Title: Lesbians Anonymous: The Confession
Author: Rohan Dupre
Feedback address: rohandupre@aol.com
Date in Calendar: 30 June 2007
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Sara/Catherine, boy smut pairing
Rating: NC-17 for some graphic content
Summary: Sara recounts her tail of coming out to a 12-step group devoted to helping women understand the nature of their sexuality.
Advertisement: Part of the FSAC:DD07

Disclaimer: "CSI: Crime Scene Investigators," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer Television, Alliance Atlantis, and CBS Productions. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "CSI: Crime Scene Investigators," CBS, or any representatives of Jorja Fox or Marg Helgenberger.

WARNING: The following piece contains boy smut, but the boy-smut has a purpose and is not simply for the sake of including boy smut.

Hello. My name's Sara. I know I'm not supposed to use more than first names here, so I'll just keep it at that. I'm here for one reason, and solely one reason, to put to words everything that I have been denying myself for years. I'm here to finally admit who I am, even if it means confessing that I don't the hell really know.

The reality of life is all women are lesbians twisted straight. We all want it, deep hidden within our subconscious, we want another woman's mouth flush with our. . .

What did you think I was going to say? See it's the truth, if you thought some variation of the word 'cunt', then you prove my point.

I was twisted straight, but it only took one moment, one circumstance to bring everything into a perfect moment of clarity. It took a simple realization, spurned by a chance happening, to realize what my subconscious had been screaming at me all along. I was perhaps a lesbian, twisted into heterosexuality by what society had demanded of me.

It influenced me, molded me, drove me to want the one man I knew I couldn't have. I mooned, I drooled, I fantasized, but in the end I knew I never would have exactly what I wanted.

My subconscious drove me…

It drove me to want a man I knew I never could have, simply because it was the only way I could be both a subconscious lesbian and an acting heterosexual.

It drove me to the level of ridiculousness…

It drove me to want Gil.

It all started with the mysterious phone calls. No, not me wanting Gil….He and I were already a couple at this point. That is if you call what we were a 'couple' in the truest of senses. If I must be honest with myself, I fulfilled his need to be both hero worshiped and a "dom" in the most emotional of senses. If you call these things a relationship, then Gil is capable of having one.

I've now learned that a relationship is not defined by these things, but by the mutual give and take of two people who truly care for each other. I've also learned that sex isn't a requirement for an intimate relationship, although it does add to it. However, I digress, but I must confess it is due to the several glasses of wine I drank not more than an hour ago.

The phone calls… the mysterious phone calls. Have you ever had those? You know the kind that you happen upon when you are with the one you are said to love? You pick up their phone, and the person on the other end doesn't answer. You hear a click and then the line goes dead?

It started with those damned mysterious calls. If it was in his office, or on his cell when we were out at dinner, then I might have been able to completely dismiss them. However, 2 o'clock in the morning on one of our very rare nights off, him in the shower after a rather heated round of mostly oral sex… yes there is that mouth on my "cunt" theme that keeps running through my head.

I couldn't ignore them, although the repeated rounds of oral sex did a good job at distracting me. No, I won't say that I was fantasizing about women at this point, just that Gil gave it better than my own damned vibrator--which isn't saying a lot, only that he must have had some practice.

Maybe now that I know where he got it, I should have really asked…

Sorry, I don't want to squick all of you.

Is that really a word? Squick? It's just at this point I need to be honest about the truth of my actions. I wanted orgasms, as many as he damn well would give me. I wanted a mouth, a heterosexual mouth to fulfill my inborn desire for a woman.

This way I wouldn't feel guilty. I wouldn't feel as if I was doing something terribly and horribly evil. This way I would get what I craved from someone I knew who wouldn't take it to the fullest measure. I would be safe, because honestly Gil isn't capable of giving anything back.

So what did I do about the damned phone calls, when he wasn't distracting me with his mouth--one way or another?

Like any woman who has an inkling of what is going on, but is too wrapped up in a man, I choose to fucking ignore it. I can't say why exactly. I know it wasn't rational at all. Why would a strong woman, capable of taking care of herself, not only ignore all the clues of infidelity, but continue to hero worship a man who couldn't return any sort of true emotion?

Hell yes, I was a stupid dumb fuck!

I don't think anyone who knows Gil would argue with me. I know Catherine didn't. Hell she still doesn't, even though we agree to keep our extra curricular 'action' off the books so to speak. Oh wait, sorry, perhaps I shouldn't use her name. I'll just called her my 'coworker' from now on.

I really didn't get it until someone decided I should see the truth of the matter. Later I found out it was said 'coworker', with the help of my esteemed sponsor to this little group.

I simply spent way too many nights slaving at my desk, or out on a case. It wasn't until random anonymous notes started showing up, that I began to wonder. The notes were simple sentences, things like 'you should be more observant,' and 'you may think you know him.' Over the course of weeks they became more frequent. I began to snoop through his caller ID box, looking at the different phone numbers wondering who the heck he was talking to.

And yes, I must admit, once or twice I took the information in and abused my privileges at work. Wouldn't you want to know if your lover was screwing around on you?

You see, I knew he had exotic tastes that ran into different types of kink. However, given what I have investigated, they all seemed pretty damn sedate: Bondage, a little slap and tickle, and a heck of a lot of oral sex. What is abnormal about all of that?

Ahh, there it is again, my obsession with oral sex.

I didn't see anything I would have classified as abnormal. Much of it looked like business calls. Yes there was the occasional call from Lady Heather, but I knew about their unique relationship. If he wanted to have tea, and have his mind fucked with, then who the hell was I to complain about it? At least she has appropriate limits, boundaries for her conduct.

Then I got the note to end all notes… It was stuck with tape upon my pager, which I had left upon my desk. I only walked away for maybe 10 minutes, enough to run a report down to ballistics about a case that I was working on.

It said, "Come to the observation room for interrogation room 2 at 4 am."

You see, if you worked the night shift like I do, you would know that come 4 o'clock in the morning things get really damn dead. This is the dead hour, when everyone drinks another cup of coffee liberally laced with added espresso shots. If you are lucky enough, Greg…wait another coworker… brings it to you very much hot and straight from that damned coffee shop that has literally invaded every available street corner of every major city in the Western United States.

That said, even with the Venti coffee, sunk with multiple espresso shots, everyone…and I do mean EVERYONE… is off trying to catch a much needed cat nap to make it through till 7 am. Given this, said observation room would be a perfect spot to find absolutely no-one. The very few interrogations that go on at this hour would be held in number 1 not number 2.

So when my caffeine addicted coworker made his nightly trip to the 24-hour coffee shop he considered part of the "Borg" collective, I asked him to add a couple additional shots for me. If you knew him, you would understand both what "Borg" collective meant, and why he only raised an eyebrow at my request.

I let the coffee cool a little, and then drank it down. I was tempted to hold my nose, as even I with my high tolerance for strong smells could barely stomach the incredibly powerful odor that came out of that so recognizable white paper cup with green writing.

The resulting buzz took only minutes to hit, elevating me from being normally tired, to what must be akin to taking a hit off of a crack pipe. Trust me, I wouldn't know, but I've heard enough perps to be able to make a rough guess. Needless to say my typing speed only increased, and I finished my menial report writing at least twice as fast.

For the next resulting hour, I wandered rather aimlessly around the office attempting to look busy on what was a rather quiet night. Every so often I would look at my watch only to find it was 10 minutes later than when last I checked it. You know, how shifts can seem like they take forever.

When 4 AM finally hit, I was both eager and shocked that it finally was time to meander down to the associated observation room. I opened the door quietly, and went in. The lights were off in the room, but the lights in the associated interrogation room were not.

Strange. I can't tell you just how strange this is when your supervisor is a Nazi about saving energy and thus reducing our overall bottom financial line because it comes out of the taxpayers pockets.

The ambient light in the observation room seemed to cascade in from the interrogation room, pulsing in florescent luminosity. I could almost hear what I could only term the associated whirr or buzz of a florescent tube that was almost ready to die. At least it wasn't flickering, causing an almost strobe light affect.

I definitely would have to email facilities to come fix it, but I knew this was the only reason someone wanted me to be in here.

So I walked up to the window, leaned back against the top of the chair--you know one of those institutional ones with the seat covered with pea green vinyl. I simply couldn't bring myself to sit down in it.

It seemed too much like I was expecting someone, and if someone walked in… Hell, let me be honest. I wanted to be able to bolt if necessary.

The door in the interrogation room opened, and a red headed man walked in. I recognized him as one of the guys from Miami who had worked with my lover on a previous case. I felt both of my eyebrows raised in surprise, then my lips pulsed with an irritated smirk.

Why the hell was he here? Then the door opened and closed yet again. My eyes widened.

Interesting… My lover, and colleague from Miami. I felt something wash over me, that little--for lack of a better word--spidey sensation that one gets on a case when your subconscious is screaming the obvious answer to you, but your mind isn't fully processing all the connections yet.

Hell yes, my spidey sense was definitely screaming something was up, and I wasn't going to like it.

Then I heard a female voice, the voice of a coworker…

"It's strange isn't it? I didn't even have a clue until I stumbled across this about a month ago." Her voice was low, almost husky, and yet it contained a note of sarcasm that seemed to underlie most of what ever came out of her mouth.

I only raised an eyebrow, and didn't look back at her. We had worked together enough for her not to get offended by my silence.

She walked to stand behind me, and a little to my left. "Wait for it, they have to exchange the polite niceties that they both need before they begin."

I raised a solitary eyebrow yet again. "Dare I ask what is about to begin?" I responded to her in kind.

She chuckled. She actually chuckled. I remember this incredibly clearly, because while she has been known to laugh, this chuckle was something completely different. It was something I have never heard from her. It actually caused a chill to travel down my spin, not because of her, but because of something she knew--something she was holding annoyingly back.

"Just be glad that you used protection with him."

I glanced at her, and I could feel my eyes widen slightly betraying my shock. I know that they did, because I could literally feel them widen on my face.

"You did use a condom…" She paused, her voice trailing a little, and then she restated as if shocked by my lack of a response. "Prophylactics Sara, you did use them?"

I could feel my mouth tighten, and again I raised my eyebrow as my eyes met hers. "I may have screwed my boss, but I'm not that stupid." My eyes shot back to the room.

I'll call him G, my lover, was already beginning something. I could see that quiet, almost contemplative look that he gets when he's stumbled across some secret connection that none of us has grasped yet on a case. I think it's the only time, even in bed, that I ever seen him show a bit of his soul in his eyes. He nodded at H, the red headed man with him.

The man stood, his arms on the table, as if he was going to say something emphatically. Then he froze. G got up, and walked around him, his eyes raking over his form. Frankly it was the beginnings of some really bad "boy porn." Don't ask how I know this, some things are best left unsaid.

"You've been a bad boy, haven't you?" G told H, in a rather sexy husky voice only emphasizing my previous statement about bad "boy porn". It should have made the heat pool within me, but it didn't. Instead, it caused the biggest case of the willies that I have ever had in my life. The feeling of a million upset and angry butterflies pooled in the pit of my stomach. Yes, I was going to get violently ill--how could I not?

"Oh, it gets better," She leaned over to my ear, and whispered. "The redhead likes it all dom, all rough… VERY rough," She said with a knowledge that only comes from being exposed to all manners of human sexual depravity. I suppose that knowledge started when she began to strip for her income. You simply cannot exist in the world of exotic dance without being exposed to certain aspects of male sexuality.

End of story.

G reached around H, grabbing at his belt. He undid it roughly, the sound of the zipper sounding more like renting fabric. Then he yanked H's pants down, leaving him intimately exposed. Still H did not move from his stance. He stood there, hands glued to the table.

"Are you wearing it?" G asked.

H only replied with one word, "Always." If you had met him, you would know that verbal mannerism so uniquely him. It's in the way he says his words, they almost come out in a rather clipped manner. Yet, they contain this smooth-as-velvet tone. I still haven't placed his accent of origin.

"And the other, the…" G responded. It's almost as if they were reading each others mind, their words quick--in a code they are the only ones that understand.

"Yes," H answered coolly.

G continued to pull down H's pants, and I found myself glued to the sight. Horror, disgust, and a strange fascination washed over me. You know that sense of fascination that you get when you watch something terrible on TV, but your mind won't let you look away? I felt the same damn feeling so many times watching Court TV, when they were reviewed old horrific cases.

No I don't know why the hell I couldn't look away, but honestly, could you?

What I saw that following almost made my gut wretch. H's hard erect cock, stood at attention, wrapped up in leather and chained to what could only be described as a harness that surrounded his pelvis.

Let me be honest with you, I've never seen that damned contraption in my bloody life. I may have played a few games, but they were always tame, a little slap-and-tickle with blindfolds.

Then H turned, and before he went down upon his knees I saw the other item. I knew the hell what that one was, but not because I'd ever used one. I had seen one in a vic, about two months ago. There are simply some things a CSI can't avoid knowing, especially in Las Vegas.

"If I am correct, that's one of the biggest on the market." She again huskily whispered into my ear, her arm coming up to my opposite shoulder. I could feel her right breast pushing into the left side of my back, her breath softly caressed the hairs upon my neck. Chill bumps of pleasure resulted.

I have to admit I shivered in response, but this time not in disgust. I continued to watch the two men's "floor-play".

I don't know how someone could walk with something that large in his ass. I simply don't know. I know men take rather large, well… dumps. However, even I could see his anal sphincter spread so wide I looked like he had a twenty ounce plastic coke bottle shoved up inside of him. You know the kind you can get at the local convenience store, 2 for $2.50.

I wanted to ask her, how she knew that it was the biggest one, but I bit my tongue. Even I know that there are some things that you just shouldn't know about your co-workers. One of those things involves their extensive knowledge of the size of butt-plugs.

H went down on his knees, and proceeded to unzip G's pants. It was easy to surmise that he was about to engage in the sexual act that rhymed with his name.

I looked away, but not before my hypothesis was confirmed by the rhythmic movement of H's head and the counterpoint moans coming from G.

Leather, butt-plugs, oral, at work, between two fucking men. . . Let me tell you, it was almost enough to drive me straight into the arms of the most alpha heterosexual fundamental Christian male that I could possibly find.


You see, at the same time my fellow co-worked had slid her fingers underneath the sleeve of the tank top I was wearing, her fingernails rasping back and forth across my fully aroused nipple.

Why it was aroused at the sight of two men doing the nasty, I'll never know. Let's just leave that little observation for another time. Okay?

My internal muscles, you know those ones that get heavy and swollen deep inside of you when you get aroused, clenched in response to her touch. It wasn't the soft clench of a mild pleasure. They clenched rock hard, with that simple rasping movement.

She moved behind me, her hand still underneath my shirt. She leaned forward her hair brushing my neck, and she kissed me upon the exposed skin. Again, I shivered.

She slid her hand under my bra, just as the sounds in the other room became louder. She bit down upon my shoulder, at the base of the curve of my neck, just as she pinched my nipple hard.

I bit my lip, drawing blood. However, I must point out that I didn't feel any pain.

"You like that don't you?" She asked huskily. Then her hand slid out of my shirt. "You know you're more like him than you know." She nodded towards G, as he seemingly stood there almost stoic-like, receiving the oral H was giving him. H was the one who was making the noise.

I glanced at her in disgust, but before I could deny what we both knew to be true, she continued on. "I'm not saying that you're as emotionless as he is, simply that you don't understand who you really are. You're too damn afraid to look at the possibility that you may not be who you thought." She chuckled softly. She paused for a moment, knowing full well I wouldn't be able to respond to her due to shock. "You're both chicken shit, but at least he's willing to try--even if he's keeping his behavior secret."

I stood there, staring at her. I simply couldn't respond, because I knew what she was saying was true. I don't know who I am. I've defined myself by my work, and my relationship with G for so damned long, that I don't know what I am without him. My whole view of my life had been changed in one bloody moment, and I had yet to assimilate it all.

But you know what? I know down deep that the person I am is something more than the pansy ass I am now. Without a doubt, I've taken the easy road out being with that man. You see, it takes a heck of a lot of work to be a lesbian in a society that hates them as much as those in the United States do.

The only work I've done in finding my true identity is to throw myself after the only man that was available to me, because I was the one so obsessed with work. It was the easy way out, because I could control my connection with him, just like I could control my work.

It was easy to pretend--Too damn easy to pretend…

Oh I'm not saying I could control G. Hell no. What I am saying here is that I let work define my life, and forgot that I'm the one who defines my life--not work.

Maybe I need a daddy… Maybe I need a daddy in women's clothing. My body says that I could most definitely swing that way. Why the hell do you think I'm here spilling my guts to this group?

But am I brave enough to try? My coworker has made it more than clear that she's willing to let me give it a go, strictly for the sake of pleasure, and I have to say that the idea is intriguing. It's so intriguing I took her up on her offer.

However my brain also screams, I've screwed one co-worker, isn't that bloody well enough?

Maybe it's time that I play in a different sandbox?

Thanks for listening.


Hello. My name is Catherine, and I've only recently had the most amazing sensual experience of my life.

It involved the hottest of fem sex, a colleague, and a deserted observation room. Oh yes, I should state that we were observing two other colleagues in the throws of passion--or as close to passion that the two of them bloody well could get.

You would have to know them to understand the depth of that comment. For those of you who don't, let me say the idea of the two of them truly embracing an uncontrollable passionate state borders on the ridiculous.

Normally I don't play with first-timers, you know those heterosexual woman who are entertaining the idea that they may be a lesbian (most only embracing it because of some faddish fascination to 'the lifestyle'). However, as I have known said person for years, been a friend, and knew she wouldn't take it beyond the physical encounter it was. I have to say I didn't have a problem with it.

Good sex, is just that. Good sex. When you’re a single-mom, a career-mom, you really don't have any time for anything that could be considered a 'relationship'. Your relationship is with your child, and it's with your job.

That doesn't mean your body goes frigid the moment you decide that your kid means more to you than having a permanent emotional screw. You have wants, needs, desires--but the funny thing is you really begin to understand that these are driven by the rise and fall of your hormones over the course of the month.

We women go into heat. We definitely have to stop thinking that we should have the same level of sexual desire throughout the entire month, but hey…wait that's a totally different rant, meant for a totally different day.

I'm not fully a lesbian. I have to admit I like men, but I like women as well. For one reason, it's a hell of a lot easier not to have to cater to their egos. Well, at least if you follow some basic rules. For another, if you choose correctly, you can have an emotionally intimate relationship without all the baggage that male/female relationships entail.

I guess both reasons are halves of each other. It's just a lot easier to deal with women. You play, you cuddle, you rant about your day, & then you can go home. There is little guilt about what you should be doing with them. Plus, there is the added benefit that female to female rates of STD transmissions are remarkably low.

Still, I'm a good girl. I use protection. I have too. I have my daughter to think about.

Oh yes, and that hot bloody fem-sex…

Let me take a moment to tell you about it.