"Auftakt" by Erin Please post to ATXC. Feel free to archive anywhere, just please keep my name and e~mail addy attached! Spoilers: None Rating: 17+ Content: Sexually explicit situations Classification: Vignette, {Romance/erotica? (M & S)} Summary: A beginning, of sorts. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully (surprise!) do not belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013 and/or Fox. This was written in yet another desperate attempt to cope with the unending summer season. Still anxiously awaiting season five!!! Author's notes: This is an attempt to release myself from profound writer's block with regards to another story I'm working on (Foundation II). Please, don't expect plot. As before, I have done my best to stay away from other works while writing my own. This and all my stories are just that - mine. And, in case you hadn't noticed, "Auftakt", with a self-imposed rating of 17+, is a complete 360 degrees from any of my other stories, so....anyone underage or who is offended by "such things" should hit delete now!!! All feedback, as always, is welcome and greatly appreciated. ________________________ "Auftakt" ________________________ Sometimes I dream. Childish innocence is lost amid sleep-hazed caresses. It begins with a glance, a touch, a soft embrace. An innocent gesture when I answer his soft knock brings my dreams into sharp focus. My face blushes fiery red in remembrance. It's not a good color on me. "What is it?" he asks. As if he doesn't know. Know what he does to me, the sleepy eyes behind the glasses. He casually walks in. He loosens his tie, tosses his suit jacket on the table. Lowers his lanky frame to the floor to begin a night filled with paperwork. "Come in," I say, arching an eyebrow skyward. I am still standing stupidly in the doorway. I shut the door and admire him from behind. I put the dreams out of my mind. As I approach my partner (all work and no play makes Fox a dull boy) I notice the sly grin on his face. His countenance reflects clearly in the stereo cabinet across from him. We have hours ahead of us, hours in which the dance will be played out so perfectly, so - I gesture to the files in his hand. "What's on for tonight?" I ask, wanting to play the Ice Queen to perfection tonight. My eyes catch his in the reflection, holding them until - finally - I am able to betray no emotion, no feeling beyond another exciting evening of endless paperwork. Paperwork that will, in all likelihood, be put off until Monday morning. He innocently turns around. I am still behind him, still standing. Superior. In charge. He mutely questions my defensive stance, and I feel myself melt. In all things we are partners. Equals. I know this, I am aware of it. As is he. I sit on the floor, across the low coffee table from him. He hands me a file and a stack of paperwork. Tosses me a pen. "You want to order Chinese later?" he asks. I shrug. I don't care. "Sure, whatever," I say, burying myself in the paperwork. Later I take off my glasses, rub the bridge of my nose. I notice that he is still wearing the clothes he wore today at work. The dark greyish-charcoal suit, white shirt still fresh and crisp. Abominable tie. It hangs limply around his throat, the top two buttons of his collar undone. I shake my head, snorting inwardly. I feel fresh as damned daisy. I always make sure to have just stepped out of the shower, or a relaxing bubble bath. It aides in the illusion (or delusion) that time means nothing to me. He can wait, if I'm not done. Sometimes he does. And other times - "Listen, if you're just going to stare at that file, give it to me and I'll finish it," he offers. He holds out his hand expectantly. I see that while I have been so thoroughly engrossed in reviewing this one file, he has completed over half the stack. Damn the man. He rises and crosses the room to the kitchen. My eyes follow his graceful form studiously, and I sigh in near-despair when he leaves my line of sight. I hear his mellow voice talking on the phone, remember that same voice, whispering to me. Arguing with me. Laughing with me. Teasing, taunting, tempting. Tantalizing. Heaven help me. The charade cannot continue much longer. I again attempt to focus my thoughts on the files before me. Almost I succeed. I feel his presence looming over me long before I give him the satisfaction of a glance. I tense in anticipation; a hush falls over the room, as in the moments before the curtain rises for a theater performance. I almost feel the lights dim. No, that's just the heady feeling of suspense. Apprehension, perhaps? I think not. I give him what he wants. I look up at him, his stance fiercely demanding and entreating, all at once. An intoxicating combination. I suddenly find that I have lost all coherent thought, all reason. I raise my hand, gently allowing it to roam aimlessly down the outside seam of his pants. He takes the offending hand and I find myself rising, through no whim of my own. I am in his arms, his lips on mine, now gentle, now fierce. Now so tenderly betraying his own carefully hidden emotions. I separate myself from his embrace, willing myself to breathe. Damning my body for needing it, for needing *him*. His eyes question mine. Do I regret this? Do I want him to stop? Never. I lean in for more of his exquisite torture, taste his lips on mine, feel his hands gently roving my body. For now he is content to glory in the moment, to revel in our closeness. I bask in the light of his attention, his devoted caresses kindling sensuous sparks throughout my body. I want him to know this torture, too. To feel it, to ache for it. To crave it as he craves food to eat, water to drink - mysteries to solve. A soft knock on the door interrupts our stolen moment. He grumbles good-naturedly about poor timing and admits the delivery person. He quickly pays the young man and ushers him out the door. I send my lover a shy smile, tears encroaching. Somehow I manage to quell the urge as he gives me his hand, draws me nearer to him. Seated once again on the floor, he tears open one of the containers. He deftly maneuvers the chopsticks, takes a piece of spicy chicken and offers the morsel to me. His eyes bear down upon me, the intense heat of his gaze provoking my breath to give way in a heavy sigh. I accept his loving tribute, feeling pampered, coddled. Loving every glorious minute. His eyes tell me in no uncertain terms to eat; he worries about me still. In an act of willful disobedience I in turn feed him, which he accepts humbly, all the while caressing me, caressing my hair, his fingers lightly grazing my temple. Soon all thoughts of nourishment are abandoned in the wake of his kiss. I need no food, no nourishment but him. He knows this. He creates this need inside me, with every touch, every glance, every soothing embrace. Every gentle kiss. He knows the hold he has on me. Sometimes he uses it to his advantage. As tonight. His grip tightens; I feel so small, so delicate next to him. He relaxes his hands and I move toward the bedroom. I turn once, to ascertain that he is following, and I am frightened again by the magnitude of this man, the sheer intensity of him. The warning I see in his eyes. I shudder in giddy anticipation. He grabs me, roughly forcing my back to the wall. This man's mercurial moods never cease to amaze me, or to frighten me with their dimensions. I crave his turbulent kisses more with each passing second. He slowly allows his heated gaze to wander the length of my body; without warning he takes me into his arms and carries me the last few steps to the bedroom. He deposits me unceremoniously on the bed; I lose my bearing momentarily. Slowly I become aware of his shadowy figure approaching. I lay still, fear giving way to an intense focus on his hands as they come to rest at my hips. His hands, rough against my smooth, sensitive skin, snake their way under my silken shirt. He slowly unbuttons my shirt and then places one hand under me, lifting me gently to remove the garment. I feel boneless, weightless, like a rag doll, under his ministrations. In the space of a heartbeat my shirt lays discarded on the floor. I want to see him, all of him. I sit up and reach for his tie. Pull him down to me, kissing him, distracting him. I remove the god-awful tie and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. In a moment of sheer frustration I give the buttons a fierce tug, sending them flying in all directions. He smiles into my mouth. Tells me I'm certainly going to pay for *that*. God, please. His kisses grow harder, more demanding. If anything, savage. He jerks me closer to him, his hands roughly traversing the contours of my body. I want to touch him; I want - I take one of his hands into my own, threading my fingers through his. "No," he tells me. He forces me to release his hand. I reluctantly comply. I see we are going nowhere until I do. He returns to me; a man with a mission. He swiftly releases the catch of my lacy black bra and it, too joins the growing mound of clothes on the floor. His kisses trail slowly, deliberately from my mouth to my shoulder. Almost languorously he changes direction and moves to my breasts, teasing, tantalizing. His hands still their relentless movement over my body, coming to rest again at my hips. He slowly unbuttons the top button of my black jeans; his fiery lips close around a nipple, suckling gently, drawing and releasing, drawing, releasing... His fingers move to the zipper, moving it down centimeter by centimeter, slowly, agonizingly. I lift my hips in silent entreaty. I hear his mirthless chuckle. He moves to my other breast, circling the nipple, laving it with his tongue. I ache. "Please," I whisper, hating myself immediately for that momentary weakness. He laughs harshly, cupping me. I'm certain he feels the moisture through my jeans as I grind myself into his palm, silently begging. I want to be dominated. He knew it from the beginning. I push him away with every ounce of strength left in me. I can't take much more of this. I know it. I *want* to see him. Now. I stand up warily, waiting for his next move. It is not forthcoming. I take this as silent permission, and push him down so that he is seated on the edge of the bed. I climb up behind him, kissing his neck, running my hands through his hair....God, his hair...I savagely pull the shirt from his body, my hands kneading the flesh of his shoulders. I circle his body with my arms, resting my head on his back for a moment as my hands continue their exploratory search. I find what I'm looking for beneath the material of his pants. I gently undo the top button of his pants and allow my hand free access, sliding into his boxers and targeting the hard length of him. I cup him gently, sheathing my claws in this most tender of places. He releases a shuddering breath as I run my hand up and down his penis "Who's in control now?" I whisper wickedly, continuing to stroke him. An iron grip stills my hand. "I am," he tells me, propelling me onto his lap. I can feel the heat of him beneath me, and I squirm, wanting nothing more than to - "No," he says again. He stands, holding me in his arms. He gently allows me to stand. "Take off your jeans," he commands roughly. I jump at his voice, not just the words but the tone as well. I do as he says and stand before him, a supplicant, wearing nothing but lacy black panties. He nods his appreciation and moves behind me. He lowers his mouth to the back of my neck, his hands beginning anew their tumultuous scan of my body. Suddenly he shoves me to the bed, tiring of this game. He removes my panties, sends them flying into the darkness. He brings his lips to mine, one last time, before kissing a delightful path down my body. I feel his lips hovering at the apex of my thighs, his heated breath sensuously teasing me. Tormenting me. He watches me with sleepy eyes, a quivering mass of need, and finally I feel his lips on me, kissing, sucking, until I am almost insane with desire. His tongue unerringly finds my clitoris; I gasp for air, bucking against his mouth, raising my hips to meet him. He is going to kill me with this need. I am going to die. He ceases his loving ministrations; I blindly reach for him, pull him to me, and this time he doesn't resist. I kiss him, taste myself in his mouth. He allows me to touch him now. I need to see him. To feel him inside me. I fumble awkwardly with his pants; they *must* come off now. Immediately. He chuckles softly, assisting me, and then returns to my side. He kisses me, forcefully thrusts a finger inside me and I writhe at the feel of it. He continues the thrusting motion, mimicking that act with his tongue. I gasp under his mouth. I will certainly die right here. Right now. With pleasure. I abandon all doubts and reservations, if, in fact, I'd ever had any. He positions himself between my legs, bracing himself firmly on his arms. I feel the heated length of him searching, seeking entrance, and with my hand I guide him gently into my demanding body. He stills inside me immediately, the powerful anacrusis stronger than ever imagined. More than hoped for. And the downbeat is still more powerful, his long thrusts filling me to the core. I match him, thrust for thrust, straining against him and with him, almost fighting to finish. He urges me on, quietly, his voice calm. His actions are anything but. I hear a cry, and with some amazement realize that it has escaped from my own lips. Uninhibited, I hear the groans that are ripped from my throat with each powerful thrust. I tilt my hips forward, seeking greater contact. In a mad instant I feel a dizzying warmth building inside me, beginning at my core and spiraling outward. In a blind surge I come, I feel him thrust furiously one last time into my body, gasping for air, my name on his breath. We collapse together, a mass of quivering nerves, struggling for breath. I smile softly in the darkness. Fall asleep in his arms. _________________________________ END "Auftakt" 9/7/97