Title: Worth The Wanting
Authors: BethLynn bethlynn@aol.com and
Drovar Drovar@ix.netcom.com
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17 *very*
Disclaimer: The X-Files and it's characters are the property
of FOX, and assorted affiliates. No infringement intended.
No profit made.
Spoilers: None
Warning: Graphic bdsm Contains Fisting! Consensual.
Archiving: The Ferret Cage
Summary: Mulder/Spender in an exploration of boundaries.
Notes: It wasn't really our intention to release this sans
the warnings that are now in place.
Please disregard the previous post. This story is *not* meant
to be a humiliation or subjugation of either character but is
instead an exploration of the boundaries in the relationship 
between two people.


Worth the Wanting


"Don't," commanded a voice through the darkness. "Leave it
off."

Fingers spasmed on the light-switch, and Special Agent Jeffrey
Spender groped for his gun even as he recognized the voice that
spoke. Muscles eased, hand drawing away from his side.

Light from the hallway bent around him, refracting, and
illuminating the room enough for him to make out the figure
reclining casually at the desk. He watched Agent Mulder
stretch, long, lithe, and leaning from head to toe over a
leather chair, legs draped over dislodged piles of books and
papers, and tousled head tipped against the high seat-back.

"Close the door, Jeffrey."

Spender shivered; the soft purr of Mulder's voice stroking his
hearing. Blood heated, expanded, and shot through his veins,
coalescing in his mind and his groin. Anticipation spun through
his shoulders and burned like the pain of moist skin caught to
frozen metal.

He was trapped by the molten glare of hazel eyes.

"Do it."

Spender watched warily, and with some hunger, as Mulder rolled
forward and snapped on the desk light. Mellow wattage washed
the room in soft focus, highlighting the fall of papers as
Mulder languidly swept one end of the desk free of seemingly
inconsequential debris.

"Come... here."

Spender jumped slightly, drawing his gaze away from the long
fingers that were rolling crisp cotton up over slim forearms.
He eased forward letting Mulder push his jacket off, and remove
his holster.

Fingers gripped his jaw forcing it open as an open mouth swept
in, sucking harshly at his lips, before a wild tongue rushed
his own stealing the moisture he needed to swallow back the
sound that threatened to escape his chest. The tongue continued
to stroke into his mouth keeping obscene time with lean hips
that thrust against his.

Hands coursed down his back, grabbing his ass and squeezing. He
yelped into the mouth that held his captive, tears stinging the
corners of his eyes. The hands on his cheeks continued to
knead, shifting rapidly up and down his flanks, pushing and
pulling at his cheeks through the fabric of his slacks. Fingers
dipped in brushing at him, whipping along the seam of his
pants, pressing into him, spreading him. He whimpered and
thrust against the hard body holding him.

He was spun off balance suddenly and pulled around the end of
the desk. Metal cuffs whisked over his wrists and threaded
through a handle on one of his locked drawers. His legs were
kicked back and apart and he landed chest to desktop, his arms
trapped awkwardly beneath him, groin six inches from his touch.
He could only lay his head to the side, and pant, wondering if
Mulder was finally going to give him what he wanted. He chanted
his safe word, lips moving silently.

His slacks were ripped from his hips, and a tongue plunged into
him without warning. He cried out, and precum bubbled from the
head of his cock. Just as quickly, the tongue disappeared and
long hands stroked over his buttocks softly. He could hear
Mulder crooning, as the hands continued to pet him gently. The
first stinging slap was unexpected and rocked him bruisingly
against the desk. He grunted and was rewarded with another
slap. The crooning behind him became hissing affirmatives
ejected with each slap of palm to reddening skin. Mulder
increased the strength of the slaps, and his ass went from
sparking erotic pain to numbing pulsing electricity. Each slap
reverberated into his cock, compacting need into explosive
material.

"I just wanted to warm up these fucking beautiful cheeks a
little, Jeffy." Mulder moaned into his ear.

Sound faded. The slap of skin on skin gone, replaced with
ragged breathing that only increased his excitement. Pliant, he
started when he was touched again. Mulder's hands were cool on
his warm red skin.

He quivered silently as a hand slid up his neatly pressed FBI
standard shirt, tracing back down his spine, nails scratching
ever so lightly. He gasped when the hand slid further down and
between, down to that most sensitive of spots.

"Please," he whispered, spreading his legs slightly, inviting
further violation.

Both hands stroked him now, one prodding, searching, the other
sliding forward to grasp and hold.  He shuddered slightly
again, either from cold or arousal as the hand alighted on the
base of his erection.  He blushed deeply knowing what this
revealed about his character, strapped down, half-stripped,
spanked and utterly hard.

He huffed twice when the hand stroked him, up and down, hard
and fast, pulling the abundant foreskin tight around the head,
just short of pain, just to the point of electric. A slicked
finger, then another, slid into him, probing and loosening.  He
squirmed before the intrusion, and was stroked hard again in
reward. He moaned when a third finger joined the other two,
sighing and moving to accommodate the added intrusion.

Whimpers broke forth when a fourth digit joined the others with
implacably insistent thrusting. He couldn't deny, could only
accept and adjust.  There was real pain now, pain and soft
words, and an easing mouth at the nape of his neck.  His words
were nearly soundless, exhaled rather than spoken. His back
rose and his chest filled quickly as he gasped for needed air.

"More," he breathed.

He fully cried out when the last digit joined the others.  He'd
never done this, never gone this far. It was utterly and
incredibly impossible.  He felt stretched beyond imagining,
swimming in a vague lust sodden world of arousal where only his
body and the hands existed. The one in front pounding and
stroking, insistent, incessant.  And behind, sweet God, so
much.

The pressure intensified and his mind finally fled. He was
reduced to a mewling, mindless thing of heat, pain, and
arousal.  He couldn't speak, couldn't yell out his demands for
release, for succor, for more.  Later, he remembered the first
breach of knuckles, impossibly large and hard, beyond pain,
beyond lust. Incoherent animal need, that was what he truly
remembered.

And then suddenly the pressure lessened and he felt full, used,
and thoroughly unsaited.  He looked back, tears crawling slowly
down his face, damp tracks from his brown eyes, those endless
pools of deep chocolate silk. He nodded his head slightly, and
the hand inside began moving gently. Knuckles scraped his
prostate, the hottest point of the deepest stimulation in a
man; stimulated roughly in a way he was certain God and nature
never intended, not that he gave a fuck at this particular
incredible moment.

He shouted at the second drag, and shouted again as more
followed. He felt light, weightless, as if bereft of his soul,
gone, lost, escaped, borne on the last heavy, huge stroke,
sailing and soaring beyond the reach of his keening wail of
need and want. The world narrowed in as his body reached and
grasped, clawing its way towards a shattering climax. And still
the hand, the arm inside him moved, filling him and emptying
him, over and wonderfully over.

A final thrust and his body clamped down hard. It felt as if he
could snap off the invading appendage with just a random
thought. His body arced, high and hard. Muscles he wasn't even
aware of, deep muscles, spasmed and contracted, channeling
downward.  He felt his balls tighten, racing upward hard,
disappearing into his body.  And then, in that totally bright
moment, he felt his wandering spirit, the total entirety of his
being collapse, and channel into blinding orgasm.  He heaved
and thrust, his mind finally relenting, letting darkness reach
up and claim his thoughts, even as his body continued to ride.

He awoke to darkness, alone, at his desk. He felt drained,
finally empty.  He stood, wobbling to his feet, his solid desk
supporting him. But what matters standing to a man who has been
burned down to his soul. He flipped the light off as he headed
toward his bedroom. There will be another time he knows, more
need, more want, there always is.

"M'hey," came a whisper.

Spender paused and turned to find Mulder standing in the
doorway of his guest bathroom nude, groin lathered with soap,
and washcloth in hand.

"Was the having worth the wanting?" Mulder asked, cocking an
eyebrow, and wiping away soap bubbles before toweling dry.

Spender had no words. He paced awkwardly to Mulder, grabbed his
hand, and pulled him along to bed.

[End]