TITLE: Cat Scratch Fever AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray EMAIL ADDRESS: publius@avalon.net DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Do not archive at gossamer; I've already sent it there. Anywhere else is fine, so long as my name stays on it and no money changes hands. FEEDBACK ... is the cat's meow! Do it! Ephemeral: *FEEDBACK*publius@avalon.net SPOILER STATEMENT: "Teso dos Bichos". No, I'm not joking. Small ones for "War of the Coprophages" & "Little Green Men". RATING: NC-17 CONTENT STATEMENT: MSR. Smut. PWP. CLASSIFICATION: VRAH SUMMARY: Post-ep for "Teso dos Bichos". Scully's pissed. Smut ensues. THANKS: To Lena, Paulette, Robbie and Shannon. AUTHOR'S NOTE (and a rebuttal): At the end. DISCLAIMER: In my dreams... Cat Scratch Fever by Brandon D. Ray "Be ready." Those are the last words Scully speaks to me as I turn to enter my motel room. Be ready. The phrase sends a tingle of excitement through my system, and already I can feel the blood rushing to my groin as my cock starts to harden. Be ready. I know what she means, of course. I know exactly what she means. And in all honesty I've been expecting those words -- even looking forward to them in a perverse sort of way. My partner started giving me The Look partway through our initial meeting with Dr. Lewton, and before that first day was over it had become clear that this was going to be one of *those* cases. Of course, acknowledging the excitement I feel at hearing her finally confirming it would almost certainly get me in trouble, so I just nod slightly, and open the door and go on inside. A moment later I hear Scully opening the door to her room, and then it closes again. Be ready. My first act is to make sure the connecting door is unlocked. When my partner's in a mood like this she wants quick and easy access, and god help me if I do something -- anything -- to thwart her. Having made sure of that, I then quickly strip off my clothes and climb into the shower. I have no way of knowing how long she'll wait, so I have to make it quick. But I don't dare cut any corners, either, because while my Scully will expect me to be available whenever she decides she's ready, she will also expect me to be clean, and it has quite frankly been one long, sweaty day. I don't even want to think about the case -- I know I'm going to get an earful about it from Scully before the night is over. And so I just blank my mind and try to concentrate on scrubbing. I'm through with my shower in near-record time, and shaving takes only a few minutes longer. Finally I return to the main room and stretch out on the bed. My cock, which by now is fully erect and ready, points straight up at the ceiling, throbbing slightly. And I wait. And wait. This is part of the routine, of course. Scully will keep me waiting until *she* is ready. It might be fifteen minutes; it might be an hour. Or more. Once recently she left me hanging for more than *three* hours, but that was exceptional, and not really fair -- after all, it's not like I actually *did* anything with Dr. Berenbaum. But that's not the way *Scully* saw it, of course .... So I have no way of knowing how long I'll be lying here, and that's the whole point. Because everything tonight will be under *her* control. I vividly remember the first time this happened. It was right after that debacle at the radio telescope down in Puerto Rico. I had pulled one of my usual stunts and gone haring off on a lead, leaving only "an obscure trail of breadcrumbs", as Scully later put it, but nevertheless expecting her somehow to track me down. Which she managed to do, of course; I'd known she would. That's why I did it that way, after all. If Scully were even slightly less intelligent she never would have found me, and my bullet-riddled corpse would at this moment be rotting away in some Carribean jungle. Of course, if Scully were less intelligent I would have found some way to get rid of her that first year .... In any case, Scully *is* intelligent, and she *did* figure out where I'd gone, and she *was* able to drag my sorry ass out of the mess I'd gotten it into. Eventually we made it back to D.C., and I dropped Scully off at her apartment and headed for home -- only to have her show up on my doorstep unannounced a few hours later. "Mulder," she said grimly, "something has got to change." I felt an immediate thrill of fear race through my system. We'd only been lovers for a couple of months at that point, and I lived in constant terror that Scully was going to come to her senses and leave me. I remember thinking that this was it, and that she'd come to tell me it was over. My feelings must have been showing on my face, because Scully gave an exasperated sigh and shook her head. "No, Mulder," she said. "That's not it. I'm not giving up on what we have together." Her features softened, just a bit. "You mean too much to me." The grim look returned. "But there have got to be some changes." She paused, then added, "May I come in?" So we went inside and sat down on my sofa, and Scully started to explain. It was all very logical, of course -- not that this was surprising, since it was Dana Scully doing the explaining. She proceeded to tell me in excruciating detail about how it affected her when I ditched her -- the feelings of anger, and fear, and uncertainty. The grim determination to find me and get me out of whatever silly misadventure I'd gotten myself into. The horrible, sinking sense of, "Oh, God, not again ...." Worst of all, Scully explained, was the loss of control -- the feeling that events were careening onward and that she had no choice but to hang on for dear life. Control was -- and is -- very important to her, and she needed to find some way to reassure herself. Some way to exert a little influence, and power. Over me. Scully went on to say that she knew better than to believe she could get me to stop ditching her -- some habits are just too tough to beat. I remember breathing a sigh of relief at that point, because I had been afraid that a 'no more ditching' ultimatum was exactly what she was leading up to. "But," she added, holding up her hand before I could speak, "there are going to have to be some changes. Of a more personal nature." And so here we are, more than a year later. Most of the time we don't do it like this. Most of the time we're just like an ordinary couple when we make love. Ordinary people who spend most of their waking hours chasing ghosts and mutants and aliens, to be sure -- but an ordinary couple, nonetheless. But every once in awhile I push things just a bit too far, and when that happens Scully lets me know -- as she did tonight -- that she needs to blow off a little steam. And of course, like any loving partner in a long-term relationship, I try to give her what she needs. My attention is drawn back to the present by the sound of the connecting door opening. It's Scully, of course, although I don't dare turn to look at her. I'm supposed to lie here perfectly still, staring at the ceiling and waiting for her instructions. My cock gives another slight twitch at the thought. For several minutes nothing happens. It's quiet in the room -- so quiet that I can hear her breathing, very softly and evenly. She's just standing there in the doorway, looking at me. At least, I assume she's looking at me, and I *know* she hasn't moved, because I would have heard her. It's that quiet in this room. Then I do hear a brief rustling noise, which quickly fades away -- and a few seconds later I hear the TV in the next room come on, and I realize she's going to play with me a bit. And not in the way I want her too. At least, not right away. Shit. My cock pulses a bit in frustration, and my hands tremble, but I keep them firmly at my sides. With the TV playing in the other room, I can no longer be sure of hearing her if she moves back into the doorway -- or even into my room. For all I know she could be standing there again, watching me. Letting her eyes travel up and down my body, thinking about all the things she could do to it. To me. Which, again, is part of the routine. The details may vary from one occurrence to the next, but the basic idea is to make me wait and to keep me off-balance, and let Scully be in control. And so I continue to lie here, keeping as still as I can manage, staring at the blobs of plaster on the ceiling and wondering how much longer it's going to be. "Not bad, Mulder." I can't keep myself from jumping slightly at the sound of her voice, and I hear Scully laugh softly. Good. That means she's probably not too pissed at me, if she's willing for me to hear her laugh like that. Either that, or she's really, really mad, and the laugh is her way of letting me know that I'm in for one hell of a ride tonight. But I don't really believe that, and after just a moment I dismiss the thought. Scully doesn't say anything further, but she's still here, and apparently standing close enough to the bed that I can hear her breathing again, even over the distant babble of the television in her room. She's just standing there, probably almost within arm's reach, presumably looking at me. My cock throbs some more. More time passes. Suddenly I see a flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye, and then I hear what must be furniture being moved. A chair? Yeah, that must be it -- Scully got tired of standing, and rather than sit down on the bed, she's dragged over one of the chairs. Great. So we're not done with the waiting part yet. Oh well. I can cope. Because I know where all this will eventually lead. "Mulder," she says suddenly -- and again I jump slightly at the sound of her voice, "as I'm sure you've figured out by now, I am not pleased." Yeah, I have figured that out; I think I even know some of the reasons why. But another of the rules of this game is that I am not to speak unless she asks me a direct question. So I remain silent. "I am not pleased at all, Mulder," she continues after a moment. Her voice is calm and reserved, and very, very Scully. "Not only did you drag me off to Boston on essentially no notice ... not only did you try to turn a simple homicide investigation into a search for a jaguar spirit ... not only did you get me involved in a case where I had to help you pull a man's intestines down out of a tree ...." She pauses to catch her breath, giving me my first clue that she's actually getting worked up, her anger finally finding its outlet -- and I am unsurprised to find myself becoming even more aroused at this realization. This is a perversity within myself which I've been forced to come to terms with since I've been with Scully -- the fact that I get turned on when she's angry with me. Of course, part of that is simply a conditioned response, as I am well aware that very soon her anger will transform itself, mutating into a very different sort of passion. But another part of it is something deeper ... a part of my psyche that I'd really rather not examine too closely. Fortunately, Scully doesn't seem inclined to leave me much time for self-reflection. "You led me down into a steam tunnel, Mulder," she says. "A steam tunnel. In one of my favorite suits, I might add, which is now completely ruined. You made me follow a rat, through a filthy, cobwebby steam tunnel, and when we finally *did* find Dr. Lewton's body, do you remember what happened then, Mulder?" She pauses, which gives me the signal that a response is expected. "You were attacked," I say, trying to keep my voice on the same calm, professional level she is using. Never mind that I'm lying here stark naked, with one of the more impressive erections of my life sticking up in the air like a flagpole. If Scully wants to debrief the case, we debrief the case. "And by what was I attacked, Agent Mulder?" Her voice is still calm and steady. "A cat," I respond. "A cat." She pauses, as if she's turning the word over in her mind. "What sort of a cat? Was it a big cat? A spirit jaguar, perhaps?" I lick my lips, and say, "No. It was a ... a housecat. Orange tabby. I pulled it off you." "Mulder! If I want elaborations from you, I'll ask for them." She pauses, but I know better than to respond to that. Even an apology for the previous transgression would just get me in more hot water. And after a moment, she continues. "Have you looked at my face since that incident, Agent Mulder? Really looked at it?" I know what she's talking about, of course -- the scratches. I know this isn't really a major issue -- Scully just isn't vain. But the purpose of this game is to give her a chance to vent, and blow off some steam about all the little things that I've done -- or that she perceives I've done -- that have annoyed her. So I just swallow and nod. "You have a very lovely face, Agent Scully," I reply. "Not as lovely as it was 24 hours ago," she says flatly. "Fortunately -- for you -- these scratches appear to be superficial, so in a few days -- a week at the most -- I will be back to normal. None of which makes up for it having been allowed to happen in the first place." She pauses for a moment -- and when she resumes speaking I can almost *hear* her ticking off points on her fingers. And with each point she makes, my cock gets just a little harder, and more eager. "So let's sum up, shall we?" she says. "We've established that you have dragged me off on yet another case where our services were not really needed. Not only is there no X-File here, but the Bureau has no jurisdiction over simple homicide -- even homicides committed by orange tabby cats." I could argue that point, of course. I could point out that the investigation *did* involve the possible illegal importation of foreign cultural artifacts, and a case could be made that this created federal jurisdiction. But that argument will take place later, when we're writing our report. We're not actually trying to settle any of these issues right now, and Scully has never held me responsible for anything related to a case which was said during one of these sessions. So I hold my peace. "Having dragged me away from my home," she continues, "you then attempted through a bizarre confabulation to turn the aforementioned simple homicide into an X-File, by spinning some wild theory about a cursed urn and a jaguar spirit." Once more, there are things I could argue about in that summation -- but again, that's not the point. I remain silent. "Finally," my partner concludes -- and by this point it's all I can do to remain lying still and calm on the bed as her voice flows around me and into me, stoking my arousal and taking up residence in my groin. "To prove this theory you soon had me climbing trees in pursuit of human intestines, performing autopsies on said intestines in hopes of finding out what the victim had for lunch, crawling down into steam tunnels, following rats, and being clawed at *not* by the aforementioned jaguar spirit, but by an overfed stray cat. "So, Agent Mulder --" and her voice drops into a lower register, and I shiver "-- I'd say we have a few issues to work through. Fortunately, we seem to have plenty of time." She falls silent again, and I know that now she wants me to think she's considering how to begin. But I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, and I know Dana Katherine Scully very well indeed -- and she never does *anything* without a plan. Especially something like this. "Okay, Mulder," she says at last. "Let's start off nice and easy. I want to see you flex a couple times." In other situations it might be unclear to me just which muscle she was referring to, but the current situation doesn't really leave much room for misinterpretation. And so I do as I'm told. Twice. "That was very nice, Mulder," she says after a brief pause -- a pause which I'd like to think was taken up by recovery time, but I know I can't count on that. Not this early in the evening, at any rate. Later, maybe, after the game has degenerated a bit -- "Touch yourself, Mulder," she says abruptly, and I suppress a sigh of gratitude. Of course, I would greatly prefer that it was *her* hand rather than my own, but at this point I'll take what I can get. I reach for my cock -- only to be stopped when she speaks again. "One finger only, Agent Mulder." One finger. Shit. Well, at least I can make the most of what little she's allowing me to do. Despite the fact that my gaze is still fixed on the ceiling, I am profoundly aware of her eyes on me as I bring the tip of my right forefinger to rest on the underside of my erection. I pause for just a moment, wanting to make sure she isn't going to stop me again, and then I slowly and deliberately draw my finger up the length of my cock to the very tip. Jesus, that felt good. Scully must have liked it, too, because I hear a small throat clearing sound from her, and then she says, "Do it again." I suppress the urge to respond verbally, and simply follow her instructions. This time, knowing that it's affecting her almost as much as it's affecting me, I move my finger even more slowly, and give what I hope is an artistic little flick when I reach the tip of my cock, making it wave back and forth slightly as I return my hand to my side. And I wait for further instructions. Again I hear the throat-clearing noise; then Scully says, her voice not quite as smooth and even as it has been up until now, "Let's try that one again, Mulder. But this time, cup your testicles in your other hand." Anything for a regular customer, I always say. I reach around with my left hand and gently hold my balls as instructed, allowing my fingers to lightly caress them in the process, and then I once more slide my finger tip up the length of my cock. God. That still feels really good. Even better than the first two times. With nothing else touching me anywhere, the sensation in the small area where I *am* allowed contact is of course greatly enhanced. A few more strokes like this and I just might go over the edge .... Which, of course, is not part of Scully's plan. Not yet, anyway. "Okay, Mulder, one more time and that's enough," she says judiciously. "But this time I want you to look at me while you're doing it." Oh, Jesus. I don't know if I'm up to this. It's bad enough lying here naked, touching myself, knowing that Scully's watching. But Christ knows what she's wearing -- if she's wearing anything at all. And if *I* have to look at *her* I might just lose it --- "Mulder!" Her voice is sharper, and I realize that I must have used up whatever leeway she's allowing me tonight. So I swallow, hard, and turn my head just enough to see her. Oh my God. I was sufficiently focused on my own arousal that I hadn't given it much thought, but to the extent that I did consider it I had expected her to be as naked as I am -- or at least to be dressed for sex, so to speak. But she's not. She is in fact fully clothed, in one of her best business suits -- the beige one which she knows full well is my favorite. And now I'm suddenly remembering all the times I told her, half-jokingly, how much she turns me on when she's in work clothes. The operative word in that sentence being *half*-jokingly. And now there she is, sitting in one of the motel room chairs, looking as if she's ready for a staff meeting: knees together, hands folded carefully in her lap, a sober expression on her face. From the faint smile which briefly passes across her lips, I know that she's thinking about pretty much the same things I am. Then the smile is gone and her face is completely serious as she nods sharply in the direction of my crotch. This time I decide to push the envelope a bit, so when my hand reaches my erection I allow all of my fingers to grip it loosely. Scully glances up at me briefly and raises an eyebrow, but then returns her gaze to my cock as I begin to slide my hand slowly up its length again. The tip of her tongue emerges and takes a quick swipe across her lips as I reach the end, and I pause, waiting. Scully sits perfectly still for a moment, apparently thinking about something, which causes me to suspect that her original plan may be undergoing revision. Finally she nods. "You can keep doing that for a little bit," she decides. "Slowly." Naturally, I obey ... and as my hand recommences its slow up and down movement she unclasps her own hands. For just a second I think maybe she's going to help me ... but then she pushes her skirt up around her thighs with one hand, and slides the other one up between her legs. Christ. I know just exactly when she finds her center, because she gasps slightly, and bites down on her lower lip. Her eyes are still locked on my erection, and I continue touching it, caressing it, stroking it. I feel the orgasm starting to build inside me, right down at the root of my cock, and I know I can't continue much longer. But she hasn't given me permission to stop, and her own hand, the one underneath her skirt, is also moving faster than before. My breathing is starting to come in shorter and shorter gasps, and so is hers -- Abruptly, without a word, Scully pulls that hand out from under her skirt and reaches over and grabs my wrist. I get the message, and immediately -- although not without some regret -- let go of my cock. Wondering what's going to happen next. Scully doesn't leave me in doubt for long. She lets go of my wrist and arches her eyebrow again, gets up out of her chair and kicks off her shoes. Then, at long, long last, she climbs onto the bed and straddles me. Not across my hips, of course; that would be too easy. No, she straddles my chest, instead, and there I am, buck naked, with fully clothed Scully poised over me, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders and her face an inscrutable mask. "Mulder," she says suddenly, "where are your glasses?" "My glasses?" I'll admit it -- she surprised me with that one. There are a lot of things it had occurred to me she might say, but asking about my glasses is not among them. Still, a question's a question. I shrug as best I can, given the circumstances, and say, "On the night stand." She nods slightly, and reaches over and snags them off the little table. She holds them up to the light, very briefly, and makes a tsking sound, apparently at their lack of cleanliness. Then she opens them up and bends over slightly to slide them onto my face. Okay, from the expression on her face as she sits back up and admires her handiwork, I guess I know why we did that. I can't begin to explain the connection, but it's obvious that Scully finds the sight of me wearing my glasses an arousing one. I tuck that fact away in the back of my mind for future use -- just as she straightens up on her knees and starts moving up my body. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what's coming next, and even before she lifts her skirt and drops it back down over my head, I've realized that she must not be wearing any panties, and that the nylons she has on must be stockings rather than pantyhose. I suppose I should probably have deduced this sooner, but I was somewhat distracted .... I also know from direct experience that she occasionally dresses like that under her business clothes, but for some reason the possibility hadn't even crossed my mind tonight. And I'm right on both counts, as I discover to my delight as she carefully settles down on my face, somehow managing to avoid crushing my glasses -- not that I would care very much at this point if she did -- and allowing her curls to brush lightly against my lips -- And she stops. And now I face a dilemma. According to the rules of this game, I'm not supposed to do *anything* without being told -- and Scully hasn't said a word since she put my glasses on my face. On the one hand, if she were to lower herself the last fraction of an inch, so that her, well, her self was actually touching my mouth, I think my mission would be clear. But she hasn't taken that last step, and it's entirely possible that this is still another tease, both of her and of me. And if I'm supposed to hold back, I will, despite the fact that the wonderful scent of her arousal is almost overpowering in this rather confined space between her thighs. And then Scully settles the question by closing the final gap. Immediately I go to work, slipping my tongue between her outer lips and exporing her delicate folds. I feel her body shudder as I find the tight little bundle of nerves and give it one light swipe before moving lower down. And Scully's hips begin to gyrate. Slowly. I'd actually almost forgotten about my own hands, both of which are now lying idle at my sides. I'm sorely tempted to reach up and grab onto Scully's hips -- the way she's moving her pelvis is definitely erotic, but it's making it a little hard to accomplish the task she's set for me. On the other hand, we come back to the issue of the rules. I haven't been *told* to use my hands, and so I really shouldn't. Even if they are starting to twitch in time to the pulsing of my poor cock as I strain to keep them still. Scully's hips are really starting to move now, and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to keep my lips and tongue anyplace where they'll do her any good. I can hear her gasping every time I do manage to make contact, and there's the occasional groan as well when I hit a particularly sensitive spot .... And then suddenly she's climbing off of me. Damn, but that woman has control. Actually, I realize, as the light hits my eyes once again, she isn't so much climbing off; she's relocating. Before I can really process what's going on, something warm and tight and very, very wet is sliding down over my cock, and I can't keep myself from arching my hips up to meet her downward thrust. "Mulder!" Her cry of pleasure at the sensation, mingled with outrage at my disobedience, fills my ears and goes straight to my groin. And even though some small scrap of my self-awareness remembers that I'm supposed to be submissive, I find my hands grabbing onto her hips at last, and then I'm pounding up into her, over and over and over. Somehow I don't think Scully minds, though. Not only is she slamming down onto me just as hard, but she's chanting my name, over and over and over. I can feel the urgency in my groin building, and from the way Scully's gripping my shoulders again, her nails clawing at my flesh, I know that she feels it, too. I realize that my eyes have drifted shut, and now I force them open again. I want to see this moment; I want to see the expression on Scully's face when she comes. My glasses are slightly askew from the earlier activity, so it takes my eyes a few seconds to focus .... And oh my god. This has got to be the most intensely erotic thing I have ever seen in my life: Dana Scully, fully clothed, her head thrown back and her eyes closed, her face twisted in passion as she rides my cock. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. This is not going to last much longer at all --- 'MULDER!" And abruptly I feel her core contracting around me, and her hips convulse as she sobs my name. I give two more good hard thrusts, and then I'm coming with her, emptying myself, losing myself, and we're flying apart, and we're coming together .... Some unmeasured time later I find myself again. I don't think I actually lost consciousness, but there is a blankish area in my memory. I stir slightly, and realize there's a weight lying on top of me -- Scully. I open my eyes. Scully is lying on top of me, still fully clothed, of course, staring down at me blearily. "You moved," she mutters accusingly. "I didn't tell you it was okay to move." I can't keep myself from chuckling. "Sorry, Scully," I say. "But you didn't seem to mind at the time." She appears to ponder that for a moment. Finally she says, very soberly, "Okay. I guess I forgive you." Suddenly her face lights up with a thousand watt smile. "But only because that may very well have been the most intense orgasm of my life." She leans down and kisses me softly on the mouth, and purrs, "Think you can do it again?" Fini AUTHOR'S NOTE (and a rebuttal): THE BLAME GAME: The fault for this story lies with Lena Quinn. This past weekend we were on AIM chatting, and she was angsting about over the dearth of good, new smut to be read. Being as how I can never resist a challenge, I volunteered to write one for her. Then, as luck would have it, "Teso dos Bichos" started showing on X2, and Lena, not being one to miss an opportunity to angst, started focusing on *that*. And before I knew it, I had promised not just to write a smutbiskit for my good friend Lena, but to write one that was also a post-ep for the killer kitties episode. And ... here it is. And, naturally enough, I am an empty vessel, and this is entirely *Lena's* fault. Mrrrow! LENA RESPONDS: This is not my fault at all. I can't repeat that enough... this is not my fault at all. "Empty vessel", my ass. -M.E. Quinn