From: Jori <damienma@bellsouth.

net>
Date: Thu, 12 Aug 1999 07:11:13 -0400
Subject: Going Once
Source: direct

Title: Going Once 1/1

Author: Jori
e-mail: Damienma@bellsouth.net
Rating: NC-17
Category: SHR
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: none
Summary: A savory proposition is presented to Scully.
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to 1013, CC and FOX

************************************

A Friday afternoon in July

A diner somewhere in DC

"Once."

"Once?" I ask.

I can't believe I'm considering his proposition. That is what it is. A

proposition. A proposal. A plan. A scheme. Hit shift-F7 on the
keyboard and those word all come up in the convenient MS-Word
thesaurus, which, by the way, comes in handy when trying to come up
with a new word to replace 'mutant' for the latest report. Deviation.
Anomaly. Aberration. I hope they add more in the next version because
I've already used any one of those too many times.

But back to the 'proposition' at hand. I have to look away from his
eyes to consider it. Watching him watch me makes it *too* easy to say
yes and run right out of this establishment of 'fine' dining and
straight to his apartment for an afternoon of 'once-ing.'

"So, what do you say?" Mulder asks, his voice low and growly. He did
that on purpose. I know he did. I have never heard him talk to Skinner
like that. He usually doesn't talk to me like that. Not unless he
*really* wants something. Usually that something isn't anything more
than a waxy cup of pre-sweetened tea and a Choco-Taco from the corner
mini-mart. Rarely has that something included . . . me.

"What constitutes 'once?' We need to establish . . ." I start to ask

before I'm interrupted by a chuckle and that low, growly voice again.

"Jeesh, Scully. Do we need to have a contract written up? Once is . .

. once," he says, as he goes back to lazily stirring his iced tea.

I can watch his constant stirring but not his eyes. I look at that
hand moving that spoon around and around oh so slowly around and
around. The ice cubes move around the spoon and the tea around the ice
cubes and there is even a little lemon going around and around just
because of his hand. The sugar he poured in is even stirred up into a
tiny tornado at the bottom of the glass. I wonder if that hand could
do that to me? Could it make me go around and around, stirring up
everything into a tiny tornado . . .
I shake myself out of whatever fantasy that might have been and look
up at him quickly. "Okay. Once."

I hear his spoon go *clink* loudly against the bottom of the tea
glass, dropping it after all the muscles in his hand simultaneously
stop working. Or maybe that was his jaw hitting the table. I don't
think that would go *clink* though.

He's going to back out of it. He always does. Every time I get close,
he scatters like a terrified little field mouse being chased by a
ravenous barnyard cat. It is okay as long as it is his game, but as
soon as I'm the cat, so to speak, he gets, and excuse me for this,
'spooked.'

I sit back into my plush vinyl booth, cross my arms in front of me and
wait for the great escape plan. How is he going to elude me this time?
His eyelids are already fluttering like the wings of butterflies fresh
from their cocoons as they try them out before taking flight. He is
trying to figure out how he is going to dodge this and take his own
'flight.'

He opens his mouth, which by the way is another remarkable reason to

'once' with him, and nothing comes out for a few seconds. He can't
even formulate an excuse to cut and run this time. Maybe when I agreed
to this, that is what I was counting on. He'd get us both out of it.

I pick up my cup of hot tea and blow on it, sending a swirl of

cinnamon scented steam his way. He's still watching me. His mouth is
still open. He's still thinking. I don't know whether to be offended
or not. I just offered myself up to him and he's trying to get out of
it.

"I'll pay the bill," he finally says, as he sweeps up the check and
signals for the waitress. "Your place is closer."

*Clink!*

And this time it isn't just a spoon hitting the bottom of a glass.
This time it is a whole damn cup of tea hitting the saucer.

****************************

Mulder doesn't know how to start a car. I mean, I know he knows how to
start a car, but right now, he doesn't know how to start a car.

Insert key in the ignition and turn until it is humming. If he can't

even do that, can I honestly expect him to figure out how to insert
other 'things' until I'm the one humming?

"Do you want me to drive?" I ask. Although I'm enjoying the floor
show, I'm curious as to how the main act is going to go. If he takes
much more time at this, we may never get that far. We do have that
meeting at 7 a.m. Monday morning.

"No," he says sharply and it finally turns over.

"Reverse," I tell him after we nearly smack in to the car in front of

us.
"I know," he says, as he shifts it into gear and looks over his right
shoulder. After we are out of this tight space, he looks forward
again. It is amazing how he did that without once meeting my eyes.

He is nervous. I somehow managed to pull myself back together after

scalding myself with my tea. It was very calming as I watched it
spread across the table and over the edge on both sides, bringing me
back down to earth. Luckily, he jumped away before it could hit his
lap. That would have given him a convenient excuse to back out of
this.

I play with the buttons on the radio for a couple of minutes but I
can't find anything befitting this occasion. I leave it on one of
those 'soft and easy favorites from the 70s, 80s and today' stations
because I know it bugs the crap out of him. Especially considering Air
Supply is playing. He doesn't seem to notice.

"Are you warm?" he asks as he fiddles with the a/c lever. It is

already on max and I can see little ice crystals shooting out at us
from the vents. He already has a glistening layer of sweat on his brow
that has nothing to do with what temperature it is in here right now.

"No, Mulder. Are you?" I ask, and he stops messing with the controls.
Instead his hand moves up to the knot on his tie and he plays around
with it. God, I hope he doesn't take it off. That is something I've
always wanted to do to him. I'm quite good at it, actually. And tying
them again. Maybe before we go back to work later . . .

"Mulder . . . that was my street," I say, as he drives right past it.

"Shit! Why didn't you say something sooner?" he asks, and our old
married couple routine begins.

"You've only known where my apartment is for how many years now?
You've managed to find it in various stages of being drunk, drugged or
wounded, and now you miss the street? I didn't know you still needed a
map sketched out for you," I say, as he makes an illegal U-turn and
heads back towards my place. He finds a parking spot near the front.

"This is different. This is . . ." he says, finally looking at me. His

eyes lock on to mine and there is so much there that has never been
put to words. My heart nearly skips a beat before it starts racing
away. This isn't just a game of 'once.' Did I ever really expect it
would be? Oh no. This is a lot more than that.

******************************

My apartment feels as warm to me as the car must have felt to him.

Actually, all of a sudden, it is stifling in here. I adjust the
thermostat and Mulder just stands in my living room, not knowing what
to do with himself.

"Make yourself comfortable," I call out to him as I hit the button on

my answering machine. One call from my mother. It is always nice to
hear your mother's voice right before you are going to . . . what is
the word I'm looking for here? Damn, where is that thesaurus when I
need it? Copulate? Fornicate? Those just don't seem appropriate for
this situation. I look over at Mulder as he continues to stand in that
same spot, as if his feet are glued to the floor.
Make love? Nah. Couldn't be. That sounds like something straight out
of a Lifetime Channel movie of the week. How about get intimate with?
Or have an affaire d'amour? That almost makes me want to laugh more
than the making love bit. There just is no word befitting this
occasion. It is beyond words. Oh, great. Now I sound like I'm writing
the script for the next Lifetime movie.

Eyebrows raised, his eyes meet mine as we both listen to my mother's

voice fill the room. Before she can completely break whatever mood we
might have going here, I hit the stop button. He nods his head in
agreement over my action.

"Do you mind if I change my clothes? This is still damp from the tea
and I want to soak my blouse before. . ." I say, and Mulder smiles at
me. How many people change their clothes and soak a stain before they
'once'? I'm sure he is thinking just Dana Scully.

I stand there in front of him with my fingers on the top button of my

blouse. What am I going to do? Go put on a t-shirt and shorts just to
take them off again? And how exactly are we ever going to get that far
if he doesn't move?

Leaving my shirt just as it is, I put my hand out to him. Mulder looks
at my eyes and then to my hand and back to my eyes again. I nod my
head yes and he seems to walk in slow motion to where I am standing.
Those hands that couldn't even start a car just a half an hour earlier
are extremely dexterous when it comes to buttons. I look down at his
fingers as they undo each one starting from the bottom and going up.
Once they are all undone, he doesn't push my shirt off or go groping
underneath. He doesn't even open it in the slightest. No, nothing like
that at all.

"Why don't you go soak your shirt? We've waited this long. What's
another ten minutes?" he says, as he tilts my head back up so he can
look at my face.

Mulder means it, I'm sure, but something in me doesn't want to wander
away from this. I'm afraid by the time I get back, we will have come
to our senses. He will find a reason to bolt from here and search for
some mysterious 'oddity.' I don't want that to happen.

"Who says I can wait?" I ask, as I slip my shirt off my shoulders. It

lands in a tea-stained puddle behind me and Mulder looks like he is
going to end up in a puddle in front of me.

He hesitates for just a moment, undecided as to where to put his hand.

It is just long enough for my heart to really get going again. And
that is the spot he finally decides upon. He puts his hand above my
breast right over my heart.

"Scared?" he asks. Just because my heart is thumping away like the

heart of a frightened rabbit does not mean I'm scared. On the
contrary, I'm terrified. I'm just not going to admit that to him.

"Scared? No. Should I be?" I ask. His hand is still there on my chest.
And he knows I'm lying.

"I don't know," he says. "Why would you be?"

"I'm not. I think I can keep any fears in check -- for just once," I
say.

With that my hands move to his right side and I remove his holster and
gun and set it on the table next to my answering machine. Well, that
is a start. It is damn near impossible to have sex with someone while
they are packing heat. It may work in cowboy movies, but in real life,
it just isn't practical. Especially if you are trying to get in a
quickie while standing . . .

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as I reach around my back and
deposit my weapon next to his. Cute. His and hers.

"Oh, I wasn't thinking anything really. Just wondering about this

'once' thing again," I say, and my hand slowly undoes his belt buckle.
Then the fastener. Then the zipper. I drag my hand slowly, heavily,
deliberately down the front of his pants as I pull his zipper open,
feeling everything that is inside waiting for me. It is like shaking
the box before opening the gift. And I'm already impressed with what
is inside. It's as if he is wrapped in that blue paper from Tiffany's
and I just know it is going to be good.

"What about this 'once' thing?" he asks. It is an effort for him to

ask and his breath is labored. Already.

"Should there be certain conditions?" I ask, as I let his pants drop

over his narrow hips. He kicks off his shoes and steps out of his
pants. I avoid looking down. Even his runner's legs look, as do all
male legs, goofy in dark socks and nothing else except boxers. And his
dress shirt. And tie. When I finally do look down there is something
to distract me. Oh my.

"Conditions?" he asks, his voice getting high pitched by the time he

got to the question mark. I think that has something to do with my
hand now feeling the 'present' through just the tissue paper. I'm not
ready to unwrap it all the way yet.

"Yes. Conditions. I think for 'once' to count, we *both* have to be .

. . satisfied . . . at least one time," I say, my hand pressing even
more firmly against him. He presses back against me, seeking more.

"Fine . . . I can live with those conditions," he says, as he sharply

sucks in a breath of air when my hand leaves him. I want that tie off.
I want that shirt off. What in the hell is happening here? He's the
one who expedited this whole 'once' thing, and now I'm the one tearing
off the wrapping paper and not even taking the time to save the bow.

I get his tie off with one quick motion of my hand. I discard it
quickly and move on to the buttons on his shirt, feeling the expensive
cotton moving under my fingers. Something prevents me from just
ripping it open, sending the little buttons soaring through the air
like confetti on New Year's Eve. Perhaps it is the fact that this
shirt probably costs more than my tea-stained one. Or else I just
don't feel like sewing all those little white buttons back on before
we return to work.

The last one is undone and I slide his shirt over his shoulders and --
damn -- I forgot the cuffs. He's now stuck with this shirt behind him,
bound by the cuffs. It gives me ideas . . . but not ones that should
be approached during this particular 'once.'

"Sorry," I say, as he slides his shirt back on and unbuttons the

cuffs.

"No problem," he says, and now the shirt is off, and then the socks,
thank God.

I hook my thumbs into his boxers and tug them down carefully, freeing
him. He is watching me as I look down at him. Yeah, I've seen it
before. Just not like this. I have to look at the package. I can't
help myself.

Oh my my my.

This is even better than when I got my '2001 Physics Experiments Done
in the Kitchen' lab kit for Christmas one year.

He tilts my face up again and he has that cocky look on his face. I am
certainly glad I can conceal exactly just how aroused I am. Except for
the fact that I'm flushed in pre-sex crimson and my eyes are probably
dilated to the size of that saucer I broke at the diner, no one should
be able to tell that I'm burning from the warmth between my thighs.
Nope. No one.

"You like what you see?" he asks in the most presumptuous tone I've
ever heard. And as much as I want to say something biting, I instead
find myself nodding yes. And then everything starts to move in a
slapdash manner. I am somehow in his arms and he is carrying me. He
takes me to my kitchen / the kitchen?/ and he lifts me up onto the
counter. I look down and discover why. We will fit perfectly here.

My skirt is pushed up to my waist and I am now thankful for thigh

highs. Can't live without them during the summer. I am also thankful
for the fact that I ran out of my dull, grey cotton underwear this
morning and had to resort to an emerald green silk pair with ruffly
sides. I push myself up using his shoulders and he does away with the
panties without even noticing them. Then he unrolls each stocking from
my legs. And then my bra is discarded the way of the panties, landing
somewhere between my Cuisinart and my Mr. Coffee.

He hones in on my breasts, taking one nipple in between his lips and

fluttering his tongue across it, sending a jolt of happiness and joy
down my spine and into my nether regions. I moan and I can feel him
smile against my breast right before he moves to the other one. He
suckles at that one even longer, causing me to throw my head back and
smack it on the cabinet.

"Ouch!" I say, not intending to break the mood, but it did hurt.

"Swroory," he says, never moving his mouth away from my breast.

Then those hands, oh yes, those tea-stirring hands, part my thighs and
start stirring me. He is going to stir up those sugar tornadoes at the
bottom of my very being, and a tempestuous mix of sweet heat and quick
lightning is moving up my spine.

"You like that?" he asks, and again I find myself nodding like an
idiot, not able to speak a word. "Then you might like this."

He sinks to his knees, and my legs are over his shoulders. His breath
is hot against my inner thigh, and I find myself squirming toward the
edge of the counter, trying to get closer. Trying to get him where he
is most desperately needed.

Then contact is made. I can feel his tongue lapping against me and I
realize I am no longer the barnyard cat. He is. And I am a bowl of
sweet cream.

Oh my God and all the angels in heaven. I forgot how good this is. I
have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from flowing over the
edge and into a puddle of bubbly goo on the floor. Now that would be
an X-file. Special Agent Fox Mulder performs cunnilingus on partner
until she turns to goo. Highlight film at 11.

He sucks and tugs in all the right ways, and I know I could come right
now. Right here. And it would be a caterwauling orgasm that all my
neighbors would hear. All because of that mouth I've been watching for
years. That mostly arrogant and sometimes condescending mouth is all
over me and it is control of my every nerve ending and I can feel it
all the way to the ends of my hair.

I look down at *this* and all of a sudden realize we never even

kissed. His mouth is moving over my most personal parts and I have yet
to ever kiss that mouth. I want to. I need to.

I pull him up and wrap him in my thighs. Our mouths meet and he tastes
of my warm wetness and something else far more intoxicating. I can
taste him under me and I like it. His tongue focuses on my mouth with
the same intensity as I just experienced below and I don't remember
ever being kissed this damn good.

We part, and he pulls my hips forward, even closer to the edge of the
counter. With one /okay, maybe two/ quick strokes he is inside of me
and I am wrapped around him and this is what I've been missing all
those years. It was so damn close and I was missing it.

Our pace is hurried, frantically searching for a release to this storm

brewing inside. He is slamming into me and he looks down once to
glance at where we are now joined, as if he is the one who now needs
proof. Then his eyes are back to focusing on mine as we bang and bang
and bang against each other. I'm the one who wants him to move faster,
to pound into me harder because oh it feels so good. I slide around
until his body is hitting my clit with every stroke he makes and I
know this time I'm definitely turning to goo.

"Mulder?" I say, or at least I think that is what I say.

"Wha--" he answers.

"We have to reconsider this once thing," I say, gasping as my body

begins to pulsate around his. Oh yeah. This is what I've been missing.
Not the orgasm. That can be achieved in any old hotel room across the
country. No . . . the orgasm while wrapped around someone who is
banging into you like there is no tomorrow. It is so intense that I do
slip forwards off the counter and he has to catch me, my back still
arched in extreme pleasure. I'm quivering like a nervous toy poodle.
"You like that?" he asks smugly again.

"Yeah. Now what would you like?" I ask, as I push harder against him,
pulling him in deeper and deeper. His breath escapes in tight little
panting noises and I know he is close. "I think I know what you would
like."

I push him away from me and jump /or slip and slide, considering . .
. oh, never mind/ off the counter. I turn away from him, and take a
quick look over my shoulder. He is grinning like a kid getting a shiny
new bike for their tenth birthday. I firmly place my hands against the
counter and he enters me again, moving faster now then he was before.
I push back against him, matching him thrust for thrust and he is so
very deep inside of me that I swear all my organs are being shoved
further up just to make room for him.

His hands are wrapped around my hips, moving me in the way he likes,
swiveling me with every thrust. Our accelerated pace is almost enough
to make me come again, but not quite. I know I could if I would just
reach down between my thighs, but this one is about him.

Suddenly and with the fury of a hurricane storm surge, he slams

against me one last time before coming inside of me. It fills me with
a long forgotten warmth that I must admit I've missed. I now have a
part of him in me.

He utters something, but I'm not sure I can translate it precisely. I

think it was 'oh my God, that was fucking great,' but I could be
wrong. He might not have mentioned God. He falls over me, and our
sweaty, sticky bodies adhere to one another.

"Scully?" he whispers in my ear, breathing rapidly.

"Yes, Mulder?" I ask, as equally out of breath.

"Twice?"

*********************************

Early Sunday morning

Scully's apartment

Once turned into twice and twice into the weekend. It was somewhere
around Sunday at 3:24 a.m. that the rules for 'once' were firmly
established. It began on Friday and will end . . . at a date and time
yet to be determined.

"Do you think anybody will notice that we didn't show up back at work
Friday after lunch?" Mulder asks. We are completely naked and slow
dancing in my living room. To Elvis. Why in the hell do I own an Elvis
CD? Does everybody own an Elvis CD?

I've also never been more happy that I invested in better draperies
last month.

"I'm sure they will notice I didn't come back. But with you,
disappearing is a relatively normal occurrence that can almost be
plotted according to the moon and stars," I say, and for that I get
swatted lightly on my ass. And for good measure, he gets a return
swat. Just gives me an excuse to touch him there. And not move my
hand.

"'Wisemen say only fools rush in . . .'" he sings to me in his best

'Elvis On Percodan' tenor.

"Keep that up and I will be rushing out," I tell him, pressing my

fingers to his lips, but that is hardly enough to stop him.

"Keep what up?" he asks as he pulls me in closer. Pressed between us,

his latest erection brushes against my stomach and I smile. "'Shall I
stay? Would it be a sin . . .'"

"That can stay. The Elvis impersonation has to go," I tell him, and I
press in even tighter to his body.

"'Take my hand. Take my whole life, too. For I can't help . . .'" he
continues, but I silence him with a kiss. He breaks away from me and I
fear that I'm going to be serenaded again. Instead he only whispers a
few words in my ear. "Going once? Going twice?"

"I think we are going for the sixth time," I whisper back as we both
begin dancing toward the bedroom. "Or is it the seventh?"

I already knew once wasn't going to be enough.

********************************

The End

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"Going Once" by Jori

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Do not archive stories elsewhere without permission from the author(s).
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