MY NOTES: You'll notice this is called Give and Take-II...that's
one for Mulder, one for Scully...this one's for Mulder. Special
thanks to my favorite G-man for hanging in there until
inspiration hit once again. He's not whining now!
And if you're looking for part I, or just want to read more smut,
visit my fic at www.oocities.org/HotSprings/8334/fic.html.
Super special thanks to Dasha, PD and Sue for giving good beta!

DISCLAIMER: Okay, here we go. I don't own them,
I'm just borrowing them because the grand high
sci-fiction genius Chris Carter invented them
and I'm horribly envious. So I borrow them and
let them have a break from some of the five plus
years of UST. I think they appreciate it. All
regards to 1013, FOX, and such. No infringement,
no money intended, just fun for my squirrely little
mind.

FEEDBACK: PLEASE!! Give me a reason for living.
My toil as a magazine editor is sapping the life
out of me! Terma99@aol.com (My friends call me
Sharon. And everyone who feedsback is a friend!)
 

Give and Take-II
by Terma99
 

Flame. Lapping fingers of red and orange fire undulate, stroking
up and over the cedar logs cracking into illumination in the
round adobe fireplace. He watches them, the ribbons of heat as
they play freely growing longer and brighter, slowly consuming
the hissing wood, releasing a earthy aroma that smells of autumn.
He admires the chaos he has created while reclining against
the downy muslin cushions of the couch. He closes his eyes
relaxing into the gentle waves of heat flowing from the
fireplace built into the corner of their whitewashed oak-
beamed room.

Beyond the crackling of the fire he can hear the raining of
water coming from the shower as she finishes cleaning the day's
sun and heat from her porcelain body. He sinks his head further
into the cushion imagining the water and bubbles running down
the center of her back, spreading over her hips, dripping in
tiny rivulets from the tips of her breasts as she bends to smooth
the soap over her ankles. Engaged in this damp fantasy he lets
his hand move freely up and down his bare clean chest, anxious
for her touch. A simple base longing he has secretly suppressed
ever since waking in the blue-gray dawn stretched across
the backseat of their open car--stopped below a lone mesa
where they had slept through the desert night undisturbed, his
love curled up against him like a raccoon.

Into the day they had laughed and fingers entwined, wandered
about the tiny city of Indian rugs and clay pots and
resined scorpions. He remembers deciphering the broken tongue
of the native artisan from whom he quickly bought a tiny pair
of amber earrings. Near the racks of wreathed chile peppers
and garlic, he surprised her and she kissed him with a smile
pulling the stones into her ears. In the early evening they indulged
their appetites with dips of hot salsas, melting polentas,
roasted Christmas-colored vegetables and fluffed honey-
filled sopapillas--cooling their throats with icy salt-
rimmed margaritas. Rubbing his belly he can still feel the heat of
the tequila warming his chest and tickling his head as he lets
himself lie drowsy and loose on the couch in front of the fire.
Not wanting to move, but waiting.

Just before dozing, his eyes flutter open as he hears the pipes
squeak and shut and the curtain pulling back, followed by
the padding of her damp toes on the uneven tile floor. A few
bonks and rattles and she emerges into the room, a towel about
her head and another wrapped burrito-like around her body.
He shuts his eyes before she can move close enough to catch a
glance at his face. His arm up and back, cradling his head, he can
peek between his wrist and the pillows to catch glimpses of
her unaware as she finishes her preparations. She has crossed
over to the bed bending to reach into her suitcase. The towel
gives and falls open revealing the lush cream curve of her hip
before she grabs it and tucks it back secure under her arm.
The image is brief but thorough, as he feels his heavy
body awakening and responding eagerly to the fleeting
vision.

She bends her leg and sits on the edge of the bed and begins
to unwind the terry cloth circling her head. Her hair spills out in
dark amber tangles and she dips her chin to let the short tresses
fall forward over her face. Brush in hand, she begins to pull
the bristles through the dampened mass, pulling and smoothing
it into place. The graceful stroking of her hand is accompanied by
the play of her fingers drawing up through her hair, unweaving
it, straightening it into a continuous flow. As she moves
methodically, the strands begin to go wild as they dry with the
heat of the fire, caressing her wrists as they fly to catch her skin.
She tilts her head to the side and he can see her face relaxed
and serene, eyes closed as her arms course and pull the soft
brush over and over. He is mesmerized by the vision of this
simple self-soothing he is clandestinely witnessing, and feels
himself swell and ache with every pull of her brush.

The warmth of the fire and the dry Santa Fe air brings her efforts
to fruition in sparse time. She flips her head back, letting her
wild red russet waves cascade into place, forming it back, arms
over her head, settling the silky mass. And just as innocently,
she tucks an errant strand behind her ear. Then she stands and
loosens the towel to the floor. He stifles a sound, constricting
his throat as she bends forward, breasts soft and pliable, her
nipples flat and smooth as she reaches to retrieve it, fold it and set
it over the back of the chair, turning to allow the glow of the fire
to shadowplay across the soft sloping skin of her back and
bottom. She reaches for her bag and withdraws a shirt, raising
it above her head, just slipping her arms into the light cotton
sleeves.

"Don't," he whispers. A plea.

She stops and turns her head, a tiny smile threatening to
break across her face as she pulls the garment from her, exposing
the bare pale skin of her arms once again.

"You're not asleep," she says, her voice low and airy.

"No," he replies, moving the protective arm from over his
eyes, letting them roam freely over her softly glowing skin with
open abandon.

She moves to him now, a curiosity taking her expression over, a
pale hint of wickedness as she uncovers his game.

"You were watching me," she says, as she comes to stand just
behind the arm of the couch, and he must tilt his head back to look
at her.

He meets her steady gaze with a kaleidoscope of emeralds
and browns dazzled by the sight they hold. Her fingers move
across his forehead, touching the damp skin at the temple,
warmed by the fire.

"Your hair is still wet," she says, tightening her hand around a
damp cluster of dark brown swirls before moving away to
retrieve the towel. She comes back and tipping his lazy
head forward, she drapes him in the towel, rubbing it gently
between her fingers and thumbs, rubbing and tousling the
terry cloth across the loose mop, moving to the base of his head.
The gentle friction is both tingling and soothing and he closes
his eyes feeling like a child under a mother's tender care, a little
hum forming in his throat.

"I love your hair," she says simply, as if he doesn't already
know from the attentions she pays to it. Every day she longs for
the simplest excuse to draw her small thin fingers through it--
as she is doing now, towel forgotten, falling to the floor in a
tangled heap. She is captivated by the pull of his silky locks
tickling through her fingers as she watches it fluff and
fall endearingly across his forehead in a shallow curl.

"Of everything I wanted before we were lovers, I wanted this
the most," she confesses, pulling the locks back again,
threading different sections through her hands over and over
with a gentle pull. He catches her hand, unable to take
another moment of her gentle teases and leads her forward.

"Come here," he says below his breath, and she obeys coming
to kneel naked before him beside the couch, compliant and
waiting. He smiles at her, his face softened with desire, his
hand caressing her bare arm. "Touch me."

She lowers her eyes and gives a nervous sigh. "I suppose you've
been waiting," she says. "Since we fell asleep under the mesa.
You gave me something last night and I took it willfully." She
raises her eyes--blue and sincere. "Now I want to give you
something in return." And the back of her fingers move
up from his hip to his chest, tickling the hairs just below
his collarbone with a playful finger. He sighs and nestles his head
back into the cushion surrendering to her.

Her hands move to the towel circling his waist and pull it
free, unveiling his patient erection, awaiting her touch. She gets
up and joins him on the cushions, kneeling, facing him. Straddling
him low and leaning forward, she runs her hands up the sides of his
long legs, over his chest and out to his arms and back again in long
even strokes. Her breasts make brief contact with the skin of
his stomach, as she reaches forward, soft points of warmth. His
cock presses into her belly, a brief caress that backs away to
begin again. As much as he longs to reach for her, to guide her
and pull her full and firm against him, giving into the ache
and seeking entrance within her, he resists. Letting her
seduction unfold in long sweeping brushes over his warmed,
golden skin.

Soon she shifts--inching her way down, she closes her hands
warm and sure around the base of his length, encircling
him, entwining fingers, drawing up, testing his firmness
between her palms. She moves a hand and squeezes
it gently around and up and over the sensitive tip, swollen and
ruddy, spreading the drops of moisture into her palm, liquefying it
for the next delicious pull that circles and travels back again.
Her hands are true as they hold and stroke him slowly over
and over, just firm enough to excite and arouse and yet
careful enough not to overtax the jangle of nerves drawn
furiously tight against the engorged flesh. A stray hand
drops lower to finger his balls in time with her
moistened fist. And just as he feels the impatient need to
beg for her mouth, she releases him and he opens his
eyes, questioning. She is moving again forward, drawing her
hips closer to him, hovering just over him, her heat radiating
and his hand slides up her thigh, instinctively brushing his
fingers over her fiery red curls. But she arrests his hand, bringing
it to her mouth, kissing it gently and with a small shake of her
head, lays the limb back across his chest.

She will not accept his touch tonight. She wants to control and
master him without distraction. His regrets of not sharing
her pleasure are soon overcome by the sweet novelty of the
idea. Tonight she will make love to him--and he has no choice.
She'll draw the day's tension from him slowly into a
smoldering release from which he can slip away at will. If
the languidness of his limbs and the dull turn of his mind are
any indication, he will not be much longer for this day once his
need is realized. He welcomes the simple joy he finds in
this--being unaccountable, without task.

"Let me do this," she pleads, and he closes his eyes as she comes
up over him and lowers herself down, immersing him within her,
long and slow. She is like fire surrounding him, lapping at him as
she raises and lowers her hips, slowly smothering him in heat
that increases in brilliance and energy, pulling him farther
into deep arousal.

Heaven is between her thighs. It is as if she were made for
him alone, of perfect shape, molding around him in fast closure.
Her interior bathes him in sweet liquid warmth as she moves
against him, burying him from tip to base, the curve of her
ass kissing his thighs. He begins to moan faintly with each
pulse, fighting the urge to grab and tug her down hard against him,
to take over and drive into her toward oblivion.

Instead he watches her, takes her in with his darkening eyes.
The firelight catches the angles of the amber she wears in her
ears, shooting blades of earth-orange colors reflective of one of
the many shades colliding in the inferno of her hair. Her
flawless skin all creams and pale pinks deepened by shadows, as
the firelight glows around the edges of her shape, drawing streaks
of illumination across the swell of her hips, and the lush curve of
her breasts. Her rosy nipples are standing ready and peaked for
a touch they will not receive and he mourns the loss of his
mouth suckling them gently in time to her whimpers. Her eyes
are heavy as she restrains her own desire, evidenced by
the slackness of her jaw just parting her rich full lips. And now
he knows real tragedy for he will not be kissing them as they
rise and fall just out of reach.

Who made this woman? Who chose her for him? Who knew he
would respond to her this way? That she would be matched so
exact in mind, and passion, all interconnected to him in a way
that compliments and strengthens. He is a different man for
her, constantly renewed by her. And it is by no mistake that he
finds such deep and utter satisfaction with her, a state of
being previously held a mystery to him. How easy would it
have been for him to have never known this? Too many times he
has almost lost everything, before the joy of knowing her was
fully realized. It almost chokes him to imagine a life without this.
He cannot. For now it is enough to just accept it. To realize
every moment of it as it unfolds. Tonight they have each other--
and for tonight they will be left undisturbed.

Despite her slow and deliberate rhythm, he realizes
he's approaching climax. Her pace has been restraining, but the
desire he's held in check for her all day is bringing him fast
and close. He lets escape a ragged groan, knowing it won't be long
before he will come in her slow and long and hard. He begins to tense
and she senses it and abruptly pulls up and away leaving him loose,
wet and livid--he echoes the loss with a frustrated cry. Her face
is determined, she's still in control, he will have no say in
this culmination. He sighs, resigning to her. It is maddening, and it
is paradise, it is all he ever wanted--a brilliant beautiful woman
who could know him this well and desire him with a
quenchless passion.

He doesn't have long to wait as she shifts down and begins to
lick him clean with her tongue, facing him so he can see reflected
in her eyes the fire raging here. She wants this as much as him,
to own him in this way, to drive him to utter distraction. The
fire blazes vermilion against the slick moisture glistening
between her shifting thighs. He longs to taste it, to run it over
his tongue, to know it. But she will not allow him this. All he
is allowed is a glance as she masters him with her full flushed
lips and hot slippery tongue, dragging a long taste from
the underside of his furiously solid length.

The variation in sensation from the sanctuary of her thighs to
the pleasure between her lips is enough to draw his hovering
climax back just a few more moments. He can no longer hold his
head and it flops back against the arm of the couch. All he can
feel, all he can grasp, is the searing throbbing ache in his cock
as her tongue continues to swirl around him, her
lips pausing to suckle the blood-flushed tip gently. He can't
remember being this close for this achingly long and he tries
to remember to tell her this as he is quickly overcome by nothing
more than the almost painful electric caress of her lip
running under the rim of his frenzied head. His hand
absently wanders to her hair, faintly brushing, begging her to
finish this torture as much as another part of him never wants
it to end.

And then, and then, she begins to take him in swift and deep,
lips and tongue working him, over him in a hundred little ways,
her fist coming to squeeze tightly around the base, tugging the
rigid skin, stroking up to meet her determined mouth, her
thumb rubbing along the path his semen is straining to be freed
into, while running her slickened fingertips over and around
his tensed balls.

His hand drops from her hair--he can no longer manage even
that little effort. All that is left now are the low hungry
moans issuing unbidden from deep in his chest in time with
the slight involuntary thrust of his hips. It is as if a hundred
deft hands are on him, pleasuring him with fine and thorough
skill. Her lips are squeezing tightly around him, her
tongue relentlessly bathing him. The pleasure is so acute and
his arousal so complete, he wonders how she has been able to
bring him here, to this new exquisite point.
And just as he thinks he cannot last a moment longer, his
distress evolves into a higher plane of sensation, one
that has left his flesh altogether, quickly becoming one full
ringing chord alighting his entire frame. He knows she is
moving against him but he can not feel her as he is captured
and held in this screaming pause for just the brilliant edge of
forever--and then it collapses suddenly, so violently he howls,
his strength coming back all at once as his body retracts into
a rapturous convulsion of agonizing ecstasy and long hot
streaming pulses of gloriously released fluid.

He cannot open his eyes. He cannot move, his hands which
were balled tightly into fists have fallen open and numb. He is
falling away into a fathomless state of divine relaxation. Every
nerve utilized to the point of insanity just a moment before has
shut down, leaving him mute with paralysis.

Remotely, as his senses flicker into blackness, he feels a soft
covering falling over his legs and chest and finally the last
sensation he can register, is soft warm skin against his side, a
tiny breeze of honeyed breath on his shoulder. In the hearth
beyond, the cedar log cracks in half with a final flash of
sparkled red--falling under its own weight, disassembling into
the unsettled carbon-black waifs beneath, consumed and
smoldering into ash.
 
 

********************************
Time for feedback!!  Terma99@aol.com
Mulder will thank you if you encourage me to write more!
And if you're looking for part I, or just want to read more smut,
visit my fic at www.oocities.org/HotSprings/8334/fic.html.
I wrote an UST casefile, too--one you can show your mother.
Just ask Sue's mom! Or her hubby who says,
"It's worth burning dinner over."