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06 Feb 1998
This was originally posted to XFF on Tue, 27 Jan 1998. It precedes my "Rarest Man" stories.
Ok to archive at Gossamer and where you will (WS Fanfic and MSSS etc.) Already posted on ATXF.The Rarest Man - Prologue: The Walk
by Sergeeva sergeeva@geocities.comCategory: V, R (Mulder/Skinner friendship/UST)
Rating: R (no naughty words, nothing at all explicit)
Spoilers: Nothing I can think of.
Disclaimer: Neither of the main characters in this is even named, but to cover my bases: anyone you think you recognise is the property of CC, MP, DD, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended.
Summary: Follow-my-leader with a new twist. This is in response to a challenge from Agent Berry to write a fan-fic with the same title as an episode from the show.
This is my very first attempt at fan-fic so any feedback will be most appreciated. Just remember that this is the product of a totally obsessed mind and be gentle with me.
The rating is a guess really - this piece is really all in one person's mind and hardly more than wishful thinking, but I have started a second segment that is definitely R, and may develop into NC-17.
The Rarest Man - Prologue: The Walk
by SergeevaI've just spent half the morning following my boss around the building - just to watch him walk.
It's been quite a strain keeping enough distance between us not to be spotted, yet staying close enough to see what I wanted to see.
He clearly has no idea how eye catching he looks striding through the corridors, but I'm not the only one who's noticed: an amazing number of secretaries, researchers and clerks seemed to *have* to look out of their offices just as he passed (I think they have an early-warning phone network). You could see the appreciation, longing and lust written across their faces as they watched his tall, muscular figure go by.
The man is legendary, of course, for quite a few reasons: his strict by-the-book attitude, the extraordinary hours he works, his punishing fitness regime, the ability he has to make an agent feel about two inches tall without even raising his voice, his unfailing courtesy to janitors, cleaning staff and cafeteria personnel, the way he homes in on the one less than satisfactory aspect of your report... and also, apparently, his walk...
Actually, "walk" doesn't even begin to describe what he does. "Prowl" is the best I can come up with: there's a fluid grace, an effortless power that brings to mind nothing so much as a jungle cat -a tiger, or a panther. Something compelling, sensuous and faintly menacing.
He usually reads files as he walks (never an idle moment, I can hear him thinking), but some internal radar keeps him on a die-straight path. He never has to correct his course to avoid anything or anyone. This could have something to do with the alacrity with which everyone else moves out of his way, of course, especially if he's wearing the patented glare, but it's an impressive performance, nonetheless.
When he's not reading he's observing - that calm, neutral gaze takes in everything: who's closeted in Archives all day, who's loitering in the hallway gossiping too often, who's coming or going from somewhere they haven't a good reason to be... He knows his people well, despite having only brief and formal contact with most of them, and I think he does this regular "tour of inspection" with that in mind. He rarely sends Kimberly with messages or uses the phone when he can spare the time to go himself and most days he'll find a reason to walk the halls for half an hour or so. He knows about all the office romances, who's not speaking to whom, who's got health or family worries, who's not pulling their weight, has got too involved in a case, or is working too hard. I've seen time and time again when he's quietly stepped in to defuse a situation, to give a team a clearer perspective, to offer advice or support, or just to arrange time off for an agent who needs it. He would say it's just part of his job.
He's an instinctive leader - sure of his own strength and purpose, generous with his time and attention. When you're talking to him you feel the unwavering force of that sharp intellect and that intense gaze focused entirely on you - it's quite an experience. He's genuinely concerned for the safety and success of his agents, but more than that: for them to feel supported and valued, to feel the pride in and dedication to the work that *he*feels.
I can't believe now that I misread him for so long - saw him as just an obstructive bureaucrat, saw his attention to detail as narrow-minded, his insistence on proper procedure as lack of imagination, his criticism as prejudice, his checking-up as a personal insult...When all the time he was steering me away from personal and professional self-destruction. Standing on the shifting line between my controversial work and his own truly bureaucratic colleagues and superiors. Trying to keep me within bounds that he could justify to them, while having to argue the validity of some pretty unconventional conclusions in my cases, just so that the work could continue at all.
In truth, I was as stubborn and graceless and petty as I thought he was and it's a wonder he put up with me. Since I opened my eyes and my mind and my heart to see just what an extraordinary man he is, we still don't agree a lot of the time, but I understand him far better and I think he understands me as very few others do.
So he probably spotted me trailing him this morning within the first minute. I don't think much gets past him and my technique did get sloppy when I had to lean against the wall and catch my breath after watching him devastate a clutch of typists with an unconscious flex of his shoulders.
He walks like an athlete - powerful, loose-limbed, relaxed yet controlled. He walks tall, with no hint of slouching or round shoulders. He strides out from the pivot of his lean hips, using the full length of his legs, creating a rhythmic tilt of that perfect ass that gives me such ideas...
I've watched him this morning doing his job in a way that most of the high-ups wouldn't recognize. Watched him shake Agent Marlowe's hand as he asked after his wife and new baby son. Watched him check with Agent Willis on the progress of her physiotherapy following the accident in Austin. Watched him remind Agent Burnett that there's more to life (and work) than the Dagwood case and that two all-nighters back-to-back is probably more than enough to prove his enthusiasm. Watched him break up Agents Bruce and Carlisle's little tete a tete before they completely disgraced themselves in the stationery store. Watched him wish Wilbur Dennis, the grouchy old janitor on the 4th floor, a happy birthday. It wasn't all appreciated, but you could see all those to whom he spoke look thoughtfully after him as he walked away...
Watching him, *my* morning wasn't wasted either.
The Rarest Man 1: Test of Endurance by Sergeeva
CATEGORY: V,R (Mulder/Skinner friendship/UST)
RATING: R (just hints, really)
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: These dear people don't, unfortunately, belong to me. The characters of Walter Skinner and Fox Mulder are the property of CC, MP, DD, 1013 Productions and Fox Television. No infringement is intended. Stan Dorrell is my creation and may not be used elsewhere without my consent.
SUMMARY: Mulder gets up early and learns more about his feelings and about his boss.
THANKS: To Hal, for constant encouragement, endless patience, good humour, intelligent comments and inspirational beta-reading - you're irreplaceable! And to Marianne, for giving my stories their first home.THE SERIES SO FAR:
The Walk (Rarest Man: Prologue)
Rarest Man: Test of Endurance
Rarest Man: Wet Dream
Rarest Man: Resolution
Rarest Man: Famine & Feast
Rarest Man: Duty Before PleasureThe stories are chronological (with a gap still to be filled between F&F and DBP), but are fairly self-contained too, so can be read separately. They can be found on Marianne's web-site at: http://www.fortunecity.com/lavendar/elystan/99/sergeeva.html and shortly on my own new web-site (Sergeeva's Skinnerfics) at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/7155/
EMAIL ME: Caring feedback is *always* appreciated (and answered!) at: sergeeva@geocities.com or s.e.fletcher@durham.ac.uk
The Rarest Man 1: Test of Endurance
by Sergeeva (sergeeva@geocities.com)"He is simply the rarest man i' th' world"
Shakespeare - Coriolanus 4,v,161At 5.14 in the morning the Hoover building is pretty much deserted apart from security and the skeleton night-duty staff, but I know one person who's already signed in for the day. There were three cars on the top level of the parking garage where I left my Taurus and I recognized Skinner's dark grey sedan at once.
I know where he'll be, too - in the gym complex, working out. In fine weather he runs before work and works out after, on wet, dark mornings such as this, he usually hits the gym first thing and plays squash or swims in the evening. I've made it my business to find all this out, but I've never before done what I'm about to do: seek him out so I can watch him exercise.
Of course, I'm justifying it to myself by listing all the sound, work-related reasons I need to get in touch with him *now*: the new development in the Hammond Hills case that seems to tie in with the disappearances in Wisconsin, the time-factor because of Adamson's latest threat and my flight to Green Bay at 8.00... Oh, I can make a great case for why I have to see my boss here and now, but the real reason is that I'm obsessed with the man, I'm addicted to the sight and sound of him, and like a junkie, I need my fix before I get on that plane and have nothing but my torrid dreams to warm me for however long I'm stuck in the frozen north.
I don't know exactly when my obsession reached the point where I dream about him every night, where I can contemplate doing what I'm about to do. I've spent several blissful hours over the past weeks trailing him around the corridors of the JEH watching him do that part of his job that isn't written down, the informal conversations with his people that keep him aware of so much more than written reports ever could. I used to think he was remote, cold, even uninvolved, that I'd never really get to know him. I still recall my amazement the first time he came down to the basement just to talk.
I was suspicious, unwelcoming, probably insolent, but he just fixed me with that calm gaze - the one you can't look away from - and I found myself talking about the last awful case, what I did on weekends, a diner I knew that did outstanding chili, a book on reincarnation I'd just finished... It was extraordinary, even as a psychologist I was impressed. And it worked - I felt better afterwards.
Since then, I've watched him with a new eye, with a growing respect and admiration, and lately, with something much more than admiration.
The first time I realized which way my mind was heading was in a case conference, of all places, when I watched him stretch across the table to pass Scully a file and something about the line of his lean body brought the previous night's dream flooding back to me with such blush-making intensity that I had to drop my notebook and duck down to retrieve it, giving myself time to compose my face if not my feelings.
I'd dreamt of flying with him, clinging to his broad back as he carried us up through clouds into sunlight, my naked body pressed to his, my arms wrapped around his muscled chest, feeling tireless, full of hope, exhilarated.
The dreams have gotten more and more frequent and I cherish them shamelessly - so many nights exploring Walter Skinner, so many days telling myself it can *never* happen, even while I torture myself by thinking about what I ache to do...
Which brings me to this moment: walking through the silent corridors of the Hoover building, trying to convince myself I'm only here for the sake of the case.
I push through the heavy glass doors leading into the gym. It's relatively unfamiliar territory for me - I usually head straight for the pool, avoiding the grunts and gasps of the jocks pounding away on the gleaming Nautilus and Nordic Track machines. The corridor is dimly lit by recessed spots in the ceiling. All but one of the glass-walled workout rooms is in darkness. I should have known that Skinner would eschew the high-tech approach to fitness in favor of a more traditional, self-disciplined regime. He's in the 'mat room', a large space equipped only with benches around the perimeter, rubber mats on the floor and a few non-mechanical pieces of apparatus: a pommel horse, climbing ropes, a chinning bar and a pair of rings hanging from the ceiling. The rings are gently swinging and I curse my bad timing, visualizing how Skinner would look suspended there, shoulder and arm muscles knotted as he holds himself in a perfect cross...
What he's doing now, though, is enough to make my heart race. He's lying on one of the floor mats, wearing grey sweat pants and an old, faded red USMC tank top and doing lateral crunches. Hands clasped behind his neck, he curls smoothly up, touching elbow to opposite knee on each rep. His knees are bent, his feet flat on the mat as he raises his powerful upper body using only the muscles of his torso. The t-back of his top reveals the flexing shoulder-muscles and the line of his spine stretching on every slow, deliberate lift.
I decide I'll wait until he finishes the crunches then catch his attention and say what I came to say, but he shows no sign of stopping - fifty, sixty reps while I've been watching, and the hypnotic rhythm of his movements is mesmerizing... He makes hardly any sound, just the hiss of his controlled breathing on each curl.
Finally he comes to the end of whatever punishing number of reps he's set himself to do and I bend to take off my shoes before crossing the smooth wood floor to speak to him. But he rolls over onto his stomach and starts doing push-ups. His form is perfect as far as I can judge: body ramrod straight, balanced on his toes and fingertips, dipping to touch his nose to the mat each time. Sweat is dripping off his face, pooling between his shoulder blades and in a dark patch in the small of his back where the sweats cling to his buttocks, but still his breathing is measured. On and on he goes, while I bite my lip to keep from groaning aloud and rest my head on the cool glass of the door as the waves of desire sweep through me.
I endure this display of Marine fortitude, my imagination feeding me images of that taut, gleaming body stretched above me, that amazing stamina sustaining push-ups of quite another kind... Suddenly he powers up from his prone position on the mat into a shoulder-stand. Braced on his bent arms he is poised in perfect immobility. He looks as if he could stay like that for hours but I feel no impatience for this to end. I walk further along the glass-walled corridor until I can see his face. His eyes are closed and he is breathing deeply, in through his nose and out through his parted lips, his chest rising and falling in a slow meditative cadence. I try to slow my own racing heart as I study him and it is amazingly calming to watch such sustained stillness, but the effect on other parts of my anatomy is less soothing as I contemplate the man who is the sole object of my desire.
He drops out of the shoulder-stand with a graceful stretch of one long leg down to the mat, the rest of his body following smoothly after as he stands upright again. He moves off to a bench along the side wall and slings a towel around his neck while he drinks from a water bottle. Something draws his gaze to the doorway.
"Agent Mulder. I assume you need to speak with me?"
"Sir, I didn't want to interrupt, but there's been a development in the Hammond Hills case and I'm booked on a flight to Green Bay at 8.00..."
"Well, you talk and I'll carry on punishing the flab."
Flab!! What flab??? I watch him toweling off his face and neck as I try not to skid in my socks on the polished floor. He doesn't seem to think it at all odd for me to be pestering him in the gym and at this hour. If anything, he actually seems amused to see me - could that be a twinkle in the keen, dark eyes? Taking rather too long a stride to reach the safety of the mat, I feel my feet slide from under me and then his hand is firm under my flailing elbow and I end up, dignity more or less intact, on one knee in front of him. His lips twitch but he doesn't laugh, bless him, merely offering me the water bottle and saying:
"Since you're down there, you can brace my ankles."
He sits down beside me on the mat, flinging the towel from around his neck in the direction of the bench. I'm not sure what he means me to do until he starts sit-ups and I hastily shift to clasp his ankles, holding his bare feet down on the mat, the soles against the brace of my knees. He hardly needs the help, I can feel barely any shift of his feet in my grasp as he curves cleanly up and down, the muscles in his stomach and thighs bunching visibly under the damp clingy cotton.
"Right - what have you got for me?"
I start to explain the new findings that seem to tie my case to the one in Wisconsin. I'm amazed that I can still speak, let alone make sense as I try to marshal my arguments for why I need to go to Wisconsin, when all I can think about is the warmth and smoothness of his skin against my palms, about whether my suit pants are loose enough to hide the bulge which is swelling there...
His tank top is soaked through now, plastered against his chest, molded to every sculpted muscle. He flops back onto the mat to consider what I've told him, his head resting on his clasped hands, the hair under his arms curling damply against the paler skin, a little pool of moisture in the hollow at the base of his throat. I have a sudden vision of myself, peeling off the soaked cotton and licking the sweat off his chest, tasting the salt on his nipples, sliding the sweats down off his lean hips and bending to... I realize with a start that my hands are still holding his ankles, though he hasn't said anything. I move them guiltily onto my lap, hoping I can disguise my burgeoning erection.
He props himself up on one elbow, unhooking his glasses with the other hand. He wipes them against his thigh and puts them back on, frowning through the smeared glass.
"Just made it worse," he says, resignedly. "OK, I think you've got enough to take up to Green Bay. I'll give Stan Dorrell up there a call and let him know you're coming. We went to the Academy together. He's a sound, no-nonsense field officer. Don't know what he'll make of your theories on demonic possession, though."
He looks at me with that almost-twinkle again,
"You'd better get going if you want to make that flight -I'll see to the paperwork."
No arguments, no admonitions to behave myself, no "Why didn't you file the 302 for this first?" All those endorphins must have a mellowing effect.
I clamber awkwardly to my feet and slither over to where I left my shoes in the doorway. By the time I straighten from tying my laces, he's sitting straight-backed in the lotus position, his wrists resting lightly on the soles of his feet where they are tucked up on his thighs. His face is serene.
I cast him one last hungry look and head off for the airport, visions of Walter Skinner in the shower making me glad that the early-morning traffic is still light on the Washington streets.
------------------------------------------------
Now I'm sitting in yet another seedy motel room, at the conclusion of yet another bizarre case and reflecting on the many oddities of the last four days.
The demonic possession turned out to be nothing of the kind, of course, just some very potent home-brew, a lot of mumbo-jumbo and the over-active imaginations of a bunch of bored teens. The oddest thing was that so many apparently intelligent young women could fall for the dubious charms of a drunken, verbose man like the Reverend Josiah Glebe. Another oddity was that although my idea of a link between my DC case and the events in Green Bay proved to be a non-starter, one of SAC Stan Dorrell's agents turned up something on the Internet that could prove helpful in making the paper samples we collected in DC usable as evidence. It was a neat bit of research that showed the caliber of Dorrell's team up here.
Which brings me to the oddest oddity of all. I can't imagine what Skinner said to Stan Dorrell about me, but from the moment of my arrival I felt they were actually pleased to have me here. They listened to my way-out theories, teased me a bit, but asked intelligent questions and pulled out all the stops to work the background angles I suggested - hence the Internet discovery. It was so good to have people actually take me seriously for a change.
I know it was down to Skinner because as the debriefing session broke up, Dorrell came to shake my hand and said:
"That was a fine piece of logical deduction, Agent Mulder. And some leaps of intuition *I* couldn't have pulled off in a decade! Walt's lucky to have you at HQ, but then he made it clear that he's very aware of that, and that *we* were lucky to have you working with us."
Not so long ago I'd have put some paranoid twist on that and suspected Skinner of a hidden agenda. Now, I realize that maybe I have another ally, and that gives me a more positive sense about the future than I've had in a long time.
Skinner as an ally? Perhaps I need to process this some more, explore how it really makes me feel... Hell, no - I know how it makes me feel, I've processed it and I'm already two steps ahead...
Skinner as an ally, Skinner as a friend, Skinner as... something more? I'm getting light-headed thinking of the gleam in those dark eyes when I left him in the gym.
Walter Skinner, Iron Man. Defender of the Ridiculed, Rescuer of Wounded Egos, inspiration for a thousand erotic fantasies, my hero...
I'm already planning how to engineer our next encounter outside of the office. I think all that yogic meditation, or whatever it was, is beyond me, but I wonder if the guy ever shoots hoops?
Hmmm... maybe a little one-on-one when I get back to DC... ?
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[end of Rarest Man 1: Test of Endurance by Sergeeva]~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sue/Sergeeva (sergeeva@geocities.com)
He still felt that his boss was an enigma,but it was one he thought he'd like to penetrate.
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/7155
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
04 Feb 1998
The Rarest Man 2: Wet Dream by Sergeeva
Category: V, Slash (Mulder/Skinner)
Rating: NC17 Slash
*****WARNING! This story contains scenes of loving and consensual sex between two men. If this idea offends you, leave now*****************
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: These dear people don't unfortunately belong to me. They are the property of CC, MP, DD, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended. Summary: Mulder's fertile imagination runs away with him.
OK to archive ATXC, Gossamer, MSSS, WS Fanfic and elsewhere if you let me know where, and keep my name attached.
This is in the same universe as my story "The Walk", but you don't have to read that first to follow what's going on here. Suffice it to say, the UST has now got even more ST and is still actually U (you'll see what I mean.)
I make no apologies for being totally obsessed: I'm crazy, but harmless. Caring feedback will be much appreciated at: s.e.fletcher@durham.ac.uk
The Rarest Man 2: Wet Dream
by Sergeeva sergeeva@geocities.com"He is simply the rarest man i' th' world"
Shakespeare - Coriolanus 4,v,161Well, now I know I'm losing it.....he leans on the table next to me to look at the surveillance log and the mere sight of his hand so close to mine nearly makes me swoon!
Of course, it's a hand that sums up the man: strong, broad, capable, sexy. Long fingers, immaculate nails, darkly tanned skin...oddly, not a paper-pusher's hand, even after his years as a bureaucrat, but still more a soldier's. I noticed his hands the first time I sat across his desk from him as he turned the pages of my report, and even back then, when I thought of him as "the enemy", something clenched inside me that I didn't know how to identify.
Today, I had no choice but to identify it as yearning, lust, hunger.....love?
It's got to the point where I can barely function normally for any length of time without drifting off into thoughts of him. I don't know which is worse: alone in my apartment I can close my eyes and indulge my fantasies and punish myself with the hopelessness of it all, but when, as now, I'm actually in the same room with him, I can hardly drag my senses away from his voice, his eyes, his skin...I can't concentrate on anything, not even the case in front of me, and I feel like a lovesick teenager.
Here we are, five of us, Scully included, sitting around the conference table in his office, discussing the Freemont case: passing around the photographic evidence, going over the forensic reports, double-checking the paperwork. I'm watching him, as he stands backlit by the light from the window, and I'm imagining quite a different scene....
He's in the shower, his arms braced against the tiles in front of him, his head bowed. Letting the water pound down on his shoulders, soaking away the tension of a long day. I step in behind him and move up close against his back to trail kisses along those perfect trapezius and deltoid muscles: from the tender skin at the back of his neck to the powerful curve of his shoulder.
He straightens away from the wall, lifting his head and casting a look at me over his shoulder: a tender, intense look. His weariness is visible in his slow smile, but the vital energy of the man is also there in the dark eyes. I catch my breath at the power of that look and cover my emotional turmoil by leaning around him to snag the shower gel, meanwhile giving him an intense look of my own.
I squeeze some of the herbal-scented gel into my hand and start to knead the knots out of those glorious shoulders. He relaxes into my touch and I move my hands up his strong neck and start to lather his hair. He has the most elegant scull - sleek and sculptural. His smooth brown scalp is beautiful, and incredibly erotic. He tilts his head back towards me now as he feels my hands smoothing over the satiny skin. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted as the hot water sluices down over his chest and my fingers massage a hypnotic rhythm over the smooth crown of his head and back into his fine silky hair, around his ears, gently soothing his temples, cupping the weight of his head in my hands.
I mesmerize myself with the sensual intimacy of the movements until finally I slide my hands up the back of his neck and tilt his head forward into the falling water, snuggling myself against the breadth of his strong back while he rinses the suds away.
I squeeze more shower gel into my hands and, still pressed against his back, circle him with my arms and begin to work my hands over his chest. His head falls back against my shoulder, his arms hang loosely at his sides - he is much more relaxed now, giving himself up to the pampering experience. I move my hands slowly, caressingly over his wonderful chest: cupping the firm curves of his pectoral muscles, feeling the hard peaks of his nipples against my palms, stroking the foam into the curling chest hair....
I run my hands down his sides from the fine skin, taut over his ribs, down to the trim waist. Then from the muscular flanks up to the angle of his hip bones, pulling him back against my own hips. I can feel the clenching electric twinge starting in my groin, a thrumming almost-ache in my tail-bone that spreads through to where my cock nestles between his buttocks. With each caress I pull him back hard against me, crushing my sensitized cock against his ass.
I tantalize myself as much as him by lingering at his flat belly - my fingers tracing slow circles over the taut muscles and the fine tapering line of curling hair. Eventually, when I can resist no longer, I slide my hands down his abdomen to his groin, taking the weight of his swelling penis in one hand while I tenderly caress his balls with the other.
He rolls his head against my shoulder and I hear his ragged breath against my ear as I feel his hips shift under my arousing touch. I take his erect penis in both hands now - stroking its firm silky length, teasing the sensitive underside with my fingertips, rubbing my palm over the ripe head. I can feel the tremors building in him as his hips writhe against my caresses and the muscles in his thighs spasm as he braces himself for the imminent climax. As he comes, shuddering under my hands, spurting through my fingers, his body arched against mine, he cries out a sharp gasping sound, then brushes my cheek with a kiss...
I hear his voice as if from a long way off...
Abruptly, the room swings back into reality again as I hear: "Agent Mulder - perhaps you'd like to let us hear *your* thoughts...?"
Wed, 18 Feb 1998
The Rarest Man 3: Resolution by Sergeeva
Category: V, Slash (M/Sk)
Rating: NC17 Slash
*******WARNING! This story contains scenes of loving and consensual sex between two men. If this idea offends you, leave now. ************
OK to archive where you will - just let me know where and keep my name and addy attached. Already posted to ATXC.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: These dear people don't, unfortunately, belong to me. They are the property of CC, MP, DD, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended. Summary: Mulder comes to a decision.
Author's note and apology: This is in the same universe as my other "Rarest Man" pieces, but I'm writing (and posting) them in a fiendish random order. They will be properly numbered eventually, but meanwhile, I apologize to anyone trying to follow this fictional relationship and getting thoroughly confused: bear with me, please? This particular piece comes after "Wet Dream", but before "Duty Before Pleasure".
I make no apologies for being totally obsessed: I'm crazy, but harmless. Caring feedback will be much appreciated at: s.e.fletcher@durham.ac.uk
The Rarest Man 3: Resolution
by Sergeeva sergeeva@geocities.com"He is simply the rarest man I' th' world."
Shakespeare - Coriolanus 4,v,161Letting Skinner give me a lift back from the warehouse to the motel is possibly not the brightest idea I've ever had, but Scully wants to stay back to check the witness statements again, and I just crave the sight of him. Being in the car with him is a delicious torture: my senses are in tumult at his closeness in the confined space, at the nearness of his body. I sneak sidelong glances at his profile: the smooth curve of his skull, the delicate rim of his ear, the immaculately-shaven jaw, the fine skin on his neck that I long to touch...
In my fantasies I dream that he feels as I do, that I've seen signs of this, that somehow, miraculously, we could declare ourselves and have a life together. But, in more rational moments, I tell myself that even if he did want that, he'd never act on his feelings, never violate the Bureau's code of conduct or risk the close working relationship we've finally established.
I can suffer in silence too, if that's how it has to be. I can live with the insatiable longing if the compensation is moments like this: he's twisted around in his seat, making sure that some child on a tricycle is well out of the way before he backs into the motel parking slot (Christ- are we here already?) and his body is turned towards me as he looks over his shoulder. His shirt is stretched tight across his chest so that the curve of his pectoral muscle and the nipple are clearly outlined. The tendon at the side of his neck is taut and that stretch of brown skin makes my mouth water.
I can live with this pain/pleasure of unrequited desire if I have to -God knows I've had more moments of real happiness in the last month than in the whole of my life up until now - but only if I know there is *no* other way, and I won't know that until I've shown him how I feel.
I know it's an immense risk and that, whatever happens, everything will be different after this. I can't imagine not loving him and I'll still love him if he turns from me in anger or disgust, but one thing I've always been good at is hope: hope beyond rational good sense, and somewhere inside me I cling to the tiny shred of hope that the fairy tale *can* come true.
So - I am resolved.
Before the raid on the warehouse tomorrow and before we all go back to D.C. and back to our circumspect, professional lives again, I will make my move.
We get out of the car and head for our respective rooms. I look at Skinner's retreating back and feel suddenly reckless.
"I could get you that analysis now, sir. So you can look it over before the briefing tomorrow?"
I pause at the door of my room, keys in hand, trying to sound casual while my heart pounds. He turns back to me...
"Fine, Mulder. I see you're determined to keep me hard at it this evening."
He begins to walk back towards me and I turn to unlock the door before my blush gives me away. I toss my keys and jacket on the desk and hear him close the door behind us. I go to the small refrigerator and look inside, still not knowing how I plan to do this.
"Would you like a beer, sir?"
"No thanks. I wasn't entirely joking about the paperwork I have to see to tonight."
He's standing looking out of the window at the arid Nevada landscape and he looks weary and strained. My heart floods with tenderness and in three strides I'm across the room and standing behind him. Letting my desperate need give me courage, I lean forward and kiss the back of his neck... and time stops.
Our bodies are not touching. Only my lips on that smooth brown skin between the neat hair and the crisp white collar. For an endless moment we just stand there, linked by that impulsive touch. I can feel the warmth of his body so close, smell the clean-cotton scent of him. I feel myself swaying closer, aching to wrap my arms around that perfect body, to feel the muscles under the starched shirt.
Then... time starts to roll forward again, I feel Walter take a deep breath and imperceptibly straighten, feel the powerful body tense. In an agony of trepidation I wait, expecting his anger, disgust, rejection... but instead, he exhales: a deep, shuddering breath. Clutching at that fragment of irrational hope, I step forward and take him in my arms, laying my cheek against the broad shoulder, reveling in his warmth and strength...
Walter closes his eyes and crosses his own arms over mine, smoothing over the backs of my hands where they are wrapped around his waist. Words seem beyond us. I move my lips over the velvet skin of his neck, emboldened by a feeling of utter contentment after the weeks of longing, by his heartbeat so close to my own. I sense him begin to relax, to let his rigid self-control ease. He tilts his head back against mine and takes my hands in his, intertwining our fingers. I feel his weight shift back to rest against me - trusting, vulnerable, and sudden tears prick at my eyes. I lift my head to kiss his temple. The skin is like warm silk, unbelievably tender and I am overwhelmed with desire for this strong, beautiful man.
I turn him in my arms, turn him to face me, wheeling away from the window and pushing him back hard against the wall with the force of my kisses. I pin his arms to his sides, our fingers still entwined, and press myself close against his hard body. His head is arched back, his eyes closed, and my mouth is all over his face: his brow, his cheeks, his throat. My nose catches against his glasses and I release one of his hands to reach up and pull the wirerims off, tossing them onto the armchair. With my free hand I cup his jaw while I kiss his eyelids then tilt his head back again so I can reach the exposed skin of his arched throat.
Needing even more sensation, I release his other hand and curl my arm around his hip, pulling his groin up against mine, feeling his erection pushing at my own. I look at his face: his eyes are open again - wide and bright with a kind of stunned joy. His lips are parted and I fall on that beautiful sensual mouth at last.
There's nothing gentle about this kiss - it's impelled by two months of hunger, of craving, of frustrated longing, of dreams and daydreams that leave me shaking with unfulfilled desire. Walter's mouth opens to mine, allowing my thrusting tongue to invade. I'm ravenous for him.... for the lush softness inside his mouth as I take his breath with my kiss.... for the heat and hardness of his body as I strain against him, crushing him against the wall.
I grind my hips into him, dragging my painfully-confined erection against his and he groans raggedly into my mouth. His hands suddenly clutch at my ass, repeating the excruciating bliss of that grinding movement and his tongue swirls into my mouth, taking charge there as well.
I am all sensation - the kneading of his hands on my ass, the friction of his cock against my own, the consuming power of his kiss drawing the breath from my lungs - and I am overwhelmed. Without a hope of control, I come thunderingly, from his touch alone. His strong hands keep me pressed against him, keep me upright as I shudder within his embrace and feel the semen run down my legs.
"Ohhh...........God!!!!.......oh...shit!"
The stickiness is already soaking through my suit pants onto him but he keeps me cradled in his arms as I hide my blushes in the crook of his shoulder. He's still rock hard and I feel even more guilty as my own insatiable flesh begins to swell again already. He feels the awkwardness of my silence....
"Fox....?"
I've always hated my name: it sounds like a bad joke or a lewd suggestion. Spoken in Walter's soft, warm voice it sounds....normal, endearing, sexy.
"I'm sorry....". I mumble, "I'm like a teenager in heat..."
"You want this *that* much?" he asks, wryly.
"I want *you*."
"You've got me," he says quietly, "but don't make me wait too long - I only have so much self-control."
He looks down at his own groin and the unrelieved erection there, then looks back up at my face with a slow smile. I've never seen such a look of delight on his face before and the radiance of it is almost enough to make me come again. I gasp an almost-giggle as suddenly everything is utterly perfect. He swats me lightly on the butt and leads me off towards the bed.
"Walter, I'm a mess." I say, blushing again.
"You expect me to wait while you shower?" he laughs, gesturing at his bulging pants again.
"Well - I guess not...!"
His hands are already unbuckling my belt and pushing my pants and shorts down off my hips. My cock is half-hard again already, my stomach and thighs pearled with semen. Walter pushes me down onto the bed then kneels and removes my shoes and socks. He sweeps the pants and underwear off me and looks at me, grinning, for a moment. Then suddenly, he leans forward and licks the length of my spattered belly. It's the most erotic thing I've ever seen or felt. I reach down and stroke the smooth crown of his head. He looks up and meets my gaze. Our touches are so intimate and tender we need have no doubt that trust is both given and received. Walter looks boyishly happy, with a streak of semen on his chin, and I can feel the same foolish, delighted expression on my own face. I thought that this might be nerve wracking, awkward or clumsy - I never imagined it would be such fun!
I sit up and pull my shirt off over my head. Walter reaches up to caress my chest but I catch at his hand:
"Oh no! That was just to remind you that you've got some undressing of your own to be done and that's *my* job. As is taking care of this..."
I run my hand down the front of his pants. Still rock hard - the man's stamina is amazing, but then he was a Marine.
He reaches for me again, looking as if he might argue the point, but I settle that by removing his tie and starting to unbutton his shirt. My hands are trembling now, so close to seeing what I've dreamed of. I pull the shirt back off his shoulders and down his arms, but it's still tucked into his pants and buttoned at his wrists so he can't reach for me. I gaze spellbound at his naked chest rising and falling with each breath. He is as glorious as I knew he'd be. Strong graceful neck, the broadest shoulders I've ever seen and a lean, powerfully-muscled torso, with a fuzz of dark curling hair across his breast.
I can see from the deep, shuddering breaths he's taking that he's struggling to maintain control of his body. I feast my eyes on him for a moment then plunge forward to kiss his warm bare skin. Unable to brace himself, he falls back on the bed, laughing, and I fall with him, still hungrily kissing his shoulders, his throat, his chest. I kiss my way down to his belt and I can feel the heat of his erection through the fine wool of his pants as I fumble with buckle and zipper.
I'm suddenly nervous, and look up at him for reassurance. His dark eyes burn with a desire I recognize. He loses patience with the knotted shirt and yanks it off himself, the cuff buttons pinging off across the room. Then he toes off his shoes and reaches for his socks. I push him back onto the bed and pull them off him myself, then turn my attention back to getting him naked. I pull his pants down and off and smile fondly at the sight of white Fruit of The Looms straining to contain his swollen cock. Tenderly I lift the waistband away from his flat stomach and pull the briefs down over his erection. His strong, smooth penis springs free and I think that he is the most beautiful sight I've ever seen.
Every muscle of his burnished body is defined. The wide shoulders and strong chest taper to lean hips and his legs are *so* long. I feel dizzy with desire just looking at him and yet shy of touching such beauty...
"May I.....?"
I hesitate, awed by what I intend to do,
"Please do, Fox....*please* do!"
and he laughs again - that soft, deep, easy laugh that melts away all my diffidence, evaporates all the awkwardness. Reverently, I take his penis between my hands and lower my mouth to him. At the first brush of my lips over that velvety skin, and the first inhalation of his warmth, my restraint is shattered - I've imagined this moment in my tortured dreams for so long and now it's exquisitely real. My world narrows to that single focus: his precious flesh so vulnerable between my lips and teeth. The heat of him on my face, the silk-over-steel of his hardness against the roof of my mouth, the salt and musk of his skin against my tongue...
I don't really know what to do to give him pleasure - this is all new to me - but I move as my hunger and adoration urges me: kissing, plucking at him with my lips, stroking and stretching him with my fingers, nibbling and licking, probing and sucking. My hands explore, smoothing up his inner thighs, sliding under his writhing hips to cup his tight buttocks, caressing his flat belly, reaching eventually to grasp his hand in mine. He is moaning my name now, with a catch in his voice that makes the word erotic.
His hips lift off the bed as he comes and his fingers clench so tightly around mine that I think we'll never let each other go. He makes an unforgettable sound: a long, falling, ragged sigh, as if it were his last breath. I swallow him all up, as thick as cream, an extraordinary taste of burnt sugar and the sea.
As he softens I let him slip out of my mouth with more kisses - my tingling lips clumsy, my throat muscles aching. I slide down off the bed between his spread thighs, resting my head against his knee and looking up the length of his sweat-slicked body to his face. His eyes are half closed, the whites a flash under the short thick lashes as he slides his dark gaze over me. He looks.......wanton...sublime, and seeing his happiness is the greatest gift I've ever been given.
After a while we help each other into the shower, and under the falling water, Walter kneels and makes me come again, so shatteringly that my knees buckle and we end up both collapsed on the tiles, giggling like children. He dries me himself, wrapping the big towel around me so tightly I can't walk and then scooping me up and carrying me back to bed. I tell you, his stamina is amazing....!
We lie face to face, sleepy now, touching each other almost shyly and kissing softly - ears, cheeks, hands. Just as sleep creeps over us I think of something:
"What went through your mind as I kissed you over by the window, before you breathed out and I knew that you weren't going to kill me just yet?"
"I thought of your job, and my job, and the rules and regulations and Scully, and the future....and I thought 'Thank you, God'. "
--------------------------------------------------
The end....for now.
s.e.fletcher@durham.ac.uk
[Posted 18/2/98]
17 Mar 1998
The Rarest Man 4: Famine and Feast
by Sergeeva
CATEGORY: R, Mulder/Skinner
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: None (it features an entirely imaginary case)
DISCLAIMER: These dear people don't, unfortunately, belong to me. They are the property of CC, MP, DD, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended.
ARCHIVE: MSSS, please, and anywhere else, just let me know and keep my name and addy attached. Already sent to ATXC.
SUMMARY: A day of torment, a night of bliss!
SPECIAL THANKS: To Marianne, for giving my stories their first home, and to Hal, for endless patience, insane humour, intelligent comments, inspirational beta-reading, and the creation of some of the choicest phrases in this piece.
This is part of my continuing "Rarest Man" series, and follows on immediately after "Rarest Man: Resolution". The scene-setting piece ("The Walk") and other parts of the series can be found on Marianne's web-site at: http://www.fortunecity.com/lavendar/elystan/99/sergeeva.html
Caring feedback is always appreciated at: s.e.fletcher@durham.ac.uk
The Rarest Man 4: Famine and Feast
by Sergeeva sergeeva@geocities.com"He is simply the rarest man i' th' world".
Shakespeare - Coriolanus 4,v,161It's a rare experience for me, to wake gently from deep, relaxed sleep.
The room is still dark - it must be very early - and for a moment I'm nonplused to find myself nestled against something warm and smooth -Walter's broad back. I can feel his slow, steady breathing. I snuggle even closer, remembering last night and feeling the deep happiness all over again, a moment of pure peace that lulls me back into sleep.
A whisper of sound wakes me the second time. I see Walter, all pale greys and soft shadows, kneeling close by the bed, apparently just watching me. Seeing my eyes open, he smiles and strokes a finger down my bare arm as I prop myself up in the bed.
He's dressed, but with his tie draping loosely and shirt hanging unbuttoned. The glimpse of that bare throat and chest has me reaching for him, my cock hardening. But he pushes me gently back onto the pillows, shaking his head regretfully.
"I have to go back to my own room, Fox. I really do have to prepare for this briefing, and we can't both leave from here without Scully wondering what's going on."I recognize the reasonableness of this, but feel the ache of frustration anyway. He must feel it too, because suddenly he dips his head to kiss me...
*Now* I slip my hand inside his open shirt and caress the muscled chest. I feel him sigh into my mouth and for a moment he deepens the kiss, leaning over me and closing his eyes. But he won't be lured away from his duty and he pulls back from me. I can see his self-control reassert itself - a minute tightening of the muscles of his face that signifies his shift back into A.D. mode. I try to make myself sound brisk:
"What time is it, anyway? How much sleep have you had?"
"It's nearly five, and no, I probably haven't had enough sleep. At my age I need a full eight hours. I don't get it, but that goes with the job."
He says it affectionately, jokingly, but I feel my 'flinch-reflex' start up automatically, ready to register hurt and rejection, ready to sulk, as if he really thought last night was just 'part of the job'. For once, I realize what is happening before I lash out and say something hurtful. I don't want to lose him because of my own insecurity. I consciously make myself lighten up, give happiness a chance for a change.
He fixes me with that intense gaze and, reading my mind, he says quietly:
"Fox - you've never just been part of the job, and now...... you need to believe that I want this."
His thumb brushes over my cheekbone. My throat closes with emotion and I can't speak.
"Take care today, Fox."
His voice is husky now. He stands and moves to the door, turning with his hand on the doorknob...
"Later..."
he says, with emphasis, his eyes very dark, and I manage a grin as he leaves. I roll back and bury my face in the pillow that still smells faintly of him, savouring the promise in that word.
I can't go back to sleep, though, and think to comfort myself with memories of last night. But now I'm alone and bereft. Nothing I can touch is remotely reminiscent of Walter. I lift my arm and kiss the pale skin on the inside of my own wrist. I brush my fingers over my own lips, slide my hands over my own breast and belly... the texture and angles are all wrong... I miss him so much already. I fold my arms around empty air. Wanting the warmth and mass of Walter's body, I roll away from the light, hugging the ache and need to myself instead.
-------------------------------------------
The team meets up again at 7.00 for the briefing. There must be two dozen of us packed into the conference room at the local Federal Building - experts in explosives and weaponry, liaisons from the ATF and SWAT teams, the local Bureau personnel and those of us from DC who've been working on the profiling and strategy. It's noisy and chaotic with everyone talking and passing out coffee. The local SAC, Cummins, introduces Walter.
The whole room seems to pull itself to attention. Even the non-Bureau people, who are only temporarily under his command, straighten their backs and their ties as he moves to the head of the long table. I've seen him like this a thousand times: calm, energized, consummately in control. He looks immaculate, of course, his jaw clean-shaven, his shirt spotless and crisp. I watch him survey the room with that penetrating gaze as he summarizes the investigation, reiterates the plan for today's operation and gives out final orders. I feel absurdly proud of him, as if his skill at leadership and his command of the room were somehow the result of my coaching.
I feel a possessive and secret joy. Staring at his hands (the strength of his grasp, the gentleness of his caresses), at his mouth (the taste of his kisses, the warmth of his lips), at his body (the scent of his skin, the planes of his chest), giddy desire tempts me to shout "He's mine!" and damn the consequences.
God knows what I must look like, struggling to maintain a facade of professional composure, while thinking about making love to my boss. Scully actually asks me if I'm unwell, at one point, and gets me a cup of water.
Eventually, the meeting breaks up and we start moving off in groups to the warehouse complex. Scully and I are assigned to the radio team, to be available with any scrap of background data that might give us an advantage in this unpredictable situation. Walter is with the assault team, of course, since the contact is his informant and the man was insistent that Walter had to be there in person.
The day is almost unendurable, as we wait for something to happen, suffering that excruciating mixture of tension and boredom that so often characterizes a field op. It's magnified a hundred-fold for me today, as I catch only an occasional glimpse of Walter, wearing a kevlar vest, his face grim and tense. Squashed at my post, I listen to the back-and-forth of commands and status reports coming through my earphone, Walter's terse growl sounding irrationally sexy even in the midst of this tension.
Word comes at last that things are happening and my gut twists with anxiety for Walter. This is how it is for him every time: having to watch his people put themselves in harm's way, put themselves beyond his protection. I don't know if I could live with it, I don't know if I can live with this, now.
There is a half-hour of frantic noise and activity: gunfire and plaster-dust thick in the air, jumbled voices - breaking up - on the radio, shouts echoing around the vast space. I can't see Walter anywhere amongst the splintered crates, the sawdust drifting in the strobing headlamps, the unidentifiable crouching and running figures. My mouth is dry with worry and I have to force myself to concentrate on my job and not think of him...
The mopping-up operation takes an eternity, during which I have to pretend an interest in how many crates of rocket-launchers we've recovered, where the paper trail of manifests and invoices will lead, whether we'll get anything useful from the interrogation of Strunz and his nasty little band.
I'm aching and stiff from sitting tensed for hours, I'm cranky from lack of food, and I'm in some state between incoherent panic and unbearable frustration from lack of Walter. I suppose he'll be tied up late into the night with the wrapping-up of the operation. I'm not needed at this stage and Scully is taking some accrued vacation days to visit an old college friend in Reno. Everything feels suddenly flat and purposeless and weariness washes over me.
I wander over to where the EMTs are treating the casualties, and Walter is there, sitting on a crate, still in his body-armour and holding his glasses, while a paramedic inspects a bruise on his temple and shines a pen-light into his eyes. I can only hover, hoping to pass myself off as a rather over-eager subordinate, while my insides clench with the new stress and my heart lurches at the sight of him.
"What happened, Sir, you're not hit, are you?"
"Only with the butt of a AR15 in that melee at the end..." he grins, ruefully...
"I saw stars for a while, but *now* I feel just fine."
And his eyes meet mine, saying more in that innocent phrase than the medic will ever realize. I let myself smile back at him:
"That's good to hear, Sir, but you should probably give the wrap-up session a miss tonight. Wouldn't you agree?"
I appeal to the paramedic for support and he agrees that an early night is recommended.
"I must say that bed is a very appealing thought right now,"
says Walter, giving me a wolfish grin while the paramedic turns to pack his kit away.
"I could give you a lift back to the motel, Sir. I'm sure you shouldn't drive after a blow to the head, and I owe you one from yesterday."
"OK, Mulder. Give me five minutes to organize things here and I'll take you up on that offer."
I leave him talking to Cummins and head for my car, barely managing not to pirouette.
-------------------------------------------
On the drive back I try to concentrate on the road, but have to glance occasionally at Walter, who leans back in his seat with his eyes closed. I think how differently I feel about him now - not just differently from before all this started, but differently even from yesterday, when he drove me along this same road. What was mostly lust then is now love.
We reach the motel and I turn to him before we get out of the car, reaching up to gently touch his bruised face. He opens his eyes.
"It's OK, really, Mulder... umm, Fox?"
He hesitates, unsure of my reaction to the name. I smile, fondly.
"I'm OK, too... *Walter*, but seriously, are you... ?"
"I was lucky. It's nothing that a hot shower and a stiff drink won't fix, though I suppose I'll have to forego the drink - whisky and Tylenol don't mix well..."
"Well, how about a stiff shower and a hot drink, then?"
I wiggle my eyebrows, Groucho-fashion. He bursts out laughing.
"You're... impossible! Come on: how about we try my room for a change. The view is better."
"The view... ! *I'm* impossible?"
We get to Walter's first floor room and the door is hardly closed before Walter is all over me - tugging my shirt out of my pants, sliding his hands up my bare back, pulling me close against him as he kisses my face and neck, then pulling away to gasp:
"Shower!"
He looks dazed: his lips parted and reddened with kissing. He grabs my tie and leads me into the bathroom.
We strip, bumping into each other in the inadequate space. Walter turns the water on, as hot as we can stand, and pulls me under the spray with him. We wash with amazing speed and inefficiency, dropping the soap and stepping on each other's feet, and stumble out into the steamy room.
I look at Walter and all rational thought deserts me. I feel light-headed and light-hearted. Before I start burbling that he is my Excalibur, the Gold at the End of my Rainbow, my Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, I think I'll put my lips to better use. I sink to my knees in front of him.
"Well, the stiff shower certainly worked...", I say, ... now for the hot drink..." and reach for him.
But he lifts me up and walks me back into the bedroom, not bothering with towels.
"Fox, shut up."
He pushes me back onto the bed and resumes his assault on me with lips and hands. Our wet bodies slip and stick unexpectedly as we tumble over one another, touching and tasting everywhere, the clamouring emotions of the day focusing themselves into the one clear emotion of the moment: our need for each other.
We come to rest, panting, with Walter lying over me across the width of the bed. He looks down at me, his eyes wide and almost black in the fading light, then runs his hand down the length of my body, rolling off me so he can continue the caress down to my groin. He massages me gently, rolling my tight balls in his hand, smoothing along my inner thighs, closing his warm fingers carefully around my twitching cock and beginning to stroke. I writhe under his touch, ready to burst but wanting something even more intense.
"Walter... fuck me."
His smile is dark, predatory and wonderful as he rolls off the bed and gets lube out of the nightstand. My eyes widen:
"When did you have time to...?"
(I'll die rather than reveal that I made a morning dash to the pharmacy too.)
"I thought living in hope was *my* forte," I tease.
"Yeah, well..." he blushes!
"I was a boy scout," he says softly.
He kneels on the bed and starts to smooth lubricant onto the thick shaft of his erection. He brings the same concentration to this act as he does to everything else and it is *so* erotic watching this beautiful, serious man prepare himself for me.
I sigh, appreciatively, and it brings his gaze back to me:
"Are you sure about this? - I don't want to hurt you."
"I want this, I want you... I told you that. You won't hurt me... I trust you."
"Oh, Fox...!"
He shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly. Then he reaches a hand to my hip, rolling me over onto my stomach.
"Lift your hips,"
he instructs, and slides a pillow under me. I turn my head, arching my spine so that my shoulders are pressed into the mattress and my hips are pushed back and up towards him, offering myself as clearly as I know how. I can hear him warming more lube between his hands and then I feel his hand slip between my buttocks, spreading the slickness as his fingers massage my balls, stroke along the tender skin behind them and probe gently at my anus. I'm so eager for him I'm already thrusting back and forth, trying to open myself even wider. I feel the first finger slip into me.
It's an indescribable feeling, a blend of shock and delight when I think whose finger it is. It's one finger, yet I feel as if I've been hollowed out and exist only as a sensitized sheath around that broad, unmoving point of heat. I twist against him, wanting more already, and get a burning protest from delicate tissues.
"Don't try to move yet."
I hear Walter's husky voice:
"Just relax and let me do the work."
A second finger joins the first, just gently sliding in and out, but making me aware of nerve-endings I never knew I had. He's melting me from the inside out.
He starts to turn his fingers inside me, curling them slightly to stretch me. A knuckle grazes my prostate and I lift off the bed with a gasp. He touches a concerned hand to my shoulder, but I gasp again:
"God, don't stop. Don't ever stop!"
I hate not being able to see him, to watch that focused, intense face as he stretches me. He's doing it so gradually, building my pleasure with every twist and crook of his strong fingers, using his free hand to curl around my hip or slide under me and squeeze my cock in a counterpoint rhythm that brings me almost to orgasm with each stroke.
I'm in delirious torment at his hands and then I feel the weight and heat of his penis against my buttocks.
"Let me do the work, Fox,"
he whispers, his voice ragged now. I hold my breath at the momentary burning pressure as he pushes into me and shifts minutely to get the angle just right. Then I open myself around him, feeling his weight against my pelvis, his heat within me - a delicious sensation. Discomfort shifts sweetly into a deep loosening as unfamiliar muscles flex.
He slides home into my slickness, a deeper penetration than I have ever imagined. It feels as if he is everywhere inside me, filling me totally. The bed beneath me is his muscled body that I try to embrace, the sheet against my cheek is his smooth skin that I kiss fervently, the air of the warm room around my naked body is his breath touching me everywhere. And then he starts to move in me...
He curves into me, reaching impossibly deep, and then pulls back out, angling against my prostate on every stroke. I meet his spiraling thrusts, rotating my hips back against him, lifting my pelvis off the bed as he starts to flex his hand around my cock too, so that I meet his exquisite pressure whichever way I move. I clench my internal muscles around him - impossible not to clutch at that smooth, driving heat as it screws into me. Each thrust pulls a ragged breath from his throat and I can't bear not being able to see him. He must look so glorious, arching against me, every muscle taut... my vision spins away into blackness and ringing in my ears as the orgasm rages through me from the soles of my feet to the ends of my hair: a shockwave of sensation running along every nerve, catapulting me out into a space dazzling with stars.
A sobbing cry breaks from me, and I'm still shaking with the force of that climax when my spasming muscles trigger Walter's own orgasm and I feel his bowstring tautness thrust once more from behind me, as he cries out. All my stretched spaces are filled with him and I can even taste him in my mouth as if I had just swallowed him up.
I feel the soft brush of his chest hair against my back as he bends low over me, still trying to support his weight on one shaky arm, while he lifts the damp hair away from my neck and leans in to kiss me. I arch back against his lips and the slight push tips us both over onto our sides, still connected by his cock, now softening inside me. We stay like that, curled together, sweat and semen drying on our skin. Sheltered in Walter's arms, I feel sated, safe and incredibly sleepy. I am just drifting off into dreams of him when his lips buzz and tickle at my ear.
"Fox?"
"Mmmm?"
"Last one in the shower has to sleep on the wet spot."
----------------------------------------
I wake first again, stretching like a cat against Walter's warm back. He doesn't stir and I allow myself to study him as he sleeps on...
He looks so graceful, so touchable lying there, all curves and sleek muscles. The low light emphasizes the contours of his shoulders and buttocks - so powerful even at rest. I lean in to gently kiss his bruised temple, cupping the back of his head in my hand and continuing the caress down the smooth skin of his neck and shoulders.
The differences between us fascinate me; we're almost exactly the same height, but his mass and muscle are so different to my lanky body. There's not an ounce of spare flesh on him, though. His waist is probably as lean as mine and his legs have the strong bones and long muscles of a runner. The delineation of his powerful chest and shoulders is like an illustration in an anatomy text, except that the feeling it inspires in me is anything but clinical. As my hands smooth down his supple back the teasing thought in the back of my mind slams into vivid focus: I want to seduce him, I want to watch him lose control, I want to make his perfect body my own.
I settle across his back, my arms stroking down his sides, my cheek resting on his shoulder. I breathe in the wonderful scent of his warm skin, curving myself around him, then lifting a little so that my lips can reach the back of his neck. I nuzzle the fine skin there, brushing the curve of his ear with my mouth, rubbing my cheek against the softness of his hair: the neat, close-trimmed band around the back of his head is as sensual to me as the beautiful polished crown of his bald head.
My breath in his ear begins to rouse him, but I move down his body, licking and kissing my way to his buttocks. I splay my hands over the tight muscles, squeezing lightly and feeling them flex in response. I lean down close enough to kiss each cheek and boldly flick my tongue along the cleft of his ass. That wakes him up, and he twists back to look sleepily at me: all soft, unfocused, brown eyes.
"Mmmm... ?"
"Shh... now it's *my* turn to do the work."
I return to my delicious feast, spreading him with my hands and breathing in the musky scent of him as I let my tongue explore. He groans, incoherently, and I wonder just how awake he is.
Experimentally, I bite gently at the firm flesh, provoking a pleasurable moan from Walter and a sensuous flex of those lean hips.
"Walter - wake up, I need to... to ask you..."
Nervousness and raging desire are making me incoherent. I struggle to find words, finally deciding that straightforward would be best.
"Walter, I want... I *really* want to fuck you, but I'm new at this..."
I trail off, sheepishly.
"And you think I'm wildly experienced, right?"
I move over as he rolls onto his back, grinning up at me.
"I don't know, Walter."
I'm trying to be serious, but he just looks so delicious stretched out there, so edible...
"When I look at you, I barely know my own name. I only know that I want to make love to you, but I don't know if you want...?"
"Fox - you remember what you said to me last night about trust? Well, I trust you, too..."
He reaches up to touch my cheek, his eyes glittering.
"And I want you so much it hurts."
I look down at my straining cock, then at Walter in all his glory, just waiting for me. He holds me in his compelling gaze and as he looks at me his own cock rises and swells. It's the most perfect compliment I've ever been given.
I have my answer.
Confident again, I fall on him without restraint. I kiss his shoulders, finding the scars of old wounds. I spread his arms wide and rub my face along the silky inner surface. I tease at his nipples, circling my tongue over the taut pectorals and brushing each sensitive point of flesh with my lips. Walter tilts his head back into the pillows, gasping, and I can't resist that arching, muscular throat. His skin smells like warm toast and I devour him, nibbling down his chest and belly, flicking my tongue into his navel and the sweet dip where hip meets groin.
I sit back on my heels between his splayed legs and stroke along his inner thighs, letting my knuckles nudge his balls. His penis is long, straight and heavy, the tip beaded with a pearly drop. I let one hand move up his thigh to cradle his testicles, and trail the other through the curling pubic hair to thumb the sensitive underside of his cock. I kiss the luscious head, tasting the salty skin and bitter milk together.
My own breath is ragged now, my self-control strained to breaking-point. I want release, but more than that, I want to please this man I love so much. He deserves nothing less than my best and my own needs can wait for the moment.
I grab the lube from the nightstand and, as I warm it in my hands, I feast my eyes on Walter. He is sprawled luxuriously across the bed, arms and legs flung wide, a man gloriously in his prime, waiting for *my* touch.
And I do touch him, watching the reactions flicker across his expressive face as I work my slick fingers into him. I try to be as slow and deliberate as he was, building that dissolving heat inside him, but the sight of his arousal is so tantalizing: his stomach muscles clenching as he tries to stay still for me, his eyes so wide and dark, his breath hissing between his teeth...
His hips lift off the bed as I stroke three fingers into him, and he moans my name...
"Fox, Fox... *now*, Fox!"
He's pushed the pillow under his own hips for me, so I take a deep breath, sliding my fingers out of him and pushing just the glans of my cock into him. He lifts his legs, folding them back against himself and curling his pelvis up to take more of me. I sink my full length into him.
The sensation is so exquisite that I nearly let go right then. I am sheathed, stretched and stroked by heat, an imprisonment in the tight clasp of his muscles that I never want to end. Walter is so quiet I fear I have hurt him. He looks astonished: sweat beaded on his upper lip, his hands clenched in the rumpled sheet...
Concerned, I start to pull back and his eyes open even wider. His hands reach for mine, and he hisses:
"Yesss... !"
Thrilled with his reaction, I start to stroke back into him with a long, deep pressure, watching him rise to meet each push, feeling the grip of his muscles on each withdrawal. One hand entwined with his, I reach for his weeping cock with the other, working my fingers on him in time with my thrusts. Everything is in synchrony - a pounding, driving, unstoppable rhythm that urges me on through so many sensations: the lurch of my own cock inside him and of his cock pulsing against my fingers, the straining muscles of his neck and stomach as he coils into each surge, the clench of his fingers around mine, the roar of blood in my ears, the stereo of my grunts and Walter's gasping moans... Together we hurtle towards orgasm and I watch him plunge, his chest heaving, his head flung back, his body stretched taut, bathed in sweat.
He comes with a shout, the semen spurting between my fingers and splattering over his belly. His muscles give a mighty spasm around me and within seconds of him, I climax just as explosively, collapsing over him as I all but pass out.
I gradually become conscious of a thudding close to my ear and a delicious warmth against my back. I open my eyes to find I am lying with my cheek pillowed on Walter's chest, listening to his racing heartbeat. His hand is circling over my shoulder blades.. I look up at his face: so strong, so gentle, so sternly beautiful. His eyes open and I have to catch my breath. The impact of that loving gaze is awesome. His eyes are stunning... a deep, clear, tawny brown. At the moment they're heavy-lidded, lazily unfocused, full of a deep, affectionate warmth that makes my heart lurch.
I drift in and out of sleep until a full bladder pries me from the comfort of the bed. I'm blearily brushing my teeth when Walter appears beside me, stretching and seeming to fill the small room with his vitality. He shoves me playfully aside to reach for the toothpaste.
"Not a morning person. I see!"
He is disgustingly wide awake.
"We'll have to work on that..."
He winks as I slouch back into the bedroom and I'm still standing by the bed, yawning, when he comes at me from behind, tumbling us both back onto the rumpled sheets. I snuggle back against him, reveling in the strength of his arms, now folded around me, and in the sweetness of his mouth, cool and tingly against mine... his delicious mouth, firm yet gentle, taking my lips in his, searching out my tongue and drawing it back into the velvet softness of his own mouth, around the white teeth.
Eventually we pull apart, but he keeps my face near his with a hand cupped around my cheek, his thumb brushing along my jaw. His eyes suddenly open wide, and the power of that tender, intense look is like sunlight.
It's a good way to start the day.
------------------------------------------------
[the end of "R.M. Famine & Feast, but not the end for Walter and Fox!]
04 Feb 1998
The Rarest Man: Duty Before Pleasure (1/1) by Sergeeva
Category: V, Slash (Mulder/Skinner)
Rating: NC17, Slash (nothing explicit this time)
*******WARNING!!! This story portrays a loving relationship between two men. If this offends you, leave now.******************************
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: These dear people don't, unfortunately, belong to me. They are the property of CC, MP, DD, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended. Summary: The title says it all.
OK to archive ATXC, Gossamer, MSSS, WS Fanfic, and elsewhere if you let me know where and keep my name attached.
This is from the same universe as my story "The Walk" and "Rarest Man: Wet Dream", but it's a bit of fluff that can be read on its own, just as well.
I make no apologies for being totally obsessed: I'm crazy, but harmless. Caring feedback is always welcome at: s.e.fletcher@durham.ac.uk
The Rarest Man 5: Duty Before Pleasure
by Sergeeva sergeeva@geocities.com"He is simply the rarest man i' th' world"
Shakespeare - Coriolanus 4,v,161Walter comes back into the bedroom with a towel slung around his lean hips, his chest and shoulders still damp from the shower.
I've been home for an hour or so, so I had first turn in the bathroom and I'm already half dressed. We've got plenty of time, so I sit on the bed and just admire the view...
He's still winding down from the working day: settling things in his mind so that he can forget work for this evening. He moves about the room with his customary powerful grace, absently humming to himself: a phrase of Mozart that he probably had playing in the car on the way home. He's unaware of my appreciative gaze...
I love to watch him move - controlled and purposeful, his body like some glorious machine, the bones and muscles moving smoothly under tanned skin.
He's inspecting his tuxedo, where it hangs on the closet door - it's immaculate of course, like everything he owns - and he unselfconsciously pulls the towel from around his waist and dries off his chest with it, ruffling the curling chest hair and inadvertently offering me a glorious naked back view.
I feast my eyes on the length of him: from strong shapely calves, over lean hard-muscled thighs, to the wonderful tight, powerful muscles of his buttocks, the delicious hollowed flanks, the pair of dimples at the base of his spine, then the strong springing line of his back. The lean waist flares out into the impressive breadth of his magnificent shoulders, the contours of his muscles clear under the smooth skin.
He moves to the armoire and puts on a pair of black boxer briefs: the whole elegant operation is performed with a sleek flexing of muscles that has me groaning aloud in appreciation. Snapping out of his still-occupied thoughts, he turns to me with that shy smile and a mischievous light in his dark eyes..."Are you all right?" "I'm *very* all right," I reply, "are you quite sure we have to go to this reception tonight?"
In turning, he allows me to see the full effect of how tempting he looks in the form-fitting boxers: the waistband snug against his flat stomach, the soft cotton fabric clinging to every curve, front and back, the mid-thigh legs defining the long curves of his quadriceps...
I groan again, letting him see my longing in my face, and he blushes! This perfect, glorious man actually has no idea of how stunning he is. He doesn't answer my teasing question, just wads up the damp towel and throws it at me. I catch it and inhale the delicious scent of him as I hold it to my face.
He is putting on a crisp white evening shirt now and I admire the way it hangs from his broad shoulders. I jump up and go to him in time to take over fastening the pearl buttons - an opportunity to slip my hand inside the starched cotton and run it over warm silken skin and the fuzz of chest hair, to cup the hard curve of a breast and tweak a sensitive nipple. Now it's his turn to growl seductively, his eyes closing briefly at my caressing touch.
He puts his big hand firmly over mine, shifting it off his chest and finishing buttoning his shirt with a stern look: a half-hearted attempt to put an end to my seduction. Of course, that square jaw and intense glare only make me want him more. However, I can tell he won't play properly until we've done our duty at the reception and returned home. Still - there's plenty of fun to be had before then...
We finish dressing together: fastening each other's cummerbunds, tying each other's bow ties and most lingeringly of all - fastening each other's cufflinks. He does mine first, holding out his hand for the plain gold bars with the little gray alien's heads on the other end. He says nothing about my choice, merely arching a long-suffering eyebrow and allowing the dark, affectionate glow in his eyes to grow even warmer.
He inserts the links in my cuffs efficiently, his long, square-tipped fingers making everything behave for him (I've noticed how objects of all kinds from cars to photocopiers to bow ties to cufflinks never give him any trouble - as if even they recognize his inate authority, his calm control). When both cuffs are dealt with he lingers, holding both my hands in his for a long moment, his dark, penetrating gaze so tender that I feel tears start to prick at my eyes. Eventually, he loses his grasp and hands me his own links.
They are the ones that would have been my own choice for him - the discreet USMC insignia on the plainest of gold oblongs. I take each of his hands in turn, turning them first in my own, narrower hands, feeling the weight and strength, admiring how darkly tanned they are next to his snowy cuffs, how neat and clean his nails are. Before each cuff is secured, I slip my fingers up around his wrist, surprised as always by the fineness of the bone, the silken skin over his pulse. I lift his hands to my mouth, kissing each palm and meeting his burning gaze with my own adoring one.
He pulls me into his arms, tilting my head back into the cup of his left hand while his right is splayed over my back, surrounding me with his strength. We're almost exactly the same height but he stands so straight it gives him the advantage. So - I look *up* into that passionate, beautiful face and melt into the velvet of his mouth on mine...
Reluctantly we break away - it would be so easy to let our mutual desire take over now, but duty calls, and Walter has a very strong sense of duty.
The Rarest Man 6: Body of Evidence by Sergeeva
CATEGORY: R, (Mulder/Skinner)
RATING: NC17
SPOILERS: Nary a one
DISCLAIMER: These dear people don't, unfortunately, belong to me. The characters of Walter Skinner and Fox Mulder are the property of CC, MP, DD, 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended.
SUMMARY: Skinner angst, Mulder comfort.
THANKS: To Hal, for being, as always, uniquely wonderful, to Samantha, for soul-mateyness and enthusiastic encouragement, and to Marianne for giving this a home from home.
~~~This one is for Sean, who gave me the inspiration~~~THE SERIES SO FAR:
The Walk (Rarest Man: Prologue)
Rarest Man: Test of Endurance
Rarest Man: Wet Dream
Rarest Man: Resolution
Rarest Man: Famine & Feast
Rarest Man: Duty Before Pleasure
Rarest Man: Body of EvidenceThe stories are chronological (with some gaps still to be filled), but are fairly self-contained too, so can be read separately. They can be found on my web-site (Sergeeva's Walter-Altar) at: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/7155 and on Marianne's web-site at: http://www.fortunecity.com/lavendar/elystan/99/sergeeva.html
EMAIL ME: Caring feedback is *always* appreciated (and answered) at: sergeeva@geocities.com or s.e.fletcher@durham.ac.uk
"He is simply the rarest man i' th' world"
Shakespeare - Coriolanus 4,v,161The Rarest Man: Body of Evidence
by Sergeeva (sergeeva@geocities.com)
---------------------------------------------------------I'm just starting to chop the vegetables for a stir-fry when I hear the front open and close. I hear my lover hang his coat in the closet and set his briefcase down by the chest in the hallway. I hear the clink of his keys in the walnut bowl and his footsteps moving into the living room, then silence. I call out,
"You've had a long day. I'm doing dinner, do you want a beer?"
Still silence.
"Walter, are you all right?"
I'm worried now, abandoning the peppers and mushrooms and going into the other room myself.
He's standing at the window, gazing out and biting his lip. His shoulders are hunched and I can see he's struggling with something difficult. I know him so well now I can read his body language: he has something to tell me and it isn't anything good. Anxiety settles coldly in the pit of my stomach.
"Walter, what is it... what's wrong?"
Finally he turns towards me, shoulders rolled forward, head bowed, looking as lost and miserable as I've ever seen him. I gasp in shock and he lifts his head at last to look at me. He clears his throat.
"I had my annual physical today."
Dread twists in my gut as I move to stand close to him. He suddenly realizes what a state I'm in and shakes his head.
"I'm fine. The doctor's actual words were: 'You're in remarkable condition for a man of your years, Mr. Skinner.' And that's the point. I'm old, Fox. I *feel* old today. I'm a staid old man who's dragging you down when you should be out having fun with people your own age. I should let you go."
Relief and anger wash over me in equal measure.
"Push me away, you mean..."
I take his hands in mine, walk him to the sofa, sit him down. He's already closing himself off from me, striving for detachment: eyes bleak, mouth narrowed with anguish. I could slap him for thinking so little of himself and for being so damn self-sacrificing and I could strangle that doctor (no doubt an arrogant young medic who thought a man of 48 would be flattered to hear what a fit specimen he was).
"You silly man! Don't you know how much I love you?"
I lean forward, trying to make him see how sincere I am, putting all the love I feel into my face, but he won't look at me. He's staring down at our still-linked hands, not hearing me, shaking his head over some inner argument.
I can see the frown knitted between his brows, the set of his jaw, the weariness of his posture.
I put my arms around him and dip my mouth to his but he turns away from my kiss, so that my mouth brushes over his cheek and I taste salt.
This is much worse than I thought: if I don't do something, he's going to wrench himself away from me, "free me", as he thinks, even if it breaks his heart. It *would* break mine.
I take his head between my hands, make him face me, wait until he looks into my eyes.
"Come with me."
I draw him to his feet and pull him after me into the hallway, up the stairs and into our bedroom. He comes docilely enough, but that awful pain is still in his eyes. I stand him in front of the full-length mirror.
"Stay right there - *don't* move."
I go into the bathroom and turn the hot water on at just a slow trickle, drizzle some ginger and sandalwood bath oil into the tub and hasten back to Walter.
He hasn't stirred. He's still gazing despondently at himself in the long mirror. I look over his shoulder at our reflection.
"I don't know what you see when you look in the mirror, but I'm going to show you what *I* see."
I put my hands on his shoulders and grin at his expression of startled doubt - at least I've got his attention now. I brush his temple with the back of my hand...
"I love your face, Walter, it holds everything that you are... your strength..."
stroking down the angle of his cheekbone to cup his jaw,
"your gentleness..."
tracing the line of his brows, smoothing away the frown, running a finger down his nose,
"your honesty..."
unhooking his glasses and gently brushing my fingers over his shyly-lowered lids (he's blushing now), taking his strong chin in my hand, tilting his face up so he looks squarely into the mirror again,
"your passion..."
my thumb in the hollow of his upper lip, skimming the smoothness of his firm mouth, pushing between his lips to feel the silky inner surface and the line of his teeth.
This is making me light headed with desire and I sway against him, burying my head against his hair and neck, wrapping my arms across his chest, holding myself up with his strength.
He groans softly, rolling his head against mine and I lift my hand to his smooth scalp, caressing the beautiful curve of his skull, still cataloguing his wonders...
"I love your bare head, your soft hair, your neck, your ears..."
My fingers move with my whispered words, feeling the warm skin, the familiar and beloved geography of my life-partner. I hand him back his glasses:
"You'd better put these on again, I want you to see all of this as clearly as I do."
I take his jacket off, remove his tie and start to unbutton his shirt, watching my own actions in the mirror. My hand circles his exposed throat, down the bare skin to the tender hollow at the base where I can feel his pulse beating.
"I love the fine skin here, the way the sweat pools there when we make love, the way I can feel your heartbeat, so strong and so fragile, so near the surface when I kiss you there..."
I touch two fingers to that pulse, as I would my two lips, then continue to open his shirt and pull it off him.
"Your shoulders are magnificent. I never knew how beautiful muscles could be until I saw you shirtless for the first time. I love the way they flex - how every one is so clear, how you look as if you could hold up the world with that strength..."
I kiss across his back and bite gently at the curve of his shoulder, moaning against the smooth skin, overcome with my hunger for him.
Lifting my gaze to the mirror again, I splay my hands over his chest, letting the curling hair nestle around my fingers,
"Your chest is... perfect. You're so firm but your skin is like silk stretched over all that muscle. I love your chest hair - soft and springy, defining these gorgeous curves..."
my palms cupping his pectorals, watching his chest heave with his deep breaths, inhaling the scent of his warm skin.
"I love your nipples - so responsive..."
They peak under my teasing fingers even as I say the words.
"I love to suck on something so soft and sensitive and feel the velvet pucker against my lips..."
Walter writhes against my hands, his eyes closing sensually, his lips parted.
Shoes and socks next. I kneel and reach around to unlace his sober Florsheims with their mirror polish. I love Walter's work uniform: the heavy black shoes, the beautifully-tailored dark suits, the starched white shirts. No-one looks as wonderful as Walter in his executive glory, no-one can fill a Brooks Brothers suit the way Walter can, so that all you can think of is the body underneath.
Crouched here beside him, making him lift each foot so I can remove his shoes and socks, I'm so aroused by him I can barely breathe.
Shakily, I stand behind him again and begin to unbuckle his belt. Deliberately, I press my groin against him, knowing he will feel my erection, making it another affirmation of how he makes me feel, of how much I love him and want him.
I push his pants and briefs down off his hips and touch his thigh to get him to step out of them. He seems rapt, staring at my face in the mirror with wide eyes.
Now he is naked, as beautiful a sight as I have ever seen, standing tall and straight now, where before he was hunched with weariness. He radiates health and physical power. His tanned skin glows, his body is toned and taut and as rampantly male as can be, his cock hardening and his incredible chest heaving with emotion.
I pull him back hard against me, crushing my own erection between us. I steady him, letting my hands linger over the flat belly and lean hips, dizzy with the scent of him, the heat of him, the sheer size of him.
But I haven't finished my positive reinforcement yet and it's so wonderful to see him regaining his self-esteem. My voice is husky with arousal now:
"If your chest is perfect, then your ass is a gift from God."
He lets loose a startled hiccup of laughter, even as he blushes again. How far we've come since he stood downstairs feeling worthless and miserable.
"I got hard the first time I saw you bent over the drinking fountain."
Another gasp of laughter, the dark brows arching upwards.
"I dream of this when I have to sleep alone, I torture myself with the thought of this as I sit at my desk..."
I slide my hand over the hard, tight mass of one high ass-cheek, squeezing gently.
"...and when I make love to you and I'm pressed against this gorgeous flesh, I could turn cannibal..."
I fall to my knees behind him, mouthing the beautiful satiny buttocks, nibbling and kissing, feeling my cock jerk with every brush of the hot, hard muscle against my lips.
Weakly, I lean against his hip, stroking his powerful thighs while I catch my breath. The quadriceps jump under my hands and his buttocks clench as he fights to stand upright. He spreads his feet slightly to brace himself and I move around him to kneel between his legs, abandoning the mirror-image at last.
I look up the towering height of him: my strong, beautiful lover - not old, but magnificently in his prime, the only one I love, the only one I want in the whole world.
I bend low and kiss each bare foot, then start to browse my way up his long legs, moving from one to the other, sharing my kisses equally.
"I love your legs, Walter. They're long, tanned, perfectly muscled, did I say long?, just the right amount of hair, all these interesting scars, just *so* long, such smooth skin, strong, graceful and *so* goddamn long!"
I'm mumbling now, my mouth against the silk of his inner thighs, nudging his legs further apart and moving upward until at last my lips brush his balls. I sit back on my heels and look at him.
His eyes are all pupil - velvet black. His lips are parted, his face and body sheened with sweat. In font of my face, his erect penis arches away from his groin, powerful, smooth-skinned, the veins prominent, the head glistening with moisture. His balls are heavy, the heat of him palpable against my face.
"And as for this..."
I kiss the beaded tip.
"Once in a lifetime, if you're *very* lucky, you find something as beautiful as this, and if you can, you make it yours for the rest of your life."
And I take the silk-over-steel of him into my mouth and lose myself in sensation.
After a while my hand strays to my own straining cock and it takes only two strokes before I let go and the stickiness spurts over my hand and over Walter's legs, just before he explodes in my mouth - his hot salt-sweetness more than I can swallow. His big hands are on my shoulders, all that is keeping him from toppling over. He's barely conscious now: tiredness, relaxation and the dying tremors of his orgasm taking his last reserves of strength.
I manage to lurch to my feet, cradling him tenderly against me as a mother would a sleepy child, and steer him into the bathroom.
The bath is just about to overflow and the delicate spicy scent fills the steamy room. I shut off the trickling faucet and let about eight inches of water out of the brim-full tub. Walter is leaning against the basin, his eyes closed, swaying with weariness.
I help him into the bath and wash him, sluicing the fragrant water over him and gently sponging his face and body as he lies back, letting me take care of him for once. After a few minutes, I climb in beside him and clean myself off too. The water is silky with the aromatic oils and the heady scent is making me drowsy too.
I get Walter wrapped in his big creamy cotton robe, belt my own robe around myself and we weave our way back into the bedroom, barely able to keep our eyes open by now.
We fall on top of the covers, still in our bathrobes. I hold Walter tightly, his head tucked against my shoulder, my leg hooked over his hip, keeping him close against me. Before we drift into sleep, I have to make sure he understands what I've been trying to tell him this evening.
"Walter, you are everything to me. I can't live without you, I *won't* live without you. Time moves on for us all and I'm
glad of every minute of the 48 years that has made this face and this body and this beautiful soul."
I touch his cheek and then lay my hand over his heart. He lifts the hand to his mouth and kisses it, then lifts his mouth to mine.
We kiss each other towards sleep and I think he's actually snoring gently when I murmur:
"Did I tell you... I love your hands, Walter..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[end of Rarest Man: Body of Evidence (1/1) by Sergeeva]~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sue/Sergeeva (sergeeva@geocities.com)
He still felt that his boss was an enigma,but it was one he thought he'd like to penetrate.
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shire/7155
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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