From:             romanac@hotmail.com Romana Clef

Subject:          Diet Coke

Date sent:        Wed, 25 Jun 1997 19:53:38 GMT

 

Being inspired by the elegance and force of writers such

as Anais Nin, Pauline Reage, and yes, even Anne Rice,

I've always wanted to try my hand at erotica, so here is

my attempt.

 

No whips and chains, but no hearts and flowers, either.

 

Timeline-wise, this story should take place before Never

Again.  One of the reasons I liked Never Again, despite

its considerable problems, is that I've often felt that

Scully was harboring the emotions expressed in that

episode.  Some of those feelings appear in this story.

 

Hope you all enjoy it!  (tell me if you do!  Or you can

even tell me if you don't, if you'll tell me why.

Always striving to improve.)

 

I'm posting this part tonight (thinking that maybe some

folks would enjoy some smut on their Saturday night ;) )

and part two should follow tomorrow.  It'll be a little

edgier and more graphic.

 

Oh yeah, and this story has nothing to do whatsoever

with that Diet Coke guy or his commercials.  But I had

to title it something, and it was either "Diet Coke" or

"Untitled #3" or some such.

 

Romana

 

***************************

 

PLEASE ARCHIVE

 

Classification: V, MSR

 

Rating: NC-17

 

Summary: Smut, and maybe character development.  Scully

has perverse fantasies.

 

Disclaimers:  Mulder and Scully are property of CC,

1013, and FOX.  They are borrowed without permission,

but without any intention to profit from them.

***************************

 

 

She sat slumped on the couch, half-naked, with her feet

up on the coffee table in a most unladylike pose.  She

rested the can of Diet Coke on her belly; the cold

condensation seeping through her silk blouse soothed her

skin.  The can was so cold that her fingertips were

already numb.

 

Her jacket and briefcase, her skirt and shoes and hose,

all lay strewn in a line heading toward the fridge.  She

had stripped them off as soon as she entered the

apartment, grabbed the soda from the fridge, and

collapsed on the couch in a funk.  The heavy silk of her

ivory blouse clung damply to her body, but the blouse

was soft enough that the sensation was not unpleasant.

What she wouldn't give to live in a climate where she

could wear a blouse more than once before having to send

it to the cleaners...

 

Not that dry-cleaning bills were her greatest problem in

life.  No, there were others...  She idly rotated the

shining can, reading the label, but finding out (once

again) how many milligrams of caffeine were in it

provided only the barest distraction against the wave of

unhappiness building up in her.  The wave crested, and

crashed.

 

She was angry.  She was tired.  She was trapped.

 

Trapped in a bizarre, frightening, and unpleasant life,

and the worst of it was she couldn't cry, "I never asked

for this!" because she had.  She had wished for

adventure and the chance to be a hero and she had gotten

it.  The fact that she hadn't looked far enough ahead to

predict certain logical consequences of her wish was her

own damn fault.

 

No, come to think of it, that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was how something could be so weird and

frightening and yet _boring_ at the same time.  A

nightmarish routine was still a routine.  Her life was

so narrow.  Her world was so narrow.  She could be in a

different state of the union every damn day and it would

still be all the same.  The motels, the rental cars, the

coffee, the horror the arguments the frustration... Her

apartment.  The office.  She brought the sameness with

her.  She created it everywhere she looked.

 

She squirmed at the tension building up in her

shoulders.  The motion brought her attention back to the

tight clamminess of her sweat-damp bra, and she reached

around back to unhook it.  She didn't bother wriggling

out of it all the way, just lifted it up a bit so that

her breasts were covered instead by the warm silk of her

blouse.  She pulled the blouse up a bit, letting the

draft from the air conditioner play across her stomach.

She tried setting the soda can down on her bare skin,

but the jolt of cold drew a little gasp from her.  Too

cold.  She smoothed her blouse back down.

 

So, what was there for her to do about it?  She didn't

know how to look at things differently, or how to make

herself feel differently.  It's not as if she could

un-know what she knew...  She longed to be transformed

by something outside herself.  It was an ache that was

so hard to put into words... she needed to place herself

in the grip of something that would demand everything of

her.  She wanted to be utterly consumed, subject to

sensations so intense that she could forget herself.

And then find herself again... In other words, she

thought wryly, she wanted to come.  And hard.

 

Completely anonymous.  That's one way it could be.

Images welled up and she settled herself deeper into the

couch cushions... One night she could knock on the door

to his motel room, and stare up into his face, and he

would know.  He would know that a single word would

spoil everything and that her name would be the worst

word of all.  He would step aside and with a little

half-gesture motion her into the room.  She would be

looking down, so she wouldn't see his face as he

approached her.  As he laid his hands on her shoulders

and ran them lightly over the silk of this very same

blouse.  A measured interval, of only the most delicate

pleasure, giving either one of them plenty of time to

chicken out...

 

But neither would, of course, and he would pull her to

him roughly and invade her mouth with his tongue and she

would kiss him back fiercely, trying not to make even

the tiniest moan.  When they broke off the kiss, she

would stay pressed close against him, rubbing her face

against the rough cotton of his dress shirt and drowning

in his scent.  But he would gently disengage her arms,

and then sink to his knees before her.  His touch would

be light as he nuzzled against her chest and belly.  He

would kiss the silk before him, he would actually bite

it.  He would mouth and nibble the edge of the placket,

as if the fabric were a part of her.

 

And this would inflame her.  She would tilt his head

back up and run her thumb across his wet lower lip.  She

would dip her thumb into his mouth and he would take it

in deeper, caressing it everywhere with his tongue.

Then with a last kiss to her hand, he would fumble with

the covered buttons of the blouse and lay it open,

without removing it entirely.  Pausing for only a brief

kiss on her bare skin, he would continue to her skirt,

unzipping it and letting it fall, uncovering...

thigh-high stockings.  Why not?  Maybe she packed them

specifically for this seduction... And the white undies

with the V of lace at the front, showing off the moist

curls of her hair to him. 

 

At the sight of all this, a helpless sound would escape

his throat.  He would bury his face at the juncture of

her thighs, and the rough pressure of his mouth and nose

on the most sensitive spot, the warmth of his breath

there, would wring a moan out of her that she couldn't

stifle.

 

 

 

 

Oh, this was going well.  She shifted on the couch,

bringing her legs together for a moment and writhing to

increase the pressure.  She moved the still-cold can of

soda lower; the cold penetrated in a most pleasant way,

and she couldn't help but rotate her hips a little,

hitting the hard edge of the can *just right*...

 

So where was she...  Was there any way... could he pick

her up in a bar?  No, that would require coordination.

Words.  But maybe... maybe they could head over to a bar

for a friendly drink at the end of a hard case, and just

as they walked in he would tell her, "Go sit at the

other end of the bar and pretend you don't know me."

Just a harmless bit of fun.  And they would sit on

opposite ends of the bar, where it curved back to the

wall, so that they could see each other.  And she would

order... what?  Not a martini -- nothing in a fragile,

girly-looking glass.  Maybe a good scotch. 

 

They would get their drinks, and stare at each other,

and though the lights would be dim as they are in bars,

there would be light glinting off his watch.  Light

detailing the hair on his arm, showing from beneath his

rolled back cuff.  Light on his strong hands.  Her eyes

would never leave his as she raised the glass to her

lips and let the heat of the liquor course through her.

She would let the liquid rest in her mouth, breathing in

the complex, smoky taste.  And naturally, she would have

to wonder, was his taste similar at all?  If she went

down on him, if she took it in her mouth, what would he

taste like?

 

 

 

 

Oh yes, this was a good one.  This was one to save for

the future.  Staring at him from across a bar, dreaming

of fucking him as she drank, and knowing from the

burning quality of his gaze that he _had_ to be thinking

the same thing.  And it would segue so nicely into her

appearing at his door later that night.  She slid her

other hand inside her drenched panties.  She relaxed

further, her mouth falling open, as she slipped one

finger, then two, into the wetness.  The heel of her

hand provided all the pressure she needed.  Her other

hand still clutched the can of coke, forgotten and

unnecessary now.

 

Of course, sweetly anonymous wasn't the only way it

could play out.  She could finish this scenario some

other time.  Maybe it would end with her pinned against

the cold tile of the shower the next morning, as he

thrust into her, and she came so hard that it almost

hurt.  Mmmm, that would be a nice ending.  But there

were other ways to play it....

 

 

 

 

 

She could get angry with him.  She _should_ get angry

with him.  Her black mood, her increasingly desolate

life, were his fault as much as hers.  It didn't dim the

attraction, of course.  His mouth, his eyes, the set of

his shoulders, it all screamed out "tortured romantic

hero".  Every man and woman who crossed his path felt

the pull, felt that he or she was the only one who could

allay his despair, murmuring words of love to this

beautiful, sad creature.   His every gesture promised

violent, exclusive passion, a consummation that would be

akin to dying in each others' arms.  Who would guess

that his haunting charm was accompanied by smug

self-centeredness?

 

Why was she dreaming of the taut, silken skin of his

throat and his chest, of his murmurs of passion, of his

cock filling her mouth and almost bruising her lips,

when the man himself was such an insufferable prick

sometimes?

 

So... they would be in their office, and he would be

looking right past her even as he spoke, in the grip of

one of his obsessive visions, and she would cut him

down.  She would say something calculated to wound,

something true.  And he would be stricken.

 

Oh yes, stricken.  Beautifully stricken, that tortured

look that suited him so well.  And he wouldn't be able

to ignore her any longer as she told him exactly what he

had done to her life.  And her final point: she would

move closer to him, invade his personal space, her voice

almost purring as she said, "You know this worst part,

Mulder?  You get off on the guilt."

 

It was true.  More than he wanted salvation, he wanted

punishment.  Part of him would be shivering in mute

worship with every unkind word she offered, so glad to

be finally getting what he deserved.  And when she let

him know that she was in on his secret, the look on his

face would be raw, inexpressible emotion.

 

With the language of his eyes and the language of his

body he would give himself over to her completely.  Her,

the only person who truly knew him.  The one person he

could never ignore again, because she knew what he

needed.

 

Maybe she would give it to him.  Maybe she would lock

the door and tell him to kneel and to take his shirt

off.  And he would look... transfixed, as he stripped

off his tie, his dress shirt, and his thin undershirt.

 

The contrast of seeing his naked skin in that setting

would be outrageous, obscene.  She would have to run her

fingers lightly over the muscles of his shoulders and

across his crisp chest hair before she could believe

that it was real.  She would touch his mouth, part his

lips and his teeth, slide across the warm, velvety

flesh, and he would welcome the invasion, sucking on her

fingers almost greedily.  So what that the other fantasy

started this way?  She happened to like this

sensation... And what made this scenario a little

different was that he was worshipping her and she was

ravaging him...

 

 

 

 

Back on the couch, she cast about for the next scene,

the next configuration... The thought of telling him off

provided its own distinct pleasure, but not the kind of

pleasure that she needed right now.  Not the kind that

she was getting desperate for.  Sensation was building,

and she pressed harder, trying not to lose her momentum.

 

The vision appeared, and she could almost feel it, as if

it were really happening.  Someone grasping her arms

firmly behind her back, someone who could pin her up

against him using only a fraction of his strength...

 

Oh god, start over.  Let that one build.  It had to be

in her apartment.  That's where she wanted him to take

her.

 

This was the one she was too embarrased to start with,

she had to be drunk with fantasy before she would let

herself feel this.

 

Her apartment.  She would be sitting on one of her

kitchen chairs, with her hands curled helplessly in her

lap.  Not helpless in a frightened way.  Nothing he

could do to her would frighten her.  She would take

anything.

 

All day the erotic tension would have been building up

between them, and she would have continually provoked

him, trying to make him angry enough so that he would

forgo his better judgment and touch her.  One touch

would unleash it all, and he wouldn't stop until he had

devoured her.

 

And now she had said something, the last straw, and

gazed up at him, defiantly helpless.  And he broke.  He

closed the distance between them with one long stride,

grabbed her wrists and jerked her upwards.  He turned

her around and prisioned her arms behind her, drawing

her close to him.  His rough motions drew a moan from

her.  She struggled a little, the better to feel his

force, the better to gain proof of the passion that he

had promised for so long.

 

He did not disappoint.  Despite her efforts she was held

firmly against the living hardness of his body.  Some

days, his size and strenth infuriated her.  Sometimes,

when she was angry with him, the knowledge that he could

physically command her at any time made her sick to her

stomach with rage.

 

Not now.  Oh no.  Now it was exactly what she wanted.

She pressed closer to him, seeking out the bulge of his

erection and grinding her hips shamelessly against him.

It worked.  He convulsed with the pleasure of it.  He

released her arms and wrapped his arms around her from

behind, one down across her hips and the other up across

her breasts.  He caressed her roughly through her skirt,

bending down to kiss her ear and her neck, using his

teeth, almost gnawing on the sensitive flesh.  She was

no longer in control of her voice, and she moans she

made as his other hand cupped and then crushed her

breast were indecent.

 

Oh god.  There wasn't any time... there wasn't time to

watch him strip her clothing from her and tease her

nipples with his teeth, or to appreciate the wool of his

slacks against her bare ass, or watch his cock emerge

for the first time as he undressed.  She had to skip to

the good part... *now*.

 

The part where they were kneeling naked on her bed, and

he was behind her again, supporting her breasts, toying

with her nipples, sometimes pinching them sharply.  Her

arms were stretched up around his neck and his cock was

sliding awkwardly between her legs.  The geometry was

all wrong for him to enter, so all it could do was tease

her slick lips, driving her wild. And even though she

could tell from his desperate panting and his burning

skin that he was just as wild to take her as she was to

be taken, he was making her beg.

 

"Say it, Scully. You have to ask for it."  His voice

warm, his lips tickling her ear.

 

"Please fuck me," she murmured against him. "Please

fuck..."

 

 

 

 

The vision dissolved as she shuddered.  Her hips rolled

as the climax surged through her and the can of soda

tipped over.  "Fuck," she cursed in a mild tone, and set

it on the coffee table.  Ignoring the Diet Coke soaking

in to her area rug, she leaned back and let the tremors

subside, leaving a pleasant warmth behind them.

 

Well, this wasn't going to solve all her problems, but

it had certainly succeeded in cheering her up for the

moment.  She kicked off her useless underwear and curled

up on the couch for a nap.

 

 

 

 

 

end part 2/2