(Author’s Note: This is the start of a collection of fantasies that haunt the minds of our favorite CSI characters—I’ve set them after the incidents in my first two stories. Feel free to let me know what you think.)
Fantasy #1: Powder Burn
Everyone has a fantasy; Gil Grissom was no exception. Always an intensely private man, it would have taken threat of imminent death for him to ever verbalize the unfolding erotic dramas he created for his dark and lonely hours. Fantasy freed him from the risky business of personal involvement, enthusiastically gave him the liberty to indulge his desires without consequence---until a few months ago.
One torrid, desperate night, wild and on the edge of panic he’d blindly let Sara touch him.
It changed everything.
Not on the surface; at least not by much. The two of them were still able to banter and chide in the familiar pattern they’d settled into after the last few years. The rest of the team was as ignorantly tolerant as they’d ever been, none the wiser about the hot flush that rose up in Gil’s stomach every time he lost focus looking at Sara.
He hadn’t felt this betrayed by his own body since his teenage years. Even his minor hearing loss was, although bleak, acceptable in the scheme of time and genetics. But this inner torment, this licentious desire for Sara never left him anymore. It was like a dull toothache in the back of his composure, manageable until a look at her would bring it into sharp, painful focus.
In desperation, Gil indulged in his fantasies recklessly, deeply, making them almost a ritual to his slumbers, more formal than his previous quick preoccupied jerk offs. He reasoned to himself that if it was the only way to have Sara, it would have to satisfy all aspects of his hunger—not only the warm and sweet side of wanting her, but the dark side too, the demons as well as the angels.
The best one always begins the same way: Sara is on her stomach on a gurney draped in a sheet, looking as if she’s about to get a massage. The drape is sheer, and Gil can see her naked body through the gauzy stuff, the enticing curves and angles of her frame. She has her arms folded under her head, eyes closed, a small familiar smirk on her mouth.
He moves closer.
And she purrs agreement, that low sexy sound vibrating straight through him to his balls. Gil never gets used to that, to the simple conditioned response. Sara purrs, he stiffens. Rain or shine, night or day, always the same.
He moves forward, lightly tugging on the drape. It falls to the floor, disappearing conveniently, leaving him to contemplate the luscious vision of Sara’s nudity in perfect, breathtaking vision.
So close. The first time he pictured it; he’d very nearly come without more than a single hard squeeze against his stiff shaft. Now he knows himself better, and always takes a few breaths, imagining Sara’s sweet coltish frame against the dull metal of the gurney.
And then the accoutrements.
That’s always the point at which Sara opens her big chocolate eyes and sees him standing there naked, his gaze locked on her. She blinks, shivering a tiny bit in an oh-so-gratifying way.
Giving in to him, a darkly sweet moment. Another dangerous moment.
In one hand, Gil pictures himself holding a jar of Red Creeper. In the other, the duster brush.
“I can’t—“ she whimpers, her eyes hot and hungry.
“You will—“ he tells her.
And then he begins.
Toes first. Her elegant toes, sometimes painted, usually bare, defenseless in the soft light of imagination. Gil dips the brush, then spins it deftly against her toes, letting Red Creeper flutter softly on her pale toes. Sara shivers.
“Hold still—“ he orders.
Lightly moving up her feet, Gil sweeps the brush, barely touching her arches, her tarsals and heels, her slim ankles. Sara is holding still, but little twitches flex through her feet.
Gil savors this image of Sara trying not to react, doing what he HAS to do all the time now. More Red Creeper up the back of her legs, brush doing a slow twisting tarantella up the curve of her luscious calves, Gil’s face mere inches over her skin, close enough to feel her aura shimmering with fuchsia-tinted lust. Impossibly long legs on Sara Sidle, legs that were meant to wrap around a man, pull him deep and make him howl.
She quivers now, anticipating the kiss of the brush against the back of her thighs. Gil pulls up, admiring his handiwork for a moment. He’s hard, but in control, enjoying the reaction of brush and powder on her bare skin.
“Griiiiiiiis—“ she pleads, voice husky and low, shifting a little on the gurney, restless.
That makes him throb, yes.
Moving slowly then, bringing the brush in a delicate twirl he slides it up the gentle twin slopes from thigh to her ass, dusting the roundness of her cheeks with a rosy glow, the powder drifting to cling to the taut muscle there.
Biteable. Sara definitely has a biteable ass.
Gil’s tempted, but controls himself, lets the red powder filter down onto that satiny quivering skin, settling into the deep groove. Sara breathes hard now, no mocking smile on her face as she stares over her shoulder, eyes big. Half of her is covered in raspberry powder, clinging damply to her skin. She sucks in a breath. Gil smiles at her.
“Maybe the prints are on your front—“ he suggests in a mild tone designed to infuriate. Her espresso eyes narrow in thwarted lust, lean brows drawing together. She tries to roll over quickly, but Gil uses the handle end of the brush and presses it between Sara’s shoulder blades, pinning her down on the gurney with it for a moment.
“Patience—“ he tells her, loving the power play; fantasy frees him to do more than passively wait. Sara nods, dark hair falling over her shoulders. He pulls the brush up and she turns herself lying back on the scoured steel, propped on her elbows, one leg bent.
Gil sighs harshly. Such beauty, laid out open and lush to his sight; he lets his gaze take her in. The crown of her head, dark hair framing her oval face. Big velvety brown gaze—that mouth! Pouty and full, lushly inviting. Sara always looks as if she has a kiss sitting on her lips, taunting him to take it. Strong chin, long neck made for nuzzling rising over those sleek square shoulders.
He dips the brush and brings it against her collarbones, lacing her skin with day glow pink, artistically dressing her in powder.
Christ, Sara has a nice rack, Gil admits to himself, indulging in the chance to mentally eye it in all its pert glory. Certainly he’s seen the contours of it many a time, enjoyed the sight of her nipples outlined through thin cotton or silk. Yes, her chest is as defiantly perky as the rest of her—which is saying a lot.
The brush trembles almost as much as Sara does; tickling of the soft ends flirting over her ruckered nipples.
Sara moans; it’s just his imagination, but he KNOWS she would be flushed under her dust, her breathing rapid now.
Gil always groans a little himself at this point in the fantasy.
He lets his gaze drop lower, down along the gentle indentations of Sara’s ribs and her flat stomach to her navel. The brush moves in a happy swirling flamenco over her skin, saucy and flirtatious. Sara is gripping the edges of the gurney, elegant fingers white at the knuckles.
“God, PLEASE Grissom, I WANT you—“
“Soon—“ he teases her, cocking his head to watch how the raspberry dust flutters down, down, settling on her fluffy pubic fur. Sara arches her neck, head back, tense with desire now, slender thighs shifting apart for him. Gil drags the brush under her navel, letting the feather soft bristles tickle as sweetly as a kiss.
He’s a master at stroking: deft, sure, relentless, strong fingers manipulating the duster in intricate patterns down the insides of her thighs. Sara is gasping now, rocking a little with each pass. Gil steps closer, between those pink-dusted knees hanging off the end of the gurney, and she MOVES—
--Strong legs encircling his hips pull him forward; one of Sara’s hand grips the shaft of his cock perfectly, stroking its hefted heat. She sobs a little, crazed with desire, face taut, eyes glowing.
“God I want you NOW, want you SO MUCH—“ she growls at him, lifting her hips, guiding him to the slickness of her velvety folds.
Gil can’t bear to think he’ll NEVER know it, never sink his prick into the wet sensual pleasure of Sara, driving himself deep and slow into her eager body—
He comes hard, panting and shivering, his big chest heaving, curls damp around the nape of his neck and his hairline. The slow slide back into reality drains his spirit.
Cleaning up is a fast chore, mechanical and joyless as he pushes aside thoughts of what SHOULD be happening.
The soft kisses and laughs and smears of Red Creeper making a beautiful mosaic on each other’s skin.
Gil closes his eyes and waits for sleep that will be a long time coming.