Title:  All the Lies That Are My Life 
Author:  OneMillionAndNine 
(kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com)
http://www.geocities.com/onemillionandnine/
Category:  Angst, MSR, very little plot 
Warning: Totally irresponsible S&M, unsafe 
sex
Rating: NC-17.  Very NC-17
Archive: sure 
Feedback: kokotheuberchimp@hotmail.com 
Just don't complain if I bruise any delicate 
sensibilities.  You were warned, repeatedly
Note: Apologies to  H. E. and R.W.D.
Disclaimer:  I 'm not Chris Carter and even if 
I was, I probably wouldn't make them do this.  
Probably.
Additional Warning:   Like they say in the 
carny business, THIS IS A DARK RIDE.  Like most 
of my stuff, it begins happily enough but makes 
some steep climbs and sharp turns before 
setting you back down in the parking lot.  If 
you just ate or have a delicate constitution, 
try the Tea Cups.  These are the characters I 
see when I watch the show - flawed, gorgeous 
humans.  Like the blind man with the elephant, 
I can only describe the part closest to me.  

Summary: Our heroes work a few things out 
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

All The Lies That Are My Life: that's the name 
of the story.  Just one story in a book of 
twelve.  It's about two science fiction 
writers, life-long friends, and how one visits 
a very personal betrayal on the other because 
his friend, his best friend, knows the one 
thing about him that invalidates everything; 
his life, his work, everything.  The punch-line 
is that the unfortunate victim has no idea what 
the terrible secret is.  He has no idea what 
his friend wants to make sure he never reveals.  

Mulder lent the book to me.

It hit me hard.  

I'd been lying to my best friend for years.  
Since the beginning, actually. And I hadn't 
even used words to lie to him.  It was a 
gestalt lie.  An all encompassing lie.  A lie 
that made us both miserable and quite possibly 
saved our lives a few times.  

At one time, I thought I made the lie true, 
became what I once merely pretended to be.  As 
usual, I was just kidding myself.  

When I was younger, I thought I could exercise 
all the male prerogatives.  I thought I could 
be the strong silent type, the hero, and the 
sexual dynamo.  I was wrong on several counts.  
First off, what I didn't realize earlier was 
that, if you sleep with one male, co-worker you 
might as well be sleeping with them all.  
Really.  Because the way they see it, you are, 
at least potentially.  Since when aren't they 
as good as he is?  At least in their own minds.  
And while sex with you makes the agent in 
question a Stud, sex with him makes you a Slut.  
It's a double standard that no amount of 
competence can combat.  I know this from 
personal experience.  

Secondly, the relationships I kept getting into 
weren't even vaguely equal.  I was swooning at 
the feet one alpha-male father-figure after 
another.  It was decidedly contrary to all my 
feminist ideals, but I found 
myself doing it, nonetheless.  

I came to these conclusions a few weeks before 
I split up with Jack.  In response, I decided 
to remake myself in the image of my mentor at 
the academy, the Iron Maiden herself, Nancy 
Henderson, even down to her plaid jackets.  Her 
ugly plaid jackets.  

Contrary to popular myth, the Doc Ice name came 
from Jack's reference to my emotional coldness.  
It had nothing to do with lack of sexual 
response.  I have many personal failings, but 
frigidity isn't one of them.  

Mulder was so far out of the loop he didn't 
know. Or if he did, he'd been the subject of so 
many rumors himself that he automatically 
discounted what he had heard without even 
considering that it might be partially true.  

Then I was assigned to the X-Files, and 
my previous 'reputation' was supplanted by the 
myth of The Impenetrable Mrs. Spooky.  But I've 
been penetrated in pretty much every way there 
is, some being decidedly less pleasant than 
others, and that's why it's a myth.  Trust 
Mulder to believe it anyway.  

He knew the facts, he just chose to put two and 
two together and come up with seven.  It didn't 
surprise me.  He loved the lie that was my 
life.  It made me both his and unreachable at 
the same time.  For someone who searches so 
hard for the truth, the man loves a good lie.  

The night I read that story I recognized that 
while in our own geological way we were moving 
toward sex, it was much too slow for me.  I 
didn't like it, but at that point, one short 
story was not enough to push me into bed with 
him.  It would take more.  

More came the next day at lunch.  He invited me 
to lunch on Saturday to quiz me about the book.  
Yes, he's an asshole.  But that wasn't what did 
it either.  

He'd stepped up to the counter for some reason 
and when he came back and leaned over me I 
noticed something terrible.  Horrific.  Awful.  
I went cold.  

Somehow, when I wasn't looking, Fox Mulder, man 
with the metabolism of a hummingbird, had grown 
the beginning of a small gut.  On anyone else 
it wouldn't have even been noticeable.  But his 
much-vaunted washboard stomach was no more.

I wanted to hold a memorial service.  

I wasn't the only one sliding inexorably down 
hill.  I suddenly knew I had to sleep with him 
before we both got any older.  

And I told him.  Not about the belly thing - I 
doubt he could have taken it.  I think he 
forgot all about the book.  

"This is bullshit."  I set my coffee down hard 
and sloshed a little on the table.  

"Huh?"  Wide-eyed and clueless, of course.  

I looked up at him seriously ,no anxiety, like 
I was going to ask him if he'd finished the 
expense reports.  "Why aren't we sleeping 
together, Mulder?" 

He sputtered, then he choked, then he gagged.  
"What have you done with my Dana Scully?" he 
managed, high pitched and nervous.  

'His' Dana Scully?  "I mean, what difference 
would it make, other than to possibly spare the 
both of us some repetitive stress injury? I 
don't think we could be more involved than we 
are now.  I mean, if I were to fellate you 
under the table right now, would it 
mean that on Monday you'd be anymore over 
protective than you are already?"

My partner made a strangling noise.  

"If I were to take you back to your apartment 
and have sex with you 'til your ears rang, 
could you possibly be more possessive and 
territorial than you already are?  I don't 
think so.  In fact I might argue that you would 
be less possessive since you would be more 
secure, though I'm not sure.  Would we be 
giving the conspirators more ammunition to use 
against us? Probably not, since they seem  
well aware of how much we mean to each other 
and haven't hesitated to use it against us in 
the past.  What can they do that they haven't  
already done?  Would it damage our reputation 
at the Bureau?  That's a question I haven't 
answered yet, though I doubt there's much lower 
it could sink, really.  There's always the 
question of Skinner splitting us up. . . "

At this point Mulder spoke through the hand 
covering his face.  "Skinner already thinks 
we're..."

I gave him the eyebrow.  "Really?  I wonder who  
gave him that idea?"

"Wasn't me, Scully, I swear.  I just...failed 
to set him straight."

"Since when?" 

"Kroner, Kansas.  The single room.  He gave 
me a speech about discretion, said he 
personally didn't care."

"Anything else?"

"He...he...said it was about time."

I couldn't help myself.  I laughed.  Then the 
waitress came with our food.  I told him to eat 
up, he'd need his strength.  

I never imagined he'd seem so panicked but 
then, I never imagined I'd just get sick and 
tired of waiting and openly declared my 
intentions either.  Maybe if he'd done a few 
more crunches or had fewer orders of chili 
fries over the last year, it would never have 
happened. 

Interminable.  The meal was interminable.  I 
bolted down my salad and Diet Coke but I was 
slowly being covered with cobwebs waiting for 
Mulder to finish.  Periodically he opened his 
mouth as if to talk, but all that ever came out 
was breath.  

Well, once he went "Aaa..." before falling back 
on his ribs, but that hardly counts as 
language.  

By the time I'd reached critical mass, he still 
had his slaw, most of his mashed potatoes and 
about a third of his ribs on the plate.  

"Come on," I motioned to him to get up.

"Wha?" he said through a mouthful of meat.

"I thought I made it clear.  I, Special Agent 
Dana Katherine Scully, MD, intend to take you, 
Special Agent Fox William Mulder, PhD, to your 
apartment and..."  

"I haven't finished my lunch!" 

"Don't interrupt.  I intend to take you to 
your apartment and hhhhmmmm, I think I'd like 
some oral sex first."

His face went unnaturally pale and his sweet 
slanted eyes went wide.

"You know, a little fellatio, a little 
cunnilingus.  I'm willing to bet you're not 
half bad at cunnilingus, Mulder.  Am I right?"

He blushed bright like I had never seen.  

There was something cruel about what I was 
doing, but we both liked it.

"And then I want to have sex with you.  On your 
couch."  I paused for dramatic effect. "Unless, 
of course, you don't want me."

There was never much real doubt, but then 
again, Mulder's self loathing knows few bounds.  

I fought the urge to do give Mulder a mad 
scientist laugh as I wiggled my eyebrows in 
suggestive mockery at him.  Finally, he gave me 
a simultaneously wry and sheepish smile and I 
knew I was in.  

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

I've imagined it a lot of ways - in the office, 
in her apartment, in my apartment, my hallway, 
on Skinner's desk, in any one of a thousand 
crappy motel rooms across the continental 
United States, in the back of a Ford Taurus, 
but never like it turned out.  Never.  

I always imagined myself the corruptor taking 
infinite care with my fragile near-virgin.  Now 
I feel like I'm in the middle of Chasing Amy.  

I'm not particularly experienced - okay, I'm 
pathetic.  There are guys out there living in 
caves with more sexual experience than me - but 
I always figured that beside Scully I'd be a 
regular expert.  Stud muffin that I am, I'd 
only had two sexual relationships that lasted 
much beyond the getting-to-know-you stage, but 
I thought those two were pretty good, at least 
as far as sex went.  I thought I could teach 
her a lot.

But then, I tend to forget that she isn't like 
me.  Before the X-Files, she had a real life.  
A real life that apparently included a lot of 
hot sex.  The three dimensional kind.  As a 
participant, no less.  

I had counted the ones I knew about: That 
Waterston Guy, Willis, Ed Fucking Jersey, That 
Ethan Asshole she was dating when we were first 
partnered, and I generously granted her some 
clumsy geek in high school.  That meant that 
when she and I finally got around to it, I'd 
still be one up on her.  But, of course, she'd 
be very shy and inhibited on account of 12 
years of Catholic education and strict military 
parents and I'd have to be careful and take 
things slow.  

I hadn't taken into account that she's a 
doctor. I'd forgotten that Madonna was also a 
Catholic school girl.  

I used to imagine that after awhile I would 
gradually awaken her sensual nature.  

Ha fucking ha.  

When the moment of truth actually came, her 
sensual nature was standing there tapping its 
foot, staring at its watch.  

I freaked out.  I stuttered.  I fumbled.  She 
was magnificent and I was a joke.  A big 
fucking joke.  Emphasis on the fucking.  

All these years I thought she hated my jokes 
and innuendo because she was inhibited.  It 
turns out she hated them because they bored 
her.  All these years of thinking she might not 
want me because my needs might overwhelm her.  
it turns out the biggest strike against me is 
that I'm about as sophisticated as your average 
13 year old.  That's why I opt for the 
videos-less opportunity to embarrass myself.  
That, and my right hand is notoriously 
difficult to disappoint.  Unlike certain women 
who will remain nameless.  

Scully isn't one of those women.  She seemed to 
have a very clear idea of what she was getting 
into.  I shouldn't be surprised.  Scully's 
investigative abilities are beyond reproach.  
She looks at the facts in evidence and draws 
the logical conclusion.  She's had my number 
for a long time.  

I, on the other hand, am famous for my flights 
of fancy.  I have a certain tendency to see 
what I want to see.  Small wonder she had to 
ravish me like some conquering hero before I 
realized that the look I'd mistaken for wry 
amusement was lust.  

I'm an idiot.  It's confirmed.  

I still can't say whether she picked the best 
possible day or the worst possible day.  It's 
hard to explain.  Maybe I should go back to 
somewhere near the beginning.  

Right.  Near the beginning.  Here goes.  

I've gone to prostitutes with some regularity 
ever since Diana left me.  

It's not as bad as it sounds.  

Really. 

I just sort of chalked it up to expediency.  If 
you're paying a woman for sex, it cuts down on 
the demands she might otherwise make.  A real 
relationship might distract me from 'The 
Quest.'  Besides it was honest, straight- 
forward, and, the legality-issue aside, 
aboveboard.  Believe me, I've spent a lot more 
money on dates where I did not get a blow job.  

I never really went for what anyone would call 
an elegant experience.  Just a little relief.  
Just a little physical contact with another 
person when I started to get worried about my 
own sanity.  Having to pay was not that big a 
deal.  After awhile it just seemed like 
anything else in my life: I get hungry, I call 
out for a pizza or Chinese.  I start to feel 
like I might grab Scully in the office and pin 
her against the wall, or, instead of putting my 
hand at the small of her back, I can barely 
resist the urge to slide my fingers under the 
waist of her skirt and grab a handful of 
her naked ass, I'd drive down to a likely 
corner near the capitol after work and blow 
thirty bucks.  If I was feeling especially 
edgy, I'd spend fifty.  

It has never been that frequent, maybe six 
times in any twelve month period.  And I have 
standards.  They can't remind me of Scully, so 
no one small, or red-haired.  And no one 
obviously under-age or obviously strung out, 
either.  

When she asked me to be the father of her 
child, I stopped cold turkey.  It wasn't 
difficult.  All I had to do was imagine my baby 
growing inside her and the jittery ache 
stopped. 

But that night after she told me her last 
chance failed, it all came back.  I wanted her.  
I wanted her so bad I envisioned myself laying 
her back like an empty dress on the couch where 
I'd been sleeping and making desperate love to 
her.  I held her in my arms, and when I should 
have moved, I froze.  

I left two hours later and headed straight for 
that depressingly comforting corner.  I didn't 
know  what else to do.  My ponderous intellect 
rarely comes through when it matters. 

What had been a necessary indulgence began to 
feel compulsive.  I was suddenly spending more 
on getting laid in three weeks than I had in 
the last five years.  Christ, I was even 
starting to have a couple of favorites.  It 
seemed like everyday was worse than the last.  

The Friday before the day in question, she 
laughed at something I'd said and called me 
"Monster Boy" and I came within seconds of 
proposing marriage.  At the last moment, I 
opted for a lunch date instead.  

After work, the first thing I did was head down 
to the Capitol.  I was so fucked up with love 
and horror and self-loathing I wound up taking 
not one, but two girls to a motel so bad it 
even made a rat-trap connoisseur like me wince.  
I learned once and for all that perfunctory sex 
with two women is not appreciably better than 
perfunctory sex with one.  

And it used to be such a nice fantasy. 

I would have gotten good and drunk after that 
but I had made Scully promise to meet me for 
lunch.  

Couldn't disappoint Scully, could I?  Well, not 
any more than I absolutely had to, anyway.  

I did my best to enjoy her company, while 
attempting to strike a delicate balance between 
self-loathing, unabashed adoration, and 
wondering what led her to wear the same perfume 
as my maternal grandmother.
 
She wanted to fuck me.  

Scully wanted me.  Dana Scully.  Not jerking 
off in a cup while she sat uncomfortably in the 
waiting room, but skin on skin.  Hell, she 
rhetorically offered to blow me under the 
table.  I didn't know whether to have a fucking 
heart attack or swallow my own tongue.  

To prove she was serious, as soon as she could, 
she managed to drag me out of the nice, safe 
diner and into the wilds of my apartment.  

In her little sweater with her hair 
unstraightened, she was sultry, sexy with the 
promise of softness, if I could just get it 
together enough to reach out and touch.  
Unfortunately, I seemed to be paralyzed  by a 
liberal mixture of joy and terror.  If I hadn't 
spent the night before in a fairly boring 
approximation of debauchery I would have come 
when she rubbed her cheek against the fly of my 
jeans before unzipping them.  Then she 
proceeded to kiss and nuzzle my stomach and  
thighs while my cock flailed around wildly and 
I made strangling noises interspersed with all 
the variations of her name I could manage to 
mangle "Scu Scu Scu lllllleeee" "Scu 
lllllllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" etc, etc.  

It's a strange thing to try to explain what's 
different about what she did to me.  In our 
society, the average person is exposed almost 
constantly to images of sexual contact .  In 
those images, the male partner is almost always 
active, while the woman is passive, relegated 
to the role of acted upon rather than actor .  
Even in porn women rarely touch men's bodies 
anywhere other than the mouth or genitals.  So 
it had gone with every sexual encounter, be it 
paid or charity work, I had ever had.  I never 
really thought about it until I had Scully to 
compare them to.  No woman had ever made love 
to me like that.  Not one ever thought to 
stroke the inside of my thighs until the hair 
on the back of my neck stood up.  I'd never 
imagined Scully could kiss my stomach and make 
it more sexual than a blow job from Diana, but 
then, I don't remember anyone ever kissing my 
stomach before.  

It was amazing.  

By the time my cock slid all the way down her 
throat, I had lost my mind .  I proposed three 
times and offered to wear my mother's dress if 
she didn't think it would suit her.  Luckily, 
she was too busy having an orgasm against my 
leg to pay much attention to me.  

It only got worse when she flipped me over and 
gave me a rim job.  It was shockingly 
pleasurable.  I'd seen it done, but like a lot 
of other things, never had one.  I could never 
figure out the appeal before, but it turns out 
it's one of those things you just have to 
experience to appreciate.  I'm finding that 
true about more and more things.  

It's not just that Scully knows what she's 
doing.  The best part is that she's very...um, 
very, VERY responsive.  She belongs in some 
kind of sexual decathlon, while I belong 
on the sidelines cheering, wearing a foam 
finger and body paint.  

Once, when I was with Diana, she came twice 
in a night and it took me a couple of 
days to stop wondering when I was going to get 
my ticker tape parade.  Scully, Scully can come 
three times before I take my pants off.  
Sometimes she does.  I never would have guessed 
my imagination was so impoverished.  Seven or 
eight is her usual number.  She had eight that 
first time - one, rubbing herself against my 
leg while she gave me head, three during my 
lame attempt at cunnilingus.  

For the first time, although I had been on the 
ragged edge of coming as I pushed her knees 
apart , my erection  faltered.  That was the 
only part of her I'd never  really seen before.  
She looked different from any woman I'd been 
with in real life and most I'd seen in 2-D.  
Opening her up made my whole chest tighten.  
Her pubic hair wasn't trimmed or shaved, just 
plain and sparse and her labia...  

If Phoebe was best described as an orchid and 
Diana as more of a rose, then Scully is right 
in line with the Taoist conceit of cunt as 
peach, all subtle swells and fine lines. 
If pussies were chairs, she'd be Danish modern, 
all velvet, lots of padding, and utterly 
streamlined. 

Fuck, I need to get a grip and decide if 
she has fruit or furniture or the same thing 
between her legs as every other woman on earth.  
Dana Scully, meet Fox Mulder, the most pathetic 
man alive.

Planet-wide conspiracies aside, I know 
unequivocally  that I  am my own worst enemy.  
Never could it have been more true than it was 
in this situation.  

Since early on, I had used Scully's size 
against her, to try to pretend she was more of 
a  child than a woman, to convince myself that 
lusting after her was just a hop, skip, and a 
jump from the slippery slope that would 
inevitably lead to jerking off over 
cheerleading magazines just like good ol' Ted 
Bundy.  It disturbed me.  

Then I convinced myself to press my mouth to 
her hard little clit and she went off like a 
bomb.

There was nothing there but full grown woman. 
Lush hips, the requisite quivering breasts, 
muscular little thighs drumming against my 
ears.  I was home free until it came time for 
the entre, the meat and potatoes portion of the 
afternoon's events:  Fucking Scully.  

I was going to fuck Scully.  Slide right up 
into the smartest, best, most loyal woman I 
know, whom I had just discovered was also a 
sexual dynamo, like she was a mere mortal  And 
there was no way I could avoid disappointing 
her.  

I actually prayed to a benevolent deity for 
bees.  

Then I considered asking her if she wanted me 
to wear a condom.  It would have been a 
terrible move on my part for several reasons, 
not the least of which being that the mere 
suggestion would make it clear that I had been 
having at least something like sex with someone 
else. 

There was no need to tell her, anyway.  I 
always used one when I made my forays into the 
land of barely satisfying release.  I may be 
foolhardy, but I'd prefer to meet my end making 
a stupid mistake with Alex Krycek than with a 
girl in a mini skirt who goes by the name of 
"Creamy." 

Nope.  No need to mention that at all. 

I exhaled, tried to loosen my shoulders as I 
bent over her, focused on completing the act. 

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

I couldn't believe she asked me that.  "You're 
the doctor, but I think they call it 
penetration."  Actually, I was rubbing my cock 
against her dripping wet labia, trying to work 
up my nerve.  In retrospect, I should have 
figured we would both want to be on top.  

"Mulder, I think this would be easier If we 
traded places." 

"Let me do this."  I tried to keep the whine 
out of my voice and failed.  

"Mulder..."  It was an exhortation, but to 
what, I don't know. 

"Scully, please let me. . ."  

She nodded, her hair wild, her eyes dilated, so 
black I think she would have agreed to anything 
at that point. 

I kissed her lips for the first time just 
before I slipped into the blistering heat.  I 
had found the one place where Scully wasn't 
cold.  

I drew in my breath and counted to ten.  That 
was all I could take. I pulled out and shook 
for a moment in a concerted effort not to come. 

"What's wrong, Mulder?" 

"Just...I'm just trying not to have this over 
before it starts."  

She smiled up at me. 

Applying the heel of my hand aggressively to 
her clitoris brought two more moaning orgasms 
from Scully.  It also put a cramp in my wrist. 

She sat up and took my head in her hands. 

We kissed again and the fear and discomfort 
were replaced by a tuneless hum.  She still 
hums when she kisses me and I swear I will 
never mock the tone deaf again. 

I dove back into her less carefully this time, 
one arm behind her little back, one grasping 
the back of her head, removing the option of 
her extricating herself from the kiss, even 
though it didn't seem to have crossed her mind. 

A couple of minutes of trying to fuck her with 
my back bent like that and I had to give up and 
hold her face into my chest. 

I should have been expecting it when she 
advanced on me, her eyes wide her breaths 
rapid.  Spender could scoop out my brains with 
a melon baller and her next words would still 
be stuck in my head for the rest of my life. 

"Mulder, stop trying to be impressive and let 
me fuck you." 

I could have cried. 

As soon as she was on top of me she came again 
Making what was already a snug fit an 
excruciatingly sweet squeeze. 

Five hard thrusts of her hips and we were both 
gone. 

Not even for a second was I deluded enough to 
think I had much to do with it.  I know my 
limitations.  I'm most likely okay in bed, 
dearth of experience not withstanding.  I'm a 
little lacking when it comes to actual fucking, 
mostly because I have trouble, ummm, not 
getting carried away, but I think my 
cunnilingus skills balance that out.  My guess 
is I'm just about average, ability-wise.  No 
way was my skill responsible for eight distinct 
ScullyGasms, complete with screaming, biting, 
and little hand prints cast in my skin.   

She was magnificent.  Holding her close, trying 
to catch my breath, I remember asking her if 
she was always like that.   

"Like what, Mulder?"  Her little forehead 
wrinkled.  

"Um...multi-orgasmic?"  I sniffed her hair the 
way I had been doing in my fantasies for years.  

"Why, no.  In fact, I was frigid until, oh, 
about an hour and forty minutes ago.  Jesus, 
Mulder." For once, she was really laughing, not 
smirking.  "It's not a big deal."  

"I was just wondering if it was, um, me."  

"Who else would it be?"  

I shrugged.  A good all purpose gesture.  A 
good response to what was essentially a nice 
way of replying I-am-responsible-for-my-own- 
orgasms-Mulder-Thank-You-Very-Much.  She must 
have felt me stiffen-not my cock, I mean me- 
because she followed with a reproachful "Mul-
der."  

She and I could have entire conversations 
saying nothing but each other's names, we're 
almost Chinese.  With us inflection is 
everything and she was saying my name like I 
had just posited the existence of sentient 
rubber bands.  Actually that would explain a 
lot of things.  The way they always disappear 
and reappear at inopportune moments, for 
instance.   

She was obviously tired.  "Mulder, what is it 
you want?"  

"I want to feel special." That sounded 
amazingly stupid and whiney.   

"You are special."  

"In a short bus kind of a way."  

She rolled her eyes.  "You are sooooo full of 
shit."  The way she said it made it sound like 
cuddly pillow talk.   

"How? How am I full of shit?"  

"Trying to snatch defeat from the jaws of 
victory yet again, partner?"  

I couldn't even answer that one; like I've said 
before, she has my number.  "Did it make you 
feel...the way it made me feel?"  

Okay, that was a really bad and oblique way of 
putting it.  I had clearly pissed her off, 
because at this point, she was sitting naked at 
the edge of the bed.  "Apparently not, Mulder, 
since sex with me seems to have made you even 
more paranoid and miserable than usual."  

"That's not how I feel." I was quiet.   

"Well how DO you feel, Mulder?"  

"It's hard to explain."  

"Any regrets?"  

My heart was breaking.  My beautiful Scully was 
still on the edge of the bed staring sadly at 
the floor looking like she was ready to cry or 
storm out any second.  "I feel...I feel like I 
want this more than anything in my life but I 
don't deserve this, Scully.  I always knew I 
wasn't good enough for you but now, it's so 
beyond that." I kissed her little white hand.   

Furrowed, her brow was furrowed, and her blue 
eyes looked wild.  "Am I supposed to convince 
you? Is that what this is about? Because I 
don't know how."  

"It's just...you could do so much better."  

I reached up and traced her nipple with one 
Finger.  For some reason, this seemed to amuse 
her.   

"Yeah, handsome, well-endowed geniuses who have 
literally gone to the ends of the earth for me 
are a dime a dozen." 
   
I had never exactly thought of myself in those 
terms.  Did she really think of me like that? 
It was weird.  Just weird.  I had the urge to 
look around and make sure she wasn't talking to 
someone else.  

"Well-endowed, huh?" 

"Mulder, if you think that's average, you've 
spent too much time watching porn." 

"Too bad I'm lame in the sack."  

"Too bad you're the black hole of emotional 
need.  Good thing I knew that already."  
Somewhere in this, she had climbed back in the 
bed and was cradling my head against her naked 
chest.  She had held me like this before, but 
somehow, skin to skin, it felt very different.  
In some strange way, it was the most intimate 
thing we had done.  "I'm not really that smart.  
People just assume that because of the memory."  

"You have an IQ in the 170's."  

"That's not that smart."  

"Mulder..."  

"My career is dead in the water."  

"Our work is important."  

"I have no social skills."  

"Okay, when you're right, you're right..." 

"I live like a pig."  

"Yes, you do."  

"I'm immature."  

"When you get up in the morning, your hair 
looks like a chicken."  

"I have a huge nose."  

"I have a big nose, too."  

"No, you have an elegant roman nose - I have a 
nose like a bad ethnic joke."  

"There are good ethnic jokes?  Besides, I like 
your nose"  

"Nobody likes my nose, Scully."  

"I do."  

"I have a mouth like a camel."  

"Your mouth is almost unbearably sexy."

At this point, I think I was just fishing and 
we were both grinning like idiots.   

"I have little pig eyes."  

"You have an epicanthic fold."  

Ahhh, Scully ever the literalist.   

"Nope.  Pig eyes."  I followed this with some 
snorting noises and a vague attempt at rooting 
aforementioned nose into her solar plexus.  She 
collapsed into laughter that somehow turned 
into vigorous kissing.   

"Shit!"  I was forced off of her by a cramp in 
my calf.   

Then, of course, the phone rang.  I let the 
machine pick it up.  "Mr. Mulder, this is 
Linda, Mr. Mackey's assistant from Mackey, 
Wade, Mackey, and Dzialo, calling to remind you 
about your appointment this afternoon.  Mr. 
Mackey needs to get your signature on the 
quarterly tax forms before Monday, if at all 
possible."  

"My Dad's accountants."  I know I was looking 
very uncomfortable again.   

"I think they're your accountants, now."  

I knew instantly that money could become a much 
more serious issue between us than sex, and for 
a moment, I thought I might puke.  "After I 
got rid of the money from the Consortium, it's 
not that much, really."  

She gave me the eyebrow.  "How much, Mulder?" 
she asked using the don't-fuck-with-me voice.   

I shrugged.  

"How much?"  

"Why don't you come with me and find out for 
yourself?"  

Things were good.  I certainly didn't deserve 
this, but I could manage to enjoy it without 
torturing myself too much.   

So what did I do? I bought a lamp.

It was an honest mistake.   

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:


At one time, I thought I was the only fucked up 
member of our partnership, but now I know there 
are two of us.  My neuroses are many and far-
reaching; Scully's are few and sharp-focused, 
an ice pick of uncertainty.  And they all 
revolve around power.  She seems to think, for 
example, spending more than three dollars on 
her is indistinguishable from trying to control 
her. 
 
It had been a few weeks that we'd been sleeping 
together.  I was finally starting to relax a 
little in bed, you know, not obsessing quite so 
much about my personal inadequacy, hence  
becoming slightly less inadequate.  Scully was  
starting to relax a little out of bed.  If we  
were off-duty, I could maybe get a public 
display of affection when I played my cards 
right.  I wanted to celebrate, but dates for us 
tend to be more tense than anything else. 
 
I knew going with my first impulse and buying 
her some big dog choking piece of jewelry was 
out of the question.  Too much, too soon-she 
could potentially bolt.  So I bought her 
something unromantic but nice.  Something she 
probably couldn't afford on her own.  It didn't 
even really go with her decor, but it was 
aesthetically appealing on its own. 

A lamp.  Not the Hope Diamond.  I couldn't 
afford the Hope Diamond.  

The first thing she said was, "You shouldn't 
have bought me this, Mulder."  It wasn't that 
polite thing people say; she was serious. 
 
"It's just a lamp." 
 
"It's a Tiffany lamp." 
 
"It's not rare or anything." 
 
"Take it back." 
 
"I can't." 
 
"You can and you will." 
 
"Scully. . ." 
 
"I don't want you to spend money on me just 
because we're having sex." 
 
It's true I would never have presumed to buy 
her something expensive if she hadn't already 
let me take certain other liberties, but. . . 
"Scully, it's just a lamp." 
 
"No, it's not right.  I could never give you 
anything this nice.  Take it back." 
 
"You give me so much. . ." I made a huge 
mistake and reached for her breast. 
 
Her mouth flew open.  She was gaping at me and 
her eyes had narrowed to thin blue lines.  Then 
she went still and really scared me.  "Are we 
trading sex for money, here? You think I'm a 
whore, Mulder?" 
 
I definitely didn't like the way this was 
going, but all I could do was move my mouth, 
silent and fish-like. 
 
"Like the ones you gave up when I was trying to 
get pregnant, just a little better dressed?" 
She was screaming now.  "You think I didn't 
know, asshole?  Fucking asshole, that you 
preferred some strung-out teenager you picked 
up on the fucking corner, to me, you fucking 
egotistical arrogant son of a bitch, for 
years?" 
 
I swear I almost hit her, purely on reflex, she 
was so loud and so close to my face.  "Not 
prefer...just...I was afraid and I needed..." 
 
"Bullshit, Mulder!  I've been following you 
around like a pathetic little worm for years of 
my life...years of your life.  You weren't 
afraid."  She couldn't stop herself from 
crying. 
 
"What do you know?  Maybe if you weren't such a 
cunt it wouldn't have taken me seven years to 
try to fuck you."  It was patently untrue, but 
I said it anyway.  It's an indisputable fact 
that she had taken the initiative and fucked 
me.  If we had had to wait for me to find the 
nerve, we'd still be waiting. 


"Maybe I wouldn't be such a cunt if you weren't 
trying to control every fucking move I make.  
Well, you can't argue me down, you can't buy 
me, and you sure as hell can't fuck me into 
submission." 
 
What the hell was that supposed to mean?  I 
didn't want to push this fight somewhere I was 
not prepared to go under the best of 
circumstances, so I had no choice but to stand 
there, dumb, and watch her as she wrapped the 
lamp with meticulous care.  Anyone else 
would have thrown it at my head.  Anyone else 
would have taken the stupid lamp.  Possibly 
said thank you. 
 
As soon as she was done, she looked up with an 
absolutely blank expression.  "Why don't you 
just ask for what you really want instead 
playing all these games?" 
 
"What?"  She was walking to her dresser. 
"Other guys can buy their girlfriend a present 
without it turning into an international 
incident." 
 
"Is that what I am?"  Her voice was flat. 
 
"You're not a whore."  I wanted to diffuse 
whatever was brewing underneath her brittle 
surface. 

"Then why not ask me for what you want?" 

"What are you talking about Scully?  What is it 
you think I want?" 
 
"You want to own me.  Body.  Soul.  Mind.  All 
of me.  You want me to submit to you.  You 
don't want to have a doubt in your mind. 
That's why you keep making all these power 
plays, Mulder.  Hell, you want to tie me up and 
come on my face, slap me around a little, 
maybe." 
 
That was when I realized what she was doing. 
She was getting her spare cuffs out of her 
dresser and handing them to me. 

This was insane.  Clearly, inarguably insane. 

And my cock got so hard so fast that I swear it 
could have pushed Scully to the bed all by 
itself. 
 
I had to ask.  "Why?"
 
"Because this is what love means to you.  Love 
means I'll take anything you give me." 
 
"Do you love me, Scully?" 
 
"I haven't stuck around for the career 
advancement, that's for sure." 
 
"But do you love me?" 
 
"I think you and I have different definitions 
of love." 
 
"That's not an answer." 
 
This the point where I think I lost my mind 
because I took the cuffs from her perpetually 
icy little hands and decisively snapped them on 
her tiny wrists. 
 
"Do you own me?"  It was classic Scully, all 
crisp clear consonants asking the question for 
me. 
 
I nodded at her. 
 
"Mulder, you've owned me for years, whether I 
like it or not."  She sounded so tired. 
 
"What's love to you, Scully?"  I was whispering 
by then, lifting her chin between my thumb and 
forefinger until she had to stand on her toes 
and kissed her hard.  I wanted to bruise her 
lips with mine somehow.  Hurt her 'til I made 
an impression. 
 
"Just a feeling, a strong feeling." 
 
"Do you feel it for me?"  I found myself 
pulling her by the cuffs. 
 
She nodded. 
 
"Was it the same with other men...before?" 
 
She shook her head softly. 
 
I was utterly confused.  I was overwhelmed by 
the desire to act out some dark scenario with 
her, and at the same time, some reasonable part 
of me wanted to protect her from what I could 
do, from what I knew I was capable of.  I had 
to decide. 
 
There is a committee in my head composed of 
one paranoiac, one fourteen year old, one 
raving maniac, and one fairly normal guy.  They 
held a vote.  

The maniac won. He usually does. 

"Get on your knees, Scully."  She did as I said 
and no more, waiting. 
 
"You gonna sit there all day?  Do I need to 
find somebody else to suck it?"  Was that me?  
Did I say that? 

She gestured to  her wrists as if suddenly 
struck mute.  "So?  If you want my cock you'll 
get it in the next three minutes.  If not. . ." 
I shrugged. 
 
She got it in plenty of time.  The restraints 
didn't seem to make an appreciable dint in how 
long it took her to get my pants down around my 
knees. 
 
The whole thing was all wrong.  She was not out 
of control.  Her lips were gliding along my 
cock, the fingers of her bound hands running 
little circles around my balls.  It felt 
incredible and I had to put a stop to it if we 
were going to have it this way.  

She and I are so different, and in some ways, 
so 
much the same.  Neither of us know how to let 
go of anything.  I felt so sorry for her, and 
at the same time, I was filled with something 
darker, some lust to control her that wanted to 
see her hurt and afraid, that wanted her as 
weak and hurting as I usually am, instead of as 
cool and complete as the Enigmatic Doctor 
Scully always seems to be.  

"Shit, Scully, I forgot something.  Scully, 
stop it.  There's something we forgot. . ."  I 
shoved her head backwards harder than I 
intended.

She blinked.  

Tenderness flooded over me.  I tousled her 
hair, stroked her cheek, smiled at her.  "We 
need a safe word.  You know, so things don't 
get out of control.  So you can stop it anytime 
you want.  A signal.  A word you normally 
wouldn't say." 
 
"Fox." 
 
"What?" 
 
"That's my word." 
 
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 
 
Scully was back at the dresser again, her lip 
twitching.  "I forgot something, too." 
 
The riding crop.  It was the riding crop.  I 
swear sometimes I think she's as screwed in the 
head as I am.  The lamp she can't accept; the 
riding crop she cherishes.  I swear it was a 
joke.  I gave it to her at the office just to 
see if I could make her blush.  Just because it 
would turn me on to give her something like 
that.  First she scowled, then she beamed, then 
she shoved it in her purse.  Now she wanted me 
to use it on her and what was worse was I 
wanted it, too. 
 
So I did. 
 
It didn't work.  I left some nasty red marks 
across her ass, her gorgeous white ass, but she 
never flinched and it never aroused me - I mean 
it did but no differently than could be 
expected from Scully's naked ass draped across 
my lap. 
 
She wasn't turned on at all.  And she wasn't 
afraid. 
 
I was getting pissed off, but I don't know who 
I was mad at.  There was only one person 
available to take it out on.  She wanted me to 
take it out on her.  Okay, I could do this. 
 
So I tried to fuck her. 
 
She wasn't wet at all.  That, in and of itself, 
started getting me worked up.  And then she 
tensed up and wouldn't let me in.  Under ideal 
circumstances it's a tight fit, but this seemed 
impossible. 
 
I had two clear choices:  I could either give 
up, or I could tear her.  It was so close to 
rape, I was lost. 
 
But all she had to do was say my name and 
everything would stop.  So I pressed in, 
into Scully with everything I had, and felt her 
rip.  

It was sickening and satisfying. Inexplicably, 
I needed to taste her blood.  I slid my hand to 
the underside of where I was battering her then 
brought it to my mouth. 
 
It was as though someone had dropped a quarter 
into the ride that is Scully, because, with my 
hand to my lips, she came alive.  Not with 
fear, not with arousal, with rage.  Scully does 
great rage. 
 
She was fighting me with all her strength, 
trying to throw me off.  "This what it takes to 
get you off, Mulder?" 

Unfair.  Unfair.  Patently unfair.  All it 
takes to get me off is you, I wanted to tell 
her.  But, for the first time, she was engaged 
in some way with what I was doing. 
 
"Get over it, Scully."  Her tiny, tight pussy 
was starting to get wet with something other 
than blood 
 
"Fuck you, Mulder"  She was pushing with all 
her strength against my chest. 
 
"I'm bigger than you, I'm stronger.  We'll 
never be equals."  And I shoved into her in a 
way meant to remind her of the seventy or so 
pounds I have on her. 
 
She struggled to breathe. "Fuck you, Mulder." 
It came as a whisper this time 
 
"No.  Fuck you, little girl." 
 
She was breathing in time with my thrusts.  The 
force seemed to be pushing the air out of her 
with each stroke before drawing back in 
sharply.  Her voice was harsh.  

"Not. . .little." 
 
I laughed and pushed in hard.  "You're little 
and you're weak and I like it." 
 
I watched her fume.  She glared up at me and 
instead of answering, she gripped my penis hard 
with that muscular, satin pussy of hers.  She 
gripped me hard.  It nearly hurt.  I really 
couldn't move. 
 
She had me.  She had me good.  I don't know 
when she got the cuffs off.  Must have had the 
key in her fist all along, because as she 
caught my cock she slapped them onto me. 
 
It was incredible.  She had my legs tied up at 
the knees and the ankles and my hands behind my 
back in what seemed like a second.  It made me 
want to ask if she'd ever been with the rodeo.  
But any attempt at levity or distraction was 
cut short as she let loose.  And unlike me, she 
was not afraid of the crop.  She stayed away 
from places that might be seen when I was 
dressed but there was no control behind her 
force. 
 
I'd never seen her like that.  It was 
exhilarating.  Each lash hurt as it was applied 
and continued to hurt as she laid the next one 
down beside it.  Every inch of me throbbed.  I 
could feel my pulse in my cock jumping as she 
wailed into me. 
 
She was crying and her tears flew into the 
lines she cut in my skin.  I felt strangely in 
control, even though every square inch of me 
was humming like I was ten seconds from 
levitation. 
 
Somehow her blows had sensitized and sexualized 
my entire body.  Her elbow brushed my shoulder 
and the sensation of skin on skin made me 
shudder as if she had squeezed the head of my 
dick.  The shudder itself seemed to go straight 
through her with a momentum all its own, 
wavelike.  Then the wave pushed her and her 
mouth fell on my penis.  Literally.  It was 
like she had tripped on some invisible thing. 
 
It had nothing to do with any head she had ever 
given me before.  In a way, it was nothing 
like getting head at all.  The sensation was 
akin to being eaten by a pack of wolves, and 
yet not unlike plunging into an overripe peach 
again and again. 
 
And it was all for her.  Clearly, I was 
incidental.  It was a feeling I had never 
experienced before. 
 
I was vibrating, all of me.  It was like I had 
been coming since I first heard the metallic 
click of the cuffs, but my mind remained oddly 
calm.  I had never felt so in control in my 
life.  I could hang on indefinitely.  I was a 
god.  I could take anything Scully could give 
me and continue to hold her up. 
 
She looked at me, her mouth stretched to its 
limit, her wet crotch grinding against my knee 
and I could tell she saw nothing.  Her 
ponderous Super Ego was clearly tied up in the 
trunk right now, while Miss Id took the 
ScullyMobile to Tijuana. 
 
It was devastating in a wonderful way.  For 
once, she was weak and I was strong.  It was an 
intimate little irony that I had to be tied 
hand and foot to dominate her like that. 
 
She was growling, "Come...come...come..."  Her 
voice was so impossibly low it sounded like 
someone else. 
 
I couldn't help but smile. 
 
She slapped me hard across the face.  "You 
think that's funny?" The way she said it, it 
was almost a death threat.  "Fine.  I'll 'make' 
you come." 
 
I responded appropriately.  "Go ahead and try." 
 
So she tried.  She straddled me and slid me 
into her impossibly wet, impossibly tight 
little self.  She rode me hard, raining little 
fists and releasing all her terror down on my 
chest.  Any other time it would have worked. 
That day, however, I was a buzzing, golden god. 
 
Then she started to cry again without slowing 
her hips or her fists.  Now I finally 
understood why she had never let go, never been 
weak with me before, why there was always 
something holding back her feelings: they were 
huge, overwhelming.  Maybe there just aren't 
English words for the kind of terrors Scully 
has, any word for that kind of love. 
 
The next thing she did was come-without 
pausing in her crying, hitting, or fucking. 
 
Pity consumed me.  All those times she had 
refused to show her weakness to me, I realized, 
weren't because she didn't trust me.  It was 
just that the window I gave her was too small. 
We had to bring in a wrecking ball to get that 
motherfucker out. 
 
"Come, Mulder."  Her voice was low. 
 
"Scully, just say my name and I'll come for 
you."  I think it unnerved her that I was so 
calm.  Her orgasms were gripping me tighter and 
tighter. 
 
"Come." 
 
"No.  My name.  Say my name."  I did my best to 
sound as unaffected as possible and did 
remarkably well. 
 
She snarled.  "Come for me, Spooky." 
 
I didn't smile but I didn't get angry, either. 
"Sorry, that's not it." 
 
I was starting to become aware that I had not 
had any feeling in my hands for sometime. 
 
She slid off of me and sat back on her heels 
staring.  Livid.  "Can you do it without me 
touching you?  All I have to do is say your 
name?"  She seemed insane and otherworldly. 
 
I nodded. 
 
"Fox."  She watched my hips start to shake as 
if she was being hypnotized by my movement. 
 
"Tell me you love me," I squeaked.  I was 
sliding into my normal pathetic mode.  I felt 
my godhood slip away. 
 
"I love you, Fox."  She said it like she was 
ordering fries, but it was enough for me.  I 
gasped as I shot wave after convulsive wave of 
come onto the red welts and cuts in my chest 
and belly. 
 
She knelt over me to rub it in.  It burned. 
Then she kissed me lightly on the forehead 
before turning out of the room. 
 
Shit!  I tried waiting patiently as I listened 
for her to come back until I heard Audrey 
Hepburn on the TV.  Didn't she remember I was 
there? Tied up? In her bed?  "Yo Scully - you 
forget something?"  I tried not to sound 
frantic as I yelled for her.  Maybe she was in 
some kind of shock. 
 
When she did come to me I couldn't rule out the 
possibility.  She seemed shy as she released 
me, like she was afraid I was going to hold 
this against her.  

Scully and I rarely speak at the same time 
unless we are saying the exact same thing, but 
this was an exception. 
 
"Scully that was...wow." "Mulder can I keep the 
lamp?"  

After the verbal train wreck where I assured 
her it was imperative that she never allow the 
lamp to leave her side, and she asserted her 
incredulity that I 'liked' what we had done, 
silence followed.  The silence was neither 
comfortable nor excruciating, though-we could 
both handle it. 

She also insisted, of course, on ministering to 
the wounds she had inflicted.  I didn't even do 
my usual wincing and moaning. I just watched 
her, felt her soft hands on my body, remembered 
what it felt like to be divine. 
 
Decompression took roughly an hour. 
 
Audrey was waffling as usual between 
fulfillment and convention, while we stretched 
out on opposite ends of Scully's couch, knees 
bent, legs tangled.  I was just biding my time 
until channel 18's Star Trek marathon started, 
when she smiled at me. 
 
"I really did a number on you didn't I?"  She 
rubbed her little bare instep against my 
erection. 
 
"Alex Krycek's got nothing on my baby." 
 
"Mulder, a little girl could kick your ass." 
 
"I think one just did." 
 
The End 
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

 
The title Is a Real Story from a book by Harlan 
Ellison, whose elfin shoes this humble writer 
is not worthy to lick.

The committee in Mulder's head was taken almost
word for word from a poem by Rob Swann, and 
even though I received the author's permission, 
I'd like to give credit where credit is due.

And finally, I accidentally left the thanks off 
the original post.  To MaybeAmanda my sincere 
gratitude.  If this story is readable, she 
deserves all the credit. She encourages me to 
finish my pieces.  She also helps immeasurably 
with margins and grammar and commas.  I'd be 
utterly lost without her.