A/N: I knew you couldn't stay away. Dirty, naughty monkeys. This one looks at trust, darker urges and willingness to explore. I think these two could definitely have some dark streaks in them, with someone they trusted. Dedicated to Starfire, who sees dark urges everywhere. If I owned the Mentalist, these people would never make it to work.

The Apple Trap

She asked him while she was riding him like a stallion. She asked him when she knew he'd be writhing in pleasure and couldn't summon the ability to evade her question. She asked, knowing that when she got him this close to the brink, he could never, ever lie.

Not that he'd normally lie to her, but she couldn't risk him being a gentleman about it.

So, gasping for air and screaming with ecstasy, he answered her.

She squeezed him with her yoga-toned muscles and whispered, "Have you thought about it?"

He felt his cock wrung impossibly hard and he spasmed helplessly underneath her. "Yes."

She reached behind their joined bodies and grasped his balls firmly in her fist. "Before we got together?"

"Yes," he rasped, his entire body begging for relief as she manhandled him.

"After?" She rotated one leg forward to settle completely across his chest and over his shoulder, the other leg stretched backward in the opposite direction until she was in the splits position. Her inner walls crushed together tightly. His thick presence suffered the mind-blowing consequences of being in the way.

"Yes!" He was too far gone to blush. His entire being was currently straining upwards, a willing hostage in a restraint that squeezed him with no mercy.

She immediately repaid his honesty with the rare and erotic ability few women were capable of. She gripped her pussy like a fist and dragged out his orgasm against his will. Her yoga made it possible. Her raging desire made it absolutely delicious. Rigsby's eyes shot open. A level of ecstasy he didn't know existed slammed into him. He screamed like a man who'd been shot in both knees as pleasure rocketed through his shaft and adrenaline nearly flatlined his heart. His rigid muscles nearly tore through his skin as he pounded upwards. His biochemistry rewarded his achievement of a perfect sexual experience and dumped a gallon of dopamine into his bloodstream. His scream was cut off as his desperate lungs pulled air. As he gasped and panted, Grace watched with stunned amazement.

It was a gorgeous sight.

The sweating, semi-conscious, trembling man beneath her panted her name like there was no other utterance on earth worth speaking. When he finally lifted his hazed and unfocused eyes to hers, he could only blink.

"Am I in trouble?" he croaked.

She knew what he meant. He had admitted to something under duress and wanted to know if his admission upset her. Oh, if only he knew what that little piece of information made her feel. She pulled out of her split pose and settled her knees on either side of his hips.

"Did you think it would upset me?" She squeezed his softening penis gently inside of her, chiding him with her tone and her body.

He cringed with pleasured overstimulation and smiled sheepishly. "I wasn't sure. I would never have mentioned it, baby. I respect you. It's just a guy thing, I don't expect it or need it."

"But you want it," she didn't phrase it as a question.

He backhanded his eyes, wiping sweat from his brow and shielding his embarrassment.

"No hiding, Wayne," she teased softly, pulling his hand away and smiling softly down at him. "You want it."

Bracing himself, he answered. "Sometimes. Yes."

He scrunched his face and shut his eyes in melodramatic expectation of getting an earful. After all, it was a tall order. A tall, scandalizing, porn-worthy order. He never in a million years would have broached the subject. It had never even been on his wish list. He'd never shoot the moon like that. Nope, it was just an animalistic impulse that struck him on occasion. There was no thought behind it, no elaborate fantasy or plan of execution. No more brains to it than a Polariod camera stuck on autofire. Blinding, cheap, grainy images flashing through his head faster than he could stop them, their erotic contents littering the floor of his skull. But it was okay. That was the one place Grace would never find them. He might not be able to dump these mental pictures like he had his meager porn collection once he and Grace started dating, but luckily there was no real need. She couldn't see them.

She'd never know.

Unless of course, she tortured him about their existence by caging his hips between her stunning legs and clamping his rigid dick in a velvet snare. Unless she whipped his loins into a frenzy and scrambled his brains like eggs. Yeah, if she found those rather obvious weaknesses, she could get anything she wanted, right down to what triggered the images and sketches of what they looked like.

Oh, to be sussed out so easily. Embarrassing, really.

He had read somewhere that the easiest way to catch a monkey was to put an apple in a longneck jar. The monkey reaches in and grabs it, but his fisted hand can't pass through the neck. Wanting the apple more than his freedom, that poor, sad creature will grip that prize to the bitter end, even when the captor walks right over and scoops him up.

Apple or freedom.

Erotically tormented by Grace or…not. The poor, sad man's choice is clear.

Just call him a monkey's uncle.

Perhaps he should have taken those Interrogation Resistance training courses at the academy back when he was a cadet. Courses that explained how to fight a torturer who had you by the balls. Literally or otherwise. At the time, he'd stupidly assumed that there was no physical extreme, no method of coercion, no bodily impairment that could break him.

Like an idiot, he'd never asked himself what he'd do if his torturer threatened to stop touching him if he didn't pony up his intel. Just like he'd never considered a scenario where his captor had him by the balls, and he was begging for more. He'd been positive that he could fight the effects of sodium pentathol as well as the next guy, but he had never even heard of Grace Van Pelt or the havoc that particular drug would wreak on his resolve.

He'd been an idiot. Thank God he'd never been caught or worked over by anyone. If an Iowa farm girl could destroy him, a half-assed criminal would only have to show him pictures of her and he'd crash quicker than a box kite on a windless day.

He suddenly felt a fingertip on his nose. He opened his eyes.


His eyes followed the line of that dainty finger, to its hand, up to the lovely oval face hovering above his chest. "Okay what?"

She smiled knowingly. "Okay. Let's do it."

"What?" He swallowed. It suddenly felt like a Buick was caught in his throat.

Her smile deepened and went decidedly wicked. "Tomorrow night. I want us to try it."

"Baby, I was serious. I don't expect you to—,"

"I know," she interrupted. "This is something I want. With you." She dipped her chin and looked at him with a little girl's hope. "Please?"

Rigsby groaned deep in his throat and wrapped his arms around his captor. Her finger slid down his nose to his cheek where it danced lightly over his skin.

"Please," she repeated softly.

His mental Polariod was shooting off again, the image quality much sharper and clearer than usual. He dreaded and embraced the idea of those pictures becoming memories.

Despite his recent orgasm, he shuddered with desire.

"Tomorrow night," he agreed huskily. "I promise I'll be careful."