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Alpha Prequel by Sarah Parsons
From: Sarah Parsons <> Date: Tue, 27 Jul 1999 13:19:15 -0700 (PDT) Subject: xfc: Alpha Prequel NC-17 Part 1 of 2 Source: xfc
TITLE: Alpha Prequel 1/2 OR Alt.sex.doggiestyle.fuck.fuck.fuck Part 1 of 2
AUTHOR: Sarah Ellen Parsons
E-MAIL ADDRESS: DISTRIBUTION: Wherever.
SPOILER WARNING: Post-episode prequel to Alpha, if you get my drift. About Mid U.S. Season 3.
RATING: NC-17 – I’m sure you’d never get it from the title.
CLASSIFICATION: Post-ep story. Should have you howling if I do my job right. H, UST, MSR?
KEYWORDS: SMUT, Dog, Internet, Masturbation
SUMMARY: Mulder makes a new friend online.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully and all of their little pals do not belong to me, never will, and sometimes I’m really glad of that. Especially after an episode as wretched as Alpha.
Mulder was hideously bored. Scully had been at some pathology conference all that morning and he was stuck down in the basement office with no case, no conspiracies, and nothing at all to do. Oh, he could clean, he supposed, but that would have spoiled the ambiance of the place. And the point was, he was too busy to clean. Much too busy.
But he had, just the week before, gotten his upgraded Pentium chip-equipped IBM knockoff computer and he decided to spend the rest of the day productively doing some research on the Internet. As always, he took the precautions of a true paranoid, connecting with his own modem instead of the Bureau T1 line, using a variety of fake identities and boxes, and making sure to automatically delete all traces of where he’d been or what he’d been up to when he was done. It was slower, but he wouldn’t get nailed, or get the people he was talking to questioned by some over-zealous suit with too much time on his hands.
After downloading about the fiftieth UFO-related site maintained by quasi-literate whack-jobs with whom he was already familiar from their ranting responses to his publications as M. Luder in OMNI, Mulder was bored again. And the conspiracy and militia websites were even duller. His life was becoming one, dark room without a little Scully light over at the drafting table quirking one eyebrow at his no-case ennui slacker work-ethic while discussing something – anything – of interest.
So, he turned to his normal fallback position in moments of extreme empty boredom – solitary sexual pursuits. He’d probably checked out all the web sites from here to virtual Timbuktu, so he decided to fall back on the old reliable – Usenet.
Soon Mulder was happily hopping through a veritable smorgasbord of alt.sex groups. But then he realized the pictures were more than usually grainy and the amount of advertising and other crap he had to wade through at fun sites like alt.sex.gangbang and alt.sex.endomorphism made it nearly as dull as the UFOs and conspiracies.
After discovering that alt.sex.midgets contained neither pictures of midgets nor anything written by midgets (not that Mulder was particularly interested in midgets, mind you, he was merely searching for novelty) he spent a few minutes downloading pictures of Disney characters in compromising positions for a few yucks. He was just debating whether or not to download a picture of Ariel (she sort of reminded him of Scully) getting it from Prince Eric and the Beast, when his partner returned from wherever she’d been, smelling not-unusually of formaldehyde and anti-bacterial soap.
Mulder smiled at her in a welcoming fashion.
“What are you smirking at?” Scully said, glowering in his general direction as her little feet in their high-heeled open-toed pumps tapped across the dingy linoleum.
Mulder just watched her in something akin to horror as she slammed her laptop down on the drafting table and flung herself into the swivel chair facing it.
“Bad day, partner?” he asked tentatively.
“You could say that,” she snapped, just looking generally pissed off at the whole universe. “But I don’t mean to take it out on you, Mulder. You just might not want to talk to me for a little while.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s not like you can do anything about it,” Scully said shrewishly, but then she stopped and shook her head, causing her hair to ripple out to its full shoulder-length, much like Ariel’s after all, and closed her eyes. “Sorry.”
Mulder waited. And he waited. And she sat there with her eyes closed more like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty now, but Mulder still had his finger on the mouse button for that Ariel thing.
“Well?” he asked softly, gently.
“Well,” Scully’s eyes snapped back open and bore through his skull like two bolts of blue lightning. “Well, I had to go to this stupid pathology meeting this morning, where they brought in all the morons from the hinterlands to see how we go about investigating in the big city. And as you know, I spent all last week preparing my talk on unusual pathology and how to look for the unexpected. So I thought, 45 minutes or so, some slides, a couple of jokes, in and out, right?
“Well wrong. Totally and absolutely wrong. Oh, how wrong I was.
“We get into the meeting and it’s not ten minutes in there until Bubba Bo Bob Podunk from Butt-end of Nowhere Alabama or some such place wants to know about the Fluke man. Well, you can just imagine how it went from there. And so I end up doing not my forty-five minute presentation, but an entire, fucking autopsy! An autopsy Mulder, in new shoes. Shoes with three-inch heels! Shoes, that if I ever take them off my feet, my feet will swell until I wouldn’t even be able to get them into your huge clodhoppers! Shoes that if I ever wear them again, I want you to shoot me, despite the fact that I paid a lot of money for them and they’re incredibly cute even though they’re conservative enough for work.”
Scully tucked her hands between her knees to keep her skirt modestly in place, it was one of those just above the knee length ones with the kick slit in the back that all the suits were coming with now, and since she’d lost weight Scully had been wearing her skirts a little tighter and a little shorter, not that you could tell unless you were looking, of course. Well, she tucked her little hands between her knees to keep the hem down and not reveal anything, so she thought, but the action just succeeded in making the skirt ride up to about mid-thigh and give him a real good look at her legs from tiny ankles to that place where the muscles of her upper and lower thigh showed all the definition that hours of aerobics or running or whatever she’d been doing had put there. And Mulder knew what they must look like all the way up and he couldn’t help but imagine it, as she sat there with her legs actually all splayed out and extended toward him – it wasn’t a fantasy this time – she was really doing it – even if it was just to show him the shoes.
“They’re nice,” Mulder said, not talking about the shoes, but she didn’t need to know that.
He did actually look at them. Black, sueded leather, heels even higher than Scully-normal with little openings on the end so that Scully’s little toes peeked through like a promise of more skin where that came from. Mulder was not into shoes. But he liked these. Oh, yes, he liked them a lot.
So she sat there with her legs out like that for a really long time, finally twisting her feet at the ankles and flexing the toes through the little toe-holes and Mulder was very glad he wouldn’t be needing to get up for anything any time soon.
“Well, so here I am, wearing shoes designed by the Marquis de Sade and Jimmy Joe Jethro and his pals get me all suited up to do a “demonstration” of my methods for them. So I think, well, there’s no body, so I can get out of this. And then,” Scully paused for dramatic effect, her frown a picture of disgust, “they wheel it in.”
“A body?” he asked helpfully.
“Oh that was the least of it,” Scully said. “I hadn’t really caught on yet, but when they unzipped the bag I knew that it was all a set-up from the beginning. That they were all there not to praise the work, but to mock it, Mulder. Humiliation in a bodybag delivered a la carte. Even though I realized, I wasn’t about to let them win.”
“What was it?”
“A floater. A bad one. No ID, everything that could have IDed it most likely washed away, or rotted away, or eaten away. The pathologist’s worst nightmare. The smell alone?” Scully shook her head.
Mulder twisted up his face in sympathy and Scully continued.
“It was there for gross-out factor, pure and simple. One of the other doctors actually had to ask to be excused it was so putrid. But you see their little plan backfired. I’ve seen worse than that on an average day on the X-Files. So, I started to cut him up. Lost another one then, one of the Billy Bobs. I nearly laughed.
“And the fact was I found some things. Some interesting insects, some odd bacteria, and something caught under one of the remaining fingernails. And while I did it – by the book I’ll have you know – I gave them my little lecture about the unusual, and I showed them where to look, like it was a class at Quantico. I think they got the point. I don’t think anyone’s going to attempt to pull something like that again. Bastards.”
“I’m sorry, Scully,” Mulder said, even though he couldn’t tear himself away from the way her eyes were flashing, her chest was heaving with indignation, causing her blazer to pull open more and reveal the long line of her neck, and the way her pale skin flushed just like it would if he reached under that blazer and felt her through the thin cream silk of her blouse. “It’s my fault for ruining your sterling reputation.”
“Bullshit, Mulder! It was their fault.” Scully said. “The work, the science, has always been good, airtight. They had no right to do what they did. They were just being bastards. I was the only woman in that room, Mulder. That’s what it was about, not about the X-Files. It’s been like that since medical school, but they usually cover it up better. They’re dirty, dirty fuckers, and they’ve spoiled what could have been a perfectly good exchange of information among colleagues. Not to mention ruining the whole first part of my day.”
“Well, them and the shoes,” Mulder joked lamely.
“Them, the shoes, and the fact that I haven’t had anything to eat today, thinking we were going to have coffee and rolls like in a normal meeting,” Scully said. “And now it’s what, two forty-seven, and the cafeteria’s closed, so no lunch either.”
“There’s always vend-o-land,” Mulder suggested dubiously. No one really knew how long the things in the vending machines had actually been there, and even he, with his cast-iron stomach and adventurous nature had never dared eat anything from the FBI automat.
“And die of preservative poisoning?”
“There are those carts that sell hot dogs and stuff to the tourists,” Mulder said. “I know you tend to stay away from the meat?”
Scully shot him a look to see if he was being suggestive, but he kept his face innocent and continued.
“?but you could probably get something quasi-decent, and hot, from them.”
“A hot dog,” Scully said scornfully. She looked down at her still-elevated feet.
Mulder just looked at her blankly.
“Ok,” she said, hopping off her chair and tapping quickly to the door. “I’ll just have to risk it or I’ll be tempted to chew off my own leg. I’m starving.”
“Get me a hotdog while you’re gone?” Mulder asked, with an oh-so-innocent smile just to bait her as she walked through the doorframe.
Scully’s footsteps stopped and she stuck her head backward through the door frame.
“Bite me, Mulder?” she said sunny/helpfully, looked at him long enough to mark the hit and then her little footsteps started up again, tapping along quickly down the long hallway.
“I’d fucking love to,” Mulder muttered under his breath, thinking about those splayed out legs and the flushed skin so recently right there in front of him. He was harder than hell and he’d better do something to distract himself before she got back. Cause she’d be back way too soon for him to do anything else about it, that was for damned sure, and there were guys in the hallway working on the phone lines and they’d been there all day. He was not going to try to get by them to the Men’s room in his present condition. One of the X-Files agents had already suffered humiliation that morning, he wasn’t about to make it both.
So Mulder returned to his perusal of Usenet porn, just to get his mind off the combination live and imaginary sex-show that had just left the room. A little bad porn, a little stupid chat, ought to get him back under control. There was nothing worse than bad porn to ruin the mood.
He left the alt.sex.Disney group and looked for something crass. Something guaranteed to gross him out and make him forget about his partner, and those legs, and that skin. It didn’t take him long to find it – Alt.sex.doggiestyle. That was bound to be populated by inbred idiots that wound up on the slabs of Scully’s colleagues Billy Bo Bob and Johnny Joe Jethro after havin’ a big fight down at the trailer park where they’d shot it out clutching sawed off shotguns in one hand and a can of Milwaukee’s Best in the other.
Mulder entered the newsgroup and scanned down the list of posts.
Ads, ads, more ads. He was looking for something obviously misspelled. Nothing like an illiterate fool for a great, big turnoff. Especially considering the only thing that really turned him on these days was a petite redhead with a sharp tongue and an IQ of like a million.
Finally he opened a letter with the ID – Fuck me like a Great Dane, baby! By someone called Vixen871.
He scanned through quickly, amused to find it was actually some couple exhibitionistically having doggiestyle cybersex right there on the (unmonitored) newsgroup.
The response was from Fido437, and contained a lot of howling and some pretty direct and explicit explanations of just where he was putting his “hot wand of love” and how he was “licking his bitch”, etc. etc. All in all pretty amusing stuff. Not arousing, but amusing. They weren’t very eloquent.
He was reading the fourth post in the thread when Scully got back from her foraging. She was wearing a small Scully smile and carrying, God help him, not a normal hotdog, but a corndog. A big, fat cylinder of meat on a stick. She hadn’t taken a bite of it yet. Perhaps reserving that to torture him more. Or maybe she just wanted ketchup. But he didn’t think he was going to be able to take it. Not those Scully lips wrapped around a big meat cylinder just after she’d stuck those legs out, heaved her chest and flushed like that.
Mulder felt a nasty resurgence of the distress in his pants. Just when he’d thought amusement was getting the better of his problem. He’d almost have resented her, if he had been able to tear his eyes away as his partner sat demurely back down on her chair and began sizing up her corndog to find the best place to take the initial bite.
It was something he’d noticed her doing with ice cream cones, too. Like it took some sort of complicated Scully geometry to determine just where to lick. Mulder just picked anywhere it looked like it was going to drip, but he could have watched Scully eat ice cream for the rest of his life and not be bored. That pink tongue darting in and out, those lips wrapping around the cool cream? oh Lord.
But meat. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to take the meat. Not right now, anyway. He needed at least 24 hours to recover from the leg thing.
Mulder frantically returned to his newsgroup. He opened the next post in the thread – this time from someone called Canine1. It wasn’t at all what he expected. It was a literate diatribe protesting the entire thread and pointing out the ways in which human sex and the position to which they were referring bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to actual canid behavior. That was the word the person used – canid.
Wow, this was someone who obviously had some clue about dogs. And that made Mulder wonder what the hell she was doing on this newsgroup. So he fired off a quick post to her addy in hopes that she might be on-line. Or, at least, there might be something interesting to read in a while.
He went back to perusing the porn, trying not to notice as Scully opened her mouth and nibbled the very top of the corn part of the corndog off to let out the steam, just revealing the plump sausage below. Once she’d eaten off the coating, Scully actually licked her full lips, causing Mulder to suppress a moan.
He had to find something else to do, and quick, or this was going to cause him more embarrassment than he’d felt just a few weeks before when Scully had burst into his hotel room to find him trashed out of his mind on most of a bottle of vodka and very little orange juice being straddled by a wild-eyed and unbuttoned Detective White. He couldn’t let Scully know what she did to him. That the thought of her in the room next door, possibly in some state of undress and angry as hell had been the reason for his little drinking spree, well that and bizarre cosmic alignment. He couldn’t stare at her eating her big, long, roll of meat on a stick and let her know it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
Satisfied the corndog was cool enough now, Scully wrapped her mouth around the end of it to take a big, satisfying bite, actually emitting a little sound of pleasure as her hunger was now about to be assuaged. Mulder managed to maintain enough control to not add his whimper to the sound. But he was close, he was oh, so very close.
He was just watching those full lips wrap around the meat for another taste when his e-mail beeped, rescuing him, though he did have to shift uncomfortably in his chair to accommodate the still-increasing distress in his slacks.
It was Canine1, the dog expert, responding to his post.
“Dear Marty243, I am here because I routinely monitor all things to do with, I thought, canid behavior on Usenet. Unfortunately my browser doesn’t seem to make distinctions between real information about dogs and information put out by the ignorant or, it seems, perverted.”
“Well, I was wondering what about this is so grossly inaccurate. I’d thought that observation of the method used by dogs to procreate had been the genesis of this, particular, designation for human sexual behavior,” Mulder wrote and fired it off to her e-mail box.
“Take that!” he thought. “You’re not the only literate person on Usenet.” Though Mulder had to admit, sometimes he felt like HE was.
Scully had put some ketchup on the rest of her corndog. And she now was, God help him, actually sucking it off, along with the coating, to reveal the “dog” portion of the corndog underneath.
Why was she torturing him?
She HAD to know.
Scully was not ordinarily someone who was slow on the uptake, but she seemed totally engrossed by the “food” nature of the corn dog, rather than to be considering its symbolic significance. But he couldn’t be certain. Not really.
He waited for a reply from Canine1, trying not to stare at his partner as she licked her lips and made yummy sounds over the remaining portion of her rapidly-dwindling dog.
Mulder wished he was rapidly dwindling. But the opposite seemed to be the case. His trousers were becoming unbearable.
Scully was engrossed in her belated lunch. Mulder decided to chance giving himself a little relief. He took his hands off the keyboard and carefully and quietly undid the zipper on his suit pants, masking the sound by pulling out one of his desk drawers and rummaging in it for a pencil sharpener.
“Feeling better for having some lunch, Scully?” Mulder asked, looking up from his latest task. He immediately wished he hadn’t.
Scully was sitting at the drafting table with the corndog in her mouth. Just holding it there with the pressure of lips and teeth, while she used both hands to open the can of soda she’d bought along with the sausage. Mulder’s cock gave an involuntary twitch so violent that he was amazed it hadn’t knocked against the bottom of the desk.
Scully reached up and grabbed the stick, taking the corndog out of her mouth.
“Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Well,” Mulder cleared his throat to hide the fact that his statement had come out about an octave too high. “You seem in a lot better mood.”
“Well, I guess I am,” she replied and she smiled at him. One of those glaringly bright Scully smiles that he saw all-too seldom.
And then she stuck the corndog back into her mouth so she could log on to her e-mail account.
Mulder knew that he had no choice. He just couldn’t stand it.
Reaching back under his desk while making some obfuscatory paper-shuffling noises to the left of his computer. He reached inside his fly and brought Little Mulder out into the cold, damp basement air. He had to do something. Those lips wrapped around that meat?.
Mulder shuddered involuntarily, running his hand down his length, imagining what those lips would feel like?.
No! He could NOT think of things like that at the office.
A post from Canine1.
“Dear Marty243, while the rear-entry position in human sexual behavior may bear a superficial resemblance to the behavior of canids engaged in an act of procreation, what canids do can hardly be considered fucking. Their behavior grows out of a natural, instinctual need to propagate the species, not out of some desire to be “kinky” or “wild” as the posters on this newsgroup do. The behavior observed is not “wild” to a canid. It is not free. It is not recreational. It is not prurient. It is procreation, pure and simple. Instinct and genetics working in concert, nothing more.’
“Way to take the fun right out of it,” Mulder thought to himself. Another clinical scientist. He was having enough trouble with the one he had right there in the office. He really didn’t need trouble from another one, but formulating a rational argument was a good way to divert his attention from the physical to the mental plane. And Mulder was more than grateful to anything that might do that at the moment.
“Dear, Canine1,” Mulder wrote. “But can’t the argument be made that all human sexual behavior stems from a genetically programmed need for procreation, equally as ingrained and equally primal and functional? It’s just that our superior intellect comes into play as well, and allows us to junk it all up with concepts like love, and lust, and kinkiness, when it’s really just our bodies desiring to follow our own genetic programming to pass on our genes to the next generation of humans? Isn’t the existence of this newsgroups like this one simply a manifestation of man’s quest for meaning? I think we can safely agree that canids don’t have a similar need to provide meaning for their every act, while mankind does. In fact, man views the universe and every action and reaction as imbued with meaning, significance and judgment. Animals do what nature prompts – human beings think about it first. And their observation of the primal behavior of canids prompted their naming of this act – and the meaning of wild, hot, kinky sex – attached.”
“God Damn it!” Scully cried, around the last bite of her corndog and slammed her mouse down hard on her R&D Magazine Software for Scientists complimentary mousepad and leaped from her chair.
“God! What is it, Scully?” Mulder cried, half-rising from his seat until his cock whacked against the bottom of the desk and reminded him why he couldn’t get up. He sat down very quickly, hoping Scully hadn’t noticed his open fly.
“Those fuckers. Those dirty, dirty fuckers!” Scully hissed through perfect, white teeth.
“What is it?” he asked again, stupidly.
“I just got an e-mail. Those bastards want documentation of when I used the methods I demonstrated today on actual cases!” Scully shoved her chair roughly back against the wall behind the drafting table. “Well, then, they’re going to fucking get it!”
Scully turned away from her desk and hurried over to her section of the filing cabinets that lined the far wall of the room. She pulled out the top drawer and removed one quickly. Then the next lower drawer and took out two. The next drawer it was one again, and she had to bend down a little to flip through the files, bringing the fabric of her slim suit skirt tight across her round bottom. The skirt was tight enough that it actually followed the curve of her body, where her ass connected to her thighs, showing him, well, everything. Then the bottom drawer.
Mulder could hardly bear it.
He felt his cock knocking against the bottom of the desk again. This time without his standing up.
Scully was bending over all the way to get into the bottom file drawer. Muttering something under her breath, color up, chest heaving with ill-contained ire, her pale skin flushing with passion, she rummaged through the unsorted files of their most recent cases, looking for the ones with really interesting pathology.
And this time, she hadn’t bothered to bend her knees. No, she’d bent over from the waist in her haste to paw her way through the needed files. Bent over to reveal all of her perfect, muscular thighs from knee almost to her?. “Oh, God, please, I’ll believe if you let her bend over a little more,” Mulder thought, raising up in his chair again to rub his erect member against the underside of his desktop. “Oh, yes,” he thought. “Reach out for the ones in the back.”
His e-mail notice beeped insistently for his attention.
It was from Canine 1.
Alpha Prequel 2/2 ALT.SEX.DOGGIESTYLE.FUCK.FUCK.FUCK
“Ok,” he thought. “The distraction is a sign in my own quest for meaning, and might just save me from a Scully ass-kicking. Here goes.”
“Hey,” he wrote. “Seeing we’re both on-line, why don’t we go to a chat room where we can converse in real-time.” And he sent her the addy of the one he’d established to talk to his conspiracy buffs.”
He sent that one-line message, while he watched Scully reach to the back of the bottom drawer to look through the file.
Instead of taking it to her desk, she just opened it right there. Laying it across the other files in the bottom drawer. And wiggling that perfect, round ass from left to right in her righteous indignation at having her work questioned by her fellow pathologists. Teetering back and forth on those too-high-for-the-office heels.
Mulder couldn’t help himself. He simply had to reach down and touch his exposed cock. It was just too insistent to not demand his full attention in lieu of other distractions and Scully’s perfect, perfect ass in his full view.
If only it were unclothed and she flat out across her desk. Or the file cabinet. Or his desk. Or, really, anywhere at all.
God, then it would be perfection, he thought as he stroked his hand carefully down his own length. He was very careful to try to keep his breathing steady. He couldn’t have her know what she was doing to him.
If she did, she might stop. And Mulder was quite certain that if she did he would actually cry out. And not in a good way.
As Scully continued to mumble to herself, wiggle her behind in indigence and flip through the stacks of files unsorted in her bottom drawer, Mulder kept the corner of his eye on his chatroom. Nothing.
Maybe Canine1 wasn’t coming.
He really wanted her to come.
Because if she didn’t?and didn’t provide him with some way to get his mind and eyes unglued from Scully’s rear end, he was going to. And that way lay madness.
Not to mention the Wrath of Scully.
And then he would never see those lips wrapped around his own corndog. No.
That would not be good.
He gave himself another good, long stroke – merely to ease the tension somewhat. And then Scully gave a little jump and made an A-ha sort of sound that flipped the hem of her skirt, way up in back as she nearly dove into the file drawer to fish out whatever it was that she was after.
Scully turned to look at him over her shoulder, face still flushed with indignation, her hair a trifle disheveled from rooting around in her drawers. She looked just as she had about a million times in his fantasies. Usually just before she said something like “Oh, yes, Mulder, fuck me hard. Like an animal.”
She was saying something now, too. Her red, red lips forming words. He did his best to pay attention.
“What is it, Mulder? What’s wrong?” Scully asked. Whatever she saw on his face must have worried her because she straightened up, wobbling slightly on her too-high heels from the change in her center of balance, and looked for all the world like she was going to come over to his desk.
And find him shlong in hand busily using his partner as a kind of living, breathing sex doll.
Then she would kill him.
And chop him up.
And they would never find the pieces.
Because Scully was smart enough to never get caught if she decided to turn to a life of crime and use her powers for evil. He knew that. That’s why he had to prevent her from coming over at all cost.
Because if she got close enough for him to smell her, all warm from outrage and her brisk walk to the hot dog vendor?.
“Oh, just some really boring woman I’ve been having a psychological discussion with, that’s all,” Mulder tried his best to sound bored. He sounded a little shaky instead. “It’s just such a drag to answer people like that, that’s all.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, taking a small step toward him. “Your voice sounds a little funny, Mulder.”
He cleared his throat.
“Probably dust,” he said. “You know how it gets down here in the afternoon.”
“Why not get yourself a cup of coffee, then?” Scully asked, cocking her head to one side and putting her hand on one hip, causing her suit jacket to part in front and reveal the curves at waist and bosom.
Mulder gave himself another stroke, as surreptitiously as possible.
“I’m not thirsty,” he replied. “And those guys are out there. I tried to talk to them this morning and they looked at me really weird. I think they may be up to something no good, and the fact is, I really don’t want to know if they are. If I can’t believe the office is safe, when I know my apartment isn’t safe, then I might as well just move into a cardboard box under the highway and start collecting aluminum foil for that snappy hat to keep out the alien transmissions.”
Scully gave him the “you’re really funny, Mulder, but someone has to be serious, here” look for a few seconds before she finally broke into a wide Scully grin instead.
“You’re fantasizing about that right now, aren’t you?” he said primly, all the while giving himself a long, slow stroke. He’d always imagined Scully would wear a grin like that right after a really terrific orgasm. He’d yet to give the theory a test, but he couldn’t help but think about it at the moment.
And him giving it to her, of course.
“I’m not fantasizing about you Mulder,” Scully said, still wearing her grin. “I’m just imagining. You’d probably be wearing your trenchcoat, right?
“Right,” Mulder replied. “And my green and purple tie.”
“Then everyone would be sure you were crazy,” Scully agreed.
“Don’t want to disappoint my public,” Mulder quipped. “So I’d better answer this.”
Reluctantly he tore his eyes away from Scully and his hand away from his cock in the same second.
Cold Turkey. That was the answer to his problem.
He put his hands on the keyboard and started typing.
With his eyes still glued to Scully’s swaying bottom under the material of her suit, Mulder did his best to type a reply to Canine1 instead of reaching under the desk and engaging in some “instinctive” sexual behavior, himself.
Mulder watched Scully go down for another file at the back of her drawer, and took his hands off the keyboard to do his own rummaging under the desk, while he watched for Canine1’s reply.
Mulder looked at Scully all spraddled out before him, within his very reach, but still untouchable, and decided to vent a little of his frustration on Canine1, who was being one stubborn bitch, anyway.
Mulder’s hands faltered for a moment on the keyboard as Scully shifted her feet farther out to accommodate one, over-flowing legal file.
Canine1 was apparently not willing for him to finish the walk-through alone. “First time that’s happened in a while,” Mulder thought sadly to himself.
Mulder’s fingers itched, so he kept his eyes locked firmly on Scully and reached beneath the desk again. He stroked himself roughly while Scully obliviously continued assembling her evidence. How she couldn’t sense him there, sense his desire, his need, amazed him. It proved just how far removed human beings had become from nature, from what was natural. That she didn’t know that he wanted her so much he was reduced to touching himself beneath his desk with her in the room.
He had to be as feral as any canid, as hungry as any wolf, as horny as any Labrador Retriever that had ever slipped its collar and jumped the fence to bang the cute, little Irish Setter next door until it couldn’t stand up straight. He’d do it right now if only he could be sure that the Irish Setter was actually receptive. That was the true difference between human beings and canids – the human ability to hide their biological needs under a veneer of what many would call civilization or society. Canine1 was right. It was a form of denial and deception. But until the Irish Setter presented her ass to him intentionally with naughtiness aforethought, he’d simply have to content himself with the vision before him, his own imagination, and his good, right hand.
Mulder read her post as he gave himself several more rough strokes. He glanced up from the monitor for a few seconds to see Scully looking back at him over her shoulder once more, her eyes sparkling with passion. Mulder shuddered and shut his eyes.
“That bad, is it?” Scully asked, bending over all the way to pick up the stack of files that she’d been keeping between her feet, flipping up the back of her skirt again and revealing the bottom edge of the black, silk panties she was wearing under her fashionably tailored black suit. Mulder was grateful he’d remembered to actually get some Kleenex out of his drawer as he’d rummaged through it for noisy camouflage, because that one, small glimpse of nirvana was enough to send him right over the edge. He bit down hard on his own lower lip to keep from howling like a canid as he came into the Kleenex instead of into the mate nature had ordained. It was unnatural. It was wrong. And it was sick. Because she didn’t even know. She couldn’t have. Or she wouldn’t have done it to him.
Scully might be many things, but a manipulative bitch wasn’t one of them. Mulder knew the type and Scully wasn’t one. In that way she was natural, despite being so overly intellectual that she was almost entirely cut off from her own emotions and her own needs. She didn’t know manipulation. He just wished she was a little more up on the attraction thing, so he wouldn’t have to be hoping he hadn’t dripped anything on his shoes.
Mulder almost laughed out loud at that one, though he had to admit he was flattered by her misassumption. Eyeing Scully nervously, he cleaned himself up as best he could and wadded the Kleenex into a ball under the cover of his desktop.
Fortunately, she wasn’t looking at him. Unfortunately, she was sitting in her chair and bending over to adjust the strap on her left, suede shoe, giving him a perfect look right down the neck of her silk blouse into the depths of her surprisingly abundant cleavage. It made him immediately wonder what kind of bra she was wearing, because Scully had lost quite a bit of weight recently and you’d think her bosom would have shrunk as well, but it just didn’t look like that was the case. In fact, it looked just about as luscious as he’d imagined night after night on the other side of too many thin motel walls.
Mulder’s cock, which should have been down for the count after its recent abuse, gave a bit of a twitch. “No! Damn you, no!” Mulder shouted to himself. He had to tear his eyes forcibly away from the sight of too much Scully flesh. Entirely too much for one afternoon.
Mulder looked back to Scully. She was reading through her stack of files, an evil smile on her face. Utterly oblivious to him and once more entirely modest, even if the skirt did show a little more thigh than was usual for her. He knew he’d be doomed to going solo for a long while yet. Or maybe that was so low. He still could hardly believe he’d actually whacked off right in front of her. That he’d objectified her and used her like that. He really WAS pond scum, even worse than the guys who had brought her the floater that morning, because he was the one she was supposed to be able to trust. And when it came to her, he just couldn’t begin to control himself. But the worst part, for all he’d been afraid of being caught, was of course, that she’d never even noticed. Never realized he wanted her, or could want her. No matter how many innuendos he made, how many little hints and lingering touches he gave, no matter that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
Canine 1 really was right. If they could simply lose the hangups they’d all be a lot happier. Like that could ever happen. Mulder looked over at his partner, busily assembling her evidence to score big in the battle against sexism in the workplace.
He tried to imagine her without hangups, without walls. He couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t imagine himself. Oh, he could clearly visualize rising up from his chair, closing the short space between them and throwing her down over the drafting table. He could see himself hiking up that tight, black skirt to reveal those soft panties. He could imagine ripping them in his eagerness to get to her warm flesh. And he could almost feel what it would be like to plunge himself into her wet, welcoming depths over and over again. But between imagination and action there was a huge crevasse of baggage, and hangups, pride and self-respect. And it was just too large for him to get over by himself.
What he needed was a bridge. Or maybe just a hand. A hand from his partner to let him know that it was all right for him to try. And right now that hand was busily typing away at her keyboard, putting together the words to give Billy Bo Bob Bumpkin the ass-reaming of his life. It was not extended in his direction. It was not holding an olive branch. It was not beckoning, or even relaxed in waiting. It was angrily tapping away at another man’s ego. Like a harpy. He knew it was unfair. The guy was an asshole and deserved it. But he wasn’t an asshole and he didn’t. And he got it all the same. Or rather, he didn’t get what he wanted. Which was Scully. He had to do something to distract himself from this really unproductive and depressing train of thought. Canine 1.
Webpage up at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Portal/9943 For the moment.
“They didn’t want it good. They wanted it Wednesday.” – Robert Heinlein
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