TITLE: A Gift of Silk V
AUTHOR: SubRosa
RATING: Hard NC-17 for graphic consensual sex and language
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and all other characters of 
     the X-Files 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: Okay to archive, but please let me know.


FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTES:

A note on how this story relates to my other fic: the GoS fics 
and the Troika stories are two independent series.  I often write 
them simultaneously, however, bouncing ideas back and forth.  I 
may use the two series to take a single idea in different 
directions, and will occasionally reuse a line that I really 
like.  T7--if it ever gets written--is likely to share some 
themes and language with this story.  So if you see me 
plagiarizing myself, that's what's happening. 
 
I owe thanks to adara and Jemirah for beta, and to Philiater for 
putting up with a series of e-mails asking "Could I kill somebody 
like this?  What about like this?"  And a quick (belated) wave to 
sybils the birthday girl.

Finally, as with all the GoS stories, this fic is rated NC-17 for 
graphic, consensual, and occasionally kinky sex.  Please do not 
read it if you are under the age of seventeen or if this subject 
matter may offend you.  This story is a work of erotica set in a 
fictional D/s context; it is not necessarily an accurate 
representation of a BDSM relationship.

*********************************************


There's a damn good reason why I've never worn stockings and a 
garter belt to work, I thought irritably as I strode down the 
main corridor of the Hoover building.  Rationally, I knew no one 
could see what I was wearing under my suit, but it was still a 
relief to escape into the relative privacy of the elevator to the 
basement.  At least I had panties on.

It was Mulder's fault, of course: part of a scheme he set in 
motion last night.  He coaxed a dinner invitation from me with a 
seemingly innocent question about my plans followed by a 
smoldering look that he probably practiced in front of a mirror.  
The dinner itself was quiet and uneventful; we have more of those 
these days.  But the light in his eyes turned mischievous after 
we finished.  Dropping a kiss on my head, he murmured, "I need to 
get some things from my car."  

That was unexpected--we usually reserve more elaborate scenarios 
for the weekend.  I busied myself cleaning up in the kitchen as 
the front door opened and closed again before his footsteps 
headed off to the bedroom.

When I finished the dishes, he was waiting for me in the living 
room.  I looked to him to make the next move.  To my surprise, it 
was toward the closet for his coat.

"You're leaving already?" I asked with a touch of petulance.  I 
don't expect Mulder to put out just because I cook him dinner, 
but his eyes made certain promises when he wangled the invitation 
from me in the first place.

"Yeah.  And you should go to bed early," he replied.  

I quirked an eyebrow suspiciously.

Stepping in close, he clasped my upper arms and looked down at me 
smugly.  

"You're going to need some extra time to get ready in the 
morning.  There's a note in the bedroom explaining everything."

He kissed my cheek, scooped up his coat and headed for the door, 
only to pause with his hand on the knob.

"Oh, and Scully..."

"Yes?"

"Follow the instructions to the letter."

With a wicked grin, he slipped out.

I went to the bedroom at a pointedly sedate pace to find out what 
he meant.  He'd laid a stylish but conservative burgundy suit, my 
clothing for today, on the bed.  On top of it rested a new set of 
matching panties and bra in midnight-blue silk and lace.  And, of 
course, the stockings and garter belt.

Next to the clothes sat a brown paper bag.  I delved into it, 
pulling out a small, heavy box.  The silver cylinder pictured on 
the front looked like a vibrator, but that was only a guess--the 
packaging was entirely in Japanese.  Thank you, Mulder, I thought 
sourly.  

At the bottom of the bag was the note, which instructed me to 
shave "completely" in the morning.  Glancing at the box again, I 
surmised that it must have been a shaver, not a vibrator.  "You 
may play with yourself," the note continued, "but don't come."  I 
rolled my eyes at the thought that such an inconvenient act of 
personal hygiene was likely to inspire a spontaneous round of 
masturbation, but the idea of going about shaved and dressed in 
the lingerie under my suit was intriguing.
 
The note finished by directing me to wear the clothing to work in 
the morning.  "If you don't follow these instructions," it 
concluded, "you will be punished."

The last line sent a quiver of heat through me.  Erotic 
anticipation of the punishment wasn't the only reason I 
considered ignoring his injunctions, though: we've agreed from 
the beginning that work and pleasure don't mix.  After a few 
minutes' internal debate I decided the lingerie didn't cross the 
line.  They were just clothes; they'd be completely invisible 
under the suit he'd selected.  And a long tease, the building 
anticipation--those I could get behind.  

As he suggested I went to bed early, practicing a set of 
relaxation exercises to get to sleep at the unfamiliar time.  I 
rose an hour earlier than usual and went through the elaborate 
process of denuding my entire pubic region of hair.  I awarded 
Mulder a mental point when the intimate vibrations from the 
shaver made me hot and slippery, and another one when I 
discovered how stimulating the silk panties were on my newly-
exposed skin.  

And as I made my way down the hall, spending the day in these 
clothes suddenly seemed like a far greater challenge than I'd 
first anticipated.

The lights were on and a pot of coffee was brewing when I entered 
the office.  I walked over to the filing cabinet, where Mulder 
slipped up behind me.

"Did you follow my instructions?" he asked in his low, smoky 
voice.

I shivered as his breath teased my ear.  "Mulder, you know the 
rule about work."

"Work hasn't started yet."  His arm circled around me, close but 
not touching.  After a beat I realized he was showing me his 
watch, which read two minutes to eight.

"Did you follow my instructions?" he repeated, the hint of a 
threat lurking in his tone.

"Yes," I replied.  The scent of his aftershave surrounded me.

"Did it turn you on?" he probed.

I stared at the glossy black face of his watch, wondering how I 
could possibly make it through another nine hours.

"Scully?" he prompted.

"Yes," I murmured again.  

"Are you getting wet right now?"

My breath caught in my throat.  I could feel my panties clinging 
to my damp skin, feel my nipples peaking under the concealing 
wool of my suit.  "Yes," I whispered once more.

Satisfaction radiated from him as he leaned closer to my ear.  "I 
bet I'll be able to smell you by lunchtime."

The minute hand moved to eight o'clock.  He stepped away.  "So, 
filing or expense reports?"

Relieved and bereft, I turned to start the day.

*****


By the close of the afternoon, though, the warm glow was lost.  
Rather than floating from the office in a comfortable haze of 
arousal, I found myself locking horns with Mulder across his 
desk, the lingerie forgotten.

The monotony of paperwork had consumed most of the morning, 
offering no distraction from the silk caressing my bare sex with 
every move.  Around midday I shrugged off my jacket to relieve 
the heat, only to realize how visible my dark bra was under the 
lacy ivory shell he'd selected to complement my suit.  Mulder 
noticed too.  Grinning, he raked an appreciative gaze over my 
chest.  I blushed as I felt my nipples tighten once more, and 
pulled the jacket back on.  

Unfortunately, the day took a sharp downturn right after lunch.  
Skinner didn't get where he is today by putting off unpleasant 
tasks, and doesn't see why anyone else should either.  So he sent 
around a memo ordering departments under his supervision to have 
their annual audit prepared for his personal review two weeks 
earlier than the normal deadline.

The idle day of paperwork and erotic stimulation crumbled under 
the migraine-inducing process of tallying our annual expenses, 
comparing them to FBI means, and analyzing them against 
projections of future crime trends--the last undertaking a 
distinct challenge when one deals with the inexplicable, the 
paranormal, the allegedly extraterrestrial and a healthy dose of 
the simply irrational.  It was not a task designed to bring out 
the best in either of us.  Which, for better or worse, distracted 
me from the scratchy lace of the garter belt.

The final straw came late in the afternoon.  Not wanting to give 
Mulder an excuse to halt his thus-far futile search for receipts 
last seen in his custody ("Relax, Scully, I know exactly where 
they are"), I responded to the knock at our door.  Skinner's 
secretary stood in the hallway bearing an armful of envelopes and 
a put-upon expression that suggested she had decided to deliver 
the mail in her in-box personally in an effort to escape bearing 
the brunt of any further directorial efficiencies at four o'clock 
on a Friday.  I gave her a sympathetic smile and took the 
proffered envelope, which contained the disallowed travel request 
for an investigation Mulder had neglected to mention to me.

The *rightfully* disallowed travel request, from what I could 
tell.  The last thing we needed with an audit hanging over our 
heads was to rack up travel expenses pursuing a case that was 
dubious at best.

I shot an unfriendly look at Mulder, who was bent nearly double 
as he rummaged through the back of a filing-cabinet drawer.  The 
sight of his dress slacks pulled tight over one of his better 
assets did nothing to mollify my annoyance at him for requesting 
the case without checking with me. The omission wasn't unusual, 
but it was still annoying.

Just then he emerged from the cabinet, receipts clutched 
triumphantly in his fist.  "What is it?" he asked with a nod 
toward the papers in my hand.

"The 302s for the Blackstone case," I replied.

His eyes lit up.  "When do we leave?"

"We don't."  I handed over the papers.  "Skinner disallowed it."

He cursed.  Slapping the receipts down on the desk, he pulled a 
file from the middle of a stack and thrust it at me.  "Tell me 
there isn't a case in there."  

Biting back the obvious rejoinder, I skimmed through the complete 
file.  A woman named Sibyl Blackstone had written to Mulder with 
her suspicions about the company, Demeter BioLabs, where she 
worked as a greenhouse assistant.  Since the company changed 
hands several years earlier, security procedures had tightened 
sharply and the biologists with whom she worked had suddenly 
become brusque and secretive.  When her health took a sharp 
decline the previous year, she concluded that something the 
company was up to was responsible.

Her theories, however, lacked a certain coherence.  Ranging from 
suspected genetic alteration of the greenhouse plants to a 
hypothetical toxic fertilizer, they were more indicative of 
paranoia than of corporate malfeasance, and I told Mulder as 
much.

That led to a...spirited discussion about the alleged mysterious 
nature of Mrs. Blackstone's illness.  In her early forties, Sibyl 
was a little young for the hypertension and atrial flutter that 
afflicted her, but hardly off the chart.

"Mulder, I don't deny the woman is sick.  Or that she's 
suffering.  But this isn't an X-File, and we have an audit coming 
up.  You know those reports are always an excuse to cut budgets 
and reassign agents.  They could even shut us down."

He shoved a hand through his hair, looking away from me in 
frustration.  Then his expression changed, and he just stopped.  
I followed his gaze to the wall clock, which read quarter past 
five.

"Weekend's started," he said.

*********************************************


It's Skinner's fault that Scully isn't almost naked right now.  

Maybe he didn't set out to throw a monkeywrench into my 
meticulously planned kinky sex game, but he sure didn't help it 
along.  The scavenger hunt for receipts and statistics was bad 
enough, but the disagreement over the denied case put both me and 
Scully completely out of sorts. 

I insisted on stopping at five just on principle.  Then I drove 
us back to my apartment--I wanted her in my space tonight.  If 
the evening had proceeded on schedule, she'd be stripped down to 
her stockings and underwear now.  Then I pictured myself sitting 
at my computer, officiously doing paperwork and reveling in the 
knowledge that the soles of two size-six pumps were peeking from 
under the desk as Scully knelt beneath it giving me an exquisite 
blowjob.  And reveling in the blowjob, of course.

But thanks to Skinner, that part got shelved.  Neither of us is 
angry about the spat this afternoon, but the mood I'd cultivated 
so carefully was lost.  We had an early dinner instead, shooting 
each other the occasional commiserating glance across the table.

When we've finished dinner I offer to clean up the dishes if 
Scully wants to "freshen up."  Recognizing the code for "last 
bathroom break before the kink starts," she nods and vanishes.  
I'm waiting for her in the living room when she reemerges a few 
moments later with her lipstick touched up and her jacket folded 
over her arm.  She lays the jacket neatly over a chair and waits 
diffidently for my next move. 

Brushing my lips over hers, I wrap the silk scarf around her 
neck.  "Let's see what you've been hiding under that suit all 
day."

I settle down on the couch as her hands go to the bottom of her 
shell.  She pulls it over her head, tousling her hair, and lays 
it over her jacket.

"Leave your shoes on," I instruct when she bends to take them 
off; I've been waiting all day to see her in those stockings and 
her high heels.  Her hands go instead to the zipper of her skirt, 
and she shimmies out of it as well.

She stands before me in the clothing I selected, her expression 
still diffident.  The underwear is the same shade of blue as the 
harem outfit I gave her some time ago.  Being dressed for my 
pleasure aroused her instantly then.  It doesn't now.
 
At my gesture she walks across the room and back, showing off the 
clothing.  She tries to make her gait properly sultry, but the 
swing in her hips appears forced.  And lovely though Scully's 
semi-nude body is, I'm also having trouble shaking off the 
lingering frustration of the day.

"Take off your bra, and then another turn, baby," I order when 
she stops.  A barely perceptible grimace crosses her face as she 
follows the command--a clear sign that she isn't in the mood yet.  
In-scene is the only time she likes that endearment.  

I arch an eyebrow at her when she completes her second circuit.  
She hasn't complained, but it looks like this is turning her on 
about as much as walking to the shower at the gym.

"Are you wet?"  I ask bluntly.  She shakes her head.

I click my tongue in reproof.  "You should be wet, baby.  As soon 
as your scarf goes on, you should be ready for me to just bend 
you over and take you."

Not that I'm ready to take her, but it's the principle that 
counts.
 
"I'm sorry, Master," she offers dutifully.

I watch her until she shifts uncomfortably, then let my 
expression soften.  "Just not in the mood, huh?"

She shakes her head again.

I shrug philosophically and appear to drop it.  "And I had such 
high hopes for that outfit."

Faint relief lightens her expression as I rise from the couch and 
kneel before her.  Wrapping a hand around her ankle, I prompt her 
to lift her foot and slip off her shoe.

"We'll try again another time," I continue, repeating the process 
with the other foot.  I set the shoes aside and sit back on my 
heels to admire the sight before me.

The silk and lace of the garter belt circles her waist, holding 
up her stockings by four blue ribbons.  The panties are high-
cult, tracing a V over her pelvis.  They make the skin of her 
abdomen even fairer, and leave no doubt that she followed the 
rest of my instructions.  

"Scully," I murmur appreciatively, feeling my interest stir.

I trace the delicate fabric of the garment lightly, raising 
goosebumps on the skin beneath them.  Leaning forward to grasp 
her panties, I make sure my breath plays over her clit as I pull 
them down.  Then I sit back again, staring at the bare skin the 
action reveals.  Her mons is completely smooth, exposing the 
folds of her sex.

I stroke the shell-pink skin with the tips of my fingers and then 
the back of my hand.  "Very nice."

Leaning in again, I lightly kiss the newly-shaved skin.  She 
jumps at the touch, not as indifferent as she appeared.  I work 
my mouth over her, kissing the velvet-soft skin above her sex as 
I unfasten the garters, and let my breath play over her clit 
again as I roll down the stockings.  I finally unsnap her garter 
belt and toss it aside, kissing the marks left by the elastic.  
The muscles of her abdomen tighten.

I grin up at her.  "In the mood yet?"  

"Getting there," she replies, her expression relaxing as she 
smiles back at me. 

My hands run up and down her legs, stroking as if to commit their 
shape to tactile memory.  My tongue sneaks out to taste her, then 
strokes with the lightest pressure, just enough to get her 
attention.  Like she has mine.

It's working.  I tease until a familiar flavor tantalizes my 
tongue and her hands thrust into my hair, pulling me closer.  
Then I stop and look up, feeling my face slip back into its 
dominant mask. 

"You know, baby, there are all kinds of ways of getting you in 
the mood."

Her breath catches and her hands tighten in my hair.  

"Tell me, who do you belong to?"

There's a risk in that question.  It's the first time I've asked 
it when she wasn't already drunk with pleasure, riding the 
endorphins that carry her into my possession.  Scully is my 
submissive, not my slave; her answer could be that she belongs to 
no one but herself. 

She closes her eyes, comes to a decision.  "You, Master."

I grin inwardly.  "That's right.  And what can I do to you?"
 
"Anything you want, Master."

Yes, the mood is coming back nicely.  For both of us.    

"That's right.  *Anything*.  "You're mine to tease, play with, 
fuck--" I give her clit a flick with my tongue "--or discipline, 
if I want."

"I know," she whispers.

Another flick.  "But in your heart, do you believe it?"

Her hands loosen their hold on my head, and there's a long pause.  
Hesitantly she replies, "No, Master."

"Then let's see what we can do about that."

I stand and guide her over to the sturdy round table in the 
dining area.  With gentle pressure on her shoulders, I bend her 
over so her upper body rests on the polished wood top.
 
"Spread your legs and arch your back."  

She complies.  I stroke a hand over her curves.

"All kinds of ways..." I murmur again.

And I deliver a quick blow to her bare ass.

*****


The sudden smack makes me cry out, and Mulder chuckles.  The 
dark, rich sound lingers in my ears as he begins spanking me in 
earnest.  The blows are stinging rather than hard, alternating 
with caresses.  He varies the speed, making them fast and then 
slow, a quick flurry of slaps followed by a pause until I squirm 
in anticipation.
 
Before we became lovers, I never recognized the intimacy inherent 
in violence.  I had experienced it: anyone who trains in hand-to-
hand combat knows the bond that springs up with a trusted 
sparring partner.  But until the first time his open hand struck 
against my skin in admonition, I didn't understand how punishment 
could be erotic.  

Now I do.  The pain itself doesn't arouse, but feeling his 
strength brought to bear against me does.  Knowing the blows 
could fall so much harder, feeling the control in his hands with 
every stroke--discipline became an intimate act of trust.  It 
hurts.  I don't like it; I try to avoid it.  But when it happens, 
it excites me.  Softens me.

And Mulder knows it.  Between the blows his hands run over my 
rear, back and thighs, total possession in his touch.  When the 
punishment stops, his hand spreads across my lower back and 
exerts a brief pressure.  The meaning is clear: don't move.  

I stay in place, my body warming the wood, feeling the polished 
grain smooth against my cheek.  As his footsteps leave the room I 
picture myself: legs spread, ass bare and raised, sex engorged 
with blood.  I flush in excitement as I imagine how I would look 
to anyone who walked through the door.

Mulder made it clear from the beginning of our relationship that 
no position he chose to put me in was undignified.  I must admit 
that once you've been licked to screaming ecstasy while being 
held implacably in a given pose, you develop a certain fondness 
for it.  Mulder, bless his thorough little heart, was willing to 
repeat the process as many times as it took until I automatically 
remained in whatever position he guided me into.  What I saw as 
undignified exposure, he soon taught me, was making myself 
accessible: accessible to his fingers, his tongue, his cock, and 
the wicked little toys that he introduced me to.  I came to love 
the feel of his strong hands moving me about like a rag doll, 
knowing that it was the precursor to some rough but wonderful new 
delight. 

I part my legs a little wider as the sounds of him moving in the 
other room drift to my ears.  One thing he has drilled into me is 
that when I sub for him, I must remain open at all times.  My 
mouth and cunt must always be ready for penetration, of course, 
but my body language should also show my readiness to receive 
him.  If I need to bend over to pick something up I do so from 
the waist, not the knees.  I'm not allowed to fold my arms across 
my chest, and when I sit my legs must always be parted, whether 
I'm clothed or not.  He has taught my body to feel deliciously 
open in his presence, always vulnerable to penetration.

Like now.  I'm ready to be licked or probed, taken from behind--
ready for whatever he wants to do to me.
 
Oh, I realize--he's done it.  The irritations and frustrations 
that impeded my arousal earlier have dissipated like smoke.  My 
lips curl into a smile as his footsteps approach me again.  Much 
better.  

His hands are between my legs, guiding something cool and hard 
into my vagina.  He eases it in carefully, until the heel of his 
palm rests against me as he pushes it all the way into my body.  

"Stand up."

I stand, very conscious of the hard object inside me.  It's 
thick, but not uncomfortable.  

He turns me to face him, a coil of smooth white rope in his hand.  
I expect him to bind my wrists, but instead he circles my waist 
with the looped rope and pulls it into a quick lark's head.  He 
kneels before me again, measuring, and ties a knot into the 
length of cord.  I start in surprise as he parts my labia and 
runs the rope between them, drawing it between my legs.  Next he 
turns me back around, pulls the rope up tight between my 
buttocks, and knots it at the small of my back.  Finally he 
rotates me to face him once more.  

The thick cord bisecting my ass feels strange and intrusive.  I 
would never accept it outside a scene--which makes it wickedly 
intriguing now.  It doesn't detract from the excitement of the 
rope holding the dildo in place, the little knot nudging my clit, 
the silky pressure against my hairless mons.  

Mulder knows what I'm thinking.  "Some women can rub themselves 
to orgasm on these ropes."  He takes my hand, stroking it with 
his thumb.  "If you're very good, I'll let you try later."

He leads me into the living room, stopping near the couch.  His 
hardback desk chair is at the left side of the sofa, positioned 
at a right angle to it.  Opposite the chair, against the wall by 
the window, is the freestanding full-length mirror that appeared 
in his bedroom soon after we became lovers.  The coffee table is 
pushed back against the far wall, leaving an empty space between 
the chair and the mirror, and more rope rests on the couch.

He tosses a pillow to the floor in front of chair. "On your 
knees."  

He arranges me so I'm draped aesthetically over the chair, arms 
folded on the seat and supporting my head.  I can't see the 
mirror, but know it is reflecting my bound ass back at me.

"You will hold that position until you're given another one," he 
commands, his warm fingers resting on my shoulder.

"Yes, Master," I reply.  The title comes easily to my lips this 
time.

"Good girl."  The fingers trail down my back, make a minute 
adjustment to the rope. "I want you to think of yourself as a 
very fine piece of erotic sculpture."

"Yes, Master."  With a discreet shiver, I tighten my muscles 
around the thick rod inside me.

I hear him settle down on the couch.  The television switches on, 
followed a minute later by the rustling sound of him paging 
through the newspaper.  I've been relegated to an erotic prop in 
the background, not even the focus of his attention.

I squeeze around the dildo again.

He has me hold the pose for some unknown period of time before 
casually ordering me into a new one.  The next position is on the 
floor, body folded over my knees, rear lifted slightly in the 
air.

Eyes closed, I think of my body as he commanded me to: as a 
medium for his art.  It's not for me to decide when to move.  I 
put the stiffness in my knees out of my mind, concentrating on 
holding the pose as precisely as possible.

Eventually his footsteps approach again, and he lifts me to my 
feet.  Cupping my chin, he fixes me with a long, searching gaze.  
I moan, startled and aroused by how exposed I feel.  With a 
little nod of satisfaction, he pats my cheek approvingly and 
reaches for the rope on the couch.

This time it begins in a wide loop around my neck.  He wraps the 
cord in a complicated series of twists around my body, 
periodically running a finger between it and my skin to check the 
tension.  The evening news drones on in the background as he 
encircles me over and over, working in a criss-crossing pattern 
over my torso.  I stand passively as he binds me, feeling myself 
spiral downward into deeper submission with each knot. 

When he finishes, he turns me to face the mirror.  He has 
fashioned a latticework of diamonds down my body, stopping at the 
rope around my waist.  My arms are still free, but I feel 
completely imprisoned in a rope harness.  The effect is exotic, 
somehow more possessive than restraining me with cuffs.  And much 
kinkier.  Another flush of arousal spreads through me, leaving a 
now-familiar floating sensation in its wake. 

His eyes travel over my reflection's form before he guides me 
back to my knees on the pillow.  "Arms above your head.  Reach 
up."  

I clasp my hands above my head and arch my back, striving for 
pleasing lines.  

"Very good," he praises.

He leaves the room, returns, and sits down on the couch with a 
bottle.  "You may lower your arms whenever you need to rest.  
This isn't an endurance test," he tells me as he picks up the 
remote.

This time I can see him.  Except for his jacket he's still 
wearing his office clothes, with his tie loosened and collar 
unbuttoned.  It's like I imagined his bachelor days--him sprawled 
on the couch, beer in one hand, idly flipping through a girlie 
mag.  Only now, the object of his casual attention is me.  I'm a 
sex object in the purest sense: a living doll, posing for his 
pleasure.  

Picturing the line of my arms and kneeling body, I lower my gaze, 
turn my neck to a more graceful angle and hold the pose.  I keep 
the image in my mind even when I rest my shaking arms, returning 
as quickly as possible to the position my Master desires.  I feel 
like a strange combination of porn and high art, my whole being 
focused on displaying my bound, penetrated body for him.  The TV 
fades to a soft hum as I drift into a meditative state punctuated 
only by his occasional commands.
 
...My arms are still arched prettily over my head, but now I'm 
flat on my back, feet together and thighs spread, showing the 
rope snug between my labia...  

...I'm lying on my stomach, the rug rough under my skin.  I'm 
propped up on my elbows with my upper arms framing my bound 
breasts.  The position lengthens my torso and makes me very 
conscious of the ropes encircling me and the hard rod inside 
me...

...I'm sitting on the chair facing the mirror, hands clasped 
behind my head.  My legs are spread, and now I can see as well as 
feel the ropes.  My clit is a hot little bump in the smooth 
furrow between my legs.

Mulder is somewhere else in the apartment, but I don't have 
permission to move.  I don't want to.  I'm captivated by the 
erotic, nude form reflected in the mirror.  I understand the 
appeal of visual pornography for the first time as I stare in 
fascination at the woman before me, admiring her curves, her firm 
breasts and the intricate rope pattern decorating her body.  I 
arch my back, shift my hips, and feel the rod held inside me 
move.  Mulder isn't even in the room, but he's still fucking me.  

Mulder returns.  At his gesture, I kneel on the floor once more.  
He draws my wrists together behind my back and wraps them in a 
heavy cuff of rope, completely immobilizing my hands.  As he 
fastens the cord at my wrists to the knot at the small of my 
back, a soothing sense of completion washes over me.  I sigh, 
enraptured.

His hot breath comes in my ear.  "Squeeze around the dildo, 
baby."

With another delicious shiver, I clench my muscles around that 
thick presence in my cunt. His hand cups my ass as I do it again, 
then leaves me.

He stands in front of me, looking down at me.  I gasp as his eyes 
meet mine once more.  His gaze is palpable, arrogant, utterly 
commanding.  I've never felt so naked.

"What does it feel like to have that in your sweet body?" he 
asks.  "Do you feel like it's me there, in so deep that you'll 
never be free again?  I want you to feel transfixed, baby, I want 
you to feel me piercing your soul."

My body sways.  "I do, Master."

He smiles fiercely.  "Do you? You should feel me here"--he 
touches my chest over my heart--"and here"--he touches my temple.  
"Everything belongs to me.  Your body, your mind, all your 
secrets."

A little thrill goes through me.  This is right, right that he 
should claim me so completely as I kneel at his feet, marked as 
his by the ropes he wrapped around me and the rod he put inside 
me.  "Yes, Master."

"Then show me."

I arch my back, offering him my breasts.  Chuckling indulgently, 
he toys with my nipple even as he shakes his head.

"Show me your secrets, baby.  Tell me one.  Tell me a fantasy 
you've never told me before, one so secret you never imagined 
telling anyone.  One that turns you on like flicking a switch."  

He crouches down, bringing himself closer to my level, and 
watches with detached interest as I obey his command.  My voice 
is breathy as I describe my fantasy, a dark, deeply private one 
involving a remote-controlled vibrator and my total capitulation 
to him.  

Whispering the forbidden secret creates a feedback loop in me, 
intensifying my desire exponentially.  When the fantasy finishes 
I fall mute, almost overcome.  My arousal seeps around the rope 
that parts my labia.

His finger runs down that rope, creating pressure in just the 
right place.  "Do you want to come now, baby?"

My body tenses in anticipation.  "Oh, yes, Master."    

"Then do it.  Come for me."

Almost instinctively I begin moving my hips.  The action shifts 
the dildo but doesn't quite give me what I need.  I rock harder, 
seeking the friction of the hard little knot at my clit and the 
wet, silky rope.  

My whimper tells him I've succeeded.

"That's right, baby.  Show me."

I pump my hips faster.  Each thrust, each stab of pleasure in my 
clit is accompanied by a tug on my wrists, a tightening and 
loosening of the harness.  My world narrows down to the friction 
between my legs, the pressure in my cunt, and the cords wrapping 
my body and binding my hands.  

I can only distantly hear my guttural moans resounding through 
the room, but I'm intensely aware of his scrutiny as my hips 
undulate, fucking the air as I grind against the rope.  His eyes 
burn as I writhe for him, making the heat within me build faster, 
hotter...

And I come with an endless groan, glorying in my surrender.

My body slumps, exhausted.  I feel empty--not numb, but as if all 
thought and emotion has been washed away.  I'm not wondering what 
he thought of my fantasy or trying to anticipate his next desire.  
I'm simply existing in this moment, on my knees before him.

Rising, he lifts my chin and smiles down at me.  His fingers 
brush my cheek, silently conveying his love and approval.  
Turning my head, I kiss the caressing fingers.  They still.  I 
kiss them again, then take them into my mouth.  I stroke them 
with my tongue, loving the faintly salty taste.  No words come to 
my mind.  My thoughts are too simple and deep, too visceral to 
verbalize.  

Mulder pulls his fingers from my mouth and trails their wet tips 
over my cheek before he unzips his fly and frees his cock.  
Palming the back of my head, he draws me forward.

I lavish his cock with the same adoration I gave his fingers, 
savoring the taste and texture of the warm flesh.  Both his hands 
cup my face, urging my mouth wider open.  He tilts my head, 
adjusting it to the angle he likes as his hips begin to move 
lazily.  Soft grunts come from above me as his cock swells and 
pulses between my lips, his grip on my face still holding me 
captive.

I begin drifting again as he fucks my mouth, using me.

*****


A few hours later I wake up to find my bare legs entwined with 
Mulder's pajama-clad ones.  He untied me before we went to bed 
but left me naked except for my scarf, which he knotted around my 
breasts so I would feel restrained even in my sleep.  Rising 
quietly, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water and drink it at 
the dining-room table.  My mind plays over the evening again: the 
constant penetration, the confining bondage, the erotic exposure 
of my secrets.  

A soft beat begins in my clitoris just from thinking about it.  
One orgasm a night may satisfy Mulder, but he's taught my body to 
expect more.  I shift into a more comfortable position in the 
hard chair, unthinkingly letting my hands wander in search of 
relief.

"You okay?" Mulder ambles in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

I jump.  "Yes, Master."

Now alert, he realizes what I've been doing.  Guiltily I rest my 
hands on my thighs.  A slow smile spreads across his face as he 
moves to stand behind me.    

"What are you thinking about?"

"This evening, Master," I tell him.  "About my fantasy."

"I liked your fantasy, baby.  I liked seeing you on your knees 
telling me about it."  His fingers stroke lightly around the 
fabric framing my breasts.  "Is that why you were touching 
yourself?"

"Yes, Master," I respond, letting my hand drift between my legs 
again. 

"No," he chides.  "You should know better than to play with 
yourself without permission."

With a groan, I stop.

"Do you remember that we talked about your secrets once before?  
About you giving them up to me?"  He speaks in an offhand tone, 
seemingly uninterested in his effect on me as he traces circles 
around my peaked nipples.

The memory is oddly imprecise, but I remember discussing the 
eroticism of baring myself to him and my fears about doing so.  
That was "out of scene:" I can call up the conversation now, but 
not the trepidation that accompanied it.  

"Yes," I tell him.

"I want all of them.  I want you to tell me all your secrets so I 
can use them to make you mine.  Would you like that?"

Before I can answer, his finger rests over my lips warningly.  
"Think first, because I'm going to push you harder if you say 
'yes.'  I don't want just your body, baby.  I want your mind and 
your soul, but only when you give them to me."

I picture myself kneeling before him, his cock in my mouth.  I 
can almost feel the total possession and the utter peace that 
came with it.  I want that again.

He rolls my nipples idly, amusing himself with my body.  "You may 
answer now.  Are you ready to give me more?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good girl," he murmurs, quiet triumph in the words.  I bask in 
his praise.

"Are you turned on again, baby?"

"Yes, Master."

He leans in to whisper into my ear, his voice hot and demanding 
now.  He stimulates me nearly to orgasm with nothing but words: 
whispering how much he liked what he did to me tonight, hinting 
at what he'll do next, telling me how erotic it will be to coax 
out my secrets and use them to bind me closer to him.  He teases 
until I'm trembling and pleading with him to soothe the ache 
between my legs....  

And the next thing I know, I'm spread out on his table 
masturbating while his fingers pluck at my nipples and his voice 
fills my mind with the darkest, most delicious promises 
imaginable.

*********************************************


Scully navigates around the piles of papers strewn through the 
dingy bedroom as I flip through a file one more time.  It's in 
here, dammit.  The key.  And if the damn local cops would just 
let me investigate instead of *protecting* the company, I could 
find it.

Sibyl Blackstone, the assistant horticulturalist dismissed as a 
paranoid hypochondriac by her physicians, family, and the FBI, 
fell ill in her greenhouse six days ago and died in the hospital.  
When a middle-aged woman with a history of hypertension and 
arrhythmia dies of heart failure, few people suspect foul play.  
Her doctor certainly didn't: he seemed more concerned about 
forestalling a malpractice suit than helping us investigate the 
death as a criminal case.  I'm convinced there's something else, 
though.  I've been up for the past twenty-four hours looking for 
it, but Scully probably doesn't need to know that.

We didn't see much of each other today.  Our liaison with the 
local police, a wiry, weather-beaten man named Chilton, couldn't 
seem to lift his eyes above the second button of Scully's blouse.  
When he insisted on accompanying us to the lab, we split up so 
she could get some work done.  She interviewed Sibyl's family, 
including the sister who had belatedly called me after the 
funeral, while I went to Demeter Labs with Texas's finest dogging 
my every step. 

Sibyl's coworkers expressed dismay but not surprise at her sudden 
death.  She had made no secret of her health problems, and her 
fellows at the company claimed they thought her heart ailment had 
simply caught up with her.  They admitted readily enough that 
Demeter BioLabs was developing genetically modified crops as they 
tried to catch the front wave of the next stage of the Green 
Revolution.  They denied, however, that Sibyl would have come 
into contact with anything harmful and politely referred all 
further questions to the lab director and his attorneys.  

I wanted Scully present at that meeting, ogling local authorities 
or not.  So I ended up at the Blackstones' modest house, going 
through Sibyl's things in the final violation of the crime 
victim: loss of all privacy.

"Why is Demeter located here in Thebes in the first place?" I 
asked absently.  My mind should have been wholly on the case, but 
half of it was thinking that I needed to find a better place than 
my sock drawer to store the currently-deflated inflatable woman I 
use to practice the intricate knots of rope bondage.  My brain 
followed the natural progression of that thought, until 
irritation in Chilton's voice shook me out of a daydream 
featuring Scully bound from her neck to her pretty ankles.

"Why wouldn't they be here?" he was demanding.  "Plenty of space 
for the company to grow, low crime, good schools for the 
employees' kids, and we're only ninety minutes away from Dallas."

I patiently tried to deflect his defensiveness while hiding my 
astonishment that anyone would consider proximity to Dallas a 
selling point.  The upshot of his response was that the company 
was located here for "tax reasons," which probably meant he 
didn't know.  In the end, nothing useful came of the trip to the 
Blackstones' house, and I was not in the best of moods when 
Scully and I finally met back in our motel.

"The ME finally handed over the autopsy record.  Over there," I 
tell her distractedly, waving toward the small desk in the corner 
of the room.  

I hear rustling sounds as she shuffles through the folders.  "Did 
you learn anything at the lab?"

"Just that they're hiding something.  I need to you redo the 
autopsy."

Her voice goes carefully neutral.  "I don't think we have a 
reason to exhume the body, Mulder."
 
Oh, no, Scully.  Not you too.  

She continues, "We don't have enough evidence to justify putting 
her family through that," and my temper frays.

My voice brooks no room for debate.  "Scully.  Just do as I ask."

A long silence before files slap down on the desk.  "I'll see 
what I can do."

As the door closes firmly behind her, I lift my head from the 
files for the first time.  Something was wrong--her voice was 
cold, even flinty, in that final acquiescence.  But I'm on the 
ragged edge of exhaustion and can't think about it now.

I try to go back to work, but my concentration is shot.  My 
fantasy of this afternoon keeps coming back, bringing with it 
memories and plans for the future.

I've been subtly exploring with Scully how intense she wants to 
make our power exchange.  The night I initiated her into the art 
of rope bondage convinced me it was time to stop exploring and 
start enacting.

I was awed by the sublime bliss on her face as she worked herself 
to orgasm on the rope between her legs.  Watching her make love 
to my fingers because she wanted to, not because I ordered her 
to, nearly shredded the control I'd maintained all night.  And 
her transcendent expression when I replaced my fingers with my 
cock was almost more gratifying than the climax that followed.  I 
wasn't feeling triumph, exactly, but rather inordinate 
satisfaction that I had given her that experience, taken her so 
completely out of herself.    

What my mind dwelt on the next morning, though, was her agreement 
to tell me her fantasies on demand.  Privacy is one of Scully's 
most treasured possessions; her willingness to give it up 
suggested that she wanted me to push her past her comfort zone, 
and we both knew it.  

"I think we had a breakthrough last night, Scully," I told her in 
a final subtle probe.  "I want to suggest something."

She stretched, arching her body with her natural grace but no 
intent to arouse--it had taken a while, but I'd finally worn her 
out the previous night.  Rolling onto her side, she offered me 
the back of her neck.  

"When we negotiated starting a scene," I continued, unknotting 
the scarf in response to her cue, "we agreed that you could 
decline if you didn't want to play."

"Mm-hmm," she confirmed drowsily, spooning up against me.

I tried to make it sound as though I was conferring a privilege, 
not withdrawing one, when I continued, "I think you're ready for 
me to rescind that right."  

That woke her up.  "What if I'm not in the mood?" 

I trailed the silk over the soft skin of her belly.  "I can get 
you in the mood."

I remained silent as she mulled it over, giving her space to 
reach the decision.  If she gave me the answer I anticipated, I 
was going to change the tone of the games whenever I saw fit.  No 
more hesitation or warnings.

Her hand clasped mine as if in a silent appeal for reassurance, 
but her voice was resolute when she replied, "All right."

Relieved, I pulled her closer against my morning erection.  After 
a moment, she relaxed and snuggled up obligingly.  

"I was so proud of you last night," I murmured, letting my voice 
drop into its "dominant" range like a fleeting kiss.  "You looked 
so natural on your knees.  Like you belonged there."

A shiver ran through her.  I groaned in response, pushing my dick 
against her warm body.  I muttered into her ear again, not in my 
dominant voice, but with honest need, "I want you again, Scully.  
Are you ready?"

She wasn't quite ready, but was sweetly accommodating.  My hand 
moved over her breasts while hers worked between her thighs, 
until she pushed her rear against me in invitation.  She didn't 
come that time, but after exhausting her a few hours earlier, I 
took that as a compliment.

I haven't followed through on the implied promise of that 
morning, though I did manage to surprise her with our next scene.  
Just to keep her off guard, I called her unexpectedly on a Sunday 
afternoon to inform her that I would be at her apartment in half 
an hour and wanted to find her naked in front of her bedroom 
mirror when I got there.  

The heat was on full blast when I entered.  Grinning to myself, I 
went to the bedroom and found her standing just as I'd 
instructed.  I claimed her with the scarf and ran my hands over 
her body as she watched our reflections.  I rubbed the hard 
little kernels of her nipples and let my hands drift down her 
abdomen.  My fingers danced over her mons; she was still shaving 
completely, and I admired the look.  Holding her gaze in the 
mirror, I parted her labia.  She was wet.

"Were you touching yourself?"  I rumbled warningly.  As far as I 
was concerned, the scene had begun when I had called.  She had no 
right to stimulate herself except by my explicit order.

"No, Master," she murmured shyly.  "I was thinking."

"About what?" I purred.  

"About what you're going to do to me," she whispered, her cheeks 
pinking prettily.
 
I patted her rump affectionately.  "Good girl," I replied, pride 
in my voice.  "Now close your eyes and just listen."

"Yes, Master."

That day, it was her turn to hear one of my fantasies.  I began 
by painting a verbal image of taking her to a body-art shop and 
selecting the gold rings that would adorn her.  Savoring the 
satiny feel of her skin, I ran my hands over her body as I 
described lovingly stripping her to the waist for the technician 
and standing back to watch him mark her as mine.  

He began with the rings through her nipples.  Delicate but 
strong, they would be perfect, I assured her, for affixing bells, 
bangles or a fine but versatile chain.  As I described the needle 
biting into her tender flesh, I slipped on her favorite clamps 
and tightened them to a nice, firm grip.  She liked that.  I 
liked the whole story--what I had already told her and what was 
still to come--so we were both breathing heavily when the 
imaginary artist held up a mirror for her to admire his 
handiwork.  

"Can you picture it, baby?  What do the rings mean?"

Eyes still closed, she whispered, "I belong to you, Master."

"That's right. And you're so proud that your body is mine to 
decorate."  

I grinned when she arched her back unconsciously, as if she were 
preening for the mirror.  The crowning touch, though, was a much 
more intimate decoration.  I knelt before her to continue, 
palming the object I'd brought with me.  She was a little wetter 
than the instructions said she should be, but I figured I could 
handle it.   

"You're not done yet, baby.  Your nipples are still throbbing 
when I lift your skirt and open your legs for him.  You're not 
wearing panties, of course.  You're blushing now, but you hold 
still as he makes you ready.  I watch you the whole time.  I can 
almost see the endorphins flooding your body.  You're breathing 
hard, wonder on your face--you didn't think you would enjoy it so 
much."

As I described his forceps gripping her in preparation, I 
carefully slid her new jewelry over her clitoral hood.  She 
gasped as I settled it behind the erect little organ.

"Picture it, baby.  Think of that needle getting closer.  Think 
of yourself practically naked in that chair, legs spread, waiting 
for a strange man to...*pierce* you while I watch."

She moaned.  Safe in the knowledge that she couldn't see me, I 
permitted myself a little smirk.  This time I marked the bite of 
the needle with a sharp pinch of her clit, hard enough to hurt.  
She gasped again, but neither moved nor protested.  

I rose and stood behind her before instructing her to open her 
eyes again.  "Is this comfortable?" I asked, indicating the clit 
clip.  "You should feel it, but it's not supposed to hurt."

She stared at it in the mirror, captivated by the dangling chains 
and tiny crystal beads.  "Yes, Master."

"It *should* intensify the sensation."  With her still watching, 
I delicately stroked her clit. 

"Ohh..."

I laid my other hand on her shoulder and pressed downward in a 
signal she knew well.  "On your knees, baby, and suck me off."

She sighed again, aroused by the coarse language as much as by my 
touch, and sank gracefully down.  Just to test the clip 
thoroughly, I let her play with herself while she tended to me.  
It did its job.  After I came she looked up at me with such 
anticipation that I seriously considered letting her climax--for 
all of ten seconds.

"That's enough."

Her face fell, but she stopped and rested her hands on her thighs 
in her "waiting" position.  The fingers of her right hand were 
wet.  I smiled down at her benignly before ordering her up.  

We spent a quiet afternoon in her apartment reading, watching TV, 
and preparing dinner together.  Scully adapted easily enough to 
doing these tasks in the nude; with a little encouragement, in 
fact, she was soon prancing around the apartment showing off her 
new jewelry.  I'd always thought there was a bit of the 
exhibitionist in her.  I didn't think *she* knew, but that would 
make coaxing it out all the more fun.  

It was just as well that she enjoyed displaying herself for my 
entertainment, because conversation was a bit limited.  I was 
focused on ensuring that she couldn't think about anything but 
her nipples and her clit, and Scully--well, she couldn't think 
about anything but her nipples and her clit.  Still, she was 
adorable as she watched me with those big eyes, waiting for me to 
let her come.  When I finally took her to bed she was a little 
tigress--tamed, but a tigress nonetheless. 

My hand on my cock jerks me out of the memory.  I look around the 
hotel room, noticing for the first time how tired and faded it 
is, and move my hand away.  I don't want solitary comfort 
tonight.

Giving myself a mental shake, I indulge in a final daydream.  

Our earlier discussions about power games were absolutely 
necessary; I had to have Scully's unambiguous consent before 
proceeding to the next stage.  The downside, though, is that now 
she's expecting me to pull out something more intense.  She's 
ready for it, and that won't do at all.  

I go to my briefcase for another file, taking a moment first to 
finger the silk scarf tucked away in a side pocket.  When this 
case is over, I silently promise us both, I'm going to surprise 
her.

*********************************************


When you come right down to it, I don't like Texas.  I don't like 
the weather.  I don't like the ubiquitous, twangy country music.  
I don't like the beefy men with big trucks, big hats, and--one 
can only assume--small penises who assert their manhood by 
refusing to let you pass them on the freeway.  And while Texas is 
arguably not responsible for Mulder's behavior, the state never 
seems to do him any good.  

There was one option to try before pursuing Mulder's suggestion 
that I exhume and examine Sibyl's body.  Collecting the tissue 
samples from her previous autopsy, I drove to the lab in Dallas.  
If truth be told, I was glad for the excuse to work separately 
for another day.

The officer assigned to work with us on the Blackstone case, 
either by luck or practice, managed to behave toward me in a way 
that straddled the line between "offensive" and "actionable," and 
Mulder made an executive decision that we would split up 
yesterday.  When Mulder glowers at someone who checks me out too 
thoroughly while we're on a date, it's slightly--very slightly--
amusing.  When he starts defending me from the louts we have to 
work with, it's worrisome.  Specifically, it's worrisome because 
he never did it *before* we became lovers--Mulder actually 
figured out before I did that the best way to deal with people 
like Chilton was for him to back off and force them to deal with 
me.  I can't do my job if he starts intervening to "protect" me 
whenever he feels uncomfortable, and so I was more than a little 
miffed with him.

The drive to Dallas turned out to be an exercise in testosterone-
laden, pickup-dodging aggravation that did nothing to improve my 
mood.  Once I got to the lab, though, the techs were professional 
and competent, and I got what I needed without difficulty.  I 
reached for my cell phone to call Mulder; if I was right and luck 
was with us, we'd be able to wrap up the case that day.  

When he answered, I didn't bother with a preamble.  "A gas 
chromatograph analysis showed that Sibyl died from digoxin 
toxicity: digitalis poisoning."

"Overdose of her heart medication?" he asked.

"Digoxin can be prescribed for people with her condition, but she 
wasn't taking it.  So they didn't test for it at the autopsy." 

"Somebody gave it to her, then.  We've gotta get a search warrant 
for Demeter--"

"Mulder--"

"She must have known something--"

"Mulder!" 

Finally, I had his attention.  "The liver-tissue analysis 
suggested some overdosage of the medication she *was* taking, but 
her doctor had prescribed the right amounts.  I need you to go 
talk to her husband.  He was in the best position to do it."

"What?  We checked him out.  She was happily married."

"That's not what her sister told me yesterday.  Just go pick him 
up, okay?  I'm on my way back."

Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one.  By the time I got 
back to Thebes, Mulder and Chilton had Robert Blackstone in 
custody.  Armed with the data I brought back from the lab, we got 
a confession.

Tired of his marriage and unwilling to accept the financial 
consequences of divorce, Blackstone had coldly, methodically 
capitalized on his wife's illness.  A few months after she 
developed the atrial flutter, he got a duplicate prescription of 
her arrhythmia medication filled and began occasionally slipping 
extra doses into her morning coffee or glass of wine at dinner.  
He was good--Sibyl went back to her doctor several times to 
complain of a racing and irregular heartbeat, but the overdoses 
were too mild and sporadic to pin down.  Sibyl's own wild 
theories about the origins of her illness did nothing to help her 
case.  Her doctors, friends, and family came to conclude that her 
symptoms were those of hypochondria--until she died.  Then they 
interpreted the complaints as signs of the disorder that led up 
to her untimely but natural death.

Blackstone recited his confession in a flat, emotionless voice, 
broken only by his faint pleasure at his own cleverness.  Of all 
the monsters we deal with, the human ones are the most chilling.  
I couldn't escape the interrogation room fast enough.
 
I barely noticed when Chilton congratulated Mulder on solving the 
case.  There was a brief exchange between them, and then Mulder 
was next to me again.   "You want to finish up here?"

I sighed, cracking my neck in a futile effort to relieve the 
tension and telling myself that the sooner I explained my 
findings to the people who would make the case against 
Blackstone, the sooner we could get out of here.  "Yeah, I'll do 
it.  Can you look into flights home?"  

"For tonight?" he asked in surprise.

"If we can."  I'd had enough of the leering local cop and the 
insidious betrayal that had ended Sibyl's life.  I'd had enough 
of Texas.

Mulder's gaze was disconcertingly sharp, but after studying me 
for a moment he simply nodded.  "I'll make some calls." 

I had just wrapped up at the police station when my cell phone 
chirped again.  

"We can't catch any flights to DC tonight except red-eyes," he 
said brusquely, "but we're going back to Dallas for a decent 
hotel.  Meet me back in our rooms as soon as you can."

And he hung up.  Not quite bristling at his preemptory tone, I 
pocketed my phone.

Now we're stopped at a Marriott in Dallas, which Mulder must be 
paying for with his own credit card.  We're not here on Bureau 
business.

When I went back to my room to pack, I discovered he'd already 
done it.  The stockings, garter belt, bra and panties he'd bought 
for me last month were sitting on top of my suitcase, and the 
rest of my underwear had mysteriously vanished.  Part of me had 
an embarrassingly enthusiastic reaction to his blatant 
announcement of his intentions for tonight; the other part was 
angry he'd brought that aspect of our lives on a case.  I changed 
into slacks and a tired old button-down shirt--the least sexy 
outfit in my suitcase.  But I put the lingerie on first.

Mulder was waiting for me by the car.  His gaze traveled 
deliberately over my clothing and his mouth quirked, as if 
accepting a challenge.  His hand brushed mine as he took my 
suitcase.  "I know what you need tonight, Scully," he told me.

I let him drive back.  He was silent for most of the trip.  The 
empty time helps me shake off the case, but I'm not there yet by 
the time we arrive at the hotel.  I feel fidgety, restless; 
excited, but more than a little uncertain about moving straight 
from a case to--well, to *this.* 

We stopped for dinner at a small but clean diner along the way.  
Ever the gentleman, Mulder came around to open my door for me.

"Wait," he told me when I started to get out of the car.  With 
nimble fingers he unbuttoned my blouse right down to my bra, so 
that the lace would peek through whenever I moved.  "That's 
better," he said in satisfaction, and escorted me into the 
restaurant without another word.  

The waitress didn't seem to think it odd that he ordered without 
consulting me.  I sat across from him, accepting the way his gaze 
roved possessively over me, alternately enjoying the attention 
and thinking uncharitable thoughts about Texas because it's 
easier than thinking them about Mulder.

"What?" I finally asked after an especially open leer, thinking I 
knew the answer.  

I didn't.  

"I was just thinking of you interrogating Blackstone this 
afternoon," he replied.

"And?"

"I was watching the way you took charge: crowding his space, 
slapping your hand on the table, your eyes flashing."  He leaned 
forward.  "And all I could think about was how I was going to 
make you writhe naked on the floor and beg."

My eyes widened in shock that he would think about sex games at a 
time like that.  An instant later I caught my breath as I 
pictured it too.  The contrast with our carefully balanced, 
largely asexual professional lives made the unbridled sexuality 
of the image all the more enticing.  

That didn't mean I wanted our two worlds to intersect.  "I'm not 
sure I want to play tonight, Mulder."  

He shrugged.  "You will."

We finished the meal in silence, but when we returned to the car 
he pounced again.  Reaching around me to unlock my door, he 
suddenly trapped my body against the cool metal.  

"I'm going to have so much fun with you tonight," he told me.  
"I'm gonna suck your nipples until you whimper, and lick your 
clit until you beg.  And then, Scully, I'm gonna fuck you until 
you *scream.*"

'Scully.'  Again I shrank from the juxtaposition of the two roles 
we have always kept separate--but the jolt that shot through me 
when his hand cupped my clothed sex was strong enough to make my 
knees weak.
 
He returns from the registration desk and drives around to our 
room at the end of one of the hotel's wings.  I make no protest 
as he guides me in with a firm hand at my elbow; in fact I've 
barely spoken at all since I donned the clothing back in Thebes.  
Even so, I follow him reluctantly.  

I freshen up as he retrieves the luggage and drift over to the 
little workspace at the far side of the room, which has a small 
desk and chair beneath the window.  I open the curtains and stare 
out idly.  Light from the room next door spills out into the 
courtyard, and the faint sound of someone entering it filters 
through the wall, but the hotel is otherwise mostly quiet.  I'm 
still trying to sort out my feelings as Mulder opens the door, 
mumbling a soft greeting to someone in the hallway.  I want it 
tonight, but I can't quite let go.

Silk caresses my throat.  Mulder's hand closes over mine on the 
curtain pull, and he tugs them shut.

"You know why you're here, baby.  Were you planning on putting on 
a show?"

I shrug away and put up a token protest, not sure if I want him 
to stop or be more aggressive.  "Maybe you're pushing too hard 
tonight, Mulder."

He recaptures my hand.  "No, Scully, I'm not.  You're tired, 
you're tense, you need to relax, and I'm going to make you.  You 
know how to stop it if you really want to."

With a gentle smile he places a row of soft kisses up my wrist.  
It's a trick, of course.  The next thing I know, he's trapped 
both my wrists in one hand.  He spins me around with my back to 
his chest, and palms my breast through my clothing.  The nipple 
goes erect, earning it a firm pinch.

"Good girl," he praises as he slips loose a button of my shirt.  

Some part of me, the part that smoked forbidden cigarettes and 
stayed out past curfew, twists against his restraining hand.  

"Behave yourself," he purrs as he releases my hands.  A sharp tug 
at my half-open blouse, and the remaining buttons pop free.  The 
sound of the tearing fabric stimulates that shameful desire I 
have always hidden: to be forced.  To have all choice taken away.

Light kisses tickle the nape of my neck while his hand creeps up 
the back of my open shirt and unclasps my bra.

"Mulder," I protest feebly.

"Shh."  

My clit pulses at the hint of steel lurking under his indulgent 
tone.  He tugs the blouse off my shoulders, but the buttoned 
cuffs trap my hands in the sleeves.

He chuckles.  "That's useful." 

A hand slips under my loosened bra to massage my breasts 
tenderly, even reverently.  He kneels before me, a slight smile 
playing over his lips, and unfastens my slacks.  His fingers 
dance over the waistband of my panties before he jerks down the 
slacks, the roughness of the act contrasting sharply to his 
gentleness of just a few seconds before.  They end up around my 
ankles, threatening to trip me if I move.  I'm standing before 
him now in my lingerie, trapped by my own clothing.  Without 
warning, his mouth covers my sex.

"Oh!" I squeal as another searing jolt bursts through me.

Another one, then another, as he tongues me through the wet silk 
of my panties.  I struggle briefly, but the rebellious side of me 
isn't quite rebellious enough to reject cunnilingus when offered.   
God, I was expecting blows or force, not this persistent, 
implacable erosion of my will.  I groan, arching helplessly 
toward his mouth. 

"That's right," he mutters smugly.  "You *need* it tonight, don't 
you?"

I don't respond.

*Crack!* His hand falls heavy on my ass in a hard, stinging blow.  
"Don't you, baby?"

Some small part of me still holding back, I shake my head.  I do 
need this, need for him to take what I haven't offered.  Being 
compelled to submit is my deepest, darkest fantasy, and I want it 
badly.  But I always imagined confronting it after a slow 
buildup: over a long romantic weekend, perhaps, sometime when I'd 
told him I was ready.  Not unexpectedly, in this grey area 
between our personal and professional lives.  

He stands.  Gripping my hips, he pulls me against his clothed 
erection.  In the same even tone he asks, "How does that feel?"

"Hard," I reply.  My heart is pounding.  

"That's right.  Hard.  But you're soft, baby.  Soft and sweet."

"No..." I murmur, my protests losing strength as he rocks the 
arrogant swell of his cock against my clit.  

"Yes.  You're melting, going limp, getting wet.  You can't help 
it."

"Mulder, I don't think--"

He releases me so suddenly that I moan at the loss.  "You don't 
need to think, sweetheart.  You need to obey.  Listen to your 
body.  It aches to serve me."

Another involuntary moan escapes my throat.  I raise my voice to 
cover my reaction.  "Mulder--"

Crack!  "'Master.'  And don't use that tone with me."

The slap falls on my breast this time.  I jerk at the unexpected 
blow.  Another one, and then his mouth is on me, working my 
nipple hard.  I cry out, my head thrown back.  He slaps my thigh 
before his hand moves between my legs.

"See how wet you are?  Your body responds when I want.  Don't 
fool yourself into thinking otherwise."

The fingers circle and caress, proving how aroused I am, making 
me more so.  They play over me as only he knows how to do, 
telling me he isn't going to stop unless I use my safeword.  His 
indifference to my resistance is a little frightening, but deep 
down, isn't it what I wanted?

His voice snaps like a whip.  "On your knees."

I drop, my cunt weeping.

He lifts my chin, his sharp gaze probing into my mind.  His deft 
hands remove my shirt and the bra hanging loosely from my torso, 
handling my nipples roughly.  Already erect, they love the 
attention.

"You want it bad, don't you?" he asks.  He forces his fingers 
between my lips, making a response impossible.  "You want me to 
top you so bad you can taste it."

I try to shake my head, but he grips my chin to hold me still.  

"That's why you're misbehaving now--you want me to force you, 
take everything away but your submission.  And that's exactly 
what I'm going to do."

I close my eyes as heat washes through me.  I *do* want him to 
force me out of myself, pushing me to a new level of surrender.  
It's just that I want it on *my* terms, not his....

And that's why I began melting the minute I discovered he'd taken 
all my underwear, why I didn't object when he unbuttoned my 
blouse, why I'm embarrassingly wet already.  It's impossible to 
have this fantasy on my terms. 

Mulder would never truly coerce me; if I use my safeword now he 
will stop.  If I ask, he would probably enact the seduction I 
envisioned later, when I choose.  It would be safe and scripted--
and stripped of the thrill of knowing that just a touch of the 
force is real.

Maybe I'll regret this tomorrow.  But as he begins teasingly 
fucking my mouth with his fingers, I know I'm not going to stop 
him.

He pulls his fingers away.  "You may stand," he tells me in his 
most arrogant tone.  

Trembling, I rise.  I don't resist as he removes my flats and 
frees me from my slacks.  His expression is aloof as he plays 
with my clit through the wet fabric of my panties, but those 
clever fingers know exactly how to touch me.  I have a curious 
sensation of losing myself by degrees: my mind obeys only 
grudgingly, but my body is dancing to his tune when he stops and 
turns away.  

It feels smutty, naughty, and oh, so hot.

He rustles around in the suitcases and returns with a couple 
neckties and the highest heels I brought on this trip.  Pulling 
down my panties, he removes them and slips the shoes onto my 
feet.  He makes a twirling motion with his finger, and I turn in 
a slow pirouette.  He smirks down at me for a long moment when I 
finish, enjoying towering over me fully clothed as I stand there 
in my tarty outfit.  

"Open your legs and bend over."

I obey, leaning on the desk for support.  

He laughs.  "All the way, baby.  Spread your legs and reach for 
your ankles."

Reluctantly I bend nearly double.  He binds my wrists to my lower 
calves with his neckties, keeping my body bent over.  The bonds 
have enough slack for me to raise or lower my upper body a bit, 
but not much.  My buttocks jut out pertly, emphasizing the garter 
belt and stockings and making me feel totally vulnerable.

Mulder walks around me, admiring his handiwork as my cheeks burn.  
He's my Master, I remind myself.  I choose to do as he says, and 
I'm tied in this revealing, humbling position because he wants me 
that way.  It's no different than the night I posed for him.

But it feels different.

I gasp as he touches me.  The fingers of one hand part my labia 
while those of the other probe my vagina experimentally.  He 
handles my exposed sex casually, coolly. 

"I don't think that there are words for the way you look like 
this, baby.  Open.  Decadent.  Perfectly fuckable."

I get wetter.

The next sound takes me a second to identify: the tear of a foil 
condom packet being opened.  That's my only warning before he 
pushes into me and begins pumping.

I wobble on my heels, losing my balance, and his fingers dig into 
my hips.  He thrusts harder, steadying me as his balls slap 
against the backs of my thighs. 

He groans contentedly.  "God, baby, I can't believe how good it 
feels to use you like this."

I bite my lip to check the automatic response, but my harsh 
breathing gives me away.  He thrusts a little harder, grunting 
with his pleasure and seemingly giving no thought to mine.  I 
squirm to change the angle.

*CRACK!*

I cry out, my eyes stinging with tears.  He hit me harder than 
usual.  

"Hold still," he growls through gritted teeth, pulling me closer.

He talks to me in his 'Master' voice as he fucks me, telling me 
how hot and tight I feel, how hard it makes him to have me 
helpless.  I whimper, jealous of the pleasure he takes from my 
body, and squirm again.  Another heavy slap.  I gasp, my vagina 
clenching around him.

"I think you want to be punished, baby.  You're trying to goad me 
into spanking you."

He's right: I am.  I want that pain, that ritual to mark my 
transformation from Mulder's cool, competent partner to his 
cherished, obedient submissive.

His voice lowers and his fingers tighten on my hips.  "So I'm not 
going to."

He rams himself in deep, fingers biting almost painfully.  My 
clit is swollen, pulsing, he could bring me off with a few 
careless flicks of his finger...

He comes with a deep, satisfied groan.  Then he pulls out, 
leaving me empty and aching.  I bite my lip again, but can't 
quite stifle the disappointed moan.

Mulder taps my clit just to make me jump.  "If you ask nicely, I 
might let you come."

It would be easy to give in: my body is more than ready.  But I 
want him to push just a little bit harder.

When I remain silent, he releases me.  "You'll be more 
comfortable if you don't lock your knees," he offers as his 
footsteps retreat.  

I lift my head, but can't see anything except the floor, the bed, 
and the legs of the desk and chair next to me.  I let my head 
hang limply and rely on my ears instead.  The rattle of a drawer 
or cabinet opening tells me he's on the far side of the room.

He flips on the television, filling the room with the 
unmistakable gasps and moans of a porn movie.  I expect him to 
settle on the bed to watch, but instead he goes about the room, 
turning on every light. A minute later he goes into the bathroom 
and turns on the shower.  I can hear it running clearly--he must 
have left the bathroom door open.  

Immobilized by the bonds, I stand where he left me, listening to 
the movie he left on to arouse me.  If I could see the 
television, the fake breasts and cheesy scenery of the typical 
porn flick would only amuse me.  Hearing a woman begging for 
release and then screaming her ecstasy, though, makes me ache for 
the same thing to be done to me.  As I listen, the lights harshly 
illuminate my position of extreme sexual accessibility.  I feel 
like a toy, left out on the floor because he knows he's going to 
play with me again shortly.  And thanks to the movie, my nearly 
Pavlovian response to being restrained, and my own imagination, 
I'll be ready for him when he returns.

Eventually the shower goes off and Mulder emerges from the 
bathroom.  He moves soundlessly, but in my doubled-over position 
I can see his bare legs and feet when he approaches me from 
behind.  Fingers stroke over my rear and inner thighs, then 
circle my clit.  I'm no longer on the verge of climax, but the 
little organ is still hot and swollen.

 "Oh, very nice."

The soundtrack of moans, gasps, and squeaking bedsprings 
continues as he moves around the room again, making preparations 
I can't see.  He phones down to the front desk to request more 
towels, and a few minutes later a knock comes at the door.  The 
TV snaps off.

No.  He wouldn't...

The door opens.  

My face, already flushed from my position, burns with 
embarrassment and a strange excitement as Mulder exchanges a few 
words with the person on the other side.  

The door closes.  More rattling of drawers and preparations 
before footsteps bring him to me once more.  Warm hands caress my 
ass.  

"When you were reading about things that doms do to their subs, 
baby, did you come across the term 'forced exhibitionism?'"

It takes me a few seconds to find my voice.  "Yes, Master."

"He didn't see you.  But if you don't behave, I just might call 
him back and let him."  

I open my mouth and then close it again, blushing furiously.  I 
think the threat is like his startlingly erotic story of having 
me pierced for him--only a fantasy.  But it's just possible that 
he's serious.  "Forced exhibitionism" called up the ludicrous 
image of me standing in a park in a trenchcoat, exposing myself 
at Mulder's command; it was so absurd that I never mentioned it 
when we established the groundrules for the game.  Only now do I 
realize the range of actions those two little words could 
encompass.
 
A flutter begins deep in my belly.  I don't want him to let some 
stranger see me like this.  But I want to believe that he might 
do it.  

He finally unties me and lets me straighten and stretch before he 
lays the towels on the floor.  I sink to my knees on the 
makeshift cushion without being told.  The position feels 
comfortable, familiar, and I know my posture is appropriately 
deferential.  In my mind, though...my mind is harboring that last 
bit of stubbornness just so I can feel the rush when he sweeps it 
away.

He pulls out the desk chair and sits down in front of me.  I 
don't know what he wore to open the door, but he's nude now, and 
the sight of his flaccid penis resting in its nest of dark curls 
is paradoxically exciting.  There's something indescribably 
wicked about keeping me fully aroused while he remains 
indifferent; the contrast proclaims that he intends not to share 
my excitement, but to control and manipulate it.  To control and 
manipulate me, make me do to things I would never do myself.

Aware of my scrutiny, he smirks and shifts casually.  "Tell me, 
baby, who am I?"

I lower my gaze.  "My Master."

He lifts my chin.  His fingers feel cool on my heated skin.  "And 
you are?"

"Your submissive," I reply.

"That's right.  Do you have the right to refuse me?"

My nipples are painfully tight.  "No, Master."

"But it's my right to make you do things you don't want."  His 
thumb traces my lower lip.  "If you need to struggle a little, I 
understand.  But if you misbehave, I will punish you.  And no 
matter how hard you struggle, I will *always* subdue you."

The shudder starts in my clit and washes through my whole body.  
"Yes, Master."

He observes my reaction with clinical satisfaction.  "Arms above 
your head."  

I stretch my arms above my head and clasp my hands, as I did the 
night he had me pose for him.  He had to get me in the mood then 
too, but his overt dominance is more intense tonight, and darker.  
Maybe it's darker *because* it's more intense.

He sits back in the chair.  "You may speak, but don't even think 
about putting them down without permission."

He didn't order me into this position for its aesthetic 
qualities.   As I learned earlier, the pose becomes uncomfortable 
in scant minutes and quickly progresses to painful.  Maintaining 
it will require much greater force of will than simply accepting 
a swift spanking, which is why he's doing it.  He wants me to 
make a conscious, sustained effort to bend myself to *his* will.

As punishments go, it's an effective one.  My arms soon shake in 
fatigue, demanding greater and greater exertion to be held aloft.  
It's approaching agony when he lets me rest.  

He gives me only a brief respite before gesturing for me to 
resume the position.  "I know it hurts, baby.  Ride the pain to 
where you're supposed to be."

"Yes, Master," I whisper, lifting my arms.   The pins and needles 
in my arms and hands return quickly, and I can feel my face 
reddening under the strain.  

"Good girl.  Open yourself," he continues. "Feel the pain driving 
out all your stubbornness, all your resistance."

I focus on his words, letting his voice envelop me.  I'm supposed 
to be in that place where he can punish me however he sees fit 
and I accept his correction willingly, even gladly, because it 
reinforces his control over me.  Finally ready to go there, I let 
that last wall start to crumble.  As it weakens, the emotional 
rawness that always accompanies discipline grows stronger.  With 
the ache in my arms becoming nearly unbearable, I bite my lip to 
hold back the tears.

"No," he says in his gentlest tone.  "You know the rules.  No 
hiding."  

"Please, Master," I whisper, my eyes watering.

"One more minute.  You can do it."

My hands are going numb, my arms shaking--I want desperately to 
please him, but can't keep them up for another second. Just as my 
arms begin to fall of their own accord, Mulder leans over me.  
One hand closes around my wrists, holding them up, while with the 
other he lands a series of fast, hard slaps on my rear.  

I burst into tears as the blows push me over the edge.  When he 
releases my wrists I collapse to the floor at his feet, sobbing, 
free-falling into total surrender.  

"Good girl," I hear him murmur.  He lifts my shuddering body to 
the bed and sits next to me, petting my hair and whispering 
soothing nonsense.  The pain was real but fleeting; I'm crying 
for no reason now, crying because it feels strangely good.

He looks down at me, smiling faintly.  "You're beautiful when you 
cry, baby.  Radiant."  His hands run over my body in long 
strokes.  "Sometimes I'm going to make you cry just to see that 
radiance."

He reaches for a glass of water when my tears slow.  Rather than 
handing it to me, he lifts my head and brings the glass to my 
lips.  I sip, feeling a strange triumph in my defeat.  The 
punishment was real, not a play spanking, and I endured it.  
Endured it, and emerged more subject to him.  

He sets the glass aside.  "That's better.  I can see it in your 
eyes, baby.  You're mine now."

"Yours, Master."  My words are slightly slurred, as if I'd been 
drinking.  I feel like I've been drinking; a gentle, hazy 
euphoria is clouding my mind and seeping into my limbs.

"Good girl.  Now, I want you to look around the room."

I let my gaze travel around.  Luggage rack by the door, TV 
cabinet opposite the bed, locked connecting door, desk under the 
window--it's all unremarkable.  The room is a little larger and 
more tastefully appointed than those in many of the hotels our 
work takes us to, but nothing out of the ordinary.  I look at him 
questioningly.  

"I'm doing you here for a reason," he tells me as his fingers 
circle my nipples, skillfully teasing them to full erection.  
"There's nothing here to remind you of who you are or what you do 
outside this room.  You're here because I want you to be.  You're 
dressed for my pleasure."  

A warm hand caresses my knee.  It drifts up my inner thigh, 
toying with the lace at the top of my stocking, skates over my 
garter belt, and returns to my breast.  

"In this room, baby, you exist only to satisfy my desires.  
You're a toy: a beautiful, exotic, priceless"--his voice lingers 
over the words--"toy."  

I sigh.

"Oh, you like that, do you?" he chuckles.

Without warning, his fingers tighten *hard* on my nipples.  The 
bolt that shoots to my sex is more pain than pleasure, but the 
two are so entwined that my back arches and my thighs part.   He 
draws my arms over my head again.  Pulling the scarf from my 
throat, he ties it around my wrists.  His lips quirk in 
satisfaction as he looks down at me.

"In this room," he continues, "your desires, your fears, your 
inhibitions don't matter.  Not to me, and not to you."  

He pushes my thighs further apart, until my body is sprawled wide 
and offered up to him.  I've always snickered at romance novels 
that can only describe the sensations of sex as "throbbing."  But 
now, the only word to describe the feeling between my legs is 
"throbbing."  The hot flesh is throbbing so hard that I wonder if 
he can see it.

He slaps my inner thigh lightly.  I look up to see him watching 
me with amused expectation.  

"Yes, Master," I agree obediently.

He looms over me on all fours.  He's erect now, his cock pointing 
unerringly at the vee of my spread thighs.  After coming once 
already, though, he'll be able to hold out a long time if he 
wants.  

Straddling my body, he rains soft kisses on my ears and face, 
long, lingering ones on my lips, hot and quick ones down my neck 
to my breasts.  I arch my back, pleading for more.  In response 
he nips me sharply with his teeth, then soothes the sting with 
his tongue.  

"You wanna get fucked now, baby?"

"Oh, yes," I moan.

He sucks my nipples until I whine low in my throat.  My hips 
begin undulating slowly.  He strokes between my legs, coaxing my 
hips to move faster, my whole body to writhe.

I yelp in shock at the sharp pinch at my clit.  When my eyes 
focus on him, he gestures peremptorily at the floor.  Head 
swimming, I kneel by the desk and wait while he shuts off most of 
the lights.  My sex feels heavy and flushed; it aches for his 
touch.  I focus on the chair in front of me.  The polished wood 
looks so hard and inviting...

I straddle the leg of the chair and rub my heated clit against 
the smooth wood.  The unyielding hardness feels strange, but so 
erotic that I repeat the action.

A choked groan from Mulder freezes me as I remember the rule 
about masturbating without permission.  "I'm sorry, Master."

"Keep going," he says hoarsely, crouching next to me.  His 
fingers slip into my mouth again.  This time I suck eagerly as I 
slide up and down, pacifying my greedy clit.

"That's naughty, Scully.  Do you wanna be naughty tonight?"

His use of my name sends a little shiver through me.  Thrilled by 
my own shamelessness, I groan affirmatively around his fingers 
and shimmy on the chair.  The action is very un-Scullylike, but 
I've discarded my normal inhibitions as if they were a pair of 
torn pantyhose.

His hand descends on my ass once more, and sparks shoot behind my 
eyelids as the blow grinds my clit against the rounded wood 
between my legs.  The flashes of pain don't dampen my arousal--
quite the opposite.  Punctuating his otherwise gentle touches, 
they give the excitement simmering within me a delicious, wicked 
spice. 

His finger trails over the garters laying over the swell of my 
ass and holding up my stockings.  When he dressed me in these 
clothes once before, the experience that followed was 
transcendent.  Tonight it feels gritty, even dirty.  

And just as exciting.  I pump faster, performing my desire for 
him.

His voice stops me.  "That's enough."

He repositions me on my hands and knees and knots the long end of 
my scarf around the leg of the desk.  I spread my legs eagerly, 
my appetite only whetted by my lewd performance.

"Now, what was I going to do with you tonight?" he muses.

I rest my head on my forearms, remembering the conversation in 
the diner.  "Make me beg, Master."

"That's right.  You think it's a fun little game to beg, don't 
you?  Well, not tonight."  

He parts my labia with his thumbs as I quiver in anticipation.  
He knows just how to play me.

"Aching desperation, baby."  A loud, unabashed groan escapes me 
at the first lingering stroke of his tongue.  "Arousal that you'd 
do *anything* to relieve," he continues.

Holding me firmly in place, he works me over slowly at first, 
until a deep but languid arousal suffuses my entire body.  Then 
strong, progressively faster licks build the desire as surely as 
a rollercoaster climbing a hill.  Just as I'm about to plummet 
over the peak, though, he stops.

"Master!" I pant.

He chuckles.  "Were you close, baby?"

"Yes," I gasp as his tongue returns at that slow, deliberate 
pace.  Lifting my head, I look at the fabric tied around the leg 
of the desk and shiver.  I'm helpless now, completely at his 
mercy as he whips the need up again and leaves me hanging once 
more.

"Oh, but I'm going to take my time with you.  Want to know what 
you're gonna do before you come?"

"Uh," I gasp feebly, still panting with frustrated desire.

His voice continues implacably.  "You're going to plead and beg"-
-a few soft strokes--"and wriggle."  A slow stroke that ends 
probing my vagina.  "You won't be able to help yourself."
 
My eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open, lips working but no sound 
coming out.  My back arches like a bow as I lift my ass, offering 
myself to him.  His tongue makes swirling motions over my clit, 
then a few more thrusts into my eager opening.  

"But nothing you do will matter."  Quick, feathery flicks.  
"You'll come when *I* want you to."

He tongue-fucks me for a minute and returns to my clit.  My limbs 
feel loose and uncoordinated as he laps at me.  His voice echoes 
the need pulsing through me, magnifying every sensation.  It 
washes everything else away, my thoughts scattering before it, 
nothing grounding me but his hands on my ass and the silk around 
my wrists.

"Feel the rush?  Your pride is so little, so insignificant."

He tongues me with just the right pressure.  Body aching for 
release, I throw back my head and cry out a primal plea.

"Tell me!" he barks.  

And I'm babbling about my clit and his tongue and the need, oh, 
please, Master...

He croons at me.  "There.  Doesn't it feel good to let go?"

It feels wonderful.  I feel weak and insignificant; his voice is 
more powerful than ever, his presence overwhelming.  Random 
sensations flood my brain: the rough towels under my knees, his 
masculine scent, the strain in my thighs as they ache to spread 
wider, the incoherent pleas still flowing from my lips.

"You're beautiful like this.  So pretty, so desperate.  No other 
thought in your mind.  You're reduced to your most animal 
instincts."

A liquid rush floods my whole body.  I exist now as nothing but 
abject, aching need.   "Yes, please, please..."

"And you're all mine."

"Yours, Master, yes, please let me come, yours, oh God, yours..."

My voice chokes off as he teases me to the plateau once more, but 
my mind is still screaming the pleas.

"Feel that, baby? I *own* you now.  Don't ever forget that.  Burn 
it into your soul."

The silent screams explode into blinding white shards as I come.

I'm still gasping with the aftershocks when he frees the scarf 
from the table leg.  Hauling me to my feet, he bends me over the 
desk and slams into me.

"OH!" I screech, trying vainly to stifle the sound.  

With a chuckle and another affectionate slap, he begins pumping.  
I feel deliciously slutty with my hands still tied and my breasts 
and cheek pressed to the cool varnished wood of the desktop.  His 
breathing is harsh but controlled, and each slow thrust is 
calculated to not please him, but to claim me. 

He fucks me steadily for a few minutes, then pauses.  Still 
inside me, he repositions me so that I'm supporting my upper body 
with my arms rather than resting flat on the desktop.  He roughly 
widens my stance so that I sink down further on his cock, and 
begins thrusting again.  He feels huge inside me.

"Did you notice the man next to us in the diner?" he asks.  His 
hand slides to the juncture of my thighs.  "He was looking down 
your blouse."

"Oh," I gasp.  The fluttering in my belly resumes as his fingers 
work expertly between my legs.  

"Yeah.  Running his eyes over your pretty breasts, staring at 
your tight little nipples.  Were you just excited, baby, or did 
you know I was showing you off?"

Still rubbing my clit, he flicks on the desk lamp.
 
"Because everyone else knew, sweetheart.  It wouldn't have been 
more clear if I'd brought you in naked on a leash."

A shockingly vivid picture of him doing just that invades my 
mind, making me gasp again.  The action itself would be 
unthinkable for us, even abhorrent, but the totality of surrender 
it represents is intensely appealing.

"You like that, huh?  You'd blush and try to look so demure, but 
you'd get wet just from everyone looking at you."

Reaching out casually, Mulder jerks open the curtains.  My 
startled cry rings loud in the room.  

"They heard *that* next door," he murmurs smugly as he angles the 
lamp to shine on my face.

"Oh, God," I whimper.  My pulse is racing, but I'm too emptied of 
my own will to protest.  In fact, the jolt of fear just makes me 
hotter.
 
The hand at my sex moves between my shoulder blades as the desk 
drawer opens and closes.  I hear a hum, and a strangled scream 
tears from my throat when the vibrations hit my clit.  

"Master," I gasp, struggling feebly against the thought of being 
made to come like this.

The hand on my back holds me firmly in place.  "Keep your chin 
up, baby."

The courtyard is well-lit enough to show that there's no one in 
it--for now.  But we're on the ground floor, and any minute 
someone could pass our window and see me.  My arms would hide my 
breasts from view, but my open, panting mouth and the way my body 
shudders with his thrusts would reveal everything. 

My traitorous body doesn't care.  Somehow my struggles turn to 
eager participation as our rocking hips rhythmically push my clit 
harder against the toy, and my heart hammers as the vibrator 
forces me toward another peak.  Mulder groans and thrusts deeper.  
I realize he's using my body to feel the vibrations in his cock. 

"I can feel your cunt quivering."  His voice is still perfectly 
controlled.  "You're going to squeeze me so tight when you come.  
Can anyone see you?"
 
"No, Master," I sob, feeling my face twist in ecstasy.  The 
climax is swelling fast and hard, dragging me in its wake.

"But they could," he mutters.  He rams himself deep and stills, 
making me pant frantically as the action pins me against the 
vibrator.  "Anyone who walks past this window is gonna see how 
much you love getting fucked."

I orgasm again, crying out, my face exposed to the world.  

He works the vibrator in tiny circles, prolonging the climax.  
Whimpers tear from my throat as my hips make shallow thrusts, 
greedily milking the last bit of pleasure from the orgasm until, 
with a final shudder, I go limp.  

When he shuts off the toy I let my head slump down to rest on my 
arms, feeling like a floppy, sexually sated rag doll.  Rather 
than scolding me, he begins thrusting again--Mulder loves fucking 
me while I float in a post-orgasmic haze.  He turns off the desk 
lamp and tugs the curtains closed.  I mumble some incoherent 
expression of relief.

His warm chuckle fills my ears.  "Don't act so modest, baby.  I 
know you've fantasized about people watching you come."  

His hands run over the curves of my hips and ass, over the lace 
and garters of my lingerie as I try to remember when I told him 
that.  

As if reading my thoughts, he continues, "You've never told me, 
but I know."

I suck in a breath when his fingers stroke my too-sensitive clit; 
they still but don't pull away.

"So I think it's time you tell me.  In explicit detail."

I hesitate.  I only have one fantasy that meets this description; 
it's not one I'm eager to share, but it's strangely appropriate 
tonight.  

He pinches my hip.  With a faint spike of relief, I remember that 
I don't have the choice to withhold secrets anymore.  And so I 
describe the scene as he pumps into me.

"Is it just men watching?" he asks when I finish.  "Or couples?" 

I search my memory.  "Uh...mostly men.  A few couples."

The fingers on my clit circle lightly.  The post-orgasmic 
sensitivity is gone, but I'm too sated for the action to arouse 
me.  

"Is there any audience participation?"

It takes me a moment to catch his meaning.  "Oh, no, Master.  
Just you."

"And why am I doing that to you?"  Nothing but curiosity is 
discernible in his tone.

"I had misbehaved," I explain.  "You said I needed to be reminded 
who was in charge."

"I see."  He's still fucking me lazily.  "It's a punishment--you 
were bad, so I force you to come in front of all those people?"

"Not exactly."  My face is warm.  "You've already punished me.  
This is just to...reinforce the lesson."

"Hmm."  He thinks for a minute, then pulls out of me.  "Well, I 
don't think I would do that."

A sick feeling of humiliation starts in my stomach and spreads 
outward.  I shouldn't have told him...

He wraps his arm around my waist and hauls me to my feet.  
"Because we both know there are better ways to put a little slut 
like you in her place."

I close my eyes in relief.  His arm tightens around me 
reassuringly, holding me against his body so that his wet, hot 
cock presses against the small of my back.  He tucks a lock of my 
hair behind my ear before murmuring, "But that's where we'll 
start.  Close your eyes and picture it."

Eyes already tightly shut, I set the stage in my mind.  I'm nude, 
without my scarf--the way my mind distinguishes fantasies that 
will always remain solely in the realm of the imaginary.  Mulder, 
fully clothed, is leading me by a fine chain attached to the 
clamps on my nipples...

No.  The leash is padlocked to a black leather circlet around my 
neck, and my nipples are pierced by beaded rings.  Light flashes 
off the rings, the chain, and the silver bosses on my collar as 
he parades me into the room.  It's arranged like a nightclub, 
with everyone seated at round tables, and we stop at the front of 
the room.  I'm blushing furiously, but servile to my Master's 
will.  I can feel all their eyes on me...

The vibrator starts humming quietly between my legs, and I fast-
forward the scene to catch up with him.  He has me turned to face 
the audience, holding the leash close in his left hand to keep my 
back arched and my head up.  His right hand, just as it does in 
reality, holds a vibrator to my clit.  I'm trembling, my face 
crimson with the knowledge that it won't be long before the toy 
and his iron will turn me into a panting, frantic wild thing in 
front of everyone.  

The fantasy is very simple.  Mulder implacably builds the power 
while I struggle against the inevitable.  He touches me only to 
hold me in place and on display, watching me writhe in 
embarrassment until I scream as the orgasm takes me in spite of 
myself.

But Mulder isn't following my script.  He holds the vibrator in 
place until my hips start to rock, then pulls it away. 
 
"Play with your tits," he orders gruffly.

Staying in my role, I comply hesitantly.  As soon as I lift my 
hands, still bound loosely at the wrists, the vibrations start 
again.  I knead my breasts, shivering at the dual stimulation.

"That's right.  Think about all those men getting hard while they 
watch you play with yourself."

I let my hands falter.  Instantly, he pulls the toy away.  "Do 
it."  

I begin touching myself again, and he rewards me by bringing the 
tip back to my clit.  "No need to be shy.  They're going to see 
you do a lot more than that."

"Please, Master," I whimper, feeling the creeping pleasure 
clouding my thoughts once more.

This time he shuts off the toy rather than withdrawing it.  
"Who's in charge here?"

I tremble in defeat.  "You are."

My hips jerk helplessly when the vibrator jumps to life again, 
makes tight circles on my clit until I moan, and off goes off 
again.  Mulder knows my body well, knows what the intermittent 
stimulation and denial will do to me.  And I know why he's doing 
it.  He wants to show that he is not bound by my body's 
limitations: he can take me to the point of satiation, even 
exhaustion, and still make me crazy with need again.

He touches my cheek with incongruous gentleness, recalling me 
from the fantasy.  "Tell me something, baby.  Have you 
surrendered to me completely tonight?"

I misbehaved at the beginning, but otherwise... "Yes, Master."

A soft kiss now, achingly tender.  "You think you have.  But 
there are depths of submission that we haven't even begun to 
explore.  You know that, don't you?"

Suddenly I'm standing on a precipice.  "Yes."  

"I'm going to take you to all of them.  And sooner than you 
think, you won't need to hide behind a fantasy while I do it."

Without waiting for me to respond, he encircles my waist once 
more.  Voice hardening, he asks, "Now, where were we?"

Disoriented, I try to recapture the scene in my mind.  "You--
you're in charge, Master."

"That's right."  He nudges my clit with the inert tip of the 
vibrator.  "And I can do anything I want with you or to you.  
Don't forget that again."
 
His cold, almost sinister tone sends another shiver through me.  
"No, Master," I promise.

"Squeeze your nipples.  *Hard.*"

I squeeze tight, tighter, to the verge of pain.  A burst of 
sensation from the vibrator surges from my cunt to my breasts and 
back, amplified by the pressure of my fingers.

"Harder!" he snaps.  

Crying out, I crush my nipples between my fingers.  My mind dimly 
recognizes the sensation as pain, but my intensely aroused body 
perceives it only as erotic stimulation.  *Intense* erotic 
stimulation.  I grunt in frustration when he lifts the toy again.

"Oh, yeah.  Every man in the room is thinking about bending you 
over a table and just slamming into you."

The toe-curling vibrations return once more.  I arch into them 
like an eager cat, moaning as he imposes his version of the 
fantasy on my mind.
 
"They all know your blushes and shyness are just for show.  They 
know what you really are."

Though the men can't touch me, their desire still penetrates me.  
He's prostituting my arousal not for money, but to show me his 
power.  All of them fucking me--their lust makes me writhe.  I've 
never felt so completely sexual.  

"Please, Master," I gasp.

He pulls the toy away.  My hips follow it desperately, arching 
forward until I strain against his restraining arm. I don't care 
how wanton it looks.  I'm still following his script but no 
longer acting.  I want to come.  Badly.

Mulder relents, shoving the vibrator almost roughly between my 
legs.  I squeal, my body going rigid in anticipation.  His cock 
is rock-hard against my back.  

"Tell them what you are, baby."

In my fantasy it was always he who spoke the words, whispering 
them as endearments while I strove to maintain control.  I gasp 
for breath--it won't be long before the driving need renders me 
speechless.  "A slut, Master."

Still pressed again my clit, the vibrator goes still.  I struggle 
helplessly.  

"Oh, yeah, you love being teased, don't you?"  I yelp as it goes 
back on, feeling my hips pump automatically.  "And they're all 
still watching you.  Tell them what you are."

"A tramp!"  I rub myself frantically against the buzzing head.  
Just a little more...

"I could keep this up for hours, you know.  Until you're crazy 
for it.  I could make you drop to your knees with a word, or have 
you on the floor spreading your legs and babbling."  The vibrator 
pulls away, and I wail despairingly.  "I can tease you until 
you'd do *anything* to come.  And they'd see it all."

"Please, Master!"  I'm sobbing in earnest now.

His hands grip my hips.  With a shove, his thick, hard cock is in 
me once more.  I nearly orgasm from that single stroke.  I *need* 
penetration when I submit to him, need to feel my body invaded by 
his presence in whatever form he chooses to give it to me.  

He forces the vibrator back between my legs as he wraps his arm 
around my waist once more.  He doesn't move--just makes me 
squirm, impaled by the hot arrow jutting from his body, as he 
stimulates me ruthlessly.  I'm shaking violently in his arms, 
unbearably aroused for the third time this evening.

"Tell them what you are, Scully," he growls into my ear.  

My eyes fly open, staring blankly at the curtains in front of me.  
The tenor has suddenly changed; this is no longer a game within a 
game.  My desperation and his unyielding dominance are 
thrillingly--and terrifyingly--real.

"A toy!"  I pant.  "A sex toy.  Please..."  

"Tell me who I am."  He lifts the head away by just inches, 
making me sob aloud, then gives it to me again.

"Master!  Oh! Please, Master!" 

"And are you *ever* going to misbehave again?" he snaps.

"No!"  I howl.  

I acted up at the beginning of the evening because I wanted a 
rough seduction, just a little twist on his usual benevolent 
mastery.  But Mulder knows, better than I knew myself, that this 
crack in our normal routine opens onto a deep fissure of dark and 
nameless desires.  My ears are ringing and my whole body tenses 
in anticipation.  So close now, please...  

"One more time.  What are you?"

"*Your* slut!  Oh!  Your tramp--oh, God!--your toy!" 

My body is jerking and twisting on his cock.  The arm around my 
waist tightens, virtually holding me up.  I can't balance, can't 
make my legs do anything but spread wide.

He flips it on high.  "Say my name!" he snaps.

"Master!" I wail, knowing they'll hear me next door but powerless 
to stop myself.  I'm on that precipice again, and he's forcing me 
inexorably toward the edge.  

"Louder, baby.  I want everyone to know I'm screwing you silly."

"MASTER!" I shriek.  

The orgasm slams into me.  "OH!"  I'm coming and my ears are 
pounding and "Oh, GOD!" I'm coming and I can't breathe "Oh!" 
never come this hard never "oh God, oh GOD--"

Another scream tears from my throat and everything goes black.


*****


When I open my eyes, I'm lying on the bed.  "What happened?"

"You passed out."  A cloth slides between my legs.  Impossibly, 
my clit warms at the contact.  "You came, and then you just 
sighed and went limp in my arms."  His tongue retraces the 
cloth's path.  "I've always wanted to do that to you."

My wrists are no longer tied, but the silk is wrapped around my 
left forearm.  Still clad in my lingerie, I lie passively until 
he sets the cloth aside.  

"How do you feel?"

I consider the question.  My body feels limp and malleable, and 
my mind is blissfully clear and peaceful.  "Good, Master."
 
"Good.  Because I haven't finished with you."

Oh God, he's still hard.  He parts my legs wider, not roughly but 
firmly, and positions himself at my entrance.  Lacing his fingers 
through mine, he pins my hands to the bed as he slides into me.

His body moves within mine for a minute, an hour, I don't know--I 
have no sense of time.  I love being pinned to the bed with him 
covering me completely.  I want to drown in him, want him to 
consume me.

Mulder's eyes are closed, his face rigid in concentration.  He 
fucks me slowly then fast, alternately gently and hard, shifting 
position, savoring the variety.  He doesn't even bother to tell 
me what he wants--just moves my limp body as if I were a life-
sized doll beneath him.  I never imagined it was possible to 
simultaneously be so objectified and so beloved.

Opening his eyes, he looks down at me.  He knows what I'm 
thinking.  He always knows what I'm thinking.

He releases my right hand.  "Make me come, baby."

Mulder knows my body well, but I'm just as familiar with his.  
Licking my finger in preparation, I slide it down his back and 
between his taut buttocks to his anus.
 
"Oh, yeah," he groans.  His hand tightens on my left wrist as he 
pumps into me faster.  

I tease him with tiny circles until he buries his head in my 
neck.  His thrusts become harder, almost brutal; his grip around 
my wrist feels like a vise.  I've never felt so completely 
possessed.  Emotion too powerful to contain wells up inside me.

"I love you, Master," I whisper into his ear.

With a growl, he thrusts deep and comes in me, claiming me 
irrevocably as his own.

He holds himself still for a minute, then rolls to the side and 
wraps his arms around me.  I snuggle closer, feeling his lips on 
the crown of my head.

I'm dozing lightly when he rises and finally takes off the wisps 
of clothing I've worn all night.  In our normal post-scene 
ritual, he bathes me with a warm cloth.  When he finishes, I 
notice for the first time how damp and mussed the linen beneath 
us is, but I'm tired enough to doze off again anyway.

I wake up when he lifts me from the bed.  Wordlessly he carries 
me through the connecting door to the empty room adjoining ours 
and lays me down on the fresh sheets of the bed.  After shutting 
off the lights in both rooms, he joins me.

He pulls me against his body, his breath hot in my ear.  "What 
are you, baby?"

This time, the answer comes from my soul.

"I'm yours, Master."

Dark, dark satisfaction colors his voice.  "Good girl."


*********************************************

END.