The woman who opened the door was not his friend. He'd been expecting to look into the familiar green of Heather's eyes, but the ones looking back at him was nothing like them. Tattoos covered her shoulders and arms and as she raised an eyebrow, questioning who he was, he realized that he might not get invited. "I'm sorry, I might have come in a bad time," he said, his voice unsure.
"Are you not here for a session?" The woman asked, somewhat leaning against the doorframe. He noticed the way she tapped her foot against the hardwood floor, genuinely annoyed. "No." His answer came with a shake of his head. "I-I'm a friend of Heather's and I was hoping to see her."
There was a flicker in the woman's eyes. "Oh," she said, "I see." Grissom tried to read her, but knowing himself, there was no point in trying. She brushed a hand through her hair and looked from his feet to his hair and back down to his feet. "Fine," she said, pursing her lips, pushing the door open wide enough for him to walk inside. "She's working now, but you can wait down here. Or upstairs." She obviously didn't care. With that, the woman closed the door behind them and Grissom watched as she walked away, leaving him on his own in the now familiar foyer of the dominion. Many memories of Heather sprung to life in his mind as he slowly made his way upstairs. So many times, he'd come here for help with cases. There was so much of Heather's world he didn't have knowledge about, so much that intrigued him. And she was intriguing. So many times, he'd found himself too captivated. Lost in her knowledge about the world, about the things that really, truly mattered. About him. Yes, this place brought back many memories of her. Her heavy eyelashes framing those green eyes he'd looked into so many times. The way her lips curved when he made her smile. The calmness in her voice.
Her room was open as always, her things in their places, soft lace curtains swaying as the wind blew through the open windows. There was a shelf to his right. Between masks and whips and cuffs, he saw roses. Dried white roses. A jewelry box, open, showing him her necklaces. Pendants. Beautiful black stones that glittered as the sunlight flickered through the curtains. He'd been in her room before, but somehow it felt new. As if his old, investigator eyes hadn't been working before. But everything he saw, every single of her things just enhanced everything he knew about her. The gentle way in which the curtains danced in the wind. The stillness in the dried roses. The books, neatly lined on a shelf below the windows. Beauty. On the bed he noticed an open notebook. His fingers itched to reach out for it, but as much as he wanted to, it wouldn't be fair to Heather.
Screams could be heard echoing from the pool house, a man's voice, distinct, in pain. Needy. This house was always filled with screams. Some stronger than others. He'd wondered how she could stand it, how she could live with these miserable noises. Terrible sounds. But he'd then realized that it was in her. The need to be as dominant as they wanted to be submissive, it was in her. Knowing that those screams were actually of pleasure, that's how she could live with them. Grissom listened. To him, the screams meant something else. A scream of pain often indicated that something was wrong. But not in this house. And then he heard it. Heather. Demanding. Strong. He felt himself hold his breath, listening, as if paralyzed by the tone of her voice. He'd never heard her like that.
Slowly making his way out of her room, down the hall, as silently as possible through the passage leading towards the open space of the pool house, he didn't want to be seen. But the need to watch her like that was overwhelming. The need to see how she looked in that character. In that side of herself. The music was loud in there, deafening, lights flickering above his head as he silently crouched down in the corner, just out of reach for the spotlights. And there she was.
Her hair was longer than he remembered it, reaching far down her back as she stood in front of a man. His face was bleeding, eyes looking at her, needy. The corset dress she had on was black, see-through, like lace, swirly patterns everywhere. Tall black boots. Her familiar fingers, gloved, holding on to a short whip, like a crop. "Please, Mistress," the man whined, kind of reaching out for her, and she struck his fingers with the crop.
"You disgust me," she said. Grissom watched as she crouched down, pressing a gloved hand against the man's chest. "Who are you?" She asked. There was something so very different about her, but at the same time, it was her. Just her. His eyes took her in.
"I'm nobody."
That answer seemed to please her. "What are you?"
"I'm nothing."
The music drowned his sobs, but it was evident that the man was crying. Heather moved in circles around him, slowly, her eyes watching him. She looked evil. Horribly evil. "Exactly." Her voice strong as she turned to walk away from the man, finally letting Grissom see her face. He felt his breath catch somewhere mid-throat. Her skin was pale, eyes dark, lips dark, even her expression was dark. Dominant. He watched as she picked up a whip. "Five strikes for begging. Stand up. Brace yourself."
The man did what he was told, crying out loudly when the first strike hit his naked back. Grissom watched how she swung the whip, her arm so sure, so precise, the strikes landing perfectly aligned. There was an obvious strength in Heather as she lay the final strike, gathering the whip in her hand, her eyes watching the man as he fell to his knees. There was no pain in his voice as he moaned softly to himself, as if not really present anymore. "You may clean up in here and then leave." Heather said, her back turned to the man.
"Thank you, Mistress." Grissom heard the man whisper, and then he realized that Heather was walking up towards him. Every step of her feet echoed against the wooden floor. He needed to get out of there before she could see him. He didn't want her to see him. Turning, he relied on the shadows surrounding him and he got through the passage fine. Rushing down the hall. Listening to her footsteps, kind of praying that she wouldn't see him. And then he reached her room. The gentle breeze from the open windows, the dried white roses, the notebook on her bed, why couldn't he have stayed in this bliss?
"Grissom?"
He turned around to her voice. She was just as pale as he had just seen her, eyes smoky and lips dark red. The lace in her dress looked even more see-through now than it had just minutes ago, the swirls actually flowers, he realized. He tried to slow his heart rate, but it wasn't working. "Hi," he said, kind of just breathed out.
"What are you doing here? Is everything okay?" He realized that he must have looked shocked, not like someone who'd been sitting there waiting. But more like someone who'd just been rushing down a hall, trying to hide, trying to forget the way he'd just seen her.
So he closed his eyes and calmed his breath. When he opened them again, she was much closer, concerned. Not at all the Heather he'd just witnessed whipping the crap out of the guy that was now lying bloody just a hallway away. "I'm fine. Everything's fine," he said, finally feeling somewhat like himself again. "I-I was just finishing off a case, and the victim reminded me of you. And I wanted to make sure that you were okay," he felt himself rant, but continued, "I haven't seen you in a long time."
Heather's lips formed into a smile. "I've missed you, too," she said. Her eyes were obviously reading him. Watching his eyes, the way his hands were clutching into fists by his sides. She frowned. Green eyes piercing through him and he had to clear his throat. And then her face softened, as if content with what she'd witnessed in him. "Did you like it?"
His mind spun. Eyes flicked from her eyes to her lips, to random objects in the room. To the notebook. Maybe the question was about the notebook? "I didn't read it," he answered. Watching how her eyes moved from his to the bed where the notebook lay open. And then she looked at him again, tilting her head. "They're just words," she said, suddenly moving towards the bed, to sit down, to pull off her gloves and unzip her tall boots. He watched her pull them off, reaching out for the notebook, getting up on barefoot feet. Inches shorter. Miles more beautiful.
And then she looked at him. "But they help me calm down," she said, closing the book. Placing it in his hands. "It's yours. Read it. It's all about me and I wouldn't want anyone to read it but you."
Once again, he felt his breath catch somewhere inside of him. Losing his balance. "Heather," he started, but fell silent.
"Now answer me without lying," she said, her face suddenly changing, the softness turning darker. "Did you like it?"
Yes, he was definitely losing his balance. "I-I," he stuttered, shaking his head as if frustrated.
"I know you haven't seen that side of me, but you have to be honest, you knew it existed. You had to have been intrigued, or else you wouldn't have gone in there. Why did it shock you so much?"
There was a moment of complete silence in the room. It was as if all the screams from men in other rooms, as if the wind blowing through the curtains, as if the sound of his heart beating strong within him, it was as if all of this had just stopped. If just for that very moment. And he realized that he didn't have to struggle to find the right words, he never did in her presence. Because whatever he would say, it would be the truth, and that was all that mattered. To her. To him. And to them together. So he took a breath and he looked at her. "No," he answered, "I didn't like it."
Her eyes softened yet again, lips curving into a smile. "I like you like this," he continued, reaching out to touch her cheek. "I like talking to you, I like being in this place. But no, I didn't like what I just saw."
She nodded, kind of leaning in to his touch. "That's okay. You don't have to like every aspect of a person. You like the safety of our conversations. You like knowing that I would never do anything to betray you. What you saw in there was the dominant side of me." She paused, looking up into his eyes. "You've never seen that side before, because the need to be dominant doesn't exist when I'm with you. Which is a rare thing for a dominatrix to say." And then she smiled. A warm, sweet smile that was just for him.
He couldn't resist, he had to kiss her. And when he did, she moaned lightly, softly against his lips. Her voice hundreds of miles different from the one she'd used just minutes earlier. That voice was now soft and sweet and gentle, and it was just for him. Maybe what he'd seen earlier wasn't so bad. Maybe that Heather was strong and dominant and for everybody to see. But this Heather? This Heather was smiling and she had stars in her eyes and stood there barefoot in front of him, and she was just for him.
And that? That, he liked a lot.