... Because jordan asked :)

Title: Under My Skin
Author: Flywoman <emarin@biomail.ucsd.edu>
Rating: NC-17.  Be honest, now.
Classification: VR
Spoilers: Never Again
Synopsis: Not a song story, but the title says it all.
Keywords: Scully, Ed Jerse, tattoo

Feedback: Yes, please!  Send all praise, constructive criticism, and
personal tattoo tales to emarin@biomail.ucsd.edu.  Remember, fanfic
writers don't get paid to entertain, and we're *never* too busy to hear
nice things about our work...

Archive: Gossamer okay, all others please notify me first.

Disclaimer: Chris Carter, Glen Morgan, and James Wong should be credited
for all of the characters and most of the events in this story.  But since
they wussed out and saddled "Never Again" with certain distressing
ambiguities, I'm rolling up my sleeves to offer my own interpretation of
events.  If the idea of Scully having sex really disturbs you, stop
reading at the end of part 1.  But if you want to know what it feels like
to get a tattoo on the small of one's back and *really* would like to see
what happened after the door of #20 swung shut, then this is the story for
you. 

Acknowledgments: A huge thanks goes out to the Scullyfic mailing list for
encouragement, ideas, and a wonderful group of readers: Nascent, NancyFF,
Danielle, Lynn, Tamy, Reade, and LaurenD.  To express my appreciation
adequately would make the preface longer than the piece.  Any mistakes you
find should be blamed entirely on the stubbornness of the author and not
lack of vigilance on the parts of the editors.  I also would like to thank
my friends Becca and Kirsten for their enthusiasm and technical advice ;).

Dedication: To NaK, Jennifer Stoy, and of course Nascent, for sharing an
indelible experience.  I wouldn't have missed that weekend for the world. 

--- 
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It has been too long since my
last confession.

"I've always gone around in this... this circle.  It usually starts when
an authoritative or controlling figure comes into my life.  And part of me
likes it... needs it, wants the approval... but then at a certain point
along the way I just... you know..."  At a loss, I gesture with my right
hand, fingers splayed stiffly as if I were pushing someone away, or
warning him to back off. 

Ed Jerse, intent, mimics this movement with a questioning look.  I frown
slightly and begin again.  "Okay.  Ummm... my father was a Navy captain. 
I worshipped... I *worship* the sea he sailed on.  And when I was thirteen
or so, I went through this..." again the gesture "*thing*... where I would
sneak out of my parents' house and smoke my mother's cigarettes.  And I
did it because I knew if he found out he would kill me... And then, along
the way, there are other... fathers." 

"Sounds a little like your time has come around again," Ed observes, but I
hardly hear him; my brain has finally caught up with my mouth and I am
occupied in regarding myself with surprise and consternation. 

I can't believe I just said all of that.  It's the alcohol talking.  To
his credit, Ed has been sitting there, sucking it in with a soft gaze and
an understanding half-smile.  But I still can't agree with his earlier
assessment of the Hard Eight Lounge.  No, there may be dozens of sorry
cases milling around our booth, but we're the sorriest of the lot, Ed with
his barren little apartment and his war wounds and me, waxing bathetic
over my third gin and tonic.  I warned him.  I don't get out much, I said. 
The understatement of the decade.  I have been starving through my skin. 

How else to explain how I ended up in this crummy bar, practically in the
lap of a man I've just met despite the feelings of unease I can neither
explain nor reconcile with Ed's easy charm, his earnest gaze. 

And he is beautiful.  Dana, you do know how to pick 'em.  Classical planes
to his face, stunning green eyes even in the murky light of the lounge, a
mobile, sensitive mouth, and gorgeous clean limbs that move fluidly
beneath the confines of tight slacks and crisp dress shirt.  But
sometimes, like just now, when he's quiet, listening, peering
sympathetically at me with those unfathomable sea-colored eyes, my voice
catches in my throat and I have to look away for a moment, willing the
unwelcome overlay of my partner's features to fade.  Mulder has no
business here, of all places.  This is my life.  Why can't he leave me to
it for one goddamn minute?  And then I glance back, and he is just Ed
again, Ed Jerse whose wife has ripped his kids away in an ugly divorce and
whose arm was half-covered in blood when I arrived early at his apartment
a little over an hour ago. 

The listening alone should have been sufficient reminder.  In the first
few hours of acquaintance I have told this man more about myself, my
relationships, than Mulder has heard in four years of partnership. Perhaps
if Mulder knew of my propensity for self-revelation under the influence,
he would have tried plying me with liquor long ago. 

It's not that we never talk.  It's just that when we do, it tends to be
all about him.  Because he's unbelievably focused.  Self-centered.  He's
had to be, I suppose, all these years, the knight in tarnished armour on
his ridiculed solitary quest. 

But no, that's too easy.  Because it's also me.  Because I have hoarded my
own shameful secrets, my self-doubts, my frailties.  Because I have
accepted the gift of his vulnerability, I have fed on it and repaid it in
quiet calm, in strength.  Our mutually sustaining exchange has allowed me
to feel needed.  Used.  Absorbed.  But I am a parasite fully as much as
he. 

God.  Alcohol is supposed to blur one's thinking.  Why am I the victim of
this terrible clarity in the moment of my greatest desire for simple
self-pity?  With effort, I banish these thoughts and return my attention
to the man before me, to the flesh that somehow seems less solid than my
partner's absence. 

He has been explaining the motivations behind his tattoo in his smooth,
now somewhat slurred voice.  Through the pleasant haze of the gin I watch
him attentively, the subtle lift of brow and curl of lip; I memorize him,
carefully, systematically, an old trick to catch the trailing edge of
sobriety that for once doesn't seem to be working for me.  I can't even
hear him anymore, and all I can think about is that damned tattoo, calling
to me from beneath the folds of linen and gauze like a secret siren.  I
want to see it again.  I tell him so, in a playful tone that belies the
ragged note of need in my voice. 

He looks away for a second, then back, hesitant, serious: "You know, Dana,
just because I marked the moment of wanting to go forward doesn't mean
that it worked." 

I hear my own voice rise in my ears, throaty, pleading, "I want to *see*
it," and I reach for him over his protest.

"It's scabbed up-" 

"It's okay," I say impatiently, poised for an impromptu unveiling, but his
hand snakes up to snatch my wrist and I gasp.  He is astonishingly strong
and his face swims in my vision, mere centimeters away.  His hot, unsteady
breath bathes my cheeks.  At last he speaks: 

 "If you're so curious, get your own." 

I stare back into those eyes, playful yet somehow at the same time deadly
serious, cocking my head a little as this novel thought diffuses slowly
through my soggy brain.  It's not that I've never toyed with the idea
before.  Very recently, in fact - this afternoon in the tattoo parlor, I'd
noticed a particularly nice bit of work, and momentarily envisioned it
emblazoned on my own pale skin.  Something must have changed in my
expression with this recollection, because Ed nods slowly, loosening the
clamp on my thin wrist. 

Abruptly I am freed, and Ed is rising, pulling a wad of crumpled bills out
of his wallet.  I gulp the last of my drink and scoot out over the quilted
faux leather seat of the booth.  Hazy halos of light crown the table
lamps, the glasses, our fellow customers.  I feel almost as though I were
floating, as if the laws of gravity were operating under different
parameters for me right now.  I allow the buoyant invisible force to lift
me effortlessly to my feet, but when I try to take a step forward I
stumble, the room turning perversely on its edge.  But now Ed has me by
the arm.  "Let's get you some air," he says considerately, and I nod too
quickly and close my eyes for a second, then open them.  Everything seems
to be whirling lazily around us, but Ed's grip is rock steady. 

Outside, the icy air is a sobering slap to my flushed face.  The snow has
stopped, leaving the streets slushy, glittering.  Fortunately we don't
have far to walk.  Across the street, the word "TATTOO" smoulders in red
neon against a backdrop of painted flames.  The windows of the parlor
beckon with bright cartoons and darker designs that catch and swallow the
reflected light from the streetlamps.  We shuffle over the asphalt,
mindful of the treacherous slickness under our feet. 

Once inside, I pause for a second to get my bearings under the soft glow
of red paper lanterns and multicolored Christmas lights and then head
unerringly for the design that caught my eye this afternoon.  It's a
stylized ourobouros, a slender serpent swallowing its own tail.  A
self-imposed circle.  *Everyone gets tattoo they deserve.*

The middle-aged Russian artist, Comrade Svo, smiles and nods and beckons
me to a seat.  While he readies his instruments, I have plenty of time to
reconsider.  Part of me can't quite believe that this is all happening -
the part that reacted with shock and incredulous amusement when I called

Ed earlier this evening to arrange a date, the part that tsk'd
disapprovingly as I downed three cocktails in quick succession and
confessed intimate details to a man I'd barely met.  This part points out
that the most rebellious act of my teenage years was smoking my mother's
cigarettes, and that if my parents hadn't pierced my ears for gold studs
for my Baptism I might never have had it done myself.  Dana Katherine
Scully gets straight A's and commendations.  She does not get tattoos in
seedy parlors after a bout of hard drinking with an attractive stranger. 

But if the soothing haze of the alcohol cannot quite silence this voice,
it can dwarf it, diminish it, make it a laughable self-important whine
instead of the potent force that normally governs my actions.  So that I
hear it only as a faint mosquito, and swat the irritating hum away with an
impatient hand. 

There is the question of location.  I am not so far gone that I would
consider placing a tattoo where it would be visible to those with whom I
interact professionally.  No, this will be hidden, private, personal.  My
beautiful secret.  And I have it now.  The small of my back, just where
Mulder's hand rests casually almost every time we're together.  I try to
suppress a smug grin at the thought of him touching me on our next case,
never suspecting the existence of the coiled serpent, separated from his
flesh by a fragile layer of cloth.  I anticipate the heady thrill of
hoarded revelations, but also of the fear of discovery, the threat of
exposure and ridicule.  *Sounds a little like your time has come around
again.*

Svo is ready now.  I lean forward, shivering slightly as the cool air
caresses my lower back where my suit jacket has been lifted, exposing me. 
A quick hiss, and I gasp, startled by the icy prickling of mist from a
spray bottle.  Now I feel the cold steel glide of a safety razor next to
my spine.  I look nervously up at Ed, who smiles reassuringly as Svo
prepares to sterilize the area.  The rub of a moist cotton ball leaves me
with a faint tingling sensation as the ethanol evaporates from my skin.  I
have the distinct impression that I am being prepared to enter into a holy
place, to be initiated into some sacred mystery whose significance up to
now I have barely glimpsed.  I have been bathed and shaved and anointed
before I am brought before the Lord... 

I am already braced for pain, every nerve ending sings, but I have
forgotten the decal, which is pressed into my damp skin before the backing
is pulled off slowly, inexorably, leaving the outline dark beneath.  I
cannot see it of course, but my senses are aroused to such a fine pitch
that I imagine I can feel every stripe upon the serpent's tail, the cold
gleam in its alien eye.  As the artist pulls on a pair of latex gloves, Ed
reminds him, "She wants the same red.  Like mine."  Yes.  That
extraordinary red, the colour of madness, rich as the blood that dotted my
pillow the other night. 

The scene has taken on an eerie dreamlike quality.  The old Russian seems
to move in slow motion behind me as he dips his electric needle into the
dye, and now the low buzz penetrates my teeth.  For some reason, I am no
longer afraid, or else the sheer excitement at the prospect of this
intrusion, this voluntary defilement, has masked my fear to the point
where I am no longer capable of recognizing it.  I wait, precariously
poised on the pinnacle of anticipation.  I look up into Ed's intent but
encouraging eyes.  The needle approaches my flesh, forcing the air aside
in audible hunger.  This is my body, this is my blood... 

My deep breath turns into an involuntary gasp as the needle contacts my
skin.  The artist begins on the outer edge of the design, and it tickles,
it burns, it sets my nerve endings alight.  I can feel myself smiling
broadly in wonder and elation at the tingling flush of arousal that sweeps
over me.  I don't know exactly what I expected, the sensation of abrasion,
a piercing pressure.  I never anticipated this exquisite mixture of
pleasure and pain.  It is the delicious bruise of the deepest and most
intimate kiss. 

Ed holds my gaze, his green eyes flaring with a reflection of my surprise
and delight.  We are breathing in time, caught in a powerful, unspoken
communion, like nothing I have ever experienced outside of my partnership
with Mulder.  But at this thought, the connection falters, and I look away
for a second, suddenly ashamed at being such an intense focus of Ed's
attention.  It briefly occurs to me to wonder what I am doing here, what
ethical rules of conduct I am broaching with this lonely man.  I still
haven't so much as mentioned Mulder; in fact, I began our acquaintance
with a lie.  And yet in all other things I have been astonishingly open -
transparent - with him.  I glance back, exhaling to steady myself. 

Now Ed crosses in front of me, leaning in and around to peer behind at the
process.  He glances quickly, sidelong, at my face, then back to Svo's
gnarled, confident hands.  His smell, a tantalizing melange of whiskey and
clean male sweat and cigarettes, lingers in my nostrils as he straightens,
moving away to recapture my eyes.  I have slipped back into a sort of
ecstatic trance, but now I meet his gaze again, smiling in shared delight. 
The ink seems to be leaking directly from the needle into my bloodstream,
a straight shot of almost narcotic bliss. 

It is not all like that.  As Svo moves toward my spine, the sensation
becomes less enjoyable, more invasive.  A bee sting, drawn out over half
an hour, so that any individual moment is easily bearable but the
cumulative effect begins to distress.  Sweat breaks out on my brow.  The
seconds seem to stretch themselves out like glassy beads on a string as I
grit my teeth, distracting myself from the pain by trying to recall which
superficial nerves are responsible for which sensations.  If I close my
eyes I can see the colored cartoon maps, the stripes and rings of
dermatomes, from my anatomy textbook.  I am a long way from medical
school, but I count the nerves carefully, five lumbar, four sacral, and
then, because I can really feel it now, a sensation like having one's
tooth drilled with insufficient novocaine, I continue by reciting the
cranial nerves and the structures they innervate, in order.  The facial
nerve with its many diverse branches takes me a long time, and before I
can finish, it is over, he is done. 

The artist smears some kind of slippery antiseptic ointment over the
tender abrasions and tapes a gauze bandage over it.  So be it, now and
forever, amen.  I let out the breath I have been holding with a deep sigh. 
Ed smiles a little anxiously as he helps me to my feet.  "Are you okay?" 
he asks.  "How do you feel?" 

"I'm fine," I say automatically.  But the truth is, I feel strange. 
Different somehow.  I cannot articulate it, but I have been altered in
some fundamental way by what most would probably regard as a purely
cosmetic change.  Marked, maybe, set apart.  Or perhaps I am merely
feeling the end to a very unusual evening and wondering how to reconcile
this spontaneous Dana, smarting from her novel incorporation, with the
severe, predictable Scully who arrives punctually at the office every day
in impeccable drab suits and always, always does as she's told. 

End part 1 of 2.

NC-17.  Disclaimer in Part 1.

Without ever really discussing our destination, we walk slowly back to
Ed's apartment. 

Once inside, he switches a desk lamp on, looking older and weary in its
harsh light, then crosses the room to peer through the cheap mini blinds.
"It's really bad out," he observes to the bitter night, then turns to face
me.  "Look.  The weather and a few drinks under your belt... I'd feel
better if you stayed here."

It's true, the storm has worsened, and I don't relish the idea of driving
back to the hotel.  The effects of the alcohol I've drunk have faded,
leaving me mostly sober but tired and acutely aware of Ed's proximity. And
there is something else as well, something that I can't quite identify or
explain: I still feel light-headed, unnervingly buoyant.  There is a sharp
flutter in my stomach, and my vision is slightly blurred.  I wonder if I'm
coming down with something, and then it dawns on that it's after midnight
and I'm in a room alone with a highly attractive man who isn't my partner,
and it's been so long since this particular situation has presented itself
that it's no wonder if I'm feeling a little out of my depth.  I avoid Ed's
eyes but can't keep a smile from spreading. 

"Hey."  I finally look up at him.  He has been watching me closely, and
can't have missed my wry I-know-where-this-is-headed expression of the
moment before.  "I'm not up to anything, I just want you to be safe - I'll
take the couch."  At this I cast my eyes down again, trying to hide my
grin.  He really seems like a nice man; perhaps he's made his offer in all
sincerity, with no premeditated seduction strategy at its root.  But I
know, even if he doesn't, that if I do stay it will be the result of a
conscious choice to add one more reckless, seemingly impulsive act to this
incredible night.  It's been far too long.  And just like that, the
decision crystallizes for me.  I've completed my "assignment." 
Temporarily, at least, I am free.  I will stay.  And if he's really not up
to anything... I'll just have to change his mind. 

"That tattoo hurt at all?" he asks solicitously now, without showing any
outward sign that he glimpses my newfound intent.

I pause, struggling to analyze and categorize the confusing mix.  "Yeah,
um..."  To my surprise, I have no inclination now to shrug off his
expression of concern.  At work I've always been perceived as tough, a
real little trooper, and worked hard to maintain that image.  But tonight
the experiences I've shared with Ed have left me feeling oddly exposed,
unabashedly vulnerable.  Throughout the course of the evening I have
endured the gradual sloughing off of my normally unbreachable defenses,
manifested as a frightening yet delicious sense of a nakedness like the
fragility of new, pale, tender skin.  This, maybe, is the reason I feel so
light despite my weariness.  Perhaps I simply had become deadened to the
weight of that personal armor until unexpectedly stripped of it by alcohol
and intimacy.

But there is still something else.  I endeavor to describe it for him,
knowing before I begin that the prospect is hopeless but impelled to try,
ever the clinician who believes that by enumerating the signs and symptoms
and assigning a name to the condition she will somehow acquire power over
the disease.  "It feels weird..." Alive.  Alien.  Part of me, and yet not. 
Etched like acid on the surface of my skin and coursing through my
bloodstream like a heady wine.  "I can't see it..."  But I can feel it,
even more vividly now than on the stool in the tattoo parlor under Svo's
needle, every dot, every line.  "I feel different..." frowning now. 
Initiated.  Branded.  Transformed.  "it's like, uh..." I flap my hand in
frustration, helpless to articulate the complex thoughts and feelings that
roil just below the surface, emerging only briefly before disappearing
back into the depths.  "I don't know how I feel about that,"  I conclude
at last with a rueful little laugh. 

He moves closer to me, and I glance up sharply but then still, heart
pounding, as his scent once again assaults me, beguiles me.  Slowly,
carefully, he lifts my jacket and peels the bandage from my back.  The
touch of his hand on my skin draws a deep shudder from me despite myself.
"It looks all right," he says reassuringly, and smoothes the dressing back
into place.  A little shakily, this time. 

My gaze happens to light on his sleeve, which appears to be spotted by
fresh blood.  This isn't right.  "Ed, you're bleeding again.  Will you let
me take a look at it?  I *am* a doctor..."  I strip off his coat as he
protests weakly that the artist said this might happen, then remove his
shirt, not permitting myself to be distracted by the sight of him, firm
smooth flesh rippling with tension.  His bandage is soaked through; I
glance briefly up at his face for permission before pulling it away.  My
mouth twists into a grimace at my first glimpse of his pretty tattoo girl;
she still winks jauntily up at me but there is an oozing scar between her
smug eyes.  It has every appearance of a vicious burn, probably from a
cigarette, possibly self-inflicted. 

"Ed, it looks burned," I murmur.  Without warning, Ed reacts, jerking up
to grab my wrist and wrenching it painfully as I gasp in surprise.  He
seems to be caught in the throes of some violent internal battle.
Meanwhile I am left pressed up against him, close enough to inhale the
moisture of his unsteady breath, which is still faintly laced with
alcohol.  I feel extremely peculiar, mentally fuzzy, detached yet
unbearably present and aroused.  I have the vague sense that I am missing,
or have just missed, something vitally important here, but I cannot for
the life of me discern what that might be.  My doubts are drowned by the
rush of blood in my ears, the thunderous erratic rhythm in my chest.  This
is the moment my body has strained toward all evening.  The moment when
the tangle of words and glances and brief brushes of skin on skin will
coalesce.  I exhale sharply with nervous anticipation. 

Without releasing my wrist, Ed closes the gap between us. 

At first our lips meet gently, tentatively.  He's still not quite sure
that I want this from him.  I reassure him by letting my mouth go soft and
open as I snake my free hand around his back to draw him more firmly
against me.  He responds gladly, eagerly, flicking his tongue lightly over
my lower lip and then sliding it into my mouth.  Sour smoke and sweet
whiskey, potent and unexpectedly arousing.

I find myself startled by the taste and feel of his mouth - his lips are
thin and mobile, not the warm plushiness I had imagined.  Then I actually
catch myself thinking, "But he doesn't smoke," and I realize that on some
level my absent partner has managed to intrude on us once again, that with
my eyes closed I have been responding to the long-awaited advances, not of
Ed, but of Mulder.  For a second I am torn between sadness and fury, and
then these feelings in turn galvanize my belated, almost belligerent,
response. 

I push back, taking him deeper, pressing against the corners of his lips
hard enough to bruise, and he lets out an involuntary little moan.  I
force him backwards, down onto the couch, then spread my knees wide enough
to straddle his thighs, all the time sucking mercilessly at that
unfamiliar, delicious little mouth.  And I'm a multitasking sort - while
he is distracted, I manage to work his belt loose and unzip his fly,
wondering how best to free those slender hips from his now-creased pants. 

At this point, I realize that the front door is still open.  When I pause
for a second's internal debate, Ed's eyes flutter open.  "Dana?  What's
wrong?" 

"Hmm?  Oh, nothing," I say, pressing his lips together briefly with my
index finger, "just hold on a second."  I lever myself up a little
awkwardly and cross the room, draw the door to, bolt it securely.  Ed
comes quietly up in back of me and encircles me from behind, his groin
burning against my buttocks.  He presses against me softly, then more
insistently, his face buried between my neck and shoulder.  I twist around
in his grasp and take hold of the waistband of his trousers, but he
surprises me with a hand on mine and shakes his head *No.* When I
hesitate, uncertain how to proceed, he begins backing slowly towards the
bedroom, tugging me gently along, his luminous eyes fixed on my face. 

Ed strands me just inside the doorway, facing the bed, and again positions
himself behind me.  He begins to unbutton my blouse, slowly and
methodically but with a kind of brutally dampened hunger.  He finishes
with the jet buttons at my cuffs, then rips the whole from my back in one
swift, decisive movement.  Now his warm hands glide around my ribcage to
cup my breasts gently through their delicate cages of silk and soft lace
before efficiently unhooking the clasp.  My slacks follow, puddling around
my feet.

I make no move to assist him; while I usually prefer to take a more active
role, it has been a long time since I have been breathlessly unveiled like
a priceless work of art, and I am determined to enjoy this.  Now he is
down to my pantyhose.  He pauses, kneels, and runs his palm up the inside
of my right thigh with excruciating care until he reaches my crotch, the
damp rose hidden behind the layers of nylon and cotton, and I gasp as his
fingers flick upwards to stroke me there. 

I can feel the moisture flooding me and fight to hold still as he
continues to brush me rhythmically through that tissue-thin barrier.  It
is all I can do to keep from reacting, from bearing down on that finger
and rubbing myself shamelessly against it.  Patience, Dana.  Enjoy this
while it lasts.  It will be over too soon as it is.  But I am deeply
grateful when he finally leaves off toying with me and reaches up to strip
me completely, rolling my panties down with my nylons, painstakingly
enough not to snag them, and accompanying his progress with a series of
wet, torturously slow kisses down the backs of my exposed thighs.  I start
to tremble, my knees locked together to prevent myself from sinking down
on top of him. 

But it appears I am saved, because in the next moment he grasps me around
the waist and nudges me forward, facedown on the bed, my spine rounded, my
forearms sinking into the mattress.  I hear the rustle of Ed's pants
falling to the floor. Am I about to be taken violently from behind like a
cat in heat?  I tense, ready to struggle, confident of my ability to
incapacitate even from this supremely vulnerable position.  But no.  He
bends over me, runs the tip of his nose lightly up my spine to the
sensitive nape of my neck, then presses the length of his beautiful body
against my back as he leans in to nibble at my throat and graze his teeth
along the curve of my ear.  Oh. My. God. 

When you get used to deriving all of your erotic satisfaction from your
own hand and a battery-powered appliance, you sometimes forget just how
extraordinary the human mouth can be.  Ed's is the source of a wealth of
wonderful textures, from soft lips to wet, agile tongue, to the sharp
scrape of teeth, and the fact that I cannot predict which one I will be
experiencing from one moment to the next adds enormously to the excitement
of our mutual seduction.  At the same time, I am acutely aware of his cock
twitching hotly between my thighs, and even as I groan with delight at his
skill in locating my upper erogenous zones, I am wriggling eagerly against
his groin, trying to get that slippery tease up between my legs where I
want to feel him most. 

Distracted by my movements, Ed presses against me for a moment, thrusting
himself roughly against the pale plush of my thighs, but then abruptly
backs off, exhaling raggedly.  Then he gently lifts my hair up away from
the nape of my neck and places his lips there, sighing, raising the fine
hairs with the uneven whisper of his breath.  He begins working his way
back down my spine in zig-zag fashion, pressing his mouth wetly on either
side of my vertebrae, leaving small patches of moisture that tingle as
they dry stiffly on my skin. 

When he reaches the level of my nascent tattoo, Ed stops.  He lifts his
right hand from the mattress and brushes his fingertips tenderly over the
bandage, causing me to wince slightly and close my eyes.  Then he slowly
lifts the gauze before bending down again to kiss me in the center of the
raw ring of the ourobouros.  Not stopping with a simple flicker of lip on
skin, he opens his mouth and sucks hard until I let out a moan, feeling
the flesh blush purple beneath.  For a moment I am back in the tattoo
parlor, fighting not to squirm at the delicious sting of the electric
needle, and Ed and Comrade Svo are blurring together in my head. A low
whimper begins to build in my throat. 

Still in no hurry, damn the man, my lover finally leaves the throbbing
bruises he's created and ventures lower.  I can sense him shifting his
weight, kneeling in preparation for the next offering in this celebration
of the sacred.  Given the brief respite, I realize that rolling over on to
my back is a painful prospect at best, but my present position has struck
me as both awkward and undignified.  Perhaps-

OH GOD. 

My eyes squeeze shut helplessly as I begin to writhe, digging my
fingernails into the musty comforter.  I can't see him, I don't know what
he's doing or how on earth he can reach from that angle, but I don't care,
am incapable of caring, because OH GOD I am being consumed by a sharply
focused flame as his tongue pushes into me, then spirals outward in
incandescent rings,

and I was so ready when he began that there is no hope of drawing it out

any longer no matter how slow and tender and patient he is,

and I am distantly aware of the cool tip of his nose and the scratch
of his jaw,

but every nerve ending strains for his mouth, that incredible
generous pouty mouth that coaxes and cajoles and catches me teetering on

the brink for far longer than I would have believed physically possible,

and then slides unerringly to my clitorus and *sucks*, brutally and
divinely and utterly without mercy- And I *cannot* prevent the cry that
rips itself out of my throat; the best I can manage is to muffle it by
gagging myself savagely with the back of my wrist, "MUL-" 

And the immediate universe implodes in wave upon wave of ecstatic crimson,
leaving glittering trails of starlight down the insides of my eyelids... 

***

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It has been too long since my last

confession. 

***

Was it good for you?
Feedback is lovingly accepted and answered at
emarin@biomail.ucsd.edu