MY NOTES: This story is dedicated to PD, who is the connoisseur
of blow job stories. He threatened to write me a food fic
before Christmas and I promised him a "blow." I thought I was
going to write something wintry and eggnoggy and nice, but
*this* happened instead. Hope y'all like angst.
If you want to read more (happier) smut,
visit my fic at www.oocities.org/HotSprings/8334/fic.html.
Super special thanks to Dasha, Alanna, 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
make them do evil, evil things. 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!)
 

Sacrificed
by Terma99

He's inside her, fucking her. She's splayed out beneath him on
the stale sheets of a dead-end motel room bed. The sickly sweet
pink air freshener sitting on the peeling sidetable can't mask
the stench of mold and cigarette smoke that stains the carpet
and walls. The room's only grace is the unforgiving bed,
bolted securely to the floor. It makes his efforts silent.

It is winter, the ground is slick with layers of ice and he's
been frozen all day, cold to the bones until...now--thawed by
her warm wet cunt, her giving flesh. She radiates heat and he
is burying himself in it. He is straining, he is feeling his arms and
legs burn with it, but he presses on. She is lying, eyes closed,
head turned to the side, serene. He has made her come more
times than he can remember tonight and he is still unresolved.
He is feeling the panic rise.

Driving back to the hotel, he engaged her in formless
conversation, deciphering her voice carefully, searching for
clues, listening for meaning or intent. No clues. No sign. God.
Will it happen tonight? he pleaded silently. Would tonight be
another one of those sudden occasions when she'd let him
have her? Please, let it be tonight.

He hates that this is what he's become.

He feels her cool fingers brushing his damp temple.
"Shhh..." she whispers. "You're over-stimulated. Slow down, relax."
He opens his eyes, she's looking up at him, pimpled in goose
flesh, her sated nipples erect with chill. It's so fucking cold here.
The clanging wall heater hasn't a prayer of warming the air and
he's glistening with sweat. He wants to warm her, lie still against
her with his body, pull the blankets over them, and sleep and
sleep; but he cannot change, cannot stop thrusting into her,
pushing down into her over and over. Please. Please. Let this end.

If there was some order to this, if there was something
between them that he could gauge and catalogue, then it
wouldn't have to be like this. He could stop the spinning in his
head. He would know for certain that his world wasn't fading
around him, that she still had hope for them, their purpose.
Although he cannot accept it, the reality of his exile has become
too hard to ignore, impossible to dart and pretend around. He
fought a good fight but it's over--they've won. He cannot drag
her down with him much farther, so he fucks her instead.

And yet she is still here under him, waiting, open, patient,
beautiful. He will never understand it. He pulls out, slick
and painfully erect--he turns her over without asking
permission, he's beyond that point--desperate. She does not
protest as she comes up onto her hands and knees as he drives
back into her, holding her by her hips, twisting her coarsely this
way and up, fighting for a fresh sensation, anything to get
him beyond this--to reach that point where his relief will bring
his senses back together again, when for at least a little while he
can escape the fear, the panic.

She's failing him--he knows it. It is so agonizingly evident in
the dimming of her azure glance, the drag in her walk, the
gradual silencing of her voice. She moves in slower motions
now, tired. So tired. He wants to make it better. He wants to make
it right again. Fuck, he'd do ANYTHING. Doesn't she know that?
But anything is what brought them to this--their finality--the
thing they couldn't face. The truth was so obvious it was held
blaring to the world, all except them. But they waited too long,
he realizes, as he tangles his fingers in her hair in a fist, and
jerks her head back thrusting into her as deep as he can, needing
so desperately to lose himself in her. She likes it, she moans, but
it isn't right, it isn't honest. He's using her to forget and it
terrifies him; he cannot see beyond the hot white panic that
seizes him--the panic that drives his groin against her ass. He'll
make her come again, soon.

She wails and backs into him, her fingers flying over her clit, a
hiss escaping her teeth. He jerks forward trying to ride with her,
to let her lead him away from all this, but she passes him by and
he is abandoned, alone, solid and desolate. He pulls out of her
and she falls forward, her hair spilling into the lumpy pillows.
He gives in. He has had enough, and rises and stands aside
the ravaged bed, rubbing his hand over his sweat-smeared face.
It will hurt tomorrow, worse than it did all fucking day long as
his eyes coveted her body, is mind idle with boredom
and aimlessness as they wandered from farm to farm. He
deserves the pain, he figures. It serves him, for what he's
reduced her to.

She calls to him softly in a haze, spent. He doesn't answer her,
just stands staring as straight and immobile as his miserable
situation. "I love you," she says, sitting up. He closes his
eyes, squeezing back the tears that threaten him. She loves him,
he knows--goddammit he *knows,* and he wishes with all his soul
it was a lie. And that he could believe it, too--that they didn't own
so much of one another. The wind is howling and ice is falling
in glinting sheets past the dirt-blown window. It wouldn't be
difficult to take himself off the road into a unforgiving ditch, or
bite hard onto the cold steely mussel of his gun. She would be free.
Please, let her be free of me.

She moves toward him to the edge of the bed, kneeling before
him, and she dips her head and swallows him gently. Kissing
and loving him, despite his rigidity. He opens his eyes and his
tears pour out and he weeps quietly, watching her move her
mouth and tongue over him with such tenderness, her tiny
hands caressing him, his hips, his ass, moving to cup and soothe
his aching sac. She takes her time, she is soft and delicate, patient.

"God," he cries. "God." And the waiting ends, he comes into her
sweet, sweet mouth over and over as she takes him in, absorbs
him. He blinks for a moment into blessed nothingness, blind
with relief. It is finished. He feels his legs beginning to fail him as
he holds her small head while she cleans him. She finishes, and
she turns her eyes up to his, holding him by the hips, keeping
him upright. Her face is pleading and soft.

"Don't leave me," she whispers. She loves him. She shows no fear--
no fear of fading and coalescing into cold clear emptiness, as long
as she can be with him as they fall together--sacrificed.

And maybe for him it will be enough. Maybe.
 
 

**********************************
Depressed yet? At least a little chilled?
Tell the author how she ruined your happy day at:
Terma99@aol.com.
If you want to read more (happier) smut,
visit my fic at www.oocities.org/HotSprings/8334/fic.html.