It’s hard to imagine that just six months ago—before the construction of bamboo tripods, the installation of concrete lock-on devices, the arrival of the Peace Angel and the Knitting Nannas—all the Bentley Blockade consisted of was a few dedicated women, greeting the crepuscular rays of each Bentley dawn by sitting in front of the access gate to the Scarrabelotti’s paddock.
I never thought it would come to this. NSW Police have deployed 800 officers, and a riot squad, to swarm the camp and surround the drill site tomorrow morning. I shudder as I remember Doubtful Creek. The last thing we need is a repeat of that clusterfuck. But these guys sent up from the big smoke don’t care. They don’t get it, for them it’s simple: protesters are pests; getting in the way and wasting tax-payers’ money. I don’t know how I am going to tell Elle that I will be there tomorrow, at Bentley with her, but not beside her, that I’ll be on duty, practically working against her.
It’s going to kill her. She’s been out there since the beginning, back when it was just her and a couple of others, sitting on deckchairs, in darkness, in front of that gate, waving at traffic passing by.
I unzip my Kevlar vest and, without unbuttoning, slip out of my powder-blue shirt. I feel sick. I stare at my dark-serious eyebrows and peacock-green eyes in the mirror, I look tired. These past few months have been tough, trying to balance the conflict of work and ethics, obligation and love. I’ve lost a little weight but, thankfully, no muscle tone. I work hard for this body. I don’t want to become one of those fat cops who teenagers oink at. I want to be able to chase, and catch, those little buggers if I have to.
Shift changeover was an hour ago, I’m alone in the locker room. I unclip my bra with one hand and turn the shower on with the other.
Shampooing for the second time, and not rushing, I realise that I’m dawdling, putting off meeting Elle. I go over what I should say, ‘Babe, I want you to know that I agree with you completely, CSG is the asbestos of our generation,’ that’s a good start. ‘Metgasco must be stopped,’ I’ll add to ensure she’s onside.
Then I’ll drop the bomb, ‘I’ll be in uniform tomorrow but it doesn’t mean I’m working for Metgasco, coppers don’t take sides, just do their jobs.’ I know it’s a lie. Fuck, I’m ridiculous. Such a hypocrite. She’s going to hate me.
A couple of years ago, shortly after graduating from the Police Force Academy, Elle and I attended an anti-CSG protest together. I remember that autumn morning. Hot empty blue skies. A sea of yellow placards flooding Lismore CBD. Blues on street corners. Traffic backed up at every intersection. Horns beeping. Drums beating. Blues on horses. People singing. Elle’s hand in mine. Dogs Panting. Babies in prams. People on stilts. Blues on bicycles. Kids on scooters. People in wheelchairs. Afternoon music in the park and dancing on the hill.
Just thinking of that weekend causes my whole body to tingle. I’ve never gotten myself off at work before, I let my hand slide down my neck, between my breasts, along my soapy abdomen and rest on my pelvic bone.
I recall the weather that weekend, of the anti-CSG protest, it was perfect. After the rally, Elle and I rode out to Protester Falls. I remember Elle’s golden-brown, long legs wrapped around my hips, how she slid up close and hung on tight. I could feel her hot breath on my neck and her breasts pressed flat against my back. When we reached the outskirts of town, I pulled back hard on the throttle, well aware that the sudden speed would turn her on.
We turned down a secluded trail and I parked the bike beside some towering eucalypts, their trunks elaborately encrusted in the pale-greens of lichen. ‘Don’t move,’ I ordered Elle in my most authoritative officer voice. ‘Turn and face the bike. Hands where I can see them.’
A fleeting look of confusion was replaced with excitement as she responded to my orders.
‘Shirt off. Shorts down.’
She obeyed and, in nothing but her fine-lace boyshorts, she turned to face the bike. I watched her long-thick hair brush against her generous curves. Her Columbian heritage has blessed her with olive skin that glows as if she’s always just returned from vacation. I let my eyes feast on her lascivious curves. There was a pounding in my chest and an urgent pulsing between my legs.
Take control, I told myself and, taking a deep breath, I approached her. Roughly grabbing her left wrist, I reached into the saddlebag with my free hand. When her eyes caught the glimmer of my new cuffs she shivered and goosebumps appeared on her bare skin.
I cuffed her hands behind her back and let her squirm between me and the bike. Nipping at her shoulders and upper back, I pushed my knee between her thighs and sucked hard on her neck.
The image of her being stripped and shackled with me, fully dressed and in complete control, was an abiding fantasy of ours. I let my hands wander down the side of her torso and over her hips, squeezing, pushing and pulling handfuls of her womanly flesh. It was obvious that she was enjoying the frustration of not being able to touch me back.
I slid my hand into her panties, cupped her slick heat and teased her with my fingertips, eventually letting one finger glide slightly inside. Not usually the vocal type, Elle moaned so deeply, I felt myself gush with longing.
Each time she pushed back against me, my finger slid out, along the full length of her, and with each thrust forward I re-entered her deeper and harder. The husky sounds she made that day—together with the felling of her invitingly warm and swollen sex—were so hot I had to stop myself from peaking first. I pushed her forward and started working her smooth, swollen button. She sighed and jerked wildly. I let my fingers slide away from her clit and ran them up and down the length of her slit.
‘Please, Kat,’ she implored with a growl.
She didn’t need to ask twice. I returned to her firm bud and pressed against it with increasing firmness, stroking faster and faster until she was shuddering violently against the bike. Before long, with her hips pulled down against me, her hands still cuffed and the friction of the fabric between us, I was groaning and shuddering my way to my own spine-melting climax.
I steal a look over my shoulder, the locker room is empty, I’m still alone. My own sex is swollen and aching. I brace myself against the wet wall. With two fingers, I part my lips and let my middle finger rest against my clit. Hot water rushes over my most sensitive parts, the slight pain arouses me further. It’s not long before I’m panting against the tiles, making myself come against the wall of the open showering area.