Lunch by eeyore
Archive: help yourself, as long as the donkey tail is attached
Rating: NC-17, vanilla
Spoilers: One technicolor detail from Never Again
Keywords: Scully/other, slash
Summary: Something to do in lieu of lunch. Completely PWP.
Feedback: is almost as good for lunch as Scully would be.
Disclaimer: Scully belongs to Chris Carter and 1013. I'm having much more fun with her than they are, but they're making all the money.
Author's Notes: 1) This is, of course, a completely different Scully than the one who went to Montana. That one will be back in her final installment shortly. 2) Characters rendered in two dimensions cannot contract sexually transmitted diseases, thus safe sex is not necessary. We, on the other hand, need to practice safe sex on those lunch hours out.
I like to read when I'm out for lunch by myself. It's better company than none, and besides, it makes it clear to people in the bar that I want to be left alone. It still gives me the range to sight-see in the bar, though, and today there were a few worth seeing. The lawyers and stock-brokers in their high powered suits (and high power fuck-me shoes) were coming in in packs. I suppose I like the look, so I check the women out, but I go back to my book pretty quickly because the high-pressure-sell attitude leaves me cold. So, I was reading, lost in the adventure, when a low voice said "excuse me" at my table. I expected the wait-person, so I smiled as I looked up, but she clearly wasn't bar-staff. She was the typical power-dresser.
She smiled at me, and before I could look back into my book asked if she could join me. I would have said no, more or less politely, but she said something that got my sympathy: "I really don't want to sit at the bar or alone at a table. Too many of the apes I call my colleagues will try to hit on me if I do." I certainly wouldn't want to inflict that on any woman, so I said O.K. and she sat down.
While she arranged herself I had a good chance to look at her. She was wearing a skirt that ended just above the knee with a blazer in matching grey. The color went well with her shoulder-length auburn hair and _very_ blue eyes. She had a very starched white shirt under the jacket, and that gave her an extremely crisp, no-nonsense appearance. I was still considering whether her sharply pointed black stilettos added to the image or detracted from it when I realized that she was watching me watch her with a faint smile and a raised eyebrow. I started to apologize for the invasion when she cut me off, saying "enjoying yourself?"
Even though I could feel myself going red at being caught, there was no way I was going to let this suit get the better of me. "Yes," I said, "it's a nice view. Seems a bit cold though." Through her professional face I could just barely see that one hit home. Instead of backing off and leaving me to read, though, she went on the attack.
"Oh, no" she said with intensity. "I'm not cool at all. If you deserve to wear those novelties you have on, you'll find that out soon enough." I had to think for a minute to realize that in addition to the usual rainbow pin, I was wearing an easily visible bondage belt and there was a piece of bike chain running from my belt to my wallet on my right hip. I supposed that in combination with the leather jacket and bike boots she took me to be a top. Fair enough, I could play that game during lunch.
"Are you hungry?" I inquired with my best innocent voice. If she wanted to play games, she would have to make a move, I decided. I'd be happy to use every double-entendre I could think of at the table, but anything else would have to be her responsibility.
"Yes," she said distractedly, reading the menu. The wait-person took that opportunity to approach the table with my coke, and my companion looked up to order a scotch, "single-malt, neat." Clearly we had something in common.
As I was opening my mouth to comment on my taste for scotch, she met my eyes over the menu. Her gaze was hard and cold, and the cool color of her eyes just added to the image. The look said 'ice-queen' all over, and like it always does, the look froze me. My words locked in my throat and it took a full ten seconds for me to determine that my mouth was hanging open. I shut it with a snap, and she raised one eyebrow a hair as if to say 'gotcha.' I couldn't look away from her; even when she went back to reading the menu I watched what I could see, noting the hint of eyeliner to focus attention on her eyes and the fact that although she had nail polish on, her fingernails were as short as mine. I approved, as if my approval meant something to her.
The scotch arrived surprisingly quickly for lunch-time. Maybe the wait-person fancied her too. I watched as she caressed the glass and brought it up to the suggestion of lipstick on her lips. She watched me as she did it, and I half-expected to see her tongue slide out onto the cool glass. It didn't. There were no cliches, no flirtatious movements. She tilted the glass, and I watched the scotch slide down her throat in one easy movement. She didn't wince, as so many women do at the taste of scotch. Instead she smiled, and watched me as she smiled and lowered her glass to the table. She broke eye-contact for a moment to look at the bill she fished out the pocket of her suit, and then met my eye again. Out of the corner of my eye I watched her drop enough cash on the table to cover both her drink and mine, then she stood up, still watching me. I had a moment to admire her grace, then she turned.
My mind raced as she was doing this. Had I annoyed her, offended her, bored her? Did she finally realize just what she was doing flirting that overtly with a woman and want to escape? Was I meant to go back to my book or follow her? How stupid would I look if I chose the wrong one?
During that moment of panic she turned her head so that I could just see the corner of her mouth. It was turned down as if in disapproval at the fact that I was still sitting.
"Are you coming?" she said with a sardonic twist of the lip. She began to walk away from the table, not looking back at all after her one question. I didn't stop to think. I barely stopped to grab my book and shove it into my jacket. Of course I was coming. How could I possibly be that wet and not come.
In four steps I was beside her. In four more we reached the door to the restaurant. Doing my best butch impersonation I jumped ahead of her to hold the door for her. She nodded as she slid by me through the door, either in thanks or in recognition that I understood my role. On the street I moved beside her again, and began to make conversation. Fearing that 'where are we going' was the wrong thing to ask, I started more generally.
"So do you work in this area?" I asked.
Her "yes" was followed by another raised eyebrow. This one suggested to me that stating the obvious was not going to work very well.
"I'd like to know your name" was my next try.
"You will," she replied with a slight turn of her head to see my reaction.
I'm sure I blushed slightly, but at least I didn't disgrace myself by attempting further conversation. Instead I busied myself trying to figure out what she expected of me. She wanted to know if I deserved the gear I wore, which implied that she was looking for competent top, but she was completely controlling the conversation and the circumstances of our interaction. Plus, she was most definitely an ice-queen, and ice-queens were the goddesses of control. I had no idea how to even figure out whether an ice-queen was looking for a top, let alone how to top one. I could be in trouble here.
Before my concern could turn to panic, we turned off the street in front of a building. Once again, I jumped to get the door for her. Again she nodded, and slid past me. Her heels echoed sharply on the tiles as she moved to the bank of elevators. I followed, and stopped beside her as one blood-red-tipped finger reached to push 'up.' Almost instantly a door opened, and we stepped into the car. Before I could ask what floor, she pushed the button for 12, and in the same motion turned to me. I found myself barely an inch away from her, with my back against the corner of the car. I could feel the edge of her jacket against me, and knew that if I breathed in too deeply my torso would touch hers. I thought she was going to kiss me. My eyes were half closed when she began to speak.
"You're assuming that I'm smart enough to recognize bondage gear, but dumb enough to imagine you're a top. You're wrong. I can see that your flags are all on the right side, and I know what that means. Don't make the mistake of underestimating me again, or you'll be on your way. Is that clear?"
I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
"I said," she said very clearly, with her lips nearly brushing my jawbone, "is that clear?"
"Yes ma'am" I replied, finally getting the point that she was making.
She nodded, smiling faintly at me as she stepped away, just as the door opened at the twelfth floor. She stepped out of the elevator without looking back, and again I followed her, admiring the cut of her grey suit and the way her calf muscles tightened as she walked in the black heels.
She stopped at the door to a law office -- Mason, Greenwood, and Alcove -- and waited as I jumped again to open the door. I did so with more certainty than I felt, and she stepped in, nodded to the receptionist, and walked down a plush corridor lined with art. I thought I heard the receptionist call her Dr. Scully, but there was no way that I was going to look the fool by calling her by a misheard name. She paused beside an unmarked door and inserted a key. She beckoned me into the office, then locked the door behind us and laid her keys on her desk. She reached around behind her, and to my shock pulled out a gun.
My fear obviously showed, because she said, "don't worry, it's not for you. I'm an F.B.I. agent." She smirked slightly as my eyes widened, and I watched as she unloaded the weapon and put it in the desk.
When she moved back in front of me and held out a hand for mine, I had to ask "what do you want from me?"
She pursed her lips, and when I added "ma'am" she took my hand and brought me over to lean against the desk. She, in turn, leaned against me and only then did she answer my question. "I want you to not ask. I want you to react to me. I want you to come all over me. I want you to allow me to control this, and I want you to tell me if you want me to stop. Just tell me, and I will."
That much I was sure of. "I don't want you to stop."
"Good." She smiled again, and this time it wasn't the controlled, icy look but something softer and far more valuable. "Then just let me. . ."
With that, she eased small hands under my jacket and slid it down my arms and back and then onto the floor. I could feel my nipples tightening at even that simple contact. It was incredible how much I already wanted this woman. Everything she was doing was perfect.
She leaned up against my t-shirt, the lapels of her jacket brushing my breasts through my clothes. I actually gasped at the sensation. Then she pushed harder against me, slipping her hips between my legs where I rested against the desk. One hand came up to the back of my neck, and wound into the short hair there. Her mouth moved to my neck, and I could hear her sharp breathing clearly as she slid the tip of her tongue up one of the tendons, then flicked my earlobe as she moved away again. One of us moaned; it must have been me.
She stepped completely away from me, and I reached out for her. She avoided my hands without telling me not to touch. I still wasn't sure whether or not I was allowed. I watched her step over to the couch in the office and slip off her suit jacket. She moved beautifully, gracefully. I was happy not to be a man at that moment; the bulge of a hard-on in my jeans would have been too obvious a response to her delicate seduction.
Jacket off, she walked back in front of me, but stopped a few inches short of contact. She met my eyes and said "undress me," completely confident that I would. I reached up with both hands to undo the buttons on her shirt. It was as crisp as it looked, and reminded me of bed sheets on which I wanted to spread her out. As the shirt opened wider, I caught glimpses of her bra. I had half expected to see black lace, or grey silk, or something as sultry as she, but found the plain white with hints of lace to be exactly right when I uncovered it. Her eyes on mine seemed to seek some kind of response, so as I lowered her shirt to the floor I met her gaze and murmured, "beautiful."
Her response was to reach again for the back of my head and pull me down onto her breast. Her nipple was hard and I took it between my teeth through the bra. Her intake of breath at that was the biggest reaction I'd gotten yet, and I was determined to get more. I moved my head from side to side far enough that the movement tugged on that tight nipple, and made the breast move slightly. Taking a chance, I reached up to cup her breast beneath my hand, and used my tongue to rotate the nipple slightly. So close to her heart, I was sure that her pulse had just jumped. I know mine had.
She lifted me off the breast and moved to return the favor. She hesitated as she moved toward my torso, and I wondered whether her nerve might be faltering. Apparently not, for she met my eye and asked, "hard or soft?"
Not entirely sure how to answer, I waited for more information. I felt her hand graze my left breast, ever so gently, and she said, "soft?" Then she brought her fingers directly to my aching nipple and pinched and twisted it at the same time. ". . .or hard?" she said as she did it.
Where she was standing against me, she felt my hips leave the desk, searching for her. She chuckled. "Hard it is, then." I watched her lower her mouth to my breast, and felt her teeth close over the nipple. I took a moment to rejoice at the fact I hadn't worn a bra. She used much more force with her teeth than I had, and for a moment I wondered if I could come just from that sensation. I looked down at her head, and when she pulled away I could see the mark of her lipstick on my shirt.
Standing up straight, she brushed a palm over the dampened area and said "sorry." Her look said she was anything but. She pulled the t-shirt over my head, and looked down at my naked torso. The nipple she had bitten was taut, and she ran a finger around it, caressing the tattoo I had there. "Nice. What does it mean?"
"It doesn't. It's just knotwork." I added "ma'am" again, partly because I liked the sound of it, and partly because I _really_ wanted to stay on her good side. She nodded, then turned around and bent slightly at the waist. It took me a moment before I realized that she was showing me hers. Part of it was covered by her skirt, and I tugged it down a bit so that I could get the full effect. She responded to that motion by undoing the skirt, letting it fall, then stepping out of it. I was left not only with eternity to admire, but a gorgeous ass only partly covered by simple silky-looking white panties. Somehow I had earlier missed the fact that she wasn't wearing stockings at all.
She straightened again, and turning toward me looked down at herself. She shook her head in annoyance at something in the picture, then kicked off her shoes. Smiling at me she said, "hope that doesn't spoil the image. . . sex with heels on is too absurd"
I had no problem with the loss of the shoes. She was shorter that way, but her presence was every bit as large. In bare feet and underwear she moved against me again, this time with one leg on either side of my right one. Playing no long drawn-out games, she reached for my clit through my jeans. She could not possibly misinterpret the wetness she found. Lifting her hand back to her face to catch the scent, she asked, "that wet?"
I nodded. "You are incredibly exciting," I said, choosing honesty over fancy language. I must have made the right choice, because she slipped off her bra and rested herself against me so that our nipples touched. This time we both moaned.
She ground her hips against my denim, and I tried to slip a hand down between us. Not allowing it, she stepped back and said succinctly "jeans off." I moved to make it so, remembering as I unzipped them that I was wearing men's boxers underneath. Not sure how she'd react to that, I looked up as I slid the jeans down.
"I trust there are no surprises in there," she quipped, and deftly slipped a hand in the front to check. "No surprises at all," she confirmed as she discovered the extent of my slick wetness. She slid a finger inside me and I nearly lost my balance. It's difficult to be suave with your jeans around your ankles and a goddess sliding in and out of you. She pushed me harder against the desk, now both fucking me and riding my leg. At a loss for what to do with my hands, I slid them around her and pulled her ass tighter against me. Her approval was obvious. She continued to grind against me, and began to work more of her fingers inside my shorts. Hearing my breath grow more labored, she looked up at me and said, "don't even think about coming until I want you to."
The look on my face must have been a cross between comic and agonized. She slid those glorious fingers out of me, and right out of my shorts. Smiling to show I wasn't being rejected, she said "off, all of it," and gestured at the pile of jeans above my boots. I struggled to comply as fast as I could with the throbbing distraction between my legs. When I finally managed to get naked, I discovered that she was, too. She pushed me back further onto the desk, so that I was actually sitting on it. She leaned into me as if to kiss me, and the pressure forced me back on my elbows. "Perfect," she said. "Stay there."
At that, I got to see her slide down my torso until her face came even with my pubic hair. As I waited to see whether she was really going to go down on me, I felt the weight and wetness of her crotch settle against my bare foot. Barely believing it was there I flexed the foot, and as it came into full contact with her wide open wetness her lips descended on me, and she found my clitoris with her tongue.
My whole body jerked in reaction and I felt my toes sliding between her labia. She moved against me, and I felt the outer muscles of her vagina slide around my toe. The feeling was so intensely erotic that I could not believe what was happening. Realizing, belatedly, that she might be uncomfortable with the idea of what I was doing, I began to move my foot away. Instantly her hand was there, pushing me back in. She was so wet, so exciting, and so perfect between my legs that I had to fight the urge to tense around her and start to come. I was going to delay doing that as long as I possibly could, and besides -- I didn't have her permission yet.
The hand that had grabbed my foot stayed there, and in a moment I could feel it sliding against the wetness she was leaving on the top of my foot. As if she was responding to my thoughts, she slid it between my foot and her labia, and I could feel her begin to rub her own clit as she sucked mine hard into her mouth. I jumped, then, pressing my clit into her mouth harder, and grinding her hand against her own. Her movements on me grew rapidly less deliberate, and her hand on herself became almost frantic. Her legs started to tense around my foot enough that I knew she was getting close to orgasm. I knew that she was planning to take me with her when she slid two of the fingers of the other hand inside me.
As soon as she was inside, I heard her moan loud and long against my clit and felt her thigh muscles clench rigid. The moan against my clit ratcheted my arousal up another notch, and I knew that it would take very little to have me following her. She must have had remarkable multi-tasking ability, because it can't have been more than 15 seconds after the end of her moan when she started to pump into me in earnest. Her breathing was so ragged against my clit that it acted as further stimulation to her tongue and lips. When she pressed the flat of her tongue hard up against my clit I couldn't delay any longer. "Please," I begged. "May I come?"
She nodded, which in that position moved her tongue perfectly on my clit, and I slid into an orgasm that had me fighting not to scream out loud.
She continued to pump me leisurely until I stopped shaking completely, then slid out of me. The loss made me whimper, and as her face came back into view she smiled sweetly and said "did you want something?"
I wanted quite a few things, as a matter of fact, but I wasn't sure how long I was going to be allowed to stay here, so I went with the most pressing one. "Yes, please, ma'am. I want to taste you so badly."
She wanted to deny me, I could see it on her face, but the idea outweighed her need to be in control. Not needing to say yes, she simply asked, "where?"
I looked quickly around the office, and spotted a settee in the corner. The piece looked vaguely Victorian, and I thought about how fantastic her white skin and red hair would look against the blues and greens. I gestured toward it, questioningly, and she smirked as she walked over toward it. Clearly aware of the artistic allusion, she draped herself on it. Her head rested on the arm, and she allowed her legs to fall so that one was against the back, the other dangling off the side, and she was completely open to me.
I swear I will never be able to go to another art exhibit ever again, and I told her this. She laughed, not the ice queen chuckle or smirk, but full open mouthed laughter. She was so beautiful I was almost afraid to touch her, but I watched her hand slide down to rest in her pubic hair and the sight broke my spell.
I sank to my knees next to her, and turned my head so that I could see her as my tongue first grazed the inside of her labia. There was no ice queen then. It had all melted into the hot wet wonder I tasted and saw in her eyes as she looked at me. She moaned, "yes" and then another word, one I hadn't yet heard from her. "Please."
I wasn't about to say no to a pretty request like that, especially when it was to do what I most wanted anyway. I bent my head further, and inhaled deeply. She smelled delicious -- I have no description that comes close, but I'd recognize it again anywhere. I touched everywhere I could reach with my tongue, gathering that delicious moisture. When I dipped my tongue inside her, she groaned. When I did it again, the groan drew out longer, so I kept going. After a moment, I brought my tongue back to her clit and replaced it with fingers. Her hips started to move, not rhythmically, but insistently. I kept doing what I was doing, and the noises she was making intensified into a continuous growling. I'd never heard anything so exciting in my life. All I wanted to do, ever, was make this woman come again and again.
Far too soon, I felt her thigh muscles tense, and her hips came up in a steady push. I used my jaw to apply a counter-pressure, and that must have been the right answer, because she came hissing a low, long "yes." I kept the pressure up until I felt her relax, then drew back and slowly slid my fingers out of her. Before they made it all the way out, her hand was there stopping me. "Stay" was all she said, but it was enough.
I slid the fingers back in slowly, rotating my wrist slightly, and brought my tongue out again. Betting that her clit was too sensitive at the moment, I didn't touch it. Instead, I circled around it, finding the nerve endings buried in the swollen tissue just under the surface. Her enjoyment was unmistakable, and this time she started a rhythmic pumping against my fingers. They slid a little further in with each push until it felt like she was completely stretched open. I kept twisting them, and the motion of her hips increased in speed. I slowed my tongue's motion down to nearly nothing, expecting that she'd come quickly at this point in her arousal. I was right. She half-sat on the settee, driving my fingers in just a little further, then clamped down on them harder than I had thought possible. This time I moaned along with her, and barely heard her muttered "fuck, yes."
This time when she stopped moving, she was unmistakably finished. She lay on the settee with eyes closed and a smile that made Mona Lisa look like a tramp. Not knowing what to do, I stood and moved over to where I could see her face better. She slowly opened her eyes and her smile got even better. She said, "thank you. That was exactly right."
"Good. It couldn't have been more amazing for me." Sadly, I knew that the past-tense of those comments wasn't coincidental. I wanted to stay with her forever, but I did _not_ want to be told to leave.
I got up from the settee and began the task of putting on my clothing. When I looked up, she had begun the same task. It wasn't quite awkward, but it had the potential to become uncomfortable very quickly. Still, I couldn't help but be mesmerized by how beautiful she looked putting on her knickers. Somehow she knew I was looking, and turned to catch me. An eyebrow went up.
I apologized. "Sorry, you just look so perfect. I wanted one last look." She smiled a thank you, and gave me a look in return that I hope meant the same thing. We both went back to our dressing.
I had just pulled on my jacket when she stepped in front of me. She was dressed except for her jacket, and now that the heels were back she was nearly my height. I stopped moving, and just watched her step into my personal space. Without talking, she reached up to the back of my head and brought my lips down to hers. Her lips were so soft I wanted to cry. It was such a short kiss, but the flavor of it was magnificent. It was the only kiss we had shared.
When she stepped back, I knew I had been dismissed -- not roughly, but dismissed. I turned as I opened the door, and found her behind her desk, reaching for her keys. "Dr. Scully?" I asked, and I must have gotten the name right, because she looked up. "I have the advantage of you." Her eyebrow went up along with one corner of her mouth, and I knew it would be O.K. to speak before I left.
"Actually, you don't currently, but you certainly have had."
I nodded and smiled at her quip and then delivered my exit line. "I just want to even the score," I said. Actually, I wanted her to be able to find me, but that didn't seem like a smart thing to say. "My name is Dr. Hastings."
With her eyebrow up in curiosity about the 'Dr.' and her mouth opening either to say she didn't want to know, or to ask for more, I quietly shut the door and walked away.