MY NOTES: Been dreaming of writing this little number for a
while. As soon as I finished it, I realized what a neat little trilogy
it would make: a Mulder fantasy, a Scully fantasy, and then a
final reality. Anyhow, it was a slow day at work.

SPECIAL THANKS: to the very wonderful fics & authors that
inspired this quickie--Dasha's "Light Sleepers," Sue Schramm's
(retired?) "Seven Year Itch," and Susanne Barringer's very
wonderful "Snooping/Sleuthing" duet which I can hardly do justice
to with this little piece of filth. My apologies.
Hugs to my beta darlin's: Dasha, Kelley and Sue. Without them,
no one would ever believe I'm an editor in real life. Ha!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fox Mulder, but god, I wish I did--he'd
be too exhausted to chase aliens. All regards to 1013, FOX, and
such for providing the fodder for my dirty little mind.

FEEDBACK: Slap me silly!!
Terma99@aol.com
 

Scent of a Woman
by Terma99

Keys in his mouth and a box of dusty files in his hands, Mulder
kicked his apartment door closed behind him. Pushing two neat
piles of magazines out of the way, he set the box on the coffee
table, spitting out his keychain with a chink. It was an old box
of 1971 unsolved missing persons cases with names related to
prior State Department employees--prime weekend entertainment.
A couple beers, a good B-ball game on the tube, and tomorrow's
Saturday afternoon file reading would make the hours fly by.
As anxious as he was to dig into the box and begin general
reconnaissance, what he really needed now was a shower and a
long-awaited nap.

It was about 4:30 in the afternoon and he had cut out early--
kissed Scully good-bye, and headed home. Kissed her--yes, a
sweet chaste peck on the mouth they'd begun exchanging every
now and again ever since her gradual recovery from the Fellig case.
An almost "old married couple" behavior he had really begun to
get addicted to. It didn't mean too much, really, but it made
him happy just to know they could express something of
the affectionate bond they shared within certain boundaries of
well-constructed denial. He was almost always certain to get one
on Fridays--one brisk brush of her warm mouth and he was
giddy for hours.

Normally a late afternoon snooze called for a crash on the couch,
but today his historically neglected but recently redecorated
bedroom was the goal. He'd been thinking about getting home to it
all day, because last night a certain lovely little red-head had
spent the night in there. All night, in his apartment, in his bed,
between his sheets. Every fantasy he'd harbored and entertained
for the past six years had come true last night save one crucial
point--he wasn't home. Worse yet, he wasn't even close to being
home. He was 800 miles away following up on a kidnapping
case which he had hoped was extraterrestrial but turned out to
be janitorial. The cleaning man did it and fortunately returned
the shaken, but otherwise unharmed prize-winning thoroughbred
in due time. So much for his alien racetrack breeding-program
theory.

Scully had called him from D.C. while he was half-way up his
borrowed hip-boots in manure-filled hay and mud to tell him
her apartment building was being fumigated and did he mind--
seeing as he was out of town and all--if she spent the evening
in cleaner air? His resounding affirmative was out of his lips
before he could finish calculating just how fast he could haul his
ass home, realizing a few quick phone calls later that the feat
was futile given the late hour and lousy Kentucky weather. Damn.

Instead, he lay awake all night in some hayseed motel room
listening to the rain pummel the aluminum roof while his head
filled with visions of his dream girl padding through his apartment
in silky little pajamas--lying on his couch watching TV wrapped
in his old blanket, sucking down a carton of Chunky Monkey;
or slipping into his shower naked and wet, rubbing his soap and
later his towels all over her perfect soft skin; and finally
slipping sleepy clean and dry into his bed. He'd practically
begged her to take the bed, making up some story about how
he'd hadn't had the time to plug-up the surveillance hole in
the ceiling over his couch.

So now, a little blurry from a long frustrating flight and too
little sleep, he was happily snooping around his own apartment
checking for Scully evidence. His fastidious partner was not in
the habit of leaving a mess, so finding disturbances was not
terribly easy, but his well-trained investigative senses were
beginning to pick up on little oddities. In the kitchen he noticed
the rinsed bowl and glasses he had left sitting on the counter were
relocated to the dishwasher awaiting the next run, accompanied by
a small plate, fork and tumbler. In the livingroom, the magazines
and journals he had pushed aside earlier were in two neat stacks,
and the videos he'd left sitting on top of the TV (thank god he'd
opted for the "five action hits for five bucks" rental deal) seemed
to have slid back into the cabinet. Except one, Die Hard III, which
was still in the VCR. Got a thing for Bruce, Scully? Suddenly, he
wasn't so concerned about the odds of losing his hair before fifty.

Checking the abused deadbolt on his door for reasonable security,
he left the livingroom and headed to bed. At first glance, he felt a
wave of disappointment hit him as it looked as if she'd never
stepped into the room. But upon closer inspection, he could see
the framed photos on his dresser had been peeked at, one or
two rotated a centimeter or so, particularly the one of her near
the Washington Monument. She'd seen that one before, right?
Over on the nightstand was an old dog-eared back issue of Omni.
From the look of the cover, it contained one of his M. F. Luder
rantings from five years ago. Did she actually read that?
How embarrassing, maybe it helped her fall asleep. He headed
for the bathroom.

His towels were hung neatly, more neatly than he would have
left them, and the shower curtain was drawn closed to prevent
molding, naturally. Some kleenex was in the trash can, and a bar
of soap had gravitated to a different location near the sink. Not a
lot to go on, but enough to confirm his overactive mind had been
right about a few things--she had indeed been naked in at least
this small room for the period of time it took to enter and exit the
shower. He decided as long as he was enjoying the bathroom he
might as well wash the Blue Moon of Kentucky off of him, and
stripped down, turning on the shower.

Waiting for the water to heat up, he eyed his puddle of clothes on
the floor, and was struck with the terrifying thought he may very
well have left some unmentionables in here the morning he left
for the airport. If so, they weren't lying around now. Would she
have tidied up the bathroom like she had in the kitchen? He didn't
really want to think about that, and stepped in under the spray.

Some quick work with soap and shampoo and a nice hot rinse, and
he was out, anxious to have an excuse to rub a towel or two over
his face and chest as if he could feel her skin against his through
some kinetic terrycloth transference. Not really, but the thought
was nice. Scrubbing his stubbly hair dry with a hand towel, he
wandered back into the bedroom and stopped, catching his
reflection in the long mirror. Goddamn mirror and towels got
more action than he did nowadays, if she too had wandered past
it in full-length reflective glory. Too bad mirrors didn't come with
a replay. With a sigh, he tossed the small towel over the back of
a chair and slipped into bed. And that's when it hit him.

For all his midnight visual imaginings, he had forgotten what a
warm, clean, gorgeous woman with glands and skin could do to a
set of bedsheets after a good eight hours or so of close contact. To
his rapturous delight, Mulder found his bed had been transformed
into a haven of unmistakable Scullyness. She was everywhere,
blanketing him in a delicate vanilla/almond scent that wafted
around him with every stir and move of his limbs. Sweet Jesus,
she'd probably sat right here on the edge of his new land-locked
mattress (The original made him sea-sick, something the cheesy
bed-fairies forgot.) rubbing lotion up and down her slender arms
and legs.

He rolled over onto his stomach and took a moment to sniff
through the pillows, easily finding the one she had set her head
upon the longest and buried his nose in it--the heady aroma of
shampoo and woman igniting a hefty burning torch in his groin.
With a little moan he was shocked to find himself already
beginning to grind into the mattress. He stopped himself with
a grunt. Flipping onto his back, he tried not to catch his own
admonishing eyes in the mirror as his body spiraled down to
focus tightly on one simple human need.

Shit--he couldn't do this. That was taking advantage of his
advantage, right? Not that he wasn't one to begrudge a little
hand-over-fist when the mood struck--it was when that
particular activity crossed over into his working relationship that
he felt the twinge of guilt. He was her partner, friend, the one
who she trusted with her secrets, her privacy, to respect and
protect her, to let her stay in his home so she could escape a little
gas--somewhere she'd feel comfortable--where she could let her
hair down, down into his pillows, wiggling her little body into a
good position, perhaps even hugging a pillow to her
breasts......dammit, this was *his* bed, and he was tired,
frustrated, and horny as hell. Fuck it, he'd argue with St. Peter
at the gate, and took himself in hand.

Mulder closed his eyes and let a selection of imagery work over
him as he slowly worked himself. In all honesty, this wasn't the
first time he'd touched himself to Scully's incorporeal presence--
it was just that the heavenly scent of her brought one more
dimension to his finely tuned sense of touch and inner sight.
And he was still riding on the aftereffects of a nice Friday night
"see you Monday kiss." His lips still tingled slightly from the
contact, as he began to replay leaning into her smile as she raised
her head from the computer screen to receive her kiss. She'd
had such an unassuming warmth in her eyes as she said, "Have a
nice weekend," and here he was grabbing himself over it.

To bring even more insult to this, it had been a few days, and if
you add the elements of drowsiness and fresh-from-the-shower
skin sensitivity, he was just about as close to the finish line one
can be before getting much distance from the starting gate. He
slowed down and let his hand wander to his balls awhile trying
to clear his head--it wasn't every day he'd get access to an
aphrodisiac of this magnitude. He'd better make it worth the
while--he doubted he'd find the guts to do this twice. In short--
choose wisely.

So the pick of his fantasies this lazy afternoon settled in on
something meaningful, something that might even have been
a reality if he had been a braver man and the airlines a tad
more forgiving. All he'd been thinking that night in the motel was
of slipping in well after midnight and quietly tip-toeing into
his bedroom to find her curled in his blankets and sheets in a
cute little Scullyball, most likely on his favorite left side of the
bed with the moonlight illuminating her slumbering face. He'd
silently strip off his clothes and crawl in behind her, cautious not
to wake her, and gently slip an arm around her middle holding her
to him, delighting in the warmth that radiated from her--filling his
cold and empty bed. She wouldn't wake and he would just let
himself enjoy the fragrance of her hair and bare shoulders,
lying with her quietly until she murmured in her sleep and
rolled over, sliding her arms around him, returning the embrace.

He'd kiss her from her forehead to chin, light soft kisses not
unlike the one he gave her today, but just more of them, touching
all the most beautiful parts of her face with his lips (which was
most everywhere--she really didn't have any ugly spots). She'd
sigh and open her eyes and smile at him, maybe even say his
name in a lazy sleep-drunk voice and he'd kiss her soundly,
moving his mouth over her satin lips, really getting a feel for
them. He knew they were soft and wonderful, but he'd never had
a real taste of them, not a long taste and he'd make sure he ran
his tongue lightly between her lips, just to feel them slowly
part. With a little luck she'd probably moan and he'd roll
himself more fully over her and take her head between his
hands and kiss her deeply, seeking the softness of her cheeks
and thrill at her tongue meeting his tentatively and then
with greater force as her desire rose in her.

She'd move under him, skin against skin (who wanted to fuss
with undressing in this condition?) and he'd feel her breasts
brushing his bare chest and her warm strong thighs grazing
his engorged cock--just as the palm of his hand was doing now--
and she would cry out to him as he nipped her neck and buried
his nose between her perfect round breasts, taking them in his
hands and drawing the readied nipples into his thirsty mouth,
suckling her in time to her whimpering moans. Her thighs
would open and he would feel wetness beneath him, wetness
and heat and--god, that smell of a woman when she's aroused--
and he would seek it, slither down, lamenting the loss of her
mouth only as long as it took him to settle his face between her
legs to start a different kind of kiss.

He wondered, as his hand quickened, if she'd ever had a man
who loved pleasuring a woman as much as he did--taking his time
to learn her sensitivities and responses, thrilling in the task of
getting to know his way around, gladly spending hours forgoing
his own relief to enjoy the steady build of hers as her moisture
flowed over his lips and tongue--god, how he wanted to show
her that, just once, more than anything, to bring her out of
herself with his mouth and fingers--to let her feel an orgasm
that rises and rises and holds steady then rises again and builds...
and shit, he had to stop again and pull his hand away to join
the other linked behind his head. He took a few long unsteady
breaths while his hips of their own volition continued to
thrust languidly against the friction of the sheets. He couldn't
think about her climaxing into his face and continue, and he
had hoped to make this last to the very end.

He wondered as he calmed himself, if she would whimper, moan
or scream, when she came, if she would hold it in or let it go in a
cry of complete abandonment--could he dare hope she'd even sob
his name? Either would please him immensely, just to have
the privilege of touching her that way. And when she calmed,
he'd cover her with kisses to her face, lips and eyelids telling
her how beautiful she was, how amazing and sexy and
wonderful. And if the heavens would open, she'd invite him to
enter her and he'd kiss her deeply and stroke her with his
fingers until he was sure she was ready, and with all the care
he could muster, slide slowly into her tight wet body.

His re-introduced fist wasn't nearly as warm as she'd be, but his
own enthusiastic lubrication was making a pretty good facsimile,
and he slid his hand down the incredibly hard length of himself
in time to the image in his mind, squeezing the sensitive head on
the upstroke, trying to stay in control the stimulation for at least
few more moments.

His tongue would move against hers as his hips rose and fell,
filling her mouth with his breathy moans, trying like hell to
fight against the urge to thrust hard and fast and lose the
tender spell of the moment. Soon he'd feel her tightening around
him and her beautiful voice joining his, and he'd flip them over
so she could rise above him, her lush curves and sculpted
form outlined in shadow and glowing moonlight as she worked
him deep within her--letting the unbearable tension build,
whispering to him that she loved him and that she'd never
leave him, never, losing her words in a long exulting sob
tightening, gripping him...

Christ! Yes, that was it...He secured the tip of his throbbing
penis tightly in his fist for the last few blinding seconds to
sustain the intensity of release as he arched into hand and let
go with a low moan that harmonized with hers, feeling the hot
rush of semen surge over his fingers.

The entrance to dreamland beckoned him, and after a few
decadent minutes of blissful dozing, he forced himself to rouse
and clean up with the handy bed-side box of kleenex. That
wasn't half bad, he thought a minute later, tossing the fluffy
wad across the room--as close as he could get to the
bathroom wastebasket. He closed his eyes and settled down on
his stomach, pulling the covers around him and curling next to
a Scully-scented pillow. In fact, that was pretty damned
amazing. And the guilt level was surprisingly low, at least for
now, while still in the throes of a rather high state of post-
masturbatory euphoria.

Just before sleep draped over him, an odd thought entered
his head.....kleenex? He didn't usually keep that near the bed...
He allowed himself a wide deliberate smile and slipped quietly
into a dream where he was chastely kissing Scully's lips.
 
 

###################################
All I can say is, I'm glad my mother doesn't read these things!
This story is for a friend of mine who "hates" Mulderbation.
I hope she'll find this one a bit kinder and gentler and discover
the error of her ways. You know who you are, sweetie!
And for Alanna who encourages my sick, one-handed fic obsession.

Tell me if this gave you that warm gooey feeling at: Terma99@aol.com

And stay tuned to this channel for part II.
For more smut in which both agents are involved, visit:
www.oocities.org/hotsprings/8334/fic.html