A Routine Interrogation
by Lyrica

STORIES ON THIS SITE ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY

Rating: NC17¸ Category: PWP, Romance, Spoilers: very slight Tunguska, Keyword: Mulder/Skinner

Summary: Mulder and Skinner conduct what should have been a routine interview and come away with a heightened insight into each other's preferences.

Stop, please, and read the necessaries before proceeding. These characters aren't mine, etc., 1013, etc., no profit, etc., copyright, etc...

Warning: This story contains explicit m/m (M/Sk) sex and very little else. Oh, well, there is the bondage and domination... Yep, it's another one of those plotless, no redeeming social value, any excuse for smut things. Enjoy!

This is for Melanie, aka RT, for reading above and beyond the call and for inspiration and for the title, and AnneV, who's to blame for my state of mind when I thought this up. Thanks to Jill, Hannah and Dee for reading and comments.

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A Routine Interrogation by Lyrica

Mulder saw the man's face first. A model's face, too handsome to be real, high cheekbones and shiny dark eyes. A sensualist's face, thin, hard mouth, pink tongue touching the bottom lip as intimately as a kiss. Familiar eyes, familiar mouth. Intense expression, so piercing it stopped him in the doorway, pinning his feet to the floor.

The man was the same size and build as Mulder, tall and lean, his shoulders hinting at whipcord strength. He wore a spotless white shirt, dark perfectly creased trousers, a dark conservative tie loosened just enough to be erotic. And in his hand, he held a thick, leather strap.

Mulder forced himself to look away, to follow training and instinct, to take in the surroundings. Huge room. Heavy, dark antiques. Books. Rich, blood red upholstery. Crackling, leaping fire.

Still aware of the gaze on him, he managed a cursory glance at the other occupants. Blonde man leaning elegantly against the marble fireplace. The British butler type who'd opened the door standing beside him. A couple on a nearby couch. A man kneeling... His mind swept right past him, blurring him out. All non-threatening. Except the man with the dark eyes. He was the threat. He was danger. Familiar eyes in the face of a stranger. Knowing eyes.

Without looking away from him, the dark eyed man raised the strap. Mulder's heart gave a loud, painful twist, as if it would somersault from his chest. His bicep flexed, as if it was his hand lifting the strap. As if it was his wrist turning with the elegance of a ballet dancer. Soft whir as it cut through the air and landed across the kneeling man's ass.

Only then, as the sharp sound of the leather striking flesh caressed his ears, as the muscles across his own buttocks contracted with the blow, did he *really* see the kneeling man. Until that moment, he'd allowed his brain to render the kneeling figure as hazy as the room. Until his moan rent the heavy air, made him so real that Mulder jerked. His cock throbbed. His fingers curled into his palms. Swift intake of breath, as if he might not get another.

His gaze danced across the kneeling man, drank him in hungrily. He was young and muscular, with lovely broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was naked. Kneeling, with arms bound behind his back. Thin strip of black cloth around his eyes. Leather collar. Chest, rising and falling rapidly. Penis.

The last was as mesmerizing as his captor's eyes. As intoxicating as the smack of leather on naked skin. The man's penis was bound in a harness that separated his balls, lifted his cock. It was so rigidly erect that his own shifted eagerly against his silk boxers in response and sympathy. In envy.

Across the room, the butler who'd opened the door and let them in was whispering in the ear of the blonde who was leaning against the mantle. Fractured light danced on the sparkling crystal glass in his hand. The blonde man shrugged and put his drink down and came towards them with nonchalant grace. As casual as if they'd interrupted a dinner party.

Mulder tried to focus on him, but the dark eyes, the soft as velvet, shiny as satin, so familiar eyes recaptured his gaze. They wiped out years of training and years of discipline, drawing him in. Forcing him to feel the hand slowly lifting the strap again. Making him forget the room and its other occupants and his reason for being there.

The hand came up, elegant arc, and the avid, burning expression told him the blow was for him. Sharp slap of leather on flesh. The naked man moaned. His penis jumped, and Mulder's answered with a rush of heat and blood.

The moment stretched out into eternity although he knew he'd been standing there only seconds. He could feel the burn of the blow across his ass. As plainly as if he'd been struck. As if he was the one kneeling, naked. Bound and helpless... It made him shiver. Made his nipples tighten against the stiff cotton of his shirt.

A quick intake of breath behind him broke the spell, reminding him of where he was. He shook his head and took a quick step backwards. He came up against an immovable, solid object, hot and tense. The hard catch of breath came again, and against his back, Walter Skinner shifted.

For a moment, it seemed Skinner was moving forward, as if he was going to push him into the room instead of allowing him out of it. For a moment, his overworked imagination supplied an erection as engorged as his own pressed against him, and then there was only the incredible heat of the other man's body and Skinner gave way. Making room for him to back out of the doorway.

The hallway was even darker, even closer. Mulder backed away again, glancing back this time to keep from walking over his superior, to keep from coming up against that breathtaking heat again and losing what little composure he had left.

But it wasn't the warmth of Skinner's body that overwhelmed him, that sent the shreds of his poise shrieking into oblivion. It was Skinner's face-- the normally controlled, fierce expression erased by surprise. Something near panic, naked shock, etched on his broad face as vividly as if he'd been slammed in the gut. The way Skinner looked at him, for just the briefest moment, so raw, so stunned, so exposed...

Mulder's brain went away. A jibbering, roaring hurricane took its place.

The owner of the house came through the door, closing it behind him with a smile that implied apology and reluctance. Blonde and tanned, all California surfer boy. As gracious and welcoming as if they'd were pulling him away from his dinner party. Saying with a wide smile, "Surely the FBI isn't investigating private sexual practices?"

Mulder glanced back again. The roar in his ears had whipped away all his words, had thickened his tongue. And the Skinner he knew was standing to his left and behind him, frown in place, control in place. The other one, the unmasked one, might have almost have been a figment of his imagination, like the hardness he'd imagined against his buttock. He took a deep breath and turned back to the blonde man. "Only when a participant is missing."

He flashed a photograph of the suspect they were searching for and launched right into his questions as if his mind was functioning and there was something there, between his ears, other than a roaring darkness. He thought he heard all the right questions come out of his mouth. *Do you know this man? When did you last see him? Who was he with? The names of his partners?*

Skinner hovered near his elbow, like some steel part of his backbone that had slipped outside his body. He asked only one question. "What kind of acts did Mr. Ellis participate in?"

Mulder twitched and strained to hear through the loud thumping in his chest. He heard all the answers come back at them.

*Yes, I recognize the man in the photo. His name is Ellis. He's a frequent visitor, but he always arrives and leaves alone. And he is a voyeur, rarely a participant, at the parties he attended. No, I am not aware of anyone with whom Mr. Ellis had a problem. Neither am I aware of anyone with whom he had a special relationship. And what my guests do here is...their own business.*

This last said with a smile so arch, so knowing that it sent Mulder's heart to beating with a weird, looping beat. He heard all the other answers, but he had no hope that he'd be able to transcribe them Monday morning. All he'd be able to write down was the brilliant remembrance of scalding, mesmerizing hunger in familiar eyes. A description of a man kneeling on the floor. How his muscles moved under his flawless skin. How his arms and thighs strained as he leaned into the blows of the strap. The astounding sounds of his pain.

And then they were outside, the heavy oak door closed behind them. And the air was light and cold and slid easily into his lungs. And his thoughts slid uneasily back into rhythm.

He stopped on the sidewalk next to Skinner, scuffed the toe of his shoe on the curb. Absurdly aware of the Victorian mansion looming over them, of the sounds trapped behind its eggshell colored walls. Loath to get back in the car.

The fresh air was good, after the dark, close air of the hallway. And the open space, after the soft moans. If his pulse didn't slow, his ears didn't clear, the fresh pulse of blood into his groin didn't slow... He wanted to go home, to lock the door and strip off all his clothes and remember-- He stopped that heated train of thought before he embarrassed himself even further, flexing and stretching his fingers because he wanted so badly to touch--

Damn Scully for taking the week off! Damn everyone who'd taken advantage of the long weekend to take extra time and left them shorthanded. Damn Skinner for not assigning some stranger from one of the RAs to back him up on what should have been a routine interview. And damn the case, which wasn't even an x-file. It was looking more and more like a routine missing person. A missing person with extremely exotic tastes.

At least to a stranger, his reaction might not have seemed so vivid. At least with Scully, he could have made some off color, smart-assed remark. *Wow, that gave me a really amazing hard-on. How about you?* She might not have been fooled by his flippancy, but she would have at least pretended to be.

With Skinner... Who knew? All he could manage was to toe the sidewalk like a schoolboy and hope he could manage to sit down without embarrassing himself.

Skinner stood quietly beside him, taking slow, even breaths, making no move towards the dark confines of the Ford. Apparently, he wasn't in a hurry to crowd into the small space of the front seat either. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his overcoat, and Mulder was sure they were balled into fists.

The quiet stretched out, becoming even more uncomfortable, but he didn't dare speak. He didn't dare even look at his boss. He couldn't, just yet. If he did, he'd start to babble. He'd wind up saying something like, *That gave me a really amazing hard-on. How about you?*

He took a deep breath. The night air was just cool enough that it reached beneath his coat. Light brush of fall on his chest, chilling him and making his skin sensitive, alive with the sensation of his clothing wrapped around him. His shirt was heavy against his nipples, weighted down by the layers of his coats.

The evening was quiet enough that he could hear the swishing, honking traffic two blocks away, the electric crackle of the street lights overhead. But it didn't block out the soft smack of leather on flesh, the soft moans. The memory was as real as the scent of the wet street, as close as the humid night air, as thick as the scent of sex. He shivered and stuffed his fists into his coat pockets.

"I need a drink," Skinner said gruffly, and he reached up to push his glasses up, to rub at the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache coming on.

Skinner's voice was always gruff, always abrupt, but there was something about it, about the slow cadence, something shaky that made him sound unsure and vulnerable.

A unique sound in Mulder's experience. "I've got whiskey and vodka," he offered quickly and couldn't believe he'd said it.

Skinner looked at him, a hard, piercing gaze that cut straight through to his gut, that scooped out his insides and left him weak and hollow and speechless. No worry about babbling. There wasn't enough saliva in his throat for his vocal cords to work.

After a moment, Skinner turned away. "That'll do," he said and held out his hand.

Mulder stared at his upturned palm, held out as invitingly as if he expected Mulder to place his palm against it. It was a moment before he realized that Skinner wanted the car keys.

He almost balked. He liked to drive. He always drove. And it was his car. But protesting would require words and saliva. Since he had neither, he fished in his pocket, nudging his penis aside to find the keyring.

Skinner took it without a word, without a glance, and shifted abruptly into motion. Heading for the car, black coat swinging against his long legs.

Mulder followed him, the night sounds drowned out once more by thumping of his heart. He didn't speak as he climbed into the passenger seat and gathered the folds of his coat into his lap. Neither did Skinner. His boss just fastened the seat belt, started the car and pulled out into the empty street, his hands clutching the steering wheel.

The man in the house, his hands had been slender. Not big and square like Skinner's. Mulder forced himself to look away. To stare out the window, seeing the passing homes as smudges in the bluegray of dusk. Allowing the hypnotizing blur to transport him back into that place where he was so aware of sounds that they blocked out his thoughts, lulled his pulse into tranquility. The swish of the tires on the wet street, brisk clock of their feet on the sidewalk outside his apartment. The soft whir of the elevator cables.

Even after he'd unlocked his apartment, admitted Skinner, locked it back, it seemed somehow sacrilegious to override the sounds of movement. Of breathing. The whisper of his raincoat as he walked into the kitchen. Soft clink of glasses, of the only two bottles of alcohol he had in the apartment. A full bottle of Irish whiskey someone had given him, a half full bottle of vodka. He opened cabinets, one after another, looking for a mix for the vodka.

Skinner opted for the whiskey, pouring the glass over half full.

Mulder paused in his search to glance at him. Watched his powerful throat work as he tipped his head back and drained the glass. The man in the house, the bound one, his throat had worked the same way.

Again, he forced himself to look away, back into the depths of the cabinet. He stared blindly into the dark shelves, unable to shake the image. The groans, the striking of the strap like music, a rhapsody of flesh and leather and desire.

He slammed the cabinet, reached for the whiskey, abandoning his search for tonic or grapefruit juice or anything vaguely mixable with vodka. Sloshed whiskey into the glass without picking it up. His hands were shaking too badly to trust them. He stared at his trembling fingers, at the glass. Bright contrast of gold liquid against the blinding white of the counter.

To hell with the silence! He had to say something, or otherwise, he was going to shiver himself right out of his skin. "That was...one of the less routine interrogations I've conducted." He paused, giving Skinner an invitation. A chance to nod in cynical agreement. To be Skinner, abrupt and controlled and professional.

Skinner looked at him, through him.

He almost turned to look behind him, to see what was so deserving of that x-ray vision glare.

Without acknowledging his shaky attempt at conversation, Skinner drank again, draining the glass. Refilled it and drank again.

Mulder managed to lift his glass without spilling it. Awed at the other man's capacity for whiskey. He knew that much liquor, so fast, would have had him choking and gasping for air. Probably would already have his head reeling.

Skinner seemed as steady as if he'd just had a glass of water. His gaze was as steady as if he was discussing a case. "Top or bottom?"

Mulder jerked, his gaze coming up to the bland mask that was Skinner's face. The voice cut through reverie, through shivers, through skin. That Skinner would use the terminology was as much a shock as the sharp- edged question. It took him a minute to get past that. To realize Skinner was standing there, quiet and expressionless, waiting for him to reveal whether he was sexually dominant or submissive. Whether he preferred holding the strap, or being under it.

For a moment, he didn't know how to answer. Whether to pretend ignorance or protest his innocence. But who would he be kidding? And that stunned expression he'd interpreted as horror at the scene in the parlor and shock at his reaction to it? Skinner's familiarity with the words made him brave enough to consider another possibility--that his intense, stern boss had felt what he'd felt. That the erection he'd imagined as he backed into Skinner hadn't been imaginary at all. That he hadn't been as alone in that hallway as he'd thought. The possibilities were too provocative to consider. Before he could think, he responded with the truth. "Depends."

He gave a little shrug, an attempt at nonchalance to cover the quick hammer beat of his pulse. The muscles in his stomach tightened down. Scary, admitting so much truth, and exhilarating at the same time. Like the rush of fear from looking over the edge of a high dive.

He quirked a little smile at the other man, at his too-still face, and took his first gulp of whiskey. It burned all the way down into the knot that was his stomach, giving him the courage to step off the platform. Feeling the tingle of impending freefall. Of exposing himself. "Depends on who I'm with. I'm...ambidextrous."

There, despite the alcohol singed tenor of his voice, just the amount of levity he'd intended. The gentle, aimed-at-himself sarcasm. He smiled again and took another gulp of the burning whiskey, watching over the rim of the glass. "You?" Lifted his shoulder with a quick shrug, trying to say *See, it's no big deal.*

Skinner never took his bland gaze from him, never blinked. As if he didn't see the attempt to put him at ease, didn't hear the question. His voice softened to the texture of velvet. "Which would you be...with me?"

Never taking his gaze from Mulder's, he put his glass on the counter. Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and walked out of the kitchen. Back into the dark apartment, leaving him alone with the aftermath of the question.

The stillness of it was shattering. The words plucked at the tension in his stomach, twitched the knots tighter. Comprehension washing over him... Walter Skinner, his boss, had just propositioned him. Arousal slamming into him...Walter Skinner *wanted* him. Solemn, unapproachable, untouchable Skinner... He very carefully set his glass down. Very carefully took a step, then another.

Skinner was standing in the living room, hand on his hip, long coat thrust back. His unblinking gaze was on the low table in front of the couch, on the piles of magazines and papers and videotapes. He stared at it the way he'd stared in the kitchen, as if he was seeing beyond the thing in front of his eyes. In the dim glow of the aquarium, he was a looming, shadowed presence. A black shrouded demon, sucking all the breathable air out of the room.

Mulder sucked at what remained, pulling in atmosphere that seemed strangely drained of oxygen. He took a slow step closer, hearing the gurgle of the aquarium and his own breathing, unnaturally loud in the silent apartment. He struggled for calmness, but it seemed there was none. Had been none, since the butler opened the door of that innocuous seeming house, allowed them into the hallway and opened the door to the parlor.

And like the mindless whirring in his head then, there was no stillness in which to answer Skinner's question now. He was hard, achingly, paralyzingly hard, and even considering an answer was crazy, and whatever thought had been about to form in his mind, whatever sanity had been about to seep in, disappeared as Skinner turned his head slowly to look at him.

Passive, calm face. No tremble in his hand as he reached up and removed his glasses. As he folded them neatly and slipped his hand inside his coat.

There was no piece of clothing he could have removed that would have been more erotic than exposing his dark, wide eyes. Something in Mulder's mind clicked. Some little switch, connected to the drain of blood into his cock. He took the few steps necessary to be in front of Skinner. Closer to him as he had been in the hallway. "I've just...experimented a little...but, I like both," he whispered, staring up into the other man's eyes.

Narrowed eyes, dark, dark brown in the daylight, but here, in the darkness, as black and shadowed as night. Demon's eyes, seeing through to his soul.

"Which would you be?" He couldn't quite manage to add *with me,* as Skinner had. He didn't have the calmness or the courage. He held his breath, waiting for Skinner to choose, hoping he would choose. Without the calmness or courage to do that either.

Skinner just shook his head. Slowly. Briefly, a near-smile touched the corners of his wide mouth. "What do you like best?" So controlled, the dance of words, of power about to be wielded. Or yielded.

The words, the voice, slithered down Mulder's back like sand, gritty and gravelly and caressing. He shivered visibly and let his eyes slide closed. Savoring the coy dance of words between them, the anticipation of choosing. Breathlessly thinking perhaps he wanted to be dominant. Imagining Skinner under his hands. It would be so intoxicating to be the one in control of all that power and strength. To make Skinner lose his polished civility. "You felt it, too, didn't you?" he breathed. "When he lifted the strap..."

Skinner took his head between his big hands, pulled him forward, cupping his face, fingers sliding up into his hair, thumbs sliding roughly, possessively, over his lips. "Yes."

"It made you hard, didn't it?"

"Yes." Skinner's fingers lingered on his bottom lip, tugging at it.

The heat of Skinner's hands, of the one whispered word riding on the scent of whiskey and warm breath--it was all overwhelming, setting off a tickling tingle that spread to his scalp and danced giddily down his spine. "I felt you. When I backed up, I felt you." Thinking with breathless longing of Skinner, kneeling before him. Under him.

Then Skinner said very quietly, very gently, "You may only speak when I ask you a question. You may only move when I tell you to."

Mulder's eyes snapped open in surprise. Was the choice made? He hadn't meant that he was offering himself up. But it seemed too late to take it back.

There was a strange menace in Skinner's words that shouldn't have been so easy to accomplish with quietness. A concentrated focus in Skinner's expression as he framed his head, hands coming to rest as if his skull was something fragile that he was about to crush. Skinner tugged until their bodies were less than an inch apart.

So close Mulder could feel hot breath tickling his face, the heat of the other man's skin, almost touching his lips, something solid brushing the straining tip of his cock. The thickness of a zipper, or the thickness of a cock.

Suddenly, he didn't want to take the choice back. He let his eyes slide closed again. Let his head fall back, supported by the strength of Skinner's hands. "Okay. I'll do whatever you want me to do." He licked at his lips as he anticipated being kissed. As he waited for Skinner's mouth to take his. To ravage it.

Instead, a steady pressure on his jaw urged him down. He opened his eyes, surprised again. He was disappointed that there was no touch of lips and tongue, but he allowed Skinner to force him to his knees. So much control, directed at him... He shivered with anticipation as he came even with Skinner's groin. As he saw the outline of an erection against the perfectly creased wool trousers.

Skinner held the back of his head with one hand, firmly, as if he might try to escape. With the other, he opened his zipper.

Silken hiss of metal, soft contrast to the quickness of Mulder's breathing. Skinner slid his fingers across Mulder's cheek, and he could hear that, too, louder than he could feel it. Rasp of nails, drawn lightly over his skin.

Skinner grasped his jaw again, pressed in the points in front of his ears that forced his mouth wide open. Fed him his swollen cock with an undeniable pressure on the back of his head.

Mulder moaned softly and leaned forward. So much pressure, so much force compelling him to do something he wanted to do anyway. Thick, heavy cock sliding over his tongue, against the top of his mouth. Trailing the slick, intoxicating taste of sex and salt. The musky, warm scent of Skinner.

Skinner sighed. A soft, drawn out breath of relief and satisfaction. The kind of sound Mulder made after he'd teased himself, not touching his aching cock until the movie was over. Only when the credits started to roll, wrapping his fingers around himself and tugging gently.

With one hand, he gripped Skinner's thigh. With the other, he reached for himself. Hard, too, and aching. No teasing this time, no waiting for the credits this time.

Above him, voice thick and faraway, Skinner said, "If you touch yourself, I'll punish you."

A shiver went over him. A shudder. As if first his skin, then his muscles, tightened down on his bones. Pressure enough to snap them. He whimpered with frustration, jerked his hand away from his cock, gripped Skinner's other thigh. Pulled him closer. Sucked harder, working his tongue harder. Sucking in taste and the scents of warm skin and wool and slick arousal.

Skinner made a little yes sound. Letting him know that it was right. It was good. Fingers tightened on his scalp, slipping deeper into his hair. Pushing and pulling at the same time. Hips rolling in a slow, lazy undulation.

Mulder tightened his lips in response, relaxed his throat as Skinner pushed his cock deep enough to gag him. He tried to pull back, and the fingers in his hair tightened, holding him. Warning him not to pull away. Another thrust, and the soft sound from above, different this time, warning him of impending orgasm.

He tried to pull back, to ease the pressure of his lips. To make it last, but the hands holding his head tightened down. Forced him to stillness and the thick cock lurched against his tongue. The taste of salt water filled his mouth. Pleasure and disappointment rippled through him.

Another burst of thick, salty liquid and another moan, and he moaned with Skinner. Excitement and disappointment. Bittersweet liquid, thick as melted saltwater taffy, bitter as medicine, filling his mouth. Throbbing cock, pushing against his tongue, rasping along the roof of his mouth. But over too soon...

He pulled at Skinner with his lips, wrapping his arms around his thighs, willing the orgasm to go on and on. But Skinner groaned again, thrust one last time, then pulled away. Slid bonelessly to his knees in front of him. Long legs spread, arms limp, breathing deep and slow, his thick cock slowly losing some of its weight and girth.

Skinner was still wearing his heavy overcoat, and it spread out around him in a ragged circle. Making a heavy, dark pool around his legs. Drowsy yed and relaxed, Skinner reached out, wiped gently at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb, wiping away semen and saliva. "That was good."

Before he could slide his fingers across to the other side, Mulder licked at his lips, savoring the salt sex taste. "That was quick," he murmured, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Trying to keep the challenge out. He couldn't meet the other man's gaze. He'd wanted it to last. Had been expecting...so much more. Had been wanting so much more.

Skinner looked at him. Just looked at him.

He'd forgotten. He wasn't supposed to speak. Something tickled in his stomach. Light, feathery touch of anticipation.

Skinner said simply, "Take off your coat." No inflection. No reprimand.

Mulder hesitated, waiting for something else to come out of the quiet. Some punishment. The idea soaked up what was left of the oxygen, and he breathed a little harder, pulling at the air.

When there was only silence from the other man, he shrugged. Another twinge of disappointment. He reached for the lapels of his coat, surprised when his fingers closed over the slick, heavy surface. He was still wearing his overcoat, too. Only realizing how hot he was as he tugged it off and cool air brushed across his shoulders. Only realizing how hard he still was when he shifted and his penis drug across the seam of his zipper.

Moving more quickly, he pushed the coat away, reached to open his pants, and Skinner stopped him with his voice. "No. Just the other coat. I'll do the rest."

Toneless, the words, the inflection, but still his mind insisted that there was disapproval there. A gentle warning that he was being challenged to ignore. Or maybe he only wished for a warning there. Maybe he *should* be the one on top. Imagining that he would have spanked Skinner soundly for disobeying.

The tickle shifted outside, to his spine, as he thought of it. The bigger man writhing under his hands. The print of his hand on the rounded ass. He shrugged out of his suit coat. Watching Skinner do the same, broad shoulders stretching the spotless white shirt. His disappointment slipped away with the throb of blood into his groin. Maybe it wasn't too late to take control...

As he leaned to push the coat away, Skinner leaned with him, caught him around the waist and turned him. Rough movement, leaving him breathless with the strength required to lift and drag him around, back until he was nestled against the bigger man, caught between his spread knees. Caught against his chest, and he knew it was too late. Much too late.

The little tickle blanketed his entire body. He'd felt this before. Skinner all heat and muscle. Holding him, controlling him. More than a year ago, when he'd attacked Skinner, been subdued. Even through his anger, his confusion, his body had burned for days. As if he'd been scraped. Skin peeled from those contact points where their bodies had been pressed together. Across his shoulders, his back, along his hip. Across the pressure point on his throat. Until now, he'd thought it was the drug induced psychosis. Until now...

He arched back into the solidity of the body holding him.

"Be still!" Low voice of command, expecting to be obeyed. Skinner's hands went down into his crotch and pulled.

Hard enough to yank his clothing up tight against him. To squeeze his balls up against his body. Enough to make him gasp with pleasure/pain.

"You think I'm too quick, *boy*?" Whispered, the last word emphasized, but still so serene. The quietness of it was more thrilling, more threatening, than if he'd raised his voice.

Another flash of memory took him. Alex Krycek. Skinner had called him *boy*, just after he'd punched Krycek in the stomach and doubled him over in pain. Mulder arched up into the punishing hands, big hands that completely covered his cock and balls. He'd been hard that night, too, in Skinner's apartment, hearing Krycek gasp for air. Watching the ripple of muscles across Skinner's bare shoulders. When Skinner demanded the key to Krycek's handcuffs, his cock had been so swollen he could barely get his hand into his pocket.

Skinner bit down on his earlobe, tightened his fingers, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. Mulder jerked. Sharp pain in his ear, dull pain in his balls, hard throb in his groin.

Hiss of hot breath across his neck. "That wasn't quick." Using the grip on his genitals, Skinner yanked him back, pulling his ass into a curve of cock so hard and hot Mulder could feel it through his clothes.

Skinner thrust hard against him. "That was just taking the edge off," he whispered against his ear, voice as tender as a lover's.

Deep in his stomach, the feather morphed into something that jangled. Something that jumped, like a little crank had been wound round and around and a lid had suddenly popped open. Jack-in-the-box, jangling around in his stomach.

Mulder licked at his lips, searching for the candy/medicine taste of semen. Without it, he might have dreamed the orgasm. Created it out of bits and pieces of fantasy. He pressed back, unwilling to believe the salt on his tongue or the contact. An erection, as hard and hot as if Skinner hadn't climaxed, pressed back at him. Hard again so soon. It took his breath away.

Skinner tore open his pants. Fished his cock out. Still holding him splayed over his thighs, pumped him, roughly, expertly.

Pleasure exploded in him, washed over him like fire. Pure rush of sensation. Mulder fought the urge to writhe against him, to arch up into his fingers, back into his cock. Delirious at being restrained, at being so roughly stroked.

Abruptly, Skinner let him go. Let him drop back onto the floor.

He gasped with the coldness of it. With the frustration of suddenly having his cock released from the prison of warm fingers. With the quick rush of blood to his brain as he was pushed forward and down onto his elbows, up onto his knees.

Skinner hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants and shorts and yanked them down.

Nails scraped his back. His belt buckle, cold and jangling, skidded along his hip. Cold air rushed along his thighs, and he hung there, breathing hard. Heat suffusing his face as he thought of the kneeling man in the house. As he thought of how he looked now, crouched on his knees and elbows, ass up in the air. His pants were tangled around his knees, trapping his legs. His tie was dangling down, dragging on the floor in front of his face.

He tensed, waiting for the blow. Anticipating a palm, a belt in place of that wide leather strap. But instead of a blow, a hand stroked his bottom, slipping down across his thighs. Fingers hot and rough, too rough for a man who pushed paper all day. His fingers should have been smooth and soft, and the fact that they weren't made his heart beat faster.

Skinner promised him, "We've got a long way to go yet," voice so sweetly predatory, and leaned forward, letting the tip of his cock just brush his hip. Stroking lightly, slipping his hand up under Mulder's shirt to touch the small of his back. "Such smooth skin," he breathed.

Such a gentle touch, so beguiling after the roughness. Soothing the marks he'd left with his nails. His fingers didn't seem quite so rough now. Mulder arched his back, trying to increase the contact.

"Be still," Skinner warned him. His fingers dug into his back for emphasis, then eased back to stroking again. Tender and gentle. Skinner leaned down to breathe it in his ear, voice as smooth as his touch, cruel as whiskey. "I like the way bruises show on smooth skin."

Mulder jerked, his heart starting to trip like a jackhammer. Fear rippled through his excitement. Apprehension scraped at his equilibrium, reminding him that he really didn't know Skinner. Didn't know anything about him, and they hadn't talked about any of this, about limits.

A large, blunt something, not large enough, not hot enough to be a cock traced across his buttock, along the crease of his ass. Centered on his anus and pressed lightly. Dry, rough skin. Stroked lightly. Pressed again, threatening, warning.

He jerked again, thinking of the pain if that dryness was pushed into him. Anticipating the dull redness of the pain. His cock throbbed and hardened perceptibly. He could feel sweat starting to slick his forehead, his neck, the small of his back.

A thumb...it had to be a thumb, because the rest of the hand, hot rough palm and fingertips, pressed lightly, low on his back, warning him to be still. Skinner's other hand slid down to his balls, coming in from behind. Cupped and rolled them gently, then squeezed. Tentative pain, hinted at, then gone so quickly he might have imagined it. He gasped and tried to edge his knees further apart, wanting to push back, wanting it again, the pain, just to be sure it was there.

The hand ignored his straining, slid around his hip and grasped his cock. Worked him with quick, efficient strokes.

He bucked and cried out, his voice hoarse with wanting, with the strain of remaining silent when he wanted to beg for release. Just the threat of pain, just the promise of the rough caresses enough to set off the tremors in his stomach again. Enough to set his cock to twitching. Taunting him with an orgasm that slithered and throbbed, just out of his reach. He rocked, trying to thrust.

Skinner pressed on his back, heavy weight of hand, holding him down. "Don't move." Cold command. Tight circle of his fingers, stroking faster.

Just what he wanted. He moaned.

"If you come, I'll punish you."

The same warning again, in the same dispassionate voice that was so much more threatening than emotion would have been. As if Skinner was saving the real violence for the punishment, wasting none on the warning.

The muscles in his stomach were wound so tight now they might never lengthen out again. For just the briefest moment, he wanted to let himself go. Just to discover if there was anything behind the toneless words. Then he shivered and forced himself to go absolutely still.

The pressure on his back, the fist on his cock dropped away. He bit back a whimper and than another one as the thumb came back, wet and slick, to his bottom. Circled slowly, lazily.

Languid pleasure rippled out from the caress. Easing the tension in his thighs, in his gut. Slow, circling until he groaned and the thumb entered him. And there it was. The dull pain he'd been waiting for, not so bad as it could have been. Not so bad as he'd wanted it to be. He groaned louder, frustration pushing through, biting his lip to keep from writhing.

"You like this?" The finger twisted inside him.

Shock of embarrassment, at how much he did like it. How much he wanted Skinner to continue. His mind rebelled at answering, at exposing himself. As badly as he'd wanted to speak moments before, to beg for release, now he wanted to be silent. Heat flushed up the back of his neck.

"You want my cock?" Skinner raised up and pressed into his hip.

No teasing little touch this time. The heavy pressure branded him with heat and longing. He imagined it, the cock shaped scar, forever marring his flesh. His body betrayed him, loosening with whorish, inviting abandon. Accepting the penetration.

He dropped his head down on his forearms, hiding the red flush on his face, muffling the yearning in his voice. "Yes." He clutched at his own head. "Yes, but... you'll have to go easy. I haven't done that in a long time."

Skinner growled and grabbed him, the thumb whisked away. Fingers dug into his buttock so hard he knew he was being marked truly, not just in his imagination. Skinner grabbed a fistful of his shirt and jerked him up onto his knees. Wrapped long fingers in the length of his necktie and pulled, choking him. Pulled until he was twisted around, staring straight into an unblinking, cold gaze. "I don't *have* to do anything."

He nodded, feeling his bones melt out through his skin. So much control, leaving him weak and helpless and shaking with arousal. So much control, emphasized so efficiently with stillness. More effective than a shout.

"What's your middle name?"

The question, so strange that it just feathered around the edge of his consciousness, didn't quite penetrate. His eyes started to slide closed, the muscles across the back of his hips going limp. Letting him slide back into his captor's arms.

Skinner tightened the grip on his tie. "What's your middle name?"

His head lolled back. He tried to remember, licking at his lips. The answer was there, in the back of his head somewhere. "William."

"Look at me!" Skinner shook him, like a master trying to get the attention of an errant puppy. "If you can't take what I'm doing, then you say your middle name. You say *William,* and I'll stop. Do you understand?"

Mulder nodded, forcing himself, through the lazy, boneless fog of arousal, to listen. A safety word, limits...he needed to listen. It was important, but somehow, despite his fear a moment before, it disappointed him. It took the edge off.

"Repeat the word to me." Skinner's breath, tinged with whiskey, washed across his face.

"William." He tipped his head back, looking at Skinner through the haze of his lashes, wishing that he would come closer. Would touch his lips or his cheek or just his jaw, with his hard, straight mouth.

"I'll say *William.*" He sounded drugged, even to himself. Voice slurred and tired and drunk. Blood throbbed in his groin. "And you'll stop."

"I'll stop. And we'll never speak of this again."

The sex induced drunkeness slipped away. Washed away as the realization of what Skinner was saying sank in. If he couldn't take it, they would stop. Not back up and start over. Not ease back to an acceptable level. They would stop and Skinner would never touch him again, and already he could feel the mesmerizing tug of addiction. To never be controlled by that toneless, threatening voice, to never taste the candysexsalt of him again...

"Do you understand?"

He took a deep breath. Appreciative, acquiescent. He would have to bear whatever Skinner chose to do, or never feel it again. A shiver went through him and he relaxed, giving himself up to the idea, the promise. "God, you're good at this."

There was no answering smile. No break in the intensity. Just a tightening on his necktie until he felt like he was dangling from it.

He tried again, working his head and neck to draw in enough air. "I understand. I'll do whatever you say." He tried to smile again.

The dark eyes narrowed, and Skinner leaned into him, put his mouth beside his ear. "Yes, you will." Voice hideously sweet and promising, insinuating itself beneath his skin.

He whimpered. Soft tickle in his stomach again. Little thrill of anticipation, reaching down into his balls. Up across his shoulders.

And that was when Skinner kissed him. Turned his head by the grip on his necktie and covered his mouth. It was not what he'd been expecting. Not the roughness he'd been expecting. Skinner's mouth was as sweet as his voice had been sinister. So tender. Tongue gliding along his lips, teasing his mouth open, nipping at the fullness of his bottom lip. Corrugated sensation rippled through him, rasping like sandpaper. His cock pulsed.

The heated length of Skinner's cock was pushed up against him. He shied away from it. Away from too much sensation and from being taken so off guard. He pulled back, turning his face away, breathing heavily.

Skinner leaned into him, tightening the choking grip on his tie, turning him, taking his mouth again, cupping his bare ass. Grinding the length of throbbing cock into his stomach, against his cock. His mouth moved gently along Mulder's jaw, dipped and bit hard into the taut tendon between his jaw and shoulder.

Mulder moaned softly and tried to grind himself against Skinner. Would have grabbed the bigger man and writhed against him, but he was beginning to gasp for breath. Beginning to feel the bite of his shirt collar into his neck. The delicious bite of fear into his spine.

Skinner released his grip on the tie abruptly, grabbed his wrists and twisted them behind his back. Held him, as he gasped for air, bent back. The moist heat of Skinner's breath scorched his skin. Scour of tongue across his nipples, hot and steamy through his shirt. Teeth bit down hard, wiping out the pleasure of the tongue.

He gasped. Pain arcing out, down into his stomach. Down into his cock. He opened his mouth to plead, to whisper his pleasure. Bit down on his lip to stop himself.

Skinner saw him swallow the words and almost grinned at him. Worked his tongue along the edges of his lips as if he was wiping away the urge. His fingers trailed across the front of his shirt, hesitated at the nipple he'd bitten. Soothed it with gentle fingertips.

He sighed and arched back, pleasure easing out across his chest. Such a tender, placating touch. Bringing his nipples up even tauter then they already were. Making him forget again, unable to be still and silent and obedient with so much sensation rushing him. "Yes. Yes, please." Near to laughter with the giddy, swirling ecstasy, with the rollercoaster ride of it across his nerves.

The fingers tightened down on his sensitized nipple. Punishing him for his words. "I've been lenient with you. Don't test me again."

A sharp little pain arced out, dancing and mingling with the pleasure. He gasped and the pain intensified. He started to twist away, caught himself, forced himself to stop. To be obedient. Unable to still the shaking, the malicious thrill that sawed at his spine.

Skinner let go of him, pulled away, almost let him fall. The sudden coldness along his body was more punishment than the pain.

"I want a shower."

Mulder groaned with disappointment. Not a rollercoaster ride, an elevator, dropping out from under him with dizzying, unexpected speed. He reached out, ready to beg, *Kiss me again. Hold me.* Remembering at the last moment that he wasn't supposed to speak.

He gasped with surprise when he was caught under his arms and lifted effortlessly to his feet. His clothes were so tangled around his ankles, he could barely stand. Without waiting for permission, he worked his feet free of the tangle of cloth and leather.

"The rest of it, too."

He quickly stripped his necktie off, started to toss it on the pile of clothing, but Skinner stopped him, holding out his hand.

"I'll take that." He worked at unknotting his own, slowly, sensuously loosening the length of silk as his gaze slid over his bare legs. "I'll need it later."

Tie? What could he do with a tie, but...tie him? His breath caught in his throat. Just when he thought he had the tenor of Skinner's game, from rough to gentle to rough and back again...he introduced a new element. One even more overpowering than pain. "I don't--"

Skinner was watching him. Tense and poised. Hooded, black eyes. A cobra waiting to strike.

He shook his head to dispel the image. Opened his eyes to a knowing, almost sympathetic expression. It was that same blinking thing Skinner had pulled in the hallway. Flash of emotion, so raw and naked it took his breath away, and then so suddenly not there that he questioned whether it ever had been.

Skinner slipped his shirt off slowly, hung it on the back of a chair. Nonchalant display of muscles as he slipped off his shoes and socks, as he stretched. "Did you say something?"

Mulder shook his head, dipping his chin down, refusing to meet Skinner's gaze.

"Are you sure?" Silky warning.

He nodded and handed the tie over meekly. Even if he was allowed to speak, he couldn't say no. It was just a game, contrived to make him say no, and the only rule was that he couldn't say no. He fumbled at the buttons on his cuffs, fingers shaking so badly he couldn't make them work.

Mulder stared surreptitiously from underneath his lashes. Skinner was staring at the coffee table again, with that sightless gaze. Naked from the waist up, barefoot, as he had been that night in the apartment. Golden skin gleaming in the dim light. Had he been hard that night, too? Aroused by

his own strength and Krycek's pain and Krycek's helplessness. What had happened, in the dark apartment, on the balcony, after he left?

He imagined Skinner towering over Krycek, as he'd stood over him just moments ago. Krycek's stupid, bristly haircut against his palms. Krycek's narrow, evil mouth on Skinner's cock. His wrist cuffed to the railing. Krycek helpless and bound... He started to shake, thinking of himself helpless and bound...

"Go start the water," Skinner told him. The quiet, easy voice of command was overlaid with the sound of his buckle as he opened his belt.

Mulder fled.

He had his face and his fantasies buried in a spray of scalding water when Skinner joined him. Trying to wash away the images of himself in Krycek's place, Skinner standing over him, his wrist bound to the railing...

The first touch of Skinner's naked body against him banished the thoughts, the fear, the envy. He turned into the touch, wrapping his arms around Skinner's waist. He was so solid. He seemed so much larger, even though they were the same height. The shower seemed so much smaller, with him in it.

Skinner's hands slipped over his shoulders, over his water slick back. Held him close, tucking his erection in against his own. Tongued drops of water off his jaw.

The gentleness again, and so sweetly offered. Without darkness. He shivered and whimpered, pleading with his eyes to be allowed to speak.

Taking pity on him, Skinner whispered, "What? Tell me."

Gentleness again. Fingers gently massaging his buttocks, cock moving slowly against his. Sweetly seductive. It would take no effort at all to grow addicted to this. "Please," he whispered, muffling his face against Skinner's neck, unable to meet his gaze. "Be like this with me. I like this."

The tongue went across his ear, dipped into it. Down to the quickening pulse at his throat. Hands kneading, caressing. Dipping him back like a dancer to reach for the soap. Rubbing the slick bar over his shoulders.

"You like the other, too." Skinner's voice echoed the indolent, gentle caress of his fingers. Yet somehow, it was so deeply sinister. "You're just afraid of how much you like it."

As if he knew every thought, every tremor, every fear.

"You like the pain."

"No..." Long, drawn out whisper. Not convinced or convincing.

"You will." Before he could react to the promise, to the threat of it, Skinner's hands, hot and soapy, started to work on him. His voice started to work on him, "You liked it, watching that man being strapped."

He turned and twisted under the cascade of water, under the knowing massage. Trying to twist away from the words, from the memory, from Skinner's knowledge. Gasping as his balls and cock were soaped, were caressed and stroked and squeezed.

Mouth teasing, just barely touching, Skinner murmured in his ear, "Tell me what you were thinking, when you were standing in the doorway. When you first saw the strap being raised."

*Flash of dark eyes holding his in thrall, the sensation of his bicep flexing, of the strap landing.* He jerked away from the memory, from Skinner's touch. Heat flooding his cock, his face.

Skinner's hands tightened down on him, holding him still. "Tell me what you felt when the first blow landed. Did you want it to be you?"

Hot rush of shame. Could Skinner divine his every thought? There was no way he could know... Cruel rush of arousal. "No..."

"Why won't you tell me?" A soap slick finger eased into his ass. Another when he cried out and arched his cock up against Skinner's belly. Slick fire turned in him, twisted. Burning, stretching pain. Ecstatic, inexpressible sensation of being opened. Holding his breath as he felt the quick, brushfire climb of orgasm.

"Don't come," Skinner warned him, and twisted him away, shoving him into the wall of the shower.

Shock of cold tile on his nipples and belly and cock. He gasped. Thrilling sensation, so nearly heat. So like being burned. Too near pleasure to control the fire. Skinner was touching something inside him, something that ricocheted pleasure into his spine. Like setting off a sputtering, sparking fuse behind his cock.

"Can't...stop." He clung to the wall, cold wet tile beneath his palms. Pushing his cock against it.

Skinner pulled his hands away, leaving him empty and frustrated.

The sizzling sensation cut off abruptly. He moaned his disappointment, pressing his forehead and his cock into the wall. Rough, then gentle, then rough, then gentle again. Pushed to the edge of orgasm, then dropped, then pushed again. How long did Skinner think he could hold out?

He was turned roughly, shoved back into the wall. The shock of cold on his back and buttocks was all pain, no pleasure. He tried to arch away, but Skinner held him there with calm, almost disdainful strength.

Rough demon's hands and an angel's serene, composed face. For the first time in the game, Mulder felt a flare of anger. How long did Skinner think he could manage it, making him dance and tremble on the edge of orgasm?

The soap was thrust into his hands. "Now you wash me."

The hard knot in his stomach rolled. Threatened to come unraveled. Roughness, then gentleness, now permission to touch. To do whatever he wanted... To have Skinner under his hands...

He brushed the tip of his cock over Skinner's hip, as teasingly as his slipped his hands over the other man's skin, stroking Skinner's chest and back and ribs and the hard, flat stretch of abdomen. Teasing down his thigh and so near his erection that all Skinner had to do was shift and he would be cupping him. Stroking him.

Exactly what he wanted to do, but he resisted. Teasing and holding back. Trying to do what had been done to him. Make Skinner moan and twist. Push him to the edge.

But it seemed all he was doing was teasing himself. Making himself hard and eager. Smooth skin and hard muscles, so solid under his fingers. His fingers gentle, then rough, then teasing, finally brushing Skinner's cock. Teasing him. Stroking him.

But there was nothing he did that made Skinner twist and turn. No touch, no tender caress, no roughness. He stood as still as if he was carved of stone, as if there was nothing that could even make him moan. The only thing that betrayed arousal at all was the hardness of his cock, the pulse of it in his fingers, the ripple of muscle along his jaw.

Mulder narrowed his eyes in concentration. Trailed soap across Skinner's nipples, teasing them to hardness. Held the bigger man the way he'd been held, pulled him close and arched into his groin. The quick thrum of his pulse increased as he slid his fingers around Skinner's hip. As he caressed the firm, rounded line of buttocks. Playing, dipping his fingers into the crease.

Still no break in the facade of calm, but his own control was slipping. His chest starting to rise and fall with the quickness of his breath. The pressure of his cock against the hard plane of stomach was making his heart race.

The muscles under his hands tensed slightly, then relaxed. Allowing him to slide his fingers down. Skinner nodded and let his head drop back, exposing his throat. As if he was giving him permission to penetrate. As if he was bestowing a favor, even as his body relaxed and opened, drawing him in.

He felt that little flare of anger again. White hot and orange. He bit at the tender flesh of Skinner's throat. He pushed with a soapy finger, intending roughness.

The taut ring of muscle loosened even more. Admitting him, taking him. There was no preparation necessary, none of the stretching he'd required. The muscles around his fingers just...opened.

Skinner's head tilted, giving him even more of his throat. He breathed, "Oh, yeah..." One hand came up slowly, bracing on the wall.

Elation flooded him. At last, a break in the control. But it was Mulder who groaned, who shivered with excitement, who felt as if his knees weren't going to support him a moment longer.

Gaze locked on Skinner's face, he closed his hand around the other man's cock. Slid his hand from the base out the head where he squeezed down, then repeated the motion. Still slipping his finger in and out slowly. Skinner was so hot inside. Hard, spongy yielding. So responsive. His body relaxing and drawing him in. Making him forget anger and control. Making him weak and breathless.

Skinner's mouth twitched. Hard, little catch of breath. "You want to be in me?"

"Yes." He barely breathed the word, afraid to break the spell. Moving his hand in rhythm to the slow, sensual movement of the other man's hips. His heartbeat thudding in his ears as he added a second finger. As Skinner's body adjusted to him.

The dark eyes opened, heavy lidded and almost sleepy. Bore into his for a moment, drinking in the heat, the barely controlled excitement, then slid closed. "Have you ever been topped like this?"

Skinner's voice was thick and dreamy. He moistened his lips.

Mulder couldn't take his eyes off the tip of Skinner's tongue, sliding around his lips. Slow circle, as if he was tracing the head of a cock. His cock.

"What do you mean?" Breathless. Hands slowing as he sensed not what was coming, but the tone of it. The breathless, longing tone of it.

"Have you ever fucked somebody who's topping you?"

"god..." It was almost a moan. The way he said it, with absolute certainty, with absolute lust, made it something...sultry and enthralling and addictive. Made it something he wanted as much as he'd ever wanted any sex act. "How...?"

He pulled Skinner further under the hot spray of water. Worked soap onto both his hands until the lather was as thick as semen. Cupped Skinner's cock between his palms and stroked him. The soap washed away quickly and there was only the roughness of his skin, catching and sliding. "Let me. Show me... I want to."

Skinner opened his eyes, smiled at him. "You can't even obey me now. What would you do if you were in me?"

He shivered. Blinding expression, that superior, knowing smile. As overwhelming as the flare of an explosion. Almost enough to distract him from the question. Almost. "Anything...," he breathed.

"Anything?" Skinner caught the back of his neck in his strong fingers.

There was such sinister promise in the word. A hard shiver of anticipation bit into him. Skinner's fingers bit into him. The grip wasn't hard enough to hurt, just controlling. Just mastering.

He pressed down. "Take me in your mouth. I'm going to come again."

Mulder gasped. Went to his knees without protest. Water cascaded down over his face. He guided Skinner's cock to his mouth, sucked at the tip gently. Water flowing into his mouth, cock flowing into his mouth. Overwhelmed and teetering on the edge of losing his grip on reality.

He knew he was being manipulated, promised something so enthralling, he would do anything to gain it. Not even promised it, just teased with it. Tantalized. The fingers on his head reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing. Of the taste of soap, stinging his tongue. Velvet hard cock, sliding along the top of his mouth. He slipped a hand between Skinner's legs, pushed his fingers into him again. Imagining that heat on his cock. The pressure. He wanted it. He gripped Skinner's cock at the base, stroked hard, once, twice.

Skinner grunted, rose up on the balls of his feet, thrust with his hips.

Semen filled his mouth, his throat, saltwater taste washing away the sting of soap. Muscles clamped down on his fingers, spasmed. He groaned, imaging that rippling clutch on his cock. He wanted it. Wanted him... He pulled Skinner closer, trapping him, twisting his fingers. Stroked his cock lovingly with his hand, with his tongue, coaxing another shudder from him. Another groan.

Losing himself in the taste and scent of sex and pleasure. In the warmth of the water, pouring down over him.

He wanted to come, too. The pressure was squeezing him, like a hand, closing lovingly on his spine, smothering his nerves with sensation. Slowing the flow of blood to his brain. Making his head swim, his surroundings circle lazily.

He felt pressure under his arms, like the steady pull on his senses. Then he was lifted up again, effortless tug, as if he weighed nothing.

The bathroom was steamy and warm. The mirror was fogged over, but he knew how he must look as Skinner guided him out of the shower. Eyes heavy lidded and dulled with lust. Mouth swollen from use.

He closed his eyes as Skinner enfolded them both in a towel. As he kissed the semen from his mouth and the water from his lashes and rubbed his hair dry. Ran his fingers through his hair, playing with the thick strands. Tingles rushing along his scalp.

Dried him and stroked him and turned him. Pinched his nipples and stroked his cock up against his belly and kissed him again. Rougher this time, ravaging his mouth. Teasing him and taunting him with sensation. Breathed into him, for him. Led him slowly, like a blind man, out of the bathroom.

"When are you going to let me come?" he whispered, and Skinner said so softly he had to open his eyes to hear...

"Not for a long time." His fingers closed on his neck again, and his voice roughened. "And I warned you not to speak without permission." Skinner gave him a hard shove, propelling him towards the bed.

He caught himself on the edge, his heart thundering in his ears. He looked down and saw bright quilt beneath his fingers, and the two silk neckties, laid side by side across it.

He jerked back to reality. "No. Wait."

Shied back, but Skinner was ready for him. One arm wrapped firmly around his waist. "Be quiet."

The game, the sinister warning couldn't cut through this fear. He resisted the tug towards the foot of the bed. Ignored the warning to not speak. "I don't like to be tied."

Skinner tightened down on him and refused to let him back away. Caught his wrist and twisted it into the small of his back. "I told you if you disobeyed me, I'd punish you. If you fight me, you'll just make it worse."

Such lovely menace in his voice, but Mulder was too frantic to give it more than a bare notice. He sputtered and turned, trying to free his wrist. "But I..."

Skinner half lifted him, half shoved him the short distance to the foot of the bed, forced him down across it. Held him down, pressed into the mattress with his weight as he attached the first tie to the wrist held in the small of his back.

He struggled to get up, pushing with his free hand, and then it, too, was captured. Brought around against the small of his back. "Wait. Wait! We need to talk about this. We didn't talk about this."

Fingers gripped the back of his neck again, strangely paralyzing. Skinner leaned down over him, into his line of vision. Face so smooth and composed. No indication that there had been any real strain to holding him down. No indication that he was playing a wicked, dark game. "Do you want to say the word?"

The other tie was touching his wrist, but not wrapped around it yet. Smooth and soft and cool. Skinner's hip was against his, his fingers lightly holding his wrists in place. His skin was as smooth as the silk, but warm.

If he said the words, asked for mercy, he'd never feel this again. The warm skin, the cruel fingers. Never taste him again, breathe in his scent. He interrupted the ragged in and out of his breathing with a whisper, with courage he didn't know he possessed. "No."

Trying to calm the panting gasps. The hard drumbeat of his pulse. "But we didn't talk about limits."

Still leaning over him, holding him pressed into the mattress, Skinner took up the tie again, wrapped it around his wrist. "There are no limits."

The jack-in-the-box that was trapped in his stomach vibrated. Compressed little spring popped loose. Jangling, quivering, cold sensation behind his navel. He tried, one last time. Little boy voice. "But I don't like to be tied."

"You will." Skinner jerked the knot tight around his wrist.

This time, there was no caress of steaming shower, no slick, soapy hands to distract him. He wriggled against the bed, against the hard thighs pinning him, muffled his distress in the softness of the quilt.

Even the dignity of smothering his moans was denied him as Skinner dragged him up, held one arm high up behind his back as he tied the end of one necktie to the post of the bed. Quick and efficient despite the effort he was exerting to keep him still.

Skinner ignored his protests, his panicked breathing, as he tied the other wrist, stretching his arms out loosely at shoulder height.

Through it all, his cock never lost its hardness.

The knots tested, Skinner pushed on his shoulder, bending him over the foot of the bed again until he hung, swayed forward in a weird, off balance position. His feet were solidly placed, but his upper body was dangling by the ties holding his hands.

His head was starting to swim from lack of oxygen. From his hyperventilating. From the swaying motion of his shoulders.

Skinner moved in close on him. Caressed his bottom lightly, running his hands over him. Over his back. Down his thigh. Soothing him with soft, nonsensical sounds and the dazzling gentleness of his hands.

He sighed and tried to relax into the caresses, tried to ignore the tug of silk on his wrists. Telling himself it didn't matter that he was tied. Nice, sweet touches, along his spine, over his upthrust buttocks, down the insides of his thighs. The gentle part of the game again. Soothing away his panic. He pushed away that niggling song in his brain that reminded him, *roughness then gentleness then back to roughness.*

Skinner stroked his cock with just the tips of his fingers. Letting his cock glide through them. Giving him sweetness when he'd thought of roughness.

He let the soothing caresses lull him. All the sensations filtering through a haze of pleasure. The light brush of the quilt against his balls as he swayed. The warmth of thighs against the backs of his legs. The light, teasing dance of fingertips across his nipples. Fingertips across his ass, hinting at penetration then dancing away. Lulled into soft, blissful moans.

He was being stroked so delicately, he was aching to be entered. To enter. He shivered, thinking of pushing his cock into Skinner. Of the tight, hot sheath of his body. Tied like this and unsteady and swinging forward, Skinner beneath him. Ready. So ready...

Skinner lips moved on his back, his shoulder. Teasing the sensitive spot at the base of his neck until little ripples of pleasure were tracing out across his back. "See? You like it. Don't you?"

"Yes." He raised up on the balls of his feet, straining to swing himself back. Breath speeding up, pulse speeding up, flow of blood into his cock speeding up. "Please. Like this. Be like this with me. I want you. I want to fuck you."

That was when Skinner hit him.

A flat, open hand landed on his ass. Loud fractured sound of flesh striking flesh. Electrifying echo reminiscent of a leather strap, landing on bare flesh. He jerked and cried out, more surprised than hurt. More betrayed than in pain. The sound of the slap reverberated in the room, chased by his cry. Heat suffused his flesh, his cock.

"Never speak unless I tell you to." Skinner leaned into him. He was hard again. Heated, just washed smoothness of his cock raking his hip. Distracting him so that the second slap was as much of a surprise as the first.

Hard, open handed blow on his other buttock. He cried out again, more surprised by Skinner's arousal as he was by the sharp pain, by the burn of heat. Turning the sound into an almost sob as he tried to choke it back. As he tried to stay still.

Skinner laughed softly, unfamiliar, poisonous sound that carried over into his whisper. "No, don't hold back. I want to hear you moan. Move for me. It makes me hard."

The words washed over him, plucked at his nerves. He struggled harder not to groan. Something perverse in him making want, now that he had permission, to remain silent.

Skinner leaned into him again. "*You* make me hard." Heat of his cock no match for the burn of his hand. Caressing gently again. Reaching around to stroke his cock. Reaching back to spank him again. Harder this time. Crack like a gunshot of palm landing against him. "Move for me."

It sounded worse than it was, the open handed smack on his ass, but he cried out again. Bucked. Tried to straighten up and found that he'd been pushed into that pivot point where the weight of his upper body was too great for him pull himself up. He could sway, teetering on the balls of his feet, or he could collapse. He was at the mercy of the man holding him upright. Forcing him to stay upright when he wanted to collapse.

Skinner spanked him again. Heaping heat and fiery agony onto his already blistered flesh.

Just enough pressure, just enough pain to make him writhe. To make him think of the strap. To make him want to beg for more, but he bit at his lip. Moaned the words only in his mind, *Again. Again, please.*

As if he was reading his mind again, Skinner whispered, "Yes," across his back and spanked him harder. Pressing into him and rubbing his cock across his heated ass. "You're skin's getting hot," he whispered. "Good and hot." Pressing his hardness into the crease of his ass and rocking there. Sex motion, silky rhythm. "Move for me."

He wriggled. *Please. Please. Please.* Not even knowing what he wanted to beg for. More spanking. More cock. To be released. To teeter with unsteady rhythm and sink his cock into clutching heat. To be burned with pain and torment. To be consumed by it.

Skinner's hand stilled on his buttock, cupped him gently. "Are you wishing it was a strap instead of my hand?" His voice was so quiet yet so intense. And the words were so darkly accurate.

He gasped, writhed, jerked as if he could twist away and get Skinner out of his head.

"Are you?" Insistent, almost breathless.

"No." Lying. Writhing again, but this time, moving his bottom against the sweet warmth of Skinner's palm.

"Are you wishing it was him? Is that why you don't want to answer me?"

"No." But this was truth. "No." Right now, with his skin on fire and his cock on fire, he couldn't imagine any other hands on him. Couldn't fathom that anyone else's control could be so complete.

Skinner hit him again, tearing another cry from his throat. From deep in his chest. But the pain didn't quite match the level of what he was expecting. Of what he was craving. And that was the terror of it. Being hit just hard enough to make him want more. To make him crave more. To make him afraid of how far he wanted Skinner to take it. How far he would go.

Skinner reached past him, took something else from the bed. Something that had been invisible against the fractured pattern of the quilt. He twisted, trying to see what would be done to him next. Panting with anticipation and fear.

There was the soft, plastic snick of a bottle cap and slick liquid was dribbled onto him. Dripping down into the crease of his ass, lubricating the hard column of flesh stroking up and down him.

A finger forced the slickness inside him. He sobbed, jerked against the bindings on his wrists, trying to pull away. No, not this! He wanted to be the one whose slick cock was consumed. Not like this. *Let me...* the words formed in his throat. He choked them back.

Another finger. Twisting now. Stretching him, opening him, exposing him. Making him burn. Taking away any thought but the desire to be taken. To be used.

And then the cock. Blunt pressure, blunt width. He writhed. Dangling. No leverage. Thwarted from any attempt to push back. To rush the penetration.

Then Skinner's hands were on his hips. Steadying him, but still, holding him away. "Ask me."

He sobbed. Words rushed out, overflowing. "Take me. Take me. I want you. Please. Take me."

The cock slid all the way into him. Slow, relentless insistence, coercing his flesh to part. To loosen. Compelling his nerves to respond. Relentless, swirling pleasure. Dull, stretching pain, as glorious as any he'd ever felt.

The sounds in his head changed. The *please* continued to pour out, but it became a prayer, a litany of thanks. A rush of orgasm. The spiraling jangle of bliss started in his groin, winding its way towards his cock. He was going to come. Without being touched.

"Don't come," Skinner warned him, drawing him up and back so their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to floor. So he was standing again, taking the full brunt of Skinner's slow, agonizing thrusts with his legs.

"If you come, I'll punish you." Ragged voice in his ear.

He laughed though the sound came out another half sob. There was no threat left. What more could he do to him? He arched, pushing himself back. Wanting more. More of everything. More pleasure. More pain. More punishment.

Skinner stopped him, stopped his orgasm by squeezing the tip of his cock, by catching his balls. Loose circle of his thumb and forefinger, stretching his testicles away from his body.

Skinner forced his cock in deep and locked them together so he could barely move. "Listen to me."

Oh, god, how could he manage that dispassionate, husky whisper with his cock buried to the hilt and him writhing, working his muscles even if he couldn't sway his hips? "You're not human," he moaned. "I can't. Not with you in me. Just make me come..."

Skinner pushed him away. Pulling out of him.

The worst punishment of all. He grabbed the ties to keep from falling. Ground his teeth together to keep from groaning with anguish.

Skinner yanked the knots loose from the bedposts. Caught him when he would have fallen, wound the lengths of silk around his big hand until Mulder's wrists were trapped together behind his back.

Skinner yanked down on his wrists, forcing him to lean back. "What did you feel, watching the strap? Watching *him*."

He struggled against the pressure. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to lean back. He wanted to bend over. To go down on his knees and be spanked. To be fucked.

Skinner yanked his head back and exposed his throat. "Answer me."

He tried to back away, and Skinner's fingers closed over his throat, holding him still. Thumb stroking the pulse point beneath his jaw lovingly. Following behind the thumb with his teeth. Brushing his lips across his mouth. Light teasing touch.

He gasped. Obedient now, so aroused...waiting. Filling his lungs in anticipation. Arching up. Breathing in a scent that would be with him forever, a mixture of Skinner and his own bathsoap.

"Be still..." The voice, the touch, heated the pulse beneath his ear. He could feel his heart, thumping beneath the thumb as Skinner raked his jaw with sharp teeth.

He could feel the trembling of the fingers on his throat, at his wrists, Skinner's composure slipping away. The control Mulder had so longed to break.

"Answer me." Growled command.

Mulder gasped again. Room starting to teeter and sway at the edges of his vision. He couldn't possibly get any harder, and yet, the vise of arousal was tightening down on his stomach again. He groaned, inarticulate with need.

Skinner yanked him around, dragged him, dazed and stumbling and falling, back into the den. Knocked everything off the low coffee table with one broad sweep of his arm.

Cascade of magazines and books and tapes. Mulder watched them fall. Slow motion. Angry clatter of plastic striking the floor. The grip on the ties cutting off the circulation in his fingers.

>From behind him, Skinner pushed his face close, forced words into his ear. "Do you know how many times I've been in this room with you pointing a gun at me? Do you know how many times I've stood here, wondering whether I could trust you or not?"

He shook his head, dizzy with fear and arousal. Now confused, unable to follow the conversation enough to make the words connect. Wishing for the strong fingers to touch his throat again. Was this the question he was supposed to answer? "I don't understand..."

The weight of Skinner's hand came down on his shoulder. "I've stared at that damned table with your gun at my head. Next time I look at it, I'll have something new to remember."

Skinner yanked his arms back and out this time, trying to force him to his knees. "Down. Over the table." His voice was raw. Angry.

Mulder looked at him, openmouthed. Too stunned, too aroused, too frightened to move. Where had that serene control gone? Why hadn't he seen it for the safety it was? And why, when he was so scared he could barely breathe, was his cock throbbing and aching as if it was being squeezed? "What are you going to do?"

"Anything I want." Snarled.

Skinner's voice slammed his brain into a red, swirling void. His mind deserted him. The jangling in his stomach mutated into quaking.

Skinner's fingers slammed him into position. Down on his knees beside the table. Forced him to bend over, to lay his chest on it. Mulder shivered. The wood was cold and solid beneath his erection. He moved against it, whimpering as cool, electric pleasure spiraled up his back.

"No. Not so far up."

Fingers bit into his hips, hauling him back. Sweet, dragging slide against the underside of his cock. Skinner pulled him back along the table until his erection dropped free. No longer sandwiched between his belly and the wood. Hanging free, where he couldn't rock against the table and pleasure himself. He sighed noisily in disappointment. Trying to turn his head to keep Skinner in the edge of his blurred vision.

"Hold onto the table." Skinner guided his hands up onto the surface. "As long as you hold onto the table, and don't move your hands, I won't tie you."

He gripped the edge of table. Trying to work his brain around the instructions. He didn't like to be tied. He tightened his grasp, feeling the rolled edge against his palms. Then the blunt tip of something against his ass. No heat to identify it as Skinner.

He wriggled, beyond caring, but trying anyway to determine if it was Skinner's cock, or if he was using something else on him. Whether something horrible was being pushed up inside him. "Don't hurt me." Not sure what he meant. The pain was pleasure. The pleasure was pain.

Skinner leaned down over him. His thighs into the backs of his legs. Leaving no doubt it was him, thick and hard, pressing in. "Ask me."

Mulder shivered. "Yes. Oh, yes, please. Please fuck me. Make me come."

"As soon as you answer me. Tell me what you were thinking." Breath heavy across his shoulder.

He gripped the table harder and tried to be obedient. Tried not writhe and buck and push himself back. Impale himself. Tried to focus on the questions, on a convincing lie. "Please, I don't know. Please. Take me."

Skinner knew, too well, what he wanted. What would torture him the most. Giving just the barest inch of himself at a time. Sliding into him slowly, just barely. No relentless pressure this time. Just slipping back and then pushing in again, only a fraction farther each time. So that by the time he was fully into him, he was groaning aloud, mind repeating over and over, silently begging with wanton, reckless need. *Pleasepleaseplease please...*

At last, Skinner rested against him. Fully imbedded in him, owning him. "Tell me what you were feeling."

Cold rush of air down his back. Across his hips as Skinner straightened. He pulled back, slipping almost all the way out of him.

Mulder whimpered. Found words, anything to keep from being empty again, and offered them up in a voice so hoarse it was unrecognizable. "Like it was my hand, holding the strap. Like it was me being hit."

Skinner shoved home, all the way into him. Now, at last, the relentless, driving pressure. The opening.

Pleasure stabbed into him, sharp as a knife, sweet as candy, ground down on his spine. He screamed. Dug his fingers into the table to keep from grabbing himself. From stroking his cock. Just once. Just one, quick stroke...

"Don't come," Skinner warned him, voice twisted with lust. He stroked in and out again. Fingers biting into his hips to keep him from rocking. He leaned forward and whispered. "Not like this. I want to watch your face. I want to watch your cock."

He was shuddering, on the edge. Just another thrust, another heated whisper and he'd come without being touched. He pushed back, trying to force the penetration.

Skinner pulled out of him. So abruptly he sobbed, losing finally, completely, his sense of reality. As if the cock had been all that anchored him to the room. To the solidity of the table.

He rolled, following the rough guidance of hands that pulled him up, turned him around, shoved him down again. Floating, onto his back. His knees were pushed up to his chest. Lengths of silk trailing across his body, soft as clouds. He jerked, dragging at the neckties still bound around his wrists, pulling the silk across his nipples. Shimmering, intense sensation, knotting the muscles across his abdomen.

He remembered that he wasn't supposed to be moving his hands. Something bad would happen if he moved his hands, and he found the edge of the table. Gripped it, but too late.

Skinner grabbed the ties, using them to jerk his hands down by his hips. Fingers locked them there, against the cold wood. Relentless weight held them there. Bound and helpless.

Something thick and solid lodged against his ass. Pushed. His body accepted it as belonging, opening to the pressure. Lifeline. Anchor. He opened his eyes as Skinner started to move in him. Swinging, fluid motion. All rolling hips and slick grace and pleasure too intense to bear.

"Now?" he whispered. Straining to free his hand, to reach for his cock. "Now, please."

Skinner released the iron grip on one of his wrists, guided his hand to his cock. Let him wrap his fingers around himself. He gasped at the touch, at how alien his hand felt, like someone else touching him. He stroked himself.

"I like that," Skinner rasped, his fingers closed lightly around him. Around his hand, around his cock.

His eyes fluttered closed. Sight too intense to bear, of Skinner leaning down over him, guiding his hand on his cock. Letting him stroke himself, the way he'd stroked him in the shower, before he pulled his hand away again.

Skinner let him arch and twist with the pleasure as he held his hand, suspended, just out of reach of his straining cock. "Don't close your eyes. Look at me. Tell me what you were feeling. When he was looking at you, what were you thinking?"

He writhed on the table, on the cock impaling him, fingers clawing at air.

Opening his eyes just as Skinner slammed his hand back to the table, whispering, "Not yet. Not yet." Face straining so beautifully. No longer tight and controlled, though his voice was rough and rasping. "Not until you answer me!"

And he understood suddenly, that Skinner was talking to himself as much as to him. Trying to hold back. He was losing control. Falling with him. Trying not to come. Losing that intoxicating control. And all he had to do, to push him over the edge, was answer.

He worked his mouth, searching for saliva. Shifted so that Skinner's hard ribs were clutched between his knees. "His eyes...," he rasped, barely able to talk, barely able to breathe. Arching up to meet the slick penetration. "I was thinking..."

Skinner paused, poised to slam into him. Held for just a moment, gaze locked with his.

"I was thinking... His eyes are like yours."

Skinner gasped. Quick twitch of his head before he jerked. Moving as if he had no control over his body.

Mulder arched his back, lifted his hips to meet the hard thrust. Narrowing his eyes to keep Skinner in focus.

"No..." Skinner's fingers tightened down on him. His voice, lost and agonized, tore at him.

And there was no hard thrust. Skinner slid into him slowly, tenderly, as carefully as if it was his first time. It took him so by surprise that he shuddered. He felt the first pulse of his orgasm as if every muscle in his body let go at once. As if his body was trying to consume the hard cock filling him. The muscles in his throat, his belly, his back rippled. His balls tightened. "Oh, god... I'm going to... Hard. Now, hard."

Skinner groaned. Nothing like the controlled passion of his other orgasms. Thrust forward roughly. Delicious, grinding violation. Deeper. Harder.

The first cresting surge of pleasure washed through him. "Oh, now. Now. Watch me..." His cock jerked. Semen spurted across his belly, hot as candle wax. He cried, reached out, arched higher. "Watch me." Coming with his fingers locked around Skinner's wrists. With his gaze locked on Skinner's face, twisted with pleasure. Feeding on the wildness blooming in his eyes. Riding it, the astonished, raw pleasure.

Skinner's head fell back, breaking the gaze. His throat worked. An agonized groan tore from him.

And he felt it. Felt that lurch of cock that he'd felt in his mouth. Felt the voice, like silk, like vellum. Pushing his pleasure higher. Riding higher with every rough thrust into him. Taking him away from himself. Into himself. The taut, jangling sensation that had started in his stomach and slowly encapsulated his body, every inch of his skin, arced out. Rolled across his skin, reaching deep into his nerves. Untangling and rippling and rolling. Finally smoothing out, leveling to a low, steady hum of pleasure. And, finally, easing to tiny ripples.

But even as the sensations ebbed, as he relaxed, the tremors continued. Muted, tired sparks.

Skinner shuddered one last time, hung there over him, shivering. His biting grip eased, fingers caressed up over his arms, touching him as if he was checking for broken bones. For damage. Came up, over his jaw, to his mouth. Thumb caressing his lower lip. Came back down to grasp his fingers, trembling. Squeezed gently. He rasped, "Are you okay?"

Mulder could manage only a weak nod. No broken bones, just melted ones.

Then Skinner slipped away. Gently untangling from the knot of silk ties and fingers and relaxed muscles. Slowly withdrawing.

Sudden empty sensation. Caress of cool air on his bottom, the insides of his knees. Mulder reached up, at last, and stroked himself. Fingers meeting on the underside of his spent cock. Stroking and smoothing away the last of the ripples. He arched into his hand and moaned softly. Amazing sensation-he'd never come without being touched.

He rolled his head to the side, unable to lift it. Found Skinner, sitting only inches away, with his back against the couch. Eyes watching him, tired and soft brown again. Unblinking gaze.

He shivered.

Skinner's mouth moved. His chest rose, fell, slow ripple of muscle. His throat worked and dredged up words in a voice as soft and drained as his eyes, repeated, "Are you okay?"

He nodded again, finding finally, after hours and hours, moisture in his mouth. But no words to go with it. He shook his head, managing to add an exhausted smile, conveying, *No, I'm not okay. Yes, I am okay,* at the same time.

Skinner seemed to understand, nodding without turning his unblinking gaze away. His chest still rising and falling noticeably.

There was still enough energy left in him for the dark eyes to send a little spark along his nerves. A little thrill at being watched as he lay there, lazy and naked and sticky with his own orgasm. Stroking himself tenderly. Still enough embarrassment in him for heat to rise to his face as he thought of what he'd confessed. He broke the gaze, letting his head roll back so that he could only see the other man obliquely.

Skinner reached out, languid roll of muscles across his shoulders, and caught the end of one of the ties. Twisted the edge of it between his fingers. Leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

He didn't pull the tie tight, but Mulder could feel the gentle whisper of it on his wrist, the connection to Skinner. Reminding him of being bound. Helpless. Conveying control and dominance with just the barest, most contained movement.

Something tickled in his stomach. Light, feathery touch of anticipation. He drew a deep, deep breath. Steadying himself. Finding energy. Finding desire and the words to express it, "Next time... I want the other... What you said... In the shower." His voice surprised him. So hoarse. So worn. His desire surprised him, so ready to flare up again.

"Next time." Said with the same sense of wonder he was feeling. Still not looking at him.

For a moment, he thought Skinner was going to shake his head, deny him.

Then Skinner rolled his head up, looked at him, into him, narrow-eyed concentration edging out the relaxed expression on his face. He seemed to understand what Mulder was talking about. He rolled the edge of the tie, folding it onto itself, slowly taking up the slack. "Are you sure that's what you want?" His voice, too, was hoarse, but there was something in it. A quiet, assured control. Humming sensuality. A warning.

Mulder felt the pressure of the tie on his wrist, pulled taut. No silky hint of cloth now, just the binding drawn tight against his flesh. He thought of the strap. Of Skinner's hand, coming down on him. Of Skinner reaching into his mind.

He swallowed, felt his throat work. Behind his navel, the feather morphed into something that jangled. There was no coy, teasing dance of words this time. There was no need for them anymore.

He answered, clear and sure. "Yes."

- end -

---

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