Champion of procrastination (racethewind10) wrote in passion_perfect,
Champion of procrastination

Submission part 2

See part 1 for all the usual disclaimers.

There are no other cars outside Lady Heather’s this evening, but I don’t get out just yet. I can’t make myself move; something in me unwilling to take the final step. So I sit with my hands on the steering wheel and the breeze teasing my hair from the open window, nearly trembling from a combination of exhaustion, anticipation, and need.

I look up at the moon, and suddenly, all I can see is her: those arctic eyes and that rush of power I felt down my spine when she looked at me.

Suddenly, the woman in my fantasy has a face.

The brass handle is cool beneath my touch and the lobby quiet when I walk in. Somewhere in the house I hear a soft chime and just inside the threshold of my hearing I can hear a low, primal beat of some kind of music.

“Detective Curtis. Welcome back.”

Her voice alone is enough to shorten my breath and send my pulse racing. I turn and take her in. Her mahogany hair is unbound this time and she is wearing a leather corset, skin tight trousers, and spike heels. She looks like a deadly shadow, but her eyes are incandescent in the low light; the fire behind them raging. I can feel the heat from here and it makes my knees tremble.

She stalks close to me, every move sinuous and subtle. She stops, close enough that I can hear the faintest whisper of well cared for leather and smell the hint of fragrance around her.

I stand transfixed as she raises a gloved hand and traces my cheek ever so lightly – the leather alien, yet warm and soft against my skin. She doesn’t speak, just holds me fast in her gaze and I am unable to say anything.

Finally, she steps back and turns away. Before I can call out, she commands, “Come with me,” and heads up the stairs.

We climb to the top story, and I am ushered into a beautifully appointed and very large room. Candles burn on every surface around a massive, wrought iron, four poster bed, draped in silk so dark red, it is nearly black. It is the other accessories, however, that draw my eye.

One wall is covered with whips, cuffs, paddles, knives and things I can’t even begin to find a purpose for. I see ties hanging from the bed posters and then suddenly, she steps in front of me and all I see is her.

“I need a safe word Sofia, I will not proceed without it.”

“Sidle,” I say, after only a slight hesitation. She may not truly be my safety yet, but she is the one I want to be.

“Very well,” she whispers in a dark velvet voice, with a deadly smile.

The Lady kisses me gently, her warm lips tender on mine. I lean into it, wanting to taste her.
With lightening speed, she fists her hand in my hair and yanks me back and down. My scalp burns and my knees sting from impact with the hardwood floor.

“You overstep your place,” she growls.
“I’m sorry Lady.”
She eyes me as if she knows damn well I’m not sorry one bit. But then…that’s the point.

I comply, and she kisses me again, hungrily this time. This time I am prepared. I open to her, taking everything she gives me, but remaining passive. It’s like trying to drink from a waterfall or breathe in a wind storm – exhilarating, but overwhelming.

She smiles as she steps back this time.
“Good,” she breathes, her electric gaze just inches from mine.

With a sure hand she guides me to stand in the middle of the room, beneath a hanging length of chain with a hook at the end. With swift movements she attaches padded leather cuffs to my wrists and attaches the hook between them. With a yank to a pulley on the wall, she tightens the chain until I stand, arms fast above my head, but feet unrestrained…for the moment.

“Take off your shoes,” she commands.

As I struggle to step out of my boots, she turns to her wall. I look up to find her standing in front of me with a swath of black silk in one hand, and a knife in the other.

I can actually feel my pupils dilate.

I stare at the knife, my heart pounding, unable to look away as the candlelight gleams and dances across the blade. It is simple, with no ornamentation, and I can tell from here it is wickedly sharp.
She moves past me and places the knife on the bed. I loose sight of her and then suddenly the warm glow of the room disappears behind black silk. I struggle to steady my breathing as the darkness falls over me and the blind is fastened.

Almost instantly, my other senses strain to take over and I become hyper aware. I can hear her move behind me – the sound of leather on silk sheets a soft caress to my ears. Somewhere in the house I can hear that low, primal music. I can smell the rich warm scent of the candles she’s burning, and the faintest spice of her perfume. I can feel my clothing against my skin – a constriction I am desperate to be rid of. I can feel every breath I take and every beat of my racing heart.

She hasn’t even touched me yet and I’m vibrating with anticipation.

Suddenly there is a warm, naked hand at my cheek – she has taken off her gloves. With a whisper of a touch, she traces along my jaw, down my throat and between my breasts, all the way to my belt. Slowly she unfastens it and pulls it off me.

I think for a moment she might rip my clothes off when she yanks my shirt out of my trousers, but nothing happens.

Then I feel it – the touch of cold metal against my cheek – and my whole body freezes. It slides down my jaw and along my throat, a silent menace.

I am openly trembling now, but the slight pressure of the knife never wavers.

Lower it goes, over my shirt and then I hear the keen whisper of steel against fabric as she cuts the buttons from my blouse; one by one. I feel her breath on my skin as she exposes me and then the knife moves up, slowly cutting away the sleeves.

Inch by agonizing inch, she cuts away my trousers, my bra, and finally my panties. As she does, she takes the point of the knife, and using the lightest of pressures, scrapes it across my skin. It is shocking; raising goose bumps on my flesh, but not painful – the merest taste of what is to come.

Her touch vanishes and I wait, every cell alive; every sense straining. I can hear movement, and then she is back, her hand gentle as she traces my shoulder; the curve of my spine, and over the bones of my hip. Her touch creates electricity that sizzles through my blood, and I have to fight to keep the gasp behind my teeth.

Her hand leaves and I nearly groan in frustration…until it replaced by something else: something warm, flexible, but with its own strength.

I would recognize the feel of a lash anywhere and my whole body thrills at it’s touch: at the anticipation of what is to come.

“Do you wish to stop now?”


“Excellent. You may not scream until I give you permission, but you may give the signal to stop at any time. Do you understand Sofia?”

“Yes, Lady Heather.”

There is no warning this time – no waiting. The hairs on the back of my neck tingle and I hear the sharp whistle of something cutting the air, and fire explodes across my back, tearing a gasp from me.

“Silence,” she growls, and the lash falls again.

Each time it hits a different place.
Whish, crack! My right shoulder.
Whish, crack! My left shoulder.
Whish, crack! The length of my spine.
And so it continues.

Every blow builds on the one before it, stinging, burning, but never cutting – she is too skilled for that.

I can’t catch my breath and moans escape me despite my desperate battle to stay silent.

My back is awash in fire that seeps through my skin and into my blood – burning me from the inside out. The waves of endorphins lift me, throwing me higher each time, eroding the brittle bulwark of my will.

I can feel myself loosing control and I crave it, but not yet: not yet.
Whish, crack! My body burns and I can no longer tell if I am even breathing.
Whish, crack! I feel nothing but the whip – not the floor beneath my feet or the hard metal of the chains around me wrist.

Whish, crack! Distantly I realize that the whimpering sound in my ears is me and that I am biting my lip to keep from screaming.

Time and the physical world have no meaning anymore.
There is only the darkness, and the fire.
And then I hear that midnight voice in my ear, “Scream for me Sofia.”
The lash falls, and I let go – of this case, of the guilt, of my exhaustion and fear and frustration. It tears up from inside me like a storm and rips its way out of my throat and I scream.

I scream until I have no more breath and my throat is raw and I collapse, sagging in my bonds with my head hanging, gasping for breath.
I am exhausted and my body still burns, but my soul feels clean for the first time in weeks – months even.

For a time, nothing else exists. I float, drifting in a tide of endorphins. Lights swim and dance behind my eyes, like brush at night seen from a distance, the surreal colors and shapes fleeting and meaningless.

Gradually, I come back to myself. I become aware of her hands on me, gentle and soothing.

And then her hands are gone, to be replaced by her lips and a shiver runs through me at the first, whisper soft touch.

She begins slowly, with my neck, sweeping my hair aside. Her lips are like hot satin and my pulse – just barely calmed - begins to race as she slowly, teasingly works her way down my spine. The latent heat in my skin from the lash flares again as she touches me, drawing forth a hiss. Her mouth disappears, and when it returns, I gasp.

Cold, blessed chill. It is hard and wet within the liquid fire of her lips.

Ice. She has ice in her mouth, and she’s trailing it across my back. Her lips arouse me while the ice soothes the burn of the lash marks. The contrast between the soft heat of her mouth and frigid hardness of the ice is overloading my nerve endings, sending lightening through my blood to pool between my legs.

She continues, heedless of my growing need, never touching me with anything but her mouth and the ice.
Down my spine.
Across my shoulder blades.
Over my ribcage.
Across the line of my hips.
Kissing each hipbone.

Each kiss makes my heart race a little faster. Each pulse washes through me like a wave, building the ache in my core. Any pain from the whipping is long gone and all I want now is her – her hands, her mouth, her touch: anything.

The Lady, however, is not finished with me yet.

Without warning, my bonds are struck. I have only enough time to roll my shoulders, confused, when a smoky voice whispers in my ear, “We are not finished yet, Sofia.” And I’m falling backward to land on the bed. I feel her weight near me, her hands on my wrists and then ankles, and I am tied again; this time spread eagled on the bed. The chains that bind my arms are tight, but there is slack in the ties around my ankles. I can draw my knees up a bit, but not bring them together.

She settles her weight across me, straddling me, and I can’t help it as my hips buck, straining for contact.

She hums, low in her throat, but makes no other sound.

She shifts and I nearly groan, but control myself: waiting. I am rewarded with the touch of something soft: like satin, but not yielding like fabric. It is neither hot nor cold, but feels amazing on my skin.

Slowly she moves it: circling my belly button, tracing my hip bones, caressing my rib cage and teasing the underside of my breasts.

My breath is coming in short gulps and its taking all my will power to stay still.
She brushes my aching nipples with it and I hear her chuckle when I can’t help arching into the touch.

Across my collar bones and up my throat, and then she paints my lips with it and I gasp as the scent of a freshly cut rose fills my senses.

I wonder briefly what color it is, and then rational thought is impossible as the Lady lays the stem against my lips and I can feel the thorns – wicked and promising.

“Will you surrender?” she whispers, hot breath across my cheek.

“I already have, my Lady.” I can’t see her, but her hum of approval warms me.

“Do not be silent, Sofia. I want to hear you. See you react, but…” she pauses and then growls softly, “but you may not come until I give you permission, do you understand?”

Oh. My. God.

“Yes, my Lady,” I manage.

She resettles herself and I squirm, hissing as she presses my hips into the mattress. I’ve never been this aroused in my life, and she has yet to even touch me.

. Trapped in the darkness behind my eyes, I concentrate on feeling: the satin beneath me, the stiff leather around my wrists and ankles, the warm weight of her body over mine, the feel of her leather clothing against my skin, I can feel all this. But it’s not what I want to feel.

The rose returns, petals brushing down my chest and over the swell of my breasts, but it’s not what I want to feel.


She lies, stretched out beneath me, magnificent in her captivity. She is lean and supple and the candlelight dances across shifting sinew and muscle: an incredible specimen of feminine strength. I take a moment just to appreciate the view. Her pale skin is vivid against the dark silk of my sheets. The blindfold covers her amazing eyes, but leaves her sensuous lips exposed to me. They are parted now as she gasps for breath. That same struggle makes her back arch and her chest heave: the stark outline of her ribcage contrasting with the soft swells of her coral-tipped breasts.

I twirl the rose in my hand, savoring the muted whisper of pain that the thorns sing to me as I run my fingers over them. I know she wants this - that her body and soul cry out for it. Were I to touch her now, I know she would be wet: slick and ripe with want.

I knew what she desired from the moment she walked through my door. Her body language, her eyes; it was all there. She is a woman who values being in a position of control and power. But not like her colleague, Catherine Willows. Detective Sofia Curtis does not seek to wield power over others, she merely wishes to carve out her own place. She is solitary – holding herself aloof from the people around her – afraid, I imagine, to reach out lest she feel the sting of rejection. Yet above all else, she desires a connection. And so this is her deepest wish: to be known, understood, desired, trusted, and to trust in return – so completely that she will surrender everything she is.

To know that I have this power over her – to completely shatter her conscious control, and that she lets me – it makes my heart pound and my throat dry. My hands crave the feeling of her flesh; my ears, the sound of her cries.

This is the power she has over me: to make my control weak; to make me want her as badly as she wants me. I haven’t felt this level of desire in so long. Which is why I wait, savoring the anticipation, the feeling of her under me.
I shift my hips and she writhes beneath me.
The waiting is over.


The rose caresses my body; wandering in meaningless patterns, soft and tender and I growl in frustration. It is short lived however, as the petals vanish, and I feel the first threat of the thorns.

Whisper soft, she scrapes them over my skin: promising.

Like the petals, the thorns trace meaningless patterns, sometimes light and teasing, but here and there, deeper – scratching lines into my skin.

I wonder what it will look like.

Petals and thorns, back and forth, but it still isn’t what I want.

My body quivers like a plucked bow string as she teases my breasts with the flower – intricate designs drawn over and over.

There is no warning, only sensation. From a single point, pain blossoms, hot and white, just below the nipple of my right breast.

My breath stops.

Behind my eyes, blackness gives way to red - like blood dropped on water - it stains my awareness.

She shifts, and another flower of pain blooms under my left breast.
Over and over again; each time in a different place, a different blossom of pain and pleasure until I am begging her. For what, I don’t even know at this point.

But she does.

She moves, until I can feel her kneeling between my legs, and the rose traces lower.

Here, above my right hip.
There above my left.

Down the insides of my thighs she brushes the petals, and then begins to work her way back up…with the thorns.

I am so aroused its painful, and as she pierces the skin of my inner thighs, I plead with her to take me.

“Who do you belong to Sofia?” she whispers.
“You, God my Lady, only you,” I gasp, and she traces the petals of the rose over my core; against the swollen, slick flesh of my need
“Gooood,” she purrs, and finally touches me.

I nearly cry at the feeling of her fingers on me. She is slow, teasing, circling, stroking my clit but never entering me.
“So ready. You are so beautiful. But remember my command Sofia,”
“Yes,” I breathe.

Her hand goes away and I cry out, until I feel something else - something blunt and hard - replace it.

She enters me with one slow, unstoppable thrust. The dildo is large, filling me completely, stretching me and blurring the line between pleasure and pain.
The cry that tears itself from me is part plea, part scream.

And then she moves.

My back arches off the bed, but I am only distantly aware of the strain that puts on my shoulders. My whole world is what she is doing to me, and I want to see it. I want to see her.

“Please,” I cry, begging her to take off the blind.
She leans forward, and it changes the angle of the dildo inside me, tearing my breath away.

I feel her hands on the silk tie, and then, for the first time since we started, she kisses me. It is a soft gesture, gentle; mirroring the caress of silk on my face as it finally slides away.

She pulls back and I open my eyes to see, finally, my fantasy.

The sight of her, still leather clad, kneeling between my legs and penetrating me, nearly makes me come right there, but I remember her command, and stay still, biting my lip and trying to breath.

She holds my gaze, her arctic eyes blazing as she grips my hips and moves.
Slowly, she withdraws nearly all the way before thrusting, hard into me.
My eyes snap shut, but her voice commands me, “Open them Sofia. Look at me.”

And I do.

She holds my hips so I can’t move and I fight her, my own slipping control.
She moves above me, sinuous and powerful, her thrusts going deep until I feel like I am coming apart. Gradually, she increases the rhythm and I whimper, my head thrashing on the sheets and my shoulders straining.

I can’t think, can’t breath or even cry out as she fucks me. I’m slipping and I can’t stop it. I can’t hold on and I’m about to fall.

She knows, and still she will not let me come. She presses her lower body into mine, using her weight to push me into the mattress, driving so deep inside me I feel the dildo bump my cervix.

I can no longer tell where pleasure ends and pain begins, and if my eyes are open I can’t tell.

Dimly I realize she has released her bruising grip on my hips and I surge against her thrusts, my breath being driven from me with each move she makes until I am lightheaded and colors dance behind my eyes.

The coiled spring of my release is wound too tight. I can feel the first tremors low in my belly and I know I am going to lose control: I crave it with everything that I am and know that I can’t hold back any longer, command or no.

She knows too. “Come for me, Sofia, come for me now,” she growls in my ear and I feel her hand stroking my clit and the piercing pain of thorns on my inner thigh.

Red haze fills my vision and finally, at long last, I stop fighting. In one fraction of a second I let that last, tattered thread tethering my body to my will rip away and I surrender: completely.

My orgasm spirals out from deep within me, taking me over, throwing me free and splintering my awareness. If I scream I don’t know it. All I can feel is her thrusting into me, stroking me, as my body clamps around the dildo and I come. Wave after wave of sensation crashes through me. Pain, pleasure, blood, silk, skin, fire and darkness: all are reflected back to me as if through a broken mirror, and in the middle of it all, I see the glowing light of arctic eyes.

She draws it out; stroking me, moving gently inside me, until I lie spent and weightless, floating.
Almost from a distance I feel her withdraw the dildo and remove the restraints from my wrists and ankles. It doesn’t really matter, I can’t move at this point anyway. She gathers my limp body in her arms, and I am cradled against warm leather and satin skin. Weakly I hold onto her and just concentrate on breathing.

It isn’t until she kisses my cheeks that I realize I’m crying.

I don’t cry after sex, but the power of my release has left me shattered, drained and exposed. This is less about emotion and more about sheer physiological response, and I feel no shame in the wetness tracking down my cheeks. This is what I came for – to feel that perfect moment of complete release – and I savor the feeling of being cleansed: remade.

She holds me gently, stroking my hair and whispering softly, telling me to rest, and so I do. Cradled against leather, silk and skin, I drift off into the welcome oblivion of true peace.

I have no idea how long I have drifted, cocooned by darkness, but she is still there when I wake. I do not open my eyes; savoring instead the feelings: silk, warm flesh, the smell of her, and my body; my body that is beginning to ache, but in the most delicious ways. Most incredible of all though, is how I feel, me; my soul, spirit, heart, whatever you want to call it. I feel raw, and new.

I never truly thought my fantasy could become reality. I know now that if I were to open my eyes, I would see – not simply feel - just how far the reality has passed the fantasy.

“Sofia,” her quiet question halts my musings, and despite a bone deep satiety, I feel my heart flutter at the velvet sound. Damn, that voice should be labeled hazardous to your health.

I open my eyes and look at the woman who right now, holds not only my body, but perhaps my very soul in her hand.

The fire in her gaze has dimmed to a warm glow, and she regards me gently, tenderly brushing a stand of hair off my cheek. I think that may be the only part of my body that isn’t sore right now, but damn I’m not complaining.

“Are you satisfied?” she asks quietly.

Another time, with a different woman, I would most likely laugh, brush if off, kiss them goodbye and keep right on leaving. Here? With this woman? I can only look back at her, all my barriers torn away; naked, not just physically before her. I don’t need to say anything for her to know the truth of the answer to her question, and when she smiles, there is only gentle understanding – not smugness or pride or any other superficial emotion.

There is however, something I still crave, though I barely have the strength to move.

I look at her lips – full and sensual – and then back up, letting my eyes ask the question, even as I ask permission for one final desire.

“May I kiss you?”

She doesn’t answer, just smiles and cups the back of my head. It’s all the invitation I need to lean across and taste her lips. There is nothing of the previous night’s fire in the gesture, but her mouth is molten nonetheless, and my heart jumps as she lets me take the lead, teasing her mouth open and exploring her gently with my tongue.
I stroke her cheek, trying to put my gratitude into the meeting of our mouths, before I slowly pull away - satisfied at last.

“Now I am,” I answer her earlier question, not at all ashamed that my voice has gone husky.

“Then I am as well,” she replies, and my spine tingles at the timbre of her words.

“Thank you,” I say, compelled to say what I feel so strongly.

The Lady simply nods, but it is enough.

She leans forward and kisses me on the lips – chastely - one last time, and like that, the spell is broken and I suddenly remember things like the lab, the fact that my clothes are in a dozen pieces on the floor and I have no idea what time, or even what day it is.
Lady Heather slides out of bed and I finally look down at myself; at the red scratches and pinpricks of dried blood that stand out starkly against my pale skin, and at the slight bruising around my wrists and ankles.

Definitely long sleeves today.

Before I can muse over long on the fact that I can’t exactly drive home naked, a worn pair of jeans and a soft man’s dress shirt land on the bed. I look up to find her smirking at me, holding up what’s left of my silk panties.

“Next time, bring spares,” she smiles, and I can’t help the shiver of pleasure I feel at the promise of a next time.

“If you had warned me, I would have brought some this time,” I challenge as I get dressed: slowly, I ache in place that haven’t ached in years.

“If I had warned you, it wouldn’t have been any fun,” she fires back, and I’m not about to argue with that.

She walks me to the door like an old fashioned gentleman, but her kiss at the threshold is anything but gentle, and it leaves me reeling.

“You are welcome here anytime Sofia,” she breathes, her lips still only inches from mine and her eyes glowing.

And so it is in more than a slight haze that I step outside into the cool, sharp air of the desert in those quiet, ripe moments just before the first light of dawn.
I make it to the last step of her porch when her voice stops me one last time.

“And Sofia? Stop running and just ask her out for coffee.”

Before I can figure out what the hell she is talking about, the door shuts and I am left alone with my car and my confusion.

I’m not a LVPD Detective for nothing however, and as the sun blooms over the desert hills, I feel a rush of excitement and pleasure at the coming day, and all the possibilities it brings.


She’s in the layout room when I finally catch her alone that night, and I take a moment to simply watch her unnoticed. Her chocolate hair falls forward, and she impatiently brushes it away, only to have it fall forward again. She’s wearing snug fitting jeans and a form fitting tank top under a walnut colored leather jacket, and I feel myself swallow with a throat suddenly gone dry.

Despite the pleasure I get from watching her, I know that any minute someone is likely to come in and interrupt this rare moment of stillness in the lab and so I walk in the door.
She looks up in curiosity, and I am strangely gratified when I see her look twice at my long sleeves. Briefly I wonder what she might think of the bruises they hide, but shove that firmly away for later. Now is the time for beginnings, not revelations, and so I take the first step that I should have taken a long time ago.

“Hey Sofia,” she says, her warm, husky voice sending a delicious tingle down my spine.

“Hey Sara. Listen, I wanted to apologize for last night. That case really got to me. I didn’t mean to blow you off like that, I just needed to get out of here,” I pause, waiting to see how she will react.

I am rewarded beyond my hopes when her eyes grow soft and her expression sad and distant.
“I understand, it was…It was hard. Are you ok?” she asks, her dark eyes warm.

“I am now,” and we’re not going to elaborate on that until much later, thank you.

“I’m glad,” she replies, and the sincerity in her voice makes me want to cheer.

“Well, I just wanted to apologize and say, thanks.”

She grins – that sexy little half cynical smirk I love so much, and finally, I obey my Lady’s command.

“Listen Sara, there’s this great little coffee and breakfast place I just found last week but haven’t had time to really check it out. Would you like to go grab something after shift?”

The slow, brilliant smile that spreads over her face is all the answer I need.

Tags: csi, fic

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