Title: Process Of Elimination: Tat For Tit
Author: XochiLuvr
E-mail: xochiluvr@surfacing.com
Category and Rating: NC-17, MSR, SPOV, H, smut, MT
Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer. Others: Please Ask.
Disclaimer: Moose and Squirrel aren't mine.
Spoilers: Never Again, Tithonus

Summary: Scully, augmenting. But not that way. Mulder,
floating in a most peculiar way. But not like that.
Confused? So are they. Read on, McDuff.

NOTICE: Due to the really poor way Ephemeral handles text
files (particularly those made on a macintosh) the story
notes have been revised to function on ephemeral. How can
200% of the lines have errors, anyway? <g> If you want
to see the notes as they were originally formatted, along
with all the cool graphics, check out the POE website.

Author's Notes: Yes, ladies and germs, it's that time
again. For those of you wondering why this installment of
the Curiously Strong series took so long, I'm afraid I must
apologize. I was in Borneo and my laptop was stolen by a
moose. Wait. There was no moose, and I've never been to
Borneo - it was just a nasty bout of Writer's Block. I knew
exactly what was going to happen but I just couldn't seem
to get the damn moose done. Thing. Damn thing done. So I
quit smoking, and a few weeks later here we are. In the PoE
universe, this story currently follows Breaking and
Entering by my partner in crime, moose. Ahem. My partner in
crime, mimic117, who is most assuredly NOT a moose. She
created this lovely little playground and was gracious
enough to let me play with it. I mean in it. Sorry. I swear
that wasn't me, that was the moose. I mean, moose.

Beta snaps: Your momma's so ugly - wait, wrong snaps.
Mammut americanum sized thanks to CindyET for going easy on
me while still making sure I got it right. As usual, I also
bow to my mistress, mimic117, without whom I'd probably be
slightly more normal, but much less interesting.

Visit the new and (arguably) improved Process Of
Elimination website at http://surfacing.com/poe/


---

PoE: Tat For Tit

---


So, I did it. It's not like it was my first time or
anything. I felt pretty exposed and a little scared, but
the man didn't seem too concerned. I guess he has to deal
with half naked, demanding women quite often in his
profession. Just another job, I suppose. Considering how
much it cost to have him do me, the pay's certainly good.

What I've done is so far removed from my Catholic
upbringing my mother will probably faint if she ever finds
out. However, it happens quite often in the Navy - even my
father did it a few times. Mulder's going to be so pissed
at me, too. I mean, the last time I did this I was with
that psycho whose name I dare not speak.

On the other hand, I know Mulder has grown to love the
other tattoo. He's commented on how sexy he thinks it is
that wherever we are, on a case or stalking through the
halls to Skinner's office, he can touch that secret spot on
my body. I'd never thought of it like that but now, every
time he touches the small of my back with those strong
fingers -- clothed or not I feel a pulse of heat there,
shooting down into my core.

My first tattoo was a symbol of my rebellion against life
with Mulder, of what I felt I was losing and had already
lost - things I felt his quest had taken from me. A sign
that I was my own person and that he, his quest and his
baggage and his office and his desk and his nameplate and
his everything could go take a flying fuck and see if I
care. This one is different, but hardly the opposite. This
one is a symbol of my embracing, my cherishing this new
life with Mulder. This one says that I am still very much
my own person and that I have chosen him. That I will never
live in fear of losing what I freely give. That our quest,
our journey, will be taken together.

Of course, getting the damn thing scared the shit out of
me. God knows, the first one hurt like hell but, to be
honest, I wasn't exactly myself the last time I did it.
Thankfully, my partner in crime was too drunk to fuck when
I got the oroborus. I may not have Mulder's capacity for
guilt, but we Catholics are very aware of the concept -
I'll be kicking myself until the day I die for my
stupidity. Penance with Mulder is highly enlightening,
though. Even sober. Especially sober.

However, while sobriety is a good quality to have when
deciding to get a tattoo, drunk and numb is a good state to
be in when having one done, unless you happen to have a
fully equipped board-certified anesthesiologist with you. A
fifth of Southern Comfort is much cheaper. Nowadays it's
probably safer, too.

I was pleasantly surprised as the design was pierced into
my skin. It wasn't nearly as painful as the first one and
after a time, the vibrations became lulling and sensual.
The artist's palm rested on my nipple on occasion as he
worked, but he made sure his actions were very
professional.

I adore the design - it's stark, angular and oddly
endearing. Just like Mulder. I'm as anxious as I am scared
for him to see it.

I admit it, though; I'm being a total coward. I got it last
Thursday, a day before Bill and the rest of his family came
up for a week to visit. Mulder and I have had virtually no
personal time together in the last nine days, more than
enough time for the tat to heal. It itched and burned a
little for the first couple days under the bandage, but
some acetaminophen, fresh air and time and it's healed
well.

The drawback is obvious: I haven't gotten laid in a week
and a half. After years of abstinence, my body rebelled at
the sheer amount of sex we had that first week together.
The ache in my loins was delicious but an ache nonetheless.
Now my body fairly hums with sexual energy, just waiting
for Mulder to tap it. I suppose it's like a runners high,
endorphins screaming to be released, neurons and synapses
begging to be fried. If he doesn't tap me often I get
cranky. Neither one of us has been in a good mood this
week. I need a good tapping. As soon as possible.

Hopefully, that will be tonight. Now that Bill's on the way
home Mulder and I can have an evening together. I even took
a personal day from work to prepare, after clearing it with
Skinner, who thinks I'm taking the day to help my mother
recover from last week's little reunion. I left a message
for Mulder at the office that was more honest. "Dinner's at
six. Dress casual."

Tonight's dish is a quick paella recipe my mom developed in
high school. Mulder may be an Oxford grad, but when you're
hungry nothing beats a meal invented by a "Betty Crocker
Homemaker of Tomorrow." Mulder and I are like this dinner:
disparate ingredients coming together to become something
unique and delicious.

I dump dinner into a glass bowl and pop it into the oven to
keep warm and maybe brown just a little. I walk over and
sit down at my desk and wake the laptop. Clicking the
browser open and typing the address from memory I hit the
boards. Well, *the* board.

I haven't posted myself yet, but reading what other people
have to say is funny. The topics run the gamut from sexual
frustration to pleasure overload. Several woman volunteer
to "practice" new ideas on their husbands and report back
with the results. I smile as one woman proclaims that a
young man will never know true pleasure until he's made it
with an older woman, remembering my own disastrous and
embarrassing first times. A topic further down makes light
of erotic fiction that refuses to follow the laws of
physics. Another thread talks about "broken penises" and my
mind is filled by the physiological complications that
could occur. I cross my legs in sympathy and thank God
that's one injury Mulder's never had to endure. The board
members are clearly women - no locker room bragging could
possibly compare to this ladies room snickerfest.

I finally spot tonight's position. If I balance against the
desk chair and use the lumbar cushion in the closet... I'm
not quite sure I can stand on my hands that long, though if
Mulder holds my ankles it should work. The laws of physics
are about to be broken after all.

Now that I have everything ready, I go for a quick jog to
limber up. Flexibility is a necessity when having a
relationship with Mulder. After a long relaxing bath I have
just enough time to get dinner ready before Mulder knocks.

I'm just putting out the plates when he unlocks the door
with his key. He greets me by wrapping his arms around me
and kisses my neck after I lift the paella onto the stove
top. What a picture of domestic bliss we must make, the
"little woman" in mismatched oven mitts and casual clothes,
the man of the house coming in from a long day at work.

Then there are the little details that turn this piece of
Norman Rockwell tranquility into Jackson Pollack confusion.
The two guns he's wearing,  the little scar on the back of
my neck, beneath his teasing lips, that hides a tiny piece
of possibly-alien technology that keeps me alive. Stains on
the living room carpet, matching multiple blood types. Sara
Lee meets Annabel Lee.

"Honey, I'm home," he whispers into my hair.

"Honey me again," I say, leaning back into his embrace as I
pull off the mitts, "and you might just get lucky."

He chuffs lightly in response, teasing the tips of my hair
with his breath. I shiver at the tickling sensation and he
backs off slightly.

He helps me set the table and I scoop dinner onto the
plates. Dinner is eaten quietly, as if we have nothing to
say. But several conversations pass silently. He smiles at
his plate and chews slowly, and I know he enjoys the meal.
I push my empty glass forward an inch or two and he fills
it only half full, knowing I want to finish my wine with my
dinner - anything left in the glass will be wasted. I see
the position of the napkin in his lap and I know he desires
me. He sees my nervous motions and looks a question at me
that I refuse to answer yet by any mode of communication.
Each brief expression and movement is a story no picture of
any size could tell.

We gather and wash the dishes in the same comfortable,
quiet companionship. From here on it's my choice. We could
lay on the couch and watch TV and cuddle. We could sit
together and catch up on our reading. We could revert to
the early scene of domesticity and tell each other what our
day has been like. Or I can quit stalling, show him the
tattoo and fuck his brains out before he has an opportunity
for reproach. I whip the dish towel from his hands, toss it
on the counter and drag him to my bedroom.

Undressing fully is still awkward between us, though we're
getting more comfortable all the time. Maybe weird is a
more accurate term. It's not some prepubescent fear of
shared nudity, but a desire to look our best for the other
person, and no one looks their best when tripping over
half-removed pantyhose or stuck headless in day-worn,
sweaty undershirts. We strip with the other at our back,
and the first one done gets to sit on the bed and catch a
peak, the creak of springs warning the other. The
adolescent restraint of parts of our relationship contrast
starkly with the uninhibited nature of our passion. We both
yearn for equilibrium as much as we fear it. Just another
dance of avoidance before we eventually come together. Or
as simultaneously as possible, anyway.

We never bothered turning any lights on in the bedroom,
letting the waning sunset around the edges of the closed
blinds provide the only light. I hear him sit and hurry to
join him, moving to the side of the bed. My side. We scoot
in, using our feet to move the covers down and reach for
each other at the same time. A dance of togetherness now.
The kisses at first are slow and dry and the targets are
random: lips, face, hair, nose, palms, neck, ears, fingers.
Escalation is in stages, an explicit launch sequence.

Mulder is the first to move to the next stage by sucking
and nibbling my carotid artery before soothing the
sensitive patch of skin. I moan into his ear as he works,
his shivers joining mine as I bite and suck his lobe.
Mulder moves the timetable forward again by licking and
kissing a fast line down my chest, down my collarbones and
around my breasts. His torso shifts around as he paints
spirals on my stomach and other places with his tongue, the
hair on his chest brushing other parts of my body. He
stops, abruptly, and I moan piteously as his lips release
my skin. He moves back up and off my body. Has he finally
seen the tattoo?

"Mulder?"

"I smell blood, Scully. I need to see-" I can feel him
stretch for the lamp as my hand jumps to my upper lip,
checking for the telltale wet warmth. I feel nothing and
gasp as my mind figures it out. Mulder switches on the lamp
just as I leap off the bed and scurry to the bathroom,
almost slamming the door behind me. I snap the lock just as
he rattles the handle. "Scully?"

"I'm fine Mulder," I say, reaching under the sink. "Can you
grab a pair of my underwear? Plain white ones."

"Granny panties. The thrill is gone," his trailing voice
says through the door, but I can tell the joke is forced.
He's still confused, still hasn't figured it out. He knocks
and I unlock and open the door just wide enough for him to
pass the underwear through.

I insert a tampon and look in the mirror. What the hell -
we'll both just have to deal with it.  I return to the
bedroom, sans panties. Mulder's perched near the head of
the bed, frowning. "You okay?"

"Nothing a few days worth of Midol can't cure," I smile to
him, and his shoulders relax even as the frown deepens.
Yes, Mulder, no nookie tonight. Not that kind anyway -
you'll have to wait until another day to find out what I
had planned. I step up to him and realize the lack of sex
isn't all of what's bothering him. He's only now noticing
the tattoo. His hand reaches up tentatively and rubs the
design with the scratchy pads of a finger. His eyes ask
what his mouth can't, but for once I can't translate. Is he
wondering why I got it, why I got it -there-, or is he
afraid I got it while drunk off my ass and in the company
of another man? Considering the design, I doubt he thinks
the latter.

"This time it's all about you," I confirm, grasping his
wrist as his thumb continues to trace the little fox, the
rest of his hand caressing the curve of my flesh under it.

"Accepting for the moment that last time wasn't," he says
softly, "Could you tell me why?"

"The first one really was all about me. Or, I guess, the
absence of you. I felt smothered, out of control,
secondary. It was about avoidance, about dreams
unfulfilled, about having no time left in which to have
them fulfilled," I say, stopping as I see him wince. "This
one's about reveling in those same dreams, now fulfilled
beyond measure. By you."

"So this is a good thing?" He questions, looking to my eyes
for confirmation.

Oh, Mulder. "The best." I step between his legs and hang my
arms around his head. His cheek presses against the tattoo.

"I'm just happy it's not a fox eating it's tail," he
mumbles.

I'm struck by inspiration and before either one of us knows
what happened he's flat on the bed, one of my hands
pressing on his chest, the other gripping his half-hard
member, my face in between, chin resting on his belly
button, my body laying to his side, half off the edge of
the bed. He pushes himself further up the bed and I follow,
moving between his spread thighs.

I look at his face and try to smile as seductively as
possible.

"The only thing this fox is eating is you."

With that I press a kiss against the top of his penis. I
follow with another and slip the head into my mouth,
wetting it with my tongue. I slowly ease him deeper, making
sure Mulder has a clear view of the proceedings. Quite
frankly, he's got a clear view of almost everything in this
position. With him resting on top of two pillows and with
me kneeling ass-up, I'm sure he's got a perfect view of my
butt as I move my mouth on him. It's still an uncomfortable
thought, that I'm so open for him, so I concentrate on his
pleasure, on the task at hand. Or mouth, rather.

Fellatio is something I've always been proficient with, but
never good at. It's easy to get a guy off in ninety
seconds, another to make it last. I love doing this to
Mulder, drawing it out, taking our time. I vary my rhythm
and every so often stop to kiss or lick or stroke his
length. The variations, and the not -too- gentle scrapes
and pokes and scratches I give him on his hips and buttocks
with my fingernails, prolong the experience. I'm not rough
with him, but I make sure he goes near the edge, not over
it.

I wonder if I look submissive to him, bowed and servicing
him like this, and I wonder if he has any clue how powerful
I feel instead. With every lick and suck my confidence
grows in leaps and bounds, as it always does. Not because I
control him, but because I control his pleasure. My mouth
pleasures him and we both relax into a haze of lust.

I watch his face when I can and see his eyes roam over my
body. When I do this for him he always stops at particular
points. My ass cheeks, clearly visible, bent as I am. The
tattoo on my back and the curve of my spine. The exit wound
from when Ritter shot me.

My breasts are a favorite stopping point for his eyes and
slowly I start moving more than just my head. As I put more
of my body into pleasuring him my unfettered breasts begin
to move in counterpoint to the rest of my body. He watches
my chest, my breasts alternately hidden and revealed as my
hair sways while I move up and down to take him in.
Tonight, Mulder is spending more time looking at the bullet
wound then I'd like. When he sighs, "Oh, Scully," instead
of moaning it I decide it's time to try something new and
get him back in the game.

He arches his back and pleads when I release him from my
mouth. I shift my head up and kiss his navel, gathering my
courage as I gather his flavors. I know I put on a good
front, but I'm not always the perfectly composed woman my
partner and most people see. My self-confidence is normally
well-earned, but Mulder has shown me more and better ways
to give and receive pleasure in our short time together
than I learned in my entire life before him. He keeps me
guessing - he's predictably unpredictable in bed, as he is
always. It scares me sometimes, and I know I push myself to
compensate, to prove that, like in every other aspect of
our lives, I can give as good as I get.

I sit up and roll off the bed, pulling him to stand with
me. I take his place on the bed, moving all the pillows out
of our way before I lie down flat. Getting him to straddle
me is easier said than done, since he knows intercourse
isn't in tonight's program, but he gets the picture
finally. I direct his kneeling body manually, pulling and
pushing his hips into position.

Nope, Mulder, too far. Back down a little. Right there.
Stop looking a question at my face and look down. See where
not-so-Mini-Mulder is? That's right. Tonight's gonna be a
whole 'nother kind of ride, partner. For both of us. Take a
deep breath, Dana Scully. You can do this. You CAN do this.

I always considered breasts to be a sexual target,
something to be manipulated by a man's hands and tongue and
lips, not something with which I could physically stimulate
a man. I've been wonderfully surprised by Mulder's
reactions every time I show him a new trick I've learned,
and I hope this won't be an exception.

Pushing my breasts together I'm unable to completely cover
his penis, but I'm more than amply able to press firmly
against the sides of his saliva-slicked cock. The tips of
my fingers can brush the crown and the top of his entire
length. I'm pretty sure from his viewpoint the fox tattoo
is clearly visible to him. Instead of exerting pressure on
his hips as before,  I encourage him to move by pushing and
pulling my breasts up and down, his length trapped in
between. He gets the message much faster this time. As much
as I am able, I continue to lubricate him orally.

I smile as I look down at his cock between my breasts,
sweat and precum and saliva providing just enough
lubrication for a smooth trip without denying all the
pressure and friction we both feel. An old joke pops into
my head: "If olive oil is made from olives, what's baby oil
made of?" Or in this case, "If a blow job is oral sex,
what's a boobjob?"

I watch the head of his erection slip through the passage
I've created for him, past the tightly peaked nipples now
clenched firmly between my fingers, my palms continuing to
exert pressure from the sides. He takes long, slow, full
strokes, extending the contact between us as much as
possible. If I concentrate I think I can feel his pulse
against my breastbone. He punctuates thrusts that are
particularly pleasurable with vocalizations that make my
nipples ache that much more. "Oh, Scully," "Love you,"
"Mmmm," "So good," "God, baby" and "Can't believe" are the
ones repeated most often. Mission accomplished. Almost.
Time to really shock him.

"Mmmm, Mulder, that's so hot. It's called a titty-fuck.
I've never let anyone do this before. Oh, yeah... You could
say I'm a virgin there. -umph!- You're the first to fuck my
tits. Mmmm, you like that, huh? Wanna be the first? Come on
my virgin tits? -umph- Yeah, like that, come on me, yeah,
let me suck it, Mulder, come for me, come on, mmmm..."

Typical male. As soon as the word virgin passes my lips his
rhythm shifts from those long, controlled strokes to short,
wild jabs, the head of his cock none-too-gently butting
against my chin as my tilted head looks down at the
spectacle on my chest. True to my word I open my lips - I
can't quite reach the whole of the head from my position so
I swipe at the leaking fluids with my tongue each time it
passes close enough.

Mulder's vocalizations are a constant now, and I know the
time is near. I press him tighter, give him some more dirty
talk and make little slurping sounds with my mouth that in
any other circumstance would be considered silly. Actually,
they're silly even under these circumstances, but for
Mulder, aural sex is as much of a turn-on as oral.

Taking more control, he grasps my breasts with his own
hands, pressing me almost painfully tight around him. My
arms now free, I stroke his hip with one hand as I worm the
other between our bodies to manually stimulate myself.

From my perspective his cock is much larger than normal.
With a final emphatic grunt his ejaculate rushes forth,
aiming straight for my face. My own personal IMAX movie - a
thirty-foot tall Mulder!Cock complete with SurroundSperm
(tm). I jerk my head back in surprise and swallow
reflexively as his first jet shoots directly into my mouth.
The second arcs over my head like an ICBM and I watch it
like some slow-motion Discovery Channel documentary. I
close my eyes in self-defense as it impacts onto my
forehead and hairline. Several more strategic blasts
follow.

While I will never understand why men find this sexy, I am
intensely turned on by the fact that this is Mulder, my
partner and lover, and I have clearly pleased him well. I
rub my clit briskly. I come almost immediately after he
finishes and arch my back reflexively, dislodging Mulder
and throwing him off the bed.

It takes a while before either of us move. Crawling off the
bed, I don't even bother with a robe as I go to the
bathroom and wash my chest off with soap and water. After
drying myself, I pad into the kitchen and get a big glass
of ice water and wrap a cold pack in a clean dishtowel.
Stopping by the bathroom again, I grab the towel I'd just
used and a clean washcloth, which I wet under warm water.

By the time I return to the bedroom, Mulder is just
starting to pull himself off the floor. I put the glass
down on the dresser and toss the towel and icepack on the
bed before helping him stand. Moving the hand he has
clutched to the back of his head I put the warm washcloth
in his hand. I press my fingers against his skull and feel
the lump forming. I touch the pack to the swelling as he
cleans himself off.

"You should be more careful," I chuckle.

"If I'd known I was going to be in a rodeo I'd have worn
chaps and boots to bed," he smiles in return.

After he's cleaned and dried himself and our escalating
pile of laundry has been dealt with, we get back into bed.
We're still naked, and the cooling sweat forces us to
retrieve the bedclothes and pull them up to our bellies.
Cuddled together like this, our standard after-sex snuggle,
I think Mulder has finally realized why I had the tat
placed in that particular location. He keeps lifting his
head from its resting place and looking from the fox's face
to mine.

Mulder has this post-coital habit of laying his head on my
chest. With his ear on my breast, right over my heart. He
tells me he likes to hear my heartbeat, likes how it slows
in the minutes after our joining, a timpanic onslaught that
eases and quiets until he can feel our blood pulsing in
harmony. Putting the fox tattoo right over my heart is both
a declaration and an invitation.

"Consider it your own personalized parking space," I say.

"Seems to me I've parked myself here twice tonight."

"Good night, Mulder."

"Yes it was."


---

End.

---


Process Of Elimination _*WILL*_ return in:

Desk Jockey, by mimic117

Mimic's Musings: http://surfacing.com/mimic117/

---

More Mooses, I mean, More Notes:

The fact that this fic got finished, at all, ever, instead
of just being four and a half months late, is thanks to all
the ladies of the chat group, particularly Nell, Vel, Mims,
FatCat and Carma. Donnilee and sdani especially went above
and beyond the call of stalking. You ladies are my ten in
five billion. Or something.

Did you know the word fellatio is NOT in the built-in MS
Office dictionary, but it does tell you when you spell it
wrong? I want -that- job. Now, if only it could tell the
difference between "the" and "them" in context.

I'm blaming all this insanity on the lack of sufficient
nicotine in my bloodstream and too much oxygen in my lungs.
Or maybe it's a lack of nicotine in my lungs and too much
oxygen in my bloodstream. Whatever. Just remember, sending
feedback is a GOOD habit. Get hooked.

*Apologies to moose. I mean Monty Python. Whatever.

God I want a smoke.

Craving lots of things I can't have,


XL
--
http://surfacing.com/xl/
xochiluvr@surfacing.com
Owner, Chief Cook and Bottle Washer,
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MSR-SMUT/
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MSR-Central/
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MSR-D/