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