From: Melynda Jensen <melyndajensen@juno.com>
Date: Wed, 17 Feb 1999 11:27:19 -0700
Subject: Oops! Read THIS "The Meeting" Skinner/Scully NC-17

Please send any feedback to melyndajensen@juno.com.  Thanks!

Rating: NC17, for gratuitous smut.

Category: S

Keywords: Skinner/Scully

Spoilers: None.

Disclaimer:  Well, I wish Skinner belonged to me (with frequency and
great fervor), but he doesn't.  He and Scully belong to Chris Carter and

1013 Productions, and believe me, nobody's making any money off of this
story.

Summary: A lipstick stain on a starched white shirt causes Skinner's
mind to wander in interesting ways during a meeting...

You don't have to have read "The Coat," which inspired this story, but
you might have more fun if you do.  :)  E-mail me for a copy, or check
out the story at Gossamer, the Sisters-in-Smut Skinnerotica website, or
the Walter Skinner Fanfic Archive.


The Meeting
by Melynda Jensen

Skinner collected his messages from Kimberly before he went into his
office to check his voice mail.  He wasn't sure what signal he was
looking for, what would indicate that he'd been able to literally pull
Scully, who had disobeyed a direct order, out of her investigation in
time and that she and Mulder (whom he'd been able to reassign before the
whole potential fiasco even started) were safe.  There were no vague
threats, though, nothing unexpected waiting for him and he decided to
interpret this as for the best.  Now he just had one more loose end to
tie up, get the car Scully had requisitioned back from the scene, and
then--

He started to shrug into his heavy black overcoat when out of the corner
of his eye he noticed a stain on his shirt.  His suit jacket had
partially concealed it, but when he drew his arm back, as he had to put
on his coat, it was clearly revealed: a pale pink imprint of half of
Scully's mouth.

"Shit."

Apparently, when he'd done his "cavalry to the rescue" act and swept
Scully inside his coat to hide her before he could bundle her into his
car, he must have shoved her face against his shirt.  And in all
likelihood not only was he going to show up late for his next meeting,
but look like he'd just had an assignation as well.

Were the gods ever going to *reward* him for trying to save that woman's
ass?

Well, at least this time he wasn't getting the crap kicked out of him.
He exhaled heavily, wondering if it was possible to hide the stain, and
buttoned his jacket up.  A careful glance at his reflection in the
window showed his tie as the only spot of color against his white shirt if he
didn't move too abruptly.  He pulled on his overcoat and walked out of
his office.

"Kim, I might be late for my next meeting."  She nodded.

Skinner got the spare keys for Scully's car from the requisition desk
and hailed a cab at the curb.  As he rode out to where he'd caught up with
his errant agent earlier, he became aware of a strange, radiating warmth
against a small part of his chest and frowned.  He checked his pen,
which wasn't leaking, and put it back slowly, but the patch of heat remained
and he couldn't think what else could cause it.

He found Scully's car not far from where he'd confronted her about
disobeying his orders.  No evidence of forced entry on any of the doors,
and Scully's briefcase still in the front passenger seat, meant, he
hoped, that no one had seen her and so hadn't suspected the car or her
briefcase of holding anything important.  And his knee whacked into the
steering wheel as he tried to slip into the driver's seat.

Skinner just managed not to swear.  Of course he had to adjust the seat,
he told himself as he adjusted it; Scully was shorter than he was.  Even
in her high heels she just came up to his shoulder--

--and her mouth came up to his chest.  Right where that odd feeling of
warmth was.  He glanced down inside his jacket and saw the telltale
smudge of pink on his shirt, and could have sworn that it was somehow
growing warmer.  He patted his fingertips against it as if to calm it.

As he swung into the FBI parking lot he checked his watch.  He left
Scully's briefcase in the car, knowing he didn't have enough time before
the meeting to give it back to her, and took the stairs rather than wait
for the elevator.

Visser still greeted him with, "You're late, Skinner," as soon as he
walked in.  "That means you're taking the minutes."  The blonde-haired
man tossed a yellow legal pad at him.

"I'm just fine, Visser.  How are you?"  Skinner retorted, taking off his
overcoat and hanging it in the closet before he joined the others around
the conference table.  He remembered not to unbutton his jacket just as
he sat down, and was careful reaching for his pen.  Even so, the lipstick
stain insisted on its presence, now warm enough to convince him it was
slowly burning him.

"Don't mind him," Dunn said.  She shot Visser a warning look as Skinner
again briefly patted the place where Scully's lips had pressed against
him.  "He's just mad the Redskins lost."

"Is that going in the minutes?" Skinner asked, uncapping his pen and
writing the date on the legal pad.  Part of him wondered why these
meetings always started so inanely.  Another part thought about Scully's
mouth on his shirt and that, in some strange way, it was still there.

"If we're going on the record," Hewitt said, pouring herself some more
coffee, "then put down that he would have run the ball on third and
fifteen from goal."  She lifted the carafe in Skinner's direction in
question.  He shook his head.  He didn't need to get any hotter than he
already was.

What he needed was a distraction, something totally removed from the
conference room and the Hoover Building and all its
associations--especially with a certain redheaded field agent.
Something that wouldn't remind him of how that hair could catch fire in a stray
beam of light as she sat in his office and tilted her head to quell her
partner with a look of skeptical disdain.  Or of how coolly intrigued a
pair of blue eyes could become during a briefing when he brought up an
angle on a case that she hadn't thought of.  Or of the stubborn defiance
smoldering in those same eyes only that morning.  Or of the pair of lips
that the pale pink stain on his shirt belonged to, and the small spot of
burning heat that was spreading to everywhere his body and Scully's had
touched when she'd been inside his coat--hip to hip, thigh to thigh--

"...hadn't run the bootleg," Kuhn maintained as Skinner focused back in
on the conversation.

Football was good.  He never associated Scully with football.

"Are you serious?" Visser demanded.  "Listen, if *I'd* been their
quarterback--"

...and then Skinner was breaking the huddle and following his center to
the line of scrimmage.  The football helmet obscured Scully's delicate
features and the pads obscured just about everything else, but her
uniform pants definitely fit her like a second skin as she bent over and
took hold of the ball.  He enjoyed the view before he closed the
distance between them and bent over her.  She suddenly bumped back against his
left thigh, jerking her head slightly in that direction.  He saw it and
touched her left hip in acknowledgment, then started barking audibles,
feeling Scully steady in front of him as he changed the play at the
line.

He reached between her legs for the ball she was ready to hike to him
On his mark.  The back of his hand stroked her inner thigh from her crotch
to her knee and back again, and he felt her quiver briefly before she
pushed back against him, settling her ass more firmly against his
rapidly hardening...

"--excuse me!" Dunn broke in, exasperated.  "Is there a remote
possibility that we could move on at least one item on the agenda
before, say, this time tomorrow?"

Skinner, startled, shifted in his chair.  Football wasn't the answer.
But what could make that strange burning heat, as if Scully's whole body
was pressing against him, go away?  He had to focus, not get distracted,
concentrate on every word said at that table.

With deliberate care he read aloud as he wrote on the pad, "Redskins
question: tabled."   He made it through the first two agenda items and
started to relax as he announced, "Next item: travel reimbursement."

"I'd really like to know which genius revised the per diem rates!" Apel
demanded.

Skinner said, "Seconded.  Why in hell did they changed the rates for the
destinations they did?"

Hamburg asked, all innocence, "What, no cases pending in Kiribati?"

He aimed a glare across the table.  "Not recently, no."

And Apel remained unimpressed.  "Well, the next time a field agent is
machete-ing his way through the Amazon jungle--"

...and then Skinner saw Scully sitting at the river's edge untying her
hiking boots.  She pulled off her boots and socks, stood up, and started
unbuttoning her overshirt.  The white tank top underneath, soaked
through with sweat, clung transparently to her chest and torso.  She wiped her
face and neck with the overshirt before she dropped it to the ground,
then she undid her shorts and skimmed them and her panties over her hips
with a little wiggle, turning her back to him.  Her arms stretched over
her head and her back arched in a graceful curve as she pulled her tank
top off, and then she waded into the water to her waist before she
plunged in.  Then she surfaced, head tilted back, eyes closed, wet hair
dark as blood against the pale column of her exposed throat, nipples
tight and dark against the taut curves of her breasts.  She blinked
water out of her eyes and glanced towards the shore, and wide-eyed shock at
being seen rapidly turned into appreciation, and definite interest, at
seeing Skinner just as naked as she was...

"--not what it looks like!" Kuhn insisted.  "If you'd been listening,
that'd be perfectly clear!"

*Walter Sergei, get a grip!*

Skinner dragged himself back to the present with an effort, and to his
great surprise found that his pen, acting independently of his brain,
had actually been taking notes through another agenda item.  He resisted the
urge to loosen his tie and settled instead for a deep breath.  His shirt
pulled taut with the movement and the lipstick stain on it pressed harder against his chest--as did the phantom pair of lips that put it there,
and the heat already enveloping him rose exponentially.

"We've *all* been listening--we've all been sitting at the same table,
for God's sake!" Dunn snapped.

Kuhn wheeled on Dunn, but Hewitt gave them both a long-suffering look
And asked, only half-joking,  "Are you two going to behave or am I going to
have to get the principal in here?"

...and then Principal Scully walked into the classroom in a severely
tailored gray suit, her red hair pulled back in a tight bun, her
horn-rimmed glasses making her blue eyes as cold as ice.  Skinner
straightened involuntarily, vague feelings of guilt washing over him as
her shoes tapped out a deliberately measured stride on the linoleum.
She stopped by his desk and stared down her nose at him.  He braced for a
harangue, a stinging rap across the knuckles with a ruler, an order to
stand in front of the whole student body and have his faults enumerated
out loud.  And then he noticed that there was one thing about her that
wasn't hard and tight and angular--her lips.  They were moist, an
inviting pearly pink, slightly parted as she held his gaze.  She leaned
closer, closer still, her eyes still holding a potent threat, and he
didn't dare look away.   Suddenly her hand shot out and she jerked his
head back and kissed him hard, those lips making his own part for her
tongue.  She guided his hand underneath her suit jacket...

"--morale's a legitimate concern!"

Skinner blinked hard, remembering where he was as Hamburg, making her
point, continued, "Relationships between supervisors and subordinates
are just as important as--"

*Perfect, just what I need to have discussed right now...*

"But what you're proposing would--turn the Hoover Building into the
'Summer of Love' all over again," Apel countered, looking disgusted.

Visser gestured with thumb and index finger.  "Exaggerating just that
much, aren't you?  Look, why do you think any of this would lead
to...dancing down the hallways to the Grateful Dead or chanting 'Make
Love Not War'--"

...and then Skinner was lying on his back looking up at the night sky.
Beside him, Scully sat cross-legged on the grass, stroking Skinner's
Bare chest and swaying to the Dead's "Dark Star."  Skinner moved his hand
beneath the curtain of Scully's long red hair, tracing up and down her
spine with his fingertips.  She shivered, ticklish, then leaned into his
touch, encouraging his whole hand to caress her. He undid the bottom of
her halter top, giving his hand a clear path from her neck to the waist
of her patchwork skirt, and savored the warm, graceful curve of her back
against his palm.  She turned, her eyes dreamy and playful as she held
his gaze, and untied the top of her halter, letting it fall away.  He
pulled her down to him, eager to taste the rosy tips of her breasts
peeking through the fall of her hair.  She climbed on top of him,
squirming purposefully against the hard-on trapped inside his jeans as
she held herself above him, her breasts dangling in his face.  He laved
her nipples, first one then the other in turn until they'd tightened to
small, dark buds.  Then he pressed her breasts together as if to get
them both in his mouth at the same time, moving between them sucking, licking
hungrily.  With a long, low moan she lowered herself onto him and moved
own his body, pausing to caress his mouth with hers for a long, deep,
wet moment that made him ache with surprise when she raised her head.
But she continued to move downward, and he reached between their bodies
and undid his jeans for her.  She freed his penis and he groaned aloud
as first her hand, then her mouth took possession of him.  His thighs
tensed and his stomach quivered as her mouth moved back and forth along his
cock when suddenly she released his penis, and moved so that it thrust
between her breasts.  He reached down, caressing her nipples with his thumbs and
fondling the swelling curves of her flesh together around his cock as
his hips started to...

"--Skinner?"  Hewitt regarded him calmly, waiting for an answer.

He glanced down briefly at his notepad as if considering, and saw that
they had moved to adjourn.  "Motion carried," he said emphatically.
"Let's get the hell out of here."

Skinner grabbed his overcoat, dropped the minutes by his office for
Kimberly to type up, and went back outside, thankful for the bite of
cold air against his face.  But it was the only part of him that felt the
cold as he walked to the parking lot.  Even though he hadn't bothered to
button his overcoat, the sharp breeze had no effect on him--

...as if Scully were pressed close against him as he pulled his coat
around her, shielding her from harm...

Skinner ignored the memory of how he'd rescued Scully that morning and
marched briskly to her requisitioned car.  He checked the trunk to see
if she'd left anything there and then moved to the rear car door to check
for anything on the back seat, and his arm moved--

...as if to encircle Scully's waist, lifting her, still hidden in his
coat, into the car, onto the back seat.  He let go of her and she lay
beneath him, her hair spread out like a bright halo framing her ashen
face and her eyes, locked with his, darkened with fear for their safety
...

And nothing more.  Skinner got Scully's briefcase and slammed the
passenger side door hard.  *Damn it, what the hell's gotten into you
today?* he demanded as he walked away from the car.  The very last
person who would read anything even remotely sexual into his actions that
morning was totally professional, absolutely unflappable Special Agent
Scully herself, and no matter what inappropriate, improper, and
just-plain-wrong places his mind had wandered during the meeting, he had
to stop it all here and now.

Skinner turned in the car keys at the requisition desk and went to the
basement office, Scully's briefcase tucked under one arm.  He knocked on
the door.

There was a slight thud, as if he'd startled Scully and she'd dropped
something, and then she called out, "Come in."

He took a deep breath, opened the door and leaned in.  "I'd like to
discuss something with you, Agent Scully," he said in his most neutrally
authoritative voice.  And despite himself, found himself staring at her
lips, pale pink and slightly parted, the tip of her tongue darting out
ever-so-briefly to moisten them.

Now why was she smiling at him like that?

The End