TITLE:    THAT NIGHT 2
AUTHOR:   E.B.E
E-MAIL:   ebe1013@hotmail.com
RATING:   NC-17 for language and sex
Spoilers: None I can think of
Category: MSR, POV
Synopsis: Second verse, same as the first. Okay, actually not, since
it's now Mulder's point of view, but you get the drift.
Archive: Feel free, but let me know and keep all headers attached
Spoilers: Don't think so
Category: MSR, POV

Disclaimer: Don't own them, just love them. Those wonderful
people at Fox, 1013 Productions, and of course CC own them. But
they need a little more recreation than they get on TV, so I'm
taking them out for a spin. No infringement intended. And
honestly, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so you'd think
they wouldn't care, so long as there is no profit in it for me. And
trust me, there isn't.

Author's note: This is a sequel to That Night. It is now from
Mulder's point of view. It is longer, and more explicit. If you
haven't read the original, you should know that Mulder and Scully
have already done the deed. They are just doing it again.
xxxxxxxxxx

It's been weeks since we were together for the first and only time.
Five weeks, two days, eight hours and thirty-seven minute since I
knocked on the door, but who's counting. I am. I can't stop the
flood of memories, the instant replay of our bodies intertwined,
from popping up at the most inappropriate moments. Invariably,
something else pops up, and I'm forced to either leave the room or
hide somehow until it subsides. She's probably beginning to
wonder about some of these abrupt departures, but what's a guy to
do? I can't halt the images, and taking her in the office, as much
fun as that might be, is not an alternative.

I'm not sure why I'm biding my time. Force of habit, perhaps. It
took two full months for me to work up the nerve to approach her
once I'd made the conscious decision to do so. I was afraid she'd
reject me, talk me out of it, though I knew she wanted me just as
badly as I did her. I just expected that of her, that rational Scully
would appear and put up a fight. For though I could see the logic
of ending our ongoing charade, I expected her to defend, however
reluctantly, the status quo at least a little.

So you can imagine my shock when nary a word of protest crossed
her lips. In fact, the only noises I can recall her making that night
were a series of groans and high-pitched sighs. She was quite
vocal in that respect. I can still hear her cries in my dreams. I long
to hear them again.

Bottom line? I have to go to her again. The need has been
acknowledged, paradise tasted. She hasn't pressured me to talk
about it, thank God, because I'm not sure what to say. But I better
think of something fast. It's becoming intolerable, the feeling of
anticipation, the memory of her body invading my senses. She's
my drug, and like the addict I am I crave my next hit.

She wants it, too. I can tell when she remembers that night, see the
sudden smolder in her eyes. I catch her staring at me sometimes
(as she does me, I must admit), undressing me with her gaze. My
flesh scorches as surely as if she were touching me when those
eyes flicker over me with the brazen admiration only a lover can
convey.

Scully is my lover.

I cannot even form the thought without desire gripping me. We
must discuss this soon, before I dissolve completely and the
janitors find me in a puddle on the basement floor. I will go to her,
tonight if possible. We'll talk, hash this out, finalize our
relationship once and for all.

Because we desperately need some closure for that night.



It must be fate. Our next case was postponed, our flight out shifted
to tomorrow night. Suddenly, our evening is free. She leaves the
office first with a smile and one of those looks I've been noticing
lately. Those looks that tell me she has not forgotten, that the
desire that suffuses my body is a shared desire. Does she wake up
in the middle of the night as I do, taunt with arousal, the memory
of that night dancing before her eyes? Does she clutch at the air,
reaching for an apparition of ecstasy, my name a groan dropping
from her lips? And does she close her eyes and cause her own
release with my face, my body, the only image that can satisfy the
overwhelming burn?

I do these things. Something tells me she does, too. Hopefully,
tonight will change that. Hopefully, release will arrive not with
mental imagery and our own hands, but with reality. That hope
pumps through my veins already, so that as I knock on her
apartment door the rush of blood in my ears nearly drowns out her
greeting.

"Mulder."

A simple thing, really, just my name. My surname, even. Six
letters, two syllables, nothing to get worked up over. No reason it
should heighten my already surging need. But it does, creates a
strong sudden pulse that shoots through my being, scorches its way
from neuron to neuron. It is all I can do to stumble through the
door.

Maybe it was her voice that did it. Low, smoky, musical, the pitch
somehow working like liquor in my bloodstream. I've pounded
shots and felt more composed than I do as I turn to face her. She is
here, standing right in front of me, and suddenly all my years of
education fly out the window. I can think of nothing to say.

"Whatcha doing, Scully?" That's what I come up with? Idiot.

She smiles, that same smile I saw in the office. Different now,
different since that night, sultry and seductive. I think it must be
on purpose, she has to know what she's doing, how it makes me
feel. Then her voice again, whiskey hot.

"Not much. Just packing for our trip."

I nod, make my way to the couch before my knees give way. She
sits beside me, far enough away to be proper, close enough to be
familiar. She's watching me, those eyes deep and dark, still
smiling that come-hither smile, and I'm rapidly losing control.

She settles back on the couch, leans into the cushions. I drink in
the sight of her. She must have showered when she got home from
work, for her hair still bears traces of moisture and the red is
darker, burnished copper. No makeup, long-sleeved over-sized T-
shirt, sweats, barefoot. Stripped of her professional attire, she
seems younger, happier, playful. And still unbearable beautiful.

It's then I realize I'm gaping at her, staring as if I've never laid
eyes on her before when the truth is I've seen all there is to see. I
swallow, trying to work out the lump in my throat and chest, trying
to be mature about this. Which is a tall order, considering I feel
like a fumbling, inexperienced teenager.

"You know why I'm here."

Jesus, I sound so pathetic, the hoarse rasp of my own voice filling
my ears, choking me. But she only smiles warmly, leans forward
to look me in the face.

"Yes, I know."

I have to come up with something, anything to say. Preferably
something that doesn't require her to respond, since my head is still
buzzing from my name spoken at the door, let alone the handful of
words she's spoken since. I edge closer to her, well aware of the
dangers inherent in doing so, still unable to resist. Like a moth to
her flame.

"We need to talk. We didn't talk then."

"And you want to discuss it now."

"Yes."

See, that was better, I held my composure long enough to string
together two whole sentences. There is something to be said for
habituation of the senses, for her presence, while still intoxicating,
is no longer so powerful as to deprive me of rudimentary thought.

"Scully, that night was...it wasn't just..." I drift off, unable to sift
through tumbling thoughts and emotions fast enough to piece
together what it is I want to convey. She understands, I think, her
smile tamer now, the eyes serious. I draw in a deep lungfull of air,
as if the key to coherent speech was combined with the oxygen,
and try again.

"You mean a lot to me, Scully."

A decent start, I figure, conveying more than simple physical
desire. My hand reaches out, rests lightly on hers where it rests on
her knee, my thumb gliding gently over the cool strong flesh.

"It wasn't just about sex," I continue, fixing my gaze on the
movement of my fingers on her. "I mean, not that I didn't enjoy
myself, but that wasn't the only reason I came to you."

"So you weren't just horny," she comments, amusement lacing her
voice.

I blush, my face red with the sudden infusion of embarrassed heat.
I shake my head, half in wonderment, half to deny her quip about
my state of sexual need. "No, I wasn't just horny."

"Are you now?"

My eyes dart up, focus on hers in startled bemusement. Oh God,
she's teasing me. The look is back, the smile, and even as I watch
her tongue darts out to lick at sweet full lips, sending an
uncontrollable shiver down my spine. I have no control, I am hers
body and soul, but I have little choice but to play this out.

"Yes," I whisper, relishing the spark of surprise that flares in her
eyes. She hadn't expected me to admit it, admit the urge that even
now boils in my blood, the urge to claim her, enter her. Again, I
breathe deeply, trying to calm the riot within.

"Yes, I want you. But there's more to it than that."

My fingers still in their movement on her hand, instead insinuating
themselves between her slender digits so that our hands are joined.
Such a simple thing, holding hands, but my heart skips and pounds,
loud in my own ears. Surely she can hear it, too.

"I know that, Mulder. I've always known."

"Always known what?" I reply over the thunder of blood in my
head.

She squeezes my hand. "That you love me. That I love you."

My eyes widen. Is it really that easy, just say it aloud like that?
Certainly it's true, but for some reason I thought it would be
harder, more effort required.

She reads the wonder in my expression, the awe and trace of fear.
She must, for she has always been able to read me, and because her
ever-present smile shifts, becomes soft and reassuring.

"That's what you meant, isn't it, Mulder? That our sex was
emotional as well as physical? I knew that the instant you knocked
on my door. I never would have allowed it otherwise."

My jaw works slowly, up and down, miming words. But no sound
emerges. I've just been laid flat on my ass, so to speak. It just
can't be this easy, it can't, nothing in my life has been so simple. It
doesn't compute. I finally splutter out something.

"If you knew, why did it take so long?"

Did I really say that? Did I just ask her why I didn't get in her
pants sooner? How stupid can I get? But, somehow, she doesn't
seem to mind. She doesn't get angry or hurt, just arches an
eyebrow and responds as rationally as ever.

"You are such a male, Mulder. Sex doesn't equal love. You can
love someone, even as intensely as we do, without consummating
the relationship. Do you love me more now that we've had
intercourse?"

I'm stunned. "No, of course not."

"Nor I you. The physical expression of our affection always
carried as many pitfalls as promises. I was secure in your feelings
for me. I saw no need to complicate an already complex
relationship, especially since we were both more comfortable not
discussing the issue."

I am truly flabbergasted. How can I argue with that? I know sex
and love aren't one and the same. But they usually come as a
package deal, having sex with someone you love, especially
someone you are in love with, and I guess I never stopped to think
about a sexless love, not really. That would explain why I shied
mentally from admitting how I felt. For me, that would be a de
facto request for intimacy, which could be dangerous for both of
us.

Would she have seen it that way, too? Apparently not, but from
our past I doubt she'd have fought it too hard, not so long as she
knew my feelings for her. But how did she know, how could she
know so completely? This is unfathomable to me, a man who has
rarely had the opportunity to be sure of anything, and I open my
mouth to question this enigma.

She responds even before the words slip past my lips.

"It was obvious, Mulder. When you spoke to me, looked at me,
touched me. Even as you infuriated and aggravated me to no end,
it was there. For years now."

I am numb, my mind floating in a fog of discovery and arousal. I
stand, hoping the upward motion will shake up these puzzle pieces,
cause them to fall into some logical order. Sadly, it doesn't work
that way. Nor does pacing work some miracle. My brain cannot
wrap around this, but I shortly give up. Frankly, given what little I
do comprehend, I'd just as soon be confused.



I am numb, my mind floating in a fog of discovery and arousal. I
stand, hoping the upward motion will shake up these puzzle pieces,
cause them to fall into some logical order. Sadly, it doesn't work
that way. Nor does pacing work some miracle. My brain cannot
wrap around this, but I shortly give up. Frankly, given what little I
do comprehend, I'd just as soon be confused.

"So you love me."

"Yes, of course."

"And I love you."

"I've certainly been led to think so."

"And sex is really just a side benefit."

She laughs, rough and melodic. "Sort of, yes. Our relationship,
though it contains strong sexual elements, is based on far more
than mere physical attraction."

I mull this over a bit more.

"But, Scully, we've been skipping the best part."

Another laugh, fairy notes which dance through my ears down my
spine. "My God, that is all guys think about."

I shake my head, the fog beginning to thin out as I resolve the
mysteries that are us. "Not at all. You're right, our relationship is
founded on something stronger than sex. You are also right in
saying that I love you, in fact I'm in love with you, wholly and
completely. But there is a certain growth potential we've been
passing up, a depth to our commitment that only comes about with
intense intimacy."

The smile is back, a half-curve of sinfully full lips under heavy-
lidded eyes. Everything in me lurches painfully, my head and heart
and groin. She has the power to wound me to the core with a
single expression. I am totally at her mercy.

"So, you'd like our relationship to grow, Mulder?"

She has slipped off the couch, glides over to me. I can smell her,
touches of soap and musk blending with the scent of her skin as
she slowly walks around me. I am stone, unable to move, think,
breath as she examines me. The coil of aching anticipation burns
in my throat and lungs as I wait for her to complete her inspection,
the tightness making my voice hoarse, tormented.

"Yes...please, Scully, yes..."

Yeah, that was eloquent. Still, she seems pleased. Her hand raises,
whispers over my chest and arm. A light, barely discernable touch,
my own shirt a barrier to the sensation of flesh on flesh.

And yet it sets me on fire. I am burning alive, the rush blinding me
as it spreads from my torso in waves of heat. My face is a writhing
flame, my limbs torches. I cannot suppress the moan that breaks
free, desperate plea for more, for her. Can I endure any more?

I must, for her fingers continue their languid journey. Firmer now,
more scorching pressure as she slips around, stands behind me,
runs the hand over my shoulder blades, my back, then around to
graze my stomach. I'm shivering as if a biting wind was sweeping
through the room, but my body feels as I am seized by a fever.
And perhaps I am.

Her hand pauses, stroking quivering muscles. Her breath seeps
through the thin cotton to stroke my back, sending lava bursts up
my spinal cord to swell at the base of my neck. Pinpricks of light
intrude on my vision, my breathing unbearably rapid and ragged for
my own liking.

Then, as I despair of ever regaining full mental functioning, it
happens. The hand, her hand, moves lower still, cups the front of
my too tight jeans. Not much else, really, just rests her hand there,
presses with the utmost care and precision.

I am undone.

"Scully!"

I am blind with the first thrill of that touch, painfully pleasurable
even through course denim and cotton boxer-briefs. My whole
body is rigid, her name a cry of need. I have to force myself to
hold it together, relax into her arms, not allow myself to unravel
completely so soon.

"Mulder," she whispers, her other arm encircling my chest, holding
me tightly to her. Oh God, not her voice again. But now it has
changed, shifted from low and teasing to rough, shaky, conveying a
need as strong as my own. Silken gravel, her voice, and I have
finally reached my breaking point.

She is in my arms in an instant, that sweet hot mouth crushed to
mine. Our first time, the animal force of our every movement,
flares in my mind and body as I trap her with my arms and chest,
trying to absorb her through my skin, to douse the flames within.
We are both groaning, panting, her breath filling my mouth even as
my tongue fills hers.

I am no longer certain who is supporting who, her shudders
mirroring my own, bodies clinging and weaving, trying to meld as
seamlessly as our souls seem to have. It is now I realize how little
control she has, how little control she has had since I walked
through the door. She is just better at presenting a cool exterior, at
hiding the tremors that now pour from her, washing over me,
staggering my already fragile foundations.

But this evidence of her desire galvanizes me even as it heightens
my need. She is not invincible after all, she possesses a hunger to
rival my own, a hunger I can use to my advantage as surely as she
did earlier. I am done with passivity; I want to lead, tease, seduce
her as she has me.

I break away from her, my mind flailing at scraps of ideas, trying to
create a cohesive plan. Her reaction is encouraging, the way she
reaches for me blindly, a mewl of protest drifting from her lips to
land on my swollen groin. I almost groan in response, swallow the
noise instead, a gulping suppression of hasty reactions. I must
regain some semblance of control.

"Scully...let's take this to the bedroom. I want to do it right this
time."

The smile returns, all the more alluring from a mouth damp and
full from our kisses. "It wasn't right last time?"

Oh God, make her stop. For all her passion she is still level,
rational, and she strips my reason so easily. It takes a strength I
didn't think I owned to resist simply grabbing her again, silencing
brazen words and honey-coated sandpaper voice with my lips and
tongue. But that would relinquish control again, which I am loathe
to do no matter how sweet the loss would be.

"I want to take my time, this time," I respond, willing my voice to
be just as husky, seductive. "I want to explore every inch of you,
slowly, my hands and mouth memorizing what they trace. And I
want to hear my name on your lips when you come."

I wait, breathless, to see her reaction. It is subtle, subdued, but
unmistakable. The widening of midnight blue eyes and the flare in
their depths. The smile fading ever so slightly, the lips parting on a
half-suppressed sigh. And the sudden, almost but not quite
concealed shiver that seizes her form. I am giddy at these signs of
her desire, and with the knowledge that she can't hide it, no matter
how much she may want to appear in control.

I take her hand, lead her into the bedroom. I haven't been in here
very often, and it has changed since the last time. But it is still
very Scully, simple and strong and very feminine. Everything is
precise, clean, yet comfortable and inviting. It is like stepping
inside her.

We stand by the bed, staring into each others eyes. I can only
guess at the desperation, the fierce desire and tenderness she must
see in mine, for these boil ever upward, each warring for mastery
of my actions. In hers, I see light sky swirls of humor and flecks of
golden affection in a sea blue pool of molten arousal. Blue is
usually a cool color, tranquil and smooth. One tends to forget that,
under the correct conditions, it can burn.

Her hands pluck at the hem of her shirt, moving to pull it over her
head. I stop her, smiling into quizzical eyes, gently stroking the
curve of her cheek with a shaky hand.

"Let me," I whisper.

She smiles in return and nods, hands dropping to her sides. I kiss
her gently, delighting in the slide of moist lips, hot tongues.
Slowly, so slowly we kiss, a deep, mind-altering mutual seduction
as we try to break the other. I know I am trying to break her,
shatter her sanity. She's not doing half bad with mine.

My hands now crawl lower, slip beneath the edge of her top, skim
soft firm flesh as I push the garment up. Gentle slope of her belly,
sleek pale skin, the swell of her breasts. God have mercy, she isn't
wearing a bra. I pause there, groan aloud at the sight. Perfect. She is
perfect, rosy peaks and snowy hills and the sweet dark valley
between.

"Scully....Christ, you're beautiful. So beautiful, Scully..."

She utters a muffled squeak as I tug the shirt swiftly up and off,
letting it drop from nerveless fingers to the floor. My eyes are
filled with her, filled with peaches and cream skin, filled with her
curves. I touch her almost shyly, cup a breast in each hand, thumbs
brushing tightening nipples.

Her eyelids flutter, head tips back slightly in pleasure. Again, my
thumbs sweep across the swollen nubs, and again she sighs in
response. Hesitant, not wanting to hurt her, I grasp one puckered
nipple, twist carefully.

Her eyes snap open, and a surge of remorse floods me before I hear
her growl. Yes, she growled, low and deep in her chest. So I twist
once more, a bit harder, and she shudders beneath my fingertips.

My lips find and savor the salty cool musk of her neck while my
hands keep busy at her breasts. I'm like a child fascinated with a
new toy, needing to poke and prod, examine every angle, discover
every nuance. She enjoys a firmer touch, I discover, for as my
manipulations increase in ferocity, so do her responses. Our moans
clash and mingle, audio lovers in the air around us, and my need to
taste and touch blazes every fiercer.

It is my mouth on her now, lips and teeth and tongue. We're on the
bed somehow, I don't remember moving yet I'm lying on top of
her, attached like an infant in a feeding frenzy. Her cries reach me
through the fire surrounding my senses, the same cries I have heard
in my dreams. Unbearable, this pleasure, the pleasure of pleasing
her, of knowing it is I who elicits such noises, that she wants and
loves me.

Her stomach caves beneath my lips, dips sharply, which only
accentuates the slope of her lower belly. So soft, that little curve,
soft and pale and surprisingly arousing. It's not really an erotic
spot and yet it is, gently rising just past the navel, falling beneath
the waistband of her sweats. It is fertile and feminine, tame yet
potent, and my lips tremble as I press them there, just above her
pants, thrilling to the flutter of muscles beneath.

Her hands wind through my hair, clenching and relaxing
sporadically, causing tingles like live white noise to build across
my scalp, trickle down my neck, cascade across my shoulder and
back. My own hands slide down her thighs, memorizing sleek
muscles even through the material. A solitary finger traces a path
back up her leg, runs across her belly in a long horizontal line
above the elastic of her pants. So odd, the contrast, the rough
cotton of her sweats harsh compared to the silk of her skin. I look
up her body, find her full, brilliant smile beaming down on me
from her flushed face. I would give anything to see that smile
more often. Perhaps now I will.

She knows what I have in mind next, somehow, reads in from my
expression. Or more likely, it is obvious simply from my current
position relative to hers, and from the desire I feel burning in my
eyes that surely she can see. I tried to do this for her last time, 
and the brief taste lingers still in my memory as I pull off her 
remaining garments,leaving her completely naked on the sea foam green
bedspread. Petal pale peach floating on that green like some exotic
flower, and my skin flushes at the sight.

I kneel between her legs, her scent filling my nostrils and my brain,
the heavy, heady aroma shooting through my veins. I breath it in
again, deeply, letting it permeate and intoxicate, the smell of sex. I look
at her again, eyes living flame, and see that she wants this, too.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she says breathlessly,
desire mixed with amused apprehension. She wants me to do this,
her hips arching ever so slightly, yet there is an element of fear as
well. It's a very intimate thing, oral sex, perhaps more so that
simple intercourse, your whole being consumed with the pleasure
another is giving, your ecstasy shared yet oddly solitary, on display. The
relinquishing of control, placing your arousal almost solely in the hands
of another. I hope she knows I would never abuse such a trust. She has to
know.

"I know I don't have to," I reply roughly, my voice catching on a
thousand unspoken thoughts and images. "But I want to.
Please..."

She smiles softly and nods, and in that instant she is mine.

My mouth descends, makes first contact with her hot, swollen
flesh, and I glory in the sharp, harsh cry she makes. Those sounds
are my motivation and my reward, the key to my success. I use
them to guide my lips and tongue, use them to satisfy her
completely, use them to fuel my own burning need.

She is perfect in this way, too, tasting as good as I remembered.
Tang and smoke, salty musk and earthy sweet. I cannot remember
a time I enjoyed this as much as I do now, delighted as much in
making love to a woman with my mouth. Every twitch, every
gasp, every sigh only adds to the experience, heightens my joy at
reducing this woman to an arching, pleading creature, needing only
the pleasure I provide to make her complete.

Does that sound barbaric, that I would seek to strip her of any
semblance of dignity, of restraint? Perhaps it is. But she is so
controlled most of the time, the rock on which I support my own
teetering beliefs, that to bring her to this, create such a loss of
inhibition, is profoundly pleasing to me. It moves me as well, for I
do not think such complete abandon is common for her, even with
her lovers. I only sensed the potential for such abandon that
previous night.

Now, beneath my sucking mouth and probing tongue, that potential
reaches fruition. Her hips rise and fall, the rhythm fast and jerky
now, hard to predict, harder still to maintain the contact and
friction she desires. But I manage, quickening the pace, reveling in
the throbbing flesh, the smell, the taste. Not too much longer, I
think, she is close, so close, and my tongue darts out to flutter
along the firm, aching nub at the top of her sex.

With a choked, sobbing hiss she freezes, her body rigid, then
explodes under my mouth. I get my wish and hear my name,
broken and hoarse with delight, as the convulsions seize her, shake
her body. She writhes beneath me, riding the waves of pleasure I
had hoped to bring until her body inevitably slows and she rests
beneath me, the occasional involuntary spasm all that remains.

After a final soft kiss on her sensitive flesh, I slide up her body, lay
next to her on the bed. Her head turns, sluggish and weak, so that we are
face to face. She is sweaty, flushed, and I can't help but smile at the
drowsy, relaxed look on her features. She is beautiful, open and satiated,
and my own formidable level of excitement seems distant, remote. That I
have accomplished this, mastered myself (and not allowed her to master me)
long enough to make her this happy, is suddenly more gratifying than anything 
I could imagine.

She grows more alert as I beam down at her, her hand seeking and
finding mine, our fingers twining and stroking. "Thank you," she
murmurs, raising my hand to her lips to kiss my knuckles. "Now,
take off your clothes."

I laugh, surprised and delighted by her demand. Leave it to her to
get right to the point. I can't say that I have any intention of
protesting. How odd we would look, were someone to walk in on
us right now, she nude, I fully clothed. It hardly seems fair, that I
should get to enjoy looking at her, touching her, while I remain
hidden from her view.

But more to the point, her words remind me of my own aroused
state. As if to highlight her request, her free hand slides down my
chest, my stomach, to stop purposely on my groin. Just as before,
the contact sparks, warm shivers rippling from my head to my toes.
Amazing, how just a minute ago my own need was barely a
concern, yet now it engulfs me.

My clothes are soon an afterthought, four eager hands scattering
them throughout the room. She lays on her side, eyes caressing my
prone body, finally exposed to her gaze and touch. How does she
see me, I wonder, my long lanky limbs, sparse hair, adequately
defined musculature? I've never been overly concerned with my
appearance in this respect, for previous relationships were not
nearly as lengthy, deep, or intense. I find myself wishing for
washboard abs, perhaps more than my thin sprinkling of chest hair.
And of course, there is a nagging concern about the size of my
cock. Hey, I'm only human.

Funny how none of this was an issue before. Although we had sex
(twice, by my recollection), it was very basic. Even the second
time, when it was slower, less ferocious, there was still very little
foreplay, very little exploration. For all the emotion evident in the
act itself, it was perfunctory, raw. So now, with this prolonged,
erotic dance of teasing give and take, I am more nervous, anxious,
desperate to both receive and give approval.

I didn't have to worry. She is smiling, wicked Mona Lisa as her
eyes roam up, down, back up again. If I'm not mistaken, she
lingers on my erection, engorged and heavy against my thigh.

Her hand glides, light and leisurely, over my chest, tweaking my
nipples. I shiver, the sensation rolling, cresting as she repeats the
action. Then lower, my stomach mimicking her earlier movements
as it quivers and dips reflexively. I am on edge, burning with her
slow, rhythmic strokes over my chest and torso, inching lower
towards where I long to feel her touch, retreating yet again.
Anticipation mixes with tactile pleasure, my breath uneven, ragged.
It is torture, her small hands soothing and stimulating but always,
always skirting away from my cock. The world narrows to
incorporate only her, those infuriating fingertips, and my painfully
erect sex.

Like a phantom her touch is there then gone, absent from my entire
body. My eyes pop open, search frantically for her to beg and
plead. I would do anything in that moment to feel her flesh on
mine again, cool strong palms and fingers on my sweltering skin.
But before I can fully locate her visually, I know where she is.

And as her hot, humid mouth descends on me, any semblance of
control remaining to me disintegrates.

Have you ever seen yourself from outside, been able to visualize
your own person in the midst of an ongoing event? I can see
myself at this instant as if I were merely a witness to my own
ecstasy, a detached bystander. My hips snap upward at the first
sweet touch of her lips, and as her mouth slides down the length of
my shaft a noise explodes from within, a soul-deep cry of delight.
I see this and am astounded even as the pleasure crashes over me,
drags me under.

So good, this experience, so good and too long since the last time it
happened. I cannot fully control the thrust of my hips, managing
only to keep them shallow, weak so that she does not splutter and
withdraw. Never want her to stop, can't endure the thought of
being without the perfect close wet warmth, precise suction, the
friction of her tongue as it flicks over the tip, runs along the
underside.

But I can't let her continue. I am close, so close to the point of no
return, and while the thought of completing this has its appeal (an
almost overwhelming appeal) I want to be inside her. I am that
inexperienced schoolboy again, my climax imminent it what seems
like a heartbeat. Somehow I find the inner strength to tug gently at
her head, though my body betrays my mixed feelings as it arches
ever upward, straining to find release in that heavenly mouth.

She looks up, releasing my organ with a wet plop. I am gasping,
trembling, barely capable of articulating my thoughts. "Scully...so
close...I need to...inside you."

Not bad, considering I am barely taking in enough oxygen to
support consciousness at this point. She gets the gist and slides up
my body, straddling me. What a vision, her naked body perched
on mine, breasts swaying slightly, the wet heat of her core poised
over my straining cock. She teases me, shifting her pelvis, rubbing
herself against my sensitive head but not yet allowing penetration.
I am beside myself, clutching at her hips, trying to suppress her
slow, mind-shattering grind and position her correctly. She laughs,
resists my frantic efforts, continues to torture me.

Now it is I who am reduced to mush, my voice rising to beg her to
take me inside. I barely recognize it, my throat closed off with the
swell of agonizing pleasure, my tone a foreign rasp. The
sensations build and spread, seizing my lungs, my heart, so that
breathing is almost a chore, too much work for my pleasure racked
body, and my heart tries to escape from my chest cavity. No more,
I can endure no more, I want her, need her, now...

God, she is psychic, for even as I nearly break apart from the
frustration she draws up, smiles down sweetly on my groaning
form, and guides me into her.

Stars explode in my field of vision, little pinpricks of supernova
light, and the roar in my ears deafens me. So much better than
mere memory, this fusion of our bodies, hard male and soft female
joined in that old, exquisite dance. She feels it was well, I see
when my vision clears, feels the blinding rush of eternal pleasure,
the sense of ancient newness, and we are still for a moment,
unmoving as we bask in the glory that is us.

But then she draws up again, a long slow drag until I have almost
withdrawn from her body. And down again, so slow and precise,
until I am fully sheathed again, pulsing inside living fire. Up,
down, again and again, a languid pace that has me throbbing, thin
thread of sanity quivering beneath her assault. Even my mind is
taunt, ready to snap in an instant, poised to let go and fly away into
the arms of my impending release.

But she knows, senses how close to the edge I am, and the snail's
pace continues. Sweet, sweet friction, enveloping heat, cool rush
of air as once again she lifts almost off me, but not enough. Dear
God, how long can I cling to the cliff without tumbling off?

"Scully...please..." I am hoarse with the need, rough desperate
plea. My whole body aches, lungs and arms and legs and face and
belly and above all my swollen, shuddering cock, they all strain,
strain to find myself in her.

That smile again, wicked and gleaming, those big blue eyes of hers
burrowing under my skin, finding my soul. I am hers, now and
forever. And is this union, the bargain is sealed.

She snaps her hips down, all traces of gentleness gone, the languor
gone. We are pounding into each other, thrust and counter-thrust,
fast and furious, sweat slicked skin sliding in a frantic attempt to
find that little death. I can't see anymore, whether because my eyes
are closed or from the explosions in my visual field, I cannot say.
So close, so close, just a little more and I'll be there, soaring, oh
God so close...

I feel her muscles flutter then clamp like a vise around my cock,
contracting wildly, and her sob of delight penetrates the rush of
blood in my ears. She's come again, I did that, I made her come
again...and then I can't think anymore, only feel, and I am lost.

I howl her name, and buried inside her welcoming body I erupt,
dazzling sheets of radiant light. Such exquisite pleasure we give
and receive. I am robbed of my senses and sanity, tossed
helplessly on the ocean of that pleasure. I ride the waves willingly,
allow the convulsions to seize and batter me, lose myself in her
with complete abandon. This is my religion, Scully my alter, and
our completion my prayer. May it be holy in thy sight, my love,
and reality dances to the tune of our orgasm.

When I open my eyes she is there, dazed eyes, tiny satisfied smile.
How beautiful she looks, red hair a wild mane about her face, blue
eyes soft, filled with love and warmth, flushed, sweaty torso rising
and falling with the cadence of her breathing. This is love,
nirvana, perfection, for in this act we have opened ourselves in a
way never before possible.

Will we still hurt each other, lie to deceive and protect, deny faith
and reason? Of course we will. We are human, and our
relationship is based partially in pain and darkness. Nothing can
change that, and as a result hurting each other and ourselves, no
matter how accidental, is unavoidable.

But now there is light and joy to counteract the darkness. It was
always there, as she said, the love and faith and trust, tendrils that
bound us as tightly as the bleakness. But I'd be lying if I said I
didn't feel closer to her now. Having exposed myself and seen her
exposed in turn. There is no substitute for this intimacy, and for all the
dangers it possesses, I would not trade the benefits for anything in the
world.

She is lying on my now, using me as a bed, her slow rhythmic
breath and relaxed limbs letting me know she is asleep, at peace. I
will join her soon, her warmth and my sexual exhaustion
combining as the perfect sedative. And so I drift, serene in the
knowledge that this night, we have grown. As people, as a team.

As one.


What you think? Should I write another? Should I quit while I'm
ahead? Was I ever ahead to begin with? Hello...is anyone out
there? Feedback always welcome, in fact groveled for, at:

ebe1013@hotmail.com

Sorry about the ending....it's the weakest part of my writing. :)