Diet Coke by Romana Clef

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

Being inspired by the elegance and force of writers such as Anaïs Nin, Pauline Reage, and yes, even Anne Rice, I've always wanted to try my hand at erotica, so here is my attempt.

No whips and chains, but no hearts and flowers, either.

Timeline-wise, this story should take place before Never Again. One of the reasons I liked Never Again, despite its considerable problems, is that I've often felt that Scully was harboring the emotions expressed in that episode. Some of those feelings appear in this story.

Oh yeah, and this story has nothing to do whatsoever with that Diet Coke guy or his commercials. But I had to title it something, and it was either "Diet Coke" or "Untitled #3" or some such. --Romana

Rating: NC-17, Classification: V, Scully/Mulder, PLEASE ARCHIVE

Summary: Smut, and maybe character development. Scully has perverse fantasies.

Disclaimers: Mulder and Scully are property of CC, 1013, and FOX. They are borrowed without permission, but without any intention to profit from them.

Diet Coke by Romana Clef

She sat slumped on the couch, half-naked, with her feet up on the coffee table in a most unladylike pose. She rested the can of Diet Coke on her belly; the cold condensation seeping through her silk blouse soothed her skin. The can was so cold that her fingertips were already numb.

Her jacket and briefcase, her skirt and shoes and hose, all lay strewn in a line heading toward the fridge. She had stripped them off as soon as she entered the apartment, grabbed the soda from the fridge, and collapsed on the couch in a funk. The heavy silk of her ivory blouse clung damply to her body, but the blouse was soft enough that the sensation was not unpleasant. What she wouldn't give to live in a climate where she could wear a blouse more than once before having to send it to the cleaners...

Not that dry-cleaning bills were her greatest problem in life. No, there were others... She idly rotated the shining can, reading the label, but finding out (once again) how many milligrams of caffeine were in it provided only the barest distraction against the wave of unhappiness building up in her. The wave crested, and crashed.

She was angry. She was tired. She was trapped.

Trapped in a bizarre, frightening, and unpleasant life, and the worst of it was she couldn't cry, "I never asked for this!" because she had. She had wished for adventure and the chance to be a hero and she had gotten it. The fact that she hadn't looked far enough ahead to predict certain logical consequences of her wish was her own damn fault.

No, come to think of it, that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was how something could be so weird and frightening and yet _boring_ at the same time. A nightmarish routine was still a routine. Her life was so narrow. Her world was so narrow. She could be in a different state of the union every damn day and it would still be all the same. The motels, the rental cars, the coffee, the horror the arguments the frustration... Her apartment. The office. She brought the sameness with her. She created it everywhere she looked.

She squirmed at the tension building up in her shoulders. The motion brought her attention back to the tight clamminess of her sweat-damp bra, and she reached around back to unhook it. She didn't bother wriggling out of it all the way, just lifted it up a bit so that her breasts were covered instead by the warm silk of her blouse. She pulled the blouse up a bit, letting the draft from the air conditioner play across her stomach. She tried setting the soda can down on her bare skin, but the jolt of cold drew a little gasp from her. Too cold. She smoothed her blouse back down.

So, what was there for her to do about it? She didn't know how to look at things differently, or how to make herself feel differently. It's not as if she could un-know what she knew... She longed to be transformed by something outside herself. It was an ache that was so hard to put into words... she needed to place herself in the grip of something that would demand everything of her. She wanted to be utterly consumed, subject to sensations so intense that she could forget herself. And then find herself again... In other words, she thought wryly, she wanted to come. And hard.

Completely anonymous. That's one way it could be. Images welled up and she settled herself deeper into the couch cushions... One night she could knock on the door to his motel room, and stare up into his face, and he would know. He would know that a single word would spoil everything and that her name would be the worst word of all. He would step aside and with a little half-gesture motion her into the room. She would be looking down, so she wouldn't see his face as he approached her. As he laid his hands on her shoulders and ran them lightly over the silk of this very same blouse. A measured interval, of only the most delicate pleasure, giving either one of them plenty of time to chicken out...

But neither would, of course, and he would pull her to him roughly and invade her mouth with his tongue and she would kiss him back fiercely, trying not to make even the tiniest moan. When they broke off the kiss, she would stay pressed close against him, rubbing her face against the rough cotton of his dress shirt and drowning in his scent. But he would gently disengage her arms, and then sink to his knees before her. His touch would be light as he nuzzled against her chest and belly. He would kiss the silk before him, he would actually bite it. He would mouth and nibble the edge of the placket, as if the fabric were a part of her.

And this would inflame her. She would tilt his head back up and run her thumb across his wet lower lip. She would dip her thumb into his mouth and he would take it in deeper, caressing it everywhere with his tongue. Then with a last kiss to her hand, he would fumble with the covered buttons of the blouse and lay it open, without removing it entirely. Pausing for only a brief kiss on her bare skin, he would continue to her skirt, unzipping it and letting it fall, uncovering... thigh-high stockings. Why not? Maybe she packed them specifically for this seduction... And the white undies with the V of lace at the front, showing off the moist curls of her hair to him.

At the sight of all this, a helpless sound would escape his throat. He would bury his face at the juncture of her thighs, and the rough pressure of his mouth and nose on the most sensitive spot, the warmth of his breath there, would wring a moan out of her that she couldn't stifle.

Oh, this was going well. She shifted on the couch, bringing her legs together for a moment and writhing to increase the pressure. She moved the still-cold can of soda lower; the cold penetrated in a most pleasant way, and she couldn't help but rotate her hips a little, hitting the hard edge of the can *just right*...

So where was she... Was there any way... could he pick her up in a bar? No, that would require coordination. Words. But maybe... maybe they could head over to a bar for a friendly drink at the end of a hard case, and just as they walked in he would tell her, "Go sit at the other end of the bar and pretend you don't know me." Just a harmless bit of fun. And they would sit on opposite ends of the bar, where it curved back to the wall, so that they could see each other. And she would order... what? Not a martini -- nothing in a fragile, girly-looking glass. Maybe a good scotch.

They would get their drinks, and stare at each other, and though the lights would be dim as they are in bars, there would be light glinting off his watch. Light detailing the hair on his arm, showing from beneath his rolled back cuff. Light on his strong hands. Her eyes would never leave his as she raised the glass to her lips and let the heat of the liquor course through her. She would let the liquid rest in her mouth, breathing in the complex, smoky taste. And naturally, she would have to wonder, was his taste similar at all? If she went down on him, if she took it in her mouth, what would he taste like?

Oh yes, this was a good one. This was one to save for the future. Staring at him from across a bar, dreaming of fucking him as she drank, and knowing from the burning quality of his gaze that he _had_ to be thinking the same thing. And it would segue so nicely into her appearing at his door later that night. She slid her other hand inside her drenched panties. She relaxed further, her mouth falling open, as she slipped one finger, then two, into the wetness. The heel of her hand provided all the pressure she needed. Her other hand still clutched the can of coke, forgotten and unnecessary now.

Of course, sweetly anonymous wasn't the only way it could play out. She could finish this scenario some other time. Maybe it would end with her pinned against the cold tile of the shower the next morning, as he thrust into her, and she came so hard that it almost hurt. Mmmm, that would be a nice ending. But there were other ways to play it....

She could get angry with him. She _should_ get angry with him. Her black mood, her increasingly desolate life, were his fault as much as hers. It didn't dim the attraction, of course. His mouth, his eyes, the set of his shoulders, it all screamed out "tortured romantic hero". Every man and woman who crossed his path felt the pull, felt that he or she was the only one who could allay his despair, murmuring words of love to this beautiful, sad creature. His every gesture promised violent, exclusive passion, a consummation that would be akin to dying in each others' arms. Who would guess that his haunting charm was accompanied by smug self-centeredness?

Why was she dreaming of the taut, silken skin of his throat and his chest, of his murmurs of passion, of his cock filling her mouth and almost bruising her lips, when the man himself was such an insufferable prick sometimes?

So... they would be in their office, and he would be looking right past her even as he spoke, in the grip of one of his obsessive visions, and she would cut him down. She would say something calculated to wound, something true. And he would be stricken.

Oh yes, stricken. Beautifully stricken, that tortured look that suited him so well. And he wouldn't be able to ignore her any longer as she told him exactly what he had done to her life. And her final point: she would move closer to him, invade his personal space, her voice almost purring as she said, "You know this worst part, Mulder? You get off on the guilt."

It was true. More than he wanted salvation, he wanted punishment. Part of him would be shivering in mute worship with every unkind word she offered, so glad to be finally getting what he deserved. And when she let him know that she was in on his secret, the look on his face would be raw, inexpressible emotion.

With the language of his eyes and the language of his body he would give himself over to her completely. Her, the only person who truly knew him. The one person he could never ignore again, because she knew what he needed.

Maybe she would give it to him. Maybe she would lock the door and tell him to kneel and to take his shirt off. And he would look... transfixed, as he stripped off his tie, his dress shirt, and his thin undershirt.

The contrast of seeing his naked skin in that setting would be outrageous, obscene. She would have to run her fingers lightly over the muscles of his shoulders and across his crisp chest hair before she could believe that it was real. She would touch his mouth, part his lips and his teeth, slide across the warm, velvety flesh, and he would welcome the invasion, sucking on her fingers almost greedily. So what that the other fantasy started this way? She happened to like this sensation... And what made this scenario a little different was that he was worshipping her and she was ravaging him...

Back on the couch, she cast about for the next scene, the next configuration... The thought of telling him off provided its own distinct pleasure, but not the kind of pleasure that she needed right now. Not the kind that she was getting desperate for. Sensation was building, and she pressed harder, trying not to lose her momentum.

The vision appeared, and she could almost feel it, as if it were really happening. Someone grasping her arms firmly behind her back, someone who could pin her up against him using only a fraction of his strength...

Oh god, start over. Let that one build. It had to be in her apartment. That's where she wanted him to take her.

This was the one she was too embarrassed to start with, she had to be drunk with fantasy before she would let herself feel this.

Her apartment. She would be sitting on one of her kitchen chairs, with her hands curled helplessly in her lap. Not helpless in a frightened way. Nothing he could do to her would frighten her. She would take anything.

All day the erotic tension would have been building up between them, and she would have continually provoked him, trying to make him angry enough so that he would forgo his better judgment and touch her. One touch would unleash it all, and he wouldn't stop until he had devoured her.

And now she had said something, the last straw, and gazed up at him, defiantly helpless. And he broke. He closed the distance between them with one long stride, grabbed her wrists and jerked her upwards. He turned her around and prisioned her arms behind her, drawing her close to him. His rough motions drew a moan from her. She struggled a little, the better to feel his force, the better to gain proof of the passion that he had promised for so long.

He did not disappoint. Despite her efforts she was held firmly against the living hardness of his body. Some days, his size and strenth infuriated her. Sometimes, when she was angry with him, the knowledge that he could physically command her at any time made her sick to her stomach with rage.

Not now. Oh no. Now it was exactly what she wanted. She pressed closer to him, seeking out the bulge of his erection and grinding her hips shamelessly against him. It worked. He convulsed with the pleasure of it. He released her arms and wrapped his arms around her from behind, one down across her hips and the other up across her breasts. He caressed her roughly through her skirt, bending down to kiss her ear and her neck, using his teeth, almost gnawing on the sensitive flesh. She was no longer in control of her voice, and she moans she made as his other hand cupped and then crushed her breast were indecent.

Oh god. There wasn't any time... there wasn't time to watch him strip her clothing from her and tease her nipples with his teeth, or to appreciate the wool of his slacks against her bare ass, or watch his cock emerge for the first time as he undressed. She had to skip to the good part... *now*.

The part where they were kneeling naked on her bed, and he was behind her again, supporting her breasts, toying with her nipples, sometimes pinching them sharply. Her arms were stretched up around his neck and his cock was sliding awkwardly between her legs. The geometry was all wrong for him to enter, so all it could do was tease her slick lips, driving her wild.
And even though she could tell from his desperate panting and his burning skin that he was just as wild to take her as she was to be taken, he was making her beg.

"Say it, Scully. You have to ask for it." His voice warm, his lips tickling her ear.

"Please fuck me," she murmured against him. "Please fuck..."

The vision dissolved as she shuddered. Her hips rolled as the climax surged through her and the can of soda tipped over. "Fuck," she cursed in a mild tone, and set it on the coffee table. Ignoring the Diet Coke soaking in to her area rug, she leaned back and let the tremors subside, leaving a pleasant warmth behind them.

Well, this wasn't going to solve all her problems, but it had certainly succeeded in cheering her up for the moment. She kicked off her useless underwear and curled up on the couch for a nap.

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