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05 September 2008 @ 12:44 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 246: Question 246  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 660


What are the five steps to a successful negotiation?


Kissing.

“Ah. Ahh.” the man moaned, sliding back onto the bed, easing onto it as if it were the finest of frozen ice lakes. The welts across his back were red and fresh, she was acting harsher tonight, and it was his role to play along, play the submissive, to retreat with the appropriate moans and sounds. She pounced on him, straddling his chest and crouching, bending down to kiss him. Ah, sweet negotiation. She soothed his sores, licked them better and let her red flaming hair hang all over him, straight and silky as the sheets beneath. She was so angry, so beautiful, so his. So very much, his.


Hugging.

“We’re in the middle of the park Sid.” she said, eyes all concern and pretend pretence.

“Come on, love.” he said, playing the role of the rough cockney bastard. His hands had snaked their way into her winter jacket, under her shirt, and were presently undoing her bra.

“You lost those inhibitions a long time ago Queenie.” the man whispered, pressing himself tight against her, their bodies an amalgamation of flesh under layers of protective winter clothing. He withdrew her bra and tucked it into a pants pockets as they hugged, looking the ever loving wintertime couple taking a wander around Central Park.


Touching.

When he came home raging, running on an adrenaline high she would press against him, push him to the wall and snare him in a kiss, strangling his rushed head and any drop of anger until it all melted away into passion, into love and kindness once more. She took away the frustration, the triumphs and falls of the kitchen and made him human again. No longer was he the man with the sharp knives, managing the fantastic and creating the impossible, he was just Sid Hammerback again, just himself and nothing more or less. With her touch, she could heal all wounds and push back all emotions until they became calmer, more becoming of someone at home, not someone at work. But when she didn’t want to calm him, she’d let him take over, and he’d push her into the wall, graze her lips with a kiss, she’d let him push her to the limits, harder, faster, always stronger. With just a touch, his, or hers, she always knew what he wanted.


Food.

Fine wine. Lemon risotto. Duck confit. Asian greens. Cream. Berries. Raspberry coulis. The finest foods, the best shopping list, the most exotic flesh coloured plates to eat off of.


Sex.

Pound, pound. Touch, kiss, pound, rhythm, electricity, feelings, higher and higher. Rushing forwards, upwards, beyond. Swinging, swapping, coming back home. Deep breaths, soaring on a high, lifting upwards. Walls, whips, swings, toys, masks, up and up, higher always higher, control, losing inhibitions, deeper, slower breaths, pushing forwards. Chocolate, handcuffs, leather, buckles, sanctity and depravation. Sanctuary, sanctuary, oh blessed sanctuary.




It approaches that time of year again, and once more my thoughts darken. Without Marianne, I am still myself, and yet still, I am missing so much. What people don’t see when they look at me every day, is her. They don’t see that I shared decade upon decade of my life with a beautiful woman who I saw go from a girl, to a woman, to a lady. They don’t see my dead children, the empty coffins, or all the pain and regret. They just see me, and for those who don’t know my personal history, that is always enough. For those that do, they watch, and they wait, until I need them. I am happy, but I would have been happier with Marianne by my side, my children in my home. I have sex, good sex, but it’s not the same as it was with her. It will never be the same, and I miss that. It’s hard, knowing what people see when they look at me, knowing that they’re always, most of the time, so wrong, so very wrong.
 
 
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