From: Duffsan@aol.com
Date: Wed, 18 Feb 1998 20:44:10 EST
Subject: Skinner's Lover (1/3) NC-17 Sk/Other by Medina


TITLE: Skinner's Lover (1/3) NC-17 Sk/Other by Medina
AUTHOR: Medina, written February 1998
E-MAIL ADDRESS: duffsan@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Please forward to 
ATXC. Archive at Gossamer. Attach my name if archived 
elsewhere.
SPOILERS: None
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT WARNING: Sexual content
LENGTH: 54 kb
SUMMARY: Skinner finds a lover.

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television 
program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of 
Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen 
Productions, and have been used without permission. No 
copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: To Meredith and Miki -- patient and 
encouraging coaches through several drafts. Thank you for 
the unfailing support and friendship. I am grateful more than 
you know.

FEEDBACK: Feedback gratefully received and promptly 
answered. Please send to duffsan@aol.com

*********************************************
Skinner's Lover (1/3) Sk/Other NC-17 by Medina


I do not like formal occasions. Neither the food nor the empty 
conversation appeal to me. Most of the company could also 
be missed without consequence. However I own a tuxedo 
because I attend these events often enough to warrant the 
expense. It is an obligation of my professional position. 

I am here in a hotel ballroom, leaning against a pillar that is 
slightly obscured by greenery, with a drink in my hand. 
Tonight, I attend this gala affair not from some sense of duty 
or necessity but for selfish reasons. I was informed, in 
deliberately accidental fashion, that someone else -- a 
woman -- would be here this evening, and I am unwilling to 
let this opportunity pass me by.

I take a mouthful of straight scotch and notice her at the far 
entrance. She is escorted by two men -- both of whom are in 
dress uniform because they have nothing else suitable for 
the occasion. From my vantage point, I am hidden and watch 
as she discretely scans the room for me while keeping her 
survey undetected. Those who have informed me of her 
attendance have done likewise for her. One of the 
companions touches a shoulder and ushers her down the 
stairs and further into the room.

Swallowing the scotch, I feel a burning that goes down my 
throat then continues beyond, finally settling into my groin. I 
don't think it is simply the drink's doing. Making love to her 
tonight is only a possibility, but the idea will not fully 
disappear and leaves me with a heightened awareness of 
her every move. A part of me has begun to prowl. 

~~~

She is the daughter of Senator Richard Connolly. He is an 
older man, in his early sixties, who curses every moment he 
spends away from the golf course. The game is his mistress, 
but a car accident two years ago permanently damaged his 
swing and he has never played the same since. He is still 
quite good but the edge is clearly dulled. The loss is 
wounding.

Despite his preoccupation with his diminishing game, he is 
an excellent partner and, if necessary, I will rearrange my 
schedule to accept an invitation to play.

I respect him. A rarity in politics, he is erudite, fair, and acts 
honorably -- genuinely interested in the welfare of his 
constituents and mindful how he uses his power of office. My 
standing with him was solidified during a tournament. We 
were tied for first place with his arch rival when, on the 
eighteenth hole, I sank a uphill thirty foot putt for birdie and 
won him a season of bragging rights. The Senator has been 
partial to me ever since.

The Senator was the first person outside the legal profession 
who knew my divorce was final. I told him over a beer in the 
clubhouse. He considered the news, silently taking stock. 
After offering his formal "I'm sorry to hear that" condolences, 
he revealed to me that, even now, he still missed his wife 
who had passed away many years previous. It was all I 
required -- someone to acknowledge how devastating loss 
can be and it was a relief to discover he understood. That 
evening, in an unspoken but mutual agreement, we 
proceeded to get thoroughly and unrepentantly drunk. 

~~~

The first time I met his daughter, I had just finished a round 
of golf with the Senator. It was late afternoon and the long 
shadows of the tree-lined fairways obscured the vision of 
those still playing. The sandstone walls of the club glowed in 
the golden sun as if this spot were especially chosen and 
burnished daily by gods. Money can buy anything. Even the 
best sunsets. 

Inside the clubhouse, it took a few moments for our eyes to 
adjust to the unnatural light. As we made our way to the bar, 
I recognized her from the framed picture on her father's desk. 
She was passing through a group of women and contrasted 
them in many respects. Where their faces were precisely 
delineated by make up and their hair stiffly coifed, her face 
was clean except for a tan and her hair windblown. Where 
they wore expensive silks and Italian leather shoes, she wore 
cotton. When the maid rounded the corner laden with linens 
and dropped a handful of napkins, she was the only one who 
bent down to help.

The Senator was pleased -- very pleased -- to finally 
introduce us, and we were paired at dinner. The evening 
progressed agreeably and once she and I had a chance to 
speak unobserved and uninterrupted, we were both mildly 
surprised to discover that we genuinely were pleased to 
meet. I found her to be intelligent, quick witted, independent. 
Someone competent who could hold her own with me.

By then, I had been divorced for almost two years and had 
resigned myself to a solitary existence. The Senator had 
clearly taken it upon himself to play matchmaker and I was 
not inclined to insult him by refusing his good intentions; but 
neither was I optimistic about probable results. The attraction 
to her was a surprise. That there was someone who could 
lure me from my aloof existence caught me off guard.

After the early dinner, the bar opened, as did the dance floor. 
It was in both our natures to edge away from the activities 
until we found ourselves at the very fringe of the party. Then 
she asked if I would like to go for a walk around the greens. 
It was too dark to play but still light enough to enjoy the dusk. 
I accepted, wanting escape the oppressive obligations of this 
rarefied society.

We detoured past the buffet table and she removed a small 
bunch of grapes before we emerged into the twilight. It was 
not a romantic stroll under a warm summer moon, but a 
guided nature walk around a golf course I had played often 
but never really seen. She knew every tree, every plant and 
animal and pointed out birds that to me, were nothing more 
than a flicker of color or a vaguely muffled call.

Then, on the 14th hole, we stopped at the edge of the long 
sand trap that bordered the left. She put a hand to her hip 
and surveyed the fine white sand. 

"You know what my father calls this?"

I did, but feigned ignorance because I wanted to hear her 
version.

"The goddamned Sahara. Before the accident, he never 
used to land here. Now he can't land anywhere else." She 
said it wistfully, saddened deeply to see her father unfairly 
diminished. I understood. I felt the same way.

Then she was off again, pointing out a tree her father 
routinely trims with errant line drives. "Here's the Kentucky 
Coffee tree." She slapped the rough bark and walked on. 
She continued, describing a heavy winter storm and how the 
tree was badly damaged. "Doing quite well, now. Despite my 
father's best efforts."

When we returned, the lights from the dining room 
augmented the moonlight and the music wafted onto the 
stone patio. Neither of us were inclined to re-join the party, 
so instead we sat out on one of the iron wrought benches 
and talked. After a while, she pulled a grape off the stalk and 
offered it to me. I thanked her, popped it in my mouth and 
chewed. Then she took one for herself and bit the grape in 
half. A moment later, she spat out the piece in her hand then 
she threw it high into the air. A brown quivery mass appeared 
from nowhere and enveloped the grape just after it hit its 
peak. A bat. She threw the second half in the air and another 
shadow shimmered towards the offering.

I swallowed the fruit in my mouth and felt mildly foolish. That 
instant, I realized I needed to see her again. If only to redeem 
myself and prove to her that I was not a complete idiot.

~~~

We cannot see each other often. Working in different cities 
precludes it. Nonetheless, we found enough mutual interests 
that we communicate fairly frequently by phone, occasionally 
by e-mail. Her father is a remarkable go-between and relays 
news he gleans from each of us to the other. He takes his 
role overly seriously, but it is charming and he permits me to 
occasionally tease him about it.

In time, I discovered she possessed a depth of 
understanding that goes beyond the superficial, a way of 
seeing into me with a clarity that discovers hidden truths. I 
have no idea how she can so easily dismantle my well-
steeled armor; yet being exposed in this way does not 
concern me. In a strange way, it is a relief to find someone 
who can accept me for what I am -- a battle-weary soldier, 
long accustomed to solitude.

She is alluring without being conscious of it. Nothing she 
does has any other motive except the one of face value. 
There is no coyness. No flirtiness. Just uncomplicated being. 
And when she does intend to show her desire for me, there 
is a shyness, an uncertainty, perhaps a result of her well-
mannered up bringing, that contrasts sharply with her usual 
confident personality. She is guarded, careful to protect that 
part of herself where deep, raw emotion runs. This 
elusiveness makes her irresistible and I have discovered she 
can be coaxed from her reserve with gentle, deliberate 
persistence. She is an animal waiting and secretly wanting to 
be untamed.

Twice we have nearly become lovers. The first time she 
backed off and I respected her decision without retribution. 
The second time my cell phone interrupted us and the 
subsequent conversation was urgent enough to force me to 
excuse myself. Leaving her was a physical assault. Every 
instinct I had protested the sudden ripping away from skin so 
supple and smooth I could not keep my hands from her. 
Despite the aching need to possess her, even that night, 
there was a certain relief for both of us that we would part 
still untouched. She remained cautious, and I was not 
anxious to begin a physical relationship with just anyone. 

Since then, in the brief interludes when we have seen each 
other, we have continued to explore our limits. The last few 
times we have met have been our testing grounds -- our 
unhurried discoveries of one another. 

I carry with me memories. The clean, unscented smell of her 
skin and the taste of her unresisting mouth. The feline way 
the muscles of her back flex when she moves, compelling 
me to stroke my hands along her firm flesh. Her tentative 
manner as she pulls herself into me; needy yet reluctant. I 
am the same. Wanting her yet reveling in the not having. 
There is a vitality we share, an electric energy that exists in 
the distance between us. Tonight that distance may 
disappear. We both know it.

~~~

Before me, a sea of heads bob and swirl on waves of black 
and white. Sounds of a crowd, the indistinctive bass of 
conversation, are ornamented by laughter in different 
registers of alto and tenor. Trays of silver spin and eddy 
round the room as if caught in whirlpools.

She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, sheathed in a black 
satin that shines and tricks the light like the feathers of a 
raven. 

Her normal stride has been cut in half and her steps are 
almost mincing, as if her feet are bound in pinching patent 
leather. The usual carefree demeanor I have come to know 
has disappeared behind a persona of well-rehearsed social 
attitude. In its place is a hollow pretense of elegance that I 
think never quite achieves its aim; I have seen her in other 
circumstances, much happier and unbound by strict 
expectation. 

Her appearance of grace takes concentration and every time 
she forgets herself, the dress trips her up. I know her well 
enough to understand she is suffering behind a smile. The 
presentation is well-executed but it is a role she plays with 
reluctance.

Her father is here and he quickly pulls her into a social circle 
of rich, powerful men. Quelling a momentary jealously, I 
watch as she greets them all graciously and her companions 
drift towards the bar with the thirstier of the crowd. She looks 
wistfully in their direction then is drawn further into the group 
by her father. Politely, she nods when spoken to and when 
there is a lull in the conversation, she begins again to search 
the room for me. At first, it is only her eyes than wander but 
soon she grows bolder and more obvious, looking over each 
shoulder for a different view. She has an expectation that I 
will appear and when I don't, she doesn't quite believe it.

She endures the misery of forced conversation for only so 
long and then excuses herself carefully with a slow graceful 
walk. Before she can cross the floor, her father surrounds 
her again with another set of tuxedoed politicos. The smile 
she puts on could be mistaken for genuine. When she 
shakes hands it is a little too vigorous for her fashion and the 
strap of her purse falls to the crook of her elbow. It takes 
several adjustments before the strap will stay on her 
shoulder and subsequent handshakes are cautious and 
careful. The dress has stolen her natural exuberance.

Gradually, her hands come together and one cups the other 
in unobtrusive and neutral fashion. She grows quiet but there 
are flashes of teeth when the group cuts out in laughter. She 
herself does not actually join in, and once again she begins a 
surreptitious survey of the room.

When I think she has suffered enough, I push away from the 
pillar. I get quite close to her before I am noticed and it is the 
Senator who first spots me, beckoning me with a rapid wave 
forward. At the sound of my name, she turns. Her face 
brightens into a genuine smile. 

"I believe you already know my daughter."

We mutually extend our hands but instead of shaking hers, I 
lift it and kiss the back of her glove. Her grin widens under 
my gaze.

"Yes, we have." Then I address her directly, "Lieutenant 
Colonel. It's a pleasure to see you again."

~~~

I am a pilot in the United States Air Force. I spent my entire 
childhood wanting to fly. My family thought it was a phase. 
We've had some hard times over this, but once I made 
Lieutenant Colonel, they began to acknowledge I had a 
legitimate career. My father is finally starting to let it slip that I 
fly an F-15 for a living. I think he gets a kick out of it. I'm 
glad. Apart from golf, he doesn't get many thrills.

I knew about Walter Skinner long before I ever met him. He 
is a former Marine. Although that's a clear mark against him, 
he's also one of my father's favorite golfing partners. This is 
saying a lot because my father is very particular. Golf is his 
religion, and he will not worship with infidels. Nor will he 
suffer fools. Ideally, my father's golfing partners must have a 
good handicap, possess intelligent conversation, strictly 
adhere to the rules and understand that -- as long as the sun 
glimmers above the horizon -- it is light enough to play. Oh, 
and you're not permitted to mention the accident. Ever. 
Especially when he has landed in a sand trap.

My father had a terrible car accident two years ago and 
nearly lost his arm. It permanently weakened his game. It 
frustrates him and he wanted to launch a civil suit against the 
drunk who hit him, not for pain and suffering, but for adding 
eleven strokes to his game. In his books, this is a crime 
punishable by death.

When I call my father, he always tells me how he played and 
when he beats Walter Skinner, he will give me a rapturous 
hole by hole description of the game. Where my father 
gained a shot. Where Walter dropped one. When it happens, 
my father's calls will take twenty minutes before he is 
adequately prepared to ask me how I am.

It was a surprise to discover Walter Skinner was far closer to 
my age than my father's. A pleasant surprise. I was home on 
leave and spent an entire evening with him. Used to being 
taunted and teased by my squadron of high octane 
testosterone injected pilots, I found Walter's calm maturity 
and intelligent wit unexpectedly seductive. He was so self-
contained. So unassumingly confident. It nearly made me 
giddy.

At my father's insistence, and I am certain he has hopes for 
the two of us, Walter and I agreed to a round of golf on the 
following Sunday.

I am a good player. It is a family prerequisite. The earliest 
memories I have are of my father's country club. I think I 
must have grown up here.

In any event, the night before, my father had said to watch 
for Walter's drive, that it was a little short and tended left. 
That if Walter would make a few adjustments to his grip and 
his stance, he would be able to get a good 230 or maybe 
even 260 yards. Strokes off a game are my father's Holy 
Grail and for him to spend time worrying about Walter's 
game meant something. My father had recommended 
several things, but apparently nothing was any help. He 
quietly asked me to make suggestions if I found anything 
because he was sure there was something that could be 
done but just couldn't put his finger on it. Walter was just 
inconsistent. Lack of practice, my father figured.

I remember his first tee shot. While I stood back and away to 
silently observe, Walter teed up and made a stance and a 
grip that he adjusted with a few flexes of his fingers. Then he 
settled, paused and swung. A long back swing arched in 
geometric perfection. There was a momentary pause at the 
apex, then his downswing followed, gaining in speed and 
power. The club pinged, hit right in the sweet spot and the 
golf ball hissed through the air high over the fairway. Dead 
straight. Landed about 250 yards downstream. Nothing 
wrong with that swing, I thought. Not a thing. As it turned out, 
nor with any one that came after that.

We played a full eighteen. He didn't hit a tee shot under 230. 
Every one of them long, straight and true. Then it hit me.

"You let him win." I said.

"I beg your pardon?" He was expressionless and 
unperturbed at the accusation as he peeled away the Velcro 
backing of his golf glove. 

"My father. You let him win." The genuine feeling of winning 
was something my father experienced less and less; every 
time he won, it made him inexplicably happy. And this Walter 
Skinner had been able to accomplish it. Completely 
undetected. By an expert.

"I don't know what you're talking about." His mask held but I 
knew the truth it obscured.

"How do you explain today?"

Walter looked me straight in the eye and lied. "Luck."

I could fall in love with a man like that.

~~~
End of Part 1



*********************************************
Skinner's Lover (2/3) Sk/Other NC-17 by Medina

~~~

I stand with her, the Senator and a pair of his political aides, 
making small talk and wishing for nothing more than to take 
her aside for a private conversation. Now that we have 
begun the evening with no scripted ending, there is a tension 
between us. It is a desperate need to speak unobserved so 
we can reveal and discover desire. With her eyes and her 
voice, she will answer without words what I am asking. I 
know she knows the question. Once there is an appropriate 
pause in the proceedings, I ask her quietly. "Can I get you a 
drink?" 

She agrees and we start out, weaving a slightly indirect path 
towards the bar. Closing in on the tightly packed crowd, I 
offer to go the last few yards and stand in line for whatever 
she desires. Returning to her, I deliver the request and she 
stands close to me. Overly close. As if we are alone and she 
is tentatively suggesting ways to occupy ourselves. 
Suddenly, I feel something hard slip into my hand. I take hold 
of the object and discretely turn up my palm and look. A key. 
Heavy. Brass. Hers.

"In case we get separated," she says softly, for only me to 
hear. "I have the other."

Without comment, I slip it into my pant pocket and feel the 
key lightly thump against my thigh, creating a distracting 
pulse point.

Possibilities for tonight have just become probabilities.

~~~

"Lt Colonel Michael Sims. And this is Lt Colonel Troy 
Acheson. Fellow crew mates of mine."

I am introduced to her two uniformed escorts and when we 
are seated for dinner, they deliberately form an echelon 
around her and take places at either side of her, forcing me 
into an apparent disadvantage. Not fighting the issue, I am 
left with a seat one out and get the distinct impression they 
have practiced this move.

The two men are remarkably protective of her -- acting as 
self-appointed chaperons. Without being told outright, I am 
quickly informed I am an unwanted interloper on their trio. 
The conversation is a thinly disguised inspection, an 
interrogation designed to intimidate me. Clearly they are 
under content and vocabulary restrictions, but their intent is 
clear. The tactics are amateurish, transparent, and from my 
point of view, amusing. Irritating them, I relax and ably meet 
their challenge.

Troy sits sideways, his arm resting on the back of her chair 
and positions himself so that if she leans back, she will 
recline against his medals. "So. You're a Marine." It is not 
meant as a compliment.

"Former. Yes."

Nothing further is established before a woman passes by, 
walking the walk. Her hips swing and clench; cleavage is 
tight, firm and flaunted. She is every man's wet dream; 
statuesque, blonde, wearing a dress that fits like skin. With a 
single word, she could have any male here except one. I 
would not trade the promise in my pocket for anything she 
could guarantee.

Passing by, she silences the table then carries on with 
rippled smoothness and a sidelong blink of disdain that 
creates a wake of wishful thinking.

Troy twists his head to the extreme, watching as she slips 
beyond our view. Then he snaps his head back and 
addresses us with awe. "Fuck. Did you see the tits on her?"

It is a comment met with some laughter but the lone woman 
at our table does not laugh. Instead, she winces and covers 
her eyes with a gloved hand. There is no smile on her face. 
Just embarrassment.

I address Troy evenly and remind him. "There is a lady 
present."

It riles him but she splits her fingers and watches me closely, 
as if she is relieved to have an ally. 

~~~

Walter and I conspire to leave the party unobserved and 
head upstairs to my hotel room. 

Quietly, I close the door, link the chain and set the dead bolt 
before finally kicking off my shoes with a deep sigh of relief. 
The shoes hurt and I've lost circulation in several toes. He 
waits for me at the foot of the bed and when I walk up to him, 
we continue a kiss we began in a deserted elevator. 

His lips are smooth, soft, moist and there are fleeting 
moments when he loses himself and lets an animal hunger 
surface. It is forceful, starved and greedy. Then he subdues 
the desires, letting them have a last moment of intense 
freedom before he pulls away. It is a thrilling danger -- I am 
captivated and apprehensive, but when the passion 
disappears, I feel abandoned, frustrated, and wanting for its 
return.

We have not yet made love, but it is something we have 
considered. On two occasions, we attempted it but 
abandoned the thought. We have both resisted because if 
we do, we are forced to acknowledge the bond that has 
grown between us. As long as we remain apart, we are free 
to leave, free to keep our hearts buried and feelings 
obscured. We have no obligations to each other. No 
complexities. If we make love, the barriers dissolve. Things 
change. Everything is exposed and unguarded. Twice 
before, I have been badly hurt in romances where a mask of 
love obscured the face of indifference. I cannot bear the 
thought of it happening again. 

Tonight, he and I are closer than ever and suddenly, I need 
to slow down. As memories of the last time we were together 
flicker in the back of my mind, I pull back.

"Where's your phone?" I ask, a little breathless.

"At home."

"You sure?" I tease him, but am glad for the excuse to 
retreat.

He arches a brow then releases his hold on me. Reaching 
down, he undoes the buttons of his tuxedo and holds out his 
arms like a scarecrow. The jacket opens, revealing a broad 
chest and a row of small black studded buttons that draws a 
vertical line down his center. 

"Search me." It is a dare.

He has a way of standing aggressively still that can stop my 
heart. A way of making me overcome myself. Of making me 
willingly give up control to him. All without words. I watch his 
face, and his eyebrow lifts. Another challenge that is 
impossible to resist.

Tentatively, I slide one hand, then the other, in between his 
coat and his shirt. The material is warm from his body heat, 
and as I work my hands toward his back I can smell the fresh 
clean cotton and the vague musky scent of his skin. The 
effect is unsettling. Without preamble, I press my forehead 
against his chest and inhale. He is intoxicating. 

With my eyes closed, he is all that I am aware of. Then arms 
envelope me and draw me against the full length of his body. 
Something inside me gives way and I feel like I've stepped 
off a steep ledge. I collapse against the material that smells 
of safety and comfort and him.

I am a pilot; a master of machine and speed. But the rush of 
adrenaline at Mach One is nothing compared to the 
realization that I have risked everything to trust him. F-15s 
never break your heart. People do. But he is secure and
reliable; he will not hurt me.

We stay in each others' arms for a while, making no real 
effort to progress beyond being close. After a while, we 
break apart, and although he is only a few feet away I miss 
him. He removes his jacket, matching the shoulders with a 
backward fold, and lays it over the edge of the desk chair. 
He then moves on to one of the stuffed chairs and reclines, 
his back to the city lights, and stretches his long legs out in 
front of him. As I walk past, he holds out his hand and I take 
it. He draws me forward and I sit on his lap.

He ignores me for a moment while he removes his watch, 
examines the face and sets it on the table.

"Keeping track of the time?" I have a need to draw his 
attention back to me. 

"Just the opposite." There is almost a smile on his lips and I 
feel another rush of adrenaline. He is reveling in what our 
ultimate conclusion will be and, at the same time, is not 
inclined to rush. I am suddenly anxious to speed this languid 
pace of his. 

Aware that my breath has started to grow shallow, I close the 
gap between us and kiss him again, trying to position myself 
in a way that will relieve this sudden restlessness. I discover 
this evening dress is not designed for convenience. Neither 
is what he wears. Still, there persists a very small part of me 
that finds comfort in being unable to easily shed clothing. 
Even now, I am unsure.

Despite this ambivalence, I eagerly continue to play, letting 
him retreat from our kiss to undo my diamond bracelet, then 
peel off my gloves one at a time. When the gloves are gone, 
I feel bare, almost naked, and have an urge to cover myself. 
The only way I have to relieve my uneasiness is to distract 
myself by tugging at his tie and continuing with his 
cummerbund. It encourages him and his legs shift under me. 
Unbalanced, I feel like I am falling; before I can brace myself, 
he catches me and consumes me in another kiss. A moment 
later, I hear his shoes drop to the floor one after another.

Intensity that has until now only been tested takes over in 
earnest. His hands travel over fabric, cupping my breasts 
and bringing to life a swollen desire that throbs and aches for 
his touch. This little distance between us creates an 
unbelievable tension.

There is a knock at the door.

I break away in a gasp. He does not acknowledge the 
intrusion and tries to coax me back into the moment, 
pressing his mouth to mine and finding the raw nub between 
my legs. There is a tension of a different kind now. Between 
persistence and resistance.

The knock turns into a pounding that sounds as loud as my 
heart beat. "You in there?" 

"It's Mike and Troy." I'm startled. Whispering, I can feel my 
pulse racing out of control. I cannot have my fellow pilots 
know he is here. If they find out I have a man in my room, 
they would naturally assume we are lovers. In the crudest, 
basest language they can muster, they would never let me 
forget it and brandish the fact like a weapon; teasing, 
taunting and spreading the news at every opportunity. I have 
to fly with these two; I trust them with my life, but they are as 
mature as frat boys. I am alone in this men's world and there 
are just some things that I must keep off limits from 
everyone. It is my one and only defense.

"Ignore them." It is not quite a demand. He uses his hands 
and kisses that trail down my neck to persuade me. His 
arguments are intense, unassailable, and I am almost unable 
to withstand him. But the thumping at the door persists. I am 
trapped by the knowledge that they will not go away.

"Come on! Open up!" The pounding continues, rattling the 
emergency plaque on the door. The chain swings at the 
vibration.

"I can't. They'll break down the door." I struggle to leave his 
lap. Hands pull at my waist and it is a strain to break free. "I 
have an idea. Come on."

I gather together his jacket and cummerbund and tie and 
shoes and hustle him into the bathroom. I drop everything 
where I stand.

He leans against the vanity, slightly aroused but unrushed 
and tranquil as I continue to grow flustered. It is not an 
emotion I have much practice at, and I do it badly. His 
unwillingness to understand the severity of the situation 
momentarily angers me. How can he not know what will 
happen to me if they discover us together? I need to get rid 
of them. God help me if I don't.

"Stay here." I tell him and head for the door. "Wait." Looking 
down at my floor length dress, I stop short. I'm going to pass 
myself off as taking a bath, but it is impossible to do in an 
evening gown. Anything less than a bathrobe and I am not 
going to be believed. "I can't let them see me like this. Quick. 
Unzip me." I feel the dress give way as he eases down the 
fastener.

A minute ago, I was worried about undressing in front him. 
Now I am tearing my clothes off without a care about his 
reaction. My bra is tossed aside as I bend over and peel off 
my panties and nylons. Suddenly his palm smoothes down 
the length of my bare back. He strokes me again, unhurried 
and soothing. He intends it to calm, but it is exquisite and I 
arch against him. Every place where his hands touch my skin 
become the only parts of me that matter. The third time he 
does it his hand lingers and his fingers brushes the fine hairs 
at the small of my back. His touch is so gentle, so soft and 
light that it dominates my senses until nothing else exists.

"The tub." I point, shaking off his influence with an order. He 
begins running water as I pull on a white terry robe. The neck 
is wide open but I am covered. I yank the knot tight and head 
for the door.

He catches me by the elbow and pulls me back, sliding his 
hands up my front and folding the lapels together.

"Your blush is showing."

I glance at the mirror. He's right. My chest is a mottled red. I 
might as well wear a neon sign.

"Hey! Open the door! We know you're in there!" More 
banging on the door.

"Coming!" 

~~~

She shuts the door, cloistering me in the bathroom, leaving 
me unsatisfied and wanting. I can still smell her, still taste her 
and feel the smoothness of her skin as I clench my hands, 
protesting her sudden absence. Part of me does not 
understand what has happened and I cannot supply an 
explanation for this abrupt desertion. To my base desires, 
the reasons are irrelevant. The mate is nearby. What is the 
delay?

This isolation is amusing because she did not have to go to 
such effort. Ignoring them would have worked just as well 
and caused her much less panic. But in every pilot, there 
beats the heart of an adrenaline junkie. Using some perverse 
logic, she lets them in to test limits, to see how close she can 
come without being discovered and ultimately, to be rid of 
them.

I assume her plan of attack will be a simple one. Keep them 
in the hall, give them regrets and hope to hell they leave 
without too much of a fight. Despite her taking them on, she 
does not want to be exposed and I expect that if they make 
the slightest move towards the bathroom, she will use 
desperate measures to keep them at bay. I am absolutely 
confident I will not be discovered and this knowledge gives 
me the freedom to enjoy my privilege of eavesdropping.

I hear the chain jangle and the dead bolt click. In an instant, I 
hear them stream past the bathroom in energetic quasi-
drunkenness. By the time she closes the floodgates, one of 
them has flopped into a chair and the second is rattling the 
bottles in the door of the mini bar, searching for more 
lubricants. 

"Where's the Bald Eagle?" It is Troy. The question is direct. 
Unapologetic. Asked with the expectation of an answer. The 
nickname does not hurt me nor does it impress me. It is also 
not very original.

"Who?" Her questioning answer makes me smile. Forcing 
them to do the work, she offers something that is not quite a 
denial. If they expect information from her, it won't be easily 
obtained. 

"Old Baldy." Mike elucidates. His voice is distant, as if he is 
speaking from inside the mini-bar. "Spinner."

"Skinner." Troy corrects.

"Yeah. What ever. You two seemed to hit it off. Then you 
disappeared. Party hasn't even started."

"He went home." She says it just a fraction too quickly, as if 
she is making up the story as she goes along then concludes 
the lie with a firm declaration. "And I'm going to have a bath 
and go to bed."

She is, I believe, relatively inexperienced and the sexual 
nervousness is making her confrontation harder to pull off. 
She is not accustomed to having a lover; it is something 
extremely personal that she will go to any lengths to conceal. 
I cannot help but think she is working very hard, trying to 
keep me a secret. I wish there was some way I could reward 
her for the effort but am at a loss for suggestions.

Then, as her play continues to unfold, an idea occurs to me.

~~~

"He went home. And I'm going to have a bath and go to bed." 
It is a statement of fact. Not open for debate. I have to get 
these two out of here. Every moment they linger is another 
moment closer to being exposed.

All at once, my eyes fall to the left of Troy's elbow and I see 
the watch. Walter's watch. Sitting on the table like a time 
bomb ticking and ready to detonate. I can't get to it without 
drawing attention to it. Shit. 

I can't look at it. It takes immense concentration but if I even 
glance that way, these two hounds will pick up the chase in 
an instant and find the rabbit on the run. Despite the 
conversation, I can hear the watch ticking. It sounds like an 
amplified metronome. 

"Hey. Whose is this?" A dark eyebrow spikes. Troy picks the 
watch up by the band and suspends it over an extended 
index finger. He swings it slightly and catches the light on the 
gold rim and glass face. "G-man's?"

Until tonight, they had never met him and didn't know his 
name. After tonight, they will never let me forget it. By 
tomorrow, they will have invented at least a dozen new 
nicknames for him.

"My father's." My mouth is dry, numb and hardly able to form 
the words.

"Your father's?" The eyebrow lifts another notch.

"Yeah." I shrug, trying to be nonchalant but in a dead panic 
to throw these two out before Something Terrible Happens.

"What does the inscription say?"

"Give me that." I snatch it before he can read the back and 
jam it into my pocket, then feel my lapels peel wide open. 
Before either man can speak, I grip the front closed with two 
clenched fists. There is dead silence except for water 
burbling into water behind a closed door.

Extreme though they are, even these two have their limits. 
They have just crossed the line and they know it. If they 
persist one more moment, they will regret it. Not because I 
will get mad. That never stops them; just encourages them. 
No. They will regret it because deep down, they do respect 
me and I am entitled to this single shred of decency.

"You've raided the bar, now will you two just get out? I'm 
trying to take a bath."

"Man. You are no fun. Come on Troy. Can't say we didn't 
try." He is disappointed but resigned.

"Yeah. Thanks for the booze." He twiddles two small bottles 
of scotch in the air. 

I block the bathroom entrance as they pass into the hall way.

"Good night ..."

"See ya. Oh nine hundred tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Sure. See you. Try to keep the property damage to a 
minimum." I call out as they weave towards the elevator. 

I sink back into the room, turn the dead bolt and lean against 
the wall, weak with relief. 

~~~

"It's safe to come out now."

I open the bathroom door, expecting to see him leaning on 
the counter with his arms folded, having patiently endured 
the Air Force Follies. When I don't see him immediately, I 
have the irrational thought that he has disappeared. Then I 
see the heap of clothing. The shirt. The pants. The socks 
and underwear. 

I swing the door further and peer around the edge. He has 
stripped and is now sitting in my bathtub, feet perched up 
and ankles crossed, in a regal pose with arms resting on 
either edge. Soap bubbles obscure what my eyes 
instinctively dart down to see. 

All this time. While I was working my ass off trying to get rid 
of Frick and Frack without revealing my secrets to the world. 
He was in here. Stripping. Getting into the tub. Making 
anything they might discover unspeakably worse. He is 
supposed to be on my side but I know he is not. The 
disappointment is sharp, stinging like a hard slap across the 
face that snaps the neck. I have been betrayed.

"You cocky son of a bitch."

He is unfazed by my insult and offers a languid blink and a 
mild smile.

"What if they'd come in here? You didn't even lock yourself 
in!" He needs to understand. I am angry.

"You were guarding the door." He keeps his eyes on me. "I 
trust you." The words come out velvety and soft, as if he is 
part of a different conversation. He fixes me in his 
unwavering gaze, trying to lure me with the promise of his 
stare. When I don't move, he holds out his hand, inviting me 
to his side. In a flash of anger, I realize he hasn't listened to a 
thing I've said.

I turn on my heels and slam the door.

~~~
End of Part 2



*********************************************
Skinner's Lover (3/3) Sk/Other NC-17 by Medina

~~~

I stare out into the night with my arms tightly folded across 
my chest. In the bathroom, the tap is turned off with a 
metallic shriek and there is a whoosh of water then rain 
drops. I hear a towel snap and a few moments later, the door 
opens.

I glance over my shoulder. He walks towards me, a towel 
wrapped around his waist. His presence fills the room going 
beyond the limits of his skin. The closer he gets, the stronger 
the feeling is until he stands behind me, arms at his side, not 
touching me but still enveloping me in nameless emotions. I 
turn my back on him to resist and resume my study of the 
cityscape. In the reflection of the window, we are apparitions, 
nothing more than ghosts.

"I have to work with them you know."

"Does it matter what they think?"

"Yes. It does." The words are sharp as I turn to face him. 
"This is my business. Our business. Private. You don't know 
what it's like living in a squad of adolescent-minded men 
where every detail is exploited as fair game. My love life is 
not for public consumption. I take enough shit from these 
guys as it is!"

I stop abruptly. I've said too much. Revealed a weakness I 
never intended him to know.

"I'm sorry. I apologize." He pauses and proceeds, not rushing 
with his words. "I didn't do it to embarrass you. I was just 
trying to ... " He abandons the explanation, as if he can't 
adequately articulate his reasons and instinctively knowing 
whatever he says will be futile.

We continue to stare in silent stalemate. 

~~~

I have hurt her. Deeply. Unwittingly. 

Three minutes ago, I was a knight in shining armor. A prince. 
I had her respect, her affection, the potential for her love. 
Now all I have is her contempt.

She stands in front of me, arms folded across her and tightly 
protecting a vulnerability that, having once trusted me, left 
herself exposed. Not knowing any better, l have completely 
destroyed the faith she had in me. With sickening clarity, I 
realize I could not have been any more careless nor more 
fully dismissive of her feelings. 

Her face betrays her in ways that make my insides constrict 
until I can no longer breathe. Her eyes are wide, watery. She 
is at once both angry and unbelieving that I have betrayed 
her. Cheeks are colored high and red, a blush of humiliation. 
Lips are pressed almost white, keeping words and tears 
tightly suppressed. And yet, despite how obvious her 
emotions are to me, she struggles to keep them hidden 
because she is desperate to protect what ever dignity she 
can.

I did not mean to do this.

It has taken me years to find someone who makes me 
complete. I want to sustain this relationship, this feeling of 
wholeness I have when we are together; if we part now, I will 
have a piece cut from me and it will be forever. If I could go 
back in time, I would set the clock back five minutes and give 
myself -- us -- a future.

I wanted to please her. Staring at her now, I know nothing  
could have been worse that what I have done and sentence 
myself to a thousand punishments for my crime. I 
strike a deal for my redemption. Please. I need one more 
chance. This cannot be the end.

My stumbling apology is so lame, so insufficient and trite that 
I abandon it in mid-sentence. The only thing I have inspired 
is her doubt. As the seconds draw onward, she has no words 
and it is left up to me to break this silence. There is only one 
thing left to ask and her answer scares me to death.

~~~

"Do you want me to leave?" 

He says it quietly, without anger and accepting of whatever 
decision I make. I look at him, considering it. If I say yes, it 
will be forever. It is a damning silence that follows. 
Everything is quiet and I can hear his watch ticking in my 
pocket. 

He is in front of me, completely unclothed except for a towel. 
It is a revealing, vulnerable stance and I can see just about 
everything about him. The broad, muscled shoulders. The 
curved pectorals that shape his chest. The tawny hairs that 
form a T. The few of them that are gray. The long deep scars 
that mark his skin with slashes. The one at his shoulder that 
is puckered where the flesh has been mismatched from 
stitches hastily sewn under enemy fire. The bullet wounds 
that are not from Vietnam.

I see these scars on him and realize he does know what it is 
like to be fully exposed to attack. Maybe more that I do. The 
possibility pulls me up short. Humbles me. Maybe -- I tell 
myself, he didn't mean it. Maybe he wasn't trying to be crude 
in front of an audience. Perhaps he just wanted to greet me 
privately in a way that would make him seem appealing. It is 
not necessary. He is long since beyond that point where he 
needs to persuade me. All I need is his lead. I wonder if he 
knows. 

In a sudden release, my anger dissipates and I forgive him. 
This relenting must show in my face because he takes a 
single tentative step forward and brushes his fingers down 
my sleeve, lingering at the cuff and unwilling to finish the 
motion. The moment draws out in dizzying deafening calm.

"Let me make love to you." His voice is a rough whisper.

I place a hand on his chest and trace a path over the hairs, 
then trail my fingers over the tip of his hard left nipple. The 
barriers of formal dress have been stripped away. There is 
no distance between us. No hurt. Just unfulfilled desire. He 
understands my non-verbal 'yes'.

Gently, he reaches for my belt and tugs loose the half bow. 
The bathrobe opens slightly, but not enough to satisfy his 
hungry eyes. We stand for a moment, just staring at each 
other, letting breath shorten and blood pool. 

He takes my hand then gently kisses my fingers, pulling the 
tips one after another into his mouth and massages the pads 
with his tongue. With my one free hand, I follow the seam 
where towel meets skin, drawing a slow line across his lower 
abdomen, not yet daring enough to go lower.

When I finally reach his groin and rub him, he pushes hard 
into my hand with a force that is only a precursor to what he 
wants. I sense he is holding back, residing in a limbo of 
control where voice is muted and power subdued. But there 
are hints, moments where his true nature emerges.

He abandons my fingers in favor of an embrace that presses 
him against me. All at once, I want more of him that this. 
More than the urge of his erection shrouded by terry cloth 
and pushing ineffectively against my lower belly. His hands 
slide down my buttocks, molding the muscle gently so that 
when his hands travel up my back, I keep pushing into him. I 
want much more and use my body to tell him; but he will not 
let me change the pace, satisfied to create my desire and 
then let me suffer, insatiated. 

Finally he releases me long enough to lead me to the bed. By 
the time he rips back the covers, my robe has fallen off my 
shoulders and is draped like a shawl at my elbows. 

He sets his glasses on the night table and peels away the 
towel, then lies back, drawing me on top of him. I'm on my 
knees to straddle him but he sits up and we both struggle to 
remove my robe that has suddenly bound me at the waist. 
Once he frees me, he bundles the terry and throws it aside, 
then maneuvers me to my back. I recline on cool sheets and 
pillows that give me a momentary chill. Briefly, he hovers 
above me on all fours, then lowers himself, sliding his legs 
between mine and settling to his elbows. 

His kisses start at my neck then flow downward, between the 
curves of my breasts and over my belly button until he 
reaches the soft fleshy skin just below. There is a molten 
heat flowing through me and I try to push him lower, shoving 
his broad, muscled shoulders without effect. He is 
unmoveable. When I wriggle in protest, he simply settles me 
with his body and continues his focus. 

Electricity flares off my skin where his mouth opens and 
suckles, and in time he travels upward in unhurried fashion. 
He draws his slightly bristled face across my breasts, 
sanding the skin and my nipples with his jawline until I am 
nothing but nerve endings. Then he nurses the wounds with 
tender swirls of his tongue. I cradle his head and arch into 
him, aching to have him inside me. The universe collapses 
around me until all that I am aware of is his mouth and his 
hands and the length of his body tantalizing me with weight 
and friction.

As he continues, there is a fleeting moment when he touches 
me between my legs. I open myself up, a reflex to cooperate 
and encourage him. But the touch disappears and I am left 
with nothing but a throbbing pulse. I struggle to influence 
him, to draw him down on me but I have no leverage and 
cannot sustain the effort. He is relentless. Unaffected by my 
attempts to direct and coax him, he continues his quest to 
render me insensible.

When he is ready, there is neither hesitation nor hurry, just 
controlled deliberateness. I feel my insides give way to him 
and I shift my legs and hips, hungry for as much of him as I 
can hold. He retreats slightly, then pushes himself in as far 
as he can go with an animal grunt that washes over me in a 
hard breaking wave. The sound goes right through me and I 
feel it my bones and my joints and sinew. I want this sound 
again. I want to know it. Possess it. Match it with my own. 

He comes down on me again and the power; the sheer 
intensity transforms me into energy and neediness. Contact 
is hard. His is a fierce motion with stillness following, as if he 
is drawing all his energies for the next effort.

His buttocks clench tight and hard then he relaxes, pulling 
away from me in a way so slow and deliberate I am terrified 
he will never return. The emptiness threatens to consume 
me, and I grab for him doing everything I can to keep him in 
me. Then he stops, and in one fluid motion he drives into me 
again. 

In the aftershock that is still and silent, our eyes are locked, 
unblinking and seeing into each other's soul. He wants to 
watch me disintegrate. Wants to see how every thrust of his 
hips pulls me further and further under until I surrender to 
him completely.

He begins to withdraw and I claw at his back and hips, finally 
gripping his meaty glutes and pull him down. We collide and 
it is enough to bring that lion grunt to life again. The sound is 
a punctuation, guttural, indistinct and unmutable.

He starts to build and then, almost imperceptibly at first, 
starts to lose his control -- there is less and less delay 
between motions until he is breathing deeply, grunting and 
driven by instinct. The primal desire to simply mate and 
satisfy his overwhelming urge will not let him stop until he is 
fully sated.

He is down, straining my limits and his, then relents only to 
come down again. I want him in me, on me. Crushed by the 
weight of him, I want to be a part of him -- to be nothing more 
than an extension of his consuming passion.

Flesh against flesh, I feel the vibration of his voice in my 
chest and my entire body shivers. I want him to growl for me. 
Again. Again. Again. No matter how many times, it is not 
enough. We bare our teeth, wanting to devour one another; 
my own sound gathers in strength and finally emerges, a 
feminine echo of his. I have lost all cares. Nothing matters 
except this moment in time and these sounds of the jungle 
that I cannot control. I can feel it so close that I am arched 
and breathless.

I hear myself cry out to him and he just keeps going -- 
powerful, sustaining, making wave after wave of energy flow 
into my core and out the nerve endings of my limbs. Then 
another rhythm emerges as my own exhausts and I am open, 
unresisting and there is only him, sweaty and feral and 
clutching for anything that can submerge him completely. I 
close my eyes, caught up in his unrelenting motions. Tears 
leak into my hairline. The pain is exquisite and I feel 
everything give way again and submit to him. He is 
completely insensible and unleashes all his power; alive with 
writhing, vocal ecstasy, he suddenly surrenders to the relief 
of an orgasm.

For those few seconds, we are in complete physical unison. 
Matched. Mated. Bonded. The moment exhausts us and we 
lie in each others arms, very still except for our raspy uneven 
breathing. 

Gradually, conscious thought returns. Splayed across me, 
his body his solid and heavy and unmoving -- fully 
commanding of his territory. As I stroke his smooth hot skin, 
my fingers find the sweat that has slickened his lower back. 
He shifts and presses his hips down in a residual impulse, 
then sighs deeply, a growling satisfied purr that will always 
be mine.

~~~

>From the blackness of sleep, I grow aware of a dull ache at 
my hips and lower back. When I awake, she is sprawled 
across me hip to hip and uses my shoulder as a pillow. My 
bones and muscle have grown stiff from the weight of her, 
but rather than disturb her and shift to a more comfortable 
position, I keep still and let her sleep. She is not a burden. 
There will be a time soon enough when I will long to return to 
these moments and crave for the feel of her body next to 
mine. 

The hotel is absolutely silent. No room service trays with 
clattering china. No water coursing through pipes. No noises 
-- human or otherwise -- except for the hollow flow of air 
inside circulation ducts. At the window, the curtains are still 
open, and I watch the first light emerge as a line of fire 
cutting the horizon in two. 

>From the hall, I hear the faint ding of the elevator and, after a 
time, a newspaper is dropped and slipped under our door. It 
is enough to rouse her. She stirs and lifts her head, 
searching for the clock. In a semi-conscious haze, she 
mumbles a single word. "Time?"

I cup a palm at the back of her head, coaxing her to return to 
me and promise softly. "I'll wake you."

She accepts it, blinking sleepily. With a contented sigh, she 
rests her head against me and snuggles her cheek into scars 
she has healed with kisses.

FINIS

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