by Radclyffe
“Hey!” Her partner’s eyebrows rose at the unusual edge in her voice, and he held up both hands as if to ward off an oncoming vehicle. “I just wanted to know when you would be done. We’re all gonna go out for a beer.”
“I still got the 10-55 from over on Sansom to write up. And then the 10-16.” Drunk drivers and domestic disturbances, the staple of patrol officers’ days. “Did you get the husband booked?”
“Yep. Just finished.”
“It’s gonna take me at least another hour with his paperwork.”
“Well, hell.” He actually sounded disappointed. “What about leaving it for tomorrow morning?”
Reynolds shook her head. “Go without me. If we get busy at start of shift tomorrow, we’ll be late filing these reports. Then we’ll never hear the end of it from the sarge.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” The words came out fast and hard. “Jesus, just go already.”
“Okay, okay. I’m gone. Thanks.” He slapped her affectionately on the back before turning away.
Immediately, Reynolds brought the dialogue box back up and stared at the last words, wondering—not for the first time—just what she was getting into.
BLUE: I miss you when we can’t connect.
She directed the cursor to the prominent X in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Just a flick of her finger, and it would all be gone. The questions, the uncertainties—the excitement. That free-fall feeling in the pit of her stomach when the screen lit up and the characters started to dance across her field of vision.
She released the mouse and put her fingers on the keys.
Rydl: I’m back...you still there?
The ensuing “silence” echoed the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach as her emotions warred.
She’s gone.
And that was just as well. They’d almost reached the point of no return—neither had acknowledged it, but Reynolds could feel it. Her entire day, every day, had become centered on those few times when she could slip away and log on—sneaking a minute after roll call, five minutes away from filling out reports, another couple when she was supposed to be checking one of the convoluted databases for outstanding warrants. Precious stolen moments in which to search for the familiar icon, those four bold letters.
BLUE: thought I’d lost you
No, it would be so easy for me to disappear, but I can’t stay away from you.
Rydl: sorry, public place
BLUE: you off work soon?
Rydl: about an hour
BLUE: meet me here 10 pm?? Alone?
Reynolds hesitated for just a second, then typed: Yes
Sitting in the dark in her den at 10:05 p.m., the dim glow of the monitor the only illumination, Reynolds stared at the screen. She pressed her hands to her bare thighs, fingers twitching.
BLUE: Ryd?
BLUE: Are you there?
BLUE: R? Honey?
Honey. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and tried to chase the butterflies from her stomach. Then, with careful deliberation, she replied.
Rydl: I’m here. But I can’t stay.
I don’t even know how I got this far. I don’t want this.
BLUE: company?
No. I’m terrified. I want...God, I want...
Reynolds logged off, then sat with her gaze riveted to the blank screen, breathing as heavily as if she’d just finished a five-mile run. Aching. Instantly lonely.
Jesus. I can’t just leave her out there with no explanation, can I? Oh, why the hell not, Rey? You don’t even know her!
Except that wasn’t exactly true—in fact, it was very far from true. They’d met only weeks before, but it seemed like months. It started simply enough—she stumbled into one of those chat rooms on the Net for women in law enforcement. It was ostensibly a place to network and discuss career strategies, but it turned out to be a safe haven where women who were often isolated at work could find support from others with like experiences. It was about connecting and community. It was about not being alone, when so very few people in her life—even her family and friends—really understood why she had chosen to do what she was doing. It was difficult to share her fears and doubts and disappointment when those she turned to only urged her to walk away. So, when she found these women, she sensed a kinship that she had experienced nowhere else in her life.
She just lurked for a while at first, getting a feel for the people, the topics, the back-and-forth of the discussions. It was amazing how quickly she came to recognize the various individuals, each with her own unique style. Not just different opinions, but different temperaments, senses of humor, and personalities—some aggressive, some calm and rational, some sarcastic. Before long she found herself looking for a particular participant to sign on. BLUE was funny and bright, and they seemed to share many similar views. During a particularly involved discussion of the pros and cons of mixed-gender teams on the job, they’d left the chat room to instant message. They’d IM’d for hours. Soon they were e-mailing first thing in the morning and on lunch breaks and chatting privately every night. Neither of them asked the other’s real-life name; neither of them offered it. They were who they were, right there in black and white and all the nuances in between.
So why are you running away? But she knew why. Had known even before BLUE had said...what she said. She took a chance. She told you the truth. And this is what you do?
Reynolds’s stomach clenched. Oh, God. What if I’ve hurt her? What if she’s really gone?
Her hands flew to the keyboard and she logged back on. Come on. Come on.
Rydl: BLUE? BLUE? Are you th
BLUE: I’m here What happened?
Rydl: I’m sorry...I logged off
BLUE: Why? Are you angry with me?
Rydl: No. Of course not.
BLUE: If it’s because of what I said earlier—
Rydl: No.
But it was, wasn’t it? Had she really been that surprised when BLUE had confessed to being attracted to her—after they had been writing two or three times a day, for weeks? Sharing things she hadn’t told another soul? Carefully probing. What kind of things do you like to do outside of work? What kind of movies? Books? Are you single?
And then BLUE had asked the question. Have you ever had sex online? And said what she’d said. Because I’d like to...with you.
Reynolds shook her head. That’s crazy. Just because I...like her...doesn’t mean it’s something sexual. Just because I look for her e-mail first thing in the morning, before I even make coffee...
She laughed out loud, a shaky laugh that sounded weak to her own ears. Just as her rationalizations rang with the hollow notes of self-deception.
And I check for mail from her every few hours—and I’m terribly disappointed when there’s none there. And she makes me laugh, and she makes me want to tell her things about myself from when I was ten years old, for Christ’s sake.
She didn’t know what to say. Yes, I feel what you feel? Was that even possible with someone she’d never met?
BLUE: It’s okay, you know. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to
Rydl: I didn’t say that.
FUCK! What are you doing! You can’t seriously be considering this! Of course not. You’re a professional, a police officer—people like you don’t do this—do they? She willed her hands not to move onto the keyboard.
BLUE: i won’t even touch myself if you tell me not to
Reynolds closed her eyes, trying not to imagine it. Trying desperately to ignore the immediate flood of heat between her thighs. Her hands moved on their own.
Ryd: Are you?
BLUE: yes is that all right?
Reynolds swallowed. Stared at the words. Envisioned the woman reading the phrases that connected them physically, as surely as if they were in the same room. Her fingers began to tremble. What was worse, she felt a trickle of wetness as the throbbing escalated between her legs.
Rydl: Is it what you want?
BLUE: oh yes. I want you to feel me
Rydl: Are you wet?
BLUE: mmm, all day. are you
Rydl: Yes.
Jesus, Rey, get a grip! She was mesmerized by the voice she could almost hear. She shifted on the seat, her thighs inside loose silk boxers tightly closed. I’ll just tell her to stop.
BLUE: should I tell you?
Rydl: PLease
She waited, not thinking, her pulse racing.
BLUE: i’ve been thinking about you all day—my clit has been hard since i logged on—i’m stroking it now—lightly
Rydl: Where. tell me how you touch yourself
BLUE: just up and down the sides i can’t press too hard—I’m afraid i’ll come—i want to feel you first before i com,e—oh its so goodoh
Rydl: wait Blue wait
BLUE: sorry—godIamost came rgfht away—sorry
Rydl: let me do it
BLUE: oh yeahplease I want oyu to touch me so much
Rydl: tell me what you like
Reynolds slipped her fingers beneath her T-shirt. She found a nipple, brushed it lightly, then squeezed. Biting her lip, she moaned softly.
BLUE: stroke my clit – between your fingers up and don like thatoh yes like that
Rydl: Is it good? Is that what you need?
BLUE: oh my god, yess—Ilove your fingers, touching me—rolling my clit -- god—I have to -stopp—ytoo close—
Reynolds closed her eyes, willing away the feel of that hard, wet clit between her fingers, the soft sighs of pleasure, the slight lift of hips into her palm. She tried too to ignore the surging rush of blood into her own aching sex.
Rydl: you feel so goodbaby
BLUE: letme – let me calmdow
Rydl: okay?
BLUE: lol ohyeah i want you to come with me-may i touch you
Rydl: PLease
It’s just words—nothing’s going to happen. Reynolds eased down in the chair, her eyes glued to the screen, her breathing sharp and quick. Without thinking, drawn by the steady pulse of pleasure between her legs, she ran the fingers of her left hand lightly up the inside of her thigh. When she reached the wide leg opening in her boxers and encountered the first trace of arousal dampening her skin, she stopped. That was all—no more. Words formed on the screen, a whisper in her ear.
BLUE: ohh, you are wet. and so swollen, so hardlaready god, youre beautiful. i have my fingers on your clit, softly—I want to feel you get hard for me
Reynolds’s clit twitched, and she gasped in surprise. She moved her hand higher, into the moist curls between her legs, easing her lips apart. Oh, Christ. She was hard, and so goddamned wet. She stroked between her lips lightly for an instant, then pulled away as a shiver ran down her thighs.
BLUE: is it good right there? where i’ touchig you baby, is it good?
Rydl: godyes
BLUE: i feel you shaking. i’m just going to rub you, one finger on each side of your clit—youre so warm—theres no hurry—
She was swelling, throbbing steadily. Now that she’d touched herself once, she was dying to continue. Enough. Jesus...
Rydl: this is making me crazy—
She typed with one hand, but she still wouldn’t give in. The hand in her lap ached to reach for her clit—she pushed back in the chair, trying to ease the insistent pressure pounding in her belly.
BLUE: i’m sliding one finger inside of you now, my thumb on your clit, holding you, pressing higher—oh god—let me feel youcome
For a second, Reynolds’s vision dimmed as the muscles in her pelvis contracted. She wanted to be filled, needed something to relieve the relentless buildup of blood into the overstimulated nerve endings. She found her clit, pulled back the hood with her thumb and middle finger and flicked across the exposed tip with her index finger, the way she did when she wanted to come. She tugged the sensitive shaft, and her hips jerked. Nearly blind, she fumbled for the keys.
Rydl: ohh blu..i want t come
BLUE: i knowbaby...three fingers now, my arm curving between your legs, pumping hard...
Her feet dug into the carpet and her legs stiffened, almost painfully tight. Her hand was a blur, her fingers working her engorged clit from side to side, dipping down into her own wetness, pulling the thick warm come over the top, around the sides—
Rydl: ohh—its too good—gonna comme
BLUE: hold on—notyet—I’m deep insidenow
Rydl: i’m—close—
BLUE: you’re squeezing down onmy fingers, gushing into my hand—my teeth find your nipple—biting—
Rydl: dont stop—
Reynolds’s right hand flew from the keys, joining the left between her legs, fingers driving inside; she was riding them now as she rode the thin edge of orgasm. Wildly, her eyes searched the screen—needing the final stroke. Oh, fuck—so close—gotta come now—
Rydl: plesecoming
Give me the words. Please-God-just-one-word—
BLUE: fuckingyou...drivingharder-now—faster—ohyeah—it’s starting—
Reynolds fixed on the words, keening as the first beat of orgasm struck in the pit of her stomach—her head thrashing against the chair back, pelvis jerking erratically as she met the internal contractions with thrusts of her hand. She pressed down hard on her distended clit, forcing out every last explosive tremor. The words streaked the screen like tears as her cries trailed off to faint whimpers. Oh so good...
BLUE: you okay?
Reynolds tried to make her fingers function.
Rydl: demolished
BLUE: i’m a little wasted myself –god, you’re fantastic--
Rydl: are you—did you—god, did you come?
BLUE: LOL Yeah when you did—I could tell and I-uh- Iwent off like arocket
Reynolds smiled, oddly pleased.
Rydl: Good.
BLUE: See you again?
Reynolds read the simple question over and over, searching for the right words. Then, very deliberately, she typed:
Tomorrow -- 10pm
BEYOND THE PALE
I knew she’d come home tired. Actually, not merely tired—stressed, worn out, and just plain sick of the ruthless corporate arena she’d chosen as her battleground. She was good at it, buying and selling and controlling. I’m sure more than one competitor had called her a coldhearted bitch bull dyke while he’d watched his own meager “assets” shrivel and shrink away. She looked like the headhunter that she was—hard bodied and hard eyed and strong. She’d come home wired and unable to sleep. She’d come home needing to be held, and more, but I knew that she wouldn’t ask.
Admitting that she needed me wasn’t easy for her. Not just admitting it to me, but to herself. I knew that she did, and I knew that she knew it. But it was something that we rarely talked about. Now, needing isn’t weakness, and I believe that somewhere in her heart, she believes that, too. But she is who she is, and if ever there was a woman tailored for the word butch, it’s her.
So, when I give her what she can’t ask for, I know what it means to be more than just needed. I know what it means to be essential. And that’s why, when my friends sometimes look at me in confusion and ask, “How can you put up with her tough act all the time?” I just smile. I know who I am, and I know who she is. And most importantly, I know who we are together.
And when she came through the front door that night, I knew that I’d been right again. Briefcase in one hand, suitcase in the other, and dark smudges beneath her bone-weary charcoal eyes, she mustered up one of her swaggering grins and said, “Hi, baby. Your stud is home.”
“Come upstairs, stud,” I said, just before giving her a long deep kiss and a full body press. She felt good against me, solid and strong. All it took was the brush of her belt buckle pressing into my belly through my thin silk T-shirt to stir me up. Ignoring the flutter in the pit of my stomach and the rush of excitement, I took her hand and coaxed her toward the stairs. “Let’s go get comfortable, and you can tell me all about your trip.”
Once inside the be
droom, I brushed my palms over her chest and under the edge of her jacket, pushing it off her shoulders. “Stop that,” I said admonishingly when she brushed her thumbs over my nipples. I’d missed her, and that first caress streaked through me like lightning, but I didn’t let her see what it did to me. Struggling to keep my voice steady, I frowned. “You look like you slept in this suit.”
She growled and slid her hand beneath my T-shirt. I pivoted away, taking her jacket with me. “This is going directly to the cleaners,” I announced as I tossed it onto a chair. Then I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, pressing close to her back. I was safer if she couldn’t touch me, because she was so good at taking control. With my cheek against her shoulder blade, I one-handed the buttons on her shirt until it fell open, then tugged it and the thin tee beneath it from her pants. Deliberately, I allowed my fingers to drift over her breasts as I liberated them. She stiffened against me, but in typical fashion, made no sound. I often wonder if she really believes that I don’t know how much she likes my touch. Then, with one hand pressed to her stomach, which was already tight the way it gets when she’s excited, I opened her belt buckle with the other and pulled the length of leather from her trousers. As it thudded to the floor, I unbuttoned her fly and slid down the zipper. I didn’t play with her as I often did, although I was dying to skim my fingers inside and tease her through that last thin barrier. If I made her too hot, too fast, she’d turn the tables on me. When she’s dying to come, that’s when she wants me most. “These too.”
“What?”
Her voice was husky and low, and she sounded just a little confused.
“Your pants—to the cleaners. Step out of them.” As I spoke, I hooked my thumbs inside the waistband, catching her underwear too, and pushed down. At the same time, she tried to get a hand between us to cup me, but I pressed tighter to her butt, preventing her from slipping her fingers between my legs. I was wet, and if she discovered it, she wouldn’t stop touching me until I came. “It’s late, baby. I’m tired.”
“You think you can meet me at the door in nothing but that skimpy shirt and panties and I’m not going to touch you?”