Saturday by Spoonfuls



He won’t wear a condom.

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 good.

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 panties.

Dark Grissom.

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.

No condom.

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 pleads. Warns.

“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 he’s fucking.

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, still unbelievable.

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 hands.

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.

“Want to.”

“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.

“Deeper. Harder.”

“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 moans.

“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 God—“

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 it!—“

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 inside 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.

END


(Author’s note: 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.)






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