TITLE: Heat (1) AUTHOR: Abra Elliott CLASSIFICATION: MSR, UST, Scully POV RATING: R SPOILERS: none FEEDBACK: accepted with gratitude at xilerui@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: They're not mine and I'm still poor. DESCRIPTION: Scully has reached a certain point in her life. *** I think I must be in heat. I know that the magazines all say I'm the right age for my "sexual peak." I also know, somewhat more rationally, that this is bullshit; that what's described as a sexual peak is not only particular to the individual, but also refers to how easily one achieves orgasm, not to how much one desires sex. Sometimes I think my rational self should just shut the hell up. Frankly, this *feels* more like what the magazines are talking about. I think about sex at the most inconvenient times, in the most inconvenient places, and, worst of all, with the most inconvenient people. I'll be sitting in Skinner's office, getting reamed for yet another breach of FBI protocol that isn't my fault, when I'll suddenly picture myself bent over his desk, skirt hiked up to my waist, our rather burly Assistant Director pumping me full of his throbbing manhood from behind. Needless to say, such meetings can't end soon enough; my recent pattern has been to rapidly excuse myself, leaving one confused AD and one pissed partner in my wake, while I rush off to the ladies room for a little R&R. The other day, at the Gunmen's place, I even found myself zoning out during one of Mulder's angst-ridden soliloquies...with visions of strange foursomes dancing in my head. Now, Byers I can understand. He's got that sweet, cultured air about him...but you *know* its bad when, in my mind, I've got Frohike and Langly kneeling down at my feet, sucking on my toes. Then there's said partner...who usually puts in a memorable appearance in *all* these daydreams of mine. Mulder thinks I'm angry with him; I'm curt with him in the car, can barely bring myself to look him in the eyes when we're in his office together, and I seldom even join him for meals anymore when we're on the road. I speak to him in that tone of voice that I usually save for when I'm *really* mad at him; the quiet one that tells him he'd better clear out and leave me the hell alone. And the bastard does; writing me off as a cold- hearted and incomprehensible bitch, he sulks in his motel room, sulks at his desk...I assume he sulks at home, too. Just as well. If we were getting along any better right now, I don't know how I'd be able to avoid jumping him. As it is, I go a little crazy every time I see him pout...he'll be sitting at his desk, his sullen lower lip jutting forward, and, in my mind, I'm straddling his legs, squirming against him, sucking that lip into my mouth. When he wears that gray shirt and the Armani suit I like so much...well, let's just say that his lip isn't the only thing I imagine sucking. So what does a perpetually horny, hopelessly busy, and sadly asocial G-woman do to get her through the long days and even longer nights? I tried just a vibrator and my own fantasies for awhile...but, in the end, this wasn't much of a solution. Most of the fantasies involved my pouty partner, which made facing him in the mornings even more difficult. Then I tried adult TV channels while we were on the road; it turns out that these are a little too expensive to justify what they offer: lots of tits and ass, but very little for the female imagination. And, it turns out, it's a little hard to explain the charge on the motel bill...for awhile I tried to explain to Mulder that I was on a "Titanic" jag, but he just kept looking at me with that insufferable smirk of his. Asshole. He probably could hear the moans coming from the TV, but I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of admitting to my new viewing habits. Let him dream...maybe it would make his life as hard as he was making mine. It was while we were in Kansas, on yet another lost cause case of Mulder's, that I discovered online adult chatrooms. Now, you may not know this, but cybersex is not as easy as it sounds. I pride myself on being fairly competent at it, but you'd be surprised just how many guys want to just sit back and let the woman do the typing. In my admittedly-limited experience, most seem to suffer from severe vocabulary impairments; that is, they mostly write variations on "oh yeah baby, that's good baby, right there, baby." Or they like to tell me how I'm feeling; as in "you are so wet" or "my cock makes you quiver." Yeah, right. Whatever. But lately I've found a good partner. He says he's 6'1, 190 lbs., with Scandinavian good looks and a 9 inch cock. Yummy. Of course, he thinks I'm 5'7, 120 lbs., blonde and green-eyed, with a 36D bust. Well, we all have our little dreams. His username is "Apollo." My Greek god. I would have used "Diana" just to match his, but, well, I have *issues* with that particular name. So I'm just "G-woman." He seems to like it; in fact, we've played "naughty FBI agents" a few times now, and he's quite good at it. You know...partners who have to hide their raucous sexual escapades from the prying eyes of their superiors, fellow-agents, and various and sundry bystanders. The stuff of my day-to-day fantasies. He's clearly brushed up on the terminology: he knows what an AD is, knows the different divisions within the Bureau...a quick study, I guess. In fact, he's so good at it that "naughty FBI agents" has become my favorite game to play with him. And yet, I have to confess that it takes some work for me to keep my mind focused on my blonde boy and not let it wander to my *real* FBI partner, lusciously pouting in the next room. Yes, in the next room. By some odd stroke of luck, 'Apollo' is most often online when I'm on the road with Mulder. We'll finish up a day's work and head back to the motel. I'll snap an impatient "goodnight" at him, ignoring his hangdog demeanor as I rush to get into my room before he has a chance to corner me with questions. I feel bad that he misunderstands me...he thinks I'm mad, when all I am is horny. But I can't let him closer...as it is, whole days spent by his side are enough to keep me awake at nights, eyes staring into the blackness as my mind lingers over his clothes, his face, his body. No, I *need* to get away from his too- curious gaze...I need my pop-up Greek god. Who, happily, is almost always there when I log on. It's strange; we often log on within minutes of one another. It's almost uncanny enough to make me take a Mulderesque leap of logic and think we're somehow psychically connected. He's never said what he does for a living but has suggested it keeps him on the road a lot. I guess all of us road-warriors keep pretty similar hours. Someone at his job must keep him as frustrated as Mulder does me: lately, when we "meet," he's been half-crazed with lust. Niceties are thrown aside; we rip at each other's clothes, sucking, licking, fondling every imaginable place on each others' bodies. His vocabulary is rich...he describes his actions in painstaking detail, sending shocks of pleasure throughout my body. He responds to my electronic caresses, goading me, pleading with me, begging me...and sometimes, when I'm in the mood, forcing me to please him. It's almost as if he can *see* Mulder's office; or rather, that's where I always imagine our trysts taking place. Me against the file cabinet, in Mulder's chair, under the desk, on top of the desk (the desk tends to get top-billing)...he describes similar scenes, and they slip seamlessly into my own fantasies. My self-described Amazonian physique notwithstanding, he uses words such as "little," "delicate," and "tiny" to describe me. I never complain; truth be told, it makes me feel more real to him somehow. Clearly he's imagining someone else...well, I guess that makes two of us. For my part, his chest is always broad, his arms are always muscular, his hair is always short, and he's always impeccably dressed. What a man. He definitely scratches my itch. Lately, he's been asking for my number...he wants to try our nocturnal games on the phone. I've been a little nervous about this; what if I'm embarrassed and lousy on the phone? What if he has this high, squeaky voice, so unbecoming to a Greek god. Do I want such a personal connection with this man that I don't even know? I worry that it will kill the fantasy, after we've reached such a delicious level of comfort with each other online. He was such a treasure to uncover...someone as articulate as 'Apollo' doesn't come along everyday, I've discovered. And yet, I have to confess to no little curiosity about his voice. What if, instead of squeaky, it's deep and gravelly? To hear those sensuous words of his in low, murmuring tones...it *is* tempting. So much so that tonight, if he asks, I'm giving him my cell phone number. I know its foolish. I'm an FBI agent, for god's sake; I know all the warnings, and then some, about the perils of online pick-ups. For all I know, he's a crazed maniac. God knows I've had my fair share. And yet...my body is screaming for his imagined voice. Every part of me aches to finally hear him, and it occurs to me how quickly common sense is willing to take a back seat to sexual desire. In my mind I know that this isn't the brightest thing I've ever thought of doing, but rational Dr. Scully seems to have bowed out of the situation, leaving only her quivering hormones behind to cope as best they can. I can't seem to stop imagining his silky syllables caressing my aching body. Not to mention that its got to be so much easier when there's not a keyboard involved. No motel phone numbers; the last thing I need is this guy knocking on my door. If he asks tonight, I'm giving him my cell phone number. Mulder is the only person who ever calls me when we're out on a case, and he hasn't been doing much calling lately, anyway. Besides, he's in the next room tonight, *still* sulking, no doubt. Which just leaves my Greek god, 'Apollo'. I blush as I recall the name...my breath becomes shallow in anxious anticipation, my heartbeat quickens. I hope he asks. I want to hear his voice... End of part 1