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Wet Dreams IV:  Green Velvet
by Merri-Todd Webster
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She was wearing green.

Walter Skinner cursed himself for his weakness, but there it 
was.  Right there, inside the trousers of his tuxedo, hard and 
ready.  Right in the middle of a boring retirement dinner 
which everyone was expected to attend.  The Bureau's 
oldest and kinkiest AD was retiring, going home to a buxom 
wife half his age, and at a dinner in his honor, AD Walter 
Skinner had a stiff one because Agent Scully was wearing 
green.

With her fair skin, light eyes, and vividly red hair, green 
seemed like the ideal color for Dana Katherine Scully, but 
she rarely wore it.  Cream, beige, navy, taupe, plum, but not 
green.  Skinner had realized five minutes ago that he'd been 
waiting for her to wear that color since the first time he laid 
eyes on her. A deep forest green, the green of forest floors 
carpeted with spruce, of northern mountains, of deep glades 
where nothing walked on two feet, of twilight seen through a 
canopy of leaves.  It made him want to lay hands on her 
along with eyes, to touch her everywhere and make sure she 
was a real woman, not a tree spirit.

Skinner gulped at his scotch and regretted it instantly; the 
whisky was not good enough to gulp.  Swaying, he retreated 
further into the corner where he'd taken refuge at the first 
signs of arousal, never taking his eyes off the petite redhead 
in the green velvet gown.  It was simple and elegant, leaving 
bare her arms, her shoulders, and her upper breasts, 
clinging to her torso, sweeping the floor. A necklace of green 
and rose stones glittered at her throat.  Her hair was 
gathered up into a green barette, maybe jade, exposing all of 
her neck and some of her back to view.

Not a few heads turned at that view, and Skinner found 
himself wanting to wring the necks that supported them.  And 
then there was Mulder.  Mulder at Scully's elbow, looking 
impossibly good in a tuxedo, as if the garment had been 
invented just for him.  Skinner always felt like a gorilla in 
formal clothes, too big, too hairy, too muscular.  Mulder was 
a clothes horse, with a body apparently meant to display 
sartorial splendors.  Skinner had been plagued so often, of 
late, with sexual fantasies about one or the other of these 
agents that he really didn't know whether he wanted to wring 
Mulder's beautiful neck or force him to his knees and use his 
mouth to relieve this godawful erection.

Growling under his breath, Skinner fled the ballroom, looking 
for the most distant and unpopulated men's room he could 
find. He had to go down to the basement to meet his 
requirements, but it *had* to be done.  He could not walk 
around all night grinding his teeth in rhythm with the 
throbbing of his dick.

In the stall, he undid the perfectly fitted trousers and lowered 
them, clumsy with haste, and peeled his briefs down over his 
considerable length.  Bracing himself with one hand on the 
chilly tiled wall, he took hold of his cock with the other.  He 
should just jerk off and get it over with, get back up there and 
be seen as he was expected to, but he justcouldn't.  That 
green dress clinging to those exquisite breasts....

He lays aside the jacket of his tux and loosens the tie.  Dana 
is watching him, her eyes glittering in the light of a single 
lamp.  Feeling a little more comfortable, he approaches her, 
smiling, and gathers her into his arms.  Her bare arms twine 
around his neck and her lips part as he bends to kiss her. 
She's tiny, but the passion in her kiss speaks of strength to 
match his own, and he doesn't want to let her go.  His hands 
slide up and down her back, crossing repeatedly between 
the rich green velvet of her gown and the subtler velvet of 
her creamy skin.

Eventually they have to come up for air.  His gaze lingers on 
her mouth, even fuller than usual because of the kiss.  His 
hands shift from her back to her shoulders, so small and 
fragile in his grasp, and then to her breasts.  A tiny sound 
escapes her as he kneads them gently, fingers on skin, palm 
on velvet, but he doesn't want to rush.  He lets go of her, 
steps back, circles around her to undo the carven green jade 
clip that secures her hair.  It falls over his hands and her 
neck like liquid fire, soft, scented with her perfume.  He trails 
his fingers through it and bends to nibble lightly at her neck.

"I won't break," she says huskily.  "You don't have to be so 
careful."

She's smiling.  He smiles back.  "Yes, I do," he says ruefully. 
"I'm an old man, and if I'm not careful, this will be over far too 
soon and you'll be listening to me snore for the rest of the 
night."

She giggles, a sound like good champagne bubbling out of 
the bottle, and puts her hands on his chest.  "You can see 
more of me than I can of you," she observes, beginning to 
unbutton his shirt.  He stands still, just about holding his 
breath, until she has opened all the buttons and pulled the 
shirt out of his waistband.  The look in her eyes as she
spreads the shirt open and runs her hands over his bare 
chest is frankly appreciative, and her touch feels 
appreciative, too--so appreciative that he has to take hold of 
her hands.

"Dana," her name feels so strange, "I really want to do this 
for you.  Please let me do it.  If there's another time <please 
God>, I'll let you return the favor." 

Smiling, she nods.  "Sit down," he urges.  She sits on the 
bed, and he kneels in front of her. He starts by taking off her 
shoes and massaging her feet, amazed all over again by 
how small they are.  The contrast between her physical size 
and her strength of her character has always astonished, 
intrigued, and aroused him. She wiggles her toes in his 
grasp and wiggles more when he kisses her instep.

As his hands glide up her legs, she leans back on her 
elbows, letting him do whatever he wants.  He expects to 
reach up to her waist to pull down her pantyhose, but she 
surprises him:  The stockings stop at her thighs, supported 
by garters.  Oh Lord.  He groans softly at the thought of 
Dana Scully in a garter belt.  Then his hands feel a little 
further, and he groans more loudly, jerking back his hand as 
his fingers brush across moist curls--

She giggles again and lies back, hands behind her head, 
parting her thighs invitingly.  He pushes up the skirt just far 
enough that he can see the dark red garters to unsnap them. 
She lifts one leg and then the other, gracefully, so he can 
peel down the silky stockings and uncover silkier skin, skin 
that demands to be touched with his lips.  So smooth....  The 
smell of her perfume is stronger and mingled now with 
something else, something better--the smell of her arousal.

Trying to slow himself down, he sits back on his heels.  Dana 
sits up and reaches behind her back, and the zipper on the 
bodice whispers as she draws it down.  She arches her back 
just a little, her eyes focused on his, her gaze collected and 
yet heated at once.  His fingers are almost trembling as he 
pulls the fabric away from her skin.

Perfect breasts, perfect for the rest of her. Small, shapely, 
white, crowned with crinkled rose-pink nipples that are 
silently begging for attention.  It's Dana's turn to moan as he 
gives them some, fingers, lips, and tongue all equally hungry 
for the feel and the taste of her. He hardly realizes when she 
falls back on the bed, writhing under his chest as he fondles 
both breasts at once, using his teeth, holding her with his 
weight.  Her loud cry is so sharp and sudden that he draws 
back, afraid.

"Dana, did I hurt you?  Was I too rough?"

This time it's not a giggle, but a lazy chuckle.  "Hurt me? Far 
from it."  She twines her arms around his neck again.  "You 
must have known other women who could come from having 
their breasts sucked."

He grins.  "Actually, no."  And grins broader.  "So you like 
oral attention, huh...?"

He pushes the skirt up further, up to her waist.  Oh yes.  This 
is what he's been wanting to see.  This is the answer to what 
has practically become an interoffice pool.  Dana Scully 
really *is* a redhead, all the way down.  She shifts her hips 
and spreads her thighs still wider, showing him what the red 
curls cover:  A flower of deeply pink flesh, glistening with 
arousal.  The smell of her pussy hits him harder than any 
scotch ever could, making him so hard it feels like his cock is 
going to rip through his trousers.

She comes again as soon as his tongue touches her. He 
forgets about finesse and being careful and making it last; all 
he wants to do is make her come, make her cry out again, 
make her thrust her cunt against his face.  He covers her 
cunt with his mouth as if it were her mouth, kissing it, 
thrusting his tongue into the folds, sucking on her clit, licking 
hard and making her hips rock with the force of it.  Her 
noises are like firecrackers going off, ah! ah! ah! and he's 
growling into her, hips against the bed, oh God--

"Dana!"

Skinner let go, keeping just enough presence of mind to hit 
the water in the bowl and not come all over the seat and the 
wall.  It felt like weeks of tension went out of him with his 
semen; his brain turned to jello and his bones to water.  After 
a moment, he managed to straighten up, wipe himself and 
then the toilet with some tissue, and flush. Deep breath, 
straighten the tie, and he stepped out of the stall--

--and straight into Fox Mulder, leaning against the sink with 
his hand in his pants.

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