There has been no reason to tell the story, it is our story—it always was,
and always will be. It was planned, schemed and delivered with precision,
its roots laid firm in musings that I had for the man. For his failed
relationships and his need to be free of the chains with which he found
himself bound. The bindings were self- imposed, but he lacked the knowledge
of his own body to free the demons within. There would only ever be one way
to explain, to reason with him, and that was my way.
As I lay in wait for Mulder, our cars parked in parallel to the side of me,
I leaned back against the pillar. He could have been hours from leaving, it
was difficult to know, but it was the moment I had selected and the decision
required endorsement. It had to be followed through. I kept my body rigid,
out of sight of the lift doors, knowing that the slightest movement would
give rise to alarm. The cold concrete pressed into my shoulders, my leather
jacket scraped against it as I pushed myself back up every ten or so
minutes. It was roughly forty minutes after my arrival that I heard the rasp
of metal scraping against metal followed by crisp solitary footsteps. The
echo subsided as the steps moved closer, each gap identical to the last, and
a constant rhythm as he passed by.
There was no flinch from him as I approached at speed from behind. He was
too near to me to turn, and as I covered his mouth and nose with the
Chloroform-soaked cloth, his arms gesticulated with a wild flailing and
reached back, trying to grab at me. As his breathing quickened, the effects
took hold and his involuntary response to the lack of oxygen speeded the
process up. I waited until his legs gave way allowing him to fall back on me
before clasping both of my hands under his arms, and pulling him into my own
car. It had not been the bravest of encounters, there were no gladiatorial
stand offs, nor angry exchanges. It had needed to be done and I had
accomplished it without him gaining visual access.
As I dragged him headfirst into the room that would be his home for the next
few days, his feet drew friction against my pull, his body fighting against
me each and every second of the way. I placed him on the floor with careful
movements, his awakening would be a shock and the preservation of normality
in his body would be the basis of him trusting me. I savoured those moments
as I took the clothes from his body in silence, slipping each layer of
fabric from him with a tender touch. My only regret about what I had done
was that he was not awake during that initial contact. It was the first time
that I had seen his flesh, its curvaceous binding to the muscles was
somewhat lame now, but the subtle ripples as his limbs moved fascinated me.
It still does. The skin moves with each articulation of the body, and
movement stirs emotions. I could study his activity with relentless awe and
on the night in question, I did. I wish I could have seen his reaction, a
soft gaze as he followed my face, studying each and every nuance as my
expression changed with each piece of flesh exposed. At least that's how I
saw things, but the reality was likely to be at great variance to this.
There would be a day when that reaction would come, and it would still be
cherished, but I still wish that it had been then.
As I slid the bindings around his wrists, I traced patterns in his upturned
palms and followed the lines that indented his skin. The church bells
signaled seven outside, and as I attached the chains to both the wrist cuffs
and the floor behind him, I had known that he would be conscious in an hour
or so. The chains were gathered on the floor on either side of him as he sat
propped against the wall, catching the dim light in the centre of the
ceiling and refracting odd dots above me. There was sufficient slack on the
chains to allow him to sit comfortably and eat, but if he rose to his feet,
the chains would provide no movement for his arms, they would always be by
his side. I had taken time to ensure that the calculations were correct. He
needed to be comfortable, to feel secure without a permanent taughtness and
void of other options it had been the best I could come up with.
I left him a tray of food that night, it was within easy reach, and
underneath the plate I had slipped a note, typewritten that morning as I had
reached my decision.
"Mulder. You will not be harmed whilst you are here. The room is
soundproofed so there is no point in wasting your energy by shouting or
screaming. There is no reason for you to fight me, nor to distrust me. I
will be back in the morning."
I would have liked to have been witness to his initial response, to his
realisation that he was naked and restrained. I would see these things
eventually, but it is the first reaction to a situation which tells the
truth. It is an unreserved and often involuntary array of emotions that are
displayed and it stimulates the aggressor in situations such as this. There
was no aggression on my part, but my inability to view him weighed heavily
on my mind that night as I lay awake in the next room.
The next morning was the first on which I visited him with breakfast—a
selection of fresh fruit, pastries & bread. He was there for a solitary
reason and in order to gain his trust, the most basic of human functions
such as eating and defecation required a degree of luxury.
He looked up as I entered the room, not standing as I had thought he would,
but sitting in silence watching every step that I made towards him. I placed
the tray just out of his reach and pushed it toward him and he grasped at
the other end, pulling it in.
"Who are you?" he asked, "why have you done this to me?"
His lips whitened as the top one pressed into his teeth. His anger was
evident, his bemusement apparent. I remained silent. I could see each and
every part of him through the small holes in the hood that adorned my head
and hung level with my shoulders. I stood before him and said nothing, safe
in the knowledge that his own vision of me was one of anonymity. The black
gown I wore concealed my body shape as it hung loosely. The eyes in the hood
were minute, allowing only the pupils of my eyes to be seen. He could see
the reflection of the light in the black of my eyes, but no iris, no colour,
no definition of any other part of my body, and but for one brief moment,
that was how I had wanted it to be. He had not known it, but his future and
mine were dependent on the fact that he could not distinguish me despite our
previous encounters.
"What are you doing? Why did you take me? Who are you?"
The questions were asked in simplistic yet angry tones, as he picked at a
bread roll, washing it down with milk fresh from the carton. He sat with his
knees pulled into his chest for that first morning, he had reminded me of a
Buddha in meditation, still as the sky with deep intrinsic thoughts
emanating from his eyes. He said little to me, which took me by surprise, he
just asked simple questions with fervent repetition. I think he believed
that I would tire easily and give in to his questions.
`Why me? What am I doing here? Why am I naked?'. Time and again he repeated
himself.
As I stood watching him eat, he looked me in the eye, taking little
information with him. I had been careful to try the hood again and again to
ensure that insufficient information was visible from the other side.
As he finished he pushed the tray back towards me, together with the one
from the previous night and as I took them from a safe distance I held out
another note. He stood slowly to take it from my arms length, and I vividly
remember holding it at just the right distance so that he would have to
stretch forward and pull the chains taught. It had been a reminder. It bore
no malice, nor pain but it had been a stark reminder nonetheless as the
cuffs restrained his wrists. The note reaffirmed that he would not come to
any harm, that he would not be hurt and that he would be looked after well
and cared for. It provided instructions for when he needed to use the
bathroom, which was through a door to the side of the room. He would have to
wear a hood, but there would be no humiliation. The note asked for his co-
operation, and for him not to fight against anything that was done whilst he
remained there, and that should he do so the consequences would be
non-consensual and potentially violent in their nature.
How much of the information he took in with the intent with which it was
written was unclear, and I suspected from the start that the series of
events to follow would turn out to be no more than a major mind fuck on me.
He looked up at me once he had read the note and nodded his acknowledgment
of its contents. He repeated the questions he had posed previously, but the
lack of a response drew him back to his seated position, as I exited the
room.
I had expected him to fight, to be more vociferous in his protestations and
his repeated questioning had thrown me. In many ways I had wanted him to
fight, so that I could take him early on. I knew that the end result might
be less pleasing if he were to follow this route, but sheer sight of his
naked flesh, and the visions I had of his muscles straining against the
bonds made me hard.
Half an hour later I returned with a large bowl of hot water, sponge, soap
and towel. I could tell from the stirrings in his face that he was grateful
but this subsided to anger when I stopped short of his reach and placed the
bowl and accompanying items on the floor. I gestured to his left leg and
held the leather cuff in front of me.
"Why should I? When are you going to answer my questions?"
I remained in silence, the only sound to his ears was the slow rise and fall
of my chest as I took breath. I pointed to the note which I had allowed him
to keep, I would give him many over the course of the next few days and
their contents were to stand as affirmation that he would not be harmed.
His chewed on his lip as he looked up, emerald eyes locking with mine in a
meeting of minds. He extended both legs outwards towards me and with a
gentle, deft touch I tied the binding around his ankle and fastened it to
the steel ring on the floor, before repeating the action on his other foot.
I allowed him no room for manoeuvre with his legs, I knew that when I
started to wash him he would flinch, it would be the first struggle as his
body was invaded.
As I walked around him, giving him a wide berth, he pulled at his legs and
for the first time I saw panic. It was a joy to behold that he had finally
allowed his emotions to spill, he could not have lasted with simple
questioning, and although his psychological instinct had told him to remain
passive, it could not have prepared him for the realisation that he was
going to be touched
"Come on! Talk to me. What are you doing? Why me?"
And still I made no noise.
I handcuffed his arms together from behind as he pulled at his legs, but he
gained no movement from them, he had no ability to turn. I removed the
chains from the leather cuffs on his wrists and pushed him back a little so
that he could take the weight of his upright body on his hands. As I backed
away his eyes pierced through the thick black cotton that covered my face
and bore deep into my eyes. I was hard, and ached for release, but it was
not my time. That would come later.
His muscles were tense as I took the wet sponge and started washing his
back. My touch was soft, I had practiced well and soothed each and every
muscle in his shoulders and back. As I sponged his chest my cock was near to
release without the touch of flesh against it. I could feel the veins in my
head and neck pulsating as I took his own flaccid cock in my hands and
gently sponged soap over its head, allowing it to trickle down on his balls,
and took delight as it twitched in my hand. I looked up to his face to see
his eyes shut tight.
"Please, don't. Please get the fuck away from me." His words held more anger
with each sentence and increased slowly in volume, and firmly in tone.
"Stop. Get the fuck off me. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?"
And still I made no noise.
As I moved down to his legs I allowed myself a stroke of the soft mousy hair
that pointed towards his feet. It was slight, it was almost not really
there, and my cock rubbed against my cotton covering as I sponged the
delicate skin at the top inside of his legs.
I repeated the tour of his body patting on each and every part with a towel
to dry him. As I crouched before him holding out a hood of his own, I
thought I saw the panic return to his eyes. I had been gentle, and he was
now cleansed, but I think he knew what was next.
"Why?" he asked "they'll be looking for me. Why are you doing this?"
My response was fairly standardised by that point.
I pulled the hood over his face, and pulled the drawstring taught around his
neck. It was not as tight as perhaps he had feared, but he could no longer
see my movements, nor my face as I took my own mask off and knelt in the gap
between his legs. At first I had wanted to take his cock in my mouth
straight away, but it was about restraint on my part and as I licked at each
of his hardened nipples I rejoiced inside as he arched his back and tried to
move away from me.
"Fuck off. Leave me alone." He rocked on his hands in a vain attempt to back
away as I allowed my teeth to catch his nipple.
"I said fuck off. Please, stop. Don't do this."
Mulder's protestations were continual at the start, I think deep down he
knew that they would be ineffectual, and as I continued to lick his flesh
there was a degree of resignation in the rate and tone of questions. I could
have gagged him, the additional restraint would have been easy but I needed
to hear each sound, each thought, and each reaction. As I pulled his hands
in towards his lower back from my kneeling position in front of him, and
pushed his chest with my outstretched palm he gasped, falling back into a
horizontal position. With his bound hands beneath him he had been rendered
immobile, and as I took his balls in the palm of my hand, his questions
subsided to a whisper dispersed with sobs.
"No, please stop. Don't do this."
I do not know whether tears rolled down his cheeks as I took his cock in my
mouth and sucked it to full erection. The hood he wore was essential to my
anonymity, but it added a sensory deprivation to the proceedings, and I knew
his body's response would be forthcoming. As I worked I allowed my hands to
wander, to touch, to add to his experience and only when he was close to
climax did I withdraw my mouth and sit back to admire his beautiful state.
His chest rose and fell in quick succession, his breathing laboured and his
sobs now audible. I massaged his thighs, maintaining a constant eye on his
head, as he moved it from side to side in response to my touch. I noted each
nuance in his reactions, and returned to the areas where his involuntary
sighs had been most prevalent.
I continued with that ritual for nearly an hour, allowing him to come close,
only to deny him at the last moment and I knew that his release would be the
more intense for my patience. During that hour I longed to invade him, to
bring my own cock out and tease his body with my hard pulsating flesh. As I
pumped him with my hand and allowed him to come, my own body screamed
inextricably for attention. And with a silence that I thought was beyond me,
I lifted my own clothing, sat back from his body and finished myself, the
sight of spilled semen dripping from his stomach giving me instant release.
His sobbing was quiet, but sufficient to mask my masturbation and as I
brushed my robe against my body to absorb the seepage he lay motionless, but
I knew that tears had been shed. I knelt between his knees once more, and
licked at the semen that remained on him. For five glorious minutes I took
slow and tender licks with my tongue, cleansing his body. All the time he
lay paralysed, responding only when his body defied his mind, and I knew
from that point onwards, it would be easier.
When I had changed robes, and put my own hood on again, I returned him to
the less restrained position where he could move with relative ease if he
remained seated. His legs were free once more, and as I removed his hood, he
simply hung his head. There were no questions, no eye contact this time,
just closed eyes buried into his knees, as he pulled them into his chest.
I look back now and am still uncertain of what he was thinking at that
particular moment. It was the removal of the mask that exposed him even more
than the act of release had done, because his expressions were then visible.
It was either shame or guilt that lay in those eyes, but I was not sure
which, and I am still not sure now. I know that I will have the opportunity
to ask him one day, and that day now looms. I have waited with longing, with
urgency on occasion but have never succumbed to my desire to let him know
the truth until now.
That second evening, he remained in his adopted upright foetal position as I
took his dinner to him. He looked up at me in silence, maybe playing me at
my own game. The last note that I left asked him to be accepting of his
sexuality, of his own needs. I told him that I had Emailed his place of
work, from his laptop that I had brought with me, advising them of an
unplanned absence and for them to phone him at the weekend. The absence of
names was intentional, there were only so many people that knew he worked
with Scully and if it all backfired I did not want the pair of them after
me. I did not wait for him to read the note, some reactions were meant to be
private even in the depraved world that I had created for him, and as he
mused over the absence of anyone searching for him, he did it in peace.
At the start of the second full day Mulder's questions returned. I did not
know whether he had slept much, I had left blankets and pillows for him, as
much luxury as his confines would allow. I had switched the lights off an
hour after leaving his dinner the night before, reducing the windowless
white room to a dark mass void of any shadow.
I washed him every day, in exactly the same way as I had done on the first
and he came to accept not only that it would be done but that it would be
gentle and refreshing for his body. The questions did not relent, though, as
each day passed his tones had changed. I detected more acceptance on his
part, and his slant turned over the course of the few days to questioning my
reasons rather than my selection of him. My constant reaffirmation in the
notes that he would not be harmed seemed to hit home and his panic became
more marginal as the days passed.
My recollections of that week have become more vague as the months have
passed. The first full day when I took him in my mouth and witnessed his
ejaculation in my hand are most vivid. It fulfilled a longing that had lain
deep in my body since the moment I was first assigned to partner him, one
that had grown with each meeting since despite our gradual parting to
separate sides of the spectrum. Each day now fades into the next, all I
recall is that I repeated the previous days actions but added more. The only
real recollections for me are of the first time, the blowjob I gave him on
the fourth day could have been the one where he was hard before I even took
him in my mouth. But then that could have been the fifth day. The only one I
really recall is the first.
Each new exploration of his body brought fear for the first few days, but by
the fourth, there was a marked change in his reaction. He no longer asked
questions but stayed as silent as I. It could have been a major mind fuck
that he was trying to pull on me, but it felt as though his demons had been
exorcised and there was faint recognition of my actions. I do not think he
has ever truly understood why I did what I did but maybe now I will have the
opportunity to explain to him. I think sufficient time has elapsed for him
to listen without questioning, without interruption.
The second day was difficult for me because I knew that he would hurt
physically during my interference with his body. As I rubbed ice cubes
around his hard nipples he fought against his restraints, unaware in his
hooded blackened world of what was to come. As I pinched the flesh of his
left nipple as hard as I could and made the first incision through the soft
skin he screamed. It was the only time that he did and I know it was born of
pure pain. I was under no illusion as I threaded the metal ring through his
flesh, sealing it with industrial strength adhesive. The token I had given
him would remain, it would not be removed unless by boltcutters or the
tearing of flesh. It would be lasting testament to out time together and
when he finally found me, I wanted to know whether he had kept it, or
whether he had found the courage to remove it.
As I attached a chain to the nipple ring, and tethered him to the wall he
voiced his derision at my actions.
"You fucking bastard. You said you weren't going to hurt me!"
As I removed his hood I saw blood on his lip, and exited the room to find
some antiseptic gel. As I bent down before him and squeezed the tube, our
eyes met and locked. His jaw was tight, his lips nearly white and as I held
my index finger near to his mouth, his lips parted. Our eyes remained
fixated as I gently allowed my finger to rub along the length of his lower
lip, and as I hesitated I wondered whether he could tell that beneath my
mask I was smiling. The application of that gel was the slowest, most
succulent moment I can remember, as my cock hardened with a rapidity
reserved usually for more violent and rough associations. His eyes asked a
thousand questions, spoke a thousand words, and each second a thousand
electrical volts emanated from his eyes, to his lips, to my finger and down
into my cock.
That evening he was restrained not by the wrist cuffs, but by the ankles. I
afforded him some movement with the chains, safe in the knowledge that any
jolt or friction to the chain that was attached to his nipple would send
searing pain into his body. The nipple chain was now the only restraint on
his upper body, but its sensuous connection to his body ensured that he
would not move quickly, nor extensively. In the note that accompanied
dinner, I apologised for any pain that he may have suffered, but that it was
a necessary part of what he was learning about himself. There would be no
more such suffering, only pleasure, and only his pleasure. The ring would
allow him greater freedom of movement for the next few days.
On each occasion that I left him a note, I made sure that reference was made
to his release. He knew he was there only for a few days, that his work
colleagues would contact him at the weekend, and it was essential to me that
he could see an end to the captivity. It made his co-operation more
forthcoming and combined with the emphasis that I placed on the fact that he
would not be hurt, brought resignation. I wanted so desperately for him to
be submissive, to enjoy the experience but his reticence remained until the
fourth full day. Perhaps it had been the activities that had led him to
allow his emotions to spill.
Again, I don't recall the successive intrusions into his rectum with my
tongue, but the initial response that his body afforded me was one of
exuberation. He had clearly had no such previous experience, and was, I
think, taken with the pure pleasure that I extrapolated from him with the
continual and loving probe of warm flesh. I had secured him on his stomach,
with arms and legs spread wide, chained securely at close quarters to the
metal rings on the floor. His stomach was off the floor, propped up by a
pillow, and as I kissed at his entrance, his body shuddered. In my mind it
was an expression of anticipation, of longing, of urgency, but I knew from
the fear in his voice that it was merely an attempt at rejecting my actions.
As I invaded him, pushing into the tight warm flesh with my tongue, I
rhythmically pumped his own cock which had hardened in my hand.
His own reactions to my touch by that time were becoming more apparent to
me, he needed little encouragement to become erect, and it was as if he knew
that each and every visit that I paid to the room would end in him
climaxing. His body was tuning in to its own needs, and the physical
pleasure I was giving him, began to outweigh the psychological torment that
had been so prevalent when he arrived.
As he came, my own cock strained, needing release, but I was careful not to
let it come into contact with his skin. I wanted him to know that what I was
doing was for him, and for him only. If I let that veil slip then the trust
might have disappeared. It was to be saved for the final day, for the only
consummation that we were to have.
That night I didn't leave him a note when I took his dinner into the room.
It was my landmark mind fuck with him, at least it was until the final day.
Its absence caused a quizzical expression in his face, but he said nothing.
Neither did I. I think by that point the only two questions he had were
obvious. He wanted to know who I was, and why I was doing what I was doing.
The answer to the first could have been so easily given by the removal of my
mask, or his hood, one of which was present at all times. My attire remained
for all but the last day of his time there, and gave him no indication
whatsoever of my identity. The second question was more difficult to answer,
and the truth was that it was the only way I could think of getting him into
a relationship with me voluntarily. Had he know who I was, he would have run
a mile or killed me. He had no expression of his sexual drive other than
masturbation to heterosexual videos, let alone admittance of his homosexual
tendencies. It was the only way I could think of doing this.
I had planned to keep him there for a full week, but by the fifth day there
was no resistance or fear in his face. It could have been the absence of a
note the previous night that led him to conclude the course of events, and I
like to think that the daily rituals were becoming almost expected for his
part. He knew by day five that he would be washed, he would be given a
blowjob, he would be rimmed, and that there would be something else added to
the portfolio. His days at the start had been largely solitary, but as each
passed, there were more visits and, during the times between, he often
slept. I think that by day five he knew what would ultimately happen, and
that everything up to that point was preparation. I think that his demons
were close to exorcision, and that the apprehension he displayed when he saw
the lubrication I brought with me was only minor. It seemed to be but a
flash across his face.
I took my time with him that day, massaging each part of his body in
silence, hovering intently around his opening but delaying my intrusion on
several occasions. Each act was carried out in strict order, so by the time
I finally inserted a finger in him, he had come twice already that day. As I
stroked inside of him, feeling around the soft tight flesh, he tensed around
my fingers. At first trying to push my digit out, but then adjusting, trying
to clamp around it. As I withdrew it and inserted two fingers together, the
same reaction came. His body arched as I stroked at his prostate and moved
my fingers around, trying to gauge the motion that gave him most
satisfaction. He cock was solid beneath him, and the sobs that had been so
evident at the start of the week were now groans and gasps as I moved my
fingers inside him.
As at the start with the blowjob, I brought him close to climax before
withdrawing and massaged his body before starting again. His groans with
each invasion grew more distinct, more audible, and as I took his cock I
co-ordinated the movement of both hands together. His body shuddered and we
came almost instantaneously, the powerful movement of his muscles bringing
my own cock to an involuntary release. I looked down at the damp seeping
through my cotton robe, and at him, and realised that I had brought him to
such ecstasy that he had failed to notice my own murmuring as my semen hit
the robe and my leg muscles contracted in spasms.
I knelt there patting at my own body, disguising the noise with further
massaging of his thighs as his breathing slowed down a little, and returned
to its normal pattern. My own breathing was heavy, but it was silent. As was
I.
Again, I left no note that night. I had intended to do so three times a day,
but I think that their absence had triggered him into resolving the issues
that raged in his mind. If I had told what each day would hold, he would
have been prepared, his responses planned. Sometimes, more is said without
words than with. I wanted it to be that way with him, so that each look I
stole when we met after this would give me distinct memories of his
responses here. I knew we would meet on occasion, we always did, but whether
he would ever be able to read my eyes when we did, fed me with fire. The
thought provided erotic responses in me that were now becoming more urgent
as the final day loomed.
On the sixth day, after revisiting acts of the previous days, I walked into
the room late in the afternoon to a look of amazement on his face. He rose
to his feet instantly, holding the chain to his nipple taught against the
wall so that he did not move further than it would allow. The redness around
his nipple had subsided, I had not touched it since I had pierced it, and I
had left the antiseptic permanently by his side so that he could apply it as
and when he saw fit.
By late afternoon I had brought him to climax three times that day, and as I
stood before him, with only my hood, and a pair of plain white boxers on, he
stared intently at my body moving his gaze slowly around. His eyes piercing
each and every pore of my skin. I had endured my own pain preparation for
this, in waxing the hair from my body. The anonymity had been maintained,
exactly as planned, and for him to glimpse even the colour or profusion of
my body hair at this stage would narrow the parameters should he seek
retribution. It was not a risk that I was willing to take.
He said nothing, but covered each part of my body with his emerald eyes,
pausing noticeably at the four-inch scar on my abdomen. This was my mind
fuck to end all others. It was major, it was the only issue of identity, and
he took it in, his mind ticking as his eyes stared. I threw his hood to him,
and as his eyes disappeared into darkness, they still gorged deep into my
scar.
For the first time that week I turned him around to face the wall, in the
knowledge that he knew something. I had given him a snippet of me, a memory
to take with him and as I lay him on his stomach, with hands cuffed behind
his back—I wished with sincerity unbecoming of me, that he was not
restrained. I had given serious consideration to allowing him freedom of
movement that morning, but despite the pleasure he now exuded when we
bonded, I could not take the risk. As I pushed the pillow beneath him, and
checked on the taughtness of the drawstring in his hood, I removed my own
mask and sat astride him contemplating the moment I had dreamt of for so
long.
As I pushed the tip of my cock into him, his muscles contracted around me
and he gasped. I sat motionless allowing him to adjust to the invasion. When
his muscles relaxed, I edged in further, and stopped again. Each pause gave
him time to accept, to allow me further and further inside. When my balls
rubbed against his skin, I withdrew in one slow lingering motion before
pushing in again, in an equally slow demonstration of control. As I rocked,
I held his stomach pulling him into me, and felt his hard cock touch against
my arm with the rhythm.
I had waited for the moment for so long, had dreamt of the feelings of
release for what seemed like an eternity, and I knew that my restraint would
be difficult. He encompassed me with warm tight flesh, and as I stroked at
his prostate with each movement, he groaned. He did not exhale a single word
that day, but the fervor of the noises that emanated from his throat needed
no coherence. There were no cherished whispers, or calls to stop, only the
deep murmuring of a man who has discovered himself.
As he came, his semen spurted onto the back of my hand, which still lay flat
against his stomach, holding his body against my own. The contraction of his
muscles around my cock brought me to instant climax and as I came, each
movement of my cock brought rasps form deep within him. My semen swirled
inside, and I could feel the warmth of it around my own cock with each
spasm. My breathing was more heavy than it had been previously but still I
made no noise, no gasps nor cries and this restraint was for me more
difficult than any he had endured during the days he had been there.
As I withdrew, I left him on the floor and exited the room. When I returned
fifteen minutes later, he lay in peace and made no effort to speak or
gesture, but allowed me to clean him up. I think it was from that point
onwards I truly believed I had succeeded, in the most basic sense. I had of
course planned to fuck him, but what I wanted and seemed to achieve was so
much more.
As he lay there, and allowed me to remove his mask, his eyes flicked upward
to see whether I was willing to expose myself. When his eyes met with my
hood he seemed to be disappointed; maybe he was expecting more from me. I
knew that the demons were gone and that at the very least he had a better
knowledge of his own body, but whether he would have the courage to take it
with him when he left was another matter.
That evening I left him a note. There were so many things that I wanted to
say to him, but each word that I gave him would become a clue to my identity
and I didn't want it that way. I wanted him to find out for himself. The
note simply read, `You will be released first thing tomorrow. We will meet
again'. He read it and smiled. I think it was the first time I saw him
smile.
The next morning, after he had eaten his breakfast, I took the clothes he
had arrived in into the room and placed them out of reach on the floor
beside me. He stood up as soon as he saw them and realised that each of the
promises I had made had been kept. He had not been harmed, and he was being
freed. I still believe that sticking to those words has shown him that I
can, on occasion, be trusted. Maybe he will come to learn that with the
passing of time.
I offered the chloroform and cloth to him, but his hands did not waver, he
simply gave a shake of the head. I suppose it was asking too much of him
really. I pushed down on his shoulders for him to sit on the floor and, as
he did, I covered his mouth and nose from behind, and waited for his body to
go limp. As it did, I laid him on the floor, and began to remove each of the
bindings from his body, the only exception being the ring that adorned his
nipple. That would remain. It would remind him when he awoke that it had not
been a dream, that what had happened was reality, and that he needed to form
some sort of conclusion from its presence.
I dressed him with the tenderness and affection I had shown him at the start
and made sure that each article of clothing was clean, was ironed and was
neatly fitted on his body. As I pulled him over my shoulder, and cautiously
made my way to the car in the adjacent garage, I felt reluctance in allowing
him to go. I had known that the time would come, but it did not stop me from
hesitating as I opened the car door.
I returned him to the car park, yards from where it had all begun, and lay
him in the back seat of his car, with his laptop on the passenger seat and
the keys to his car and his apartment on his chest. I did not wait for him
to awake, I knew that his first reaction would be to look around, and as I
drove away, a part of me was filled with sorrow, the rest with the
anticipation of when I would meet with Mulder again.
When I awoke this morning I could not have known what the day would hold.
For 18 months I had thought each and every day of the man for whom I had
such longing. I moved in the same circles as previously and took delight
when I heard from others that Mulder was out and about in the same joints.
It was pure luck that we did not bump into each other, but over the months I
came to learn from others that he was no longer so covert about his
sexuality. I don't think he ever admitted it to the Bureau or even told
Scully of his outside interests, he simply keeps himself to himself and for
eighteen months that seemed to involve sleeping around the homosexual
community as much as possible. I learnt with some surprise that three of my
own partners had slept with him, one making reference to Mulder's
disappointment when he had undressed. It was at that point I knew it was all
falling into place.
When I arrived in the warehouse this afternoon, I had believed that the
covert nature of my activity, the murder of the Doctor who had betrayed CSM,
was mine and mine alone. As I entered the building, and moved with stealth
towards the man who stood in the middle office, I passed a pillar that by
rights should have been mine to hide behind.
Although my weapon was drawn and by my side, the swift crack of knuckles to
my nose took me so much by surprise that the weapon drifted from my hand to
the floor, and as I fell backward, the world moved in slow motion. The heavy
metallic thud as my gun hit the concrete floor echoed around my head, and as
I pushed my hands out behind me to break the fall, the face that looked down
upon me, the person whose arm retracted back from me, came into focus.
Mulder. As my hand made contact with the concrete and I fell onto my side,
only one thought was prevalent.
"Krycek, you bastard. Hold it right there, or I swear I will shoot through
your fucking brains!"
At that point my mind was still a haze from the connection he had made with
his fist, and I struggled to make sense of how to deal with it. As I stood
up, our eyes locked, and for me the world spun in restricted time once more.
I moved towards him, edging closer to the gun that remained trained on my
chest. The safety was off, I had heard it click as I fell and realised that
my options were limited. As I began to turn my back to him, he started up
again.
"Krycek, stop there or I will shoot. I don't need a reason to."
"In the back?" I asked as I stood facing the entrance to the building. "You
will not shoot me in the back Mulder, they would hang you for it."
As the words registered, I drew my knife from inside my jacket and flicked
it open, edging step by step back towards him. As I came within his grasp I
offered it to him, my arm reaching up so that the knife was just visible and
as he leant forward with one hand to take it from me, my other elbow moved
swiftly back into his ribcage. The blow was not hard, nor did it pack the
venom that so many prior to it had, but his gun fell to the floor. It landed
in front of where I stood and I kicked it away with my foot.
I am not sure whether he considered taking the knife to be an error on his
part, or whether he was just fearful that I would escape his grasp, but he
called to Scully, and I heard footsteps coming at speed from behind us. They
were distant at first, I think that she must have been across the warehouse,
awaiting my entrance at the other door. I was just glad that I had come in
through the front.
As the footsteps quickened and drew near, I turned my head to the side and
caught a flash of light against the blade as Mulder held it out to his side.
As I turned towards him I caught hold of his wrist, and turned to meet his
face.
"You're losing it Mulder." As our eyes met once more I smiled and I knew
that my time had come.
He pulled at his wrist, and simultaneously connected his other fist with the
side of my face. I reeled back a little but my entire focus was upon his
other hand as he clung to the handle of the knife. As Scully neared, her
weapon was not aimed; Mulder and I became inextricably linked together, a
mass of limbs and she could not distinguish one body from the other as we
struggled.
With my back pressing into his chest, I was powered by nothing but my sexual
need as I brought the knife down past my side and drove it deep into my
stomach. His hand was still clenched firmly around the handle as the tip of
the blade made its incision through my white T- shirt and slid through the
skin below. His hand seemed to loosen as I drew the knife out and let go of
his wrist.
Those first few seconds seemed to swim, as I stumbled back towards him not
knowing where he or Scully stood. I looked down at myself and saw the blood
absorbing into the fine white cotton that clung to my body and put my hand
to it. The pain rasped through me, my legs buckling under the weight of my
body and as I fell back, my arms reached out to the floor. I tried to stand
up, but I could feel my heart racing and with each beat the warmth of blood
on my skin made me weaker. As I rested my head back to the floor I looked at
Mulder standing in front of me, holding the knife out, his eyes alternating
between the blade and my stomach.
Scully had not seen me control Mulder's hand as the knife went into my body,
and as he knelt down at the side of me, a dark celebratory look crossed her
face. I think she was smiling. He held his hand over my T-shirt and pressed
on the wound, looking up at my face as I struggled for breath. My chest rose
and fell in quick succession and as Mulder kept his hand tight into the
wound I could feel the blood against his palm with each and every beat of my
heart.
"Scully?" he turned to where she stood, to her blank expression, to the
torment I had brought to her life that was now etched in the emotions across
her face.
"Mulder, I say leave him here." Her tone was dull, even as she looked at my
face and I met her eyes, she gave me no absolution for my sins. The cold
blue eyes did not move once, and as her gaze remained constant, I closed my
eyes to her.
"Shit." Mulder was undecided but seemed to be coming down on her side. He
took his hand from my chest, and wiped the blood on his jacket. The lack of
pressure increased the flow of blood from the wound, and I looked into
Mulder's eyes, each beat of my heart calling to him.
As he leant back on his haunches, my breathing became more laboured, and I
tilted my head to the side closing my eyes once more. The wound itself was
not life threatening, but the loss of blood would be if the flow was not
stemmed and I could feel myself slipping gradually into darkness.
There was a silence that lasted for about twenty seconds. It was hard to
tell the exact length given my condition, but I know that Mulder removed his
jacket, and as I heard him doing so, I opened my eyes and looked up at him,
my mouth open, my breathing irregular. As he scrunched his jacket into a
ball, my breathing slowed a little, may be it was fate, may be it was luck,
I didn't know and I haven't had enough time to consider it in great depth
yet.
He lifted my blood sodden T-shirt and pushed it up my chest. He wiped his
jacket across my skin to clear the blood from the wound, from my torso, and
as he did I stared deep into his eyes. Of all the moments in my life, that
one might be the most recent but it is the slowest, most euphoric feeling I
believe I have ever encountered He looked first at the wound, and then at
the four inch scar to the side of it. His hand froze, his body paralysed as
he stared and the only glimpse of movement was in his mouth, as his lips
parted.
As his eyes covered every inch of my scar, I waited patiently for them to
meet with mine, and when they did, time stood still. My lips turned upwards
at the edges, and as he struggled to acknowledge the information presented
to him, I smiled. I looked deep into his eyes and smiled. I lifted my hand
to the bottom of his shirt and lifted it up, and looked from my horizontal
position at the metal ring through his nipple. I returned my gaze to his
eyes and smiled once more, before allowing my hand to fall to the floor.
It was a moment I had sought for many months and he too, but his search had
been misguided. What he wanted had been there all along, he just hadn't know
where to look for it, and as I lie beneath him now, drifting in and out of
consciousness, I hope that he has found the answers he was looking for. He
has said nothing yet, his mouth is still open, his jacket pressed deep into
my wound with urgency that was not present two minutes ago. Scully is on the
phone, calling for an ambulance and above me is the greatest challenge I
have ever had in my life.
His eyes keep alternating between my eyes and my wound, but as I lie here
and his free hand strokes at my face, I know that the pleasure was all his,
but that it will now be mine as well.
Anonymity
by Lush Virtues
I always knew that it would happen this way. Not here, not on this day—but
like this. I have lost count of the number of times that I caught a glimpse
in his eye, some recognition maybe. I'm never quite sure. His jaw tightens,
his lips purse evocatively as he chews the lower one and yet the connection
that binds us has remained elusive to him. I promised myself that I would
never tell of our secret, of our liaison, which took him forward in his
life. It was an investment of my time, for future reward at a date to be
established, one which has drawn ever closer with each meeting, with each
demonic glare, and with each and every connection he has made with my body
in his vain attempts to overpower me.
