TITLE: Scully's Night Out
SUMMARY: Time and place indeterminate. Scully recalls a singular experience -- dream or reality?
DISCLAIMER: Scully et al belong to Carter et al.
All comments welcome.
Have you ever had one of those days where the only thing on your mind was sex? Actually not even sex, precisely -- just the physiologic response to the act. Scientifically speaking -- the orgasm. I was having one of those days. I woke up from a totally unsatisfying dream that had something to do with someone doing something to me which felt damn good but didn't quite get me off. So I was horny as well as cranky when I joined Mulder for breakfast at what passed for a diner in some truck stop of a town in Missouri. I had just spent my second night in a less than four star motel while we investigated nocturnal aerial sightings which I was already convinced were nothing more than swamp gas. Mulder of course expected first contact at any moment. His rapture did nothing for my mood.
Things did not improve as the day progressed. It was hot, Mulder insisted we walk through every cornfield within a fifty mile radius of wherever the hell we were, and I was still horny. By dinner time I was downright uncomfortable. My clitoris, I was convinced, had doubled in size since the morning.The waitress in the diner made my pulse trip, inanimate objects such as trees and fireplugs began to appeal, hell, even Mulder was looking like a possible -- well, maybe not Mulder. What I needed was a little time alone to do what I could to relieve the ache between my legs and the heavy, insistent pressure in the pit of my stomach. A self-induced climax wouldn't help for long -- it usually didn't when I got like this -- but it might keep the wild life safe for another day.
Finally Mulder went off with some of the locals to await ET, and I went back to the Roach Motel. It hadn't improved since I left it. The bed was narrow, the mattress lumpy, the shower cold, and no night life to speak of beyond the _Axel Inn_ across the street. Somehow I didn't think I was going to find what I needed in there. As much as I wanted to satisfy my bodily cravings, I could not picture myself lying down on that pathetic excuse for a bed and making myself come. I would truly feel depraved. The shower was out of the question -- this dump did not come equipped with removable hand-held, adjustable stream, rotating head, multispeed orgasm inducers (which some people apparently used to bathe with as well). Besides that, there was something green growing in the corner, and it was bigger tonight than it had been twelve hours ago. I decided to go for a walk.
Once I was in the parking lot it became apparent there was nowhere to go other than down Highway 66 and very probably into a rerun of the Twilight Zone. Although I often thought of myself as one of the main inhabitants of that dimension, I was concerned Mulder might not be able to find me, seeing as he was starring in his own episode that evening. I found myself in the motel office instead-- the only other room with a light on. Norman Bates was behind the desk.
"Do you have the local paper?" I asked.
"Sorry -- used it for the dog to pee on."
*Of course* I thought for a moment. "How about the names of your movie theaters?" At least I could take my mind off my pelvis for a few hours and maybe I'd be tired enough to sleep later. With any luck whoever had been working me into a frenzy the night before would be back to finish the job.
"Ain't got but one -- the SexCineplex over in Hooterville. Want directions?"
"Ah ha -- no -- thanks." That would be perfect -- me and the boys jerking off in the dark. I needed to go home, soon. "I'll just -- look this over!" I grabbed a xeroxed leaflet from a stack on the counter that advertised, of all things, professional massages. There must be a gimic -- how could a town without Universal Artists Theaters support a massage therapist? But the flyer looked authentic. It had all the right buzz words -- including holistic and mind/body atunement. Salvation!
I dialed the number on my cell phone and was told they could take me in half an hour. Just enough time to shower (thank god I brought my sea feet, or else I would have been showering in my heels) and drive there. Thirty minutes later I was standing in a nondescript waiting room talking to a Barbie look-alike. Oh oh. But the corners were clean, there was no sign of entomologic infestation, and I was having a very bad day.
So, when she asked me, "Would you like the whole body treatment or just a partial?", I answered, "Everything."
She made a little note. "Man or woman?"
"It doesn't matter, as long as they have good hands."
She looked at me from under very thick, very dark lashes. She _was_ kind of cute, now that I thought about it. Oh god, my brain had finally surrendered to estrogen storm!
"An hour for the standard treatment, or--" she looked up with a smile, "ninety minutes for the special."
"I think I want it all," I muttered. She wasn't doing a thing to reduce the throbbing in my crotch.
She grinned and made another note. "Okay -- follow me."
She led me to a surprisingly nice cubicle, completely enclosed, muted recessed lighting, and with the requisite mood music playing in the background.
"Get completely undressed and lie face down on the table. There's sheets there by the chair. I'll send in a therapist."
With that she was gone, so I did as she instructed, climbing onto the massage table, drawing the sheet up over my buttocks, and settling my face in the curve of my arm. It was warm, and quiet, and I began to drift. Dimly I heard the door open, but I didn't register another presence until a hand glided lightly over my arm to the back of my head. I heard a body settle onto a stool in front of me, and then, fingers insinuated themselves into my hair. I nearly groaned out loud, it felt so good.
A soft, throaty voice inquired, "Is there anything you don't like, or something you'd especially desire tonight?"
It sounded like a man, but it could have been a woman impersonating Lauren Bacall. It didn't matter, because they were performing miracles on my scalp. The tension was draining from my body. "Um, no -- whatever you usually do," I managed to mumble. God, it was nice to be touched. I thought I heard a faint laugh.
They moved to the side of the table and started on my back, and that's when my troubles began. Strong fingers began kneading the muscles along my spine, moving from my shoulders to the depression just above my buttocks. It felt good, very good, too good. The rhythmic motion of probing fingers, working out the chronic strain knots, was rocking my entire body against the surface of the table. The problem was, the only place it seemed to be affecting me was between my legs. The massage was stimulating blood flow all right, but most of it seemed to be pooling in my pelvis. I felt myself get wet. *Bad timing, Scully. Oh! Very bad! Ooo -- yes, right there! Time to start doing multiplication tables*
Unfortunately, just as I managed to divert my attention from my groin with thoughts of next week's court appearances, the sheet was pulled down and I felt a slight breeze across my bare ass. The sudden exposure made me jerk. The thigh clench that accompanied it only tweaked my clit more. If that weren't bad enough, warm lotion was being spread over my cheeks, into the cleft between them, and slowly worked into my skin with smooth circular motions. A bit of the warm oil dribbled into the folds of my labia, mixing with my own hot cum. I shifted my hips automatically, spreading my legs slightly. I bit my lip, holding back a moan. Mercifully, just when I was afraid I would start pumping my ass into those hands, they moved. I drew a shaky breath, squeezing my eyes tight, determined not to disgrace myself in front of a stranger. But, oh fuck, I was on fire -- my nipples were painfully erect, trapped against the cotton beneath me, and each time I shifted a twinge of arousal beat a path to my clit. I was primed, had been all day -- fuck, I was dying.
Ankles. That should be safe enough. I began to relax, soothed by the symmetrical sensation of fingers tracing the muscles and tendons of my calfs. I felt nearly bereft when the hands left me for a moment. Then I was gasping in surprise at their sudden return, warm and slippery with oil, sliding up the inside of my thigh. Automatically, I opened my legs further. The sheet was now a thin ribbon of material, transecting my body where my buttocks and thighs joined. Underneath the flimsy material, I knew that I was open and wet and ready. I held my breath as the fingers circled higher, certain they would stop-- any second. Oh god, the lightest of touches along the tiny hairs surrounding my anus. It was as if there was a direct connection to my clitoris. Each feather light caress caused it to twitch. I couldn't stop the reaction. My pelvis lifted off the table, and my thighs separated. What I wanted, oh jesus, what I needed -- was to slip one hand under my belly and get my fingers on my clitoris. I knew that the barest of strokes across the tip, a light squeeze to the shaft, and I would explode. Oh, god, I wanted to come. I grabbed the sides of the table and gritted my teeth. *please, please, please -- move away from there*
I couldn't be feeling what I thought I was feeling. Because it felt a lot like a thumb, slowly pressing against the muscles of my asshole. *ah, that is so good. oh, yes, yes, yes* I meant to say _stop_, but the muscles of my throat were paralyzed. I was aware of my pelvis rocking faster as I pushed back against the pressure slowly opening and entering me. I moaned as the full-length penetrated the depths of my ass. As the sensitive muscles slowly clenched, an answering spasm began in the base of my clitoris, extending into my pelvis, twisting through my belly. I needed to come so badly now -- my head was swimming. I could hear my own harsh breathing. My ass rose and fell, pushing and pulling the thrusting digit in and out of the warm channel. Each time my hips descended, I pressed my pubis into the rough surface of the towels under my body, trying desperately to stimulate my clitoris. I wouldn't come, couldn't come, without some contact at that most sensitive point. And I was so close already.
Two fingers slipped through the thick cum between my lips, one sliding on either side of my clitoris. I whimpered, beginning to shift my hips from side to side, needing just a little more pressure on the shaft to go over the edge. I was aware of a low steady moaning, punctuated by small cries, and realized it was me. That was how I sounded when I was close to coming. A finger tip slipped under the hood of my clitoris and stroked back and forth over the tip.
*oh god, oh god, oh god--please, please, please--* My head was thrashing from side aside, my hips were pounding, the finger in my ass was driving harder, faster, and I felt the orgasm building, threatening to blow. I was there, on the edge, not breathing, every muscle poised to contract-- *gotta come now, please-- gotta come, gotta come, oh --now, now, nooow*
Fingers circled my clit, fingers fucked my ass, and then fingers claimed the last available orifice--I registered them filling me and instantly everything exploded. I heard a scream, it must have been me. All I knew was the gripping spasms that started in my clitoris, rapidly consumed my pelvis, and flashed through my body, bursting like white lightning behind my eyes. I was groaning, pumping, gushing onto -- well, it didn't really matter whose hand it was, did it? What mattered was that -- finally -- I was coming.