Title: The Distaff Fantasy Author: Brenda Antrim. Feedback: bantrim@earthlink.net Rated: NC17 Disclaimer: Characters used with love but no permission from CC and company. Summary: A follow-on with permission from Ursula (XF Lilbear) to her excellent "Fantasies" . ********************* It had been a long, dreary week, filled with too much paperwork and too little excitement. He felt old, and tired, and anxious to get home to his wife. Especially now. He'd come back to the office from an interminable meeting with the AD, just wanting this day to be over with, to find it waiting on the seat of his chair. An innocuous little rectangle wrapped in plain brown paper, recognizable at a glance from his pre-marriage vast experience with porn videos. But he had destroyed them when she became his. The truth now was so much more fulfilling than the celluloid fantasy he had tried to content himself with before he had given himself to her. This could only mean one thing. Turnabout time. She wasn't in the office, and he knew he wouldn't see her again until the timing was perfect. Just a few short weeks ago she had trusted him with a truth about herself, a precious performance that illuminated the depth of her love for him. Without words, with a tender regard for his insecurities and an amazing ability to reveal herself, she had shown him what her life had been like before him. She had pleasured herself, and shown him in the pleasuring that it was a mingling of desire for her hands to be his and an emptiness that only he could fill. He had found it reassuring, and loving, and incredibly arousing, and she had done it on the condition that one day he would do the same for her. The day was here. He didn't know whether to be terrified or aroused to the point of paralysis. Maybe a bit of both. He picked up the box, his mind a jumble, and stared at it for a long moment. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curled up, but his eyes remained serious. She had trusted him. He would do no less. With a sudden, decisive gesture, he snagged his trenchcoat from the rack and flicked off the lights. The rest of the paperwork could wait. He had an appointment. With Scully, and the final collation of past with present. ****************************** He knew when he opened the door to their apartment that she was there. He could sense her, had been able to feel her presence since the first time they had met. But he didn't see her, and he decided to go with the game plan he had settled on during the short ride home. Just another day. Pre-marriage. Pre-Dr. Mrs. Dana Katherine Mulder-Scully. Pre-happiness. He stopped in the doorway, slowly shutting it and leaning against it, letting his coat slip from his hand into an untidy heap on the floor. As the material slid through his fingers, his mind slipped back in time. His eyes focused on the comfortable, slightly ratty couch that had been one of his few additions to their combined furnishings. The fishtank had been the other. He toed off his shoes and tugged on his tie, creating a small trail of clothing as he wandered somewhat aimlessly past the fish. He shrugged out of his jacket, settling it over the back of the armchair that in his mind's eye had become the small set of shelves in his old apartment. Running one hand through his hair, lightly slapping the paper-wrapped video against his thigh with the other, he settled gracefully against the side of the cushions. Staring into the quiet room, he was vaguely surprised at how easy it was to return to a time he hoped never to see again. Then the thought disappeared, and he let it go, determined to do this right, for her. *********************************** Too long a day, not nearly enough time with his partner. God. His partner. How on earth was he going to be able to pull this off? They'd been working together, what, four years? They'd gone through so much together. He was closer to her mother than his own. Her godson called him Uncle Moldy. They were the best of friends. And every time he saw her he wanted to touch her, taste her, feel her heat, dance his fingertips along the satin of her skin, feel those firm, full lips open under his mouth-- the crinkling of paper brought him back to himself, and he looked at the package in his hand with a snort of derision. He'd gotten a bit carried away there ... he'd ripped the wrapping open with his clenching fingers. Shrugging, laughing a little bitterly to himself, he unwrapped the video. "Hmm, well, it ain't real, but it'll do. Doesn't it always?" His wry whisper barely floated through the room, coming gently to the ears of his hidden watcher. With a practiced strip, flip, three punched buttons and a push, the tape was unwrapped and inserted into the player. He picked the remote up from the back of the worn sofa and flicked the television on. After a few moments of tinny music, a very short amount of vapid dialog, and assorted shuffling sounds, moans and breathy panting began to filter from the speakers. Mulder lay back, settling into the soft cushions and watching the goings-on with minimal attention. He lifted one hand negligently to the knot of his tie, working it loose from around his neck and playing with the end, paying more attention to the sailors' knots winding around his fingers than the actions of the figures flickering on the screen. Finally, he turned the volume very low, and wriggled until he was laying half on his back, half on his side, watching the action as well as the tie he dangled in between his face and the screen. The scene changed, and his attention was wrenched to the screen. One of the actresses was petite, not unattractive ... and she had red hair. Short, swinging red hair. It didn't shimmer the way hers did, and she didn't have the same sharp, defined chin and nose, or huge, clear, depthless blue eyes, but she had red hair. And freckles. God. Scully's freckles. How he wanted to taste every last one of those tiny dots with his tongue. A body bath. From the scattering along her hairline to the one he had seen on her toe when she wore sandals to one of the family picnics she had invited him to join. And every one in between. Without conscious volition, he ran one hand through his hair, restless fingers scrubbing the scalp, trying to release some of the pressure that was building up under his skin. He felt itchy, as if he was going to crawl out of his skin. His erection was starting to firm up, and it had very little to do with the actress currently licking between the thighs of another actress. Because another image was building in his mind, and it was wiping away the here and now, the same way it did every time. As natural as breathing, he shifted against the confines of his clothing and began to unbutton the rest of his shirtfront. His eyes unfocussed, and she was there. With him. Only with him. The tie slipped off the edge of the couch, and he sat up just long enough to shrug out of his shirt and drop it carelessly beside the couch. His hands slipped under the edge of his tee-shirt, and his fingertips traced the muscles there as he gradually pushed it up his chest. Slowly. She would touch him slowly, take her time, his methodical partner. A quick duck of his head, and the undershirt joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. Fingers questing gently, barely pressing into the soft skin, he trailed his hands along his throat, feeling her touch in his mind. A finger outlined his mouth, and he saw her smile, answering it with one of his own, unaware of the light in his face. "Scully." A breath. No more. The hands trailed lower, crossing his pecs, playing gently with the hair, twining and releasing, curling into his touch, picturing her intense curiosity and her fierce concentration. Around and over the muscles of his chest, feeling them react to the tactile sensation, moving under the skin, seeking her touch. The hard bud of a nipple, a teasing flick then a circular caress, bringing a gasp to his lips. "Scully." A fraction louder, as his arousal grew, and his eyes drifted shut, finally tuning the video images out, completely submerged in his fantasy. One hand remained, alternately torturing and soothing the tender flesh along his breast and down the center of his torso, the other clenching air, the soft cushions, feeling her arms under his hands, her body moving over his in the air, leaning into his noncorporeal lover as if to take her into himself. "Scully!" An edge to it now, a need he wouldn't deny if he could. Both hands worked at the thin leather belt, drawing it away, then working the zipper down carefully to avoid pinching the tender flesh straining against it. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband, he drew slacks and shorts off together, pushing them down, working his legs to get them out of the way, until they twisted around his ankles. His left knee curved upward, as if to nudge his lover closer, cradling his straining erection in the hollow formed by his raised thigh and his pelvis. His left hand roved continually, running a trail of light pressure along his chest, behind his neck, along his throat, back down his chest to press along the top of his thigh, running along the quad to his knee, and back. His right heel dug into the cushion, raising his sex into his right palm. His fingers wrapped around the shaft, running along the veins pushing against the skin, his thumb pressing tiny circles along the ridge at the crown, then sliding the length to press his palm along the underside, collecting his sac and rolling it gently. His movements became faster, less coordinated, grace sacrificed to need, the images solidifying in his mind. "Please, Scully. Scully..." The tempo changed, and his left hand joined the right, as his hips began to thrust harder, faster, left fingers supporting, pushing, playing with the incredibly sensitive skin below the sac, the right hand pumping harder as he pushed himself higher. "God, yes, Scully, please, yes." His moans were becoming louder, more defined, and the litany of need matched the movements of his body as he came closer and closer to the edge. As he felt the pressure build until it was almost unbearable, the cry became a chant. "Dana. Dana. Dana-dana -danadanadana-" The fingers felt different, not wrong, right, but different. Fevered eyes opened to see luminescent red hair sweeping over his chest, small, strong hands joining his on his flesh, a sweet, hot mouth climbing the side of his throat, sliding along his jaw to meld wetly with his own open lips. Tongues met, his eyes fell closed again, and he unclenched his fingers from his own sex to clamp them tight to her form. She broke the kiss, and he opened his eyes again. He had never seen such intent arousal in her eyes. She slid down his body, and he felt every inch with sensitized skin, feeling goosebumps break out. He felt as if he was in stasis, his climax interrupted and everything frozen in time, awaiting her actions. Then her soft hair brushed his thighs, and her tender mouth closed around him, flooding his mind with sensation, sending wild fire along his nerve endings. He felt himself lose control, tried to pull her back, let her know, but he was incapable of making any sound except one. "Dana..." His moan wrenched into a scream as his climax hit him, and she tamed his arching body with her hands, her mouth, her body pinning his legs, his body curling around hers as if to enclose her in him. As the storm passed, she held him, feeling the shaking gradually subside. He lay back in the corner of the couch, exhausted, satiated, shocked. She pulled herself up against him, nuzzling her head into his chest, like a sleepy kitten seeking warmth. Lifting up slightly to gaze into his vulnerable, somewhat dazed expression, she smiled, that brilliant smile that opened his world up to the light. Then she kissed him, open mouthed, sharing his taste with him, and he shuddered. This woman owned him, down to the cellular level, and she just kept proving it. "I love you," he managed to whisper, her breath catching his words. She kissed him again, accepting and returning his love, his gift of trust and sensuality. "Thank you." He grinned at her words, a little lopsidedly, and groped for the remote, killing the picture. "I think that's not really necessary, don't you? This was so much better. For me at least." He tried for his customary humor, but he was feeling so raw, and so open, it didn't quite work. She grinned back at him, the stronger of the pair in so many ways, and nodded agreement. "That makes two of us." She kissed the smile curving his lips, and cuddled closer. Sometimes, she couldn't help but thank Whoever was responsible for the trust in this relationship. It could lead to revealing the most interesting ... fantasies. He took a deep breath, and his surroundings shifted. Not his, theirs. Not alone, together. Not a fantasy. A so much better reality. He tightened his arms around the woman sprawled comfortably on top of him, closing his eyes and gently stroking the top of her bright head with his cheek. "I have to say," her voice floated up from about mid-sternum, "that you have a few more sensitive spots than I realized you did." He pulled back, and she raised up, so that their eyes met. "What do you mean?" "You were ... very revealing." He started to blush, and tried to duck his head, but her hands curved up to hold his face still, forcing him to meet her eyes. "It was exciting, Fox. And I want to taste every place you just touched." His eyes grew round, staring down at her serious face, her shining eyes. Finally, he grinned at her, and arched his hips lightly, shifting her weight. "So, what are you waiting for?" She began to make slow, sweet love to him, and he closed his eyes, willing the tears pricking the back of his eyes to disappear. This was no time for tears. This was time for her, and for him. The reality certainly overshadowed the fantasy. ******************** the end ****************************