Need
part 3
By Palinurus
May 10, 1999
During the short meeting I'm more distracted than I've ever allowed myself to be. Mulder seems distracted too, but these days I cannot trust myself to read him correctly. The case report is as uninteresting as the case itself, and I sign it with only the vaguest notion of what's in it and hand it back. They get up and walk out, moving in unison as always. The light is fading, the gray end of another colorless day. With a sense of emptiness that will sour into depression if I don't subdue it, I follow them out to discuss tomorrow's schedule with Kim.
When Mulder suddenly stops in his tracks, I almost bump into him. He says, "I'll be down in a minute, Scully. Don't wait up." Then he half-turns, and asks me, "Sir, can I have a moment?"
The moment I've carefully avoided thinking about for almost two weeks. I nod, as curtly as I can.
He waits until she has closed the door behind her, then leans back against the desk. I'm standing less than three feet away from him, much too close; but stepping back is admitting discomfort, and I mustn't do that.
"Sir, I think we should... I mean, I would like to... to discuss the follow-up of my... encounter with Peter Watts." The euphemism embarrasses me almost as much as him. I watch him blush miserably, wait in silence while he struggles to regain his composure.
"I've thought about the... about what he proposed, and I think... it would be best for me if we would, um, go through with that... arrangement." After a few breaths he adds. "I should add I'm not happy about it, but I don't think I have a choice."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Agent Mulder." I can smell him so clearly now. Like a dog, I could sniff him out blind in a crowded room. He smells nervous and angry. "If I understand the situation correctly, there is a clear choice, and it's yours to make."
"I mean... I would like to... I want to continue without... I mean... by myself. But I may not be able to do it. I'm... I'm not doing very well." He gives me a desperate look, but it's not enough. He will not abandon ambiguity, and I need more than that to risk my neck. I wait.
His voice drops, and I have to move even closer to catch his words. He's staring at his shoes now. "It's sophistry, really. I've tried, I've... failed. I can't do it anymore, I need... help."
Even after this I need a few moments to find the courage to move over to him. One step, then I wait. Now I can smell his shampoo, and the fabric softener in his shirt, dissolving in his nervous sweat. Pheromones.
"Please," he says, and still doesn't look at me.
I reach out and touch his arm, just above the elbow; I can see the muscles jump at the contact. Pushing himself away from the desk, he quickly closes the distance between us. His breath warms a little patch of cotton at my shoulder. He lifts one hand and places it against my chest, covering a nipple. I try to ignore it, but the abrupt tightening of my erection makes it hard to breathe. Then, pointedly, he pushes the palm of his other hand against the incriminating evidence.
I stand very still, frozen with embarrassment, as he sighs slightly and leans forward, his body touching mine, one hand tracing the outline of my cock. I look at his hair, so close it won't come into focus, and smell his scent. Then I gently take his upper arms in my hands. What is it with his arms? They are neutral territory; I can touch them without giving anything away. I notice he's trembling, a rapid tremor. He doesn't look up.
He needs it, but he cannot face it. The despair is visible in every curve of his body.
I cannot go through with this now. Not when he's only barely hanging on to his sanity. "Mulder."
"Please," he says again, softly. Then, purposely, he turns to face the desk, forcing me to let go of his arms. He takes off his jacket, folds it, and drapes it on the desktop. Supporting himself on his hands, he bends over the desk and rests his chest on the surface, turning his face to the side, away from me. Then he stretches out his arms by his sides and reminds me of a condemned man on a scaffold, waiting for the ax.
I stand behind him, transfixed by the need and the inability to act. He waits, silent, passive. There is no sound but his breathing, and my own, blessedly quieter. While I still consider lifting him up, delaying this until he calms down, he reaches behind him, grabs my wrist and gently pushes my hand against his ribs. I feel his heartbeat through the moist cloth. Leaning over him, my arms wrap themselves around his shoulders, and I look at the skin of his neck, gently kiss it. He makes a soft sound, and I can feel his back arch up under me; he rolls his hips to grind his ass against my erection. I allow myself to be reassured by his response.
The cotton of his shirt is clammy with perspiration as I reach around to unbutton it. He tries to get up to help me, but I push him back, keeping him on his elbows. The small buttons are resistant to my fumbling. When they're finally undone and I peel the shirt off him, I feel as if I'm undressing a sick child. I move back a bit to undo his belt. When I push his pants and boxers down to his ankles, he's fully erect and panting heavily. The sight of him, naked, defenseless, waiting for me, both arouses and horrifies me.
I don't do this for him. In the basest of ways, our interests coincide: I get to screw him, he gets to feel comforted, cared for, as long as it lasts. But the deal is crooked, and I fear he knows it too.
I drop my own pants and grab lube and condom, conveniently available in the middle drawer. Household necessities taken care of, I wrap my hands around his hips. He spreads his legs a bit - an old hand at the game. He seems surprised when he feels my weight settle on his back again, and turns his head further, allowing me to kiss him.
For one instant, in that kiss, things seem all right, and I can make believe we're lovers. Then the world moves on, and the harsh light is back: he needs acknowledgement, I need some ass.
His surrender is so complete that he doesn't even tense up as I slowly enter him. At least that part was done right. It feels exactly as I thought it would, and it makes me light-headed; I want to groan with delight. When a third of me is embedded in him and his breathing begins to sound panicky, I stop and wait, giving him time to recover; and I feel him slowly open further before me. I suddenly want to gather him up in my arms, to cover him with kisses, and never let him go again. Instead I cover his hands with mine, twine our fingers together.
The first thrust elicits a bird-like sound from him; after that, he stays silent. I can't tell if he's getting anything out of this. When I try to withdraw a hand to reach for his cock, he pinches his fingers together, catching mine between them.
Soon I lose my grasp of reality. It feels so good, so good... He moves below me, and it compounds my arousal a thousand times, as does his smell. I try to be gentle, to keep my thrusts even, smooth... and then I bury my head against his shoulder and try to be quiet as I... God, oh God...
Afterwards I hold him tightly against me, lifting him up as I right myself to zip up. He isn't trembling anymore, but his back is now a wall between us. I turn him around; he leans against the desk and stares over my shoulder, into the distance. Only when I get down on my knees does he react with a sharp "No!" Ignoring him, I take his raging erection into my mouth and suck hard. He half-heartedly tries to push me away, but he is too far gone. When he comes in my mouth, the only sound is a loud gasp that could well have been pain.
He dresses without looking at me, and is on his way out before I've come to my senses. I jog after him and grab his arm. He stops, but doesn't turn around. When I embrace him from behind and press a kiss into his neck, I feel him sag slightly. It's as if he is melting in my arms, and once more, for a second, I imagine this to be real. Afraid he'll shatter the illusion if I hold him too long, I let him go, and he walks out without looking back, closing the door behind him.
~.~
Three days later, at 10 p.m., he shows up at my front door, his inner turmoil unconvincingly disguised as detachment, to challenge me. He hates his need, and loathes the power it gives me.
The fact that I know why he's here is a testimony of my duplicity.
Barely inside and still in the process of taking off his coat, he takes off without introduction. "When did you decide that this would happen?" Despite his soft voice, his effort to affect idle curiosity, the question should have been a shout. One day, soon, his resentment will turn into hate. And I will watch it happen, powerless to prevent it.
"I didn't plan it. It happened."
Betraying his transparent guise, he is too agitated to stand still. He drops his coat on the dinner table between us, then turns away from me and walks over to the bookcase, feigning interest in my collection. "You told him to do it." He doesn't look, doesn't turn to me.
I won't have to lie about this, at least. "No, I didn't."
"But you knew it would happen."
"I thought... I knew it might happen." Still the truth, but it's a close call, and I can tell from his back that he's getting really mad, almost ready to drop his ruse. He turns back to me, but his voice remains level.
"You knew it would happen. That's why you sent me there."
"I didn't send you. You requested the assignment."
His contempt is obvious; he sighs with irritation, as if he's dealing with a particularly resistant suspect in an interrogation, out of whom he has to tease, cajole, or bully the truth. A seasoned interrogator, he decides to try a different tack.
"What did you tell him to do?"
"I didn't tell him to do anything. One doesn't tell Watts what to do. But I knew he had a way with... people like you. And I wasn't sure what it involved, but... well, there were rumors." I'm negotiating, pleading with myself: see, it's still the truth! I'm not lying to him, and I even volunteer some information! My hands are clean, really!
I never thought I'd one day have to recognize myself as a hypocrite.
"People like me."
"People who routinely ignore orders and endanger themselves and others by doing so. People who ignore all disciplinary actions, or even seem to thrive on them." Yes, it fits together nicely in theory. I know how this office-speak will affect him, but I cannot say anything else.
Mulder turns around and moves back to the table, six feet away from me. His voice is even, but his eyes burn with a feverish glow. "You handed me over, to get me back saddle-broke. You didn't want to know his methods, but you thought you might like the result." Carefully balanced voice, struggling to stay on top of the rage. He should hit me for what I've done, but I don't think he will. He needs me too much; and like a child, he lives in constant fear that I will reject him and leave him to his own resources. He has to curb his rage.
I keep trying, knowing that I'll eventually convince him, and hoping against hope that I'll be able to convince myself. "Mulder. You were going to get yourself killed - "
"I can take care of myself, Goddammit!"
I would have smiled at that, but he is so angry. " - and worse, you endangered Scully's life as well. You know that as well as I do. This isn't just about what I wanted. You were dangerous. You'd have lost your job sooner or later; they'd have kicked you out. I protected you from them several times, but at some point, they'd have gone for your head, and they'd have gotten it. I had run out of options." This sounds so reasonable that I almost believe it. Nice work, Walter. Maneuvered into doing what you've been dreaming of since the day you first laid eyes on him.
"Why did you let him do it?" He looks at me now, and his anger has become brittle at the edges. "Why didn't you do it yourself?"
I could have. Maybe I should have. But I didn't trust my own judgment; it just seemed too convenient, too congruent with my own interest. Instead I handed him over and awaited the verdict. I thought I took the moral path. Now I think he's right - it was a coward's way out. "It was too risky, Mulder. If you had resisted, things would never have righted themselves again. It might have worked, but then, it might not have. I wasn't sure how difficult it would be, and if I had failed, the mess would have been horrible."
He stares at the wall behind me, unfocused. "It would have made it so much easier. So much easier... As it is, I resent it. I hate it so much it almost makes me sick."
I'm out of words; and even if I had them, I'm not sure if I could speak. I watch him in silence, and feel the black hole gnaw at my stomach. When I finally do find my voice, the question once again is mostly for my own benefit. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"
"He... spanked me." The hesitation is minute, but it's there.
I feel the world shift a bit, the colors change subtly as he delivers this news in his carefully soft voice. "That wasn't supposed to happen," I manage.
He's turned his whole upper body away from me, studying the books; I can see the vestigial humiliation set itself in his shoulders. If I'd touch him now it would probably backfire. It's some time before he goes on.
"He had to. I forced his hand. I'm good at playing this game; I would never have yielded if he hadn't spanked me. I'd have ignored him and walked out." His voice is flat, it lacks conviction; he is reciting his lines. "It's all right. Really. It's not as if it's never happened before. I'll get over it."
I stare at his face. He's trying to make me feel better; he has already assumed the responsibility. The guilt.
"Would you have beaten me?"
I shake my head.
"Then it wouldn't have worked. You were right. It's better this way." Then his gaze drops to the floor as he says quietly, "I want you to fuck me again."
My stomach tumbles. It takes me some time to get a hold of myself. Although he is clearly on edge, he waits, motionless, gaze glued to the floor, somewhere near the bookcase. If he is afraid I'll refuse, it's not visible.
As soon as I trust myself to move again, I take the steps that separate us, reach out and touch his shoulder. He still won't look at me as he takes a reluctant half-step toward me.
"You hate me," I say.
Finally he looks up, shakes his head almost contemptuously. "I couldn't hate you. I hate myself." His eyes dart away again immediately, as if looking at me makes it worse. As if anything could make it worse.
Now his passivity looks like fear to me, rather than like a barely subdued disgust. The situation has overwhelmed him, and he cannot decide where to go. He looks so lost, so scared, that it finally gives me the courage to touch him, to close the last foot of sterile air that separates us and take him in my arms.
He is trembling again. Whatever his demons are, and I might well be one of them, they're too strong for him. He stands quietly in my embrace while I stroke his back with long, even strokes, and try not to notice the way the muscles move under my fingers. In vain. But the trembling lessens, almost subsides. For a long time we stand still, and I cannot find it in me to go on. Finally he asks, "Can we go upstairs?"
"Are you sure you want to?"
He moves out of my embrace and says, "Don't question me."
~.~
In the bedroom the horror catches up with me. I don't want to do this again, a passive body beneath me, every muscle, every curve reminding me of what I already know: this is depraved. I'm using him, as much as he's using me. The thought is now revolting.
"What do you really want, Mulder?"
"I want you to fuck me."
"I don't think that's what you're after. I think you want more than that."
"You can think what you like. Just fuck me."
"I won't. Not today."
"If you had told me that two minutes ago, I could have saved myself the trouble of climbing those stairs," Mulder says evenly, picking up the shirt he's just dropped.
"You're not leaving."
"I damned well am. No point in staying when it's clear up front that the manna won't fall today." He starts putting on the shirt with brisk, hurried movements.
Despite my disgust, despite his anger, it makes me smile. "Undress and get into bed. I'll give you something better."
"Well, I wonder what that might be? Did you buy an oversized dildo? Or a trained dog maybe?"
"There's no need to be crude, Mulder. You won't make me angry; you're transparent as hell."
"Am I now? So what do you see, I wonder? A damaged mind, a soul in peril?"
"I'm not out to psychoanalyze you, or to humiliate you. I'm just trying to... to be kind." This must be the most inane line I have said in years; and it's maybe the only honest one I've said tonight.
"You're failing miserably on all counts. Jesus, I really don't need this tough love approach," Mulder mutters, stooping to pick up his shoes.
"Mulder. Listen to me."
"Tell me what I want to hear, then I'll listen." He heads for the bedroom door.
I intercept him with a few quick steps. "God damn you. You'll listen, regardless. Sit the fuck down and stop behaving like a child." Taking his upper arms, I push him back against the bed until he overbalances and sits down heavily. "You're staying. You're going to sleep here, in my bed, because that's what you want, even though you'd rather be hanged, drawn and quartered than admitting it. I'll hold you until you fall asleep. Tomorrow you can rant and rage if you still feel like it. For tonight I've had enough. Now undress." It feels so good to finally be able to say what I think that I have to make an effort to shut myself up.
Mulder sits silently, staring at me. Eventually he shrugs and says, "Well, Daddy knows best, of course." Pulling the shirt over his head, he loses a button in the process, and curses. He gets up to take off the rest of his clothes, dropping them on the floor in an untidy heap. "I hope you're getting something out of this silly scene." In bed he covers himself with the comforter and moves over to the side, turning his back on the rest of the bed.
I ignore him. When he's in bed, I undress and get in behind him. I reach out and touch his shoulder; I can feel it twitch. I move over to wrap his arms around him.
"You have a hard-on," Mulder says vindictively. "Are you teaching me a lesson, or yourself?" He still packs a nasty punch.
"Anyone who gets in bed with you will have a hard-on, Mulder. Fact of life."
Mulder half gets up. "So now it's my fault, is it?"
"What fault is this? I have a hard-on, I'm not going to fuck you, we're going to sleep. That's it. Lie down."
Once again I wrap my arms around his tense body, hold it motionlessly for a while, then slowly stroke its upper arm and shoulder. I keep the same pace, only occasionally shift the focus of the caress. Mulder's body only gets stiffer, and I can feel the tremor build again. It is unnerving to produce so much tension. Finally, a sob escapes him. Only one.
Mulder turns on his stomach, breathing heavily, and lies still; but some of the tension is gone. His arms are wrapped around the pillow, his face is still turned to the wall. I'm now stroking his back in the same regular rhythm. Just when I'm sure he has finally fallen asleep, he suddenly turns his head and asked hoarsely, "What do you want from me?"
I repeat, "I want to give you what you need."
Mulder closes his eyes and turns his face to the wall again. He's shaking his head, a very small movement, but visible. Then he says, almost inaudibly, "I can't take it."
"Turn to me, Mulder." The head-shaking grows stronger. I grab his shoulder, and push and shove until he is half turned over, still trying to keep his head averted. Finally he gives up the silent fight, abandons his pillow and wraps his arms around me. His embrace is tight, his breathing heavy. His face is now hidden against my shoulder, still outside my field of vision.
"You're strong enough," I tell him, holding him, again stroking his back. And when I say it, I'm sure it's true.
~.~
The cold wakes me up. Mulder's side of the bed is empty. The curtain covering the balcony door billows in the draft. I get up, find my housecoat, and step outside. He's looking out over the city, elbows resting on the rail. The albedo of his skin makes him look like an elf in the faint moonlight. He doesn't seem to notice me, nor the penetrating cold.
When I touch his arm he jolts; his skin is icy.
"What are you doing?"
"Thinking."
"I thought you might be trying to kill yourself."
"Not just yet."
I look at him sideways; there is no hint of irony.
"Come inside, Mulder. If you don't get warm right now, any amount of thinking will be futile."
He lets me pull him inside without protest. He is not even shivering anymore. I put him in bed and get in with him, tense my muscles against the chill he radiates, and wrap my arms around him. He's breathing evenly; he could be asleep, or sliding into a coma from hypothermia.
"Mulder?"
He doesn't reply, but he moves. He starts to turn to me, but seems to forget what he was doing half-way. I grab his shoulders and complete the turn for him.
"I'm cold," he says, and his teeth start to chatter. Soon after he is shaking, miserably trying to gather more of the comforter and more of me around him.
It takes at least fifteen minutes before he stops shivering; then he backs away from me, and stares at the balcony door.
"Mulder? Are you OK?"
He shrugs. "I'm not sure I should be here."
"Why shouldn't you?"
"I should be alone." There's a pause, then he turns to me and says, "You have no idea what it's like, do you?"
"I think I - "
"No idea what it's like not to be able to rely on yourself. To need someone else just to stay on your feet. You have been self-sufficient all your life, you don't need anyone."
"Mulder, I'm not - "
"And then you tell me that you don't mind, you don't judge me for it. For being a goddamn junkie. No, why would you mind? This must be very convenient for you. To have me at your disposal. Do you enjoy fucking me? I've got a good ass, don't you think?" He turns on his stomach and pushes the comforter down, baring his ass, stroking it while he keep looking at me.
I have to force myself not to look away. I feel almost physically sick. He's not stupid; he knows exactly where to cut. And then he twists the knife.
"A very convenient arrangement. You finally get to stuff my ass, and you can play the Good Samaritan while you're at it. From time to time you suddenly refuse to screw me, just to make sure I remember I'm hooked. A little delayed gratification for you, complimented by the sweet taste of victory. Oh yes, a very tasty dish; I'm sure you enjoy it."
I don't have any defense against this. I sit, silent, listen to his dreadfully flippant voice verbalizing the same accusations I've been repeating silently for weeks, and feel my shoulders draw up.
He pulls up the comforter, sits up. "I was grateful. I will probably be grateful again tomorrow. That's the nature of my particular problem, you see? The gratitude comes with it. I've always been grateful to anyone who wanted to come close, regardless of their motives. Which were invariably twisted."
I swallow with difficulty. "Mulder, I've had enough of this."
"Oh yes. Kick me out. Punish me for spelling out the truth. Throw me out on the street, preferably without my clothes. It's only what I deserve."
I try to hang on to my temper; I'm so angry I can't sit still, and I get up on my knees on the bed. "We can talk about this, but I won't listen to more of this one-sided rant. Stop it, right now."
"It's the truth, isn't it? That's why you don't..."
I grab both his upper arms and pull him close to me. "Mulder, shut the fuck up. This doesn't get you anywhere."
"It gets me..." Suddenly the defiance is gone, from one instant to the next. He blinks, then looks down at my hand around his bicep. "I'm sorry." It's almost a whisper.
"Jesus!" The inexplicable transformation leaves me behind to deal with my own anger; for a moment I can't bring myself to let go of him. Then I manage to relax my grip, and sit back against the headboard.
"I'm sorry."
"Shut up," I tell him, still reeling from the adrenaline. Then something else occurs to me. "Did you stop because you were afraid I'd hit you?"
He looks at me, and says tonelessly, "I ran out of steam."
I lean back again, cherishing this small pinpoint of relief.
"I don't mind getting hit," he adds.
"But I don't want to hit you."
"Were you going to?"
"I... don't think so." My head hurts.
He stretches out his arm, tentatively, clearly afraid I'll turn him down. I take his hand and move over to him. "I'm sorry," he says again.
"I know. I'm sorry too."
"For what?"
"It was true. Everything you said."
"Of course it's true. It couldn't not be true."
"I mean, my motives are twisted."
"I know."
"But I didn't... make you wait to... torture you."
"I made that one up to hurt you. I'm sorry."
I push him down, straighten the comforter, and lie down next to him. It's only when I put my arms around him that I notice he's trembling again.
"Are you still cold?"
"No, I'm just tired. And upset."
After a while, I say, "I don't want you to be grateful. There's no reason to be grateful." I'm hoping he will denounce his gratitude, take back what he said in his rage, defuse it.
But he sighs and says, "Sorry boss, package deal." Then he turns away from me, taking one arm with him. I embrace him from behind and close my burning eyes, bury my throbbing head between his shoulder blades. Feel his tremor.
He turns half on his back and says, almost inaudibly, "Walter. I don't suppose you would... you would want to..."
"Um... I don't think I can. Not right now."
"Oh. All right." He begins to turn away again, but I hold him back.
"Mulder."
He looks at me.
"I love you."
He goes completely still, even his breathing stops. For seconds, there is no movement. Then he takes a deep breath and says, "Will you say that again tomorrow?"
"I will."
He looks at me dubiously before completing his turn and nestling against me.
~.~
The next morning I find him in the same position, hugging his pillow again. Asleep, he looks more vulnerable than I've ever seen him; but there is no hint of the haunting desperation that hooked itself into my flesh last night, and crippled me. The bedroom smells of him; I can smell him in the air, on my pillow, on the skin of my arm. I reach out to open the bedside drawer and take out the lube, put it under the covers beside me. Then, ordering him telepathically to keep his cool when he wakes up, I kiss his neck, just below the hairline, until he makes a sleepy sound.
"Don't move," I tell him unnecessarily.
What I can see of him in the dim morning light, just his head, half of his arms, one shoulder blade, makes me ache with lust. I want to do this slowly, but I'm already trembling with excitement. My erection feels as if I've been neglecting it for hours, which may be true.
Where to start? I spoon up against him once more, bury my head next to his, and wrap my arms around him. He responds by thrusting has ass against my painful erection, and I try to suppress my gasp.
"Don't *move*, damn you," I hiss, and an almost feel him smirk. It will be a struggle to make this the slow tender loving scene I had pictured.
I caress his shoulder, follow his arm to where he has it thrust under the pillow; follow it further, until I reach his wrist. I want to hold that; somehow it seems to be a very essential part of him. The part he has buried most deeply. I wrap my fingers around it, take a moment to find his pulse, hold on to it while I kiss his jaw, his ear, and the little hollow behind it. He turns his face toward me, giving me easier access and a sleepy smile.
I move closer, half on top of him, and with my left hand stroke the side of his face, his hair, and he pushes back against it. I trace his neck, his collarbone; his skin is slightly slick with sweat. He tenses, moves his shoulder a bit when I push my fingers into the moist hollow of his armpit, and I feel his pulse take off.
"Sshh," I say, and to my unspeakable delight he relaxes, and lets my fingers sit there. I move them only very slightly, and we lie together, both knowing I have gained access to a previously forbidden place. I love him.
I leave the wonderfully warm secret lair I have conquered, to reach beneath him, pushing my hand into the warm space between him and the mattress, until I find his cock. He is rock-hard, like me, and whimpers a bit when I take him in my hand. There is just enough room to caress a small patch of the soft skin with my thumb, and I feel his back tense as I stroke him. Then, in revenge I'm sure, he clenches his buttocks against me and moves, a very slight motion, but it nearly makes me cry out. I would have bitten myself, but my hands are tied in faraway places. I bite his earlobe instead, but gently.
"Jesus, Mulder. Grant me a minute of foreplay."
"You've already had five. At least."
I lay on top of him, panting, loving him. Then I remember.
"I love you," I gasp into his ear.
After a second he announces, "It doesn't count during sex."
That pisses me off, but I can see his point. "OK, but it is true." He murmurs something that sounds like "Whatever."
Silence, stillness, once again. I kiss his neck with long, slow kisses, hoping to pacify him. I keep transgressing; I don't known the territory, and I never know where the landmines are. Finally he relaxes again, and I resume stroking his cock until finally he groans.
"Walter, *please*!"
I raise myself on my elbows, kiss him between his shoulder blades, and reach for the lube. Rolling off him, I coat my fingers with it and slide into him. He's squirming, pushes against me, trying to impale himself. I have to sit up and kneel on his thighs to keep him still. In that position, I slowly thrust into him with malicious pleasure, using one finger, then two, rubbing his insides. I watch him writhe obscenely against my hand until I'm so aroused that my eyes lose focus.
I push him down roughly, using my weight, and move my hips to position myself until I feel the muscle quiver against the head of my cock. I bite my lip hard. Then I push in, and like before, he magically opens for me, welcomes me as if he's itching and only I can soothe him...
And so it turns into a round of breathless rutting after all. He comes before me, making desperate, almost voiceless sounds, then collapses and closes around me a little, slowing me down and creating another wave of pure love along with the animal lust. As I come, I close my eyes and push my nose into his hair, enveloping myself in his scent. There is nothing to bite there, but it's a good choice all the same.
He seems to be asleep when I lift my head again, minutes or hours later. But he stirs, turns his head to face me, still heavy-lidded.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey Mulder," I reply, and reach out to touch his hair.
"Do you think you could say it again?"
"Will it count now?"
"It starts counting five minutes after the communal climax."
I feel my lips begin to crinkle up, but straighten them out again. "I love you."
"That's good," he says quietly.
Please send your comments to palinurus@squidge.org
Background by Kathie