This story shows Scully's perspective on the events of "The
Gift" and its aftermath.  It will not make sense if you have not
read the first story, but please be aware of the content
warnings.  Both stories contain coerced sexual contact between
the main characters.  Please do NOT read if you may be offended.
Readers under 17: please respect the age restriction on this
story.

Scully's POV is influenced by a discussion among the wonderful
ladies at the Haven about rape and its effects.  I have tried to
portray the trauma of assault respectfully, but have taken some
artistic license in the speed and means by which Scully
recovers.  No diminishment of the real horror of rape or
struggle of its survivors is intended, either by Scully's
recovery process or the storyline itself.
 

*******************
 

Mulder was definitely up to something that weekend, and I'm
pretty sure it was about us.

The case that he drummed up didn't warrant Bureau time or
resources, which in and of itself wasn't unusual, but everything
else about it was.  I was surprised when he suggested that we
drive instead of flying, but since it would only add a couple
hours to our trip I wrote it off as a rare sop to Accounting's
latest complaint about our extravagant travel expenses.  No,
what tipped his hand was his "casual" suggestion that I bring
some hiking gear even though nothing in the file suggested that
we'd need to do any serious work in the woods.  Clearly he had
something else in mind.

On the drive down, he alternated between taciturn brooding and
almost hyper chattiness.  Although he tried to hide it, I caught
him looking at me sidelong throughout the trip.  He was a little
subtler when we began the actual investigation, but all the
signs were there once I knew to look for them.  Mulder was
planning something.

It finally hit me Thursday night over dinner.  His mind kept
wandering away from the case onto tangents about the weather,
the scenery, and how he'd like to spend a little more time here.
Mulder is not normally prone to that sort of small talk.  When
we returned to the motel he lingered while saying goodnight,
hesitating longer than usual in the doorway to my room.  When I
finally edged him out and shut the door behind him, it all
clicked: Mulder wanted us to spend the weekend together.  The
case was just a pretext for getting us down here.

Why he'd done so was a little harder to piece together.  Maybe
he just wanted a little vacation and didn't think I'd agree if
he asked me straight out, but his secrecy and lingering glances
suggested there was more to it.  That's when I realized that his
intentions were, well, romantic.

At first, I was elated.  I stopped lying to myself about my
feelings for Mulder a long time ago.  I'm in love with him, but
I've always hidden it from him.  I didn't think he was ready for
it--love doesn't fit in with his burning passion for his quests.
So I was thrilled when I realized that he thought the time was
right for us.

As I lay in bed that night, however, doubts began to gnaw at me.
Some of them were professional.  I've been involved with men I
worked with before, and it's both potentially detrimental to my
career and terribly awkward if it doesn't work out.  That was a
small but real factor in my doubts: I couldn't stand the thought
of losing him for a sexual relationship that, given my track
record (and his), didn't stand the best chance of succeeding.

But if I'm honest with myself, what I was really afraid of was
that it *would* succeed and that I'd lose myself to him.  He'd
turn his passion and focus and intensity on me, and I'd be
consumed.  The last bit of me that hasn't been given over to the
X-Files would be gone entirely.

All the next day I wavered between conflicting emotions:
excitement and fear.  The fear, of course, added an edge to the
excitement.  Even with my love of order, I know that a
predictable relationship doesn't have any spark.  My last
relationship didn't have any.  But I know Mulder could set off
sparks.

My carefully hidden distraction didn't hinder our "solving" of
the case, which ended up solving itself.  Sooner than I'd
expected we were ostensibly headed back to DC and my emotions
were more tangled than they were the night before.  I could
almost hear the gears in Mulder's head turning as he pondered
how to ask me to spend the weekend with him, and I still didn't
know what my answer would be.  So I hid under the pretext of
studying the map.

And then the choice was stolen from me.  Somehow we were taken
and forced into a situation that made me confront things about
myself that I never wanted to face.  Even worse, all my secret
pleasures and shames were pulled from me and displayed not by
the human monsters we chase, not by our enemies, but by my
partner.  By Mulder.

*****

I've known for a long time that sexual submission aroused me.  I
first discovered it when I was in med school.  My limited sexual
experience with my college boyfriend was generally satisfying,
but no more.  Between the fumblings of a well-intentioned but
overeager partner and my own self-consciousness, I found sex to
be a serious, earnest experience that sometimes brought an
orgasm but rarely involved true intimacy or laughter.
 
That changed my second year in med school, when I began dating
another student who was in the last year of the program.  I did
love Rafi, but we both knew that the relationship wasn't likely
to last past his graduation.  Looking back, I guess that even
then my relationships involved emotional distance, but neither
of us thought of it that way at the time.

Most of my memories of Rafi are good, probably because we were
never committed enough to have the arguments that inevitably
happen in a serious relationship.  What I remember most fondly,
however, is that he introduced me to something I hadn't really
experienced before: that sex could be *fun.*  I learned a lot
about positions and technique from him--med students don't have
many inhibitions--but what set him apart from the other lovers
I've had was that he introduced me to sex games of all sorts,
including dominance and power play.

We took turns being dominant and submissive, although we never
used those terms.  It never went beyond a little light bondage
and toys from the Xandria catalogue (his subscription, not
mine).  We didn't even have safewords--that was before BDSM went
mainstream.  Generally, we just had fun.  And I learned that I
enjoyed submission.

When Rafi graduated and went off to a neurology internship in
New York the relationship ended amicably; we still exchange
Christmas cards, in fact.  I guess I remember him as the last
carefree relationship of my youth.  After him, my relationships
were less fun and the power games became more subtle but much
more real.

During my final year of med school one of my professors started
to show an interest in me.  I was flattered and more than a
little awed by what I saw as his self-confidence and assurance;
now I know that those qualities were backed by a healthy dose of
narcissism and arrogance.  His name was Daniel, and he was
married.  I didn't know that when we began dating, but as I will
regret for the rest of my life, I didn't leave him when I found
out.  The relationship carried on for a long time after that
discovery, but there was always an undercurrent of tension and
guilt.  Mine, not his: I don't think Daniel ever realized what
our affair did to his family.

There was no overt dominance and submission in our sexual
relationship--I'm sure that Daniel would have seen those games
as immature--but he took the lead in bed just as he did
everywhere else.  And I'll admit that I liked it that way.  The
guilt faded a little when I wasn't in charge.

Even though Daniel was more experienced and assured, his
lovemaking was reminiscent of that of my college boyfriend.  I
didn't come all the time, or even most of the time.  He made it
quite clear, however, that he was very considerate of my needs,
and even though I should have known better I believed that my
lack of pleasure was my fault, not his.  I decided that perhaps
I had become too dependent upon Rafi's games and props, and
found myself internally scrutinizing and criticizing my sexual
performance in a way that I never had before.

The relationship finally ended when I decided to enter the
Bureau.  I told myself that I was leaving to save whatever was
left of Daniel's family, and I did.  I'm not sure that I would
have had the strength, though, if Daniel hadn't objected to my
career decision so strongly.  His disapproval on top of my
father's--it was too much.  Finally, I broke away.

Thus began a sexual dry spell that pales in comparison to what
I've endured since I joined the X-Files, but was then the
longest one I'd experienced.  Naturally, I turned to more
solitary means of sexual gratification.  I developed a range of
fantasies, but my favorite was the man whose face I never saw,
who teased and tantalized me and always gave me just what I
needed--but only in exchange for my submission to him.  He alone
of all my fantasy men invariably brought me to orgasm.

My last serious relationship was with Jack Willis.  Jack was a
good man.  He was like Daniel in that he was older, driven, and
my teacher, but he supported my ambitions in a way that Daniel
never had.  Maybe I had a thing for older men, or maybe I was
trying to do my relationship with Daniel over and get it right
this time.
 
Like Daniel's, Jack's lovemaking was pretty traditional.  He was
attentive to my needs, if not creative.  Only once did we skirt
the edges of bondage and dominance.  Jack had been working long
hours tracking a serial rapist; not the most brutal or prolific,
but better than most at covering his tracks, and Jack was taking
it personally.  One night he came to bed after getting too
immersed in his profile.  I noticed the difference right away;
he was more energetic, more forceful, and I found myself
responding eagerly--until he pinned my wrists to the bed with
such force that he left bruises.

We both recoiled simultaneously but for different reasons.  Jack
was horrified by what he'd done and instantly contrite.  He took
my silence as evidence of disgust and became profusely
apologetic.  In fact, I was just trying to sort out what I was
feeling.

My physical response when he trapped my hands was so strong that
it stunned me; the cry that brought Jack back to himself,
thinking that he'd hurt me, was actually one of pure lust.
Emotionally, though, I was cringing, and the dichotomy confused
me.  As Jack pressed remorseful kisses along my neck, I realized
that I didn't want him to see how enthusiastically I had
responded to his assumption of control.

After I finally convinced Jack to stop worrying about me and go
to sleep, I lay awake for a long time thinking about what had
happened.  In spite of my rich fantasy life, it was the first
time I actually admitted to myself that I found it erotic to be
dominated.  That realization prompted a round of soul-searching.
If asked about the subject, of course, I could have explained
that it didn't reflect a subconscious desire to be raped or
coerced, that it was no indication of a weak character, that it
didn't suggest that one was submissive anywhere else in life.
In short, that wanting to be dominated was a perfectly normal
fantasy enjoyed by a lot of people of both sexes.

That's what I would have said if asked about submission in
someone else.  Irrational though it was, however, it wasn't
something I wanted to confront in myself.  I had worked long and
hard to take control of my life, to shape myself in my own
image, and that's the person Jack saw.  The last thing I wanted
was to go back to was being the subordinate partner in a
relationship, no matter how small a part of it.

Even as I reacted emotionally against what I perceived as a
weakness, rationally I knew that something else was wrong.  If I
was that afraid of trusting my partner with my sexual fantasies,
then something was missing in our relationship.  I thought it
over for a month or so and realized that I just didn't want to
make myself that emotionally vulnerable to Jack.  I broke it off
soon afterwards, although we parted on good terms.

I didn't have time to get into a serious relationship before I
was assigned to the X-Files and then, after a few failed
attempts at dating, I learned what "sexual dry spell" really
meant.  I went back to my fantasy life, back to the faceless man
with the silk scarves and the feather-light, infinitely knowing
touch.

Oh, I still had a range of other erotic scenarios.  I even made
a point of reviewing and adding to them regularly so that I
could convince myself that Dana Scully yielded to no one even in
her imagination.  Even though I didn't admit it to myself,
however, I was developing an increasing fondness for submission
scenes, my careful efforts to rotate them with others collapsing
during times of stress.

As time went on another problem emerged in my fantasies: the
starring role that Mulder began to play in them.  In all of
them, really.  I tried to avoid it, occasionally browsing
through bookstores or surfing the web for erotica vivid enough
to replace the images of Mulder that were intruding more and
more frequently into my daydreams.  All that did was give my
mind more varied roles to create for him.  In the darker hours
that haunted our lives, the best way I found to release tension
was to lie back in a hot bath, close my eyes and imagine a
blissful evening free of anxiety and responsibility in which
Mulder rewarded my obedience with the most sublime pleasures.

I've been going over those memories again and again ever since
we got back from Tennessee.

We never did figure out how we were taken.  I remember regaining
consciousness slowly, aware that something wasn't right but not
knowing what.  First came the medicinal smell that made me think
I'd woken up in a hospital until I realized that I was seated in
a chair, not lying in a bed.  My mind grew clearer, but my body
didn't seem awake enough to move.  Then I heard men's voices
tossing words back and forth at a level not quite heated enough
to be an argument, but close.  Their conversation faded in and
out of my mind like a badly-tuned radio.

"...sure that the profile is right?"  That voice sounded younger
and unaccented.

An older, irritated voice.  "...research is sufficient.  It is
accurate."

The first voice again, coming in clearer as I became more alert.
"We're ahead of schedule.  We should question her."

Question me?  What was going on?  My heart raced, but my body
remained stubbornly lethargic.

The second voice sounded even more annoyed.  "The profile does
not call for that here.  It would be counterproductive."

A third voice, older and faintly accented, cut off the debate.
"That is enough.  Proceed according to the plan."

That's when the man whom I identified as the second speaker came
over to me and began speaking in a gentle tone.  I don't think
he asked me any questions. I actually don't remember most
details: neither his face nor his exact words.  I know that
Mulder thinks that was all part of the general plan, but I don't
care.  I don't think I could stand to relive a clear memory of a
stranger implanting the behavior that I would later act out with
Mulder.  I don't want to remember that violation.

Some details are clear.  He told me that I wouldn't be harmed.
He told me what the drug was intended to do.  My rational side,
of course, assumed that he was trying to frighten me; there's no
compound that does anything remotely close to what he claimed it
did.  I believed him when he told me to hold out my arm for
another injection and I watched my left arm extend obediently
and remain still as they prepared the hypodermic, swabbed my
arm, and injected me--a display intended, I'm sure, to
demonstrate the effectiveness of the compound.

After that things get much fuzzier.  There are a few sharp
recollections, but mostly just images and sensation.  I can
remember his voice reverberating in my head for a long time.
There was an awful feeling of panic that returns even now if I
try to press the recollection too hard.  Then his voice fell
silent as images came swirling around my mind with an almost
overwhelming force.

First was the onslaught of memories.  Daniel selecting the
clothes I would wear for an evening out, from my winter overcoat
right down to the lingerie he wanted to see me in later.  Jack
holding my wrists to the bed as a wave of desire rushed through
me.  Over and over I relived the time that I truly learned how
erotic submission could be, when Rafi tied me prone on the bed
and alternately teased me with a vibrator and spanked me, first
lightly and then with increasing force, until I was almost
babbling and had to muffle my screams in the pillow when I
finally came.

In reality, the next morning Rafi was afraid he'd gone too far.
He brought me breakfast in bed and contritely hand-fed me bits
of buttered croissant until I was laughing, and that night *he*
was the one face-down on the bed pleading for mercy.  As I sat
slumped in the chair, though, the memory never progressed that
far.  Instead it segued into a different image of arousal and
domination.

The memories didn't stay memories.  They transformed, becoming
edgier and more intense than the reality had been, and the man
in them was always replaced by Mulder.  Mulder telling me to
strut around the room again so that he could admire the black
silk and lace he had selected to complement my fair skin.
Mulder above my yielding body, trapping both my hands in one of
his as he pumped roughly into me.  Mulder's voice teasing me as
I gasped into the pillow, telling me how much he loved watching
me quiver as I wondered whether the next touch would be a
stinging slap or jolt of ecstasy.

And those images became mingled with the fantasies that I'd
developed over the years, all similarly slanted.  The beach in
Tahiti never made an appearance, nor did any of the other men
who occasionally guest-starred in my dreams.  Like the memories,
the fantasies were drawn from my mind but more intense and
consuming.  At the time I felt a faint detachment, as if I were
observing a slideshow, but now the images are as vivid as if I
were sitting in that chair again...

...I'm blindfolded, but I can picture my body as it appears to
him looking down on me.  My arms and legs are stretched wide,
each tied to a bedpost with a swatch of the smoothest silk.  In
my splayed position nothing is hidden from him, and I know that
he can see the wetness glistening between my thighs.  His soft
voice and warm hands are trailing over me, teasing me...

...I'm on my knees before him, burning with desire, so overcome
by lust that I can't decide which is stronger: the need to taste
him or the aching emptiness between my legs.  I groan with
relief as his hands tangle in my hair, stealing the choice from
me as he shoves his cock into my willing mouth...

They came faster and stronger, intoxicating me.  As they flooded
over me they transformed into the fantasies I'm ashamed to look
at in the light of day and pull out only when I need their dark
eroticism to bring the relief that the tamer ones sometimes
can't.

...I'm kneeling on a bed, intensely aroused, with my legs folded
beneath me and parted wide.  Mulder is seated in a chair
opposite me, his burning gaze holding mine.  I'm making love to
a buzzing plastic egg, my hips pulsing frantically as my
clenched hand holds it fixedly between my shaking thighs.  I
come with a shout, then sag in relief as the vibrations fade to
a stop, letting my desperate movements slow as well.  But my
hand remains locked between my thighs and after only a brief
respite the egg jumps back to life, relentlessly stimulating me
anew.  It hums and vibrates as Mulder plays with the remote
control in his hand, watching and smiling gently as my hips
start to jerk involuntarily again.  Incoherent pleas issue from
my open mouth as I rub myself faster on the tireless little
monster, my resentment at the need it forces on me putting the
perfect edge on the gratification it promises...

Oh, yes, that one always works.  As I surrendered to the rush of
fantasies, one that I'd formerly toyed with only obliquely came
into full focus...

...I'm standing before Mulder, my eyes downcast meekly.  My
hands are slightly extended from my body with the palms facing
forward, showing him that my wrists are encircled with golden
chains that link to a heavier one around my waist.  A jeweled
bauble decorates my clit, matching those dangling from my
clamped nipples.  My body is nude except for a light dusting of
gold paint.  Even though I'm not permitted to lift my eyes I
know that Mulder's gaze is raking over me, and I tremble with
desire as he stalks in a circle around me, telling me that I'm
his, telling me what he's going to do to me.  Each word touches
my body like a physical caress, and within minutes I'm
whimpering with need, eager for the pleasure that I know will
come from obeying his commands...

Oh, that one is so good.  My head fell back as the fantasy came
alive in my mind.  It swirled around, consuming me, absorbing
and incorporating all the other memories and sweeping me up into
pure sensation.

I don't know how long I sat there entranced by the images.
Eventually the man's voice returned, driving them away.  He must
have given me instructions, because I can see myself nodding and
sometimes whispering agreement.  Although I felt a vague sense
of satisfaction when he told me I'd done well, his approval
didn't mean that much to me.  No, I needed to serve and please
Mulder.  Only his praise could complete me.

No sooner had that thought crossed my mind than horror shot
through the detached part of me that was observing.  I grasped
his plan a heartbeat before he informed me, with an air of
magnanimity, that I was to be presented to Mulder as soon as I
was made ready for him.  Even as my mind recoiled, the other,
larger part of me thrilled with excitement.  My pulse fluttered
as fear clashed with anticipation of what was to happen.
Satisfaction showed on his face as he glanced at the pulse
monitor that they must have set up when I was lost in that
erotic fugue.

I think that cycle repeated several times, with some blank
periods in my memory that may have been sleep.  Finally he told
me that it was time to prepare myself to go to Mulder and to
serve him as I now so desperately wanted to do.

I was led to a featureless bathroom where my own toiletry kit
was waiting for me.  Even as my rational side recognized that I
was destroying possible evidence, the rest of me hummed with
delight as I showered and washed my hair in expectation of being
with Mulder soon.  I docilely donned a paper hospital gown and
slippers and followed my escort to the car that would take me to
him.  We drove for some time, but the journey was a blur to me
as the images still played in my head.  Then I was led from the
car, divested of robe and slippers, and sent into the cabin.

Mulder was there, talking to someone whose voice I identified as
the third man in the lab.  Their conversation was meaningless
noise to me until Mulder called my name.  When he told me to
approach him, I jumped at the shock of arousal as if touched by
a live wire.  Obeying him brought a rush of pleasure that made
me shudder.

I stood behind him as he continued to converse heatedly with our
captor, outwardly placidly awaiting his next command.  Inwardly
I felt enraged and violated by this latest attack on my
autonomy.  I was also appalled at giving myself to Mulder like
this.  I had been willing to think that we might be able to be
both lovers and partners, but that surely would be impossible
now that he would inevitably associate sex with my greatest
weakness.

The inner conflict continued when Mulder began to gently
question me.  Part of me wanted nothing more than to give myself
to him for whatever purpose he wanted.  That part shivered with
delight when his voice floated over me and his hands touched my
body, moving me as he pleased.  The other side of me was aghast.
My thoughts chased one another around and around my head,
yielding only confusion.  It was wrong, I knew, but his mere
presence made me so hot that I couldn't think straight.

When he began to speak more firmly to me, the burning need to
please him sharpened my thoughts when my own efforts could not.
Though I'm sure that Mulder only saw the growing need reflected
on my face and in my body, the more clearly I could think, the
more embarrassed and horrified I became.  When he offered me the
choice to disobey a command, I seized on what I thought was an
escape from my subjugation to him.

I was wrong.  Instead, the act of refusal somehow deepened my
need for him.  I was reduced to pleading for release that, when
granted, was so intense that I could not stand upright.  When I
came back to myself he had caught me up in his arms, his embrace
assuring me that he had forgiven my impudence.  Guilt tormented
me as I heard the underlying panic in his voice, and I was
utterly unable to check the words that tumbled from my lips as
his questions began again.

I struggled to help him find a solution until he made a misstep
that caused a panic attack such as I have never had before and
hope never to have again.  By the time he lit upon a strategy
that finally allowed me to speak for myself, I was exhausted, my
mind reeling from the buffeting of such conflicting emotions:
the desperate need, the shattering ecstasy, the awful panic.
Ashamed as I am of it now, all I wanted was to give in and let
the confusion seep away as I placed myself wholly under his
control.

I breathed a sigh of relief when he let the questions go and
began tentatively to touch me, but his gentle, tender efforts
that would have been so welcome under other circumstances left
me feeling dissatisfied and incomplete.  In the end, it was his
voice that finally brought me the blessed release of climax and
then an exhausted sleep.

Even my dreams were invaded by the images and fantasies,
augmented by new ones of Mulder's voice asserting his rightful
claim over my body.  When I awakened, it was to a more burning
and urgent need to serve him and shame that I had not done so
earlier.

Mulder, of course, wanted to talk instead.  Hoping that he could
yet find an escape for us I tried to help him, but it soon
became clear that our efforts were futile.  Sickening shame and
despair accompanied the realization that this was how we were
going to make love for the first and, I suspected, last time.
Sex I could handle, but I couldn't stand the thought that Mulder
was going to learn every one of my darkest fantasies from my own
unwilling lips.  If that happened our partnership would be
irrevocably damaged.

Then he hit upon the solution of asking me what I didn't like.
For a brief, clear moment I remembered why I love Mulder even in
his most obsessive, self-centered moments.  A threat to me would
always pull him from that self-absorption and he would become
infinitely creative and persistent in trying to avert it.  With
immense relief, I sought to protect what few secrets I could
possibly preserve under these circumstances.  If I could just
keep silent, I thought, he might attribute my reactions to the
intervention of our captors.  We could get out of here without
him seeing the weakness that I always hid from him and planned
always to hide.

I still become aroused when I think of what happened next.
Mulder ordered me to silence and gave me my first taste of what
the next few hours would be like.  At his teasing words and
touches I felt my anxiety slipping away.  The critical,
analytical part of me that had been observing from the beginning
finally fell silent; indeed, I could barely think at all as he
toyed with my breasts.  I've always enjoyed stimulation there as
foreplay, but his promises of an orgasm from that touch nearly
made me swoon.

That would be my first act of total submission to him, I
realized.  Not because I would otherwise be unwilling to give it
to him, but because I would normally be incapable of it.
Absently noticing that I was shamelessly thrusting and rubbing
my breasts against his hands, I eagerly embraced the building
pressure that proved his dominance superceded my body's
limitations.  The sensations multiplied when he began to use his
mouth on me, driving me inexorably toward that moment when he
brought me to total compliance to his will.

It was just like my fantasies, only now it wasn't soft and
misty.  It was rough, hot, and infinitely more exciting.  As his
merciless teasing continued, I lost awareness of anything but
the white-hot need in my nipples.  Finally I heard my voice
shriek in ecstasy as he mastered me with an orgasm so blinding
that I passed out.
 
I awoke eager for further commands.  I was somewhat perturbed
when it appeared that he didn't intend to use me at once, but as
he led me to the kitchen for a meal I felt myself settling into
subjection to him.  Soon I didn't even require his touch; the
mere act of obeying his wishes set my body thrumming with
excitement.  By the time we had finished clearing away the
dishes I was squirming with need, desperately hoping for him to
push me against the counter and take me right there.  Thanks to
my own request, though, I couldn't tell him that.

The Mulder of my fantasies never gagged me, preferring to savor
my pleas and to demand that I tell him in graphic detail how I
reacted to his touch.  It was a new, delicious sensation to feel
the words well up within me only to be checked, creating an
ever-building tension that only he could release.

His indifference to my pleading expression simply inflamed me
further.  That's what drove home to me that Mulder was now
utterly in control, that I had no say at all in what he would do
to me.  In my altered state, that thought alone would have made
me come if I'd been able to do so without his permission.

Finally he sent me back to the bed and began whispering the most
delicious words: commands that pierced my brain and transfixed
me with pleasure.  It seemed that all the images that had run
through my mind in the lab were returning at once, and my body
could barely keep pace with the urges that pummeled me
incessantly.  I have only one clear memory after that: of being
displayed for him on the bed, my hands fixed immobile to the
rails and my legs spread obscenely wide.  My burning nipples
chafed against the sheets as I thrust against the bed in a vain
effort to soothe my screaming clit, knowing I couldn't be
satisfied until his cock finally filled me.

After that, my memories fade into a riot of sensation such as I
had never imagined even in fantasy.  Mulder's voice was in my
head, becoming my thoughts.  His erotic demands and praise for
my obedience stoked the heat inside me even as his hands, tongue
and cock expertly worked my body, commanding complete
responsiveness from it.  Stimulated from within and without, I
simply let my consciousness drift.  Obedience ceased to be a
conscious act; he spoke and I responded, possessing no volition
but his.

There was an incredible freedom in yielding so completely.  For
once in my life, there was no anxiety about being responsive
enough to please my partner.  I was a channel for the rushing
need that moved my limbs and guided my wordless voice.  Dana
Scully was forgotten.  I was Mulder's sweetheart, his baby,
finding completion as he used me so thoroughly and lovingly.  It
was exactly what I had dreamed of: no fear, no shame, only the
bliss of knowing I was his most cherished plaything.

Somehow he teased me until the tension became too much.  I
remember being so overwhelmed with need that I had to speak, to
plead with him for satisfaction.  And when he responded, he
called me not by the endearments he had been using, but rather
"Scully."  Something happened then to break the hazy bubble that
surrounded me.  I jerked back to full awareness, completely
lucid again but still frantically aroused and utterly enslaved
to Mulder's will.

This was no harmless fantasy, I realized as I lay back on the
bed and eagerly parted my legs.  It was no dream-lover who
appeared at night, gave me what I needed, and dissipated with
the dawn.  Those strong hands forcing my thighs further apart,
those lips--God!--teasing my clit were real.  This was Mulder,
the man I worked with every day, whose respect mattered to me
more than any other's, who had always seen me as an equal.  No
longer.  Now he knew what a sham that was, how unbearably
alluring I found being controlled.  He'd never see me the same
way again.

But oh, my mind chanted, it *was* Mulder's fingers rolling my
nipples, Mulder's voice urging me on, Mulder's tongue ruthlessly
exciting me; it was Mulder possessing me as I had dreamed of
being possessed, arousing me as I have never been aroused
before.  It was the realization of the fantasies that had
tormented me for years as I tossed restlessly in my lonely bed.

Fueled by those thoughts, my final orgasm built to almost
unbearable intensity before it finally washed over me, taking
consciousness with it.

I awoke to alertness again, unable to speak and with my eyes
tightly shut.  With the return of awareness came the fear and
anxiety about what would happen to us now.  When Mulder returned
I grasped at the escape that he unwittingly offered and sank
back into the oblivion of sleep.

*****

My head was clearer when I awoke the next morning and extricated
myself carefully from Mulder's embrace.  As I stood up I nearly
doubled over from the sudden cramp deep in my belly.  Too many
orgasms too quickly; it had been a *long* time since I'd had
that problem.

That thought was quickly driven from my mind by the horror of
realizing what had happened the previous night.

I scooped up Mulder's discarded shirt and staggered into the
bathroom, debating the wisdom of a shower.  That would destroy
trace evidence, but we weren't going to report this.  Decision
made, I climbed into the shower and stood under the hot flow of
the mineral-heavy water as I checked myself over for injuries.
There was no indication of rough treatment by our captors and I
wasn't sore even though it had been years since I'd last had
sex.  Mulder must have been terribly gentle with me, I thought,
feeling a spark of gratitude in spite of my despair at having
consummated our relationship under the worst circumstances
imaginable.

My mind flitted back to trace evidence, and I paused my
examination in confusion.  Even before I began to shower there
was no physical indication of what had been a long night of
extended lovemaking.  What had happened?

Reluctantly I forced my mind to review the previous evening,
tamping down residual arousal mixed with disgust.  The memories
that emerged weren't really of physical acts, but rather of
Mulder's voice constantly whispering to me: reassuring me,
commanding me, arousing me.  I felt my forehead wrinkle as I
traced back that line of thought.  What I remembered most
clearly was the heart-stopping intensity of that final orgasm as
he coaxed me to previously unknown heights--with his words, I
realized, not with his lips and tongue.

My mind scrabbled for a solid memory.  Everything that seemed to
be a sensory experience actually was memorable because I heard
Mulder's voice telling me what I was feeling.  Strange images
floated through my mind--did I dream about Mulder catching me
masturbating?--including the sensation of his clothed leg
against my bare one.  Mulder strikes me as the sort who would
take his slacks off to have sex, so something was wrong.

The more I thought, the more I became convinced that he had
hardly touched me at all, instead spinning an illusion so
irresistible that I believed it.  That could not have happened
by chance.

In spite of my efforts to protect my secrets, somehow Mulder had
found them out.  He knew my fantasies, my hidden, shameful
pleasures.  I stood frozen in the shower, moving only to turn it
off when the water ran cold.  Not until he called me could I
stir myself to don his shirt again and come out to face him.

A brief, tentative conversation confirmed my fears.  Mulder had
profiled me like a criminal and found out my darkest secrets.
Now he knew that beneath the image of strength and independence
that I have always shown to him was a woman who reveled in
weakness and craved domination.

I pulled away from his efforts to reach me and withdrew into
myself.  I didn't know if I'd ever be able to meet his eyes
again.
 

********************
 

That was two months ago.  When the cabin door opened, Mulder
waited a few minutes before cautiously stepping out and finding
his car and all our possessions waiting for us in front of the
cabin.  We made our way home in near-silence.  Mulder briefly
summarized his speculations about why we had been taken, telling
me that he believed our captors had created a situation meant to
drive us apart.  I was too numb to respond and he soon fell
silent.

Ever since then, he has respected my request not to discuss what
happened.  We were back at work on Monday, by silent agreement
pretending that nothing had happened.  Certainly there was
nothing we could report to the Bureau.  We returned to our
normal pattern of working cases and, to all outward appearances,
things were fine.

In fact things weren't fine and we both knew it.  Mulder could
see that I was tired and edgy.  A couple times since he has
gently asked if I was all right but knew not to push the issue,
accepting my curt affirmations at face value.

I can't tell him that I'm not all right.  Maybe, just maybe, I
could tell him that I wake up at night in a cold sweat, trapped
in my immobile body with that awful voice ripping into my brain,
stealing my autonomy.  But I could never tell him that I go to
sleep each night reliving the sensation of his hands and voice
coaxing me to ecstasy, that sometimes the memories are so vivid
that I have to seek relief, always pretending that my touch is
really his.  That would open the door to too many questions.

What nags at me the most, perhaps, is my speculation that Mulder
had planned a romantic weekend for us.  I don't know how I would
have reacted if he had proposed it; the idea still frightens me.
Lethal though it would have been to the mood, I think I would
have needed to talk to him about what a new kind of relationship
would have done to our working partnership.  I couldn't have
made that big of a change without working through the
repercussions first. The vulnerability of a sexual relationship,
especially given what I had learned about my quirks and
preferences, was not something I could enter without careful
thought.

And that's perhaps why I was so anxious about the idea, even
after I admitted to myself that I loved Mulder.  Sex and romance
with him wouldn't be about negotiating space, respecting
boundaries and compartmentalizing emotion into planned weekends
away.  It would be about spontaneity, whirlwind passions and
consuming need that left worrying about the repercussions until
later.

No, I don't think I would have talked to him about it.  I would
have fretted and worried about revealing too much of myself
between bouts of passionate sex, even though I know Mulder would
never think less of me.  Of course, it's all moot now.  The
balance of power and respect in our relationship has been so
upset that I can't see ever setting it right.

Our working partnership has become strained, but I don't know
what to do about it.  I plan each day's clothing the night
before, scrutinizing hemlines and the cleavage revealed by
garments I never thought about twice before.  I jump when I hear
his voice behind me unexpectedly.  And worst of all, I analyze
every request he makes, searching for a hidden suggestion that
he has lost some of his respect for me.

It hasn't helped, I'm sure, that I've been searching my memories
to piece together what really happened.  Each realization brings
a new wave of anger and violation.  Some days a memory will
randomly float through my mind as we're sitting in the office
and it's all I can do not to scream at him.

"Did you like hearing me beg you to fuck me, Mulder?  Does that
turn you on?"

"If I bend over to get a file from the bottom drawer, will you
be remembering how easy it was to get me to lift my ass and
spread my legs for you?"

"When you bite back your words during an argument, are you
wishing that your voice could silence me and make me climax
until there's nothing in my eyes but need and adoration?"

"The next time you feel horny, instead of putting a tape in the
VCR are you going to say to yourself, 'I think I'll relive the
time I made Scully play with herself while I watched?'"

That last vision isn't fair.  None of it is, really.  If I'm
sure about anything that happened that weekend, it's that Mulder
didn't use the opportunity to gain pleasure for himself.  Quite
the opposite, in fact.  It must have been torture for him to do
what he did while keeping his own desires in check.

That's yet another reason why I can't talk to him about it.  I
can't hide my feelings entirely from him, but he doesn't need to
know the full, ugly story.  It would only make him feel worse to
know that in his efforts to deny himself by drawing those
fantasies from my mind, he committed what I saw as a violation
far worse than the use of my body.

It's irrational to blame him when he was trying so hard to
protect me, but I can't keep the resentment tamped fully down.
Especially because the memories, even as they anger me, still
make me squirm with lust.  Part of me is surprised that these
images are still pleasurable, but I suppose ten years' worth of
sexual fantasy doesn't vanish overnight.  The acts are still
exciting and the man is even more so.

I'm frightened to admit this, but perhaps the urges that I had
identified as desires are really needs.  Maybe I really have to
sometimes, just sometimes, feel dominated to be fully sexually
satisfied.  That might explain why none of my relationships
blossomed into something either permanent or satisfying.  I
never trusted a lover enough to let him see the vulnerability
that I both feared and desired.

Mulder is the only man I might ever have trusted that much, who
has seen me vulnerable in other ways and been unfazed.  Perhaps
over time I would have been able to reveal some of my fantasies
to him; choosing what to tell him and how to act them out might
have counterbalanced the control that I gave up by sharing them.
But now we'll never know.  The most important change imaginable
in our relationship happened under duress and violation, with
Mulder taking from me the secrets that I hid even from myself.
Secrets that I should have given to him as gifts.

Much as I hate to admit it to myself, I've been wondering if I
should transfer back to Quantico.  It's not rational, I know.  I
should talk to someone to try to process what has happened to
me.  But who?  How in the world could I explain it?

As time goes by, my nightmares are becoming more frequent, not
less.  I can tell that the strain is beginning to show, because
Mulder has abandoned any effort to be subtle as he watches me
for clues to what I'm thinking.  Still, he hasn't said anything.

Which is why I was stunned to find him in my apartment tonight
when I returned from dinner with my mother.

*****

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing here?"

He has the decency to look guilty, but only mildly so.  "We have
to talk about what happened when we were in Tennessee.  We've
put it off too long as it is."

Maybe I should have seen this coming but I didn't, and I'm as
annoyed at being caught off-guard as by his invasion of my
privacy.

"There's nothing to discuss, Mulder.  I'm fine.  I don't blame
you for what happened."

He doesn't move from the couch.  "You are not fine, Scully.
Neither of us is fine.  We have to deal with this together, or
it will rip us apart."

God, it's so tempting to have him here.  Part of me desperately
wants to unburden myself to him, but I keep it in check.  The
only way that I can get through this whole affair with what's
left of my self-respect intact is by showing Mulder that I'm
capable of dealing with it on my own.

"Mulder, I just need to process it at my own pace.  I'm getting
over it just fine."

"Right," he scoffs, "you're getting over it.  That's why you're
always pale as a ghost, you barely even look at me anymore, and
every time I ask you for something you look like I've told you
to give me a lap dance."

He leans forward, pinning me with a glance.

"You need to talk about this, and I think that you won't because
you're embarrassed by what I learned about you.  Do you really
believe I would think less of you?  For God's sake, Scully, I
told you I enjoy it too.  Do you think less of me?"

I shake my head.  It's a gesture of confusion more than a
response to his question.  I understand that my sexual
preferences don't define my personality elsewhere, but what I
think and what I feel seem too disjointed and contradictory to
ever put back together.

Mulder's keen gaze reminds me of why I am often relieved that he
rarely seems to give me his full attention.  When he does, as
now, it seems that he can see right through me.  I can tell that
he's set on his course of action and nothing will sway him.

Abruptly the unwelcome thought intrudes that his unyielding
posture reminds me of the assurance and command that he
projected when we were locked in the cabin.  Involuntarily, my
body reacts to the memories.

He notices, of course.  With catlike grace he rises from the
couch and stands beside me, bowing his head to whisper into my
ear.  His tone alone makes me shiver, but it is his words that
set my pulse racing.

"Are you remembering?  Are you thinking of that night?"

The room seems to tilt dangerously.  It is as if we are back in
the cabin, with his voice enthralling me once again.

"The memories turn you on, don't they?  Didn't it feel good to
just let go and do as you were told?"

As if struck mute, I nod hesitantly.  He lays a warm hand on my
back as he continues.

"You'd thought about it before, hadn't you?  Long before that
weekend.  You've closed your eyes and touched yourself,
pretending it was someone else touching your helpless body."

I'm startled to realize that he is guiding me into my bedroom.
When we reach the bed he stops and I remain still, robbed of
initiative by his effortless assertion of control over me.  His
hand lifts from my back, leaving it cold and bereft.  When his
voice comes again I realize that he has stepped away from me a
bit.

"You haven't answered my question."

I should be seething, but he's using just the right tone to keep
me compliant.  I want to hear him speak again.  Hanging my head
in defeat, I give him the only answer I can.

"Yes.  Yes, I have pretended that."

It feels as though the last word hangs in the air interminably
before his hands close on my upper arms and the heat of his body
tells me that he is right behind me again.

"I've pretended the same thing, Scully.  Let me show you."

*This* is not a turn I expected the conversation to take.  "What
do you mean?"

"I mean that it is a harmless fantasy to give up control during
lovemaking.  Many people enjoy it--myself included."

He turns me to face him, his eyes beseeching.  In the moment
that he moved away from me, he removed his shirt and now stands
before me half-naked and vulnerable.

"Let me show you that, Scully.  I want to put myself in your
hands.  You can touch me however you want, you can ask me
anything, you can tell me to do anything.  Please."

I'm stunned into speechlessness.  This was the last thing in the
world that I expected from Mulder.  I can only guess at his true
motivations.  Is this a gesture of trust on his part?  Does he
think it will bring us back together?  How in the world could
another misguided sexual encounter help us?  But I'd be lying if
I said that the idea didn't intrigue me.

"Mulder, I don't know."

He cups my face in his hands.  "Please, Scully.  Let me give
this to you."

I must be insane to consider this, but I do.  I've wondered for
so long what it would be like to touch him that the idea is
nearly irresistible.

Suddenly and with perfect clarity, I realize that I don't know
if we can ever recover from what happened, but what I do know
for sure is that I don't want our experience in Tennessee to be
the only sexual memory he ever has of me.  Yes, I'm willing to
make a new one.

"Um, what do you want me to do?"

Relief, barely perceptible, flashes across his face.  "Anything
you want, Scully.  I'm at your disposal, and you're in control."

My pulse is fluttering with not-entirely pleasant anticipation.
I can't meet his eyes, staring instead at his chest.  Mulder has
a good chest: not hairy, muscular but not bulky.  I lift my hand
toward him, but can't quite bring myself to make contact.

His soft voice comes from above me.  "You can touch me if you
want, Scully.  Two months ago, I would have given anything for
you to touch me of your own free will."

I reach out and tentatively run my hand from the hollow of his
neck down his abdomen.  "Mulder, I told you I don't blame you.
You don't need to feel guilty."

The vehemence in his voice startles me.  "Is that what you
think, Scully?  I didn't want you touch me because I felt
*guilty.*  I wanted it because more than anything else, I wanted
to make love to you that weekend.  I still do."

I shake my head in confusion.  How could he still want me after
seeing me like that, so needy and weak?

He blows out a breath in a puff of frustration.  "How can you
doubt that?"

My mind is too abuzz to make much sense of his words.  Instead,
I bring my other hand up, stroking over his shoulders and back
down his chest again.  Was he serious about me being in control?

"Could you lie down on the bed?"

His lips quirk into a half-smile at my tentative tone.  I tell
myself that I've done this before; I don't need to be so
hesitant.

"Take off your jeans and lie down on the bed."

He nods at the new edge in my voice and complies.  For a moment
I drink in the sight of him stretched out on the bed wearing
only his boxers.  Then, as I start to climb up next to him, a
black canvas duffel bag on the floor catches my eye.

"Mulder, what is this?"

He lifts himself up on his elbows and looks at the bag
sheepishly.  "I, uh, I had those things from...before.  I
brought them in case you wanted to use them."

I open the bag and pull out a blindfold and a pair of leather
cuffs, padded with wool and joined by a chain.  "You really are
serious about this, aren't you?"  I notice that the leather of
the cuffs is worn and shiny in places.  They have been used
before.  Perhaps Mulder wasn't just trying to console me when he
told me that he enjoyed those games too.

His response is remarkably serious given the absurdity of the
situation.  "Scully, I was so desperate to reach you that I
would have chained myself naked to your bed while you were gone
if I hadn't been afraid that this would be the night your mother
came here for dinner."

The image of Mulder chained naked to my bed does have a certain
appeal.  I chuckle to myself as I return to my perusal of his
body, searching for the memories of when I did this before, when
it was nothing but a game between adventurous lovers.

"I'm not going to cuff you, Mulder.  But you will not touch me
unless told to do so, and you will answer my questions
completely and honestly."

He swallows hard and nods.  A little bit more than you were
expecting, eh, Mulder?  I'm actually relieved to see that this
game does come back to me without difficulty.  If the bulge in
his boxers is any indication, he is pleased too.

My trepidation hasn't vanished, but I push it down to focus on
my physical responses and his.  With him at my disposal for the
first time, my curiosity is overwhelming. I need to touch, I
need to taste, I need to learn.

I stroke his chest again before leaning down to tentatively kiss
his neck, savoring his sharp inhalation and appreciative murmur.
He tastes warm and salty and exciting.  As I glance down I see
the evidence of his arousal swelling against his boxers.  Even
so, I have to ask.

"Mulder, are you sure about this?"

He meets my gaze directly.  "I am certain about this.  I know it
looks like I'm trying to make up for what happened, but I'm
not--that's impossible.  I think you won't talk to me because
you feel ashamed that you enjoyed being dominated, and that's
wrong.  This is the only way I know to show you otherwise.

"And this is selfish, Scully, but I can't stand for you to think
of me...that way.  I can't erase the memory and we may never
make love, but no matter what it takes, I want you to have
better memories than the ones from that weekend."

It is eerie to hear my thoughts echoed so closely.  Does he also
see us drifting apart?  I still want him, but this isn't a
reason to make love.

Well, it doesn't look as though we'll ever have a normal
relationship, so this is my only chance.  I take him at his
word, shove the jagged edges of anxiety to the back of my mind
and turn to exploring his body.

He enjoys kisses and nips on his neck and squirms at my tongue
tracing the shell of his ear.  I kiss my way down his chest to a
nipple, but that brings little response.  I always feel sorry
for men without sensitive nipples.  Women too, I suppose.  Sex
is so boring if it's just about going straight for the genitals.

Well, I can adapt to his particular needs.  My lips move back to
his neck while my hand starts to stroke his belly just above the
line of hair that tempts me to follow it downward. Not yet,
though.  Mulder said that this was about more than touch: that I
could ask him questions, and I intend to.

"Mulder, why did you bring us down there in the first place?  It
wasn't for the case, was it?"

I see a brief struggle in his eyes before he responds.  "I
wanted...I hoped for us to spend the weekend together."

Oh, God.  I was right.  What I'd fretted and worried about was
true.  That chance had hung before me like fruit on a vine and
been snatched away before I could reach for it.
 
I need time to process this.  I ignore the slight tremor in my
hand as I lift it over his straining erection teasingly: I can
control it.  I savor his moan as I lower my hand to stroke him.

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

It takes him a moment to respond, which is what I was trying
for.

"Because what happened was such an ironic distortion of what I
wanted.  I wanted to talk to you about changing our
relationship, Scully.  I went down there in hopes of making love
to you in a nice, secluded place in the woods.  Be careful what
you wish for, huh?"

I should never have gone along with this.  This must be the
end--that's why he's telling me this.   Maybe he still loves me,
but he couldn't possibly respect me any more.  Couldn't still
want me.  I pause the motion of my hand as I torment myself by
pressing for the words that will finalize the break between us
that began two months ago.

"Why are you here now?"

He looks startled.  "Why do you think?  I want to make things
better and didn't know what else to do.  I could feel you
pulling away from me, Scully.  I had to find a way to reach
you."

I could ask why he didn't talk to me, but I know the answer:
because he knew I wouldn't.  I still can't.

I slide my hand under the elastic waistband of his boxers, for
the first time touching his hot, smooth skin.  His pulse beats
under my hand as I set up a steady stroke.

He moans appreciatively, bucking his hips.  The long, clean
lines of his body are so beautiful that my breath catches in my
throat.  Gradually I increase the tempo, watching his body arch
in response.  His gasps become increasingly, enticingly ragged.

I stroke him until my wrist begins to tire, but in spite of my
efforts he doesn't find release.  His face twists in a grimace
of pain, not pleasure.  I redouble my efforts to no avail.

That's when I realize what is really happening.  Mulder can't
let himself enjoy this.  He isn't just trying to allay my fears
or get me to open up.  He wants to do penance for his part in
what happened to me.

My movements become mechanical as I puzzle over what this means.
What role do I have in this drama?

That thought rocks me back on my heels.

"Mulder, how could you do this to me?"

He lifts his head to look at me with glazed eyes.  "Wha...?
What do you mean?"

Anger is burning away my earlier fears and doubts.  "This! How
could you do this?  You're doing this because you feel guilty.
You want to suffer--and that makes me the abuser."

The shock in his eyes tells me that whatever his plan was, that
wasn't it.  "I...I'm sorry, Scully.  I swear that's not what I
had in mind.  I just...I thought we had to talk about this and
your embarrassment was stopping you."

Embarrassment?  That doesn't begin to cover it.  Humiliation,
perhaps?  But not because of what you did.  Because I loved it,
every minute of it.

"Why like this, Mulder?"

He pauses for a moment, apparently choosing his words carefully.

"I wanted to give you control back, that's true.  But all I was
hoping was that if you saw how much I enjoyed it too, then at
least we could get to the point where we could talk.  And then
we could really start to deal with things."

Another long pause.  "And God help me, Scully, but I *wanted* it
to be real so badly that I talked myself into thinking this
would be best for you."

Now it is my turn to sort through the maelstrom of emotions
threatening to overwhelm me.  Eventually one thing becomes
clear: whatever else this has done, it has made me realize I
don't want to leave Mulder and I don't want him to leave me.  I
cling to that thought like a lifeline as I sort through what to
do next.

I don't know if I'm more angry or hurt by what he has done
tonight.  I bear some blame for not talking to him earlier,
which forced him to take these measures, but even so how could
he have made such a staggering miscalculation twice?

"Mulder, by all accounts you have brilliant insights into the
human mind.  I have seen you predict criminal behavior down to
the last detail.  Why"--I struggle to speak through my
tightening throat--"why can you know me so well but get me so
wrong?"

He sighs heavily.  "Because you aren't a case file to me.  I
can't think about you as a problem; I can't think about you in
isolation.  When you hurt, I hurt, and when I try to analyze
your pain, I can't help but shape it into a problem that *I* can
solve.  I need to solve it, Scully, because I can't stand to see
you suffer."

His eyelids flicker shut before he forces them open and meets my
eyes resolutely.  "Because I love you."

I hate how needy my next question sounds, but I have to ask it.
"This isn't a goodbye fuck, then?"

That may be the first thing I've said that's really shocked him,
and it takes him a moment to answer.

"No!  First, it isn't goodbye, and second, it isn't a fuck.  I
would give anything in the world to make things better, and the
only proof I have to offer is giving you my body and soul.  I
don't know where we'll go from here, Scully, but I'm not leaving
you.  God knows I don't want you to leave me."

Finally emptied of words, he stares at me, exhaustion and
trepidation etched on his haggard face.  Suddenly I realize that
I have given him no indication of whether I return his feelings.
Perhaps it is not so surprising that he was unable to read me
accurately, when I have constantly tried to hide the tiniest
clues from him.

So now it's time for me to decide what I want.  As I deliberate
I stroke his erection again, which has hardly flagged during our
conversation.  He emits a stifled moan.  Although Mulder wears
so many of his passions on his sleeve, I am beginning to suspect
that emotional openness is easiest for him when accompanied by
sexual intimacy.  Is that what he was subconsciously seeking
tonight?

There are layers upon layers of things that we've hidden from
one another; things that I want to discover.

"I don't know where to go either, Mulder.  I know I don't want
to leave."  I choke back the word "anymore" before I utter it.
There's no need to get into that now.

He's waiting for something else, I know, but I can't quite bring
myself to tell him I love him.  Not yet, not like this.
Instead, I try to show him.  He'll know what it means.  He has
to.

Watching his face intently, I gently increase the speed and
pressure of my strokes.  I don't think he likes being watched so
closely, but he doesn't turn away either.  He is sincere about
laying himself as bare to me as I was offered to him.

Still caressing with one hand, I start to work his boxers down.
He lifts his hips to help me and I quickly undress him and toss
the boxers aside.  For the first time I actually have the chance
to study him, to examine his beautiful bare body.

I run my palm over him several times, savoring his heat.
Catching his eye and holding his gaze with mine, I lower my head
until my lips hover a few inches above his straining cock.
Carefully and deliberately I exhale, teasing him with the warmth
of my breath.  His guttural moan encourages me to repeat the
action before I press a light, open-mouthed kiss to his shaft.

I'm startled but not really surprised when he touches me for the
first time, stroking my cheek with a trembling hand.  At my
questioning glance, he tells me insistently, "You don't have to
do this, Scully.  I don't expect it."

A warm sensation rushes through me at his reassurance.  "It's
okay, Mulder.  I want to.  I want to make better memories for
both of us."

I'm not saying that his protest was token, but he certainly
doesn't need any more convincing.  His head falls back and his
hips lift slightly.  Chuckling at his eagerness, I lower my
mouth again.  Pausing just long enough to tease him, I take him
in hand and begin kissing him gently again, touching him
everywhere with my lips and tongue.  He hisses sharply when my
lips come to hover over the crown of his penis.  Then, ever so
slowly, I take him into my mouth.

He does an admirable job of keeping his hips still as I start to
move, teasing him with my tongue as I slide my lips up and down
his shaft.  Gently squeezing the base of his cock, I speed up
just a little bit.  It's been a *very* long time since I last
gave a blow job, but the skills seem to be coming back.

As his breathing grows harsher, I feel an echo of desire in my
own body, matched by the unwelcome fear that has accompanied
arousal ever since we returned from Tennessee.  I push it back.
Soon I'll have to deal with that fear, but not yet.  Please, not
yet.

I pull an old trick out of my hat: one that I haven't had
occasion to use in quite a while.  Tightening my grip a bit I
move my mouth slowly up his shaft again, until my lips encircle
the base of his crown.  A pause, and then back down.  As I work
my mouth upward again, I carefully slide my hand down.  My hand
comes upward to meet my mouth as I take him deeper again, and I
repeat the process, always moving my hand in the direction
opposite to my mouth.

"Unh!"

I lift my mouth enough to give him my best sly grin.  "What was
that, Mulder?"

"Oh!  That's good, Scully.  That's...mmm...that's really good."

If he's that articulate, it's not good enough.  I apply a bit
more suction on the next pass up, swirl my tongue around the
crown, and take him in deeper on the way down.

"Oh, God.  Oh...uh...Scuh..."

Much better.  He grows even more enthusiastic as I settle into
my pace.  I'm glad.  I need it to distract me, to keep my
roiling emotions pushed down just a little bit longer.

"God!  Scully!"

Jeez, more conversation?  "What is it, Mulder?"  I think I can
guess, but I want to hear him say it.

"Gonna...uh...gonna come."

I linger on the next downstroke, making my intent clear.  "It's
okay.  Go ahead."

Three more strokes and his body arches like a bow.  He freezes,
arrested there for the space of a few heartbeats, then empties
himself into my mouth with uncontrolled, jerky thrusts.
Suppressing my distaste I swallow rapidly, slowing my movements
and softening my touch until the last spasms cease and he
collapses back on the bed again.  I lift my eyes to meet his
sated, tender gaze.  He reaches up to touch my cheek gently,
just as he has so many times before...

And the next thing I know, I'm curled up into a ball on his
chest, sobbing and shouting my rage at him.

"God, Mulder!  How could you do that to me?  I trusted you!"
I'm muffling my screams in his bare shoulder, tasting the salt
of his sweat combined with that of my tears.  Memories crash
over me as if a dam has burst, threatening to overwhelm me.

"I can't--I can't stop remembering it.  Reliving it.  I think
I'm losing my mind!"

He just wraps me in his strong arms, heedless of his nudity.
"I'm sorry, Scully.  I'm sorry.  You're not going crazy, I
promise.  It's okay."

He holds me like that, murmuring reassurances and nonsense,
until the tears are all cried out.  Only then can I lift my head
and say the words I should have said two months ago.

"Mulder, I'm not okay.  I don't think I can ever be okay again."

He rolls us to the side.  Between his firm body and the soft
mattress I feel sheltered, perhaps just a little protected.
"No, Scully, you're not okay.  But you will be. We'll do
whatever it takes to get through this.  And we have the rest of
our lives to do it.  I'm not leaving you."

I can finally muster a tiny smile.  "The rest of our lives?
Think it'll take that long?"

He hears in my words the promise to stay with him and smiles
back.  "I hope not.  I think that we're both very motivated to
go a little faster than that."
 

********************
 

The hardest thing to deal with in the recovery was also the
reason that I couldn't talk to anyone else about it.  As
difficult as it is for me to accept, in a very real sense I was
raped.  I was taken against my will and endured the violation of
my mind and body by men who I suspect were responsible for my
first abduction.  In a literal sense, however, there was no
rape.

Rape is an act of violence, an assault in which the assailant's
weapon is his penis.  The rapist may experience the
gratification of ejaculation (though many do not), but
ultimately it is not about sexual pleasure.  It is a perversion
of sexual intercourse into an act of abuse and violation.

The bizarre part of my experience, what has made it impossible
to discuss with someone trained in assisting survivors of a
"normal" occurrence of that abnormal act, is that the violation
was divorced from the sex, which was intended to and did give me
immense pleasure.

I think that those who did this to us--yes, us, not just me--
must have assumed that my mind would link the two, turning me
irrevocably against Mulder.  Or, if he is correct, they believed
that the very act of him deducing and acting out my fantasies
was an invasion that I would be unable to forgive.  In a way I
am relieved for that, because their efforts to cast Mulder as
the villain prevented them from committing those violations
themselves.

I don't know how they found out about my predilections in that
area; perhaps through observing my occasional purchases at a
bookstore or by tracking the internet sites I visited.  I
suppose it's a good thing they weren't monitoring my video
rentals during my George Clooney phase.

Yes, definitely.  I think I'd rather have people know that I
like to be spanked than that I paid good money to rent "Batman
and Robin."

In the end, though, it doesn't matter. Only Mulder really knows
my secrets and fantasies, and I can live with that.

That night in my apartment was a turning point for us.  The dam
I'd built to hold back my feelings was broken and the slow
process of healing began.  It wasn't easy; in fact, it got worse
before it got better.  My nightmares came back with a vengeance.
In the office I was brittle and snappish from the fatigue, and
after work I was often too embarrassed by my fragile control of
my emotions to open myself up to Mulder.  Bit by bit, though, it
became easier.

In fits and starts, I was able to tell him most of what had
happened to me, how angry I was and how violated I felt.  He
would sit and listen, anguish etched on his face, and let me
purge the memories that were poisoning me.  I started keeping a
notebook by my bedside at night.  At first it was there so that
when a nightmare awoke me I could pour my rage and pain out onto
the pages, which I usually destroyed the next morning.  As they
became less frequent, I wrote in it before bedtime, visualizing
a peaceful night of dreamless sleep.  Over time, the nightmares
became less frequent and the memories, now released, less
poisonous.

As I began to free myself from the prison of my tangled
emotions, I realized that I was not the only one suffering.
Though he had initially denied feeling guilt, unwilling to
divert any attention from his earnest if clumsy efforts to help
me, Mulder too had been terribly affected by that weekend.  Even
as working through my trauma eased my pain, it intensified his
as he learned how deeply his errors had affected me.  He needed
the catharsis of expunging the memories as much as I did.

It wasn't easy to convince him.  In the end, I finally did so by
reminding him that the trauma involved both of us, not just me.

He wouldn't even look at me as he began to recount his
experience of the weekend, in some ways a dark mirror of mine.

"When I realized what they'd done to you I was so angry that I
couldn't see straight.  But..."

"What, Mulder?  Tell me."

"I...I wanted you.  What they offered me was a perversion of all
my plans, but it was still you, Scully.  It was wrong, but even
so I wanted you.  All I could think of then was trying to
protect you from that.  Protect you from myself."

If the situation hadn't been so serious, the look of shame on
his face when he told me about relieving his own needs would
have been almost funny.  Haltingly he explained each decision he
made to protect my body.  In the end, it became clear that his
downfall was that very combination of impulsiveness and
intensity that so characterizes his work in the field.  Once he
chose his path he followed it with single-minded intensity,
never realizing that I might find the mental violation worse
than the physical.

I once told Mulder not everything was about him, and never is
that more true than now.  In the past, our enemies simply used
me, my disappearance, my illness, to torment Mulder.  That
weekend we reached a terrible equality in the minds of our foes;
for once I was the target of their plans, not merely a tool.

We will not let those plans succeed.

When Mulder had finally purged himself of the memories, we sat
semi-reclined on his couch, my back to his chest, and he told me
of the hopes that he had for the weekend.

"I had the perfect place for us, Scully.  It was a little bed-
and-breakfast with a view of the mountains.  I got us a suite
with two bedrooms, in case that's what you wanted, and I would
have been happy just to spend the weekend with you.  But I
wanted so badly to change things between us, to make love to
you.  I couldn't stand for that to be taken away from us."

Then it was my turn to open up to him.  I told him about my
suspicions about his plans, my fears about a relationship and,
finally, the terrible allure of the fantasy we were given.  Only
then could I tell him that even as I feared he would lose all
respect for me by our actions, I found nearly boundless sexual
pleasure in them.  Rather than shaming me further, as I had
feared, the confession was oddly liberating.  In admitting those
desires aloud to myself and to Mulder, I began to accept them.
More importantly, I took control of them.  They are a part of my
sexual makeup that I choose to enjoy, not a forbidden pleasure
to be hidden from myself and my lover.
 
Only then could we talk about becoming lovers.  I wish it had
felt easy and natural, but it didn't.  Both of our lives are
forever changed by the assault, and while Mulder's unorthodox
therapy was the catalyst for our emotional reawakening, it had
the opposite effect on my libido.  Even as we grew closer
emotionally, sexually I became more withdrawn.

Mulder never initiated sexual contact with me after that night,
though he hugged me more and more frequently as he realized he
could do so whenever he wanted.  On several occasions I tried to
turn the comforting embraces into something more, but inevitably
froze up.

Once we had gotten through the worst of the emotional storms, we
began to try to separate in our minds the assault by our captors
from the sexual encounter that followed.  Bit by bit, we have
reclaimed that experience for ourselves.

*****

First was the slow dance toward replacing the negative
associations with positive ones.  A month after that pivotal
encounter in my bedroom we were there again, both nude, but it
was different this time.  There was no effort to make love, no
sexual contact at all.  Instead, we gently explored each other's
bodies to learn them anew.

I ran my hands gently over the scars that marred Mulder's
beautiful body, using them as mnemonics to recall our lives
together.  I traced the contours of his face, now more familiar
to me than my own, and studied each line of the hands that
communicate so much in a single touch.  I stroked his chest and
his back, ran my fingers from his long feet up his bony shins to
his lean thighs, and even made the platonic acquaintance of his
toned buttocks.

When the evening was over his body was just that: the flesh and
bone that house the man I love.  Not that of a stranger, not
that of a man who would use me callously, not even the body that
had responded mechanically to my ministrations earlier.  It was
the body that stood beside me during trials, sheltered me from
harm and supported me in sickness.

When Mulder turned his attention to me, his gentle touches were
exactly what I would have predicted from him.  His eyes shone
with the intense concentration that I have seen from him a
thousand times, though never directed at me.  He learned my body
just has he had learned my mind and spirit in our years
together.  For the first time in weeks, tendrils of desire
stroked over me at his careful exploration.

The next step took me by surprise.  We left work on a Friday
with plans to meet for a late lunch the next day.  When I opened
my briefcase that night, however, on top of my files was a paper
covered with Mulder's distinctive scrawl.  I began to skim it,
assuming that it was his notes about the case we were
considering taking on.

It wasn't.  I had to sit down to finish it, grateful there was
no one to see my flaming cheeks.  Mulder had written me a vivid
description of one of his fantasies about us.  *Very* vivid.  It
was also sweet and gentle and touching, and nothing I would have
expected from a man with Mulder's taste in entertainment.

He hadn't written it just to arouse me, even though it had quite
effectively.  That yellow paper in my hand was one more reminder
that Mulder was doing everything he could to open himself up to
me, to freely offer me the vulnerability that I had unwillingly
given him.

Red-hot pokers couldn't make me confess to putting it under my
pillow that night.

Then we really talked about making love.  We sat on his couch,
his arms strong around me, and imagined that we'd gone to the
cabin of our own will.  Each spun a fantasy for the other of how
our lovemaking would have unfolded.  We reclaimed the experience
for ourselves, creating our own meaning for it.  By the time it
was over, I had finally freed myself from all the fears I had
once felt at Mulder's touch.  We were lovers now in mind and
spirit, soon to be in body.

*****

I knew Mulder was waiting for me to decide when we would take
that final step.  In the meantime we began, for want of a better
word, dating.  Weekends now included a movie or dinner at a
better sort of restaurant than we usually patronize.  I cooked
for him once, and we had increasingly hotter make-out sessions
on his couch.  It was almost like planning to lose my virginity
all over again.  I wanted him more each time I saw him, but I
was still nervous about taking that final step.

The silliest thing convinced me that it was time, really.  We
were watching a video at my apartment, and got into a battle
over the remote control.  I subscribe to the "it's my apartment,
so I control the remote" school of thought.  In my world, the
driver of the car also has undisputed power over the radio.
Mulder, however, follows the "I'm a man, so I control the
remote" faction. (His theories on the car radio have never been
clear to me, but I believe his guiding principle is "I have a
short attention span, so I change the station when I get bored
or every ten minutes, whichever comes first.)

My cunning tactical maneuver was to ask him to get me another
beer and then snatch the remote while he was in the kitchen.
Mulder's years of investigative training were not in vain,
however, and he caught onto me the minute he sat down and
reached automatically for the missing control.  As he turned
accusing eyes on me, I leaned away from him and held it out of
his reach.  I'm not sure what I was expecting him to do, but
certainly it wasn't what he did next.

Rather than reaching for the remote, he grabbed me around the
waist and tickled me.  *Tickled* me.  Mulder has never tickled
me before.  In spite of all the years that he has bantered and
sparred with me verbally, he rarely touches me playfully.  It
made me realize that we've already reached a new level of
physical intimacy.  He no longer touched me as thought I might
break, as though he had to protect me.  He could touch me for
fun.

And so I've decided it is time for us.  I took us out for a
quiet dinner in a restaurant with high booths and dim lights.
We talked about everything and nothing, we had wine, there may
have been some goo-goo eyes and giggling.  Over coffee I reached
for his hand and held his gaze when he asked me what I wanted to
do after dinner.  He got the message.  His eyes glowed and he
gave me a feral grin that took my breath away.

And so now, as I enter my apartment with him in tow, I am
acutely aware that we're opening the door to one of the most
profound changes in our lives.
 

********************
 

Handing my coat to him, I go to the kitchen to make tea while he
puts away our things.  Over the noise I make filling the pot and
placing it to boil, I don't hear him creep up behind me.  He
announces himself with the heat of his body and soft breath in
my ear, his hands gentle on my shoulders.

"Lovely dinner, wasn't it, Scully?"

"Mm-hm," I agree, tilting my head to give him better access to
my neck as he presses hot kisses against it.

"Wonderful food.  Good conversation.  That pretty dress of
yours.  What is it, velvet?"

"Yes," I whisper, feeling my breasts tingle in anticipation as
his hands brush ever so lightly down my sides, just teasing
their outer curves before stroking down to grasp my hips.  I
grunt as he pulls me back against him, letting me feel his
hardness before he releases me.

Then his hands reverse their earlier path, drifting up my sides
with agonizing slowness until they again trace the curve of my
breasts and slide back down.  I reach for him only to have him
catch my hands and lower them again.

"Focus on the tea, Scully.  I like the stuff we had last time.
Could you get a bag for me?"

Ever obliging, I step to the side and reach for the teabags in
the cupboard above the counter.  I drop the box of decaf
Constant Comment with a yelp as his hands dart up to circle my
erect nipples.

"See?  That's why you should be paying more attention."  He's
still making circles over my nipples, keeping the touch light
even though I arch into his hands, seeking firmer pressure.  He
chuckles as I retrieve the box, the warmth of his breath in my
ear sending shivers through me.

"Yes, I do like the velvet.  So...touchable."  His hands now
slip down and teasingly dip between my legs, eliciting a gasp
from me.

"Do you want to use the usual mugs?"  Without waiting for an
answer he reaches for the mugs, leaving me bereft of his touch.
Once he has placed them in front of me his hands make the same
long pass down my body before returning to my breasts, now
lingering to rub my nipples more firmly.

"Water's boiling."  He settles into a rhythm as I place the
teabags in their respective mugs, then considerately removes his
hands as I stretch my arm to retrieve the kettle and carefully
pour the water.

"Sugar for me, please."  As I reach to get it, he chooses that
moment of distraction to pinch my nipples firmly, and I nearly
drop the bowl as well.  He knows exactly what that does to me.

"The problem with velvet," he continues as his hands slide
downward again, "is that you have to watch out for the nap of
the fabric.  Don't want to rub it the wrong way."

Surprised though I am that Mulder knows about fabrics and naps,
I'm having trouble concentrating on the conversation.  I feel my
legs part slightly as his hands keep stroking down the front of
my skirt.  His breath is closer to my ear as he leans down to
reach the hem, which floats a few inches above my knees.  His
hands slip gently beneath the skirt, coming to rest on my
thighs.

"Ooh, what's this?  Silk?"  I'm enjoying the sensation of his
fingers creeping up my legs far too much to explain that
stockings aren't made of silk anymore.  His fingertips skim over
the lace at the top of the garterless thigh-highs and reach my
bare skin.  "Yes, definitely silk."

I part my legs further in invitation--not an easy thing to do
given that I'm still leaning against the counter with him behind
me--but he doesn't take me up on it.  He traces my hipbones
before sliding his hands up my ribcage and cupping my breasts.
All doubts I had about how well my high-waisted, loose-fitting
dress suited me are now gone.  It suits me just fine, but the
heat pooling between my legs and the need starting to gnaw at me
tell me that I don't want to wear it much longer.

I lean into his hands again as he touches me more firmly, the
lace of my demi-bra irritating my nipples.  Come to think of it,
between the stockings, bra, and lace panties, the dress is the
only comfortable thing that I have on tonight.  With any luck,
that will be rectified soon.

Yes, it looks like it will be.  He deftly unclasps the bra and
pushes the cups to either side.  Finally I feel his hot touch
directly on my skin.  Tired of being passive, I back into him
slightly, feeling his erection hot and rock-hard against me. At
his quick inhalation I do it again, just to make my point.

"Oh, Scully.  That's naughty."  He thrusts against me at the
same time that he pinches my nipples hard, almost to the point
of pain.  Just the way I like it when I'm this excited.  My head
falls back against his chest as he continues to stimulate me,
his pressure becoming firmer to compensate for the diminished
sensitivity as my arousal increases.  I feel myself getting wet,
the fluid saturating the scratchy lace at the crotch of my
panties.

The squeezing continues, steady and firm, while his thrusts
press me into the counter.  I strain against it awkwardly,
trying to angle myself to find the pressure that will soothe the
ache between my thighs.  He chuckles softly.

"Having a problem, Scully?"

Two can play at this game, I decide.  I wiggle my rear against
him firmly, reveling in his moan.  Recovering, he moves his hot
hand back between my legs.  His fingers trace along the tops of
my stockings again.  As they run over my inner thighs sparks of
electricity seem to flash directly to my throbbing clit.

"Hmm.  As I was saying, silk."  His fingers skate upward and
press firmly.  I gasp and jerk forward.  "Silk and lace."  He
starts to circle my clit firmly with the pads of his fingers,
the rough texture of the lace exciting me so much that I lose
the rhythm of my thrusts against him.  Abandoning the effort, I
brace myself against the counter with my hands and wantonly
thrust against his teasing fingers, arching my back to encourage
him to continue working my nipple with his other hand.

His hot breath teases my ear as he leans in to whisper into it
again.  "You're getting greedy, Scully.  We can't have that."  I
groan in disappointment as he withdraws his hands and steps
back.  Seconds later I feel something soft around my right
wrist.  He has wrapped his tie around it and is tugging gently,
drawing me toward the bedroom.  As we reach the doorway, though,
he halts me.  Cupping my face in his hand, he searches my
expression for any hint of discomfort.  At my reassuring nod, a
beautiful grin splits his face.

"Come on, Scully.  Let's get this show on the road."  He pulls
me into the room, his smile now replaced by a smoldering look
that curls my toes and melts my insides.  I follow him docilely
until we are standing in front of my bed.

He lets the tie fall and looks to me for guidance.  Eager as I
am to feel his hands on me again, I decide it is time for me to
take a more active role.  Stepping in close to him, I hook a
hand behind his neck and pull his head down for a kiss.

He complies eagerly, bringing his face close to mine.  Never one
to rush his kisses, Mulder brushes his lips against mine,
savoring the moment before his tongue seeks entrance.  I gladly
give it, rubbing his hot tongue with my own.  When he's
thoroughly distracted, I stealthily slide my free hand between
our bodies and cup him firmly.

"Uh!"  I grin to myself as he moans into my mouth.  When he
starts to lift his head I tighten my hand on the back of his
neck.  Getting the message, he presses his lips back to mine,
intensifying the kiss as I gently squeeze and fondle him.  His
kisses get sloppier as I trace the shape of his cock through his
slacks.  When I move to lower his zipper, he finally tears his
mouth from mine.

"God, Scully, yeah.  Touch me."

I slip my hand into his fly, caressing him through the thin
fabric of his boxers.  He groans again, tossing his head back.
I admire the beautiful line of his throat as I continue to
stroke him gently.

His hands go to my shoulders.  He squeezes them gently before he
regretfully catches my wrist and removes my hand from his
slacks.  Then he steps back and begins to undress.  His eyes
hold mine as he efficiently removes his clothing and lays it
aside.

When he is finished, he stands naked and vulnerable before me,
his hands at his sides.  He won't move until I say the word, I
know.  I smile warmly at him and lift my hands.

He lunges toward me in more ways than one, stopping just short
of touching me.  His hands reach up and cup my face, his thumbs
tracing my cheekbones with heart-rending tenderness.  Gently, as
slowly as if we had all the time in the world, he inclines his
head toward mine.  His lips meet mine sweetly once, twice, then
with more pressure.   My lips part for his probing tongue as his
big, warm hands again squeeze my shoulders.  Suddenly he breaks
the kiss with a groan, clutching my shoulders.  Glancing down, I
realize that my loosely flowing dress is brushing his erection.

"Is this washable?"

All this concern with fabric care is making me wonder if this is
really my Mulder, but I'm not about to investigate now.  "Yes,"
I fib.

His guttural moan thrills me as he pulls me closer, thrusting
his hips gently as the swirling fabric envelops him.  His hands
slide down to cup my breasts possessively and I press into him,
reveling in the sensation as his fingers reflexively tighten.
He chuckles as he feels my open bra through the fabric of the
dress.  A few more thrusts, a few more squeezes, and he reaches
for the hem of my dress.

"May I?"  At my nod, he whisks the dress up and over my head,
laying it on a chair over his clothes.  Then he slips the bra
from my shoulders and tosses it aside.  I'm now wearing only
panties, my thigh-high stockings, and my pumps.

All humor is gone from his eyes as he molds my breasts again.
Pinning me with his burning gaze, he deliberately brushes my
erect nipples with his thumbs.  I shiver as he begins to draw
teasing circles.

"I love feeling your body respond to me like this, Scully.  I
like to see your skin flush; I love seeing your nipples perk
up."

He leans in to bring his lips maddeningly close to mine, keeping
them just out of reach.  Suddenly he pinches my nipples hard.
When I gasp he swoops down, claiming my mouth with his.  His
tongue strokes mine as his fingers squeeze possessively.  At my
moan he deepens the kiss and tightens his pressure.  I have to
break the kiss, gasping for breath as he switches his focus to
my neck, never lessening the sweet torment of my tight nipples.

He begins to kiss down my neck, lingering teasingly on my
sternum.  One hand slips from my breast to slide lovingly behind
me, tracing the curve of my spine before finally coming to rest
on my rear.  I barely notice the gentle squeeze, so enthralled
am I by the sight and sensation of his lips kissing their way
across the upper curve of my breast.  My breath hitches just a
bit as his tongue slips out and traces back up the path his lips
just took.  The hand still on my other breast keeps up its
rhythmic squeezing.

He's watching me closely, his eyes twinkling as he works his way
back down my breast.  He hovers over my nipple for just a
moment, watching me pant, before finally he draws the straining
peak into his mouth.  My knees buckle at the firm suction, and
the excitement building deep in my belly intensifies.

He works me for a long time, sometimes sucking, sometimes
flicking with his tongue.  When I'm moaning aloud he switches to
the other breast, nipping it with his teeth.  Slowly, he starts
to work his way down my body.

He drops to his knees as his lips move down my belly.  They
trace a path down my thigh, pausing at the upper band of my
stocking.  He glances up at me and grins.

"You'll have to wear these for me again sometime, Scully."

I nod shakily as he carefully rolls the stocking down my leg,
kissing the skin that he uncovers.  When he reaches my foot, he
slips off my pump and slides the stocking all the way off.  Just
to be thorough, he removes the other shoe before reaching for
the top of the other stocking and following the same process.
By the time he's done, I'm shaking in anticipation of further
kisses.  He goes back to my upper thighs, pausing to inhale
deeply.

Then he's between my legs, his hot mouth on my clit.  I cry out
at the electric sensation of his tongue probing me through the
now very damp fabric of my panties.  He pauses and looks up at
me, his breathing ragged.

"I love to hear you make those noises."  His lips close over my
clit again and he sucks rhythmically a few times, tightening his
grip on my buttocks as I sway in response.  "I want to make you
come like this, Scully.  I want to lay you on the bed, strip off
your panties, and lick you until you scream.  Then I want to
bury my cock in your sweet body and make love to you until you
do it again."

There's only one possible answer to a statement like that.

"Okay."

*****

Mulder gets to his feet somewhat stiffly, grinning sheepishly as
one of his knees makes an audible pop.  He tosses the bedspread
back with a lavish gesture before scooping me up and placing me
gently on the bed.  He runs his hands over my body again,
palming my breasts, caressing my belly and smoothing over my
thighs.

"You're so beautiful, Scully.  I'll never get tired of looking
at you."

Sweet though his words are, I want more.  "Mulder, right now I'm
more worried about you getting tired of touching me."

He smiles as he joins me on the bed.  "Never."

Pressing his body against mine, he leans in for another kiss.
His right hand wanders over my body again, toying with a nipple
before moving down between my legs.  Kissing me harder, he
starts to circle my clit with the pads of his fingers.  When I
begin to whimper he breaks the kiss, moving his lips to my ear
instead.

"You're so wet, Scully.  It makes me crazy to feel how wet you
are.  Want to see?"

Not quite sure what he is asking, I nod.

He leans forward, supporting his weight with his hands, and
rolls on top of me.  His hard cock rests in the juncture of my
thighs, separated from where we both want it to be only by the
thin fabric of my panties.  Then he thrusts.  The motion puts
such wonderful pressure on my clit that my hips begin to rock
involuntarily, spurred on by his guttural moan.

Within moments I'm thrusting hard and fast, wantonly trying to
rub myself to orgasm against him, but Mulder has other ideas.

"Not like this."  He stops and I groan in frustration.

Finally he removes my panties.  I feel embarrassingly wet as he
draws his hand slowly up my inner thigh.  Watching me intently,
he circles my clit with a deliberate touch.  My hips undulate
slowly in response.

"Tell me how it feels, Scully."

"Mmm...that feels good, Mulder.  I love how you"--my voice
catches as he slides a finger into me--"how you touch me."

He watches my face carefully as he thrusts gently for a moment,
then pulls out.  He circles my clit again with the pads of two
fingers, then presses them into my body.  When I'm sighing in
pleasure at his thrusts, he pulls out and returns to my clit.
Then I feel three fingers at my entrance.

I know what he's doing.  I haven't had sex in so long that he's
worried it will be uncomfortable for me.  I feel a flutter of
anxiety again, but his face reassures me.  He's watching me
tenderly, but with complete confidence.  There is no hesitation
in his touch.  The nervousness melts away as quickly as it had
appeared, banished by the easy authority that my body responds
to so readily.

He sees me relax and pushes his fingers home slowly, letting me
adjust.  This time his thrusts are accompanied by his thumb on
my clit.  I writhe at the dual pleasure of the light pressure on
my clit and the thick penetration of his fingers, instinctively
parting my legs further.

He smiles down at me indulgently as his thumb moves more
quickly.  "I'm going to make you feel so good, baby--"

He breaks off, looking stricken.  I realize he's afraid the
endearment brought up memories better left buried.

"It's okay, Mulder," I reassure him.  I won't let this spoil our
moment.  We didn't go through everything we have in the past few
months just so we could have sex.  We did it so that we could be
free with each other.  "You can touch me any way you want, call
me whatever you want.  Nothing they did matters to us here."
 
Reassured, he bends his head to my breasts again.  He has
learned very quickly how sensitive my nipples are, and now uses
that to his full advantage.  Another bolt of heat goes through
me as he worries my nipple with his teeth.  When I'm panting
again he lifts his mouth, replacing it with his fingers.  My
back arches of the bed when he squeezes firmly.

"That feel okay?"

"Yes, Mulder.  It feels wonderful."

He smiles in satisfaction before he moves on all fours above me.
His lips return to my nipple, kiss their way down my belly and
pause over my clit.  I shiver in anticipation, feeling my breath
fluttering deep in my diaphragm.

Then he lowers his mouth.  Confidently, with no hesitation, he
licks my clit in a long, firm stroke.

"Oh!"

My head falls back as he repeats the action before exploring
further.  He alternates slow passes along my labia with gentle
probing of my vagina and those toe-curling laps at the throbbing
bundle of nerves that is the center of my attention.

"God, Mulder.  That's so good."

"Just you wait, Scully."  He returns to the task at hand,
moaning softly as his lips work my excited flesh.

His knowing touch demands complete responsiveness from me.  By
now I've lost any inhibitions I might have started the evening
with.  Involuntarily my legs part wider and my body squirms with
excitement. He puts a warm hand flat on my belly to hold me
still and starts to lick faster.  Once he has stilled me, his
strong fingers reach for my nipples and begin a steady rolling
and pinching.

"OH!"

The cry tears from my throat as he jolts my arousal to a higher
level.  He shoots me a look of pure wickedness.

"That's right"--lick--"Scully. I'm"--lick--"going to make you
come"--lick--"so hard..."

As his touch takes me over completely, my restless squirming
stops.  Arms limp, legs splayed wide, head heavy on the pillows,
I'm too enthralled even to moan, completely enraptured by the
lapping sounds from between my legs and the corresponding waves
of pleasure that wash over me.  Soon the excitement is so all-
consuming that I can't even distinguish the sensation of his
fingers on my aching nipples from his tongue on my needy clit.
Every thought, every sensation is focused on the pressure
inexorably building deep in my belly...

...oh, Mulder, I'm so close, so close, keep licking me keep
licking me don't stop dontstopdontstop...

"Oh!  Oh, God!  Mulder...Mul--ah!  Ahh!  OOOHH!"

...and the tension blossoms into pulsing, pounding bliss.

*****

It takes me a few moments to realize that Mulder is hovering
above me again.  One hand still gently caresses my clit as he
alternately kisses my neck and whispers to me, "So beautiful.
So passionate.  God, Scully, I want to be in you so badly..."

So why isn't he?

Oh.  He's waiting for permission.  That's sweet of him.  The
wake of the orgasm has left me totally sated and weak as a
kitten, but he's waited long enough.

"Yes, Mulder.  Please."

He groans heavily and positions himself between my legs.  I can
feel his burning cock in my folds as he rubs through them to
lubricate himself.  The most momentous occasion of our
partnership is at hand and I don't even have the strength to
open my eyes.  Well, I'll watch next time.

Finally I feel the gentle pressure of his cock at my entrance.
With some effort, I open my eyes.  He's looking down at me with
such tenderness that my throat tightens.  "I love you," I mouth
at him.

He offers me the most beautiful smile and lowers his head to
press his forehead against mine.  Then with a slow, sure push he
slides into me.

Still floating in an endorphin-soaked haze, I watch him throw
his head back before he begins to move his hips with strong,
deliberate strokes.  His head drops to my neck and I can feel
his hot breath against my skin.  Thrust...thrust...thrust.  His
free hand slides down my back, cups my rear for a moment, and
then runs along the back of my thigh.  He lifts my leg and hooks
it over his hip, groaning at the deeper penetration it gives
him.  Thrust, thrust...

Normally I participate a bit more in sex, but there's something
wonderful about being too blissed-out even to move.  His hands
along my body feel like they're molding me back into shape; his
cock burning inside me brings me back to myself.  My own needs
satisfied, I'm wholly absorbed by his pleasure now.

His strokes are becoming faster and less regular, his breath
panting against my skin.  A final, deep thrust and he comes with
a long groan of sheer pleasure.  A sympathetic shudder wracks my
body as his orgasm resonates within me.

He has just enough presence of mind to roll us over before he
collapses, so that I am cuddled against his side.  His arm
clutches me weakly as I drift off to sleep.

*****

I wake the next morning to the sound of the shower running.  In
no hurry to get up, I revel in the unexpected lightness in my
mood.  It's more than sexual satisfaction, I realize.   It's
peace.

Finally Mulder and I have put the events of our imprisonment in
Tennessee behind us.  I never doubted his love for me or mine
for him, but until last night I harbored fears that we might be
too damaged by those events to become lovers.  We aren't.
Making love last night was a wonderful, natural, almost
inevitable culmination of our friendship.  What happened to us
before was a trauma, one that will probably always affect us,
but it now has no bearing on our love.

Smiling, I laze in bed until the shower shuts off.  A few
moments later, Mulder pads back into the bedroom carrying a cup
of coffee and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

"'Morning, sleepyhead.  Any chance you could find me something
to wear?"

I look him up and down before I reach for the coffee.  "I
suppose I could, but why would I want to?"

He grins at me cheekily.  "Because we're going shopping and I
can't carry my wallet like this."

"Mm.  What are we buying?"

"We're starting with a new bed.  It can go here, in my
apartment, doesn't matter.  We're gonna need a bigger one."

Properly motivated, I get up and start to rummage in my closet
for the set of clothes he leaves here for emergencies.

"My apartment is good.  I've got a feeling that we'll be
spending more time here anyway.  Any thing else you want to
rearrange while you're at it?"

He catches the clothes I toss him.  "We'll figure it out as we
go along."  His quicksilver mood switches to serious and he
comes to stand beside me, laying his warm hand on my shoulder.

"Scully, I don't think I'm presuming to much with this?"  I
shake my head.  Reassured, he continues, "This is a temporary
arrangement, I think.  Someday, when things are different, I
want to look for a new home with you.  But with where our lives
are now, I don't think we're there yet."

"You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?" I ask.

He nods.  "I've been thinking about it for the past couple
months."

"Yes, so have I."  I cover his hand with mine.  It feels good
there; I feel safe and at peace in a way that I haven't for
years.  "It's okay, Mulder.  We have the rest of our lives."

I pull my own clothes from my dresser and head off to the
shower.  Over my shoulder I call out, "No waterbeds, Mulder.
The floor can't handle it."

I hear both a grin and a challenge in his answer.  "I'm thinking
a four-poster.  Do you have any idea what I can do with a little
rope and a couple of bedposts?"

I duck into the bathroom, hiding my blush.  I don't know yet,
but I'm looking forward to finding out.
 
 

END
 

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