Private journal of Anna Volakas
Monday 22 nd September, 2014

I feel strange writing this down. No, not strange … guilty. I don’t know why I feel that way, because it doesn’t make sense; but I do know what’s causing it and maybe if I put it on paper then it won’t be in my head any more. Then maybe I can sleep again at night. Let the damn paper feel guilty.

But here’s the thing: I’m not completely sure I want it out of my head. How’s that for messed up? Pretty frickin’ perfect, I should think; perfectly messed up is exactly what it is. The truth? I haven’t felt this excited … this alive … since my honeymoon. I think that’s why I feel guilty; not because what I’m feeling is wrong – I don’t think it is – but because these feelings should be reserved for Nick, my husband.

~~~
Shit. I just re-read what I’ve written so far and I sound like a lying, cheating bitch. Even to myself. But I’m not … at least, I’ve taken a long, hard look inside and I don’t believe I am.

What if someone reads this? What if Nick reads this? Holy crap, Nick, are you reading this, baby? I can picture it so clearly; I left this thing lying open, or you went looking in my drawer for my keys, or any one of a million other things that could put this in your hands. Maybe I got killed at work and you’re sifting through my stuff, trying to make sense of the insensible, and this is what you find! Now I feel like an utter turd; part of me wants to tear out this page and burn the fucking thing.

But I have to go on. I have to. Nick, baby, if you are reading this then please keep an open mind. Know that I love you. Always have, always will. Nothing has changed there. But there is something new; something inside me that I have to deal with and it doesn’t affect the way I love you. I’m not trying to make something happen with Susan, but if it did – and I know you probably won’t believe this – then it might actually be good for me. For us. I feel that very strongly.

~~~
Damn, clock’s ticking Anna. Forty minutes writing this and so far all you have is a page full of bullshit and innuendo. Maybe it’s time to take a concrete pill – as they say at the station – and harden the fuck up! Okay, here goes: I think I’m a lesbian. A rug-munching, fuzz-bumping, clam-digging, scissor sister! A fucking diesel-dyke copper; what a cliché.

I thought that would make me feel better, but it didn’t. It makes me feel worse, not least of all because it’s not true. I just made myself cry. Good job, Anna.

I’m straight; I like guys.

I like the way they look and I like the way they feel.

I love my husband.

I don’t go for chicks.

I don’t check out their tits or their legs.

I don’t undress them in my mind.

I don’t find them interesting … except for Susan.

Susan!

Susan is …?

… ?

Interesting.

For the life of me I don’t know what’s interesting about a middle-class white woman in suburban America.

~~~
It’s not guilt. I just worked that out. I think it’s shame; and that burns so much hotter than guilt. If it was just the incident at the kindergarten barbecue, then maybe it would be guilt. Maybe I could deal with that more easily. Heck, maybe I would have forgotten about it by now. Forgotten about her by now.

It was the dream; that’s what feels shameful … even though it shouldn’t. Nothing that feels that good should feel shameful. If only ‘good’ was all it felt; but it felt right, too.

Shit, I’ve been at this for over an hour now and I’ve gotten exactly nowhere. Are you still reading, Nick? Are you bored yet? Confused? Disgusted? How could you be; I haven’t actually said anything; not anything of substance. Is there even anything substantive to tell? There must be; I can still feel it inside me. I started this wretched journal to get it out where I could deal with, so let’s have at it.

‘The Incident’, capital-I, inverted commas, the works. Geez, chill-pill Anna; it sounds like one of those apocalypse TV dramas like Revolution; where they refer to some shadowy event in the past that wiped out civilization. It was nothing so macabre. I feel like saying something trite like “but it rocked my world”, but it sounds so … well, trite! Even reading it back, it sounds ridiculous, but it’s how I feel. Is that weird? That complex emotions can be so aptly described by a stupid, clichéd phrase? Is anyone still reading? Is Anna ever going to grow a set and actually write down what happened rather than every single fucking girly emotion that courses through her estrogen-soaked walking corpse?

~~~
It was the kindergarten barbecue. It’s Jimmy’s first year at kinder; geez, it seems like he was a baby just last week. The barbecue was put on by the parents’ committee as a getting-to-know-you sort of thing. Most of the Moms turned up and about a third of the Dads; that’s modern parenting for you. Nick was there. I’m proud of him for that. He was probably just networking and drumming up local contracting business; I know how he loves local jobs. He gets to sleep in (until 6:30am! But that’s contracting and he walked into it eyes open) and sometimes he comes home for lunch. I do shifts, so sometimes I’m home when he does; and if I’ve just come off a late-shift and Jimmy is with his Nona then I might still be in bed and … well … I guess I love it too when he has local jobs.

A few of the Moms introduced themselves. I remembered all of their names, but that’s the police training, not because I clicked with any of them. Most of the ones there without husbands were stay-at-home Moms whose lives revolve around their kids. I’m not judging them as more or less worthy than me, we just don’t have a lot in common.

Often at that type of thing, you don’t get to socialize because you’re busy supervising kids; but that’s one attraction of a kinder function: the kids all know each other, they’re locked in, and the play equipment is all age appropriate. I followed Jimmy around for a little while, but he didn’t seem to need me so I drifted away. Like every barbecue in North America since Columbus first lit a fire under a buffalo, the guys gravitated towards the grill and the women moved far enough away so they wouldn’t hear the foul language and prepared way more salad than would actually be eaten.

So of course I grabbed a brew and stepped up to the grill.

Some of the others looked rattled but Nick didn’t bat an eyelid; he knows I work with guys all day and he knows the way cops talk. Heck, we’ve had enough of them around to our house over the years. I was wearing what Nick calls my ‘off-duty uniform’; navy-blue t-shirt, jeans and sunglasses. Exactly the same as the rest of them, in other words … except my jeans were a bit tighter. The t-shirt too, if we’re being honest. God made me 5’3” with C-cups, and if you can’t hide ‘em then you might as well flaunt ‘em. All the guys had sunglasses too so I couldn’t see their eyes, but sometimes you don’t need to see to know where they’re looking. And I don’t mind that; it can be creepy when a guy feels you up with his eyes, but it’s kind of sweet when they’re just looking and think you can’t tell. Nick doesn’t mind, thank God; he’s proud of my body, small but toned.

I could tell I was cramping the conversation, but then Nick told them I was a cop and one idiot asked I had my off-duty piece. In a kindergarten, for fuck’s sake!

“What do you think, smart guy?” I laughed to keep it friendly – even though I thought he was an idiot – and held out my arms, turning right and left; my tight t-shirt and jeans made it obvious I wasn’t carrying. “Where do you think I’ve got it stashed?”

Unconsciously, his eyes dropped to my waist – I had invited it after all – and even with the sunglasses on everybody saw him do it.

“Geez, it’s a Beretta, not a fucking Derringer!” I said with mock surprise. “It’s not going to fit up there! Mom warned me to carry protection when I started seeing boys; maybe I misunderstood what she meant.”

The guys all cracked up, and I was happy to see the idiot a bit red-faced. Pretty soon they were back to normal and I was one of the guys; just like on the job.

~~~
I just re-read all of that. Funny how it doesn’t mention Susan. I’m such a coward. I’ve run out of time and my shift starts in a couple of hours, so I’ll have to finish this tomorrow.

~~~
Private journal of Anna Volakas
Tuesday 23 rd September, 2014

New development. I just got an IM.

@Susan.Richards.MD: Hi Anna, sorry again about Sunday. Drinks Fri night? Sus x
Shit, what does that all mean? ‘Sorry’? Is she into that kind of thing and just made a mistake? Or is she hetero and thinks I took it the wrong way? Either way, she knows I’m straight. Drinks? Sure, straight girls do that. Even if they do get off on the wrong foot. It’s not like we parted angry, but we didn’t exactly become BFFs either. Obviously she got my details from the kinder contact list, so she remembered my name. That’s interesting. Unless she picked the only Greek surname off the list and rolled the dice; the black hair and olive skin is a bit of giveaway. So what does all that add up to? Jack shit, that’s what.

But ‘x’? Not an initial, so a kiss? People sign-off like that … I think. Cops don’t. Nobody I know does. Maybe teenagers. But doctors? What does that mean? Want to get some drinks and finish up with some hot tongue action? Shit, I just read that back … I didn’t mean … I just meant kissing. For fuck’s sake, who blushes when they’re on their own?

I can’t think about it now; I still need to write out what happened.

~~~
I’m a cheap date. At 114 pounds, one beer is about as much as my system can handle, and ten minutes after I put it in, it wanted to come out the other end. Seems like the only time I can control my bladder is on patrol – because I have to – but any other time …? It started when I was pregnant, peeing every ten minutes, but Jimmy was nearly five years ago, so things should have returned to normal. It’s a bitch to be me. Pity party for one.

Surprisingly, the kinder actually has a decent adult bathroom. The building isn’t new, so it probably wasn’t always a kindergarten and the two-stall ladies bathroom is a legacy of a previous age. I did my thing and then stood washing my hands in front of the long mirror, looking at my reflection and checking for lines and grey hairs, making sure nothing was sagging that should be firm. I was washed and dry and everything else was five-by. I still looked great.

I was looking at my breasts – hey, I had to keep up with the guys who had been staring all afternoon – and realised they weren’t tender. I’d never had pre-menstrual breast-pain until recently, but probably from the beginning of this summer I’d noticed it, the last day or two before my period. It had returned right on cue the day before the barbecue, but it was gone again and that was weird. I felt them to make sure; gingerly at first, but there was no pain.

“Don’t mind me, I just need to pee.”

Holy fuck, where did you come from? Stealth-Mom! I didn’t even hear the door. She was early thirties like me, about my height or an inch taller, and a similar compact shape without the muscle-tone. But that’s where the similarity ended. She had styled blonde hair that she wore down, just past the shoulder, and she was dressed in a white, sleeveless blouse and soft-pink skirt with pantyhose and a pair of white, wedge sandals.

She looked at me holding my breasts and I saw a slight change in her eyes, a mix of curiosity and maybe concern. “Do you want a hand with that?” she asked without inflection.

What the fuck? Do I want a hand feeling my tits? Jesus!

“Do you want to go fuck yourself?” I shot back deadpan. It was out of my mouth before I could take it back; it was the sort of thing I’d say at work if a crack-whore made the same offer, but this middle-class Mom had surprised it out of me.

That same look of curiosity and concern stayed on her face for a two-count while she processed what I’d said, then her blue eyes bulged comically for a second and her face dropped in horror. Poor thing had probably never heard language like that. And then she surprised me; she burst out laughing. It just exploded from her – this sudden burst of hilarity – and her face transformed from horror to outright glee. God only knows what my face looked like; I’d just been lesbo-propositioned in a kindergarten bathroom, told a soccer-Mom to fuck herself, and now I was getting laughed at.

“Oh shit! Whoops!” she clutched her groin, still giggling uncontrollably. “I almost peed myself. Give me a moment.” And then she ran into the stall and slammed the door.

I heard the sounds of cotton and nylon and she did battle with her skirt and pantyhose while she talked in broken half-sentences.

“I’m so sorry,” she began. “I don’t know how that must have … I mean, I’m not … I didn’t … Oh flip, now I can’t pee. Shut up a minute …”

I don’t know why she was telling me to shut up; I hadn’t said anything since I told her to fuck herself. A moment later, she got started and I heard a soft sigh of relief.

“I’m Susan,” she said through the door. “Zack’s Mom. I think I introduced myself earlier.” (She hadn’t) “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine what you must have thought. It’s just … I saw you doing a breast exam and it looked … well it looked like you hadn’t done one before.”

That was actually true. Nick examined them regularly and in minute detail, though possibly not for lumps or anomalies. Since Jimmy was weaned, I’ve pretty much left them to their own devices. I was deeply regretting what I’d said at this point; how could I have thought she was propositioning me?

“Um … no, I’m … um sorry,” I stumbled through an apology. If it was my son doing it, I would have made him start over.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” she laughed. I heard the sound of tearing toilet paper and then she paused again before resuming over the flushing toilet. “The look on your face was priceless, and I completely deserved it.” She paused while I listened to her fight again with the pantyhose and getting her skirt back down over her hips.

She came out smiling with roses in her cheeks and looked at me in the mirror. I felt a little pang of jealousy at her blonde good-looks; petite and feminine, she was the quintessential yummy-Mommy.

“I’m a doctor,” she explained. “I have women parading around in my exam-room with their boobs hanging out all day, so showing them how to examine themselves is the most natural thing in the world for me.” She shrugged as she dried her hands with a ‘what-can-you-do?’ gesture. “I just spend so much of my life with patients, sometimes I forget how to relate to real people.” Then she smiled again, “So when I ask to feel your boobs, it’s just how doctors say hello.”

“Right,” I said flatly. “Well I’m a cop. I spend my days with crack-whores and dealers, so when I tell you to go fuck yourself, that’s just how cops say hello.” I couldn’t help a smirk at the end of that. We’d just both done what comes most naturally, and in retrospect, it was kind of funny.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” she said. I hadn’t told her yet, but doctors probably weren’t as good with names as cops; they dealt with one person at a time and had all their details on a clipboard. Or so I believed from watching TV dramas.

“Anna Volakas,” I said, still looking at her in the mirror. “Sergeant.”

“Susan Richards,” she replied, smiling. “M.D.” There was a little flicker of ironic acknowledgement in her eyes, suggesting we both knew it was absurd to be using titles at a kindergarten barbecue, but still we couldn’t help ourselves. Curse of the career woman. Obviously I had mis-characterized her as a soccer-Mom.

“So did you …,” she searched for the words, “… um, want to?”

“Want to what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Learn how to do a self-examination,” she smiled, and then holding up her hands, “I won’t touch. Promise. Learned my lesson the first time.”

I didn’t really want to talk about breasts with this unusual woman at all, but she had completely disarmed me with her wit and that almost hysterical outburst of laughter. Part of me was curious; I knew it was something I had been ignoring for a long time that I really should learn, but it wasn’t like I was ever going to have an idle moment when I would decide to look it up for myself.

“Fuck it,” I breathed. “Okay. What do I have to do?”

“What? Oh, okay,” she smiled. “I didn’t think you were going to. You just had that look.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said.

“Right, well. First thing: you don’t just feel,” she began in a brisk tone, unbuttoning her blouse and pulling it untucked from her skirt. “You need to look as well, and you can’t do either properly wearing a bra.”

Shit, I didn’t see this coming. I just met the woman, I wasn’t really planning on having a titty tea-party with her. I felt a moment of reluctance when an icy shiver went down my back, but then I had to smile inwardly; how many times had I had them out when Jimmy was breast-feeding? That was a few years ago now, but it seems some of the dignity that fled my life the day I lay on a bed with a doctor, Nick, and two midwives staring up my twat was finally growing back. What the hell, I said to myself; I could get the girls out for another public performance. Just this once, by popular demand.

“I teach a three-step exam, rather than the five-step,” she explained. “A lot of women promise they’ll do weekly exams to your face, but then life takes over and they forget, so simpler is better.”

Susan was pulling off her blouse already as she talked to me in the mirror, revealing an expensive, lacy white bra. Such a typical suburban yummy-Mommy. The pink skirt hugging her slim hips contrasted with the creamy, white flesh of stomach; perfectly flat and not a hint of muscle – how did she get it that flat without crunches? Everywhere else was soft curves. Her waist wasn’t angled like mine; it was just a continuation of the gentle curve of her hips that flowed smoothly out again at her breasts: round and full B-cups, snugly tucked into a pretty girlie bra that she picked out precisely for the reason that it could be shown off through the blouse.

“I’ll just show you number one and two,” she went on. “One is in the shower and two is in the mirror. Three is in bed, so we can leave that one until we get to know each other a bit better,” she joked. At least it sounded like a joke.

Throwing modesty to the wind, I pulled my t-shirt over my head to reveal my highly practical and comfortable black lycra bra, just as she was reaching behind to unclasp that Victoria’s Secret page three special.

Susan shrugged off her shoulder straps, and cupping it in both hands she lowered it to reveal her breasts, round and full at the bottom with a ski-jump curve on top. With my fingers working at the clasp on my own bra, I froze, an unfamiliar shiver pricking goose-bumps on my arms and making the little hairs stand on end.

Oh my God. They match!

The thought was so clear and real, I wondered for moment if it had come out of my mouth. Her areolae were tiny, about the size of pennies, with small, slightly upturned nipples at the center of each – so small and perfect, it was hard to believe they’d ever seen the inside of a baby’s mouth. But the thing that stopped me was the color; it was the exact shade of pink as her skirt.

My own skin is a Mediterranean olive brown – almost dark enough for skinhead Nazi punks to call me ‘colored’, but really no more than the deep tan that an Anglo can go if they see a lot of sun. I guess I’ve seen white girls’ tits before – mostly at night busting street walkers who won’t get a fucking room – but I haven’t ever been affected like that. It was actually scary; I could feel my jugular throbbing in my neck.

I managed to get my bra off and put it on the counter, hoping that Susan hadn’t seen my reaction to her breasts.

I inspected my own in the mirror; full and round at the tops and sides, the extra weight made them sit a bit wider than Susan’s. My areolae are much bigger; smooth and brown and the size of a baby’s hand. I suppose I was so used to my own shape and color that Susan’s had caught me off-guard, but that difference made them seem exotic somehow; maybe forbidden. Looking at them gave me the same feeling as seeing something you’re not supposed to – or not accustomed to; like when a guy has his feet up and you can see right up the leg of his shorts to his underwear.

But I think most of all it was the color; not that it was different to mine, but that it matched her skirt. Those smooth curves of pink that clung to her hips and stretched across the parting of her legs were the color of sex; and there was so much of it, it hurt my eyes to look.

“Number one you can do in the shower, because it’s just by touch, not by sight” she began, holding her left arm in the air and nodding at me to copy. “So working from the outside to the centre,” she continued, pressing into her breast with all four fingers, “move the pads of your fingers in a circle, feeling all of the flesh of your breast. You’re looking for any lumps or thickening of the tissue. And don’t forget the armpit area.”

I copied what she was doing on my own breast, but although I was ostensibly watching her to see what she was doing, I was staring at those tiny button nipples, pink and sexual and perched in the middle that creamy, soft and somehow virginal flesh; and all the while that expanse of the same pink down below pressed at the periphery of my consciousness like a flashing neon sign saying “Sex: down here!”

My nipples peaked, but I was able to cover one with my hand and as soon as I rubbed it out, I quickly swapped breasts and concealed the other one.

“What if someone comes in?” It was the first thing I had said since the half-assed apology; Susan had been chattering on enough for both of us.

“One of two things,” she said with a smile, swapping breasts. “Either that we’re doing a breast exam …” I saw her eyes flick down to my nipples, which despite my best efforts had peaked again and stood out thick and proud about a quarter inch.

“Or?” I encouraged her to continue.

“Or we’re a couple of lessos about to get it on,” she finished with a straight face.

I was still aroused and confused and not prepared for that, and I snorted laughter through my nose. That got Susan going, and soon she was giggling, which got me going again. With arms still in the air and feeling our breasts like some kinky topless rendition of Swan Lake, every time we both almost got the giggles under control, one would break – usually Susan – and we’d both be going again like a couple of schoolgirls.

“You know I’m never going to be able to do this again without laughing,” I said, catching my breath and getting myself under control.

“What about me?” she asked earnestly, but still with a big grin. “What if I’m examining a patient and I crack up feeling her boobs?”

I pictured that and it made me laugh again because it was something that might really happen.

“What’s number two?” I asked. “And don’t say we need to get our panties off for that!” I added sternly.

She almost cracked-up again, but the professional doctor inside took over.

“Okay. Number two is in the mirror; this one is just with the eyes, so do it when you get out of the shower.” She stood with arms by her side, staring straight ahead at her breasts while she talked. “Raise your arms above your head,” we both bid, “and look for any dimpling or puckering, especially if it’s just on one side.” I watched my breasts lift as I reached up, taking it seriously and looking for any differences, my eyes flicking involuntarily to Susan’s pink nipples and then down to her skirt, making my breath feel hot in my throat, and my nostrils flare as I exhaled.

“Good!” she encouraged me. “Now, last one: hands on hips …,” we both did it, staring straight ahead. “… and flex your chest. And you’re looking for the same thing – puckering or dimpling – as your breasts move.” I watched her do it first, her breasts lifting slightly and minutely closing together. I copied her, but I work my traps pretty hard with barbell shrugs, and my breasts leaped up so hard they bounced, closing together almost to the point of forming cleavage.

“Holy cripes!” Susan blurted, “Do that again!” She was watching me, eyes wide and mouth open in what might have been horror or amazement. Showing off a bit, I flexed one side and then other, making them bounce independently.

Susan took a stunned half step towards me with her hand reaching out before she realised what she was doing and pulled back with a start, like she’d touched something hot.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she apologised, blinking, but looking directly at me now while I still watched her in the mirror. “Shit, I nearly reached out and touched them … Shit! I said ‘shit’!”

“Yeah, clean up that potty mouth,” I laughed. “You can’t use that kind of fucking language in front of me.”

I watched in the mirror as she looked up at my face and laughed nervously. I flexed my chest on the side closest to her one more time and the breast jumped again, startling a surprised “Oh” from her.

I was still buzzing from the laughter and arousal and charmed by her girlish reaction to my showing off; the next thing I said just came out before I could edit it.

“You can touch them if you want,” I invited.

“What?” She looked back up at my face. “Are you sure?”

I wasn’t sure, but my heart had just kicked up a notch and I was too proud to back down.

“Sure, knock yourself out,” I said with a casual note that belied the tension I felt. “Just no tongue, you lesbo bitch.”

That disarmed her and she laughed again, double-checking my smirk to make sure I wasn’t serious.

I kept facing forwards, watching in the mirror as she stepped towards me, looking down gravely at my breasts. Moving like treacle, she brought one hand slowly up, hovering uncertainly below its target before she found a new surge of courage – or maybe it was that professional instinct kicking back in – and closed her palm beneath me with her thumb above the nipple; my C-cup too big for her small hand to support completely.

Oh man, it most definitely did not feel like a doctor holding me. I was standing in a body-builder pose with my feet apart and arms out to the side – although my lean, cut muscles are nothing like a body-builder’s – and Susan had come closer than she probably intended, so now my arm was nestled between her soft breasts, sending confusing tingling messages shooting through my body. She seemed at least as nervous as me and I could feel tiny twitches through her fingertips as she gently cupped me; it was like she was concentrating on trying not to squeeze.

“Okay, go,” she said softly. I gave it another hard flex and startled her again, involuntarily squeezing me and making my large nipple bulge out between her fingers and thumb. “Oh jeepers! Your boobs have muscles!”

“It’s just the traps,” I explained. “They’re behind and a bit above your breast. You can build them up with …” The expression on her face stopped me. She was still cupping my breast, but now she was looking up at my face, her brows drawing together and a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. “… a-a-a-a-nd … you’re a doctor,” I said slowly, a blush spreading up my cheeks as I realised my mistake. “You’ve sat through more anatomy classes than I’ve busted drug dealers.”

“Uh huh,” she smiled. “It was a figure of speech.”

“I feel like a dork,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“You feel like a ripped dork,” she said, impressed. “Do it once more for me and I’ll forgive you.” She smiled again and placed her other hand warmly on the bare skin of my back just above the jeans. I flexed once more and held it, then popped it quickly a few times. She squeezed me gently as it almost jumped from her fingers. “That is so cool,” she laughed, letting me go. “I so wish I could that. Michael would go mental!”

“Michael’s got absolutely nothing to complain about,” I complimented her as we both reached for our bras. “And guys aren’t as impressed by that as you’d think.”

Her pale cheeks looked flushed as she slipped back into her pretty bra. What had just happened? Was that two women making friends and sharing personal health advice? Was it a seduction of some kind? Or did we just both just discover something about ourselves that we never suspected?

~~~
God, I’ve been writing furiously all morning and missed lunch. And I still have to pick up Jimmy and drop him at Nona’s before my late-shift, so I won’t get this finished today, either.

I read through everything above and felt those same confused feelings all over again. Some of what I’ve written is colored by the dream I had on Sunday night; I guess I was thinking those things at the time – about her nipples and her skirt and the touch of her breasts on my arm – but I wasn’t conscious of it while I was doing it, and I didn’t walk away thinking about sex or my own sexuality. It’s hard to explain. I was aroused, but I wasn’t thinking about being aroused; I wasn’t thinking about much at all, except how strange it felt … but fun. Susan was fun, and I made a friend. The lesbian jokes we were both making were real; we were joking around and having a laugh; they weren’t just a smokescreen for homoerotic thoughts, although that’s the way it sounds when I read it back.

It wasn’t until after the dream that I replayed everything through a different lens and wondered what Susan was thinking. I know she felt something, but was she ahead of me or behind? Had she felt that way before, or was it her first time, too? And more importantly, has she admitted to her feelings like I am having to? Or are they still bottled up inside that stern-but-pretty doctor’s façade?

I still have one thing to do before I pick up Jimmy; I need to answer her IM about drinks. I don’t drink on work-nights, but I’m back on early shifts from Friday and I have Saturday off. So I guess I’m going … I guess.

@SgtAnna24415: Drinks sound good. Anna
I haven’t pressed Send yet. I’ve been staring at that for a minute or two, knowing I have to leave and I don’t have time to dither. I think she took a chance with her message. I want to, too.

Here’s what I just sent:

@SgtAnna24415: Forgiven. Yes drinks, Fri night. Wear something sexy ;-) Anna
Oh crap. What have I done now? The wink smiley was meant to say ‘I’m joking,’ but it could be taken another way. I think part of me knew that before I hit send.

~~~
Private journal of Anna Volakas
Wednesday 24 th September, 2014

I feel sick. Susan hasn’t replied to my IM. I’ve been re-reading my journal and comparing it to my memory, and now I’m not sure what was real and what I made up. I think it was all real. I think I felt something and I think Susan did too, but I didn’t start thinking that way until Monday. What really happened?

And we were joking around! My IM was no worse than any of what we said face-to-face, but it’s hard to convey tone in text. That’s why I added the smiley; just kidding! Shit, now she thinks I’m a lesbian.

But what was I trying to say? I don’t think I know any more.

I’ve been looking at that last line for twenty minutes now. I do know what I was trying to say. I was trying to say ‘I’m game, but you go first.’ What a coward.

I don’t have time for writing today. I need to think about this some more.

Or maybe I need to forget about it…

~~~
Private journal of Anna Volakas
Thursday 25 th September, 2014

@Susan.Richards.MD: Sorry surgery day 4me yest and missed ur msg. 8pm at ShangriLa tmrw. Sus x
That just came through. I have a late shift tonight and an early tomorrow, so I need to do housework now instead of thinking about her. No time for writing.

Shit. I’ve been sitting here thirty minutes. I need to get moving.

What does she mean? An excuse for not replying earlier; can I take that at face value? Let’s say yes, so there’s nothing in that. There’s nothing about my joke; so that’s bad. If she took it as a joke then she’d joke back. If she took it seriously and wanted to go further, she’d joke back – maybe thinly veiled. But nothing? Did it upset her? Or is she still thinking about it? And then ‘Sus x’; it’s probably just her standard signoff, but would you blow a kiss to someone who just made an inappropriate sexual advance? (If that’s even what I did…)

Anyway, we’re still going out. I think something will happen, one way or another.

I’m not sure what I want any more. But then I never was …

~~~
Private journal of Anna Volakas
Friday 26 th September, 2014

I just came off shift and a workout and I’m pumped. Shots fired today; nobody hurt, but it always gets me buzzing. Nick is picking up Jimmy and they’re eating at Nona’s, so I have the rest of the afternoon to myself before I meet Susan. I need to get the rest of this down; maybe then I’ll know what to do. If we’re going to spend the whole evening together alone, then Sunday is going to come up. What it meant to her. What it meant to me. It has to.

I dreamt again last night; the same one. I must have been thinking about what would happen tonight.

Phew! This is intense. I’m trying to think how to start, and that thought is all it took to kick my heart back up to high gear. I can feel my cheeks burning too; with shame or excitement, I’m no longer sure. This process has helped already; I’m more certain of my own feelings towards Susan, even if I can’t yet validate them with her or reconcile them with how I feel about Nick and about my own sexuality.

Maybe this will help.

~~~
It’s hard to get the dream straight enough in my head to describe because like all dreams, it jumps around a lot and lacks the consistency of real memories. The two dreams weren’t identical, but now they’re starting to merge in my head into one single narrative.

It doesn’t really have a start, but it’s set in the kindergarten bathrooms again. I’m standing in front of the mirror alone – as I was in real life – but this time I’m naked. And horny! I’m squeezing my breasts as I realize it, and I feel a sense of disappointment that I’m not in a place private enough to tend my needs. One hand drops between my legs regardless, and unlike real life the mirrors are lower and the way I’m standing I can see everything I’m doing.

I want to touch myself properly, but I can’t – or I just don’t, or won’t – I’m not sure; it’s like a kind of paralysis. I wear panties to bed and I was probably following along in my sleep, which would explain why I couldn’t touch my pussy properly. But I could feel the heat pouring from me and I knew I needed to find somewhere private. Soon!

“Do you want a hand with that?” Susan asked. I didn’t know she was there, but I guess my subconscious did, because I wasn’t startled.

“I want …,” I think I said the first bit, but it was like I finished the thought in my head. She seemed to understand, anyway.

“I saw you doing … it looked like you hadn’t done it before,” in real life she had said ‘breast exam’, but this time it was something else. Nothing would have made sense, of course – except maybe masturbation – so my mind edited it out of the dream. But whatever she said, it wasn’t sexual; it was just an innocent observation that I was doing something perfectly normal.

“I can’t seem to …,” I wanted to say ‘touch myself’ or ‘satisfy myself’, but it came out as something else; something that Susan would think was completely innocent and not masturbation.

“Let me show you,” she said, stepping towards me.

I turned to face her and now she was naked too, those tiny pink nipples all but incandescent with arousal. I looked down, wanting to compare the colour to her skirt again, but this time she was naked. Her pussy was shaved smooth and open like a tulip and it was every bit as perfectly pink as her nipples. It sounds erotic, but I didn’t have feelings either way about it; just that the color was beautiful.

Susan cupped my pussy in her palm and I could feel the warmth and pressure of her fingers against my lips, but I could also feel the bulge of a pussy in my own hand. When I looked down again, my hand was cupped over her mound, soft and warm beneath my palm. It was as though she didn’t even notice, and I was curious; I liked the way she felt in my hand with my middle finger running down the length of her open slit. How could she not notice I was almost fingering her? But it was true; I don’t know how my hand got there, I certainly didn’t put it there, but I didn’t want to take it away. I just wanted to see what would happen. Would she get wet with me touching her? Even if she didn’t know I was doing it?

“I think I see the problem,” she told me. Her hand was still over my pussy but she hadn’t been trying to finger me and now my pussy was aching for release. “I’ll have to …,” her explanation trailed off because it was never going to make sense – even in a dream – and she lowered her head to my breast and took my nipple into her mouth.

Looking down on her from above, I could see her mouth around my nipple – her lips the same perfect pink as her pussy – and smooth locks of blonde hair spilling across her face and draping down over the olive skin of my breast. It was breathtakingly beautiful and erotic. I could tell she was licking and sucking me, and that it should have felt amazing, but I couldn’t feel anything – at least not in my nipple. Her hand was still cupping my sex though, and I felt the pressure and heat down there building, hotter and heavier, her finger pressing between my lips until finally with a breathless gasp from me, she slipped smoothly inside.

“There, that worked,” she came back up smiling, completely oblivious to the pleasure she was giving me, her middle finger now lodged tightly in my entrance. I wanted her to move it inside me and rub my clitoris, but I was tongue-tied and paralysed; I couldn’t think what to say that wouldn’t let on that I was using her to masturbate me.

Somehow my hand was still on her pussy and now I realised that my finger was inside her as well, and I instinctively knew that we were linked; whatever I did to her, she would do to me. I tried moving my finger, but that same paralysis stopped me; all I could do was press into her, grinding against her clitoris while of course she ground against mine, her juices now flowing hot and wet over my palm.

I could feel the orgasm building inside me but with my hand frozen, I just couldn’t get it to peak and I was getting frantic for release.

“Please,” I breathed. “Help me.”

“Here,” she said, offering her breast with a free hand. “You try it.”

I bent down and gazed at her nipple, still marvelling at the impossible color, pink and glowing like icing on a cup-cake. Up close I could see all of the little bumps and I wanted to feel them on my tongue. I closed my lips over it and an electric charge hit me; it tasted like putting my tongue on a battery and then everything started to work again. I was able to slip my finger deeper into her and simultaneously I felt her open me up, driving deeper with that one finger, but wetly sliding over my clitoris with her thumb; teasing my love button until she drove me over the top.

It was all I needed. With her hard nipple setting off lightning bolts on my tongue, my thighs clamped together over her hand – and of course her thighs closed on mine, too – and I came with a sweet, long, shuddering orgasm; my entire body twitching uncontrollably with Susan’s nipple still between my lips, powering the continual, flowing climax that seemed like it would never end.

At that point – predictably – I woke up with my hand down my soaking wet panties and realised with a guilty shudder that I had just come in my sleep with Nick asleep beside me. I don’t even know if she came.

~~~
Oh boy. I did NOT expect that. I wrote this out to maybe get it out of my system, but I didn’t expect … this … euphoria! It’s not out, it’s in! More in than it ever was! I feel full to bursting. With what though? Lust? Anticipation? Excitement? I’m so confused.

I just re-read the dream and it’s not quite right – it’s hazier in my mind; jumpier, with incomplete thoughts and images and confused feelings. But it’s powerful; oh my God, it’s powerful! It hardly seems like I wrote it; it reads like some racy bodice ripper. No, check that: it reads like fucking porn! I’m ashamed to admit (am I though?) that I was masturbating reading it; and my orgasm was every bit as powerful as the first time, the one I dreamed. God, I want to read it again.

I need to get ready to go out now. I can’t wait to see her … but I still don’t know what I’m going to say. Or do. I’d give anything to know what she was thinking.

~~~ THE END ~~~