From: rac <rac@enook.net>
Date: Fri, 16 Feb 2001 09:38:42 -0500
Subject: stories for submission
Source: direct

Title: Intaglio
Author: rac / August 23, 1999
Website: http://enook.net/hl/rac/rac.htm

Rating: NC-17
Classification: V/H
Spoilers: none specifically
Keywords: slash story, Skinner/Mulder
Summary: An anonymous seducer drives Skinner to the brink 
of...something. 
Feedback to: rac@enook.net

.o.o.o.

He didn't know why he was acting the way he was. God knows, he 
was pushing fifty, and his hormones weren't exactly burbling 
over at the seams anymore.  But it sure as hell felt like they 
were. 

He had a very visceral memory of his thirteenth year, in junior 
high school. With Miss Petersen. All he'd had to do is come 
within ten feet of her and he could *smell* her. Smell not just 
her perfume, but *her*, a musky, heady woman-sex smell.

He became adept at carrying his bookbag strategically that year.

And now? Now he was very thankful for large desks, conference 
tables, briefcases, long suit jackets and long overcoats. By the 
time this went away, he was sure he'd take advantage of each and 
every one of them.

His clothes had even started driving him crazy.  He favored 
plain white briefs, a hold-over from his time in the military. 
But they'd begun dragging against him, the bumps and seams of 
the fly placket pressing and rubbing against him with 
distracting magnification. It was annoying; it was appalling. It 
bothered him enough to head to the mall one weekend, combing the 
department stores for irritation-free underwear. He thought he'd 
found it in the silk boxers he'd bought, $150 later, all ten 
pair.

But then the feel of the silk sliding across his skin turned out 
to be an even bigger sensual stimulation. And so he found 
himself in his executive bathroom once, in between meetings, 
jacking off just to release the low-level hum of sexual tension 
that had spiraled up since he'd arrived at work. Fifty years 
old, and walking around with a semi-hard-on. Smelling the scent 
of everyone he stood near, or those who came into his office. 
Looking into their eyes, wondering. Watching the way they moved. 
Their body language. Imagining them naked. Imagining what they'd 
taste like.

It had gone too far. Way too far. But he couldn't seem to enact 
the one solution which would make the problem go away.

He had changed his personal email address. Three times. Each 
time, the emailer had found him within a few days. He had pulled 
out all his skills from his field days, and personally tracked 
down the accounts from which the emails were being sent, but to 
no avail. His personal shadow was using web-based email 
accounts, changed almost daily. Virtually untraceable.

There did exist one final solution. One guaranteed to work. He 
could simply stop opening up and reading any mail from unknown 
sources on his personal account. Then the torture he found 
himself experiencing would stop. The writer of those emails did 
not have any other way to reach him. To speak to him. To whisper 
incredibly erotic and creative suggestions to him in the 
sexless, faceless 'voice' of the computer screen. To plant in 
his mind some of the most intense sexual fantasies of his entire 
lifetime. To talk to him about his own body, what he felt, what 
he could feel. What the writer would like to do to him. With 
him.

Each day, he still opened his mail.

He'd taken to watching people closely. Their eyes. Their body 
language. Wondering, is this the one? Is it she? Is it he who is 
sending the earthquakes through his computer, black and white 
symbols on an electric screen which shook up the world he'd 
known with such devastation?

It had to be someone in the Hoover, it had to be. The sender had 
knowledge of his schedule. His computer pal sent notes after 
meetings asking about the people he'd been with; male and 
female, it made no difference. Everything was an erotic 
possibility to his unknown assailant.

And it was an assailant. An intruder. This faceless person had 
intruded into his life and attacked him at the very core. The 
person had turned his life upside down so that every minute of 
each day was a raw scrape against his nerves. He didn't know who 
he was anymore; he didn't know the people around him as he once 
thought he had. He was seeing them--and himself--in an all new 
light. A bright, searing light, throwing things into sharp 
relief and highlighting new edges.

Now when he looked at his executive assistant of five years, he 
no longer saw a competent, professional young woman; he saw a 
sensual, earthy female with a predilection for ropes tied to the 
bedposts. He'd sat in the weekly Director's meeting--the 
*Director's meeting*--with the other ADs, and his mind had 
wandered, filled with the images his faceless correspondent had 
talked about so recently, seeing his peers not in their costly 
business garb, but wanton, and abandoned, in various stages of 
deshabille. He had no idea if the images painted so skillfully 
by his email friend were true or not, but in the end, it made no 
difference. The scenes and ideas painted in each letter with 
such nonchalant abandon were forever etched upon his mind. Like 
an aquatint created with exquisite talent, the various shadows 
in his soul had been highlighted and brought to the fore in the 
acid washing of suggestion. After a lifetime of rigidly held 
ideals and ethics, he watched as they eroded away to reveal 
something unknown buried underneath.

Twice in this week's meeting, someone had called his name and 
pulled him back from his licentious wanderings. He'd dug the 
closed end of his Cross pen deep into his thigh muscle to keep 
himself from wandering off on any more unrestrained daydreams 
for the rest of the hour. His leg ached where he'd gouged in, 
and a small, purpling bruise formed to remind him of his folly. 

At first, he'd thought that his faceless emailer was nothing 
more than a juvenile prank, some trickster targeting anonymous 
email addresses. That idea was quickly scrapped when the emails 
began to mention his co-workers by name. He'd thought at first 
it was an old Marines buddy of his in the DOJ across the street; 
it wouldn't be out of realm for Jackson (Jackass, his old 
company handle) to pull that kind of prank.

A few late night drinks and some pointedly worded comments had 
changed Skinner's mind about that idea, though; Jackson had been 
honestly perplexed when the subject was broached. Which left 
Skinner back at square one and in the dark.

It left him with a whole realm of possibilities to consider, 
some more sinister than others. Despite the vague threat the 
situation could contain, Skinner refused to examine too closely 
what it was about the whole thing that had him loath to stop 
opening each new email everyday.

Maybe it was that despite the inherent prurient nature to the 
writing, there was a certain innocent hedonism that shaped the 
missives. They had a simple eudemonistic outlook, a life ethic 
Sister Mary Katherine and the staff at Holy Mary Star of the Sea 
Catholic school had done their best to eradicate from all the 
little souls under their care.  Obviously, their scrubbing and 
polishing so many years ago had only served to ready the surface 
onto which the faceless engraver was now etching his creation. 
Into *him*. Into Walter S. Skinner, Assistant Director of the 
Federal Bureau of Investigation. Remaking him into the artist's 
own image.

* * *

Five weeks later

Skinner hadn't realized the past month had only been a warm-up, 
a prelude to a discomfort he'd never imagined himself living 
with daily. If he thought it had been bad before, he was now 
rapidly revising his opinion. Being reduced to squirming in his 
chair was too horribly reminiscent of those long, winter days 
spent in Miss Petersen's classroom. In the front chair. Right 
next to the side of her desk. Squirming behaviors were expected 
in a 13 year old, but they sat ill on Assistant Directors. Plus, 
they were highly noticeable when the Assistant Director in 
question had a reputation for his stone-faced demeanor, his 
rock-like countenance. 

Rocks don't squirm.

Skinner adopted that as his private mantra late one Thursday 
afternoon. The determined winter sun slanted through the window, 
shading everything in the room a soft yellow, a golden haze 
clouding his eyes. It picked up the golden highlights in 
Scully's red hair, turning it into a cloud of gilded cinnabar. 
It leant warmth to her skin, glowing a creamy peach underneath 
her scattered freckles. She looked agonizingly like the 
description his nemesis had recently used, waxing poetic about 
the agent's beauty and her appeal. About the way her body would 
look stretched out naked on a bed flooded with streamers of that 
creamy golden light.

He took a deep breath, willing himself under control, when 
another trial, a more insidious one, walked through the door. 
Late, as usual.

No matter that he rushed, Mulder still managed to look calm and 
collected, his suit fitting elegantly, his hair brushed into a 
semblance of order. The golden yellow light picked up glints of 
shine throughout a glossy, sable mane. Skinner found his hand 
curling in on itself in defense, because, yes, just as had been 
slyly suggested to him, he *would* like to run his hands through 
it. Feel the weight of it in his hands, smell the scent of his 
shampoo, push his head down and--

He managed to get through the meeting on a bare minimum of 
words, less than his usual taciturn commentary. He let Mulder 
ramble on about the MacLawhorn case, missing three words in 
five, more fascinated with watching the way Mulder's lower lip 
stuck out, full and ripe, just as he had been told to observe.  
When Skinner's eyes slipped back up and encountered Mulder's now 
silent hazel gaze, he couldn't help the color that heated his 
skin, wondering just how long he'd been staring at Mulder's 
mouth...and why Mulder had silently let him.

Later that week, he received a crucial email. It winked with coy 
language at his lust for his subordinate, then went on to 
suggest that his feelings were more than returned.

*Well, well*. Skinner felt a lightening in his gut, a sense of 
freedom he'd been denying himself for a long time. It might have 
taken him a while to figure it out, but he hadn't exactly had a 
lot to go on. Now he did, and it all fit together.

His question about the identity of the faceless emailer was 
answered.

It only took a matter of moments to log on to the internet, find 
MSN, and sign up for an anonymous email account. And send a 
reply to his anonymous email lover. In his typical focus-hard-
on-the-goal way, he mailed it, not back to its originating 
email-pseud-du-jour, but directly to the private and personal 
address of one Fox William Mulder.

No sense in beating around the bush.

After endless weeks of unspecified longings and a slow build up 
of tension, having a focus for his thoughts and energies was an 
incredible relief. It gave a purpose and explanation to 
everything. Skinner had his first good night of sleep in over a 
month as his constant sexual hum finally gathered and focused in 
one, tangible direction.

He awakened early as usual, completely refreshed. Manfully 
forbearing the urge to check his email account, he disciplined 
himself with his usual thirty minutes on the rowing machine 
while watching CNN, MSNBC and a few minutes of yesterday's 
Congressional meetings on C-SPAN. Only after showering, dressing 
and eating a spare breakfast did Skinner allow himself to sit 
down at his computer, agitated by the appetence that thrummed 
through him like the beat of his heart.

It seemed to take forever to dial in, waiting as the computers 
talked to one another and exchanged  passwords and account 
information, while the *Connecting* window hung there, waiting, 
waiting, fucking *waiting*--  Until finally, it clicked through 
and the mail server coughed up its bounty. He scrolled through 
seven messages: three spam, a bill from his ISP, two from 
friends, and the last--the last from "looking4truth@yahoo.com".  

Skinner's fingers fumbled against the keyboard as he opened it. 
His breath expelled loudly and his heart started beating again 
at a faster rate. He cursed the dizziness he felt; fifty years 
old and dizzy like an adolescent.  It didn't stop him from 
keying a reply from his own email account, four short sentences:

>Let's stop dancing around the truth. My place. Tonight. 
8:00pm.<

When he hit the send button, Skinner laughed out loud, a burst 
of nervous hilarity that sounded odd in his apartment. It had 
contained far too little real laughter since he'd moved in. 
Maybe he could change that now. At the very least, it would 
contain *something* that it hadn't before. 

Skinner sighed in mingled lust, terror and disgust. The 
anticipation of tonight was going to make the coming day go 
very, very...S.L.O.W.L.Y.  He winced, remembering it was Thursday, 
and the weekly Director's meeting started in two hours.

Skinner wondered what new injuries he'd have to inflict upon 
himself to get through it.

* * *

Thirteen hours later

The doorbell rang. Skinner had entertained a fantasy that Mulder 
might pull out his lock picks and force his way in to the 
apartment, forcing his physical presence into Skinner's life the 
way he had insinuated himself mentally and emotionally. But that 
really wasn't accurate, or fair. Mulder had knocked on the door, 
needing permission to enter, just as he had in his emails. It 
was left up to Skinner to open both.

He pulled the door open. There stood the object of his 
fantasies, eyes searching and brilliant and full of things 
unspoken.

Mulder hesitated. "You did say eight, right?" 

Skinner suddenly relaxed. It seemed he wasn't the only one 
unsure of himself. "Yes. I did. Come in."

Mulder stood awkwardly in the foyer, turning around to look 
closely at Skinner again. "I--Your email. It was...unexpected."

Skinner's eyebrows rose. "Unexpected," he repeated. He shifted 
closer to Mulder, catching the unique scent that was this man's 
own: a particular aftershave and soap, his hair and skin. "You 
must think me damned impervious. A piece of cold stone."

"Stone? Not really, but--" Mulder frowned.

Skinner stepped in again, and this time Mulder automatically 
leaned back as Skinner invaded his space. His bright hazel eyes 
widened even further, and Skinner felt an absurd pleasure slide 
through him. After all this time spent off-center, it suddenly 
felt damn good to have the shoe on the other foot. Desire and 
determination surged even higher in him.

"You think I can take weeks of your actions, and not respond, 
not react to it." Skinner leaned in close to Mulder, his mouth 
brushing soft hair as he growled in Mulder's ear. "I think 
you've seriously underestimated me, Mulder. You let the big cat 
out of the cage, and now he wants to play." His voice dropped 
even deeper. "With you."

There was a soft gasp, a sudden inhalation of air. Skinner 
pulled back to see a stunned, humorous brilliance in Mulder's 
eyes. His mouth hung open slightly, and laugh lines radiated 
from the edges of his eyes.

Skinner grinned with delight for the first time at this man he'd 
known for years. "I see I've really surprised you by taking the 
initiative. I wouldn't have thought I could shock Agent Spooky 
Mulder, super profiler and manipulator extraordinaire."

A rusty laugh came from Mulder. "I don't know about being a 
manipulator, but yeah, you did."

Skinner felt his blood gravitate south while watching Mulder 
laugh; he felt light-headed and hard as hell. "Then it's about 
damn time." He covered Mulder's mouth with his own, swallowing 
any protest Mulder might have made. 

It was shocking, it was exhilarating, it was the hottest thing 
Skinner had felt in years. Pressing Mulder up against the foyer 
wall with his hips, hands and mouth might just be enough to set 
him off, if he wasn't careful. He *needed* to be careful, he 
wanted to make it *last*. He wanted to think about why it felt 
combustible on so many different levels. He wanted to delve into 
the sensory world literally at his fingertips, taking his time 
to map and chart everything he felt. Most of all, he wanted to 
hear Mulder *beg*. 

A trail of clothing lay as flagrant testimony across the foyer, 
up the stairs and into the master suite. Throwing caution to the 
winds released a Pandora's box in Skinner's soul; it seemed he 
now desired to be as outrageous as he could possibly be. And 
since he would always be a Marine, he'd planned for that 
contingency.

For all Mulder's big talk for the past six weeks, nothing seemed 
to have prepared him for Skinner's onslaught. When he snapped 
the cuffs around Mulder's wrists, Skinner waited for a protest. 
Instead, reduced already to monosyllables, Mulder stared through 
half-closed eyes and could only groan as he tested the taut 
connections. 

Mulder's body was sleek as Skinner ran a hand over it. He was 
riveted by the sight of Mulder's long, naked limbs, his pale 
skin flushed with excitement. Muscles flexed in Mulder's stomach 
as Skinner pushed his legs farther apart, trailing a hand along 
the crease of hip and thigh until he reached Mulder's cock. It 
thrust out, long and eager. Skinner curled his hand around it 
and Mulder groaned, thrusting lightly. Holding Mulder's hips 
down with his other hand, Skinner slid his a finger and thumb up 
and down Mulder's cock. He breathed deeply with the rush of lust 
rolling through his body, fascinated by the pulsing of swollen 
veins against his hand.

Skinner's eyes turned nearly black with desire. "This is a good 
look for you, Mulder. Silent, captive and amenable. I like it."

Mulder groaned again and bit his lip. "I hope you're planning on 
doing something about it."

"Eventually." Skinner explored further with firm hands, 
discovering Mulder's reactions to each touch. "I'm sure you 
understand that your provocation demands an equal response." He 
took Mulder's balls in his hand, gently pulling and rolling 
their fullness.

"What--oh--what provocation?" Mulder gasped, trying to thrust 
against Skinner's hands.

"You do love to flirt with danger, don't you." Skinner shifted 
to straddle Mulder's body. "Let's start to even things up a 
bit." He slid up until his own cock, heavy and turgid from weeks 
of erotic frustration, dangled in front of Mulder's face. Hot 
brown eyes met hazel ones. "I think that for now, I want my cock 
in that smart mouth of yours. Let me see how smart it can be." 
Skinner pushed against Mulder's mouth, demanding entrance. 
Mulder opened his jaw, and Skinner nudged in.

Hot and wet, Mulder's mouth was so damned hot and wet. Skinner 
slid out just so he could watch his cock slide back in between 
Mulder's full, stretched lips. Weeks, no, years, he realized, 
it's been years. His thoughts fractured as the pleasure demanded 
more of his attention. He shoved in, his balls nearly dancing in 
delight as Mulder's tongue curled around his shaft. Settling 
into a steady rhythm, he was hypnotized by the way Mulder's 
cheeks hollowed out each time he sucked hard as Skinner 
withdrew.

"You may think it's only been weeks," Skinner muttered, his 
words raw and ragged, "but I've wanted to do this, wanted to 
fuck this mouth of yours for a long time." He pushed in with 
more force, picking up the pace. "Everytime you gave me one of 
those I-dare-you looks, or some cock-and-bull story about 
ignoring my orders," Skinner's hands curled into Mulder's hair, 
"I wanted to fill this pretty mouth of yours so you couldn't 
hand me any more. I wanted to come down your throat, hard enough 
to spill out the sides of your mouth."

He was slamming in good now, shoving hard enough that he could 
feel himself scraping against the back of Mulder's throat, and 
Mulder was taking it, taking it and going with it, not gagging, 
still sucking and using his tongue on the underside. His 
handcuffs rattled against the wooden headboard as Mulder 
strained against them.

"Weeks," Skinner gasped, feeling himself get close, "weeks at 
your mercy, living out your fantasies, while I twisted in the 
dark." He took a ragged breath, his fingers locking onto 
Mulder's head to hold him tight as he thrust faster. "Yeah...this 
is my fantasy, boy." He fought the urge to close his eyes and 
throw his head back as the coil of need in his gut and behind 
his cock tightened with exquisite tension. "Take it," he 
muttered under his breath, "take it, take it all, suck it, yeah, 
fuck--" With painful strength, Skinner's fingers tightened in 
Mulder's hair, pulling his head up off the pillow as he rammed 
down deep, his cock exploding forcibly in Mulder's mouth and 
throat. He could feel Mulder swallowing, gagging slightly, but 
Skinner was too far gone to care. He came for long, electric 
moments, his toes and fingers curling up from the pleasure, 
shooting what felt like a gallon of cum down Mulder's throat as 
he struggled to keep up. 

The flood finally ceased and his muscle contractions slowed down 
to brief and shuddering aftershocks. Skinner opened his eyes and 
tried to focus on Mulder's face again. He saw a white rivulet 
leaking out from beside his cock, from the corner of Mulder's 
mouth, and his aftershocks peaked once again, a small, dry spasm 
taking him unawares.

"Mulder," Skinner groaned, leaning slumped down against the 
headboard. One fantasy fulfilled, he thought, and breathed 
slowly to get his heart rate back to a manageable speed. After 
half a minute, Skinner pulled out and slid down to lie half 
draped over Mulder's still-taut body. "I suppose your mouth is 
as smart as it seems." He nuzzled into Mulder's cheek, working 
his mouth around to kiss Mulder his thanks for bringing him such 
delicious pleasure. He tasted the lingering salty-sourness of 
his own cum as their tongues dueled. Skimming his hand south, 
Skinner discovered that Mulder's erection was harder than ever. 
He grinned. "You must be wanting some attention now, too."

Mulder rubbed himself like a cat against Skinner hips. "Yeah, it 
would be nice." 

Skinner grinned again, feeling lazy and replete. "You're just 
going to have to wait, Fox. I'm feeling awfully tired." Skinner 
yawned and nuzzled in closer, one leg thrown over Mulder's hips 
to help pin his lower body to the mattress. His eyes closed. 

"Wait a minute. Skinner, come on. Walter, take the cuffs off, 
don't leave me like this. At least bring me off, dammit. 
Skinner! Walter, dammit, come on, what are you doing? Ah, shit." 
Mulder tried to move so he could rub against him, but to no 
avail.

Skinner fell asleep to the sounds of Mulder cursing and begging.

* * * 

When Skinner awakened a few hours later, Mulder had drifted off 
to sleep also. The soft lighting cast deep shadows in the room, 
and threw Mulder's face into high relief. His eyelashes, lying 
against his face on closed eyes, seemed unusually long.

Skinner sighed and rolled away, feeling deeply satisfied. He'd 
lived out one of his fantasies, every last bit of it. But poor 
Mulder, well...Skinner contemplated his sleeping form. Maybe he 
deserved a respite. 

Then again, maybe he didn't. Not yet.

Skinner slid off the bed quietly, padding into the bathroom to 
use the toilet, wash up and dry off. He'd skipped dinner 
earlier, too keyed up to eat. Now he was starving. Naked, he 
padded out of the bedroom to find food, leaving a still-cuffed 
Mulder slumbering on the bed.

He returned later with a tray laden with sandwiches, fruit and 
two bottles of beer glistening with sweat. Mulder finally 
stirred when Skinner arranged the tray and himself on the bed.

Mulder eyed him before speaking. "This is cruel and unusual 
punishment, you know. Nothing I've done in the past deserves 
treatment like this." He attempted looking royally pissed off, 
but the effect was spoiled by the huge yawn that split his face.

Skinner took a bite of the sandwich, closing his eyes in bliss 
as the food began to hit his system. "I *am* contemplating 
letting you out of the cuffs."

"Oh yes. *Please*. I have to piss and I'm in pain."

Skinner glanced at Mulder's dick, still semi-erect even now. It 
must ache like the very devil. He wanted to make it memorable, 
not torturous. Leaning over, he snagged the keys on the 
nightstand and with two efficient motions, the cuffs fell away 
from Mulder's wrists.

"Ow." Mulder slowly brought his arms back down. "I think I'm 
crippled for life." Slowly, he rolled to the edge of the bed 
opposite Skinner and hobbled to the bathroom like an old man.

When he came back out, he was moving considerably better, and 
snagged a beer from the tray. 

Mulder sat next to Skinner on the bed and swigged his beer. "Can 
I ask what this was all about? And after we get the explanations 
out of the way, can we then finish what you started?" 

Skinner put the beer bottle down, picked up a piece of fruit and 
lay back on the bed. He took a bite of a ripe plum, felt the 
juice dribble down his chin and sent Mulder an opaque look.
"It was about six weeks of driving me crazy. And yeah," he 
mused, nodding, "I'd like to see you...finished. Good idea." 

Mulder looked convincingly confused. "What six weeks? I've sent 
all my reports in on time, dammit, for the past couple of 
months. And I haven't lost one cell phone. No dead bodies where 
they shouldn't be, either. I've been good." He couldn't resist 
the runnel of juice and flicked his thumb over Skinner's skin, 
then stuck it in his mouth to taste.

Skinner smiled, his voice deceptively soft. "Cut the crap, 
Mulder. And come here." He tumbled Mulder down, pulling him in 
for a deep kiss. Their tongues dueled, mingling flavors of beer, 
fruit and the lingering bite of spicy mustard from the sandwich, 
all overlaid with the earthy musk of sex that was still redolent 
in the air.

Skinner pushed Mulder over, rolling them until he was leaning 
over Mulder's body. "You want to come? Okay, let's work on 
that." He took the half-eaten plum and began rubbing it on 
Mulder's skin at his neck. Following behind with his mouth, he 
licked and suckled until he'd removed all traces of it. Then he 
rubbed the plum over both of Mulder's nipples.

"That's...oh yeah, that's nice." Mulder squirmed beneath Skinner's
 
determined mouth attack.

"Is this more of what you had in mind?" Skinner rumbled as he 
dragged the fruit down Mulder's stomach and swirled it in his 
bellybutton, tracing the path with his tongue.

Mulder was staring with intensity at Skinner's mouth. "This is 
surreal. I know I'm going to wake up any moment and find out 
I've been drooling in my sleep. But yeah. Don't stop."

Skinner took the fruit and painted a sticky juice shine up and 
down Mulder's rampant dick. "So...now what, Mulder? What do you 
want now?"

Mulder's eyes got large and he looked appalled. "Don't stop 
again."

Skinner had to stifle his grin. "Then what's the magic word, 
Mulder? I haven't heard the magic word." He rubbed the plum 
around the glans, watching pre-cum leak out.

"How the hell should I know," Mulder nearly moaned, leaning up 
on his elbows and watching Skinner's forays at his groin. "Why 
don't you tell me, and I'll say whatever you want?"

Skinner did smile now. "Just beg, Mulder. Prettily."

"Oh. Yes, please, please, suck me. I'm begging. Please."

"Very nice, Mulder. And you'll do anything?"

"I--" Mulder hesitated momentarily. "I'll do anything, yeah. 
Just, please, suck me."

"Good boy," Skinner murmured, and swallowed him down.

Mulder tasted like sweet and salt, fruit juice and the sharp 
bite of musk and pre-cum. Skinner held his hips immobile when he 
tried to thrust further into Skinner's mouth.  "Slow down, I'll 
set the pace." 

He did, taking his time about it and not letting Mulder have the 
satisfaction of a hard, firm rhythm. It was exquisite torture; 
Mulder kept up a soft litany of imprecations and noises. Skinner 
kept his hand tucked around Mulder's balls, fingering them 
occasionally. When he felt them begin to draw up and Mulder 
begin to thrust with less precision into his mouth, Skinner 
released both Mulder's cock and his balls, sat back and just--
stared.

"Fuck. What is it this time?" Mulder groaned.

Skinner smiled. "I think I want to watch."

"Watch?"

"Yeah. Watch you. Do yourself. Here." Skinner grabbed Mulder's 
hand and placed it around his cock. "Bring yourself off." Mulder 
groaned. "And don't forget to make some noise."

Mulder complained even as his hand slid over his flesh. "You're 
just as much a hard-assed dictator in bed as you are at work."

Skinner lay on his side facing Mulder, enjoying the view. He 
massaged Mulder's abdomen and thighs, watching Mulder spread his 
pre-cum around to help lubricate his strokes. "But I'm *your* 
hard-assed dictator, and you seem to like it." A groan vibrated 
from Mulder's chest. "Yeah, that's it, Fox, do it. Let me see 
what you looked like all those nights while you wrote those 
emails to me and played with yourself." Another groan as 
Mulder's hand moved faster. Skinner leaned in close to Mulder's 
ear. "Did you know I had to jack off in my bathroom at work 
because of you? You chiseled away at the surface, and patterned 
me underneath in your image, because all I could see after a 
while was you, naked, doing this, each time I opened my mail."

Mulder shouted, and jerked, white cum pumping out all over his 
belly and hand. Skinner was hard again. He slid on top of Mulder 
before he finished coming and began humping against his sprawled 
body. Skinner's cock slid over Mulder's belly, through Mulder's 
still-warm cum, and it surprised the hell out of him when he 
came again himself a minute later.

So much for nearing fifty. Not one, but two orgasms in less than 
five hours. Skinner thought he just might keep Mulder around; he 
liked the effects.

They both lay without moving for ten minutes, drowsy and sated 
now after sex. Skinner reluctantly stirred, wanting to clean up 
and take the tray off the bed before they knocked it over onto 
the floor. 

Skinner brought in a wet cloth for Mulder to use. "Thanks." 
Mulder took it, used it and lay back down. When Skinner finally 
sprawled on his stomach on the bed, Mulder rolled over and 
propped himself up on one elbow. "Walter, before you go to 
sleep, answer one question."

Skinner grunted. "What."

Mulder looked at him curiously. "What emails are you talking 
about?"

* * * 

Two weeks later

"Read this one. When they get into it, they really get *into* 
it."

"Maybe we should stop infiltrating their computers and 
intercepting their mail now. This is kind of private, you know."

"That didn't stop you before. You really got into writing some 
of those emails. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Yeah, well, that was then. This is now, and we need to do the 
right thing."

"Oh, come on, if we did the right thing, we'd never have done 
this in the first place. Speaking of which, you owe me fifty 
bucks."

"Yeah, you're gonna have to wait for it. Oh! Uh-oh....I think 
we're in for it. Read this one."

"Trouble? What--uh-oh, shit, we're screwed. How'd they find out? 
Mulder or Wally must be smarter than we figured. Maybe we can 
avoid Mulder for a while, until he gets over it. After all, we 
did him a big favor, the way I look at it."

"Somehow, I don't think he's going to be thinking of that for a 
really long time. And it's not Mulder I'm worried about."

"Oh. Oh. Yeah, you've got a point. I have a feeling Baldy has a 
long and unforgiving memory."

"Hey, guys, what are you two doing? What's that? Why'd you shut 
it off?"

"Hi. Nothing, we're just...figuring out who won a bet. It's 
nothing."

"Nothing. I see. Well, since it's nothing, help bring in the 
grocery bags before the ice cream melts."

"Oh, what flavors did you get? Oreo cookie? Fudge ripple?"

"Yes and yes. Now help. Before it's soup."

Byers watched Frohike carefully clear the computer screen before 
hopping up and walking out the door, still arguing with Langley.  
Obviously, they'd been up to something, and weren't going to 
tell him.

Considering some of the other things those two got into, John 
wondered if he even really wanted to know.

-=the end=-


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