So I finished mixtape so that I wouldn't be working on a fic whilst I started my new degree, but here I am with another multi chapter fic just days later :)) This is nothing as serious as that, just a bit of smutty fun that was the product of me listening to Tiny Dancer on repeat for a few days and also drinking too much

I'm posting this chapter now to see if this is the sort of thing anyone would actually like to read, so let me know if you want any more!

Enjoy :)

But oh, how it feels so real

Lying here with no one near

Only you, and you can hear me

When I say softly, slowly

Hold me closer, tiny dancer

Count the headlights on the highway

Lay me down in sheets of linen

You had a busy day today

—

It was Fletch's idea. Or, rather, that's what she keeps telling herself.

"Don't whack it 'til you've tried it," he had said, after she had made some casual remark about her curiosity surrounding the fairer sex, and it had sparked a sort of resolve inside her: she would test the waters, try and work out her newfound desires, get everything straight in her head before she went and made a fool of herself by making public her bizarre sapphic mid-life crisis, with no strings attached. But how could she do that? There was only one answer, she felt.

A strip club.

She hadn't even intended to go there. It wasn't usually the sort of thing she agreed with, morally or otherwise, but tonight, feeling particularly vulnerable after a long, testing shift and a lonely night at Albies - Bernie always seemed to be busy, after the divorce - she found herself seemingly on autopilot. Usually, she would walk past the club on her way home, regard it with disgust and disapproval, albeit mild curiosity, before continuing on her way. But not tonight. No, she's too worked up for that. And there's only one woman to blame.

For her entire life, Serena has been comfortable in her sexuality. More than, in fact. She can flirt with other women, tease them no end, without even the slightest desire to take anything further. She uses her sexuality as a lure, a tool for getting what she wants, for swaying situations in her favour, but she has never, ever considered pursing any of it. That is until Bernie Wolfe, of course.

As was her nature, she had flirted with the trauma medic upon her arrival at Holby, befriended her, teased her, but even early on she could tell something was different here. And then she had taken her hand in hers, arm wresting over the trivial issue of who got to pull a tap out of an unfortunate patient's rear, and suddenly the flirtation turned into something all too real. She'll never forget it, the burning that began in the pit of her belly and between her thighs as their eyes locked and their fingers intertwined. And it hasn't stopped burning since, so bad that Serena can hardly stand to be in the same room as the woman, her arousal so strong that she can barely trust herself to keep her hands off her. She needs a resolve. Desperately.

So here she is, in the main bar area of the club, sipping an extortionately priced glass of house red and keeping her eyes anywhere but the scantily clad women strutting around the place. She wonders for a moment who they are, what their stories are, if they are happy in their work, before quickly shaking her head at herself, willing herself to relax, to focus. That isn't what she's here for.

Almost as soon as she is sat at one of the low tables, a dancer appears in the chair opposite. She is young, maybe in her early twenties, wearing what could be a swimsuit along with fishnet hold-ups and the largest platform stilettos she's ever seen. The girl introduces herself as Scarlet and begins chatting away. Serena tells her that she's never been to a place like this before, and her posture softens slightly.

"Well, there's no need to be nervous," she smiles, resting a hand on Serena's thigh. Serena freezes beneath her touch. "I'll show you the ropes. Would you like a dance now?"

Serena is still unsure about the whole thing, but decides that it's now or never. She drains the remainder of her glass before allowing Scarlet to lead her down a corridor just off the main bar to a row of private dancing booths. Her heart is in her throat as she pays her fee, removes her coat and jacket and sits down in one of the velvet seats.

Scarlet is just sidling up to her when Serena baulks. This isn't right.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out, her words shaky. "I just... you're young enough to be my daughter. In fact, probably exactly the same age." She chuckles nervously. "You wouldn't happen to have anyone a like more... mature, would you?"

The girl looks slightly disappointed, but then nods. "I'll just go see if she's available," she says kindly, with sympathy.

"Thank you," Serena sighs in relief. "You can keep the fee I paid to you." Scarlet beams thankfully, leaning forward and giving Serena a warm peck on the cheek before disappearing to find another dancer.

Serena leans back in the chair, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax a moment, taking deep breaths. She starts to wonder if this had really been the best idea. Could she ever feel truly comfortable paying for something like this? Is this really the best way to go about resolving her sexuality crisis? She runs a hand over her face tiredly. You're here now, she tells herself. Just go with it.

She feels, rather than sees the new dancer's presence in the room, and for a few moments keeps her eyes closed, partially willing that this is all a dream, that she hasn't gotten into this. Just relax and enjoy it.

A familiar voice cuts through her thoughts.

"Oh my god, Serena!"

Serena's heart stops in her chest, and she opens her eyes to see in front of her the object of all her desires, dressed in a tight fitted camouflage bodysuit, dark stockings and killer heels. For a moment, she wonders if this might actually be a dream, and blinks hard to make sure, but still Bernie stands before her, a look of absolute horror on her face.

"Serena, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise," she gapes, holding her hand over her mouth in shock as Serena mirrors her expression, her eyes widening and struggling to tear themselves away from Bernie's exposed skin.

"No, Bernie, I'm sorry, I really shouldn't be here," Serena stammers, her words coming out in a breathless rush as she scrambles up out of the chair. "I don't know what I was thinking—"

"No, no. When Scarlet said a woman in her fifties called Serena I should have… bloody hell…" She despairs, holding a hand to her forehead, the other wrapped around her stomach protectively.

"I— I should go," Serena stutters, reaching for her bag and coat. "I'm so sorry you had to—"

"No, wait," Bernie sighs, grabbing Serena's elbow as she passes her. "Stay. Let's get a drink. I think I owe you an explanation." She grimaces, though her eyes soften slightly as they meet Serena's. Serena allows her shoulders to fall, her heart tensing as Bernie leads the way out to the main bar area. She leans over the counter, and Serena averts her eyes as she finds herself face to face with the perfect behind that she spends the majority of her days imagining the sight of.

"Here," Bernie nudges Serena out of her thoughts, and she turns back to see that she has retrieved a full bottle of Shiraz and two large glasses. They go and sit at a table in the corner of the main bar area, and Bernie pours them both a glass.

"Look, I'm really sorry, Bernie," Serena starts, wringing her hands together. "I didn't mean to— I had no idea—"

"Don't apologise." She holds her hands up, shaking her head. "It's my fault, I… God, I'm too old for this." She barks out a laugh and Serena frowns. "I used to dance when I was younger," Bernie begins, by way of explanation. "Paid for pretty much my entire living and education costs when I was first training, until I met Marcus of course. And now he's bleeding me dry I thought I'd take up the old talent, earn a bit of extra money. The army has kept me in good enough physical condition, and it's not like I've gotten too out of practice; Marcus and Alex both liked to watch me dance, you see." Serena raises her eyebrows, trying her hardest to fight the images Bernie's words provoke.

"I— If you're in trouble, I can always lend you—"

"No, Serena, I don't want your charity," she cuts her off. "I'm fine, I love dancing. I'd rather be making extra money this way than pulling double twelve hour shifts. I think that would just about finish me off, at my age. I just…" She shakes her head, looking down at her glass. "I'm getting on a bit, business isn't as good as it was once upon a time. It's not most people's first thought when they come to a place like this, they want the younger dancers instead."

"Except me," Serena blurts out, before she can hold her tongue. Bernie doesn't seem to notice the implication, instead barks out a laugh.

"Yes, except you," she smiles fondly, her fringe shading her eyes. "I think you're the first person we've ever had in that's asked for someone older. I do hope you've started a trend." She grins. Serena nearly chokes on her wine.

"Well," she coughs, holding her hand to her mouth. "They'd be pretty blind not to be queuing up for you." She smiles at her friend in a way which she hopes conveys support rather than the lust she is feeling.

Bernie chuckles. "You'll make me blush," she jokes. Serena can see her cheeks have turned a little rosier, but that could easily be the wine. It's starting to affect Serena too; she had had a bottle to herself in Albies, along with the large glass on her arrival here and now has almost finished the rather big measure that Bernie had poured for her. She's feeling more than a little loose.

"I mean it," she continues. "You're a very attractive woman. I don't blame you for taking advantage of that." She gazes at the older woman seriously.

Bernie looks down into her glass, smirking. "Thank you," she murmurs, almost shyly. "If only my customers felt the same."

"I am a customer," Serena replies, before she can think otherwise. Bernie stares at her contemplatively, before laughing heartily.

"Yes, of course," she smiles knowingly. "And I'm holding you back. There's another more mature dancer working tonight, though still not as old as us I'm afraid. I'll just go get her for you." She stands. Serena grabs her by the wrist.

"That won't be necessary," she says quickly, pulling her back down a little too enthusiastically. She takes a large mouthful of Shiraz.

"I don't mind, honestly," Bernie laughs, eyeing Serena curiously. "Don't let me hold you back. Go enjoy your evening."

Serena shakes her head. "You're not busy are you?" She asks, her voice wobbling slightly at the end. She drains the rest of the glass.

Bernie pauses, her eyes narrowing. "No," she says slowly, a slight frown creeping onto her face. "You're not suggesting—"

"Of course not!" Serena interrupts hastily, averting her eyes as much as possible from Bernie's slender curves hidden beneath the tight bodysuit. She coughs. "I mean, I'd hate to make you uncomfortable."

Bernie laughs, though her eyes remain firmly on Serena. "On the contrary," she replies, her voice low. "I would hate to make you uncomfortable."

"You could never do that," Serena murmurs, her eyes still on table. She hesitates, before adding, "Well, only in a good way." She looks up nervously to see that the older woman's eyes have darkened slightly. Something shifts in her glance, as if she's seeing Serena in an entirely different light. Serena swallows thickly. What have I done? She takes a deep breath, looking away and slapping her hands on her thighs.

"Well, I, er... I'd better—"

"You'd really want a dance from me?" Bernie asks suddenly, her eyes wide and unreadable. Serena's stomach twists.

"I just... Well, I, um..." Serena stammers, her mouth opening and closing helplessly. "I was just saying I think anyone would be crazy not to want a... dance from you."

"Including yourself?" Bernie quirks an eyebrow, a slight tease in her eyes. Serena's heart stops in her chest. She needs to consider her next words carefully.

"Is that... an offer?" Serena asks slowly, her heart pounding as though she has just sprinted a marathon. Her palms are sweaty, her legs trembling as she watches the older woman, sees the darkness in her eyes, the slight tensing of her posture, the ghost of a smirk on her lips.

Bernie allows her eyes to drift down to the table, or is she looking at Serena? "No," she murmurs, "I prefer to call it... an invitation?" She half smiles at her, that squinty smile she does when she's trying to appear more confident in her words than she feels. Serena can't breathe, can't think. Bernie was suggesting... How can she possibly?

They are colleagues, they are friends - some might say best friends. Could she really pay for Bernie to… Would she be taking advantage? It's not as though she's doing it against her will - she seems to actively want to dance for her - but would she feel the same if she knew how Serena truly feels about her? If she knew that her friend had been lusting after her for weeks now, months, would she feel like Serena was taking advantage? Would she hate her for doing this?

But Serena is selfish. The wine has gotten to her, as has the sight of her friend in such a state of undress. Arousal throbs between her legs just at the thought of Bernie being so close, twisting and twirling and gyrating. Can she really resist that opportunity?

Bernie cocks an eyebrow at her as she decides.

She reaches into her coat pocket, pulls out her fee, slides it across the glass table between them.

Let me know if you'd like me to continue!