Title: The Hand That Feeds 01 / ??
Beta: Sterling Dragonfly
Summary: Greg is unable to trust until he finds the perfect Master.
Warnings: Unsafe sex, BDSM, Kink
Disclaimer: CSI is the property of CBS Broadcasting, Inc. and Alliance-Atlantis Communications. Nothing was incurred in the creation of this fic other than a little amusement.
Greg Sanders knelt, faintly shivering, at the feet of Lady Heather. His trembling wasn't due to temperature, or his state of nudity, but uncertainty.
"You don't know why you're here, do you, Greg?"
He started, not having expected her to speak as she circled him in critical examination. "No, Lady Heather," he replied smoothly. His voice hid his tension, his downcast eyes dilated with the weight of his apprehension.
"You, my dear Mr. Sanders, are being evaluated for banishment. Your Domain membership is on the cusp of deletion."
He'd frozen first in shocked fear. Then, breaking his carefully cultivated pose of submissive nonchalance, his hand shot out to grasp her nearest ankle and bring her to a halt. "You can't," he babbled. "I couldn't," he continued, stumbling over his words. "Please," was all he finally managed to add.
Lady Heather stared calmly at him, unaffected. Under that gaze that weighed him and found him wanting, Greg quailed. He released her, curling back into his penitent posture. If he didn't have the Domain, there would be nowhere for him to go. His carefully crafted façade of a 'normal' life came with the burden of intense scrutiny.
His membership in the Domain, while pricey, carried with it security. Only here did he have the privacy and confidentiality to reveal himself. Greg shuddered with distaste at the thought of returning to the bars and clubs that would be his only option without Lady Heather and her carefully screened 'social club.'
Her voice brought him back to himself, circling him like a Sword of Damocles, growing ever closer. "Male, female, youth, maturity, none of the varying techniques, approaches, seem to suit you."
Greg attempted to launch a defense as he felt his sanctuary slipping through his fingers. "I just don't want…"
He was interrupted. "This is not," she paused with particular emphasis, "about your unreadiness to be fucked."
He curled further into himself at what he saw as a statement of his deficiency. Lady Heather, looking at his downbent head, sighed. "I had begun to doubt if you were even on the correct side of the equation. I now believe we simply haven't found you the correct master."
Greg held back his snort of derision. He doubted his match even existed. It wasn't arrogance… not really… just a certainty that he couldn't yield completely to just anyone.
"You will await my call. Your judgement will be suspended for now. But take note, my dear Mr. Sanders."
He looked up to meet her solemn gaze.
"You do not have a wealth of chance remaining."
"Yes, Lady Heather," he mumbled from the depth of his desolation.
"That would be extremely ill-advised."
"Why?" Lady Heather asked the question with an innocent widening of her dark eyes.
Gil Grissom pursed his lips, not buying the act for a second. He set the fine porcelain teacup aside. "Beyond the fact that I no longer exercise my membership in the Domain?"
Lady Heather waved a hand dismissively. "Of course. You know my views on that."
Neither took any notice of the nude pair that refilled their cups and removed the soiled dishes from the luncheon.
"He's half my age."
"That has never bothered you before."
"Scrutiny for your business has increased."
Lady Heather smirked. "Your retirement from the field was for that reason. As not a person suspects your long-running involvement, that protest is invalid."
Gil conceded the point with an inclination of his head. Their charade, when death had twice brought him to the Domain in a professional capacity, had been flawless. His abandonment of a long-held membership had truly been for other reasons.
But there was a single, inexorable objection.
"I am his superior."
"Often the case with a submissive," Lady Heather retorted airily. When his eyes narrowed, she dropped the affected ignorance. "Then I will be forced to banish him."
"You're manipulating me," Grissom stated flatly.
"Is it working?" she asked with the lift of a dark brow.
Grim, Gil didn't answer the question directly. His response was clear all the same.
"He cannot know my identity."
Greg had just finished changing his shoes and didn't hesitate to drop his head against his locker when his cell phone rang. He was too tired to be pleasant.
"Sanders," he practically barked into the phone. A slight chuckle answered him at first. Then, a voice undisturbed by his grumpiness.
"The Domain, half an hour."
He winced. "I can't. I've just finished a double. I need to shower, sleep." The silence taunted him. "Dammit, I have to be back at work in six hours!"
The simple beep of a disconnect echoed inordinately loud in his ear. Lady Heather knew it hadn't been a refusal. Greg knew it hadn't been a refusal.
He just hadn't wanted to receive the call when his defenses would be at a natural low.
The room was decorated in simple elegance. All the rooms used by members looked like high-class but not pretentious hotel rooms. This one was done in navy and cream with a matching en suite.
He waited in the center of the main room, uneasy. He hadn't been in this particular room before. The large bed, the lack of cabinets, this was evidence that didn't match his usual 'appointments.'
The door opened with a soft sound and he turned automatically. Lady Heather entered, a faint, satisfied smile on her face. "Your clothing, please," she asked with an outstretched hand.
He began to strip, handing her each item as it was removed. When nude, he gestured vaguely at his groin. "I don't think I can…"
She didn't react. "He doesn't require it."
And Greg had his first clue. His last chance would be male.
Laying aside the clothing for a moment, Lady Heather unlooped a length of black silk from her waist. Kneeling at her gesture, Greg closed his eyes when the cloth was lifted to his face. She knotted it in a tight, looping bow as he waited.
There was a slight touch to his shoulder as she leaned. "Trust," was all she said before he heard the door close once again. He inhaled deeply, drawing the faint scent of lilac that always clung to her. It was reassuring, somehow. He would always associate that scent with his training, with his decision that this was what he needed, and with the peace he'd finally found in that admission.
The room was too quiet, not even the faint adjustments of the air system making any true impact. Greg was faintly dozing, worn out and exhausted, when he snapped back to awareness.
There was a hand in his hair. When had the door opened? How had he not heard someone enter? The faint movement of the fingers carding through his hair gentled the instinctual panic in his sightless state. He had never favored blindfolds.
The hand left his hair and this time Greg heard the near silent rustle as the person stepped back. A lifting touch at his elbow brought him to his feet, compliant in his curiosity.
He was a criminalist. Even after a double shift and without his sight, the evidence would speak to him. He was more than a match for some likely office drudge, bored after the requisite eight hours. Even better, this silent, hidden man would have no idea of Greg's capability.
Greg inhaled, trying to catch his breath. Shockingly, he was nervous. He wrote it off to anxiety over this rather unusual evaluation. The thought brought a grin to his face as his toes sank into the thick carpeting. Imagine if all his evaluations went this way…
That light touch on his arm guided him to walk, his bare feet noting the change as he crossed from carpet to tile. The sudden chill of ceramic caused his feet to curl protectively even as he walked where directed. He halted when the pressure of a fingertip touched on his breastbone. Fighting the growing urge to speak, to insist on a verbal response, Greg registered the pouring hiss of the shower.
The temperature and humidity of the bathroom both rose near instantly. He'd known that Lady Heather had updated the facilities with the instant-on technology. It was simply something he'd not yet seen demonstrated. Of course, Greg wasn't really 'seeing' anything right now.
He was frustrated, restless. How could he find that center he so continually sought if his partner couldn't even keep his wandering thoughts focused? More rustling, the rasp of a zipper, presumably his companion removed his clothing. Then the touch was back.
A hand on each of his shoulders ushered him into the shower. His earlier reconnaissance had noted no sill to impede his steps. Orienting himself against that internal map, Greg stepped forward.
The hands halted him beneath the overhead spray, hot against his skin, soothing without burning. Gliding down from shoulder to bicep, past elbow to forearm, the hands clasped around his wrists. Greg's arms were lifted and arranged until his palms lay flat on the tile wall.
Memory supplied the picture he knew must be before him. Skinny, too long fingers, bony wrists, the pallid skin of a night owl contrasting adversely with the creamy tile beneath his splayed hands. The tiny blue repetitious flowers peeking accusingly between each finger.
The silent touch returned, this time not flesh. A loofah, scratchy with the indication of a natural sponge, eased by some gel product, caressed his leg. The product foamed. He could feel the almost tickle of the bubbles. In turn, each leg was washed. His feet were lifted, each toe attended to with precision.
Abandoned to rinse in the flowing water, Greg was momentarily bereft. Then, the man was back. No longer was Greg eased into contact. A definitively male form pressed against him from shoulders to thighs. He edged slightly away, uncomfortable with the dick prodding his ass. Arms reached around, enclosing him and halting his escape.
Rather than the comforting waft of lilac, he was surrounded by male. It wasn't cologne… more ephemeral than that. It was the spice to a deodorant, the faint musk that never clung to a woman. Unidentified, it was hard to place as the water in the air clogged his senses.
Greg opened his mouth to speak, to protest this odd treatment. Surely Lady Heather had briefed this person on what he would and would not do? What was with this odd seduction? Why couldn't this man be like the others and just beat him to a mutual release?
A bare thumb slid across his spread lips, silencing the unspoken protest. Greg sighed at the return of the loofah, scrubbing across his chest and down his torso. The thumb had an odd callus. Mayhap, this was no office worker. Skilled labor, perhaps, Greg pondered as his mind let go the momentary fear and returned to the evidence.
The bath gel was unscented, an oddity in the luxury of the Domain, the scrubbing methodical and exact. The scrub turned into a caress as his cock and balls were cleaned. The loofah suddenly absent, precise fingers explored and weighed his genitals leaving him half-hard. A quick brush down the crack of his ass had him momentarily tensing, but without the rapid deflation of his cock that he'd expected. Luckily, his partner moved on, not exploring the reaction or attempting to test his limits.
His arms were attended to quickly, his whole body rinsed swiftly. Then the hands grasped his head, fingers spread to his cheeks with the thumbs just touching under the knotted scarf. His face was directed into the spray before the hands moved.
They were unknotting the scarf. Greg shivered, his head twitching as if to turn the instant sight was restored. The hands steadied him, replacing his features beneath the implacable flow of water.
Knot finally sliding free, Greg added the descriptive 'dexterous' to his mental list. He doubted he would have been able to undo a damp knotted cloth. Of course, this was an opportunity he wasn't about to miss. With the cloth draped around his throat, Greg's eyes shot open. His gaze confirmed his prior assumption about the appearance of his hands.
Their gangly look displeased him. He wasn't hideous, he knew that. But, deep inside, he suspected why no lover had ever stayed with him. He would never have the magnetism he saw in others. Too slim, too gawky, too needy, without the male power of someone like Nick or Warrick, or sheer intangible charisma that his boss seemed to emit.
Abandoning that depressing train of thought, he identified the small flowers under his fingers as English tea roses. It was a distancing tactic, this ability to focus on detail.
His eyes glanced about but added nothing useful as his head was massaged. The faint white spray and bubbly feeling implied shampoo, then his head was tilted forward to rinse. Keeping his eyes opened tempted the burn of suds. The temptation of information overrode that risk.
But all Greg saw was strong, well-formed feet and calves. Dusted with black hair touched in places by grey, the skin tone was a pale olive complexion. His face tilted up once again, he pondered this new information. A man, likely older than him, and not resembling his own Nordic descent, not with that skin tone.
Fingers slid down his forehead, easing his eyes closed. Then, with a deft touch, his face received its own cleansing massage. Finally clean and rinsed, Greg nearly moaned as the cloth was retied over his eyes.
A worse loss, the touch abandoned him. With a slight vocalization of his displeasure, Greg took his hands from the tile and reached back. One found flesh, a side and the faint pudge of beginning middle age.
His other was handed the loofah, his grasping hold on the material automatic. Greg paused, waiting, but received no further indications.
The silence stretched before he realized he was to return the service. A grin split Greg's features. In that service, he had a perfect opportunity to learn his partner.
Greg dropped to his knees with a careful motion. It would not do to injure himself on the slick tile. Reaching, he found the feet he'd glimpsed before. Even without his sight, he could feel the focused stare of his silent master.
Beginning his ministrations, he found the feet solid yet well cared for. The calves, with their thicker covering of hair, were stocky yet thoroughly muscled. Something odd about the knees teased at his memory, but Greg moved on without grasping the answer.
The thighs confirmed his earlier reversal that this person did not work in an office. No one who rode a desk had this musculature without a gym, which in itself was belied by the softening middle. Perplexed, Greg soaped his hands to explore the heretofore avoided genitalia.
The testicles in their furred sac were as expected. The cock was not. Sure, he had known his partner would have a penis. But this length? With both hands, he explored the fully erect length and breadth. Even were he accustomed to the act, he wasn't sure he'd want this anywhere near his ass.
Oddly, though, it challenged the temptation to see if he could work his mouth around such a girth. Greg moved on, unaware that he'd been masturbating his companion for extended minutes. Beneath the flowing water, he couldn't hear the nearly inaudible panting of his partner.
Distracted, Greg washed the torso with quick motions. The middle was softening, yes. But it was that natural way of age without the exaggerations of gut or washboard abs. Again, the chest echoed a sturdy strength.
He encountered the crinkling of chest hair and wondered how it would feel against flesh other than his hands. Working his way past arms and hands, noting for future consideration the location of other calluses, Greg abandoned the loofah. Free, his hands reached out only to be halted short of his companion's head.
He grunted in frustration as one palm was turned up, anointed with a silky liquid, then both were placed on hair. Grinning, appeased, Greg began to massage. He could finally feel that his partner was approximately his own height. The hair fought to curl around Greg's fingers and had a length at the ears which bespoke a forgotten cut.
Still smiling gently, Greg directed the head beneath the water and combed through until his sensitive digits no longer detected the presence of suds. Anticipating, his fingers were tracing the features before having attained any soap. They were quickly removed, caught and held as the flow of water ceased.
Greg frowned at the end to his sensual exploration. But his disappointment soon vanished as warm terrycloth was briskly scrubbed across him from head to toe. It seemed his silent partner's patience with the explorations was over as he was directed into the main room with a pressure at the small of his back.
There were faint noises that bespoke his partner quickly drying. Then, Greg was assisted towards and onto the bed. He tensed but then relaxed as he was merely arranged. On his front, partially over a pillow, his companion quickly settled at his back.
Heavy arm over his stomach, leg over both his own, the hair scratched and tickled in an enticing way. Exhausted from work, confused by his treatment, Greg found himself surprisingly dropping asleep.
Gil rose from the bed in which he'd slept next to another person for the first time in years. There was a faint smile on his face at the slight snores coming from Greg. He was glad the younger man had slept deeply, even with the necessary blindfold. Gil hadn't been able to deny himself the pleasure of sleeping wrapped around the slight body.
Dressed, his fingers quickly untied the knot. The scarf was surprisingly easy to slip away as Greg merely snuffled into his pillow. Gil combed his fingers through the hair a final time before leaving. The connection, this sense of melancholy, was a shock to his system.
Lady Heather stopped him in the hall with a knowing smile. "I'll wake him," she promised.
He first noted it was cold. Greg woke with a start, sight returned, still draped over the pillow where he'd been placed. Lady Heather, seated calmly at the bedside, watched him with a considering stare.
Taking pity on his confusion, she finally spoke. "Your clothing has been laundered and you are due at work in half an hour. The master is considering whether to revisit you. You'll be notified in due time."
She stood, smiling down proprietarily. "Very well done, Mr. Sanders."
End Part One