Gourmet Groping II - the gorging continues. Date: April 2003 Author: The Pimpernel Rating: R for sexual situations, bad words, innuendo and gratuitous twisting of anything resembling a plot. Summary: Gambling's addictive, especially when the rewards are so delicious. Classification: SHR Keywords: fluff 'n' stuff, MSR. S POV. Spoilers: Yes, but blink and you'll probably miss them. Feedback: Lovingly sauteed with a touch of cream and brandy and accompanied by a nice Chianti - thepimpernel@waitrose.com Archive: I'd be stunned but go ahead. It's written to be read. Disclaimer: Just five more minutes Dad, and then I promise I'll put them away. Fanfic is a self-indulgence of the non-fattening type for neither body nor bank account. In other words any reference to characters created by Chris Carter real or imaginary is purely deliberate but they're not mine. I'm English forgive me my spelling. A box of Chocolate Mulders to eagle-eyed Elsie who applies a corset of grammar to my scribblings (or should that be keyboardings), squeezing them into something far more presentable than the original. This story is a continuation of Gourmet Groping. I doubt it will make much sense unless you read that first. I apologise to those who asked for a prompt when the second part came out, but, unfortunately, my email address book had a confrontation with a software upgrade and lost. I hope those readers spot this anyway. ***************************************************************** Once back in my own space, you'd have thought I'd have drawn in on myself, rationalised to the nth degree, but no. My mind was free to graze through some delectable daydreams, so it did that with relish. But fantasise though I did about actually reversing the bet on Mulder, I couldn't do it. Partly because, when I thought about it rationally, I didn't think my own experience would carry me through a whole meal, as it were. I just wanted a course to myself, or maybe two. Secondly, I just wasn't that... forward. I laughed at myself when I considered this, the irony of the work persona against the... not the personal persona, more my intimacy persona. Of course, there were two ways of looking at it. If you carefully locked something away only to bring it out for special occasions, it might emerge looking new and sparkling but it always seemed brittle and fragile, easily damaged no matter what care you took. If you used something every day, the chances of breaking it increased, but, somehow, it was less fragile. Take my best glasses and an ugly china teacup one of my aunts had given me. No matter what care I took with the glasses, whenever I got them out they all too frequently suffered chips, and on one unfortunate occasion, I had broken one, just with a glancing blow. Each time I got them out, there were the chips, sharp and new and obvious. I decided to use that ugly china cup every day, in the hopes of actually accidentally breaking it, but it appeared to be armour-plated. Oh, it had gotten the occasional chip, but with use the chips and cracks had seemed to smooth over, the edges more rounded. It had even survived what seemed to be direct knocks. That was my outward persona. My intimacy persona was like the glasses, new-looking, shiny, scarcely used and showing the chips in sharp relief. Like the glasses, I was cautious about using it again -- in case the chips turned into cracks. Which somewhat defeated the object of having them -- both the glasses and the intimacy persona. ***************************************************************** Life continued as normal. Again. I was expecting it to be weeks before Mulder raised the bet once more, if he ever did, so I was surprised, and not necessarily unpleasantly so, when he issued the bet again -- this time during a somewhat heated discussion of one of his theories. In the end, we were both right and both wrong. "So we both lose, Scully?" I could have let it go then. I could. "I was right about Joe not being telepathic." But I didn't. "So I think I'm entitled to half the meal." "And we walk out after the sorbet?" he enquired. "I'll pay for the other half of my meal." "Okay." He nodded absently, obviously thinking hard. "But I was right about telepathy being used." I was tempted to argue that he had no proof it was telepathy, but the perps had managed to synchronise their movements from over a mile away with no electronic equipment in sight. With no better theory to offer, maybe I could let this slide... "So you're claiming half my stake?" I queried. "Yes." "Claiming half the sex? You're going to pull out after the sorbet?" "I'll pay for the other half." I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't mean that as it came out. I didn't..." I knew that but I let him squirm. I crossed my arms and looked stern. "Scully...?" Damn, the puppy-dog look. He's playing dirty. "How are you going to pay for the other half?" He breathed a sigh of relief. "With my body, naturally." My stomach gave a little nervous somersault. Taking what was a big leap for me, I gave him an appraising glance, running my eyes over him from head to toe and back as if measuring him up. Was his body worth the price? No brainer right? "So we go halves on the meal and halves on the sex?" What the hell was I doing here? It's amazing the courage you can get when you're horny -- and reasonably confident you're getting the correct signals back. He nodded. "That way we both win," I confirmed. "Okay," he agreed. "Friday?" "I'll book the table," he said with alacrity before I could change my mind. ****************************************************************** Friday came. We lingered over the meal, had a great time, but as we got to dessert I started feeling a little anxious. What the hell for? I chastised myself. Because this felt like a date? And dating was not something we were going to do. Putting aside compatibility issues for the moment, I referred to the Dana Scully List of Dating Commandments created from a succession of relationship errors, number one hundred and three: 'Thou shalt not date men who are obsessed with their work'. Mulder must have noticed something because I caught him looking at me with concern. I managed a tentative smile back. Somehow he was able to put me back at my ease. It wasn't as if he backed off, just somehow changed the focus. He told a story about how he had been making a casserole, a cause for a bit of ribbing to start with. I mean, Mulder, food, cook? Anyway, after having been introduced to the intricacies of herbs and spices, he tried to put this new knowledge to use. Unfortunately, he'd read teaspoon as tablespoon, resulting in some rather intense flavours. After the meal, once again, Mulder walked me to my door. This time I let him in. Nervously, I offered coffee. He shook his head and put me out of my anxiety by pulling me to him. I think I tasted chocolate torte and Grand Marnier. "How do you want to play this, Scully?" he asked eventually, somewhat breathlessly, I'm pleased to say. I gave him a quizzical look. "Which courses do you want and while you're at it, nine courses doesn't divide equally between two. Even a non-math geek like me can work that out." "We'll alternate courses and share dessert. We usually share dessert. I get to go first." He nodded his agreement. I think I must have looked a little too eager. I had a tendency to rush when I was nervous. Once I'd decided to go with it, I'd try to get it over with. In this instance, Mulder had other ideas because he followed up with, "Remember we are just on the crudites, Scully. Little nibbles to start." Sure. Fine. Whatever. Just let me at that tie. And more to the point, what's underneath the shirt. To give Mulder his due, for someone who can shovel down a burger and fries as if he'd inhaled it, he certainly knows how to linger over a good meal. It's a sensory experience for him. He looks at it, appreciating the colour and presentation. He smells it, drawing the aroma deep inside. He tastes it, rolling it round his mouth to get the full flavour, savouring the texture, swallowing slowly, and enjoying every mouthful. And ever so subtly, he is teaching me to do the same. I always thought I knew a decent meal when I ate it, but Mulder is giving me a whole new perspective. I eventually got to undo the buttons on Mulder's shirt, and all I could think about was a spoon covered in hot chocolate sauce, just begging to be licked clean. How you can slurp and suck it, then lick your lips afterwards, still savouring the chocolate sticking to them. Despite my initial bravado, I was a little tentative at first, but Mulder was vocal in his encouragement and appreciation. I rapidly relaxed into my explorations, gaining confidence and arousal. Then Mulder chose a course that left me limp, languid and light- headed. That packet of sunflower seeds I bought him was a good investment. However, when Mulder said, "Your turn," a sudden rush of adrenaline had me in an undignified scramble to my knees, while mentally I was rolling up my sleeves, cracking my knuckles and licking my lips in readiness. I must have physically done the latter; either that or Mulder was mind reading, because when I spared a glance away from his body towards his face, he was grinning at my enthusiasm. Fortunately, before I could lapse into embarrassment, Mulder threw himself down, spread-eagled on the bed, erection bobbing -- I couldn't help noticing, with a "Gorge on me, I'm a non-fat, cholesterol free, carbohydrate-reduced morsel with zero free radicals. Eat as much as you like." Yummy. Wow, a Mulder diet. If I could bottle and market it, I'd make millions. Where to start, where to start? As I was debating my strategy -- whether to nibble round the edges first or dive straight into the meaty bit, Mulder flexed his muscles causing his penis to bob in what was a passable 'come hither' motion. I had to laugh and reached out to give an appropriate reward, causing Mulder to give a moan. Now I've heard Mulder moan about many things, usually painfully; an audit, budget meetings, a sprained ankle, a bullet through the shoulder, me not agreeing with him, and recently, moans of pleasure, but this one... this one I definitely had to hear again... and again. Hotdog, I was thinking. Jumbo hotdog. Hot and ready to go. I wasn't very confident of my skills here, but I wanted to give Mulder the same pleasure that he had given me. That, and the fact that Mulder had been constructively verbal so far gave me the confidence to start. Thankfully, he didn't disappoint. This appeared to be one arena where he didn't seem to feel the need to keep me guessing. I'm not sure if he ever reaches the point where he's lost for words but he certainly becomes incoherent. All too soon he stopped me. Probably just as well, as my cheeks were tiring. I needed more practice. "Scully, I really think you should leave the popsicle until last... otherwise... otherwise you might ruin your dinner," he gasped out. I think I pouted, but then there were plenty of other bits of Mulder to savour. So I set about savouring. If I hesitated, Mulder was there to bridge the gap; I never realised that Mulder was ticklish there... or there, or that that would arouse him. I'd never been one to play with my food, but then, I'd never realised it could be such fun. Or that I could wield such power; I really had to have Mulder whimpering like that again. But I wasn't addicted; I could give this up any time I wanted. This was just a bet after all. A vague thought about dopamine and brain scans of drug addicts compared to people shown pictures of their loved ones came to mind. The brain scans showed that the same areas of the brain were stimulated in both sets of people, indicating that you got the same dopamine 'high' from seeing your loved ones as addicts got from their drug rush. However, that thought was quickly swamped as Mulder had me for cheese... oh, and dessert, but I wasn't complaining even though we'd initially agreed to share. I was sweating, sore, satisfied and sated, superbly, supremely, splendidly somnomulous. "Did I shock you?" I shook my head. "Are you okay?" I nodded vigorously - well, as vigorously as I could manage given my current replete state. "Sure?" Okay, so ending up on my back with my knees tucked up around my ears and feeling like a trussed turkey for a moment was initially startling, but wow, what a banquet of sensations. I think what I experienced was cervical orgasm, but right then I didn't care about the clinical term, I just felt good. "Oh, Mulder, how can you doubt it, it was... you were wonderful. That bit surprised me but the sensations, after I got over the initial surprise, were... sensational." The orgasms must have loosened a few brain cells for me to be that complimentary. Then again he'd sounded a touch insecure. I smirked at him. "Mulder, you never struck me as someone who needed his ego stroked." "Just occasionally. It's nice. So long as it's true," he smiled. "Just like if I tell you you're stunning, smart, sexy... and sensational, too!" "Mulder..." I chastised and purred at the same time. Part of me worried that he had worked this out about me, the other part was saying, 'This is Mulder, he wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it.' Somewhere, at the back of my mind, a voice was chanting 'This is a bet, this is a bet.' But I was too relaxed, too sleepy to worry about it. ******************************************************************* It all came crashing back to me when I awoke in the morning. Mulder spooned around me, morning erection well in evidence. It was a bet, it was a bet. I wriggled to try to get away from him -- really that was the reason -- but it was a mistake. Now Mulder was nuzzling the back of my neck. No, this can't happen, it's not part of the bet. It mustn't happen. "You're going to tell me the bet's finished any second now." "Yes," I said, regret in my voice. "How about another bet?" "What bet?" I said, my voice tremulous. Mulder still nuzzling and stroking. Not touching anything controversial just yet, but still stimulating, arousing. "I bet I can make you scream. Otherwise, I treat you to breakfast?" "Ssscream?" I gasped, "You going to scare me?" "No, pleasure you." "Mulder, that's a flimsy bet." I could have bitten my tongue, but it was just so automatic to challenge him. Then again, was I considering this? It was outside of our normal pattern. "Best I can come up with -- pardon the pun -- at this time in the morning, when all the blood is south of my navel and above my knees." "You're not thinking straight?" He rubbed his erection against me. "Mostly straight, Scully." Oh God. That felt good. If it was a bet it didn't count, right? But Mulder was just doing it to get morning-after sex. And the problem with that was? Last night was a bet for sex, this morning another bet for sex. The barrier was getting very thin. No. No relationship going on here. Shit, he was skilled at that. Almost as persuasively articulate with his hands as he was with his mouth... er... speech. Okay, what was the bet again? If I screamed, I bought breakfast. Easy, I'd never screamed in my life... not during sex. I could taste those blueberry pancakes already. I tried to turn around to agree, but he kept holding me to his chest, nuzzling my neck up to my ear. It wasn't in the least bit ticklish, but extremely arousing, sending a jolt of arousal straight up and down my spine, lifting all the hairs as it went. Mulder continued to play my body; he was getting good at doing this -- better than good. My body was singing. I was ready, he felt ready; surely he wasn't going to make this a nine course breakfast? I tried to turn again, but he held me fast. He moved a leg between mine, pushing them apart, dropping his erection lower. What was he going to do? Not that, surely that needed more preparation and it really didn't appeal... "Mulder?" But he dropped lower. I had never done this either, part of me was apprehensive, part of me curiously excited. Mulder had managed to stretch quite a few of my boundaries and so far I'd liked it... a lot. So I relaxed, waited, and felt and oh boy that was niiicccee. I moaned and gasped and squirmed. I couldn't actively do much else. The orgasm when it came had me groaning so deep and loud in my throat that I made myself hoarse, but no scream. Even so, I wondered, as Mulder became more experienced with my body, if he would be able to elicit a scream from me. I'd always thought that sort of thing was melodramatic overacting, but now I wasn't so sure. If he thought he could, that was one bet not to bet against him; I'd try to remember for the future. I wondered if breakfast would be embarrassing, but he made no lovey-dovey comments, no crass asides. It was just like we were normally as he regaled me with a story about some strange voodoo ritual. He inquired about my plans for the afternoon. I was meeting my mother to go shopping. "Want me to carry your bags?" he asked. "You'd hate it." "Wanna bet?" "Don't push your luck, Mulder." My mother commented that I was looking well, chirpy even. I think she was fishing, but I didn't have anything to tell her. I haven't met anyone. I'm not dating. ******************************************************************* Things took a slightly different twist a few weeks later. I'd been surreptitiously browsing holiday destinations. I felt the need for a bit of sun. Not that me and sun get on very well; with my pale complexion, I spend most of the time slathered in sun block, reading in the shade of a tree, but the sun and warmth have this great beneficial effect. It's just... well, going on your own isn't that much fun. I must have zoned out looking wistfully at a white sand, palm-fringed, blue sea edged beach, because the next thing I knew was Mulder whispering in my ear. "I can just see you in a bikini, Scully, lounging back, sipping a gin sling, sucking the cherry off the stick..." I'd jumped when he first spoke and blushed slightly at being caught in the office with a holiday brochure, but now Mulder seemed to have wandered off into his own little fantasy land. I hurriedly closed the brochure and put it in my briefcase. "The lab results haven't come back yet, Mulder, I'll chase them-- " "Actually, I've got another case... in sunny California would you believe?" He paused, then nodded in the direction of my briefcase. "Have you booked it yet?" "What? Oh, no. It was just wishful thinking." "Funny that, Skinner was just intimating that it was about time I took some more vacation..." I could see where this was going. "Oh no." I shook my head to emphasize the negative. "No?" "No. I mean I won't go on vacation with you. There is no way I'm going to Vegas, or spending a week driving around curiosities or trailing haunted houses..." "Oh, and what happened when you went to Maine on your little lonesome?" "That wasn't planned! Anyway, the idea is to get a break from everything... do something completely different." When I played that back in my head, it sounded like I wanted a break from Mulder, which was partly true, but I hadn't meant to be hurtful. Fortunately, Mulder didn't seem to take it personally. "So, no flashing lights and no driving... And here we have a case in California, we could tag a few days on the end--" "No. You'd find the seediest motel and greasiest diner going. What's the case?" I tried to get back on track. Mulder could so easily suck me into these things if I wasn't careful. "Missing persons. You know you never struck me as a lying-on- the-beach type of girl." Part of me wanted to preen at the knowledge that he'd focused on me on a beach. Another part of me was a bit anxious. What if he stopped seeing me as a capable, practical, FBI agent? His partner? "The case, Mulder?" "I mean, it's kind of boring, just lying there toasting." I whisked the folder away from him, giving off frustrated vibes. I perused the folder's contents. "Right now, wallowing in a bath tub, wine on tap for a weekend, with no distractions sounds good to me." It took all of thirty seconds to read the 'case.' Now I knew why he was being vague, trying to distract me. "Mulder, there is no X-file here." "Sure there is. Three people missing, no one saw anything, no personal effects gone..." I tuned him out a bit, distracted by the name of the town; it seemed vaguely familiar... I walked over to his desk. I shuffled a few papers around. Ahh, there it was. Yes, the same name. "Mulder, I can't believe you'd do this!" "What?" he countered, but he looked sheepish. I held up the magazine from his desk. "That's just a coincidence, Scully..." "Coincidence?" He nodded. "Coincidence that you drum up a nothing of a case, just prior to a UFO conference starting in the same area." "Wanna bet?" Oh no, he was not wrangling me into going to the conference with him. "I am not getting into this with you, Mulder. The local PD can deal with it." "It's the local PD who have requested help. So, the bet's time at the beach against the UFO conference?" Talk about a dog and a bone. "Right, and the vague connection to an X-file is?" "Dunno, Scully, but Skinner gave us the case. Our flight leaves at three. Don't forget the bikini in case you win!" And he was gone in a swirl of overcoat. Hey, wait a minute, I wasn't going on this one, there was no X- file and I definitely wasn't going on vacation with him. I didn't agree to the bet, did I? ******************************************************************** So there we were in sunny California, in a nice hotel, with a spa bathtub in the bathroom, a balcony overlooking the sea, and a glorious four-poster bed. As in single, one of, only. Oh, it was a big bed, probably slept four comfortably but if... one bed. A couple of comfy chairs but no couch. Booked for a week. A whole week. And Mulder was being completely blase. "What a great bathtub. We'll make time for that later." He bounced out onto the balcony. "Get a load of this view! This is what you were after, right, Scully?" My mind churning with possibilities, connotations, consequences and a teensy bit of 'just go with the flow'. Okay may be that last bit was bigger than teensy. Needless to say, thoughts swirling, I walked pensively out onto the balcony. Mulder reached out an arm and pulled me in front of him, my back to his chest, wrapping his arms around my waist. I stiffened slightly. "Mulder, what's going on here?" "What's going on?" he echoed. I nodded. "You won the bet, Scully, an all-inclusive week's vacation consisting of sun, sea, sand, sustenance, slumber, and sex." Sex?? What bet? "Something completely different. No crummy motel, no greasy diner, no driving, no ghosts, goblins or ghoulies." He ticked off on his fingers. "Oh, and the only flashing lights should be in the nightclub. Does this not fulfil the bet?" Sex? I'm sure I didn't agree to the bet. I should stop this charade, shouldn't I? But Mulder seemed to think we'd had a bet. He'd gone to a lot of trouble and expense here. He probably wouldn't get his money back. It was also just what I wanted - needed, but I couldn't let that cloud my judgement. "Umm, yes... It's a beautiful place but I er... wasn't expecting... quite this package." Package as in 'You,' I thought. Sex. Not quite so much of you. Sex. A week of sex. With Mulder. All-inclusive bet. Sex. Who won this bet? I should stop this. Sex. Seven days, seven nights. I'd never stand the strain. Sex. Oh boy. I tentatively put my hands on top of Mulder's where they were lying around my waist, stroking up and down his forearms slowly. I relaxed back into him. This was a bad idea. It was a bet. I had strange flutterings of apprehension. I had strange flutterings of excitement. A week of Mulder's attention. All to myself. His passion directed at me. For a week. So what if it was for a bet, I was still exhilarated. Tentatively so, maybe, but I couldn't ignore the thrill I felt. It was a week of sheer and utter hedonistic gluttony. We both brought such famished appetites to the bed - er, table. Well, both actually, and the couch, the chairs... the wardrobe...on the beach... It was not perfect; we niggled at each other occasionally. We debated just about everything until in exasperation I'd said, "I thought it was my vacation." At which point, Mulder froze, then grinned sheepishly at me. "You're absolutely right, Scully, you choose, but I reserve the right to point out all the advantages of going to a burger joint." He made it up to me in spades later, absolutely no doubt about his apology. Sexually, I was getting more adventurous, losing my reticence. One day, it had rained and we hardly got out of bed, except to shower and eat. The shower had been interesting, the water seemed to make my skin more sensitive, that, and there were definite advantages to being in a shower with a fit, strong, athletic guy with a good sense of balance. We'd ordered room service for all our meals... I was never going to look at a strawberry in the same light again. I remembered reading about oxytocin and bonding. There had been a scientific study on rats or prairie voles, something small and furry anyway, which had concluded that the hormone could be the key to love. That was the attention-grabbing headline. Oxytocin, produced by the pituitary gland, has profound effects on the brain, changing the way nerves interact and even altering the brain's physical structure. At a more practical level, it was believed to forge strong sexual bonds between women and their partners, as well as being involved in creating the bond between a mother and baby. The animal experiments had shown that oxytocin switched on bonding during sex. If a male and female were put into a cage but not allowed to mate, they seemed to form a kind of friendship. But when oxytocin was injected into the brain of the female, the hormone had a powerful effect, driving them to 24-hour bouts of sexual intercourse, during which she formed a sexual bond. Subsequently, the female would choose to be with the male with which she had bonded, rather than another male she regarded as just a friend. Extrapolated to the human female, the conclusion was that if she spent 48 hours of intense sexual activity with a partner, something fundamental might happen to her behaviour. Should I be worried? It smacked of creating dependencies and lack of free will. Your own body plotting against you. It didn't stop me from initiating the next round of sex; I'd think about it later. This chance was too good to pass up. It was a good learning experience. Never having been one for casual sex, I'd just not had an opportunity to gather this depth of... empirical data. It was a little embarrassing at first. Mulder wanted it from behind, which was fine, but then he asked me which position gave me the best stimulation and I was stymied. I hesitated. I should know right? It was my body, after all. I should know how it responded, and I did, just not to that degree. Even after all the recent additional input I'd received. Mulder, bless his big cotton socks, knowing me as he does and seeing my dilemma, didn't try to elicit a further response. But trained investigator that he is, he proceeded to assist me in finding the answer. He went on to demonstrate all the possible angles he could think of. Starting with me prone, a pillow under my hips, on my hands and knees, head down, hands on the headboard, kneeling straight up, against the wall, bent over the bed, and all the combinations in between. You know, legs apart, legs together, Mulder swivelling his hips. Then last but not least, and God knows how he supported me, in front of the mirror. You've got to hand it to Mulder, there's not much that distracts him from his path once he's started down it. This can be a good thing and a bad thing. At the moment, I'm regarding it as a very admirable trait. I'm not sure if Mulder was deliberately working on my spontaneity as well, but he was giving me the inclination to practice. I sort of pinpoint that development on the evening we went out for a seafood dinner. There I was elbow deep in lobster, Mulder making a crack about my dissection habits, when I split open a claw and sucked out the meat. Mulder suddenly went quiet and I glanced up at his face - and froze. He had that 'I'm going to lick you all over, then gobble up the remains -- right now' look. I swallowed, then licked my lips. I did it again when I saw Mulder gazing at my lips in fascination. Now Mulder can be very controlled when it suits him, but he has this disconcerting habit of impulsiveness. However, we were eating dinner in a crowded restaurant; even Mulder wouldn't be rash enough to... to... well, jump me here. So, did I defuse and deflect the situation? Nope -- I played with fire. This opportunity for control over Mulder was heady stuff, and although I wouldn't normally tease or manipulate, a little flirting seemed in keeping with the bet. So, very deliberately, I broke open the other claw and sucked in the most suggestive way I could think of, bearing in mind we were in a public place. I was grinning, internally, when I saw Mulder fidget uncomfortably on his chair. He asked me if the lobster was good, then if I was finished. I said I'd finished the lobster but just had room for dessert. His eyes narrowed at me but he said nothing. Then, in measured movements, he stood up, put money on the table, and taking no notice of my squeaking protests, firmly walked us out of the restaurant. Mulder was absolutely controlled until we were out of the door, at which point there was a frenzy of activity. I was suddenly picked up, flung over his shoulder and rushed down the beach beyond the lights of the restaurant. He put me down, but before I could get three words of censure out, I was in a lip lock with Mulder, investigating just how tasty the lobster had been. Now had I been exposed so suddenly to Mulder's passion at this intensity some weeks ago, I probably would have been terrified, certainly frightened enough to have put up some resistance. As it was now, I was trying my best to keep up with the zero-to- sixty-in-five-nanoseconds rate he was setting. That was, until I felt him expose my breasts. Not a difficult task; I was wearing a silky, light weight blouse without a bra and my breasts were more than happy to assist in escaping any confinement they were in at the sight of Mulder's mouth. In fact, I'd swear they did a happy little dance and vied for his attention. Still, my conventional side was struggling with this location. "Mulder, we're on the beach." "Who says I'm not romantic, making love under a starlit sky." I tried the practical approach. "There's sand..." "Usually is on a beach." His hand went under my skirt. "It gets everywhere, it chafes..." My panties came off. "True," he said, positioning me against a palm tree. "Mulder, we're in a public place, anyone could walk past." "The consequences of your own actions, Scully." I know I could have stopped it if I really wanted to, so I guess I didn't really want to. Despite my protests, I was... was... was not unprepared shall we say. I think I justified it to myself by thinking I'd help Mulder get rid of his... urgency, but there was no way he was going to let me get away with half measures. Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound. The sacrifices I make for this man. Mulder dragged me off to the bar after. I protested, I was sure everybody would be able to tell what we'd been doing. He said my hair was wind blown and my face and chest sun kissed and I looked adorable. Adorable! Me! So I scurried off to the washroom to repair any damage. My hair was a mess, my face flushed, and my lipstick non-existent - Mulder found this adorable? I suppose my eyes were sparkling. This would be the 'just fucked look' then, except Mulder was too polite to say so. No, not too polite, respectful of my unarmed combat skills and the possibility of a quick knee to the testes. As if I'd do that at the moment; that would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. There are other ways of retribution. Of course, when I joined Mulder at the table he'd ordered me a cocktail called 'Sex on the Beach' - how predictable. Good thing they didn't have one called 'Long Slow Screw against a Palm Tree'. The drink was okay, by the way; I might have another one of those in the future. When I got a few moments to myself, I indulged in a bit of introspection. I believed there were occasions where I'd enjoyed sex in the past and occasions where I had not. Sometimes I'd just let it happen because it had been easier than debating why not. But there was no 'just thinking I am enjoying' about this. No, just letting it happen. I wanted it. I lusted after it. Pined after it. I wasn't quite at the point where I would lie, cheat or manipulate to get what I wanted. I wasn't addicted - but, depending on the circumstances, it might be a close run thing. I tried to think about past relationships. Not that I wanted to compare then with now; this was just a bet after all, no relationship going on here. Well, there was friendship, partnership, but no romantic relationship. It was just that I couldn't ever remember this feeling of... contentment and anticipation at the same time. Maybe it was my age. Women reached their sexual peak at my age. I'd always thought it was the ease of reaching orgasm that was measured, not the increased libido. But maybe the switch of hormones had other effects. That must be it. My hormones had primed my body. I, all unsuspecting and purely accidentally, had had sex at such a vulnerable time. It would all just fizzle out as the hormones re- stabilised. What was that about oxytocin again? ******************************************************************** Somehow after that week we started spending more down time together, always instigated by some bet. I bet you'd like this chick flick if you saw it, Mulder. I bet you'd enjoy a ball game if you joined in. I bet you can't relax enough to enjoy a picnic in the park. I bet this house is really haunted. I bet you'd sleep better in a bed. I bet you'd sleep after some exercise. Of course, bets for sex became more frequent, less costly. In fact, there was usually sex no matter who won, but neither of us commented on this subtle change. That, and Mulder threw himself into my data collection with gay abandon. He never said anything about it, but he'd obviously worked out what my 'problem' was and was secretly delighted. Not smug, but happy that my problem wasn't a problem, more a lack of experience coupled with my natural reserve. More than happy that he could assist with my education, possibly slightly amused at my enthusiasm for the subject. I hadn't felt before like he'd been holding back, but maybe cautious in his suggestions, trying not to offend or scare me. I thought he'd been pretty thorough before; now he made sure I considered all the possibilities that horizontal and vertical surfaces had to offer. Encouraged me to discover what worked for me and what didn't. I felt myself being drawn in, but there was no danger of drowning here. It was all done for a bet. We were meeting in our off-hours, having sex, but we weren't in a romantic relationship. We went on for months like that. Then I became aware that Mulder had stopped betting, but was still doing. He'd just turn up to take me out or spend the evening. Hand me a ticket to the game on Friday and expect me to be there. Okay, friends could do that, no change going on here. Then one lazy Saturday afternoon, we decided to play cards. Okay, okay, we were going to play poker... strip poker, for items of clothing and then... other things. I had every intention of winning. What? You think I'm going to lose my competitive edge? I hadn't lost that many brain cells. It's not as if I didn't intend to lose my clothes eventually, just that I wanted to make sure that Mulder lost all his first. After that, I suspected my concentration might waver. Mulder pointed me in the direction of the cards while he went to get the drinks. I rummaged in the cupboard for the cards, having to displace several sundry items such as videos and magazines, which I pretended not to see. But, and wild horses wouldn't drag this confession out of me, I was secretly pleased to see these items didn't appear to have been used recently. Having found the cards, I was about to shut the door on the mess -- requiring the co-ordinated skill of holding back the mess with one hand, while slamming the door with the other -- moving the retaining hand at the last second, when something caught my eye. Mulder came back with the drinks as I sat on the floor, staring at the box, trying to absorb the implications of what I'd found. "Did you find the cards, Scully?" he said, putting the drinks down. "How long have you had this, Mulder?" "What's that?" I held up the board game called Sex. "Ahh. I uhmm... borrowed that from Frohike." That was his panic face. "When?" "Er... uhmm," he squirmed. "Did you plan all this out? Has all this been a game to you, Mulder?" I don't know why I was upset; of course it had been a game. It had started off as a bet, after all. It's just that... just that I felt set-up, tricked. Like I'd fallen for some huge scam. "A game plan? Well... sort off." I scrambled up to make an angry, humiliated dash for the door. Mulder caught me before I'd taken a couple of steps. "Whoa. Whoa. Scully, let me explain. Please." I struggled to get past him. "Come on, Scully, you always hear me out first, before you refute my theories." Fine. But I wasn't usually in the situation where I was about to burst into tears. However, I stopped struggling and just stood, looking with great interest at the toes of my shoes. "Just so we're on the same page here, we are referring to that bet we had over Mr. Rubin?" I nodded. "That was serendipitous." Excuse me? Keep explaining, Mulder. "You can be very loquacious upon occasion. Now would be a good time to use that skill," I said dryly. "I admit I was trying to find a way to change our relationship. I wanted more but I was reluctant to just ask you straight out. I wasn't entirely sure how you'd react and a rejection would have been somewhat final." That didn't appease my mortification or temper very much. Although I was honest enough to admit to myself that I would have at least deflected any such request for change and, if pressed, would have been definitive in my refusal. "I wanted to take you to that restaurant, just as friends, but the situation was tricky. If you misconstrued my actions, you might think I was asking for a date, which I wouldn't have minded if you said 'yes', but then again, you might have thought I felt sorry for you, and I'd have pissed you off at the very least." So, I was right before when I thought he arranged the bet to take me to the restaurant. It was difficult to be angry with that, although I didn't understand why he hadn't just asked me. I'd have been happy to dine there with him. I'm not that unapproachable, am I? "So there I was in a bit of a dilemma. I couldn't move us forward at that point without taking a leap from the safe, comfortable and predictable relationship we had to something scary, exciting and relatively unpredictable with a veritable minefield of emotional time bombs. I would take the risk, but I knew you wouldn't, not without something to balance the unknown. I needed rules, not something I do well, but I knew you were more likely to venture forward if there were rules to follow." Typical presumption from Mulder that I would even want to change our relationship. And what rules? We didn't have any rules. I'd lost interest in my shoes and was now staring past him at the door, lips pursed in discontent. "We seemed to be at an impasse when I had a flash of inspiration, and it all just fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. There we were, uhmm... discussing a case and we decided to have a bet on the outcome, not an unusual occurrence for us. Something known, something with rules -- invisible, unstated, but set guidelines none the less. Rules I could play with. A bet for a meal, again, something known. All I had to do was up the stakes and I could take you to Frenchies. You'd be none the wiser, maybe a tad suspicious, but you'd let it pass because it was within bounds. And yes, I bet knowing I was going to lose, so I'm hoping you can forgive me if you consider that a set-up." My eyes were now staring a hole through his chest, and although I still couldn't look at his face, I could sense his questioning look. I really wasn't feeling very forgiving at this point, and I still felt he could have just asked me, but it would have been churlish to belabour the point. His heart had been in the right place, so I managed to give a curt nod to his request for forgiveness. "Then I did it again because... because... I wanted to. I wanted to go out to dinner with you for no reason other than to have a nice time. Seeing you enjoy yourself. Having you smile, giggle even. God, Scully, what that giggle does to me. And when you laugh... I think I'm addicted to your laugh... Jesus, I hope I don't have to go cold turkey on your laugh." There was a question there too, but I wasn't ready to answer it yet. Should I explain about dopamine? "So moving on, I was having this 'remember that' conversation with the guys when this board game was mentioned. Frohike admitted to having it and dug it out so we could all see how bad it was. Don't go ballistic on me yet, but yes, this wicked little seed of an idea about getting you to come to my place to play Sex sprouted and I borrowed it off him. Not telling him why, of course." So Mulder had meant the bet for a game of Sex and I'd jumped into bed with him. I'm still humiliated. I'm angry with myself for being hoodwinked. I'm angry with Mulder -- just because. All my rising anticipation had just turned into crashing despair. And I didn't know why, because it was just a bet! Mulder had planned and executed this... this... stratagem with cold precision - what a turn up for the books! "And that's when it all came together. I could try to move us forward by betting sex but have Sex as the fallback plan if I'd misjudged the situation. Scully, you've got to believe me when I say that had you shown the slightest reluctance this game would have miraculously appeared. There'd have been a bit of embarrassed laughter, we'd have played it for a few minutes to see how bad it is -- and it's really dire, nothing titillating in it at all -- then moved on to a game of Scrabble or something equally banal. But you didn't show any reluctance Scully. A little nervousness but that was to be expected. I was nervous too, for God's sake. A little apprehensive, we both were, performance anxiety, but no reluctance. And I'm sure I wouldn't have had to look closely for it, Scully, even though I did. You'd have been forthright in your... dismissal - an 'Oh brother' would have done it." He was right, I hadn't been reluctant, it was covered by the rules. The bet had given me, us, an out if it went wrong -- several outs in fact. I had to admire Mulder's strategy. Unfortunately, I still felt tricked, cheated in some way. I squashed the niggling thought that I might have been fooling myself. "Scully, I know that when I get an idea in my head, I tend to run with it, sometimes despite all indications to the fact that I should desist. I so wanted to be closer to you, to be more to you, to make love to you. I was sure you wanted similar, if not the same, things, taking into account the usual discrepancies between male and female needs. I don't believe I let my desires blind me to what you wanted." Mulder considering my wants - that's novel. What I wanted? That's a good one, I'm not sure even I know what I really want. And therein lies the problem. From the corner of my eye, I saw him raise his hand to touch me but then think better of it. "Or has love made me blind, Scully?" Ahh, Mulder now wanted a response, but I didn't have one. I just had too many conflicting thoughts. I wasn't sure why. It was just a bet. Mulder tried to make it more but... well, he's lost the game. We've both lost. "I need time to process, Mulder," I compromised, and again moved towards the door. This time he didn't block my way. I still wouldn't look at his face, but I heard the resigned sigh. I grabbed my coat and had my hand on the door knob... "Scully?" I was tempted to just rush out, but I stopped, although I didn't turn around. "Scully... Don't overanalyse this. You know you could take a perfect chocolate souffle, do a battery of tests, break it down into its component parts, and split them all out into neat little test tubes, but the real art would be putting them back together again to get the same culinary delight. You'll never reproduce the original from ingredients that have been extracted, they change. Even if you took completely fresh ingredients, in the exact same ratio as the original, the chances of getting the same delicious result are minimal, because there's nothing special about the ingredients just the way they have been blended together. Sometimes it's better just to savour the souffle and not worry about what made it so good or how you got to the restaurant or how many calories it's got. Just... enjoy it." I nodded slightly and opened the door. "And, Scully..." "Don't forget that the chef thinks the souffle was his ultimate creation." ****************************************************************** I went home and stewed in my own juices. Who did he think he was? I paced up and down the kitchen. Don't analyse, ultimate creation, board game, bet, get closer to you, make love to you, you wanted the same. The presumption of the man! I paced to the lounge window, then back to the kitchen. Don't analyse this - sorry, don't overanalyse this - it's what I do, it's what I am. Does he just expect me to accept things in blind faith? I paced around the kitchen table, the thoughts going round and round in my head. And there's another - 'Love made me blind' - the narcissistic, overbearing, egocentric, arrogant asshole! Love, as if he knew the meaning of the word. Ah! Actually he probably knows all the meanings of the word and every fairy tale that goes with it, despite the fact he never uses it - except when we're... when he's... well coital or post-coital... sometimes pre-coital. I don't take it seriously, not when a man's so full of endorphins he's not responsible for what he says. I sat at the kitchen table staring at the cupboard opposite me. 'Get closer to you', 'make love to you' - you've had this conversation with yourself, Dana - he just wanted sex - with a warm body. 'I thought you wanted the same' - Women are from Venus, Men from Mars, as he never asked me, how could he possible know? Well, analyse it then, Dana, that's what you do. There was a pause as long unused brain cells were sparked into action, gears crunched, cogs whirled, the generator fired up, steam came out the ears, and I deflated a little. Okay, if I'm honest with myself, I had thought about a physical relationship with Mulder but dismissed it for various reasons, not least of which was risking what we had and the fact that I would have wanted it to evolve to more than that, despite previous experience of relationships with co-workers. 'To be more to you' - 'Get closer to you', 'make love to you' - apparently so had Mulder. The problem was how to do it - it was a leap as he said. I had to admit, despite my lingering feelings of being manipulated, the solution Mulder came up with was brilliant. I'd thought it myself -- if it all went horribly wrong we could hide behind the facade of the bet. And Mulder had a backup plan, well, backout plan -- since when does Mulder go for backup? Except it didn't go horribly wrong, it went wonderfully right. Mulder was right, I didn't show any reluctance for sex. I didn't admit it to myself at the time, but subconsciously I saw it as a way of getting a flavour. A way of dipping my finger in the chocolate souffle for a quick taste, without any consequences. And that's just typical of Mulder, he can't talk straight. Streams of words, with snippets of significant data; paragraphs of paraphrasing, elongated euphemisms - chocolate souffle, for God's sake. It's not even my favourite dessert. However, I digress. Funny how the mind does that when it doesn't really want to approach a painful subject. So, we come to our relationship as it was before I found the board game -- the chocolate souffle, as Mulder described it. The chocolate souffle being us mixed together. Don't analyse it, he said. No, don't overanalyse it... did I just hear myself think 'Mulder said'? Moving quickly on. Don't overanalyse... I'll start with an external examination then - good thing nobody can see me mentally surveying the outside of a chocolate souffle. So, what do you see when imagining your perfect chocolate souffle? Do you go for size, shape, colour, presentation, surrounded by raspberry coulis? Hmmm, Mulder said the perfect chocolate souffle - somehow I don't think it's perfect. I imagine something dark and smooth and moulded but with a slight list to one side. I think maybe for me, that looks are not everything, I need to taste it. So, imaginary spoon at the ready, I take a sample. Mmmm, it's rich and smooth, but light and very chocolaty. Not too sweet. So now in my mind's eye, I see a lopsided souffle with a bite out of it. Then I see myself spooning it on to Mulder, then sucking on a chocolate willie. Shit, where the hell did that thought come from? I shook my head to clear my mind. Now, what went into the souffle and is there anything in there that can go bad? Well, there are eggs for a start. And, Mulder is absolutely right; you can't extract the eggs in the same form as they went in. I can probably find out how much egg is in there but not necessarily how many, and in the process, I'll spoil the souffle. Basically, if I analyse any further, I'll destroy what I've got. Sometimes there's method to Mulder's madness. So, does the analogy stand from souffle to relationship - ahh, there be soggy souffle. Alright, what else have I got? 'His ultimate creation' - HIS - on the face of it, Mulder at his most egotistical. What else could he have meant? By 'creation' I'm now fairly certain he means relationship. Ultimate - highest, biggest, greatest, best, final, last... last chocolate souffle... last relationship... oh. Oh shit. He meant it all. In his own inimitable way, he meant it all. Tempting though it was to go rushing back to Mulder's, I continued to think. It was no good going back saying I understood and forgave him. He'd want more than that. I needed a complete answer. The thing is, Mulder's love, what does that mean exactly? That he loves me with everything he's got? Undoubtedly, but that doesn't mean it's enough. It doesn't mean he wants the same things I do. And unless I was going to be content with what Mulder had to offer, there was no point progressing this relationship any further. Did I accept the lopsided souffle or did I gather fresh ingredients and start again? I made a cup of tea, sat on the couch, and thought and thought. *************************************************************** I knocked on his door the following afternoon. I heard him shuffle to the door, then open it. Haggard, unshaven, and still wearing the same clothes he'd had on yesterday. I felt a momentary pang of guilt, but there was no way I could have rushed this decision. He seemed to be fresh out of jokes too, just waving me into his apartment. The place looked trashed; the game was spread all over the floor as if he'd kicked it. Papers, magazines, and books scattered everywhere, as if he'd swept them off the table with his arm. He was limping slightly as he moved to the couch. "Mulder, what did you do? Are you all right? Let me look at it." "No, I'm fine." "You're limping, what did you do?" I hovered uncertainly, wanting to touch but restrained by our parting and the thought of the conversation still to come. And God knows how I'm going to start that. "Scully, let it go. I kicked the door. It's just bruised." Just bruised, he said. He'd probably broken it knowing Mulder, but I let it pass for the moment. I looked around the room some more. Me, avoiding the elephant in the room? Don't be ridiculous. "Mulder, have you eaten or drunk anything since yesterday?" "Quit the doctor mode, Scully. I've dealt with things in my own way, just the same as you have." "Quit the doctor mode? But you're not going to be much use hungry, dehydrated, and bruised." "I don't appear to be much use when I'm fully fit, so what difference does it make?" Ahh, Mulder self-loathing, about time I kicked that into touch. I do believe I can make this my opening. Perhaps we can avoid the post-mortem of the whys and wherefores of how we got here and just move forward. "Wanna bet?" You know it's really not like Mulder to be slow on the uptake, or lost for words, but it took what felt like several hours for a dozen emotions to cross his face before settling on slightly hopeful. "How do you propose to prove I'm useful?" he decided to say finally. "Sex." How I didn't stutter that I'll never know, but it boosted my confidence. "And what do you win if I'm useful when fit?" "Chocolate souffle." You know us, mixed together in perfect combination... okay, near perfect combination. We did come out of the mould slightly lob sided. "And what do I win if I'm not useful?" Come on, Mulder, don't make this difficult. But then it wouldn't be us if he didn't try to be a smart ass. "A trip to ER." He actually looked like he was pondering that. I didn't know how implied the threat might be, but if he got the wrong answer I was going to shoot him again. So, I wasn't playing nice, neither was I playing hard to get. I'd sat for hours trying to come up with some smartly interwoven plan like Mulder's, then thought 'what the hell'. I was just trying to outdo him. However, I was much better at the direct approach. That way there was no wriggle factor. Unfortunately, my sense of fair play dictated that I give him a choice. Just that the choice didn't have to be balanced. If he picked the wrong one, he was liable to a touch of taser, or perhaps the full body honey treatment. If I get the answer I want, I lick off the honey. If he gives the wrong answer, I remove the honey with cotton strips - like a hot wax treatment. Shame about the hair that would come with it. The worst thing about a hot wax treatment is the fact that after the first strip you know there's still twenty odd more to go. There had been no point in working on a backout plan. This was a winner takes all scenario. Only in this case, we either both won or we both lost. Mulder reached for the phone. I was puzzled. Then he ordered pizza. "Scully, could you see if I've got some iced tea in the fridge, I'm parched. Then could you have a look at my foot? I need to be fit enough to lose a bet." I hate to even think this let alone experience it, it's so cliched, but the heartfelt smile that followed at the end of Mulder's response made my stomach somersault. Fortunately, it looked like neither of us were going to have go cold turkey on each other's smiles. You know, much as I like Frenchies with it's nine course dinners, there's something about pizza, with all the extras, that's wonderfully filling and just hits the spot, time after time, after time, after time, after time. And when it's followed by chocolate souffle, life isn't perfect, but it's pretty damn tasty. The End Just a little thought provoker... If dopamine gives a 'high' from seeing your loved ones the same as addicts get from their drug rush, is it possible that the same mechanism operates for fan fiction. That is, people get a 'high' from reading fan fiction, and repeated exposure results in addiction? Discuss.