CSI: Trust


It had started simply enough.

"I need some help with some pictures."

How many times a week did they make statements like that at the lab. How often did they ask each other for help with evidence, with procedure, with recreations?

You never knew when you were going to find yourself freezing to the bone as you watched a pig in a blanket. Not a sausage in a pastry, an actual to God pig, slowly bloating, in a blanket. Or when you were going to be compressed with weights or spattered with blood or bound to Grissom-knows-what. It came with the job.

I could even be fun.

"What kind of pictures, Gris?"

"Sara." He'd looked at his shoes, as if they held all life's answers. Maybe they did. They sure as hell weren't in his eyes. She'd looked. Often.

"What sort of pictures, Grissom?"

"The Kincaid case. We're trying to undo the computer distortions from the emails, but we need a baseline picture series to measure from. Angles, skin tones for light refraction."

Suddenly her shoes were fascinating too. Bondage, rape, suspension, repeated sexual assault. Kincaid. The cops were already calling it "Kink-aid."

"You're kidding, right?"

He'd shaken his head, but muttered, "Never mind. Sorry."

"No," she'd said, full of the reckless, self-destructive bravado that overtook her whenever he wanted her. For anything. "I'll do it."

"We'll mask out your face, but... well, we can mask out your face."

That's when it had hit her. He meant to shoot her nude. Not nude, naked. Defenseless, powerless, bound. She'd had to bite her cheek to keep from moaning.

"I don't know," he'd said suddenly, pulling back from asking anything of her. Two steps forward. Two steps back. The Grissom-Sidle tango, not for the faint of heart.

"Sure. Let's do it. Come on. I trust you." She'd thrown that at him, dared him. For once, it had worked.

"We'll seal a lab. I'll have someone on the door, develop it all myself." He still couldn't face her.

"No, let's use your place. I trust you. These guys here, no." She'd turned and started down the hallway. She looked back. "You coming?"


The flash fired again and she was blinded, near tears. She hung, her elbows cinched tightly together behind her back, making her modest breasts thrust out. Despite the warm lights her sweat felt cold against her skin. The lines that suspended her over the white sheet cast razor cut shadows that sliced back and forth as she hung from the improvised railing.

"Last series," he said. He wore his gloves as he worked the camera, she could see, and she wondered why. Was it habit? Or was he distancing himself from the bizarre sight in his blacked out living room? He was sweating, she saw, more than she.

"It's okay. I'm okay." She felt the way her thighs were parted, and only a thin strip of cotton covered her sex as he focused the lens on it. She wanted him, despite the weird paraphernalia, or because of it. She knew he could see the way she was soaking the thin cotton, and not from sweat. "I trust you."

It was her new mantra, she heard it over and over in her head, and voiced it every time he touched her, positioned her this way or that.

Suddenly, she was lowering, the lines creaking as she touched down on the sheet.

"We're finished," he said thickly. "Let me help you."

She gave in, to the moment, to the fantasy, to the need to not be in control, to not be fighting how much she needed him. For one moment, she gave in.

When he went to unfasten her bonds, she hung her head, and slid her knees up under her, so she knelt, supine before him, arms bound, cheek to the sheet, her sex clearly exposed as the thin modesty strip fell away.

"I trust you," she begged softly, and flexed her hips, raising her ass higher, opening herself to him. She wondered if he was scared, or disgusted. She wondered if this damaged thing between them was finally broken, by her admission of need, her submission, of need. She wondered, and she waited.

He said nothing. She heard nothing, the blood pounding in her ears. She drew a breath, to cry, to shout, to scream, something. Anything, waiting for him, dreading the release and the awkward dressing and retreat that she knew was coming.

With the shock of a knife in her heart, she felt him. Felt his body behind her as he fell to his knees. Felt the softest skin of a man's body, harbinger of his awful wonderful hardness, gliding along her wet folds.

His hand rested on her hip, the other came down to grasp the cuffs that bound her. He entered her, slowly, silently. She tried to push back, to capture him, to throw herself onto him, but he restrained her with gentle certainty and slid, methodically as only he could ever do, inside her.

She felt the flare, the heated corona of his glans, the rougher flesh of his shaft, as he plumbed her depths, until she was full, and her tears soaked the sheet beneath her. She felt him inside her, his thighs pressing to her buttocks, the crisp fine hair of his body as bright as wire against her achingly aware flesh.

He was joined, inside her as much as he could be, the tip of his penis slid obliquely across the entrance to her womb deep within her, and still he did not thrust, did not move except to tighten the flush of his body against her.

"I trust you," she sobbed, and he suddenly undid the cuffs. She collapsed, her arms screamed as blood returned, and her vagina went into spasm and tightened around him, drawing the fluid from him into her.

He leaned into her, and poured his vital essence, that complex and miraculous fluid that they so often dealt with only as 'trace,' as 'sample' or 'contribution.' She could feel the pulse of his ejaculation like a hammer blow against her cervix, and she trembled with the power of it like a church bell struck for the hour.

He slowly lowered his weight onto her, till his beard tickled her shoulder and his lips whispered into her ear.

"Good," he said.


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