Risque

By Pywacket
Pywacket1975@hotmail.com


Date: Saturday, October 13, 2001
Classification: S
Spoilers: late 7th season, after Chimera.
Archive: Knock yourself out.
Rating:  NC-17
Disclaimer: They aren’t mine, but I bet they'd jump ship
if they knew how much more fun they could have.
Feedback:  Makes me purr.

Thanks to Ktblle for building a lovely website.
Visit my other stories at:
http://www.angelfire.com/ms/KtblleStorage/main.html

Risque by Pywacket (1 of 1)


Killing a DCPD lieutenant would put an end to his career
and certainly piss Scully off.  Nevertheless, Mulder was sorely
tempted as he watched the big oaf fawn all over Scully.

"Great job, Agent Scully,"  Lieutenant Simonetti said. "We
couldn't have closed this case without you."

Simonetti was obviously having a difficult time keeping his eyes
trained on Scully's face.  His gaze kept drifting to Scully's
nearly bare breasts.

Mulder was amazed that Scully hadn't shot the lech with his
own weapon.  She actually smiled and thanked the jerk,
saying she was just glad they'd been successful.

And successful they were, catching a serial rapist who preyed on
working girls in Washington's red light district. Mulder had
practically pulled muscles restraining himself from voicing an
objection when Scully was approached about working undercover.
But, hell, he valued his life enough to know better than to
interfere with her work.

He just couldn't help worrying about her.  His stomach had been
in knots the whole time she was on the street with the real hookers
and the agents in streetwalker disguise.  Fortunately, he'd managed
to get assigned to the same detail posing as a vagrant.

The stakeout operation had gone on for days, waiting for
"Mr. Aramis" to make his next move.  The rapist had been dubbed
that because his victims reported that he smelled heavily of the
popular men's cologne.  For what seemed like weeks, Mulder had
slumped against a wall, grasping a bottle in a crumpled paper bag,
trying to find a position that didn't send his back into spasm.
He would have been more comfortable in one of the surveillance
vans, but that would have kept him too far away from Scully.

The rapist had been very loyal to one particular area, and his
timing had been quite regular, the rapes occurring between ten
days and two weeks apart.  As the ten day mark approached, the
operation had gone into action. Mulder had alternated between
discomfort and nervous vigilance as he watched Scully through
slitted eyes, listening to the chatter from the other undercover
agents through the earpiece hidden beneath his shaggy wig.

For days, he'd watched a half naked Scully shiver with the
cold.  The skin exposed by her outfit, a tiny black lace crop
top, short plaid schoolgirl skirt and thigh high stiletto heeled
boots, had been pebbly with goosebumps in the cool October
nights. He had felt nothing but worry during that time,
afraid that she wouldn't be able to run in five inch stiletto
heels, concern at her exposure as a target.

When the time came, though, she'd very efficiently chased the
rapist down as he made his move against another agent posing
as a prostitute.  Mr. Aramis was on his belly, hands cuffed
behind him and Scully's knee at the small of his back, before
Mulder could haul himself off the pavement and tear across the
street.

It felt like hours before they wrapped up the crime scene and
returned to the police station. Mulder had changed out of his
undercover clothes when they'd returned, leaving Scully to
receive the accolades she deserved.  He had needed a little
decompression time, a breather from the strong need to protect
her.  If he allowed himself to do what he really wanted, he'd
tackle her and wrap her in cotton wool.  That is, if she didn't
shoot him first.  No matter how hard it was for him, he had to
give them both the room to do their jobs.

Now, with the danger passed, he couldn't take his eyes off the
creamy white skin of her breasts, limned by the black lace
of her top.  To Mulder's untrained eye, the crop top looked
a lot like a black bra. One sneeze and he was sure a nipple
would pop out.  He almost hoped she'd come down with a cold
standing on that drafty streetcorner.

She yawned, pushing wild hair from her face.  The first few
nights, she'd worn a blonde wig, but it gave her a headache.
Tonight, she'd teased her own hair into a tousled, curly style.
With heavy black eyeliner and red, red lips, she looked
dangerous.

He watched as she grimaced and pressed her fist into the
small of her bare back above the tiny plaid skirt.  Her
back must have been sore from hours spent standing in such
high heels.

He moved closer, still towering over her despite the
additional five inches under her heels.  Normally, he tried
to be less obvious with his proprietary attitude, but
he couldn't take much more of Simonetti's leering glances.

"You look like you've had enough action for one night.
Why don't we get out of here?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, exhaustion plain in her voice.  "I'm
too tired to change. Let's just go."

Taking her duffle out of her hand, he hefted it onto
his shoulder and said goodnight to Simonetti.  Over the top
of Scully's head, he shot the lieutenant a territorial grin.

He and Scully stood on the pavement in front of the police
station, breathing the cold air for a moment.  She
shivered, and Mulder shrugged out of his jacket and draped
it over her shoulders.

"So, what would it cost to have you come home with me?" he
asked.

"I don't know if you can afford me."

The wicked gleam in her eyes sent a tiny jolt of electricity
through him.  Could she be turned on by this?  Scully had
seemed repulsed by the "seamy underbelly" atmosphere of the
strip club they had staked out just a month ago.  She'd
complained mightily, much to his amusement, but now she
seemed to be aroused by the same tawdry scene.

A white Lexus waited at the traffic light, an older couple
peering at them open-mouthed with shock and curiosity.
Mulder's jaw dropped when Scully struck a hands-on-hips
pose and leveled a brazen look at the couple.  He could
do nothing but follow her, a shit-eating grin on his
face as she stalked toward the car, swaying on her
impossibly high heels.

He listened to the clack of her heels as she walked,
skirt flipping with every swivel of her hips.  He
didn't think there was any other way to walk in those
boots.  He wished the car was farther away so he
could watch that walk a little longer.  With every
twitch of the pleated skirt, her panties were in danger
of peeking out.

They reached the car, in a rather dark corner of the
parking lot.  He fished the keys out of his pocket
and leaned over her to unlock the car door, his free
hand brushing her bare thigh.  The urge to take her
against the hood of the car was so powerful, he
missed the lock entirely, key scratching noisily against
metal.

Was it the outfit?  Certainly, the blatant sexuality
of it aroused him, but then again, he got hard at
the sight of Scully in surgical scrubs or threadbare
pajamas.  No, it was something more than bare skin
and sexy clothes.

He pictured her lying against the cold steel of the
hood, panties torn, skirt around her waist, exposed
to him and the moonlight.  He would fold her legs back
to her shoulders and drive into her like an animal.

He tried to clear the images from his mind with a
small shake of his head.  Finally, the key found
the lock, and he pulled the door open.  Scully
brushed against him, slowly and deliberately, as
she climbed into the car.

Settling back against the seat, he took a deep
breath.  Scully was exhausted, and he'd better get
his libido in check.  But Scully was gazing at
him, and the look in her eyes said nothing of
fatigue.

No, the look in Scully's eyes was rather predatory
and the small hand on his thigh, forceful.  She leaned
in, her face inches from his, her hand kneading
his flesh.

"Are you going to put it in?"  Her voice was throaty,
deep and seductive.

"What?" he asked, his voice cracking a little.

"The key.  Are you going to put it into the ignition?"

"I knew that," he mumbled under the roar of the car's
engine as it came to life.  What the hell had gotten
into Scully?

He felt her breath on his neck and her hands roaming
over his body.  The hand that had been on his thigh
was now under his sweater, moving over his stomach.
Sharp white teeth bit down lightly on his earlobe,
and that warm hand slipped just under the waistband
of his jeans.

Scully was not a shy lover.  She made her desires
known clearly and confidently, both by word and touch.
But she was different tonight.  As her hand slid further
down his pants, he reflected that she'd passed clear
and confident a while ago and hurtled all the way to
wild and rapacious.

Her mouth had left his ear, nipping and sucking along
his jaw until it reached his lips.  Her kisses were
insistent, hungry, and her hand closed over his hard
cock. God, he was so hard it hurt.  He felt her shift
a little in the seat, her body pressing against him.

Voices in the distance reminded him that they were not
alone.  He could pick out the joking tone, recognized
the sounds of cops unwinding after work.  The voices
were getting closer and he needed to get Scully
somewhere, anywhere that wasn't the parking lot of
a police station at change of shift.

He threw the car into reverse, turning his head to
check behind him.  Scully released his lips with
a low purr of dissatisfaction, but her hand stayed
firmly over his straining erection.

He was completely prepared to break city speeding
ordinances.  Hell, he was prepared to violate the
laws of physics to get Scully to a place where he
could peel the skimpy clothes off her.  On second
thought, perhaps he'd rather she kept some of them
on.  Like, maybe the boots.  Definitely the boots.

It would be a miracle, he thought, if they didn't
get pulled over by a traffic cop.  He drove
too fast and took the corners erratically, his
coordination shot to hell by the hot little hand
so busy in his pants. He could just imagine the
scene.  *No Officer, I don't know how fast I was
going. The young lady?  Oh, the young lady isn't
a hooker, Officer.  No, she'd undercover.  Yes,
Sir, I guess you could say that her hand is
undercover at the moment.*

He supposed he should tell Scully to stop. He
could reach down and pull her hand away and
sternly tell her she had to wait and ask what the
hell had gotten into her, anyway.  But he didn't.

Instead, he pointed the car toward his apartment,
having calculated the distance between the
police station and each of their respective
homes, and decided that going to his apartment
would get him buried deep inside Scully twenty-
three minutes sooner.

Mulder turned sharply into his building's parking
lot, the car screeching to a halt against the
fence.  Scully took this as her cue to unbutton
Mulder's jeans and seemed a bit disappointed that
she couldn't do that with one hand thrust inside
them.

He grabbed her hand, preventing her from unzipping
his jeans, and pulled her from the car.  Not that
a blow job in the car wouldn't have been exciting,
certainly consistent with the whole "hooker and john"
theme, but, on second thought, a bit too sordid for his
taste.

He wasn't sure who this wild woman was, and what she
had done with Scully.  It seemed, though, to have
something to do with the clothes.  Her very being
seemed to hum with sexual hunger, to vibrate with
desire.

He hoped none of his neighbors were watching as he and
Scully hurried across the parking lot and into the
building. He was unpopular enough after that three day
quarantine a few years ago.  Seeing him spirit a scantily
clad working girl up to his apartment wouldn't do much to
improve his reputation.

Luck was with him, and no one was waiting for the
elevator when they arrived at his floor.  He could just
imagine the shocked expressions when the doors opened to
reveal Scully, legs wrapped around his waist, kissing him
as if she were trying to melt his tonsils.

He staggered down the hall, wearing his Scully coat
and trying not to crash into the walls.  Her crotch
jostled his hard cock with every step he took, and
her very enthusiastic kissing made it hard to see
where he was going.

Finally, the number 42 came into his peripheral vision,
as welcome as the Holy Grail to a Crusader.  He wedged
Scully up against the wall next to the door, shimmying
his hips down a bit, so he could reach the keys in
his pocket.

Scrabbling around the lock, he was relieved when the key
found its home and the door swung open.  They stumbled
into the room, distractions gone as Mulder slammed
the door behind them.

His hands finally released their hold on her waist,
slipping down to cup her smooth little bottom through
her silky panties.  Scully unlocked her legs from
their grip around his waist, feet searching for the
floor.

"Why don't you tell me what you want?" she asked,
walking, stalking to the desk.  Pushing papers
to the floor, she hitched herself up and crossed
her legs.

"Who are you, and what have you done with my partner?"
he countered, sliding a hand along her thigh and up
under the little plaid skirt.

"Oh, I see.  You're a show and not tell type."  Her
voice was deep and throaty.  "So, show me."

Her lips were swollen from four floors of kisses, ripe
berry red and soft. They looked tender, so his kisses
were gentle now, yet as insistent as hers had been.

She slipped her hands under his sweater, cool fingers
stroking his skin.  He broke off the kiss long enough
to pull the sweater over his head and send it flying
in the direction of the chair.  Her nails skimmed
over his bare chest, not quite scratching, not quite
tickling, finally settling in to trace around his nipples.

Her skin shimmered beneath the black lace of her top,
the pink of her nipples barely visible against her
pale breasts.  His hands played over the lace, the
fabric slightly rough to the touch, her nipples hard
as little pebbles under the cloth.

He pushed the straps down her shoulders, allowing her
breasts to rise out of the black lace like a swimmer
out of the sea.  She arched her back, pushing them
forward into his hands.  His thumbs stroked over her
nipples, teasing them to even harder points as she
moaned.

He kissed a line down from her tender lips, through
the lovely hollow at the base of her neck, over the
swell of her breast.  She cupped her breasts,
offering them up to him and he obliged to take one
hard nipple between his lips.

The lace of her bra rubbed his chin as he suckled
and nipped.  Her hands were in his hair, holding him
to her as her back arched.

His back reminded him of the days spent slumped in a
cold alley, and he realized that crouching over
Scully at this angle was going to cripple him.  If
she didn't wear him out first.  Bed.  They needed
a bed.

Scully moaned when his mouth left her breast, nails
digging into his skin.  Her feet hit the floor with
a clatter as he pulled her from the desk and into
the bedroom.

"Nice digs," she said, gazing around the chaos of
his bedroom.  Laundry was piled on the dresser,
sneakers haphazardly tossed in the corner.  Newspapers,
magazines and soda cans littered most of the surfaces
in the room.  Blessedly, the bed was clear of clutter
and the sheets were clean. It was enough to convince a
person that there was a higher power.

Backing him against the bed, Scully pushed gently
on his chest.  He hit the mattress like
a mighty oak, which was appropriate considering
the woody of massive proportions he was sporting
under his jeans.

Her hands were on his jeans again, much more successful
this time, without the distraction of a speeding car.
In a heartbeat, he felt the cool air against his burning
skin.  Scully was smiling at him, licking
her swollen lips in a very distracting manner.

And her mouth was on him, warm and soft and hungry.
His hips seemed to have a mind of their own, rising
off the bed as she worked his boxers and jeans down a
bit.  The hot suction never relented, and he thought
his head was going to explode from sheer pleasure.
Suddenly, the sucking stopped, and he fought back a
whine of disappointment.

She flashed him a wicked smile, before tugging his
jeans down his legs, stopping only to remove his
boots. His cock stood at attention, purple and
throbbing.  Please, he wanted to shout.  Please do
that thing again.  But Scully just smiled.

Standing between his spread legs, she cupped her
breasts, kneading the flesh hard.  He watched the
flesh become pink with her roughness. Her hands drifted
down over her ribs, then reached under the hem of
the skirt.  He was transfixed as her fingers slipped
under the waistband of her panties, slowly drawing them
down her thighs.  She paused for a moment, one
hand holding the skirt bunched at her waist, the other
moving over the slight roundness of her stomach.

The sight of Scully, panties at the top of her
boots, fingers slipping between her legs was
almost more than he could bear.  She groaned as
her hand worked at the apex of that glorious
russet triangle of curls.

Pausing, Scully drew the panties over the top
of the boots, stepping out of the tiny scrap of
fabric.  Still holding her skirt up, she moved to
straddle him, fingers playing over her clit.
He pushed her hand away, replacing it with his own,
finding the pebble-hard bud with his thumb.

Her hands wandered back to her breasts, scooping
them further above the restrictive lace of the
bra.  She moaned as she pulled on the rosy brown
nipples, grinding her wet center against his
cock.  God, she was slick, almost hot enough
to burn him.  Her leather boots stuck to
his skin, chafing his hips with her every movement.

With one deft motion, she sunk down onto his cock,
sheathing him in heat. She shifted her body, moving
her thighs to get him deepest into her until her
bare buttocks rested warm against his balls. The hem
of her skirt tickled his thighs and belly.

He bucked under her, hands at her waist.  She
smoothed her hands over his chest, as she
rose up until just the head of his cock was still
inside her, then dropped down hard. He gasped,
overwhelmed with the need to move within her.
He wanted to pound into her hard enough to rattle her
teeth, but she quite literally had the upper hand now.

He reflected that she'd had the upper hand
from the moment they left the police station.
Every look, every touch, every movement had been
on her terms and he'd loved every single
moment of it.  She'd been a woman possessed and
he happily would have fucked her on the White House
lawn if that was what she wanted.

Now, as if in answer to his silent prayers, she
moved over him, slowly at first, rocking her
body forward and back.  Strong muscles gripped him,
deep inside her, and her hips moved a little
faster.

And then she was riding him, almost frantically,
arching her back to bring her clit over his
pubic bone.  Her breasts bobbed over his face,
fascinating him with every jounce of her body.

Scully made a noise, somewhere between a grunt and
a sigh, deep in her throat, and he knew she was
close to climax.  He loved that sound, and he loved
that he knew what it signified.  He wanted to hear
that sound a billion more times before he died.  Two
billion.  More.

His orgasm was so close, her gasps heaping fuel on the
fire until the supernova sensation hit him full
force.  He roared out, loud enough to embarrass
him under other circumstances. The sound hung
lonely in the air until her moans reached a peak
and her own wake-the-dead shriek joined it.

She dropped onto him, limp with exhaustion, sighing
into his ear.  He loved that sound too, the sound
of satisfaction, maybe even contentment.

"Scully?" he murmured into the curve of her neck.

"What?" she asked, her voice sleepy in his ear.

"Do you get to keep these clothes?"


The end (meow)