(Author’s
note: This story nagged at me until I wrote
it. I’d wanted to do it for the past year, but never felt it
was the right time
until recently. I have to thank three people in particular for their
support
and encouragement for this piece: VR Trakowski, who was unfailingly
enthusiastic and quick to help me polish the edges off my prose; Suzy,
who had
read my earlier work with the notorious Fetish club Maison Noire and
urged me
to bring Sara and Grissom there; and Danie, who continues to set a
standard for
intricate romance and compelling storytelling that I someday hope to
humbly
duplicate. Without these three, and many other supportive friends
I’d never
have attempted this.
To the
best of my ability and vision I’ve tried to
keep all characterization as closely aligned to my perceptions of them
as
possible. This is an AU, [alternate universe] and a standalone story
not
associated with the Casa series.)
Prolog
Master,
I write
this with a heavy heart, a heart torn by the
depths of my failure. Shortly I will pay my debt and end the contract
between
us, but as your devoted slave I could not go without paying my last
respects.
Long I have loved you, Master. I have tried to please you, to follow
your whims
and desires and thus make myself precious to you.
I have
failed. Your commands and touches and tortures
are still sweet, the dearest things in the world to me, but they mean
little
now that I know your heart forever remains indifferent to me. I have
your kind
corrections and affectionate attention, but not your love, Master, and
for me
that has become intolerable. I am not the She you seek, nor will I ever
be, no
matter how many years of faithful service under you I give.
Loving
you so, Master, I can only wish that after I am
gone you find the one you seek, the one who will kneel before your
heart and
give you the succor that I never could. I do not wish another Master,
for I
adore you with all my soul, therefore the time has come and I accept my
solution gladly. I absolve you of all guilt or regret, Master and
wistfully
hope that once in a while you will think of your little Kept One with
some
flicker of affection.
With my
heart’s blood, always,
N
Grissom
let the note drop from his latex-covered hands, not watching it
flutter to the floor, missing the bath rug by inches. He closed his
eyes,
fighting down the rise of bitter bile, and waited a moment for it to
pass.
Gently, he turned his face to the body in the bathtub.
She
was
beautiful, even now. Her long brown hair drifted in the water
like seaweed, and her half-closed green eyes stared up at him in her
last
beseeching quest for affection. Grissom swallowed hard and reached to
close her
sightless eyes, his hand passing beneath the water to do so. Over his
shoulder,
he heard an impatient cough.
He
got
on with it.
“Victim
was pronounced at seven thirteen. No signs of struggle evident,
no disturbance. Presence of a note indicates possible suicide. Due to
body’s
submergence in water, it’s impossible to fix lividity, but my
estimate is that
she died roughly six hours ago,” Grissom managed in a
monotone. Behind him,
Detective Cho coughed again.
“So,
young girl, probably no more than twenty or so commits suicide
over a broken heart. We’ve got a prescription in the bedroom
but it’s not under
her name, so we’ll run it and see where she got it from.
Looks pretty open and
shut to me.”
“No
foul play,” Grissom agreed even as the lie tightened his
throat. He
looked away from Nia’s body and rose, picking up his
coroner’s kit and walking
to the living room. Every step hurt, and the case weighed ten tons. He
could
hear his heartbeat in his ears, loud and too fast; recognizing the
signs of
shock; Grissom made it out to the van and leaned against it, trying to
get his
breathing under control.
Nia.
Dead.
He
remembered touching her only yesterday, looking into her eyes as she
quivered under the dance of his fingers along her naked spine, running
from the
clasp of her collar down the long line of her back down to the flare of
her
ass, skin smooth and warm. She’d been waiting for him,
brought in the mail,
settled herself on the carpet like the sweet little thing
she’d been.
Grissom
looked at his hands, ghostly white in their latex, and savagely
began to peel them off, the snapping sounds an unexpected touch of
comedy to a
grim moment. He knew it happened to every coroner, that inevitably
you’d run
into the body of someone you knew. Someone you—
--Had
not loved. On that point Nia HAD been right, damn her. Despite
the heat between them, the smooth and delicate dance of domination and
submission,
the union hadn’t been one with true passion. Grissom knew he
played her well,
but in the end it was always a matter of affection for a pet. A
beautiful,
eager-to-please girl, but for all of that, no more than a choice from a
stable.
A
convenient receptacle.
He
closed his eyes for a moment and grieved for her. She’d taken
the
Game too far, had fallen despite his careful rejections and soft
warnings and
now she’d be in a drawer, waiting for her mother back in
Biloxi to fly out and
claim her. His mouth felt dry, and Grissom flexed his hands, knowing he
had to
get out again, go back and help pull Nia’s body from the
water to bring it in
to the
He
felt
the throb of a migraine beginning to drive its dagger into his
skull.
***
*** ***
“The
most telling thing about anyone is what
scares them.
And I know what you fear
more than anything, Mr. Grissom.”
“Which
is?”
“Being
known. You can't accept that
I might know what you really desire, because that would mean that I
know
you.
Something, for whatever
reason, you
spend your entire life making sure no one else does.”
“I'm
losing my balance.”
“Your
sense of self?”
“No.
I know who I am.”
“Do
you?”
“Yes,
I do. You can always say stop.”
“So
can you.”
“Mr.
Grissom, let’s lay our cards on
the table, shall we? My partner and I know you don’t like the
Federal Bureau of
Investigation and have no interest in the politics of interagency
cooperation,
but there are other things we know and aren’t above using as
leverage at the
moment.”
The
woman uttering these words was
curvy and serene; even the severe cut of her taupe pantsuit
couldn’t hide a
perfect figure. Her eyes were soft grey, and deep within them was a
bright
ruthlessness tinged with good humor. Grissom sat back in his chair,
unwilling
to cede any advantage to her or the hulking man in the black suit
standing
against the glass wall behind her.
“Leverage,
Special Agent Pachelli?”
came his soft voice, slow and cautious. She waited a beat, then rose
and leaned
over his desk, aware that her pose could have been flirtatious and
wasn’t, not
with the expression on her face.
“We
NEED a CSI, preferable two for
this case, Mr. Grissom— the best people trained in finding,
processing and
preserving crime scene evidence. More than that we need ones who can .
. .
handle the scene in question.”
Grissom
refused to react. He waited,
patiently; a talent that he’d cultivated precisely for the
art of outlasting
his opponents. The woman held his gaze, but finally let her glance drop
down to
his chest and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh.
“Please
don’t make me spell this
out, Mr. Grissom. I’m almost past the point of
asking—no let’s call it what it
is--begging—and I’m just about ready to coerce
you.”
The only
response to this was a
single raised eyebrow; Special Agent Pachelli set her pretty jaw and
pulled
back, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Nia
Gastineaux, Mr. Grissom.”
To his
credit, he didn’t flinch, but
an almost imperceptible flicker crossed Grissom’s gaze, and
it was only because
the woman had been watching him so closely that she caught his
reaction.
Instead of smiling in triumph at her success, Special Agent Pachelli
tilted her
head.
“Nineteen
eighty-six, you were a
coroner for the Los Angeles Police Department. You were called to
pronounce for
Nia Gastineaux. On the surface, a straightforward case of suicide . .
.” her
voice dropped to a lower, softer tone, “ . . . But
underneath, where nobody
bothered to dig, there was more to it, wasn’t there, Mr.
Grissom?”
He said
nothing; she expected that
and continued, the words slow but steady.
“Nia
Gastineaux was a practicing
submissive in the world of S and M. She signed a pact through the
Shadow League
of the Power Exchange to give herself utterly to a Master for a term of
two
years. We have copies of that contract, and the three signatures on it:
hers,
the Shadow League director’s, and yours, Mr. Grissom.
It’s a pretty explicit
document, details of which would definitely give your lab director, Mr.
Ecklie
an incredible amount of ammunition to fire you.”
An
almost electric pause filled the
office for moment.
Grissom
cocked his head, his gaze
soft, his words measured. “That was nearly twenty years ago,
Special Agent
Pachelli. I haven’t been involved with the Power Exchange in
two decades, as
I’m sure your investigations show you. I left that lifestyle
behind when I left
She said
nothing; her partner looked
at Grissom and spoke up for the first time, his deep voice a low rumble
in the
room.
“You
merely stopped practicing, Mr.
Grissom, that’s all. The capacity for it still in you, just
as strong as ever.
We spoke to the director of the Dominion before coming here.”
“Lady
Heather,” Grissom managed
through a slightly disapproving expression. Special Agent Pachelli made
a small
noise of confirmation.
“Yes.
She seems to feel that you’re
more than capable of returning to the practice. To quote her,
‘Mr. Grissom
wears a very good disguise, but it never sits exactly right, and
that’s because
despite the years, it’s still a false face.’
“
Special
Agent Pachelli paced in
front of Grissom’s desk, keeping her steps slow.
“You know the sport, Mr.
Grissom. My partner and I are good enough to pass, versed enough to get
where
we need to go, but we’re NOT criminalists. We don’t
have your eye, your skill
in crime scene reconstruction, certainly not your entomological
background and
without that, there’s no point in trying to go any further
with this undercover
operation. Finding someone of your professional skill already capable
of
handling himself in this affair was a godsend, and I for one
don’t intend to
walk out of here without your co-operation.”
For a
long cold minute, Grissom
stared at her, his eyes taking her in from head to toe; Special Agent
Pachelli
fought a shiver at the glacial glint in his gaze, but years of training
paid
off and she held still. Finally, with a harsh sigh, Grissom slid his
fingers
under his glasses lenses and rubbed his eyes.
“What
exactly makes this case so
important that the Federal Bureau of Investigation feels it’s
necessary to
blackmail a middle-aged civil servant in the first place?”
“Time
and desperation, Mr. Grissom,”
Special Agent Kanahoe finally cracked a very small, humorless smile. He
pushed
himself away from the glass wall and reached into his jacket pocket,
fishing
out a small packet of photos. Grissom didn’t take them, so
the other man
carefully dealt them out, like a hand of cards. They were glossy black
and
whites, each a 6 by 4 inch window into horror.
Grissom
leaned forward, not touching
them, but examining the photos with sudden professional focus that
seemed to
cut through his ennui of a moment earlier. Special Agent Pachelli moved
quietly
to stand next to his shoulder and had to clear her throat a little
before she
spoke.
“Our
pathologists have determined
that this was done to these victims while they were still alive, Mr.
Grissom.
Consider that a prime motivator for all of us. The dates and locations
are on
the backs of the photos, and the acceleration has already begun. Our
best
estimate is that the next victim will be dead within the next week if
we can’t
get some sort of break on the case.”
Grissom
looked up, his gaze sharp
and slightly annoyed, whetted by frustrated intrigue.
“The
Bureau has entomologists, at
least two world famous ones on staff.”
“Gerald
Kimson is in a wheelchair
now; his MS has gotten much worse. We considered asking Lars Mac Swain,
but
it’s not possible.” She looked slightly
embarrassed, and her partner broke in.
“MacSwain
stutters, Mr. Grissom.
Severely. It takes four minutes for him to answer the simplest
question. He has
other ways of communicating, but since we want to blend in with the
crowd,
using MacSwain isn’t feasible.”
Sitting
back again, Grissom brought his
hands together and wove his fingers. Everyone in the room fell silent.
Finally
Grissom closed his eyes.
He
nodded.
Special
Agent Pachelli drew in a
deep breath and stepped around his desk again, her movements brisk with
hope.
She smiled for the first time in a while.
“Thank
you, Mr. Grissom. Special
Agent Kanahoe and I will make immediate arrangements with your lab
director for
you and your partner to work with us—“
“—Excuse
me, but the only person I
can commit to this is myself,” Grissom interrupted testily.
“And even THAT is
with reservations. I doubt Ecklie is going to let you have two CSIs,
even from
different shifts.”
Special
Agent Pachelli’s smile
turned into a full grin, making her look years younger. She shot a look
at her
partner, who slowly gathered up the photos again.
“Conrad
Ecklie is not your problem
at the moment, Mr. Grissom. Trust me, the FBI is very good at getting
co-operation from kiss-ass middle management toadies like your esteemed
colleague.”
A ghost
of a smile flickered across
Grissom’s face at that; he returned his gaze to Special Agent
Pachelli, who
cocked her head and sighed again.
“So
the new question now, Mr.
Grissom is—who can you trust?”
It was
an excellent question; a
serious question and Grissom didn’t know if there was an
answer. Certainly
Warrick and Nick were out of the picture; Grissom knew neither man
would be
capable of pulling off a charade that not only would make all of them
cross
sexuality but also personality lines as well. Warrick was
nobody’s slave; after
the case at Lady Heather’s, Nick had admitted to no stomach
for games of this
sort.
That
left Catherine or Sara.
Certainly Catherine had the moxie to play a slave; she was beautiful,
still
exuded sexuality and had the confidence to play along with whatever the
situation might demand. But there was Lindsay; Grissom
wouldn’t put Catherine
at risk, not after losing Eddie.
That
left Sara.
And THAT
was dangerous territory.
Grissom mulled the thought in his mind, annoyed because it
wasn’t a new one, it
was in fact a old, beloved image he’d taken to bed with him
for years: Sara in
cuffs, Sara slick and sweet under him, losing control to him,
submissive to his
raging lust . . .
Shifting
irritably, Grissom shot a
glare at the waiting woman, the name escaping him reluctantly. Special
Agent
Pachelli nodded.
“Sidle
is a logical choice. She’s
been working with you for four years, she’s got an impressive
solve rate, and
she’s single. That will make it easier to give her some
initial training before
we head to
“She
doesn’t need training, just a
briefing—“ Grissom snapped quickly, a flare of
panic hitting him as reality set
in. Posing with Sara, God what had he been thinking? She’d
hear about his past,
about his most carefully hidden kinks, she’d learn that the
mentor she’d
admired was . . . deviant. Grissom tensed at that last, feeling himself
sicken
at the thought of her revulsion. The past year had already been hard
enough on
both of them, but to see contempt for him in those delicious chocolate
eyes
would never do.
“Mr.
Grissom, your colleague needs
every advantage she can get--the BDSM scene isn’t something
the average person
off the street can walk into. Even you yourself will need some time to
rekindle
your expertise. My partner and I have made arrangements to take a pair
of
suites at the
***
*** ***
Sara
looked at the photos on
Grissom’s desk and swallowed hard. She’d dealt with
a lot of ugly cases, a lot
of painful, disgusting deaths, but these were magnified by obvious
intent of
the killer, and that added a depth of shock to them. Looking away, she
took a
moment to breathe deeply, then glanced at Grissom and the two agents.
Both of
them looked impassive; Grissom looked bleak.
“I
don’t see the problem. Anything I
can do to help nail the sort of monster capable of doing something like
this to
another human being, I’ll do. Gladly.”
Special
Agent Kanahoe looked at her
and spoke, his voice a deep rumble.
“Ms
Sidle, my partner and I
appreciate your commitment to justice, we truly do. However, this case
is
unique, and as such requires some special discretion. We have been
invited to
the crime scene, but not in an official capacity, only in a social one.
We have
no jurisdiction there since it’s on another
country’s soil.”
“Excuse
me?” Sara managed. Special
Agent Pachelli nodded.
“We
believe the crime scene is in an
exclusive club in a sublevel of the Luxembourg Embassy in
“If
that’s so, then why are we
investigating, and how, exactly are we getting in? It’s a
matter for the
Nationals there isn’t it? Or Interpol?” Sara argued
logically. She could feel a
sense of frustration in the room, and remembering the photos, she
understood it
all too well. The worst cases were the ones hampered by bureaucracy,
hung up on
red tape while murderers got away and victims languished.
“By
private invitation. We have a
connection in the Embassy who has asked us to come to the club for a
party to
celebrate July 24th,
International BDSM Day. My partner and I are
going and we’ve been told we can bring guests, who will be
you and Mr.
Grissom.”
“Wait,
wait—BDSM? As in bondage,
discipline, that sort of deal? Oh man, that is SO not my scene. I
don’t think I
can handle something like THAT,” Sara blustered, her face
flushing. The very
idea hit her stomach hard, and she didn’t dare look at
Grissom as she tried to
sound calm. Special Agent Kanahoe pursed his mouth and brought one big
hand
down on the desk, next to the photos, drawing her line of sight back to
them.
“Lesser
of two evils, Miss Sidle. If
an evening of wearing a chain collar and spike heels gets you closer to
stopping another murder, would you be able to handle it? A few hours of
play
acting in the company of a colleague as a trade off to save the life of
a young
woman? Think hard before you answer, because if it’s no, we
thank you, but we
don’t have time to waste. We’ll have to find
someone else to play slave for Mr.
Grissom.”
Sara
blinked and looked at her
supervisor. Grissom stared back at her, only a tiny quirk at the corner
of his
mouth betraying his amusement. She flushed all over again.
“Play
slave?” she squeaked. No one
spoke until Grissom leaned forward and folded his hands.
“I
need a submissive, Sara, to fit
in. The majority of the party guests will be practicing BDSMers in full
regalia. Agents Pachelli and Kanahoe have worked together as a team for
years
so their undercover personas are established and seamless. If you and I
are to
have a chance at studying the crime scene we need to camouflage
ourselves and blend
in.”
“Grissom!”
Sara gulped, shooting
looks at the two agents as she continued, “Are you out of
your mind? I don’t
have a clue about how to be a slave!”
“I’ll
teach you.”
She
stared at him, not seeing
anything but the soft blue of his intense gaze behind his glasses and
sudden
dizzy panic clawed at her stomach at the same time a hard, hot pang
flared
between her thighs.
Sara
knew then.
She knew
without a doubt that
Grissom could do exactly what he’d promised, and do it well
because he’d done
it before, probably many times. She felt her heart hammer a bit.
Agent
Pachelli rose up, hiding her
grin at the intensity flaring between the two Las Vegas CSIs. She
cleared her
throat and scooped up the photos.
“Well,
that’s settled then. We fly
out of here in six hours. We’ll meet up at the
“Ecklie.
Yes—unfortunately he seemed
only too happy to loan them both out. Seems to be under the impression
that it
adds prestige to his lab to be working in conjunction with the
Bureau.” Moving
carefully for such a big man, Kanahoe rose and held the office door
open for
his partner, then looked back at the desk. Sara was still staring at
Grissom,
who was staring right back.
“The
“We’ll
be there, thank you.”
The door
closed once more and Sara
sucked in a breath. In one surging leap she shot out of her chair and
paced
away from Grissom, the desk, the files, everything that closed her in.
He
leaned back in his chair, watching her move back and forth on the other
side of
his desk like an agitated panther.
“Grissom,
this is insane, it’s NOT
going to work! We’re walking into a crime scene
that’s unsecured, that’s out of
our authority, and probably contaminated by now! We’ve got no
backup, no way of
bringing in a kit and anything we find is going to be completely
inadmissible
in court!”
“Don’t
be afraid of me, Sara.”
She
turned, looked at him, felt
another insecure tremor run through her. Damn the man for saying the
one thing
she couldn’t respond to. Forcing herself to take a deep
breath she crossed her
arms over her chest and lied.
“I’m
not afraid of you. I’m worried
about this case.”
“Sara,
I won’t let anything happen
to you. I agreed to take this case before I knew I’d need you
along. You’re my
responsibility from this point on,” he continued, ignoring
her comment. She
tried to laugh, but her mouth was too dry, so she turned to look out
the glass
wall of the office instead.
“I
can take care of myself, thanks.
I’ve done it for a long time and I don’t see any
reason to change that part,
not even for a case. What I don’t GET, Grissom, is . . .
“
The
unasked question hung in the air
of the office. Carefully he took his glasses off and laid them on the
desk, his
gaze focused on the rows of jars on the wire shelving off to one side
of the
room.
“
. . . Is how you could have been
working for a deviant all these years?”
Sara
flushed, turned and looked at
Grissom, but his concentration was still on the jars. She took a deep
breath.
“You’re
NOT a deviant. I mean, in
all the time I’ve known you I’ve never gotten a
freaky vibe off of you. Sure
you’re a loner and some people around here are fairly sure
you’re gay, but the
whole leather and whip thing—no. It’s
just—no.”
“No
whips,” Grissom agreed
distantly. “I never developed a taste for flogging although I
know how. It’s
too easy to overdo it, and end up with too much distracting
pain.”
There
seemed to be nothing to say to
that; Sara gaped for a second then closed her mouth, feeling her skin
flush
again and knowing it showed. She savagely rubbed her forehead in an
attempt to
hide her embarrassment, and Grissom gave a soft, humorless chuckle.
“I
know it’s hard to believe, but
I’m just as uncomfortable right now as you are,
Sara.” He murmured. “More so.
Out of all the people I work with, you were the last I ever wanted to .
. .
know. And now you do.”
Sara
studied Grissom’s jaw line,
seeing it tighten. She managed a weak smile.
“Yeah?
Well it’s still a matter of
seeing is believing, Grissom. I know you wouldn’t lie about
something like
this, but I’m not utterly convinced yet, and we still have
packing to do.”
***
*** ***
The
plane had leveled out, and the
soft chime of the seatbelt sign had gone off, allowing people to
unbuckle and
relax. In the very back row of the plane, Sara did neither, looking at
the back
of the seat in front of her with a scowl that masked her growing inner
anxiety.
Next to her, Grissom had his seat back, his eyes closed. He spoke
softly, without
opening them.
“Sara,
what do you want to know?”
She
slumped in her seat, slightly
deflated by his matter-of-fact question. After a moment, she blurted,
“God,
EVERYTHING. What do you know about having slaves? How long have you
done this?
Do you do this on your off-time? Is this about sex? Can you just be
normal?”
A smile
slid across Grissom’s face;
a knowing, slightly bitter expression that made Sara’s
stomach ache a little
even as another sort of surge headed south in a hot tickle she tried to
ignore.
“First
things first. I’m normal,
Sara. I’ve been a heterosexual male aroused and enticed by
women since the
tender age of eleven all the way to the current day. I lost my
virginity to,
and had all of my love affairs with, women, so in terms of normality, I
fit the
bill. I’ve made love in conventional ways and positions,
practiced safe sex and
generally behaved in the manner that best qualifies as
average.”
Sara
blinked, watching at Grissom’s
profile as he rattled this off in a soft voice, his hands folded across
his
stomach. Without looking at her he continued.
“Had
a normal childhood, and never
thought about kink until my tenth grade year when I was hired to coach
Lily
Rocamo through chemistry. I had a rep as a good peer age tutor, and
Lily was
bombing the course pretty badly. She’d come to my house on
Wednesday and Friday
nights for study sessions and it was tough on both of us. Lily was a
popular
cheerleader, very much a school celebrity.”
“And
you were a ghost,” Sara
remembered quietly. Grissom nodded.
“Indeed.
In any case, Lily would
have been called ADD had there been a way to diagnose it back in
’71. She
couldn’t sit still; she couldn’t concentrate or put
her focus on anything for
longer than a few minutes. Finally, the third time she showed up for
tutoring,
I tied her to my desk chair and gagged her with a washcloth.
I’d threatened to
do it, and realized I had to make good on the warning, so I’d
already cut a few
lengths of my mother’s nylon laundry line and trussed Lily up
good. My
Scoutmaster would have been proud.”
“Jeez—“
was all Sara could manage,
picturing a bound cheerleader with wide eyes. Grissom chuckled, dryly.
He
opened his eyes and blinked a little.
“I
was terrified that she’d resist,
but it was the only thing I could think of to get her to sit still. She
didn’t
fight me, though, and by the time I had her hands strapped to the arms
of the
chair she was shaking. I thought she was nervous.”
“Was
she?” Sara asked, curiously.
Grissom’s expression shifted to something slightly bemused
and he shook his
head.
“She
was having an orgasm. I’d never
seen anything like that before though I have since. Lily shuddered, and
sort of
went unconscious, but as I was untying her and wondering what the HELL
I was
going to tell my mother, she roused herself and told me to retie the
bonds.
Lily sat quietly through an entire lesson on acids and managed to
retain the
information perfectly. I untied her, she told me to hang onto the ropes
for
next time, and that was the start of it, I guess. I’d tie her
up each time she
came over. Sometimes she wanted me to kiss her, or touch her face;
never more
than that, and then she’d come. After that she’d be
docile and quiet and ready
to learn.”
“Yeah.
Well, talk about positive
reinforcement—“ came Sara’s tart comment,
“So she got an A I take it?”
Grissom’s
sharp look deflated her
for a moment. “A high B, in fact, and her teacher praised her
for buckling down
and learning to study. Lily and I agreed not to tell anyone about our
particular method, most especially her boyfriend, and with the money I
earned I
managed to buy a new bike. Not a bad trade-off. By eleventh grade Lily
had
moved away and I filed the experience as an extremely arousing
memory.”
“So
from that point on you were
involved in . . .”
“—Alternatives?
No, not really.
Bondage wasn’t a part of my personal life for a long time
after that. I did all
the usual rites of passage through college—lost my virginity,
dated, had
semi-serious relationships, broke up. I suppose the epiphany if you
could call
it that, came during the Tri Beta Halloween party. I was given the
opportunity
to spank the young lady I brought to the party and did.”
Sara
felt a wave of heat cross her face
and a hard twist of emotions flare through her: Shock. Arousal.
Jealousy. She
looked away from Grissom and tried to focus on the seat tray in front
of her
for a moment, wondering where the hell all of that was coming from, and
not
quite ready to look deeper. Instead, she lifted her chin. Next to her,
Grissom
gave a little sigh.
“I
suppose that shocks you. I’m
sorry it does, Sara, but I’d rather that you knew the truth
from me than the
assumptions you’ll make without it. Yes, I liked spanking
her. Yes she liked it
too. I’m good at it.”
“Crap.”
She blurted angrily, unable
to quite quell the rise of tension through her throat. The shock was
fading a
little now, but the other two emotions were still heavy and thick
through her,
and Sara desperately hoped the stewardess would be serving drinks soon
because
she really, really needed one.
As if on
cue, the soothing voice of
the copilot announced the altitude, the arrival time and that the round
of
complimentary beverages would be starting. Sara sighed, relaxing a
little at
that. Next to her, Grissom coughed lightly.
“Order
me a bourbon please, Sara,
and wake me when it’s here,” he murmured, closing
his eyes once more and
settling down into his seat. Sara shot him a quick glare, and even
though his
eyes were closed, he smiled.
When the
orders arrived, Sara nudged
Grissom awake. He sat up and took the drink, sipping it carefully. She
sensed
he was as glad to get it as she was to have her gin and tonic and for a
while
they said nothing, but drank slowly. Finally Sara stirred her ice cubes
in her
glass, watching them melt.
“So
you’re . . . kinky. Sort of. I
mean, the tying up and the spanking, hell, everybody tries that once or
twice.
That’s just experimenting. But to keep doing it—is
it the only way you can get
off?” she rushed in a low voice, a voice shaky with curiosity
and confusion.
Grissom cocked his head at her, looking slightly bemused.
“It’s
not the only way, as you put
it, but it’s certainly the most pleasurable, the most
intense. Anyone can have
M&Ms, Sara. Playing in scenes though, is like having a
Ghiradelli Mocha
supreme truffle with raspberry filling laid on your tongue to melt
slowly to
your body heat.”
Sara
squirmed, all too aware that
the answer was more seductive than she needed at the moment. Turning,
she
looked to see Grissom watching her, blue eyes slightly wary. She
managed a
stiff smile to cover the turmoil.
“Too
many truffles can make you
sick.”
“Too
many of anything can.
‘Moderation in all things’, as Aristotle once
said.”
“Are
you moderate in . . . this
lifestyle thing, Grissom? Does it make you happy? Like those swapping
couples?”
A thread of righteous anger grew in her voice and she glared at him.
Grissom
held her gaze, neither returning the anger nor reacting to it. He
sipped his
drink.
“This
isn’t passion outside of marriage,
Sara. Commitments here are as strong if not stronger than most socially
or
religiously sanctioned ones. And yes, for a while it made me happy. My
pleasure
came from creating pleasure, bringing out the deepest most uninhibited
response
from my partners.”
“Partners—“
Sara seized on that, her
words slightly harsher now as she laughed bitterly, “As in
multiple--Sounds
pretty shallow to me.”
Grissom
set his drink down hard
enough to make his ice cubes tinkle. “Sara, how many men have
you slept with
since college? Before we start calling any kettles black,
let’s consider that
in my case we’re talking about a single digit number and that
each of them was
a commitment on my part that I didn’t take lightly. Yes,
I’ve had partners,
three in the last twenty-two years. Does that make it any more
disgusting when
compared to your own life?”
She
stood up blindly, blinking hard
at the knife of pain in her chest, and fumbled to reach the aisle,
stumbling
her way back to the bathrooms, willing her eyes not to let the sudden
sting
fall until she’d manage to close the lock on the door. They
came, spilling in
hot trails down her face, wet streaks of anger, of confusion and pain
that she
couldn’t sort out one from the other, a jumble of hard, hot
emotions throbbing
in her.
It hurt.
It hurt to think of Grissom
with other women, pleasuring them and getting so much of his own out of
it. It
hurt to think that in all the time she’d spent with him
he’d never considered
HER worth pursuing.
It
hurt because it hurt.
Sara
sobbed quietly into her sleeves, wiping
her eyes savagely until the surge of emotion began to die away and
steely
resolve set in. Looking up she caught sight of her blotchy face, her
red-rimmed
eyes and managed a humorless laugh before turning on the water and
splashing
comforting coolness over her cheeks. The water felt heavenly, and for a
while
she bathed her skin, taking time to soothe her complexion before
reaching for a
paper towel.
Finally,
looking up again, she
nodded to the woman in the mirror.
“Get
real—“ she taunted herself,
“You didn’t think the man was a virgin, right?
Forty-eight years old he had to
have SOME sort of love life—although this wasn’t
quite the one I would have
thought of. Jesus, this is so . . . fucked. Gil Grissom, entomologist.
Criminalist. Sexual enigma in leather—“ she began
to grin, just a little, the
goofy sense of relief hitting her stomach. The very image of Grissom in
leather
was enough to made giggles well up, and just when Sara thought she was
going to
lose it completely, a soft knock on the door brought her out of her
mirror tete
a tete.
“I’ll
be right out—“ she called in a
voice stronger than she felt. When she pushed the door open an
impatient older
woman stood there, anxiously, and Sara passed her to return to her
seat.
Reaching it, she saw that Grissom was stretched out again, eyes closed,
and for
that Sara was grateful. She sat down and tipped her own seat back,
trying to
relax, but all too acutely aware of the man next to her.
Scenes,
Grissom had called them.
Sara tried to think of what she knew about bondage and discipline. It
involved
leather and collars, she understood, and some sort of social posturing
with one
half of a couple being humiliated while the other half got to lord it
over
them. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach and she clenched the
arms of
her seat tightly. Unexpectedly, Grissom’s hand moved and
covered hers, the heat
of his palm searing through her cold fingers in a sudden wave of
comfort so
intense she gasped.
“I’m
sorry for what I said, Sara. I
never meant to infer some sort of moral superiority on my part. Please
forgive
me—it’s been a rough day.”
Sara
looked down at his big hand
resting on top of hers, the warmth of it sinking into her tendons, the
weight
of it an almost physical consolation.
Just as
it had been at the police
station.
Not
trusting her voice, she nodded, and even with his eyes closed,
Grissom managed a smile.
End of
part one
