Ashleigh Anpilova


If Gibbs's office could talk, it would have some intriguing stories to tell.

A first time story.

May 2007. Word count: 1,000.



If the elevator could talk it'd certain have some tales to tell.


For a start, people'd know that Tobias and I don't hate one another. Instead we're good friends. It'd also get us into deep trouble with our respective Directors; there's no point telling them everything we do, is there?


But the best, the most damning, story it could tell is about what happened this morning.


I was sitting at my desk trying to figure out, not for the first time, whether DiNozzo knew what a comma was, when Ducky appeared in front of me. Nothing unusual there. For some reason if he needs to see me, he'll usually tracks me down physically, rather than calling me. Never asked him why he does that, he knows I've always got my cell with me, I just accept it as one of the idiosyncrasies that makes him Ducky. If I'm honest, I like it; always enjoy seeing Duck.


He said he needed to see me in my office, which surprised me a bit. We hadn't got any sensitive issues to discuss that I knew about. I did wonder if he'd discovered who owned the leopard print bra he found in the drawer in Autopsy.


Whatever his reason, I followed him quite happily.


The doors closed, the elevator started to move downwards, and after a second or two, Ducky pressed the emergency stop button. All normal enough. Something that had happened before.


What happened next though was neither normal, nor had it happened before.


One minute I was looking at him, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted to tell me. The next . . .


The next I was in his arms being kissed by him. And not just a quick brush of lips type of kiss, but a real kiss.


Two thoughts raced through my mind at the same time:


One - what the hell's he doing?


Two - God, he can kiss.


And he could. Even hours later I can still feel his lips on mine, soft, firm, subtle, yielding, gentle, demanding, loving, enticing.


My arms had automatically gone around him when he put his around me. It's not the first time we'd hugged, not by a long way. And we've never observed the apparent 'rules' that apply to two men embracing. So I was used to feeling every part of Ducky's body against mine, and I mean every part. But I'd never felt what I felt as he pressed even closer to me: his arousal. It was firm against my leg, and I felt it become firmer.


I don't know how long I let him kiss me, let him press against me, move against me, before I parted my own lips and began to kiss him back.


Before I touched his lips with my tongue and felt them part for me.


Before his arousal wasn't the only one.


Before I knew that if I went on kissing him, and God did I want to do so, that one or both of us would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Me more than him, because where Duck was wearing a dark blue suit, my trousers were light brown. My shorts were already damp as I forced myself to break the kiss.


I'd never thought about kissing Ducky, of touching him in a sexual way; but now I could think of nothing else. My body didn't seem to be able to either. I wanted him; I wanted him then and there. I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted anyone in my life. And from the look in his eyes, I wasn't the only one feeling that way.


I pulled back from the kiss and his arms and looked down at him. His face was flushed, his eyes had turned a mid-blue, his lips were swollen, his hair a mess, and his bowtie was skewed. As I looked down at him, I watched his gaze drift down my body, before coming to rest just below my waist. When he looked back up at me, his face told me just how inordinately pleased he was with himself. He ran the tip of his tongue around his lips and I groaned, and my body tingled.


I expected him to say something. Not sure what, but something. But he didn't, he just turned away from me and pressed the emergency button again, restarting the elevator, and calmly buttoned up his jacket.


The car reached its destination and pinged as it opened, and still in calm silence he walked out. Walked out and left me just standing there staring after him, my body still throbbing with need and desire, my mouth wanting to taste him again, my mind whirring.


As the door shut behind him, and the elevator began to go upwards again, I was forced to pull my own jacket around me and take several deep breathes, in an attempt to get myself back under control.


Why now?


Why after thirty-two years had he kissed me?


What did it mean?


What did I want it to mean?


What was I going to do?


One thing I wasn't going to do was to give into the almost overwhelming urge to go to the head and jerk off. Suddenly the prospect of my own hand wasn't good enough. No. He'd started this; he could finish it.


Another thing I wasn't going to do was to let myself imagine his hands on me, his lips on mine, his naked body next to mine, in my bed. I didn't dare. Because if he could make love as well as he could kiss, then . . .


I haven't been able to do much all day, thank God it's been quiet, except think about the end of the day and getting him to my house and into my bed.


God I want him.


I don't care why now.


I don't care why after thirty-two years he kissed me.


I think I know what it meant.


I know what I want it to mean.


And I know exactly what I'm going to do about it.


Going to call him in a minute. Tell him there's something I forgot to tell him this morning. Invite him to meet me again in my office.


This time I'll press the emergency stop button.


I'll take him into my arms.


I'll kiss him.


I'll press against him; move against him.


Then I'll take him home with me to my house and to my bed. Let him finish what he started, and start a few things of my own. Things that won't be finished in one night.



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