AN EXQUISITE HELL (1/1) By: Annie Sewell-Jennings (Auralissa@aol.com) DISCLAIMER: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully do not belong to me. If they did belong to me, they couldn't show this puppy on network TV, believe you me. Strictly cable. ;) The Sarah McLachlan quote used in the beginning is from "Hold On" from _Fumbling Towards Ecstasy_ and is taken completely and utterly out of context. I apologize, Sarah, for maligning your work so soon after Monica Lewinsky said that she thought of Bill when listening to "Do What You Have to Do". That's just... Blasphemy. ::shudders:: SUMMARY: Scully realizes her hell. CATEGORY: VAR (Mulder/Scully). It's sex. RATING: NC-17. Remember? It's sex. ARCHIVE: Just ask me if you can archive it. I'm pretty lenient. Do not archive at Gossamer. Do not post to ATXC. Thanks. :) AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was thought up during that wonderful, hormone- charged time known as PMS. Yes, fellow commiserating women, this is drenched in estrogen-inspired smut. Think of it this way - I could either write this or go out and hire a male prostitute to satisfy my needs. Either way could prove addictive. ;) Thanks to Kristin and Heather for beta reading. Heather, you're a gem. Kristin, you are everything. Thanks. Everyone, do my darlings a favor and read their fics -- Heather's "Good Intentions" and my darling Kristin's "Flying Into Dusk". They're wonderful! ***** AN EXQUISITE HELL ***** "Am I in heaven here or am I..." --Sarah McLachlan ***** It was going to be a bad one. She knew this from the beginning; felt it in the electricity that circuited through the air like liquid lightning. It shot through her veins with the an intensity that was heady as it was stimulating, and all possible thought of this being nothing but fantasy disappeared from her mind as everything became clearer. She was laid flat on her back on her bed. Lying in wait. Waiting for what... It was uncertain. But the waiting was beginning to excite her, the sheer expectancy of something urgent. Something vital. Something that would change her indefinitely. The fluid fever that was swimming throughout her entire body was beginning to culminate, waking up every inch of flesh. Preparing it for something that she could not predict, but was desperately awaiting. And this awareness was beginning to feel a lot like arousal. Ah, yes... Her mouth was beginning to grow dry, her lips sensitive and singing when she drew her tongue across them. My, but she was being worn and played beautifully. She was a violin, and she was beginning to feel adept fingers tuning her, preparing her to play a powerful aria. But there was no bow to stroke the strings. No one to bring her to the crescendo. In the waiting, there was pleasure. Her thighs weakened, the skin feeling silky smooth and yet charged with desire. Inch by tiny inch, her legs began to spread apart, loosening and opening. The familiar cotton of the bedsheets rasped against her skin in a way that she had never felt before. Even during her previous bouts with arousal, she had not ever experienced such complete and total vibrancy. It was thrilling in some aspects and frightening in others. She was more sensitive, more attuned to things other than herself, than she had ever been before. One touch, one whisper of breath on the inside of her thighs would unfasten her. She sucked in her breath then, her legs inching up on the bed at the imagery. God, just the thought of it... The possibility of contact... It was terrifying. She was seemingly powerless against it. Against her own body. Licking her lips again and then shuddering at the sensation, she closed her eyes and let her hair whisper against her cheek. Her breath shuddered out from her lips, and she twisted again on the mattress. Oh, God, she was in ecstasy. She was in agony. It didn't really matter, just as long as she could feel the silkiness of her own red hair fall and wisp against her cheek and lip. Blindly, she rolled her head over and over, her fingers twitching but not moving to stroke herself. Not yet, not yet... She could live with just this. Just the kiss of fine, silken locks twisting and twining over her tingling, moist lips... And then, just as she was moving to leave her hair behind and move for the source of her arousal, there were fingers that were not her own sliding through her hair, and all movement ceased. Calloused fingers. Larger, slender, tapered and male. She did not need to open her eyes and leave her pulsing darkness to recognize the power of those hands and the ecstasy they were causing her. She knew that they were his. And she knew that he was what she had been waiting for. All previous arousal seemed lessened in the face of what she was experiencing now. It was enough to blur thought, enough to twist her away from the consequences of what was happening to the intensity of what he was doing to her. His fingers, so elegant, so tender... She had always craved his hands. Craved their touch. Craved the pleasure they would certainly, undoubtedly cause her. Warm, but not sweaty. Strong, but not meaty. His hands were softer than the wings of hummingbirds, and his touch was of utmost tenderness. Yes, he was a creature of tender passion. Caressing, tempting... His fingers wound through her hair, locking the individual strands in a wreath of red around her face. All the while, his touch was tame in nature and yet more arousing than any lover's kiss. The passion that was stored in the very tips of his fingers was overwhelming, and she felt her face flush with the heat of him. Hot... He was hot. He was sensual, languid heat, smoldering molten lava... God, she was starving for him. If his hands could make her burn when they touched such a tame spot as her brow, then what could they do elsewhere? The thought was enough to make her rush with arousal, and she felt the wetness against her thighs. It was more desire than she had ever dreamed possible of experiencing... And this was just one touch. Her eyelids fluttered open; she had to see his face. Oh, God... Dark, brown-green eyes that were slowly dilating and were hooded by thick, luxuriant lashes. A generous, plush mouth that was making her blood surge at the very thought of him putting it to use. All the places he could kiss... Lick... Lavish... She felt her eyelids flutter, and she returned her attention to his face. Strong, uniquely-shaped nose that was the essence of him. Quirky, a little offbeat, but when placed with the rest of the man, absolutely essential. It was his endearing quality. Cheekbones that were high and feline, and a mole that dotted his face in an accent of its imperfect perfection. The hands moved lower, laced around her shoulders, and there the fingers began stroking her collarbone. It was then, suddenly, that she realized she was still fully-clothed. It was her dark blue suit, the one that he loved because it set off her eyes. The one with the higher skirt and the lower-cut blouse. And though the jacket was unbuttoned and she wore no pantyhose, she was still not exposed enough to him. She was still oppressed, still professional. And she was aroused, so aroused that one touch on her wrist could bring her to orgasm. But he would not touch her there. Would not lick the line of her ear, or suckle on the fleshy droplet of her lobe. Did not think of taking those riveting hands up the insides of her thighs until he was rifling through her dark auburn curls and then sinking into the contracting, needy heat. He was killing her, killing her with these games... These innocent touches, these benign caresses... They were hell on her sensitized nerves and over-stimulated skin. She was weakening, giving into the demanding desire, but there was nothing to pull her to the brink of that desire and make her fly over the edge. His touches were just innocuous enough to keep her in this infernal titillation. She needed more. Hungered for definition. Closure. Climax. //Dammit.// If he would not provide the means to her end, then she would be forced to finish alone. Damn him and his seduction. She would do this with her own hand, her own fingers. One touch of her familiar fingers against her swollen, neglected clit would be enough to send her overboard; the fingers that were toying with the delicate clasp of her crucifix were enough to ensure that. But when she tried to move her hand, she froze. She could not. She was paralyzed. Stuck. Unable to move her own fingers. Unable to sate her own thirst. Desperately, she tried to move anything, anything at all, and found herself completely and utterly immobile. Terrified, her eyes flew to his face, and she saw sadness etched into the growing arousal in his eyes. //Oh, dear God, he knows...// From his fingertips dangled her dainty gold cross, and it swung there like a pendulum. //Oh Jesus Christ, please, not this...// It dropped onto the bed, and a wail built up in her throat. But, being as stupefied as she was, all she could do was open her mouth and close it. She was damned. She was *damned*. That was when he drew his hand down to her side, and she wanted to arch off the bed, lift her hips, find his erection and grind against it. All she could do was lie there, let his hand caress her skin through the thin silk of her blouse, and silently beg for him to remove the garment and touch *her*. But the rules were set; he knew it as much as she did. Professional. Calm. Collected. Those little bits of touches that he threw at her on an everyday basis; this was all she was allowed. It was all he was allowed to give her. One look in his tormented, dilated eyes gave her all the answer she needed. She was not the only one in hell here. "We can't," he whispered, though the look in his eye told her that there was something other than that he wanted to say. "We... We can't. We can't. We can't." It was all that poured out of his beautiful, erotic mouth. The mouth that was built for sexual pleasure. The mouth that God had created for the sole purpose of gratifying her. All that he could say with that butterscotch voice of his was that they could not. That they were stuck here, in this hell of sensation and lust, for eternity. And then she felt like screaming. She could feel her blood rushing, feel her clitoris swell and plead, feel her own vaginal muscles clench around nothing, but she could not make it enough. Could not make it the substitute for his lips or his cock or his fingers, or her fingers goddammit. There was nothing that she could do to satisfy this. Nothing she could do to make herself come, to make this agony turn to ecstasy. To turn this suffering into rapture. Nothing she could do could change her state of mind or body. Sweat gleaned on his face, and she noticed then his own state of torture. His erection was tenting his pants, his hands were shaking as they ran down her body in only the most auspicious of locations, and he, too, was fully dressed in typical office attire. Poor man, he couldn't even loosen his tie. She realized then that she wanted to touch him, too. End his misery. Take him from his torment and release him into exultation. She knew that she could. Just one grip of his cock or one swift thrust into her would be the final straw for both of them. They could end this, they could end this... But their bodies would not obey. Her fever was becoming stifling. The flush of wetness between her legs, the rush of her throbbing clitoris... She could not control herself. "We can't," he whispered again, his voice choked with heartbreaking anguish. "We can't." //Oh, God, Mulder, oh God...// She wanted to scream his name. Scream something. Release some noise. At this point, she had despairing hopes that perhaps the slightest bit of sound other than his gut-wrenching words could bring her to orgasm. His lips finally lowered, and perhaps, perhaps it was a kiss... Oh God yes, a kiss could undo her. A kiss could release her. A kiss could make her fly from her overheated body and into a place where arousal was nothing, and she was freed. She could be liberated with nothing more than a kiss, chaste or deep. All she needed was his mouth, his mouth against hers... There they were, his lips on her forehead, and she felt like weeping. No, no, not there... Let him kiss her elsewhere... Then they were on her cheek, his mouth trembling from the force of his desire, but no, no, it wasn't enough. And they touched her hand, too, but her shaking fingers weren't sensitive enough to make the contact work. All her fingers wanted was her clit, and she couldn't even touch herself. Her breasts throbbed, her nipples ached for his touch or even her own, but there was nothing there other than miserable waiting. And then, he lifted his head from hers, and he looked down into her eyes. Words were nothing, and her heartbeat fluttered. The kiss, the kiss, she could be undone with the kiss... His head lowered, his voice rasped, and then his mouth parted. She felt the heat of his breath, and then the grief of his words against her lips... "We can't... We can't." Body rushed, arousal suffocating, she wanted to crumple and fold. She did not want to wail. Did not want to scream. She only wanted to weep. This was hell. This was hell. Oh God, but it was heaven... ***** With a rush of sweat and a heated, forceful throb in her belly, Scully sat straight up in her bed. The fans were on, the air conditioning was cranked, and she was lying in a pool of sweat and arousal. She was hot, both ways. She was in need of him... And she could move. With a deep, choked moan, Scully brought her hand against her pelvis, dug underneath the panties, and felt the unsurprising rush of moisture against her fingers. Throwing her head back, she thumbed her clitoris while thrusting two fingers inside of her. Clenching around her own fingers over and over again, racing the final miles that she had not been allowed in her dream, Scully cried out his name as she came in a rush of sensation and orgasm. Where she went was calm and blue, and where she went, there was more than a breadth of a kiss and a series of repeated, tortured words. When she came back, her breathing slowed and her skin began to calm down, losing its electric sensitivity and its hot, demanding desire. She closed her eyes for a moment and her sweat-soaked hair kissed her cheek again. Only this time, it held nothing but a reminder of her past captivity. Her body's betrayal. Her desire's deception. Just like the past fifteen nights. "Mulder, Mulder..." Scully whispered, her lips dry and her mouth thick. "Mulder..." These were her nightmares. ***** (end) ***** Well, how about that, smut fans? It was smut, plain and simple, and it was nothing more than unadulterated erotica. Fun for me and hopefully fun for you. Let me know what you thought at Auralissa@aol.com. I would LOVE to hear from you! :) ***** Back to The Doghouse!