by C.M. Decarnin
Alex's head fell back. "Don't do this to me," he whispered, but it wasn't a protest, and Methos knew Alex was only fighting with himself. --"Something Wicked", by torch
Fox Mulder didn't spend a lot of time naked in his life. He had been brought up to feel very unclothed if he only walked down the hall in his own apartment without anything on. Talking on the phone naked embarrassed him. And if it was Scully, he would have felt both embarrassed and guilty. Though probably, she wouldn't.
But he'd been hoping for a call from a source all morning and the phone rang and he'd just got out of the shower, and rather than lose the call he hurried down the hall without grabbing for a bathrobe; he stood seeping gently onto the carpet listening to nothing on the other end of the line. "Hello?" he repeated forlornly, to only empty silence. Finally, he hung up. But stood there, in case they rang back, from one of those mysterious car-phone non-connects, or some paranoid-source sense of reconnoitering.
It didn't ring. He stood there, with his skin bare, air touching him all over. Its unaccustomed lightness like some mystical fairy clothing woven by con-men, costliest thread and strands paid for with jewels and coin of gold. Almost as if something were touching him, a light caress, across his tummy -- there! He jumped back, shivering and with his arms a little out.
Nothing could touch him, nothing was there, it was his apartment, nothing was ever there but him, except the odd listening device or spy-camera, or remnant of a break-in, or tape cassette in his newspaper, or slip of paper on the floor, or -- not even those things, any more.
Nothing was ever there.
Still it made him feel so undressed out here, embarrassed as if he'd been caught at something, standing now slightly behind his dampened footprints on the carpet, and he could feel something again almost like touch on him, across his butt, like a brush of air, that made him feel their shape, his buttocks' roundedness, and the deep curve in up toward his waist. A vulnerable place, where he looked, the one or two times he'd caught a glimpse there in some mirror, too soft, too curved, too girly. The little puff of air felt almost friendly, though, tracing the shapes of the least favorite part of his body kindly... it almost felt erotic, as if someone were appreciating him.
A draft getting in from somewhere.
He went back down the hall to the bathroom and dried off. What little remaining moisture there was on him. He must have stood there longer than he'd thought. Waiting for the phone to ring.
It wasn't something that he did a lot, so few people ever called him while he was at home. He'd been surprised to find how bleak his life had felt, these last few months. Maybe, he'd thought in passing once or twice, without an enemy left alive he had no impetus to live. How pathetic would that be?
He leaned in over his freestanding sink to the mirror to examine what appeared to be an interesting scar, but it was only a spot he'd missed in shaving. The hell with it. He wasn't going anywhere, or seeing anyone. Even his sources never called, they never wrote... His breath fogged up the glass till all he could see of himself was darkly hazel eyes that stared with that accusing, undeceivable, scary look that eyes seen in the mirror always have. He blinked and looked away, made himself look back and thought he saw someone standing there behind him.
He jumped out of his skin, before he realized it was just his bathrobe hanging there on the back of the bathroom door where it belonged.
"Spoo-kay," he sang derisively under his breath, as he turned away from the mirror and felt a hand touch all around his cock and testicles.
It felt so good he only stood there with his chin up and his mouth opened, a count of two, three, four, while the delicate stroking gentle as cool breath made his balls shrivel tight and his dick stand half erect. But then his terror reflexes kicked in and he slammed back, hitting his left buttock hard on the corner of the sink. His eyes stared harder as if he could make them see, when there was nothing there.
As if in answer to his incoherent thought a sensation like a hand settled along his neck, and stroked softly upward to the corner of his jaw, reassuringly, holding there.
Then lips touched his.
His eyes were open. There was nothing there! Yet in his mouth a tongue was touching, filling, fucking, in intercourse so intimate his heart must surely break, then the hand slid down his neck, along his naked arm, down, to his thigh and to, onto, around his genitals, so softly touched, so good, so good, his mouth so gently being taken, his eyes had closed, he felt a tear run down his face, but his cock was full, upstanding, ready, ready -- he felt himself being strongly turned, and bent in over the sink a little while the touch on his cock shifted to an even better feel, so like a grip yet nothing, really, nothing pulling, up, like a revelation of electricity, down like a new color of blood, up like an ascent to heaven -- he felt something touch between his buttocks and then he felt something enter him, long and hard and deep.
It was the best thing he had ever felt.
There was not even a comparison.
It started as a hard ache in his balls that spread until it quickly and completely filled his body, pulsed, and on the pulse transmuted. From pain it flowered to a depth of sexual pleasure he had not known had existed in the world. He tried to make a sound but there was nothing that his voice could reach. And then the thing in him pulled back, and he thrust forward violently into the nothing that held his cock at the intensity of the pleasure, and the long hard deep thrust with him, penetrated further into him, he bent, he wanted to scream, he wanted to die, as if a truncheon of pure ecstasy had forced its way within him and were brutalizing him with bliss. It pressed him, harder, harder.
Around his cock the sensation of fingers moved on pure, unbearable and perfect joy. He stretched up and back, and felt again the thing that moved in him, through him, open him, become a darker pain that diffused as loveliness so deep, so soul-denuding he could not survive, his heart surrendered to the unforeseen rape of its uttermost secrets as his body writhed and twisted in inescapable ecstasy. He felt the thing in him move hard, felt himself fucked, and yelped, and was fucked, fucked deeper, his cock pushed through the perfect hold around it faster, faster till he suddenly felt it touch the pinnacle, felt a universe of happiness and joy that swept through him while what filled him, what held him, and the cum that streamed from him united in a trinity, combined into profound orgasmic union.
Gasping and sobbing for air, wrists sore from holding himself up, thighs bruised by the sink, Mulder felt himself no longer filled, no longer held. His voice independently made a cry of loneliness and despair he was ashamed of.
Then he felt on the back of his neck the impress of soft lips. He turned his head, and felt a caress, and a kiss that touched his cheek.
Then nothing more.
He looked around. There was nothing anywhere. He looked into the mirror last, at the astounded eyes of someone who was loved.
As no one ever, surely, had been loved before.
A new person who had already resolved never to wear clothes again while answering the phone.
It hardly seemed to matter where such love as rifled him, remade him, had come from...
But one thing sure, it wasn't any girl...
And it was someone who the whole time only touched him with one hand.
On to Seconds