "Brandi Carlile Hallelujah", and listen. If you're not made a shivering bawling mess of proud quivering dyke then I don't know how to help you. Torch and twang country-rock may not be your thing, and that's okay, but I unashamedly love it. Of course, k. d. lang's Hallelujah is sexy hot too. Damn, it'd be joyous to see them in concert together. Proud to be butch? You betcha! I'm the femme-butch type, though. One of my favorite fantasies is to be utterly naked writhing seductively and dancing on stage while they are singing to me, going down on me and thrumming my pussy to a shrieking orgasm. It's okay, go do it now "Brandi Carlile Hallelujah"– I'll still be here when you get back, still humming, gently licking, and softly thrumming...)

I delicately teased her pearly clit free of its hood. She moaned and reached for my face. Her fingers trembling, she shyly stroked my cheek. "Baby, I don't know if I can..." she began, but I stopped her with a finger to those innocent pouty lips, because I know she can. Many times. She's a lucky, lucky girl.

Sixth Part:"They are one person, They are two alone, They are three together, They are for each other..."

(In which life intrudes and things become complicated...)

The piercing scream of the smartphone was more than loud and annoying. It was shrill, shocking, and intruded its way into our blissful boudoir. Sometimes you just know with absolute certainty that the insistent ringtone warns of ominous dreadful news. This was not my weekend to be on-call. If that particular phone was ringing, all hell must have broken loose.

Jillian startled awake, and jerked against me. "What the fuck?" She said, flushed embarrassed and began to apologize, but I shook my head and held her, trying to comfort her. I sighed and reached for the phone barely muffled in the nightstand drawer.

"Dr. Alexander?"

"Yeah, speaking, what do you have?" I cleared the gruff from my throat and listened, piecing together the puzzle of the incoming crisis call, grabbed a notepad from the drawer and began scribbling the pertinent details. I glanced at Jillian and she looked frightened, had pulled her knees up to her breasts, was reaching for the sheet, and trembling.

A few minutes later I knew it was treacherous. A hostage and suicide situation had escalated into bloody violence. Three cops shot, two dead at the scene, one of the victims was the Crisis Negotiator, and 6 shots fired by the assailant, unknown how many civilians wounded. A female victim of domestic violence held hostage at gunpoint on the roof of a 12 story apartment building, clutching an infant in her arms.

I dropped the pad and pen on the floor, reached for Jillian and stroked her soft cheek, comforting her quivering lips with my thumb and pouted what I hoped was a soothing smile. "Okay. Got it. Officer? Send an unmarked, we go low profile, I'll be ready to roll in 15 minutes."

Jillian was sobbing quietly as I clicked off the smartphone, her face pale and shivering with apprehension.

"I'm sorry, Sweetness. I've got to go. I'm not on call this weekend but...the On-Duty has been injured." I couldn't meet her eyes, didn't dare betray that he was dead. But her eyes darkened. She knitted her brow, saw through my ruse. She knew.

"You can't go unarmed, Erin. Please, as much as I hate those damned things..." Her voice trailed off.

I sighed to myself, barely audible, reached for the remote and tuned the Curved LED to the local news channel. Sure enough, the news vultures had descended and the CNN crew was just pulling into the hectic intersection. Fucking awesome, I thought disgustedly. It's going national. Shit!

The situation was chaotic with uniformed cops running about and some in riot gear, emergency fire crews strategically placed, in case someone spontaneously combusted I imagine. Why the fuck is there always fire engines? The news camera panned right as the paramedics wheeled a gurney to a waiting ambulance. I moved to switch it off quickly, hoping Jillian had not seen the sheet covering the victim's face, but I looked at her and, she knew. We heard a shocking gasped shout and the camera panned erratically up the building, zooming in to the woman held teetering on the ledge of the roof. I jumped up and dashed for the walk-in closet, grabbing jeans and a shirt and ran into the bathroom. Five minutes later I was at the curb in front of my condo, Jillian at my side looking disheveled and beautiful, as the unmarked cruiser screeched around the corner and pulled to a sudden stop close by.

"Please be careful, Erin."

I took Jillian's almost too pretty alluring face in my hands, brushed her lips with my thumbs and tongue, and kissed her hard, as if it was the last time we would. I stroked her cheeks softly with the backs of my fingers. She smiled wistfully. Her impossibly blue and emerald-flecked eyes desperately clung to mine.

The cold wind picked up strength, gusted, and Jillian was shivering. From the winter chill, or fears for my safety? I sighed. I love my work, but it is a home-wrecking vocation. I reluctantly let her hand slip from mine and turned toward the waiting vehicle.

The wailing warble of the siren ringing my ears, the cruiser leapt forward, hurtling me into the foreboding gloom of the foggy San Francisco winter morning.

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I'll continue this story if there is interest. Please, let me know. The next chapter is kinda already sorta in progress. (How do you spell ambivalent? Perhaps, cautiously optimistic?)