The Grey Zone, part 2: Cats

By Palinurus

November 10, 1997

"Agent Mulder, please stand up."

He stood, nervous, silently cursing himself. Why did he always have to have the final word? Why could he never leave well enough alone, give up on a lost cause, respect his limits? Always toeing the line, often overstepping it, and sometimes using up more that his credit. Like now. All Skinner's agents, assembled around the large conference table for the briefing, were looking at him. An unsavory mixture of sympathy, pity, contempt, and morbid curiosity.

Skinner walked around the table, stood behind him, moving his chair out of the way. "Lean on the table with both hands."

He started to sweat, heavily. Oh Christ, now what? Surely he can't mean -

"Agent Mulder. Lean on the table."

He leaned. And his mind fled out of his body when he felt Skinner's hands move around his waist, to his belt buckle, and undo it. His fly, the one button. The trousers fell to the floor. He could hear a muffled gasp from the audience. His back was sticky with sweat, his forehead itched. He felt himself getting erect. He was panting in panic. Adrenaline fogged his mind. Skinner pulled down his boxers. The assembled agents were very quiet now. He was thinking his erection might be covered by his shirt tails, fought the impulse to look down. Don't look. Don't think. You're not here.

Skinner leaned against him, reached around again and grabbed his cock with knowing hands, breathing into his neck, pressing his erection against his ass. His colleagues around the table were staring, drinking in the scene. He felt like he was about to faint, to lose his mind. And about to come. The semen would certainly mess up the neat stack of files in front of him. Skinner's hands... the hot leers of all the others...

He woke up on his stomach, his arms covering his head, trembling with relief, with a raging hard-on. Jesus Christ, this is really getting out of hand. It was Thursday again. He lay still, waited for the thudding of his heart to quiet down. Then he got up and into the shower. Involuntarily thinking back to last Thursday's scene, his helplessness, his surrender to Skinner, sexually and emotionally. Not this. He groped around in his mind for another image, found little of use, finally settled for an uninspiring sequence from a porn video. He jerked off quickly and then switched off the hot water, forcing himself to stand in the cold spray for minutes. There, that'll teach you. At least for the next ten minutes.

When he got to the office, it seemed to him that he was being stared at by everyone in the building. The security guard at the gate; the small group of agents by the water cooler; the people in the elevator; they all seemed to be looking at him speculatively. He felt eyes following him wherever he went.

He stood next to the coffee machine, waiting for his first cup, when he heard Skinner's footsteps approach. His neck muscles tensed, he tried not to draw his shoulder blades together. A hot flush crept up his cheeks. The footsteps stopped behind him. Without noticing it, he stopped breathing. He had to bend down now to retrieve his coffee cup. How do people bend naturally? He did his best, but knew he didn't quite pull it off. To complete the performance, he almost dropped the cup. Why didn't the bastard say something? Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the other's legs. Workman's shoes, blue coveralls... He jerked his head around and stared into the face of an unknown man. He heaved a deep sigh, produced a weak smile for the man who looked at him strangely, and fled to his office.

Scully was sitting behind her computer, typing away. Good old Scully, the normal, balanced, calm counterpoint to his flighty mind. He sat down across from her with a sigh. She looked up, saw him out of breath, slightly disheveled, flushed.

"Something wrong Mulder?"

"No, I'm fine Scully, just a bit of a rush to get here." Fortunately, he really was late, thanks to his morning adventure. He'd never admit to anything being wrong in front of Scully. If she pushed him very hard, he might confess to a slight headache. He could die in front of her and maintain it was only a bout of the flu, really, nothing to worry about... It was so silly. But he couldn't help himself.

She looked at him suspiciously, probably thinking the exact same thoughts he was thinking, and then went back to her work. No chance she'd have woken up with an erotic dream of Skinner doing her at a debriefing in front of everyone. No chance. It took a Spooky to end up in a situation like this, and enjoy it, and get totally paranoid about it, and daydream of nothing else. Oh Christ.

As the day progressed, he found himself torn between hope and fear. It was 11:30 already, and no word from Skinner. Maybe it was off. Maybe Skinner was away. Maybe he'd found someone else to... no, that was impossible, no-one else would lend himself to this. No-one else was in this situation, could be blackmailed so easily, and trusted to shut up about it, and live with it, and enjoy it. Nevertheless, a sudden, fierce jealousy made breathing difficult for a few moments.

At 2:30 he couldn't bear it anymore, and called Skinner's secretary. "Hi Kim, it's me, is he in?"

"I'm sorry agent Mulder, he's left for the day, but he left an envelope for you. I was to give to you at 5, but I guess it can't hurt if you pick it up now."

Heart pounding, he went up and retrieved the note. It said "8 p.m., my place". To give it to me around 5. What a bastard. He knew that Skinner knew he'd be waiting, be obliged to wait, all day long for this message, although maybe Skinner didn't know exactly what kind of mind frame he'd be in. So tonight is on. His stomach knotted immediately.

When he sat down at his desk again, Scully said, without even looking up: "Mulder, are you *sure* you're OK? You're acting like you've taken half a pound of cocaine. It even wears *me* out."

"I'm  fine, Scully, really, I promise. Maybe it's the spring coming on." Shut up, don't make excuses, that always looks bad. She knew him far too well, she could read him like a book, it was unnerving. He shifted in his chair, glanced at pages of text without reading a word, shoved files from left to right and back, occasionally attracting a glance from Scully, and somehow managed to make it through the afternoon. He left at 5 sharp, which earned him a truly astonished look. He barely managed to stop himself from improvising yet another excuse.

Once home, he tried to eat something, but couldn't really manage. He took a shower, carefully thinking only good thoughts, and considered what to wear. He finally settled for jeans and a white cotton shirt with very thin red stripes. No socks. Shoes that wouldn't provide too much of a struggle. He looked in the mirror, very pleased with the effect. Then suddenly realized what he was doing, preparing for the night like it was a first date, when actually... He quickly pushed the thought out of the way.

He meandered through his apartment, glancing at book titles, picking up this and that, and at some point caught himself humming. That stopped him cold. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm acting like I'm in love, this is *sick*. Maybe another cold shower... Instead, he went to take another look in the mirror, berating himself all the way.

In his car, on the way to Skinner's apartment, he grew nervous. Very nervous. He remembered more clearly now that his last private encounter with Skinner hadn't exactly been a bed of roses. It had actually been painful, humiliating, and very unnerving, although somehow, when it was over he'd felt like he wouldn't have missed it for the world. One of those big life events that are great to look back on ten years later, but not all that enjoyable while they're happening. What had made his mind twist it into an exotic, erotic night of forbidden pleasures retroactively? Anxiety now threatened to grow into full-fledged panic. He started to hyperventilate, but checked himself just in time. But it hadn't really been that bad, had it? Or had it? Oh sweet Jesus, why can't I ever get things straight? Why does everything get twisted when I look at it, like a bad parody of the Midas touch? Well, there's no way out anyway...

He parked the car in the underground garage and tried to steady his legs before the elevator arrived. When he rang the door bell of the apartment, the door opened immediately.

Skinner had also changed into something less formal. It seemed the FBI somehow inspired an informal dress code as well as a formal one; they were dressed almost identically. "Mulder. Come in." They would never get to a first-name basis; in fact, apart from their unorthodox activities a deux, nothing had changed at all. All office rules still applied without exception.

"Please eat this, Mulder." Skinner handed him a tiny, gray, wrinkly piece of what seemed to be dried cucumber. Mulder eyed it suspiciously.

"What is it?" He could at least leave the 'Sir' off from time to time.

"I'll tell you later. For now, it's a controlled substance, and let's leave it at that."

Mulder put it in his mouth. It was slightly bitter and very tough. For a controlled substance, it tasted pretty bad. Finally, he swallowed it whole.

"Let's go upstairs," Skinner said.

Mulder walked up the stairs, followed very closely by Skinner. Before he even got to the bedroom, Skinner grabbed him from behind. One arm clasped around his chest, Skinner carefully unbuttoned the shirt with his free hand, then let go to undo the one button that had been covered by his arm. Mulder stood, panting slightly. Skinner pulled down the shirt and dropped it. He ran his hands up and down Mulder's torso, roughly, possessively. Then the arm returned around his chest and Skinner kissed the back of his neck. His other hand slid down and cupped Mulder's crotch. He wouldn't be disappointed.

Mulder was pushed into the bedroom. The only light came from a candle burning on the bedside table. The room was very warm. "Sit on the bed," Skinner told him. He sat, feeling a little dizzy, woozy, fuzzy... "There's something I want you to watch, Mulder." Skinner moved over to the cabinet by the wall, and opened it to reveal a tv and VCR. He switched it on and started the tape. It appeared to be a documentary of some sort, 'National Geographic Explorer', maybe. There was no sound. Mulder watched. It was a zoo. The camera moved to a large cage with heavy metal bars, then focused on what was inside. It was a large black cat. A very large one. It was obviously bad-tempered, growled at the camera. As Mulder watched, someone's back moved into the field of vision, and lifted something. A dart struck the animal's hind leg. The cat jumped, roared, staggered a few steps, and fell. A door opened in the back wall and two white-clad figures appeared.

Skinner sat behind him, gently stroking his back, his flanks, his arms, tracing lines along his spine. Mulder had forgotten why he had ever been so nervous. He sighed, then leaned back. Skinner pushed him upright again; he'd have to keep his own balance for a while.

Now the camera was inside the cage. One of the men in white prodded the animal to check that it was out, then looked into its mouth. The other spread out a canvas tarp, and together they hauled the cat onto it. Its foot pads were almost the size of their hands. They tied its legs together, then pulled its tail around and tucked it underneath the rump.

Mulder felt Skinner's tongue move up and down his back, licking his neck, pulling gently at his earlobes, pushing inside the shell... Why the fuck am I watching this ridiculous cat? He sighed, stretched his back under Skinner's hands, his head swimming.

One of the men on the screen pulled something from a canvas bag. It was a black, cigar-shaped thing, about eight inches long, with a little handle on the end. He knelt down next to the hind legs of the cat, then inserted his finger into the animal's anus.

Mulder felt a lance of electricity go straight into his gut. He gasped. The man moved his finger around, then withdrew it. He checked the device, then bent down again, and gently, with twisting, pulsing movements, inserted it into the cat's rectum.

Mulder inhaled audibly, so sharply that he almost choked. His erection pulsed against his fly, straining painfully. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. Skinner put his arms around him until he sat still again. He couldn't take his eyes off the screen.

The man appeared to turn a knob on the handle of the device, then stood up. The camera stayed on the cat. Slowly, its hind quarters began to move. Mulder's back tensed. He saw the animal's penis emerge from its sheath, slowly, growing larger by the second. Mulder felt his heart pound against his rib cage. It's a fucking *cat*, he told himself, but it didn't have any effect.

The cat's muzzle began to twitch. A white-gloved hand entered the picture, holding a little cylinder. The cat's erection, twitching, was shoved into the open end of it. Mulder winced and leaned forward. Skinner held him from behind, stroking, caressing, then inserted a hand between his legs, spread them slightly, and traced the inner seam of his jeans. Mulder's mouth was very dry, he tried to swallow but couldn't. Skinner opened his fly and put a large hand inside. Mulder moved against it, almost without noticing.

The cat's flanks trembled, its hind legs moved slightly. Then a tremor ran through its entire body, the penis jumped, and Mulder let out a low moan. Skinner held him tightly until he relaxed again, then got up to switch off the VCR.

Mulder hugged himself, incredibly aroused, slightly unfocused, slightly shocked.

Skinner pulled him up, then pulled down his jeans and boxers. The shoes came off spontaneously. Skinner pushed him down on the bed, rolled him on his side, and then stretched out full length behind him. He continued his ministrations, being very gentle all the time.

Mulder was floating in a fine white mist of warmth and lust. He had never felt so good in is life. He felt like purring. His upper leg was being bent at the knee, its weight rolling him over slightly. He felt a finger entering him, spreading warmth and little silver trickles. The finger was withdrawn.

Skinner bent over him and whispered, "You know you're really a cat".

Mulder knew. He was strong, sinuous, powerful, lithe and very well-balanced. His skin glowed and rippled when he moved the muscles underneath. The sun was shining on him, warming him. He was going to father beautiful children, with glossy, black fur, strong teeth and long tails.

He felt the device opening him, forcing its way inside, stretching him. He shifted to get more comfortable. The pressure stopped. He felt a slight movement, then the earth swallowed him.

The sensation was incredible. Huge waves of liquid heat formed in his rectum, forced their way through his body, crashed out of him, into the room, then were reflected off the walls, came back and interfered with new waves. He was awash in a turbulent sea of warmth. He began to moan, overwhelmed by the intensity of the feeling. A red haze formed before his eyes. He tried to stretch out, to make his body big enough to contain the storm raging through it. His hips made slow fucking motions. He was too absorbed to notice.

Skinner moved against him, wrapped his arms around him to steady his thrashing body, then reached around and enclosed Mulder's cock in his hand. He applied some pressure. There was a slight gasp, then Mulder tried to thrust against Skinner's hand, but it was too close to his body for that. He began to writhe, then to struggle, suddenly desperate to come. Skinner held him, holding his cock in a vise-like grip. Then he quickly withdrew the device with his other hand.

Mulder cried out in despair. His whole body was tingling with the sensation, his skin electrified, his muscles tense to the breaking point. He had been incredibly, painfully close to coming, for a long time. He buried his face in the sheets to stifle a sob.

Skinner pulled him onto his side again and carefully, gently pushed inside. Mulder jerked. The contrast between the consecutive penetrations was almost unbearable. First the oily, weightless, electric warmth, then Skinner's hard, domineering presence. The sudden intense pressure on his prostate would have made him come immediately, if it hadn't been for the hand blocking his way.

Skinner began moving inside him, intensifying the urge, forcing tight moans from him, and desperate little pelvic movements. Then, suddenly, the hand around his cock withdrew, and he tumbled into his climax, made even more intense by the surprise. He gasped for breath. His heart skipped several beats. The world darkened, then reappeared, and Mulder lay shaking.

Skinner was still holding him, both arms now wrapped around his chest, waiting until he emerged out of the abyss. He leaned back against the other man's body and slowly calmed down. Skinner began moving again and he pushed back, grateful for one familiar sensation in an alien world, absurdly happy when he sensed the approaching orgasm. He was suddenly overcome with a melting tenderness, wanting to turn around and cradle Skinner in his arms. Instead, he concentrated on the other's climax. He felt the cock inside him twitch, one last desperate thrust, then a slight widening of the girth that stretched him wider, finally the deep sighs and shudders that signified release. Skinner's heavy weight leaned against him.

Mulder stayed very still, sensing, empathizing, once again very aroused. Would a grown male cat weigh as much? More? He twisted out of the other's grip, climbed over the motionless body and then, finally, took Skinner in a bear hug, taking unprecedented liberties, nuzzling his neck, smelling him, rubbing his forehead against the wide back, crooning. No purring. Amazingly, purring still didn't work.

When he woke up he found Skinner looking at him. He couldn't stand it for very long and turned on his back, looking at the ceiling.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"It was peyote."

He stared back now. Peyote? What did that have to do with it? Then he remembered the little piece of dried cucumber Skinner had made him eat. "Are you saying that... this cat thing..." He remembered his extreme empathy with the big black cat. Peyote. He sighed. Skinner was saying something. Please shut up. He really didn't want to think. He wanted to be a cat. A big black cat with foot pads as large as a hand, with velvet ears and yellow eyes.

Please send your comments to palinurus@squidge.org

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