Rating: R (language and sexual situations)

Category: S

Keywords: MSR

Disclaimer: Hopefully I've tainted them enough that even CC won't want them
anymore.

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

Another Saturday night, another night with the guys. With one small difference...

When Scully's plans to visit her mother fell through, I offered to take her along to
this new karaoke bar the Gunmen were dragging me to. Well, more like *begged*
her to come, if you want to get technical about it. They're convinced the owner is
involved in some kind of subliminal message conspiracy using sound waves
transmitted through the speakers. And they say *I'm* paranoid.

She has agreed to come along, thank God, and now the night's beginning to
look better already. The last thing I'm in the mood for is to spend my Saturday night
with the three most suspicious men in DC.

The five of us sit at a round table in the corner of the bar. "So we look inconspicuous,"
Langly stage whispers as he leads us to the table. Humph! What a joke. Byers looks
like a car salesman in his usual suit, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb in the
casual crowd. Frohike's wearing a coon tail hat, for God only knows what reason.
And Langly. Oh yeah, Langly, you blend in well with your torn-to- shreds jeans and
"Fuck The Establishment" t-shirt. Christ, these guys wouldn't last a day doing the kind
of undercover surveillance I used to do a few years back. Inconspicuous my ass.

So here we are. Scully's frowning, there's a woman on the stage crooning at the top
of her lungs, sounding like she's giving birth. The food's greasy, the nuts stale, the
drinks watered down and the cocktail waitress is -- well, bitchy, if you get right down
to it.

Worst of all of these is the singing. Dear lord in heaven, the singing.

I've experienced a lot of things during my stint on the X-Files. From mutants to
sadistic murderers, I figured I'd seen it all. But I was wrong. So far, the night has been
an introduction to a new sort of terror -- the drunken karaoke singer.

It seems wrong, somehow, to watch these grown men and women stumble on the
stage and take their place at the mike. You can see it in their eyes -- the pride of a
great performance, the certainty of being discovered and whisked away to stages
as big as this bar, crowds of millions. Can they not see the crowd cringing in unison?
It's like watching a train wreck.

Like the next woman stiffly walking across the stage now, massacring "You're So
Vain" in a loud and brutally off-key pitch. Good God. Someone put that woman out
of her misery. Tone deafness is a VERY bad thing.

Frohike, not wanting to leave and abandon his theories on subliminal messaging just
yet, attempts to salvage the rest of the night with a game of quarters. It takes a little nudging and much teasing to get Scully to play along, but not as much as I expected.
The four strawberry margaritas she'd downed earlier have loosened her up a bit.

"Come on, Scully," I goad, "What? You afraid?"

"Screw you, Muller," she declares loudly. Four heads snap up in her direction, surprised.
"I'll have you know that I jusso happen to be the Irish daughter of a sailor. If that
doesn't give me the qualifications to drink every las' damn one of you under the
table, I don't know what does."

It's three in the morning by the time the cab drops us off at her apartment.

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

So here we are, eating cold, leftover pizza from Scully's fridge, and somehow we get
on the subject of strip clubs.

"Muller, how can you possilly think that a woman is enjoying herself on some ran'om
man's lap, working for dollar bills to be stuffed inner g-string?" She says with a look of
concentrated seriousness on her face. "Furthermore, I'm shocked that you, a manutha -
-utha nineys, would find such degr'dation of women appealing!"

This sounds valid to me, but of course I won't *tell* her that. Besides, it's so rare that
we talk about this kind of thing that I'm jumping on the opportunity.

"Scully, to be fair, these women get thirty plus bucksa pop for lap dances, " I slur. "They
are anything but unnerpaid for their serv'ces. Seconly, many women enjoy themselves.
It can be an art."

"Humph! I highly doubt that, Muller, no matter how much you'd like to believe it's true.
Face it! Most women in that indussry suffer from low self-'steem, plain an' simple. To
think otherwise is just to clear your own conscience."

I raise an eyebrow, just to irritate her. "What, so I can get my ya-yas, guilt-free? No,
Scully. I think you're jus' avoiding the poss'bility that some women like it. Maybe you're
jus' afraid that *you're* not one of them."

That does it. I can see in her face she's taking the challenge with the seriousness of a
double dog dare. Rising slowly, she wobbles into the bedroom and slams the door.
Oh, shit. Maybe I pushed her too far. I can hear some shuffling and banging going on
in her bedroom.

"Scully?" I call out.

"Jus' gimme a minute, will you?" She shouts back.

She comes out five minutes later and goes to the stereo to put on a song I've never
heard before.

"Mazzy Star," she tells me, as the singer commands someone to 'tell her' something
'now'. "Sexiest voice ever," Scully adds with a nod.

The steady, sensuous beat of the song pulses straight to my groin. Scully sashays
toward me as I sit petrified on the couch, and sways back and forth. Her eyes lock
with mine, and they appear green in the semi-darkness. Beautiful.

//'Tell me now to make it so,
make it so I can't speak.
Make it so I can't...speak.'//

She runs her hands up and down the length of her torso, and then unbuttons her shirt
one button at a time. She teases me this way with flashes of her bra before suddenly
spreading the two sides apart and allowing the fabric to slide inch by inch down her
arms, which are straight behind her back, effectively thrusting her lace encased
breasts toward me. She grasps each breast, lifting them in time with the music and
pinching the nipples through the lace.

Dear Lord.

//'Eyes of blue
Sea of red
Take me to
Where I've never been dead
Where I've never been...dead.'//

Hips swaying, she slowly slips her pants down her legs and steps out of them. She's
wearing a black bra and matching panties, a stark contrast against her pale skin.
It makes one hell of a picture. She turns around and rolls her hips, rubbing that sweet
ass on my legs while pulling her hands through her hair. By now, my hard-on can't be
ignored.

//'Hey, it's between myself and me,
It's a very...lonely...place.'//

"Mullderr," she says in a sexy, whispery voice, "I can see you're having fun," she pauses
and runs a finger along my jaw line, forming her lips into a sexy pout, "but I'm not so
sure I am. Maybe I should get a little...closer?"

With that, she slips smoothly over my lap, clad only in her bra and that damn thong.

"Holy shit, Scully!" I yell out before I can stop myself. I can feel the damp heat of her
pressing against the bulge in my jeans. Sucking in a harsh breath, I turn my head to
see if she wears the look of triumph for having this power over me I expect her to
have on her face.

But I'm shocked to see she looks every bit as turned-on as I do.

She takes a minute to adjust her body over mine and then grinds into my erection
in time with the music, driving me mad with want. Her right hand grasps the back
of my neck for balance while the left caresses her breast through the fabric of her
bra.

"Hmm," she hums, "Feels good."

Oh, yes. It most definitely does.

//'Crimson red...'//

"I told you some women enjoy it," I manage to croak out. She thrusts into my groin
again in answer, drowning out any and all thoughts I had of -- well, any and all
thoughts. Period.

I *know* this has to be affecting her as much as me. The friction shoots rockets of
pleasure through my cock already, so I can only imagine what it's doing to her.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I notice the song playing has ended and is
starting gain. God bless Mazzy what's-her- name.

Sliding my hands underneath the back of her bra, I struggle a moment to unhook it.
It irritates me, just something standing between Scully's breasts and me. God, they're
beautiful.

I latch onto one, laving the tip with my tongue, delighting in the taste and texture
of it. She tastes incredible. I can faintly hear her moaning above me, her hands
wound in my hair, pulling me head closer to her.

My Scully is impatient. Good, I like that.

I decide not to play favorites and move on to give the same attention to the other
breast. Now, she's writhing and thrusting against my aching cock. I slip a finger under
the band of her thong, tracing the line of it along the luscious curve of her ass. She
arches her back and the sound of her gasp is heaven to me.

I pull back a little, overexcited by the knowledge of what's going to happen, and
look into her eyes. I need to be sure she won't hate my guts in the morning.

"Scully," I say, voice cracking on the word.

"Yeah?" she breathes out.

"We're both a little -- inebriated. I think we better stop. Now." While I still can.

She reaches down and grasps the bulge in my pants in answer. My hips buck in spite
of me and I bite my bottom lip to keep from gasping out loud.

"Mmm, Mulder," she says in that breathy voice, eyes half-mast, "I don't *think* so,
Partner. We're not stopping for *anything*."

She stands and resumes her little striptease, still gyrating to the music. The only thing
left is the thong, but she still manages to make the removal of that single item a
painfully slow task.

Naughty Scully. Such a tease.

Finally, she shimmies out of her panties and flings them at me. I can't resist bringing
them to my face, pulling the scent of her into my lungs. Mmm, delicious.

Her eyes grow wide as saucers, shocked. Hmm. Seems I've managed to turn the
tables, if only for a moment. I take advantage of this and pull her hand, bringing
her to sit sideways on my lap and I stroke the curve of her face. I love this woman
so much. I've never told her that. Maybe it's time I showed her.

I lightly run my hands down her body, relishing the little shiver that runs through her.
My left hand rests at her little thatch of curls as I feather the thumb of my right in circles
at the small of her back.

She whimpers, impatient for me. I play with her a little more this way before giving
her what she craves, first teasing her hardened clitoris with the tip of my finger, and
then working my way inside her. But it isn't enough; I want to *taste* her, too.

Lying her down on the couch, I kiss my way down her firm body, lingering on her
navel for a minute before trailing down to the inside of her thigh. The open-mouthed
kisses I place there make her squirm and arch her back in anticipation.

"Please, Mullderrr," she pleads. It's music to my ears, but unnecessary. She doesn't
know the only thing in the world that would give me pleasure is to drink her in,
tasting the weetness of her.

I indulge myself, alternately flicking my tongue over her clit and dipping it into
her heated folds. She bucks against me in reflex as I feast on her, savoring each
delicious second. Lapping her up.

Soon, the insistence of my own arousal forces me to stop and I pull away. She
moans in protest. I stand and remove my jeans and boxers, resuming my former
position as fast as I can. We readjust and in one smooth thrust, I push into her
heated and welcoming entrance.

Jesus. Nothing can be better than this. She's so tight and soaking wet -- her
inner muscles gripping tightly around me. I thrust once, twice. We settle on a
rhythm and, oh my God, she's killing me with each meeting thrust of her hips,
tightening around me mercilessly at intervals.

Just when I think I can't hold back a moment longer, she raises half off the
couch, body stiffening and cries out loud enough to wake the dead. She's
the most beautiful creature I've ever seen at that moment and I consider
myself one lucky son of a bitch to be the cause of it. The contractions of her
inner walls push me into my own blissful release.