Fire and Ice One

You open your mouth as though to speak, to explain, though you know from experience that nothing you can say will make a difference to him. You know there aren’t enough words in the world to suture the wound that still bleeds in his hazel eyes; the wound you once inflicted with such scalpel-like precision that it seems no amount of time nor act of redemption will seal its raw hurt.

The air shifts in front of your face, a waft of warmth that chokes your explanation stillborn, and the fist thuds into your cheek. Thudding, searing inevitable pain explodes through your jaw, flowing like lava through your mouth and bursting free in a red stream as your shocked teeth shutter closed against your tongue.

“Rat bastard,” he says, and you sway for a moment, drunk on the familiar heat of his hatred as the wake of his blow sends fiery invisible fingers raking through your flesh.

“Mulder,” you reply quietly, meekly, as though your ears aren’t already ringing with the force of his punch, and he waits, expectantly, until you give it to him.

A brief nod of your head. An acknowledgement. An offering.

Which he accepts with ballet-like grace, as his arm swings once more, driving his fist deep into your guts with breath-stealing force. You gasp, fold, choke, cough, as a seemingly choreographed flurry of punches complete your dissolution, as your knees smack the floor in defeat. You can’t strike back, can’t defend yourself.

You never could raise your hands to him anyway, so of necessity your attacks were sly and treacherous. Backstabbing manipulations and cowardly betrayals. You never could deny his need to make your body bear witness to the bruises you’d inflicted on his soul. But now you can’t even try to deflect his anger and that makes it both harder and easier to bear. Your head bows deep in unconscious subservience as your tortured lungs gasp for air and it hurts so much, so right, this one-sided dance, that you actually forget there’s someone else in the room until she speaks.

“Don’t make me shoot you again, Mulder.”

Her voice is cool, rather than cold, with just a hint of bitter amusement diluting the threat of her words.

You tremble as she verbally pulls his leash, as she reminds him who is in charge, as she re-draws the only line that Mulder has learned never to cross. You tell yourself your trembles are relief, not disappointment, and you want to believe.

“Scully,” he whines, and you picture his trembling pout and his puppy-eyes, though your own eyes are closed tight behind the sudden stinging wetness of your lashes.

“No fists,” she says. Firm. Implacable. Ice.

You can visualize the expression of hurt twisting on his face just from his snort of furious disappointment. You can almost hear the wordless exchange as their eyes duel in a war of wills, as her glacial calm proves a firewall against his manic fury, as she silently says,

/Don’t break my toy, Mulder/

For a moment you imagine him screwing his face up like a thwarted child as he, equally silently, demands

/But I wanna play, Scully/

Your shivers of fear become full-bodied trembles as your whole body twitches like the tail of an uncertain cat, and you don’t know what frightens you more - the unpredictability of his unleashed fury or the humiliation of her emotionless, more ritualistic revenge.

And perhaps he knows that the not-knowing is as terrible in its own way as the certainty of what is to come because, mercurial as ever, he barks a laugh and begins to bargain the terms of your surrender.

“My belt?”

“No.”

“The cat?”

“NO.”

You shudder as he sighs and pauses to rethink his strategy. You’re not fool enough to feel relief at her denials. She’s proven a thousand times that she’s indifferent to your suffering. She just doesn’t want him to break you before she’s taken her own fill of your pain-racked flesh.

“How about the paddle?” he asks.

“Okay,” she agrees, and you can imagine her tossing her hair with tolerant amusement as renewed excitement begins to color his tone.

“And then the suede whip?” he wheedles and, when she doesn’t deny him immediately, he begins to coax her. “No damage,” he promises slyly. “Just a few strokes on his cock, his balls…maybe his tits. Just to warm him up for you, Scully. Please? Let me make him squeal a bit before you make him scream.”

Your heart thuds and your cock quivers as she pauses, considering. A sob of fear escapes your throat and you shiver with dread, hunching down into a defensive crouch, wincing as your bruised stomach presses against the waist-strap that cuffs your single wrist against the small of your back.

“Oh, yes,” she purrs, with the self-satisfied cruelty of a contented cat, and you moan like the trapped rodent you are.

He releases the leash that links your waist-chain to the metal hoop drilled into the floorboards. You hear him walk over to the low coffee table and risk a sideways look through your lashes as he sits down on its hard surface and arranges his long legs into a comfortable position, so you see his sardonic smile as he summons you with a single slap against the hard flesh of his Armani-clad thighs. It’s the sneer on his face that sends an adrenaline charged rush through your bloodstream, the contempt in his eyes that births your terrified anticipation.

You’re trembling so hard that you can barely crawl on your knees to his side. Your ass is already clenching in fear and, although you try and will your muscles to relax, your instinct to curl into a self-protective ball makes it almost impossible to unfurl your cringing body and drape yourself in sacrifice over his lap.

“Scared?” he taunts. “You should be.”

The blood is rushing to your head as it dangles just inches from the carpet, your arm aches already as the unnatural position pulls your cuffed wrist tighter against your back, and Mulder’s hard thighs are digging into the puffy, swollen flesh of your bruised stomach. You’re already in pain and the punishment hasn’t even started. So yes, you’re scared. Scared that this time they’ll go too far, take too much, shatter you too completely for you to ever pull the pieces back together.

You don’t even hear Scully walk over and hand him the paddle. You only realize she’s done so when pain explodes across the back of your thighs. You squeal in surprise. Your ass muscles jumping and quivering in confusion as the expected pain erupts so much lower than you anticipated, and your legs kick wildly in useless protest.

Useless to count the blows. Yet you try, as though it’s possible to give number and meaning to the fury he wields against you. Strike after strike without pattern or rhythm. Dull, flat pain that blossoms into fiery agony as one stroke overlays the next until your ass and thighs feel as though an army of fire ants are gnawing into your bowels, until your gasps for air sound like choking sobs and tears are streaming down your cheeks.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice a husky growl of pure wrath.

“I’m sorry,” you wail, as he uses his whole body weight to crash the paddle down against your tenderized ass.

Now it truly begins, your wails of apology interspersed with his merciless, unforgiving punishment. He doesn’t care what you say. He doesn’t listen to the words of your frantic apologies. All he wants is the verbalization of your pain. He wants your literal blood and tears. He bathes in your sacrifice and anoints himself with your agony.

You’re twisting, writhing, your body instinctively struggling for an escape that your mind denies exists, as your whole being ignites with the heat from your ass, as you squirm in desperation on his lap, as your self-control begins to shatter. For just that moment in time, you’re the center of his world. You’re the embodiment of everything he loathes, the representation of everyone who’s ever hurt him. Your sobs and cries bear witness to every pain he’s suffered and it’s his tears that spill down your cheeks and splash onto the floor.

Then small fingers grasp your chin, drag your face upwards, force your eyes to meet her cold blue gaze, and she licks her lower lip unconsciously as she watches your face contort with every impact of Mulder’s paddle.

She knows the moment the sensations threaten to overwhelm you, when your body begins to twist in confusion, as the fire in your ass merges with the pressure in your groin, and it feels so good, so right, to suffer like this at his hands that you begin to forget that this is punishment.

“Please,” you gasp, defenseless, exposed. “I can’t…can’t…”

You can’t even say it, can’t find the words to admit that you’re spiraling into that sickeningly familiar place where the pain becomes its own pleasure.

But she knows. She always knows.

Her smile is glacial as she nods in acknowledgement of your weakness.

“Enough,” she says, one softly whispered word enough to temporarily extinguish Mulder’s fiery vengeance.

It’s just petty spite that he stands and lets you tumble heavily to the floor. You land on your back, your cuffed hand digging cruelly into your spine, your raw ass burning against the carpet, your legs splayed to reveal your humiliating hardness as your brutally caged cock rears an embarrassing salute towards his smirking face.

You know what’s coming next. Your flesh is trying to wither and deflate. Your whole groin is itching and trembling with terror as your blood tries to escape through the vicious metal bands that hoop your engorged cock and balls. Bug-eyed, you watch in horror as Mulder reaches for the suede flogger and slaps it loudly against his own thigh.

He teases it over your ball-sac, letting its trailing throngs tickle the taut flesh, running its deceptive softness along your shaft until your ignorant skin is trembling with excitement.

“Please don’t,” you whimper, your eyes darting wildly from arctic blue to fiery hazel in search of mercy.

You hold your breath as a small, thoughtful frown mars her otherwise expressionless face. For a moment you dare to dream there’ll be a reprieve.

Then reality reasserts itself as she speaks.

“Make him dance for me, Mulder.”

And the flogger bites against your cock, sure and fast, soft and merciless, like a thousand insects biting into your flesh, making you howl, squirm, wail. Making your ass bounce and burn on the carpet as you leap and twist beneath the relentless whipping.

You can’t catch enough breath to scream. You can only squeal and whimper like a trapped rat, as you writhe under the torture of Mulder’s tireless wrist as he makes you dance for her pleasure.

And still she only frowns, as though even your suffering is beneath her contempt, and it’s her silent dissatisfaction with your reactions that drives Mulder to play you like a cat with prey, waiting until you can’t bear one more stroke of the flogger, until you literally think your heart will burst with the dreadful stimulation of your nerve endings, and then pausing long enough for your heartbeat to slow a little before resuming a fresh flurry of blows. Your groin feels like it’s covered in acid, every millimeter of skin reddened and swollen, pre-cum streaming from your cock-head like hysterical tears and sliming over your bruised, shivering, sweat-drenched belly.

“Enough,” she says, finally, and her frown has transformed into a vague smile. But her smile is ice and you understand that she just means the warm-up is over.

They move away to the drinks cabinet, where Mulder pours them each a wine and they chink their glasses together in celebration. Breathless from his exertion, Mulder gulps his wine like water. Scully just sips hers in slow satisfaction. His eyes are smug as they watch you rock in agony on the floor, struggling to rise enough on your beaten ass to roll over on your knees. Hers are simply indifferent.

Impossible, without hands, to get into the position they want without allowing your brutalized groin to touch the carpet, and you only realize you must have passed out when you wake to find they’ve gotten impatient enough to put you into the restraints themselves.

You’re on your knees, your ass high in the air, your ankles spread apart by a metal bar, and this time you’re chained so tightly by the neck against the iron ring on the floor that your nose is buried in the carpet.

“He’s awake,” Mulder points out, as your tremors give you away.

You can’t lift your head enough to see anything, but you shiver helplessly as Scully pads over so silently that you realize her feet are bare and you know that the rest of her clothes are strewn with her discarded shoes. You flinch as she deliberately spills some chilled chardonnay on the swollen furnace of your butt-cheeks, presumably for the amusement of watching the liquid sizzle and steam on your burning flesh. Then she presses a slick finger against your hole, greasing your entrance with surgical precision before scratching a manicured nail over the oiled puckered flesh until you’re bucking and gasping in a confused mixture of excitement and dread.

You brace yourself, waiting for the assault, anticipating the pain with both fear and hunger, waiting for the abasement of such an unnatural breaching.

“Fuck him, Scully,” Mulder says, his voice a husky growl, and you feel the cold unyielding head of the dildo press bump blindly against your hole as she adjusts her angle to ensure that one violent thrust of her hips will drive it home inside you.

You know it’s coming. You accept, even welcome, the pain of it. Yet you still howl with shock as she bucks against you and your sphincter collapses against the rigid invader.

She doesn’t have the physical strength to ride you as hard as Mulder does, but what she lacks in force she makes up for with technique. Scully uses her intimate knowledge of anatomy to ensure that each thrust of her artificial cock pummels your prostate and swiftly reduces you to a sobbing, jellified mass of abused nerve endings. You feel your balls tightening as the pressure in your groin overloads and you scream in true agony as your cock erupts despite the cruel cage that tries to keep you from orgasm and the pleasure of that relief is so painful that you black out for a second time.

You wake, shattered, as her palm slaps a dull burn against your ass. A chilly breeze against your bowels announces your hole empty and exposed. She’s paved the way for him, ripping your ass raw and open for his invasion, so you’re slick and defenseless against his cock. You close your eyes, trying not to whimper at your memory of his brutal girth, and you tell yourself that this is no more than you deserve, that the pleasure he will take in your body is worth any amount of pain and, as he grabs your hips and presses up behind you until his cock begins to slide into your raw flesh, the gasp that escapes your throat is as much anticipation as fear.

“STOP.”

Her snapped demand wrenches a groan of thwarted fury from Mulder’s throat and his fingers clench your hips so hard as he rips his cock head back out of your hole that you’re not sure whether you cry out in pain or disappointment.

“What’s wrong?” he demands, his voice tremulous as he struggles for self-control.

“Look at him,” she says, her voice dripping contempt, and your face burns as hot as your frantically wriggling ass.

“Slut,” he finally agrees.

You bury your face in the carpet, shamed beyond bearing, as your treacherous body betrays you, as your need to feel the pain of his cock inside your ass makes a mockery of his chosen punishment, as you inadvertently deny him the vengeance he needs by your very desire to suffer his rage.

And yet, isn’t the fact that he’s managed to make you crave this debasement a sadistic enough punishment in itself?

Apparently not.

“Pass me the cane and then hold him open,” Scully says.

Sheer panic makes your mind go blank and then you erupt in a useless, futile struggle against your restraints. You’re panting like a wild animal, your heart thudding in your chest, your lungs screaming for mercy as you hyperventilate.

“I don’t think our little slut rat liked his last taste of the cane,” Mulder snorts.

“That’s the whole point. It’s not much of a punishment if he likes it,” she replies coldly. She reaches around to give your cock a vicious squeeze. It’s still hard enough for her to make her point.

“Please,” you beg, even though you know she’s probably eyeing you with the same dispassion as she would a corpse requiring autopsy.

“Shut the fuck up,” she says, and you’re still blinking in surprise at her profanity when she repeats her order for Mulder to hold you open.

His fingers claw handholds in your swollen cheeks and drag them so far apart that even desperate clenching can’t stop him revealing the vulnerable dark rose of your abused asshole for her inspection.

“Six, I think,” she purrs, as she trails the tip of the cane threateningly down your crack and then pokes it against your hole as though contemplating driving it deep into your bowels.

“No,” you plead, any vestiges of pride forgotten as panic seizes you. “Not that. Please. Anything but that.” And if you were thinking straight you wouldn’t make such a stupid statement but you’re past the capacity for coherent thought. You’re so fucking scared you almost wet yourself.

“Twenty for arguing,” Mulder suggests dryly.

Your howl of terror is so loud that even the Ice Queen cracks enough to utter a low laugh. Then she gives you a comforting slap on your swollen ass and begins to barter.

“Ten.”

“Fifteen,” he counters.

“Twelve.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

You panic, thrashing wildly against the restraints, kicking, spitting, pleading. You can’t take twelve. You know you can’t. Last time six turned you into a howling agonized wreck.

It’s not the pain you fear. It’s facing the truth. She’s determined to make you bleed this time, but her intended victim is your soul. Your ass is just her doorway into your personal hell.

“Twelve confessions. Twelve apologies,” she says coldly, “and you’ll thank me nicely for each and every one of them or I’ll start over from the beginning again.”

She bends the cane back and forth in her hands, wrenching a sobbing groan from your throat with every threatening flex. Then she grabs your hair and hauls your face off the carpet until her cold, implacable eyes meet yours and you know there’s not going to be a reprieve. She’s going to do it. She’s going to enjoy each and every one of your agonized screams. She’s going to drag a choking gasping confession from your throat with each brutal stripe she lays down your ass. She’s going to tear you down and rip you apart and devour your pain as her due.

You’re trapped. Helpless. Completely at her mercy.

And she has none.

“Are you with me now, Alex?” she asks with deceptive softness. “Are you going to give it up to me now? Are you going to give me what you owe me? Your pain, your secrets, your fear, your pride?”

Your heart stutters in sudden terror. Which turns to resentment. Anger. What secrets? Don’t they understand? There are no more secrets. They’ve already laid you bare. They’ve turned you inside out. They’ve squeezed you dry. There’s nothing else. You’ve told it all, confessed it all, word by agonized word. Now there’s nothing but the re-runs. The repetition of past crimes to justify current pain. The excuse they want. Need.

And she swings the cane up under your belly against your cock.

Only lightly. Only hard enough to wrench a scream out of your throat. Only painful enough to make your eyes tear up and your bowels churn.

“Sorry,” you gasp and this time it’s not a plea for leniency, just a confession that for a moment you were having ‘bad thoughts’. Those ‘I don’t deserve to be punished like this’ thoughts.

And she smiles, because she’s just about to remind you with precision why you deserve all of this and more.

“Are you ready, Alex?”

Your ‘yes’ is more a mewl of defeat than a recognizable word, but it sparks a tiny flame of warmth deep inside her glacier eyes.

“Good boy,” she croons and, as always, you find your remaining defiance collapsing before her approval.

Because she’s right.

You owe her this. Your pain. Your fear. Your pride. They’re hers to give, to take, to use. You’re just a vessel for her needs, her wants. You owe. You have to pay. However she demands. And if what she demands is more than you think you can bear, she’ll just prove you wrong. Because you have no choice except to bear it.

“One,” she says.

You tremble helplessly, struggling to think let alone speak, and when your voice emerges it’s little more than a terrified whisper.

“I helped them abduct you.”

The cane slashes in a vertical stripe down your crack, igniting a trail of fire from your pucker to the back of your balls, and you scream so loud that you can feel the lining ripping in your throat. It takes several gasping, shuddering breaths before you can speak again.

“I’m sorry for what I did. Thank you for giving me the punishment I deserve.”

“Two,” she says.

“I let Cardinale kill your sister.”

Impossible that she could strike any harder, that you could scream any louder, but she does and you can.

“I’m sorry for what I did. Thank you for…for…”

But you just can’t say any more because you’re choking on your sobs and drowning in your own snot and you can’t think for the pain in your ass, and all you can think about is the fact that your asshole feels like it’s being turned inside out and Mulder hasn’t even fucked you yet and now you know, without doubt, that whatever pathetic pleasure you might have wrested from feeling his cock inside you will now be burned away by the agony of anything thrusting inside your well-whipped flesh.

“One,” she says pointedly, her voice dripping ice.

And something inside you, something you didn’t even know still existed, breaks, and you find yourself tripping over your tongue as you blurt your confessions in a ceaseless, breathless wail. Sin after sin, crime after crime, your soul shredded into a thousand irreparable shards, the sewer of your life lain bare to their contempt and each screamed admission punished with a lick of blazing agony and the torture of a gasped apology that you know will never be accepted.

You’re in a haze of pain, no longer even aware of what you’re saying let alone how many times she’s struck you, and the pain isn’t just in your flesh. It’s devouring you from inside, it’s gnawing you alive as her merciless blows force you to accept and believe the words you are saying. That this is the punishment you deserve.

You only know it’s over when she reaches down and unsnaps the chain from your neck and the spreader bar from your ankles. You’re so punch-drunk that you just sway in confusion, too exhausted to even lift your face from the carpet.

It’s only when Mulder gives you a vicious slap across the back of your head that you remember it isn’t over after all. There’s still more to pay.

You knee-walk across the carpet, your forehead sliding across the floor, too broken and weary to lift your head, uncaring of how they must be smirking at your posture of complete and utter submission, until the back of your head strikes the leg of the coffee table and you take several deep breaths as you struggle to find the energy to face this last and final humiliation.

You make a couple of attempts to stand, dragging your right knee up to take your weight on your right foot, before giving up and simply sliding onto the table face-first, kicking with your feet until enough of your body is prone on the table for you to roll over onto your back. You ignore the throbbing of your ass and the knifing pain of your wrist digging into your spine. You take a gasping breath and stifle your sobs as you pull your knees up to your chest until your swollen, whipped asshole is presented for their inspection.

You know better than to close your eyes in an attempt to hide your humiliation, even when Mulder crawls between your knees, and pushes your legs further back towards your shoulders until you present him with a better angle for his assault. Scully walks behind your head and grabs the back of your knees, trapping them in Mulder’s preferred place.

She’s still wearing the strap-on dildo. Its angry threat rears from the dark bush of her pubic hair and your heart almost stops as you remember the time she joined Mulder inside you, thrusting along side him, almost tearing your ass in two, and you know you can’t take that pain now, not after the caning, and you also know that your inability to bear the agony isn’t a consideration, but then you remember that Mulder complained that time that the dildo bruised his cock and you have to believe that his pain concerns her even if yours doesn’t.

“Fuck him,” she orders, and you shudder, torn between excitement, dread and a familiar sense of confusion over hearing such a crudity escape her lips. Lips that are wet now with anticipation as she licks them hungrily above your dazed eyes. “Do him hard, Mulder. Do him for me.”

You groan, your cock straining against its cruel restraint as the savagery of her words fans the flames of Mulder’s angry lust.

“For you,” he chokes, his eyes meeting hers for a second before they fix yours in a vengeful, avenging glare. “This is for Scully,” he says. “For everything you did to her. For everything you took from her. For everything you let them do to her.”

You gasp in shock as he viciously shoves your knees back against your shoulders again, opening you even wider and more vulnerable to her hungry eyes, and then you cry out in true pain as the blunt head of his cock batters your already agonized hole so hard that your defenses collapse against his assault and he’s balls deep inside your ass before you’ve even stopped screaming.

“For Scully,” he repeats, as he pulls himself out so quickly that his exit is as painful as his entrance, and then he rams home once more.

You’re wailing now, as he gains a rhythm, as the harsh breaths of her excitement drive him harder and deeper with each thrust, as he fills you and hammers you and devours you from inside, as your bruised and bloodied ass slips and slides on the unyielding wood with each merciless penetration.

Scully releases your legs and, straddling the table, sits down on your face. You’re choking, drowning in her sweet juices, your tongue lapping desperately against her clit, your nose buried in her ass, as she sucks Mulder’s face and urges his assault on your bowels. Someone’s hand, hers or his, grabs the swollen, tender skin of your abused balls and begins to pump and squeeze the agonized sac in time to your frantic chewing of her cunt.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can do is give yourself up to them. You’re just meat. A whore. A toy.

Their toy.

They ride you mercilessly, Mulder pounding your ass with the savagery of his years of bitter hatred, Scully bouncing on your face as your tongue drives her into a crazed dance. They come together with a savage scream, Mulder pumping his seed into your bowels and Scully creaming your face as she hugs her lover through the throes of his orgasm.

They climb off you with almost indecent haste, eager to remove themselves from your body now it has sated their desires. Scully staggers slightly as she stands, as though her knees are weak from your frantic lapping of her cunt, and her eyes are dazed and soft. She touches Mulder’s shoulder, squeezing her fingers briefly against his flesh in a gesture of affection.

She ignores you, as though you had no more participation in her pleasure than the table, and wanders over to the drinks cabinet to retrieve her wine. Mulder lingers near you just long enough to haul you into a sitting position so he can release your wrist from its bondage. Then he, too, walks away.

The cuff snaps open and your arm screams as it reawakens.

You just sit there, stunned, broken, praying it’s over, knowing it’s not.

Mulder coughs loudly, forcing you to raise your eyes to theirs.

“Give it to us,” Scully demands, her ice-blue eyes merciless.

Mulder just smirks silently and waits for your eyes to drop towards your angry, straining cock. Your erection is your body’s final betrayal, the blood engorging your flesh a mocking reminder that you dared, at one point, take some pleasure in what was only meant to be pain and now, when all your cock wants to do is shrivel up and bury itself in your body, the vicious metal ring keeps your shame visible to their contemptuous eyes.

You take a deep breath, trying to find the strength to refuse, wanting to keep this last tiny piece of your soul intact.

“Now,” she snaps.

Still you hesitate, shuddering, feeling the bile rising in your throat, aching inside and out from the abuse you have already suffered, praying for a mercy that you know you won’t find from the Queen of Ice and her fiery spouse.

“Slutrat,” Mulder hisses, and his sibilant whisper shatters you because refusing to give them this, denying them this final humiliation, would negate the honesty of your surrender.

Your hand is trembling as it pries at the ring that binds your cock and balls, your fingers shaking as they drag the cold metal over your burning, swollen flesh, and you can’t stop yourself from whimpering brokenly as your mind skitters wildly between the pain you are feeling and the knowledge that only suffering that pain will bring you release.

You’re biting your lip hard enough to draw blood and that muffles your scream of combined agony and relief as the ring finally slides off the engorged head of your weeping cock.

“Do it,” she says, and you automatically glance up through your wet lashes then flinch at the look of naked hunger on both their faces.

You flush, your cheeks burning as hot as your ass, as red as the cock that you gingerly grasp in your trembling palm.

Mulder coughs pointedly and you freeze in panic for a moment before your brain slips into gear and you open your knees painfully wide and arch your back enough to ensure you’re fully on display, completely exposed, even the swollen, dripping wound of your well-used asshole.

You start to slide your hand over your cock, wincing as your gun-calloused fingers scrape the whipped, over-sensitive flesh, unconsciously arching back even further as though the rest of your body is trying to escape the confused agonizing pleasure that’s shooting back through your nerve endings.

“Say it,” she demands.

Your eyes close in desperation against the tears that rise and you’re rewarded with an open-handed slap. You submit to the warning and let the tears fall unchecked, understanding they are expected, demanded, another small part of the huge debt you owe.

“I’m scum,” you whisper, and now you ignore the pain as you speed the hand on your cock, knowing only completion will rescue you from the litany you must speak. “I’m a rat bastard. A scum sucking invertebrate. I’m shit on your shoes. I’m a slut. A whore. A low-life…”

As the orgasm rips through your body and your cock spurts its defeated offering to their vengeful, merciless eyes, your cry is as much relief that the torture is over as an articulation of the pleasurable sensations that are now throbbing through your abused body.

And as you crawl over to your clothes, wincing as the movement pulls against the welts on your ass and throbs through the abraded flesh of your hole, you close your eyes against the sight of Scully now hugging and kissing Mulder as he sobs in her arms, cleansed and reborn by your humiliation.

They ignore you. You’re irrelevant to them now, superfluous.

You dress slowly, painfully, and limp towards the door, forgotten.

And, at the last, as you pull the door shut behind you, you chance one last longing glance back into their room. Their barriers shattered, they cling together. Fire dampened in its merging with melting ice.

You’ve done this. You’ve bought their temporary peace with your pain.

It’s enough.

It’s sufficient payment for your suffering tonight.

As you walk out into the dark, you pray silently that this time their peace will be permanent. You send a plea to a deity you don’t believe in that the past is finally dead and buried and you’ve finally redeemed your soul with this latest offering of blood and tears and humiliation. That finally you’ve sutured their wounds enough for true healing to begin.

Then, as you double-check that you’ve picked up your cell-phone, the phone that only Scully has the number of, the phone that summons you occasionally to this place of penance and redemption, you know, as always, that you’re lying to yourself.

Because the only thing that truly frightens you is that one day the phone will stop ringing.