“I can’t turn off what turns me on
(Mass seduction)
I hold you like a weapon
(Mass destruction)
I don’t turn off what turns me on”
- St. Vincent, Masseduction [x]
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a law enforcement officer in possession of a good pair of handcuffs must be in want of a sexual partner to use them on.
Dana Scully knows this is a terribly predictable kink. She is a tightly wound, overly compartmentalized control freak of a woman in a male-dominated profession who, surprise surprise, likes to tussle for power in bed. As if the tramp stamp and the underlying daddy issues weren’t bad enough.
But as luck would have it, she falls in love with a man who has spent decades punishing himself for things not at all his fault, desperate to please yet preternaturally predisposed to repeatedly misbehaving. And they each own a pair of handcuffs.
“Must be fate, Mulder,” she had told him once, looking down into his eyes as she straddled his chest, running her hands softly over his outstretched arms. The right was bound to her headboard with her pair of cuffs, the left with his. “A perfect pair, don’t you think?”
He’d made a joke then about her tits, because even a subdued Mulder was still Mulder. She’d laughed good-naturedly, it was funny after all, but punished him anyway.
“If they’re distracting you, we can take care of that,” she said, reaching gracefully into her night table and removing a blindfold.
“Oh, come on Scully, I was just kidding —"
She had gripped his handsome chin in her fingers, hard, and looked into his eyes one last time before covering them.
“Shut the fuck up, Mulder,” she’d said, as she’d slipped the blindfold on. She reached her right hand behind her body until she found his cock and gripped it like her gun, strong and steady and sure. She felt a familiar rush of power and smirked at him, though he couldn’t see it, as he bucked against her. “Or I’ll gag you, too.”
*
That wasn’t the first time, of course. The first time they used the handcuffs started as a bit of a joke, as many fantasies have begun. An easy way to broach the subject, to test the water, a built-in exit strategy: ‘of course I was just teasing.’
It is a Saturday morning and she wakes up at his apartment, which at the time is still a relatively new place for her to awaken. She is not surprised to find that Mulder is not in bed next to her — he usually wakes before her. With a yawn, she stretches luxuriously and smiles at the thought of 48 hours of not-going-to-the-office. It was the first weekend they’d have off in a long time and she was looking forward to spending it doing normal things like a normal person.
On the bed side table, she finds a note from Mulder saying he’d gone out for breakfast — also not a shock, considering her partner, who had only recently begun using his bedroom, is not quite the well-stocked pantry type.
She’d showered and towel-dried her hair, changed into jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, all Casual Scully, by the time he returns with a bag from the yuppie bakery and two lattes in hand. She raises an eyebrow; he is spoiling her. More than that, he has let her win without even putting up a fight: Mulder is a savory breakfast guy — nothing better than a bacon egg and cheese — yet he has indulged Scully’s childish fondness for a sweet breakfast, producing powdered-sugar-dusted almond croissants from a little box with great flourish and fanfare.
It makes her suspicious. That feeling is heightened when Mulder drops a line that is bad even for him: “Sweets for my sweet.”
“Ok, Mulder,” she says lightly. “What gives?”
“A guy can’t get his girl her favorite breakfast without getting the third degree, Scully?”
She side-eyes him as she takes a bite of the croissant, and momentarily is so happy to be eating it that she doesn’t care whether they’re part of a bribe or an effort to butter her up or soften her for bad news. Powdered sugar sprinkles down onto her black shirt and she doesn’t even really care; when Mulder brushes it off her breasts, she smiles at the intimacy and easiness of having a morning routine. She is perusing the metro section of the Post; he is scanning the sports pages, and it is all wonderful and normal and warm and delicious.
“So, I know this was supposed to be our first weekend off in a while,” he begins, and ah, there it is.
“Mulder, no.”
“I got a tip this morning about the appearance of a mythical creature in Pennsylvania — it’s called a squonk — and while they’re normally known as a sad and frightened creatures, this one may have killed.”
“A squonk,” she says flatly, not feeling the need to add anything else.
“A killer squonk, Scully.”
“You promised me a weekend, Mulder,” she says, somewhere between whining and warning.
He gets up and moves toward his desk, where he is presumably keeping a file on this thing — as if a killer squonk actually merits an official government record of any kind.
She follows him, bare feet moving quietly over the floor boards.
“We are not going to Pennsylvania,” she says, and he doesn’t bother to turn around.
She is going to make him listen to her and she is prepared to use every girlfriend trick in the book, every bit of begging and charm and promise and wile and then she eyes her handcuffs, which she’d left on his desk last night, and she grins, realizing perhaps she can rely on those instead. Just to shock him, she thinks, just a little joke, just the old ball and chain.
“I mean, it’s not like we really had defined plans, Scully, and it’ll—”
He never saw it coming; the cuffs snick around his left wrist before he realizes what’s happening, and she latches them around his right with catlike speed as he gasps.
“Oh, but I have some defined plans for you, Agent Mulder,” she practically purrs, pressing herself up against his back, standing on tip-toe to get as close to his ear as she can. “And they most certainly do not involve the commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”
He stands stone-still save for the rise and fall of his body with his breath. She waits a beat. Two. Runs her hands up and down his sides, half-frisking, half-caressing. He is silent and she almost falters — maybe he wants to see the squonk more than he wants to know what she’ll do next, she second guesses. She nearly cracks a joke and lets him go, but then her wandering hand happens to move past his heart, which is racing, and she smiles.
“Ok, Agent Scully,” he says, finally. “You’re in charge.”
“Oh, Mulder,” she says, trying to sound as haughty as she had in the first days they’d known each other. “If I had known this was all it took to hear those words I’d have cuffed you years ago.”
He laughs nervously. Still standing behind him, she directs him to sit in his wooden slat desk chair, his cuffed arms placed behind him over the back. He doesn’t turn around to look back at her, but she looks down at him from behind, watching his chest and rise and fall. She’s thrown him off, he’s nervous, and she is not particularly surprised to find that it thrills her.
She quickly, efficiently, silently removes her shirt and her jeans and her socks, pleased with herself for having packed a matching black bra and panties. In the corner near the door she spots the pumps she’d discarded the night before and puts them back on. Mulder twitches at the click of her heels against the hardwood floors as she walks toward him, around the chair, wedging herself in the small space between his legs and the desk.
“Will you keep your arms behind you, or do I need to secure the cuffs to the chair?”
“If you want me to keep them behind me, I’ll keep them behind me,” he says.
“That’s very good, Mulder,” she says. Her eyes flick down to his crotch. He’s enjoying this too, she realizes with relief.
The squonk file is on the desk, and she picks up before sitting down where it had been. Mulder has to look up slightly to meet her eyes, though he seems more focused on her tits. Men. She flips through the folder, tsk-tsk-ing the way she might in the basement.
“The deceased is one James McDonald, a Penn State biology professor found dead in Rothbrook State Forest. And you think it was a squonk that killed him,” she raises an eyebrow, asks the question exactly the way she would if she were in the office, dressed in a suit. They are not in the office. She is nearly naked and Mulder is handcuffed and hard in front of her.
“I think it could be a squonk that killed him,” he says.
“You don’t think it was the narcotics the medical examiner found on the tox screen?” she asks when she gets to the autopsy report.
“I think that could have been a contributing factor,” he acknowledges.
“You were going to drag me into the woods, on my day off, where I’d probably ruin another nice pair of shoes,” she says, drawing a high-heeled foot to rest on edge of his chair, “to go chase things that don’t exist.”
“In my defense, Scully, I was going to suggest we stop in Hershey on the way home. The whole town smells like chocolate,” he offers.
“Do you still want to go to Pennsylvania?” she asks.
“No.”
“What do you want?” Her voice is sweet, solicitous.
“I want to touch you,” he says.
“But you can’t,” she observes, and he nods. “That must be difficult. Frustrating.”
“Yes,” he says.
She smirks. “You’re used to getting what you want. Today I’m going to get what I want. But lucky for you, Mulder, it seems like you want the same thing.”
Scully reaches down from her perch on the desk, knowing he’ll get an eyeful of her breasts as she does, and runs a hand over the obvious erection trapped beneath his jeans. “Are you uncomfortable in your jeans, Mulder?” she asks. “Would you like me to take them off?”
“Yes,” his voice nearly cracks. “Please.”
“So polite,” she says. “Not yet. First we’re going to talk a little bit more about what we want.”
“Fuck, Scully,” he groans.
“You want to fuck, Mulder?” she asks, her voice clipped. “There’s lots of things we’re going to do before we fuck. Let’s start with touching. Where would you touch me now, if you could?”
She tries to keep her voice cool, condescending, but her heart is pounding. She is close to him, so fucking close, and he can’t reach out and touch her, but she can touch him. Or she can not touch him. She can do what she wants and Mulder — the Mulder who never listens to reason, the one who runs off without telling her — can only squirm.
“I would touch your breasts,” he says.
She reaches her own hands up, caress the soft material of her bra. Just teasing herself, running her fingertips over her nipples.
“Like this?” she asks.
“At first,” he says, shifting in his seat. “Then I’d take your bra off.”
“Doesn’t that sound like a better idea than going to Pennsylvania?” she asks, reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra before sliding it off and letting it fall to the ground beside his chair.
“Yes, Agent Scully,” he says, and the Agent catches her off guard, but she doesn’t dislike it.
She moves her hands back to her breasts, caressing first, then rolling her nipples between her fingers.
“Like this, then,” she says. “You’d touch me like this, Mulder?”
She watches the ragged rise and fall of his chest, watches his tongue slide over his lips as he fights for control of himself.
“You know that I would, Scully.”
“But you can’t,” she says. “Can you?”
“I want to,” he insists. “Please, Scully, I want to.”
She picks up the file again. “Did you know that squonks are said to dissolve into a pool of tears when they’re cornered?”
“Oh my god, forget about the fucking squonk, Scully—” and well, she can’t have that, so she moves her right foot, pump and all, between his legs and presses the ball of her foot — precisely firm enough to frighten and excite without hurting — against his cock.
“Excuse me, Mulder?” she asks.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I just —”
“Whose fault is it, exactly, that we’re talking about the squonk? Hm?”
“Mine, but, I just want to touch you so bad —”
“And you can’t, because I have you restrained,” she says simply, staring right at him, and his eyes are a mixture of devotion and desire and an edge of fear, and god, she wants him to touch her, too. “Why did I have to restrain you again?”
A little more pressure from the tip of her toes against his cock. He throws his head back. “Because I wanted to drag you to go see the squonk.”
None of her fantasies of cuffing her partner and having her way with him involved this much discussion of mythical creatures, but then their life is anything but predictable.
“I bet you feel like you might dissolve into a puddle yourself right about now Mulder, don’t you?”
“You’re making me so hard I can’t think straight,” he says.
“Mm. Your jeans do look like they’re getting a little tighter. Do you want me to take them off now? So you can think straight enough to behave yourself?”
“God, yes, please, Scully.”
“I like that, hearing you say please,” she says, and stands up in the tight space between them. “Scoot your chair back a little, Mulder.”
He does the best he can in his restrained state, giving her a little extra room. She sinks onto her knees before him and unbuttons his fly.
“Stand up,” she orders, and he does, shakily. She pulls down his jeans and his boxers. “Sit down again, arms back behind the chair.”
She works his jeans and boxers all the way off. He’s still wearing his shirt, which will have to stay put thanks to the cuffs. She looks up, first at his cock — which is painfully close to her mouth — and then to his eyes.
“You’re enjoying this,” she says simply.
He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose, and she wonders if he is struggling with the conflicting feels she herself has when she wonders just why, exactly, she gets off on this. She’s fantasized about the reverse situation, too — the mirror image thrill of being on the other side of the handcuffs — and knows the twinge of shame.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed, Mulder,” she says, her voice the softest and kindest it has been since breakfast. “I’m enjoying it too. The way you’re reacting to me is so sexy. Your cock is so hard, I want to wrap my lips around it.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, bucks in the desk chair. “Please.”
“No,” she says, knowing they are so close he can feel her hot breath against his erection. “Not yet.”
Scully rises back to her feet, and then slips off her underwear. She gets back on the cool surface of his desk.
“Where else would you touch me, Mulder? Would you want to feel how wet I am?”
“God, yes,” he says. “I’d touch your pussy, Scully. Slide my fingers inside of you to see if you were ready for me. Then I’d play with your clit.”
She slides her own hand down her body, and he is riveted. It’s her turn, now, to power through a twinge of embarrassment. She’s touched herself while they were fucking before, fingers wedged between their bodies, but never out in the open like this. She feels a little shy about it, but he deserves a treat.
“Hearing you talk like that, Mulder, it makes me want to touch myself,” she says, and she slides a finger inside herself, and then a second. In, then out, her motions exaggerated a bit from her normal routine for visual effect. “I can’t help myself.”
“God, yes, Scully, you’re so fucking beautiful. I want to bury my face between your legs.”
“That does sound appealing,” she says, trying not to let her own desire make her voice shake. “But for now, I want you to watch me fuck myself. I know you have a very… visual mind. Did you ever think about me doing this, before we got together? Because I did, you know. I would touch myself like this, and think of you.”
“Oh my god, Scully, I can’t — I’m going to embarrass myself here. Please,” he begged.
“So worked up already? I haven’t even touched you, Mulder,” she says innocently, and it feels a little cruel to point it out, but she knows he’ll get his reward soon.
She stops touching herself and slips off the desk. She closes the small distance between them, and then straddles the chair.
“One more time, Mulder. What you do you want?”
“Please touch me, Scully,” he begs.
She runs her hands through his hair and kisses him, softly, on his mouth.
“You’ve been very good, Mulder. Time for you to get what you’ve been waiting for,” she says.
She reaches between her own legs for his cock, hard and hot, and his desperation for her makes her lightheaded. She doesn’t tease him anymore — she simply guides his cock to her pussy and slides down onto him.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he hisses. “Oh, fuck, you’re so wet, Scully. You like having me at your mercy, huh?”
She works her clit with one hand, and braces the other on his shoulder. He thrusts up to meet her own up-and-down movements, and while she really ought to be setting the pace, and she really shouldn’t have let him get away with that comment, she lets him. He’s earned it.
“Yes, I do like having you at my mercy. I think I’ll be doing it more often,” she says, telling, not asking.
“God, Scully, I always wondered,” he mutters. “Sometimes I’d watch you stare down some asshole in an interview room and wonder what it’d be like to be on the other end of that glare.”
“And?” she asks, no longer able to hide her own desire as she gasps for breath while riding him. “How was it?”
“It was fucking hot, Scully. You’re incredible. I feel like I could melt.”
“Like the squonk,” she says, and he laughs.
“I still want to touch you,” he keens.
“You are touching me. You’re inside me,” she insists. “I’ll uncuff you later and you can keep your promise to bury your head between my legs.”
She takes the hand she has on his shoulder and clutches the hair at the back of his head. “I’m close, Mulder. Would you like to watch me come while I ride your cock?”
“Yes, yes, please come for me,” he says.
“Fuck me harder, then,” she implores him, and he’s practically jumping out of his seat, doing the best he can without his arms for leverage.
“Gotta see you come, Scully, c’mon, give it to me,” he urges.
And then she’s over the edge, exploding, letting go of all the tension it took to hold herself back, to keep herself in check so she could stay in charge and in control. All of it shatters, she shatters, bucking against him and her own fingers, seeing stars.
When she comes back to herself, her calves and quads are aching with her effort at riding him, her body slick with sweat. But it must be nothing compared to poor Mulder, who is still hard inside her.
She takes his face in her hands, tenderly. He is looking at her reverently, awestruck by the show she must’ve put on a moment ago.
“Thank you,” she whispers, almost shyly. “Thank you. Now, I believe it’s your turn, Mulder.”
She slides up off of his cock and he’s about to protest when she adds: “I want you to come in my mouth, Mulder. You’ve been so good, I want to touch you like I promised.”
She kisses his lips, his clavicle, sinks to her knees in the small space between him and the desk. She wonders if he’s ever fantasized about her sucking him off here, in the middle of some paperwork; she has no doubt he’s imagined it, as she has, in the basement office. Maybe without the handcuffs, but he hasn’t complained yet.
Mulder is on the edge of his seat — literally — when she takes him into her mouth. He groans, and she runs her fingernails lightly against his balls, best she can from her current angle. She takes in as much of him as she can and hums contentedly around his cock as she feels him buck, struggling for control. She works him expertly, sucking the length of his shaft, and then looks up at him.
“Oh, fuck, Scully,” he says when their eyes meet. She’s not sure what it is about men and eye contact during a blowjob, but then it always gets her motor running too. She can feel him getting harder for her, another familiar thrill. She sucks harder, encourages him with her eyes. Works the underside of his cock with her tongue until —
“Yes, yes, just like that,” he breathes, “yes, Scully, yes.”
His hips jerk toward her as he spurts inside her, babbling her name, and she swallows, keeping her mouth around him until the aftershocks subside.
Mulder is utterly spent when she gracefully rises to her feet and picks up the handcuff key from the desk. She uncuffs him and he shakes out his arms a little, pulling them back in front of him.
She walks back over to the desk and leans against it, still naked.
“Hey,” she says sweetly, like she hadn’t just put him through extended erotic torture.
“Hey,” he grins languidly. “You sure know how to kill a case, Scully.”
“C’mon, Mulder,” she says, reaching out for his hand. “Let’s go relax. I liked having your arms behind your back, but I’d like to feel them around me for a little while.”
He follows her into the bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it on the floor.
“Did you mean what you said, Scully? About doing this more often?” he asked as he crawled into his side of the bed, she into hers. He spooned her, making good use of the arms that had been restrained.
“I think it might be fun, yes. We could use squonk as a safe word,” she laughed. “Give it a lasting legacy.”
“Mm, sounds good to me, Scully,” he breathes into her hair. “But just remember one thing.”
He rolls away just for a second, but the wheels start turning in her mind immediately. Still, his long arms gives him the advantage in reaching his bedside table quickly.
She feels the steel and hears the click.
“I have a pair of handcuffs, too, partner.”