Selves Abide Forward wherever you like. Rating: NC17. If you are under 18, may I recommend Disney's Daily Blast at www.msn.com? Summary: Skinner/other. An encounter in a bar. Some plot, but not so much as to get in the way of the really fun bits. Warning - This story, and it's sequel, Discovery (shameless plug), both depict fairly graphic sexual activity. The sex is consensual (I know, because I wrote it that way), and occasionally a bit violent. Please turn back if this offends you. (Oh, one last point? No-one herein is using a condom. That is because this is FICTION. Real life is different.) Feedback: Please!! Send it to Maria Centrale ( mcentrale@hotmail.com ) This is my first posted fanfic and erotica. Did anyone read it? Particular thanks to Red Valerian and Anne Vermillion for their excellent editing, advice and encouragement. You two are the best. Disclaimer. 1013? I am aware that he isn't mine, but technically, you might be hard pressed to prove that anyone in this twisted little story is yours, either. Be that as it may, no infringement, no profit, no harm. Right? By Maria Centrale, November, 1997 how lucky lovers are whose selves abide under whatever shall discovered be whose ignorance each breathing dares to hide more than most fabulous wisdom fears to see (who laugh and cry) who dream, create and kill while the whole world moves; and every part stands still e.e. cummings He has been eyeing me all night, the tall, balding man in the dark trench-coat. Our eyes catch, hold for the briefest of instants, then break apart. The first time was an accident. The second time was - not. He is standing across the bar, holding a glass half-full of amber liquid. He isn't beautiful, but he is. compelling. His muted, immaculately-tailored suit and erect posture mark him as government, not that that is an unusual occupation, here in Arlington. He wears no ring, but is engrossed in deep conversation with the tiny redhead standing at his elbow. I wonder idly if they will go home together. She speaks, and he focuses his attention on her face. I imagine the weight of his full attention must be riveting; a tactile, disturbing force. O'Leary's is almost deserted tonight. I am sitting at the long, polished mahogany bar, nursing a single glass of Laphroig, as I may well have more work yet to do this evening. As is my Friday pattern, I will finish my drink, pass a few words with Seamus, the Irish ex-pat bartender, then head around the corner to my home. Since moving into my townhouse, I have grown to tolerate, then like, and finally love the solitude of living alone, but tonight I am too buzzed to appreciate the quiet peace it offers. In the carefully-tended curved brass taps I see my warped reflection: long dark hair, slightly damp from the rain, even features, dark eyes. My gray wool suit would be utterly forgettable, were the skirt not the tiniest bit too short. I make a mental note to have it altered, as that kind of thing matters in my industry. Here in DC, individuality is not rewarded, I think blackly. Unconsciously, I shrug, trying to shake this dark mood. I have long ago come to terms with the requirements of my job. My attention is distracted by the lanky, brown-haired man entering the bar. He is boyishly handsome, wearing a beautifully cut suit, and the de-rigeur trench-coat. It seems the standard outerwear for anyone who works in DC or its surroundings. The redhead has one. As do I. My eyes follow him as he joins the two standing across the room from me. The redhead turns to him, and I realize that, while they are speaking, the tall man has been observing me watch them. His face is expressionless, and he seems not at all disconcerted to be caught staring. Our eyes lock, this time holding for a long, charged moment. His gaze is dispassionate, intense and penetrating, with something indefinable burning underneath. I feel caught, drawn to him by some dark, disturbing force. Wary, I tear my eyes away and sip my drink. The taste of scotch still burning my throat, I look up and realize they have gone. "Will that be all, Katherine?" Seamus asks, startling me. "Oh. Yes." I slide a ten out of my wallet and set it on the bar. As he returns with my change, I tilt my head towards the other side of the room and ask "Do you know who those people were?" "The ones who just left?" "Yes." "No, not really. They come in every now and then. Why?" "No reason." Seamus propped his arms on the bar and grinned. "Could it have anything to do with the guy you have been checking out all evening?" "Certainly not." I said repressively. "Right." Seamus nodded gravely, stifling a grin. "Certainly not." "That's it. No tip for you." "Damn. There goes the Porsche payment." I snort in a most unladylike manner and gather up my coat and briefcase. Bidding him a fond farewell, I head out into the deepening night. Seamus' gentle, fraternal teasing has dispelled the dark, almost erotic mood that had strangely overtaken me. I tighten the belt on my trench-coat against the sleeting rain and shiver. Autumn in Virginia. The air is cold and clean, the icy rain dispelling the smell of exhaust that permeates the city during the warm months. I raise my face, letting the moisture chill my skin. The scotch, combined with the clean sharp rain, and a surprising sense of reprieve allow me finally to begin to unwind. I climb the stairs to my townhouse, already imagining curling up in front of a cheerful fire with a mystery novel. The latest Janet Evanovich has been languishing unread for weeks due to the requirements of my latest project. I imagine that if I listen, I can hear the book beckoning me. Circe has nothing on a great story, I muse, digging in my coat pocket for the house keys. Lost in my thoughts, I don't notice the shadowy form looming behind me. I insert the keys in the lock, and release the catch seconds before a hard shove between my shoulder-blades sends me stumbling into my hallway. Caught off-guard, I whirl around, gathering a deep breath to scream, as my assailant slams me against the wall and claps a hand over my mouth. "Shut up." He kicks the door shut behind him. In the black hall, all I can discern is that he is big, much, much taller than my five feet, and powerfully built. My mind races, evaluating the possibilities. I sink my teeth into his palm, and he jerks his hand away from my mouth. The movement grants me a split second to twist my right leg free. A hard kick to the back of the knee throws him off-balance long enough for me to break free and sprint for the bedroom, the only room with a door that locks. His hands lock on my coat, and I lose a precious instant tearing out of it. I am seconds away from safety when he strong-arms the door at a dead run. I am thrown backwards by the force of his entry, and fall hard. The side of my head slams into something solid, and I have a split second to register that it is the birthday gift from my sister: a granite doorstop, elaborately carved with the Japanese symbol for `chaos', before the darkness closes in on me. I wake up retching. My stomach is spasming, trying to eject the lunch I was unable to eat. After a few painful moments, the dry heaving ceases, and I become aware of the cold sweat that has erupted over my skin, and of the blinding, deafening pain in my head. I am lying on my side, in fetal position, with my knees protectively drawn up to my chest. I have no idea how long I have been unconscious. The quality of the light behind my closed eyes suggests not too long. I groan, the sound sending heavy bolts through my skull. I can still remember the events leading up to unconsciousness, and this reassures me that I have not suffered a concussion, merely a nasty blow to the head. Memory tells me that the worst of the symptoms will abate if I simply lie still for a few moments. I concentrate on breathing deeply and audibly, mentally willing my body to calm. Slowly, the pain and tremors recede to a manageable level, and I open my eyes. I am lying on the floor in my bedroom where I fell. There are traces of blood on the granite stone in front of me, and more than a trace of blood under my head. Chaos indeed, I think. I struggle to sit up, only now realizing that my hands have been cuffed behind my back. Snapping to full alertness, all senses alive to the probability of harm, I roll to my knees, and stand up. I adjust my stance wide, both to prepare for violence, and to counteract the dizziness that assails me. My harsh, uneven breathing sounds loud in the silent room. I wonder bitterly if he was enjoying watching me surface from unconsciousness. It is too dim to discern more than rough shapes, but I sense the barest trace of a rich, musky men's cologne. The tiny part of me not concerned with my immediate survival idly identifies it as Drakkar. I hear the quiet snick of a switch, and a soft light illuminates the room. He is sitting on the rocking chair, silently observing me. His coat and jacket are gone; he has made himself comfortable. The light flashes off his steel-rimmed glasses, the glare hiding his eyes. His posture is relaxed, but his jaw is clenched, and a pulse pounds in his temple, betraying his expressionless face. He is too big, too vital - too male. He is out of place in my cozy home - a predatory force in my carefully constructed sanctuary. Surreptitiously, I twist my wrists, testing the strength of my bonds, and searching for- "If you are looking for your weapon, don't bother." He nods to the dresser across the room. My Glock is lying there, disassembled. "Who are you?" Amazingly, it is he who asks this, rapping out the demand in a rough, dangerous voice. His eyes, assessing and intense earlier this evening, are now cold and angry. "Who am I?" I choke out a harsh, mirthless laugh. "Who the fuck are you?!" My fury is tightly leashed, but slipping. This situation has spiraled completely out of my control. The icy, self-preserving section of my brain notes that if he stays seated in that chair, there is an excellent chance that I can kill him with a head-butt to the throat. If I have to. As if hearing my thoughts, he uncoils himself and stands, with a lazy, mocking grace. He takes a single step towards me, the threat in his actions unmistakable. "You first." "Katherine Morris." "Who do you work for, Katherine?" "None of your goddamn business. Who the fuck are you?" He doesn't answer, but takes two steps closer. I refuse to flinch as he looms over me, blocking the light from the lamp behind him. His face is cast in shadow, and his voice is quiet: controlled and infinitely threatening. "You were following us tonight, Katherine. I think I need to know why." "I don't know what you are talking about." "I think you do. Make this easy on yourself." He raises one hand to my head, smoothing the blood from my cheekbone and temple. It feels disturbingly like a caress. "Tell me who you work for." His tone of voice has changed, becoming silky, caressing, but no less threatening. Bound, and debilitated from the blow to my head, I cannot outrun him, and without both hands for judo, there is no way I can overpower him. More disturbingly, his nearness, his touch and my own helplessness have combined to send subtle flames of arousal licking at me. Under the conservative suit I am wearing, my nipples have hardened, and I am terrified that he will notice, and shocked at my response to him. Fruitlessly, I twist the metal restraining my wrists. I can only placate him with information. "I'm NSA." "Continue." I am silent, glaring at him, assessing whether I can somehow turn this situation to my advantage. He pulls me against the length of his body, his left hand sliding down over my ass. His right hand is buried in my long hair, tugging my head back and forcing my face up to his. His eyes are still shrouded in shadow, but the menace is clear. "Tell me why you were following us." "I wasn't." He lowers his head to mine, his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. "Tell me what the NSA wants with me." My voice is breathy, almost inaudible. "I don't know what you are talking about." He lowers his lips to mine, his intent clear, and I frantically try to twist my head to the side. His fingers, twined in my hair, hold me immobile. His lips descend, and he nibbles at my mouth, skillfully teasing me, and sending shivers down my spine. The kiss deepens, as he forces first acquiescence, and then desire. I am trembling, and making a barely audible animal sound as he finally ends the kiss and raises his face from mine with cool satisfaction "Tell me." "The National Security Agency has no domestic charter." I choke out angrily, humiliated by my response. "And I am betting that you know that." "Tell me why, Katherine." "I wasn't following you!" My pulse is racing in equal amounts of adrenaline and desire. "I have been out of the country for three weeks. I don't know who you are, who your companions are, or anything about you!" His hand has begun to trace patterns on my ass, and I can feel him hardening against me. He brushes the hair back from my head and lowers his lips to my collarbone. Instead of the light kiss I was expecting, he sucks my skin, nipping at me gently. The combined pain and pleasure send a jolt to my groin. It is the most erotic thing I have ever felt. I let out a ragged gasp, and he intensifies the pressure, leaving a red welt when he finally raises his head. His eyes are liquid, aroused, somewhere between fury and desire. Like this afternoon, I am once again caught in them. He backs me towards the bed, and I regain my senses as my thighs touch the side. Twisting out of his loose grasp, I take one panicked step towards the door, only to be roughly jerked back by my hair, dropped to the bed and pinned. For a moment, I feel his full arousal, and am unable to stop myself from arching into him. He drives himself against me, hard. "We still have a few things to talk about, don't you think?" His voice is harsh, aroused and angry. His weight is crushing my bound wrists behind my back. "Please." I gasp, as the pain deepens. "My wrists-" Shifting, he releases me, and I scramble to the corner of the bed, kneeling on the mattress, protected on two sides by the room's walls. I suddenly understand how a deer feels when brought to bay by a hunter. That is what this man is - an overwhelmingly attractive, exceedingly dangerous predator. I realize that I am in way over my head, and coldly wonder how I could possibly have misjudged this situation so badly. Without releasing my eyes, he moves further onto the bed and grasps my ankles. He slides my legs out from under me, pulling me close to him. Removing my pumps, he slides his hands up the outsides of my thighs. A ragged curse marks his discovery that I am wearing stockings and a lacy garter belt in the place of the anticipated hose. His hands are hot on my bare thighs, as he slides his fingers under the hem of my rucked- up skirt and stops, looking at me through hooded eyes. "Tell me why." I am overwhelmed by his attraction, by the implied threat in his actions, and by my response to him. I freeze, unable to respond, as he slowly slides my skirt up higher, the friction of the material on my sensitized skin becoming unbearable. I close my eyes, suspended in time, horrified, realizing that he is about to discover the extent of my arousal, when suddenly, his weight is gone. "Shit." He is pacing angrily across the room. "Goddammit!" He pulls off his glasses and drops them roughly on my dresser. Unshielded, his furious eyes are no less compelling. "You have no idea how much I wish I could go through with this. No idea at all." His rising voice is ragged, barely controlled, fury and arousal warring within him. With a silent snarl he slams the small handcuff key on my dresser, next to the pieces of my weapon. His eyes burn into mine once more. "You can tell whoever it is that you work for that I will find him, and I will have his ass!". He has turned to the door before I am finally able to speak. "Stop." He turns and stares at me. I haven't moved. Leaning in the juncture of the walls, my back arched from the cuffs binding my hands, nipples clearly visible through the thin silk of my blouse, legs slightly spread, and skirt a centimeter from baring me completely, I can see the reaction I am having on him. "I don't know who you are. I swear." I moisten my suddenly-dry lips, knowing that this is not a smart thing to do, but committing to the action anyway. I breathe deeply and shut my eyes. "But I don't want you to go." Silence. I open my eyes. He is stunned. I can see thoughts moving behind his eyes, calculation and lust, before a shield drops down, and he is again impassive. He approaches the foot of the bed and silently views my nearly exposed body. He takes his time, and I feel myself flush hotly under his inspection. Finally, his eyes meet mine. I can read nothing in them. "You want me to stay." He says this flatly. "Knowing where this is going?" I am silent, but face him squarely, letting him read the truth of my desire in my eyes. Evidently, it isn't enough. "Say it!" He approaches me like some feral animal. "Tell me what you want." "I..". I am silenced by his touch. Roughly, he caresses my ankles, and runs his hands up the insides of my calves. I am having trouble remembering what he wants from me. His hands reach the sensitive spot above my knees, and he applies rough force, his fingers digging cruelly into my flesh as he spreads me open to him. His voice is low, just above a whisper, uncontrolled and rough. "Tell me!" "Oh God." I am out of control. "Tell me!" "Please. I want you to fuck me." There is no going back, and no denial that I have not asked for what is about to happen. I am shamed and aroused in equal measures. He lets out an explosive breath, and pulls me under him, grinding his engorged cock into my weeping core. He reaches for my blouse, tearing the delicate fabric and baring my breasts to him. I struggle, momentarily forgetting the handcuffs, in my need to feel his skin against me. He rolls onto his back, taking me with him. Mindlessly, I grind against him as he pushes the blouse off my shoulders and tears open the front clasp on my bra. He flips us again. I am lying on my back, and he is propped up over me. He is far from gentle. One hand shoves my panties out of the way, as his mouth settles on a nipple. He sucks hard, in concert with the harsh strokes he is dealing my throbbing center. The friction is rough enough to keep me on the very edge of orgasm, but not fine enough to send me over. He knows this. "Oh, don't-.. I -.." I cannot regroup enough to coherently express what I want from him. I struggle to press myself closer to his hard, hard body. "No." Softly and with some hidden menace. "You wanted this. We are going to do this my way." Suddenly the pressure of his body and hands is gone. I see him standing, taking off his shirt. I watch him disrobe, reveling in the form revealed. His body is hard, fit from use. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, tapering to sculpted thighs and a magnificent ass. Staring openly, I wonder if I am going to be able to take his cock into me. "Stand up." Appraising me coolly, he tugs off my skirt, taking the panties with it. He runs his hands up my legs, and over my thighs, bare between the black garter belt and my dark gray stockings. I look back over my shoulder, indicating the handcuffs, my ruined blouse and bra. He caresses my collarbones, pushing the remnants of fabric down my arms. "No." he says speculatively. "I don't think so." His hands drift down my arms, to my bound wrists and back up. "I like the way you look right now." His voice is mesmerizing. "Fierce." His fingers float across my collarbones, tracing the faint ring of bruises down my upper arms, cupping my breasts gently, then roughly pinching my nipples. I breath in sharply at the pain, but never release his gaze. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling me so that I am standing, straddling his lap. He begins to suck on first one breast, then the other, while his hands dance between my thighs. He brushes the bundle of nerves at the front of my body with an achingly gentle hand, while slowly penetrating my anus with a finger slick with my own juices. As I get close to orgasm, he releases my clit, and works a second finger inside me. Tearing his mouth away from my breast, he rasps "Have you ever had a cock up your ass?" Incoherent, I shake my head. He doesn't say anything more. I don't know if this means he will take me this way or not. I sense that our lovemaking is so far out of my control that it doesn't matter much what I have or have not done, or want to do. He resumes his attention to my clit, brushing the pads of his fingers gently across the throbbing surface. I begin to keen, my knees buckling, as the orgasm builds, but just before it breaks over me, he pushes me away from him, and stands. He struggles for control, and I am shocked anew by his reaction to me. Grabbing the key from the dresser, he turns me roughly, and unlocks the handcuffs. His superheated flesh replaces the hard steel as he releases and massages my bruised wrists. The only sound in the room is our mingled breathing as his hands work their way up my arms to my shoulders, easing the strain from my muscles. I feel his heavy manhood pressing insistently against me, as I drop my head. Dark hair falls in a curtain as he takes advantage of my unspoken invitation, leaving burning, nipping kisses along the column of my neck. I turn blindly, craving his beautiful, cruel mouth. His hands descend on my shoulders. I am nearly sobbing with frustrated tension but his intent is unmistakable. I kneel, and take his cock into my mouth, his musky scent rich and erotic. Gently sucking the head, I slide him deep into my mouth, my tongue flicking across the underside of his cock. He shudders, and tangles his hands into my hair, showing me the rhythm he wants. Working his cock, I am amazed at how, no matter how much he wants to run the show, at this instant he is my creature. I slide one hand underneath him, cupping his balls in my palm. He lets out a shuddering groan and tears my mouth from him. "My God." Gone is the last shred of his icy control. He pushes me roughly to the bed, face down, on my hands and knees, the lacy garters framing my plump, heart-shaped ass. I spread my thighs, presenting to him. "If you only knew what you looked like right now." he rasps. His large hands caress my ass, spreading me. He grinds his cock in my juices, laving me from clit to anus and back, dancing mockingly around my center. "Do it. Fuck me. Oh, please." I don't recognize the harsh, sobbing voice coming from my own throat. He grasps me by the hips, arranging me for his possession. He positions himself at my entry, and slowly eases the tip of his cock into me. I catch my breath at his size. "Relax." After all our roughness, at last, at the finale of our little piece-a-deux, he is surprisingly gentle. He moves carefully, working himself in deeper with each thrust. The sensation of being slowly entered, stretched and filled, is incredible. I have missed this so much. With his every thrust I let out a mindless sound, driven beyond words by his magnificent cock. He grasps my ass, watching his cock impale me, reveling in the sight and sounds of our mating. "Christ." He loses control momentarily and slams his full length deeply into me. I suck my breath between my teeth in a startled hiss and tense painfully. Struggling for control, he doesn't withdraw, but lets me grow accustomed to him. He leans over and braces himself on his powerful arms. "It's all right." He pulls back almost completely and slowly thrusts back into me, while whispering dark, erotic thoughts into my ear. "You can take it." His low, sexy voice and cruel cock are driving me insane. His possession is rough, sometimes painful, and wholly engulfing. He senses what he is doing to me and his fucking becomes wilder, his voice at once softer and harsher. "You want this so much." He is picking up speed and losing that incredible control, withdrawing his entire length and slamming it into me with increasing fervor. "Say it. You want me to fuck you. Tell me how bad you need it." I am mindless with this potent mixture of pleasure and pain, the force of my long denied orgasm rising, overwhelming me. I can't think enough to form sentences. Running through my mind is an endless litany of need - ..i want ..i need .. don't.yes.oh.. please. Somehow, he moves one hand to the juncture of my thighs, to the aching center of my body. A single touch and I will go off, and he is so close that I can feel the heat of his hand. Taunting me, he holds his hand there, close, but critically far away, until I moan, begging for release. Satisfied, he brushes the length of his palm against my core, once, twice, and then I explode, a soulless scream ripped out of my throat by this dark unspeakable joy. My body's convulsing into orgasm sends him over the edge. Lost in my own pleasure, I dimly register his shout and wild release. We collapse together, exhausted. Post-coital languor turns to exhausted sleep, and I slip away, sated and drained. Morning comes slowly, a pale yellow light brightening the bedroom. I find myself alone, with no trace of my visitor. I stretch, wincing as intimate muscles, rarely used before last night, set up a raucous complaint. I feel like I have been beaten with a blunt instrument, and, smothering a grin, think that the analogy isn't terribly far off the mark. Rising, I slide into my robe, composing myself for my first chore of the day. Pressing a small button hidden on the underside of the desk starts a barely audible whirring, which is silenced as a tiny videocassette tape drops into my hand. Looking at it thoughtfully, I dial a familiar number. "It's done." Hanging up, I can almost smell the cigarette smoke.