romanac@hotmail.com Romana Clef

Being inspired by the elegance and force of writers such
as Anais Nin, Pauline Reage, and yes, even Anne Rice,
I've always wanted to try my hand at erotica, so here is
my attempt.

No whips and chains, but no hearts and flowers, either.

Timeline-wise, this story should take place before Never
Again.  One of the reasons I liked Never Again, despite
its considerable problems, is that I've often felt that
Scully was harboring the emotions expressed in that
episode.  Some of those feelings appear in this story.

Hope you all enjoy it!  (tell me if you do!  Or you can
even tell me if you don't, if you'll tell me why. 
Always striving to improve.)

I'm posting this part tonight (thinking that maybe some
folks would enjoy some smut on their Saturday night ;) )
and part two should follow tomorrow.  It'll be a little
edgier and more graphic.

Oh yeah, and this story has nothing to do whatsoever
with that Diet Coke guy or his commercials.  But I had
to title it something, and it was either "Diet Coke" or
"Untitled #3" or some such.

Romana

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

PLEASE ARCHIVE

Classification: V, MSR 

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Smut, and maybe character development.  Scully
has perverse fantasies.

Disclaimers:  Mulder and Scully are property of CC,
1013, and FOX.  They are borrowed without permission,
but without any intention to profit from them.
***************************


She sat slumped on the couch, half-naked, with her feet
up on the coffee table in a most unladylike pose.  She
rested the can of Diet Coke on her belly; the cold
condensation seeping through her silk blouse soothed her
skin.  The can was so cold that her fingertips were
already numb.

Her jacket and briefcase, her skirt and shoes and hose,
all lay strewn in a line heading toward the fridge.  She
had stripped them off as soon as she entered the
apartment, grabbed the soda from the fridge, and
collapsed on the couch in a funk.  The heavy silk of her
ivory blouse clung damply to her body, but the blouse
was soft enough that the sensation was not unpleasant. 
What she wouldn't give to live in a climate where she
could wear a blouse more than once before having to send
it to the cleaners...

Not that dry-cleaning bills were her greatest problem in
life.  No, there were others...  She idly rotated the
shining can, reading the label, but finding out (once
again) how many milligrams of caffeine were in it
provided only the barest distraction against the wave of
unhappiness building up in her.  The wave crested, and
crashed.

She was angry.  She was tired.  She was trapped.

Trapped in a bizarre, frightening, and unpleasant life,
and the worst of it was she couldn't cry, "I never asked
for this!" because she had.  She had wished for
adventure and the chance to be a hero and she had gotten
it.  The fact that she hadn't looked far enough ahead to
predict certain logical consequences of her wish was her
own damn fault.

No, come to think of it, that wasn't the worst part. 
The worst part was how something could be so weird and
frightening and yet _boring_ at the same time.  A
nightmarish routine was still a routine.  Her life was
so narrow.  Her world was so narrow.  She could be in a
different state of the union every damn day and it would
still be all the same.  The motels, the rental cars, the
coffee, the horror the arguments the frustration... Her
apartment.  The office.  She brought the sameness with
her.  She created it everywhere she looked.

She squirmed at the tension building up in her
shoulders.  The motion brought her attention back to the
tight clamminess of her sweat-damp bra, and she reached
around back to unhook it.  She didn't bother wriggling
out of it all the way, just lifted it up a bit so that
her breasts were covered instead by the warm silk of her
blouse.  She pulled the blouse up a bit, letting the
draft from the air conditioner play across her stomach. 
She tried setting the soda can down on her bare skin,
but the jolt of cold drew a little gasp from her.  Too
cold.  She smoothed her blouse back down.

So, what was there for her to do about it?  She didn't
know how to look at things differently, or how to make
herself feel differently.  It's not as if she could
un-know what she knew...  She longed to be transformed
by something outside herself.  It was an ache that was
so hard to put into words... she needed to place herself
in the grip of something that would demand everything of
her.  She wanted to be utterly consumed, subject to
sensations so intense that she could forget herself. 
And then find herself again... In other words, she
thought wryly, she wanted to come.  And hard.

Completely anonymous.  That's one way it could be. 
Images welled up and she settled herself deeper into the
couch cushions... One night she could knock on the door
to his motel room, and stare up into his face, and he
would know.  He would know that a single word would
spoil everything and that her name would be the worst
word of all.  He would step aside and with a little
half-gesture motion her into the room.  She would be
looking down, so she wouldn't see his face as he
approached her.  As he laid his hands on her shoulders
and ran them lightly over the silk of this very same
blouse.  A measured interval, of only the most delicate
pleasure, giving either one of them plenty of time to
chicken out...

But neither would, of course, and he would pull her to
him roughly and invade her mouth with his tongue and she
would kiss him back fiercely, trying not to make even
the tiniest moan.  When they broke off the kiss, she
would stay pressed close against him, rubbing her face
against the rough cotton of his dress shirt and drowning
in his scent.  But he would gently disengage her arms,
and then sink to his knees before her.  His touch would
be light as he nuzzled against her chest and belly.  He
would kiss the silk before him, he would actually bite
it.  He would mouth and nibble the edge of the placket,
as if the fabric were a part of her.

And this would inflame her.  She would tilt his head
back up and run her thumb across his wet lower lip.  She
would dip her thumb into his mouth and he would take it
in deeper, caressing it everywhere with his tongue. 
Then with a last kiss to her hand, he would fumble with
the covered buttons of the blouse and lay it open,
without removing it entirely.  Pausing for only a brief
kiss on her bare skin, he would continue to her skirt,
unzipping it and letting it fall, uncovering...
thigh-high stockings.  Why not?  Maybe she packed them
specifically for this seduction... And the white undies
with the V of lace at the front, showing off the moist
curls of her hair to him.  

At the sight of all this, a helpless sound would escape
his throat.  He would bury his face at the juncture of
her thighs, and the rough pressure of his mouth and nose
on the most sensitive spot, the warmth of his breath
there, would wring a moan out of her that she couldn't
stifle.




Oh, this was going well.  She shifted on the couch,
bringing her legs together for a moment and writhing to
increase the pressure.  She moved the still-cold can of
soda lower; the cold penetrated in a most pleasant way,
and she couldn't help but rotate her hips a little,
hitting the hard edge of the can *just right*...

So where was she...  Was there any way... could he pick
her up in a bar?  No, that would require coordination. 
Words.  But maybe... maybe they could head over to a bar
for a friendly drink at the end of a hard case, and just
as they walked in he would tell her, "Go sit at the
other end of the bar and pretend you don't know me." 
Just a harmless bit of fun.  And they would sit on
opposite ends of the bar, where it curved back to the
wall, so that they could see each other.  And she would
order... what?  Not a martini -- nothing in a fragile,
girly-looking glass.  Maybe a good scotch.  

They would get their drinks, and stare at each other,
and though the lights would be dim as they are in bars,
there would be light glinting off his watch.  Light
detailing the hair on his arm, showing from beneath his
rolled back cuff.  Light on his strong hands.  Her eyes
would never leave his as she raised the glass to her
lips and let the heat of the liquor course through her. 
She would let the liquid rest in her mouth, breathing in
the complex, smoky taste.  And naturally, she would have
to wonder, was his taste similar at all?  If she went
down on him, if she took it in her mouth, what would he
taste like?




Oh yes, this was a good one.  This was one to save for
the future.  Staring at him from across a bar, dreaming
of fucking him as she drank, and knowing from the
burning quality of his gaze that he _had_ to be thinking
the same thing.  And it would segue so nicely into her
appearing at his door later that night.  She slid her
other hand inside her drenched panties.  She relaxed
further, her mouth falling open, as she slipped one
finger, then two, into the wetness.  The heel of her
hand provided all the pressure she needed.  Her other
hand still clutched the can of coke, forgotten and
unnecessary now.

Of course, sweetly anonymous wasn't the only way it
could play out.  She could finish this scenario some
other time.  Maybe it would end with her pinned against
the cold tile of the shower the next morning, as he
thrust into her, and she came so hard that it almost
hurt.  Mmmm, that would be a nice ending.  But there
were other ways to play it....





She could get angry with him.  She _should_ get angry
with him.  Her black mood, her increasingly desolate
life, were his fault as much as hers.  It didn't dim the
attraction, of course.  His mouth, his eyes, the set of
his shoulders, it all screamed out "tortured romantic
hero".  Every man and woman who crossed his path felt
the pull, felt that he or she was the only one who could
allay his despair, murmuring words of love to this
beautiful, sad creature.   His every gesture promised
violent, exclusive passion, a consummation that would be
akin to dying in each others' arms.  Who would guess
that his haunting charm was accompanied by smug
self-centeredness?

Why was she dreaming of the taut, silken skin of his
throat and his chest, of his murmurs of passion, of his
cock filling her mouth and almost bruising her lips,
when the man himself was such an insufferable prick
sometimes?

So... they would be in their office, and he would be
looking right past her even as he spoke, in the grip of
one of his obsessive visions, and she would cut him
down.  She would say something calculated to wound,
something true.  And he would be stricken.

Oh yes, stricken.  Beautifully stricken, that tortured
look that suited him so well.  And he wouldn't be able
to ignore her any longer as she told him exactly what he
had done to her life.  And her final point: she would
move closer to him, invade his personal space, her voice
almost purring as she said, "You know this worst part,
Mulder?  You get off on the guilt."

It was true.  More than he wanted salvation, he wanted
punishment.  Part of him would be shivering in mute
worship with every unkind word she offered, so glad to
be finally getting what he deserved.  And when she let
him know that she was in on his secret, the look on his
face would be raw, inexpressible emotion.

With the language of his eyes and the language of his
body he would give himself over to her completely.  Her,
the only person who truly knew him.  The one person he
could never ignore again, because she knew what he
needed.

Maybe she would give it to him.  Maybe she would lock
the door and tell him to kneel and to take his shirt
off.  And he would look... transfixed, as he stripped
off his tie, his dress shirt, and his thin undershirt.

The contrast of seeing his naked skin in that setting
would be outrageous, obscene.  She would have to run her
fingers lightly over the muscles of his shoulders and
across his crisp chest hair before she could believe
that it was real.  She would touch his mouth, part his
lips and his teeth, slide across the warm, velvety
flesh, and he would welcome the invasion, sucking on her
fingers almost greedily.  So what that the other fantasy
started this way?  She happened to like this
sensation... And what made this scenario a little
different was that he was worshipping her and she was
ravaging him...




Back on the couch, she cast about for the next scene,
the next configuration... The thought of telling him off
provided its own distinct pleasure, but not the kind of
pleasure that she needed right now.  Not the kind that
she was getting desperate for.  Sensation was building,
and she pressed harder, trying not to lose her momentum.

The vision appeared, and she could almost feel it, as if
it were really happening.  Someone grasping her arms
firmly behind her back, someone who could pin her up
against him using only a fraction of his strength...

Oh god, start over.  Let that one build.  It had to be
in her apartment.  That's where she wanted him to take
her.

This was the one she was too embarrased to start with,
she had to be drunk with fantasy before she would let
herself feel this.

Her apartment.  She would be sitting on one of her
kitchen chairs, with her hands curled helplessly in her
lap.  Not helpless in a frightened way.  Nothing he
could do to her would frighten her.  She would take
anything.

All day the erotic tension would have been building up
between them, and she would have continually provoked
him, trying to make him angry enough so that he would
forgo his better judgment and touch her.  One touch
would unleash it all, and he wouldn't stop until he had
devoured her.

And now she had said something, the last straw, and
gazed up at him, defiantly helpless.  And he broke.  He
closed the distance between them with one long stride,
grabbed her wrists and jerked her upwards.  He turned
her around and prisioned her arms behind her, drawing
her close to him.  His rough motions drew a moan from
her.  She struggled a little, the better to feel his
force, the better to gain proof of the passion that he
had promised for so long.

He did not disappoint.  Despite her efforts she was held
firmly against the living hardness of his body.  Some
days, his size and strenth infuriated her.  Sometimes,
when she was angry with him, the knowledge that he could
physically command her at any time made her sick to her
stomach with rage.

Not now.  Oh no.  Now it was exactly what she wanted. 
She pressed closer to him, seeking out the bulge of his
erection and grinding her hips shamelessly against him. 
It worked.  He convulsed with the pleasure of it.  He
released her arms and wrapped his arms around her from
behind, one down across her hips and the other up across
her breasts.  He caressed her roughly through her skirt,
bending down to kiss her ear and her neck, using his
teeth, almost gnawing on the sensitive flesh.  She was
no longer in control of her voice, and she moans she
made as his other hand cupped and then crushed her
breast were indecent.

Oh god.  There wasn't any time... there wasn't time to
watch him strip her clothing from her and tease her
nipples with his teeth, or to appreciate the wool of his
slacks against her bare ass, or watch his cock emerge
for the first time as he undressed.  She had to skip to
the good part... *now*.

The part where they were kneeling naked on her bed, and
he was behind her again, supporting her breasts, toying
with her nipples, sometimes pinching them sharply.  Her
arms were stretched up around his neck and his cock was
sliding awkwardly between her legs.  The geometry was
all wrong for him to enter, so all it could do was tease
her slick lips, driving her wild. And even though she
could tell from his desperate panting and his burning
skin that he was just as wild to take her as she was to
be taken, he was making her beg.

"Say it, Scully. You have to ask for it."  His voice
warm, his lips tickling her ear.

"Please fuck me," she murmured against him. "Please
fuck..."




The vision dissolved as she shuddered.  Her hips rolled
as the climax surged through her and the can of soda
tipped over.  "Fuck," she cursed in a mild tone, and set
it on the coffee table.  Ignoring the Diet Coke soaking
in to her area rug, she leaned back and let the tremors
subside, leaving a pleasant warmth behind them.

Well, this wasn't going to solve all her problems, but
it had certainly succeeded in cheering her up for the
moment.  She kicked off her useless underwear and curled
up on the couch for a nap.





end part 2/2