"Tyger, Tyger" by Cynthia J

Tyger, Tyger by Cynthia J

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

DISCLAIMERS:
* I know! I know! It's bad enough I pilfer from Chris Carter... Now I'm stealing from dead people! However, permission to exploit William Blake's wonderful poem "The Tyger" was secured via Ouija board. Mr. Blake says hello and hopes you're all doing well. I sketched out the premise of "The X-Files" to him, and he frothed at the spectral mouth about copyright infringement. Apparently, he once pitched the idea of a verse serial in which two poets investigated the paranormal: one employing reasoned metaphor, the other beatific muse. A little before its time, the concept was misunderstood as heresy. To further complicate matters, he ran into merchandising problems: the action figures and hats just would not sell. Tragic. Hey, Chris is as guilty as I am. It seems an episode was named "Fearful Symmetry" without so much as a seance or a call to Psychic Friends. Even though I don't have a budget, I go the extra mile.

* Warning! This story may contain one or more of the following: suggestive imagery, complete disregard for continuity, shameless advertisements, severe overuse of the word nictitating, an exquisite fondue recipe, a symposium on the mating habits of the South American ocelot, the biography of Voltaire, hopes and dreams, random excerpts from Monty Python sketches, xanthan gum, calcium lactate, a schematic for a better tomorrow and/or fatuous references to various cheeses of the world. For those of you playing along at home, please adjust your scorecards accordingly... I've no idea what I'm talking about.

* "The X-Files" and its many patents are the property of Chris Carter et al. I freely admit abducting the characters and parading them through my own little puppet show. Sure, I deserve to be prosecuted, negated and/or excised for my copyright transgressions, but just remember, Chris, I still have the photos. Snap-snap. Grin-grin. Nudge-nudge. Wink-wink. Say no more. I think we have an understanding. :)

* I'd like to pause and give thanks to my friend in Canada who reined me in and saved me from a) posting a really bad story and b) burying the idea completely. She had the courage to tell me the first draft was disconnected, self-indulgent, artistic junk... in a nice way. Actually, that was my opinion of it. Sometimes writing takes on a life of its own and hangs around with the wrong kind of stories. Pretty soon it gets into tattoos and extreme body piercing and won't even look you in the eye anymore. Although I'm loath to say it, an intervention was in order. So what you are about to read is a more terrestrial (and readable) version of my original weird idea... and you have Canada to thank for that. I knew NAFTA had to be good for something. International efforts geared toward decent short fiction? You've got to start somewhere. :)

* While we're waiting for the story to warm up, why don't we sit down, relax and chat over some cookies. There. That's cozy. So what are your thoughts on Faulkner's use of... Hey! Don't hog them all! Criminy! Uhm, you've got some crumbs on your upper lip. No, the other side. No, not...! Here let me!

* The story you are about to read is weird, but just settle in for an interesting ride. Lucidity is not invited. Do not expect the usual erotica here. Neurotica, maybe. My personal philosophy is that erotica is for all the senses and not just the happier areas of our anatomies. I hope that translates in the writing. My goal here is the lexical equivalent of sucking on a Raspberry Zinger tea bag while riding a bicycle down a bumpy hill and listening to Grieg's hyperactive symphony "In the Hall of the Mountain King." Well, how about a stale Twinkie in a hot car that is stalled in rush-hour traffic? Actually, it's all about having fun with language. I'd love feedback on this one because it's experimental, so be free with your comments. Again, this story stays here. It's a good home, and the rent is fantastic. Besides, the landlady is one cool cat. Here we go. Enjoy!

Tyger, Tyger by Cynthia J

"Tyger, Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"
~~ William Blake

"I think I've made myself clear, Agent Scully."

Startled, she frowned and grabbed at the fleeing threads of her conversation with Assistant Director Skinner. She could not remember a word. Frustration unraveled into panic. She could not recall why she was in his office. His hard stare, a vulture's patient scowl, only flustered her all the more.

Irritated, he clenched his jaw, the muscles of his face tautening grimly. Her cheeks began to burn. She searched frantically for words but could not find one brave enough to come to her aid. Skinner's face bristled with ferocious amusement, a wolfish grin suddenly tearing through his mask of tame contempt. Her blood chilled.

As she backed away from his desk, the carpet became uneven behind her, causing her to stumble. Something snapped dryly beneath her shoe. Looking down, she realized she had stepped on a twig. She frowned when she noticed the floor was lost among dirt, leaves and branches. Wings of darkness swept away the room. Perplexed, Scully found herself surrounded by trees, shadows and a rhythmic woodland murmur. Moonlight squeezed through thick boughs.

She hugged herself against the chill and began walking. The air was thick with a euphoric cinnamon smell, a ghost of her favorite autumn nights. The forest sang loudly around her: one intricate, repetitive chorus. The scratch and crunch of her steps seemed an unnatural intrusion. Small shadows hissed through the leaves, startled by her noisome footfalls.

Plodding on, she touched her face and felt the flush still fresh from her panic in Skinner's office. Unseen wings flapped excitedly above her. Unwilling to think about her situation, she simply kept walking, hopeful she would emerge someplace if she stayed true to one direction.

In a matter of moments, quiet gradually engulfed the forest. The ubiquitous chatter died away, an orchestra falling silent one section at a time. Her footsteps suddenly seemed deafening. Scully stopped, scanning the silent darkness all around her. At that moment, she realized how comforting the din had been. Being alone was much worse. Then she heard the rustling.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. From the cluttered heart of the forest lurched a heavy shadow. It loped toward her, splintering twigs and her relative calm. Low-hanging branches snapped like a toothpick barricade. As the creature crunched away the distance between them, Scully stood still, understanding in one panic-stricken moment why deer freeze in the path of a marauding car. While she could not make out its shape, its mass and intent were terrifyingly obvious. A chill set her feet in motion again.

She ran from the sounds of pursuit only to discover they were before her again. No matter how she turned, her pursuer was always in front of her, always closing the gap. Panting, she stopped. Her strange predator cantered through the brush and debris, amused, toying with her.

Suddenly, branches creaking, leaves sizzling, the tree above her shook as though something large had leapt into its boughs. While the darkness and leaves obscured its shape, she knew the creature was above her, staring down curiously, smugly. Radiating confidence, it waited, certain it could devour her given the slightest whim. Hunger hung from it like a scent, a whisper dangling in the dark. In many ways, being the object of such intense desire sapped her will to flee. However, a sudden pang of fear sped her out into the night.

Blood burning, heart hammering, she sprinted through the brush, narrowly dodging tree trunks and branches. For several moments, she listened desperately, hearing only the constant crunch of her own footfalls. Behind her came a rustle and thump. Leaves soon sizzled out of the way of striding feet. Amused and confident, her pursuer had given her a head start.

Branches pulled at her clothes and her hair as she ran. She held her hands in front of her face to fend off the forest's touch. Rationalization failed her. In its stead, pure instinct tugged her away from the danger. Every sinew, every bone, strained for escape. Her hunter loped behind her, pounding the forest floor.

The trees thinned, and Scully suddenly emerged in a field haunted by moonlight. Wisps of fog spun around tall stalks of marshy grass. A bittersweet greenhouse smell thickened the air. Mud sucked at her feet. The ground dampened with each step. She ran harder, cold water splashing her legs.

From the edge of the forest, a throaty growl of frustration, of forfeit, rose over the marsh. The sound brought back a childhood visit to the zoo when a restless tiger had leered through the bars at her. It had paced back and forth, watching her, its eyes full of mysterious wanting.

Silence swallowed the night. She gradually slowed to a stop, her legs aching, her breath ragged. Hands on knees, she coughed and cursed, choking on the heavy marsh air.

Her shadow stretched before her in a long, feline crouch, stark in the unusually bright moonlight. She looked over her shoulder, and the moon glared back, full and bright. It swelled and focused upon her, an eye clouded by glaucoma, a dirty microscope lens. In moments, it filled the sky, weighing heavily upon her, blinding her.

Scully scrubbed the glare from her eyes and squinted up at an afternoon sun. Before she had a moment to think, wind slammed into her, tangling her in warm, green sounds and fragrances. Catching her balance, she looked about her. Grassy hills, domed by a cerulean sky, rolled away in every direction. Clouds loitered in lazy stripes.

Stretching luxuriously, she spread herself out to the sun. The forest and marsh evaporated from her skin. Movement caught her eye. Another gust swept over the hillside toward her, the grass falling in domino fashion. Anticipating another fragrant blast, she smiled, closed her eyes and lolled her head. In seconds, the grass writhed around her, and the wind swam through her hair, the scent of it pure decadence, every springtime indulgence woven into one.

With infuriating gentleness, the wind snaked around her like a lover, caressing her skin and fumbling with her clothes. Its voice a hundred lewd whispers, the wind tempted and teased her as it rode the curves of her body. Scully laughed wildly, seduced by a breeze. As though it had dallied too long, the gust unfurled and raced away, leaving her dizzy, a recovering blade of grass.

She wandered on, dogged by the impish breeze. Almost at play, it would plow through the grass beside her, teasing her with the tiniest peripheral touch, before rushing across her path and away.

As she walked, the hills gradually withered, falling flat, exhausted. Dusty ground choked the grass until it could no longer grow. Before long, the vestiges of the green hills were completely lost. Greys and browns swallowed the landscape.

The sun dwindled to a hot smear in an otherwise featureless, grey sky. The playful breeze was gone. In its stead, a spiteful wind kicked up grit and dust, bearing none of the kittenishness of its predecessor.

She came upon a row of bare trees that looked like badly broken hands. Tangles of what might have once been exotic flora lay brittle and dry near the huge, ashen roots. A wailing wind stirred the branches, clicking them together like the canes of frantic blind men. Husks and stems poked from the ground at random angles, old nails tapped once and forgotten. Dark, dried petals spun across her path.

She stopped and stared at the ground. Animal tracks zigzagged ahead of her. Plump paw-prints pressed indelibly into the hard ground. Something large, alone. Unmistakably feline. Each round digit was crowned with a dot where sharp claws had pierced the earth.

Crouching on hands and knees, Scully laid a hand in one of the tracks. As thought tailored to her, it cradled her palm. Her fingertips rested over the tiny holes with flutist's precision. On a whim, she snarled, back arched. An arid breeze answered her with a sigh of dust. Laughing at herself, she rose to her feet and followed the trail.

The tracks wandered ahead at a leisurely gait, and she walked in the middle of them, matching their pace. Gradually, the spaces between prints lengthened as their maker caught scent of something and trotted ahead, its curiosity piqued. Scully hastened, wanting to know what it sought, where it went.

The strides lengthened, and she jogged in their wake as though the beast loped just ahead of her, its tail swishing back and forth just out of her grasp. The wind tugging tears from the corners of her eyes, she soon ran as fast as she could. Curiosity teased her as the lustful breeze had.

Suddenly, the tracks disappeared at a yawning crevasse, and she leapt the rift to join them in a dead run on the other side. The hard ground made her teeth gnash together with every footfall.

Desperate to know what drove her quarry, she growled at the wind, her body yearning, her hair lashing wildly behind her.

And she sprinted on, straining, matching something magnificent stride for stride.

Sweat steeped on her skin, tired drops crawling slowly into her hair.

Without warning, her body began to abandon the chase.

The barren landscape stretched away without end.

Grit and heat parched her eyes, sealing them.

Breath burned through her chest.

Bruises smote her feet.

Resolve collapsed.

She stopped.

Aching.

Alone.

After considerable distance, her stamina had finally abandoned her. Her wheezing breaths full of curses, she slouched over, hands on knees, coughing at the dry earth. Minutes later, she looked up from her feet to find there were no tracks ahead of her. They ended where she stood.

Exhausted, Scully took one wobbly step forward, stumbled and fell face first into the dusty ground. She laughed dryly at herself, too tired to move. She thought she heard someone whispering.

A plump weight settled on her back. Idle, taloned feet clutched her shoulder. She was certain a crow had come to wait out her final moments. She laughed when a soft, reverberating note chirped into her ear, the vibrating voice of a songbird.

All at once, the ground felt cool and smooth under her arms--polished. A papery smell rustled into her lungs. Startled, she raised her head and realized she was slumped over Mulder's desk. Scattered around her were photographs of claw marks, paw prints and animal attack victims.

"Are you all right, Scully?" Mulder asked, leaning over her shoulder, amused but concerned. "We've been at it for hours. I'd better get you some coffee." Without waiting for a response, he stalked out, closing the door behind him.

Scully absently surveyed the jumble of photos and paused. In one grainy picture, tracks peppered an otherwise barren plain. She frowned.

Sorting and stacking the photographs helped her realign her thoughts. A report she had been working on had hidden beneath the mess. She thought a quick review might refresh her memory. She leafed through the report, squinting. Although the pages were plainly covered with words, she could not read them. She knew what they meant to say but could not make out individual words. They looked like ants.

A sharp-clawed roar tore through the silence. Ice slid down her back. The sound had come from just outside the door. An impatient growl paced back and forth in the hallway. She jumped up from the desk and tripped on a chair leg, sprawling on the cool floor, the photographs raining down around her.

In a flashing instant, the bulbs burst, and darkness enveloped her. The squalid comfort of Mulder's office abandoned her, but the growling remained, as close and familiar in the dark as a lover's breath. Autumn tickled her nose. Crisp needles poked her splayed hands. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, picking out shapes. Trees loomed all around her, limned by moonlight.

She started to get up but froze. Her predator gloated over her, a wall of shadow just inches from her face. Its contours hid from her, sliding away her eyes. The more she tried to discern its shape, the more amorphous it seemed. However, its desire and its unyielding stare were frighteningly distinct. Its hot breath crashed against her cheek. At any moment, she expected the press of heavy paws, the clamp of cruel teeth.

Water gurgled nearby. Scully rolled away from the crouching shadow and found her feet. She ran toward the calming babble. Her hunter rumbled in frustration. Stumbling through a curtain of low branches, she came upon a creek, its swift surface straining to carry away the moon. She hesitated. Anger purred through the night. Something swiped at her legs, knocking her off balance. She fell into the water and sank away into darkness.

There was nothing around her but cold void. She worried that she had been swallowed, that she was at last in the black belly of her pursuer. Fear was her only companion, and she hugged it close.

Light erupted suddenly, stinging her eyes. A watery, green world glowed around her, warm and inviting. Kicking frantically, she rose to the surface. She savored air like never before, greedily feeling her lungs. She blinked the water from her eyes. A small lake lapped at her body.

A forest painted liberally in autumn ringed the shore. Nature sang a lazy afternoon song. The nearest bank was just a short swim away.

With the ground under her again, she climbed onto a large rock and dried herself in the sun. Everywhere she looked yellows, reds and oranges smiled back. Hidden by the tree wall, wildlife chattered without pause.

She could not imagine anything more beautiful or benign. Billions of leaves shook in a breathy breeze, sounding like a faraway ocean shore. Crickets, birds, toads and countless others voiced their individual notes over and over again. The whole was remarkably harmonious. Hypnotic. Perfect. Scully drew her knees to her chest and, wrapping her arms around her legs, listened drowsily.

A single, discordant sound joined in, startling her like an unexpected knock late at night. It sank away. Her ears pricked up. Across the lake it echoed again, ugly and artificial, a yellowed and ragged tooth in an otherwise perfect smile. She imagined a brick being thrown against something large and plastic.

The sound recurred, and she wanted it to stop, hating its intrusion. It was louder and more destructively confident: a hammer slammed against a concrete wall. The animals laid down their instruments, and she felt thousands of blameful eyes. The thump persisted. She covered her ears and yelled, but it did not stop. The noise intensified, sharpening: a pickax against marble.

The sound still ringing in her ears, Scully leaned down to pick the rib spreader off the tile floor. I must have bumped into the instrument tray, she thought, placing the piece next to its fellows. The morgue was colder than it should have been and poorly lit. With a bit of a shiver, she tugged her white lab coat closed and squinted up at the lights.

The ceiling was impractically high, and the hanging banks of fluorescent lights were surprisingly stingy. One bulb flickered at random, slowly dying but trying to hold on nonetheless. The light was generally diffuse, except where it encountered metal. Both the tray and the examination table shined, and light flared on the handles and points of the instruments.

Everything was black and white. The walls were onyx, their corners impossible to find. The pale, squarish faces of body drawers stood out from the blackness in two tidy rows. Opposite the drawers, a set of white, swinging doors led out to nothingness. Enormous black and white tiles chased each other across the floor.

Humming absently, Scully wiggled her fingers into surgical gloves. With a sigh, she donned the starched, mechanical mindset she wore during autopsies. She tugged on the clinical attitude like the gloves, smoothing and tucking it until it safely covered all emotion, all warmth.

She approached an unmarked drawer and tugged it out, its wheels squeaking in protest. It took a moment for what she saw to sink in. She gasped. Mulder lay on the palette, eyes open and glazed. His body was immaculate, devoid of wounds or scars. Scully shoved the drawer back. It rolled loudly and shut with a metallic peal. Immediately, other drawers opened on their own, and eight identical Mulders rose from them to stand in an orderly row before her. Although pasty and unresponsive, they did not seem entirely lifeless. Simply cold, inaccessible.

An airy hand suddenly plucked her from the floor. Helpless in its grasp, she rose into the surrounding darkness. The doors and drawers winked out, leaving only the floor. The Mulders dwindled away, looking small and vulnerable on the morgue's large, checked tiles. The floor itself seemed something she could reach down and touch: a counter top, a table... a chessboard. A chill climbed her vertebrae like the rungs of a ladder.

The Mulder clones stood resolutely, a line of pawns. Cigarette smoke swirled over the board, taunting them with gauzy tendrils. A breath swept away the fog, revealing relentless rows of figures in black.

Your move, a grey voice whispered.

Confused and scared, she stretched down and snatched up one of the white pieces. The board tipped violently, and the remaining chessmen rained down in the darkness.

Hanging in emptiness, she anticipated an endless fall, but the air continued to hold her in its grip. Her ears twitched, and she strained at a sudden swishing sound. Wings nipped past her ear, carrying away a shrill, fluttering call. Feeling cold, alone, Scully closed her eyes and clutched the tiny pawn tightly.

"Hey, I'm going to need that back!" Mulder winced. She held his thumb tightly in her palm as he helped her up the muddy ridge. When they were both on level ground, he rubbed his hand and stared at her peculiarly. Sidling closer, he tipped the umbrella, sharing its cover. The rain drummed rhythmically above them as they walked.

The air was damp and cold. Their breaths rolled out in ghostly wisps. "Are you ok, Scully?"

"Yeah. I'm... I just thought I might fall."

"I want to check this ditch for debris," he said, pressing the handle of the umbrella into her grasp. His hands were warm. "Hold down the fort, Scully." He smirked and tromped down a steep, muddy path. Below her, he began prowling through the overgrown grass, the rain slicking down his hair.

Absently rolling the umbrella, she watched him move gracefully through the brush as though stalking prey. For a moment, Mulder looked surprised, but his enthusiasm soon shrank away. He let the rain pelt him mercilessly for a few seconds then smirked, looking surprised again.

"I've got something to show you, Scully. You've got to come down here." Excitement dangled from his voice, an irresistible lure. She glanced at the mud and then at her mismated shoes. Gritting her teeth, she hazarded the path, the umbrella tilting to and fro for balance.

In a split second, a slick patch stole her feet out from under her. She fell on her behind hard enough to rattle her teeth and slid bumpily down the slope, cold mud splashing up her skirt and over her thighs. She stopped in a cursing heap before Mulder, the umbrella a useless splay of spokes beside her. Unable to resist laughing, he helped her to her feet. One of her shoes had abandoned her during the ride.

Angry, muddy and soaked to the bone, she hissed, "What is so important that I had to make a complete ass of myself?!"

"Oh," he said, straight-faced, "I'm pretty sure this is a hubcap from a '78 Pinto." He prodded a dirty, metal disc with his shoe, his eyes seething with sardonic self-satisfaction.

Her bare foot squelching in the mud, she lunged to slap him. With fluid ease, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to his chest. His body was enticingly warm despite the drizzle. Scully flailed, but his arms held her like metal restraints. As though a mask had dropped away, his face changed, warming despite the cool rain and her icy rage. Having needled and neglected her, his eyes suddenly calmed and culled Scully, dowsing her anger.

Before she could do anything, his lips were around hers, stealing her breath. Between his masterful kiss and his roaming hands, Scully succumbed to instant, overwhelming arousal. The taste of him stirred yearnings she had subverted for a long time. Hunger chased the damp cold from her skin. His hands snaked into her coat. The rain pattered relentlessly around them.

Mulder hiked up her skirt and groped her bittersweetly sore behind. Hands on either side of his neck, she held him to the kiss, refusing the slightest interruption--even for breath. Holding her skirt high, he stroked the insides of her legs, smoothing the mud around her skin like lotion. The blush of her body made the rain feel warm.

He rubbed her deftly through her damp panties, finding just the right spot, setting her ablaze. Moaning into his mouth, she leaned into his chest and knocked her head on the shower's tile wall.

Blinking, she looked up into the spray and realized she clutched the neck of her shower spigot in her left hand. She shivered and sagged against the steamy, pink tile, her body wracked by pleasureful stings: her right hand lay snugly between her legs, strumming relentlessly despite her disorientation. The spray danced gently over her back. The rich scent of her raspberry soap scrubbed at her nose.

Wincing, she moaned loudly, amazed by the deftness of her own fingers. Her grip on the showerhead tightened, her balance threatening to abandon her. Her hand sped to a blur. Tantalizing ideas whispered through her mind. She conjured an image of being taken from behind, of being spanked by tireless hips, of being filled utterly. She came in a long, drawling growl, her body shuddering against the tile.

Still trembling, Scully turned off the water and pushed the curtain aside. Snatching up a towel, she patted her skin, laughing at herself for her silly fantasy. Laying the towel over her head, she buffed her hair. A sudden chill breathed over her body. Goose flesh rose on her arms. She tugged the towel free and looked out over a forest floor silvered by moonlight. A woodland aria tapered into crisp silence.

Noticing the towel was no longer in her hand, Scully glanced down. Her brow creased. Her entire body was painted with tiger stripes. Pearlescent white splashed down her front, kindling the moonlight. Her arms, legs and back were cast in amber. Innumerable slashes of black chased each other around her body. She rotated her arms, staring in amazement. She rubbed at the stripes draped around her forearm, but they would not smear; they were part of her skin.

The ground was surprisingly comfortable under her bare feet. It yielded to her weight like peat, soft and fragrant. Her nose itched, suddenly oversensitive. She could smell the difference between the leaves on the trees and those on the forest floor. Pine sap hung sweet and sticky in the air. Scully took a single step and stopped. The sound had been unusually loud, etched into her ears.

She was allowed only a moment to fret over her heightened senses before thought was shut away, walled off and abandoned. Without word or warning, instinct took over. Free will spiraled away from her.

Fierce feelings surged from her depths to her pores. Anger. Lust. Hunger. She imagined herself an animal in heat, truculently driven... and dangerous. However, it felt right to her, natural.

Ears pricked up, she sensed striding steps, the unmistakable approach of her persistent hunter. However, confidence no longer walked with him. For once, he was having trouble finding her. Scully smelled his hesitation, his loss of advantage.

He paused some distance away, sniffing the air, and trotted in her direction. His whispering steps became louder and louder. As she listened, moments trembling slowly past, she steeped in an almost vengeful wanting. She crouched behind a tree, wringing up her body like a spring.

When nearby leaves sizzled underfoot, she lunged, howling fiercely. Scully tackled her hunter, surprised as she carried him to the ground to have encountered flesh where she had expected fur. Her mysterious predator was a man.

Knocked flat on his back, he growled through clenched teeth. Wrapping her hands around his wrists, she leaned forward, her weight levering him flat against the ground. In a single, appraising blink, she looked him over. Markings like hers cocooned his long body.

She prowled his tawny face. Blotches of white and slashes of black radiated from his eyes and his jaw. Dark furrows raked across his brow. When she tried to make out his eyes in the stippled moonlight, he flailed.

She pressed more weight against his arms and squeezed her legs, scissoring his squirming hips and thighs. Her feet locked around his knees, immobilizing his legs. Pinning him further, she ground her aching pelvis into his abdomen, the friction delightful. He stopped struggling. She frowned, wishing he had not given up so easily, wanting to rub against him again.

He met her gaze, and she leaned closer, peering inside him in disbelief. It was Mulder. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

A moment's doubt slid off the glossy surface of her lust. Who he was did not change things, did not diminish her desire. The wanting was fierce, sucking up every nuance of the moment. The smell of his body. The hot, helpless tremble of his skin.

She held him firmly and pierced his eyes, reading him. He was angry about being subdued, about the reversal of roles. However, he was seething beneath her, wanting beyond words. Something suddenly poked her behind. Her lips tensed and stretched into a smile, wide and wanton.

Unwilling to unclasp his arms, to lose her control of him, she leaned forward and back, trying to meet the tip of him in just the right place. Each miss was deliciously cruel. Too low, she slid him through the cleft of her buttocks and withdrew. He was amazingly, flatteringly hard. Aiming too high, she tickled him with the curls between her legs and leaned forward for another try.

At last, she fell back just right, making contact. He twitched beneath her, trying feebly to press into her. She held him by the very tip and waited, savoring the sensation and the tortured impatience of his face.

Her smile widened, showing teeth, and she fell roughly upon his hips, driving him deep inside her. She had no idea how accommodating her state had made her until she sank easily against him, sheathing him completely. Vicious, feral cries burst from her lips. He returned them, an octave lower.

Holding him still with her hands and her feet, she rolled her hips wildly, stealing pleasure from him. Fire leapt through her body, pouncing upon unsuspecting nerves and consuming them in an instant. Hair lashing in the moonlight, she writhed against him, tasting his breath as he echoed her moans. When he tried to move, she strained her arms, the black stripes flexing with her muscles.

She rode him mercilessly, crashing her skin against his. She adored the passive hardness of him. Instead of washing each other away in succession, the sensations accumulated, quickly building toward an explosive end. The pleasure made her wince, her lips tweaked into a snarl.

Teetering on the brink, she clenched her behind, forcing him to an impossible depth and squeezing him tightly. Mulder groaned deafeningly, his body vibrating beneath her. Hard in her grip, he throbbed violently, wringing up achingly and relaxing, over and over. Feeling his every spasm, she tumbled into orgasm.

She held onto him, undulating against his body as ecstasy tore through her. Throaty moans gasped from her open mouth. She anchored herself to his body, clutching tightly with her hands and feet, weathering her pleasure. After a small eternity, her cries died away, having ridden out the last of her breath. She collapsed against his heaving chest, a-tremble from head to toe.

A songbird trilled triumphantly.

Scully's eye cracked blearily. Her face lay across her keyboard, her nose holding down the H. Scattered around her were photographs of claw marks, paw prints and animal attack victims. A manila file folder yawned to one side, filled with the fanned pages of an inconclusive report. On her monitor, the letter H had cloned itself mercilessly, stretching from corner to corner.

Her cellular phone tweeted again, waking her another notch. Her legs had cramped up, and the muscles of her inner thighs twitched drunkenly. She felt strangely refreshed. Her skin tingled. Rubbing her cheek, she reached out and put the ringing to an end.

"Scully?" Mulder said, surprised. "It's about time you answered. I was about to give up on you." His voice softened. "Sleeping on the job?"

Yawning, she rubbed her eyes. Her mind slowly untangled itself from dream. She hummed a what now?

"I just paid a visit to our friends at Geneticorp," he said. "They might want to consider a maid service. Looks like they left their labs with anything they could carry." Scully blinked, testing her vision, and leaned back in her chair. Coherence was sweeping away the cobwebs.

She could hear his footsteps echoing in a large room and imagined his flashlight swinging about inquisitively. Mulder continued. "They forgot a few things. I think our killer kitty was one of their pet projects."

Specters of her dream drifted in and out as she listened to him pace. She frowned at the photographs, rubbing strange, lingering aches from her hands. The muscles felt tired, strained.

Mulder's steps scuffed to a halt. For a few moments, she heard only his anxious breathing. When he spoke again, excitement chased the edge of his voice. "I've got something to show you, Scully. You've got to come down here."

~ end ~