TITLE:  Some Like It Hot 
SPOILER STATEMENT:  None whatsoever.  CC will never in a million years allow 
anything remotely like this to happen on his show. 
TIMELINE:  Oh, put it wherever makes you happy.  It's written with the thought 
that it takes place mid 7th Season, but there are no spoilers, and it probably 
fits reasonably well anywhere outside the 1st season or the cancer arc. 
RATING:  NC-17 
CONTENT STATEMENT:  MSR.  PWP.  Smut.  Crossdressing. 
CLASSIFICATION:  SRHA 
SUMMARY:   Inspired (if that's the word), by the following exchange from an 
interview with David Duchovny.  Q:  What's the stupidest thing you ever did to 
impress a woman?  DD:  I wore a dress. I just thought a man with my figure could 
wear one and get away with it. I was going to wear a bikini, but I'm all for 
form and function.  (New York Post, 3/4/00) 
AUTHOR'S NOTE:  You know, I'm supposed to be working on this darned casefile.  
It's up around 100K, and it's maybe a third of the way finished.  But I keep 
getting distracted, and I wind up degenerating and writing smut.  Oh the shame 
of it all!  ;) 
THANKS:  To Narida, Paulette, Robbie, Shannon, Sharon & Trixie, for beta and 
encouragement and all that good stuff. 
  
Some Like It Hot 
by Brandon D. Ray 
  
I shouldn't have let Mulder come over tonight. 
It would have been hard to avoid, though.  Saturday night is the time we usually 
reserve for each other, when we aren't out in the field.  We're both 
workaholics, and the temptation to just keep working right through the weekend 
is always hovering in the back of both our minds.  So when we finally broke down 
the barriers and became lovers, it didn't take us long to realize that if we 
wanted to have any time together on a personal level, we were going to have to 
schedule it. 
So Saturday nights are ours.  And we don't spend *all* our time in bed -- 
although I think I've had more sex in the past three months than I did the 
entire year I was with Jack.  But sometimes we actually do other things.  We go 
to movies and plays and concerts.  We go out to dinner.  Sometimes we ride the 
Metro, pick a stop at random, and get out and walk for a while, holding hands.  
Just being a couple. 
Like tonight, for example.  Tonight was supposed to be TV night, over at my 
place.  Mulder was going to come over, we'd make some popcorn, and we'd cuddle 
on the sofa and channel surf until we found something we both wanted to watch.  
Couch Potatoes R Us. 
And in fact, that's just exactly what we've done.  Everything's going smoothly 
and according to plan.  I'm curled up on my sofa in my lover's arms, an afghan 
wrapped securely around us.  The bowl of popcorn sits on his lap, and his hands, 
large and warm and friendly, are resting casually on my body.  Not in 
particularly intimate places, and not in pointedly chosen "safe" places.  He 
doesn't seek either to arouse me or to avoid doing so.  His hands are simply 
touching me, because he can, and because he wants to. 
And because *I* want him to. 
The problem, though, is the movie we've chosen to watch.  //Some Like It Hot//, 
with Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon.  When we happened across it during our channel 
surfing, Mulder immediately latched on to it, and insisted that we had to watch 
it.  And it really is a funny movie; I've always liked it, and I have no 
objection to seeing it again.  I even wish I'd known it was going to be on, so I 
could have had a tape in the VCR. 
The difficulty is the *other* attraction this film holds for me.  And this is 
the reason I should definitely *not* be watching it with Mulder.  You see, this 
movie features Tony Curtis wearing a dress. 
And I sort of have this ... thing.  I don't know why I've always been so turned 
on by seeing men dressed in women's clothes.  But I am.  And it's not just any 
man, either.  Jack Lemmon also crossdresses in this movie, but he comes across 
as funny rather than sexy.  But Tony Curtis is pretty enough in his own right 
that seeing him in stockings and a skirt just leaves me breathless.  And when I 
stop to consider what *else* he might have on underneath that dress -- 
I shake my head sharply, and push the thought away.  I am not going to go there, 
I tell myself firmly.  I'm just not ready to share that particular ... fetish 
with my partner.  Oh, I know he wouldn't think less of me, and I'm pretty sure 
he wouldn't be shocked.  I've seen what's on a few of his videotapes and in 
those magazines he buys.  Enough that I'm confident he wouldn't look down on me 
for this, or pull away in disgust or anything. 
But I am afraid he might laugh. 
Yes, that's what it comes down to, in the end.  I'm afraid Mulder might laugh at 
me.  I'm afraid if I told him about this, he'd take one look at some of the 
titles in *my* video collection, and realize that it was more than just a 
passing fancy.  //Tootsie.//  //Ed Wood.//  Selected episodes of //Twin Peaks//, 
//Quantum Leap// -- even //General Hospital//.  And more. 
It's not that I'm interested in other women; there doesn't seem to be the 
slightest trace of bisexuality in me -- which I'm sure will come as a 
disappointment to Mulder, when and if we get to the point of exchanging *those* 
parts of our sexual histories.  As I said, I've seen what's in his video 
collection.  No, it's the idea -- and more importantly, the *image* -- of a 
lusty, virile man, wearing a dress and other feminine accouterments, that makes 
my head start buzzing with arousal. 
Tony Curtis comes on the screen, done to the nines, distracting me from that 
train of thought.  Or, more accurately, redirecting it and giving it a focus.  
And oh yes, this is one of my *favorite* scenes.  The flapper dress, the 
jewelry, the way he manages to walk in those impossibly high heels.  Even his 
make up is just right, so much so that I catch myself licking my lips during the 
closeups. 
"See something you like, Scully?" 
I start at the sound of Mulder's voice.  I honestly had *not* forgotten that he 
was there -- it's pretty hard to forget that you're with this man, especially 
when he has his arms wrapped around you and you can feel his warm, moist breath 
against your cheek.  But he *did* intrude on the little fantasy world I was 
descending into. 
Which is probably just as well. 
I realize he's still waiting for an answer.  I could just give him the enigmatic 
Dr. Scully look, and for a moment I consider doing just that.  Of course, he 
would take that as a tease, and that big, inquisitive brain of his would start 
working overtime, trying to decide what was going on.  And the problem with 
*that* is that he already has more than enough pieces of the puzzle to be able 
to work it all out, if I give him even the slightest encouragement. 
What we need here is a distraction. 
I turn to look at my partner, and very deliberately, I slip my hand under the 
blanket and grope around a little until I find his knee.  I see Mulder's eyebrow 
cock in apparent amusement -- and approval -- as I delicately tickle the inside 
of his thigh with my fingertips.  I'm already more amazingly turned on than he 
probably realizes, I reflect.  No reason not to make use of that -- even if I 
have no intention whatsoever of allowing him to know where it came from so 
suddenly. 
"Yes, Agent Mulder," I reply in a low whisper.  "I do see something I like."  My 
hand reaches the top of his thigh, and my knuckles brush against a rapidly 
hardening bulge.  I lean a little closer, until my lips are brushing against 
his.  "Although perhaps 'see' isn't quite the right word." 
I close my eyes and wait for his kiss.  And wait.  And wait.  I can feel his 
breath puffing against my lips; there can't be more than a quarter of an inch of 
empty space between us, and why the *hell* hasn't he done something about it? 
Abruptly, he's no longer breathing against my mouth.  I open my eyes, and I'm 
startled and confused -- and even a tiny bit hurt -- to see that Mulder has 
turned his attention back to the television.  I guess he must really like this 
movie.  And that *was* the point of the evening, after all, I remind myself -- 
to curl up together and stare at the TV screen until our eyes pop out.  So I 
give a small shrug, cuddle a little closer into my partner's arms, and turn to 
watch the rest of the movie. 
Damn, but Tony Curtis looks good in nylons, though. 
#          #          # 
Dana Scully has a kink.  A harmless, charming little fetish.  She likes to look 
at men wearing women's clothes.  She gets off on it. 
I wasn't absolutely sure about that last part until this past Saturday, when we 
watched that Tony Curtis movie together.  I'd spotted it in the TV listings a 
few days earlier, and realized that this was my golden opportunity to put the 
finishing touches on a theory I'd been working on. 
I've had suspicions about Scully for a while, although I admit it was quite some 
time before I was able to put it all together.  There's no one thing I can point 
to that put me on the trail -- just the occasional passing comment, here and 
there.  Nothing obvious or overt, nothing that couldn't be explained away, or 
assigned some other, more innocent meaning.  A word here, a raised eyebrow 
there.  Small indiscretions; things you would never think about twice.  Things 
that *I* never thought about twice. 
Until I took a really good look at her video collection, that is. 
Most of her small cache of tapes consists of things like documentaries off 
various cable channels, with a smattering of Jane Austen and Shakespeare and the 
like thrown in for good measure.  But she does have a few entertainment tapes -- 
and once I really started thinking about it, it didn't take long for me to see 
the pattern. 
Last Saturday, my suspicions were finally confirmed.  As soon as Tony Curtis 
appeared on the screen wearing a dress, she was totally absorbed, not to say 
mesmerized.  She was so into it, in fact, that I couldn't resist the temptation 
to tease her a little -- and the response I got, and the method she used to try 
to distract me, laid any lingering doubts I might have had to rest. 
It was a lot of fun, too, after the movie was over. 
This did leave me with the question of what to do with this information, of 
course.  Scully and I are still feeling our way into the personal side of our 
relationship, and I don't want to make any missteps, or do anything that might 
make her uncomfortable.  At the same time, I do want us to move forward, towards 
more intimacy, and exploring our sexuality is just one of many ways to do that. 
And besides, I want to make her happy.  I very much doubt that she's ever told 
anyone else about this side of herself.  She's always been very closed off and 
reserved, so much so that even now I still don't know a lot about her early 
life.  But from what little I do know, I don't think she's likely to have shared 
this particular secret with any of her previous lovers. 
I want to give this to her. 
Which explains why I am, at this moment, in a big women's clothing store in 
Richmond, trying to find something that will fit me, and that Scully might find 
attractive, not to say sexy.  On me. 
The saleswoman -- Jen, that's her name -- Jen has been trying to help.  She's 
shown me several dresses, and even kept a straight face when I tried a couple of 
them on.  These people *do* work on commission, after all, and a sale's a sale.  
It's that kind of shop -- conservative, refined and a little on the expensive 
side. 
Unfortunately, we're working at cross-purposes, to some extent, because what I 
told her when I came in was that I was trying to find something to wear to a 
costume party.  The result of which is that she's been showing me clothes that 
aren't truly what I'm looking for. 
"I really don't know what else to show you," she says with regret, as she turns 
away from putting the two most recent possibilities back on the rack.  "That's 
everything we've got that's really appropriate for what you have in mind."  She 
pauses, then cocks an eyebrow at me.  "You *did* say this is for a costume 
party, right?" 
"Uh, no.  Not exactly."  I hesitate, thinking that I can still back out.  I told 
Scully that for our Saturday night date I'm bringing a surprise, but I still 
have a couple of days to find something else.  I haven't even opened the 
lingerie I ordered online, so I might still be able to return it.  There's 
plenty of time to change my mind and do something normal. 
To hell with that.  This is for Scully.  I can feel myself blushing as I stammer 
out, "Actually, I'm buying it ... for a friend."  Jen's eyebrows shoot up in 
surprise, and I add, "For me to wear.  For a friend." 
The woman looks puzzled for a moment, but then suddenly she smiles, and nods 
knowingly -- and I breathe a sigh of relief.  She's not going to laugh at me or 
denounce me as a pervert.  A sale *is* a sale, after all. 
"Is this friend male or female?" she asks, now crisp and businesslike once 
again. 
"Female," I say, very faintly. 
She nods again, and turns to lead me across the store to a different rack of 
dresses.  "You should have told me right away," she chides, in a friendly, open 
manner.  "We could have saved some time.  And here I spent the last half hour 
trying to find something plain, so you wouldn't be *too* embarrassed."  She 
glances back over her shoulder and smiles again.  "But that's not what you're 
after at all, is it?" 
I shake my head as we come to a stop in front of a rack of clothing.  And these 
are indeed different from the other items she's been showing me.  Those were, as 
she said, fairly plain and unostentatious.  Just the sort of thing you might 
sell to a man who had agreed to dress up in women's clothes on a bet, or 
something, but didn't want to look *too* feminine.  But these ... these dresses 
are gorgeous. 
Jen turns to look at me speculatively, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable, like a 
bug under a microscope, as she runs her gaze up and down my body.  "I'd say your 
legs are probably your best feature," she comments.  "So we want something 
fairly short.  Above the knee.  Turn around.  Slowly."  I do as I'm told; once 
I'm facing her again, she nods, and says, "Yes, we definitely want to show off 
your legs, but you've also got a pretty nice butt on you.  So we want something 
fairly snug, as well." 
I'm blushing furiously, now; I haven't felt this embarrassed since I was in the 
ninth grade and Mom came home unexpectedly, to find me making out with Susan 
Farrington on the living room sofa.  Fortunately, Jen is now looking intently at 
the rack of dresses, which gives me a few seconds to compose myself.  Finally, 
she seems to find something she likes, and she pulls it off the rack and turns 
to show it to me. 
"This might work," she says.  And she's right; it really might.  It's a knockout 
-- even *I* can see that.  A deep, royal purple, conservatively cut, with a 
pleated skirt and a high, modest neckline.  Jen holds it up to me and looks for 
a minute; then she smiles and nods.  "I think this will look very good on you," 
she says.  "Why don't you try it on?" 
A minute or two later I find myself in the changing room, smoothing the dress 
down over my hips and looking at myself in the mirror.  It really does look 
nice, I think.  The fit is comfortable, both at my shoulders and at my hips, 
somewhat to my surprise, and the skirt, as Jen suggested, ends a couple of 
inches above my knees.  I turn to one side and crane my neck to look over my 
shoulder, and yes, the rest of me is there, too, and it does appear to be 
well-defined -- just as Tony Curtis' was in the movie. 
I hear a knock on the door.  Jen, of course.  "Are you decent?" 
Okay, this is the first really big test, I realize.  It's one thing to try this 
thing on in the privacy of the changing room; it's something else altogether to 
allow someone else to see me this way.  Especially a woman, and most especially 
a woman who knows exactly why I'm shopping for women's clothing.  But I do need 
advice from *someone*.  I take a deep breath, and open the door. 
For a moment there's nothing but silence, and I realize that I've got my eyes 
closed.  I grit my teeth and force myself to open them, to find Jen standing 
there, arms folded across her chest, looking at me with a slight smile on her 
face. 
"That's *very* nice," she comments.  "And I'm not just saying that to make a 
sale.  Turn around again." 
Once more I make the slow rotation, and when I come to a stop facing her, she 
looks almost like the Cheshire Cat.  "I'd say we've got a winner," she says.  
"And you've got one lucky lady.  You're going to have to shave your legs, of 
course.  Use an electric razor first, then one with a blade.  And do a very 
close shave on your face, too, just beforehand, so you're nice and smooth."  She 
pauses, and eyes me up and down again.  "What about some lingerie?"  She raises 
an eyebrow as she asks the question. 
"N-no," I reply.  "I, uh, I already got that."  She nods, still smiling, and 
before I can second-guess myself, I blurt out, "But I could use some advice 
about make-up." 
"Hmm."  Jen seems to think about that for a moment.  "Well, you'll probably want 
something," she decides.  "But I wouldn't go too heavy on it.  Just a little 
something to bring out those eyelashes."  She smiles again.  "And those lips.  
You definitely want to make sure she's aware of your lips."  Under her breath:  
"Not that very many women could fail to notice them." 
"Colors?" 
"Nothing too garish," she advises.  "If you stop by the make-up counter in one 
of the department stores, they can give you some advice."  I feel myself start 
to panic at the thought of admitting to another stranger what it is I'm planning 
to do, and she hastens to add, "Or you could just pick out something, yourself.  
It's not like you have to pass muster in public.  I'd say you're an autumn.  
Maybe something brown?  Earth tones?  To bring out your eyes?" 
I nod.  "Anything else?" 
"Jewelry?" she asks.  "Again, nothing too in-your-face.  Your ears aren't 
pierced, are they?" 
"No." 
"Well, you can find some very nice clip-ons for a reasonable price.  I'd suggest 
getting a pair that dangle, so they'll catch her eye.  And maybe a necklace.  
Something simple -- but again, something that dangles."  She glances down at my 
feet, then back up.  "You'll also want a pair of heels, of course.  The higher 
the better -- but make sure you can walk in them."  Again she gives me that 
smile.  "And I'd say that's it." 
Thank god. 
#          #          # 
Mulder's up to something, and I have no idea what it might be. 
He's been acting funny all week.  He's popped in and out of the office on short 
notice several times, and he missed our usual lunch date twice.  Plus, I noticed 
when I used his computer on Tuesday afternoon that he'd emptied the cache and 
the history on his browser.  It was almost as if he didn't want me to know what 
he'd been looking at. 
The only thing I can figure is that it has something to do with the surprise he 
said he's bringing to our date tonight.  He mentioned it on Wednesday afternoon, 
and then resisted my every effort to tease and wheedle it out of him.  Mulder's 
not very good at keeping secrets -- not from me, at any rate.  But this time his 
lips have been sealed. 
So yeah.  He's up to something. 
But I'll know what it is soon.  It's now past 7:30 on Saturday evening, and 
Mulder's due to arrive at eight.  I make another circuit of my apartment, 
wanting to make sure that everything's in order.  Not that anything could really 
be out of place; I'm a neat freak, and I've been aware of that for a long time.  
But for some reason I feel as nervous tonight as a teenager on her first date.  
And I have no real idea why. 
Fresh sheets on the bed.  Check.  Lights turned low.  Check.  Candles and 
incense.  Check.  Three CDs of mood music, cued up and ready to play.  Check.  A 
bottle of plum wine and two glasses on the coffee table.  Check. 
And me.  Wearing the third outfit I've tried on in the past forty minutes -- to 
wit, that dark green, low-necked sweater that I picked up on sale one of the 
times we were in L.A. last winter, and my tightest-fitting pair of jeans.  No 
bra. 
Check. 
It occurs to me that I haven't checked my supply of bath salts.  Not that 
there'd be much I could do about it now, even if I discovered I was out, but at 
least it'll give me something to do while I wait.  So I move down the hall to 
the bathroom -- and yes, as I thought, I have plenty.  I take a couple of 
packages from the cupboard and set them out on the soap dish, just in case, and 
then I head back up the hall towards the living room. 
And Mulder is here, at last.  He apparently let himself in, and now he's 
standing in the living room with his back to me, still wearing his trenchcoat.  
I pause for a moment in the entryway to admire him.  He really is a good-looking 
man, and moments like this, when I can watch him without him being aware of my 
presence, are among my favorite indulgences. 
This time he knows I'm here, though.  I can tell from the set of his shoulders, 
and the angle he's holding his head.  Yes, he knows I'm here; he must have heard 
me coming down the hall.  But he's continuing to stand there for another minute, 
not moving, letting me look. 
I do love this man. 
Finally he turns to face me ... but something's not right.  At first I can't 
quite make out what it is, but there's something odd about his face.  His eyes 
seem a little darker than usual, and his lips -- those beautiful, glorious lips 
-- are even more prominent than normal.  Even his skin tone seems -- 
Jesus.  He's wearing make up. 
I feel my jaw dropping open in surprise, and I notice that my partner is also 
wearing earrings.  Lovely, dangly, silver earrings, that sway slightly at he 
moves his head.  He's got a nervous smile on his face, and before I can say or 
do anything, he's untied the belt on his trenchcoat and shrugged it off. 
Oh.  My.  God. 
He knows. 
Immediately my mind flashes back to last Saturday night, and the movie.  That's 
the only explanation.  Somehow, despite my efforts to distract him, he worked it 
out, and now my partner is standing before me, wearing a dress.  A 
snugly-fitting, dark purple dress, that stops well above his knees. 
Oh, God.  Oh, boy.  Ohboyohboyohboy .... 
I feel embarrassment and arousal battling within me.  I've never shared this 
little fetish of mine with *anyone*, but now Mulder knows.  He figured it out.  
Part of me wants to flee in terror from this development, from this violation of 
my privacy.  I want to lock myself in my bedroom and hide under the covers until 
it all goes away and the world reverts back to normal.  I want it not to have 
happened. 
But another part of me is already too horny for words.  That part of me is 
figuratively licking her chops at the sight of the man standing in front of me.  
A *real* man, I might add.  Not some image on a television screen, but a real, 
living, breathing man, who I can actually touch if I want to.  A man I can 
undress and admire.  A man who is no doubt ready, willing and able to fuck my 
brains out, whenever I give the word. 
A man who loves me. 
It's the knowledge of his love that finally allows me to make my decision.  
Mulder loves me, I remind myself.  He really, truly loves me, and he's not doing 
this to mock me.  I never really believed, deep in my heart, that he would 
laugh, but now I have proof positive, because he's standing here in front of me, 
and it's perfectly obvious that this outfit was carefully chosen to make him as 
attractive as possible.  And the uneasy, vulnerable smile that's still on his 
face clinches it. 
He loves me. 
I realize that I'm licking my lips as I stand here looking at him.  My gaze is 
raking over him, taking in everything, from the ridiculously high heels, to the 
enticing, nylon-covered legs, to those wonderful, masculine hips that I've come 
to know so well.  He's even got a bust, which of course has got to be faked.  
And his shoulders .... 
"Scully?" 
I force myself to look away from his body and up at his face -- and I realize 
that he's just as nervous now as I was a few minutes ago.  I haven't said 
anything; I've simply stood here, transfixed, and he must be getting uneasy.  
More uneasy, I amend in my mind.  It took a lot of courage for Mulder to take a 
chance like this.  He deserves a reward.  And so I give him my sexiest, 
sultriest smile, and move a few steps closer. 
"Mulder," I say, my voice low and throaty.  "You look really ... really ... 
good."  A look of relief settles across his face, and I allow my tongue to swipe 
across my upper lip.  "I mean ... incredibly good.  I, uh ... I don't know what 
to say." 
"You don't have to *say* anything," he replies, as he allows his own smile to 
broaden.  Clearly, this is turning out to be a successful experiment, and I can 
almost *see* the waves of tension dissipating.  Well, one kind of tension, 
anyway, because even as he's speaking the words I see a bulge starting to appear 
where I know his crotch must be, under that skirt.  Yum. 
And I find myself torn.  On the one hand, I want to get a really good look at 
this.  I've never seen a man dressed like this, live and in color, so to speak, 
and whatever part of me it is that drives this fetish is doing handsprings at 
the unexpected opportunity.  On the other hand, I do want to get as close to him 
as possible.  In fact, I feel an urgent need to be rubbing my body against his, 
right *now*. 
For the moment, though, I manage to restrain myself.  There's a lot to look at 
here, I realize, and Mulder obviously went to a considerable amount of time and 
trouble to put it all together.  It would be a shame just to dive in head first, 
and immediately lose myself in one big outpouring of lust. 
At least, I *think* it would be a shame. 
Oh, my.  Without really thinking about it, I've been slowly walking around my 
partner, surveying the landscape, so to speak.  Now I'm standing directly behind 
him, gazing at an ass that has got to be one of the seven wonders of the world.  
An ass that I've had previous cause to admire, praise and covet, but that seems 
somehow even more wonderfully sublime in its current setting. 
In fact, everything about him looks pretty damned good.  Whoever helped him pick 
this dress -- and I'm already positive he didn't choose it on his own -- had a 
really fine eye for the high points of his anatomy.  No matter where I look -- 
his legs, his back, his shoulders, or that lovely, aforementioned butt -- I find 
something well worth feasting my eyes on. 
It's abundantly clear that this is the surprise Mulder said he was bringing over 
tonight.  And oh, sweet Mary, what a nice surprise it is!  I find myself 
adjusting to the situation much more quickly than I would have anticipated.  
Once I got over the initial shock, my hormones took over, and now I'm just going 
with my instincts. 
Those instincts are now clamoring for me to take a more active role.  My hands 
are twitching at my sides, and my imagination is already working overtime, 
trying to decide what Mulder might have on *under* that dress.  Because I know 
my partner, and he is nothing if not thorough.  If he went to the trouble to get 
shoes and stockings and earrings, he won't have stopped there.  I'm positive, in 
fact, that there are a few more presents waiting for me under the tree, and it's 
all I can do not to rip them open right now. 
But first I want to enjoy the show a little longer. 
"Mulder," I say -- and then I have to clear my throat and start over.  "Mulder, 
would you mind, um ...."  My voice trails off.  Much as I'm excited by this, and 
much as I know I can trust Mulder, it *is* still hard for me to talk about 
things like this.  I've never been good at expressing my feelings and desires, 
especially when it comes to sex. 
Luckily, Mulder knows that, and he comes to my rescue.  "What, Scully?"  He 
glances over his shoulder with a friendly, lecherous smile; obviously, he's 
starting to get into this.  "I'm pretty sure there's nothing you could ask of me 
that I wouldn't be willing to do." 
Okay.  Fine.  I can do this.  This *is* Mulder, after all.  I clear my throat 
again, and I say, quickly and firmly, "Would you mind walking around a bit?" 
He raises an eyebrow at me, and his smile turns into a full-fledged grin.  Then 
without saying a word he turns around again and begins to move. 
Oh, Jesus.  I think I might just faint.  I find myself backing up until I bump 
against the wall, but I just can't take my eyes off of him.  And he continues to 
walk slowly across the room, away from me, his ass moving sensuously beneath the 
dress, his back and shoulder muscles flexing slightly with each step.  I think 
he must have practiced some before he came over here, because he doesn't seem to 
be having any real trouble with those high heels. 
Just when I think I'm getting used to it, and might possibly be able to support 
my own weight without help from the wall, he turns to face me and begins the 
return trip.  And, if anything, the view from the front is even better.  I 
wouldn't have thought it possible, but it is.  Not only can I now see his face, 
but walking in those heels is making his hips sway slightly, and the bulge of 
his erection is even more prominent and enticing than it was before. 
Finally he comes to a stop, about a foot in front of me, his arms hanging 
loosely at his sides.  It's all I can do not to just throw myself on him and 
wrestle him to the floor, but somehow I manage to restrain myself once again.  
And I say, my voice just above a whisper, "Turn around again."  And he does. 
And I'm suddenly through with look but don't touch.  I step quickly forward and 
slide my arms around his waist.  Immediately I feel a tremor race through my 
body, first at the initial contact, and then again as my hands encounter what 
can only be garters running down the outsides of his thighs.  Jesus.  Mulder 
really did go all out.  I wrap my arms securely around him and for a minute I 
just snuggle against his back. 
But only for a minute, because I'm finding it increasingly difficult to wait, or 
be patient.  I take a half step back and run my hands slowly across his hips and 
up his sides.  We both shudder slightly as my fingers encounter the ridges that 
mark his bra, and finally my hands are resting on his shoulders, while my thumbs 
gently caress the back of his neck. 
Mulder's shoulders are another of his many good points.  I don't even want to 
think about how many hours I've devoted to looking at them over the years, 
watching the subtle play of muscle and bone as he moved.  I've developed a deep 
and abiding attraction to Mulder's shoulders, as well as his back, because 
they're parts I could look at when he didn't know I was looking. 
At last my fingers grab the zipper on his dress, and I slowly, slowly begin to 
slide it down his back, revealing more of his skin with each centimeter.  Jesus, 
I'm already breathing hard, and we haven't really *done* anything -- he hasn't 
touched *me* at all.  I can also feel my heart pounding in my chest, and there's 
a profound wetness between my thighs. 
I can't suppress a small moan as the strap of Mulder's bra finally becomes 
visible.  It's black, jet black, with a lovely, understated lace trim, and it 
occurs to me as I continue to push the zipper lower that it might be nice to 
encourage Mulder to do some shopping for *me*.  I'd just assumed, due to his 
interest in pornography, that whatever he'd choose would be garish and tacky, 
but if what he's wearing is any indication, he actually does have good taste in 
women's clothing.  Even if I *do* still believe he had help picking it out. 
I guess you can't judge a book by its cover. 
At last the zipper reaches the bottom of his back, and I take just a moment to 
admire my handiwork.  The dress is now gaping open, revealing those muscles that 
previously had only been hinted at.  The strap of the bra travels across his 
back, disappearing enticingly beneath the garment -- and, yes, Mulder actually 
is wearing a garter belt.  I can just see the top edge of it, peeking up from 
where it nestles around his waist. 
And I can only take so much of the slow but steady stuff.  Suddenly I reach up 
and push the dress off my partner's shoulders.  He wriggles slightly -- and 
delightfully -- allowing it to slide down his body and into a small heap on the 
floor. 
Oh, my.  I think I've said that before, but ... oh, my. 
I'm not sure there are adequate words to describe this, but I have to try.  
Mulder is standing in front of me, still facing away, that lovely purple dress 
tangled up around his ankles.  I allow my gaze to slowly travel up his legs, 
encased in dark, sheer stockings that end at mid-thigh.  Damn, but this man has 
a nice pair of legs; I've always thought so, and the few times before we were 
together when I got to see him in shorts are among my most treasured memories. 
The stockings, of course, are held in place by garters.  Black garters, with 
just a hint of lace on them.  I find I can't resist the temptation, and I reach 
out with both hands, one on each side of his hips, and run my fingers briefly up 
and down the garters, as I continue to enjoy this visual feast.. 
His panties are next.  Oh, yes, his panties.  Black, like the garters and bra, 
again, with just the slightest bit of ruffle.  They fit perfectly across that 
glorious ass, leaving nothing and everything to the imagination.  *My* 
imagination. 
I realize that I'm sliding my fingers across his butt.  I know from past 
experience that this is a very sensitive place for him, but he's showing 
admirable restraint as I caress him there.  I can feel him quivering everytime I 
touch him, but otherwise he's remaining perfectly still, giving me all the time 
I want to explore. I can feel the heat of his flesh radiating through the silk 
of the panties, and it's hot, hot, hot -- in more ways than one. 
I have to have more.  My fingers still trailing along the black silk, I walk 
slowly around to the front, where I find Mulder's erection to be still more 
pronounced and urgent looking than I've ever seen it -- which I wouldn't have 
believed if I wasn't seeing it for myself.  I mean, Mulder's impressive, and 
I've known that for years.  But this ... this is amazing.  I'm sure it's partly 
due to the tightness of the panties, but I can actually see the outline of his 
cock, throbbing a bit in time with his pulse. 
I slip one hand between my partner's legs, and he gasps as I cup him in my palm. 
 I look up from his waist, allowing my gaze to travel across his flat, 
delectable abdomen, lingering momentarily to take in the delightful vista of his 
chest and the black, lacy bra, and finally coming to rest on his face and eyes.  
A face that is covered by a sheen of sweat, and eyes that are dark with desire. 
Desire for me. 
I think maybe it's time we moved this party to someplace a little more 
comfortable. 
Mulder's eyebrows shoot up in apparent surprise as I start backing away from 
him.  That surprise only lasts for a moment, though, as I smile seductively and 
crook my finger at him.  Mulder isn't a stupid man.  He follows. 
Again I'm treated to the vision of my partner walking towards me, this time 
wearing only a bra, panties, garter belt and hose.  God, he looks good.  Jesus, 
he's hot.  There's so much there to look at, I'm having trouble focusing on any 
one thing.  There's the bulge in his crotch of course ... but there are also 
those marvelous legs.  And the hard, washboard stomach.  The chest, coyly hiding 
behind that black, seductive bra.  The shoulders.  The expression of open lust 
on his face. 
I suddenly bump into something and sit down hard.  My bed.  Somehow, I 
maneuvered down the hall to my bedroom, and now I've backed into my bed, and I'm 
sitting on it.  I guess I shouldn't be *too* surprised; this is where I intended 
to wind up, after all.  But it is a little disconcerting that all I remember of 
the journey is the sway of Mulder's hips. 
Speaking of which, they're still coming towards me.  Mulder's hips, I mean, 
along with the rest of him.  It occurs to me, rather abruptly, that I'm still 
fully dressed, which is a lousy way to run a seduction, and so I cross my arms 
in front of me, grab the hem of my sweater, and whip it over my head and off as 
quickly as I can.  Then I lift up just long enough to skin off my jeans and my 
own panties -- which are, regrettably, not nearly as pretty as Mulder's are -- 
before sitting down again and returning my attention to my partner. 
Who has now come to a stop, standing directly in front of me.  About six inches 
in front of me.  His stocking-clad legs are brushing against mine, and there are 
acres and acres of bare skin and lingerie staring me right in the eye. 
I can't resist this any longer.  I slide my arms around his waist, drawing him 
closer, and I bury my face in that gorgeous belly.  My mouth opens and my tongue 
darts out, tracing a random path across his flesh, and I inhale deeply. 
Mulder's scent hits me like a hammer blow.  I always notice it, of course; it 
always affects me.  But today it seems not just to fill my nose and lungs, but 
my whole being.  I feel as if I'm swimming in a sea of Mulder, floating in a 
Mulder universe.  My eyes are closed, and I'm still kissing and licking my way 
across his stomach, pausing every so often to suck a bit of skin into my mouth 
and give it a light nip. 
Mulder hands are on my head, now, and his fingers tangle in my hair.  He's 
making small, happy noises as I continue to feast on him.  He gasps.  He moans.  
He murmurs my name.  At one point, I think I even hear a small squeak.  I lean 
forward a little farther, until I can feel his erection pressing through those 
black silk panties against my breasts. 
Finally, I pull back again, and once more I find my eyes focusing on that damned 
bulge.  I've had enough of the tease and temptation; I'm ready for the main 
event.  Glancing up briefly, I see that Mulder's chest is heaving, and he's 
looking down at me with such passion and need that it almost makes me think that 
I might have an orgasm just from his gaze.  He's ready, too.  Good. 
I slip my thumbs into the waistband of his panties and ease them down off his 
hips, careful not to snag them on the garters.  They catch momentarily on that 
wonderful hard-on, but then I maneuver them past the obstacle and allow them to 
fall to the floor, just as his cock springs free. 
For a few seconds, I'm transfixed again.  This is the ultimate image; the thing 
I've always fantasized about, and never thought I'd get to see.  Mulder is 
standing before me, wearing a bra, garter belt, nylons and heels, and his firm, 
erect cock is jutting triumphantly out from the forest of dark, curly hair at 
the base.  As I watch, he flexes it, causing it to bob slightly. 
God almighty. 
No time like the present.  I reach out again and grab his hips, and pull him 
down onto the bed next to me.  In the next instant, I'm capturing his mouth with 
a ferocious kiss, and shuddering in delight as I feel his arms going around me 
and clasping me close against him.  I can feel his hardness prodding my belly, 
and I splay my hands up and down his back, touching, massaging, feeling .... 
Finally I pull back from the kiss.  Mulder's staring at me, his eyes slightly 
wild, his mouth full and wet from our kiss.  His lipstick is smeared, and I 
realize through a haze of lust that I'm now wearing some of it.  I push urgently 
on his chest, rolling him onto his back, and without a wasted motion I climb on 
board, straddling him and impaling myself .... 
Yessssss .... 
Jesus, this is good.  I can't remember sex ever feeling this good so quickly.  
He's buried inside me, now -- deep inside me.  All the way to the hilt.  I lean 
forward, pressing my palms against his chest, and I find him looking up at me.  
And our hips begin to move at the same instant .... 
And even now, I can't get my mind off the clothes he's wearing.  My fingers are 
playing with the straps of his bra, and his garters are rubbing gently against 
the insides of my thighs.  One of his falsies has come a little loose, and 
started to slide out, but I don't care.  He's Mulder, and he's gorgeous, 
absolutely gorgeous .... 
I can't take much of this, I realize.  This isn't going to last very long at 
all.  Which is fine, because from the expression of intense concentration on 
Mulder's face, I can tell that he's already having trouble holding back.  His 
hands are roughly grasping my hips, and we're already slamming and bucking at 
each other, loving each other, fucking each other with a strength and power 
that's driven by our desire .... 
I hear myself talking to him, babbling at him, speaking in short, nonsense 
phrases.  I'm telling him how good it feels, how wonderful he is, how much I 
love him, how much I want him.  Most of all, I'm telling him how fucking sexy he 
is and how I can't believe he did this for me.  I'm pouring my heart out as he 
pounds up into me and I thrust down onto him.  I'm so high, so high, so high, 
and getting higher with each stroke .... 
And then I feel the orgasm washing through me, so hard and furious and 
undeniable.  I can't see or feel or hear anything but the man beneath me, the 
man who is giving himself to me, filling me, merging with me.  I hear a cry of 
joy, torn from Mulder's lips, and suddenly he's pulling me down against him and 
kissing me as his hips move into one final flurry of lovemaking .... 
I'm somewhere.  I exist.  That's all I really know at first.  That I am. 
Gradually, my senses start to check in with their reports.  The first thing I 
notice is that I'm warm.  So warm and content and happy.  This observation is 
followed closely by more:  the strong, comforting arms wrapped loosely around 
me.  The mingled scent of my arousal and that of the man I'm lying with.  The 
firm, masculine body stretched out beneath me. 
Mulder stirs slightly, and makes a slight throat clearing noise, apparently 
trying to get my attention.  Slowly and languorously, I lift my head from his 
chest and open my eyes. 
"So," he says, very softly.  "Did I get it right?" 
For some reason his question strikes me as outrageously funny, and I burst out 
laughing.  He stares at me for a moment, but then he starts to chuckle, too, and 
in a few more seconds we're both roaring with laughter, holding on to each other 
and rocking back and forth in bed.  We finally wind down, this time with Mulder 
lying partly on top of me, one of his stocking-clad legs wedged between both of 
mine. 
He looks down at me for a moment, amusement still glinting from his eyes, but 
even though his mascara is almost comically smudged, suddenly everything seems 
very serious.  He's done a lot for me tonight, and I know it, and I want to make 
sure he knows that I know it. 
So I slip one arm around his neck and pull his face down to mine, and I proceed 
to tell him just how right he got it, in the very best way imaginable. 
  
  
Fini