Work Text:
It was a dark and stormy night. Or so Bernice liked to think; it added an extra poetic dimension to her work. In reality, it had been no more than a bit overcast when she last ducked her head outside. Probably be pissing it down later. And she'd left her mac at home.
She had other concerns at the moment though. Concerns like her bottle of red, already half empty, and the persistent knocking on the door. Finally, the irritation became too much for her, and she got up from her desk to fling the door open. She found herself scowling down at a small child, a rosy cheeked little blond boy holding a pile of papers. He looked vaguely familiar.
"Please miss," he said in a piping treble, "I've got the music for Sunday, and Mister Cox told me to bring it for..."
Right. Bloody choirboys. "Yeah, yeah, thanks," Bernice said, snatching the music out of his little hands. He kept looking up at her with round eyes. "Bugger off!" she said. He did so. Bernice did not stop to watch him go, instead slamming the door shut again. She put the music down, reflected a little, drained her glass and refilled it, and returned to her work. The leather bound tome she had before her was an impressive sight. Every day, she sat herself before it and asked herself whether she was truly ready, ready to fulfil her purpose and spread the good word. There were some days she thought she was just too tired to carry on, but carry on she must.
Outside, the heavens opened on Royston Vasey. It was indeed pissing it down. Bernice spared a moment's thought for the little lad, who was no doubt walking home to his mam and dad now, and had herself a little chuckle. Then she opened her book, picked up her biro from where she had left it resting, and started to write again.
*
Love on the Dole, a erotic novel
by Rev. Bernice Woodall
based on a true story
The beautiful young restart officer laughed prettily. The sun glanced off her auburn locks. Across the table, the other beautiful young restart officer stared and stared, ruby red lips parted with anticipation... and desire.
"Oh, Catherine," Pauline sighed, her ample bosom heaving with the motion, "whatever shall become of these tragic young men under our care?"
Cathy Carter-Smith shook her head. "I don't know," she said sadly, voice quivering with emotion... and desire. "But Pauline... aren't there... other questions we should be asking?"
"What do you mean?" Pauline asked, but she knew all too well what the other beautiful young lady meant. She had seen the look in those azure globes before. She had seen those ruby lips - the lips she knew the warmth of as well as she knew the warmth of her own - twisted in such a grimace before. Twice, in fact. Once had been when the two of them had been between the sheets. But the other had been when Cathy's cat had been run over by a twat in a van. Cathy was upset. Or extremely aroused. Or both. Either way, it was evident to Pauline that her beautiful coworker and lover had something to say to her.
"Pauline," Cathy said. "What are we doing? What does this all mean?"
"Well," Pauline said, "to be honest with you I haven't a fucking clue, there's nowt you really can do with these work shy bastards, but as long as we keep getting paid enough to keep us in lipstick and strap-ons, I don't..."
"No, Pauline," Cathy said. To Pauline's surprise, the beautiful young woman began to cry. Tears spilled over and traced dark rivers of mascara down her cheeks. "Pauline... I think I'm in love with you."
"Oh," Pauline said. She had been expecting this moment for some time now. It was inevitable, after all, that her little trysts should end up this way: with the men and women she loved falling helplessly, hopelessly for her in ways she could not possibly reciprocate. Pauline Campbell-Jones was many things. She was not only a beautiful young restart officer, a fiery and sexy redhead with the plumpest and most kissable lips in all of Royston Vasey, and a formidable lover. Pauline Campbell-Jones was a dangerous woman, one who preferred to keep her relationships brief and casual; flings, not rings. (Of the wedding or engagement variety, of course. She had come up with the motto herself and was so proud of it she had written it down and pinned it on her motivational board, next to the picture of Anne Robinson. She was quite insistent that it be included in this book, and indeed lobbied for it to be the title, a request which the author graciously declined.)
"Catherine," Pauline said carefully. "I... love you too, but..."
Cathy stood up dramatically. It was so dramatic, people turned round to stare. A few tables away, a man dropped his can of Carling, but it was according to reliable sources his twenty sixth that day so that one was a bit of a foregone conclusion, and the restart officers and their gripping lesbian drama could hardly be held accountable.
"How can you say that!?" she screamed. "What with Mickey, and Ross, and I know you've never really forgotten Terri!"
Pauline gasped. Some things were just too far. It was understandable to bring up Mickey. The thought of the brute, with the darkly wicked look in his eyes, and the way he would throw her onto the bed and have his wild, animalistic way with her, still got her a bit animated. And the thought of Ross, the brooding, bitchy Mr Darcy of Royston Vasey, the way he'd fucked her over and then actually fucked her, had her breaking out in hot flushes at the best of times. But Terri... that was something different. That had been love. Fury wrote itself across Pauline's face in elegant script, and her famously plump lips curled. She stood and drew back her arm like one of them Olympic sportwomen doing the discus or something, and let rip with a massive slap across Cathy's face.
Cathy stared at her for a long, long, lingering, long moment. Her eyes were narrowed with rage... and desire.
She slapped Pauline back.
And then they kissed, lips meeting in a furious and sexy mashing of mouths, their tongues duelling for dominance in a heated exchange that frankly had no place in a public restaurant, and was almost certainly some sort of hygiene hazard, but they kept at it anyway, because they were two beautiful restart officers in love or something like it...
*
So into writing was she that Bernice did not notice the knocking on the door until it had been going on for quite some time. She lifted her head from her manuscript. She could not even muster the energy to swear at her mysterious visitor. Bending over the book for so long had given her a stiffness in the shoulders that was sure to set in overnight. By the morning it would be giving her hell. Just in time for the sermon. She’d have to pick out something suitably bloody to read to them, to fit her mood. Maybe some of the better bits of Deuteronomy. Or some James Herbert.
The knocking didn’t let up. Usually, writing her salacious stories at work afforded Bernice with more advantages than just the illicit thrill of writing about some of God’s least favourite things in His very own house. She wasn’t used to nearly this many visitors.
“It’s not bloody Christmas, you know,” she muttered, more to herself as anything, as she got to her feet. “You don’t have to pretend to believe in anything, no one minds, can’t you all just leave me in peace?” She placed her hand on the doorknob. “Oh, my aching bones,” she said mournfully, and opened the door.
“Hello, Reverend,” said Pauline.
“Miss Campbell-Jones,” Bernice said. The corner of her mouth twitched. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I think so,” Pauline said smoothly. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her eyes were twinkling. She pushed her way into the room, closing the door with a click behind her. She made her way immediately to the desk, where Bernice’s book lay open. The book apparently held little to no interest for her, however; there was something else in Pauline’s line of vision. Bernice watched, the twitch at her mouth edging ever closer to a real smile, as Pauline held up Bernice’s biro. The end, she noticed, was all chewed. “What’s this?” Pauline demanded. “Can’t you write my book with a nicer pen than this? Where’d you get it, a fucking... pig poke?!”
“Do people even call them pokes?” Bernice asked reasonably.
“Never mind that!” Pauline said. She pursed her lips, thinking, and then unbuttoned the neck of her blouse. Bernice was afforded a brief cheap thrill before Pauline found what she was looking for. She lifted the string over her head, pen and all, and handed it to Bernice.
“Pauline,” Bernice said, reverting to the other woman’s first name without even noticing. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Take it,” Pauline said firmly. “I want you to have it.” She dropped Bernice’s gaze awkwardly, and laughed. “I won’t have you writing with a shitty thing like this!” she said a little too loudly, waving the biro about.
“All right,” Bernice said, “if you’re sure.” She uncapped the pen and looked at it seriously, before returning to Pauline. “But what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Ahh,” Pauline said happily. She did a little twirl, assessing her surroundings, before finding a chair and settling herself comfortably into it. “I am here,” she said, “to provide you with additional raw material. For the book.” Her eyes were still twinkling. Her grin was verging on wicked.
“I see,” Bernice said. She put the cap back on the pen. It made a popping noise that seemed to echo in the room that was all of a sudden too quiet and too empty and too crowded all at once. She placed it carefully on her desk. Her back was to Pauline, but she could not mistake the sound of the other woman getting up. Within moments there were strong hands on her shoulders. Bernice let out an involuntary sigh as Pauline began to massage the tension right out of her. She leaned back into her touch. “So you’re here for another interview?” she asked.
Pauline laughed softly. “Something like that, love,” she said.