Egg

Sunday morning and the grass sparkled with dew and warm, spring sun. Birds sang, not too loudly, sweetly, with just the right level of song not to jar the tender, decaffeinated brain.

Mulder stood on the back porch of his newly acquired suburban home and curled his bare toes over the wooden edge of the top step. He scratched his head with his right hand. His hair was thick and stiff with a day and night's buildup of oil and the spray that he liked that came in a reassuringly masculine bottle and cost much more than it should. When he was through massaging his scalp, he reached behind him, under his sweats, and rubbed along the bare, bed-warm skin of his butt in a most satisfactory manner. His skin didn't itch. It just felt good to rub the warm flesh in an almost masturbatory way, except it wasn't so complicated as that. Complications were left for post-caffeinated brains.

He yawned until the joints of his jaw popped, which hurt. He decided to go back into his kitchen, which had all the latest appliances, and use the most important one to make instant coffee. The oven still had the owner's manual in its plastic sheath lying on the wire rack. The refrigerator had a carton of eggs minus the ones he had used to make the omelet last night for his dinner and the zip lock bag of shredded cheddar and a plastic jug of 2 % milk. The instant coffee he kept in the freezer section of the refrigerator because he had heard it kept better there and then he heard it kept better at room temperature and then he decided he didn't think it mattered with instant coffee. He placed a cup of water in the microwave for two minutes and when it pinged he pulled it out and put in a teaspoon of frozen coffee granules, which left a strange mixture of foam and partially dissolved coffee swirling on the top because you were supposed, according to the directions, add the hot water to the coffee instead of the way he did it, but he had always been one to follow his own path, even if it did produce unsatisfactory results.

He stood at the sink and swirled his spoon in the hot cup. The cup that Scully and Doggett had brought back for him from their honeymoon trip to San Francisco. There was a picture of Alcatraz on one side and the Golden Gate Bridge on the other and inside the cup in the bottom were the words 'things are looking up'. Most days it made him smile and things that made him smile were rare and to be treasured like a truly satisfying porn video. He pressed his bare stomach against the edge of the counter and braced himself so he could put one foot on top of the other and gaze out the window onto his back yard.

It was a long yard, narrow, with a wooden fence encircling it and a large, graceful birch tree at the very back. There were large shrubs along the sides and he really needed to mow the grass. It was so high and thick he didn't know if it was ever going to dry off enough to cut easily. It was tender new growth and very green. He knew when he cut it that it would leave his sneakers stained with its green juices. He liked it the way it was, lush and fresh and uncut.

He moved out onto the porch again and took a sip of his hot coffee, enjoying the familiar taste. When he lowered the cup, he noted the sunlight striking a bright object in the middle of his yard. He didn't remember seeing it earlier. He took another sip of coffee to get more caffeine. He probably hadn't been fully awake earlier and had missed it, but there was definitely something strange in his back yard now.

He stepped off the porch, coffee mug in hand, warm and reassuring. The grass was shockingly cool and wet on his bare feet and soft as he knew it would be. His sweats were soon slapping, heavy and wet, against his ankles with each step as he drew nearer to the object. Mrs. Burnside's Chihuahua, Tippy, was apparently in its backyard because it was yipping excitedly. It always knew when he stepped outside. A mutual mistrust had initiated itself upon their first encounter and had grown into fear and loathing on both sides.

As he approached the mysterious object his heart rate sped up and a feeling swept over him that something momentous and exhilarating in a balls-shriveling sort of way was taking place. It felt very similar to the way he had felt in the early days, when he was called in to Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office for an explanation of his expenses. He looked down at the object in some surprise and took a larger gulp of coffee.

It was an egg.

A rather large egg. It was at least a foot and a half long and a foot in diameter.

He couldn't understand how he had missed such a large object earlier, such a large, shiny object. He bent down and traced his fingertips along its surface. It felt smooth. It felt like an...egg. He looked up and gazed about his yard, underneath the shrubbery and in the farthest corners. He wasn't sure if he was looking for the Easter Bunny or an escaped ostrich with a hormone problem.

The surface of it was warm as if it had been in the sun for a long time, which was impossible. He kept stroking its surface, trying to decide what he should do with it, whether he should call the local humane shelter or leave it as a garden ornament. He rapped his knuckles gently against its surface. It was the sort of action he probably shouldn't have done had he thought about the consequences, but he simply couldn't help himself.

The cracking noise started somewhere underneath it.

He stopped his rapping and stepped back; a feeling of guilt at what he might have done quickly being overridden by the growing excitement of discovery. The sound grew louder and the egg began to rock gently from side to side and then in a more forceful nature. He stepped further back. The cracking sound produced an actual crack, which split along the egg's circumference. The halves of the shell parted and a yellowish substance oozed out and puddled thickly onto the ground at his feet. There was a puff of bluish smoke which contained glittering, multicolored sparkles; they quickly floated away and dissipated like soap bubbles.

He eased forward and tried to peer inside, but the opening only allowed him a glimpse of something pale. He broke off a bit of the jagged edge of the shell. There was a soft, dark substance like warm chocolate coating its underside. It even smelled like chocolate. Dark chocolate. He sat his cup down, fell to his knees in the wet grass and the yellow pudding and began to break off pieces of the shell, glimpsing more of the pale, smooth form inside as he did so. It was writhing and flexing in tiny increments, pushing against the confines of its broken prison.

He peeled large slabs of the shell from the squirming body, hesitantly at first, afraid to cause the creature pain, but the shell came away easily. Finally, he had enough of the shell cleared away to see that it was a miniature, human shaped body, an adult body, liberally smeared in the dark substance, in a tight fetal position with its back towards him and its face hidden.

He tore a handful of grass and began to gently wipe away the slimy substance and the remaining bits of shell from the pale flesh. It was the most amazing experience. The creature beneath his hands was alive. He could feel the slight movement as it drew breath. The skin covering it was smooth and pliable beneath his stroking fingers and he was reminded of William, that deceptive strength that babies have hidden beneath such vulnerability. But this creature was nothing like a baby. There was nothing about it that suggested an infant. Its musculature and shape were those of an adult male. The only difference being its incredibly small size. He shuffled around on his hands and knees so that he could see the face of the creature. Its head was beginning to wobble about and he could see, now that he had wiped some more of the mess off it, that it had hair, dark hair, wet and plastered close to the skull.

It coughed and raised an incredibly detailed little hand towards its mouth. The creature had turned face down on its elbows and knees and began to cough, deeply, causing its body to shake with the effort to draw a breath. His hand hovered over its back, not quite touching, afraid to touch and waited anxiously, sitting on his heels, until the coughing stopped and regular breathing began.

It groaned and scratched its head.

Mulder could see the tiny fingernail on the thumb, the pointed tip on the sweet shell of an ear, the delicately vulnerable line of the spine traveling down to the most perfect little ass he had ever seen. It tilted up in the Sunday morning sun and waved at him with all the subtle, coy and thoroughly enticing magic of a geisha's hand raising her fan.

The sounds issuing from the little creature were produced by a throat too small for Mulder to make out anything intelligible. Although, he could have sworn it was a familiar language. It was like listening to an enraged squirrel with a bad cold, who also happened to know Russian. The miniature man creature had ceased its life-threatening coughing and was in the process of trying to gain its feet. Its back was still turned to Mulder and he was glad of the chance to study the lilliputian unnoticed. He watched as small fingers drilled into even smaller ears and then the heel of a hand knocked against one side of its tilted head and then the other. It sighed and turned around, tiny fists rubbing at its eyes. It blinked several times and squinted as if the sunlight bothered it and coughed one last time. It raised a hand to its mouth and opened its eyes fully, looking over its hand for the first time at Mulder's figure squatting in front of it as Mulder looked at its open eyes for the first time.

No on else could have eyes quite like those Mulder thought, even if they were very much smaller. He was still thinking how impossible it all was when the little Alex creature let out a war whoop of astounding proportions, considering the size of its lungs, and rushed him. Mulder fell back in complete shock. His butt hit the ground and his legs sprawled out wide. He struggled up onto his elbows in time to see the miniature form bobbing toward him and then he not only saw it, but felt it.

Tiny Alex landed like a swimmer doing a belly flop directly onto Mulder's most prized possessions. Tiny knees dug like the most awful spikes into his balls. The effect on his body was an immediate clenching together of his legs with a sympathetic clenching of his abdominal muscles. In the process his thighs captured Tiny Alex's legs and brought his own face closer to that of the little creature. It was a face that was turning redder as Mulder watched it and had let out a loud squeak when his thighs had closed about its legs. Good, Mulder thought as he contemplated the glowing, demon green eyes before him. At least the pain in his balls had eased up a bit.

It was surprising how much heat such a small body could produce. And the squirming. The gasp-inducing undulation of that tiny body. Mulder began filling out and felt like squirming himself. The hot little body suddenly stopped its squirming and undulating and a look of sheer evil delight filled the little red face with the glowing, knowing eyes. Mulder stopped breathing. He stopped moving except for his cock, which seemed to be getting harder by the second and, if the hot presence currently weren't riding it, he was sure it would explode out of his groin and launch itself into orbit.

Tiny hands gripped the head of his cock and the much-washed material of his old sweats only enhanced the touch. He gasped and then stopped breathing again. He couldn't move and couldn't take his eyes off the little creature, the little Alex, as he continued to massage his cock with a ferocious intensity that ratcheted up his own excitement to a level he had never experienced before. He also had never realized that subjecting his reproductive organs to the possibility of mutilation could be so erotic.

Tiny, demonic little Alex lowered his head and Mulder's body jerked in response to the almost unbearably pleasurable, toe-curling sensation that washed over his body. Tiny, tiny teeth were nibbling along the underside of his cock and along the most sensitive areas and ridges and veins and he let his head drop back because he didn't have the strength to hold it up any longer. He just hoped tiny Alex didn't stop doing what he was doing because it felt so damn good. He had never felt anything like this in his entire life and he didn't want it to stop, ever.

He tried not to move. He didn't want to dislodge that hot, heavy little demon angel from his place. He didn't want to do anything, ever again to dislodge him. He contemplated some sort of modified jock strap that would keep him in place always, never let him go. Never.

The waves of toe-curling, stomach-quivering pleasure just kept coming and he let himself sink completely onto his back and the wet grass as he sprawled in his back yard and fought the desperate need to curl up and clutch those relentlessly nibbling little lips and tiny teeth and squirming body even closer, to press that hot, squirming little demon body firmly to his groin. He thrust out both his hands to either side of him and grasped as much grass in each hand as he could, anchoring himself to the ground because he was sure he was going to elevate several inches on the next wave of pleasure that washed over him.

His breathing became rapid, his throat dry and his chest and face flushed with heat and then he stopped breathing because the pressure on his groin lifted and moved. Tiny points of pressure from little hands and knees were moving about on his stomach and then he felt the loose waistband of his sweats lifted and the wonderful sensations began again, but this time with the added bonus of flesh meeting flesh, no barriers to the almost unbearable sensations that seemed to be pulling his guts out and massaging them. He groaned, loudly and in utmost gratitude, as the hot little body began its ministrations once again. It was an ordeal of pleasure, like being tickled to death. The sensations grew. He pulled up handfuls of grass trying not to roll about. He drummed his heels into the ground and finally, finally when his cock actually did seem to disengage from his body and take his brain with it into orbit, he had the sensation of his eyes rolling into the back of his head and a great darkness crept over him starting at the edges of his vision until there was nothing but a roaring in his ears and a spot of intense heat sprawled on his stomach.

He came out of the blackness and instead of the roaring in his ears he heard a loud, high- pitched yipping that echoed through his brain like strikes on the anvil of his skull and instead of the pleasurable sprawl of a hot, little body on his stomach there were four points of intense pain pressing into his chest. He groaned and struggled to raise his head from the ground and open his eyes.

A small gray face with a much larger globe of smooth skull and huge black eyes stared back at him only inches away. His first impression was that a miniature gray alien was sitting on his chest and then the mouth opened, its black lips rippling away high on pink gums to show sparkling canines that any self- respecting Great White would be proud of.

He didn't have time to react because suddenly the little gray was lifted into the air, disappearing from his sight. Mulder tilted his head back, trying to find the mother ship.

"Really! Mr. Mulder!" The voice was a familiar one. It had caused his balls to shrivel with dread on several occasions.

He groaned and closed his eyes. "Good morning Mrs. Burnside." It seemed the mother ship had found him.

He heard reassuring noises being made by Mrs. Burnside for Tippy, who ignored her. "Really, Mr. Mulder," she repeated, "what sort of weird nonsense have you been subjecting my Tippy to this time. For goodness sakes he's just an innocent creature, Mr. Mulder. He wouldn't harm a soul." Mulder heard Tippy start a deep throated, continuous growling at this point.

"I'm sure he wouldn't Mrs. Burnside. I really don't understand..." And he really, really didn't understand. He wished someone would explain things to him, preferably in a whisper in a darkened room with a glass of whiskey nearby. Make that a bottle.

Mrs. Burnside continued her soliloquy above him and he mainly tuned it out except for the word 'perversion' which kept cropping up. He maneuvered himself up to a sitting position and found he was indeed in his back yard wearing only his sweat pants. There was a noticeable stain on the front of said pants and he winced from the feel of cold, semen- coated cloth stuck to his skin. His gaze swept further afield and there were the remains of the egg. There were bits of shell gleaming in the sun and lots of chocolate colored slime about, but not a glimmer of its occupant.

Mulder struggled to his knees and then to his feet, completely ignoring Mrs. Burnside now and began a thorough, if shaky, search of his backyard. Mrs. Burnside continued to follow him around as he searched under the shrubbery and along his fence. Finally, he came to a small hole, big enough for a Chihuahua or a miniature demon named Alex to crawl through. He got down on his hands and knees and peered through it.

The truth was out there and he would most definitely find it.