Title: The Fourth Time
Rating: R for now, NC-17 by the time I'm done...
Summary: The first time I see him, it doesn't even cross my mind that it is him. The second time, I think I'm hallucinating. The third time, I think I'm going crazy. The fourth time, there can be no mistake.

Warning! This fic contains references to the BDSM scene and D/s relationship dynamics. Ye of the faint heart, abandon fic! Smutmeisters, right this way... :D

Format Note: Abby's in italics, Gibbs is in normal text.

The first time I see her, I'm sure I'm mistaken. It's too much of a coincidence. If it were going to happen, it would have done so long before now. But I take a few steps closer anyway, just to check.

And it's definitely Abby – from the chunky black boots to the spiderweb tattoo stretching over the skin of her neck. She sits on a couch in the corner of the club, talking animatedly to a couple of friends, idly stroking the leather tassels of a flogger over the cheek of the boy lying with his head in her lap. It's obvious that he's floating on a completely different plane, trying to make his way back down from subspace but not quite there yet. And although she's deep in conversation, she always has one eye on him, occasionally running her fingers through his hair.

I'm almost as good at lip-reading as Abby is, and when she drops her head down a little to address him, I can make out what she's saying even from a distance. "How're you doing? Didn't go too hard on you, did I?"

From the way she's speaking to him, conversationally and without any signs of power exchange, I can tell she's his casual top, not his Domme. A friend she plays with on occasion. For reasons I don't want to analyse, this is a relief.

The guy shakes his head with a slow smile, and she resumes her conversation, her fingers tapping out a light rhythm on his shoulder in time with the music to reassure him she hasn't forgotten about him. I'm not surprised by her attentiveness. If there's one thing Abby's best at, it's reassuring people.

She glances through the archway into the play area of the club, and I follow her line of sight. Just visible is a St. Andrew's cross, and a girl with bright blue hair is tied to it, arms and legs spread-eagled. Her partner flicks a whip over her flesh time and again, and Abby's eyes follow each movement a little wistfully.

She's not just a top, then. I'd suspected, but her face, touched with subtle longing, confirms it. As I watch her, she shakes her head slightly, and her eyes flick over in my direction, and then away. She hasn't spotted me, but I'm reminded of the dangerous position I've placed myself in by hanging around. Not wanting to risk discovery by staying any longer, I leave my half-finished drink on the bar and head for the door.

The first time I see him, it doesn't even cross my mind that it is him. I mean, Gibbs at a fetish club? Come on. It just wouldn't happen. All I see is a silver-haired guy walking away from where I'm sitting. He reminds me of Gibbs, but that's happened before. By now, I'm used to it.

I comb my fingers through Danny's hair and watch each snap of the whip as Smurfette lounges back against the cross, her face a picture of pained pleasure. I'm a little jealous. Okay, so I was the top tonight, and I enjoyed myself, but now I'm in the mood for something a little more… punishing. Maybe next weekend.

And if I'm allowed to close my eyes, I can imagine Gibbs is the one dealing out the pain. That's my guilty little secret, and it's gonna stay that way.

The second time I seek her out, it's on purpose. This time she's in the play room, bent over the vault-horse, her skirt pushed up over her back to expose her firm, tight behind to the room. She's wearing only a black lace thong, and the tattoo of a Celtic knot on her butt stands out against her pale skin.

Standing over her is a tall girl in a figure-hugging PVC catsuit. Her long blonde hair spills over her shoulder as she crouches in front of Abby, laying out the ground rules for play. Abby nods and smiles, muscles tight with anticipation, and the girl takes her position behind her, a wicked-looking riding crop in hand. It cracks down, once, twice, and I see her flinch. But her face is turned from me.

I move along the wall, skirting playing couples, until I can see her expression. Her eyes are open, staring at nothing, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she gasps through the pain.

She's obviously enjoying herself quite a bit. I have to look away for a moment to keep a hold on my composure. As much as I want to stride over there, snatch the crop from Abby's top and take over, I know I can't. For so many reasons, etiquette being the least of them.

I take one last look, then turn and leave, ignoring the insistent tug of desire that witnessing the scene has brought.

The second time I see him, I think I'm hallucinating. Glorious pain burns through my skin, intensifying with each crack of the riding crop, and tears sting my eyes as a grin steals over my face. Isabelle knows me too well – her instructions included the phrase 'do not close your eyes'. There's a disadvantage to playing with close friends, I guess.

So I look around me, as well as I can. My vision is blurry, but through the tears I see a guy standing up against the wall, across the room. The silver hair and no-nonsense body language immediately make my gutter-dwelling mind think of Gibbs, but I chalk it up to subspace playing tricks on me.

Isabelle lands a particularly hard blow on me, and I can't help but reflexively squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, there's no-one there. Maybe there never was.

The third time I enter the club, my mind alive with the memory of the previous weekend's display, she's set herself back from the scene a little, perhaps sated for now. She flits between groups of friends, peeps around the arch of the play room entryway for a few minutes, unashamedly voyeuristic, and then heads straight for me – or for the bar, more accurately. I step back and lose myself in a crowd of people, making my escape like the coward I am.

If I succumb to the urge to visit again, then I'll make myself known to her.

The third time I see him, I think I'm going crazy. It's happened again! There's someone who looks suspiciously like my silver-haired fox, heading away from the bar. Only that's not possible. Gibbs has been more attentive lately, his gaze lingering on me where usually he'd be paying attention to whatever results I was giving him. I don't know why that is, but I've been obsessing over it. And now I keep seeing him, here?

It's like I'm the poster-child for wishful thinking. I need to stop torturing myself like this.

The fourth time I find her here, she's with a friend. I keep to the shadows, watching her from a distance, knowing that this time I'm going to approach her or else risk losing all self-respect.

Abby's friend grabs her wrist, pointing at someone across the room. Abby smiles and nudges her. "Go," I see her say. "Have fun. I'll hang here for a while."

Her friend leaves her side, making a beeline for a guy with a shaven head. Abby's left alone, leaning against the bar. Given how many friends she has, she won't be that way for long. I have to act now.

The fourth time I see him, there can be no mistake. I stand at the bar, casting an eye around for people I know.

Without warning, two fingers slip under my collar and tug slightly, pulling the leather strip tighter around my throat. I turn with a resigned glare, preparing to give yet another over-confident Dom a piece of my mind. Don't these people realise there are protocols to be obs-

Gibbs?!

I feel the anger drop from my features, replaced by open-mouthed shock. He's… this… I have no idea what he's doing here, but his fingers are cool against my overheating flesh and his eyes are boring into me, and he looks so good and he feels amazing, and I just want to die of happiness…

He's probably here to tell me he needs me at the Navy Yard. Calm down. Get a grip. "Gibbs… what are you doing here?"

She gazes up at me, her confusion not quite able to mask the glimmer of hope she's trying to quell. Abby's easy to read. And I've known she wants me for a long time, but until I saw her here I'd always been able to keep temptation at bay.

Now I've lost the battle, and as I curl my fingers tighter round the collar, pulling it further against her neck, she realises my intent. She lowers her head a little in acquiescence, gazing up at me through her thick, dark lashes. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and I know in that moment just how to wipe it away.

I bring my lips down to hers, never releasing my hold on her collar, and she gives a tiny gasp, leaning into the embrace as much as I'll let her. When I break off, she's too busy relearning how to breathe to smile. And I'm fighting to stay in control of the urge to slide my fingers up under her skirt and watch her shatter under the force of her orgasm. It wouldn't take much. Already her skin is flushed, and she's trembling.

But not here. Not with an audience. The other girls, maybe, but I've wanted Abby for too long to rush things now.

"You know how long I've been waiting to do that, little tease?"

What did he…? Oh, god… I was wet from the moment I processed the fact that it was him. Within seconds of hearing my new play-name, my panties are soaked, my entire body humming with animal want. "How long?" I whisper, forcing the words out before I forget how to speak.

"Seven years, give or take." His nonchalant words are belied by his lust-darkened eyes, and I shiver in response, because whoa, that's a long time. Almost as long as I've fantasised about this…

"Want to get out of here, little tease?" He uses the name deliberately this time, knowing exactly what it'll do to me.

"Yes, sir," I tell him softly, and actually getting to say those words in the context I've always wanted to say them? It's the highlight of my year. And possibly of my adult life.

He removes his fingers from my collar, taking my hand instead. "Then let's go."