TITLE: Words to the Wise
AUTHOR: Karen Rasch 
FEEDBACK: krasch@earthlink.net
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully try to work some of the kinks
out of their relationship.  In the bedroom. Sex.  And nothing but. :)  
An erotica epic (in my own mind, if nothingelse ) set in the Words universe.  
Figure it falls somewhere between "At a Loss for Words" and "A Mother's Words".  
Be forewarned--this has no redeeming social value whatsoever.  I just needed to get 
out of the angst groove for awhile.
CLASSIFICATION: MSR (Harder edged than you're used to seeing from me.  What
the heck.  A girl's gotta stretch.)
RATING: NC-17
DISCLAIMERS: As far as disclaimers go, not only aren't these characters mine, but
what I have planned for them would likely make CC roll his eyes in
disgust and dismay.  However, as I'm not making any money off the 
deal I'm hoping he'll leave me alone.  Post where you will, but I'd 
appreciate my name remaining attached to the tale.

This is for the Dragon.  You know, when you've written as many fine
stories as Sheryl, you sometimes get taken for granted.  I'd rather that
didn't happen. :)  Hope this helps get you through all those Wookie-
less months, kiddo.

*********************************************************
"Words to the Wise" (NC-17)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	
"Mulder, I don't think this is such a good idea tonight."
	
"You're kicking me out?"
	
"No.  I'm not letting you in.  There's a difference."
	
Fox Mulder sighed in frustration, and braced his arm across 
the doorway to his partner's apartment, effectively blocking her 
entrance as well.  The two agents stood in the softly lighted corridor, 
hunched and rumpled, both exhausted by that evening's ordeal, 
glaring at each other.  "Scully . . .  Look--I know you're pissed...."

Dana Scully calmly folded her arms across her chest, and 
planted her feet wide, her squared physical stance suggesting that she 
was just dying for someone to take her on.  Mulder couldn't decide
whether her defiant posture turned him on or scared the hell out of 
him.
	
Or both.  
	
"Pissed?  Why would I be pissed?" she drawled, lifting a 
brow for accent.  "Just because you ditched me tonight after 
specifically *promising* me you would wait for--"
	
"Scully, I told you--everything happened all at once.  I had 
no choice.  I had to move--"
	
"Move without me."
	
"Yes!"
	
Shaking her head, she pushed past him and slid her key into 
the lock.  "Go home, Mulder."
	
The tall dark-haired man knew that the woman he loved didn't 
want to discuss what had happened that evening.  Recognized that she 
had done everything short of drawing him a picture to get that point 
across.  And yet, despite the fact that he got her message loud and
clear, Mulder chose to be obtuse.  Much as he adored her, at that moment he 
didn't really care what Scully would prefer.  He wasn't going anywhere.  
They had both suffered a scare that night, had both come face to face 
with the very real possibility of the other being taken from them.  By 
forcible means.  But the fates had been kind, and they had dodged a 
bullet.  This time.
	
Yet that terror, that adrenaline rush stayed with him still.
Like a drug that just wouldn't leave his system.  Yes, they had 
triumphed.  But their success had never been a sure thing.  Even 
now, hours after they had left the crime scene, he could feel a slight 
tremor vibrating through him.  A surge that wasn't entirely unpleasant,
but unnerved him nevertheless.  He felt adrift somehow.  Lost, even
as he stood in familiar surroundings.  
	
And Scully was his North Star.  His only constant.  The 
best and safest way for him to find his way home.  He needed her.  
Needed her warmth, her understanding, her comfort.  Needed to 
know that she was indeed sound and whole, and not lying in a pool 
of her own blood on the floor of that bastard's lair.  And much as 
she was trying to hide her own vulnerability, mask her own residual 
fear with anger, he suspected that the woman beside him could use 
a bit of that same reassurance herself.
	
"No, Scully.  I'm not going home.  Not until we talk about 
this."
	
She paused for an instant and thinned her lips, clearly vexed 
by his stubbornness.  Then, as if coming to a decision, she spoke once 
more.  
	
"Oh, fine.  *Now* you want to talk," she muttered darkly as 
with a twist of her wrist, the door swung open.  "Funny--when I asked 
you earlier this evening what you made of that note Sinclair had 
delivered to us, you had very little to say."
	
Ignoring the withering stare his partner tossed over her 
shoulder in his general direction, Mulder followed her into her 
apartment.  "That's because I wasn't sure."
	
Scully wasn't buying it.  "Bullshit, Mulder.  The minute I 
wasn't around you went right to him.  Right to where he was hiding 
out."
	
"Scully, it wasn't--"
	
But the petite redhead apparently didn't want to hear his 
explanations.  She slammed shut the apartment door so fiercely that 
Mulder could see the pictures hanging on her walls jump in reaction.  
It was all he could do not to follow their example.  
	
Shoulders rigid, Scully stalked away from the entryway and 
him, shedding her briefcase and coat as she moved.  "You know, I 
can take a lot from you, Mulder.  But this is unacceptable."
	
"What is?" he asked ingenuously, shrugging off his own 
trench so that he stood clad simply in his navy suit and tie.
	
Without warning, she spun on her heel to face him.  "Lying.  
Don't lie to me.  Don't =ever= lie to me."
	
"I wasn't."
	
Something dangerous crackled in the air around the woman 
before him.  Danced across the trim teal green suit she wore, rippled 
over the ivory silk blouse beneath it.  The force of it so intense, 
Mulder marveled for a moment that his hair wasn't standing on end as 
a result.  Her eyes narrowed, almost as if the gesture were a reflection 
of her opinion of him.  Smaller and smaller until you disappear 
altogether, Mulder, old boy.  
	
"Weren't you?" she purred after a beat.
	
And Mulder knew the jig was up.  She was on to him.  
Grimacing, he bowed his head.
	
"I thought so," she said tartly, and walked away from him to 
the kitchen, where she flicked on a light.
	
Sighing, he trailed after her, trying to salvage what he could. 
"Scully, okay. . . .  Yes.  I had a pretty good idea where Sinclair was 
holed up."
	
"But you didn't feel the information was important enough to 
share with me?" she inquired with finely honed sarcasm as she rifled 
through her cabinets for a glass, refusing him eye contact.  "Or maybe 
I've got it wrong.  Maybe =I= was the one who wasn't important 
enough to the investigation to be kept in the loop."
	
His lips twisted, a combination of aggravation and guilt 
tightening his jaw to the point where he wondered if he would 
be able to get out any words at all.   "Oh, come on!  You know that's 
not it--"
	
Scully had just crossed past him on her way to the refrigerator, 
when she whirled on him once again.  "Well then, =tell= me," she 
urged, her eyes flashing blue sparks.  "Explain to me why the HELL 
you would walk in alone to confront a man who is quite possibly 
responsible for the deaths of over a dozen people, when your partner 
had begged you to wait for her!"
	
They stood like sparring partners in the center of her kitchen, 
muscles clenched, eyes locked, both breathing hard.
	
Then, Scully's face softened just a fraction.  "I *begged* you 
not to do anything stupid, Mulder.  And you promised.  You promised
me you wouldn't."
	
Mulder let out a long slow lung full of air, almost as if he
were deflating.   His gaze dipped away from hers.
	
"I know.  And I'm sorry.  But, I couldn't . . . I didn't have any 
choice."

"=Why=?" she asked, gesturing weakly with the forgotten
glass in her grasp.
	
Hands on his hips, he fidgeted for a moment.  Like a kid 
called on the carpet who knows damned well he was wrong.  At last, 
he spit out his excuse.  "He had your business card, Scully."
	
Her brow crinkled in confusion.  "Who did?"
	
"Sinclair."
	
"When?  Where did you see it?"
	
"It was folded up in that note he sent to us."
	
She nodded, her eyes looking up at him measuringly.  "Okay.
So what's the big deal?  Why didn't you just show it to me?"
	
He rubbed his hand over his mouth, his jaw.  "It had blood 
on it."
	
She cocked a brow.  "Blood?  Whose?"
	
He shook his head.  "I don't know.  I don't know who it
belonged to.  But the message it conveyed was pretty damn clear."
	
Giving up on the idea of refreshment, Scully set the glass 
on the counter, then turned once more to face him, her hands
braced against the formica surface.  Her pose suggested to Mulder 
that while she still hadn't entirely forgiven him, she was now at least 
willing to listen.
	
He took a step closer and, resting his shoulder against her
fridge, leaned into her.  "Scully, you know that Sinclair liked to
collect things from his victims.  Trophies.  Almost like Tooms did.  Steal them 
so that those he had targeted weren't even aware that the items were 
missing.  That they were in danger."
	
She shrugged.  "Mulder, he could have picked up my business
card anywhere.  We've been passing out our cards to everyone we've
spoken with.  And with as long as this case has dragged on, that's half
the population of D.C."
	
"True," Mulder admitted in a low voice.  "Getting his hand 
on the card wouldn't have been all that difficult.  But that's not what 
worried me."
	
"So what did?"
	
He winced.  "Scully, the card didn't just have a smear of 
blood on it."
	
She looked at him, waiting.
	
"It had the word 'goodbye' written in blood on the back
of it."
	
She considered that revelation for a moment before nodding.  
"I see.  So you thought that Sinclair had targeted me next."
	
Swallowing hard, he nodded as well.  "Yes."
	
She chewed on her lip.  "And you couldn't simply *tell* me
that, rather than ditching me?"
	
"Scully--"
	
"Why, Mulder?  Were you afraid I'd overreact?  Afraid I 
wouldn't be able to handle it?"
	
Needing suddenly to dissolve the remaining distance between 
them, both emotionally and physically, he reached out and gently 
cupped her cheek, "No.  I was afraid of losing you."
	
She just looked up at him for a breath or two, then whispered,
"So you decided it would be easier for me to lose you instead?"
	
His hand dropped away from her face.  Sighing, he mumbled, 
"I didn't intend for either of us to lose."
	
Eyes large and haunted, she stretched out her hands and 
gripped him just above the elbows.  "But don't you see--we almost did.
Both of us."
	
"It's not--"
	
"Mulder, when I burst into that room, Sinclair had the drop
on you."
	
"What do you want me to say, Scully?" he queried harshly,
embarrassment and guilt making it difficult for him to meet her gaze.
"That you saved my ass?  Okay.  You did.  You shot him before he 
could shoot me.  Thank you."
	
"No!" she nearly spat, turning her back on him to pace 
without direction across her tiled kitchen floor.  "That is =not= what I 
want."
	
He followed her restless movement with his eyes, her apparent 
anger fueling a similar response in him.  "Okay.  Then tell me.  Tell 
me what you do want."
	
"I want you to talk to me."
	
Oh, that was rich.  That really was.  The Queen of "I'm 
Fine" was accusing him of being uncommunicative.  How absolutely 
priceless.  It was all he could do not to laugh out loud.
	
The only thing was, the sight of Scully in high dudgeon didn't
exactly amuse him.
	
Arousal, on the other hand . . . 
	
Why, oh why, did a certain tiny redhead with a colossal head 
of steam make him want to fall to his knees and beg for mercy.
	
In more ways than one.
	
His mind busily conjuring up images to go along with that
insight, Mulder felt the corners of his lips lift in a small crooked
smile.  "You want to tell me what good talking would have done?"
	
Scully appeared taken aback by his question.  Her forehead 
wrinkled in consternation.  "What do you mean?"
	
"I mean what do think would have happened if I had told
you about the business card?" he asked with deceptive mildness.
	
She pondered that for a moment before giving a small shrug.
"I don't know.  I suppose I would have insisted on accompanying you
to Sinclair's hideout.  Convinced you to at least let me provide you 
with some sort of back-up."
	
He nodded.  "In other words, you would have made damn
sure you were in on it.  In on the arrest."
	
"Yes!" she retorted instantly, her hands rising and falling in 
exasperation.  "Of course, I would have."
	
"And it wouldn't even have occurred to you that I could take 
care of it?  That I could handle it on my own."
	
Her brow rose like an exclamation point.  "Mulder, anytime 
you go off on your own, disaster strikes."
	
"That's not true," he insisted with a noticeable lack of 
conviction.
	
"Isn't it?" she countered silkily, knowing as well as he did 
that the evening's events were all the evidence she needed to win 
the argument at hand.
	
Time to regroup, Mulder.
	
"The point is . . . this isn't about me, Scully," he said a tad
impatiently, recognizing that he was about to throw up a kind of
smoke screen.  And hoping against hope that his ploy would work.  
"I'm talking about you."
	
"What about me?"
	
Yes, he thought with a triumphant yet silent little cry.  Scully
was going for the misdirection.  Thank God.
	
"I'm talking about this need you have to be in charge," he said, 
treading cautiously, realizing how easily the woman before him might 
take his statement as an insult.  When, in fact, he meant it as anything 
but.  "The way you always have to be in the thick of things, directing 
how a situation plays out."
	
Scully nodded absent-mindedly while mulling over his words.  
"Are you saying that you think I'm some sort of control freak, Mulder?"
	
"No," he said quickly, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of 
his mouth.  "No, I'm not."
	
"Then what are you saying?" she asked quietly, her chin 
tipped upwards in apparent aggression, even as her eyes belied that 
challenge with their softness.
	
Understanding that despite his care his words had wounded 
her, Mulder crossed to her, and lightly ran his hands across her 
shoulders, up and down her arms.  "I'm saying that you are brave and 
loyal, and that if you had thought my life was in danger, nothing short 
of a good stout length of rope or a blow to the head would have kept 
you from being there with me."
	
She opened her mouth as if to protest.  But, he managed to 
squelch that urge by drawing her into his arms and pressing his lips 
to her forehead.  "And as much as I needed you there beside me, there 
was no way in hell I was going to chance your safety tonight.  Not with 
Sinclair.  Not after he had practically announced his intentions."
	
Rocking her in his embrace, he sadly shook his head, rubbing 
his chin over her hair.  "I'm sorry, Scully.  But the whole thing just 
reminded me too much of Riggs.  You know?"
	
Hearing the name of the man who had nearly succeeded in
using their feelings for each other to destroy them both, she sighed,
and nuzzled her cheek against his chest.
	
"You don't know what I might have done, Mulder," she
chided softly from against his shirt, his confession having seemingly
cooled her earlier ire.  "You can't be sure."
	
He tightened his arms around her.  "Can't I?"
	
"No."
	
He kissed the top of her shiny head.  "You mean to tell me
that if I had come to you and told you that I wanted to confront
Sinclair on my own, you would have given me your blessing?"
	
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her lips twisted
in what looked to be half smile, half grimace.  "I don't know.  I can't
say for certain what I would have done."
	
Mulder inclined his head as if to wordlessly say, "I told you 
so."
	
However, Scully wasn't prepared to let him think her 
admission in any way got him off the hook.
	
"But, you can't take that choice away from me, Mulder.  It
isn't fair.  To either of us," she told him sternly, even as her hands
swept slowly and soothingly over his back.  "You have to talk to me.  
You have to tell me what's going on."
	
"I do--" he argued.

She grabbed hold of his suit coat, and gave him a little
shake.  "You =don't=.  At least, not all the time."
	
"I don't, huh?"  
	
"Uh-uh."
	
"Okay.  And what about you?"
	
What the hell.  The same tactic had worked before.
	
Her pert little rosebud of a mouth pursed.  "Why does it 
always come back to me, Mulder?"
	
Because you're all I think about, he wanted to confess.  All
I care about most days.  "Because I'm not the only one at fault here."
	
"Oh.  So now =I'm= the one to blame for you walking in 
alone to confront a serial killer?"
	
Jesus.  Why couldn't he stop digging a hole for himself?
	
"All I'm saying is that I might have gone about the whole
thing differently if I had believed that you would listen to me and 
agree to step out of the picture."
	
She looked up at him from the circle of his arms.  Then,
shaking her head, she took a step back to stare at him, chuckling in 
disbelief.  "What do you want, Mulder?" she asked, her tone 
incredulous.  "Do you want a partner who just follows you blindly?  
Who goes along with whatever you say whenever you say it?  Is that
what you want?"
	
Frustrated in more ways than one, he ran his hand impatiently
through his hair.  "What I want, Scully, is for you to trust me."
	
She sighed in exasperation.  "I do!"
	
His riposte flew out of his mouth before he could stop it.  "Not
enough!"
	
Silence.
	
Scully and he stood separated by a couple of floor tiles.  But 
to Mulder it felt as if the distance might as well be light years.  Damn 
it.  This wasn't how he had meant for their discussion to go.  He didn't 
want to fight.  Not tonight.  Not with her.  Not when he so badly 
longed to soothe his jangled nerves by losing himself in her arms, her 
bed, her body.  Shit.  Hands on his hips, he bowed his head to study 
the gleaming linoleum at his feet, wondering just what the hell he 
should say or do next.
	
"So, what'll it take?"
	
His gaze shot level once more.  And instantly fastened on 
Scully's.  The words should have been his.  But she was the one who
had spoken.
	
"What?" he asked, brow knitted.
	
She looked at him calmly, her arms folded across her chest,
and repeated her query, her voice even and low.  
	
"I said, 'what'll it take?'"	
	
At first glance, she appeared to be asking him a simple 
question.  An innocent sort of inquiry.  Casual in nature.
	
But there was something else in her eyes.  
	
Something far, far removed from casual.  The dark side 
of innocence.
	
"I don't know what you mean," he admitted softly, aware 
that somehow, some way, the dynamic between them had changed.
He didn't quite understand how it had happened, but they didn't 
appear to be fighting anymore.  Thankfully.  Yet, a tension still
remained between them.  A current that crackled from Scully to
him and back again.  Heightening his senses and pinpointing his
awareness until everything he knew, everything he was became
about this woman.  
	
She licked her lips.  He felt the sweep of that tongue glide
phantom-like across his groin.
	
"You worry that I don't completely trust you, Mulder," she
murmured, her gaze intent.  "I worry that you don't talk to me enough.
Tell me what you're thinking.  What you need."
	
"I need you."  She knew that, right?  Even with all this 
foolish arguing, she had to know that.
	
Scully smiled.
	
Yeah.  She knew.
	
"I need you to be sure about us," she said, her voice 
maintaining its intimate, husky timbre.  "Sure about what we have
together.  Secure in my feelings for you."
	
"Scully, I didn't mean--"
	
"I know you didn't," she said swiftly, stopping his flow of words
before his apology could even fully take shape.  "But you wouldn't have 
said what you did if you didn't have some doubts."
	
Angry at himself for ever having broached the subject in the
first place, Mulder cradled her face in his hands.  "That's not true.  
The one thing I have never doubted is you.  You've got to believe that."
	
She gently laid her hands atop his.  "And you've got to believe
that I trust you in all things."
	
Then, she smiled at him, a full blown dazzler.  "And I think
I know how to prove it to you."
	
All he could do when she looked at him like that was grin 
back at her like an idiot.  He did so gladly.  "Oh yeah?  What do you 
have in mind?"
	
Her lashes lowered, shadowing her gaze.  "I've been thinking
about what you said, Mulder.  About control.  And how difficult it is
for me to be without it."
	
Not quite certain where this was headed, he refrained from
commentary, choosing simply to nod his encouragement.
	
"It's something I value, you know?" she said softly, her
eyes dodging his still.  "Something that makes me who I am."
	
"I know," he assured her quietly.  "I know that."
	
"But I think that tonight it might do us both some good if I
let go of that control.  If I gave it instead to someone I trust.  With
it.  And me."
	
God.  She couldn't possibly mean . . . . .
	
"There's just one catch," she said, interrupting his silent
ruminations before he could draw any conclusions.
	
"What?" he asked, the word stuck somewhere in his throat.
	
"You have to tell me =exactly= what you want from me. 
Otherwise, how will I be able to obey you?"
	
And all at once, Fox Mulder felt as if he were viewing the
world through a fun house mirror.  Reality as he knew it took a 
decidedly unexpected turn.
	
"'Obey'?" he croaked, trying to make certain he understood
what she intended.  "You mean to tell me that you're willing to . . . ."

"I am willing to do whatever you ask of me," she whispered
as she laid her hand upon his chest, directly over his wildly beating
heart.  "But you have to ask, Mulder.  That's the deal."
	
Okay.  So, the urge was primitive.  More than primitive.  
Savage.  Beyond anything a reasonably enlightened guy like himself 
should desire from an intelligent, strong, assured woman like Scully.  
He freely admitted that.
	
But, he'd be lying if he said he didn't want it.
	
And yet, he had to be sure that she wanted it too.  That she 
wasn't offering such a thing out of guilt or some other misguided 
notion.
	
Shaking his head with a kind of amazement, he threaded 
his fingertips through the fringe of hair edging her face, aware 
that his hand trembled as he did so.  "Scully . . . much as I'm . . . 
=intrigued= by your proposal,  . . I want you to know that I don't 
*expect* . . . what I mean is . . you don't have to do this.  Not to
prove something to me.  Something that I already know is true if I just stop 
long enough to think about it."
	
She ran her fingers lightly over his shoulders, down the front
of his suit coat.  "I know I don't.  But I want to.  I want you to be
sure, Mulder.  To know the faith I place in you.  To believe in it."
	
God.  Here he was, mere moments away from what promised 
to be one of the peak sexual experiences of his entire life, and his
eyes were threatening waterworks.  How did she do that?  How did she take 
a situation plucked from the pages of Penthouse and turn it into 
something tender, something spiritual?  
	
With that, she stretched up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to
his.   He let her mouth rest lightly against his for all of a
millisecond before caving in to the impulse that had been stirring in him since
they had first gotten home.  Letting out a soft, muffled groan, he
crushed her to him, driving back her head and plunging his tongue
into the warm moist confines of her mouth.  Scully clung to him, 
more for balance Mulder suspected than anything else, and met him
stroke for stroke.
	
No doubt about it--in every way that mattered, they were
very evenly matched.
	
Finally, he pulled away, and breathing hard, he asked one
last time, "You're sure?"
	
Eyes bright as stars, she nodded.
	
He kissed her again, this time gently, as if in apology for 
what came before.
	
"Well then, Agent Scully, you have yourself a deal," he 
murmured, his mouth hovering over hers.
	
She smiled.  
	
He grinned back at her.  Idiotically.
	
"Just remember to talk to me, Mulder," she said as she
strung a line of soft damp kisses along his jaw.  "You've got to talk to
me."
	
His eyes slid shut as his hands closed around her shoulders.
"I promise."
	
Scully's laughter puffed against his throat.  "Then let the 
games begin."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Continued in Part II


"Words to the Wise" (NC-17)
2a/5
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Dana Scully had never noticed before how poorly the ginger 
jar lamp atop her night stand illuminated her bedroom.  The squat 
peach-colored light glowed beneath its shade, true.  And with its 
assistance, a person could move easily about the space, without fear 
of stubbing a toe or barking a shin.

Yet, in spite of the little lamp's valiant efforts, shadows ruled
her sleeping room.  Bled like spilled ink upon the handmade quilt 
covering her mattress.  Licked like a lover at the knickknacks displayed 
upon her bureau.  The encroaching darkness reminded her that while 
this chamber was a sanctuary of sorts; a place where she stored her 
most personal belongings, where nightly the sandman seduced her 
with promises of peace and rejuvenation, it also served as backdrop 
for a variety of far less wholesome pursuits.
	
After all, here was a place not only of dreams, but of 
nightmares.
	
Not just of slumber, but of sex.
	
The juxtaposition of innocence and corruption struck a chord,
one that grew in power and in resonance when she considered the man 
seated before her.
	
Because presiding over this oddly familiar twilight realm, 
as still and as watchful as hell's sentry was Mulder, his face a study
in such contradictions.
	
Her dark angel.
	
One of the fallen.
	
At that moment, when he sat slouched and sullen in the 
corner of her bedroom, she could think of him in no other way.  This 
man with the moody hooded gaze could no more be one of heaven's 
denizens than Old Nick himself.  Fox Mulder was far too intimately 
acquainted with suffering and loss to ever fit in comfortably among 
the cherubim and seraphim.
	
No.  When you got right down to it, the man she loved 
seemed infinitely more at home with the sinners than with the saints.
	
His present appearance certainly bore out that impression.  
Gone was the Special Agent spit and polish.  His suit coat had been 
removed, as had his tie.  What remained looked lived-in, wrinkled 
with wear.  His dress shirt sleeves had been rolled midway up his 
arms, the garments' collar open, exposing the steady pulse at the base 
of his throat.  His hair was at its unruly after-hours best, pieces of
it feathered across his brow.  His legs were splayed.  His erection, easily 
identified beneath his trousers' fine fabric, rose hard and needy at the 
apex of his thighs.  
	
He sipped at a tall frosty tumbler of ice water, having finally 
put to use the glass she had ages ago pulled from her cabinets, his eyes 
watching her intently over its rim.  How in the world was the ice 
maintaining its shape under the heat of that gaze? she mused.   She had 
to admit that she wasn't holding up nearly as well as those little
cubes.  Melting, she thought.  When he looks at me like that my body always 
responds the same way.  It softens.  Liquefies.  The moisture pooling at 
her engorged center ample evidence of this truth.
	
"Take off your clothes," he said quietly as he set the glass on
the table beside him.
	
Here we go.
	
Taking a deep breath, she brought her hands to the buttons 
running down the center of her fitted blazer.
	
"Slowly, Scully," he murmured, his voice as murky as the 
room's lighting scheme.  "Take it nice and slow."
	
She swallowed hard, her eyes locked on his, and began to do 
as he had requested.  
	
Her hands were shaking, she noted in some amazement.  How
absurd.  Despite the forbidding air Mulder had adopted for the purposes
of their game, she wasn't afraid of him.  She wasn't.  Then what is
this, Dana? she silently questioned as even with her less than nimble fingers, 
the buttons slipped easily enough from their holes.  Why the trembling, 
the ragged breaths, the uneasiness that stoked her awareness to an 
almost painful sensitivity?  Fight or flight, she realized with a rush.  
That was what her body was urging her to do.  Some part of her had
recognized a threat.
	
But what was it exactly that she feared?
	
She reached up and slipped her hands between her jacket 
and blouse as she made ready to remove the former.  The movement
arched her back, thrust her chest forward.  She hadn't given any  
conscious thought to her posture, hadn't meant the action to be 
deliberately provocative.  Yet, in the end, her intention proved 
unimportant.
	
Because Mulder reacted to the simple gesture as if it were
calculated.
	
His hands flexed, the movement slight, not much more than 
a twitch.
	
But she caught it just the same.
	
"Let it slide off your shoulders," he instructed softly.  "Yeah.  
Like that.  Just let it fall."
	
Let it fall, she echoed in her head as her Dry Clean Only 
wool crepe dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap.  You may not 
know it, buddy.  But, you'll be getting a bill for the damages, she
wordlessly warned him.
	
Standing before him clad in her skirt and blouse, Scully then
paused for a moment, chewing lightly on her lower lip.  Now what? 
she wondered.  Top or bottom?  Should she simply make a choice, or 
should she look to her partner for guidance?  
	
Oh, what the hell.
	
Quit agonizing over it, Dana, she thought.  You're a grown
woman.  You know how to undress yourself.  Just do it.
	
Fumbling clumsily, her fingers found the top button on her 
blouse.
	
"No," Mulder said, stopping her.  "Not just yet."
	
She arched a brow.  The corner of his mouth lifted at her 
silent question. 
	
"Turn around."
	
Unsure as to the reason for this unexpected directive, she 
hesitated for a moment.
	
"Do it."  The words were spoken softly, yet with unmistakable
authority.
	
Inclining her head, she did as she was told.  Pivoting 
slowly on her heels, she faced away from the man in the chair.
	
"The skirt," he said from somewhere over her shoulder.  
"Lose the skirt."
	
Allowing her eyes to drift shut, she followed his instructions, 
stretching behind her to lower the garment's zipper.  This was actually
easier, she realized.  Facing away from him allowed her a certain
sense of anonymity.  A degree of privacy, that while she understood
it to be ultimately no more than illusion, comforted her nonetheless.
	
Taking heart from this sudden insight, she pulled the zipper
down, head tipped back slightly.  Her eyes were still closed, her lips 
parted.  Breathe, Dana, she wordlessly coached herself.  Breathe.  Stop 
thinking so much and just let it happen.  Give yourself permission to 
let it happen.  After all, this is your game, right?  Your idea.  So,
why not enjoy it?  Be honest--you aren't just doing this for Mulder's
benefit, are you?  You want it too.  Want him.
	
The skirt's waistband gapped at her middle.  She hooked 
her thumbs between it and her slip, and pulled it down, shimmying
just a bit to ease the closely cut garment past the swell of her hips.  
Finally free, it fell to the floor, pooling atop the jacket that
completed the outfit.  Task completed, she carefully stepped outside the circle of 
fabric lassoing her feet.  But did not turn around.
	
"Very nice, Scully," came his whispered approval.  "Very 
nice indeed.  Now do the same with the slip.  Only this time . . . I
want you to bend over as you take it off."
	
Lips compressing into a narrow line, she nodded, a quick 
bob of her head.
	
"Oh, and Scully?  Be sure and keep your legs straight for 
me."
	
Bastard, she thought as her face flooded with heat.  
	
And yet, even now, she wanted him.  Wanted to erase the 
tension and exhaustion their six weeks of painstaking yet frustrating 
investigation had provoked, quell the panic she had felt when she 
had witnessed him unknowingly targeted by Sinclair, make disappear 
the hurtful words they had exchanged.  Heal whatever breach their 
relationship had suffered as a result of that evening's events.
	
She wanted all of it.  Every last bit of it.  And would do 
whatever it took to achieve her goal.
	
Whatever it took.
	
It was only that this, this complete and total submission to 
his whims, his needs . . . .
	
Aroused her.
	
She almost gasped aloud with the knowledge.
	
Strange, but undeniably true.  As much as the notion of her
being wholly dependent on another terrified her, at the same time it
held a kind of allure.  An appeal she did not fully understand, but 
could not dismiss.
	
"What are you waiting for?"  The question was asked calmly
enough.  But running just beneath it was a suggestion of consequences
should she, for some reason, choose not to comply.
	
She didn't feel quite that brave.  Not right at that moment.
	
Licking her lips, she bent over at the waist, her fingertips
holding tightly to her half-slip's glossy fabric.  Slowly, slowly, 
slowly she slid it over her nylon-covered ass, down her thighs to her 
knees.  She paused there, her torso curled over her thighs, knowing 
that Mulder had given her the instructions he had so as to maneuver 
her into just this position.  
	
And somehow, given the roles they were playing, she sensed 
it wouldn't do to disappoint him.  
	
Then, hair brushing against her calves, she let go of the
undergarment, straightening gently once more.  And stepped out of 
the slip just as she had done previously with the skirt.
	
"Look at me, Scully."
	
Her knees now trembling with the same force as her hands,
she turned around a bit unsteadily to face him.  He looked back at 
her, his expression deliberately bland, his eyes glittering by contrast 
in the half-light.
	
He knew.
	
He knew what this was doing to her, she thought with a touch 
of dismay.  
	
How could he not?  At the very least, he must have guessed at 
its effects.  For heaven's sake, her panties were practically dripping 
with it.  And given the display she just had put on, he certainly
couldn't have overlooked that little detail.  
	
She could feel the blush staining her cheeks, knew her hair 
to be tousled and in disarray.  Her heart was pounding with such vigor 
that she feared Mulder could hear it from across the room.  She felt 
exposed.  Vulnerable.
	
Naughty.
	
He picked up the glass and took another sip of water, biding 
his time before he spoke.  She waited, doing everything in her power
to keep her arms at her sides and not crossed protectively over her
breasts.
	
"Tell me how you feel," he urged at last, the words silky and
low.
	
With her breath proving as difficult to control as her heart, 
she shook her head.  "No."
	
His brow furrowed in disbelief.  "No?"
	
She raised her chin.  "You're the one who's supposed to talk, 
Mulder.  Remember?"
	
The faintest suggestion of a smile lifted his lips.  Toasting
her with the drink in his hand, he dipped his head as if conceding 
the point.  "That's right.  I'd forgotten the rules."
	
She nodded.
	
Then, Mulder set his beverage back on the table with a sharp 
click of glass against wood.  "But you know something, Scully, I think 
you've forgotten some of those rules yourself."
	
Her mouth went dry at his suddenly harsh tone.  "What do 
you mean?"
	
His movement controlled, precise, he slowly leaned forward 
in his chair.  Clasping his hands together as if in prayer, he braced
his elbows against his thighs, his gaze fused with hers.  She could sense 
an awful tension coiled within his lanky frame; a tautness that appeared
to start at his blood-heavy center and radiate out the length and 
breadth of his body. 
	
"Your job is to obey, isn't that what you told me?" he asked,
interrogating her with the same banked intensity he would a suspect.
	
"Yes," she whispered, not sure whether the chill shimmering
down her spine was fear or passion induced.
	
"In all things."  Not a question, a statement.
	
She nodded helplessly.
	
He smiled slyly.   Like a Fox.
	
"So come here," he commanded, the words rumbling in his 
chest.
	
For just a split second, Scully honestly wondered whether her 
legs had the strength necessary to carry her to him.  Cautiously, she 
took one step.  Then another.  Until finally, step after careful step,
she crossed the distance to stand before him, within arms' reach.
	
Mulder looked up at her from his seat, seemingly bemused
by her frailty.  Reaching out, he grabbed hold of her shirt tail, and
worried the silk between his thumb and forefinger.  "Tell me, Scully," 
he began in an off-handed tone, his eyes now trained on his hand rather 
than on her face.  "Can you honestly say that you've been obeying me?  
Completely, I mean.  Nothing held back."
	
"No," she confessed in a hushed voice, infinitely aware that
his face was currently inches from her humid crotch.
	
"And what do you think I ought to do about that?" he queried
as he slid his hands under her blouse, found the band of elastic topping 
her pantyhose and began peeling the stockings from her slender legs.  
"I mean . . . I ought to do something.  Don't you think?  Seeing as I'm 
the one who's  supposed to . . . keep you in line."
	
She teetered for a moment, surprised by his action and
unsettled by his nearness.  He instantly steadied her with a gentleness
that belied the menace lacing his words.  Flailing blindly, she somehow 
found his shoulders and held on for dear life as he eased first one foot 
from her pumps, then the other.  Working with his head bowed, intent 
on his chore, Mulder removed her nylons, then replaced her heels.  
When he finished, he lightly ran his fingertips up the backs of her legs 
as if to confirm their nakedness.  Lashes lowered, Scully swayed within 
the circle of his arms.
	
"You didn't answer my question," he chided, his thumbs
sneaking beneath her panties to caress the rounded edge of her
derriere.
	
She bit back a whimper, her hands clenching for an instant 
on his shoulders.  "What do you want me to say?"
	
"Anything.  As long as it's the truth."
	
But she couldn't speak.  She could only moan as he slowly 
traced the crease of her buttocks.  Moving at a leisurely pace, he 
skimmed along its seam, fingering for the briefest measure of time 
the tiny puckered hole secreted in the fold.  He parted her cheeks.  
Lifted them.  Then released them once more.  Only to begin kneading, 
handling her flesh with the greatest of care.  As if he were afraid of 
inadvertently bruising her with his touch.
	
She was panting now.  Her words escaping in little wisps of
sound, her fingertips clinging to his shirt.  "It doesn't matter what I
say, Mulder.  You're going to do what you want to do.  I can't fight 
you.  Not here.  Not tonight."
	
"Can't or won't?" he challenged, as he all at once stopped 
toying with her behind and instead grabbed hold of her bikinis.  In 
one swift motion he shoved the underwear to her ankles.
	
Gasping, her eyes snapped open as she wobbled on her heels.  
For an instant, she was certain she was headed to the floor in an 
undignified heap.  But unexpected though it was, Mulder came to her 
rescue once more.  Nearly springing upwards from his crouched 
position, he threw his arms around her middle; one hand landing 
chastely between her shoulder blades, the other finding its way back to
her ass.  They merely held each other for a moment, his cheek pressed 
just above her navel, her hands clutching his shirt.  Then, sighing, he 
rubbed his face against her belly.  Slowly, from side to side.  Like he
had that first time, when he had rested his face in the valley between
her breasts.
	
Remembering that and so much more about this man and
his lovemaking, Scully wondered if in the end she might not wind up 
tumbling to the floor after all.  Surely, her knees couldn't hold out 
much longer against this onslaught.
	
"Tell me, Scully," he said, his breath hot and moist against 
the creamy cool fabric of her blouse.  "Tell me the truth.  Can't or 
won't stop me?"
	
She couldn't explain how she knew it to be so, but more was
hinging on the answer to his inquiry than simple curiosity.  She
wasn't exactly sure what signals she was giving off, what doubts or
demons shone in her eyes.  But somewhere along the way, Mulder
must have picked up on something.  Something that made him 
question the wisdom of their course.  And so, he had decided to stop 
and ask for permission.  Permission to finish what they had begun.  
Together.
	
No holds barred.
	
"Won't," she whispered, the single word a promise.  "I won't."
	
And saying nothing more, she stepped from her sodden
panties.
	
He released his hold and watched her, nodding.
	
Silence.
	
"That's better," he murmured after a bit, as he leaned down 
and with a flick of his wrist pitched the discarded bit of silk 
somewhere off to the side.  Scully couldn't tell if he was referring to 
her acquiescence or to her increasing lack of clothing.  
	
"But it's not enough," he continued, settling back once more 
in his chair.
	
"What would be?" she countered quietly as she stood before 
him, nude from the waist down.  "What would be enough for you, 
Mulder?"
	
He smiled a lazy, self-satisfied smile, almost as if he had
been waiting for her query.  "Nothing short of everything.   I'm 
greedy where you're concerned, Scully.  I want it all."
	
No surprise there, she thought with a touch of rueful humor.  
She had known from the start the extent of his need.  The gaps in his 
life, in his soul, that cried out to be filled.  And from the beginning, 
she had done what she could to plug those holes; first as his partner 
and friend, then later as his lover.  Feeling, at times, like a variety
of emotional Spackle, she had diligently plastered over the cracks in his 
persona as she had discovered them. 
	
And yet, was she repairing the flaws or masking them?
	
That was the sort of painful question she asked herself from 
time to time.
	
But not right now.
	
She had other things on her mind.
	
"You know what I'm feeling particularly greedy for, Scully?"
Mulder drawled, his eyes sweeping over her with a hunger he could
no longer entirely conceal.  "What I need this minute?"
	
"What?" she asked him softly.
	
"Your skin," he told her, his voice as raw as her nerves.  
"I want to see it, smell it, taste it."
	
She didn't move.
	
"So take off that fucking blouse before I rip it off."
	
Startled by his sudden vehemence, she roused as if from a 
dream to do as he asked.  Her fingers seemingly nerveless, she plucked 
at the buttons holding closed her cuffs.  After an aborted attempt or
two, she wrestled them free, then did the same with the fastenings running 
down the shirt's front.  With scant ceremony, she eased her arms out 
of their sleeves and added the blouse to the growing pile on the floor.
	
"That too," he said as he gestured to her last remaining
article of clothing, a demure lacy little underwire.  "It's pretty 
and all.  But quite frankly, I prefer what's underneath."
	
A quick twist, a slide, and a shrug later, the bra too had
been shed.  At last, Dana Scully stood before Fox Mulder naked.
	
And wondered just what was coming next.
	
Mulder seemed in no hurry to enlighten her.  In marked 
contrast to the urgency with which he had instructed her to strip, he
now appeared content to simply look at her.  To let his eyes glide from
her flame-bright fall of hair down to her ankles' narrow circumferences,
returning time and again to the spots that most captured his attention.
The rounded fullness of her breasts, her trim waist, the thatch of 
wiry curls guarding her sex.
	
"God, you're beautiful, Scully," he mumbled softly after 
awhile, his gaze dark with longing, gentler than she had seen it since 
their game had begun.  "Have you any idea how beautiful you are?"
	
"Tell me," she urged breathlessly, caught up in the spell his 
voice was weaving.
	
He sadly shook his head.  "I can't.  I'm sorry.  I know I'm 
supposed to.  Supposed to . . . tell you stuff like that.  But it sounds
so stupid when you try to put it into words, Scully.  Or . . . at least 
when I try to."
	
She nodded, understanding his reticence, but disappointed
by it just the same.
	
Their eyes held for another silent second or two.
	
Then he raised his hand from the arm of the chair, and curled 
his middle and index fingers in voiceless command.
	
Come here.
	
She did.
	
She crossed to him.  Mulder held out his hands.  She took 
them, and allowed him to guide her down onto his lap.  She sat facing 
him, her knees bent on either side of his narrow hips, his erection 
prodding her bottom.
	
The instant her hands touched his chest, signaling that she 
was settled, he seized her.  Plunging his hands into her hair, he pulled 
her to him for a deep, slow, wet kiss.  Groaning into her mouth, he 
stroked his tongue along hers.  Rubbed over and under it.  Bathed her 
lips, her teeth, the roof of her mouth.  He was devouring her, she 
thought, the notion making her a trifle giddy.   Eating her alive.  
Feasting on her tender mouth as if he were starving for the taste of
it.  Of her.
	
He suckled her lips with his own.  Pulled them into his 
mouth.  Nipped at them.  Covered them again and again.  Twisting
and turning her face in his palms as if searching for the best 
possible angle; the tightest, most exquisite fit.  Recklessly, she
returned his caresses, the need rising in her like a fever.  Yes, want
me, she yearned to whisper to him.  Want me . . .
	
Here.
	
Now.
	
In this chair.
	
On the floor.
	
What did it matter?  Nothing mattered.  Nothing.  Not when
he was kissing her like this.
	
And this.
	
And . . . oh God . . . like that . . . .
	
So ferocious was her arousal, so fierce her desire, that when
he pulled away from her--pulled away and grabbed hold of the arms
of the chair as if he thought to rip them from the poor unassuming 
piece of furniture--she sobbed.  The sound flying breathy and weak
from her swollen lips.
	
He looked up at her, eyes unfocused but bright, his mouth 
damp from their kisses.  "Touch yourself, Scully."
	
"What?"  Her brain wasn't functioning properly, that's all
there was to it.  She couldn't hear, couldn't think.  His words made
no sense.  He might as well have been speaking Reticulan.
	
"You heard me," he muttered as his hips began to rise and 
fall beneath her, pressing against her open, pouting lower lips, then
pulling away like the cruelest of flirts.  "Play with yourself." 
	
Oh my God.  She had never done anything like that.  Never
shared with anyone something so essentially private.
	
"I want to watch you come, Scully" he told her hoarsely.  
"I want to sit back and watch it happen.  Up close and personal."
	
Still she waited, frightened and embarrassed.  Excited and 
on fire.
	
"Do that for me," he implored, the words spoken soothingly,
as if he were trying to tame something wild.  "Be a good girl, Dana, 
and do as you're told."
	
A good girl?
	
Not tonight.
	
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
	
And letting out a deep shuddering breath, she at last nodded.
	
Yet still didn't move.
	
"Go on," he urged, his eyes sleepy now with arousal.
	
Slicking her lips with her tongue, she raised up slightly on 
her knees.  She covered her mouth for a moment with her hand, the
gesture suggesting she just couldn't *believe* what she was about to
do.  Then, slowly, as if moving all on its own, her hand drifted down 
the front of her.  Her fingers trailed down the column of her throat, 
meandered across the hard jutting peaks of her breasts,  glided over 
the smoothness of her belly to comb lightly through the coarse hair at 
her crotch.
	
She whimpered.  God, she was wet.  Wet and swollen.
	
And ready.  So very ready.
	
Idly, she wondered how long she'd last.
	
Head tipped back so that her hair dangled down past her
shoulders, she closed her eyes and slipped her fingers inside the 
distended entrance to her body.  
	
Two, at first.  
	
Then three.  
	
Slowly.  
	
In, where the walls of her vagina clung to her intruding 
digits like a suckling mouth.  Out, where she spread the moisture 
coating her makeshift cock along her tender, pulsing slit.  Smeared
it over the ripe little bud tucked away up front.
	
Oh Christ.
	
In . . . Out.  Again.  And again.
	
Sweat broke out on her forehead, dotted her upper lip.  With 
a will of its own, her pelvis tipped forward to meet her easy thrusts,
some primal impulse instinctively guiding her into the position 
bested suited for climax.  Gradually, her body sinking in to the rhythm 
established by her hand, she felt a delicious sort of tension begin to 
build.  A throbbing kind of ache that ratcheted tighter and tighter
until it threatened to snap her in two.
	
"What does it feel like, Scully?" Mulder asked, his voice
coarse like gravel.  "Tell me what it feels like."
	
"Soft," she whispered, her brow wrinkling with effort.  "Soft."
	
His hand found its way to her face.  Lovingly, with the gentlest 
of touches, he skimmed his fingertips along the curve of her cheek.  
"What else?" he prompted, his tone still ragged.
	
She kept her eyes closed, focusing on the pleasure rippling
through her rather than on the man beneath her, his hips mimicking 
the motion of her hand.  Her head turned feverishly from side to side, 
lolling on her neck.  Her lips were parted, open as if ready to cry
out.  Honeyed with her own arousal, her fingers slid over her clitoris once 
more.  Her breath hitched with the sharpness of the sensation.  She 
circled, taking care to keep the pressure light as her sensitivity was 
high.  Around and around, her middle finger swirled, her hips 
twitching, her breath unnaturally loud to her ears.
	
"Hot," she mumbled, head twisting fitfully.  "I'm . . . it's 
hot."  
	
Somewhere, on the periphery of her hearing, she heard ice 
tapping against glass.  Then suddenly, a keen, stinging cold lanced 
through her left nipple.
	
"Oh!" Scully groaned, her head snapping upright, her eyes
fluttering open once more.  Mulder had taken his glass of water, now 
little of it left save cubes and condensation, and pressed it to her
breast.
	
"How does that feel?" he asked with almost clinical 
detachment, his gaze locked on the sight of her shiny pink nipple.
	
"Um . . . I don't know," she admitted in a broken sounding
whisper, her hand stalled for a moment between her legs.  "I can't . . . 
I . . oh . . ."  
	
What did he want from her?  Sorry Mulder, but I just can't
discuss with you things such as nerve endings and temperature 
variances.
	
Not when her senses were just about ready to launch into 
overload.  
	
Not when the nerve endings in question were her own.
	
Continuing until her one nipple was numb from cold, he 
then applied the same treatment to her other side.  Her back arched 
involuntarily as the frigid surface danced against her far warmer one.
	
"Does it hurt?" he queried in the same casual tone as he 
traced the edge of her aureole with the tumbler's frosty bottom rim.
	
Her fingers began to move inside her again, the action
commencing almost without conscious thought.  She could do 
nothing else.  Not when she was so close.  "No.  No, it doesn't hurt."
	
"Good," he murmured as he set the glass on the table once 
more.  "I don't want to hurt you, Scully.  I don't ever, ever want to 
hurt you."
	
"I know," she said, moving faster now, her hand thrusting
smoothly, rhythmically between her legs.  "I know you don't."
	
"I want you to feel good," he said, as he reached up and
with his index finger spread the droplets of water left behind by the 
glass over the pebbled peaks of her breasts.  He dabbed at them, 
scarcely touching her, his caress maddeningly light.
	
"I do," she chuckled feebly, her lashes drooping, her hips 
surging in counterpoint to the slide of her fingers. 
	
"And I know how sensitive your breasts are," he said
conversationally, his fingers tapping soundly against her nipples 
now as if testing their firmness, their resiliency.  The little nubbins 
responded by lengthening, plumping; feeling gradually returning to 
them after their trial by ice.  "How much you like it when I touch 
you there."
	
She hummed her agreement, words more than she could
manage at that moment.  True enough, Mulder, she thought dazedly.  
When you're right, you're right.
	
"How much you like it when I do something like this,"
he growled, the change in his voice signaling his intentions before
he himself had actually moved.
	
Then, with that shift in tone her only warning, he seized her 
rigid nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, and tugged.
	
Hard.
	
She screamed atop him, her body stretching, arching, 
searching desperately for a way to relieve the stress.  Her slender
frame bent like a bow, she hung suspended over him, chin tipped towards the
ceiling.  At first, she thought to help support her weight herself, and
to that end, clutched at his forearm with the hand not buried between her 
legs.
	
"No," he told her sharply.  "Let go."
	
Whimpering, she did as she was told.  It wasn't that he was
hurting her.  Not exactly.  After all, the muscles in her thighs took 
some of the pressure away from her imprisoned nipples.  But the 
tension, the pull . . . she felt as if the two tender tips he was
pinching were being squeezed by little mini-vises.  Clamps that oddly rewarded 
her with their punishing grip.
	
"What's the matter, Scully?" whispered the man she at that 
moment looked to as Master.  "Did I tell you that you could stop?"
	
Stop?  
	
"No," she admitted, confused for a second as to what he
referring.  Then, she followed his gaze to her hand where it lay still
and glistening against her thigh.
	
Vaguely surprised by this, she looked up and found Mulder
watching her closely.
	
"Go on," he instructed; the words an order, the tone a caress.
	
Teeth gnawing on her bottom lip, she nodded, and inched 
her fingers inside her body once more.
	
"Yeah, that's right. . . . and out.  That's beautiful," he praised, 
his voice velvety soft, his thumbs and forefingers still holding her 
nipples captive.  "You're doing very well."
	
She sighed, the sound lost and low.
	
"Come on now.  A little harder. . . harder.  Faster.  Yeah, like 
that.  Just like that.  I can see you, you know, Scully.  I see
everything you do."
	
She knew that.  God, she knew that.  That was at least half the
reason she kept her eyes closed.  
	
"Go back to your clit now.  Yeah.  Rub there for me.  Lightly
now.  Slowly.  Imagine it's my tongue.  You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
	
"Yes."
	
"Later, Scully.  Later.  We've got all night.  But for now, this
feels pretty good, doesn't it?  Feels really good."  
	
"Yes," she sobbed, as he gently wiggled her breasts from side
to side for emphasis.  "Oh please . . ."
	
"Very good," he said, amusement seeping into his words.
"'Please and thank you'.  You're always polite, Scully.  Regardless
of the situation.  I admire that in you."
	
He rolled her nipples now, careful not to lose his grip.
	
"Mulder . . . ." She was reduced to begging.  Even though she 
had somehow still managed to refrain from voicing the actual plea, she 
could hear the entreaty when she spoke.  True, her pleasure was 
technically being generated by her own hand.  But for some reason, 
she felt as if she had to ask for his permission.  Implore the one who 
had set her to her task to free her from it.  At that point, anything
else would seem like rebellion.
	
And a dutiful slave never disobeys.
	
"Listen to me," he gritted out, seemingly growing as effected 
by her need as she.  "I'm going to let you come, Scully.  Do you want 
that?  Do you want to come?"
	
What--was he kidding?  "=Yes=."
	
"All right.  But you have to do exactly as I say."
	
She nodded, her head nearly flopping back and forth atop her 
shoulders.
	
"I want you to make sure your fingers are wet.  Are they?  
Good girl."
	
GoodgirlGoodgirlGoodgirlGoodgirlGoodgirl.
	
"Now, I want you to push your hips forward.  As far as you 
can go.  That's right.  Don't move them, now.  Keep them still.  And 
rub your hand over your clit very lightly.  Circle it.  No.  Ease up.  I 
said, 'Ease up.'  Better.  Yeah.  That's it . . . that's it."
	
Damn him, she thought, silently cursing her tormentor.  It
wasn't enough.  He was barely allowing her to use any force at all.  
Given how slick her fingers were, she couldn't feel any friction, any
pressure.  Instead, all she could enjoy was a kind of current humming
through her, a vibration.  Breath flowing from her lips in a series of
deep gusty pants, she focused on the sensation.  And after a time was 
astonished to discover a method to Mulder's madness.
	
Because out of that gentle gossamer-light caress, ecstasy 
bloomed.  Oblivion beckoned.  
	
If she was patient.
	
And did as she was told.
	
She groaned.  He began deliberately pulling on her nipples; 
easy, rhythmic little pulses, as if he were milking her.
	
"You're close now, aren't you?" he queried, his voice
hypnotic, shadowed like the room, their souls.  "I'll bet you're very 
close."
	
"Yes . . . . ."  She increased her fingers' speed, but not their
pressure.
	
He wouldn't like that.  Wouldn't approve.
	
"And you'd like me to let you go.  Let you come."
	
"Oh yes . . . . ."  Swifter still.  Until she wondered if, were 
she to open her eyes, her hand would appear only as a blur.  "Yes, 
please . . ."
	
"*Please* what, Scully?  I'm not sure what you want."
	
Her words were thick, difficult to understand.  "You know."
	
"Say it.  I want to hear you say it"
	
It was over.  Pride had lost all meaning.  "To come.  I want
to come."
	
And even though her lids were lowered, she knew without
question that Fox Mulder was smiling.
	
"All right then," he told her, sounding as if he were bestowing
on her the greatest of favors.  "If you really want it, I'll give it to
you.  On my count."
	
She nodded.  Oh, thank God.
	
He pulled her to him, brought her closer. The fingers 
locked on her aching nipples guiding her into position.  "One."
	
Gradually, he increased the pressure.  Tightened the vices.
"Two."
	
He kissed her on the center of her chest, directly between her 
breasts.  "Three."
	
And all at once, he let go of her nipples, bringing his hands 
around to cup her shoulder blades instead.
	
Circulation was restored to the two rosy tips.
	
With sensation flooding back seconds after.
	
A searing, white hot river of it.
	
And with its return, Scully's world exploded.  
	
Fragments of light, shards of color flashed behind her closed 
eyes.  She screamed and moaned and bucked.  Danced on his lap like 
some sort of X-rated bar-girl.  Her hair flying, her fingertips still 
spinning over her clitoris like a top.  Her nipples burned and throbbed; 
heavy and tender at the same time.  Her entire body convulsed with the 
power of her free fall.
	
It was wondrous and scary and it felt like drowning because 
for a moment she didn't think she'd be able to breathe as this immense 
rushing wave of heat and arousal and passion and release crashed over 
her sweeping up her torso from her throbbing groin past her quivering 
breasts to her cheeks her brow her brain and for one crazy instant it
felt as if her hair were tingling with it but that was absurd because
everyone knew that hair was actually dead and why couldn't her neck support her 
head all of a sudden when all she really wanted to do was curl up in 
Mulder's embrace because he had her cradled against his chest now and 
was kissing her hair her temple he was talking to her but she couldn't 
hear what he was saying because her heart was pounding so loudly that 
her head felt like the inside of a bell tower Notre Dame Go Irish but it 
didn't really matter what words he used she had heard them before knew 
them by heart and besides he smelled so good all musky and male and 
burrowing against him made her feel cherished and safe and warm 
fuzzy everything was fuzzy buzzy wuzzy was was was what was she 
going to . . . . . . . . . .? 
	
And for the first time in her life, Dana Scully swooned.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Oh, my God.  I've killed her.
	
That was the first semi-coherent thought to enter Fox Mulder's
mind when he felt Dana Scully, shaky and soft in the aftermath of a
positively shattering orgasm, suddenly sigh and collapse limply in his 
arms.
	
Idiotic though he later recognized the notion to be, for one 
brief moment, fear seized his heart.  Squeezed it in its barbed wire 
grip until he imagined he could actually feel blood seeping from the 
wound.
	
Then, he gathered her to him.  Rested her slender form against 
his.  Once she was nestled securely in his embrace, he had no trouble 
discerning the deep, even rise and fall of her breasts, detecting the 
moist, heated kiss of her breath against his skin.
	
She lived.
	
Thank God.
	
Nearly light-headed himself with relief, it was all he could do 
not to laugh at his momentary delusions of grandeur.  Take it easy, 
Romeo, he mockingly advised himself as he softly smoothed her hair 
from her brow.  Your love-making techniques don't exactly warrant 
the skull and cross bones warning just yet. 
	
Still, he couldn't help but feel some small measure of 
satisfaction over the way the unmistakably sated woman in his lap
had responded to his seduction.
	
Seduction, Mulder?
	
Doesn't that word suggest a certain degree of romance? a little
voice inside him challenged.  Imply a kind of tenderness or, at the
very least, some attempt at wooing?
	
Hmm.  Was there any way in hell that the words "Touch 
yourself" could be construed as wooing?
	
What about "So take off that fucking blouse before I rip it 
off"?
	
Uh, no.  Probably not.
	
And yet, Scully hadn't seemed to mind.
	
Not at all.  In fact, once things had truly gotten underway, 
she had appeared to enter into the spirit of their game with no small 
measure of abandon.  Her daring, her trust, her vulnerability had been ....
	
Amazing.

Absolutely breathtakingly amazing.
	
But then, this was Scully he was talking about.  Amazing 
was nothing more than her usual state of being.  
	
Pressing a kiss to her hairline, he tightened his arms 
protectively around her.  Warm and yielding, she lay sideways 
across his lap with her head tucked beneath his chin.  Her knees 
were drawn up, her hands lay slack atop her thighs.  Sweat slicked 
her flushed skin so that it glowed like pearls.  A single shoe dangled 
from her toes like the last leaf of autumn.  Curling around her small 
body, he gently removed the pump and tossed it to the floor, caressing 
her dainty foot as he did so. 
	
That simple touch proved enough to rouse her.  She stirred. 
Instinctively, she turned into him more fully, lifted what looked to be 
a ridiculously heavy arm and draped it around his neck.  Nuzzling his 
throat with her brow, she sighed, the sound suggesting utter languor.
	
"Scully?" he murmured quietly in question, hoping she was 
indeed coming down from her high.  It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying 
this interlude, this break from the erotic drama that had gone before.  
After all, holding Scully--particularly a naked Scully--was never what 
he would call a hardship.  It was only that while holding this 
delightfully naked woman he was wrestling with a hard-on of near
Wagnerian proportions. 
	
Well, actually he wasn't wrestling with it.
	
Neither was anyone else.
	
That was the problem.
	
"Hmm?" she hummed in reply as she pressed a sleepy kiss 
just below his ear.
	
"You okay?" he queried as he combed lightly through her 
tousled hair with his fingertips.  "You kinda scared me there for a 
minute."
	
"I'm fine," she assured him, her head on his shoulder, her 
hushed voice a tad rough around the edges.
	
"Here," he said, stretching over to the little chair-side table
and retrieving his water.  A bit more of the ice had melted since he 
had last handled the glass; liquid now floated what cubes still 
remained.  He judged there ought to be enough H2O there to soothe 
her throat.  Not even considering what the action implied, he brought 
the glass to her lips himself and slowly tipped it so that the water 
trickled into her mouth.  She swallowed greedily, accepting his care 
without comment or protest.
	
Behavior which did not go unnoticed by Mulder.
	
"Better?" he asked when she had all but drained the glass
dry.
	
"Better," she softly confirmed, her eyes flickering to his, then
away.
	
This too failed to escape his attention.
	
Gently, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin and tipped
up her head to meet his gaze.
	
"What's wrong?" he asked, his previous satisfaction 
threatening to shrivel up and blow away.
	
She looked up at him, her blue eyes enormous.  And more 
than a trifle bewildered.  "Nothing.  Nothing's wrong.  It's just . . ."
	
"What?" he prompted, gliding the back of his hand along the
curve of her cheek.	
	
She cleared her throat, and dipped her eyes.  "Mulder . . . 
nothing like that has ever happened to me before."
	
"Nothing like what?" he queried, thinking that depending 
upon her response he was either going to be one of the proudest men 
on planet Earth or one of the most mortified.
	
She shrugged a bit helplessly.  "Like . . . well, like *any* of 
it."
	
He slowly nodded, still unable to judge from her tone of 
voice whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.  So, he decided to
ask.  "Does that frighten you?"
	
Her gaze lifted slightly.  It now appeared to be focused 
somewhere in the vicinity of his chin.  "No."
	
Okay.  That sounded promising.
	
But he needed to be sure.  "No?"
	
She shook her head, then shyly peered up at him, her hand
resting on his chest.  "Uh-uh. . . . I . . um . . I kinda liked it."
	
Proud.  He was definitely Proud.  Maybe even borderline 
Smug. 
	
"Not as a lifestyle, Mulder," she continued quietly, talking to 
his collar rather than to his face.  "Not every day.  But, as a sort of
a . . . change of pace . . . . it's intense."
	
"It is," he chuckled, hugging her to him and affectionately 
kissing her brow.  "It is that."
	
But Scully seemingly wanted more; more affection, more
reassurance.  More of him.  Turning, she reached up and wrapped 
her arms tightly around his neck, her fingers entwined in his hair.  
Breasts pressed firmly against his chest, she kissed him, her mouth 
open and demanding, hot and just a little bit wild.  
	
And all at once, the kitten curled atop his lap turned into a 
tigress.
	
But it was Mulder who felt like purring.
	
His hands skimmed up and down her graceful back, tracing
its flats and curves.  On one downward sweep, he filled his palms with
her buttocks, cupped her there and squeezed.  She moaned her approval 
and shifted restlessly atop him.
	
Which inevitably brought her hip in contact with his raging
erection.
	
Which inevitably wrenched a heartfelt groan from his lips.
	
Upon hearing his low strangled cry, Scully pulled away from 
the kiss and looked at him, amusement twinkling in her eyes.  
"Problem, Mulder?"
	
He licked his lips before wryly replying, "Nothing you can't
help me fix."
	
She nodded as if gravely considering the matter before 
murmuring, "I could do that, I suppose."
	
The corner of Mulder's mouth pulled up in a lop-sided smile.
"Well, that's a relief.  Now, the question is--how should we go about
it?"
	
"What do you mean?"
	
Mulder adjusted the woman on his lap so that her wonderfully 
rounded little bottom wasn't quite such a distraction.  "What I mean, 
Scully, is that you and I have going what you might call a 'Theme 
Night'."
	
"A 'Theme Night'?"
	
Smiling sheepishly, he shrugged.  "For want of a better term.
I believe you referred to it as a 'change of pace'."
	
Lifting her brows in understanding, she nodded once more.
	
"Now, we can continue in that vein if you're willing," he said,
running his index finger lightly down her arm, and watching goose 
flesh rise in its wake.  "Or we can . . . take a more conventional 
approach.  It's entirely up to you."
	
His hand found hers and lifted it to his lips.  Softly kissing 
her knuckles, he realized that the scent of her arousal lingered still
on her fingertips.  His groin pulsed with the awareness.  
	
"Truth is, Scully," he mumbled once he had gotten himself 
under control.  "At this moment, I want you so badly that the finer 
points really don't matter a whole hell of a lot to me."
	
"They don't, huh?" she asked in a husky voice, her expression
gentle.
	
"No," he confessed with sham remorse, his hips rolling 
beneath her almost against his will.
	
Scully didn't answer at first.  She didn't even look him in the 
eye.  Instead, she loosed her fingers from his and went to work on his 
shirt.  Saying nothing, she slowly unbuttoned one fastening after 
another until the garment lay open to his waist.  Mulder sat watching 
her, struggling to control his respiration, his blood pressure, his
heart rate.
	
And other vital signs.  
	
"I think there's something to be said for consistency, Mulder,"
she whispered at last, her eyes trained on her hand as it swept lightly
along his torso.  "Don't you?"
	
Oh God, Scully, don't quiz me when you're touching me like 
that, he thought a tad incoherently.  "Consistency?"
	
"Hmm," she hummed, her fingers finding beneath the shirt
one of his small flat nipples and scratching carefully around its rim.
His willpower in tatters, he couldn't stop the moan that spilled from 
his lips.  She smiled at the sound, and gave the same treatment to the 
tiny nubbin's twin.  "Consistency.  It seems a shame to establish a 
certain mood and then let it go to waste."
	
Okay.  True, in his present state, he wasn't quite as quick on
the uptake as he usually was.  But, if he wasn't mistaken, it appeared
that the naked woman perched before him wanted . . . .
	
"Are you saying that you're in the mood to be bossed around
some more?" he queried, his voice rumbling low in his register.
	
Scully slid both hands beneath his rumpled shirt, and ran 
them slowly down the front of him, from his shoulders to his waist,
fingers spread as if she feared missing so much as an inch of his 
skin.  Pursing her lips into a sexy little pout, she looked up at him 
through her lashes.  "I don't know.  Think you're man enough to 
handle me?"
	
He growled in mock menace, and pulled her to him for 
another long, slow kiss.  He could feel her smiling as his mouth 
roamed over hers.  His lips curved to answer her.  At last breaking 
free, he muttered heatedly, "Anytime, anywhere, Agent Scully.  I'm 
always willing to take you on."
	
She gazed up at him from where her head lay pillowed on
his upper arm.  "Then do your worst, Mulder.  I can take it.  And you."
	
Of that, I have no doubt, he thought ruefully to himself.  I 
know you can take me, Scully.  Take me and tie me in knots just by 
using your bedroom voice to lecture me on the habits of the not-so-
average fluke worm.  Take me from stand-by to rock-solid-ready 
simply by delivering a well deserved dressing-down to a guy with 
twice your size and half your brains.  Take me straight to heaven with
the sensation of you stroking and straining against me, your skin 
sliding over mine, the heat between us building until at any moment I 
keep expecting us both to ignite like flash paper.  
	
Oh boy, he was the one in trouble here.
	
Just how the hell was he supposed to hold it all together to 
give this woman the experience she deserved?  After all, the game 
was control.  And he was currently clinging to his only by his 
fingernails.  There was no way around it.  He was going to have to 
relieve a little of the pressure if he had any hope at all of making
their evening last.
	
Kissing her one last time, he framed her face with his hands
before whispering, "On your knees, Scully."
	
Her eyes darkened in understanding.  Then, lips tilted upwards 
in the most subtle of smiles, she nodded.  And gently slipped to the 
floor.
	
"I told you I need a little help," he said, his pupils large and 
unfocused, drugged with desire.  "Why don't you see what you can do."
	
She looked up at him from between his legs, her small, 
infinitely capable hands setting atop his thighs, her lovely face inches 
from his painfully throbbing cock.
	
And moved not a muscle.
	
"I need instructions, Mulder," she told him in a husky voice.
	
"Instructions?" he echoed, too overwrought at that point to
fully comprehend the cause of her inertia.
	
She smiled, her lashes lowering just a touch to obscure her
gaze.  "I told you before, I need to know =exactly= what it is you 
want from me."
	
"Exactly?" he croaked, thinking that the bulge tenting his
trousers should have given her some clue as to how to proceed.
	
Then, she lightly rested her hand directly on that bulge and 
every clue in his head flew out the window.
	
"=Exactly=, Mulder," she said, idly doodling on his penis with
her fingertip, watching with a kind of bemusement as it twitched and 
jumped.  "Step by step.  Otherwise, forget it.  After all, your talking 
to me =was= part of the deal.  Remember?"
	
Oh, he remembered all right.  He vividly recalled promising 
to tell her what he wanted, what he needed.  As long as she promised
to then fulfill those needs.  
	
Which, he had to admit, she had thus far been doing.  
Admirably.	
	
And he had no doubt she would continue to hold up her end 
of the bargain.  Scully's word was her bond.  It was just that walking 
her through something like that, sharing with her in the most specific 
detail how he wanted her to make love to him was . . . very revealing.  
Almost more intimate than the act itself.
	
Which was, of course, precisely why she asked it of him.
	
"You are going to get it," he murmured with dark promise, 
his hand now gently cradling her cheek.
	
"Only after you do," she softly replied, mischief in her eyes.
	
My.  Someone was feeling frisky.
	
He chewed on the corner of his lip while he mulled over his
options.
	
And realized he had none.
	
Sighing, he gave in.  "All right, Scully.  I'll play by the rules.  
For now.  So, let's start with the basics, shall we?  Open my pants."
	
She sat up a little straighter and reached for the top button
on his trousers.  Pausing for a moment, she looked up at him with
one brow arched.  "Belt too?"
	
Oh man.  She was not going to make this easy.
	
"Belt too," he confirmed gruffly.
	
Nodding, she slipped the narrow strip of leather free from 
its buckle.  She next moved to the pants and popped the button 
topping the zipper.  Then, with excruciating slowness, she carefully 
lowered the zipper itself, the back of her hand brushing against him
through his boxers as she did so.
	
His vision swam with her touch.  Breathe, you idiot.  Breathe, 
he silently exhorted himself.  Christ.  If something this simple was 
affecting him this strongly, how the hell was he going to react when 
she actually caressed him, skin to skin?
	
Let alone what came after that.
	
Her task complete, Scully sat back on her heels and looked
up at him.  Waiting for her next instruction.
	
"Take it out," Mulder mumbled, feeling all of fifteen again
under the knowing light of her gaze.
	
"Take what out?" she queried with counterfeit innocence.
	
Sweat was now coating his brow.  "Well, this particular
portion of the male anatomy has several nicknames, Scully," he
began, embarrassment and arousal roughening his voice.  "But I 
believe the correct term is 'penis'."
	
"Ohhhh," she said as if a light bulb had suddenly clicked 
on above her head.  Then, her lips curved in a cat-that-ate-the-canary
smile, and she leaned forward to do as she was told.
	
He lifted.  She pulled.  And a few short seconds later, the
evening air caressed his erection, cool and soothing against his heated 
flesh.
	
However, the minute that she had done as he had asked, 
Scully once more sat back to watch him.  Calm, composed.  And, as far
as Mulder was concerned--utterly, blindingly maddening.  How ironic, 
he mused dazedly.  The woman before him was naked, on her knees, 
on the floor, between his legs, following his every direction to the
letter.  And yet, the balance of power had somehow shifted to her favor.
	
Maybe he just wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. 
	
Then the memory of Scully poised atop his lap, writhing in 
the throes of passion, shimmered into focus in his mind's eye.  And he
took heart.  No, he had a certain knack.  He just needed to master his 
own need before he could master her.
	
But before he could do =anything=, he had to say the words.
	
Swallowing hard, he gave it a try.  "Touch it."
	
She did that smile thing again.  "Touch what?" she inquired 
sweetly.
	
Just you wait, Dana Scully, just you wait, chanted an almost 
frantic little voice inside his head.
	
"My *cock*," he choked out, hoping the word might shock 
her, but knowing her too well to actually believe such a ploy might 
succeed.
	
It didn't.
	
Instead, she stretched out her fingertips and dragged them 
lightly along his length, stroking over him with a deliberate lack of 
pressure.  Toying.  Tickling.  Giving him what he wanted but refusing
him the proper measure of it.  "Like this?" she asked, already knowing
the answer.
	
A single groan was his reply.  God.  It might not be all he 
needed, but it sure as hell wasn't a bad start.  Scully floated over him 
like a whisper, calling to him.  To his heart, his soul, his body. 
Stirring his nerve endings, urging his blood to flow faster, more heavily.  Like 
a well trained beast, the flesh beneath her hand responded, grew
thicker, harder, longer.  More, more, more, screamed his brain.  And yet, in all 
honesty, he didn't know how much more he could stand.  Still, he let 
her play with him, tease him with her feathery caresses until the 
pleasure promised to turn into pain.
	
"Wait."  
	
She stopped immediately.
	
"Hold it.  In your hand.  Hold me.  Tight."
	
She did.  Right at the root.
	
Her hand was cool and strong.  And he swore he could feel his 
pulse pounding nowhere else on his body except in the long, hard piece 
of muscle nestled in her palm.  "Yeah. . . .  Now move it.  Move your 
hand."
	
"Up and down?"
	
"Yes."
	
"Then I think maybe I ought to do this first," she murmured,
and lifting her hand, she licked her palm, her eyes simmering as she
watched him watching her, warming him with their glow.
	
He dug his fingers into the chair's arms, and waited.
	
Until she gripped him once more and gently ran her moistened 
hand up his rigid member, then back down again.
	
"Ohh," he moaned low, his head falling back to rest against the
seat cushion; his hips lifting languidly, then falling; following the 
motion of her fist.
	
Taking it even slower, she repeated the caress, pulling on him
slightly as she brought her hand all the way to his penis' head before 
letting it glide back down to its starting place.
	
The third trip up, she improvised.  When she reached his 
sensitive tip she took her thumb and swept some of the liquid she found 
there over the head, swirling smoothly and evenly until the entire knob 
glistened from her efforts.
	
Oh God, it was remarkable.  Her hand, wrapped around him.
Moving over him.  The friction, the heat.  
	
"Faster," he commanded hoarsely.
	
Obligingly, she picked up speed.  Working him now, carefully
stretching him as she stroked.  Lifting him further and further away 
from his body.
	
Propelling him closer and closer towards the stratosphere.
	
"My balls, Scully," he whispered after a time, his voice thin 
and breathy.  "Touch my balls."
	
Keeping her one hand busy, she brought her other palm 
beneath him, and painstakingly balanced his satiny sac of nerves there.  
Closing her fingers lightly around him, she rolled it.  From side to
side.  In a slow, tight circle.
	
He groaned.  Helpless, ragged little bursts of sound leaked from 
his lips.  His hips arched for the ceiling; his thighs quivering from
the excitement, the strain.  Christ, this was good.  This was too good.  He 
could come just from this.  Just from her hands, pumping, stroking, and 
generally driving him out of his mind.
	
But he wanted more.
	
"Your mouth, Scully.  Give me your mouth," he implored,
his body twisting restlessly in the chair, his hands locked in place on
its arms.
	
She didn't stop her ministrations entirely, though upon 
hearing him speak, they did ebb in intensity.  "What was that, Mulder?  
I didn't quite hear you."
	
Liarliarliarliarliarliarliarliar.
	
Taking a deep, jagged breath he gave it one more shot.  
"Take me in your mouth."
	
Her hands stilled.  Mulder didn't know whether to rejoice
or mourn.  Scrambling for some semblance of control, he raised
his head.  Scully looked back at him, her gaze singeing him with its
fire.  Mouth parted, lips moist and full.  So ready to take him inside.
	
After she had made him work for it just a little bit.
	
She made him wait, let him stew.  Tortured him just a touch
by rubbing her thumb along his underside, purposefully targeting the
angry blue vein running up its length, pressing against it with finely 
measured force.  "Tell me =exactly= how you want it done," she 
murmured, her gaze unwavering, more black it seemed than blue, all 
pretense at innocence gone.  "I want to be sure to get it right."
	
This is where they separate the men from the boys, Mulder,
he mockingly told himself.
	
So be a man.
	
"Your tongue," he mumbled weakly, eyes sliding shut at last, 
unable to look at her right at that moment.  "Lick it.  Lick the head."
	
Almost immediately, her small wet tongue lapped gently at
him.  Around and around, with short, fleeting strokes she moistened
the keenly tender crown, her hand still locked firmly at the base of
his groin.
	
"Oh God, Scully," he murmured brokenly, his hips thrusting
at the air.  "God. . . more. . . . Give me more."
	
Shifting slightly, she did as he asked.  Brushing along his
swollen length with her tongue, her hair, she caressed him sweetly.  
Tracing over the hot silken muscle with gradually lengthening strokes.
	
He was sobbing now.  Scraps of words, a jumble of incoherent 
inanity.  His breath burst from his lips in choked little hisses. 
Reality narrowed down to two things, and two things only.
	
His cock.
	
Her mouth.
	
He couldn't hold out any longer.  Couldn't wait.  Couldn't go
without.
	
"Scully . . . .  Scully, please," he whispered, his lashes 
creeping open once more.  "Please."
	
At first he only saw the bright crown of her head as she knelt 
curled over his crotch.  But, upon hearing his voice, she straightened 
to regard him solemnly, her hand still clenched around where his 
erection began.
	
"What do you want, Mulder?" she asked, her voice hushed.
	
Desperate though he was, he didn't speak.  Couldn't speak.
Why should he?  She knew.  She =knew=.
	
"Ask me," she said softly.  "And I'll give it to you." 
	
Panting, he shook his head.
	
Bending over him once more, she nipped at him lightly,
dragging her teeth along his velvety skin, taking care not to injure
him.  Crying out in surprise and arousal, his hands flew from their place on 
the chair's arms to land heavily on her shoulders.  She only chuckled 
at his reaction.  "Be good now, Mulder.  Behave."
	
"You're the one being bad, Scully," he muttered, his hips
rocking again, straining against her confining hand.
	
"But I'd be so good to you if you'd let me," she crooned, her
gaze nearly molten now as she peered up at him.  "If you would only
let me, Mulder."
	
He could feel his inhibitions dissolving, sense his need
overwhelming his pride.
	
Then, she lowered her lips to him and kissed him on the
very tip, her mouth open and soft and wet and warm . . . .
	
"Ask me," she coaxed, low and tempting like a Lorelei.
	
It was too much.  He was drowning in it.  In his desire, in her.  
In the sight of her, the feel of her, the promise of her . . .
	
And something inside him shattered.
	
"Suck it," he gritted it out, his voice harsh and fierce with
longing.  "I want your lips around me. . . . your tongue.  I want
everything. . . . everything.  Please, Scully, . . I want to come . . . . 
I have to . . . "
	
"Where?" she asked, demanding one final concession.
	
He swallowed hard, his face dark and sulky with passion.
"In your mouth."
	
She smiled, the curve of her lips distinctly sensual.  
"Whatever you say."
	
And all the while keeping her eyes locked on his, she
slid him slowly between her lips.
	
Christ Almighty.  He feared for an instant that the sight of 
his penis disappearing inside her mouth might literally stop his heart.  
Inch by hot, aching inch she lowered her lips down his rigid member.  
	
Then back up.
	
And down.
	
Keeping pressure on him, pulling hard, her flushed cheeks 
hollowing with the effort.
	
Just as she had been told.
	
Entranced, he lifted his trembling hands to her hair.  He just 
set them there, so that they rested lightly on either side of her head.  
He didn't try to push, didn't attempt to guide or control her
movements.  At that moment, he just needed to touch her, to somehow caress her 
when she was so memorably caressing him.
	
Watching him shiver and mumble and moan, the bottom half
of his body undulating with a steady, measured pulse, Scully continued
her efforts.  Faster and faster her head bobbed, her tongue fluttering 
over him; rubbing, dipping, and swirling.
	
"God . . . oh God."  Regular speech had deserted him.  All
that was left to him were prayers.
	
Finally, he couldn't watch her anymore, couldn't keep his
eyes open.  He couldn't concentrate any more, all his focus having
shifted elsewhere, along with apparently half his body's blood flow.
Face screwed tight, sweat trickling down his cheeks, his head twisted 
fitfully against the chair's back.  His mouth was open, sucking in 
great shuddering lung fulls of air.  Waiting.  He was waiting.  It 
wouldn't be long now.  Wouldn't be long.  Not long.  Not . . . .
	
And with one last tight slid of her mouth, his body
convulsed.  Moaning a series of guttural nonsense sounds, his
body twitched as if electricity were pouring through him.  His
hips surged relentlessly, like his orgasm would never end.  It 
continued to roll over him, flowing like quicksilver from one end of
his body to the other.  He tingled hot, then cold.  And he couldn't
be certain, but he suspected that his bones had dissolved.  It had 
to be something like that, because given the sort of dense relaxation
that had descended upon him as his body had poured into hers, he 
doubted he would ever again be capable of movement.
	
Forget Spooky Mulder.  His new nickname would be Mulder
the Hut.
	
And through it all, Scully was with him.  First taunting,
then soothing, she had urged him mercilessly towards that impossibly 
high peak.  Then plunged from it with him.  Shielding him as he fell.
	
Afterwards, she licked him dry, pressed an affectionate kiss
to him, then laid her hand softly atop him and waited for him to 
come back to himself.
	
It took some time.
	
But finally, he whispered in a ragged voice, "Hey, Scully?"
	
"Yeah?"
	
"Wow."
	
She chuckled.  "You're welcome."
	
"See what I mean?" he murmured, head still tipped back, eyes 
closed, pulse zooming.  "Always polite."
	
She stretched up to kiss him low on his belly, then rested her 
cheek against his thigh.
	
His fingers threaded absently through her hair.  He could feel
his sweat cooling on his skin, chilling him unexpectedly.
	
"Scully?"
	
"Hmm?"
	
"There's just one thing."
	
"What?"
	
"You made me play by the rules. . . ."
	
"Yeah?"
	
"But you cheated."
	
She lifted her head from his leg.  "What do you mean?"
	
He opened his eyes and looked down at her.  "You were
supposed to do as I said."
	
"I did."
	
He shook his head slowly from side to side.  "No.  Not really.  
Not right away.  You had some fun first."
	
She arched a brow, but said nothing in her defense.  
	
He lifted the corner of his mouth.  "And I figure now it's
my turn."
	
She lifted her chin, a smile tugging at her mouth as well.
"You had your turn, Mulder."
	
He leered at her, then reached down and tugged her up for a 
quick kiss.  He could taste himself on her mouth.  "Ah.  But this is the 
penalty phase."
	
Her hands were spread high on his chest for balance.  
"Penalty phase?"
	
He nodded, a slow sensual smile spreading across his lips.  
"You heard me.  You were a bad girl, Scully.  A very bad girl.  You
made up the rules and then you broke them.  And now . . . . now you 
have to pay."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Dana Scully snapped off the vanity lights and prepared to exit
her small tiled bathroom.  She had taken a few moments for herself just 
as Mulder had before her to repair some of the damage inflicted upon 
her face and form by their lovemaking.  
	
And had discovered quite happily that she really didn't have 
much to put to right.  The woman who had looked back at her in the 
mirror was radiant.  True, her wildly tousled hair made her look as if 
she were the requisite babe in Aerosmith's latest video.  And her furled 
nipples blushed a tad darker than their usual petal pink.  But, in the 
end, she suspected Mulder would find fault with neither.  And besides, 
even if he should for some reason look askance at these small anomalies 
in her appearance, she knew that her slender naked body had a few 
other enticements with which to tempt him.  The delicate slope of her 
shoulders.  Her breasts' high twin curves.  The lush flare of her hips.  
No.  Unless she very much missed her mark, she doubted that the man 
she loved would feel compelled to pick up his toys and go home.  
	
At least, she hoped like hell he wouldn't.  
	
She still wanted to play.
	
Smiling in anticipation, she returned to her bedroom.  Just as
she crossed the threshold, she witnessed Fox Mulder sliding shut the 
drawer of her bureau.  Shirt hanging open from his shoulders, he stood 
in his trousers and socks, his back to her.
	
"Looking to slip into something more comfortable, Mulder?"
she wryly inquired from the doorway, her voice both husky and 
bemused.  "I'm afraid I don't have much that'll fit you."
	
He turned to gaze at her from over his shoulder, his hair 
endearingly askew, his eyes shining with approval as they leisurely 
traveled the length of her body.  
	
"What if I said I wasn't looking for something for *me* to 
wear?" he queried lightly.
	
"You'd prefer I got dressed?" she asked in surprise.
	
He slowly shook his head from side to side.  "Not exactly."
	
"What then?"
	
He pivoted to face her more fully.  And she discovered that 
he had something bunched in his hand.  Opening his fingers, that
something slithered free from their tangled coil to trail like snakes 
from his palm.
	
Scarves.  Three of them.
	
Scully licked her lips and contemplated what this revelation
suggested.  "If you're hoping to have me to perform the Dance of the 
Seven Veils, you're four short."
	
The corners of his lips lifted as he glanced down at the 
crumpled silk spilling from between his fingers.  "Actually, I was 
happy to even find three.  You're not what I would call the fussy 
accessory type, Scully.  I was worried I might need to improvise."
	
"Improvise?" she echoed warily.
	
He nodded, his lips pursed.  "Yeah.  But luckily, that won't 
be necessary.  These are exactly what I was looking for."
	
"And what *exactly* do you plan to do with those?" she
asked, wondering if her tone gave away just how dry her throat 
had suddenly become.
	
His eyes gleamed in the room's muted light, the look almost 
predatory in nature.  Twisting to his right, he deposited two of the 
scarves on her night stand, then walked slowly towards her, holding 
the remaining bit of silk in his fist.  Watching his finely regulated 
stride, the steely focus of his gaze, the smoldering sort of energy that 
radiated from him, growing more potent the closer he came, it was all 
she could do to hold her ground.  He drew to a halt mere inches from 
her, his decision to encroach upon her personal space clearly
deliberate.  When he spoke, she could feel his breath blowing hot and ragged 
through her hair.
	
"I'll bet you feel pretty proud of yourself, Agent Scully," he 
muttered softly as he nonchalantly ran the long strip of fabric through 
his fingers.  "What did it feel like to make me beg?  Did you like 
holding that sort of power over me?  Did it make you feel good?  Did 
it turn you on?"
	
Her heart was racing.  He hadn't even touched her yet, and
still she was having trouble drawing breath.  Not certain she could
trust her voice, she simply nodded.  Mulder accepted her admission
with a rueful half-smile.
	
Lifting his arms, he looped the scarf around the back of her 
neck so that its tails hung limply over her chest.  Letting go of one 
end, he slowly pulled the other down her shoulder and across her
breast.  It slid cool and slippery along her feverish skin, snagging for just an 
instant on her tender nipple.  She moaned with the sensation.
	
"But that wasn't supposed to be the game now--was it, Dana?" 
he whispered from right at her ear, using his height to intimidate her, 
purposefully crowding her against the door jamb.  "That wasn't what 
we had agreed upon."
	
Her back pressed flat against the archway, she raised her eyes 
to his.  He loomed over her, holding her in place as much with his 
silent gaze as he did with his far larger physique.
	
"You said you wanted to give up control tonight, didn't you?"
he challenged hoarsely as, without even looking at the fabric in his 
hands, he twisted and knotted it, fashioning it into what looked to be a 
small, soft noose.  "You told me you felt like letting go of it, of
turning it over to me."
	
"I did," she whispered, lightly touching his chest with her 
fingertips, feeling his heated skin quiver beneath her caress.  "I do."
	
With that, he swiftly grabbed her wrist, almost as if he 
couldn't bear the halting stroke of her skin against his.  His grip firm 
but not injurious, he pinned her arm above her head.  Holding her 
captive, he took the silken shackle he had created and slipped carefully 
over her hand.
	
"You sure, Scully?" he asked, his breath now bathing her face.
His body rested heavily against hers, his belt buckle cutting into the 
soft flesh just below her breasts.  "Are you certain you trust me 
enough to turn yourself over to me?"
	
She regarded him gravely.  His features were harsh with 
arousal, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth in what could be 
mistaken for a smile, but to her way of thinking looked more like a 
snarl.  His brow was dark.  His eyes were locked on hers, their lids 
heavy.  She could feel his erection pulsing to life once more against 
her hip.  She supposed that some women might feel threatened by 
such a situation.  Fearful.  Endangered.
	
But Dana Scully prided herself on being braver than the 
average female.
	
"I trust you completely," she told him quietly, her lips curving 
into the softest and gentlest of smiles, her free hand reaching up to 
skim lightly along his cheek.
	
For an instant, she thought she spied a surge of moisture 
welling in Mulder's expressive hazel eyes.  Then, he blinked.  And it 
was gone.  
	
He erased what little space remained between them, bowed 
his head and settled his lips against hers.  The kiss lingered, but
didn't blossom into the wildly carnal tongue duel they often shared.  Rather,
the touch was tender, reassuring.  
	
"You won't regret it, Scully," he muttered fervently when the
kiss had ended; when his lips had pulled away from hers to instead
trail over her cheek, her brow, her temple.  "I swear you won't regret
it."
	
And with that promise, she closed her eyes and relinquished 
herself to his care.  Allowed him to snatch her other wrist and stretch 
it above her head, to bind it as he had the first, handcuffing both her 
slender limbs with his silken restraints.  For just an moment, she 
simply stood there, her back flush against the doorway's frame, her 
arms lifted tautly aloft, her chest rising and falling in a series of 
shallow, uneven breaths.  Her lashes were lowered, her face turned 
slightly to the side.  
	
He's looking at me, she realized, the idea as disturbing as it 
was erotic.  Mulder is less than a foot away, studying me.  Taking it 
all in.  Seeing everything.  My vulnerability.  My submission.  
Knowing that I'm doing it for him.  Understanding that I'm giving 
myself wholly, utterly to him.
	
Then all at once, her musings ceased.  She felt his fingers
link with hers, entwining tightly, holding on.  She sensed the warmth 
of his body blanketing hers, his shirt tails tickling her belly, his
cock rubbing insistently against her hip.
	
His lips descended once more.  Swooping down to steal her
breath, her soul.  Her mouth opened.  His tongue plunged inside; 
delved, then retreated.  Moaning his name, she struggled to keep up.  
To slide her tongue sweetly along his, tasting his need, stirring his 
desire.
	
At last, he pulled away with a gasp.  Her eyes snapped open.  
He stared at her, his dark angel guise back with a vengeance.  
Releasing her hands, he gripped her cloth chain at its mid-point, and
lowered her arms.
	
"Come here," Mulder mumbled, giving a small tug on her 
makeshift leash.  She obediently followed as he backed towards the 
bed, its piled pillows spotlighted by the nearby lamp.  Once they 
stood before her night stand, he let go of her bound hands and 
turned instead to finger one of the still unused scarves.
	
"Do you know what sense we as humans rely most heavily 
on?" he asked conversationally, his gaze averted from hers, his hand 
toying with the wad of silk before him.  "Become most easily distracted 
by?"
	
Hands tied tightly in front of her, separated by only a scant 
length of fabric, she shook her head.  "No.  Which?"
	
He chose one of the scraps of silk, the wider of the two, and
worried it between his fingertips.  "Sight," he said shortly, still not
looking at her.  "Studies show we value that particular sense above 
the other four."
	
She swallowed hard, waiting a trifle uneasily for what she 
now knew was to come.
	
"Will you give that to me, Scully?" he queried softly, his 
eyes focused on hers once more.  "Will you sacrifice it if I ask you
to?"
	
She hesitated only an instant.  "Yes."
	
The suggestion of a smile softening his lips, he nodded 
and crossed to stand behind her.  She closed her eyes and felt the 
scarf drape across her lids.  Holding her breath, she waited until 
the blindfold was secured before testing its actual functionality.  
Once the knot was tightened, she tried to lift her lashes.
	
But could not raise them at all.
	
She was blind.
	
Bound.
	
Naked.
	
And at the mercy of the man who had made her so.
	
The man who now traced the curve of her cheek with his 
fingertips, the caress so unexpected that she startled and took a step 
away.
	
"Stand still."
	
A quick breath.  An even quicker nod.
	
His touch returned.  This time it outlined her lips, the shape 
of her jaw.  Then, it floated like down across her chin, along her 
graceful throat, to her chest.  He slipped his hands beneath her
breasts, lifted them, kneading them carefully before releasing them.  And yet, 
he wasn't finished with them.  Or with her.  Gently, he circled his 
palms over her swollen nipples, dragged them teasingly them over 
her pebbled skin.  She sucked in a quick, sharp breath.
	
Immediately, he ceased his fondling.
	
"Sore?" he queried, concern roughening his voice.
	
She licked her lips.  "Tender."
	
Saying nothing at first, he hefted her satiny globes once more 
in his hands.  Held them mounded high, his fingers curled loosely 
around their sides.  As she stood there waiting, mulling over his 
intentions, Scully idly wondered whether he could feel her heartbeat 
pulsing against his palms.
	
"Poor Scully," Mulder whispered gruffly as he dropped to 
his knees, his hands still cupping her breasts.
	
She felt his hair brush softly against her collarbone before 
she actually experienced his lips touching first one, then the other 
sensitive peak.  Opening his mouth just a fraction, his tongue slipped 
out to soothe as well, to rub delicately over the nubbins, bathing them 
in moist heat.  She sighed with his caresses, trembled from them.
Mulder continued on, seemingly unawares.  Framing her breasts in 
his hands, he made slow, sweet love to them.  He lapped and licked 
and nuzzled his way across their rounded expanse, paying particular 
attention to the two tiny bits of flesh he had treated less kindly not
so very long ago.  His lips flowed like honey over her, coating her with 
the same speed, urging from her body a similarly rich substance.  Part 
of her wished they could stay like this all night.
	
Yet, alas, that was not to be.  After a time, an all too short
time, the man before her rose and gave her joined hands a small pull.  
"Come with me."
	
She swayed for a moment, her balance a bit uncertain without
her eyes to guide her, then took a step towards him.  His hands landing 
lightly on her shoulders, Mulder turned her and backed her to the edge 
of the mattress.
	
"Lie down."
	
Bending her knees, she sat, then swiveled so that she was 
facing the foot of the bed.  Her partner leaned over her, cradled her 
head in his hands, and carefully lowered it onto the pillow.  She 
straightened her legs and took a long, slow breath, striving to relax.  
Her trussed wrists rested crossed atop her abdomen, her nipples 
throbbed with a mixture of excitement and dread.  
	
Again, Mulder made her wait before he chose to act.  What
is he thinking? she asked herself.  What does he see when he looks at
me like this?  What is it about our game that excites him?  He wasn't
a cruel man, she knew.  He had a temper, an anger that harkened back
to his childhood.  Certainly.  But, he had never focused that wrath on 
her, never abused her either mentally or physically.  Even now, in a 
position of nearly absolute power, he handled her with utmost 
gentleness.
	
What was he getting out of this?
	
"Lift your arms, Scully" he murmured quietly from beside the
bed.  "Raise them above your head."
	
She did as he instructed, stretched her arms above her so 
that her wrists dangled between the headboard and the mattress.  The 
position arched her back, thrust her breasts towards the ceiling.  Her 
nipples reacted to the tension, stiffened even further, their pink
centers crinkling with arousal.  She felt him bend over her, sensed his body 
covering hers.  The scarf binding her wrists was then lifted as well, 
jostled slightly, to finally be pulled tighter than it had been before.  
She tried to adjust.  To bend her elbows.  To shift into a position 
which allowed her a greater range of movement.
	
And found she was trapped.
	
Mulder had apparently attached the remaining scarf to her 
handcuffs, knotting it firmly at the center of the cloth running between 
her hands, and then tied its free end to the spindles at the head of her 
bed.
	
The mattress dipped at her hip.  And although they were not
yet touching, she knew he now sat beside her.
	
"You know, some people find it liberating to be restrained," 
he said in a low gruff voice.  "They believe it somehow frees them 
from responsibility.  Takes away the burden of having to act."
	
He moved.  She could hear cloth scraping against cloth, 
sense the shifting of his weight.  Without warning, he kissed her 
just below the curve of her belly.  His mouth was warm and moist 
against her tender flesh.  Gentle.  And yet, she still twitched in
surprise, a choked gasp sliding past her lips.
	
"All you have to do is react, Scully," he muttered as he slowly
kissed his way up the center of her torso, his lips open, his tongue 
slipping out to taste her velvety skin.  "I'll take care of the rest."
	
He nuzzled between her breasts with the bridge of his nose,
nibbled her shoulder, lapped at the underside of her chin.
	
"Unless this frightens you," he whispered in her ear, the
sensation hot and chilling at the same time.  "Unless this is more than 
you want to deal with."
	
He traced the intricate whorls of cartilage with his tongue, 
pulled her lobe into his mouth and suckled on it lightly.  She moaned 
and shifted restlessly atop the covers.
	
"Just say the word," he mumbled, his words little more than 
the breath buffeting her ear.  "If you want to stop, just tell me.  And 
we will.  Okay?"
	
A smile tilted the corners of her lips.  How like him, she 
mused.  How utterly Mulderish to set up this entire scenario, to deftly 
maneuver her into this bizarre situation and then have second thoughts.  
The man was nothing if not true to form.  She didn't know what had 
set him off this time; if perhaps he feared that her being bound might 
bring back memories of those times when she had not willingly turned 
herself over to her captor.  Given their shared histories, she supposed 
she couldn't blame him for worrying.  Yet, despite her run-ins with 
Pfaster, Barry, and the rest, she felt strangely comfortable with the 
current state of affairs.  After all, she was freely turning over her
control to this man, not struggling to hang on to it while he violently tried to 
steal it away.  He would never hurt her.  She trusted him to respect her 
limits, to never demand more of her than what she could give.
	
Besides, part of her was curious to learn just how far those 
limits extended.  How much she could, in fact, withstand.
	
And who better to test those waters with her than Mulder?
	
She cleared her throat before assuring him in a hushed voice, 
"It's okay.  I'm okay."
	
He kissed her softly on the temple.
	
Then pulled back, stood and seemingly crossed away from 
the bed, leaving her bereft.
	
She lay there for a time, all her senses straining for clues
as she tried to figure out what might be coming next.  She could hear 
Mulder walking around the room, could just make out the hushed
rustle of fabric as he moved somewhere off to her left.  She turned her
head on the pillow, rotated so that she was looking in the proper
direction.  Even if sight was still denied her.  She heard a click.  
Lights?  A door opening and closing.  It sounded far away.  Down 
her hallway perhaps.  Or maybe it wasn't a door at all.  Cabinets? 
What was he looking for?
	
Hands clenching and releasing with an impatient sort of 
agitation, she at last heard him approach.
	
"You know, this spur of the moment stuff is murder, Scully,"
he murmured as he returned to stand over her.
	
"What do you mean?"
	
He chuckled ruefully.  "I mean a guy has to try to get the job 
done without the proper . . . equipment."
	
Her lips curved in a wicked smile.  "Don't sell yourself short,
Mulder.  I know your 'equipment' as well as anyone.  And from what 
I've seen, it ain't half bad."
	
He laughed again, the rhythm bumpy, as if he weren't used
to making the sound.  "My equipment thanks you.  But, to be honest,
I was specifically referring to something a little less . . . *personal*
in nature."
	
"Like what?"
	
With that, something airy and almost unbearably soft trailed
along the outside curve of her breast.  She gasped, squirming away 
from the sensation before she had even fully identified what it was.
	
"You ticklish, Scully?"

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
	
=Ticklish=?  He wouldn't.  Fox Mulder wouldn't dare subject
her to . . . .
	
The same hellish something grazed the tender stretch of skin 
below her navel, was dragged in a lazy semi-circle above the coarse
nest of curls there.
	
A choked little whimper escaped her lips.
	
Mulder chuckled once more.  "I take that as a yes."
	
She ignored his gloating tone to instead demand, "What =is= 
that?"
	
"A feather."
	
If her eyes had been open she suspected they would be 
bulging in disbelief.
	
"A =feather=?  Where on earth did you find--?"
	
The item in question dipped into her armpit's shallow hollow,
cutting off her query.  She squeaked in dismay, jerking against her 
bindings so fiercely that the bed frame rattled.
	
"I pulled it off that thing under your sink."
	
Off that thing under her sink?  
	
=Off that ratty old feather duster she used to clean the 
lighting fixtures?=
	
Oblivious to her indignation, the feather next drifted along 
the sharp bend of her waist, from her hip to the top of her ribs.  She 
longed to berate the man directing its path, chastise him for turning 
her cleaning supplies against her.  But all that issued from her lips 
was a yet another strangled cry.
	
"I didn't even know what I was looking for," he quietly 
admitted as he stroked the instrument of her undoing lightly against 
her navel, danced it into the tiny indentation, and then out again.  
She sucked in her stomach in a feeble attempt to flee its touch.  But, 
tied the way she was, she wasn't going anywhere.  "I was just kinda 
scouting around the place, you know?  Searching for . . . .
inspiration.  And I found this."
	
He fluttered the bit of down beneath her chin, behind her ear,
along the muscles in her neck.  She twisted her head atop the pillow,
her brow wrinkled with effort as she tried to evade it.
	
"Lucky, wouldn't you say?" he murmured, his tone suggesting 
he was vastly pleased with himself and his find
	
Scully wished she could feel so smug.  Unfortunately, seeing 
as Mulder had just unwittingly uncovered one of her most closely 
guarded secrets, she doubted that particular word would be used to 
describe her anytime soon.
	
She was ticklish.  Horribly, heinously ticklish.  Had been
since childhood.  It had been bad enough when her two brothers had
used her weakness against her.  But this . . . 
	
"Where else, where else, where else?" he mumbled to himself 
as he circled her bound form.  "I know."
	
He perched at the end of the bed and took her ankle in his 
hand.
	
Oh no, oh please, oh God . . . .
	
Not her feet.
	
He lightly dragged the feather from her heel, up her arch, 
to her toes; lingering on the softest bits, the parts of her sole not 
toughened by callous or underpinned by bone.  She waited, feigning
indifference, clinging to her composure.  Every muscle in her body 
having gone rigid in a heroic attempt to hold back her response.  She 
bit her lip, stretched her throat so that her chin pointed skyward.  Her 
fingers clutched wildly at the scarf holding her in place, seeking 
something against which to brace herself.
	
Then, he pulled the blasted piece of fluff slowly between her 
toes.
	
And she lost it.
	
She shrieked with laughter, kicked and thrashed upon the 
mattress, her skin sheened suddenly with sweat, her breath flowed 
harsh and hurried from her lips.
	
Seemingly astonished by her outburst, Mulder momentarily 
lost his grip on her flailing limb. But before Scully could hope to take 
advantage of his distraction, he retrieved it once more.  Within
seconds, he had secured not only one, but both legs.  Holding her ankles tightly 
in his grasp, he pulled them into his lap and locked his forearm over 
her calves to keep them still.
	
"Well now.  *That* was interesting," he murmured in amused
fascination, the backs of his fingers coasting lightly over the tops of 
her tootsies.  "I had no idea, Scully.  No idea at all."
	
Damn right you didn't, she silently told him.  And believe me, 
Mulder--much as I love you, I had no plans to share the information 
with you.  
	
It wasn't that such teasing pained her, per se.  Not really.  
Not at all.  It was only that the sensations were so acute, so all-
encompassing.  She had no control over her response.  No way to 
mitigate the effect his touch had on her.	
	
It was embarrassing.
	
And unexpectedly arousing.
	
Fearsomely so.
	
She wasn't certain whether it was the idea of being completely 
helpless that she found so exciting or whether it was the actual 
physiological reaction to stimuli that set her insides on fire.  But 
regardless of the cause, she could feel her groin tightening and
pulsing, the tender tissue there engorging with blood.  Softening and swelling.  
Readying itself to be entered.
	
"So, you're pretty sensitive here, eh?" he queried as he brushed
against the bottom of her foot with his fingertips, his usual implement 
of torture apparently having been set aside for the moment.
	
She curled her toes and twisted her ankle, little murmurs of 
distress slipping out from behind her thinned lips.  But, try though she
might, there was no eluding this man or his attentions.  He had her
right where he wanted her.
	
"Don't," she pled, her tone hushed and throaty.
	
"Don't do what, Scully?" he muttered as he picked up the 
feather once more and began weaving it slowly through her toes.  She 
wiggled them frantically, mewling and moaning, a desperate sort of 
laughter bubbling forth from her mouth.  Her back arched as if she 
were somehow trying to throw him off.  And yet, her supposed plan 
met with little success.  He was just too strong.  "Don't punish you
when you misbehave?"
	
Punishment.  Was that honestly what he was administering?
True, the sensations he was wringing from her were keen, edged with 
a frightening sort of intensity.  But he wasn't hurting her.  
	
Not yet.
	
"I told you this would happen, you know," he said in a low,
menacing voice as he turned now to her other foot, giving it the same 
sort of treatment he had shown the first.  "I warned you that you were 
going to get it."
	
Great bursts of air escaped from her lips.  She tried to shape
them into words.  But the proper technique escaped her.
	
He chuckled with satisfaction as she writhed feebly before 
him.  "I'll bet this wasn't exactly what you had envisioned."
	
Hell, no.  
	
She pressed her pelvis upwards, twisted her torso, strained 
against her confinement.  She could do nothing else.  Was powerless
against the need roaring through her like wildfire.  She had to move, to 
thrust, to pump her hips.  Had to do something.  Anything.  Anything 
to ease her awful restlessness.  
	
To scratch that dreadful itch.
	
Then suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, her torment ended.  
The finely feathered plume was withdrawn.  
	
And was replaced with Mulder's tongue.
	
She gasped.  Then, groaned.  The deep wrenching sound 
feeling as if had been yanked from the very pit of her womb.
	
His hands now cinched her slender ankles, keeping her one
leg secured atop his thigh.  The other, however, he raised to his mouth.
He tasted her skin, lapped at the muscles, traced the bones.  Slipped
her toes between his lips and suckled them.  Gently at first, then harder.
Tugging on them one by one, until her nipples, her clitoris ached with 
the suction.
	
"Is this more what you had in mind, Scully?" he queried 
softly as he nipped and nibbled his way carefully along her sole.  
"Do you prefer this instead?"
	
She gnawed on her lower lip, her head rolling fitfully now 
upon the pillow.  "Yes."
	
He finished with one foot and started in on the other, kissing
delicately along its side in introduction.  "This is nice, isn't it? 
Better than the feather, I think."
	
"Oh . . . yes," she whispered.
	
She hadn't known, hadn't realized how maddeningly erotic
this could be.  How intricately connected this small portion of her
anatomy was with the rest of her body's pleasure receptors.  
	
Mulder apparently had.  He took his time, lingering endlessly
over her.  Until finally, he shifted, her ankles still within his grasp, 
and set her now damp feet flat upon the comforter.  Her knees were 
bent.
	
Her legs spread wide.
	
"Did you like that, Scully?" he asked, no longer touching her,
his voice coming from somewhere near the end of the bed.  "Tell me
you liked that."
	
"I did," she murmured obediently, more than aware that her 
vagina glistened beneath its curls, silently telling him everything he 
sought to learn.  "I liked that."
	
"I could do that everywhere, Scully.  Over every single inch
of you.  I could wash your body with my tongue."
	
She whimpered, the images conjured up by his statement 
almost all she needed to take her over the edge.
	
"And you know where I'd start?"  His voice had turned
rough, ragged.  The bed dipped between her legs.  Was he sitting
again?  No, kneeling.
	
"Right here."  And with his fiercely muttered words, he
plunged his fingers inside her, his thumb landing on clitoris. 
	
She moaned and bucked against him.  Almost as if she 
thought to somehow take control of the situation, to bring herself to
climax simply by writhing on his hand.  Mulder chuckled at her efforts.
	
"I'd cover you with my mouth," he told her, his fingers moving
inside her, edging in and out, just a little bit at a time.  "Kiss you
there.  Softly.  Maybe nibble just a little bit."
	
She squirmed beneath him, hissing, "Do it, Mulder.  Just do 
it."
	
He laughed quietly once more, seemingly amused by her
vehemence, and circled slowly over her clitoris, stimulating the tender
tip.  "I will, Scully.  I promise.  Maybe if you're good, I'll even suck
on this.  Would you like that?"
	
She gasped and pressed shamelessly against his hand.  "Yes."
	
"After you've asked me."
	
Yes, she could do that.  She could definitely do that.
	
"Convinced me that you want it."
	
Something in his tone alerted her.  She froze, her chest 
heaving, her lower body impaled still upon his hand.
	
"Go on, Scully," he coaxed, a dark sort of humor running
beneath his words.  "Beg me for it."
	
Bastard.  He was turning the tables on her.  Getting back at
her for what had happened earlier.  He knew as well as she did that
this, not his tickling, was her real punishment.  And for a moment, 
she almost missed that feather.  Asking for anything, from anyone,
had always been difficult for her.  She hated the sense of weakness 
such entreaties provoked.
	
But at that moment, she despised even more the throbbing, 
burning emptiness centered in her groin.
	
"Go down on me," she muttered, her eyes scrunched behind
her blindfold, her hips rocking longingly against the heel of his hand.
	
"Go down on you?" he echoed in mock confusion.  "I'm 
sorry.  What does that--?"
	
She groaned in frustration.  "Mulder, please . . . . I want your 
mouth on me."
	
"Please is good, " he softly allowed, his thumb tapping lightly,
rhythmically against her clit.  "But where, though?  Tell me where you 
want my mouth."
	
"Between my legs."
	
He said nothing at first.  Then, slowly he eased his fingers
from her.  She moaned with their removal.
	
"And what do you want me to do between your legs, Scully?" 
he queried hoarsely.
	
She took a deep, calming breath.  Then gave him what he 
wanted.  "Make me come.  Make me scream.  Make me beg for
more."
	
Silence filled the shadowed chamber for a second or two.
Until Mulder murmured, "I think I'd like to hear that."
	
And moved to make it so.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Fox Mulder was growing increasingly concerned.
	
He was way too into this whole domination game for his own
good.
	
Or for the good of the woman he was dominating.
	
They had dabbled in this kind of sport before.  One particularly
heated encounter against her living room wall being among his
most treasured erotic escapades.  But never had they taken it to this 
length, this extreme.  
	
He couldn't get over it.  At times, in the midst of their play, 
he would simply stop and look at his partner.  Amazed by her 
willingness to go along with the whole thing, awed that she would 
allow him such carte blanche.  He would gaze down at her, small and 
trusting and utterly at his mercy and, odd though the impulse was, 
he would all at once feel like weeping.  In her arms.  Like a baby.
	
It was only with the utmost effort that he could put such 
longings aside.  Cut the crap, Mulder, he would ruthlessly instruct 
himself.  This isn't about your giving in to weakness.  You do that all 
too readily.  This is about Scully.  About her wants, her needs.  After
all, the entire evening had been her suggestion.  She might insist that
she had concocted the scenario with him in mind; that she had wanted
to prove to him her absolute faith in him.  And yet, he suspected that 
something else was at work here.  Something that would ultimately be
as much for her benefit as it was for his.  
	
It wasn't that he thought Scully incapable of selflessness.  On 
the contrary, he knew her to be one of the most giving individuals he 
had ever met.  But when you got right down to it, he hadn't been the 
one to request this.  He hadn't needed her to prove anything to him.  
He had told her as much.  He hadn't wanted it. . . .
	
What a crock of shit.
	
She lie before him now, her arousal so intense that he could 
smell the sweet spicy scent of it as it hung over them, wove between 
them, around them like the richest and rarest of perfumes.
	
He would have to be a eunuch not to want her.  Not to desire
the beautiful woman laid out before him like a sacrifice on an altar.
	
But he didn't only crave the sensual delights to be found in 
their union.
	
It was the whole woman he needed.  Her intelligence, her
warmth, her wit, her laughter, her stubbornness, her integrity, her
love.
	
All of it.  Every single bit of her he needed, yearned for, had 
to have.  He hadn't been lying earlier.  When it came to Dana Katherine 
Scully his greed knew no bounds. 	Want, need, desire.  They were 
constants with him.  When it came to her.  They never went entirely 
away.  Never really dulled, never dimmed.
	
And now, heightened by Scully's far from innocent suggestion, 
that unholy trinity felt as if it might just rip him totally asunder. 
Those feelings that he had to this point somehow managed to keep leashed 
threatened at any moment to break loose.  Wreak havoc.
	
He just didn't want Scully to be a victim of the chaos.
	
He looked down at her as he slid his shirt off his shoulders.
She rested flushed and lovely; her eyes hidden from him, her hair, a 
puddle of auburn waves upon the stark white pillowcase.  She moved 
not at all save for the flutter of her chest as she softly pulled in
air.  He could sense the tension in her.  See the tautness in her arms where 
they lay, framing her head like parentheses.  Recognized the way the 
muscles in her thighs struggled to maintain the position in which he 
had placed her legs; open and accessible to his eyes, his touch, his 
tongue.  But most of all he felt her longing, her impatience.  How 
difficult it was for her to be forced to lie there passively, waiting on 
him and his whims.
	
And as his shirt slithered to the floor and his belt slipped free
of its buckle, Mulder made the woman on the bed a silent promise.  
Your wait is almost over, Scully.  It won't be long now.
	
With an emphasis on speed not tidiness, he shoved his 
remaining clothes to the floor.  First his trousers, then his socks and 
boxers.  Finally, he stood at the foot of the bed, naked.  And fiercely 
aroused.  His penis bobbed swollen and hard, and twitching to be 
plunged into the hot moist depths displayed so invitingly before him.
	
But, he resisted.
	
Barely.
	
Where he had unearthed such control he couldn't say.  Its 
discovery had proven welcome, but decidedly unexpected.  Most 
especially given how desperate he was to feel her skin glide like silk 
against his.
	
Silk.  Silken flesh.  Silken hair.  Silken scarves.  Silken
sheets. . . .
	
Well, maybe not sheets, he wryly mused as he crawled atop
the bedding in question and eased into place between her slender legs.  
Scully was more the practical type.  Her taste tended towards simple 
cotton.  But somehow, when they were together it felt as if the 
background for their coupling was indeed that sort of decadent luxury.  
That type of opulence.  That sort of splendor.  He had no other words 
to describe it.  Making love to this woman transcended the usual, the 
common, the run-of-the-mill.  Sinking inside her lush, heated body 
took him outside of himself.  Beyond petty reality; away from the 
everyday, the tedious.
	
The painful.
	
No question about it.  Dana Scully was the sort of woman a
man could lose himself in.  Devote himself to.
	
And Fox Mulder was going to prove to her just how devoted
he could be.
	
When it came to her pleasure.
	
He lay sprawled on his stomach, half on, half off the bed.  His
arms were snaked under Scully's knees, his fingers gripped lightly
just above her hips.  He blew gently on the damp nest of curls at the
juncture of her thighs.  A shiver swept over her, followed closely 
thereafter by a breathy, low-pitched moan.  He could see the reddened 
skin of her sex, the tiny tip of her clitoris as it peeked out from
beneath its hood.  God, she was primed.  So ready, that the least little touch
or caress was likely to send her right over the edge.
	
He'd have to be very careful indeed if he hoped to prolong her
enjoyment.
	
He began by kissing her directly in the center of her soft, slick
lower lips, his mouth open and tender against her sensitive skin.
Almost as if the action were reflex, the woman before him pushed 
upwards, silently begging him for more.
	
"Ah, ah, ah," he murmured with a smile.  "You can't move,
Scully.  If you move, I'll have to stop.  And you don't want that.  Do
you?"
	
"No," she whispered, her voice throaty and small.
	
"Good girl," he said, kissing first one, then her other thigh.
High, on the creamy smooth insides of her legs.  "Now stay very still."
	
She didn't speak, but he thought he spied her nodding, the
gesture quick and subtle.  Content that she understood the newest
rule to their game, he went back to what he had started.  Slowly, he
traced with his tongue the petals of flesh surrounding the entrance to
her body, rubbed lightly on the small ridge of muscle separating this
opening from the one behind it.  A faint, choked whimper floated free 
from his partner's lips.  But she didn't move.
	
He would have to reward her restraint.
	
Delicately, he lapped at her clitoris with his tongue; gentle, 
teasing little swipes.
	
Groaning, Scully pressed her hips shamelessly against his
mouth, her derriere lifting entirely from the mattress.
	
Mulder immediately pulled back.
	
"Scully, you know better than that," he chided in mock 
disappointment as he nipped and nibbled his way along the area
surrounding her groin.  Darted his tongue across the crease of her hip, 
the slight curve of her belly.  Dragged his lips once more down her 
spread thighs.  But, granted her no direct stimulation.  "I told you 
that if you did that, I was going to have to stop."
	
"Don't stop," she pleaded, the words husky, passion-clouded.
"Please don't stop."
	
He paused, allowing her to wonder if indeed he would, letting 
her fret just a bit.  Then at last, he whispered,  "Okay.  I guess we
can let it slide.  This time.  But one more move . . . and that's it.  I'll
leave you here, Scully.  Just . . . as is.  You know I'll do it."
	
And even though he knew he was baldly lying, his warning
seemed to have the desired effect.  She licked her lips and nodded 
again, the motion little more than a jerk.  "All right."
	
He smiled and bent to her once more.  He hesitated for little 
more than an instant.
	
Then, plunged his tongue inside her.
	
"Mulder . . . . . . ."
	
His name was uttered on a low, helpless groan.  He stole 
a peek at her face.  Her expression was contorted in a grimace of 
pleasure, her head tipped back, her lips open and desperately sucking
in air.
	
But she didn't move.  Not an inch.
	
So, Fox Mulder continued doing with one part of his anatomy
what he so dearly wanted to do with another.  He thrust gently.  Into 
her hot moist body, he slid.  And out.  He varied the rhythm, the 
depth.  But, he kept up the caress.  Until she was keening with it.
	
Then, like a kind of salvation, he captured her clitoris between
his lips, held it there.  And rubbed his tongue firmly over it.
	
And at long last, Dana Scully moved.
	
Screaming, she bucked against his mouth; twisted and thrashed 
upon the bed.  The headboard banged with abandon against her bedroom 
wall, the sharp cracks of wood against plaster reminding him of rifle 
fire.  Scully appeared oblivious to the noise; to anything really, other 
than the ferocious orgasm tearing through her with the sharpness of a 
blade.  Skin shiny with sweat, she dug her heels into the mattress so 
that she could move her hips more freely, pumping them wildly now 
against his face.  And yet Mulder hung on for the ride, reveling in 
the knowledge that he had brought her to this, that he alone was  
responsible for this woman's utter unraveling.
	
He was the man who had prompted her strangled cries.
	
The man who had urged from her this fierce, shuddering
release.
	
The man who was going to make her do it again.
	
And before her contractions had fully subsided, he rose from
where he had laid crouched at the foot of the bed.  Kneeling now 
between her legs, he kept his forearms beneath her thighs, lifting her
legs so that he wholly supported their weight.  Sliding as closely to
heras he dared, he maneuvered himself into position, and in one swift,  
piercing lunge, sheathed his rigid cock inside her.  
	
God.  He could feel her insides pulsing against him, 
surrounding him in drenched velvet, milking him before he had
even had a chance to climax himself.  It was all he could do to keep
from jackhammering his hips, stroking and stroking and stroking
inside her, until he at long last split apart deep within her womb.
	
But somehow he refrained.
	
"You moved, Scully," he growled, his head tipped back, his
eyes squeezed shut, the tendons in his neck corded as he strove 
valiantly for control.  Like a miracle, he found it and clung stubbornly 
to it, even though it threatened at any moment to squirm away from 
him.  "Seems to me you're having a hell of a time holding still."
	
Then, his own hips began to move; hard, short thrusts that 
had little to recommend in the way of technique or finesse.  
	
"So why don't you just go ahead and give in.  Move with me," 
he suggested hoarsely.  "Come on, Scully.  Move that beautiful ass for 
me.  And let's see if we can't double your pleasure, double your fun."
	
He would later wonder how the hell he had expected her to
comply with his instructions.  After all, the upper part of the woman's
body was anchored to the bed frame while the lower portion dangled 
in his arms.  And yet, somehow she managed it.  She hooked her heels
around the backs of his thighs and pushed off from the mattress with
her shoulders.  Her entire body straining with the effort, she slammed 
against him.  Once.  Then, again.  Mulder met her stroke for stroke.
	
He groaned in delight.  "Oh yeah. . . . .  God.  I'm going to 
make you come, Scully.  I swear . . .  I'm going to make you come so 
hard."
	
Keeping her legs draped over his forearms, he shifted position, 
balancing his palms against the comforter to give him better leverage.  
Sweat dripping from his brow, he deepened his penetration.  The 
woman beneath him moaned her appreciation.
	
"That's right," he muttered, his head bowed, his back arching
and stretching with a relentless, measured pace.  "You like that,
Scully?  Do you?"
	
"Yeah . . . yeah . . ."
	
He adjusted slightly again, pressed forward just a bit.  He scooted 
up his arms as well, taking her legs with him so that they curled back
over her torso, bringing her knees almost even with her shoulders.  Her
pelvis now pointed towards the ceiling.  Downwards he thrust, angling so that 
his shaft rubbed more directly against her swollen clitoris.  "What
about this?" he rasped out as he loomed over her.  "Better?"
	
She whimpered.  "Better. .better. .better.  Oh . . . Oh, God . . ."
	
He couldn't have said it *better* himself.  It was amazing.  
This whole crazy evening had been utterly amazing.  And now . . .
Now it felt as if the woman he loved had somehow, some way absorbed 
him, and he her.  That they had merged.  Become one.  She was 
everywhere--beneath him, over him, around him.  He could taste her 
on his lips.  Feel her passion-slicked skin caress his own fevered
flesh.  Hear her faint, tortured cries.  Smell her.  See her.  
	
Witness the way her slender body struggled beneath his as
she clawed her way to climax.
	
View the frantic manner in which her head twisted upon the
pillow, tangling her hair so that bits of it stuck to her parted lips,
her moist, pinkened cheeks.
	
Note how her fingers clutched tightly at the scarf binding her 
to the headboard, crushing the fabric in her grip, her knuckles white 
with exertion.
	
"Almost there," he chanted softly, his lanky frame coiling 
and releasing with nearly mechanical precision.  "Almost there, now."
	
"Oh . . . oh . . . oh," she mewled mindlessly in reply, her
voice breathy and high.
	
Then, she stiffened.
	
And plunged over the precipice once more.
	
Mulder watched her shimmying helplessly beneath him, her 
breasts bouncing, her legs locked around his shoulders, her eyes 
scrunched shut beneath the blindfold.  She looked beautiful.  Wanton.
Wild.
	
And she shared that part of herself with no one but him.  
	
In this, she was his.  And his alone.
	
God, he loved this woman.  Loved her more than he had ever 
thought it possible to love another human being.  He wanted to prove
that love to her.  To make her happy.  Ecstatic.  Delirious with it. 
With him.  He wanted to give her everything.  Everything he had.  Everything 
he was.  
	
Yet, he wasn't wholly convinced of the value of such a gift.  He
knew even on his best days that he was little more than damaged goods.  
And as Scully's furious orgasm rippled through her body and over his, he 
decided instead to opt for something whose worth was more immediately
measurable.  
	
He was going to bring her to this again.  
	
He could do it.  He knew he could.
	
Just one more time.
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

Withdrawing from her with more than a modicum of regret, 
he lowered her trembling legs.  Pulling back a touch, he slipped an arm 
around her slender waist, and flipped her; maneuvering her so that 
she rested on her knees, her ass high, her forearms bracing her upper 
body against the mattress.
	
"Mulder?"  Her voice sounded weak, disoriented, as she
peered blindly over her shoulder at him, the swath of silk separating
their gazes still.
	
Choosing to answer her with action rather than words, he
spread her open with his hands, and pushed his way inside her yet 
again.  She groaned and dropped her head upon her bound wrists.  
Mulder dug his fingers into the soft flesh just above her derriere,
pulled out so that only the tip of his penis remained embedded in her, then 
shoved it home again.
	
"Give it to me, Scully," he gritted out, his hips setting
up a rhythm that was noticeably faster, more rocky than before.  "I
want you to come for me again."
	
"Can't . . ." she whispered into the bedding, the word barely 
audible above the wet slap of his balls meeting her buttocks.  "No . . . 
I can't."
	
"And I say you can," he growled, hauling her back against 
him once more.  "I =know= you can."
	
She didn't answer, didn't speak at all, but allowed him to 
manipulate her slender form, to send her crashing against him time
and time again.  Doing nothing to hinder his efforts, but little to
assist.  She remained silent save for her soft short gasps, her body 
fluid beneath his, ebbing and flowing like water.
	
Mulder would later realize that her submissive posture
should have tipped him off, clued him in that all was not as it should
be.  Hell, he would soon after lament, simply hearing the word 'no' 
slip past her lips should have alerted him.  But his focus was off.  His
attention diverted.  He was so intent on his purpose, on bringing 
Scully to climax one last time and then throwing himself over that
cliff right along with her that he didn't pick up on the danger signs.
	
"Come on," he urged from where he lay draped over her body,
his lips near her ear, his arm locked around her waist.  "Let go.  I
want you to.  I'm telling you to."
	
His cock drove into her mercilessly, sawing back and forth
with such ferocity that he wondered if he weren't in danger of shredding
what was left of his control.  But he held on.  Somehow.  Searching for 
that something, that unknown spark that would ignite this woman's 
passion and send her up in flames.
	
It had to be dramatic, he thought.  Extreme.  The evening's 
previous activities left little room for subtleties.   What though?  He
had pulled just about every trick he had ever learned out of the bag.  He 
didn't know how much imagination he had left.  And yet, he couldn't 
give up.  Wouldn't give up.  He wanted this for her--for them both--
desperately.  He had to come up with something different.  Something 
unexpected. . . .
	
The sharp crack of his hand against her bottom ricocheted 
hollowly about the bedchamber.  And for a moment, Mulder fervently 
regretted his tactic.  Christ.  He hadn't hit her hard.  He hadn't. 
But, despite his restraint, it sure as hell sounded as if he had.
	
Then, she moaned and arched her back like a cat in heat.
	
And he thought maybe, just maybe, he had chosen wisely
after all.
	
"You're being bad, Scully," he muttered, slipping easily into
his role, his jaw clenched, his fingers rubbing lightly over the sweet 
curve he had just spanked.  "You're not following my instructions."
	
He brought the palm of his hand down upon her once more.
	
*Smack*  
	
She gasped.
	
"I want you to come--I've told you to, and you've refused." 
	
*Smack* 
	
She hissed in a quick breath between her teeth.
	
"I can't allow that, Scully.  You know the rules.  You have 
to do what you're told."
	
*Smack*
	
Her head snapped back, her bottom pushed against his
palm.
	
"So come on now," he whispered, his voice pitched in the
lowermost depths of his register.  "Behave.  Don't make me punish 
you anymore than I have to."
	
His hips still driving into her, he massaged her reddened,
rounded flesh with his hand.  He could feel the heat rising from her 
skin.  Could sense her arousal steadily growing.  Building.  She was 
close.  Very, very close.  He knew it.  All he had to do was give her 
one last little push . . . .
	
Wrapping one arm across her collarbones and the other
around her waist, he rested his chest atop her back.  Bowing his
head, he licked her salt-sheened shoulder.  Kissed her there.
	
Then, opening his mouth, he bit down.
	
And with that, Scully convulsed.  Violently.  As if she
were in the grip of a seizure.  Mulder held on for perhaps an extra
quarter of a second before he too gave over to the demands of his 
body.  He kept his arms sealed around the woman beneath him, 
leaned his forehead against her shoulder and pistoned into and out
of her like an engine thrown suddenly into high gear.  He shivered 
with it, delicious tendrils of fiery cold tracing their way up his spine 
and down his extremities.  His vision shimmered out of focus, tiny 
flashes of light flickered at the edges of his consciousness.  And 
somewhere, in the still lucid pockets of his mind, he wondered if this 
time he'd be the one to swoon.
	
Yet, in the end, he merely collapsed atop the woman whose
insides still kneaded his slowly softening cock.  Breathless, sated, and
utterly relaxed.  Together, they dropped to the mattress, Mulder rolling 
immediately off of Scully so as not to crush her far more diminutive
form.  He laid there on his side for a moment or two, his breast to her back,
his arm thrown over her side.  His eyes were closed, his chest heaving, his 
body still intimately joined with hers.  Sighing, he kissed the nape of
her neck, nuzzled her hair.  Boy oh boy, it really didn't get much better
than this.
	
He wondered if Scully felt the same.
	
She was trembling, he noted, delicate little currents of it 
coursed through her petite frame.  He moved to pull her more fully into 
his arms when, with a kind of surprise, he realized she was yet tied to 
the bed.  Smooth, Mulder, he silently rebuked himself.  Real smooth.  
Stretching upwards, he wrestled free the scarf securing her arms to the 
headboard.  Slowly, Scully lowered her still shackled wrists before her,
the motion performed in a gingerly manner, as if she were sore or
stiff.  Instantly, Mulder was filled with contrition.
	
"Hey, you all right?" he murmured softly as he fumbled for the
knot holding her blindfold in place.  After tugging first one way, then 
another, he finally managed to draw the scarf up and away from her 
eyes.
	
And discovered something that sent his heart careening 
around the inside of his chest like a twister-tossed trailer.
	
She was crying.  His brave, beautiful Scully had tears seeping
out of the corners of her eyes.
	
Oh my God.  What had he done?
	
His mouth suddenly felt like someone had vacuumed it dry.
"Scully . . . what is it?  What's wrong?"
	
She didn't answer.  Instead she shook her head, her eyes
remaining tightly shut, and turned her face towards the mattress.
	
Sitting up, he leaned over her in a kind of panic, and with 
as much gentleness as he had in him freed her hands from their last 
remaining restraint, wincing when he saw the bands of red circling her 
slender wrists.
	
"Dana, talk to me," he implored as he laid down beside her 
again and carefully drew her unresisting body into his embrace.  She
allowed him to hold her, but did not turn towards him.  "Are you hurt?"
	
Still, she said nothing, choosing instead to shake her head 
once more.  All the while, she openly wept, her face hidden beneath her 
tousled hair, her chest hitching as she strove to control her sobs.  
	
Mulder wrapped his arms around her, and choked back tears 
of his own.  
	
Oh man.  He had fucked up.  He had fucked up big time.  
	
Here he had been trying to prove how much he adored this 
woman, and instead he had reduced her to tears.  Scully.  A woman 
who had stared down lunatics bent on her destruction and not so much 
as blinked an eye.  She was crying because of him.
	
He had never known it possible for a man to loathe himself as
much as he did at that precise moment in time.  Not even in New 
Orleans.  When he had nearly killed her.
	
"Scully . . . Scully, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice ragged
with grief.  "I'm so, so sorry."
	
She remained mute, her trembling continuing unabated.
	
"I just . . .  I wanted . . . ."  What?  What had he wanted?  
What had he hoped to achieve?  He couldn't speak.  Didn't have the 
words.  Couldn't think.  
	
Like you ever can, his conscience taunted.  Like you ever do. 
Did you think this one through, Mulder?  At all?  Did you consider 
your actions for even a millisecond?  Mull over their ramifications.  
The dangers they presented.  To her.
	
No.
	
If he had, he would never have gone so far.  Never have pushed
and pushed and pushed this woman to her breaking point.  Christ.  She
had given him control, placed herself in his care because she had
trusted him.  Trusted him to know when to stop.  Believed that he loved her 
enough to keep her from harm.
	
And this was the way he repaid her.
	
By tying and teasing and beating her body into submission.
	
Yeah.  Some fucking Romeo he had turned out to be.
	
Swallowing down a sudden surge of bile, he tenderly brushed
her hair away from her cheek, his fingers trembling now, like her.
	
"Scully, . . . I never meant. . . . I never wanted to do anything
to frighten or hurt you," he began haltingly, his hands drifting over
her body; caressing, soothing, apologizing.  "I only tried to . . . to make 
you feel . . . . I don't know.  Feel something more than you usually do 
when we're together."
	
He kissed the corner of her jaw, her curve of her ear, her
shoulder.  "I felt awful about tonight.  About the fight, and . . . the
rest of it.  And I thought . . I thought I could make it up to you."
	
"Mulder . . . ."  She looked up at him from over her shoulder, 
her lashes spiky with tears; her eyes, shimmering blue pools.
	
"No, wait," he said, his fingers landing softly on her lips.  
"Let me finish."
	
She regarded him gravely for an instant, then rolled into his
arms, her cheek on his chest, her arm twined across his middle.  And
Mulder said a silent prayer of thanks.  The damage can't be too great,
he reasoned, if she turns to me rather than away.  Taking heart from
that bit of insight, he gathered his thoughts, his frayed emotions, and 
continued.
	
"I made a mess of it," he quietly confessed.  "I took things
too far.  I know that now.  And I'm sorry."
	
"But you--" Scully murmured, her voice rough and low.
	
"But nothing," Mulder said, cutting her off.  "There is no
excuse.  No excuse at all for what I did."
	
He closed his eyes and kissed her shiny hair.
	
"Not when I love you as much as I do.  Not when you are 
so much a part of me that I can't drive you from my mind for more
than seconds at a time."
	
He tightened his arms around her, pressed her cheek to his
heart.
	
"You're what's best in me, Scully.  What I try and fail to be 
every moment of everyday.  I need you.  You're what keeps me whole.
What keeps me sane."
	
He chuckled at his words, thinking she probably had a decent
case should she choose to disprove his latter statement, and was 
dismayed to find the sound waterlogged.  Oh great.  Now they were 
both crying.  "Because I'll tell you something, Scully.  When it comes 
to control . . . there's only one person who truly has it."
	
He turned slightly, and carefully eased himself from beneath
her so that they wound up on their sides, facing each other.  Reaching 
down, he gently tilted up her head with the edge of his hand.  Their 
eyes met and held, both awash with tears.  Mulder just looked at her
for a time, tracing her features with his fingertips.  Then, he took her
hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.
	
"Right there, Scully," he whispered as he enfolded her hand in
his so that it made a small, tight fist.  "That's where you hold me.  In 
the palm of your hand."
	
Her eyes clung to his for a moment longer.  Then, she smiled,
tears glistening still in her lovely eyes.  "So, I don't need to tie you
up to make you do my bidding?"	
	
He shook his head, a dry half-smile of his own lifting the 
corner of his mouth.  "Only if you want to.  I'm flexible."
	
She bent her head to his, and kissed him softly.
	
"Mulder?"
	
"Hmm?' he queried, thinking that perhaps his apology had
been accepted, no questions asked.
	
"I feel I should tell you something."
	
Shit.  He knew it had been too easy.   "What?"
	
She licked her lips and dropped her gaze.  "When I was 
crying before . . . . I wasn't upset."
	
He raised his brows in disbelief.  "You weren't?  You sure
could've fooled me."
	
She quickly shook her head.  "No,. . . what I mean is. . . . I
guess I was kind of . . overcome.  But not for the reasons you thought
I was."
	
Now if felt as if it was his brain not his heart swirling in a 
dizzying fashion.  "I don't follow."
	
Pursing her lips, she sighed.  "Let's just say we probably
both would have been better off if I had just fainted again."
	
Slowly, the pieces were shifting into place.  "Are you 
saying--"
	
"I'm saying that you took me someplace I'd never been 
before.  Someplace scary, true.  But, someplace I wouldn't mind 
visiting again someday."
	
"You wouldn't?" he asked in no small astonishment.
	
"No," she confirmed softly, her hand cupping his cheek.  
"Not as long as I knew that you were there."
	
He just looked at her again, the expression in his eyes
stark, unvarnished by pretense or reserve.  "I don't deserve you."
	
She kissed him.
	
"=I= didn't deserve that spanking," she quipped as she 
pulled away.
	
"Want me to kiss it and make it better?" he offered, a
playful leer darkening his features.
	
"Maybe later," she said, stifling a yawn as she settled
back into his embrace.  "Could you just hold me now?"
	
"I could do that," he said solemnly as he gathered her
to him.
	
And as they lay wrapped in each other's arms, their
tired bodies floating towards slumber, Mulder realized something 
both simple and profound.  Control wasn't something to be wielded
or denied.  But rather, something shared.  Exchanged in a never-
ending give and take.  And there was no one in this universe or 
any other that he would rather share his with, give more to than 
the woman curled around him, her hair spread like fire across his 
chest, her hand gripped tightly in his.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

THE END

Oy!

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