TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes His Time

NAME: Mik

E-MAIL: mikdok@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: SRA

RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.

SUMMARY: Art is Long and Time is fleeting … Longfellow. (The last of the Mr. Skinner Series.)

FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.

TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.

KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king …

And thanks to the beta-mistress who made a man over lunch and a story over tea.

If you like this, there's more at http://homepages.go.com/~frogdoggie/3wstop.html

If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

Mr. Skinner Takes His Time

by Mik

He lays beside me, his mouth searching mine, his tongue probing, his fingers stroking, his leg draped over my hip to pull me closer. This is no masturbatory fantasy. I am here, on his bed (yes, to my surprise, he has one), with him in my arms. I am acutely aware of the way his cock slides across mine with every movement. He is silent, his eyes closed, but he is alive within my embrace.

I am slightly daunted by this unexpected reality. Two days of madness, wrestling with a forbidden desire, and now I am wrestling with him. Tentatively, I slide my fingers through his hair. It is soft, silky, warm. He opens his eyes at my caress. I feel his lips turn up in a smile against mine. Emboldened, I let my fingers play down around the shell of his ear, along his throat, and over those tiny, flat nipples that harden at my touch, eliciting a shudder from him.

I have never touched a man so intimately before, and I marvel at the differences; not just the obvious, but subtle things, like the sensation of his skin. The women I’ve known have been soft, cushioned with flesh, curved and firm and familiar. He is soft and yet hard, skin spread taut over muscle and bone; strong arms, broad chest, lean hip, flat belly.

And, of course, that cock. ‘Yank, the tank’ was no derisive taunt. He is unexpectedly long and thick, with a crown I couldn’t get my fingers around, purple, and proud. I find myself stroking it, slowly, savoring the silkiness of it as it slides through my fingers. At my touch, his head rolls back, his lips part, he sighs. "Oh, God, that’s good."

I’m not sure what I want to do, but I understand that I want more from this initial coupling than to jerk him off. He has warned against rushing ‘headlong’ into this. Later I’ll muse on this strange show of restraint. I have always found him to be rash and impulsive, but I think in this situation he has shown exceptional wisdom.

He seems to understand and rolls onto his back, legs parted, and his fingers on my shoulders cajole me to follow him. For a moment, I only look, consider my prize; fine lean body, impressive cock, strangely beautiful and compelling face. Then I cover his body with mine.

This. This is what I’ve been waiting for. The heat that fuses us together, lips, fingers, groins. I feel his hips rock under me and our cocks dancing together. Far more intense, far more satisfying than any fantasy.

I grasp his face between my hands, kiss him deeply, trying to say all the things that I do not have in me to say aloud. I need him to know what he is giving me. I need him to understand how much I need it.

He returns my kiss, murmuring something against my mouth, and then against my ear. I don’t recognize the words; it may be a foreign language, it may be mystical tongues, but I comprehend the desire expressed in it. His hips rock harder against me. He wants me to take charge, finish him, finish us.

I’ve waited too long for this to have it end so quickly. I hold his hands down, and put the weight of my thighs around his, pulling his legs together, holding him still, and stroke my cock across his body like a bow across a violin.

And I can make him sing like one. First stroke and his head rocks back. Back stroke and his mouth opens, his tongue between his teeth. Another forward stroke and he moans deeply, a base reverberation against my melody. Back again and he sighs and whispers, "Oh, please."

Three short strokes across his balls, a pizzicato in pleasure. And he answers with soft high prayers. "Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please."

His fingers are twisting beneath mine, searching for something. His eyes are shut tight now. Breath rushes in and rushes out at each draw of my bow. I can almost hear the thrum of his heartbeat over mine.

Once again I move across him and he clutches at air. His eyes open and search mine. I have seen him impassioned, I have seen him deranged, but I have never seen him so utterly lost to sensation. The way he lifts his eyes Heavenward I suspect there are seraphim behind me.

My own blood is surging now. I know I am grunting each time he responds with movement; a twitch, a shudder. My bowing grows faster, from a soft lament to a hot fiddle. And his moans and imprecations grow faster. I know he is only moments away from release.

I pause, and look down at him. He stares at me, incredulous. His face is flushed, his skin glowing with perspiration, his breath ragged. He looks at me, in almost heartbreaking entreaty. "Please, Skinner," he says.

I resume the glissade, and as I do, I take his mouth with mine. I want to hear him, feel him, taste him come. He moans into me, and his fingers curl up around my wrists.

Our perspiration and pre-ejaculate have joined to make a slick hot slide between us. It is easy to drag my erection over his, finding every sensitive spot for both of us. His thighs begin to tremble. Or is that mine? One of us is yelling. There is a flash fire of heat between us.

First him.

Then me.

I collapse against his shuddering body, listen to him gasp, listen to his heart pound, listen to him laugh softly in disbelief.

His hand slides up and over my scalp. "I’m sorry I lost the cell phone, sir," he says with what would have to be called a giggle. "Is that the way you plan to punish me in the future?"

I roll off of him, consider his face. It is a beautiful face; his eyes are bright with green fire, his color is high, he is … yes, he has a great smile. "Next time you lose a cell phone, your ass is mine," I growl.

He struggles up enough to kiss me, roughly. "Do you have any idea when I get my next one? I know JUST where I plan to lose it."

I catch his chin, hold him steady, study his face. Clarity. I have been thinking about this face a long time. I kiss him back, almost tenderly. "Well, as long as you can find it after you’ve been punished," I answer gravely.

This only makes him laugh harder. He falls back into the pillows, rubbing his eyes. "I don’t believe this," he gasps. He touches his stomach, and grimaces. We’re both a sticky mess. "One of the down sides," he says, ruefully. "Be still." He rolls off the bed. "Gay etiquette rules that the host be the one to get up and get towels and things."

‘Gay etiquette’? I lay on my back and listen to him wander around the apartment. Did I think that far in advance? No.

He must catch me frowning as he returns, because the laughter is gone from his eyes. He kneels beside me on the bed, solemnly wiping away any evidence of our duet. "You know, this was just a free sample; no obligation stated or implied."

A door. An exit. A way out. An escape.

I look at his expression, the eyes fixed on the towel in his hand. I think of the laughter I saw only moments ago. Board up the doors and windows. I don’t want out. I tug at the towel to get his attention. "Where do I sign?"

And now … Mr. Skinner takes a bow.