He won’t wear a
That’s part of what makes her so crazy, what makes it ALL so
crazy. They’re both bright, intelligent people, smarter than
most. They have to be, given the work they do, shifting from
investigators to scientists to interrogators to prosecution witnesses.
They’re reasonable, cautious people for most of the week, and
it’s only in the early hours at the end of the Friday shift
that it starts to wear a little thin as the hormones and frustrations
come surging to the surface.
Sara blames it on his stubborn streak. He’s got a wall he
looks through at people most of the time, and it’s thinner
around folks he likes and thicker around those he doesn’t,
and by the early hours of Saturday morning when she’s in his
office on his desk, knees forced wide apart looking down at his thick
grey curls on the crown of his head as he strokes his tongue into her,
it’s gossamer thin, but it’s still fucking THERE.
Almost as thin as the latex of a condom, and just as tough.
But it breaks sometimes. And then the terrible rush of nasty pleasure
at seeing, feeling Grissom lose it, REALLY lose it makes up for the
week of impersonal contact and professional distance. Sara loves that.
It is the secret thrill that gets her through Sofia’s
annoying presence and Catherine’s petty dictatorship, gets
her through the loss of beer and wine and the occasional stronger shot
of Jaegermeister. Yeah, that moment when she gets to feel just how
sexually savage Grissom can get.
He hates it. Sara knows that, it’s money in the bank for her,
a tiny coal of smug pleasure to gloat over, and savor the heat of it.
She loves that Grissom hates losing control, and that she can MAKE him
lose control. So he fights it. No condom. Some Saturdays he flees,
leaves early, to take himself away from the sweet sweaty temptations of
Sara’s body, but it never lasts. By the next Saturday
he’s there, locking the door, eyes glittering with hunger,
with cool lust that makes the blue a lovely shade of dangerous. And
then Sara knows it’s going to be rough, and oh so fucking
No condom. He knows she’s not on anything; hasn’t
been since Hank. Sara didn’t like screwing with her cycle
anyway, and it wasn’t as if she’s had anyone in her
bed recently. A few discreet purchases online and she’s got a
friend in her nightstand now, thick and patient and safe for the top
rack of the dishwasher. A latex friend gathering a little dust these
days though, because her Saturday mornings are pretty busy.
Pretty fucking busy.
Pretty busy fucking, really.
Grissom doesn’t lose it all at once. He tries to take things
slow. Sometimes they go with that, and the whole idea of being her
sexual mentor, seducing her on top of a pile of court records or
inventory lists turns her on too. Knowing her bare ass has been pounded
on the official paperwork is just the sort of personal victory she
loves to remember. Once, she had to hand over a file to Nick later in
the week, and knew perfectly well that there was a tiny cum stain on
the edge of the folder.
That little secret left her grinning all day.
Some Saturday mornings Grissom is wound up so tightly that she knows
there won’t be any polite fantasies, and she watches his
hands, catches the glint of his glasses in the semi-darkness of his
office. He looks a little like the Blue Paint Killer’s
portrait of him then, and the image both terrifies and arouses her.
Makes her heart pound painfully in her chest and the wetness soak her
Big hands, hot breath, and so much strength hidden under those clothes.
Grissom isn’t little, and he isn’t soft, no matter
what Nick or Greg or Warrick might think. Sara’s felt his
weight on her; IN her, and Doctor Gil Grissom is one fucking big man,
thankyouverymuch. Hot under his shirt, shockingly so inside his boxers,
the heat rising from his very skin at times. A big male animal when he
sheds his civility along with his clothes. Sara knows this fact
intimately and finds it still amazingly powerful. She watches him
during the week, thinking about his body, letting the time pass during
the nights because at the end of the five days Friday night/Saturday
morning is coming and not a minute too soon.
That’s when the insanity starts.
On some weird primitive level Sara gets it. She knows it’s
risky as hell, indulging as they do, taking chances each time. Grissom
touches and rubs and thrusts all over her. Sara taunts him, caresses
and sucks and strokes him. They grunt, and cover each other’s
lips with their hands; once Sara stuffed her scarf into his mouth to
muffle him; Grissom held it in his teeth, eyes on her the entire time.
After he came on her stomach he spit the gauzy cloth out over his
pearly splashes burning into her skin, and the mix of wetness and wool
left her almost crying.
They don’t talk, before or after—not beyond a few
necessary words. And what they say during is pretty raw. No
‘I love you’ or ‘sweethearts’
or any of the sorts of things Sara knows other people say when making
love. She assumes it’s because they’re not making
love, they’re fucking, and people fucking aren’t
much civilized anyway.
“Don’t come inside me—“ she
“Shhhh-----“ he growls.
Grissom is actually pretty good at pulling out. He toys with her
ruthlessly, pushing his big hands under her bra, and into her panties,
feeling her up when he pulls her into his lap, or drops her onto his
desk. She loves it, can’t HELP but shudder and moan when that
starts to happen. Once Grissom starts touching her, his fingers sliding
over her helplessly hard nipples, squelching into the peachy sweetness
deep between her legs, Sara knows she’s lost it for the
moment. It turns him on too, though; she sees his nostrils flare, sees
the line of sweat shining across his forehead where the little curls
darken with it as he greedily yanks her shirt up, her panties down. He
gets very hard feeling her up, yes he does, letting his fingers roam
and touch and toy all over her body.
His kisses . . . Half the time Sara could come from those alone.
They’re not kisses, they’re devourings, wetly oral
explorations that know no boundaries. Grissom has sucked her, licked
her, tasted damn near everything she usually keeps covered with
lingerie. She leaves on Saturday mornings with wet underwear.
“Yeah, ooh yeahhhh . . .” she tells him throatily,
her voice unrecognizable when she’s with him like this.
It’s not her drawling California intonation at all; no
it’s tight and low with raw hunger that it eggs him on.
Lurking it too, is a hint of glee.
“Shit . . .” It’s not his usual voice
either, this husky low growl rumbling out of Grissom’s chest.
Most of the time his words are smeared against her—into her
thighs, or along a breast, breathed into the tangle of her bush. Sara
loves it best when they’re not even words anymore, just
noises. Grunts and soft wild sounds. Grissom losing it because
When she reaches for him, he’s pretty hard, and the precum is
leaking heavily. Sara wonders if Grissom jacks off at all during the
week. She knows sometimes she does—memories press heavily on
her in the dark of her apartment by Tuesday or Wednesday, particularly
if she’s been working near Grissom on cases during that time.
Latex friend is a poor substitute, but hey, any prick in a storm. The
real thing though, is a beauty. Sara thinks Grissom’s dick is
gorgeous, and she’s seen enough to stand by that comparison.
It’s thick; wide enough to still make her gasp when he shoves
it in. Hard, it’s an amazing shade of mottled burgundy, and
the suede soft skin makes her want to stroke it all the more.
Her toy, his tool.
Grissom likes to be touched. He wraps his fingers on top of hers and
shows her how to stroke it and it’s always rougher than Sara
remembers. He uses her slickness for lubrication, making her rub her
palm against her pussy, then squeezing those honeyed fingers around his
heated flesh, making her pump him. Sara loves making him throb, feeling
the thick veins pulse against her fingertips and palm. His dick is sooo
alive, so hungry. When she has it in her hands, it surges and swells,
and she has the weirdest feeling this part of him belongs to her above
and beyond anything Grissom says or does.
She wonders if he feels this way about her pussy.
But she can’t ask. Something about the feral blue of his eyes
stops her every time. She’s afraid to ask too much, to talk
too much and break the spell. If they talk about it, then it might
stop, and Jesus, Sara knows she couldn’t bear that, not NOW.
Not after she’s tasted him, metaphorically and literally.
Grissom is worth having, even if it’s only early on Saturday
morning, locked away in his office, hearing the sounds of work going on
around them. Sometimes Sara fears one time they’ll forget one
set of blinds and be seen by someone, but just as often she secretly
wishes it WOULD happen. To have someone watch her put that lovely dick
in her mouth.
Sara likes to taste him. The smell of Grissom, the musk of him gets to
her every time. The scent that faintly tints his jackets is heavy in
the air when she plays with his cock. He’s furry, like a damn
bear between his legs, thick and curly and tinged with grey. Big heavy
balls, a silken mass she loves to scoop out and let hang free against
his slacks or jeans. She strokes them while she sucks, and the groans
Grissom makes keep her throbbing hard between her own legs. Sara
doesn’t normally like blowjobs, but with Grissom the
difference is in the power. He’ll never tell her to do it,
but when she slowly lowers her head, breathing on his straining dick,
Sara can tell how MUCH he likes it, oh yes. His hands slide through her
hair, lifting it out of the way so he can watch her pretty mouth slid
over the blunt head.
Holding just the tip in her mouth turns her on. The head is always so
damned hot, and she’s still amazed at the reality of having
Grissom’s dick in her mouth.
Grissom’s thick, hard, fuck-hungry dick in her mouth. God,
A fantasy she’s masturbated over before, never thinking
she’d ever get to DO it, and shit, the real thing is so much
better and scarier. The first time she got her mouth on him, Grissom
came, shooting thick and hard against her lips, the searing heat of
that jism making her laugh and squirm. Her clit was throbbing hard,
even while the gluey spurts were squirting out the sides of her cheeks,
spilling down on her knuckles as she gripped his unruly cock. Grissom
took her hands and wiped them on his chest, under his shirt. Fuck that
shocked her, the image of her precise scientist smearing semen on his
pectorals, wiping her fingers clean that way.
Now he holds back. Sara has tried to push Grissom over the edge again,
sucking carefully, humming with pleasure and generally slurping on his
shaft with every trick she knows, but he grits his teeth and holds
back. He starts touching her when she’s got her face working
between his legs, and damn it, damn it, DAMN IT, Sara can’t
concentrate when Grissom touches her.
She’s wanted it too long, and her body jumps when his fingers
slide on her secret places.
Grissom pulls out of her mouth, not letting her finish him. Sara knows
it’s not always easy; he frowns and his prick is an angry red
with urgent need when he does this. That makes her grin, but
doesn’t last long.
“Get on my desk.”
“Yeah—“ that’s when she feels
not only the throbbing, but the flutters of fear in her stomach. She
rises, wobbles a little; Grissom looms over her and starts to move her
clothes to get to her body. In the glare of the high intensity lamp he
looks at her hungrily, and Sara closes her eyes the better to feel his
He doesn’t completely undress her; she doesn’t
completely undress him. It’s always half-clothed, with the
traces and stains and wetness soaking through what they wear. Grissom
licks her panties while they’re on her, licks inside them,
licks her fur and teases his way into the slick wet folds of her
quivering pussy. Sara thinks of him as eating her wrapper and all, and
damn it, it makes her all the wetter. He sucks her nipples through her
bra, pulls it up and sinks his teeth around the aching stiff tips while
his wet beard scrapes her skin. She feels it, his hands, his mouth, his
hot breath over her pebbled skin.
When he finally gets his mouth between her legs, Sara quivers, trying
to brace her arms behind her against the desk. He holds her thighs
open, pushing them wider, drinking in both the sight and taste of her.
He’s noisy, too, and Sara goes a little crazy with the sounds
of sucking and little low moans echoing between her legs.
Grissom’s tongue circles her pulsing clit, strokes just on
the underside of it, toys everywhere but where she WANTS it.
And Sara grits her teeth, rocking her hips up against his hot mouth.
Coming is easy and swift once he gives in and sucks that hard little
button between her legs, and Sara rides it a long as she can, that
fireball of hot nasty joy surging through her pussy and melting her
bones in long shivering waves. The second Saturday this happened she
writhed, knocked things off of his desk in her mindless rictus of
pleasure, so now Grissom traps her hands under his, pinning them on his
blotter. Sara likes the feel of his fingers holding her down, although
she wondered once why he doesn’t simply clear his desk.
Then it dawned on her that it’s a head game for Grissom. He
won’t plan for Saturday morning to happen. He won’t
clear his desk and he won’t wear a condom for precisely the
same reasons. This is the only spontaneous thing he’ll ever
do, this insane fucking. Everything else in his work, his days, his
life is meticulously measured out like that coffee spoon thing Eliot
wrote, Sara thinks. Controlled and careful.
But not this.
He lets her catch her breath a moment, and when he watches her, Sara
sees Grissom’s mouth gleaming with her juices. He sucks his
lips, licks his own mouth while his sweat rolls down the sides of his
face and his eyes glitter that wild blue. The office smells like
fucking now, that heavy overlay of her musk and his musk heated by the
lamp. Sara lies spread out on Grissom’s desk, knowing there
are papers and photos under her ass, things that probably will end up
sticking to her and not really caring. She’s got only a few
seconds to catch her breath because now—
He rises, leans against Sara, the probe of his cock rubbing her thighs,
seeking her heat. She’s tender now, tingling from the scrape
of his beard, open and vulnerable, her peach-goodness gleaming through
her wet curly bush. Sara pushes herself up, reaching for him, curling
her hands around the hot snub-headed shaft rubbing itself along the
open cleft of her body, the underside of it gliding over the slickness.
“In me—“ she tells him. Grissom holds
back, just sliding his prick along her, and watching it move. She says
it again. “Put it in me.”
“Yes—“ he agrees, and grips the shaft,
gently redirecting the thick plum head between wet lips, holding out
again for that first thrust, that ooohSofuckingGOODmoment when
he’s sinking into her, forcing her open to his needy arrogant
dick. Both of them get off on that, and Sara shudders with pleasure as
Grissom shoves. She reaches for his shoulders, clinging to them,
looking down at their joined bodies where the sweet animal connection
of fur and slickness is meshing. Sara loves watching herself get fucked
by Grissom for those long sweet minutes, watching his prick slide in
and out, glistening with her honey.
“Don’t come—“ she warns him.
Grissom grunts, pumps a little harder, his voice low.
“Shit you’re big.”
“Shhhh—“ he murmurs, not to rebuke, just
to concentrate on the hot clench of her body. Sometimes his glasses are
sliding off his nose; always his hair is curling by now, wet along his
forehead and temples. His breath is hot and soft on her face and when
he kisses her, Sara tastes her pussy tang in his mouth.
“I’ll come—“ he warns her,
speeding up a little anyway, the lovely squelching sound making Sara
wriggle. His prick is pistoning now, sliding into her pussy in long
strokes and the sight of it has built her up again. She restlessly
“No, shit, I’m going to come—“
she gasps, her nails sinking into his shoulders and Grissom loves that;
she can tell by his pleased growl, his harder thrusts. ”Oh
She reaches one hand down, strokes her clit; the rumble of heat and
chill take her and ooohGODclenching around that moving dick is
EVERYTHING good and right on the damn planet. Baskets of kittens and
fireworks and loving this insane man who fucks her and won’t
wear a Goddamn condom. Her body convulses around him, egging him on,
trying so desperately to take what he won’t GIVE, and Sara
cries out softly, ragged with pleasure now.
“Jesus! Come, Grissom, please, shoot it, shoot
And he slucks out of her, his big chest heaving as he fists himself,
pearly pulses erupting out of his enraged cock, spilling in thick
ribbons across her flat stomach, glittering in her bush, burning
everywhere they land with a heavy splatter, a weight to his lust. His
head drops as he arches, finishing his come, rubbing himself along her
belly and sucking in air. He’s on top of her now, resting on
her, feeling her arms wrap around him to hold him.
Grissom holds her.
Sara licks his ear, feeling his mouth pressing into her shoulder.
“We’re taking a hell of a
risk—“ she finally tells him, her voice husky and
low. He says nothing, but his hips shift a little, and his slowly
softening cock smears semen into her navel.
“Risky,” she repeats.
“Shhhh.” He tells her. “That was close. I
almost came inside you.”
She looks at him, close to tears now, feeling them prickle in her eyes,
aching frustration making her throat hurt as she asks him.
“Don’t you want to come in me?”
Grissom turns his sweaty head to look at her.
“YES.” he confesses in a harsh voice while absently
rubbing his sticky palm on some memo from Ecklie. “Every
time, God damn it!”
Sara smiles then, wrapping arms around him, feeling their bodies cool
down. In a little while they’ll pull apart and clean up as
best they can. They’ll walk out separately and spend their
Saturday and Sunday apart, living their lives. Meeting up on shift for
the next week, working the cases, doing the job.
Maybe this won’t happen next Saturday.
Maybe Grissom will stop.
Maybe she’ll stop.
But there are lots of days until then. Sara wants Grissom to come
her. Grissom wants to come inside her and that little crazy hope/desire
will chase around in their heads all through the week until early
Saturday morning and who knows, yeah maybe THIS time Grissom
won’t be able to pull out, won’t fight it and just
let it happen the way they both want it, hot and deep and endlessly
good because that’s the way it IS between them.
Lust measured out in coffee spoons and spilled over his desk, half in
the dark and half in the light, like so much of their lives already.
This was hard, no pun intended. I would have given up on this piece so
out of my normal realm if two great friends hadn’t urged me
to keep going with this darker, crazier vision of Grissom and Sara. To
VR and Jo, I owe the two of you so much for convincing me I could make
it work. If I succeeded the credit goes to you, and if I failed, you at
least got me through it. Thank you and bless you both.)