Spoonfuls of Saturday


He knows it’s crazy; insane really, because they’re both smarter than this, both all too aware of what the by blows of what they’re doing can be. In all the years he’s been working at this profession, moving from each dedicated aspect to the next he’s never once considered that one of the personas was going to be this-- some sort of a sex fiend.

 

Grissom blames it on her damned anima. She’s got this cool sweet way of sauntering around and posing herself, arching and stretching and flexing.  It’s achingly arousing, unmissable, and by the early hours of Saturday morning after watching her all week, he’s furious enough to pin Sara on his desk, forcing open her sleek thighs and making her purr like the cat in heat that she is.

 

Sometimes she makes him lose it, and that both thrills and shocks him; when all of the fierce intellect drains out and only raw hungry need is left inside him, making his cock throb, and his mouth go dry. That dark glitter in Sara’s knowing eyes leaves him angry, confusing his priorities and knocking them over like dominoes.

 

He hates it, hates it just as much as he knows that Sara loves every damn moment of her superiority. It’s pretty clear she relishes the fact she can lead him around by his big dripping dick, moving straight out of whatever supposed relationship they have outside these walls and into this sexual inferno where they do this dance of fucking. Therefore, he punishes her. No condom. Raw, and real and skin to wet hot skin, baby.

 

No. Condom. He knows she’s not on anything; he can smell her heat, her wild sweat musk. He’s licked her panties, sucking the wetness from them and savoring the tangy flavors of Sara’s pussy as it saturates her prim little underwear. The scent makes him hard as a rock every time. Just the damned memory of that scent stiffens his cock.

 

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time he’d go home. He’d stroke his fly on the drive there, thinking about Sara’s ass, and how much he wants to grab it. Thinking about how he’d suckle, nip, and squeeze his turgid prick into her long taunting body. Taking care of these filthy thoughts the way he always had—with a beer and a handful of lube, taking his time and stroking himself off in the semidarkness of his living room, indulging himself slowly and deliberately for a week of being polite and carefully neutral.

 

But not now.

 

Now he’s got a much better way of rewarding his professional behavior.

 

He tries not to unwind too fast. Sometimes Sara gets off on that too, and he’ll strip her down slowly, taking his time, trailing his fingertips over her in a tease that drives them both crazy. It’s a jolt to his cock on to see her semi-naked on his desk amid the reports and memos and phone messages, her smile cool and challenging. Her pussy glistening in the light of the intensity lamp.

 

Christ, some Saturdays he can barely keep it in his pants. Grissom feels his pulse going faster, and when he looks at Sara he can see her trembling, waiting for him to touch her. When he sees her that way it drives off all thoughts of Catherine’s whining or Ecklie’s bureaucratic demands; pushes away the mind-numbing routine of the cases around them. Sara, breathing hard and licking her lips, her nipples outlined against her blouse, those half-closed eyes dark and cruel under her carefully arched brows.

 

Long and built for wrapping around a man, Sara isn’t shy and isn’t slow about what she wants. That fact still thrills him, shocks him that this long-legged hellcat wants him as much as he wants her. Under her clothes, she’s hot and firm and every inch of her is velvety to his mouth. He looks at her during the week, remembering in hard pangs how soft her lips are, and how perfectly her eyelashes flutter when she’s horny.

 

And that’s when they go crazy. Grissom knows that Sara gets it, on some level. That she meets him right there on the edge of insanity knowing how dangerous this freakish little Game is. No condom; fucking in a slam-bam fashion, deliberately brutal as possible, like animals, grunting and surging, not giving a damn for finesse or tenderness. And Grissom finds himself hating and loving this angry drive, hating and loving Sara for seeing this black side of him.

 

They don’t talk, before or after—Grissom tells himself he wouldn’t know what to say anyway. It’s not a moment for sentimentality, this hard wet violation of each other. Moreover, what Sara DOES say only makes things that much more raw.

 

“Don’t come inside me,” she pleads. But Grissom hears her taunt in those words. And even, God help him, her longing. Oh she wants him inside her when he comes. She wants it as much as he does.

 

“Shhh,” he warns her, because Grissom can’t say anything else. Sara drives him on the edge and he has to concentrate if he’s going to come out on top.

 

Or come out at all.

 

He loves this part; the beginning. Touching Sara—pawing her, really, getting his hands over all the places he’s been thinking about every night of the week. And Grissom knows Sara’s getting off on it because she shudders and moans when he’s feeling her up. Her body is coiled, wet, sweet, and he watches her lips forming filthy words when she’s not licking them. The thrill is in pulling her shirt up, her panties down—making it clear she’s his to smell and touch and taste.

 

Kissing—it’s not tender, but it IS deep. Grissom doesn’t think of the act as kissing, but more of devouring, eating all the tastiest parts of ripe, sweet Sara Sidle. The fun is in the raunchiness, he thinks, and that’s why he makes a point to nibble and suck her panties as well as her pussy. It’s nasty and sensual and something he loves doing.

 

They’re not quiet, and Sara’s voice is like a second hand around his cock, tight and slick. Grissom feels the caress of her words against his skin, and repays the favor, growling back between licks and suckles between her thighs. Sara needs to hear him; to know that this is all about the urges he doesn’t give a damn about letting her see.

 

She’s a slut, in the dark of his office like this, purring when she reaches for him. Grissom loves watching her work his fly down and fumble with his boxers, loves seeing those thin strong fingers curl around his leaking hard-on. It doesn’t matter if he’s jacked off one day, or every day of the week, because her sexy hand teasing his cock as it rises arrogantly free of his zipper is still one of the most spine-jolting sights he’s ever seen.

 

He loves to be touched, and when he wraps his hand around hers, making her squeeze his cock it makes him shudder with the sheer pleasure of pressure.  Everything about it is good, and Grissom loves having the power to hold Sara’s fingers around his thickness this way. He’s big—fact not ego—and it turns him on to see her looking at his cock. Feeling it, watching it get stiffer with every caress. It’s the one part of his body he’s never really managed to control, despite efforts and around Sara, Grissom doesn’t even try anymore. She is the enticer and his damned prick knows it.

 

To be fair, Sara’s body isn’t exactly cold to him either, and that pleases Grissom nearly as much as it drives him crazy. She might play cool and controlled during the week, but he knows the signs. A low laugh; a stare a few seconds too long, an accidental brush of hips—all building up to Saturday, here in the semi-darkness, when Grissom slides his hands along her inner thighs and feels them tremble as he moves in.

 

Grissom loves the feel of her mouth on him; her face bent low over his cock. She tries to maintain her bitchy pose, but Sara cannot hide the way her hips wriggle, and once her mouth slides down over the head of his prick, her tongue eagerly stroking the underside, he rumbles with pleasure. It’s almost too intense, this sweet orality, and his stomach tightens as he fights not to come, not to come, but Christ it’s hard. The first time Sara let him push his dick in her mouth he DID come in hot, glorious sprays down her throat, leaving her laughing and lapping at him when she pulled up.

 

He swore that would be the last time he’d ever give in to that.

 

 Sara tries to make him come, working him over so slowly and sweetly every chance she gets that it makes him grit his teeth. What the mind refuses the body demands, so Grissom fights back in the best way he can: he touches her. That quivering lean body of hers, so luscious, so eager to be caressed; yes, it’s very to easy run his fingers along Sara’s spine and slide them around the slim peachcheek of her ass. A hungry joy to do it, feeling the way her thighs part for him. The heat, mingled with the slickness of her lust and his kisses let his fingers slide through those tender petals with the lightest of touches.

 

Fingering Sara. Teasing her pussy with the slowest, sweetest strokes he can manage, making her moan around his hot iron shaft. Grissom can hear both of them breathing; can FEEL the heat of her whimpers against his cock. It’s a lovely game of power—can he distract her enough before he has to make her stop? Will she get in her last licks while she can?

 

Grissom hopes so.

 

But finally he can’t take it any longer, and pulls her up from sucking him, tugging her slender frame up and away because the sensual overload is too much.

 

“Get on my desk,” he tells her, trying like hell to keep his voice low and controlled; to keep the quaver out of it. In the light of the intensity lamp Sara looks like every fuckdream he’s ever had of her: hot-eyed, lips slick with his precum, wanting him as much as he wants her. It’s a thousand times better though, because he can smell her heat, taste her salt and sugar lust. She does what she’s told; slinking onto the work surface, head dropping back and Grissom can see the pulse of her heartbeat along her throat.

 

She closes her eyes and he knows it’s not to think of anyone else; it’s to concentrate on what’s to come. Tension winds in his stomach, tugging on his impatient cock, and Grissom feels erotically hotwired in a way that only comes in the anticipation of this inevitable moment. He reaches out, hooks his fingers around the crotch of her panties and pulls it aside.

 

Yes. Uncovered. Exposed. Glorious in the shaft of light.

 

Sara’s pussy.

 

Nothing in his entire life has ever been this sweetly obscene, this hypnotically or crudely beckoning. Grissom is helpless in the surge of lust that washes through him, flushing away all higher thought, all rationale and reason. Nothing else matters as he takes his time looking down at the glistening pink folds and downy fur between Sara’s parted legs.

 

Even kneeling down he looms, somehow taking what should be a submissive move and making it as forceful as he can. Sara arches back, and when he slides his hands to push her thighs wider, Grissom feels as if he’s parting the wings of a butterfly, pinning her gently across the desk. Sara writhes a little, but when he bends his head and inhales the rich scent of her ripe femininity the responding surge of feral pleasure rises in him, and Grissom breathes on her waiting tender flesh.

 

A carnal altar, he thinks; lines of grace, the ache of waiting flesh hungering to be devoured.

 

She tastes . . . succulent. Every flick of his tongue, every wet teasing lap across her thighs and along the ticklish crease where the leg joins the hip brings moans from her. Sara’s muscles, so close to the surface flex and tense under his questing mouth. Grissom noisily teases her in return, lingering and toying, letting his lips barely brush the stiff little pearl of her clitoris.

 

Grissom pins her hands down, holding Sara here on the desk, open and shivering under his tongue. When the tension is finally so tight her breathing changes, he knows it’s time. He suckles.

 

Instantly her thighs tighten, and Grissom loves the sweet enveloping press of her around him, smooth hot flesh cradling his head as he feels Sara’s orgasm pulsing under his lips. It’s a blind moment infused with power and he lives to be buried here, kissing her pussy. Making Sara his.

 

But she’ll never know how he dreams of this moment, these Saturdays here in the cocoon of his office like this. Nothing in his life is as fully under his control as this intense inferno of passion that he plans for and fantasizes about and wears on his soul like a tattoo now, fresh and gleaming. Grissom follows the rules of society and bureaucracy and civilization for most of the seven days that roll out each week like solid slabs of sidewalk pavement. He plays the game and keeps up his compliance to the expected norms.

 

But this—this secret passion is his alone to shape. A folie aux deux given luster by lust, he tells himself. He rises, his balls aching for release now, and Grissom feels the sweat prickling down his spine under his shirt as he licks his lips.

 

Sara lies sprawled on his desk in a salacious tableau: thighs wide, one buckled sandal on, the other already on the floor, her shirt pushed up to show off the damp sleek muscles of her stomach and hard jut of her rosy nipples as she tries to catch her breath. Grissom leans in and grabs her hips, pulling her to the edge of the desk, across the plastic covered list of phone numbers and passwords. He grips his cock and strokes it along the inside of one thigh, smearing precum there as he leans forward.

 

“In me,” Sara’s voice quavers, and hearing her words sends a fresh surge of desire to tighten his balls. He toys with the head of his cock, sliding it between the petals of her cleft, delaying that final consummation just a moment longer, waiting to hear her speak again. “Put it in me,“ she begs.

 

“Yes.” Grissom thrusts. The slick wet glide into the heat of Sara’s box drives the breath from him; leaves him on the edge of self-control now, shuddering in that timeless space between desire and denial. His body wins, and he rocks forward, his turgid cock lodging deep as he begins to thrust. Each is harder than the last, and the molten pleasure throbs low in his stomach as he surrenders to this animal need.

 

He watches Sara look down at their joined bodies, her hunger building again at the sight of his prick pushing into her rhythmically, making her hips rock up to take him. Grissom feels her calves wrap around his waist and pull him close, joining in the building frenzy.  He sees his grey fur rubbing with her dark brown curls, his glistening shaft pistoning into her; when he looks up he catches Sara’s face in the half-light of the intensity lamp, eyes dark and wet, that sweet bow mouth of hers open to reveal her teeth as she groans softly with his every thrust.

 

“Don’t come—“ she warns him, and that makes him push harder.

 

“Want to,” Grissom tells her, knowing it’s the most naked truth he’ll say in a moment like this. He wants to so damned much. Everything in him aches with the tension of holding back and drawing out the pleasure to give it that edge of pain.

 

“Shit you’re big,” Sara groans, and he’s not sure if she’s goading him on, or simply tender from her orgasm. Either way he shushes her and thrusts harder, savoring the pulpy sounds of their bodies mating, the slick grunting sounds of flesh on flesh. Grissom kisses her, probing her mouth with his tongue and Sara sucks it. He knows she likes tasting herself in his mouth.

 

“Deeper. Harder.”

 

“I’ll . . . come,” Grissom warns, breathing against her face. Sara’s nails are digging into his shoulders and her legs are twining around him restlessly. The glitter of something on her cheek is distracting him.

 

“Oh shit. I’m going to come,” she mutters in a curiously flat voice. He knows that sound, and watches as she slides a hand between them to lightly rub herself. It’s gorgeous and perfect, this vision of Sara taking his cock and playing with herself and there IS no control now, just a wild rush through his body as the magma heat of impending orgasm as her pussy clenches his cock in frantic contractions. Her voice echoes in his head. “Jesus! Come, Grissom, please, shoot it, shoot it!—“

 

In slow desperation he jerks his hips back, sliding free of her pussy, and cups one fist around his pulsing cock in a poor substitute for the searing squeeze of moments before as the rush surges through him, spraying out in surges of thick wet pearly rope. Over her stomach, in wet diamonds in the tangle of her fur; the heat burning both of them. Grissom pumps himself a few times, the syrup glistening as it spills over his fist. He leans down; breathless and burning, knowing his face is red. Grissom is afraid to open his eyes.

 

Not because he worries about what he’ll see.

 

Because he’s worried about what Sara will see in his eyes. She pulls him down on top of her and it feels so good to rest here, cradled by the bones of her hips, in the circle of her arms.

 

Grissom feels Sara’s tongue against his ear, and he smiles against her shoulder, where she can’t see it. Maybe she can feel it; he’s not sure.

 

“We’re taking a hell of a risk,” comes her comment, but it’s slow and contented, and Grissom sighs. He’s sinking fast, the lethargy a biochemical response that he can’t quite fight, not even with his formidable concentration. “Risky,” she says again, this time her words softer.

 

“Shhhh,” he sighs once more. “That was close. I almost came inside you.”

 

He makes the mistake of looking at her; the glitter is back, magnifying her brown eyes and there is no mistaking the quiver of her bottom lip. Grissom feels his glow of orgasm instantly tainted with melancholy.

 

“Don’t you want to come in me?” Oh the pain in that whispered question, so honest; so very his Sara.

 

“YES! Every. Time. God damn it!” Grissom growls back, rubbing his come-covered hand on Ecklie’s latest love letter. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but this is Sara and this is Saturday and he can’t lie or do anything but admit the truth because this woman is the only thing he’s ever felt utterly at a loss around. He can’t possess her, he can’t deny her, he can’t live without her.

 

He feels the tension dissolve when she tightens her arms around him, pulling his cheek to her lips. They have a few minutes before the slow rituals of cleaning and redressing begin; before they have to walk separately out of an office perfumed with musk and desperation. Grissom will head home and throw himself into the mundane routines that keep him sane until Monday, when the cycle of desire and denial will begin all over again.

 

But it was said.

 

And even now Grissom hears the echoes of her words, knowing they’ll haunt him throughout the week; her question and his answer, spilled out in the vulnerable moments of their Saturday. He presses his lips to Sara’s brow, sighing, and even now feels an odd buoyancy rising through his chest, because there are weeks ahead of them and in the face of a naked truth anything can change on any given Saturday; the flip of a spoon from concave to convex in the wink of a moment.

 

The measure of their days are crossing over in a spill from light to dark in the timeless dance of an emotion he’s coming closer to accepting as the truth.

 

END

 

                                   
CSI menu

Guestbook