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Zipperless by Adriana

TITLE: Zipperless
AUTHOR: Adriana
CATEGORY: vignette
ARCHIVE: wherever
SUMMARY: A chance encounter that may or may not have happened guides Scully in the tentative exploration of her sexual identity


I am a medical doctor, and as such have dedicated my life to the assuring precision of science. Science can be wrong, it can be confused, but even within those gray areas there is a simple, formula which guides the scientist home. Things are either true or they are not. They must be proven within a cause-effect dynamic. Science doesn't rely upon intuition or instinct, but on fact. Those things may lead us to fact, but they do not, in and of themselves, constitute fact.

The world, however, doesn't exist within such parameters, and daily life deviates from them even further. Of the events I am about to relay, I can only substantiate some. FACT: during one of Mulder's absences to take a professional sabbatical at a UFO convention in Milwaukee I locked the door to the office of the X-Files (a superfluous move, I suppose, but caution is another of science's benchmarks) and proceeded to explore the dynamics of my newly-discovered bisexuality or lesbianism--whichever it proved to be--by picking the lock to Mulder's lower left desk drawer and watching a series of pornographic videos. FACT: I assessed my reaction to the scenes of heterosexual coupling as opposed to my reaction to the lesbian couplings (which were as numerous as the heterosexual activities if not more so). FACT: After work I had an early dinner with an agent I'd recently met via a lesbian mailing list. FACT: I consumed more than three but less than ten glasses of wine during a conversation about my reluctance to engage in sexual activities with a woman after a short adventure in Chicago with a doctor I'd met in the County General ER. FACT: After dinner the effects of the wine had left me somewhat impaired jundgementally and had, based upon my decision to go lingerie shopping at Victoria's Secret after dinner, signicantly lowered my inhibitions.

The rest is recollection and extrapolation based on Agent Quick's sketchy explanation of the next series of events. I remember her response to a lengthy explanation of my reticence to fully embrace this direction in my life: "Dana you need to get laid. You need to be fucked by a girl's rugby team. You need someone to just slam you up against a wall and go down on you until you come so hard your ears pop." Oh, and FACT: this wasn't helpful advice.

The girl who found the matching black lace bra and panties in my size was almost frightingly chirpy and wholesome to be working in a lingierie store. She had dishwater-blonde curls that fell lightly across her shoulder, glittering green eyes, and an affable, farm-girl smile. I took the clothes, thanked her politely (I assume) and proceeded into the dressing room where I removed my burgandy suit coat, white blouse, holstered P-228, handcuffs, ASP telescopic tactical baton, dress slacks, cotton panties and polyester bra. I stepped into the panties first and then the bra. They were reasonably comfortable, and while somewhat anachronistic against my flat-toed Nine West flats, they made me look nearly sexy enough to appear in one of Mulder's videos.

This process was not quick or easy, and I had to brace myself against the smooth walls of the small dressing room several times to keep from falling with a thun against one of them or worse, into the door which didn't have a lock.

Or perhaps I hadn't locked it.

Or perhaps it never happened.

Whatever the case, at some point as I posed, putting one foot behind the other, angled outward to expose my not-long-but-generously-curved legs, thrusting my chest out, the door opened suddenly, causing me to start.

"Sorry," the salesgirl said with a sheepish--but cheerful--smile. "Your friend said you might like these." She held out a few more pairs of silk panties: red, yellow, neon green. All the colors of the rainbow I think I thought.

"I don't...these..." my tongue was not think, but it was manifesting the reticence my brain was communicating.

"I didn't think they were you," she shook her head vigorously, then eagerly stepped into the dressing room. I blinked a few times, processing this. The girl--Maeve, the nametag on her blue peasant blouse announced, seemed more like she was helping out some college friends lay out the yearbook, and not assisting a tipsy, nearly-naked woman in a close, tight dressing room.

"What color are your eyes?" She asked. "Oooh. Pretty blue. No these suck. Here, turm, let's see your reflection." She put her small hands on my shoulder and spun me around to face the wall-mirror.

"OK..." I said on a long inhale.

"Yeah. The black," she nodded, her curls dancing, her reflection revealing her peeking out from behind my right shoulder. "It's more...Here." She hiked up the panties until I felt the fabric tuck into the crevace of my buttocks. "You might want to think about a thong. You have the figure for it." She placed her hands with girlish innocence on my hips. "And not many women do. They get so into their fitness and skinniness, they don't have butts. You have a good butt for it."

"I'm not sure I could wear something like that."

"Oh, sure you could!"

"I'm not sure."

And the the panties were nothing more than a thick, black slash across my thighs. I blinked a few more times, trying to understand what had just happened. The girl's hand was entwined in my red pubic curls. A ripple of fear ran through as I noticed that my clitoris was exposed. It seemed to my inebriated mind to be eager or proud--terms that have no scientific place in a scientific assesment of what my body was experiencing.

"You're sure about something," the girl said coyly, smiling widely and still--incomprehensably--innocently. I thought perhaps she just wanted me to try on the much-vaunted thong, but she touched me there and my eyes closed.

She moved around me, our bodies bouncing off one another and the walls. When I opned my eyes I saw the girl back-to-back with her own reflection, kneeling before me. I put my hands on her head, threaded my fingers through the rings of her mane. To force her away.

Or perhaps to hold her in place.

Or perhaps it never happened.

Her hands and mouth moved in perfect unison, the former sliding around me to cup my admired butt, the latter to kiss the most intimate area of my body. And at that point reason was gone. Her lips nipped at the sensitive nub, sending chills expanding outward from that epicenter like the shockwaves from a nuclear blast (a neatly scientifically-proven phenomena) while her hands reassuringly kneaded the soft flesh they cupped. I moaned from the back of my throat and rolled my head on my shoulders. My own back was against the wall, which effectively warded away the growing sense of disorientation. The room seemed to be trembling around me. Then her tongue slowly along the length of the proud organ, sending the sensation straight down my spine and causing me to stiffen and arc as if exposed to a heavy electric charge (another neatly scientifically-proven phenomena). My head fell forward and I looked at her. The girl's eyes looked up at me--must have been staring at me--twinkling green like emeralds in the sun. She backed off just enough for me to see the taunting smile on her face and the pink tongue that connected her to me. It withdrew with the seeming speed of a snake's (another...well, you know). "A natural redhead," she commented. "That's very rare." She kissed me again, deeply this time, taking my clitoris deeply (it felt deep) between her lips, played with it with her tongue, flashed her teeth against it just enough to make me shudder. I ground my teeth, held her hair, stared at my own reflection of ecstatcy behind her.

The first two fingers of her right hand slid betrween the hemishpheres of ass (God, I can barely even write that word!) and dipped deeply inside my vagina (I will NOT use the "C" word!), filling me, exploring me.

She rotated her head in circles intensifying the pleasure that coupled with that building from the pistoning motion between my legs, until it was a pregnant ball within my hips. I clutched the side of her head as if I could force the orgasm out of her, but it remained, teetering on the brink of birth, and that moment I knew that no convention, more, religious position, or social attitude could possibly make me want to forsake the wonderful promise she communicated.

Her fingers existed me. NO! I thought. This could not be the end! Could not be the beginning of a slow disengagement! I needed her there, on her knees, worshiping that part of me until the brilliant goddess she summoned emerged.

Then her index finger slipped shamlessly into my anus, causing me to gasp and thrown my hips forward to allow her to better put her tongue inside of me. It was a wonderfully choreographed move, and I murmurred my approval in nonsensical tones. She worked in unison with herself: her finger probing that most forbidden place, her tongue sloppily (but deliciously) lapping my cunt (oh damn) and her left thumb tweaking my clitoris. Perhaps it was minutes before I came.

Or perhaps it was seconds.

Or perhaps it was a nocturanal fantasy played out on my slumbering and unsupervised body.

I spat some gutteral cry as it exploded within me--that sensation which only Maggie Doyle had given me, which no man had ever given me, which showed me the way like a flaming txt between my legs and within my heart. I collapsed atop her, handling her roughly to meet my mouth so that my tongue thank hers--could pledge my undying gratitude to it. I felt the cushion of her lips, tasted my salt, then lost contact. heard her trilling, innocent laughter above me.

She must have exited before me, since I walked out of the dressing room alone and self- consciously steadied myself. Quick was absently looking a purple teddy that sheathed a torso mannequin. When she saw me, her chocolate-brown eyes sparkled with barely-disguised, mischief and glee.

"So," she said tartly, "did"

But science rejects uncertainty and even goes so far as to discredit it. And I am very uncertain of the events of that encounter. Agent Quick confirms that I was dizzy on wine and spent an inordinate amount of time in the dressing room--so much time that she feared I'd passed out. She claims she sent the salesgirl to check on me. The girl emerged a few seconds later announcing that I had answered her through the door and sounded fine and had thanked her for her concern. She steadfastly denies that she sent the girl in to go down on me "until my ears popped." So I leave you with these sacred facts to consider and to decide for youself the veracity of this encounter.

FACT: My sleep that night was fraught with sexual dreams and I awoke on several occassions unable to fall back asleep until I'd masturbated and found some measure of release

FACT: Many of those dreams were amalgams of Mulder's videos I'd watched.

FACT: One video featured a sequence wherein a saleswoman performs oral sex on a customer trying on lingerie.

FACT: I have since purchased goods at that store from that same salesgirl and I have detected from her no indication that she even recognizes me.

FACT: I have a pair of black, lace panties I don't recall purchasing.

(if you wanna see me and pix of the women I imagine Scully with)