This fic was written for Katiegsr.
She wanted:
1. Butterflies2. Sunsets3. The colour blue
A/N This is a bit late. ITS SMUT. IT’S NOT JUST SMUT IT’S OCC SMUT. Hope Katiegsr enjoys it. Thanks to CSINUT who provided emergency beta support.
I give you:
Warning Shot
Part 1
“I am stupid. Brilliant, complex and completely stupid,” Sara Sidle thought as she sat on the cool bathroom floor with her legs oddly askew like a wax dummy from some terrible horrible movie that never got anatomical proportions right.
This would be a time when beauty would help. Beautiful women did not become buddies or pals. They were lovers or not. Her guys thought she was beautiful and that was nice but it wasn’t enough.
They got her and loved her because she loved Grissom. Her love was not a flighty or fanciful love swooning over his dreamy eyes and a head full of curls. She loved him in spite of himself. She loved him because of himself. He would listen to her when he wouldn’t listen to anyone else. He was difficult and moody but he was theirs.
They had heard of Sara Sidle and were nervous about her coming. Warrick had seen her once at conference in the distance. The report was not encouraging. Sleek. Beautiful. Young. Trouble.
Later, after they met her they loved her too because she loved him and would take care of him when no else could.
Now she sat in his bathroom wiping her tears as quickly as she could. She would not let him see her cry. She would not. She would flush the toilet, splash cool water on her face, and walk leisurely from this… this place of her undoing. She would do it with her back held straight and her head held high. Fuck Gil Grissom, drawing her in and pushing her away. She was stupid
It was the search for a tissue that propelled her back to a position of power. There was a no tissue with which to wipe her tears. Freaked out by her plight, she pulled open a cabinet and came face of face with something that would have pissed other women off. Not Sara Sidle. Which is why she was perfect for Gilbert Grissom. No, Sara Sidle was not repulsed by the pictures she saw. Surprised? No. Giddy. She was over the moon giddy.
Grissom had a porn stash, and oh a stash it was. Expensive heavy thick magazines printed in France and Italy. She flipped to the front of the covers and quickly as she could.
All the publications were specifically for men who fancy women with dark hair. Sara had dark hair. She had dark hair everywhere. She had soft curly dark hair on her legs, on her head and on her…well, on the part of women that Grissom seemed interested in. No woman shaved in these stills. They were full blown bushy grown woman pussy.
Got him.
Mine now.
When God shuts a door…
She dropped the stash back into the box. Closed the cabinet and sailed from the bathroom. Grissom would later tell friends he knew that he was in trouble when she flounced from the house singing, “These boots are made for walking.”
OOOOOOOO
They had been broken up for two weeks. Grissom thought they both handled it admirably. Sara forged on and he was proud of her if not a little sad. He returned to his solitary bachelor ways, cooking for one, making vacation plans for one, living for no one but himself.. Sleeping in the center of the bed. Not that Sara and had ever gotten that far but he had started to think of her on the other side of the bed and had slowly shifted to one side so that his body could get used to having a limited space. He had written down the number from one of those mattress infomercials where each person could decide what their side was to be like.
In preparation for a serious relationship that would eventually lead to marriage, he had done many things. He’d called Watson Caruthers, the gym manager, and checked on prices for a family. He had paid close attention to the Yoga schedule to make sure they had enough classes to suit Sara.
He called his realtor and had her keep an eye out for an older house, with orginal wood floors that might need a bit of work but not too much. Sara liked old rambling houses, ones with large yards for flowers and children. Children. March had been stunned when he requested a sperm count and full work up.
His doctor of nearly twenty years sputtered, “You are going to have kids? With whom? Who would have kids with your… shit, I mean…”
Grissom held up a hand and took the cup from his friend.
He watched the Food channel and learned all sorts of things about vegetarian cuisine, not realizing how easy it was to cook the Italian cuisine he memorized at his mother’s skirts with no meat.
He told his mother and Uncle Sal that he was serious and would bring Sara home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. He wasn’t sure what kind of donations St. Joseph’s in San Diego and St. Peters in Pisa received from his relatives but he was sure it was sizable. Gil was finally serious. Write a check and don’t ask questions. Maybe he isn’t as odd as we thought.
He had even waffled on whether or not he and Sara would cohabitate before marriage. He was old-fashioned and Catholic and surprisingly conventional so he decided against it. He made these decisions in his head because it was their way. She would follow his lead. Sara hated being in charge all the time. It wearied her. When she was with Grissom it was like air. He was like air, like walking on a cloud. Her feet barely touched the ground. Her shoulders relaxed. Her smile came and filled the space.
It was her stomach… well not her stomach, exactly. Sara had worn a tight white t-shirt with no bra that pulled across her pert and flat stomach. He spent most of the dinner trying not to stare at the dark outlines and sinewy valleys. Sara Sidle’s seduction was not overt. It was slow and steady and sending him over the edge. After dinner she had lain on the couch with her feet in his lap. She had stretched causing the shirt to go up and reveal a bit of flat white belly.
Hair. That’s what he saw. A trail of nearly black hair that led to the place that made his mouth water with anticipation. Suddenly. Nearly as suddenly as he had made the decision that they would date, marry, have children. The decision that they would live happily ever after. Suddenly he knew he couldn’t do it. Sara Sidle was the marrow of fantasies. People didn’t live out their fantasies. They only resided in the cobwebbed corners of the mind for comfort and safety.
A half an hour later she was gone. He was left with his magazine, his familiar hand, and his fantasies. All was as it should be. Sara Sidle was gone and he was safe.
OOOOOOOO
“I need help,” Sara said quietly. Catherine took off her glasses and lay them on the table.
“Okay…” Without thinking her eyes went to Sara’s belly.
“No.”
“Good cause I ain’t helping you with that, kid.”
Sara liked when Catherine called her kid. She never did it in front of people. It was their little private nickname. People thought she and Cath didn’t get along, which Sara found perplexing. Sure they fought. Of course they fought. They were grown up smart women who knew themselves.
Sara shook her head again. “I wouldn’t ask your help. You need deniability.”
Catherine smiled and waited.
“I want to take some pictures.”
Catherine looked at Sara’s blank face for several seconds then she let out a low sound. “Ah. How explicit?”
“Extremely. Who do you trust? Like, Sam-would-never-find-out trust.”
Catherine pulled out her phone and touched the screen several times. She handed the phone to Sara who read the display. Amelia.
Sara pulled puller her own phone from the front pocket or her khakis and beamed the number to it. The screen blinked once the transaction was done.
“I feel like I should warn him or something,” Catherine said, her voice laced with pity.
“I fired the warning shot five years ago. He kept running.”
OOOOOOOO
Amelia Hargrave liked the women. She didn’t work for people that she didn’t like. The camera stole one’s spirit. She had no use for smudgy spirits.
Sara pointed to the magazine that she had snagged from Grissom’s mailbox two days before. It was a federal crime. She didn’t care. She was tired and there were babies to be had and life to be lived. Desperate measures and all that. She would be 40 in few years and she didn’t have time to play these games with Grissom any longer. When you meet the love of your life at 23, you expect that it will all sort itself out in due time. It nearly had, but Grissom had fucked it up.
“This is his. I want to emulate the style.”
“And replace the centerfold with your own spread.”
Sara nodded, her eyes gleaming. Amelia slipped on her glasses and studied Sara. Strong bones. Full mouth. Sultry if not sexy. She held picked up one of her camera’s and looked at Sara on the display.
“He’s going to be pissed,” Amelia said softly as she turned off the display and put the camera down.
Amelia wondered what the woman meant when she said she had shot the warning shot years ago.
Sara was not shy. It surprised her. Her body was wonderfully functional and she loved it for carrying her through years of angst and difficulty with minimal scarring. She was slick, not sleek. The difference being that Sara nearly shone while she was naked. Her muscles nearly disappeared and all one saw was the skin. Slick, beige, watery, strong skin.
During one shot she lifted her ass high into the air and found her knees nearly weak as she thought of Grissom behind her. She thought he might be big enough to fill her, maybe hurt her, though it really didn’t matter. He would fit.
The layout took four hours. The first hour she wore a sheet and stood by a false window her rump lifted and covered by the white satiny toga like some Grecian virgin. Her back bare, one breast in profile with a shadow of nipple.
The next hour she took the sheet and faced the camera full breast showing proudly and mouth puckered in anticipation. She wore red lipstick that might never come off and dark smudgy eyeliner that made her look a bit too young. A long strand of pink peals traveled down her body and came to rest near her bush though you couldn’t see it in those pictures.
The third hour gave it all away… nearly all. Breasts. Hips. Bare thighs and soft triangle of curls. Full grown up woman forest of stalk-like hairs. Ass rising like the sun, full and proud, and tits. Tits that were better than any of the women in those magazines. Sara’s tits bared for her Grissom.
In the fourth hour Amelie sighed happily and began to print out pictures from her camera. Sara stopped and told her there was more shot that she needed. She was way past the warning shot.
OOOOOOO
Grissom pulled two white envelopes and one flat white package postmarked Leon France. It was Grissom’s favorite publication. Black haired women – not children – who hadn’t been injected or fluffed. He had stopped buying US erotica years before though he was considering returning to Playboy since they had adopted an unwritten no-silicone clause. He had run across a picture of Denise Richards, Charlie Sheen’s wife. She was slim, like Sara, but not too slim. Her breasts were not impossibly high like a general’s epaulet. She had provided worthwhile fantasy material though he soon dumped her for the bevy of brunettes that filled the pages of his European Erotica.
He was positive that he was masturbating too much. It had become ritualistic and all consuming and he needed to have sex with a real woman. Sara. He needed to have sex with Sara. He needed to feel her under him as he growled and grunted and roared. As she whimpered and licked salt from his neck and told him how much she wanted him. He was teetering on the edge of something stupid and he absolutely didn’t care. He had made a mistake. He wanted his woman back. He wanted to see her away from work. He would see her away from work after he had relieved the pressure in his cock.
He tore open the package open and wondered if he would be big enough for her. He wasn’t hung up on that. Well, before Sara he wasn’t. Before Sara he was confident in his sexuality. He knew how to please women and how to be pleased by them. He loved women but had only been in love twice. There had been Jessie, his TA who gave him head under the desk while the department chair lectured him about waste. Eventually she grew tired of their solidarity existence. She had left him a note detailing his many faults and transgressions. He didn’t like to socialize with her friends. He smothered her. He was far too serious – after all, she was just a girl. The last reason shocked him.
“You are going to leave me one day for Sara Sidle. Everyone sees it. You look at her likes she’s the moon and you can’t get out of her orbit. You love me, Gil, but not nearly enough.”
Now he took off his pants, sitting on the edge of the bed hard as a rock, flipping through the magazine for the perfect image to get off on. Not her. Too thin. Not her. Too young. Definitely not her. Looked like a man.
Nearly halfway through, he came upon the image of a woman with her back to the camera. He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to. The face would be Sara’s in his mind. She had a tiny tattoo that he couldn’t make out, and he imagined that it was a calligraphy style “G” on Sara’s backside.
Slowing his hand squeezed and pulled as he thought of Sara. Licking his lips as he did so, he flipped the page, hoping to get a closer look at the body of the one that mimicked Sara’s long lines. Steadily his eyes, now navy with heat, took in the legs, the thighs. He lingered on the sex. It was nearly perfect – the only detraction being that it was not Sara. His Sara.
This particular publication rarely showed anything so graphic as the deceptively coy pink tinged pussy. He studied the clit that stuck out from beneath the curls. A bare nail touched it in one photo. Perfect Sara rarely wore nail polish. He thought of sucking her fingers. He thought of making her suck one finger.
His eyes ran across the color pictures, not really seeing the rest of the layout. Pumping steadily, he thought of his own dark beauty, his Sara. Suddenly something sent him over the edge, hot fluid spilled over his hand and creating stars on the rugged floor. Startled by his rapid release he placed the magazine on his bedside table, cleaning himself with one of the thick blue tissues that were housed in a dark blue Plexiglas box.
Shaking off his loss of control, he tossed the tissue into a bamboo trashcan that was stained blue. Sara said she liked the color blue. Said it brought out his eyes. Stupidly he’d covered his bedroom in blue. No, not stupid. In love. Not the same thing as stupid. Stupid was breaking up with her because he saw he saw the treasure trail of hair that led to her valley. Here he was jacking off at least twice day looking at pictures of women he didn’t know, he didn’t love and who were never going to have sex with him. He hoped he hadn’t screwed it all up.
Returning to the pages, he wondered what little something had sent his cum shouting all over the bedroom. It had happened before. A foot like Sara’s, a full mouth, a gap.
He looked at the face for several long seconds, thinking he was seeing something wrong. No, he wasn’t in an erotic haze. Sara? Sara! He didn’t even lock the door.
TBC