Taming The Unicorn 2: The Payback

It was with him, every moment. It haunted him, the knowledge remaining uppermost in his consciousness despite any and all efforts to push it back.

Scully, a virgin. His Scully. Scully of the amazingly talented tongue. Was a virgin. Pure and chaste and untouched... untouched... a delicate rosebud waiting to be lovingly coaxed to full flower; a luscious treasure ripe to be plundered. His Scully.

It didn't compute.

And yet it computed too well, spawning endless possibilities that latched into his hungry soul and burst forth into detailed imagery, almost more vivid than he could bear.

They hadn't spoken of it since it had happened, though neither had there been any attempt to deny it -- and he had done his best to remain the mature, rational human being that Scully obviously expected him to be; but it was an uphill struggle all the way.

Take, for instance, now. Driving a rental car, Scully sitting beside him -- he should have been listening to her, of course, paying attention to her summary of the case at hand, but instead all he could think about was her perfect mouth wrapped around him, and what it might be like to part her other lips and explore the untouched glory within...

"Mulder!" Her voice sharpened enough to draw him out of his reverie; which was probably a good thing, he supposed, considering that it was already getting difficult to drive with the swelling between his legs. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

He sighed, and decided that the best defense was the truth. "No, I didn't, sorry," he said sheepishly. "I was... somewhere else, for a minute."

She considered that briefly. "Was it a good place?" she asked finally.

The sound of her voice, somehow innocent and sultry at once, brought him instantly to full arousal. "Ohhh, Scully, it was a wonderful place," he murmured without thinking... realized what he had said, glanced sideways and was somehow gratified by the fact that she was blushing violently.

"Mul-derrr..." was her reply, striving to sound annoyed and only managing amusement. "Is that all you ever think about?"

He considered honesty again, wondered if she was really ready to hear it. No, not now, and not this way -- but maybe soon. Maybe. If he could ever manage to figure out what precisely he wanted to say to her.

"What do you think about, Scully?" he asked her, deflecting her question with his own.

"Besides the case, you mean? which is what we should be thinking about?" she chided gently. "I think about... a lot of things."

He noted her discomfort with interest. "Like what?" he probed.

"Like the fact that my feet hurt," she responded, rallying to conceal whatever-it-was she was really thinking, "and my legs ache from walking, and you can't even be bothered to discuss the thin threads of logic that led you to drag me up here in the first place." But her heart wasn't in it, he sensed; she was more concerned with covering -- something.

Still, he supposed she had a point; he spent the rest of the drive making a valiant effort to keep his attention focused on their work, and nearly succeeded.

When they got back to the motel, however, he realized that Scully hadn't been exaggerating; she winced as she got out of the car, and he hurried to her side to assist. "I'm fine," she said predictably, while every unsteady step belied her words, and he slung his arm around her shoulders and helped her inside anyway.

Easier and quicker to open his door than hers, and some of the color returned to her face when she was seated in the overstuffed chair, the weight off her abused feet. "I knew I should have returned these shoes to the store. They never did fit right," she muttered, by way of excuse -- so like her to fight against any semblance of weakness, to cover any small vulnerability.

"I've always wondered how you manage to run in those things," he said conversationally. For the first time in weeks, the timing seemed right... a germ of an idea was taking hold in his mind, adapting itself to the plans he'd already formed for just such an occasion. He snatched up a couple of washcloths from the bathroom countertop, noticed that the ice-bucket was three-quarters filled with half- melted ice and cold water and took that with him, too.

"Well, I won't be running in these," she grumbled, and leaned over to undo the offending shoes.

"Scully." He pitched his voice to match the sharp tone she'd used earlier -- it worked; she paused, looked up at him. "Don't do that."

"What? Why not?" She was perplexed -- more so when he seated himself cross-legged on the floor in front of her.

Then it dawned on her; he could see it happening before he spoke the words. "I'm your slave for life," Mulder said, "remember?"

Before she could decide to change her mind and release him from the promise, he slipped off her shoes, one by one; she was wearing stockings, and he removed those too, letting his hands trail along her legs longer than necessary. Dipping a washcloth into the icy water, he took her left foot into his lap and began to bathe it, massaging gently. He'd never been a foot-man, but Scully's were perfect -- news flash, he thought sardonically, because everything about Scully was perfect, and he was entranced, no, better make that obsessed... He could see all the way up her skirt, all the way to a gleam that might have been satin panties, and that tiny glimpse of fabric was unbearably arousing.

She moved her foot slightly, wiggling her toes, rubbing against the bulge in his pants -- that small touch was enough to send a shudder of pleasure racing through him. With a strength of will he hadn't known he possessed, he moved her foot away, ignoring his body's urgent pleas. "It's your turn," he told her firmly, and looked up to see her startled expression, and the bright sparkle of unshed tears in her eyes.

There was no protest in her tone, only a vast tenderness. "You don't have to do this."

He remembered her response to those words, smiled up at her. "I want to do this," he told her, meaning it, and began working on her other foot.

When he was done, he hesitated for a moment, wondering if she would go along with what he had in mind -- decided to chance it. He reached out toward her blouse, rested his hand against the topmost button and paused. "If my mistress would allow," he said, very softly.

"Mulder..." Her reply was equally hushed.

"Scully." I would never hurt you, he thought. Would never take anything you were unwilling to give me. Do you know that, Scully? Do you believe it?

Then he felt her hand settle against the side of his face. "I trust you," Scully said.

Something was constricting his throat; he couldn't answer.

He turned his attention to her blouse instead. Focus, he admonished himself sternly. One thing at a time. Buttons first, and be careful not to tear anything; she's not you, she cares about her clothes. Slide it off her shoulders; yeah, Scully, lean forward a little bit, that's right. Let me take this blouse off you, let me look down the front of your bra, oh, Scully, they're gorgeous... Steady, Mulder. Focus.

The skirt next, he decided, keeping up the internal running monologue as a way of distracting himself from the throbbing demands issuing forth from his groin. Now this presents some logistical difficulty. Button at the back, then the zipper, okay, now Scully needs to lift her hips up... are you telepathic, Scully? And if you are, do you know what this feels like for me, undressing you this way? I've dreamed of this, Scully, between the nightmares; woken up in the middle of the night with a need that just won't quit, no matter how much of a workout I give my right hand -- but best not to think about that, not now. Focus on Scully, Mulder. Focus on her.

Look at her, sitting in that chair in just her bra and panties; look at how exquisite she is. But the underwear will have to go -- not just yet; she looks a little nervous right now, as it is. And you still have to prepare things; better go do that now... you can't leave her sitting here half-naked in a chair, though, can you? Better do something about that.

He stood up, not bothering to try to conceal his arousal, wincing at the pull of tight fabric against oversensitized skin. Don't think about that. Think about Scully... She let out an involuntary little squeak as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. Set her down gently, gently. Yes. And cover her with the bedspread so that she won't get chilled. No, don't touch her breasts, no matter how much you want to. Stick to the plan.

"I'll be right back," he told her, and went into the bathroom, turned on the water in the tub and adjusted its temperature, testing the flow as cautiously as if he were preparing a baby's formula. When he was satisfied, he jammed the plug in the drain and let the tub fill, emerged to find Scully lying on one side, head propped up on her hand, waiting for him. "Do you have bubble bath?" he inquired.

She was beginning to get the idea; her lips curved into a sweet smile. "In the green cosmetics case."

He found the pouch in question, sorted through it -- a veritable treasure trove of female accoutrements, he discovered: foaming bath gel and cleansers and lotions, everything he might need for the occasion. The perfect accessory for a willing slave, he decided, and took the whole bag back with him. The recommended capful of bath gel didn't produce nearly enough bubbles, so he added a few more; when he was satisfied with the profusion of foam, he went to fetch Scully. "Your bath is ready, my lady," he told her, gently drawing aside the bedspread and savoring, for just an instant, the sight revealed. Time to take off the bra; reach around to the back -- can't you stop your hands from shaking? There's the clasp; just a little tug... then ease the straps down.... ohhh, look at that. His equilibrium faltered; he struggled to regain it. Luscious, round, ripe, little rosy-pink nipples just begging to be kissed... these pants are far too tight. I should have changed into sweatpants before I started this. Twenty-twenty hindsight...

Don't touch her, don't touch them; don't even look at them. Deal with the panties. No, don't let yourself think about the way she's arching her hips up toward you. Grasp waistband, slide down... look at that, she's a natural redhead. All those little ringlets, glistening... Focus, dammit. Focus.

He lifted her in his arms again; more prepared this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and nestled into him in a way that made his heart and loins pound fiercely. How easily she yielded to him, and how completely -- his guarded Scully, as close-mouthed about her secrets as he was, yet in this she apparently felt no compunctions about allowing him free rein. She wasn't fighting him, wasn't helping him, was simply allowing him to do as he pleased... such trust, especially considering that there had to have been, in her life, at least one man who didn't want to take no for an answer. She had so much trust in him...

The tub was two-thirds full, and as he set her down carefully in the hot water, bubbles spilled over and onto the floor. "Is the temperature all right?" he asked.

"Perfect," and her sultry purr shot through him like an arrow, Cupid's arrow maybe, lodging in his groin and increasing the already unbearable ache. His pants were cut in such a way as to allow him precious little room for expansion, and his swollen cock was begging to be touched, any touch -- yet he knew that, like scratching an itch, there would be no stopping once he was started. And that would completely undermine the plan...

The bubbles flowed around her and over her, concealing her from his view -- a bit of a disappointment, but it certainly made it easier for him. First things first. He poured a little scented bath gel onto a washcloth, rubbed it into a lather and began smoothing it over her shoulders, down her arms, with gentle strokes. She might not be as fragile as a china doll, but somehow he couldn't help but think of her that way. At least in this, where she was -- if not fragile -- nevertheless rather more delicate than what he was used to. Scully, a virgin. It never seemed to quite sink in, startling him anew every time the thought crossed his mind. And had anyone ever treated her to the kind of luxuriant pleasure that she had given him? had anyone ever striven to please her with the same single-minded intensity with which she'd favored him? Possibly... but he was going to be even better than that hypothesized lover; he was utterly determined, in that regard.

Not that the experience wasn't as much of a treat for him: the image of her luscious nudity had been branded on his consciousness, implanted into permanent memory. It was an image he knew he'd replay over and over, throughout a thousand lonely nights, as his hands struggled to emulate the ecstatic memories... an inadequate substitute for his true desire, but far better than nothing at all.

He let his hands wander, ostensibly washing her, in reality using the washcloth as a flimsy excuse to touch her anywhere, everywhere... working up his courage and ruthlessly suppressing his longings, he turned his attention to her breasts, rubbing the washcloth lightly over the pert pink nubs that poked through a thin film of white foam. She gasped at the touch, and he filed away the information for future reference: in a little while, it would come in handy. Down, lower, reaching through the water to that lovely patch of auburn curls, making sure to devote the proper attention to every nook and cranny despite her involuntary squirming... He wasn't trying especially hard to arouse Scully, not yet, but it was happening anyway; and he rather liked the implications of that. Was it the experience of being pampered that she enjoyed? or was it simply the fact that he was the one doing it? He would have preferred the latter, but either was acceptable, as long as she was having a good time.

The bubbles had dissipated by the time he finished with her legs and feet, and he dislodged the stopper to let some of the water out -- his shirtsleeves were soaked, bathwater wicking up past his elbows, so he shed his shirt and pitched it into a corner before continuing. Filling the tub a second time, he rinsed away the soap, then began on her hair -- the hair on her head, his mind filled in helpfully -- shampoo, and rinse, and conditioner, and rinse again, then a bathtowel turban to absorb the excess water and keep the sodden strands out of the way.

One last warm-water rinse, and he lifted her in his arms, very very carefully because it would not do to lose his footing and drop her -- he was unprepared for the feel of her warm, wet skin against his bare chest, and the sudden wave of arousal left him weak-kneed and nearly made him drop her after all.

Somehow, he managed to make it from his bathroom into his room, through the connecting doors and into hers, to set her down on the bed. "I'm going to get the bedspread all soggy," she protested mildly.

"No you won't," he answered, darted into her bathroom with a couple of long-legged strides and emerged with the small pile of pristine towels that the maid had left while they were out working... working: it seemed a completely different world, one that they had left a thousand miles away...

Toweling her off was almost as much fun as soaping her up had been; he discovered a couple of ticklish spots, and delighted in her giggles. And then she was dry, and he pulled aside the bedspread and quilt (which had after all become rather damp) and watched with hungry eyes as she wriggled onto the dry sheets.

"Lie back," he said softly, and she did, stretching and settling into a comfortable pose -- so pale and perfect, displayed before him with a sort of innocent grace; she was gorgeous, and she had utter faith in him. A more irresistible combination, he could not imagine.

Where to start? Slowly, he decided, stroking a relatively safe section of her upper thigh. Let his hand wander upward, over her hip, across her stomach... temptation overwhelmed him, and he cupped her breast in his hand and flicked his thumb across the nipple. Her sigh of pleasure startled him; it was such a soft sound, like the flutter of an angel's wings. So perfectly right for Scully.

It was almost easy, after that, to focus on her needs to the exclusion of his own. To watch her lose control, little by little. To feel her succumb to his caresses, and -- when he replaced fingers with lips -- to his kisses. Positioning became a little awkward, after awhile, because he didn't want to move to cover her, or rest his weight atop her, or do anything that might make her feel restrained or helpless, not even a momentary twinge of anxiety to mar her pleasure. Besides, it was too exciting to watch her squirming and writhing, her pale skin growing flushed and sweaty, and to know that he was the one making her feel that way.

When he parted her legs and took his place between them, he felt a strange, breathless excitement seize him: as if he stood poised on the verge of some momentous discovery, some great revelation... again, it hit him, feeling (as always) as if it were the first time; she's a virgin, passed through his mind, and once more he experienced the same incredulous reaction. Not because it was so uncommon to encounter thirty-plus-year-old virgins, not for any reason so pedestrian as that -- but because this was the woman he'd seen face down impossible opponents and unreasonable odds with a courage and a strength that he'd come to take for granted. The thought that there was a part of her so pure and fragile and vulnerable, well, it was absolutely incomprehensible.

And there it was before him, virgin territory, glistening pink paradise... and for a moment, just a moment, he experienced a fierce urge to seize and conquer. Typical male, he thought absently, hearing the echo of Scully's voice in his head,

She tasted so sweet, and she was so sensitive -- he found her rhythm and settled into it, vaguely surprised by how much he was enjoying himself. He'd never understood the antipathy that some men felt toward this act, but he'd never particularly sought out the experience, either -- it was just something to be done, a necessity of life, like the national anthem before a baseball game.

In this particular case, he'd been contemplating it for some time, imagining it, visualizing... he'd spent an inordinate amount of time looking for an opening, a plausible excuse to make it happen, and had anticipated no inherent difficulty on his part in making it a good experience all around. What he hadn't expected was the realization that he would have been perfectly content to remain there indefinitely with his head buried between her legs, to the point where his own longings felt very remote. Even as the taste and scent of her set his every nerve ending alight, all he could think about was her pleasure.

Her soft cry echoed in his ears, as her climax swept over her, a small helpless sound that pierced to the core of his soul. He adjusted his technique to allow for a certain amount of hypersensitivity and kept at it, and swiftly brought her back to that peak... the second time, he almost came with her, so caught up in her ecstasy that direct stimulation was unnecessary, empathy was enough. It took him a moment to recover from that, and to get a grip on his sudden desperate urgency -- and when he was certain he had regained control, he began all over again. If the pitch and volume of her cries was any indication, the third one was the most intense.

Afterwards, he rested his head against her leg, his cheek pressed against her sweat-slicked thigh, savoring the lassitude in her, the satiated weariness. Only the best for you, Scully.

And then he felt her hand settle on his head, stroking his hair gently. "Mulder," she whispered, and the sound of her voice and the nearness of that which he most desired were all at once more than he could stand; he knew that he had to get out of there right now, before he did something stupid and impulsive and 'male' that they would both regret.

He scrambled out of bed and to his feet -- a flicker of hurt crossed her face, and he knew he'd been too abrupt. Carefully, he drew the covers up and over her, tucking them around her shoulders, pausing for a moment to let his hand wander along the side of her face in a gentle caress. "I'll be right back," he told her.

"Mulder..." He glanced back, and read the silent offer in her eyes: a return of services rendered -- and oh, how he wanted it -- but no. This was for her, all for her.

"I'll be right back," he repeated, and got out of there before he could change his mind.

He made it into the bathroom somehow, closed and locked the door, reached down to unzip his fly -- but the need was too strong, and he couldn't take it anymore; he clutched at himself, pressing hard -- and the orgasm hit him like a sledgehammer, sending shudders through him, so intense that his knees nearly buckled under him, so powerful that he couldn't breathe.

As it subsided, he found himself leaning heavily against the tiled wall. Ah, Scully, what you do to me, was his first coherent thought, filled with rueful wonderment. Even in the fierce grip of an overactive teenage libido, he'd never been quite so precipitous.

But of course, since this was Scully, it was only natural.

Kind of like virgin territory for both of us, he thought, as he cleaned himself up as best he could. A shower was definitely in order: a long cold shower, or better yet, a long hot shower, with visions of Scully's 'sugarplums' dancing in his head the whole time. Hmmm... the holidays were coming up soon, and these recent developments had the potential to completely redefine the concept of Christmas presents...

New ground for both of them, for he'd never felt such a combination of tenderness and ravening lust, especially considering that the former overruled the latter almost completely. There had been that time in high school, where the girl had been upset, and all he'd been concerned with was whether or not he could use the situation to 'comfort' her -- and others since, episodes that in retrospect made him feel ashamed of his own selfishness. But then, from childhood onwards he'd been so alone, as if he were the only person in the world... easy, with that attitude, to treat others as objects. To disregard other people's feelings, because he was so wrapped up in his own.

But this was Scully. And that made everything different. Everything.

Idly, he wondered if she'd let him do it again, and how soon...

He emerged from her bathroom, trying to ignore the discomfort of sticky underwear and a renewed hard-on, more concerned with checking on Scully -- and found her asleep, or almost; moonlight streamed through a small gap in the curtains, illuminating her sweet smiling face in an angelic glow. As he knelt beside the bed, her eyes fluttered open, and he smiled back, reaching out to brush away an errant strand of still-damp hair. "Get some rest," he told her, "you'll need it. Busy day tomorrow."

Her hand wriggled free from the blankets, caught his and held it; her smile was radiant. "Mulder," she said. Just that, just his name, yet it conveyed so much.

"'Night, Scully," and he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it -- and only then did it register that for all the intimacy they'd shared, and despite the fact that he'd pretty much given her a tongue bath from the neck down, they had never kissed. Not once, not ever.

The thought of kissing her excited him and terrified him: there were implications in a kiss that they had somehow so far avoided. And if there had been a moment when it might have happened, it was gone an instant later, when her eyes drifted closed, succumbing to fatigue. "'Night, Mulder," she murmured.

He waited until she was fully asleep before releasing her hand -- for a moment, he contemplated the idea of sitting there on the floor all night. It wasn't as if he was going to sleep that night anyway... but he had the feeling it would take both hands to deal with the residual effects of the evening's events. Both hands and a lot of hot water, or a lot of cold water, or very possibly both... but despite his anxiousness to get down to business, it was all he could do to force himself to leave.

Spending the night kneeling at her bedside, just to hold her hand and watch her sleep? Not a problem. More like a gift.

"Your slave for life," he whispered, very softly, so as not to disturb her slumber.

But tomorrow was another day, one in which they would have to face the world in their FBI-agent facades and deal with the real world; Scully wouldn't appreciate having to deal with a partner who was both sleep-deprived and desperately horny, and it wouldn't be much fun for him, either.

Trust. She was trusting him to handle this right, to not screw up the delicate balance of the tightrope they were walking by daring such intimacy.

Mulder sighed, and left her room as quietly as he could, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

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