DISCLAIMER: CSI and its characters are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Special thanks to Debbie for her beta read and title suggestion.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: for Slaves of Las Vegas.
Bindings
By Angela U
"Heather? I'm Catherine Willows, I don't know if you remember me."
Of course I remember you, Catherine Willows. Our time together was short, but the memories, the memories stubbornly remain, even to this day. Even after all this time, your voice, your touch, your eyes, still haunts my dreams.
No matter what, I could never forget you.
I remember the first time you appeared at my Dominion. It was so many years ago that it feels like a lifetime has passed. Maybe it has. You and your colleagues were bewildered; you didn't have a clue at what kind of place this could possibly be. You were like little children lost in a department store, waiting for an adult to lead you to safety. Once you found out where you were, Brass and Grissom looked as if they had each swallowed an egg whole. You, on the other hand, laughed. Was it a nervous response? I don't think so. I think my job appealed to you; it intrigued you thinking of a woman with all that power. You may not have fully understood my occupation, but I could see in your eyes, respect and understanding.
Later on, I told you to your face that you would make a good dominatrix. And I meant it. Had we met in another lifetime, I am certain we would have been the best of friends, partners in every sense of the word. Your response confirmed it. You were flattered, and I knew that I had found a kindred spirit. I'm certain you felt the same way. I could read it in your eyes. The way you smiled at me, the ease in which we spoke of our personal lives.
We were drawn to each other, and when I kissed you over the sink, ran my hands along the curves of your body, it didn't feel wrong, or too fast, or anything except perfect. Your pager broke the spell, you had to return to your lab. You apologized, and then made a hasty retreat.
After the case was over, and my help was no longer needed, I honestly didn't know whether you would return or not. I knew what I felt; I knew what I wanted you to feel.
Was it love? No, it wasn't. Women like us, strong, and independent, are not able to love, at least not romantically. We are like stone statues in Medusa's garden, hard and unyielding. At this point we are only capable of possessing. And right now I wanted to posses you, Catherine. I wanted to top you, bind your hands to my bedposts, taste you, feel you, fuck you.
And given half a chance, I bet you would do the same to me.
Two weeks later you appeared at my door. It was just after 10, and the sun shone brightly overhead, highlighting your hair and making it look as if you were wearing it as a crown. You looked glorious, and exhausted, but determined. Those stormy blue eyes held a world of lust. Already I could feel a sharp ache between my legs. You started to prattle off reasons as to why you had not come by earlier. I silenced you with a raised hand. Excuses and apologies are one and the same to me, just words used too freely, and without any real meaning behind them.
Instead I kissed you, right there on my threshold, where anyone could walk by and see. And even that simple touch was enough to send a wave of heat rolling through my stomach and down to my clit. I knew you felt it too when you moaned into my mouth. It was like an electrical current was passing through our joined bodies forming a conduit. Our breathing, our heartbeats, were falling into sync. I could hear blood rushing in my ears, and for a moment, I wondered if it was mine or yours.
When we pulled apart for air, I took your hand, and led you to my private chambers. Our bodies were pulsating to a primal song that was buried deep within our DNA. It was a song of lust, and desire, and of just wanting to tear the other person's clothes off and fucking them until neither one of you could remember your name.
And that is just what we did for the next couple of hours.
But despite the frenzied nature of our copulation (I refuse to call it making love), I still remember how soft your hair was. How it ran through my fingers like water. I remembered the look in your eyes when I proposed a first hand demonstration in what I do for a living. First there was shock over my proposal, then apprehension, but lust won out in the end, and as you climaxed, there was acceptance.
I remember the taste of your skin, sweet and salty on my tongue. I remember wanting to spend hours between your legs nibbling on your delectable clit (you could only last 90 minutes). I remember the sound of your voice calling my name, begging for release, and the moans and sighs that came before it.
It wasn't all about sex though. Things would have been a lot easier had they remained physical. But you were so easy to talk to, so easy to open up to. You listened to me, but never judged, and most important, you never pitied.
And you were so eager to learn about my world. You sat in rapt attention as I explained the various rituals and symbolisms to you.
And I can admit now, what I couldn't even fathom before; I was lonely.
So in the days and weeks that followed, we had sex. And then as our bodies cooled we talked. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was a woman. Not just a mother or a domme, but a real life flesh and blood woman with wants and desires.
Like I said, it would have been easier had we kept it purely physical. I wouldn't have started looking forward to your visits. And I most definitely wouldn't have missed you when you weren't here.
You with your bewitching smile. You with your haunting blue eyes and lilting voice . . .
I still, to this day, do not understand when or how it happened. It was like a slow poison had managed to make its way into my blood, my brain, my heart. And the more I tried to deny it, to quantify it, or to just brush it aside, the stronger it became, until there came a time when I had to own up to it.
I had fallen in love with you.
I started out wanting to possess you, but in the end, I was possessed by you.
I admit for a time I was angry; angry at you for making me feel this way, and at myself for being vulnerable.
And yet when you stopped visiting, the hurt burned away any anger I may have felt.
I didn't understand, had I done something wrong? Or were you just finished with me? There was no note, or phone call, no anything.
You simply disappeared.
So the question, my dear Catherine, is not whether I remember you. The question is, why? Why did you leave me?
(Catherine Willows, The Good the Bad t and he Dominatrix)
The End