Night Shift Supervisor)
Sometimes he pictures her washing his car. Given the length of her legs, it isn’t unreasonable to assume they look good bare, and just because at work, CSI Sidle chooses to wear slacks or jeans doesn’t mean that at some point she doesn’t wear shorts. Maybe she does around her apartment, or out shopping.
But then again, the shorts he has in mind aren’t the sort a woman could wear to the store—not if she didn’t want her peaches squeezed while bending over in the Produce aisle. No, the shorts he pictures in loving detail are small, and snug, with interesting rips along the back. They are old, and thin, and the shredded denim of them offering a tantalizing fringe over her muscled perfection of her half-exposed derriere.
Shorts are good when washing a car. Shorts with a little cut-off tank top are good. Although black is nice, there is something about the lighter colors that appeal to him—the potential for transparency when wet, mostly. CSI Sidle in a white, wet, lace tank top. One that clings, and reveals the clear and beautiful outline of her nipples, poking cheerily through the wet fabric.
Yes. Oh yes. CSI Sidle wet and leaning over the hood of his BMW, lean hips swaying with every big stroke of the soapy sponge . . . Giggling in that deep ‘come thither’ giggle of hers . . . playing with the hose in unmistakably suggestive ways, and splashing a good deal of water on herself in the process.
Sometimes her shorts are already unbuttoned, and slip a little, giving way to more silky skin, and offering tantalizing glimpses of the same. Often, the delicate cord of a thong is visible, riding high on a carved hip while her shorts sag low. A thong in innocent pink, or seductive red. Just a thin ribbon, there to be tugged up—
And sometimes when he is in a generous mood, she isn’t alone. No, the erotic beauty of CSI Sidle is enough to draw others to her, caressing and playing with her during the car wash. Sometimes it is the cool blonde Detective succumbing to CSI Sidle’s leggy charms. Sometimes it is the kittenish girls of Fingerprint and Trace splashing CSI Sidle and tickling her, the three of them creating a erotic tableaux of light and dark, curls and straight hair, moans and sighs on the High Definition 48 inch monitor of his thoughts.
“Grissom? What’s on your mind?”
“Thinking about getting my car washed.”
(The Assisting Night Shift Supervisor)
Once in a while, her thoughts stray into secret, private territory. Late after a long shift, when she’s in bed after she’s had some wine, and the usual thoughts of CSI Stokes or more often CSI Brown are nice but not quite enough, she’ll close her eyes and think the Other Option. It’s not one she indulges in too often, partially because it’s Not Her Thing, but also because it’s a secret thrill to think it.
Eddie told her he used to think of her doing it with another woman while he watched; that old chestnut of a fantasy made her laugh at the time. But now, the idea holds a hint of appeal, especially with someone like the Detective on the shift. Cool, blonde, giving off that hint of butch with her swagger and her knowing smile.
She’s no strangers to come-ons from other women. When she was a stripper, it happened more often to her, but it still occurs now and then. A suggestive look; a flirtatious wink. She’s turned them down demurely. Not Her Thing.
Ah, but the idea of The Detective stepping into the shower with her at
work . . . the two of them kissing under hot water, bare hips pressing together, the slow grind of soft fur against slender thighs sends a vicarious thrill through her.
She’s sure the Detective would be good; something in that lazy smirk and stare that lingers just a little too long says so in an unspoken truth. In that shower, she’d feel the detective cup her ass firmly, and suckle on her lower lip, making hot, hungry little moans barely heard over the running water. The kisses would wander, sliding all along her body along with steam, followed by gentle, questing fingers.
Oh yes, that knowing, erotic touch, and the whispered promise of a warm tongue down there if she’s a good girl . . .
“Sorry, just considering a shower.”
(The Night Shift Trace Technician)
The best one is when she comes into his lab, eyes glittering, cheeks red with embarrassment. The DNA Tech pins him with that gaze of hers, and he feels the heat along his lower stomach at what’s to come.
“I want your semen.”
“For purposes of a compare?”
“To father my child. You’re brilliant, in good health and reasonably attractive. I’m equally brilliant and I want a baby. So here’s what I propose—sex. Lots of it, slick, slippery and hot, with no condoms. This weekend, you and I in your bed from Friday night to Sunday night. I can be quite . . . accommodating.”
She’s high-strung, and all the more gorgeous for it, and he loves simply looking at her, making her wait for his reply. Because while the desire is there, oh yes, it’s the humbling that makes it better; sweeter. Curvy Miss Queen of the Labs is trembling in anticipation of his reply.
“Yes, well be that as it may, I’m busy this weekend.”
“Too busy for this?” And in that moment she stalks forward and presses against him, one hand slithering behind his neck to bring his face to hers while the other slides around his hip to settle firmly against his ass. It’s a magnificent kiss of course, uninhibited and full-contact, but---
--He imagines taking control of it, taming a bit of the DNA Tech’s desperation and feeling her submit under the lazy slide of his tongue. When they break apart, she’s dazed and in his thrall; as Mr. Jagger would put it, Under his Thumb. Ever so gently, he stares into her big, soft brown eyes and smiles loftily. “Maybe I can change my plans. You wouldn’t mind spending the weekend naked and painted green, would you?”
“For you and your hot little swimmers, Davey, anything,” she promises.
If only, he sighs.
(The Forensics Lab Supervisor)
He knows her past; her history is right there in the wiggle of her ass when she walks past him, or leans over his desk like she’s waiting for a twenty. It turns him on, and every now and then he likes to picture her slinking into his office, her voice low and breathy, “I’d do anything for a raise, Conrad.”
That word hangs there between them, and it makes him hard because he knows that she knows what that really means. So he imagines smiling his best shark grin, leaning back to lace his hands behind his head and telling her, “Show me what you’ve got.”
And because it’s all in his head and doesn’t have to make sense, She does. CSI-3 Willows starts a slow bump and grind to some imaginary tune, her hips promising sin and her hands already sliding along her chest. She’s got that smirk on her glossy lips as she dances closer, peeling her blouse off.
Yeah, still got the moves, and he ought to know, given the number of nights he’s spent on the Strip and on the strip—but the sweet surprise comes when her slacks slide down her long, toned legs, revealing a tiny g-string in gold silk. So much ivory skin, sleek and begging to be touched—
“Bump me to Days, and we could get closer,” CSI Willows coos throatily, “Much closer—“
He has a spot for her, both on the Dayshift and lapwise, oh hell yes; she’s so petite his hands could span that spankable ass of hers perfectly. And because it’s his fantasy, she straddles his hips,, settling in on it, wriggling. CSI Willows is topless now, those bouncy tits in his face, her laugh meant only for him.
“You’re a big one, aren’t you, Conrad?”
“And I need you, I need you to—“
--Need you to sign this off.”
She’d never admit it to a soul. Certainly not to him, because she wants his respect, and in this job that means being tough.
But sometimes, she’d give anything to be soft. Especially around him. There was something about the rumble of his voice, or the calm, confident way he took even the worse things in stride that made her long to slide into his arms and just feel protected there.
She knew he smelled nice, and sometimes she pretended they were together; lovers after hours. She’d wear slinky lingerie and do her hair in a peekaboo style, just for him. She imagined him coming to her place and using his key to let himself in, catching sight of her in a sheer nightie, or a little nothing satin thong—things she’d never wear in real life, but here in her quiet thoughts, it was all about making her Sugar Daddy happy . . .
He’d smile and kiss her, call her his Baby and make her sit in his lap. She’d kiss him back, and tease him, snuggling close, giving into that desire to be . . . kittenish. Girlish. Dainty. And he’d love it.
She’d be his Sugar, his Sweetheart, his Little Minx, and when they finally went to bed, he’d want her to wear her jewelry and stockings, but nothing else. He’d watch her with hot eyes, and stroke her, savoring her naughty poses on the sheets, drinking in her lean body and high heels, her blonde hair splayed out over the pillows . . .
And he’d take her. Slowly. Oh so deeply, his delicious weight on her, making her whimper. She imagined his groans of pleasure hot in her ear, her name rumbling out in that possessive tone of his as he held her hips and stroked heavily into her, leaving her breathless and yearning for release, bringing her just to the wet, aching brink a few times before finally letting them both give into mindless, pulsing pleasure.
The cuddling afterwards would be heaven. Lying against that furry chest of his, listening to him talk and feeling his arm around her while she let her fingers touch his scar; his tattoo . . .
“Detective? Did you just ask me about a tattoo?”
“No. No, sorry, Bobby, just thinking . . . you said you had something for me about the Cuevas case?”