Iced Tea by Plausible Deniability

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: *NC-17* (sexual situations, mature language), Category: V, MSR, maybe a little H, Spoilers: None, Keywords: Mulder/Scully

Summary: Mulder fantasizes, with apologies to James Thurber.

This story was inspired by "Diet Coke" and "Diet Pepsi" by Romana Clef. If you haven't read them, you should. Her Scully stories are so wonderfully clever that I jealously appropriated a Walter Mitty-like fantasy life for Mulder, too. You can read both of Romana's stories on my site, from links available on the main page.

THANKS to my Beta readers, Becky and Hindy.

Iced Tea by Plausible Deniability

"If anybody calls for me, I'll be in the autopsy bay," said Scully, grabbing up her keys and her tape recorder on her way to the door. "I just hope they've fixed the fluorescent lighting in there. I *told* the maintenance man that it isn't normal for lights to burn out that quickly and that there has to be something wrong with the ballast, but he just keeps changing the bulbs..."

Mulder wasn't sure what a ballast was, so he just nodded.

"Anyway, if anyone calls for me, that's where I'll be."

He nodded again. "Okay, Scully."

He waited for the door to close behind her, and slowly ticked off the seconds he estimated that it would take for her to reach the elevator and disappear inside. Then he leaned down and took his lunch from the bottom drawer of his desk. It was still forty minutes before noon, and there was no reason Scully needed to know that he was starting his lunch break a little early.

He opened the paper bag and dumped out the contents: chicken salad sandwich, Doritos, a Ho-Ho, and a can of Lipton Iced Tea. He unwrapped the sandwich and greedily sank his teeth into it. God, he was starving. He shouldn't have skipped breakfast this morning. But he had overslept, and he'd spent too long half-dozing in the shower, and he hadn't even had an extra minute to make toast.

He ripped open the bag of Doritos, tipped back his head, and shook a cascade of chips into his open mouth. Thank God for Frito-Lay. And thank God Scully wasn't here; he could just picture her shooting superior little glances his way because, faint with hunger, he actually dared to eat in anything more than well-bred little bites. Of course *she* could survive on tiny nibbles; if he were that short, he wouldn't need many calories either. He tore open the Ho-Ho and defiantly stuffed the whole thing into his mouth at once.

Mmm, that was better...

He propped his feet up on his desk, then reached for the can of iced tea and popped the top open. The can was still cool -- not icy, but cooler than it would have been if he'd let it sit neglected in his desk drawer all the way up 'til twelve o'clock. He took a big swig and swished it around in his mouth. Heaven.

Just how long would this autopsy keep Scully occupied? he wondered. The simpler cases -- blunt trauma and good old execution-style mob hits -- tended to go quickly. Then again, sometimes he got lucky and she ended up poring inch by inch over some sorry sap who'd been cut down in a glorious hail of shrapnel. Cases like those could take *hours*. He might even get to steal a look at one of the videos he kept in the file cabinet, if she were involved in that kind of autopsy.

At the thought of those videos, he felt a definite stir. He hadn't watched any of them in a while. He could never find the opportunity. Sometimes he felt almost hen-pecked, sitting primly in his chair while Scully stood guard like some overzealous hall monitor. He took another swig of his tea, and shifted uncomfortably.

'Whipped. Face it; that's what he was these days, and he was getting tired of it. He was tired of being a nice guy, and saying, "Sure, Scully," and "Okay, Scully" and "Sorry, Scully" all the time. He was tired of wearing a tie and sitting up straight. He was tired of wiping his feet on his way into his own office. Most of all he was tired of gazing longingly at the file cabinet drawer, and sighing because his videos were oil and the rest of his life was vinegar.

He wished he had the guts, just once, to do something really audacious. Especially, he thought, if it would wipe that cool, collected, teacher's pet look off Scully's watchful face. Maybe one day he would do it. Maybe he'd get up out of his government-issue chair and stalk across the office toward her, and then simply seize her by the shoulders and slam her against the wall.

"Mulder -- !" she would certainly gasp, breasts heaving. "What do you think you're doing?"

And he wouldn't even answer her. He'd just let his lip curl in his best Early Elvis sneer, and then lean in and kiss her, kiss her long and hard, until at last she would stop struggling and her resisting hands would drop bonelessly at her sides.

Yeah, maybe he'd do that...making sure to cop a really good feel while he was at it...

That was a good beginning, he thought, one hand curling around his Lipton can while the other moved absently to his groin. But not nearly good enough, considering the months -- no, let's get serious here; the *years* -- of privation he'd endured. He wanted more.

So let's see... When he finally broke off the kiss, Scully would gape up at him. And instead of rationality and control, he would see astonishment and desire in her eyes. And awe. Definitely awe.

"Mulder," she would breathe huskily, "you're making me wet."

Did women really say that? Well, no matter. Scully would say it, he would see to that.

And then he would slide his hands over her ass, continuing down until he reached the bottom of her short skirt. He would push her skirt slowly up, his fingers caressing her thighs as they went. He knew she didn't wear short skirts but, hell, this was his fantasy. In fact, he'd give her a black garter belt while he was at it...

Yeah, this was getting good. Already his cock was straining against his fly. He shifted the can of iced tea from his right hand to his left, and used his stronger hand to stroke himself through the wool of his pants.

But maybe it would be better if they weren't at the office at all, he thought. Maybe instead they'd be in his car. Not his real car, of course; a mid-price sedan didn't exactly scream wild animal lust. No, instead it would be -- what was it Elvis drove in "Clambake"? Probably some kind of Cadillac. He decided to go for broke and make it a '56 Eldorado convertible.

So there they'd be, he and Scully, stretched out together on the Eldorado's white leather upholstery, and Scully would have her skirt bunched up around her waist. He'd be leaning over her, more or less on top of her, and she'd have her knees drawn up on either side of him. "Oh, Mulder," she would purr, eyes heavy-lidded, "I'm sooo hot..."

And then she would...what? Oh, he had it. She would reach up and cup her breasts, one in each hand, and sort of push them together. Whereupon he would bury his face in her cleavage, and --

No, no, no, no. That was no good. She was not supposed to make him her slave. It was supposed to work the other way -- he was going to ravish her, reduce her to a steaming puddle of dripping need. He was going to make her want him so badly that she'd beg and beg.

He stole a glance at the clock. It was twenty minutes until twelve. No way Scully would be done with the autopsy anywhere near this early. With one eye warily on the door, he set his iced tea down on the desk, unfastened his belt, and unzipped his fly.

Ahhhh, that was better. He wrapped his hand around his erection, feeling the weight of pulsing blood in his palm, and squeezed his hand firmly up and down. Now to show Scully a thing or two...

So she was lying back on the upholstery, and her sweater was pushed up so that her breasts were bare. Scully didn't wear a bra, of course, not when he took her out in the ol' Eldorado. Or maybe she did wear a bra, but only if it was the kind that matched her garter belt. Whatever. Either way, she wasn't wearing a bra at this point.

But she was definitely quivering under him, because he had slipped his hand past the elastic of her panties, and his fingers were stroking through the wetness that was soaking the crotch. And she had her hands wrapped around him; those were her hands pumping his cock. Only she wasn't content to have it in her hands, she wanted it somewhere else. She wanted him to put it in her, and she was begging him, demanding, pleading in a sultry whisper --

The ringing phone sent him nearly jumping out his skin.

He pounced on it, fumbled it, finally got it to his ear. "Uh -- Mulder," he snapped, long habit rising to his rescue.

"Mulder, it's me."

Scully. "I was just -- I mean...hi. Whaddya need?"

"Mulder, the lights up here are flickering again. Do me a favor, would you? I don't have a phone directory handy. Would you check the wall by my phone? There's a page of phone listings taped up just under the menu for DC Deli. I need to know the number for Maintenance."

"Maintenance? Sure, okay."

He started to lift himself out of his chair, then thought better of crossing the office with his livid erection jutting out nakedly in front of him. Instead he pulled a manila folder from his desk drawer and positioned it strategically over his lap as he side-stepped across to Scully's area.

He checked the number, sidled back, and said "Extension 0724" into the receiver.

"Oh seven two four," Scully repeated, in a voice that told him she was jotting it down. "Thanks, Mulder."

"Sure." He was just about to hang up when he had a sudden afterthought. "Wait -- Scully?"

"Yes?"

"What did he die of, this guy you're autopsying?"

"Mulder, it's not an X-file."

His hand crept slowly toward his erection. "I know. I'm just curious. Like, did he die of multiple gunshot wounds? Repeated stabbings?"

"No, Mulder. It looks like he was strangled."

"Oh. That's all? Just strangled?

"Apparently it was enough for him."

He sighed. "Okay. Thanks, Scully."

He hung up the phone, dropped into his chair, and wrapped his hand around his cock again. Just strangulation. He couldn't count on too much time, then. So where was he?

Not the Eldorado. He wasn't quite so keen on it any more, now that the ringing phone had shattered the mood. No, instead they were...hmmm...

They were in an alley; a dark, narrow backstreet, the slick pavement underfoot shimmering with the reflected light of a distant streetlamp. He could have taken her to his penthouse or simply his car -- this time it was a Lotus Esprit V-8, he decided -- but they just couldn't wait.

Or, rather, *she* couldn't wait. Yes, that was it. He was coolness itself, sangfroid personified, but *she* could not control herself. They had just emerged from a restaurant, where they had sat in a darkened corner booth and she had brazenly massaged his crotch with her stocking foot under the table. When he could no longer ignore the pitiable look of hunger in her eyes, he had borne her off into this alley. Now he had her pressed with her back against the red brick wall.

"Tell me what you want, Scully," he rumbled dangerously, pushing his knee between hers, nudging her legs open. "Tell me what it is you're after."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she reached out blindly with both hands to run her palms worshipfully up his rock-hard erection. "I want *this*," she breathed.

He loomed over her, his left hand braced against the wall, and suavely unbuckled his belt with his right.

"Oh, yes," she moaned, her hands joining in, pulling him free of his pants. "Oh, Mulder -- !" She slid her grasp firmly down the bare length of him. Then she lifted her gaze, her eyes registering speechless amazement.

Yeah, that was pretty good, he thought, his own hand moving purposefully. Just once he would like to see Scully rendered speechless.

So, under the streetlight...her hands let go of his cock, and she wantonly touched herself. She cupped her breasts, then let one hand trail down to rub herself through the layers of her skirt and panties. She moaned a little as she did it, too. He watched her for a moment in sympathy, then took charge of the situation. Chuckling, he ripped her skirt and panties off in a single motion. She offered him a look of gratitude.

His hand slid between her thighs, and despite his incredibly varied and extensive experience, he couldn't help raising one impressed eyebrow at the prodigious wetness that dripped through his fingers. My, my, but she was eager.

"Oh, yes, touch me there," she moaned, writhing against him. "Oh, that feels so good..."

Women, of course, usually begged to be allowed to give him blow jobs, and he was usually too chivalrous to deny them. In this case, however, he thought he might have to make an exception and --

The phone rang again.

"God damn it!" he swore in wild frustration, smacking his desk with the flat of his hand.

Reluctantly, he picked up the receiver. "Mulder," Scully's voice complained before he could even choke out a salutation, "I've tried again and again but nobody in Maintenance is answering. Are you sure you gave me the right number?"

He heaved a tremendous martyred sigh. "Hold on a second and I'll check."

A moment later he was back at the phone. "Did I say 0724?"

"Yes."

"Then I gave you the right number."

There was a brief, thoughtful pause. "Oh. Well, then maybe they've just gone to lunch."

"Yeah, maybe so."

She hung up without even thanking him for his trouble.

Jesus, he thought, she was going to drive him absolutely fucking nuts. Couldn't a man even have five minutes alone in his own office? Did she have to natter at him every single hour of the day? Was it some kind of requirement spelled out in her job description or something?

His hand moved back to grip his throbbing erection. Damned phone. Where was he, anyway? Oh, yes; in the alley...

On second thought, maybe he would just let Scully give him a blow job. Yes, she was looking rather greedily at his cock, and now that he considered her more closely, her eyes were decidedly wider than saucers. As she stared transfixed, her lips parted slightly, and her tongue came out to lick unconsciously at her full bottom lip.

She looked up pleadingly into his eyes. "May I...?"

"If it will make you happy," he said indulgently. He had never been able to deny a beautiful woman anything.

She sank down onto her knees, flipping her tumbled hair over her shoulder with a practiced gesture. She lifted her hand to cradle his balls, hefting them in a caress. "Oh my..." she breathed reverently. Then she leaned in, and took him into her mouth.

Ah, yes, just the way he liked it...She made sure that he slid deep into the back of her throat, or as deep as her size and his would allow. Since she could not quite fit her mouth over all of him, she brought her hand up to assist, gripping the base of his erection in one saliva-slickened fist. Her lips slid firmly up and down the rigid length of his cock, as she drew her hot tongue along the underside. Her hand moved in counterpoint to her mouth. Rhythm and friction, friction and rhythm....

Mulder groaned. Oh, yeah. This was good. This was very, very good. He could just see Scully, glancing up at him as she worked lovingly on his cock. There would be nothing in her eyes but raw lust -- no reminders of budget proposals or purchase orders, no skepticism and no arguments, no inhibitions and no excessive expectations. He would rock into her mouth, his hand resting against the back of her head -- not pinning her, but merely sharing her half of the experience, feeling the movement under his palm as her head moved back and forth. So good...

Too good. He felt the hot rush in his groin that told him he had just taken a step past the point of no return. He lunged at his desk in sudden desperation, looking for a sock, a Kleenex, anything to catch the coming eruption. In desperation he grabbed the empty brown paper bag that had held his lunch. He pressed it quickly to his groin, barely in time to intercept the creamy jets that came spurting out.

....And came, and came, and came...

Wow, he thought finally, lolling back in his chair. That was a good one.

Wow.

He was still tingling when the phone rang yet again. Clutching the bag against him, he groped with his free hand for the receiver. "Mulder."

"Mulder, are you okay?" Scully asked sharply.

He wiggled up a little straighter in his chair. "Sure. Why?"

"You sound out of breath."

"I, uh -- I had to run for the phone."

"Oh." She reverted to her normal, business-as-usual tone. "Listen, I finally tracked down a maintenance man, and he's going to have to move half the ceiling panels up here to get at the root of the problem. I'm not going to be able to finish this autopsy until after he's finished."

"That's nice," Mulder mumbled in a relaxed, faraway fog.

"What?"

"Oh...I mean, how inconvenient for you."

"Especially since I told him it had to be the ballast on at least two other occasions."

"The bastard," Mulder agreed affably.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if Scully was puzzling over his unwonted understanding. Finally she ventured, "Well, it means I'm going to be free for lunch after all. Do you want to join me?"

He looked down happily at the crumpled lunch bag still clasped to his lap. "Sorry, Scully," he answered with a pacific smile. "I already finished without you."