TITLE: Five Senses: Touch
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
E-MAIL: sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Anywhere okay w/ these headers attached.
CLASSIFICATION: VR
CONTENT WARNING: MSR
SPOILERS: none (unless a minor reference to the Pilot counts)
RATING: R for sexual content, but suggested rather than explicit
SUMMARY: First in a series of Scully's reflections on Mulder
DISCLAIMER: These could be any two people. They just happen to be
characters belonging to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. No infringement
intended.
___________
Five Senses: Touch
by Susanne Barringer
He touches me.
Every minute of every day, I feel his touch on me. Usually it is just a word,
a glance. A smile. He caresses me constantly, although he does not realize
it. I feel his heat on my skin, not only in my dreams, but every waking
moment. I do not need to daydream. I feel his touch as if it is a part of
me. And it is.
He touches me.
At the small of my back, a graze against my arm, a hand on my shoulder, a
brush of my cheek. It is all the same. A touch. Lightning to my core,
rushing through, until I ignite.
He touches me.
His words touch my soul. Encouraging, challenging, loving, annoying.
Sometimes they make me angry, but it is touch just the same. His
affectionate gestures are few, but they ring through me like church bells.
The occasional gift--a keychain, his time, a gesture of thanks--are as
important to me as my salvation.
He touches me.
His strength, his commitment, his belief all touch me. I admire them, and
they empower me. The man, his character, touch me. He reminds me
everyday of what I have gained and eases the pain of what I have lost. His
spirit touches me as strongly as his hands or his words.
He is touching me.
Now, finally, tonight, he lays his hands on me with purpose. His hands
flutter over my face, minister to my arms, worship my breasts, cling to my
waist. It is the touch I have longed for but never asked for. It is the touch
of my dreams. Him, all over me, hands everywhere, in places I crave for
them to be. His touch. His body standing against mine--straining, hard,
ablaze. Touching me. Touching *me*.
I do not touch him back.
I have touched him many times, but never the way I want to. Now he
stands before me, imploring me to touch him. He begs me with his hands
and lips, and with his eyes that reach places in me that have not been
touched in a hundred years.
Still, I do not touch him.
I keep my hands at my sides. His hands run over my bare skin, all over me.
It is a touch we have never shared before. It flows over me like lava,
destroying my will as it stokes my desire. I crumble. He touches me with
adoration, then passion, then awe. I shatter. His touch is full of so many
things, but it only continues a touch that began long ago in a motel room in
Oregon. The first time he touched me--gentle, curious, reverent. This
touch is the same. Yet it is entirely different. It reassures me and terrifies
me. It makes my body weep, and I want to sing for more. I am powerless.
I am free. It is more than I thought a touch could ever be. Or do. It is
more than I deserve.
I do not touch him.
I do not need to. I see in his eyes that my trust touches him more deeply
than my hands ever could. I know this comes from the way that I am
looking at him. His touch on my body ignites parts of my soul atrophied
from years of denial, and I know my eyes convey this gratefulness to him.
His hands move more roughly. Demanding now, not just exploring. Harsh
at moments, but not painful. Incredibly agonizing. I think I cannot get
enough. He does not have enough skin to cover me completely. I want to
fall into his touch and have it envelop me. Completely. I want to be
surrounded on every side, inside and outside, by his touch.
I do not touch him.
I want to swim in a river of his touch, caressing and flowing over me in
tidal waves of skin on skin until I drown. I want to roll in his touch, like in
fields of wild flowers, until it blankets me. I want to immerse myself in a
volcano of his touch, the heat consuming me until I blister. I want to live
in the castle of his touch, a place where mortal needs like sleep and food
and work do not exist to take time away from his hands on me.
He touches me.
His hand moves to my center, to my core. I know by instinct it is wet for
him, but I do not feel it. I can feel only him touching me. My body has
removed itself from my consciousness and I am aware of only his hand. I
revel in the realization that he is *touching* me. All of me, all that I am. I
feel that I will die of it. I want to die from his touch. There could be no
sweeter death.
I do not touch him.
I allow him to work me with agonizing power. His touch holds me in
rapture. There is nothing on earth like it. He controls me now. I do not
allow others to control me, but his touch obliterates my barriers and I invite
it. Only him. His touch commands my body until I surrender. He does not
stop. He touches me until I combust with it, until I can no longer think or
feel or hear or see. There is only his touch and nothing more. It is sheer
transcendence. I am not me. I am only his touch. It keeps me alive. I
would splinter, disintegrate, die without it. His touch remains even after I
have come. Still there, still caressing. I do not want it to stop. It is the
same touch as before, but now complete. More complete than anything I
have ever known in my life. I am alive. I am healed. His touch completes
me. I am us.
I reach out slowly. My hand trembles with the anticipation and the hunger.
I touch him.
_______________
END
All my fanfic is available at my webpage:
http://www.oocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442
sbarringer@usa.net
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geocities.com/area51/dreamworld) (
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