Aphrodisia V - Head Games (Part 1 of 2) Kristel St. Johns kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com Rating: EXTREME NC-17 Classification: SR Archive: Yes. (Redistribute with permission only, and with headers and disclaimers intact.) Spoilers: Umm, early Season 7, I guess. Definitely "Orison." Timeframe: Undetermined Season 7 Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance, Smut, BDSM Summary: Scully and Mulder have to face the consequences of Scully's actions in Aphrodisia IV. Author's Notes and Assorted Blatherings: WARNING: Explicit sex and BDSM activities contained herein. If you are under-aged or oversensitive, do not proceed. Don't come complaining to me if you read this and don't like it for the content. Again, I want to thank my beta readers, Beth, Shelba, Tiff, Nancy, Indi, Cal, Sybil and Jennifer. I would also like to thank all those who have written in supporting the story and asking for the next installment. Sorry it took so long, guys. If you have questions about some of the subject matter herein, be sure to check out my resource links page on my web-site (http://www.geocities.com/kristeljohns) which has links to just about anything you could possibly need to know. This story is a continuation of my "Aphrodisia" series and really works better if you read the others first. You can find those at my web-site too. Feedback is welcomed at kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com On with the story... SPECIAL DISCLAIMER: This story contains graphic depiction of sexual activities between consenting adults, including BDSM-related activities. It is in no way, shape, or form intended for younger readers. If you are under the age of 17 or sensitive to this kind of material, do not proceed. Thank you. Disclaimer: Subtitle unabashedly borrowed from Foreigner. I don't own their song any more than I own The X-Files, Mulder, Scully, et al. Talk to da boys at 1013. APHRODISIA V - Head Games "Mulder?" I looked up from the file to meet his laughing eyes. "Yeah, Scully?" "You're nuts." "Thank you for that astute scientific analysis, Agent Scully. Now tell me something we don't already know." "No, I want to make sure we've got a firm grasp of the basics here, starting with your mental state. Mulder--the Milwaukee *bear-man*?" "The victim was seen being attacked by a large biped with shaggy fur." "According to the police report, the victim was a crack whore whose pimp happened to *really* like his long fur coat." "A pimp who has an alibi for the time of her disembowelment." "His alibi is his supplier, a man rumored to enjoy roughing up the girls on occasion just for kicks. He's just as likely a suspect as the pimp. Who says he didn't get a little over enthusiastic with the victim and then left her pimp to deal with the messy after-effects?" "You do, Scully, after you perform the autopsy." "Mulder--!" "What's the matter? You got something against Wisconsin?" "In the middle of winter? Yes, actually I do, especially when there's nothing about this case to indicate it might be an X-File." "Ah, but you're forgetting the anomalous bear-paw print found at the scene of the crime in the victim's blood." "I'm not forgetting the paw print, Mulder. Nor am I forgetting the fact that the gentleman who identified the print is a sheriff's deputy who last saw a bear paw print in the Cub scouts thirty years ago. Not exactly what I would call a highly qualified zoologist." "Scully--can I ask you a question?" "Sure. What?" "We're thirty-five thousand feet in the air on our way to Milwaukee. Why are you arguing this with me now?" "Because I spent the take-off hoping it was a joke. Besides, I didn't have a chance to talk to you until I met you at the boarding gate. But the fact remains that chasing after the Minnesota bear-man is a stretch even for you, Mulder. Your eyewitness is a wino who staggered out of his cardboard box at the wrong moment, your main suspect--*human* suspect, that is--has a bucketful of reasons or non-reasons for killing the girl, and the person providing his alibi has every reason to want to keep him out of jail. Now, unless you tell me we're on this case for another helping of some really to-die-for barbeque, I may have to hurt you." "Scully?" "Yeah?" "Wanna join the Mile-High club?" And there it was. After seven years, Mulder finally had me speechless. * * * * * It wasn't killer barbeque that brought Mulder and me to Wisconsin. It wasn't a bear-man, either. It wasn't even to fuck me in a broom-closet-sized toilet at thirty-five thousand feet, an offer I regretfully declined. No, Mulder's express purpose for rousting me out of bed at an ungodly hour and telling me we needed to get to Milwaukee ASAP was much more nefarious. Mulder was trying to drive me right out of my fucking mind. It had started Sunday morning. After showering and dressing, Mulder found me in the living room, staring once more at the whips and crops on his coffee table. It took all my resolve not to apologize for, or somehow excuse the fact that the night I hadn't made my decision and asked for my punishment. Quite frankly, there hadn't been an opportunity. That meant that we would have to wait until the following Saturday to do it. All right, that was fine- -except that Mulder wouldn't let me *forget*, even for the shortest while, what was waiting for me. The whips never left the coffee table. They sat there, 24 hours a day, waiting. If Mulder had a case file to go over, he laid it out on the table on top of them. If we sat down to watch television, our drinks sat on the coffee table next to them. They were the last thing I saw at night when I stayed at his apartment, and the first thing that greeted me in the morning. I proposed staying at my place a couple times, but Mulder always had a reason to stay at his place, so I stayed with him because I flat-out didn't like sleeping alone anymore. And now this trip to Wisconsin. On a Thursday. If things with this case didn't go smoothly, it was quite conceivable that we would be here over the weekend, which meant that there would be no Saturday play-time to bring a reprieve to my anxiety over the whole issue. I would have to wait another week before we could resolve it. Mulder knew this, but he had chosen to pursue the case anyway. Of course, I was being unreasonable. Admittedly, the case was weak, but we'd chased weaker cases in the past. That was just what Mulder and I did. Except I still couldn't help feeling put out by it, or that he was taunting me somehow. Okay, I had to admit, the paw-print *was* ursine. I even emailed a picture of it to a zoologist to confirm the fact. How it had ended up in a dead woman's blood, I hadn't a clue. And the four parallel gouges down the woman's torso- -which I determined to be the cause of death upon performing the autopsy--looked remarkably like claw-marks. But that still didn't alter the reality of the situation: there could be no bear-man. Mulder knew this, knew what I'd think of the case, and brought me along anyway. Not that he'd had much of a choice, of course; I would have torn him limb from limb if he'd left me behind. I was still grousing Friday afternoon, right up until the moment I was compelled to put four bullets into a 350-lb pimp in a floor-length fur coat who attacked me in the autopsy bay. His motives might have been related to the stash of crack the girl had taken from his supplier and secreted inside her person. In my autopsy report on the pimp, I took special care to note the man's excessively hairy body, thick, gnarled claw-like fingers, the anomalous bone-structure in his feet, and his extended canines. As Mulder read the report on the flight back to D.C., he looked up at me with a gleam in his eye. "Extended canines?" "So help me, Mulder, if you say 'were-bear' I may have to hurt you." "Weird shit happens, Scully." "Can we take a moment to apply a scientific analysis to the concept of 'weird shit?'" "Scully?" "Yeah?" "Wanna join the Mile-High Club?" I met his naughty smile with one of my own. "Yeah." * * * * * We landed in DC late Friday night. Working our way through baggage claim and driving home seemed to take forever. We finally crawled, exhausted, into bed. Oddly, considering we'd spent all week at his apartment at Mulder's insistence, we ended up at my place, and I had been too tired to pay any attention to the Mulder-logic behind that maneuver. When I awoke Saturday morning, it was to the sound of my alarm going off. My first thought upon seeing daylight outside my bedroom window, was that I was desperately late for work. My second thought, which came an instant later, was that I didn't normally set my alarm on Saturday, much less for nine o'clock in the morning. My third thought was that I was quite alone in the bed. At first, I didn't think much of Mulder's absence. It wasn't unusual for him to go fetch breakfast or at the very least coffee, if he awakened before I did. Which was when, in my circular, morning-befuddled logic, I came back to the realization that it was Saturday. Any cognitive difficulties I'd been experiencing upon awakening instantly fled. It was Saturday. Our play-day. And Mulder wasn't here. Where was he? What did this mean? When would he be back? The phone by my bedside rang and I practically pounced on it. "Hello?" the greeting came out more like a demand. "Kat." It wasn't a question, but a statement. I felt my body respond, conditioned now to the arousal I experienced when I was transformed from Scully to Kat, and Mulder to Master. There was a mental response as well, where cognitive thought took a back seat to instinct and emotion. I responded the only way I possibly could. "Yes, Master?" "I left a note on the kitchen counter next to an overnight bag I packed for you this morning. There's an address in the note, which is where I expect you to be in one hour. I'll be arriving shortly after you, so don't be alarmed if I'm not there. Please be ready for me when I arrive. The key is in the outside pocket of the overnight bag. We'll be staying there tonight." He sounded so serious and formal. I'd noticed this about him during our D/s play; every interaction takes on a sort of ritual significance. His idea of how I should behave as a submissive tends to hearken back to old ideas of chivalry and gallantry. When I am Kat, he opens my doors for me, orders for both of us when we go out to eat, and in general behaves like a perfectly groomed gentleman. This includes, unless he is intentionally taunting me to provoke a reaction, speaking to me with a sort of courtly politeness that would sound ridiculous if we weren't both so intent on realizing this control he wields over me. In a way, I take comfort in that sort of interaction. If he had addressed me casually, I would have feared he didn't take the D/s play seriously. If he had been patronizing or condescending, I would have feared that my role as submissive had somehow lessened his respect for me. As it is, I am absolutely confident that he respects me, both in and out of my role as submissive. That is perhaps the biggest mystery of all to me; even when exercising total control over me, when he possesses the ability to command anything of me, no matter how undignified or embarrassing, he is always conscientious about conveying an attitude of respect and admiration. "Yes, Master," I finally answered, finding my voice. "Good. I'll see you in an hour," he replied and disconnected before I could say anything else. As I crawled out of bed and made my way to the shower, I felt myself sinking into the soft, peaceful submissive state known as headspace. My frantic thoughts stopped racing and were instead replaced with acceptance. Nothing mattered now except that the time had finally come when I could let go of all the cares and concerns that weighed me down during the week. They didn't matter today--all that mattered was him. I had only to please him, or allow him to please himself with me. In return, I was pampered, cherished, and given a brand of ecstasy I'd never dreamed existed. The contentment wasn't to last, however. To be precise, it endured until the moment when, naked under my long-sleeved button-down dress and trench coat, I went to retrieve the overnight bag off the kitchen counter and found the note he had promised me. It did contain the address at which I was to arrive, but it was the post-script that caught my attention. "P.S. -- I expect you to make your decision by the time you arrive. Master." My decision? Oh--*that* decision. Damn. Grimly, I picked up the overnight bag and discovered it to be very light, as though practically empty. What exactly would he need me to bring to one of our play sessions, anyway? Clothes were prohibited, so surely I didn't require anything to wear. What could he possibly need from my apartment that he couldn't get from his? Suspicious, I opened the bag and closed my eyes as my worst fears were realized. He'd packed the back with the paddle and crops that had decorated his coffee table all week long. Shit. How had they gotten over here? Had he gone to his place just to retrieve them and bring them here? Why, when he could easily have taken them to this--wherever it was-- himself? Just to play with my head? Or had they already been here? How, when they had been on his coffee table until Wednesday night, and on Thursday we had gone to Milwaukee? Unless-- Oh, God, he hadn't brought them to Wisconsin, had he? Had he thought we might get stuck there over the weekend and decided to bring our play-day with us? Surely it wouldn't be the first time we'd found ourselves stuck somewhere over the weekend and left to our own devices where entertainment was concerned, but still... I had a decision to make, and I had to make it within the next twenty minutes. What would happen when I got to the address he had given me? Would he strip me down and do it then and there? We always started our Saturday play-days with him making love to me--I quailed at the thought that I could walk into a cold, unfamiliar place and find a vengeful master there waiting to exact the toll for my foolish rebellion the week before. Mulder wouldn't do that to me, I knew that. But it wasn't Mulder I would be meeting there. Would my Master do that? If so, how could I stand it? The anticipation and even, of all the absurd things, curiosity regarding the process left me feeling tingly and short of breath. I didn't know how I could get through this--if nothing else, the wait was sure to drive me mad. Gnawing nervously on my lip, I zipped up the bag and carried it and the note to my car. * * * * * The address revealed a small, brick, ranch-style house in an older suburban development. The yard was neatly kept if not artfully landscaped, which was an accomplishment considering the surrounding properties. The neighborhood was one that had just reached the point where it could fall into neglect. It wasn't old enough to be retro-trendy, nor new enough to be desirable by the yuppie crowd. Some of the surrounding houses showed peeling paint and unkempt landscaping. The development had cropped up before land- use laws went into heavy effect, and the houses were spaced comfortably apart on acre-sized yards, not cheek-and-jowl close like so many newer housing developments. Nothing was remarkable about the neighborhood, or even the house to which I'd been directed. As instructed, I retrieved the key from the overnight bag and let myself in. The inside was neat and tidy but obviously uninhabited. The heat had been turned on to a comfortable room temperature, and without specific instructions, I shed my clothes and put them away. He had told me to be ready for him. When my Master arrived, he would find me naked as suited his preferences. Slipping off my shoes, I padded barefoot over the taupe carpet, so new it hadn't yet lost the smell of the textile mill. The walls were a very dark cream, bordering on brown, and at the top they arched into a white plaster ceiling, a curved molding saving the room from being too angular. A large brick fireplace dominated one wall, but other than a single chair, the living area contained no furniture. The kitchen was empty, with only a few dishes and no food in the pantry. Some take-out deli sandwiches lurked in the refrigerator, which was my largest clue to date that Mulder had been in this house. Silently, I made my way down the hall to the bedrooms. The first two doors I opened led to small, empty rooms, and the third to a family-sized bathroom complete with dual sinks and a mirror that covered most of the wall. With the exception of a stack of towels on the counter top and a package of toilet paper under the sink, it, too, was empty. I opened the door to the final room and paused, taking in the setup before me. It was completely white. The carpet was covered in white sheets, and more of the same were draped down the walls in loose folds. Large, bright lamps lit the room with a painful, glaring light. A futon on a natural oak frame lay opened against one wall, and it, too, was covered in white draperies. On a table beside the futon, all of our toys--the dildos and plugs, gloves, condoms, lube, vibrators--were neatly arranged. The room looked like-- --A photographer's studio. Dumbly, I turned to look at the opposite end of the room, and sure enough, a high-end video camera I recognized as belonging to the Lone Gunmen sat on a tripod. A large, older Nikon camera sat on a table nearby. My heart skipped a beat and then began to race. I glanced around the room again in a panic, looking for any sign that surely he didn't intend what all this appeared to indicate. My mouth went dry with trepidation even as the flesh between my legs grew wet and swollen with arousal. I heard a sound behind me and spun around to find him standing there, his dark eyes intent upon me. A second wave of arousal rippled through my gut--dear Jesus, how could the mere sight of the man do that to me? His expression was approving as he took in my nudity and he gave me a smile I'd have gladly walked over hot coals for. As he approached me, he held out his hands and within them was the collar I took such pride in wearing. Out of a habit that had evolved into ritual, I knelt before him and bowed my head so that he could fasten the leather and steel around my neck. Another rush of arousal, a spasm of adoration filled my chest, and my ears rang with his calmly murmured words as he asked, as always, my verbal confirmation of my submissive state. Ceremony performed, he removed his jacket and tossed it carelessly into a corner behind the cameras. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and his cock bulged behind his fly. I watched him expectantly, wondering what was next, when he unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans and underwear down his hips and nodded at me. He held my head as I took his warm, throbbing cock in my hands and stroked it. It felt alive in my hands, filled with blood and energy. "Use your mouth, Kat," he commanded, placing his hands alongside my face. I leaned forward and ran my closed lips over the surface of the shaft, up one side and down the other, and I was rewarded by my Master's swift inhalation as I blew my breath across the tip. I opened my lips and let his cock slide between, caressing, taking my time. Our Saturday mornings tended to be leisurely affairs and I could afford to dawdle. I made love to his cock with my mouth, worshipping it with my tongue and lips. I brought him to the brink and then backed off. I took him deep into my throat, then pulled back to suck on the glans, and repeated the process until his head was thrown back, his hips thrusting ever so slightly as an indication of his momentary loss of control. Right now, he was mine. It was a very long time before he gently pushed me away. Wordlessly, he stripped off the rest of his clothes and guided me to the futon. He positioned me on my hands and knees and plunged into my waiting body with little delay, causing me to moan softly into the white sheets. Originally I hadn't cared for this position much--while rumored to hit the G-spot better, it actually accomplished the opposite for me unless the position was just exactly right. Unfortunately, that correct position was with my knees wide-spread and my chest practically pressed into the mattress, a pose which wreaked no little hell with my back, knees, and hips. But in my submissive mindset, it was one of my favorite positions. The idea of him taking me in a way that held little of the trappings of love and was rather totally about the sex, and even more, about his pleasure, was one that excited me tremendously. It put a distance between us--I couldn't just look up and see the face of my lover, the man who adored me more than life. When he was behind me, fucking me with a firm grip on my hips, he was a stranger to me, as foreign and exotic as Mulder himself was familiar and comforting. I buried my face in the sheets and gave vent to the animalistic growls and moans that welled up within me as he slammed into me--deep, God, so deep and hard. I felt his chest press against my back as he bent over to caress my clitoris. He wasn't gentle, and the feeling was so intense it bordered on painful. He brought me off quickly, with a rough grinding of his fingertips against my swollen, throbbing bundle of nerves, and I howled when I came. I was still shuddering with aftershocks when I realized he had gone very still, laying on my back with his hips against my ass. For a moment, I thought he might have come and I had missed it, but the hard mass of his cock within my body belied that theory. His arm was outstretched as he fumbled at the bedside table, and then he was lifting his weight off me again and thrusting softly. His hands had left my hips, however, and he wasn't touching me in any way but where he was joined to me by his penis. It wasn't until I felt his fingers, slick with lubricant, in the cleft between my buttocks that I realized what he was doing and sighed in contented acceptance. Lying snuggled against him in bed Tuesday night, we'd discussed the events of the previous Saturday, particularly our first experience with anal sex. With explicit words and praise, I told him how wondrous I'd found the encounter. I came close to asking that we do it again that night but I hadn't, because that night our lovemaking had been less about sex than being close to each other. Or maybe that was an excuse. The truth was that I still couldn't bring myself to ask for the more exotic acts outside the scene. Kat could be uninhibited; she had permission from her Master to do so. Scully couldn't. Not yet, anyway--but I was learning. Instead, I had raised myself up and leaned over him, making love to him slowly and gently as I spoke. With my hands and mouth and breasts, I'd caressed his entire body from head to toe. As time passed, I became more comfortable in the aggressive role and he was content to lie back and let me convey my affection. I had to admit I tended to be a bit passive sexually--it wasn't something I was particularly proud of, but it was what I'd been conditioned to. I was certainly influenced by years of Catholic school in which the underlying message was always that no good girl would partake in unmarried sex, much less enjoy it, much less initiate it. Perhaps it was a lifetime of habituation to letting others take the lead. In previous relationships, my lovers were much older and more experienced. They were particular about how they wanted their sex--and it was *their* sex. It was best that I didn't presume to interfere or disrupt their pattern. Perhaps I'd never cared to do more than laying back and letting them do what they would. If I was lucky, they were conscientious enough to care about my pleasure. I'd become very proficient at quietly bringing myself to climax after my lover had rolled over and fallen asleep. But Mulder deserved better than that, deserved everything I had to give him, for the time and affection and pleasure he devoted solely to me. On Tuesday, I'd brought him to his peak with my hands, murmuring to him how beautiful and wonderful I found him. It had taken a concerted effort to speak--so often, Mulder and I have trouble with words, me much more than him. In sex, it's easy to let one's actions substitute for words that still need to be spoken regardless of the acts that accompany them. Mulder deserved it all, and I didn't want there to be any doubt of how I felt. Still, I hadn't been able to get the thought of the overwhelming sensations of that encounter on Saturday out of my mind all week, and now, as his finger slipped inside my rear, he echoed the sentiment. "I've been imagining this since last Saturday," he growled. Then more softly, "This feel okay?" With a whimpered affirmation, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feelings as he took his time preparing me, and then he pulled out of my vagina and slid with exquisite care into the other passage. It was tighter than it had been the week before, my position on my knees creating a tension in my thighs and buttocks that hadn't been there last time. An instant of discomfort accompanied his initial penetration until the head of his cock was inside, at which time the sensation segued into nothing but devastating pleasure. Afterward, I lay shaken and quivering with pleasure while my Master retrieved a cloth and cleaned me up. It wasn't until I opened my eyes and looked over at the video equipment on the other side of the room that I noticed a green light shining on the side of the camera. Had that light been on the entire time? I didn't recall seeing it when I had first noticed the machinery upon entering the room, but that didn't mean it hadn't been there. Had our entire interlude just been videotaped? Had that camera witnessed my going down on him? Had it seen me take his cock in my mouth and relish the scent and flavor and feel of him? Was my calling him Master and begging him to fuck me harder immortalized on magnetic tape now? Dear God, was there now a video of him fucking me in the ass and my loving every minute of it? The worst of my suspicions appeared to be confirmed when my Master grabbed a remote control off the bedside table. Upon pressing a button, the light blinked out of existence. I wasn't sure if I was more horrified or turned on by the possibility that it was all true. What would he do with these tapes? Why was he making them? Would I see them someday? What would it be like to see myself like that-- would I be mortified or aroused? In the height of my passion, did I look erotic or asinine? I sat in the middle of the futon, slowly inching my knees closer to my chest as I curled into a self-conscious ball. "It will never be seen by anyone but me--and maybe you, if you're good," my Master assured me, answering my unspoken thoughts. I tried to venture a smile of acknowledgment, but I couldn't quite pull it off. I couldn't think beyond the idea that someday, by whatever accident, someone else might see--someone else might *know*... "Come on," he said, pulling on my hand. "We need to wash up, and then we'll have lunch before we continue." * * * * * The riding gear was spread out on the breakfast bar when I made my way to the kitchen. Another knot of fear took up residence in my gut. He must have taken them out of my overnight bag and put them out on display again. Damn it. Why didn't he just use the damned things and get it over with? Because I hadn't asked him to. He might keep the implements out as a constant reminder, might refuse to let me forget or ignore what must be done, but he wouldn't actually do it until I requested it. Oh, God. He was going to do it; he was honestly going to force me to ask him to hit me, to hurt me. I don't know if it was fear of the actual physical pain that was holding me back, or the rebellion of my pride against *asking* to be punished. It was so ignoble to request one's own chastisement. To do so would be to swallow every last ounce of dignity I possessed. How could I possibly do it? I had to force myself not to laugh aloud as I realized the irony of the situation. I would submit to any number of indignities as long as there was pleasure to be had at the end of it, but take the earth-shattering orgasms out of the equation, and I wasn't nearly as ideal a submissive, was I? It was easy to yield myself to his will when it brought all sorts of pleasure, when everything that happened was something I enjoyed, even if I was embarrassed about enjoying it. But it wasn't nearly so easy when there was almost certainly no pleasure to be had in the experience. I had no pride when it came to pursuing sexual pleasure, but I was full of it (in more ways than one) when the time came to fulfill the letter of my commitment as a submissive. My Master was already at the breakfast bar eating one of the sandwiches I'd found in the refrigerator, and the other sandwich sat on the counter beside the whips waiting for me. I picked it up and took a bite, but it was dry and tasteless in my mouth. I swallowed with difficulty and finally spoke. "I'd--um, I'd like to get the punishment over with after lunch, if that's okay," I said at last, practically choking on the words. I found myself blushing, ashamed to discover I was becoming aroused again. Dear God, why? It was ridiculous, unthinkable even, to get excited at the idea of being punished. That thought was just too much--I couldn't process it right now. He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes cutting through me with the intensity of his scrutiny, until finally he shook his head. "No, that's not okay." I stared at him, stunned. "You don't plan on punishing me for last week?" "I most certainly plan on punishing you, but I told you very clearly at the time that you had to ask me for it. You need to decide when and how, and then you need to ask. So far, I can't see that you've done any of the above." Hadn't I just--? I closed my eyes with frustration and bewilderment. What did he want from me? I was starting to get pissed off when I saw the pained expression on his face. Damn it. It was hard to remember sometimes that this was something he wanted to do perhaps less than I wanted him to do it. I got so absorbed in what I was feeling that I occasionally overlooked what was going on with him. He had told me that from the very beginning, but I was consistently neglecting that fact as I got caught up in what was happening with me. He would punish me because it was required of him as my Master, but he wouldn't--and probably couldn't--take pleasure in it, and he wouldn't do it until I was sure I was ready for it. I had to ask him to reassure him it was all right. I fell silent, staring hard at the items on the countertop. How could I possibly choose? I was dealing with a complete unknown. When my Master had first showed the tack to me, he'd explained some of the differences between them. From his description, there was one he considered to be far worse than the others, so much so that he had even said he didn't plan on using it except for the most severe offenses. I had shrugged it off at the time--it had never entered my mind that I would ever do something requiring it. It figured the first time I truly screwed up in my submissive role, I did it in the worst way I could imagine. What would it feel like, that single braided cord? Surely it must sting something awful--could I possibly endure it? I had to, one way or the other. I'd committed the offense; I must accept the consequences. He would never do anything to me that I couldn't endure, or that would injure me, and even if he got close, I had my safe-word. If I was going to do this, I had to commit to it completely, not just when it felt good. I also had to choose the number of strokes. Ten was the first round number that came to mind, but it sounded insultingly low, too light for what I'd done. Twenty was the number of minutes he'd put the nipple clamps on me the previous weekend--a test I had failed. Perhaps I could rectify that as well... "This one," I sighed finally, picking up the wicked- looking, single-tailed signal whip. With the whip clutched in my hands, I knelt before him, my lunch forgotten. I drew a deep breath and swallowed my screaming pride with a loud gulp. "Please, Master. Please punish me with this whip, twenty strokes, for my disobedience last weekend." When I finally dared to look up at his face, his expression was tense and his eyes troubled. "No," he said again. "I won't use that one on you--you don't know what kind of damage it can do. I'll use the crop," he indicated the tool with the flat fold of leather at the end, "but to compensate, I'll start with ten swats with the paddle." Bewildered, I stammered, "I just--I can't imagine doing anything worse than what I did last week. I thought that it deserved the harshest punishment you could give me..." "You're right. You were horribly behaved," he chastised, and I hung my head in shame. It was the first time he'd ever actually criticized my behavior as his submissive, and despite my trepidation, I would rather take a hundred lashes than face the shame I felt in that instant. I was a person who had always taken pride in excelling, no matter what it was I had undertaken to do. But in this, I had messed up and I hated that fact. "But it was also your first offense. However, I will give you *two* strokes with the signal whip, when we're finished, so you can know what it feels like, and what will be waiting for you if you ever behave that way again." I nodded slowly, nervousness twisting my gut in tight, nauseating knots. Two strokes. That was a vast difference from the twenty I had chosen--was it really that bad? If it was, what would have happened if he hadn't gainsaid me on the issue? How could I possibly have borne it? The nervous rushing of my pulse increased as my fear--as well as, I was ashamed to admit, my arousal--mounted. "Will you--" I paused and cleared my throat as my voice threatened to crack. "Will you please do it now? I don't think I'll be able to eat until it's over with." "Yes, I will. Go back to the bedroom and get on your hands and knees on the bed. I'll be right there." He handed me the riding crop and wooden paddle with the leather on one surface and fur on the other, and I rose to my feet and made my way back to the room with the camera and futon. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked back at him over my shoulder for a second, and then turned away. My last glimpse of my master was of him very carefully fingering the signal whip. * * * * * I should have known. Did I think I'd cornered the market on overly harsh self-judgement? Why had I even thought to buy that signal whip? I'd thought I'd use it just for scare-effect. I certainly never imagined that she'd seriously consider having it used on her. She didn't know. She didn't know how a hard strike of that wicked little cord could burn like a living flame on your skin, lingering as though a stripe of molten lava had landed on the flesh. I'd never used one, but I'd felt it. I'd felt that streak of liquid fire on my back and ass. I'd borne the welts from a single-tail whip--how could I possibly consider seeing them mar her lovely flesh? I could have used it, sure, but the fact was, I didn't trust myself to wield it without injuring her. Maybe if I had more practice...But then, how could I possibly practice when I had no intention of doing this on a regular basis? At least with only two strokes, I stood better odds of not doing any damage. But whether or not I wanted to do it, I was going to have to give her a taste, just so she'd know why she couldn't ask that of me. I had chosen two because one is too easily forgotten, or dismissed as a fluke. With a single stroke, it would be too easy to think that it couldn't feel that way *every* time. I thought I was being so clever the previous weekend, making her anticipate the punishment all week before it happened. I'd even rubbed it in throughout the week, prodding her by keeping the instruments constantly on display. I even went so far as to hide them in the trunk of the car before we left for the airport on Thursday, to have them ready if we got back from Milwaukee in time for the weekend. But in doing all of this, I had also tormented myself. I think perhaps it was my way of hardening myself against what I had to do. Every time I looked at them, I could get a little closer to accepting the inevitability of what must happen if I was going to play this role for Scully. But now that the moment was finally upon us, I was once again reluctant. God, I was afraid--I didn't want to hurt her, and I especially didn't want to *like* hurting her. But the sight of her kneeling down to request her punishment had affected me deeply--her eyes wide and sincere, slightly afraid, her face on level with my groin...Her posture and comportment had been so beautifully submissive, I'd felt a rush of excitement. I had absolute ownership of her at that moment and I couldn't deny I was aroused by that. But I didn't know if I could handle it if I got turned on while punishing her. *...Now you must relish my tears...* The passage came back to haunt me again. In an odd way, Scully's tears were more intimate than making love with her. When she cried in front of me, on those rare and precious occasions, it was because the last barrier had been shattered. It was a moment when her pain overwhelmed her tremendous pride, and it was humbling that she would let me be witness to it. But while it was an honor for me to be present when it finally happened, that she trusted me enough to be so vulnerable before me, it also meant that something had hurt her deeply. If something hurt badly enough to get past those barriers, it was more pain than I ever wanted to see her in. How could I relish her tears when all I could do was ache for her pain? She was sitting on the edge of bed looking anxious. When I entered the room, she rose and crawled onto the bed on her hands and knees, her backside facing me. I allowed myself a second to be awed by the instant trust that allowed her to do that, to immediately and easily render herself vulnerable to me. Her head was turned to the side and she watched me approach warily. I picked up the paddle and weighed it in my hand. The leather-covered surface would carry a wicked sting--if we were just doing this for the fun of it, I might have started with the fur-covered side. I would have made this something pleasant--and I defy anyone, no matter what their inclination, not to enjoy a well-delivered erotic spanking. But this was supposed to be punishment, and so it wasn't meant to be pleasant. Nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to be cruel enough to start in full strength when she was neither warmed up nor used to such treatment. "Ten strokes with the paddle," I reminded her. I took a long moment to caress her backside and learn the layout of her flesh. Where the muscle was stretched tauter, it would be more painful than where there was more padding. Where bones were closer to the skin, there was more risk of bruising and tissue damage. From reading up on how to conduct a punishment scene during the week, the most meaningful lesson I came away with was to always learn the topography of your submissive. I struck her with the leather-covered side of the paddle before I had a chance to psyche myself out of my resolve. We'd agreed that this was the way it was going to be and I'd made a commitment--there was no going back. Her startled yelp was more of surprise than pain, for I hadn't struck very hard. Still, the skin of her bottom developed a pink patch as blood rushed to the surface. My next blow fell on the other side of her ass and left an identical pink mark covering half her buttock. The third was a little lower than the first, and a little harder, and so forth. When I struck the sensitive spot where her thighs curved into her ass, she moaned loudly in her throat and I clenched my jaw to keep from responding by calling the whole fucking thing off, or for apologizing to her. I remembered in "Story of O" how O's tormenters had bragged that they judged their handiwork with the whip not by her cries, but by the quality of welts they raised, thus eliminating the possibility that pity might render them less harsh in meting out the blows. I didn't want that kind of detachment, needed to be aware of what was going on with her. I could no doubt separate myself--I'd faced just about every sort of brutality human beings could manage in one form or another, as an investigator and profiler. But that wasn't an option here--I had to be aware of what she was experiencing, had to know if I was going too far, regardless of how willing she might be to be taken there. I had to know if I was inflicting any sort of damage, yet, I also needed to be able to separate myself from my sympathy for her, at least enough to get the job done. This is Kat, I told myself firmly. It's not Scully. I'm not hurting Scully. But still, I couldn't quite make myself think of her as Kat. Except for that first exclamation, she seemed to struggle not to yell. It might have been that she wasn't in all that much pain, for though my blows were getting progressively harder, preparing her for the riding crop that would come next, they really weren't all that hard. Of course, I wasn't on the receiving end, which might color my perception a little. Her body quivered with tension, and at the seventh stroke, she began moving to try to escape the blows. My eighth swing grazed her hip because of her wriggling. I stopped and set the paddle aside. I grabbed her hips, finding her flesh hot to the touch beneath my hands. "I'm going to have to repeat that stroke," I told her firmly. "And I'll repeat every stroke that misses because you're moving. I'll tie you down if you think you can't keep still." She turned her face toward me and met my eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes bright. Shit. This internal vacillation I was going through was ridiculous. I'd been on the receiving end of a paddling--I knew, though it hurt desperately at the moment, it was nothing that would last beyond the moment the flesh cooled down again. Why was I struggling with this so much? "I--Yes, please, I think that would be better." "Okay. On your stomach, arms and legs spread," I commanded. She obeyed, assuming the position I had indicated. I had already affixed chains to the corners of the futon frame, screwing eyebolts into the wood and using steel clips to attach the chains. Briskly, I buckled the suspension cuffs I had purchased around her wrists to give her something to clench her fists around. She might end up struggling and I wanted the protection for her wrists the cuffs provided. I repeated the process with her ankles, then slid two pillows under her hips to keep them elevated. She would still be able to rock somewhat, but not with nearly the range of motion she'd have had in the previous position. The height of the futon meant I would either have to sit or bend far over to strike her with the paddle, but that problem would be solved when I moved on to the crop with its longer handle. In the meantime, I had three more strokes with the paddle, and I would need to make these hard, now that she was a little more prepared. Scully was intelligent enough to know if I was holding back, and she wouldn't thank me for stinting. I was afraid that if I had to keep my balance while bending over and paddling her, my accuracy and the force of the blows would be affected, causing me to hit her too hard, so I chose to sit. "Three more with the paddle," I reminded her, running my hands over her again to get to know the new layout of her tissue. Actually, I realized with her muscles a little looser in this position, the pain might be a little less severe. It would sting more on the surface of the skin, but the blow wouldn't penetrate into the flesh as it would have in the other position. Though she jerked each time a new blow fell, the only sounds she made through the final strokes with the paddle were loud grunts too soft to be classified as cries. She did try to move again, but a couple of times her movements would bring her closer to the paddle rather than further away from it. I'd thought I'd set a fairly predictable rhythm to my strokes, but perhaps she hadn't caught onto that enough to predict where the next one would land. On the tenth stroke, she wailed softly and buried her face against her upper arm. I lay down beside her, caressing her soft, cool back and burning ass, murmuring words of comfort and love and reassurance. She was trembling and breathing hard. This, I realized, felt good. I hadn't felt any pleasure while using the paddle, not the first hint of arousal, but to feel her in my arms, shaking and unsteady, brought out something fierce and protective within me. I enjoyed holding and comforting her. I enjoyed her body quivering next to mine, and God help me, even the warmth of her ass as I stroked it. So where exactly did that with regards to my reluctance to punish her? "Jesus, that hurt," she finally whispered, raising her bright pink face at last. Then she gave a self-effacing grimace. "I guess that's sort of the point, isn't it?" I couldn't help but notice the past tense on the word "hurt." Right about now, the pain should be abating, leaving in its stead a pleasant, tingling warmth. I ran my fingertips softly over her buttock and saw her shiver. Her nerve endings would be hypersensitive now, so that even the lightest touch would have a profound effect. I laughed a little at the ironic glance that accompanied her remark. "I suppose so. Are you ready to go on?" I asked, kissing her softly on the nose. She hesitated, then nodded solemnly. For a moment I thought I saw a flicker of something I recognized in her eyes. I wasn't sure if it was fear or arousal, but I couldn't bring myself to analyze either possibility too closely. Drawing a deep breath, I rose from the futon and picked up the long-stemmed riding crop. I caressed her bright, warm ass for a moment, then swung the crop, again starting fairly lightly to allow her to become used to the sensation. It cracked against her flesh and she made a small squealing sound. In the middle of the pink flesh of her buttocks, a small white patch appeared and quickly darkened. I didn't pause, but landed several more strokes in rapid succession, covering the whole surface of her ass. She hid her face, but the tension in her shoulders, the clenched fists above the cuffs, the way her toes curled all belied her struggle to remain silent. I wondered if it would help to tell her she could cry out, or if that would only shame her and make her dilemma more difficult. Scully was a proud woman who took great pains to demonstrate her strength. If she needed to remain silent to prove her own endurance, I wasn't going to disrupt that--whatever made it easier for her to get through this. On the seventh strike of the crop, she gasped loudly, sucking in a deep sobbing breath. She panted with a quiet, hiccoughing sound through the next two blows, and on the tenth, moaned deep in her throat. Whether I wanted it or not, my body reacted to that moan--just the tiniest twinge in my gut. I'd heard an identical moan a hundred times when we were making love. Even though my brain knew that this time, it was not a moan of pleasure or passion. Her ass and upper thighs were mottled with raised pink welts by that point, her flesh quivering with her tension. The eleventh blow caused her to cry out, and each subsequent stroke brought a longer and louder sound until she wailed with each blow. By the time I landed the final strike, I was sweating and trembling and tossed the crop aside with relief. Under the right circumstances, the burn of the crop on properly warmed flesh can be a pleasant thing, but these weren't those circumstances. The goal had been to inflict pain for the purpose of deterring her from other offenses and God help me, I had succeeded. She whimpered softly when I lightly ran my hands over her ass. I could feel the softly raised welts the blows had left behind and the heat of the blood that had been brought to the surface of the skin. When she turned her head to face me, her cheek pressed against the futon, a few shiny tear-tracks streaked her face. I sat beside her on the bed and leaned over, pressing my face against her heated buttock. "Two more," I heard her mutter shakily, and I nodded, pressing a kiss to her red rump. I stood once more and took up the signal whip. I stared for a long moment at the knotted cord attached to the handle, my jaw clenched tightly. She needed to know what it felt like, needed to know why I didn't want to use it on her, but I didn't have to like doing it. I swept the whip lightly across her buttocks for a moment, making sure I had my aim right, and then I brought it down in a swift, slashing gesture. There was really no way to start out gently with this, or the point would be lost. The cord made a whistling sound as it sliced through the air. There was silence for a second after it connected with her flesh, and then Scully reacted. The sound started low in her throat and escalated to a full-fledged wail as the burning began. I knew that burn, knew the slow agony that grew and grew without mercy. She writhed as though attempting to get away from the pain, and I knew that reaction, and the futility of it, too. I hadn't swung it nearly as hard as I could have--harder, and it could easily have broken the skin. As it was, an angry scarlet line marred her buttock. One more, just one more, I chanted in my mind. Biting my lip hard, I brought the crop down again on the other side. This time, her cry came close to being a shriek. Breathless and raw coming from between her clenched teeth, the sound finally eased and she slumped weakly onto the bed. "That's it, it's done," I murmured in relief, sitting once more. I wiped a trembling hand over my upper lip as I slumped beside her. I tried to touch her, to soothe her flaming skin, but the effort drew a shudder and whimper from her. Instead, I released her wrists and ankles and drew her close, holding her tightly against my body. I wanted to apologize to her for her trial, but I couldn't without breaking out of my role as Dominant. The cold fact was, if I regarded her as Kat rather than Scully, she *had* disobeyed and I *did* have an obligation to punish her. My difficulty with accomplishing the task had everything to do with my inability to separate Kat from Scully completely. I was regretting hurting Scully, not punishing Kat. "Thank you, Master," she finally said, her voice quavering. "I'm sorry I disobeyed. I'm sorry I made you punish me." "It's over now," I said softly, lying next to her and rubbing her back. She tried to roll over and press her back against me in the classic spooning position, but the friction of my jeans against her abraded rear brought an abrupt end to that effort in the form of a loud whimper. Instead, she pushed away the pillows that had been under her hips and lay on her stomach close beside me. I continued to caress her and murmured how much I loved her, how brave and strong she was for enduring the punishment, how happy I was that she was mine. I got to tell her all the silly, cliched things that were normally too absurd to speak aloud, and I enjoyed it. For a very long time we lay there while I touched and soothed her. I thought perhaps she had fallen asleep, but when I leaned over to peer at her face, her eyes were open, if unfocused, staring at the far wall. Eventually she spoke, a soft whisper that barely broke the silence of the room. "You hated that, didn't you?" I didn't know how to respond. I didn't *hate* anything we did together, but it had certainly been difficult for me. I took a very long time choosing my words, trying to get my turbulent thoughts into order. The fact was, I suffered with her as I punished her, remembering blows that had befallen me years ago--the shame and humiliation which had accompanied them. But now, holding her, I felt peaceful, content. We'd both made it through the ordeal and we were both all right. I hadn't harmed her. "I told you from the start that I didn't know if I could bring myself to inflict pain on you, Scully," I sighed, laying my head on her back. I intentionally addressed her by her name, breaking from our roles. This wasn't a conversation we could have as Master and Kat. She had asked the question of me as Mulder, and I answered in the same manner. "I've seen you in pain too many times--it's not something I can accept or welcome as the natural course of things." "But you said it yourself; you're not you and I'm not me. I'd love to tell you I'll never disobey again, but I can't," she said slowly. "What I did last weekend, I did because I couldn't *not* do it. But how can you be my Master if you can't bring yourself to punish me when it happens?" "What are you saying, Scully? Are you saying this is something you enjoy--something you want more of?" There was a long, pregnant silence as she closed her eyes and pondered the question. Finally, with an effort, she shifted so that she lay facing me, meeting my eyes as I propped myself up on an elbow. "No?" her response seemed to be more a question than an answer in itself, as if she herself weren't certain of it. "No," she continued, a little more decisively. "What just happened--the pain, the punishment, wasn't something I enjoyed. It hurt and it was humiliating. I was ashamed to know that I had brought it on myself by being disobedient, and I think perhaps that hurt more than the actual blows. But what I'm feeling right now--the sense of safety and contentment and belonging--I didn't know it would be like this. I've never felt more completely *yours* than I do at this moment," she caressed my bare chest with her hand, slowly and lingeringly, and I could see in her face her arousal. "There's nothing you could demand of me that I wouldn't give right now, nothing I wouldn't happily do if you commanded it. I wanted you to possess me, and right now, you do. And I like it, Mulder. I like it a lot." I closed my eyes, overwhelmed for a moment. What she was describing was something I'd never known. Punishment, in my experience, had been nothing other than a means to suffering and humiliation--there had never been any contentment or sense of belonging. All I'd ever felt after Phoebe had whipped me had been her disdain. I felt belittled and degraded, and after the tears had abated and my skin had stopped burning, I'd sworn time and again that I would get out. Even as fucked up as I was, I knew not even I deserved to be treated that way. But then she would seduce me, fuck me until I was doing well to remember my own name, much less any resolve I had made. She'd tell me how sexy she found me when I yelled from the lash, and how no man had ever cared so much about her needs that they would suffer for her pleasure and what an extraordinary, wonderful, selfless person that made me. I didn't stay with her out of some skewed need for flagellation over the sins or perceived sins of my youth; I'd stayed because after the pain, she made me feel worthwhile. In short, she told me everything I needed to hear to convince myself I wasn't a complete waste of good breathing air and, at twenty-two years old, I thought the world revolved between her thighs. Until that moment, I never allowed myself to consider how she had afflicted my later interactions with women. Kristen Kilar was a prime example--she had been just like me. Abused and coerced in a relationship that did nothing but make her feel worthless. When I'd fucked her, I'd done so remembering that like Kristen's lover John, Phoebe also liked to draw blood--she'd just had a different MO. Thrusting into Kristen, I tried desperately to forget the empty hole in my soul that had once been filled by Scully. I remembered the night my back had been so thoroughly scoured that the carpet was a flaming source of agony beneath me as Phoebe rode me with abandon on the floor. I was in so much pain, I was surprised I could even keep it up. But as the pain grew, so did my rage and lust. Finally I took Phoebe by the shoulders, flipped her beneath me, and drove into her body brutally. The force of my thrusts as I fucked her was the force of my anger. If she had once said no or tried to stop me I would have been a rapist, because I wanted to humble her, take away the power she held over me. There was no way in hell I would stop until I had shot all my fury into her body with my semen. But she hadn't said no or fought me. Instead she had run her sharp nails over my welted back and opened the final thin layers of skin left over the welts. The hot, coppery smell of blood had filled the room and she smiled and climaxed harder than I'd ever seen her come. Afterwards, she told me what an amazing lover I was, but that taking the superior position in sex was against the rules and, so sorry, I needed to be punished again... Fuck. Shame filled me at the memory, not that it had happened, but that I had allowed it to continue so long, and that to this day I had a hard time knowing the difference between what was healthy and what wasn't. I closed my eyes against the prickling of tears and sighed loudly. What Scully wanted was so simple and pure, motivated by nothing but love and mutual pleasure. She wasn't asking for anything unreasonable, but God help me, I didn't want to ever look at myself in the mirror and see the man who had screwed Phoebe with such raw, brutal anger and enjoyed it. And worse, I didn't want to see a person who could drive another human being to that point of madness and desperation Phoebe brought me to. I wasn't afraid of hurting Scully--I was afraid of liking it. I was afraid of becoming Phoebe. But there was a difference, one I had a hard time reconciling--I loved Scully, plain and simple. I loved Scully, I loved Kat, I loved her beyond the possibility of any of the ugliness that had infected my relationship with Phoebe intruding on that love. I felt for Scully as my lover, and for Kat as my submissive, all the pure and wonderful things Phoebe had never felt for me. A dominant is as much a protector as a controller, and that was one thing Phoebe had never understood. If I punished Scully as Kat, it wasn't for the purpose of inflicting shame or even pain. It was a means of realizing the power she'd willingly turned over to me in a gesture of trust unlike anything I ever imagined. It was only ugly and shameful if I made it that way. "But, Mulder--" Concern filled Scully's voice as she continued and I felt her move, drawing nearer to me, the warmth of her flesh filling me. "There's one point you seem to be missing. This isn't just about me, and right now, we're talking about how you feel about this. You said it before--if it's not right for one of us, it's not right for either of us. If this isn't working for you, it's okay. We don't need to do it. And I'd rather stop things now than continue with something you don't feel right about. We can end this right now if that's what you need." End of Part 1 of 2 Aphrodisia V - Head Games (Part 2 of 2) Kristel S. Oxley-Johns kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com Aphrodisia V - Head Games "You said you felt you needed it," I countered automatically, not thinking about what I was saying. Putting it that way made it sound like I was only doing it for her--that wasn't true, was it? Because if it was, I needed to end this immediately, for both of us. "What I need, Mulder, is to be with you," Scully replied with honest simplicity. "Anything else is negotiable. So if you need to stop, say the word. It's okay." Was that what I needed? I tried to imagine never again knowing the sweetness of Kat during that vital moment of surrender, when the last of her hesitancy faded away and she became mine completely. I cherished those moments, relished the power and trust she invested in me. The connection we forged in these games was something that made the emotional bond we shared stronger. I now knew more about Scully than I ever had before. And Scully was happier, more confident, more at peace with herself and the world. The woman I knew who so often found herself conflicted and confused had changed. So had I, for that matter. Whereas once I'd been reckless and ill-at-ease with everything and everyone, now I was more confident, with a greater sense of personal responsibility. I couldn't believe that it was entirely coincidence that much of this had happened since we began exploring these different sides of ourselves. No, what I needed wasn't to end this very precious and powerful thing we had happening between us--what I needed was to move on and leave my emotional baggage behind. I needed to quit letting the past taint what I shared with Scully. I was doing a disservice to myself and Scully to compare our relationship, and me as the Dominant partner, to what I had experienced with Phoebe. "I don't want to stop," I said finally. "I think what we're doing here is important, and I value it. I love seeing you as Kat, Scully," my voice was a little raw as I made the admission. "So beautiful, so graceful and soft...so trusting. It's very special to me, and I want you to know that." "Then tell me what you're having trouble with." "Shame," I said at last. I didn't want to discuss Phoebe-- she wasn't worth the effort it took to explain what had happened between us. "I guess I've never been able to separate punishment from belittlement, and I don't want to do that to you. Part of what I love about seeing you as a submissive is how proud you are, even when you're submitting. I love the way you lift your head and preen when I put the collar on you, how pretty you look when you prance around naked--" I grinned as she blushed and gave an abashed smile. "I don't want this--relationship--to become a source of shame for you." I was surprised to see a small start of tears in her eyes, rapidly blinked away. "You could never belittle me, Mulder," she whispered. "I *know* how you feel about me, I know how you value me. *These*," she grabbed my hand and placed it on her buttock, where I could feel the impressions left by the crop and whip, "aren't a source of shame for me. They're--they're badges of honor. They mean I've completely surrendered to you as my Master. They mean I've shared something with you I would never in a million years trust anyone else with. I endured a trial for my Master, and I'm proud of it." I blew my breath out sharply, overwhelmed for a moment by the enormity of her admission. Just when I thought I knew every facet of her, she managed to stun me again. God, I worshipped her. "Then we'll continue, and I guess I'll just have to learn to adjust my thinking," I said at last with a tremulous sigh, reaching my decision without consciously realizing I had done so. "But I think I need to get to know your limits and pain threshold. We need to experiment with this some--I think my worst problem with punishing you just now is that I didn't know how the amount of force I was using was registering with you. I was afraid I was going to harm you. That's something I need to become familiar with if we're going to continue." The irony was not lost on me that this could be accomplished only by doing more pain-related activities, these without the excuse of punishment behind them. The sole purpose would be to inflict pain and see how she reacted. She appeared to consider it a moment, then sighed, closing her eyes and bowing her head. "We made a commitment--on Saturdays I belong to you. You have the right to do anything with me you want or need to do." I stared at her a moment. The expression on her face lingered somewhere between fear and bliss. It cemented in my mind something about which I had wondered in the past. Despite her claim when we were first negotiating that she wasn't a masochist, I'd seen evidence to the contrary. "Sadomasochism" sounds so hard-core and extreme, and has such negative connotations that people immediately shy from the word, so I wasn't sure how to ask Scully about it without scaring her. "I need to know, Scully...pain...is it something that works for you?" Her eyes opened slowly and she frowned slightly as she pondered the question. It was a very long time before she answered. "I don't know," she said, a hint of surprise in her voice. "I thought I knew--when we first started, I thought certainly I couldn't be someone who gets off on pain. But now... I mean--certain types of pain, usually sexually related, definitely cause a reaction, but I'm not sure that's more a situational effect than the result of the pain itself. For instance--when you use the nipple clamps on me, or pinch me with your fingers--it's *you* dealing with *my* breasts and hell yes, that's exciting." She gave me a wide, ironic grin before sobering. "But then, there was the time I got my tattoo. It hurt, but I was definitely aroused by it. But then, was it the pain that was arousing me, or was it the situation? I mean, I'd had a bit too much to drink that night. The situation was wild and dangerous and I was doing something reckless and illicit and rebellious. Any of those factors could have turned me on. And then there was just now when you punished me..." She paused, struggling for a moment with what she wanted to say. "I never felt so completely in your power before," she confessed. "Sometimes, when I call you Master, I'm pretending, playing a role, and I know it. I feel downright silly, sometimes. But when things become intense, when you challenge me and make it harder for me to yield, that's when it becomes real for me. That's when I'm no longer pretending. And just now as you whipped me, I believed that you owned me and that you had the right to do that to me. I believed it, utterly and completely. You could hurt me, you could do anything you wanted to me because I didn't belong to myself--you were my Master and I was yours to punish. I loved it and I loved you for bringing me that feeling. I knew you possessed me, and it was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. It was intimate and erotic beyond anything I had ever imagined." "So--" she drew a deep breath and exhaled, blowing her hair out of her face. "If you're asking if I get turned on when pain comes into the picture, I have to say yes. But if you're asking if the pain itself is what turns me on--I don't know. Maybe that's something we should figure out." I nodded eagerly, relieved and reassured. "But first," Scully said, giving me a significant look, "if you have no objections, *Master*, I'd like to finish my sandwich. I'm starved." Laughing, I rose from the futon and held out a hand to pull her up. She hissed through her teeth as her butt rubbed against the sheets but gave me a bright smile once she was on her feet. "I love you," she murmured, wrapping her arms around my bare torso and leaning against me, allowing me to support her weight. After holding her for a moment, I sent her to the kitchen and took a moment to set up our next scene, one I'd been plotting since the previous weekend. "So whose house is this?" she asked after a couple bites of turkey on rye had taken the edge off her hunger. "Byers," I replied, swallowing a mouthful of roast beef and chasing down with water. "He bought it about ten years ago, when he almost got married just after I first met him." "I never knew he'd been engaged." "It was a rebound relationship after the Suzanne Modeski thing. It didn't work out, but he kept the house for some reason. Saw it as an investment. He just never lived here." "So why are we using it?" Scully raised an eyebrow meaningfully. I could hear the unspoken question as though it had been asked aloud--were Langly and Frohike involved in this? "Because I wanted us to have some privacy," I answered. "When Byers told me he was thinking of selling it, I told him--privately--I'd be willing to help him fix it up and make it more marketable if he'd let me use it on the weekends. Byers, of course, being Byers, didn't pry. He just turned over the keys." "How long do we have before he sells it?" "He's in no rush. He figures he'll still make money off it whenever he sells it, so it's no big deal. He just told me to let him know when I didn't need it anymore--which, of course, is Byers-talk for 'it's yours as long as you want it.'" "When, Mu--Master? We're together so much of the day--when did you have time to work on this? How long?" "A few weeks. I hired some college kids to come in and do the painting, had the carpet installed--though I have to admit it was hard to part with the old carpeting. I've always had a fondness for ectoplasm-green shag." "You would," She smirked. "So, what, you didn't feel your apartment offered enough privacy?" I gave her an ironic glance. How many times had my apartment been bugged, surveilled, or broken into? There was no such thing as privacy there. After a moment, I leaned close to her, dropping my voice and donning my best naughty-boy smile. "Kat, the fact that my neighbors have not yet called the cops when you get to screaming is almost enough to make me believe in miracles. As it is, I can only attribute it to the fact that they're used to noise, disorder, and general chaos issuing out of my apartment and thus they don't blink an eye when you're in your more-- vociferous--moods." I congratulated myself when her face ignited in a fiery blush. "Ooh," I gave an exaggerated moan of appreciation. "Now both ends match." If anything, her complexion flushed a darker red, the hue creeping charmingly down her shoulders to her breasts. "You're asking for it, Mulder," she muttered, taking a long drink of her juice. I pretended I didn't hear the threat or her slip in addressing me. "Well, isn't it nice to have a brick-walled house where you can scream your pretty little head off?" I teased her. "I might even line the walls with mattresses if you disturb the neighbors." "You think you don't yell?" she shot back. "Because if that's the misapprehension under which you're laboring, allow me to assure you that no one would ever accuse you of being the strong, silent type." I pulled her to me by hooking a finger through the ring on her collar and placed a kiss on her lips. "Don't sass back, Kat," I said, unable to keep the humor out of my voice. After I had released her, she scoffed. "Someday, I'll prove to you just how loud you can be..." she paused, her eyes glowing with merriment. It was so pleasant to see her having fun I was having difficulty putting a firm halt to the fact that she was addressing me far too casually for her submissive state. "And *then*," she continued, her face bright with inspiration. "You can be *my* plaything for a Saturday!" My mouth went promptly dry and my good humor faded. There was no way in hell I was ever bottoming again, not even to Scully. It was quite simply out of the question. I had to put a quick end to that line of thought. "Kat?" I called for her attention, my voice low and gentle. "Yes?" "You're forgetting your manners," I said, still calmly, pinning her with a no-nonsense stare. I saw her throat convulse as she swallowed hard. "Just because I choose to tease you doesn't give you permission to talk back or address me inappropriately. Now apologize." Her eyes wide, a shiver rippling through her body, she sank to her knees and took my hand in both of hers, brushing a kiss upon it. "I'm sorry, Master." "For what?" "For being disrespectful, Master." "You're forgiven," I said solemnly. "Consider this a warning. Now, finish your sandwich and go to the bedroom. You, Kat, are going to be my entertainment this afternoon-- or did you fail to notice the cameras in the bedroom?" I watched her carefully. Scully is a very private person, and yet the idea of exhibitionism obviously gave her a little thrill. What would she think of performing for a camera? Would she be embarrassed, or use it as an opportunity to unleash the wanton I knew from intimate experience lurked within her? She rose and swallowed the last bite of her sandwich with some difficulty, looking apprehensive. "No one will ever see the tape or film," I reassured her again. That much was certainly true. I couldn't bring myself to take the chance that anyone would ever see such a thing of Scully--*my* Scully--and lifelong paranoia ran too deep. She nodded, drawing a deep breath and straightening her shoulders. "What do you want me to do, Master?" she asked finally. "I want you to go put on the clothes I set out for you on the futon. I'll be there in a moment." * * * * * She was exquisite, I thought as I eyed her appreciatively. My first reaction to those shoes hadn't been a fluke--they were enough to give me an instant hard-on, even if the sight of her clad only in scarlet waist-cincher and stockings hadn't accomplished the task already. The bottom of the red corselet formed an inverted "V" over her mons, the sides of which trailed down to her thighs in the garters that secured the stockings. Her dark auburn pubic hair contrasted against the gaudy scarlet satin. There was something extremely erotic in seeing my normally composed Scully this way, looking wanton, even slutty. Perhaps the thrill of it was seeing her like this and knowing what a truly class act she actually is. The reverse was also true when I saw her buttoned up and dignified, with the knowledge that underneath the tidy black suits was this erotic, completely sexual creature. Unbidden, my mind started forming mental images of Scully naked under one of her most conservative suits. I'd given her plenty of time to get ready and with the small pile of clothes was her travel-bag of makeup. She'd long since given up packing and unpacking all her makeup and instead kept an entirely separate kit for when we were on the road. I gave it to her now, with the addition of a tube of bright red lipstick to match the outfit. I hadn't given her any instructions as to what to do with the cosmetics, instead wanting to see what her imagination would come up with. She didn't disappoint me. Apparently she decided that if she was going to play porn queen, she'd do it thoroughly. Her eyes were darkly shadowed, her lips deep red. Her cheeks were brightly blushed, her hair tousled, and to my utter amazement, she'd applied something a little darker than her lipstick--perhaps lip liner?--to her nipples. "Lady in red," I murmured appreciatively after taking it all in, and she hung her head demurely. I turned on the video camera and approached her. "No, don't do that," I commanded. "Look at me, watch my eyes. Tell me what you're feeling right now." Her mouth worked silently a moment as embarrassment and arousal warred in her eyes. Finally, she whispered, "I feel like a whore." I had the feeling she was going to say that. As harsh and ugly as the word was, a lifetime of habituation to regarding these acts as something only a whore would do was too much to overcome. I wanted to reassure her, to tell her that there was nothing wrong with what we were doing, but it wouldn't help. She knew that there was nothing wrong--but she felt illicit nonetheless. Logic didn't apply. I knelt before her where she sat on the edge of the low futon-bed. "Do you like feeling that way?" I asked. She bit her lip, looking troubled. "I shouldn't," she sighed at last. "Who gives a shit what you should and shouldn't do? I'm the only one whose opinion should matter to you, Kat." I slid a hand between her legs, not touching her in any other way. "This says you like it," I pointed out. "Feel that? Feel how wet you are? All hot and ready to be fucked?" Her eyes fluttered shut and her head fell back. "Yes, Master," she hissed. "No!" I grabbed her jaw with the hand that had been between her thighs, my fingers wet with her arousal, and forced her head back up. The only way to get through the mental programming that told her to be ashamed of this part of herself was to use those feelings, rather than to negate them. "No, do not look away. Look right at me. You're mine, Kat. And if I say you can be a whore, then you can, and you can like it. Because you're *my* whore if and when I say so." I thrust the fingers that had been holding her face between her lips while I used my other hand to slide back between her slick nether folds. Simultaneously, I fucked her mouth and vagina with my hands. When I withdrew my fingers from her mouth, I trailed saliva and other secretions down her chin to her chest. "Say it, Kat. You're my whore." She was blushing, but softly she echoed the words. "Yes, Master. I'm your whore." "Good girl," I praised. "Lie back. I'm going to taste you before the entertainment begins." She lay back and I pushed her knees up and apart, presenting her moist, musky sex to my mouth. I drank in her essence, lapped it up with my tongue, sucking and licking and nibbling ever so lightly. She moaned softly above me, but it was a distracted moan. When I looked up, her eyes were affixed on the camera with its light on. She was watching the camera as I went down on her. "That's it, baby," I muttered before sucking lightly on her clit. I'd never called her baby before; I thought it sounded absurd, but the point of this game was to emphasize the cheap, bawdy feeling she was experiencing. I addressed her as I would a whore, reciting cliched lines from a thousand adult videos. "Let the camera see how much you like having my mouth on you. Show me how you love it. Let me hear you." Next to her thighs, her hands were clenched in tight fists, worrying the sheet beneath her. She was tense, anxious, making small pleasured noises in spite of herself. I redoubled my efforts, going to work with my tongue inside her moist recesses, taking her balled hands in mine and opening them, interlacing our fingers. As I worked my mouth over her flesh, her tension began to ease and the sounds she made increased. Finally, I drew my head out from between her legs and looked up at her, licking her essence off my lips. "Use your hands," I instructed, bringing her right hand in mine to between her thighs. "I want to film you bringing yourself off." Doubt flashed in her eyes, a nervous uncertainty that I hastened to kiss away from her visage. "Do it, Kat. Let me see you--use the toys if you want to." I kissed her again and then pulled away, walking backward across the room and leaving her alone on the futon. She stared at me a moment, gnawing on her lip, as the hand I had led between her legs began moving in small, slow circles over her flesh. I picked up the Nikon and she started as the flash went off the first time. Her movements faltered. "Come on, baby," I encouraged. "Put on a show for me." There was a long still moment during which I thought she might refuse. Perhaps I was pushing her too far, too hard. She wanted to be brought outside herself, wanted a way to make all the things society told us were wrong all right, but everyone has a limit as to how far they can go. It's one thing to let your barriers down when someone else is taking control; quite another to do it when you're on display, and when there's no one guiding you. What she did right now was entirely up to her. I could see in her eyes the moment she made her decision. An expression of resolve and determination crossed her face. Breathless, I watched as her forefinger slipped inside her core and slid slowly out, glistening wet, to stroke her clit. She teased herself with her fingers, letting them lightly dance over her folds while the other hand closed over her breast, squeezing softly. Her long, slender fingers with their elegantly manicured nails tweaked the nipple, pulling and flicking at it, and her eyes drifted half-shut as she began to get into the game. She gave a soft sigh and licked her lips until they shone. She let her knees fall wide open, exposing herself fully. I brought the 35-mm camera to my face and snapped off a shot just as two slim fingers disappeared between her folds. My cock was painfully hard in my jeans, a condition which only worsened as she lay the two fingers on either side of her clit and slid them up and down, massaging the sensitive nubbin in the space between. She made a noise somewhere between a purr and a moan and I nearly lost it. The green light on the video camera glowed and the Nikon flashed repeatedly. I watched her through the camera; her head falling back *flash*...her throat convulsing in a moan *flash*...her nipple, dark and hard peeking out from between her fingers *flash*...her labia, pink and swollen and gently parted as she stroked the tender flesh between *flash*... I nearly came in my pants when she began talking to me. Never let it be said the woman can't improvise. Animalistic groans were interspersed with explicit exclamations. She called to me, called me Master, declared her pleasure and passion as she surrendered to the fantasy. It was everything I could do to remember to hit the button on the camera when what I really wanted to do was free my cock from the confinement of its denim prison and replace her fingers with my body. She built the action up to a fevered pitch and then came back down, slowing her strokes and movements, her sounds getting softer. She reached for the bedside table and came back with the vibrator and this time, I was the one who groaned. I cursed myself for ever thinking this was a clever idea. Finally I put aside the camera and slid my hand over the bulge at my crotch. Her heavily kohled eyes widened as she looked at me and caught the movement and she licked her lips, her nostrils flaring. "Yesss," she whispered, and I couldn't be sure if the affirmation was for my own actions, or the vibrator she had turned on and slid inside herself. One by one, the buttons down the fly of my Levis popped open as my fingers pulled at the fabric. Impatiently, I pushed the jeans and boxers down my hips, leaning against the wall as I wrapped my hand around my own flesh. My eyes never left her as she swirled the vibrator inside her, moving it in and out in a rotating pattern. Occasionally, it slid all the way out and teased at her clit before delving back in. It occurred to me that the pumping action of her hand as she thrust the vibrator in and pulled it back out was nearly identical to the motions of my own hand on my penis, caressing slowly. We were moving in intimate unison. I swallowed hard, moved by the absurdly sappy romantic connection my brain pulled from that fact and forced myself to focus on the show I was getting. She'd stopped speaking, and I didn't want that. I wanted her to think about her words being recorded by the video camera, wanted her to imagine that someday I would listen to her passion preserved on tape. "Come on, baby," I coaxed, keeping the rhythm of my hand on my cock steady, "let me hear you. I wanna hear you come, wanna hear you scream...come for me, Kat..." "Ohh," she moaned, closing her eyes as something approaching rapture crossed her face. It wasn't the first time she indicated that my voice had a profound effect on her, particularly when she was in her submissive state, but this was by far the most overt reaction I'd seen from her along those lines. She pulled the vibrator from her body and pressed it to her clit, lifting her hips and grinding against it. She began to cry out, short little yelps at first that crescendoed into longer, breathless wails. One particularly piercing sound had me coming over my hand like a teenager, and still I stood there against the wall, my cock softening and my semen congealing on my hand, as she writhed and strained on the bed. Her face was contorted with effort and fierce concentration. "I can't," she gasped at length, looking distressed as her hands slowed their movements. "I'm sorry, Master, I can't do it." Quickly I wiped my hand off and pulled up my jeans, approaching her. "Shh," I hushed her. "Don't apologize-- but don't stop either. Listen to me, Kat, listen to my voice..." This wasn't the first time this had happened; the harder the psychological pressure for her to climax, the more difficulty she had getting there. I wasn't surprised, given the circumstances. "I'm going to blindfold you, Kat. I want you to forget everything else and concentrate on what I'm saying to you..." The vibrator buzzed futilely in the hand hanging loosely between her thighs. I placed the eye-mask over her face and took the vibrator from her, flicking it off and laying it beside her where she could reach it again if necessary. "You are going to come for me, Kat. You're going to get yourself off while I watch, because I'm your Master and that's what I want from you. But right now, you're going to relax and slow down. That's it...that's good. Take a deep breath..." I look her hand in mine and licked her fingers, which were sticky and musky with her essence. Then I placed them against her rock-hard, throbbing clit and stroked her very gently with them. "Feel those fingers, Kat? Those are mine, and they're touching you. They may not be on my hand, but they're still mine, because you're mine, isn't that right? You're mine, and so your fingers are mine, so right now, those are my fingers touching your clit. Right? That's me touching you..." "Yes, Master." This was spoken with a shaky sigh and a gradual easing of the tension over her body. "That's good...and those are my fingers inside you, feel that? My fingers fucking you...my fingers giving you pleasure. That feels good, doesn't it, Kat?" "Yes..." "Good...Keep going, Kat. Just because I'm moving away doesn't mean I told my fingers to stop. That's right--feel how hot and tight it is inside you? I love that feeling...Feel how hard your clit is? I want to touch it...That's good, that's very good...Don't stop, just keep thinking about my hands on you. Keep listening to my voice..." She jumped as the camera I had picked up again snapped, but the motion of her hands didn't stop. I continued to speak even while I used the camera to catch every movement. Her sounds progressed from raw sighs to pants and moans. They grew louder with each click of the camera, with each explicit instruction I gave, until her thighs were quivering on either side of her hand and her body jerked each time the sensation became too intense. "Now I'm going to play with your nipple, Kat. Feel that? Feel my fingers? That's good..." Louder, faster, more intense...I kept the camera flashing at intervals throughout, kept talking to her, using my voice to seduce her. At long last, she gave a strangled cry, moving the flats of her fingers in hard, steady circles over her clit as her body spasmed again and again. When it was over, she lay limply on the bed, panting. With a sigh, I set the camera aside, turned off the camcorder, laid down beside her, and took her in my arms. * * * * * As afternoon aged into evening Kat drew me a bath in the master bathroom with its large, deep tub, and played handmaid. While I relaxed she scrubbed my back, massaged my shoulders, washed my hair, and sat on the edge of the tub while I fondled her at my leisure. "I would like to do something, but I'm going to ask your opinion first," I announced solemnly as I stood with my arms spread and allowed her to towel me dry. She gave me an inquisitive look but didn't speak. "I've been looking into some things, doing a little more research. There are some BDSM groups around DC. There's one in particular called Black Rose, and I think that they might be a good resource. The fact is, we're both new at this and it might help to be able to talk to people who are familiar with these relationships and the issues that come up--sort of a support system. It might be safer to have access to unbiased information, but we both are pretty private, and I wasn't sure how you'd feel about being open with other people about the activities we engage in. Anyhow, a lot of the groups have something called a munch, when they get together someplace very public and innocuous and just have a group dinner and socialize. If nothing else, it might be fun to observe." I looked at her nervously, unable to believe I was even suggesting this. If it weren't for the fact that I was afraid that, as a neophyte top, I could somehow harm her, I probably would never have brought it up. But if we were going to continue going deeper into these games, it might be helpful to know people who could provide guidance. But we *were* both intensely private people, and doing this meant we'd be taking perhaps *the* most private aspect of ourselves and exposing it to others. But those others had an interest in common with us and would be unlikely to be judgmental. I'd considered the issue a long while before deciding to take it up with her. "So you're asking if I think it'd be okay to go to one of these--munches?" she asked thoughtfully, and I nodded, sure she would veto the idea, if for no other reason than it meant bringing our Saturday-only play into the working week, at least to a limited extent. Technically, I was the one calling the shots, but if she wasn't willing to take the risk, I wouldn't insist on it. "I don't see why not," she sighed at last, perhaps a little hesitantly. "I mean, my first reaction is to shy away from going public at all, but there's no logic to it. If I wanted to be paranoid, I could say there's the danger of the wrong person seeing us, but if we're honest with ourselves, anyone who would care or want to see us could do so anyway, if they choose to go to the trouble. I'm not going to hide our relationship away like it's something shameful." I felt my eyebrows creep up in surprise. That was different. She hadn't exactly been thrilled when I had kissed her at New Year's, which would qualify as our first real public display of affection. I had always attributed that to a hands-off-in-public rule that had gone unspoken between us, but perhaps it had been something else? "Besides," she added with an ironic smile. "I'm curious. How can I possibly resist the opportunity to do some empirical research?" "Okay," I said at last, grinning in response. "Let's plan on it then, to go on Tuesday unless something comes up." "Okay," she agreed, and knelt to dry my legs. All thoughts except her physical proximity to portions of my anatomy, and how those portions were desperately missing her attentions, fled. * * * * * I awoke early Sunday morning with my head lying on Mulder's muscular upper arm. His chest was pressed warmly against my back and his breath was soft and even against my ear. At first I had a hard time placing where we were, for the bed didn't feel familiar, but gradually the dim light filtering in from outside enabled me to place us in Byers' empty house. I climbed out of bed, shivering in the early-morning chill, and padded nude into the bathroom. When I had finished, I stared at myself in the mirror while I washed my hands. I had washed my makeup off the night before, but my eyes were now heavy-lidded with sleep, my hair tousled and in fluffy disarray. I wasn't used to seeing this woman, even though I'd faced her in the mirror nearly every morning in the more than four months that Mulder and I had been lovers. She was a woman who was content and sated, who woke up each morning to enjoy a few blissful minutes where the troubles of the world didn't exist. She was happy; well-fucked and well-loved by a man she adored beyond words. I still couldn't quite believe that woman was me. Suddenly I remembered the events of the previous day. Curiosity kicked in and I turned around, craning my neck to look back at the mirror over my shoulder. My backside, which I had sworn would be bruised for a week after what I had endured the day before, was lightly dusted with small red dots where surface capillaries had burst. Only two slightly darker lines, one on each buttock, remained where the lash of the signal whip had stung me. Poking the rounded flesh, I could feel a slight rawness where the lash had fallen, but I didn't feel any real tissue bruising. I was surprised, and, I realized, disappointed. I'd meant what I'd said to Mulder about how I regarded the slightly raised welts that had lingered on my skin after he had punished me. I was proud of them, of what they represented: my surrender, his control over me. I wanted that feeling to linger, wanted a reminder I could look back on in days to come and enjoy. And yet, it seemed it was more than that-- Mulder had said we should explore my reaction to pain a bit more, so that we could both become comfortable with the concept. I was mildly troubled to realize that I wasn't concerned by that idea nearly as much as I knew I should be. I should resist the very idea of allowing pain to be inflicted upon me, and yet I had calmly, almost blithely accepted it. In the great scheme of things, I knew, logically, that what I had experienced the day before didn't really compare to pain I had known in the past. Being shot in the gut, *that* was pain. Being thrown into a glass-topped table by something that had looked exactly like Mulder, that had hurt. My cancer, as it slowly ate its way into my body was a slow, burning agony that I had known could only end in death. Frankly, in comparison, the pain yesterday didn't hold a candle to the rest. But what had happened yesterday had been a suffering entirely of my own choosing. That made it different. All the previous times, I hadn't had any option but to endure; yesterday, I had had the option, but I endured anyway. Perhaps that was the point. So often, I couldn't choose what befell me. Here, in this situation, I could. By surrendering my control to Mulder, I was, in essence, choosing my own trials rather than having them chosen for me. Even in yielding, I was still exercising my personal control. And what I had endured hadn't killed me. It hadn't even appalled me. I still couldn't--or perhaps refused to--wrap my mind around the idea of doing it for *fun*, of all the ridiculous notions, but many people did derive pleasure from it, regardless of my inability to grasp the concept. What if we took away the idea of punishment? What if the knowledge that I would suffer because I'd been bad was removed? That was what Mulder was proposing to explore and it was what I had accepted. Would that subtle psychological difference make it better or worse? Would it then become pointless suffering which I couldn't bear because I didn't have the knowledge that I'd done something to merit it? Or would the suffering be eased by removing the shame that came with knowing I did deserve it? Would I be buoyed by the thought that the sole reason we did this was simply because my Master wanted to? I remembered the times in "Story of O" when O had been informed that she would be punished not for any cause, but simply because it pleased her Masters to punish her. I remember how those passages had simultaneously terrified and intrigued me. What deeper surrender could there possibly be than to endure pain for no other reason than it pleased your Master to give it to you? I felt a spasm deep within my gut and realized, with no little horror and shame, I was getting wet as I envisioned the scenario. I had lied to Mulder yesterday, I realized. When he asked me if pain turned me on, I had told him it was the situation surrounding the pain that turned me on. And it was true, of course--I wasn't going to get aroused outside a sexual situation by pain. But within the sexual situation, sometimes the arousal, or an increase in my arousal, was the effect that followed the pain. Even as my mind registered it hurt, there was something that said it also felt good, something that wanted more. That fact frightened and shamed me so that I couldn't admit to it, not even to Mulder. But in an unguarded moment of self-truth, I realized I was turned on by the idea of Mulder and I exploring that reaction more. I wanted to delve deeper into those sensations and see where they carried me. But that was just too much to process, even for me. It was absurd. Suddenly I was embarrassed and angry with myself and I left the bathroom in a hurry, flicking off the light behind me. I paused upon reentering the bedroom, my eyes settling on the video camera, sitting with apparent innocence on the tripod. The thought of what could be found on that videotape sent a spasm of mingled pleasure and fear through my body. What would Mulder do with that tape? Would he keep it for his pleasure, for some moment when I wasn't there, so that he could remember? Would he watch and masturbate, as he doubtless had done to dozens of other such (albeit populated by strangers and more professionally made) tapes? Oh, God...What would he see when he watched it? Would he view me with the same disdain I felt for those silicon- inflated bimbos who writhed and moaned their way though those videos he professed not to own? Did I look that cheap, that phony, that tasteless? Of course I did--wasn't that the point? Wasn't that why he dressed me up like a whore, why I made myself up like a raccoon and put on the show of my life? I couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the thought that he would look at that tape and see someone who was no different than any of the big-haired sluts with which he'd entertained himself alone for years. Without even realizing my intent, I was walking toward the camera, desperate to see the tape and reassure myself that I didn't look that way. Nervous and chilled, standing naked in the cold air, I peered in the view-finder of the camera and pressed "rewind." Nothing happened. Perhaps he had already rewound it. I pressed "play," and still nothing. My mouth dry, I checked the battery and found it still had some charge, but there was no image, or even a confirmation that the camcorder was on. With hands that trembled, I opened the side of the camera to find it empty. There was no cassette. Oh, God... Panicked, I grabbed the Nikon. Popping open the back panel revealed that the 35-mm camera was missing its film as well. Oh, God, this was not happening. Mulder and I had left the house for no more than an hour and a half yesterday evening to get some dinner. Someone could have broken in and stolen the video and film in that time. But why on earth would anyone do such a thing? To discredit us? All that needed to happen was for that tape to make an appearance at the FBI, or some of those pictures to appear in the wrong person's email and Mulder and I were done for. Oh, shit... "Mulder!" I shook his shoulder roughly, nearly hyperventilating. "Mulder, wake up!" He came instantly alert, glancing around the room in a panic. "Wha--Scully, what is it? What's the matter?" "The video, Mulder! The film in the camera! They're gone." He stared at me in bewilderment. "What?" "The cameras are *empty*, Mulder!" I shouted. "Jesus, why did I agree to it? The film and video you shot yesterday are *gone*." There was a moment of silence, and then Mulder began doing the last thing I expected under the circumstances. He began fondling me. "Don't worry about it, Scully. Come back to bed." Was that *amusement* I heard in his voice? So help me God- - "Mulder, what the hell are you doing? Did you not hear what I just said? The film--" Realization struck and a horror worse than any I had imagined thus far came over me. It was even worse when his subtle amusement turned to laughter. "Oh, God. I'm going to assume by your reaction that you know who took the film and video. And if it's Frohike, you'd better be prepared to let that little troll know there's no hole deep enough for him to hide in." He caught me around the waist and pulled me to him, nuzzling at my breast. Whatever he said in response was unrecognizably muffled by my nipple. "Nufumnuhkumruh..." I disregarded the pleasant vibration his effort to speak made around my nipple. "What?" I pushed away from him, pulling my nipple from his mouth with a popping sound as the suction broke. "What did you say?" "I said there was no film in the camera. No video either. Never was." "What?!" He closed his eyes a long moment, shaking his head. "I should've known..." he muttered. "Should have known *what*?" "Should have known you'd be too nosy to not mess with the cameras," he retorted snippily. I glared at him. "The cameras were empty the entire time, Scully," he said at last. "I wasn't going to take the chance that anything would happen to the video or pictures, so I didn't take any. Now, where was I?" He leaned forward, going for my breasts again. I shoved him roughly way, cursing. "Jesus, Mulder, I swear I'm going to strangle you!" "C'mon, Scully--wouldn't you rather fuck me instead? Hmm?" He thrust forward with his hips a little, letting me feel his morning erection. Yes, as a matter of fact I would, but I wasn't done being pissed off yet. Everything I did yesterday, the show I had put on, the anxiety I suffered at doing something so private in front of a camera...all of it had just been Mulder fucking with my mind. I spluttered for a moment before finally seizing on something to say. "WHY?!" The question erupted from me. "Why what?" he pulled back and blinked at me disingenuously. A bystander wouldn't believe I'd just suffered a life-shortening panic attack courtesy of him. I could have throttled him in that moment. "Why go through all this if you wouldn't have anything to show for it afterwards?" I said at last, shrugging in helpless confusion. "What's the point?" "The point was to see if you would do it. And if you'd known the cameras were empty, there wouldn't have been any way to truly get a feel for how far you were willing to go," he said, in a voice that indicated he felt he was being supremely logical. "You're the one who said you wanted me to challenge you. Besides--" he snuggled up to me and began kissing my neck, not allowing me to push him away this time. "Who needs a crummy video when I have the real, live thing right here?" "Okay, that's a good answer, I suppose," I sighed, ceasing my struggle as my toes began to curl. A smile curved my lips almost against my will. "But I'm still pissed at you. Just thought you should know." "I can live with that," he muttered against my throat. "But Scully, maybe instead of chewing me out, we could put our mouths to other uses, whaddya say?" "Hmmm...I guess I can do that..." * * * * * If I'd known that morning it would be some time before we played again, I might have savored it a bit more. As it was, I smiled when he took the collar off me and made love to me on the futon, morning breath and all. Then we showered and parted for the day. I had things I had to take care of at home that night, so we didn't get back together, and I went to sleep alone in my bed Sunday night. As it was, I had no way of knowing Sunday morning that within twenty-four hours, one of my worst nightmares would make his way back into my life. Donnie Pfaster. END of Aphrodisia V - Head Games Feedback to kjohns@chaos.x-philes.com