A Bakery, Ruminations & Fucking... Ch. 02

This is my Oscar moment, don't worry though, the music will rush me off quite soon.

This story is continued from the first chapter which you really should read to appreciate the story but what the fuck, it's your life, right? (If you haven't read the first chapter, this'll just be an empty, shallow & meaningless fuck, so turn right around & march your cute perky little ass back to the start & read chapter one.)

This is a work of autobiographical fiction. Characters are not intended to resemble anyone living or dead, fictional or real.

The uncited quotes are from songs that add meaning & augment the ambiance of this story. Copy/paste & search 'em if they're unfamiliar; they'll add seasoning, garnish & spice to the narrative experience. This story is written, not sung - read, not heard, but the music does add to it. It's an investment I'm asking of you, I realize that, but I've spent many 100's of hours on these chapters & don't ask this lightly. In truth, it's a slight investment of your time & effort; the rewards well worth it. (In his wildest imaginings, Leonardo da Vinci would've given his life for the tool available to you. Just imagine what he might have accomplished with the Internet so effortlessly at his disposal.)

By the way, I'm aware I break rules & convention in how I frame my dialogue. I'm an auditory & kinesthetic reader, so hear & feel dialogue rather than visualizing it. Sorry, but that's my particular kind of dyslexia. If it bothers you, try to live dangerously, stretch a little. If it really disturbs you, read something else, like T. S. Eliot or Gertrude Stein, Kurt Vonnegut or E. E. Cummings. (Never claimed I wrote literature.)

From time to time a muse becomes gale force, battering the padlocks of our most shuttered prudish selves. I am unsettled by this story & the desires made manifest, but sometimes a story is transformative, becomes more than what the writer intended. Life may be a river, where one thing leads & flows into another, but life is also the pebble tossed skimming the surface, perhaps life is the ripples a pebble creates as it skips across parts of creation. Perhaps life isn't the river at all.

Thank you, HeartnSole, "The Last Time We Fucked" woke me, spoke to me. Your poems conspired to become my muse & left me helpless & gasping at their raw, brutal honesty & stark intensity. Sometimes, the divine chooses to speak through someone's words, & if we're fortunate, we open our arms & let their beauty overwhelm us...

Colleen Thomas passed away before I ever read her stories on Literotica. She enriched my life with her splendid prose. She helped me more fully embrace my femme-dyke self; helped me know & love the world & myself a little bit more. What generous bounty from a master storyteller! She never knew how deeply she graced my life. If angels exist, she is their soul & their heart's inspiration.

If you can't legally buy booze or porn then you should probably not read this. If romance between two women in love is not your kink, wow, I guess I feel really sad for you.

Not as much sex this installment. (Oh, don't pout.) More plot & character development in this chapter. (What? There's no need for plot, this is porn, goddamnit!) Trust me, there's plenty of hot sex, they're just not thumping like rabbits right from the get-go.

This chapter isn't as polished as I'd like. But enough of you asked for another chapter & touched my heart with your kind words, so enjoy - I mean that with all my heart: Cherish the wonderful life you've been given, because ultimately that is really all that matters - whether you have been loved & cherished even once in your life, & whether you have truly unselfishly loved another.

No teenagers or strap-ons were harmed while writing this story.

In defense of equal rights for split infinitives, I offer this from a master wordsmith:

"I don't care if he is made to go quickly or to quickly go, but go he must." - George Bernard Shaw

"We can redream this world and make the dream come real. Human beings are gods hidden from themselves." - Ben Okri, "The Famished Road"

*****

(Continued from the last paragraphs of Chapter 1)

"Please be careful, Erin."

I took Jillian's almost too pretty alluring face in my hands, brushed her lips with my 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 shivered. 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.

*****

A Bakery, Ruminations & Fucking... Ch. 2

Seventh Part: "She can take the dark out of the night time and paint the daytime black..."

(In which Erin goes to work and death doggedly pursues seeking revenge...)

One of my gigs is working with the police to supervise crisis situations and when things get really crazy I take over. I'm on-call for a straight 72-hour stretch, day and night, which totally sucks when the phone rings while eating pussy. I'm a shrink not a cop, but I can hold my own in a fight pretty damned well and pack a pistol as well as a strap-on. I use 'em both masterfully and have a carry permit for the Glock.

I'm usually not armed because there'd be too big a trail of bodies in my wake; at my worst I'm a control freak: selfish, aggressive, ruthless, impulsive, judgmental and mercurial, but I embrace those parts of myself and when tempered a bit (okay, tempered a lot), they complement me. I'm an adrenaline junkie. I'm pretty relentless, especially when stalking pussy. I'm trained to empathize and understand human nature at its most vile, repugnant and violent, but I'm not obligated to like it. My faith challenges me to love those who are most disgusting and to embrace those who are most morally distasteful, but it doesn't require me to make Sarah Palin, or Adolf Hitler, or Mike Huckabee my BFFs.

I love San Francisco. I'd barely escaped the violence and degradation of my youth, and found comfort here. The City sheltered me, lovingly adopted me, and I was caressed by her serenity and felt at home.

San Francisco's Chinatown is deservedly renowned; beautiful, glamorous and glitzy. Well hidden from sightseers are the SRO's that house the impoverished citizens of this beautiful golden city by the sparkling bay. The seamy ugliness is destructive to tourism which funds the economy of this complex part of The City.

The crime scene was a frenzied partially contained chaos when we arrived at the intersection. I waded towards the crowd, into a gaggle of microphone-laden journalists and their camera-bedecked cronies. They shouted their rote queries and danced their reporter-asses into a tizzy, demanding their pieces of silver. Screw the Fourth and Fifth Estates, they could wait - lives were at stake. I pushed my way through, none too gently, and spotting a familiar face, make my way to Chief Inspector Grasse-Tyson.

"Nell, what's the situation?" (What can I say, her parents are both astrophysicists.)

"It's bad, Doc. Really bad. He knifed her baby, then threw the kid off the roof."

"I need to get up there fast, Nell. But it's got to be discreet. Can't freak him out and start a bloody rampage."

I looked around. "I need coffee, like now." Please, let it be strong and hot. "Who's your second in command?"

"Lt. John Monroe. Up on the roof."

"I need him to pull everybody back. He can stay, with six that he hand picks. If any sniper takes a shot against my order I'll kill 'em myself." I gulped the steamy coffee she handed me. Damn, it was good!

"How the fuck do you get Starbucks at a crime scene?"

Nell smirked. "It's San Francisco, Doc. They're everywhere!"

The hook and ladder deposited me on the far side of the roof in a matter of seconds. (Aha! That's the other reason for the fire engines being here.) I hate heights. The thought of my body splattering from 12 stories up made me nauseous, so I didn't dwell, consciously uncoupling from vertigo. I cautiously wound my way towards the ledge, taking cover behind HVAC fixtures, assorted plumbing pipes and utilities panels as I made my approach. When I reached the outer ring of police officers I spotted the only one not in Kevlar and gestured for his attention.

"You the shrink?"

"Wow, you're a clever bastard, Monroe. Are you invincible too? Where's your fucking body armor?"

"Probably keeping yours company down on the street." He smiled a beguiling grin. I like this guy.

"Keep back unless I signal you. I may call a risky strategic maneuver, but if I can use it to my advantage, we do it, okay? Don't challenge my audible."

He looked wary but voiced no objection. "It's your ball game, Doc. Call the plays and we'll back you up."

Good. Didn't need to get sidetracked by jockeying for power right now.

"I'm wired, Monroe. Switch to my channel but keep the chatter to essentials, and only you. Grasse-Tyson is online. Say hello, Nell."

"Hello Nell." Her voice laughed softly in my ear. Humor, beauty, sex and danger all around me. My life rocks!

When I got within range of the ledge I spotted the Unsub. Looked Hispanic, young, maybe mid-twenties, crude amateur ink, and sweating, twitchy and wild eyed, widely dilated pupils, probably a druggie. That was going to complicate things, but if he was a tweaker I could use that to my advantage. (Difference between a crackhead and a tweaker? A crackhead will steal your shit and bounce - a tweaker will steal your shit and then help you look for it.)

I quietly made my presence known.

In my friendliest voice, I ventured, "Hey, Asshole. You want some coffee?" He jerked his head my way as I offered him my Starbucks.

"Get away, Puta! I'll kill her."

Not unkindly, I said, "Go ahead, dude. Don't care about her and I care less for you." Charm him with nonchalance, I hoped.

He looked confused. Good, not dealing with an Einstein. "What did she do that pissed you off?" I needed to buy into his delusion that she was the cause of his pain, then use it to defuse this before they all ended up dead.

"She's a slut man, fucked my best friend."

"Not much of a friend. Must have hurt. I'd have killed the prick." He dropped his eyes and looked away. I quietly moved closer. About 15 feet from them. And the ledge.

"I know, right?"

I didn't respond, just offered the coffee. "What's your name?" I shuffled a few feet closer and put the coffee down nearer to him.

"Don't need no friend, Puta, not a pig anyways."

"Yeah. A pig for a friend would seriously fuck your street creds, I imagine." I edged a bit closer. About 10 feet separated us now.

Regardless of the circumstances, working my therapeutic toolset is a conscious effort and takes more time than I had. In flicks and television, meaningful resolution is accomplished with a few timely, clever and insightful lines; in real life, if it happens at all, it takes months, years, of grueling work.

"Drop your piece, Puta!"

Wow! He's observant, too. I released the mag and unshelled the Glock's chamber. "Here, take it." I offered it, handing it closer, tempting him with a real gun. That piece of shit pea-shooter he had was an embarrassment.

He released his hold on the woman and moved in to take it. I took the opportunity. Planting my left foot, I leaped up, tackled him, and launched us over the edge of the roof. He was screaming as we plummeted towards the ground. "You crazy Puta...I kill you...I kill you..."

He sounded like Achmed the Dead Terrorist. I wrenched the revolver from his hand and trapped him below me as we fell; knew he could kill me if I didn't restrain him. I only had eyes for the air bag on the ground. If we missed it, hopefully he would break my fall.

The impact hurt like you'd imagine a 120 foot dead-drop fall to hurt. My body was horribly shocked. I felt ribs crunch, muscles tear and bones grind. It stunned me, knocked me unconscious.

At least I was spared the press conference.

Eighth Part: "And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad, The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had..."

(In which Jillian frets and ponders Erin's questions from last night, and we learn a bit more about them...)

"Damnit! She's such a fucking bitch, thinks she's the goddamned Lone-fucking-Ranger!"

No one was there. I was nervously pacing the floor and talking out loud. I do that sometimes, it helps me focus, especially when I am really, really pissed, or distraught. It's been over 18 hours and Erin is still unconscious. The doctors say it's not unusual considering the severity of the concussion. They want to operate, cut open her skull to remove the pressure. The bastard she took down in the fall was still alive, barely. I hoped he was awake and in excruciating pain, the fucking prick! I want him writhing in sheer agony, right before I claw his fucking eyes out and rip out his still beating heart! Then I feel ashamed for hating him and wanting vengeance.

I walk to the bedside and look at Erin's beautiful sexy face. She's got naturally tanned skin but lightly so, and a sculpted face with Slavic features, and her eyebrows arch up fixed in a coy teasing manner that kinda promises something really delicious and decadent is about to be revealed. Oh, okay, that's possibly a bit of a stretch. She looks a lot like Euphrat Mai, the Czechoslovakian porn star, although Erin is much more cut and muscled, but she's so feminine too. They both know how to wield a strap on. Erin is a harness sensei.

But right now she looks pretty god-awful, pale and drawn. The bruising is mostly on her torso. It's going to be ugly and hurt much worse than it looks, and it'll take weeks to heal. Thank God there's no internal injuries other than a few bruised and cracked ribs. On top of the cancer, the last thing she needs is a complicated recovery from the lunacy she calls a career. I'm proud of her, admire her dedication and devotion but she dances at the precipice of life, right to edge of what's safe, always courting disaster; one day she's gonna crash and burn. Ironic, huh? I wonder if cancer will kill her before her goddamned career does.

I start pacing again, restlessly prowling the perimeter of the room.

When she told me about her sister, I was too flummoxed to answer her when she asked what I wanted to do, what I wanted from her, what I wanted to do next. It wasn't until my friend Jasmin knocked some sense into me that I realized I'd dropped the ball and failed to respond when Erin had been most emotionally vulnerable. Shit, I'm such an idiot! I should have taken her in my arms and held her, tightly, so very tightly. I should have told her how deeply I loved her, how proud I was of her.

I desperately want her to forgive herself.

I should've told her I wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. How much I admired her for daring to live a life of purpose and meaning. I should have told her.

I wish I could have told her.

Before starting grad school for her doctorate, Erin worked for Child Protective Services. She was a mixed bag type, a psychologist in social-worker/cop garb, called in by the police to mitigate volatile situations. They'd call Erin when situations had escalated to a critical point and required skilled and delicate crisis intervention. She's been shot several times, twice critically, and stabbed a number of times.

Those people that whip kids, abuse, neglect, exploit, molest, rape or sodomize them? Erin got those cases. She investigated, collected the evidence, and removed the kids when necessary to protect life. Domestic violence calls escalate rapidly. They're dangerous, explosive and responsible for most emergency responder deaths.

Erin was responsible for presenting child abuse cases to the Court, and for making recommendations about treatment, custody and disposition; she drafted the conditions that became the Court's Orders. She had no training as a litigator and faced experienced defense attorneys, but out of many hundreds of cases, she never lost a single damned one. She saw too much death through her work and the images of those bruised, broken and bloodied little bodies haunted her.

After suffering so much harrowing abuse in her own childhood, her work was a way to get some sense of payback, not revenge so much as a sense of justice, and of healing herself by proxy, I think. What I do know is that Erin saved hundreds of lives. She told me that specializing in domestic violence intervention was penance for her sister's death. I don't know the circumstances leading to it but Erin feels culpable in the death of her sister.

Her clinical specialty is family therapy. Erin's training was anchored in Strategic and Structural theory and treatment, but she's a Jungian at heart. She works magic as a therapist and a teacher. She teaches graduate school classes in clinical techniques. I've watched some recordings of her lectures and in-service trainings and she is remarkable, dynamic, and simply an awesome presence. Erin changes lives for the better. She is a healer. The world is a bit better because she lives in it.

The rustling of starched hospital bedding crept into my restless reverie, then I heard coughing.

"Jillian? You look exhausted, Sweetness. When did you last eat?"

I thought I would burst with joy. My heart began beating again and I dashed to her bedside. My head was a puddle of words and feelings but my mind drew a blank. I fell into her arms and cried. I felt like Scrooge on Christmas morning: Giddy as a schoolboy!

Erin winced and squirmed a bit and I realized I was hurting her bruised ribs. "I'm sorry. Oh, I'm so sorry." I cradled her cheeks and tenderly stroked her eyebrows with the pads of my thumbs.

What's troubling you, little Yoda? You look a bit pensive."

Shit! She's suffering a concussion, battered, barely conscious, and she can still read my mind.

"I don't want to burden you with my shit, Erin. You've been unconscious for nearly 20 hours, and you're in pain."

She snorted a muffled laugh and coughed. "Did you get the license plate of the truck that hit me?"

"You tackled the truck, honey, and then it fumbled just shy of the end zone."

She smiled seductively, winked and giggled.

Yay! I have my Erin back.

"Erin?"

"What is it, Sweetness?"

"Remember last night? When you asked me how I could possibly love you?"

She cocked her eye expectantly and sighed. "I remember..."

"I was feeling so much, so many thoughts. I couldn't find the words. And I was kind of embarrassed, because what I wanted would have sounded silly..." I trailed off, still pensive, considering my words.

"Erin, why can't you forgive yourself?"

Erin looked deep in my eyes, thoughtfully expectant. An apprehensive smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

She shook her head. "I'm trying, Jillian. I've been trying every day for almost 15 years..." She looked at me helplessly.

"Erin Alexander, I think I loved you from the moment I first saw you. I can't imagine my life without you and I don't want to." I took her hand in mine, couldn't help the tears springing from my eyes. My voice trembled, hoarse and smoky from heartfelt emotion. "My love for you grows deeper each moment we're together. Please let me take care of you. Marry me, Erin. Please let me be your wife."