Title: The Hand That Feeds 02 / ??
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.
“New girlfriend, Greggo?”
“Huh,” Greg replied intelligently.
Nick looked across the table and grinned. “You’re whistling.”
Even as he defended himself, Greg started to smirk. He probably had been. Lady Heather hadn’t called him yet, but this time was it. This time, he wouldn’t be left to dangle in the wind.
“Was too,” Nick retorted.
They hadn’t realized the joking trade-off had carried into the hallway.
“What is going on in here?!”
Grissom appeared to be equal parts baffled and exasperated. When he received no reply, he simply shook his head. “Nick, Sanders, back to work.”
Greg turned back to the table, grumbling, “Great, you’re Nick but I’m back to being Sanders.”
Nick shook his head, already back to sorting the evidence spread in front of them. “At least he’s not asking you riddles.”
Greg snorted. Everyone had heard the cow story. “He seriously needs to relax.”
It was Nick’s turn to snort. “Go ahead and tell him that. I’d borrow Brass’ vest first.”
Greg shook his head, concentrating once more on his work. Grissom was a seriously lost cause when it came to recreation.
“Is it not unwise to use his words against him?”
Grissom stood from where he had crouched to check the table supports. “Of course not. After all, it’s been quite awhile since I had a decent massage.”
Lady Heather shook her head slightly, looking over the room a final time. “They could be more frequent if you would keep a pet.”
Gil frowned. “Only infrequently is it possible to find someone who understands my work. Most would only believe me neglectful. I’ll not have that.”
She stared at him for a long moment in silence.
Lips pursed, Gil answered the unspoken suggestion with a simple, “No.” He elaborated after a pause, “I agreed to help you determine the source of his lack of compliance, not to enter a long-term arrangement.”
A small chiming noise interrupted their discourse. Lady Heather frowned at the telling glow in Grissom’s eyes despite the stubbornness of his position. He walked quickly to the side of the room, disappearing into the bathroom.
Sighing, she picked the black scarf up off the table and turned to the door.
It was the navy and cream room again, Greg noted as Lady Heather ushered him inside. The black fabric in her hand tempted him with anticipation. He’d gotten the call at work, his ebullience leading his coworkers into even further teasing.
Curious, he glanced from the sheet-draped massage table to Lady Heather. She seemed preoccupied, off balance from her usual focused and attentive self.
“Strip and lay on the table.”
Greg did so quickly, uncertain as to her behavior.
He nodded towards the door where he’d dropped the small satchel with the specified change of clothing. She barely glanced over before instructing him, “On your back.”
Complying, he still watched her with an edge of worry. “Lady Heather?”
Her gaze drifted from the open door of the bathroom back to his face. Smiling slightly, she reassured, “It’s alright, Greg. Just lie down.”
He leaned back, settling his gangly limbs on the padded surface. She stepped forward, the scarf lifted. Greg blushed as his cock twitched in interest.
Lady Heather didn't comment, only chuckling slightly as she stole his sight. He could hear her moving away, the delicate scent of lilac fading. Then, the soft latch of the door and silence.
But there was something odd in the silence. His body reacted, feeling the intensity of a gaze. He tensed, his ears seeking some clue that would confirm or deny the sensation.
The soft pad of bare feet across plush carpet. It wasn’t really a footstep, per se, more the parting and resettling of the fibers as a foot passed.
An odd noise caught Greg’s attention as his slight squirming released the scent of the laundry. The two small clicks were suddenly explained as music filled the room, softly at first but growing louder. Instrumental, an overture of some sort, rolling out to fill all the quiet crevices.
Greg startled when a hand suddenly touched his chest. Its familiarity to before brought him to stillness. Caressing, he gave into its urge for him to breathe deeply and relax.
The cotton was satin smooth against his back, ass, and legs. The hand on his chest held him tethered to the surface more certainly than any chain.
Again, his nose went seeking for a signature scent to identify this man. Again, he was denied. There was only the betraying hint of male with no cologne or other betraying identifier.
The warm tickle of liquid across his chest drew Greg from his concentration as mocha perfumed the air. His brow furrowed.
Who used mocha scented massage oil?
The question came with deep worry. Surely Lady Heather hadn’t discussed him too deeply with this person? This was safe, an anonymous indulgence. This person couldn’t know of his love affair with the coffee bean, his insistence on the best.
It was coincidence.
Hands spreading the slick substance over his chest brought Greg’s thoughts from caution to irritance. The oil was barely held by the splotchy thin hair on his chest. Not for the first time, Greg resolved to shave it away.
Was it the loss of his sight that brought his thoughts inward? Critical, accusing, contemplative, he was at their mercy.
The rising tide of a crescendo masked what Greg was certain had to be a chuckle as he shifted restlessly. The volume he could approve. The content was another matter. The moment he’d heard the yodeling voices, he’d known it was opera. He was without hope of identifying the particular one, knowing little to nothing about the art.
Strong, even pressure drew the slick down Greg’s skin. His actively rambling thoughts faded to observation as the tension was drained from each muscle. Greg found his mind encompassed by mocha and touch.
The hands moved to his legs, pressing and lifting. They started back up his body to a sudden firm grasp of his cock.
Greg arched off the massaged table with a cry. When had he become hard? His mind goggled at the piercing jolts of pleasure as he was jacked. His balls were cradled, his prick tormented.
He gasped repeatedly. The wicked touch was driving him closer and closer to release. Soon, he could feel it. It was right there. He could taste it.
Greg sobbed, whimpering and wordlessly pleading as all touch vanished. He was bereft, his release deserting him.
Soothing, fingertips caressed the bones of his face. He knew his silent master could see the scarf dampened with tears of denial.
‘Why,’ Greg wanted to ask. Then, he remembered that this wasn’t about mutual pleasure. It was about not losing his sole refuge. The scarf became further dampened and Greg opened his mouth to speak.
His words were halted. The sudden, not quite pressure of lips brushing across his own startled him into retaining his silence. Again, the hands returned. They urged him to rise, to turn over, to sprawl on his belly.
Greg complied, confused at his own willingness and the peace he’d found in this contact. As he settled, he squirmed at the sensation of his trapped prick. It was caught between the barely yielding softness of the padding and the weight of his own body.
An impartial hand moved beneath him. Though it didn’t assuage his need, it did ensure that he wasn’t unnecessarily pained.
A fresh burst of the soothing chocolate tinted coffee hit the air as liquid trickled onto Greg’s back. He groaned freely as those talented digits found each cramped knot in his muscles. They skid lightly as they left a sheen across his buttocks before digging into the muscles of his legs.
He also didn’t notice when the hands returned to his ass. But as the fingers encompassed his cheeks and thumbs spread the oil lightly into his crevice, Greg startled himself. He moaned, pressing his cock into the table before lifting back into the touch.
Panting, he enjoyed the light brushing of a thumb over his hole. But, once again, Greg’s mind was spinning.
Did he want that?
Could he want that?
He’d never really found the idea appealing but… Greg’s disordered thoughts shattered as his ass was slapped. The stinging ephemeral imprint of that wicked hand was enough to toss his control.
Greg came, spurting onto the sheet beneath him with a gasping cry. Dazed, he barely felt himself guided upright. Gently, he was wiped of excess oil and cleaned of his own spunk. Greg murmured inaudibly as he was arranged as before on the bed.
The plaintive cry of a soprano accompanied his rapid drop into sleep with arm wrapped tight around him.
“Perhaps,” Lady Heather’s voice accused as Gil slipped from the room, “if this is truly as temporary as you claim, you should cease to sleep with him as if he were already your pet.”
When he didn’t respond, she prodded again. “Are you certain this seduction is the best tactic?”
Gil sighed. “His training is impeccable. You know this as you provided it. What he lacks is trust… trust beyond that of a mechanical release.”
She stared at him before nodding. “Building that could be lengthy and would require the correct master. Have you changed your mind?”
Grissom’s eyes were haunted. “No,” he whispered.
End Part Two