By jordan
Chapter Ten: Mulder's Sleeping Bag Theory Confirmed
Scully woke in the night, wet, shaken, unable to process anything. For a few minutes she felt drugged again, but then everything came back to her, and she stirred, startled into wakefulness. Skinner's arm tightened around her. He was sleeping behind her, the sleep of the satisfied man, which thunder would not waken.
So that's the secret, Scully mused. Not dinner or flowers or long sweet courtships, not avowals of love or foreplay or a even a shot of ergot in her bloodstream. All it took for the most wonderful orgasm of her life was for her boss to just roll over in a sleeping bag and stick it to her, and inside of ten minutes she was THERE.
It made her angry, it made her sad, it made her a little frightened. But in some dark corner of her mind it made her feel something else she'd never felt before. Skinner wanted her. He wanted her enough to break a promise, to violate a trust even to himself, enough so that all his good sense and starched attitude flew out the window. He had no control when it came to her, not when it came to sex. He found her overwhelmingly attractive. After years and years of being found so utterly resistible by her partner, this was a new and heady feeling.
The downside of that was that neither did she seem to be able to hold herself back. When she thought of how it had felt when he first put his big hand between her legs...expert, experienced, but his fingers trembling with excitement like a boy's...She squirmed a little just thinking about it.
Ah, here's a good way to keep her face warm when not in the sleeping bag; just blush all to hell. She thought her face was probably glowing in the dark. Not like she hadn't been laid before, for God's sake. She and Jack Willis must have done it twice a week, at least, for a year. That was different. She'd always had an orgasm with him, he saw to that. He had been a good lover. But it hadn't been anything like this. Not even close. Skinner had aroused something elemental in her, something she'd felt down to the soles of her feet. She couldn't stop herself, couldn't think in the rush of sensation. And now, although her fears about him and concerns were the same, Scully gripped Skinner's wrist and held on where his hand curved around her ribs; if they never slept together again, she would hang onto this feeling as long as she could.
She'd been wrong; Skinner was awake, had responded to the tightening of her fingers on his wrist. She turned in his arms and e pushed his arm out of the bag and unzipped it again. She couldn't see his face in the dim light of the sputtering candle; was he even really awake? Was she? Was this even really happening? It was easy to pretend in the dark that this was all a dream, a prequel to a thousand fantasies she knew she would have in her bed alone at night if she ever made it back to Georgetown.
He unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing over her thermal shirt, and then pushed the thermal shirt up over her breasts so he could touch her there. It was cold, but worth it for the feeling of his hands on her. Then he was pushing down on the waistband of her sweatpants again.
"I want you naked," he whispered.
"It's so cold." She murmured, but she made no attempt to stop him when he dragged her panties down once again, this time, using his foot to pull them down to her ankles and over her socks. He mounted her, and she felt his penis slide wetly down her belly and between her legs, but he didn't enter her. Instead he balanced himself on his elbows so that his weight was suspended above her, and he put his hand on her face and kissed her.
It was not a kiss like before. This was the male animal arousing the female animal, telling her she was about to be mated and trying to get her to participate in the act. It was a demand and an appeal at the same time, and Scully spread her legs in response, arching a little towards him. When he shifted his weight to one side and moved his upper body away, she missed the warmth, the shadow of him above her, but it was only so he could free his right hand to put between her legs again.
He was damn good at what he did, Scully dimly observed, wincing a little at the scratching of his unshaven jaw as he rubbed it against her neck, kissing her ear, coaxing her now with his mouth and his finger, sliding around her slippery skin, slowing pushing his middle finger up her, pausing, kissing her again, sucking on her tongue as he dipped his finger back down, two fingers now, stretching her, palming her clitoris and then another soft, coaxing kiss on her lips. Scully thought she wouldn't be able to wait until he entered her. She said, "Oh" without opening her mouth when she felt his fingers hard inside her, wondering if he was trying to make her beg for it. She would have, but she didn't know how, didn't know what to say. She seemed all response and no initiative; she wanted to reciprocate, to make him feel the way he was making her feel, but she didn't know where to begin. She ventured one small hand between them, under his shirt, and felt the tight muscles over his ribs, the coarse hairs on his chest; she could run her fingers through them gently, and was rewarded with his sharp intake of breath as her caress moved over the region of his heart.
He pulled his fingers out, rubbed her clitoris in a slow, knowing way. "Do you like that?" he whispered.
"Skinner..."
Someone else had taken over her body, some stripper or callgirl or something, and made it move in ways that surprised her. After the word "Skinner" she was unable to articulate the English language for a little while; he went on and on with whatever things he was doing to her, and Scully could only reach down and find his penis and feel it twitch and swell like an inflatable raft until it literally spread her fingers apart. For some reason that sent her almost over the edge and with an irritable, convulsive movement she shoved his hand away and said, "Now. Now."
He positioned himself carefully as if afraid of hurting her. Truth be told, he had hurt her before; he was too big to simply start fucking her without some foreplay. But she'd only felt the ache afterwards, not during, and she felt it again now. It took a few seconds for her to accommodate his size comfortably, for the soreness to subside to a kind of feverish itch. Then she moved forward, and he let his weight down slowly.
She was glad she couldn't see his face in the dark. Not because she was embarrassed, not because she didn't want him to see how intensely she was feeling every inch of him, but because she knew if she could see Skinner's face at that moment, the dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the angle of his unshaven jaw, she would not be able to stop herself from coming.
He tried to make it last, he really did. She admired his efforts. His natural style was to fuck her fast, with short hard strokes that moved her whole body forward a few inches on each thrust. But he tried to slow down, tried to bring her around more gently this time. It just didn't work. Scully felt him inside her and lost all restraint; she moved her hips up and forced him to take her harder, forced his rhythm to speed up, and she climaxed almost at once. Actually it wasn't precisely her orgasm, or his, but a mutual orgasm that both seemed to participate in; she was sobbing against his neck and could feel more than hear the sound he was making, teeth clenched, groaning low in his chest. They entered a place of pure sensation, indescribable afterwards, but one which bonded them in a common experience so intense that some kind of permanent exchange was made between his soul and hers, and the loss of it was like the loss of heaven. But the memory was so sweet that it lingered long afterwards into sleep, and for a very, very brief second before Scully slipped away, she recognized what it was: she felt loved.
Or maybe it was all just a strange beautiful dream, because when Scully woke up it was full daylight in the cabin and she was zipped up in the bag to her chin, her clothes in disarray but mostly in the right places, and Skinner was gone.
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