Walter, the Crossdressing A.D., and the Man Who Loved Him

by Bette

Title: Walter, the Cross-Dressing Assistant Director, and the Man Who Loved Him Author: Bette
Warnings: S/K Slash
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: None
Notes: Um, the title pretty much says it all. Yes, I do know exactly how weird this is. Alex has two hands. Role-play, crossdressing, dominance, submission, obsession. Feb 2004
Disclaimer: Dammit, ok, Chris Carter, yadda, but, like, dude, you don't even want them anymore.

It started when Skinner finally got around to throwing away the clothing Sharon had abandoned when she left. The task filled him with such sharp loneliness that for long moments all he did was stare at her pretty lingerie, dreaming and wishing that she, or someone, was around to give meaning to his life. He had not intended to start stroking her panties against his cheek. He just wanted a way to feel close to her again, but once he started he couldn't make himself let them go. He rubbed them against the back of his hand where the skin was more sensitive, then against his chest, and finally, daringly, against his groin. The unexpected pleasure of it rumbled through him like a seismic shift, and it shocked him so much that he hurriedly threw the rest of her things into a bag and ran downstairs to eat his supper.

That night though, after tossing and turning for several hours, he got up, retrieved the panties from the dresser where he'd dropped them, and took them to back bed with him. In the darkness, under the covers, he let the pressure build up again, satisfying himself by stroking the silk all over his skin--throat, collar bones, chest, abs. He ignored the tingling in his groin, skirting past it twice before finally succumbing and stroking his erection with Sharon's panties.

"Sharon," he whispered dutifully, but he knew he didn't really mean it. Had he chosen to face the truth, he would have admitted that the smooth feel of the silk was getting him off, not the fading memories of his former wife. He reveled in the feel of fabric rubbing against skin, and eventually he began to touch himself more purposefully, cradling his balls, sliding the panties up and down his erection until his hand sped up and he began to gasp and sweat against his cool sheets. Finally, with a long, satisfied moan, he came hard and collapsed instantly into sleep.

He forgot the whole episode until a few days later when he was changing his sheets and the stained panties fell out onto the floor. He felt a throb of arousal at the sight, but the stain on the panties disgusted him. Somehow it felt too deliberate to wash them, so he threw them put.

Weeks passed. Then one day, very carefully not thinking about what he was doing, he went into a woman's boutique and bought a satin baby-doll outfit. Back in the house, he threw away the fluffy, foolish camisole and took the panties up to his bedroom. Alone in the dark again, he indulged himself, then threw the panties away. It took months before he had the nerve to actually pull a pair up his legs, but even through his keen sense of the ridiculous, his depravity amused him, and he touched his body all over before finally bringing himself off. When he was done, he took the panties downstairs and hid them in his kitchen trash can under the coffee grounds and frozen food containers.


Alex Krycek knew he was no beauty. He had narrow shoulders, and at thirty-nine years and change he was already thickening through the waist. His ass, he'd been told, was a fine piece of equipment, but it was flattening and widening as he grew older, and he didn't care enough to do the exercises that would whip it back into shape. All in all, he felt rather ordinary compared to Skinner's extravagant male pulchritude. Among his other grievances, he held this against Skinner in some deep corner of his mind that refused to acknowledge simple envy. Why should it be though, that hard-assed, flint-eyed, cold-hearted Skinner got the broad shoulders; the great, winged lats; the flat, rippling abs; and an ass that broke hearts? How come Skinner's biceps bulged so ferociously that the flex and play of them could be seen under three layers of clothing? How come he got the gleaming elegance of a smooth, bald crown when all Alex got was dark, uninspired hair that didn't do what he wanted it to unless he slicked it back with so much gel that it felt like he'd washed his hair with glue?

And Skinner had a strong commitment to his sense of ethical decency--something Alex could never afford. He fought a losing battle to keep the consortium out of his affairs and to keep his job as honest as he possibly could, and he did not care what it cost him personally. And on top of his commitment to moral purity, there was the high status, the very high salary, the respect of peers... It was just so fucking unfair.

So sometimes he followed Skinner around, consoling himself with the truth of Skinner's helplessness against the clever wiles of one Alex Krycek, assassin and superspy.

'I can get you anytime I want,' he would think. Occasionally he appeased himself by walking so dangerously close behind the man that a sudden stop would have sent him careening into Walter's back.

He idly noted Skinner's occasional forays into lingerie stores, reflexively adding this to the list of grudges he held. Skinner had a regular enough life that he could have a girlfriend. Alex didn't have girlfriends. He had the occasional whore, and while some of them were very nice, it stung him to imagine Skinner's tender affection for the lady of his choice; wining her, dining her, taking her home to dress her in the pretty, lacy underwear he'd bought, then slowly peeling the underwear off and tenderly making love with her.

He was so firmly entrenched in his resentment that almost six months passed before he realized that Skinner did not actually have a girlfriend. He came home every night and stayed there. Nobody ever came to visit him. Almost as an afterthought, he wondered what Skinner was doing with all that expensive lingerie.

When he realized what the answer had to be he laughed so hard he got a stitch in his side. "My God," he said over and over again. "Oh, my fucking God!"

He could hardly believe he'd been so clueless.

Well he was nothing if not an opportunist, and this was too good a weakness not to thoroughly exploit. He could throw away the black box that controlled the nanocytes (not that it worked anymore, but Skinner didn't know that, and besides he could always be reinfected if need be). This was three lifetime's worth of blackmail material, and he, Krycek, finally had the goods on that arrogant prig, Walter Skinner.

He rededicated himself to his surveillance work, exulting when Skinner finally returned to his favorite lingerie store. It was pathetically easy to speed ahead of him and break into his apartment. Krycek already had a fresh tape in the video camera. Now all he had to do was sit in the darkness and wait.


Skinner heaved a sigh of anticipation as he locked the door behind him. Some nagging part of his mind told him to check around before settling in because something felt subtly out of place tonight, but he ignored it. He was too eager for his little treat to pay much attention to his internal warning system.

He kicked his shoes off at the door, shrugged out of his coat, and headed up the stairs carrying a tiny white and gold bag from an upscale boutique. He was almost cheerful as he stripped off his tie and sparkling white shirt and socks. Alone in his bedroom he set the mood for himself, turning the lamps to a soft, even glow, and deliberately slowing his breathing.

He unbuckled his belt and slid belt, trousers and briefs down his legs, amusing himself by putting a sensual wiggle in his hips as he shimmied out of his clothes. Nude, his erection already beginning to stand out from his body, he reached into his little bag and pulled out his latest indulgence--a pair of women's boxers, silk, with lace around the edges. Champagne pink, the lady at the store told him, and wasn't his wife a lucky lady to have someone to buy them for her.

'If only you knew,' he thought to himself. He pictured the saleswoman's stunned gasp if she were to see him pulling them up his own long legs. This was what he loved the best--the contrast between the fluffy, feminine attire and his own unrelenting masculinity. He was not supposed to know what it felt like to actually wear these clothes, and the illicit nature of his activity excited him even further.

Walter lay back on the bed, gasping as he ran his hands gently over his silk-clad cock and balls. He sighed deeply, then stiffened, the movement disguised as erotic writhing, but he suddenly knew that he was being watched. There had been another gasp, just at the edge of his hearing, very soft but discernible, and in a moment of sheer terror, Walter knew there was someone in the room with him. He begged each and every deity he'd ever heard of to please, please make it not true or let him die on the spot, but simultaneously, in one of those lightning decisions that had been the reason for his steep rise to the position of AD, he decided to bring down the son of a bitch who'd violated this most private moment. His secret watcher didn't yet know that Walter was aware of his presence, giving Walter--for now--the advantage.

So he slowly spread his legs and ran his fingers over the flimsy bit of fabric that covered him. By the time he got his thighs completely open, the heavy breathing was completely audible. His not-so-secret observer was as big a pervert as he was, obviously. Walter took a few deep, quiet breaths, trying to discern the interloper's exact location. Finally he was certain of his mark; in the deep shadows between the bedroom and bathroom doors. He let his head move around as if he were still in the throes of passion. Yes, he thought he could see the glint of a lens.

'Okay,' he encouraged himself, 'on three.'

An adrenaline-fueled burst of energy propelled him off the bed and across the room. He grabbed the intruder and wrenched the camera out of his hand, noticing peripherally that it went flying towards his dresser. If he'd been thinking more clearly, he would have gone for the camera and destroyed it, but his arms went up to the person's throat, and he dragged the invading presence out by the neck and threw him on the floor.

"Krycek! You dirty son of a bitch!"

Of course it would be Alex Krycek. Walter wanted to kill him so badly that it took all his will-power to loosen his fingers from around Krycek's neck. He shifted pressure from the windpipe to the jugular and waited until Krycek's eyes rolled back on his head and he passed out.

Moments later, when Krycek came to, gasping, Walter had the gun to his head. The video camera was smashed and the incriminating tape was being destroyed by acid, thanks to the chemicals under Skinner's bathroom sink. Skinner, however, was still glowering.

For a moment they stared without speaking, then a smirk crossed Krycek's face.

"You're wearing pink silk panties," Krycek wheezed. The smirk got broader. "And they make you look really hot."

Had he been thinking more clearly, Skinner would not have done what he did next. But this was Krycek, the man he hated, and the opportunity was too good to pass up. Besides, the adrenaline rush was making him feel like he was mightier than God. He deserved this.

"You interrupted something important, Krycek, and you owe me for that." He gestured with Krycek's pistol with one hand as he pulled the panties off with the other. "Get up on your knees."

"Go to hell."

"I probably will," Skinner cocked the pistol. "But you'll go first."

So Krycek, glaring pure hatred, knelt down and gave him a blow-job. He was good at it, too. After a while he looked like he was really into it. Skinner felt his features contort themselves strangely, and realized with distant surprise that he was actually smiling. Krycek's eyes were huge, his lips were wet, and his breath shuddered in and out of him in jagged gasps. Skinner was amazed. In his wildest imaginings he never perceived himself as an object of lust, but the boy obviously wanted him. He could not come close to admitting how thrilled he felt, but hard on the heels of his exhilaration, disappointment flashed through him, sour and sharp. It wasn't a humiliating turnabout if the boy enjoyed it. Now what was he supposed to do? He didn't want this (except he did), and he was enraged at being spied upon this way (but at least it was only Krycek), and he should know better than to trust the little rat anywhere near his dick (but look at him go).

Krycek did not suck so much as worship. Skinner couldn't look away--an impractical proposition in any event--because he wanted to catch every nuance of the boy's expression. He even pulled back for the cum shot, transfixed by the look on Krycek's face, and by the sight of his come spurting onto Krycek's tongue.

He hadn't even caught his breath before he was hauling Krycek to his feet. He passed one hand over Krycek's erection and gave the boy a long, knowing look. Then he dragged him down to the front door and pushed him outside into the hallway, and all this without exchanging a single word.

But that night, after standing next to his bed, grinning like an idiot for several minutes, he went to sleep in the panties.


Alex stumbled out of Skinner's apartment with the taste of semen in his mouth and the realization that his world had changed forever.

He felt amazingly stupid. In fact, he spent most of the following week in a daze. How could he not have known this about himself? Something had come loose the last time he'd hit his head, causing him to become sexually excited at the sight of a man in women's underwear. Right? Surely that must be the case.

Hm. Okay, so he was a pervert. Well, no big deal, but Skinner? Skinner?! The memory of that night made his skin tingle, but it had to be just the novelty--he couldn't possibly have a hard-on for Skinner. To prove it he went out and found himself one of the fanciest, most expensive whores he could get. All it did, though, was give him a yardstick by which to compare experiences. He enjoyed himself with his rented lady, but it didn't give him that electrical charge he'd felt that night in Skinner's apartment. It was like eating hamburgers when he really wanted sirloin.

That pissed him off. Krycek had seen beautiful men and women in plenty. He should have had better self control, no matter how sweet Skinner's cock. No matter how much the women's clothing accentuated his muscular thighs and enhanced the masculinity of him. This was supposed to be simple blackmail, not an epiphany that changed the foundations of his existence.

Well, he wasn't Alex Krycek for nothing. He could weld shut this chink in his armor. He would regain control of himself. And he would make Skinner pay


A week later, Krycek broke into his apartment again. Walter awoke to a gun against his head.

"Get up," Krycek said, and moved nimbly out of the way so Walter could comply.

It was three in the morning. Walter was too sleep-stupid to do anything but obey, so he stood by the side of his bed, wondering how he'd be forced to pay for his little bit of illicit pleasure. He tracked Krycek's other hand--the one without the gun in it--and automatically caught the package Krycek tossed at him.

"Put this on."

It was only then that it registered that he was holding a bag from another upscale woman's boutique.

"It'll look great on you." Amusement threaded Krycek's smoky voice, but his expression was surprisingly eager.

Skinner wanted to say something like, 'you have got to be kidding me,' but that was too disingenuous even for him. Absurdly, his next thought was to explain to Krycek that he only did this as a way to be close to his former wife, but that wouldn't fly either. He'd told Krycek to blow him last week, and Krycek had. But maybe he had some leeway if he appealed to Krycek's practical side.

"Krycek, I don't think this is such a good idea. Why don't you just let me suck you off, then we'll be even."

"I'm not asking you what you think. Put it on."

Lacking an alternative, Walter reached into the bag and pulled out a stretchy dark green dress. He pulled it over his shoulders and belted it, feeling like three different kinds of fool under Krycek's close scrutiny.

"Is this where you pull out the video camera, you son-of-a-bitch?"

"You only wish it was that simple." Krycek's gun never wavered. "Pull off your shorts."

Walter complied, very slowly.

"Turn around."

Walter kept his hands down at his sides and turned around, fully expecting to die. He was prepared to feel the gun digging into his back, but he was totally stunned to feel Krycek's other hand groping beneath the dress he wore.

"What the fuck are you..."

"Shut up!" Krycek snarled. His fingers found what they were looking for, hiking the dress up, reaching around, fondling Skinner's flaccid length.

Skinner felt a shudder run through Krycek's body, and he was suddenly keenly aware of Krycek's erection pressing between his buttcheeks. The fabric felt strange. Soft and stretchy and clingy all at once, and he had a sudden, provocative image of what he looked like, swathed in the long green duster, being masturbated. He was scaldingly aware of what it meant when he braced his legs so Krycek could work him more firmly. 'Let him have his payback,' he justified himself. 'Besides, if Krycek really came here just to humiliate me, he would make me jack off by myself.'

Walter caught his breath. Behind him, Krycek was hard as a rock now, rubbing himself against Walter's ass, muttering obscenities in Russian.

With the realization that Krycek wanted it bad, Walter surrendered his resistance and allowed himself to go along with Krycek's agenda. This felt gooood. Even like this, being forced, he wanted it too. Vaguely he realized that he was writhing against Krycek's hand. The distant, observing part of his mind couldn't help but point out that this was extraordinarily foolhardy, and he should be trying to get Krycek's gun away from him, but the rest of his mind was reeling as it translated Krycek's perverted litany into English, and was Krycek really telling him what a pretty cunt he had, how he, Krycek, was going to fuck a hole right through his hot ass, how Skinner would know what it was like to be taken by a real man?

It couldn't be, yet Krycek was obviously enjoying himself if that bulge was anything to go by. And he was rubbing himself against the dress, grinding his face into the cloth at shoulder and collar, licking Skinner's neck in the process.

'Ha!' Relief and triumph coursed through him. 'Krycek really is as big a pervert as I am. Bigger, even.'

So he did not resist when Krycek pushed him to the bed. Krycek's expression hardened as he laid the gun down and kicked it away, but Skinner stayed perfectly still.

"This might hurt," Krycek whispered.

Skinner shut his eyes.

Krycek was gone briefly, then back again, his slickened fingers fumbling a little as he pushed Skinner's legs towards his chin. Fingers entered him briefly, then Krycek moved again, dropping kisses on his legs before settling between them.

Skinner braced himself, and yes, it was painful, but Krycek was whispering Russian endearments to him, calling him little dove, little beauty, and Walter felt such a strange mix of rage and fear that it brought tears to the corners of his eyes. He was not going to be Krycek's bitch, no matter how sweetly Krycek fucked him. And why was Krycek leaning down between his legs to kiss his mouth? And why was he angling himself to nudge at Walter's prostate, over and over again, tiny, teasing strokes that finally made Walter wrap his legs around Krycek's waist and buck up against him, straining for more? Why did he look so utterly transported?

"What... is... this...?" He managed to get out between thrusts.

"This is me, fucking you up that pretty ass of yours," Krycek huffed. He changed his angle and took Walter's penis in hand again, and Walter heard himself start to wail. Krycek had to yell over the noise, getting his thought out between gasps, "And I'm coming... back tomorrow... and we're... doing it... without the gun... oh!"

Walter began to convulse, and suddenly Krycek was coming too, a dazed expression on his face as he emptied himself into Walter's body.

"I'm coming back tomorrow," he repeated. His breath caught the little hairs on Skinner's chest.

Walter said nothing. He watched as Krycek rolled off him and sat by the side of the bed for a few moments before pulling his clothing back together, collecting his gun and staggering towards the door. His first coherent thought was that if Krycek really wanted this, he had a stake in not exposing them. His second thought was to wonder that their kinks meshed so perfectly. He didn't much like to think of himself in a dress, but it was obvious that Krycek wanted to see him wear one and intended that they should do this again.

He wished there were some way to mock Krycek for the fact that men in dresses were such a turn-on for him, but he had no leverage there. He'd come hard, so what did that make him if not a willing accomplice? He didn't want to feel grateful, so he chose instead to feel nothing. At work the following day, he kept his mind carefully blank every time he shifted in his seat.

A few days later he pulled on a dress with a pattern of yellow daisies and smoothed it down over his erection. He stood with downcast eyes while Krycek told him how pretty he looked.

"Don't be scared." Obviously Krycek could see that he was quaking with embarrassment, because he spoke very soothingly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

'You've already hurt me,' Walter thought. 'And for some bizarre reason I'm letting you do it again.' His dick was throbbing. There were butterflies in his stomach, and he was unwilling, even unable, to meet Krycek's gaze, yet he stood there and let himself be stared at. He heard Krycek's breathing get heavy.

"I want to fuck you over the back of the sofa," Krycek said. "Go bend over and pull your dress up for me."

'Do something!' Walter demanded of himself. 'Why are you taking this?'

Nonetheless he did as he'd been told, even though his heart was in his throat, and his entire body burned at the thought of how he, Walter Skinner, must look, bent over a sofa with his dress pulled up to the middle of his back. Dress. He was a man in a dress. So wrong. It had to be the sheer perversity of it that kept him so hard. He wanted to rage at Krycek, or punch him, even as he held himself still.

But Krycek was slipping up close behind him now, stroking his thighs, telling him how pretty he was, and Walter, angry because he was so easily soothed by the touch, blanked his mind again and thought of nothing but the iron bar with which Krycek was prying him open for a second time.

"You won't be comfortable at first because it's been a few days and you're not used to it yet." There was nothing but gloating in Krycek's voice. "We'll take it easy for a bit. Until you adjust." He forced the tip a scant inch forward. Walter groaned in spite of himself. It hurt.

Krycek shushed him. "Sweet girl, I know it hurts. Here." He reached between Walter's legs again. "Let me distract you."

"I'm not a girl, Krycek."

"Yes you are. You're MY girl, Walter. Now open your legs wider."

Walter was humiliated at how much it actually did settle him. He shifted so Krycek would have easier access.

"Very good." Gloating and solicitous, Krycek continued to soothe and stimulate with gentle fingers on Skinner's dick. The motion brought him forward, pushed him in deeper, and Skinner heard his shuddering moan as he bottomed out. He wondered what he looked like, bent over and pinioned on Krycek's cock. He was suddenly reminded of Marja Jurdis, from his old home town; a girl he'd bullied into taking off her bra in the back seat of his car so he could stare at her breasts while he fucked her. She'd been red-faced with shame, but he'd ignored her silent tears, slamming into her so her tits would jiggle all the harder. It was coercion, but the thought of it hadn't bothered him until he was many years older. Well, if she could take being pushed around then so could he. Payback, karma, fate, whatever.

'At least I don't have big tits,' came his darkly humorous thought. Above him Krycek was starting to slam into his body, and he heard himself moaning. The abject pleasure in his voice appalled him. He pictured Mulder watching, or Kersh, or his mother. He imagined their horror and contempt, but he couldn't lie to himself: he could have resisted if he'd really wanted to. He loathed the perversity that was Walter Skinner in women's clothes, but he savored the effect it had, on him, and on the man leaning over him. Krycek had long since abandoned Skinner's dick so he could hold Skinner's hips with both hands. He was mumbling to himself in Russian again and Skinner heard himself sighing in counterpoint as he reached down to stroke himself. All he could think was, 'I'm wearing a dress which Krycek has pushed up to my waist so he can fuck me in the ass,' and the reality of it was overwhelming.


The truth, which Krycek did not perceive, was that he was actually a very handsome man. He had a lovely smile, and very expressive eyes, even when he was wearing bad-boy game face. A lower lip that needed biting constantly, and a strong, sturdy body that was capable of holding up a man Skinner's size and fucking the daylights out of him. He never thought of himself in those terms. He saw himself as ordinary, a drayhorse compared to Skinner's charger or Mulder's racing stallion, so he worked harder than he had to and expected little in return.

He did believe himself a villain, a dangerous man, and, despite the occasional setback, a creature greatly to be feared.

So why was he treating Skinner like the man was made of gossamer? He had no real stake in being gentle, but he couldn't bring himself to lessen the intensity of the experience with thou shalt nots.

Thou shalt not, for instance, cause thy former boss to lose himself in pleasure. Thou shalt not stroke his penis with anything touching reverence; neither shalt thou kiss his lips. Thou shalt not stick thy tongue into his mouth, nor take pleasure in his sighs, nor in his moans, nor in the way his body writhes against thine own.

Fortunately, Alex had long since told his inner priest to go take a flying fuck.

Not that it lessened his resentment.

He didn't want to enjoy Skinner's enjoyment. He wanted Skinner to suffer and cringe. To feel shame and humiliation, to grovel in front of him while Alex looked on and enjoyed it.

He wasn't given to self-reflection much, but it didn't take a degree in psychology to understand where these feelings were coming from. Skinner the perfect, the untouchable, the citizen, humbled in front of Krycek the consortium step-and-fetch-it. He couldn't take out his resentment on his bosses, but Skinner had an exploitable weakness, and Krycek told himself that playing Skinner's vulnerability was the real reason he kept coming back.

So the next time, he brought a dress with a full skirt and a floral print of big red hibiscus flowers and made Skinner put it on. Then he made him pull the dress up and masturbate into the fabric, and yes, there it was, the shame and arousal mixed on Skinner's expression, and yes, it was so much better to have it like this.

Vulnerable, mortified, and horny, Skinner had infinite appeal, and Krycek was very comfortable playing sadist. The pretty dress was such a contrast to the hard, masculine reality of the man that it scandalized and titillated, and left Alex abjectly vulnerable to the thrill of watching him wear it. And if that weren't enough, there was also the way Skinner submitted to Alex's commands, like he was suffering through his pleasure. It gave Alex a charge like nothing else ever had. He had to do it again and again, because it was just that hard to believe he'd stumbled upon the goldmine that was Skinner in a dress.

'God,' he thought dazedly, when he could think, 'no matter what I do he just takes it.' He liked to test out his theory on every possible occasion, biting Skinner's neck and shoulders, chewing on his nipples, leaving a trail of bruises down into his pubic hair then turning him over and rimming him until Skinner gasped and shook. He liked to suck Skinner's cock, make him come, leave him trembling in the aftermath of his orgasm. Finally he would batten down on Skinner's mouth and gorge until he himself was gasping. The man took it all. Days later the mere memory would be enough to make Alex feel weak in the knees, but the physical ecstasy was insignificant compared to the rush of power he felt at making Skinner submit to him.

He'd never really known what it felt like to be in charge of anything. All his life he'd been the lackey of those more powerful than himself, but now he had Skinner, pristine, shining Walter Skinner of the scowl and the powersuits and the expensive condo, vulnerable to him, Krycek the nobody... He felt like he might overdose from the pleasure of it.


Skinner couldn't concentrate at work for daydreaming about Alex's visits. He actually had someone who wanted to be with him; who came back to his house time and again and made love to him. He'd been so lonely. He hadn't dared let himself see how much until now, when the isolation was morphing equally into longing and self-disgust.

It was not the loathsome, pathetic image of himself as a crossdresser. It wasn't even the fact that someone else knew (though, granted, if he'd had any choice in the matter Krycek would have fallen down a rabbit hole before he'd ever seen Walter in women's underwear). No, the main problem was that Krycek the double-crossing scumbag, already had such complete control over him that this latest little secret bound him no more or less to Krycek's will than before. Krycek knew his most precious secret, and the fact that Krycek was as enthralled as Walter was barely made up for the sense of utter violation. To be vulnerable to that piece of shit double or triple agent or whatever he was these days, galled him so completely that if he hadn't been getting fucked into oblivion twice a weekend he would have started mainlining xanax just to keep his nerves partway under control.

And that was the other thing he hated about his situation--he loved what was happening to him. His body sang, his mind soared free, his senses reeled from the intensity of Krycek's passion for him in women's clothing. He wanted to hate Krycek and the situation, but he was so damned grateful for it that he sometimes sat in his office and mooned like a teenage girl, reliving the kisses and the caresses and the rough voice crooning endearments like Skinner was the most desirable thing to ever walk the earth.

He loved it that someone in this world saw him as more than just a middle-aged, paper-pushing drone.

If only it had been anyone but Krycek.

But then again, sometimes he thought, 'Thank God it's only Krycek.'

"You like this." That's what Krycek said the last time he'd broken in.

"What do you think?" Skinner was on his back, on the bed, his dressed pushed up to his waist and his panties pulled down to his knees. Krycek, it seemed, liked to dress him in the most expensive clothing he could find, then arouse Skinner and pull the clothing into complete disarray, exposing a squirming slut beneath the prim exterior.

Krycek's dick was hard and leaking, but he was still sitting by the side of the bed, drawing it out

It would have been ridiculous if Skinner hadn't felt so completely dirty and exposed, and turned on. But there he lay, quivering, while Krycek played with his ass and his cock and balls. It was almost enough to make him moan aloud right this very instant, even knowing he was still being watched at work

When Krycek did not come back for several weeks, Skinner was relieved. It gave him time to think about what was happening. His mind constantly replayed their encounters, and eventually he realized that Krycek had developed feelings for him. It was in the Russian endearments. And the fact that Krycek's guns were never anywhere in sight.

Well, the gun had only been a prop in any event, more a guarantor of his compliance than any real protection for Krycek. Krycek had kicked it out of the way halfway through their second encounter.

Because he knew he'd been perfectly safe, Walter realized. By the time Krycek put the gun down he'd been letting himself get fucked and, if he's honest with himself, making no secret of the fact that he loved it.

Sometimes he stared at himself in his bathroom mirror and wondered who exactly he was looking at. He recognized himself in all his masculine regalia, but the thought of how he looked in the dresses Krycek brought him made him feel a shiver of some emotion he refused to name. He would have felt better if it were only shame, but everything about this game lured him and he didn't want to resist it.


Alex Krycek was increasingly angry with himself. He'd been keeping count. Excluding a brief lacuna, this was seventeen weekends in a row that he'd come to Skinner's house. He had a pattern now, a routine, and he felt vulnerable because he couldn't make himself stay away. He took it out on Skinner.


It was a type of rape, and after the gentleness of all the previous visits, the fact of it filled him with horror. Krycek was angry about something, and he was cold with Skinner, something that had never happened before. Even when he reached around, attempting to rouse, it was grim enough that Skinner pushed his hand away.

Krycek froze for a moment then continued his relentless sawing in and out of Walter's body, and if Walter's groaning sounded a little bit like sobs, neither mentioned it. As soon as Krycek finished, Walter rolled out from beneath him and went to shower. He stayed in the bathroom for a long time, only to find Krycek waiting for him when he came out. Krycek was in full seductive mode, tongue in Walter's mouth, hands moving gently up and down Walter's torso, grinding against him, trying without words to coax Skinner into having the orgasm he'd refused earlier.

Walter was unwilling, and after a very few moments he pulled away. Krycek let him go, but trailed after him when Skinner pulled on his robe and left the room. When Krycek found him he was staring out the living room window and did not turn around. Walter could see Krycek's reflection in the glass--noticed that Krycek was staring at his legs. He was always saying what a killer body Walter had, and how his legs were so fantastically muscular and shapely.

Resentment surged. How dare Krycek take his fill of staring, especially after what he'd just done? He didn't have the right. When Krycek drew near Walter moved away and kept moving away until Krycek got the message and backed off.

Finally, in an obvious attempt at appeasement, Krycek called a local Russian restaurant and ordered a St. Petersburg dinner to go. He went out and came back half an hour later, his arms full of fragrant packages.

"You hungry?" He coaxed.

Walter turned away again. His stomach growled, but he made an abrupt about face, disappearing upstairs into his bedroom.

He came down dressed in jeans and a sweater, ignored Krycek's woebegone expression and walked out the door.

He ate a solitary dinner in a theme restaurant, and if he noticed Krycek lurking, he pretended not to.

Back at home, he undressed again. He was waiting in his bathrobe when Alex arrived.


Walter didn't let him get any further. He reached out and pulled Alex's hand down to his genitals, kissing him, encouraging the seduction he'd refused earlier. When Alex took the bait, Skinner pulled away.

"You're afraid of this, aren't you?" He watched Alex's eyes harden

"Touch me, Krycek," it was a taunt. "Seduce me. Make me yours. You know you want to."

Krycek turned red with fury. "Make you mine? You're already mine. You're not exactly the world's most popular guy, or did you forget that this all started because I caught you playing with yourself alone in the dark."

His anger out in the open now, he pushed Walter down onto the sofa, and this time he persisted, milking Walter until he cried out and spurted all over Krycek's hand.

The rest of the weekend was a disaster, or a declaration, depending on how you looked at it. Krycek took Walter three more times, fucking on his side so he'd last a good deal longer than usual. He did not tolerate Walter's passive acceptance of his attentions, but insisted that Walter orgasm each time Krycek did. No matter how unwilling, Walter eventually gave into his body's urges, coming each time Krycek forced it out of him. And each time, Krycek cried out in pure triumph at having wrested a climax from Skinner, willing or no.

But each time they were done, Krycek kissed him over and over, mumbling his gratitude in flowery Russian endearments that left no doubt about how he felt. He cherished Skinner and would never let him go. Skinner was his dove, his flower, his heart. By the time Sunday evening rolled around Walter understood what the trouble was. Krycek didn't want to want him. Krycek blamed Walter for Krycek's feelings.

Well, he knew how to show Krycek how little control he really had. That night, as Krycek prepared to leave, Walter put on a dress and simply waited. Krycek's double-take was comical, and the yearning on his face made Skinner hide a smile of triumph.

"I can't... we can't... I have to..." Krycek gestured vaguely towards the door, but his other hand was already reaching towards Walter. "I'll be late." But it was sighed across Walter's lips as Krycek took him into his arms once more.


Skinner has been declawed, defanged, made tame, and instead of mocking him for it, Alex revels in it. He is, in his own way, very gentle with him. There is no vying for dominance--the dresses see to that--so their roles are clearly defined and static. Alex tops, Skinner bends over and takes it.

'But the thing is,' Alex argued with himself, 'you want him naked, too, don't you?' He ignored the fact that he'd wrestled Skinner into a dress last night, wasting precious minutes that they could have spent fucking. He'd come straight from Leningrad in order to spend a few hours in Skinner's bed. Now he was on a morning flight back to Moscow, reliving every moment of the night before. He hadn't asked permission, just broke in and took what he wanted. And Skinner was beautiful about it. He obviously liked sex a great deal; that, or he was just desperate enough to take whatever Alex dished out.

Either way, Alex didn't care. He was much more concerned with his inability to call it off after he'd made the decision to stop fucking Skinner. At first this thing had been a way to emasculate the man, to humiliate him and render him powerless. Now he found himself looking forward to the nights he decided to drop by and surprise him. He was eager, even happy at the thought of seeing Skinner again, and his own lack of control disgusted him.

So now he was trying to convince himself that it was just horniness on both their parts, and he was doing a fairly good job. But, God, the man was so hot and so fucking irresistible that Alex's paranoid mind began to suspect a trap of some sort. He couldn't even laugh at himself for his suspicions.

He is on line constantly these days, feeding his obsession. He's ferreted out every big and tall women's clothing store in the continental United States. He looked at stores for transvestites, but rejected their clothes as too flashy and cheap. He likes Skinner to be conservatively dressed and he selects clothing that reflects what he thinks Skinner's taste would be if he were a woman.

He tells himself that it means nothing that he likes bossing Skinner around. It's just a game. He tells himself that the only reason he comes back is that he likes the way Skinner takes it. Alex often brings food now, and little gifts. He feels resentful about the weakness it shows, but he does it anyway.

He completely denies the sense of protectiveness that sometimes surges to the fore. In a dress, Skinner has a hard time meeting his eyes, and his reticence makes Alex feel unexpectedly tender. He has never had anyone to care for until now, and this newly-discovered streak of empathy makes him uncomfortable. Sometimes he uses his penis to punish Skinner for being such an addictive temptation. He knows it's wrong, but Skinner apparently understands that he needs to do this sometimes. He takes it and doesn't complain.


As usual lately, Krycek let himself in, handed Walter a boutique bag, and sent him up to change with a gentle pat on the rear.

Walter did not know what to think about Alex's increasingly imperious attitude, so he thought about nothing. He went upstairs and put the dress on. Lately he's gotten up enough nerve to scrutinize his image in the mirror. He never feels remotely feminine, but the dresses alchemize him; make it clear that he's the beta male in this folie a deux. He understands why. For the two of them, men who'd grown up in a world where ideas like feminism and sexism were meaningless, a dress is a highly potent symbol.

Still, being on the bottom gives him certain privileges. He can, for example, expect solicitousness instead of censure when he throws the occasional temper tantrum. He can be pampered in ways that are as pleasing as they are unexpected. When Krycek turns him over on his back, he understands that he has no responsibility except to lie there and be pleasured. And Krycek always treats Walter-in-a-dress with a stilted old-country courtliness. He brings gourmet meals for them to share, and Walter often finds cufflinks and tietacks on his dresser that are so tasteful that he has to stop himself from wondering aloud at Krycek's sophistication. Even though he's warned himself against it, Walter begins to trust the consistency of Alex's courteous behavior. He even begins to enjoy it. It doesn't matter that he has so very little power in their relationship because he has more than enough gratification.

"This is all in our heads, you know." He couldn't help testing.

"So what?" Alex, ever pragmatic, had no patience for analysis. It was. That was that. Later though, after kasha-stuffed cabbage and flank steak that melted in their mouths, he hit the mute button when the commercials came on at half-time.

"I like things the way they are. I like your cock. I like you in the dresses. That's why I buy them."

It was a pretty long speech by both their standards. Walter sighed and relaxed against Alex's side, and Alex rewarded him by leaning over to kiss the side of his head before turning his attention back to the tv.

It was, Walter had to admit, a really terrific way to spend an evening.

Nonetheless, the following morning, with echoes of pleasure still whispering through his body, he spent several uneasy moments thinking of Marja Jurdis again. He'd been very unfair to the girls he'd dated. His father held power over their fathers, so Walter held power by proxy, expecting them to put out on his say-so. They almost always did. Walter wonders if they felt as powerless as he does now. And unlike Krycek, he'd never given a damn about their pleasure.

Actually, that wasn't quite true. He hadn't known to give a damn. To the 16 year old son of the factory foreman, it was just the way life was. His father's workers were serfs. Their daughters were serfs of serfs. Voiceless and powerless, the girls of his old neighborhood had learned early that men were to be obeyed. And he had availed himself, of course, because his young dick didn't give a shit about ethics.

Now, decades later, Walter feels an affinity towards them. Last night he'd stared up into Krycek's face as they rocked together on his bed. Krycek stared back, wearing such a calmly possessive expression that Walter felt some part of himself weaken and disappear, subsumed into Krycek's will.

He thinks he should fight it but he doesn't, even though he knows the intimidation is deliberate on Krycek's part. Sometimes Krycek feeds him. Wearing that same smugly possessive expression, he actually picks up Walter's fork and puts the food in his mouth, gently placing Walter's hands back in his lap should he try to do anything for himself. Walter knows this is all about dominance rather than affection. Krycek does this to infantilize him, to disempower him, and it's working. He feels erased somehow, minimized, even as he enjoys the freedom to be catered to. He puts up with it anyway, reassuring himself that as a grown and sophisticated man he himself would never treat a woman this way. He knows better now.

Krycek must also know better, but he obviously doesn't care. Walter's figured out by now that Alex isn't turned on by the sex as much as his helplessness. When he obeys Alex's commands, Alex's breath shudders out of him more rapidly. And Alex has begun to order him around outside of their sexual interactions. Bring me a beer. Wash me. Turn on the tv.

Skinner minds a lot less than he imagined he would. He can hardly go wrong, obeying Krycek. Every time he does his bidding, Krycek smiles, thanks him, offers real gratitude. It's feels good to always be certain that he's doing everything right.

And he's discovered that he really likes to be fucked. Craves it, actually. Enough to enthusiastically suck Alex's cock into straining rigidity then turn around and bend over and wait. Alex's heavy breathing is music to his ears. And, though minor, there are other compensations. After they fuck, Alex sometimes hands Walter jewelry. Heavy rings made with gemstones Walter didn't know existed. Watches so expensive that Walter has never even heard of their names.

"Take this." It was an order: you will take this.

Walter accepts, well aware that the gifts are more than expensive payoffs. They are more declarations.

"Krycek I..."




"Thank you."


Alex Krycek finally faced the fact that he's deliberately fooled himself. Walter obeyed, but Krycek is the one obsessed. He is making poor choices, settling into a regular routine, which, for a man of Krycek's profession is lethal. When he realizes that this is even more deadly for Walter, he feels sick.


Walter understood possessiveness. He simply never imagined he'd be on the receiving end of it. In a way it was flattering, but when he thought of who and what Alex was, he felt very anxious.

"Why the nanobots, Alex?"

They were lying on the bed, idly talking, and the subject took him as much by surprise as it did Alex.

"Thinking of turning me in?"

"Not at all. It's just... why me?"

Alex smiled, remembering. "Because you were impossible. The other people the consortium owned were like lapdogs. You were like some evil three-legged rottweiler who bit everything that came near. No matter how badly you got knocked down you came up fighting. You drove Spender nuts. The nanobots were supposed to bring you to heel."

"Oh." Nowhere in there did Alex say he'd done it because he enjoyed it. Somehow that made it easier. Of course, it didn't make Alex any less a rogue and a bandit. Skinner looked out his window and deliberately changed the subject. It was snowing outside, and he felt restless.

"We should go out somewhere."

"This is the safest place for us to be."

Skinner was startled. Trust Alex to always think strategically.


The first time Alex brought home a dildo Walter paled and almost fainted.

"I can't," he whispered.

"You will," Alex reassured him. "I want to see you."

It took the better part of an hour. Walter's tears surprised both of them.

"Shhhh. No crying. You can do this."

"I'm sorry." Walter was shaking.

"I know. But you know that I love you." Walter was about to debauch himself for Alex's pleasure. Surely he deserved to know how things really stood between them. "Do it for me."

"Are you lying to me?" The growl was just as effective when it's owner was wearing frothy silk.

"Look at me." Alex tilted Walter's chin up and lied with the truth. He'd wanted to say this for months. Now he had an excuse, and besides, it was getting him something he wanted. Pressure from his fingers forced Walter to meet his eyes. "Love. And I'm not repeating myself."

He looked on avidly as Walter breached himself for his pleasure. Walter's whole body flushed bright red, and his shoulders heaved with his occasional hitching sobs. Alex told him he'd never looked more beautiful.

"Sweet girl," he could hear the wonder in his tone. "Look what you've done for me."

When Walter finally looked him in the eye again his expression was wounded, pleading. Alex gathered Walter's bulk into his arms and soothed him, kissing his face, stroking his shoulders and arms. After a moment Walter tried to pull away, but Alex did not let him go.

"I need a tissue," Walter whispered.

"I'll get it. You stay."

Walter obeyed. Alex came back and held the tissue to Walter's eyes and nose.

Then he made Walter rock back and forth on the dildo. He stroked himself, and came hard all over Walter's ass and lower back.


God help him, his helplessness made him harder than granite. Every time. What was he? What was he becoming?


Alex was daydreaming about Walter again. The man had incredible eyes. They showed everything he was feeling, which was why he kept them hidden so much of the time. It was a big man's trick, dropping his eyes, or looking away whenever he was confronted. People felt threatened by a guy Walter's size and the real issues tended to get lost amidst the dick-swinging. That was Cancerman's little pencil-dick problem. He felt intimidated--the more so when Walter wouldn't be brought to heel by his threats. In order to be effective the man had learned to be very non-confrontational. It fooled people. They thought he had no spine, but they were wrong. He was strong. He made Alex feel strong.


The first time Alex had him fuck himself with a dildo had been traumatic. Many months later, it was still traumatic, but the difference is, now he's used to it. Alex is standing over him, smiling and stroking himself, and Walter is bent over the bed, his hands underneath and behind him, whimpering and fucking himself the way Alex likes. He's ashamed, humiliated, and rock hard.

They've tried it without a dress, but it doesn't work as well. Somehow, they need the transformation before they can believe in one another. Try though he might, Walter cannot free himself from the effects of their respective upbringings. He thought he'd abandoned those values when he became a post-modern American male. Women were liberated. They deserved respect for their accomplishments, not simply because they held the power and mystique of the feminine. No pedestal for Sharon, but he hadn't quite been able to keep up the act. He'd cut her out of all the important things in his life while worshipping her in a way he now understands to be quite stifling. Well, live and learn. She's happy with him now. Now that she no longer wants a connection with him. When he looks at himself, at the woman he becomes for Alex, he understands how little he'd given her--and how little he could help it. He falls into prescribed roles far too easily for his own comfort. The slut; the saintly, silent earth mother; the helpmeet and companion. He is a caricature, and he knows it, but he likes it. Alex likes it.


"You should put some model airplanes up."

"What?" Skinner sounded confused and well he should have. That comment had come out of the blue.

"Never mind." Krycek had loved model airplanes as a child--had festooned his ceiling with them, but he'd never meant to bring it up in conversation. He cursed himself for letting his guard down and Skinner instantly picked up on his anxiety.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Go to sleep."


"Go to sleep!"


This perversion of theirs has advantages he never imagined. In a dress, for example, he can give himself permission to pray again. He doesn't know God and so doesn't talk to Him, but he talks to his dead friends. He tells them he hopes they're getting along okay, and that if they need anything they should find a way to let him know. He knows, somehow, that they hear him and appreciate his taking the time to say hi. They are grateful, supportive even, and it pleases him to have pals he can count on, even though they're dead.

*You know, I'm wearing a dress* he informs them.

*We see. As long as you like it, missy* they answer. He feels them razzing him and is now certain that they are the actual friends he remembers and not some figment of his imagination. Figments don't come to you in your dreams and tease you so mercilessly that you know they accept you exactly as you are. Sometimes Walter wakes himself up laughing.

His smugness begins to show. Walter wouldn't have described himself as pampered, but in fact that's exactly what he was.


Amazing what the dresses do for him. Even when he's down on his knees, sucking Walter's prodigious dick, he's not so much giving Walter an orgasm as taking it from him. Walter submits easily, yields himself in a way that has become more irresistible as time passes. His wheezing old grandfather, whose garlic and vodka breath had been the bane of Alex's young life, is now a constant voice in his head saying how the woman must obey the man and the man must protect the woman.

The truth was, Alex Krycek had never had a girl of his own before. He'd told himself he was too busy, didn't need or want one, and didn't really care. The rest of the truth was, there simply hadn't been any women for whom he could let down his guard. Not so with Walter. With him there is trust, and eventually Alex accepts it. So now, at forty, Alex finally has himself a girl, and even though she's tall, bald, and possessed of a penis, he is very proud. She never tries to betray him, never steals his secrets, and does not think it's cool that he carries a gun. It was better than he could have ever imagined, but now he has responsibilities to live up to. His own amorality makes him terrified of Walter's vulnerability. Alex has enemies who would think nothing of destroying Walter simply because Alex found comfort in his company. Walter did not understand how dangerous the world truly was. Walter needed his protection. So, he would see to it that Walter was protected. He would have suggested that Walter retire and live in the country, someplace safe where only Alex could get to him, but he knew the answer would be no. For now, he could do little about Walter's vulnerability at work, but surely that didn't mean Alex had to leave him helpless.


They never speak of the intimacy that grows between them but sometimes he lunges for Alex, kissing him and crawling all over his body, worshipping him with each caress. Alex always looks delighted and grateful when he does this. Walter feels himself glow. Their life together is carefully delineated. Like dancers, they trust the other to know exactly where each step should land, and if it is a little cramped sometimes, a little confined, well, it's better than what either had before.

Nonetheless, their relationship evolved in ways they both recognized.

"I know you wanted to see this movie." Alex handed him a video. "I thought maybe later we could watch it..."

"We can watch it after dinner." Almost like dating. He liked it that Alex thought of him. It became another little ritual of theirs. Saturday afternoons, Alex would ask if there was a movie Walter wanted to see. Then he would go out and get it. He could get his hands on anything, even stuff that hadn't been released to the general public. Sometimes he even videotaped plays and lectures. After a while, Walter got used to being able to see anything he wanted. Sometimes, for no reason whatsoever, Alex turned off all the lights, turned on the stereo and danced with him. Alex always led.

So one evening, tentatively, even gruffly, Walter made this offer. "I've got drachona..." Drachona was traditional Russian breakfast food, which Alex knew, of course.

Walter waited while Alex gave him a searching look. The offer was more than an invitation to stay for breakfast which Alex would also know.

"I don't know," Alex teased. He was smirking, but it was a friendly smirk. "How much can I have?"

"We split it down the middle," Walter answered firmly, and Alex laughed and answered several questions at once.

"You've got yourself a deal."


'Lock him away,' said the voice in his head. 'See to it that no one ever gets to him again. Install cameras in his office, in the john, in the hallways, everywhere. Hire guards. Kill anyone who tries to touch him. He's mine. Mine, mine.'


Walter has never been safer in his life. Alex had installed the most ingeniously complex security system he'd had ever seen. Even if a potential assailant managed to get into the building without setting off the facial recognition software, and even if said assailant managed to keep from getting locked in the stairwell or incapacitated by the knockout gas in the elevator, the tiny grenade launcher hidden in the chandelier would release its tiny grenade and blow his head off, or the gas in Walter's foyer would incapacitate him or the shuriken would gut him like a fish then poison him. Camera-mounted lasers tracked movement at windows now made of bulletproof glass. Birds that flew too close suddenly dropped dead, confounding the building superintendent and the occasional passerby.

It was a pain having all that work done, but it's made Alex calmer, more confident. He is beginning to lose that desperate edge and become sleeker and, paradoxically, a good deal more dangerous. Walter sees it in his eyes, and he feels a strange mix of fear and utter security. Alex would never hurt him, but Alex was lethal and crazy, and it wouldn't ever do to forget that.

But even through his occasional bouts of anxiety, Walter couldn't help feeling upbeat about having Alex in his life. Alex was not just willing but eager to participate in their particular brand of madness. He showed up with piles of new clothes in Walter's size and urged him to try them on and show off in them. Walter was still shy about it, never more so than when Alex brought home various sex toys and asked Walter to use them while he watched. It was hard for him, because he was a reticent man, but he would slip into the lovely clothes Alex brought (Alex was going through a skirt and sweater phase lately) without hesitation. Then, with a wry salute to J. Edgar, he would hike his new finery up around his waist, and grease up and insert the dildo Alex brought him, blushing when he saw his aroused features in the mirror Alex insisted he stand in front of. It's a favor to him actually, the fact that Alex makes him look at himself when he's dressed in women's clothes. Walter likes what he sees, even though he's embarrassed at the thought of Alex watching him masturbate. He knows Alex enjoys his discomfort. Knows it makes Alex feel like he's in control. It's his Cossack blood. It's what makes him treat Walter like an object, though a prized one--showing him unfailing gentleness and consideration, but absolute imperiousness in their bed. Or in the shower, or across the kitchen table, or wherever he happens to be when he decides to exert his conjugal rights. Were he a woman, Alex would have him knocked up and barefoot in no time flat.

Walter understands. It's a very Russian thing to do, and Walter knows the dynamic all too well. He can admit it to himself now: he loved bossing around those girls he dated--loved the way they would let him do anything to their bodies out of deference to his father's position and his own domineering masculinity. Loved it that the girls would not dare speak during sex but shut their eyes and trembled when he exposed their breasts in the back seat of his father's car. Loved knowing that these girls hoped for but never expected his respect or consideration. Close enough to droit du seigneur that he cringes when he thinks about it now.

That is part of the reason he's so compliant with Alex--he owes it to all those women he fucked so carelessly. The other part, of course, is that it feels so damned good. Tough, growling, ethically compromised A.D. Skinner doesn't have a feminine side, but the persona that emerges when he puts on women's clothing is the Anti-Walter. Submissive to an extreme, docile, obedient, dependent, and honest; she encompasses all the traits Walter could never exhibit and survive. She balances him in a way he never knew he needed, and she does the same thing for Alex. It is a source of constant wonder to him that Alex can look at a tall hairy balding middle-aged assistant director and see the biddable girls they both grew up with. More wondrous still that Alex deliberately seeks out and finds these women in Walter Skinner. It is a miracle they don't dare speak of.

In a dress, Walter can do the things denied to him as a man. He can touch Alex's hair with utter tenderness, and serve him dinner, and curl up next to him afterwards, sighing his contentment. They are a quiet couple. Complete homebodies, obviously, and happy to be so. When Alex stays over Walter wants the nights to last forever. They eat, watch tv, then go upstairs where Alex makes him the sole focus of his attention. These are among the best moments of his life, not because the sex is so fantastic, but because every decision has been taken out of his hands, and here is the proof of it--the endless, endlessly pleasing memories of lying on his stomach, or on his back, or on his side, his dress pulled up to his waist and his panties down around his ankles, gasping softly as he yields a second and a third time to Alex's insatiability and his own appetite for sensation.

Some days at work Walter has to stifle a wince whenever he moves. Sometimes he sits on a special pillow to cushion his swollen anus. Alex is something of a satyr, and very demanding. Walter doesn't mind. These days Walter looks at Kersh with a smug inner calm that is driving the man crazy. Kersh doesn't know that Walter thinks, 'Last night I wore a butt plug and a green silk party dress while I watched tv and you'd never guess it to look at me, would you?'

Sometimes Walter thinks, 'your sex life is mundane compared to mine,' and lets his pity show in his eyes. He enjoys the fact of Kersh's impotent fuming, knowing he will never guess the secret source of Walter's strength.


The security measures in Walter's home weren't enough. Alex thought about all the people who could still get to Walter if they wanted to, and he realized that they had to be destroyed. Having let Walter under his defenses, he was now permanently anxious for his safety. The logic was simple: anyone who might hurt Walter had to die. That meant the consortium had to go. He'd idly entertained the notion that he could take them out if he wanted, but he'd never had a motive for destroying them before--hadn't really cared. But things were different.

But how to prepare Walter for what had to happen?

"Come sit next to me."

Walter glanced up sharply. "What is it?"

Alex silently kicked himself. Walter was nothing if not sensitive to nuances of tone and expression. "Nothing's wrong. It's just, I've learned about some things at work and I have to talk to you about them."

Concern etched itself across Walter's features and Alex hastened to soothe him. "It doesn't involve you, but I want you to know that I may have to stay away. Not because I want to."

"Can I help?"

The thought amused Alex enough to make him smile. "Listen. If you ever get a call from me telling you to stay home that day, or giving you any instructions at all, I want you to do exactly what I say, no matter what, understand me?"

"But Alex, the FBI might have resources..."

"No. Not with this. I won't allow it. I'll lock you away if I have to, but I'm not letting you put yourself in danger."


Walter thought about that for a long time. Alex was irrationally territorial. He'd struck Walter once, a slap across the cheek meant to humiliate more than punish, but his sudden rage shocked both of them. CIA Agent Marcus Weist happened to drop by one evening to invite Walter out to dinner. Weist was closeted but made no secret that he found Walter attractive. Walter was polite, but he made it clear that the answer was no. In fact, he hadn't even given the doorman permission to let Weist come upstairs, but Alex overheard the conversation and started fuming. Walter finally cut through the man's persistence and got rid of him, only to find that Alex had lost all control. As soon as he hung up, Alex grabbed Walter by one arm, spun him around, and struck him across the face.

Walter backed away, stunned. "What was that for?"

Alex stalked him, raging. "You think I can't find him and take him out?"

"But I turned him down. I wouldn't step out on you, Alex. Christ, what kind of man do you take me for?"

"I take you for the kind of man who belongs to me."

"But he will never take me away from you. I wouldn't leave you," Walter protested. He was scared and thrilled in equal measure. Look at what Alex's emotions were driving him to do. He was way off balance, threatened by the mere thought of an interloper. Walter wanted to smile but didn't dare.

"Damned straight you won't. You even look at another man, any other man, and I'll kill him and you."

Walter felt a strange sense of unreality take over him. He could fight back, demand that Alex control himself, and take the risk that Alex's anger would drive him to do something truly heinous; or he could try to mollify his lover and hope that his anger went away on its own.

He could never hope to sustain anything like Krycek's intensity of rage, and he knew it. Krycek was colder, harder and meaner than Skinner any day, and he'd had a good deal less practice being flexible. He would kill Weist and not think twice, and Walter did not want Weist to die and he did not want to jeopardize what they had.

Besides, he reasoned to himself, Alex is faithful; even committed. Walter knows this because he knows how men lie. Knows how he himself has lied in times past and sees no trace dishonesty in Alex's behavior. Alex is head over heels for him, Walter Skinner, in a dress. The idea still staggered.

He lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Alex. I didn't mean to upset you."

Alex deflated instantly, remorse threading every word. "I'm sorry too." He pulled Walter to the sofa and sat down next to him, still gripping him by the arm. It took him a long time to speak.

"I never had anything like this before, and the thought of losing you..." His grip tightened. "I can't let that happen."

Walter shuddered. He'd guessed correctly that Alex was frightened of losing him, he just hadn't understood how deep the fear ran.

"Never," he agreed. He tilted his head to the side, taking in Alex's expression. "Alex," he murmured, "I love you."

"Oh, God," Alex groaned. He pulled Walter to him and kissed him so thoroughly that they were both gasping by the time he was through. "Walter," he rasped. "Walter." His hand came up to caress Walter's head as he peppered Walter's face with kisses. "I never thought I'd feel this way. About anyone." By now he was rubbing his erection against Walter's, pulling them closer together.

"Let me..." His hand went up under Walter's dress, gently caressing him. In a few moments his head was bent down over Walter's groin, infusing every bit of feeling he had into the act of loving his lover.

Walter learned his lesson very well. A few months later, when Mulder casually invited him out for a basketball game, the very thought made him seize up inside. He tried to hide his expression of horror, but too late. Mulder misunderstood and a hurt expression flashed across his face, but there was nothing Walter could do about it. He didn't dare say yes, and he couldn't even consider explaining why.

It was odd to feel so constrained. Odder still that Alex saw him as utterly vulnerable to a world he'd lived in for half a century. Walter wanted to retrieve his dignity in no small way. He thought about sitting Alex down and explaining to him that he was perfectly able to protect himself from consortium subterfuge, and perfectly able to deflect any come-on aimed his way. The problem was, Walter had long since accepted all the strictures Alex had placed on him and now he saw no way to challenge them now. They could have talked about it, but Walter really didn't want to. Things were good just the way they were, and if he sometimes felt trapped by Alex's paranoia, well, Alex valued him deeply enough that it was worth a little discomfort.


He couldn't help spying on Walter's day-to-day activities. He finished consortium assignments as quickly as possible, lied about his whereabouts and sneaked around D.C. making sure that Walter's routine stayed reassuringly predictable: the office, Clydes for lunch, the gym, home. The dry cleaners on Friday. The grocery store early Saturday morning. Walter's little life. Alex stopped worrying that Walter would come to resent the demands he made. Walter already lived in a jail of his own choosing, and evidently liked it that way.


Sharon guessed right away that he was seeing someone. They had lunch every once in a while and caught up on each others' lives, and the minute she saw him she put her hand on her hip and gave him a look.

"Tell, Walter. What's her name?"

"What do you mean?" He tried to play it off, but he could feel himself blushing deeply. Sharon just raised her eyebrows.

Suddenly he was seized with the urge to blab. "I'm probably going to regret this but..."


"It's a him."

Her reaction stunned him. "I knew it! I knew you were gay!"

She seemed so excited and happy for him the he couldn't help but smile along with her.

"I wouldn't have ever told you, but... yeah."

She squeezed his hand. "I am so happy for you. Maybe now you can actually be happy with your life."

He was still stunned. "How'd you guess?"

She sighed, relief pouring off of her in palpable waves. "I knew it wasn't that you didn't love me and it wasn't that you didn't like me, but there was something that was just... in the way." She gave him a rueful smile. "And then there was the fact that our sex life..."

"Sucked," he supplied for her.

"Sucked," she agreed.


Alex stayed away for several weeks but did nothing. It took that long for him to get used to the idea that he was going to bring down the entire consortium. The idea was stupifying in its immensity, yet it gave him a wholly irrational joy. He could do this. He could kill all those old men, steal their money. The best way would be to poison them. Sodium cyanide. They would never expect it. It took several more weeks to actually put a plan into place. This would take careful strategizing, and he wanted to do it perfectly. One of the old geezers was on vacation, so Alex killed him then faked a message from him to all the others. It was a top secret, eyes only package that could only be opened by the person to whom it was addressed. Alex belabored the point that the documents had to be destroyed immediately. The package even came complete with its own shredder. All the old farts were given a date and time, and instructed to open their packages at exactly that moment. All of them, secure in the knowledge that they were untouchable and invincible, dropped like flies. That left a bunch of second tier adjutants who had to scramble to figure out what was going on, and whether they might be next to die. The entire group fell into disarray, with orders and counter orders flying around madly as everyone grabbed what they could and ran for cover.

Alex was elated. Finally, finally, a life of his own was in his grasp. He would be able to do anything, go anywhere, have anyone. He tested the idea of leaving Walter but immediately felt sick to his stomach. Walter stayed. The organization he'd worked for his whole life was imploding, and he had nothing to do but go in and dispose of the mess as he saw fit. Well, okay. He could live with that.


Walter noticed that things were changing at work. Kersh looked scared. Spender abruptly stopped visiting. Mulder began to send reports across his desk of NSA coups with familiar names on them. Consortium names. Laboratories that turned out to be fronts for consortium activities were burned to the ground, but somehow pictures and lab notes on the atrocities committed survived intact. Suicides--some real, some obviously faked--abounded. CEO's of corporations the FBI had formerly considered untouchable began to offer information in exchange for protection. He was even called on to give a quote.

Things changed at home too. Alex became more playful, beginning to lose that hunted, resentful aura he always carried with him. He told Walter his deepest darkest secret. Walter roared with laughter.

"Ludwig! I thought Sergei was bad, but you've got me beat all to hell and back."

"Shut up." There was no menace in the order, which Walter could hear.

"Alexei Ludwig Krycek. Oh man."

"I didn't tell you so you could laugh at me. I've killed men for less, you know."

"I know. But it would be worth it."

"Well, as long as we both understand each other. Come here." He held his arms open, pointing the remote at their big new tv as Walter settled into his embrace. That was the other strange but good thing. Alex was touching him a lot more--holding on to him all evening whenever they sat watching tv. Walter relaxed so deeply that he fell asleep every time. He couldn't help it. Alex stayed awake, letting Walter sleep in his arms. He said he'd never had a chance to do this before now, so was making the most of it. Nights, Alex pulled Walter against him, draping an arm and leg over him so that Walter slept enclosed in his grip.

And still Walter was slow to put it all together. He would have shot his own dick off before asking Alex about his feelings, and they never discussed Alex's work, but Walter was afraid for him. Too many consortium associates were disappearing or being killed.

So even though he knew the subject was off-limits, one night he put on the kimono Alex favored and ventured to discuss his concerns.

Alex, sprawled in front of the tv, looked up and smiled when he saw what Walter had on. Usually he had to cajole Water into wearing it.

"That's a pretty sight."

Walter didn't smile back, determined to have this conversation. "I know something big is happening with the consortium."

Alex's smile froze.

"Maybe you should leave the country for a while. Go to ground. There's obviously some kind of purge going on. You could get hurt."

He felt more than saw Alex's sudden coldness and jerkily bent down to pick a stray dish so he would have something to do with his hands.

"Put that down and come here," Alex's voice was hard, and Walter did as he'd been told.

Alex pulled at him, hands sure and steady on his torso and legs, and soon Walter was face down over Alex's lap, wondering what sex had to do with this. Alex rubbed his hands lightly over Walter's buttocks for a few moments before gently inserting one finger then another into Walter's ass. He probed for the prostate gland and soon Walter was sighing. In a few minutes he was writhing and arching his back, but when he spread his legs wide, Alex stopped. Walter waited, panting softly.

Alex spoke in a clear, quiet voice. "What happens in here and what happens out there will never, ever meet. Do you understand me?"

Fuck stupid and vulnerable, Walter could only nod.

"Good." Alex pulled his fingers out of Walter's body and handed him back the dirty dish. "Now go put that away."

Dismissed, Walter retreated. He stood in the kitchen a long while, appalled, humiliated, and tentatively angry, but clearly understanding that he'd not be allowed to cross this boundary. He thought about challenging it, knew he probably could, but decided not to. He rinsed the dish, put it in the dishwasher, then came back to stare down at Alex uncertainly. Apparently Alex was not one to hold grudges because he held his arms out and pulled Walter close. The rest of the evening they watched tv in silence.

Still, Walter's mind would not stop working simply because his lover had ordered him to mind his own business. At work, he made subtle inquiries. He called in favors, and even gave Mulder free reign to stir things up as only he could, but very little came of it. People were laying low, running scared, even resigning. Walter wondered when his number would come due. There was enough dirt on him that he should have been called to account for it, but even though bodies dropped to his left and to his right, nothing happened to him at all.

At home, meanwhile, Alex was going out of his way to make up for his highhanded behavior. He gave Walter more gifts, brought catered meals in three nights out of five, ran scented baths, lit candles, and was generally as attentive as Walter had ever seen him.

Then one day out of the blue Walter was offered a promotion. He would get two more assistants in the deal which meant more power and a considerably decreased workload.

Enough was enough. He came home and demanded that Alex tell him what was going on. He even kept his A.D. clothing on, because he really meant business this time.

Alex just smiled. Smirked actually.

"I've decided that you should quit work and stay home."

Walter opened his mouth to roar in protest but Alex headed him off at the pass.

"Since I know you'll never agree to that, I arranged things so you'll have a job you know and like, and people to do it for you, giving you more free time. Which you will spend with me, of course."

Walter squinted. He was being played and he knew it, but part of him was very flattered that Alex had gone out of his way like this.

"I should make your life a living hell," he said, but he let Alex take his briefcase, overcoat and jacket.

"You probably should." Alex agreed placidly. He led Walter to a chair and began to massage the tension out of his shoulders.

"I should do something to really piss you off."

"Like what?"

Walter squinted up at him. Alex was smiling. He obviously knew Walter was only blowing off steam.

"I don't know, but when I think of it, watch out."

"Mm." Alex bent over and kissed Walter's neck right below the ear. "I wanna fuck you."

Walter sighed. Alex was utterly exasperating sometimes. "Maybe."

Alex picked up Walter's hand and kissed it tenderly. "Please let me?"

Walter decided that he needed more cajoling. "I should make you beg me."

"I beg you, my czarina."

Walter gave him the fish eye. "I knew that's how you thought of me."

"Of course it is. I'm Russian. So are you for that matter. You should have expected it."

Walter's expression promised much, but he shook his head. He was finally pulling all the pieces together, and his suspicions troubled him deeply. Could it really be that Alex was behind all this? Would Alex really stage a coup and bring down the consortium so that he could live safely with a male lover who dressed in women's clothing most evenings and weekends?

Of course he would. It was the only scenario that made sense, but Walter's mind choked and sputtered, overwhelmed by the immensity of it.

'My boyfriend is a criminal mastermind,' he thought, and was shocked at the realization that he intended to do nothing about it. Worst of all, he suspected he would never be completely sure one way or the other. Later that evening though, he broached the subject as much as he dared.

"I make a strange muse, Alex."

Alex shot him a look of pure mischief. "I know you do, but you're MY strange muse. Get over here."

And that was all they said about it.


The truth was, Alex was almost more shocked by his actions than Walter was. When caught, he'd attempted to make light of it, but Walter had pegged him exactly. He was indeed Alex's muse, his inspiration, his goad. When he'd videotaped him in his bedroom, more than two years ago now, he expected some act of desperation or foolhardiness. Bargaining, groveling... He expected to be able to wring concessions out of a terrified bureaucrat who'd do anything to keep his secret and keep his job. What he'd met instead was a man who made himself literally and figuratively naked in front of him, then dared Alex to match him truth for truth. It had been irresistible, and the more Alex fed on this ambrosia, the more he craved it. He'd never forgotten the first night he came back--Skinner, his legs tight around Alex's waist, fucking back with a big man's vigor, offering himself to Alex with utter abandon. Saying, in essence, "This is yours, Alex, all yours, every bit of it, if you're man enough to take it..."

So he'd matched Skinner's bravura and reveled in the world he'd discovered: Skinner on his stomach, his legs open, waiting for it. His dress pulled up, the crack of his ass glistening with slick, head turned away from Alex's greedy gaze.

When Alex got to where he could make Skinner come without directly touching his cock, he nearly burst out of his skin with pride. He lived for those moments, listening carefully for that particular whimper that told him Walter was very close. Then there would be a second one, more abject this time, and finally a soft groan as Skinner shuddered beneath him then went limp. Alex always had to fight not to come when he felt Skinner's ass contracting around him. He liked best to fuck Walter in the aftermath of his orgasm, savoring the debauched expression and the exhausted vulnerability.

Nonetheless, he harbors no delusions that Skinner really wanted him, not at first. Skinner was a lonely middle-aged man who would have dressed in a clown suit and floppy bunny ears if it meant someone would touch him, caress him. But, God, the man was just made to wear dresses. They turned him into this open, yielding, defenseless... savory... thing. Alex could not adequately explain it, but now that he'd found it he refused to be without it.

Until Walter, he'd been an outsider everywhere he went. Even in the consortium, where he was most at home, he'd never been more than a beggar at the banquet table. But the day he put Walter in a dress he became a king, and he will fight and scheme and plot to keep what's his. And he has done so. He'd always possessed the skills, but Walter gave him will and purpose. For Alex, this is the most astonishing thing of all--the realization that he might have done this any time he chose. Until Walter, however, he'd never had a reason, and that alone is enough to imbue Walter with mystical, even magical, qualities.

So now he has a life. A simple one, to be sure, but one steady with shared pleasure.

"Put this on," and Walter's eyes go soft. He takes the clothing from Alex's hands, goes upstairs, and transforms himself into one of the women they both treasure. Lately she's June Cleaver, untouchable icon of their formative years. Alex has bought pearls and gloves, flat-heeled shoes with pointed toes. He gets hard just listening to Walter come back down the stairs. The rest of the evening is an exercise in self-restraint. Walter serves him dinner and Alex eats and thinks about his erection. Watches Walter put dishes away and refrains from rubbing himself. Makes room for Walter on the couch in front of the tv and feels fine tremors start to shoot through his legs and thighs. Finally, his breathing gets heavier and more shallow. About the time Leno starts his monologue, Alex sends Walter up to bed.

It's a meditation, this staring at Leno. He's really just dragging it out, sharpening their anticipation. When he goes upstairs, Walter is wearing lace and refusing to meet his eyes. If Alex forces him, he'll look up briefly then drop his eyes again, bashful and submissive.

It makes Alex's blood boil.


Five years into their relationship Alex picked up one of his hands and ran his fingers over the prominent veins.

"You're getting old."

Walter peered at him suspiciously, then braced himself for the worst. Strong man that he was, he got to his feet, ready to take it on the chin. He would get dumped, bleed to death, and that would be that. When he forced himself to meet Alex's eyes again, what he saw in them made him leave the room for a long time. When he came back, his own eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks blotchy. The smugness in Alex's stare, the pride, and ownership--they were all still there. Walter's head dipped, and he peeked up from under his lashes, then smiled to himself as Alex bit back a groan.

Yes, and here it came--Alex's hand, gentle against his jowly features, tilting up his chin. "I will never want anyone but you." Possessiveness, pure and simple.

And Walter is more grateful than words could ever express.


If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Bette