“Now I believe I can hear the philosophers protesting that it can only be misery to live in folly, illusion, deception and ignorance, but it isn't -it's human.” - Desiderius Erasmus
Penelope Garcia was a good friend.
She put her hand gently on the small of Spencer’s back, offering him a kind smile when he looked at her sadly. He looked away and continued to unbutton his shirt, pushed it away from his shoulders. Garcia took it from him as he moved to his belt and eventually his trousers.
She didn’t ask him if he was sure; she knew he was. They had planned it for a week, and Reid had become increasingly desperate for it.
Naked, Reid stood awkwardly. Penelope held out a small packet of lubricant to him, and he looked at her inquisitively.
“It’ll make it easier if you’re ready.” She said kindly. He nodded, taking it from her. She touched his elbow gently, before she spoke again.
Reid nodded. Calmly Garcia left Reid’s bedroom, turning the light off as she went, leaving the naked man bathed in streetlights creeping in through between the blinds on the window.
In the living room Penelope got undressed, only to redress in something that was not her in any shape or form. A harness, a pair of men’s boxer shorts, and a pair of jeans over them. She hardly ever wore jeans. She hardly ever wore trousers.
Her ample chest was already bound – she had done that at her own home. It didn’t hide her chest, but it reduced it. It would work with the darkness to be an illusion. Over the bindings, a blue tee-shirt. A heavy men’s watch on her wrist, no other jewellery.
She pulled her hair back into a tight bun at the back of her skull, away from her face. She removed her makeup. She clipped her nails away as short as was possible, filed the sharp edges down.
She slipped her feet into heavy boots, the jeans tucked into them and laced up. She tucked the shirt into the waistband and slipped the belt through, shifted the heavy buckle.
A spray of heady cologne. Two small packets in the back pocket of the jeans, and a small recording device.
She let her feet fall heavily as she walked back to Reid’s bedroom, gave the door a small kick to open it. The orange light from outside highlighted Reid on the bed on his knees, head resting on his arms. He didn’t look around, but she could hear his heavy breathing.
She had essentially done the same thing as Reid was about to do. Her method had been several men; the guy from counter-terrorism, the friend in her theatre group, a stranger at a bar. She understood Reid better than anyone at that moment; it was not to do with his intellect, or his history, or his neuro-non-typicality. It was to do with emotions. They were identical, if two years apart. Penelope had the advantage of experience, which allowed her to help her friend. It would be better for him than it had for her.
Penelope took several heavy steps towards the bed, and listened to Spencer’s anticipation shudder out on a breath.
She raised the small recording device in front of her mouth, prepared herself, and pressed a small button.
“You ready for me, kid?”
Morgan’s voice dripped out of the recorder, clear as if he was in the room. Reid’s breath hitched and Penelope watched as his hips shifted.
She was proud of eliciting that from him; of course it was Morgan’s voice his brain and body was reacting to, but her ingenuity had enabled it. Several small recording devices, time around Derek Morgan, and some advanced sound editing software had enabled her to splice together a lot of thing, considering how little stock material she’d been able to gather. Key phrases she’d have liked were never said, and she’d had to be clever. Her software and skill mixed together made the voice smooth, inflections on words matching, tone not shifting mid-sentence.
She pressed another button.
“I want you.”
She lowered her hands and slowly pulled down the zipper on the jeans. She stepped forward, letting the denim brush against Reid’s calves. The phallic shape of silicone attached to the harness she was wearing pushed forward against the waistband of the boxer shorts once the fly of the jeans was undone, and as she slipped it through the button-fly of the underwear she scraped her eyes along Reid’s exposed skin; he was ready, and he was stroking his cock below himself.
Out of the back pocket she pulled out the condom and tore the packet open, listening to Reid acknowledge it with a small sound. The second packet was full of lube and she applied that to the faux-cock sticking out from her crotch.
She splayed her hand was wide as she could against one of the cheeks of Reid’s rear, pressed her now short nails against his skin and he moaned, evidently convinced enough by the lack of long nails to fool himself that it could be Morgan’s hand. She pressed down, making him set his knees wider and lowering his rear.
She lined up the tip of the dildo with Reid’s entrance, pressed down below the head with her thumb and pushed forward with her hips, forcing the tip into him. Reid gasped. Anchored in him, Garcia brought her hand up close to her mouth again and pressed another button.
“Open up for me, Reid...” Morgan’s voice hushed.
Reid pushed back against the intrusion, helping to impale himself. Garcia put the recorder between her teeth and held it firmly, freeing up her hands to grab Reid’s hips and give her leverage as she began to thrust the cock in and out of Reid’s body.
The heavy watch on Penelope’s wrist pressed into the skin of Spencer’s rear repeatedly. She didn’t know if that was uncomfortable, but she didn’t try to stop it; she knew he needed it. It helped to make it seem almost real.
She kept quiet. She didn’t want to break the illusion for him, even though the harness and motion and situation were inevitably stimulating her.
After a while of panting and pushing back, Reid let go. He let the moans fall thick and fast from his lips.
“Morgan...” he moaned. “Morgan... yes... please...”
Penelope moved faster.
“Yes! Morgan! Morgan...” he name fell like sweet butter from Reid’s lips, desperate and wanton and utterly lost to the illusion through the dark.
Garcia spared a hand from Reid’s waist to take the recorder out of her mouth; she held it up to the light coming in from the window to make sure she had to right button, and pressed it.
“C’mon...” Morgan’s voice urged. Another button. “Yes...” Another. “That’s it. That’s it.”
“Oh god...” Reid moaned, and Garcia could see him gripping the sheets in both hands as he shoved his hips back again and again against her – Morgan’s – motion. “Derek! Please... Derek...”
Penelope prepared her hand on the recorder, pushed her lips together firmly and thrust harder, deeper, filling the thrashing genius.
“Morgan... I love you...” he groaned, then cried out and Garcia knew he was climaxing hard. She hit several buttons in fluid succession.
“Yes! C’mon kid. Oh god! Yeeeah... damn, Reid.”
She kept thrusting, mimicking male orgasm, short erratic thrusts with her hips.
Reid’s hips slowed. His breathed evened out. He didn’t move. Garcia stroked her hands soothingly over the man’s hips and rear, let the cold metal of the watch touch him again to remind him whose hands they were meant to be.
“Morgan...” he breathed.
She pulled back carefully, took two steps back from the bed, watched Reid still quivering.
One more time she pressed a button the recording device.
Reid slumped on the bed. He made no attempt to move from where he fell.
She smiled sadly into the dark.
She left calmly but quickly, managing to get the harness of before she left Reid’s apartment, shoving it into her bag as she went.
He’d be able to move on now. He’d been given one time he never dreamt of having. The tech would never mention what had happened, never question that it wasn’t real.
Penelope Garcia was a good friend.
“The art of pleasing is the art of deception.” - Marquis De Vauvenargues