TITLE: A Gift of Silk IV AUTHOR: SubRosa RATING: Hard NC-17 for graphic consensual sex and language. CATEGORY: SRA KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance SPOILERS: None DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting, and to the actors who portray them. They are being used without permission, and no profit is being made. DISTRIBUTION: Wherever you like, but please let me know. THANKS: To adara, Denise and Wylfcynne for beta services, and to jaz for her help with Scully's costume. FEEDBACK: Obsessed over at subrosa31@yahoo.com WEBPAGE: http://www.geocities.com/subrosa31 SUMMARY: Mulder, Scully, D/s, and some angst. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fic is rated NC-17 for graphic, consensual sex. Please do not read if you are under the age of 17 or if this subject matter may offend you. This story is a work of an erotica set a fictional D/s context; it is not necessarily an accurate depiction of a BDSM relationship. All my stories, as well as some sites used for research, can be found at my webpage. ********************************************* My pulse quickens--quickens more than usual, that is--as I knock on Scully's door. She's expecting me, and it swings open immediately. I put on my game face the instant I walk into the apartment. Grabbing her by the arms, I pin her against the wall. Her breath catches at the look in my eyes, and she falls still. She doesn't move when I release her to close the door. I scrutinize her in silence before casually drawing her scarf from my pocket. Giving her my most arrogant smile, I lean into her space. Her pupils dilate instantly. I stroke her petal-smooth cheek with the silk, then trail it down the soft skin beneath her chin. She tilts her head back, offering me her throat. "Do you want this?" I murmur, caressing her neck with the fabric. "Yesss..." she hisses softly. Her eyes fall shut. "Don't move." I drape the scarf around her neck and leave her there before slipping out of the apartment to fetch the duffel bag in my car. Bringing it in with me would have ruined the element of surprise and made me considerably less maneuverable; it's pretty full today. If we keep this up, I'm going to need a bigger bag. When I reenter the apartment, Scully is exactly where I left her. Her hands are flat against the wall and her back is arched; her breathing is rapid and shallow, eager. I've never seen her go from zero to sixty this fast before. She follows me meekly as I lead her into the living room, but her eyes go to the bag with undisguised curiosity. Ever since she responded so positively to a vibrator, I've been introducing more toys into playtime, and she's liked most of them quite a bit. Tonight, though, the props are just to set the mood. Most of the actual stimulation will come from her own mind. At least, I hope it will. This is the first time I've tried to create such an elaborate scenario, and I'm none too sure how it will play out. Adding to my trepidation is the fact that, also for the first time, I'm acting out a fantasy which she has kept hidden from me. Some time ago, I found an art book on harem imagery tucked away in her bookshelf. Speculating that the book reflected some secret desire of hers, I decided to arrange this evening as a surprise. I figure that her reaction is going to be either very good, or very bad. "I've got something very special planned for you tonight," I tell her with a confidence that I don't quite feel. For her sake, though, I'll fake it. Dressing Scully as an odalisque posed more obstacles than I'd expected. To my wallet, yes, but I'm used to that--in fact, I rather enjoy it. There's no better use of my money than making Scully happy, and this is one of a very few times when I can spend freely on her without meeting resistance or protest. No, the damage done in preparing for this evening was to my dignity. The whole experience renewed my respect for Scully, as I realized what a gift she gives in laying aside her fierce pride when she submits to me. Normally I just order our toys on-line, but tonight required a little more effort. I rejected mall-store lingerie and on-line shopping for her costume out of hand--what they offered seemed too cheap and tacky for the setting of elegant captivity that I envisaged. So I started at a shop that sold Middle Eastern dance supplies. The proprietor was a handsome woman in her late forties, with an olive complexion and a strong nose. When I told her I was shopping for a woman's dance outfit, she took one look at me and led me to a section of the store clearly intended for men playing dress-up with their girlfriends, rather than for the professionals. I found the pattern I wanted quickly enough, but the fabrics didn't appeal. I didn't want cheap polyester--I wanted rich silk caressing Scully's skin with her every movement. So I picked up the pattern from the dress-up side, a bolt of silk from the "professional" section, and brought both to the counter where the owner was showing a set of finger- cymbals to the rep of a dance troupe. "Could I have this pattern made in this material?" I asked when they completed their business. She glanced at the cloth with a practiced eye, then looked up at me doubtfully. "That will be more expensive, sir." "I know. That's fine," I told her. I think respect flashed through her eyes when I insisted on the silk. Or maybe she couldn't have cared less, and I was just nervous about buying sexual props from an establishment that didn't have a posted policy congratulating me on my healthy celebration of my sexuality and promising never to sell my name to less savory businesses. But seeing Scully in the costume will be worth the discomfort. Deciding that she's waited long enough, I unzip the bag. "Undress." Her hands go to the buttons of her blouse, deftly slipping them loose. She's not wearing a bra. Did we have plans for tonight, Agent Scully? I admire her breasts as she unfastens her jeans. She shimmies out of them and looks up at me shyly. I watch her sternly, and she squirms out of her panties too. "Very nice," I praise her as I draw the neatly folded pants out of the duffel bag and offer them to her. Her eyes widen when she realizes what they are. "We're going to play a new game tonight," I tell her. She takes the pants, stroking the midnight blue silk and fingering the silver trim. "Put them on," I order quietly. She steps gracefully into the garment. It reveals as much as it covers: the fabric is semi-sheer, and the pants are slit from the ankle to hip. The costume also has a midriff-baring bodice in the same fabric, but I don't intend to use it tonight. Instead, I use her scarf to make a halter, framing and enhancing her breasts rather than covering them. I flick her nipples casually when I finish, and she stifles a yelp. Next come thick, cuff-like bracelets which I place on each of her wrists in turn, followed by a delicate chain around her waist. Kneeling before her, I trail my fingers down her calves. She shivers as I put on the final touch: an anklet with heavy bells. I step back and appraise her when I'm finished. Her breasts rise and fall fetchingly even as she studies my face doubtfully, perhaps wondering how much I know about this fantasy. "Did you really think you could keep it a secret from me?" I ask, smiling at her unease. Unease is a concept that I became quite familiar with while organizing this evening. Ordering the dance costume was the easy part, in fact. The hard part was going into a bookstore and buying several romance novels with a harem theme--not that I've seen Scully read them, but I figured they could give me some insight into the female perspective on that particular fantasy. So I braved row after row of books with studly, bare-chested men peering disdainfully at me from the covers. Yes, I could have bought them on-line, but they *all* have titles like "Sweet Captivity" and "Love's Enslavement," so I needed to see the blurbs. Besides, I didn't want them traced back to my credit card. Sex toys, fine, but I draw the line at bodice-rippers. I selected three books as quickly as I could and hurried to the counter to pay, only to stop cold when I spotted Walter Skinner in the line ahead of me. I ducked behind a rack of foreign newspapers, losing my place in line to a harried-looking woman with a toddler on one hip and a five-year-old clinging to her hand. She probably needed it more than I did anyway. Concealing the books under my trenchcoat, I watched surreptitiously over "Le Monde" while Skinner paid for his purchases. Only when he turned to leave did I realize I was hiding from a complete stranger with male pattern baldness. I got back in line, reminding myself that I was secure in my masculinity and trying to hide the bookcovers from the gaze of the bright-eyed toddler now peering at me from between his mother's legs. An eternity later I plunked down the money and hightailed it out of the store before my imagination could call up Scully's mother browsing the bestsellers. I clutched the bag furtively against my body as I made my way to the car, wondering if Scully is ever this afraid of being found out. But that's a question for later. Removing my own shirt, I have her walk across the room and back to show off her costume. The fabric in her pants is cut generously, but glimpses of her legs flash through the slits with each step. She blushes, very prettily, as the bells jingle with her movements. I watch with naked possession as she moves about the room. When she stops in front of me, I reach out and toy with the chain around her waist. A muscle in her abdomen twitches as I brush her warm skin. "Are you all right with this setting?" I ask. Tonight requires her complete cooperation; if she's harboring doubts, I need to know now. To my relief, she nods. "Yes, Master." I've put too much work into this scene to hop right into bed, so I draw the evening out. We begin with dinner, carry-out that I brought from a Lebanese deli near my apartment. In keeping with the evening's theme, we eat at the coffee table seated on cushions rather than at her dining room table. She doesn't ask about her dress, and I don't volunteer any information. Instead we chat idly, though I revel in asking her questions just to hear her muted "Yes, Master," and "No, Master" in response. When we finish, I ask her to remove the remains of the meal while I move aside the coffee table and pillows, leaving one cushion on the floor. The tinkle of bells marks her return as I complete my task. I tell her to walk back and forth across the room one more time, just because I can. Even during playtime I'm not usually this blatant, and she feels the difference. She colors again, but puts a little extra swing in her hips as she crosses the floor and returns. At my command she kneels on the cushion. Leaving her there for the time being, I take my time making the final preparations in the bedroom. When I think she's waited long enough, I return to the living room with another prop--a long peacock plume. She is still in position: sitting back on her heels, legs spread, hands resting on her thighs. She doesn't move as I come to a halt behind her. Pleased, I trail the feather over her bare shoulders. She shivers. I turn my attention to her back, painting imaginary brush patterns on her smooth skin, as I move on to the evening's main event. "I'm picturing a new scene for today, sweetheart. Would you like to hear it?" "Yes, Master." I retrace the father's path up her back, over her shoulder, and begin brushing the erect tips of her breasts. "I'm imagining you in an old-fashioned dress--Victorian, perhaps. It's slightly torn. You're blindfolded, your hands tied behind your back, as you're led into a strange room. When the blindfold is removed, there's a man waiting for you. He tells you that you've been brought here as a harem slave." She flinches at the word. I modulate my voice, trying to exude both command and reassurance as I weave her fantasy into the control I normally exert in a scene. "He assures you that you won't be harmed--as long as you don't resist." Lifting the feather away, I break persona for what I hope is the last time this evening. "I need you to be perfectly obedient tonight, baby. Much as I enjoy subduing you"--and much as she enjoys being subdued--"punishments are too harsh in the harem." Her spine stiffens in resolve. "I understand, Master." Nothing for tonight is likely to give her trouble, but I remind her anyway, "You can always use your safewords if something becomes too difficult." At her nod, I resume tickling her breasts with the plume. "So they lead you into the women's section of the harem, to begin training for your new life." I give her time to imagine it before commanding, "Tell me what you see there." She hesitantly describes a lush, textured setting. Dark teak and mahogany, subtly patterned rugs and tapestries shot through with gold enclose her in an exotic prison. I'm doubly pleased with the scene waiting for her in the bedroom. When she finishes, I pick up the narration with a different scene. "Now I can see you walking through the hallway with a group of other women. You're dressed as you are now, as you have been ever since you entered the harem. Your bare feet sink into the soft carpet, and your clothes stroke at your skin, parting to reveal your legs with every step. It's almost worse than being naked. And you can feel the constant weight of the jewelry as you move. You feel ornamented, decorated. The bells chime with each movement, a constant reminder of what you are, as they lead you to the harem baths." I'd lay money that Scully fantasizes about soaking in the marble pools depicted in her harem paintings almost as much as she imagines the sex itself. Scully does love her baths. "They undress you and let you soak in the warm water for a long time, until you're relaxed and almost half-asleep. Only then do they wash you and shave you completely, admiring your pretty, pink sex." The feather dances down her abdomen, as far as I can reach from my position behind her. Heat is pooling in my own belly in anticipation of the next scene. I'm not just fulfilling her fantasy tonight--as her Master, I'm claiming it for myself. "Next, they take you to a high, padded table. Still naked, you stretch out on it. Two of the women begin to rub warm oil onto your skin, making it even softer, as they knead every last bit of tension away from your muscles: your back, your shoulders, even down your legs. You're completely limp when they roll you over onto your back." Laying the feather aside, I kneel behind her. She shifts a little, leaning back to feel my body heat without actually breaking position. "You lie still, enjoying the sensation as they continue. Over your arms and neck, down your chest. Then, warm hands are rubbing the oil onto your breasts." She gasps as I palm her breasts. "They linger there, massaging every inch of your skin," I continue in my best 'Master' voice, matching my words with action, "and you're getting turned on. Your nipples grow erect. The woman rolls them between her fingers, pinching them until you moan." I keep working her breast with one hand, letting the other creep downward. "The other woman begins smoothing the lotion into the skin of your belly, your inner thighs. They pull you all the way down the table, almost to the end, and spread your legs as she starts rubbing the oil over your smooth, bare pussy." She starts as my fingers reach the damp silk over her sex. My cock jerks in response. "But she doesn't need to, baby, because you're already wet." She sighs as my fingers circle gently. "She parts your labia, and you groan in spite of yourself. Against your will, you arch into her hand as she fingers your throbbing clit. And suddenly, her mouth is on you." You'll never find a scene like this in the romance novels, which is all the proof you need that they were never intended for male eyes. When you come right down to it, there are two kinds of straight men in the world: those who fantasize about watching two women together, and those who pretend they don't fantasize about watching two women together. I'm in the first group, and damn, is the image hot. "You shake your head in protest, but it doesn't matter to them. You're a slave: your body isn't yours to command. The other women move in to hold you in place. Can you feel their hands on your thighs now? Warm and strong, but soft and small too." "Oh..." "Those hands pull your legs wider apart. You're helpless now: there's nothing you can do. She knows exactly what a woman likes. Her tongue is teasing you, stroking between your labia. And it's been so long since someone touched you, and it feels so good, baby. What do you think you do?" I hold my breath as I wait for her reply. Finally she whispers, "I give in." With a groan of relief I pull her back against me. It feels like the heat of my cock is burning right through the denim and thin silk that still separate us. "That's right, baby. You give in. You start to rock your hips and whimper. And it feels so good to let go, with those hands everywhere: holding your arms, parting your legs, squeezing your nipples just the way you like it." My hands go back to her tight nipples as the scene fills my mind. "You're moaning now. You can't control yourself, not with that tongue making you so hot that you can't stand it. One of them lifts your head. You open your eyes--and there's someone watching you." My dick prods the small of her back as she shifts restlessly. "Is it a man?" "Yes, it's a man. The one who brought you into the harem. They're putting you on display for him, making you perform." "Ohhh..." I let my hand rest on her upper thigh, squeezing gently. "The hands tighten on your arms and legs. And you're a little frightened, baby. A little startled. You don't like him there, watching so coldly. But it doesn't matter." The muscles of her thigh tense. "Because they're holding me down." My fingers drift to the slit at the side of her pants. "Yes, sweetheart, they're still holding you down. But you hardly notice, because she's found that magic spot on your clit--the spot that makes you crazy. All you can think about is how badly you want to come." She moans incoherently. I slide my hand into the slit, going straight for her cunt. She's wet and ready. I circle her clit delicately, then with increasing pressure. "She licks that spot over and over, keeping you right on the edge. You're squirming and bucking against the hands holding you, whimpering and moaning as that man watches you. Your body is completely in their control: legs spread, arms pinned, head held in place so he can see your face." "Oh, God," she moans, leaning into my touch. I follow instinctively, keeping my cock trapped between our bodies. "He gives a command to the woman between your legs, and she goes faster and faster. Your body arches. You're so excited..." She whimpers as I hit the right rhythm. "Please, Master." I kiss her temple. "Do you want it, baby? Do you want her to lick you until you come?" "Yes...uh...yes." My fingers quicken. "Tell me. Tell me, and it'll happen." Her breathy voice is nearly my undoing. I let myself go, rocking against her as she gives the fantasy back to me. "She's between my--uh--between my legs. Her tongue is on my clit, and everyone's--everyone's watching me, and it feels so...feels so--oh!" And then she's coming, rubbing frantically against my hand. I pull her hard against my body, thrusting against her round ass as I think of her stretched out on a table, head thrown back in ecstasy as a raven-haired beauty licks between her quivering thighs, making her writhe and pant for me, making her come for me.... Dimly I realize that Scully has quieted, but I'm still rutting against her. Gritting my teeth, I bring myself under control. Lips at her ear, hand still between her legs, I continue the story. "Your eyes open to see the man still watching you. He's standing right next to the table, looking down at you. You realize that they're holding you tighter now. Your legs are quickly bound in place, wide open, as he steps in between them." She sinks back against me in post-orgasmic fatigue. I stroke her clit with a nearly imperceptible caress. "You think he's going to fuck you, but he doesn't; he's not the master of the harem. Instead one of the women brings him a little jar. He dips his fingers into it and begins rubbing a warm ointment into your sex." In the fictional harem world of women's erotica, I discovered, there's very little girl-on-girl action. There is, however, a pharmacopoeia of aphrodisiacal potions, salves, and unguents that permit chaste Victorian maidens to be driven to guiltless ecstasy by the strangers who hold them captive. "He works it between your labia, into your vagina, especially your clit. It's like fire on your nerve endings." Patient circles between her legs, gradually restoking her need... "He ignores your protests. You're a task to be accomplished, a job. And he's very good at his job." She lets out a shuddering breath as fresh arousal dampens my fingers. "And when you start to moan again, they release you." I stand, offering her my hand. She lets me help her to her feet and follows as I lead her into the bedroom, the bells at her ankle jingling accompaniment. Her eyes widen as she sees my recreation of a harem setting. A gold throw blanket made of plush silk velvet and a deep blue shawl from the dance shop are strewn in artful--if I do say so myself--disarray on the bed. In a less-tacky version of the "shirt-over-the-lamp" trick from college, I draped a wine- colored silk veil over the lampshade to soften the lighting. The rich fabrics and dim lighting transform her cheerful, comfortable bedroom into a mysterious, decadent chamber where very little sleeping is done. When she has looked her fill, I bring out the last prop for the evening. "To maintain the illusion," I explain as I tie the blindfold around her eyes. She nods a shaky acquiescence. With lingering caresses, I remove her pants. She is more nude than if she were naked as she stands bathed in the dim light, her breasts framed by the halter, the jewelry decorating and possessing her body, and the black silk stark across her face. Dropping to my knees, I cup her buttocks, pull her forward, and bury my face in her pussy. She shrinks back, still too sensitive from her earlier orgasm, but I show her no more mercy than her companion did earlier. Relentlessly I stroke and nibble until her knees buckle. I look up at her flushed face and parted lips, and suddenly I can't wait any longer. "And they put you on the bed." I guide her onto it, laying her on her back. "They don't restrain you. There's nowhere you could escape to, and you don't even want to now. You can still feel those cool fingers on your pussy, those soft hands on your breasts. The flesh between your legs is burning, aching." She lets me move her into position with her arms above her head and her legs parted. My final instructions come in disjointed bursts as my tongue dances on her, coaxing her to the fever pitch now gripping me. "And they leave you there, stretched out, waiting. Waiting to be fucked by an anonymous stranger." I crawl up on the bed to hiss directly into her ear. "Can you picture it, baby? Are you there?" I rub her temples, willing her to immerse herself completely. "In here, baby. Is it real in here?" She shifts, spreading her legs wider. "Yes." I tear my remaining clothes off and kneel over her, feeling the velvet beneath us in a sensual change from her crisp sheets. She moans as I sink into her. It's torture, absolute torture, to control my strokes as I push into her welcoming heat. She wants it, the voice in the back of my mind whispers teasingly, she wants me to fuck her hard and fast. I can let go now. But that isn't the plan. I grab her hips, warning her of my intent, and roll us over. Barely noticing the beaded fringe of the blanket under my ass, I maneuver her over me until she's in a position to pleasure me like a proper odalisque. I squeeze her hips once, firmly, and release her, watching to see if she gets the message. She does. She is the picture of carnal indulgence as she puts her hot little hands on my chest to balance herself and begins rocking. One of her legs is resting on the blue shawl, the other on the gold blanket, and I imagine the velvet tickling her shins and the tops of her sensitive feet. The metal of her anklet is cool against my outer thigh as she straddles me. I groan, letting my hips bump up to meet her. I've been aching for this for hours, it seems, and my head swims as her tight heat encloses me, sending those waves of bliss through me... Scully gasps above me as she moves faster, leaning forward for a better angle. Her head is thrown back now as she stares blindly at the ceiling. I'm so lost in the sight and sensation that I barely notice her hand creeping between her legs. Oh, no. This won't do. I catch her wrist sharply, exerting a pressure just short of bruising force as I pull her hand away from her cunt. She shivers, and her lips form a little "O." Placing her hand back on my chest, I reach out and toy with her belly chain, reminding her of her place. Never let it be said that Scully isn't sharp on the uptake. Realizing exactly what I mean, she contracts her inner muscles. I stifle a grunt. Much better. She does it again, and again, and again... Much, much better. And different from how this position usually feels. Normally Scully would be setting the mood and pace, but now I'm in control even as I lie passively on my back watching her pleasure me. I feel my orgasm building as she speeds up, coaxing me toward my release so that she can find her own. Another exquisite squeeze pushes me over the edge. With a shout I gush into her, feeling the orgasm from my scalp to my toes. When the throbbing in my cock subsides, I press my thumb against her clit in quick, impersonal circles. Her lips part in the most beautiful anticipation before her gasps turn to cries as the orgasm takes her. Then she collapses, panting, into my arms. The air in the room is cool on our sweat-dampened skin as we recover. She nuzzles my chest as I untie the blindfold, then sits up and presents her back to me in a silent request to take off her scarf. I unknot it and remove the halter, kissing the occasional mark left on her skin. She lies down with me again, resting one hand on my chest as a prop for her chin as she looks up at my face. "How did you know?" she asks. I leer at her. "A good Master knows these things." She snorts inelegantly, her free hand drawing idle patterns on my chest. The hand stops. "The book. You found the book on my shelf." "That, too," I concede. Her gaze drops from my face. "I should have realized that from the start." I thread my fingers through her hair, smoothing the disarray caused by the blindfold. "You should have done exactly what you did--respond to my directions. It's not the time for you to think or analyze." For a while she's content to trace her patterns again. Then she begins speaking in a contemplative voice. "It started with an art class--art history, I mean. The harem theme was a big part of our unit on Romantic art. There was just something appealing about the setting. It was so tactile, so sensual. And the unabashed focus on sexuality..." She trails off. "This was in college?" I ask, curious about the origins of the fantasy. "Yes. I had just become sexually active, and something about the motif struck me. That was before I'd even learned about the appeal of submission, but I guess the attraction is the same: loss of control giving the freedom to be completely sexual." She's watching her finger rather than looking at me. "The harem thing is probably a little silly. I know it has nothing to do with reality." "Scully, we should be long past the point where we have to qualify or make excuses for our fantasies. It's just about what feels right for you. For us." She nods. Silence falls for a moment, but I'm too curious to let it go on for long. "So did this--" I wave to indicate the entire evening--"live up to your fantasy?" Her finger stills once more. "It was good, but different." "How so?" Her expression lightens as she shoots a teasing glance at me. "Well, normally there's less homoerotic content." I probably could have guessed that. "Were you okay with it?" She nods. "It wasn't really a surprise. I *have* seen your video collection, you know." She grins wickedly. "Although I didn't realize you went in for the shaved look." "Variety is the spice of life," I defend myself tritely. Shooting for a casual tone, I ask, "Did that interest you, by the way?" She considers it. "I wouldn't have a problem with being commanded to do it in-scene." I'm briefly distracted by the possibilities, but give myself a mental shake and return to the topic at hand. "I wasn't sure how you'd react to me introducing the whole harem scenario, since we haven't talked about it." She rolls to the side, propping her head on her arm, and looks pensive again. "It's hard to verbalize. It was a little frightening that you knew my secret fantasies, but frightening in a good way. Exciting. It made you seem very much in control." "If you have secrets from me, the possession isn't complete?" "Yes, that's it." I maneuver the blanket out from under us and pull it up to ward off the chill. "What else worked for you?" She fingers the gold cloth. "Everything about the setting was perfect. At first I was afraid the costume would feel silly or artificial, but in fact it strengthened the illusion." Her voice drops. "And being made to walk around, showing off for you--that worked." I read between the lines. "You liked being a sex object." Her voice goes very soft. "Yes." "What didn't you like?" She purses her lips. "The anonymity of the final scene, the term 'slave' itself--those were less appealing. When we're together like this, I like the sense of giving you total control, not having it taken from me and exercised by a stranger. But those elements were exactly what was appealing about the fantasy." She squeezes my hand. "A lot about these games has been different from my fantasies. Sometimes that's unsettling, but it just makes the experience more intense." She sits up and lifts the shawl, shaking out the wrinkles and folding it neatly before picking up the gold throw. "Where did you get all these things? They must have cost a fortune." "Money well spent," I assure her, helping her to fold the blanket. I shake my head when she tries to give it back to me. "I want you to keep it. If you get cold in the winter when I'm not here, I want you to curl up in this blanket and think of me topping you." Her cheeks color as she accepts it. I love the way she responds to even the suggestion of my dominance. She doesn't admit it often, but she loves it too. Figuring I might as well go all out, I retrieve the silk bodice from my bag and hand it to her. "You know, I couldn't very well ask for a harem-slave costume, so it's actually a dancer's outfit." She holds up the long-sleeved top, giving me the eyebrow when she realizes how much of her midriff it will expose. "Did I ever tell you about my secret belly dancer fantasy?" I ask with another leer. She smiles sweetly. "And did I ever tell you about my secret cabana boy fantasy?" I quail. "Of course, every relationship needs its secrets." ********************************************* I watch Mulder out of the corner of my eye, silently willing him to bring out that magical swatch of silk that signals the beginning of our power games. I want it tonight. I definitely want it tonight. By unspoken agreement, only Mulder can initiate the game. I'd hoped he would today, but my optimism dimmed when he drove us to his apartment after work. Mulder can take command at any time and place provided we're off duty--and sometimes does at the office to signal the end of the workday--but we usually end up at my apartment with its larger bed, softer carpets, and more things to tie me to. So it seems he has nothing planned, and I have family obligations for the rest of the weekend. If I don't want to wait another week, I have to start playtime myself. As Mulder putters into the kitchen for some wine, I steel myself to do something daring. Something I haven't done before. "What are you up for tonight, Scully?" he calls out. "Chinese and a movie?" I don't respond. Slipping off my shoes, I silently creep after him. His head pops around the doorframe. "Scully? Did you hear--?" I drop to my knees and bow my head, a warm flutter beginning in my belly. "Whatever my Master wishes," I murmur. He takes in a sharp breath. I startled him. There's a long, uncomfortable pause. Suddenly I can't tell if the flutter in my stomach is arousal or fear. Too nervous to look up at his face, I watch as his feet come into view on the floor in front of me. "I wasn't aware that we were playing today," he comments levelly. A hot blush creeps up my neck and cheeks. Maybe I shouldn't have done this. His voice lowers, making me shiver. "Is it now your choice to decide when to play?" My pulse pounds in my ears. If he rejects me, I'm going to feel so humiliated. But he's using the voice, and I can see his cock tenting his dress pants... "No, Master. Only yours." I struggle not to fidget under his silent scrutiny as he lets the pause drag on interminably. Finally his voice comes again. "Would you like to ask me for something?" I close my eyes in relief. "Yes, Master." He grips the hair at the base of my neck and pulls my head back. "You may ask me." He's wearing the cool, implacable mask that is so much a part of his dominant persona. I'm instantly wet. I lick my lips, seeing his nostrils flare. "Master, please, will you use me tonight?" A wicked smile crosses his face. "I believe I will." Releasing my hair, he looks searchingly up and down my body, noting the visible signs of my desire. His hand stretches out and clinically traces my nipples in turn. When he gives one turgid peak a firm squeeze, a hot pulse echoes between my legs. "You want it bad tonight, don't you?" he asks. The hand toys carelessly with my breast. I stifle a moan, surprised at how quickly the arousal is taking over my body. "Yes, Master," I respond. He pinches my nipple once more. "That's not true." I look up at him blankly. "You *need* it." The words send another pulse through me, and he smirks knowingly. "Yes, Master," I reply once more. He releases me and turns away. "I want you naked when I get back," he tosses over his shoulder as he vanishes into his bedroom. I quickly strip and kneel again right where he left me. When he returns dressed only in his jeans, he's carrying a pillowcase in one hand and my scarf in the other. He makes a production of winding the scarf around my throat, stroking and caressing the tender skin as he arranges it. By the time he finishes I'm almost quivering with excitement. I want him to push me down and fuck me, quick and hard, right here on the floor. Instead he kneels too, putting himself on my level. His hands begin running over my body, cupping my breasts, circling over my belly and hips, and delving between my legs. As he arouses me, he guides my body into the pose that he wants: back arched, breasts thrust forward, and knees parted wide. His voice coaxes me as he puts me into position, telling me how pretty my body is, how he can see the sexual energy flowing through me, how he wants me to feel it too. And I do. I feel beautiful and sensual, and so alive. He pushes my thighs wider apart, then cups my sex possessively. I arch into his hand, hoping he'll soothe the ache there. He chuckles. "I'll give you what you want, baby, but on my terms. Don't think you have control because you started the game." Sparks shoot through me as he flicks at my clit. "That's not what you need." His other hand reaches into his pocket as he continues, "Never forget that I run the show." The hand opens to reveal a pair of nipple clamps. I cringe involuntarily. He used clamps on me once before, and I accepted them eagerly, expecting an erotic pinching. Instead, I had to use my safeword to have them removed when the pinch became a gripping pain that made my submissive mindset impossible to maintain. Later I wondered aloud why they had that effect, when the pain of spanking never did. "It's a different sort of pain," Mulder responded. "Or maybe I introduced them too soon. Next time I'll use them to intensify your subspace, not to induce it." His finger was lazily stroking my temple in an unspoken reminder of how much of the game is mental, and I remember shivering at his casual reference to the ease with which he manipulates my mind as well as my body. Below the studied casualness was another message, however: he was offering me the chance to refuse further use of the clamps. I didn't take it. Now I look warily at the cruel little devices, my excitement rapidly draining away. "This is a different set," he informs me. I know what is unsaid in that statement. He doesn't need to reassure me that they won't hurt, doesn't need to ask my permission. If he wants to put them on I must let him--even if they hurt. He can hurt me if he wants to. Taking a deep breath, I arch my back further, offering him my breasts. He smiles his approval. Leaning forward, he sucks my nipples erect again and screws on the clamps. He stops tightening when the pressure reaches a light squeeze, just enough to hold them on firmly. Then he pulls at the chain joining them. It feels as though he's biting or pinching both nipples at once. It feels...oh, it feels good. He cups my chin, forcing me to meet his predatory gaze. His thumb strokes between my lips, though I can't remember parting them. The calloused skin is rough and stimulating. "You are shameless, baby, totally wanton. You're going to do things tonight that you've never done before. And remember that whatever happens, happens because you begged for it." The eyes that burn into mine are not Mulder's, but my Master's. I tremble in anticipation. Releasing my chin, he sits back on his heels and reaches into the impromptu toybag. "Have you ever given a prostate massage?" My mind needs a minute to process the sudden change in subject. Belatedly I respond, "Yes, Master. But a long time ago." He hands me a bottle of lubricant and a finger cot, a small latex sheath that slides over the finger. "I'm sure it will come back to you." I slip the cot on my index finger, careful not to tear the rubber with my nail, as he rises and undresses with slow and unhurried movements. He steps out of his jeans and stands before me, his swollen cock jutting arrogantly toward my face. I lean forward to take him into my mouth, but he stops me. Reaching down, he catches my chain in the crook of his finger and tugs gently. A moan escapes my lips as the squeeze goes straight to my sex. His cool possession of my body helps me sink deeper into my submissive mindset, the sharp need to come yielding to the growing urge to obey. His other hand goes to the back of my head. "You may begin now." I start to mouth him gently, feeling the tight pressure on my nipples. As my mouth moves up and down his shaft, I squeeze some lubricant onto my finger and let it warm up before I circle his anus. He gasps, his cock twitching in my mouth. Another tug at my nipples sends a searing bolt through me. It makes me quicken my movements, eager to bring him to climax so he'll turn his attention to me. Banishing the thought, I remind myself that my role is to serve. I lavish his cock with lingering strokes of my tongue as I apply more lube. Engulfing him in my mouth again, I gradually increase the suction as my finger carefully pushes into his tight heat. He grunts, and my nipples throb with excitement under the clamps. I slide my finger forward until I reach the swollen gland, and stroke gently. Another grunt, another light pull at my nipples. I establish a rhythm of steady stimulation with my mouth and light pressure with my finger. I want him to match my pace with the chain, want him to make my clit pulse with every throb of his cock in my mouth, but he doesn't. The tugs come at irregular intervals, with no discernible pattern. I can't feel the power that usually comes with a blowjob, not when he has my nipples trapped and squeezed like that. Not when he can make my sex clench with the lightest pull of his finger. Not when his cool aloofness is making me squirm. He's groaning openly now, making shallow thrusts into my mouth, but still controlling me even as I service him. I'm panting with arousal, the ache between my legs consuming all my thoughts. At last he begins tugging and releasing in a regular pattern. I match it with my mouth as my body gratefully slides into the rhythm of a building orgasm, hips pulsing in excitement. "Close...," he grunts. I redouble my efforts. With a long groan, he climaxes. I swallow rapidly, still massaging the small gland to draw out his pleasure, and moan with vicarious pleasure and anticipation. Now it will be my turn.... Finally he lets go of the chain, withdraws from my mouth, and tilts my face upward. "Very good." Praise is nice; an orgasm would be better. His eyes glint wickedly at my expectant expression, and he steps back, leaving me unsatisfied. Picking up the pillowcase in one hand, he helps me to my feet with then other. Then he turns toward the living room, pulling on the chain between my nipples in a silent command to follow. Startled, I stand rooted in place. Glancing back with a frown, he gives the chain a little tug. Sweet fire blossoms in my nipples. Grinning smugly at my gasp, he moves toward the living room again. I follow, captive to the desire that he knows how to manipulate so well. He lets me discard the finger cot and clean up while he pulls his jeans back on. I bring him a glass of water at his command, suspecting that he gave the order just to watch me pad through his apartment naked and flushed. When I return he informs me, "Since a movie is out, you're going to provide entertainment for the rest of the evening." "Yes, Master," I agree, trying to hide my growing frustration. His eyes linger on my erect nipples. "Are you horny tonight?" My cheeks color anew, but I gave up the right to modesty when I knelt before him. "Yes." "Tell me." Can't he see? "Master, I--I'm horny tonight. I just--God, Mulder, please!" He swats me on the ass. My voice breaks off. His breath in my ear makes me shiver. "Baby, you don't call the shots because you started the game. That's not how it works. If you'd just wanted to have sex, you would have said so. But you wanted to be dominated." Roaming fingers trace fiery trails down my belly. "Remember? You begged to spend the evening pleasuring me." I barely hear his words as his hand creeps between my legs. Driven by need, I begin rubbing against it. He doesn't stop me. Instead, his other arm goes around my waist to steady me as I part my thighs awkwardly and thrust faster. He watches placidly, letting me move until I begin moaning in anticipation. Then his voice drops to an icy whisper. "Sorry, baby, but there are things that will give me more pleasure than watching you hump my hand." He releases me abruptly. "Back on your knees," he snaps. Anger flashes through me as I comply. My headspace is odd tonight: I'm partially in my submissive mindset, turned on by his orders and eager to obey them, but I can't quite shut off the critical part of my brain. Maybe he's right: maybe a part of me thought that initiating the game gave me control over it. Or maybe it's because *he's* pushing harder tonight, his words and actions rawer than usual. Is it a response to my boldness? Whatever it is, it's driving me crazy. He picks up the pillowcase he brought from the bedroom and reaches into it, grinning at the sudden alertness in my posture. Mulder wasn't joking when he told me he had a toy fixation--or boasted that he could instill one in me. Even so, I'm disappointed when he brings out an unfamiliar dildo with a strangely wide base. It's not what I want right now. I want him. Face impassive, he lays it against the side of my face. It feels slightly warm, almost like human flesh, and it's noticeably larger than he is. I understand the command implied by his action: when I'm on my knees he loves to see me rub my cheek against his cock affectionately, and now he wants me to do the same to the dildo. Shyly I comply, but to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure about this. It's strange, almost embarrassing. Oh, God, it's vibrating. He's never fucked me with a vibrator this big. Okay, it's embarrassing, but it's pretty hot too. He joins me on the floor. Still holding the vibrator to my cheek, he swoops in and claims my mouth. The kiss is possessive and domineering, branding me as his. "Still horny?" he asks, lips moving down my chin. "Yes, Master," I whisper. He chuckles against my throat. "You hate that word, don't you?" Without waiting for a response, he draws back. Leaving me on my knees, he pushes the coffee table against the sofa and studies its wide legs. With a start, I realize the strange base is a suction cup. He's going to affix it to the table leg and make me....My mind shies away from the image. "You're always so refined, baby, so demure," he remarks as he mounts the dildo at the right height. "Have you ever taken anything this big between those pretty white thighs?" My throat has gone dry. "No, Master." He unwinds the long cord of the vibrator's battery pack, fingering it casually. "I didn't think so. Let's see how demure you are when you're on your hands and knees, making love to this huge cock." Making love. The words were not chosen casually--they never are. He won't give me the control even to use the dildo for my pleasure. Instead he wants me to kneel before him, this chain decorating my nipples, and make a show of myself. What could be more submissive than servicing a mere toy while he watches? I knew Mulder liked pornography, but for me to do that.... As if he hears my thoughts, his head snaps around and he fixes me with an implacable gaze. I stare at him, transfixed, the protest dying in my throat. My pulse quickens as his eyes burn into mine, and the relentless throb in my clit begins again. Without a word he turns back to the table, leaving me to squirm at the growing wetness between my legs. Not because of the vibrator. Because he subdued me with nothing but a glance. "Come here." Oh, God, that voice. My body knows that voice. I crawl toward him, the fire burning in my sex compelling me to obey. "Suck it first, baby. You're so good at sucking cock." I cringe from the coarse words even as dizzying anticipation spirals through me. The dildo juts lewdly out from the mounted base, seeming to grow before my eyes. I lean forward and cautiously kiss the round head, then run my tongue up the shaft. His hot hands come to rest on my shoulders as I suck the tip. "You can do better than that." With a shiver, I lower my head and take it into my mouth. I'm blushing to the roots of my hair as I obediently fellate it. "Don't stop," his voice comes from behind me. Cool fingers part my labia. Squeezing my eyes shut, I chant a silent plea when his hot breath teases the overexcited flesh. Please, please, please... "Mmmph!" The cock muffles my moan as he laps at my clit. He works me as I work the dildo, his tongue fluttering with just the right pressure. The delicacy of the touch strikes me as incongruous, given what he is preparing me for, but it does its job well. Soon he has me quivering, my vagina weeping with need. I can't control the images that flow through my mind now. I can see him rising up on his knees and driving into me, fucking me as I suck the toy. His voice would goad me on as his hips pumped into me, making me take it deeper and deeper into my mouth as he pounded harder into my body. I can see him standing before me, forcing me to love him with my mouth as I ride the cock. He'd make it buzz fast and strong inside me, and he'd hold my head close so he could feel every moan and whimper as it drove me wild in spite of myself.... As if he can feel my rising excitement, he mutters against me, "The lube is on the table. You'll need to prepare it more." He returns to eating me out as I gratefully stop sucking the dildo. Balancing awkwardly on one arm, I find the bottle and begin slicking the lube onto the shaft, measuring it with my hand as I do so. It will not be an easy fit. His tongue pushes in and out of my vagina, fucking me, making it impossible to think of anything else. Letting my arm fall to the floor, I arch my back, inviting him to lick me faster, deeper, harder... He stops. "Ah, I think you're ready now." I groan in frustration. "Look at it, baby," he commands. "Looks almost obscene, doesn't it? Think of how you'll look screwing it." His thumbs are still parting my labia, holding my sex open and vulnerable. I stare at the glistening cock. "Master," I plead, but he cuts me off. "You asked for this, sweetheart. Begged for it." I hang my head in defeat as he releases me. He's right. I begged for it. And worse, he's made me ache for it. I turn around and guide myself to the tip as he watches, fiddling with the battery pack in his hand. When I'm poised to sink down on the dildo he touches the control, and the shaft begins to vibrate gently. My clit twitches in response, indifferent to my trepidation. The stern command in his face tells me I've stalled long enough. I thrust backward, feeling graceless and exposed. He settles down cross-legged in front of me, putting himself at eye level as the blunt, thick head nudges between my labia. With a deep breath, I force myself to meet his eyes as I take the cock into my body. He smirks with satisfaction as it fills me. His fingers move on the control, rewarding me with stronger vibrations for each inch that I take in. The cock, which seemed only large when he brought it out, now feels enormous and intimidating. I can't tell which is burning hotter: the walls of my sex as the toy stretches me, or my cheeks as he drinks in the sight. "You're completely naked now, baby. Don't close your eyes. I want to see all the way to your soul." I struggle to follow his command as I push backward on the fat shaft. The vibrating mechanism is in the base of the toy, enticing me forward, but the sheer size of the thing forces me to hold back. Grateful for the lubricant, I ease downward with a gentle rocking motion, stopping when I can't take any more. He leans over to peer around my body. My cheeks redden even more as I imagine how pornographic I must look: on my hands and knees, legs spread, impaling myself on that lewd toy. And liking it. "Just another inch, baby. God, you look tiny on it." The vibrations grow stronger. My clit pulses in anticipation but I still hesitate, steeling myself to take that final inch. His face hardens. "All the way down. Now!" he barks. I obey, grunting at the strange pressure. Before I can adjust to the intrusion, he increases the vibrator's speed, then gives the chain joining my nipple clamps a few swift tugs. The excitement ratchets exponentially higher. I cry out, grinding back until I can go no further. "That's right. Now move. Show me how much you like that huge cock in your hungry little cunt." Again his voice seems harsher than usual, and the words cruder. Heart beating like a trip hammer, I recoil from his commands even as I crave them. His eyes burning into mine are too much. I drop my head, letting my eyelids fall shut. Instantly the vibrations stop. He grips my chin, fingers tightening until I open my eyes again. "What did I tell you?" he asks. "To keep my eyes open, Master," I whimper. I feel both stuffed full and split open, my body violated for his pleasure. "That's right. No secrets. Not now." He releases my chin, a calculating look on his face. "Tell me, baby, have you ever felt so completely penetrated?" Pinned fast as I am, the only motion I can manage is a shake of my head. My vision swims as the world begins to shrink to just this room, just this space. With lightening speed, he tightens the screws at my nipples. I groan, loud and needy, when they reach that firm pinch that drives me wild. My cunt clenches on the plastic shaft, shamefully aroused by the rough handling. The dildo feels like it's spearing through my whole body, and those little clamps will hold me fast in this heightened arousal until he chooses to release me. I sway on the cock, sinking down to that place where my will is enslaved to his, where obedience and pleasure on the same. His face softens. "That's better," he says. The vibrator springs to life again, tearing another groan from my throat. My hips begin to rock infinitesimally, in spite of the impossible fullness within me. Patiently, implacably, he builds the intensity until I'm squirming. I feel my wetness coating the shaft, and I wonder if my entire body will vibrate when he turns the toy to its highest speed. "Now make love to it." I obey. Starting with careful strokes, I slide slowly up and down, letting my muscles adjust. I fuck the massive cock as if it were my Master's, slowly, deferentially, waiting for permission before I take my own pleasure. It feels huge, leaving no room for breath, no room for thought.... "Oh, you're good, baby. You look so hot." Picking up my right hand, he lifts my fingers to my clit. "Play with yourself." My fingers move in tentative circles as my hips move forward on the next upstroke. My clit throbs impatiently, not yet receiving the stimulation it wants. Yielding to its command, I shimmy backward until my sex meets the cock's heavy balls. He increases the power, and the vibrations from the base flood my cunt. Electricity shoots through me, sparking in the base of my spine and in my trapped nipples. My body begins grinding back against the toy, seeking more of that incredible stimulation, and my moans become guttural as even my throat seems to vibrate. My fingers move with a mind of their own, crushing my clit against the vibrating balls. "There you go. You're not so refined now, are you?" I undulate on the thick plastic, feeling the delicious stretch, feeling the strange buzz. I'm fucking it in earnest now, the insistent pulse in my clit driving my entire body. He watches me, his expression eminently pleased. "I saw the look on your face when I brought the dildo out. I could see that you wanted to resist. But your little pussy is so needy that it didn't care, did it? You would have fucked anything I told you to." My cheeks flame with embarrassment at his smug words, but I just keep getting hotter and hotter. I'm mortified to hear rhythmic grunts emerging from my throat on every downstroke. His voice is silky and dangerous. "You like this, don't you?" That distant, demure part of me balks at giving up the last shreds of my pride. "I don't--uh--I don't know, Master." He grins cruelly as a twitch of his finger on the remote makes me wail. I lose my rhythm, jerking wildly at the overload of sensation. "Don't lie to me, baby. You like this, don't you?" I mewl and gasp, thrusting harder. I'll be sore in the morning, but that doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now but the bite at my nipples, the pulse in my clit and the awful, thrilling fullness in my cunt. "Don't you, baby?" The vibrations cease with shocking suddenness. I find my voice. "Master! God, Master, please..." His eyes are burning, but his voice is smooth, even affable. "Tell me, baby. You fucking *love* this, don't you?" My supporting arm trembles in fatigue as the fingers of my other hand work frantically on my clit, trying vainly to make up for the lost stimulation. "Yes," I whimper, still thrusting back against the now-inert shaft," "I love it, please, Master, I love it--oh!" It springs to life again. The need in my clit goes white-hot, all my nerves screaming in anticipation. I writhe like the porn star he wants me to be, controlled by the ecstasy now rising inexorably as his finger moves on the remote. He tilts my chin up, smiling. "See, baby? You can't hide anything from me." I'm panting, past speech, my eyes glazing but still locked on him. "Oh, you're close now." I yelp as the contraction in my sex tells me that orgasm is coiled and ready to strike. A little more, just a little more.... His words are still flowing, harsh and demeaning in the most loving tone of voice. "You are such a shameless little slut." I come with a howl, fingers flying on my clit and the humming toy buzzing in my cunt. Animalistic sounds wrench from my throat as the spasms jolt through me, over and over, washing away all pride and thought. When the waves fade away, the vibrator goes still as well. My head falls forward, too heavy for my neck to support, as I weakly gasp for breath. Warm fingers stroke my cheek, then loosen the nipple clamps until they're just tight enough to stay on. Smiling gently, he holds out his arms in invitation. With a final shudder I pull away from the toy and collapse with my head in his lap, barely noticing the hard floor beneath me. I feel thoroughly sated, but wrung out and exhausted too. His smug voice comes again. "God, you've been naughty tonight." The question that has been nagging me all night won't be denied any longer. "Master, did you make--" I stop to correct my words. He doesn't make me do anything. I always have the right to say "no," and my obedience is a choice. I start again. "Did you tell me to fuck the dildo because I displeased you?" There's pause before he responds, "We use new toys all the time. Why do you ask that?" Because you've never made me feel so shameless and wanton before. Because you've never gloated so coldly as you made revel in every sensation. "Because you called me a slut." His voice is perfectly level. "I knew that you wouldn't like that word, but do you really think anything tonight was punishment?" "I don't know," I falter. Tender fingers brush my hair back from my face. "When I punish you, I promise you'll know." Lifting me to my feet, he leads me to the bathroom and pulls me in front of the mirror. He stands behind me as his hands grip my arms, holding me tightly. His voice comes again, soft and unyielding. "Say it. Tell me what you are." Reluctantly, I whisper, "A slut." He murmurs into my ear, "What else?" I meet his eyes in the mirror, his tender hazel eyes. The answer comes to me in a flash, and my voice is a shade more confident as I reply, "Yours, Master. I'm your slut." His smile lights up the small room and he drops a kiss on the top of my head. "That's right. You're mine. I can do anything I want to you, can't I?" "Yes," I whisper, but the thought of how I must have looked still makes me cringe. He nuzzles my hair. "You were so hot tonight, baby, so desperate for anything to fill your cunt. Watching you get off on being stretched by that toy was fantastic." Seeing me shy away from the words, he shakes his head. "Your desire, your neediness, your willingness to do anything to come is what makes you mine. I would *never* use it to punish you. But I will teach you to embrace it without hesitation, to give in to what your body wants without caring what your mind says." The raw sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. I watch him in the mirror, willing him to reassure me. "You can be as refined and controlled, as prim and proper as you want any other time. But when you wear this--" he fingers the scarf that means so much more than we put into words "--none of that matters. Your body exists for my entertainment." Something thrums inside me at his words. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, watching coolly, expectantly. "The only thing in your mind is obeying my commands. You'll say whatever I tell you, do whatever I demand, be whatever I want. I will not accept anything less, because deep in your heart, sweetheart, that's what *you* want." His words evoke the same blend of unease and excitement I felt when he surprised me by reenacting my "harem" fantasy. It's frightening that he knows me so well, and it's erotic that he knows me so well. I close my eyes, unable to look him in the face as he wrings this last admission from me. "Yes, Master," I whisper. He lets my words hang in the silent room for a moment. I can sense his triumph, the rush of power he feels at my surrender. "Open your eyes," he commands. I look at myself in mirror, at the flush coloring my cheeks and the chain dangling from my clamped nipples. "Do you know what I see?" I shake my head. "The most beautiful, wanton creature in the world. Always so hot and eager to get fucked. Perhaps not quite as obedient as you should be, but you're learning, aren't you?" The gentle reproof stings. "I'm sorry, Master." His hands close over my shoulders. "I accept your apology. But I'll tell you a secret." "What, Master?" "I like to see you squirm a little. I like to see you struggle before you give in." He rubs his clothed erection against the small of my back, arousing himself on my body. "It makes me hard to know that I've stripped away another bit of your pride and forced you to bend to my will." I groan aloud at the deep, involuntary clenching in my sex. "See? You're learning so well." His voice is a caress in and of itself. "I'm so proud to be your Master." ***** I think of his words now as I wait for him to come to me. In spite of his promises, the rest of the evening has been pretty quiet. He left the clamps lightly clasped and permitted me to put on a pair of silk pajama bottoms, but nothing else. "You look too pretty walking around with your nipples like that to cover up," he said. He had dinner delivered from a nearby restaurant. When the doorbell rang, I got up from the couch to go into the bedroom. Mulder pinned me with a glance. "Did I tell you to get up?" I shrank back into the cushions, knowing that the delivery boy couldn't see me--unless Mulder let him into the foyer. The possibility of exposure, rather than cooling my desire, rekindled it. We watched a movie after dinner, lying together on the couch with my back to his chest. He tweaked my nipples casually whenever he felt like it, giving me no other contact, just enough stimulation to keep me keyed up. And so now I kneel on his bed, my back to the door, while he closes up the apartment for the night. I play idly with my clit, as he instructed, but it isn't really necessary. I'm more than ready for him. The sound of the door shutting behind him alerts me that he has entered the room. I go down on all fours with my legs spread as the bed shifts under his weight. His hands and lips roam over my body, stroking, licking, sucking so tenderly. He teases me for an endless time, until I'm aching for the one thing he had denied me all night. "What do you want?" he growls when I whimper in sheer frustration. "Your cock! Please, Master, your cock!" I spread my legs wide and arch my back, revealing my dripping opening to him. Part of me is cringing at my shamelessness, but that's nothing next to the aching emptiness within me and the dark thrill I always feel when he makes me beg. He takes me from behind, sliding into me while he rubs my clit and tugs the chain at my nipples, always with just enough pressure to excite. He strokes in and out easily, but the lesson isn't over yet. As his body makes tender love to me, his words are darker and rawer than anything he's said to me before. "Slut" is the least of what he calls me. I'm his whore, he tells me, a slave to my body's desires, a sextoy for his use. And I'm beautiful, perfect, the most precious thing in the world. He swears that he'll never let me shrink or hide from him. He'll tease, train, and force me until I've lost all shame, and he'll never let me go. I'll be his perfect submissive, his obedient pet. I'll ache to serve his needs, get wet at his voice, shiver at his touch, and come at his command. I moan helplessly, the images flitting through my mind as his words sink into my brain. I want it, want it so badly, want to submit so deeply that I obey without conscious thought. More than that, I want him to *make* me submit. I want him to steal my will with a word, and make me feel things I've never let myself feel before. His voice comes again in my ear, soft and calm in spite of his steady pumping. "Who do you belong to?" I struggle to find the words as his deft touch makes thought nearly impossible. "You, Master. I belong to you--ah!" My clit is pulsing, throbbing under his fingers. How can he command such effortless responses from my body, responses I didn't know I could give? "What are you?" The question gives me pause. I don't know--he has called me so many things tonight. He thrusts into me again, and the answer comes. "I'm whatever...unh...whatever my master wants me to be." Stopping abruptly, he pulls out and flips me on my back. My howl of disappointment turns into a shriek as his mouth closes over me. I lose all control as his tongue lashes at my clit. Moaning incoherently, legs flailing helplessly, I surge up against his restraining hands. I gasp and babble as he drives the need higher and higher. My moans become embarrassingly loud, but I couldn't stop to save my life. It feels as though I'm outside my body, watching myself wriggle and scream, with no hope of controlling my actions. Finally I climax, my vagina contracting around nothingness. I sob in relief as his body covers mine again. He rams into me in short, hard thrusts, his pubic bone against my clit, and I'm stunned to feel another climax building. He works me ruthlessly with his cock, letting out a dark laugh as I scream and spasm again. Only when I go limp does he take his pleasure from me. I drift in a haze, my body shuddering under his thrusts. Even half- conscious, I feel a rush of satisfaction when he grunts and spills into me. His weight rests heavily on me for a few moments before he withdraws. He rises from the bed and goes through our normal routine of bringing me some water and bathing me gently with a wet cloth. Finally he removes the clamps, but not the scarf. My exhausted body is floating near sleep as he climbs back into bed and draws me in to spoon against his chest. "You liked it tonight, didn't you, baby?" he asks, stroking a lock of hair back from my cheek. "You like a firm hand." Too sleepy to consider the implications, I let the response slip out before I can censor it. "Yes, Master." He hugs me tighter. "Then you shall have it." ********************************************* Some days I hate my job. Days like every day last week, when it sank its claws into my brain and wouldn't let me shake myself free. Days like yesterday, after we closed the case too late to catch a flight home, and I spent one more night alone in a motel room, dreaming of murdered girls. Days like today, when there's a beautiful, naked woman kneeling at my feet, and I can't feel anything but numb. I gather my scattered thoughts and try to focus for Scully's sake. I know she wants this tonight; we were overdue for a session even before we were unexpectedly called from our homes into a grueling hunt for a serial killer. Then for two weeks and across four states we did what we do best: I profiled and Scully autopsied. Neither of us ate or slept half as much as we should have. Twice she broke our unspoken rule of no fraternizing on the job and crawled quietly into my bed late at night. Once we made love; the second time she simply held me until we both fell asleep. Other than that we never departed from a professional demeanor even off-hours. To do otherwise would have meant letting down the emotional barriers we had each constructed between ourselves and the case, and that way lay despair. The perpetrator was a typical--and I hate that there is such a thing--missionary killer, seeking to rid the world of the prostitutes and runaways on whom he preyed. Once we'd accumulated enough evidence, his profile was by the books. It didn't require the soul-draining trip into his twisted mind that profiling sometimes does; I could distance myself with the charts and statistics. But there's no distancing in an autopsy, and Scully grew more demoralized with each one. The victims weren't children--that's the one thing that could have made the case worse--but they were all young women, in their teens or barely out of them. All girls whose lives had been shattered by abuse or addiction long before he picked them up and destroyed their hopes forever. Long brunette hair, all of them, all thin and scarred from life on the streets. All of them died alone, without families to turn to for shelter or protection.... I saw Scully's face grow more tight and drawn with each victim, and I swore to myself that when we were finally home, I would take her away from all the ugliness, at least for a night. I look down at her now, kneeling so patiently at my feet, and my brain simply goes blank. Not a command, not a word comes to my mind. My eyes close and my fists clench in frustration. Dammit, she needs this. *I* need this. We have to leave the horror of the past two weeks behind us. When I open my eyes again, she has lifted her head and is watching me. Technically, that is a break in her training. She is not supposed to look up until I give the word, which I normally do only after some moments of silence. It's easiest for her to get into her role if she spends a few moments in her own head, and the thought of her kneeling before me becoming more and more aroused makes *me* hot, so I often leave her there for longer than I have tonight. But today she knows that my silence isn't part of the game. Without even looking at me, she must have felt the frustration and anger rolling off me in waves. And now her slim fingers go to her throat, removing the scarf. Gracefully she rises. "Come to bed, Mulder." She takes me by the hand and leads me to the cool sanctuary of her bedroom. I undress as she lays the scarf on the nightstand, turns down the covers, and stretches out on the bed. "Come to bed," she repeats. I loom over her, touching and kissing softly, seeking comfort in her body. She meets my kisses tenderly as she strokes and pets me. Her hands run over my back and down my chest. When she touches my cock, flame bursts through me. I kiss her harder, devouring, trying to escape the images in my head. She's silent, motionless except for her caresses, but she's ready for me when I enter her. I slide in and out of her welcoming body, first slowly and then with increasing urgency, but can't find release. My breathing grows ragged against her neck as I pump into her. "Shh. It's all right, Mulder." Hands circle my biceps and slide over my back again. Cool fingers flutter over my face, tracing my eyebrows and running down the bridge of my nose to rest on my lips. I kiss them and they slip inside my mouth. I suck them lightly. "It's all right," she says again as the fingers withdraw. And then she's gripping my butt, pulling me closer, urging me into her. A wet little finger slides between my cheeks to circle my anus. The caress pushes me over the edge. I climax with a gasp of relief, tears dampening the soft skin of her neck, her voice whispering soothing nonsense into my ear. Finally I roll to the side and slip my hand between her legs, seeking to give her the solace she just offered me, but she deflects me gently. She holds me for a few minutes, then gets up and vanishes into the bathroom. When she returns, she glances at the scarf on the bedside table for the briefest second before climbing back into bed. I reach out and pick it up, dangling it over her breasts. She sighs. "Do you still need it tonight?" I ask. Her response is short and honest. "Yes, please." The simple appeal nearly undoes me. I wrap the fabric around her neck and cover her breast with my hand, kneading softly. "Tell me what you need." She closes her eyes and there's a long silence before she meets my gaze again. "Catharsis." Catharsis. It takes me a minute to catch her meaning, but it makes perfect sense. Scully has been bottling up her emotions-- all her emotions--for two weeks. She needs to release them to feel again. I guide her up onto her hands and knees. When she's in place I cover her left hand with my own, running my other hand over her body. I stroke her smooth curves with tenderness, even reverence in my touch. Then I slap her hard. She jerks and moans. The sound is heartbreaking: raw and vulnerable, aching and yearning. I give her a few more quick slaps. "Yes, please," she sighs. I continue. Her body is tense, unmoving as the sound of skin striking skin resounds through the still room. I spank her until her cheeks turn red, to no avail. "Please, please..." she whimpers. Gritting my teeth, I swing harder. She shrieks, and finally the tears begin to flow. They come in a torrent as the anger and frustration that have been choking her for two weeks comes rushing out. I lighten the blows but keep up a steady rhythm. Soon she sinks down to lie on her stomach on the bed, sobbing. I spank her until she is limp and the tears have finally been cried out. Only then does she squeeze my hand. I slow the slaps, then finally stop. She remains limp on the bed, her face blank and her eyes half-closed. I rub her shoulders soothingly. "Are you all right?" "Think so," she mumbles against the pillow. "Tired now." She needs to sleep. We both do, but there's one more thing I want to do for her. I run my hand up her inner thigh and find her still hot and wet. Tentatively, I probe at her clit. "Uh!" I repeat the caress. "It's all right, baby. I'm going to take care of you." I place the pads of two fingers against her clit and begin to circle. I start slow and steady, building the speed and pressure gradually, until... "Uh! Uh! Uh!" ...her soft grunts tell me that she is coming. When it's over, I lie next to her with one hand still cupping her sex. For the first time in days, her expression is peaceful. I kiss her damp cheek. "You did well, baby," I whisper, my voice breaking. "It's over now. You can rest." With a touching, almost childlike trust, she snuggles against me and complies. Sleep eludes me for a long time, but Scully's even, steady breathing is a comfort as I wait for it to come, feeling as if a weight has lifted from my chest. This won't exorcise all our demons. But it's a start. ***** I awaken uncharacteristically ahead of Mulder, who is snoring softly, his arm draped heavily over me. I knew we were both exhausted, but he must have been sleeping even less than I thought. I creep out of the bed, pulling the covers over him when he stirs restlessly. His furrowed brow relaxes. I fix myself a cup of tea as I wait for him to wake, noticing a slight soreness as I sit down. I sip from my mug slowly, mulling over the previous evening. He'll want to talk it over, but will let me choose when and how. I've resolved to do it in person, not over the phone, and I need to compose my thoughts. I've just finished my tea when Mulder drifts in, his hair mussed and spiky, scrubbing his face with his hands. I get up and start some coffee, not ready to meet his eyes yet. He follows me into the kitchen. As I flip the machine on, I feel his hand on my back. "Are you okay with last night?" His voice is still husky from sleep. I lean against the counter for a few seconds, letting his touch warm me. Without turning around, I reassure him, "I'm okay." Silence reigns in the kitchen as the coffee brews. He lets me busy myself with the mugs and milk, giving me the space that I need. When we're back at the table, I take a deep breath and plunge in. "Last night was different for us, I know. But it was what I needed. I didn't realize how much until we started." "We both needed it," he responds. In spite of his full night's sleep, his face is still haggard. "All the way home, all I could feel was the weight of that--" He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to. I nod, staring into the teacup. "I'm used to adopting a professional detachment. Normally, I don't even think about it anymore. But with this case, it was a constant struggle to maintain it. And when was it finally okay to let go, I couldn't. Couldn't feel anything else until..." My voice trails away. They tell you at Quantico that the stresses of the job can "carry over" into your home life, euphemistically alluding to the toll that law enforcement takes on marriages and families. They never mention cases gripping you such an emotional stranglehold that you'll need your lover to beat you to tears before you can feel anything else. "Until you were pushed into it," he finishes for me. I look at his face again, seeing mirrored pain there, and confront my fear about the previous evening. "I asked for last night, and I'm glad that you did it. I just wonder if that was a healthy way to deal with things like this." The waxing morning light shows new lines etched in his face. "Scully, there *isn't* a healthy way to deal with things like this. I remember back in VCS...." Now his voice trails away. Something dark and grim stirs in his eyes before he shakes it off. "Think of it this way. How would we have dealt with it before we became lovers?" I consider his question. I would have done what I did in the hotel last night: turned off the phone, taken a bath so hot that my skin reddened, and gone to bed still feeling cold. And Mulder? Even now, I don't know how he would have handled it. Because, like me, he would have dealt with it-- "Alone." Reaching across the table, he takes my hand. "Yeah. And when you look at it that way, this is an improvement." I squeeze and release his hand, struggling to maintain my composure. There are more tears to cry over this case, but not now. Picking up the empty coffee mugs, he retreats into the kitchen and rattles around ostentatiously for a few minutes. My eyes are dry by the time he returns. He stands behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. "What would you like to do today?" The answer springs to mind immediately. I want to get as far away as possible from the dark, gritty alleys and sterile autopsy rooms where I've spent the last two weeks. I want to do something frivolous and wholesome. "I'd like to go to a park. I just want to feel the sun on my face." "Sounds good," he agrees promptly. "Why don't we pick up a picnic lunch while we're at it?" Relief colors his voice, and I don't think it comes from the prospect of spending a few hours ducking incoming Frisbees. I remember that we came here straight from the airport, and recall how bare the refrigerator was when I got the milk for our coffee. "We don't have any food in the apartment, do we?" His tone is lighter than it has been in weeks as he replies, "Maybe a picnic breakfast too." I chuckle, covering his hand with mine, and we head off to the shower together. END ********************************************* All feedback welcomed at subrosa31@yahoo.com.