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Archive name: Xfiles13.txt (MF, FF, nc, drugs, parody)
Authors name: Alpharalph (alpharalph@yahoo.com)
Story title : Agent Scully's Sleepy File
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2004. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Agent Scully's Sleepy File (MF, FF, nc, drugs, parody)
By Alpharalph (alpharalph@yahoo.com)
***
One question kept reoccurring to Scully, just one. It
kept picking at her, appearing from out of the cloudy,
indistinct horizon that now constituted her conscious
mind. It was an irritating question, partially because
it would not go away, but mostly because she could not
seem to find the answer, though she knew it. She lay
there on the recliner, the bright light of the
operatory far above her face. Occasionally she sensed
that she was moving, but she never seemed to leave the
recliner.
Then the thought would resurface, bringing a furrow to
her brow:
How did I end up here? No matter how hard she tried to
focus, Scully just couldn't remember exactly how she
got here, her eyes slipping in and out of focus, her
limbs unresponsive, the gray rubber shape of a nasal
inhaler strapped against her face, the strangely
arousing scent of nitrous oxide filling her nose. And
the figure that moved above her, leaned over her, but
did not hurt her--yet.
One week earlier
FBI Headquarters Washington, DC
There was a knock at the closed door, which told Mulder
it was Scully. No one else ever knocked. If he'd
desired the illusion of privacy, Mulder would have
locked the door. Most people in the Hoover Building
were realists, however, and in this respect even Mulder
was a team player. As the saying went in this place, A
locked door invites intrusion.
Scully entered and, as always when he was in his
headquarters mode, Mulder mentally relaxed for a moment
and allowed himself to be struck by her appearance. She
is, he thought, the most beautiful woman I have ever
known. The smile was fleeting, as Mulder did not want
Scully to know his mind was in this particular zone. He
hoped it hadn't cracked the surface of his face, and if
it had, that Scully hadn't seen it. Slowing down in the
mental fast lane when Scully was around could prove
embarrassing.
"You wanted to spend some time on the range, Mulder,"
she said without sitting down, maintaining that cool,
professional attitude she used with everyone. Sometimes
it was an offensive weapon used to get what they needed
from uncooperative bureaucrats, congresspersons and the
usual conglomerate of civilians, innocent and guilty
alike. Sometimes it was a defense against unwanted or
feared personal intrusion. And sometimes not even
Scully could say which it was.
He kicked a chair out so that it rested against
Scully's legs.
Scully was also one of the realists, especially in this
building, especially where it concerned Mulder, so she
sat.
"Scully, do you know how many dentists there are in
Jackson, Michigan?"
"About 95 in the general area," Scully answered. "And
approximately 150 registered dental assistants. The
assistants tend to be part time. It's an efficient way
to avoid paying benefits."
"And there have been exactly how many complaints of
this person who is..." He lifted the file from his
desk, "...rendering female dental personnel unconscious
or semi-conscious and then raping them?"
Scully stood, took the file from Mulder's hand. She
glanced at the top page, set the file down. She opened
her own briefcase and took out her notebook. In one
small motion she removed a sheet of paper from her file
and placed it on the top of Mulder's file. "Until
yesterday, two. As of today, ten. Just under seven per
cent. You ought to keep up on your reading, Mulder."
She walked to the door, and turned around. "Shall we
get to the range? You could use the practice."
He jumped up and started through the door, stopping
just in front of her. He turned and nodded. "It's ten
reported this year. In Michigan. Thirteen last year in
Colorado. Thirteen the year before, in New York. One
more year back, thirteen in Indiana. Can you guess how
many were reported the year before, and so on back nine
more years?"
Scully conceded the point with an arched eyebrow, but
they still went to the range. Scully was right. Mulder
needed the practice.
Friendly Dentistry Associates, P.C.
Jackson, Michigan
Bridget Gustafson hummed while she worked. Everyone was
gone, so she had the office to herself. No nervous
patients, no anal-retentive billing clerk, no pompous
dentists with really poor senses of humor and wandering
hands; none of them were present to interfere with her
pace, priorities or methods. She could go through her
weekly inventory and setup the work stations for the
new week's beginning blessedly free of the comments of
men who couldn't find dental decay without an x-ray
unless the hole was big enough to trap a school bus.
Sometimes the hygienist would wonder aloud exactly what
Bridget was doing every Friday evening when she worked
late and alone, but Bridget was convinced that the
hygienist was only trying to feel her out to see if she
could get a little quality after work time hooked to
the nitrous oxide. The hygienist was one of those many
people who loved the warm fuzzy feeling she got when
she was under the laughing gas, but who couldn't figure
out a way to get it more often than at every six
months' checkup.
To be truthful, Bridget did enjoy the gas. But she
never broke the rules at work.
The last tray of instruments was sterilized and stored
when Bridget first became aware of a noise. It was only
the hint of a background noise to start, no more than
the white noise used to mask distracting sounds in
offices that either could not or would not choose to
use canned music or that most annoying of alternatives,
a soft-rock FM station. She hesitated in the corridor,
listening.
Almost at the threshold of her hearing, but it was
definitely some-thing. Low and persistent, it played
with her attempts to identify it. She followed the
sound to the back of the office until she turned into
the last operatory. The noise grew minisculely louder,
but still she couldn't quite place it.
Though she was not alarmed, Bridget was becoming
slightly irked. The sound was very familiar, but she
just couldn't name it, which was silly, since it just
couldn't be that strange a thing if she knew it to be
so familiar. She was confused and her mouth seemed a
bit cottony. She walked into the operatory, but because
she wasn't thinking clearly, she didn't turn on the
lights.
The sound was louder now and Bridget smiled suddenly as
she recognized it. It was the hissing of pressurized
gas being released from a container. In a dental
office, she knew that usually meant an N2O-O2 machine.
She must have said it aloud, as she heard a muffled
reply from a figure who had been standing in the dark
behind her. "Very true, Angel." The voice came as an
arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back and a
hand reached around her face to press a rubber mask
over her nose and mouth. Already weakened by the gas
that had been spreading throughout the office, Bridget
could not resist.
Her body immediately acquiesced to the wishes of her
captor, and she willingly inhaled the medicinally
scented gas-- which her sleepy brain confirmed was a
high concentration of nitrous oxide to oxygen. Her head
filled with a deep echoing ring and she was hardly
aware of being picked up and gently placed on the
examination chair.
The figure strapped the mask to her face, then stood
back, admiring its work. Her limbs were rearranged, and
the operatory lights were turned up. Bridget drifted in
and out of consciousness as her body was repositioned
time and again. At times her eyes opened and she caught
quick glimpses of the figure above her. The person wore
a long leather coat and black latex gloves. The head
was covered by a hooded black gas mask with tinted eye
lenses and a long corrugated breathing tube that led
from the front of the mask's snout around her captor's
left waist and to the back, where it disappeared into a
large backpack.
Bridget tried to protest aloud, but she was never sure
that her words formed into speech. Continually she was
aware of being moved, though she always remained on the
chair. At one point she thought her face mask had been
removed, replaced by the common nasal inhaler dentists
use. But even then she could not speak, as her mouth
seemed to be blocked or filled by something. She
slipped in and out of a long dream of being gassed and
helpless.
The hissing noise of escaping gas that had led her to
this quiet corner of her workplace had disappeared. She
thought it had been replaced by a clicking noise. It
tended to occur after each change of position, followed
by mechanical whirring. For the time being she relaxed
and breathed in the sweet, warm nothingness of the gas
so insistently provided to her through the rubber mask
strapped to her face. She had no choice.
Then he reached for her waist, pulled her slacks down
over her knees, over her feet, and set them carefully
to the side. He did the same for her pantyhose. He ran
a finger over Bridget's bush, felt the give of her
lips. He smiled behind his mask. One of the nicer
things about using nitrous oxide was that it tended to
arouse most of his victims. His entry was seldom
consciously or unconsciously resisted by his angels. He
fingered her softly, then deeply to draw out the
lubricating fluids. Yes, very nice, very nice.
He slid a pillow beneath Bridget, raising the angle of
her hips to better facilitate the event. Then he drew
back his coat. His penis was hard and ready, its thick
head and glistening shaft covered by the black condom.
Kneeling between her legs, he entered her quite gently,
but irresistibly.
He felt her body engulf his, her muscles seize on his
cock. His thrusts were slow and steady, and he was
pleasantly surprised to feel her orgasm come hot and
fast, a muscular spasm that tensed her entire body. Her
pussy muscles gripped his cock tightly and hungrily,
and as he thrust again he came, violently, as always,
his back arching and his cock straining to reach as
deeply into her as possible.
Three days later
Lincoln Avenue Condominiums
Jackson, Michigan
Scully angled the Oldsmobile Aurora into the parking
shelter with a tiny feeling of regret. Perhaps Mulder
didn't care what kind of car the Bureau provided, but
Scully had become deathly bored with the steady
procession of Fords equipped with underpowered six
cylinder engines and the usual rap sheet of mediocre
options.
Thanks to a friend at the Detroit field office, she had
managed to five finger an Aurora that had made the long
circuit from confiscation to rehabilitation to reuse
from a local drug duke. ("A drug lord would have a
Cadillac or Lincoln. Only a drug prince or a drug duke
would drive an Olds," her friend had offered with the
delivery of a Heehaw veteran.)
The eight cylinders had performed quite admirably on
the I-94 drive from Detroit to Jackson, a sunny, crisp,
autumn day combining with dry pavement to elicit the
reappearance of Scully's need for speed. As she parked
the blue metallic beauty and left its gray leather
seats, Scully rededicated herself to the proposition
that Mulder would not become conversant with this
vehicle's driver's eye view--he could luxuriate in the
pilot's seat of the next Taurus the Bureau saw fit to
grant them.
They knocked at Bridget Gustafson's door, Scully
presenting her identification when the woman answered.
"Ms. Gustafson," Scully began, "we'd like to get some
information from you regarding your experience Friday."
"No problem," the blonde answered, "though I'm a little
surprised this has become a federal matter."
"This case is very serious, with implications far
beyond your single experience," Mulder observed. "You
may know that ten other dental assistants in this area
have had a similar experience."
"Yes. After I made out the report I mentioned what
happened to a friend. The next thing I knew, I was
hearing all about it. You know, I wondered that whole
night. I mean, nitrous oxide does tend to affect your
memory. A lot of people imagine things happening--
that's why reputable dentists never use it without an
assistant to serve as a witness that nothing unseemly
occurred. I just thought for a while that maybe I had
dreamed it."
"Are you in the habit of inhaling nitrous oxide when
you work alone, Ms. Gustafson?" Scully asked.
"I am not," she answered firmly. "I've worked hard to
be as good as I am, and I'm not about to risk my entire
career for a little after hours fun at the office."
"But you thought you might have been dreaming. Why?"
"Because when I awoke, there was no evidence that I'd
been... well, abused. Nothing."
"What made you change your mind?" Mulder asked.
"The angel?"
"Yes. I found the fabric angel cut-out taped over my
heart when I woke up. I certainly didn't make it while
I was gassed. And then there was the noise. Everything
was dreamy, yet so persistent, but there was the
noise."
"What noise?" Scully asked. "The ringing, the aural
vibrations from the analgesia?"
Bridget nodded. "Yes, the ringing was there. But there
was another noise. I kept hearing a clicking sound, and
then another after it. It's hard to describe, kind of a
mechanical. . . grinding. It was so artificial it had
to be real. Not an expected result of the gas."
Mulder took a micro cassette recorder from his pocket
and held it out. "Was it like this?" he asked, pressing
the "play" switch.
Bridget Gustafson listened intently for a few moments,
then nodded, staring at Mulder, then Scully. "Yes.
That's exactly what it sounded like. What is that?"
Mulder frowned. "We're not sure. But it was recorded at
another site last year. Where the same thing happened.
Once we find out, we'll see what good it is. Thank you
for your time, Ms. Gustafson." Mulder replaced the
recorder in his pocket and nodded to Scully. She stood
and followed him to the door.
"Thanks for your cooperation," Scully said. She left,
walking leisurely to where Mulder was trying to endure
the cold wind stoically as he stood outside the locked
car. Scully activated the remote entry after a suitable
hesitation.
Inside the car, the motor running, Scully put out her
hand. Mulder placed the recorder in it and pressed
"play." Scully said nothing, listening. "All right,
Mulder, where did it come from and what is it? And what
angel were you talking about?"
"The tape came from Albany, New York, last year. A
dental assistant named Julie Camarda was dictating
notes to herself when her gassing occurred. The
recorder stayed on." He placed the machine back into
his coat pocket. "It's the automatic advance of a
camera."
"And the angel?"
Mulder handed her a picture of an angel. It was
actually more like a Valentine's Day Cupid, the kind of
red cardboard cut-out people tape to their windows or
walls for the holiday.
Scully would have sighed loudly in frustration, had she
not been Scully. "Pictures. And a Cupid. So what we
seem to have is an individual using nitrous oxide to
sedate female dental workers, some at their offices,
some at their homes. The victims are semi-conscious for
periods of up to four hours. They agree that they
glimpsed their assailant only when under the influence
of the gas, and cannot provide any useful
identification.
It appears that this person picks up and moves to a new
state each year to find new victims. The events are the
same in each case: surreptitious sedation,
transportation to a nearby chair, continual movement of
their persons during the sedation, sexual assault,
culminating with full recovery of faculties. And this
person takes pictures.
"Mulder, while we've definitely got a disturbed person
or persons committing crimes across state borders,
there does not appear to be any evidence of paranormal
activity here. It seems to be a straightforward--if
pretty weird--case that ought to be handled through
normal Bureau channels. What are we doing with this?"
"It's been on my desk since I came across it last
year," Mulder noted softly. "I had begun to wonder if I
could rely on the red flags I'd installed. Thirteen per
year, every year, always in one general area, but
before we've always been well behind the event. Now
we're here, in the middle of it. Or more correctly,
just prior to the end.
"Scully," Mulder said, turned sideways in the seat,
animated. "Can you imagine the logistics for only one
or possibly two people? Access to the facilities or
homes. Knowledge of the procedures necessary to
overcome the victims--we're not talking about a rag
soaked in chloroform, here.
It's been a subtle use of a fair amount of relatively
difficult to obtain gas. The victims describe their
overpowering as a gradual succumbing to gas being
breathed from the air, not from a concentration
delivered by mask. And there's the precise taking of
thirteen victims per cycle, no more, no fewer. The
constant risk of discovery, yet never being discovered,
never even being interrupted.
"I've run the computers ragged on similarities among
the first twelve sites. Names, birth dates, employers,
licenses, supplier companies, you can't name an angle I
didn't take. None of it works out. Doing all this and
not getting caught, not leaving a clue, it's not
normal."
"So that makes it paranormal?"
"No, that makes it abnormal. It's the angels that make
the difference. Each year, thirteen women are attacked
and probably photographed. The first twelve wake up
with angels, or cupids. The last one is found with a
similar red card cut-out image--one with two forehead
horns, forked tail and cloven hooves, a satanic image.
Perhaps the thirteenth is photographed;
I don't know. But I am certain that the thirteenth is
sexually assaulted, because all of them die in
childbirth precisely 270 days after that assault, as do
the babies." He handed her a fax. "That came in from
Washington while you were checking in with the local
cops. Apparently it was left out of the our files.
"Whatever is at work here, it's well beyond normal,"
Mulder insisted. "Even if it isn't legitimately
satanic, it certainly acts like it is."
Scully nodded. "And eleven down with only one more
before it happens again," she said.
Two days later
1831 Pine Street
Chrissie Holloway tossed her jacket on the couch as she
closed the door behind her. She was tired, worn out,
really, after an exhausting day at the office. The day
had been scheduled well enough, but one could never
schedule for the unexpected emergencies, and Doctor
Harris never turned away a patient in pain. After two
unforeseen crowns and a really nasty broken tooth at
6:00, Chrissie was ready to just kick back and vegetate
with the television and a book tonight. She frowned at
the jacket, then picked it up and hung it in the
closet. She couldn't abide clutter.
She popped a sandwich into the microwave, and pulled
out the latest Stephen Hunter novel. Her friends
thought she had pretty weird literary taste because she
read, enjoyed, and dared to actually tell people about
books like Dirty White Boys, and Black Light, but she
didn't give a rat's rear end what they thought.
Sprawled out on the couch, book in one hand, sandwich
nearby and the latest Drew Carey on the tube, Chrissie
could feel the tension draining from her muscles. Maybe
her TMJ would take the night off as well.
Eventually finding herself beginning to doze off,
Chrissie decided to shower and hit the sack. Clean and
rested, she'd be able to face anybody's damaged mouth
tomorrow. She went into the bathroom and slowly, almost
exotically, stripped off her clothes. She gauged her
appearance in the full length mirror, smiling.
She was not a fanatic about her body, but knew that
problems acknowledged immediately were easiest to
solve, so she critically examined and gladly
acknowledged that she was in pretty fine shape. Her
small breasts capped a torso that narrowed at the waist
in almost precisely the same relation it had when she
was a college gymnast not all that many years before.
Her muscle tone was firm, she noted, especially happy
to confirm that the rear view was as hard as the front.
She stifled a yawn and stepped into the shower, the
warm water massaging her body and bringing forth
another smile. She soaped up, rinsed for a long time,
then lathered her short, black hair. Another yawn
pushed forth, this one a long, languid event. She shook
her head to clear it, but lost her balance, stumbling
against the door of the stall. This was not good,
falling around in a bathtub with all of the nice, body-
unfriendly porcelain and metal fixtures. Time to exit,
stage right, she thought, and turned off the water.
Chrissie hesitated a moment to catch her balance, the
water dripping from her nude body. She slid the door
open a little, her nipples crinkling at the cold air.
She stopped yet again. This stumbling was becoming
irritating. She lifted one leg over the edge of the
tub, then turned to lift the other when she lost all
balance.
She fell into the arms of the waiting figure. Her
momentary relief at not toppling backwards onto the
floor was chased by her realization that someone was in
her house, in her bathroom, and that person's arms were
wrapped tightly around her naked body. She did not even
have time to open her mouth when a hand pressed a
rubber mask over her nose and mouth.
She struggled, but knew from the outset that it was
useless as she was already dazed and her assailant was
quite professional -- she could not open her mouth to
scream or try to shake off the mask because the hand
tightly pressed it against her while also gripping her
chin from below. She was helpless and knocked out
almost immediately.
He carried her wet body into the bedroom, using a towel
to partially dry her. He set her on the bed, a pillow
under her, and removed the backpack holding the twin
cylinders of oxygen and nitrous oxide, placing it at
the top of the bed, careful not to tangle the hose
which led to the mask on her face. He intended to move
quickly, for he was approaching Number Thirteen, and
his excitement was getting difficult to contain.
Chrissie shifted her legs slowly and a moan escaped her
mouth as he massaged her crotch, his rubber gloved hand
coated with k-y jelly to hurry the event. He slipped a
finger past her lips, searching for and moving into her
vagina, thrusting cock-like deeply into her body. He
slid in and out, making sure to slip across her clit,
feeling her body jump with helpless excitement to his
touch. In her gas-induced arousal Chrissie begged him
to take her, so he did.
On his knees between her legs, he guided his sheathed
penis into her, barely hesitating at the entrance to
her pussy. He filled her with his thick cock, the
pleasure striking both of them immediately. This
delight wrapped his penis in hot, tingling electricity.
This one was the best of all!
He thrust again and again, wanting to possess her
totally, yet wanting the pleasure to last forever. He
pulled his gas mask from his face, revealing a rubber
hood that covered all but his eyes, nostrils and mouth.
He leaned forward, taking one of her nipples into his
mouth and sucking greedily, thirstily. Both nipples
were erect, crinkled with the unconscious pleasure she
was receiving, so he alternated, one nipple to the
next, sucking, tonguing.
Her breathing came in deep, harsh intakes, the force
putting strain on the valve of the gas cylinders, but
still it pumped the drug-filled air into her lungs. In
her delirium she cried out when the orgasm hit her, a
deep groan accompanied by her arms suddenly gripping
his body to her, scratching at the suit that protected
him.
The force of her orgasm gripped his cock and wrenched
his own pleasure from deep within him. He spasmodically
shot his cum into her, the liquid barely contained by
the expanding condom, the heat and force of the orgasm
like no other he had ever known. He collapsed onto her,
his lips kissing her throat uncontrollably, licking and
drinking the sweat from her body.
Sometime later, Chrissie drifted up that long and
winding road to semi-consciousness. A long time
recreational visitor to the land of laughing gas, her
body did not mind the leisurely pace of her voyage. She
heard her name persistently called, though, and her
instincts overruled the most relaxed manner in which
her lungs deeply pulled what had been heavily dosed
nitrous oxide-oxygen in through her nose. She was
consciously disappointed that her breathing was
lessening the gas's effect rather than deepening it.
"What?" she finally whispered groggily.
"Chrissie, I need you to remember," a muffled voice
came back.
"You must remember."
"Remember what?" she complained, her eyes opening and
staring into a painfully bright light. She made out a
figure at the edge of the light, a shape enclosed in a
long, black coat or cloak, the head fully covered by a
hood and mask.
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, I promise," she said plaintively, still breathing
deeply through her nose, her body hoping that the
nitrous would be returned.
"I'm leaving an envelope for Dana. Be sure she gets it,
but only her. No one else is to see it. Or I shall be
most unhappy."
"Package for Dana. Only her." Chrissie was awakening
now, her eyes straining to make out the figure. She
tried to sit up, looked around. She saw a portable
nitrous system on wheels next to the couch, the hoses
leading behind her. She clearly saw the blue and green
cylinders. And she saw the cameras on their tripods
quite vividly.
Her eyes widened and then a hand covered her mouth and
the gas was increased again and just a couple of
involuntary breathes through the nasal inhaler led her
to deeper, more willing breaths. The warmth and
swaddling effect the drug brought was so pleasant, so
enjoyable...
Restaurant d'Iago
The restaurant was thinly patronized on a weekday
afternoon. Downtown Jackson did not appear to be
economically thriving under this Administration--and
Scully doubted that it had been for some time. On the
other hand, people who work normal hours eat at normal
times, so perhaps that was more the reason for the lack
of patronage at 2:00 in the afternoon.
The black-haired woman standing at her table holding a
large manila envelope looked quite nervous, quite
unsafe, in this most public, safe, place. "Are you
Agent Scully?" she asked.
"Yes. Please join me. How can I help you?"
***
"...and he was quite specific that I should give this
to you only That no one else should know about it."
Scully gazed at the envelope on the table before her.
"Did you tell anyone?"
"No. Not a soul."
"And you didn't even report the incident to the
police?"
"Aren't you the police?"
"Touch‚." Scully reached out and pulled the envelope
over. It was bulky, and the seal appeared to be
unbroken. It was addressed Special Agent Dana Scully,
FBI. She looked up at Chrissie again. The woman was
obviously afraid, skittish as a gerbil at Richard
Simmons' house. Scully drained her coffee and took the
envelope. "You'll be fine, Ms. Holloway. This person is
finished with you.
You have nothing more to be worried about."
She stood, touched Chrissie's shoulder, and left the
restaurant at a leisurely pace, though her heart was
racing so fast Scully was very happy that she'd parked
close. Once in the car she opened the envelope.
"Pictures." She took out a thick bundle of photo-
graphs, each named, numbered and dated. There were
thirteen for each of the twelve preceding years, but
only eleven prints and one blank sheet bearing neatly
printed script: IOU Number 12, Chrissie Holloway. This
mountain of potential evidence scared Scully. It
indicated a total lack of fear in the perpetrator.
There was also an envelope addressed to her. She opened
it and read the letter contained within, starting Dear
Agent Scully. . .
"And now we move on to Number 13," Scully murmured. She
glanced at her watch. There wasn't much time.
Gentle Dental Associates, PC
Scully didn't need to break into the office. She used
the key she'd finessed from the owners by flashing
equal parts reassuring smile and badge. Notwithstanding
the news media and the self-inflicted wounds of the
Branch Davidian and Centennial Park fiascoes, lots of
people in the heartland still held enough respect for
the FBI that an enterprising agent could get what she
needed.
Two hours early for the meeting, Scully hoped she had
been surreptitious enough to enter the office without
being spotted. The alarm was off, as she'd instructed.
The lights were also off, and she left them that way.
She took out her Smith & Wesson 1076 (some thought it
was a little bulky for her hands, but she didn't mind--
and she liked the action) and slowly, quietly moved
down the hallway, checking each room as she advanced.
In the main operatory, she adjusted the wall controls
to the analgesia machine and found a corner in which to
hide and wait for whatever would happen.
An hour later, one hour before the scheduled meeting,
it began.
After considering everything they had on this person,
Scully had come to respect his abilities, but she was
still surprised by how silently he moved. Had it not
been for the air movement through the operatory when
the office front door was opened, she would not have
known he was in the building. She molded her body into
its corner. She wordlessly mouthed a prayer that there
was only one person, and that she was up to it. And she
waited.
There was no sound to indicate any further movement and
with the door closed, there was also no air motion to
betray his coming. Scully felt a line of sweat forming
along her forehead. She came to the conclusion that a
single meet might have been a really, really bad idea
on her part. She hated to rely solely on speed and her
gun, but it was beginning to look like nothing else
would get her out of this...
He had demanded the meeting, had stated that he would
start killing instead of photographing if there was no
meeting. Like Mulder, Scully believed that he had
already killed at least one woman per year over the
thirteen years. But he promised many, many more and it
was her considered opinion that he would do it.
Her weapon, twelve Glaser rounds in the magazine plus
one in the chamber, was all the comfort she had at the
moment.
Cold air brushed her face again. The only noise Scully
was making was tightly controlled breathing, breathing
she had first learned in front of a candle flame. No
one could hear breathing that didn't make a flame
flicker at two inches. But how much noise was her heart
making, pounding its way to the outside of her chest as
it was doing right now?
She resisted the temptation to move, to look into the
hallway, to change hiding places, whatever. Movement
would be suicide. She listened, willing her ear drums
to convey some sound to her brain, some noise that
didn't belong, anything. Nothing came for the longest
time, but then a subliminal ringing began to echo
throughout her head. First it was barely at the inner
ear; then it danced to the front of her eyes; then it
filled her head, ringing, echoing, echoing, ringing.
She caught her eyes closing and willed herself awake.
As soon as she phrased the thought, she knew the
answer.
She was being gassed.
As she had stood in the corner of the darkened room,
weapon in hand and ready, all body senses on alert, he
had known she was there, he had put something in the
ventilation; somehow he had overcome her without even
touching her. Her legs were weak and useless and she
started to settle towards the floor, her eyes
fluttering and her mind refusing to accept, still
sending out orders to unresponsive body parts until at
last she was seated in the corner of the floor, her
pistol loose in her hand at her side, her entire body
tingling with the gas. Now she knew what had happened
to the others.
He reached down and as he effortlessly lifted her
Scully could feel the texture of the leather coat and
the rubber hooded gas mask, smell their strong odors.
She looked into his face, but there was nothing to see
but the snout and nozzle and tinted lenses of the mask.
"...thirteen..." she managed to whisper.
"Number thirteen," he acknowledged, placing a soft
cloth over her nose and mouth and holding it there, the
harsh odor of chloroform her last experience as she
passed into complete unconsciousness.
So now here she was, lying on the dental recliner,
semi-conscious. She kept her eyes closed, listening,
and she heard what she expected to hear, though with an
echoing effect from the gas. It was the sound of a
camera shutter and the whirring of its automatic film
advance. She heard the creak of leather as her captor
moved around the chair. She heard the rasping intake of
air as he continued to breathe through the mask that
still covered his face.
Scully felt the warm pressure of a nasal inhaler
strapped against her face, smelled the intoxicating
odor of the nitrous oxide she breathed. Her body had a
fuzzy, semi-attached feel to it. She also felt the
elastic pressure of rubber straps that bound her to the
chair. This was something none of the other women had
mentioned. In fact, they had told about being moved and
repositioned numerous times, probably for new camera
angles. Scully's picture was definitely being taken,
but she was not being moved.
She sensed a decrease in the nitrous mixture. He was
letting her come out of it slightly. He wanted to
talk... Fine, let's talk a while, Scully thought, and
while we're at it, where's my gun?
"Dana," the man said, "Dana, wake up. Time to wake up
and smell the coffee."
Scully opened her eyes slightly.
"That's right, Agent Scully. Wake up. We have lots of
work to do. Well, it's not going to be work for me,
exactly. And it doesn't have to be work for you."
"Is work a new synonym for rape?" Scully asked.
The man pulled off his mask. He was actually somewhat
attractive, Scully thought, if you like a Hitler youth
motif. Classically Nordic, with blonde hair, short cut,
blue, twinkling eyes, and a healthy, robust complexion
that indicated regular exercise. And a forehead that
seemed to show... horns? Scully would have gladly
crossed herself just like an old Catholic, one of the
superstitious wrinkled women she'd seen at Novenas as a
child, but the rubber restraints prevented that simple
plea for Divine assistance.
"Dana, my angel. You and I do not need to have such a
word pass between us. This is all for the best, you
know. Just a matter of doing what our Nature requires
of us. Surely you can under-stand that?" His voice was
syrupy, cloying, searching for acceptance.
She found herself staring into his eyes, liking what
she saw just long enough to be horrified. "Why?" she
said at last. "Who are you?"
"You may call me your Dark Angel. As you are my angel,
so I am your Dark Angel. As to why, well..." he laughed
softly. "Because you are special. Because I have
fulfilled the necessary adoration's for thirteen years.
Because it is preordained and very necessary for my
Infernal Father's Return in Glory." He smiled and
shrugged. "Because at the moment you are the logical
thing to 'do.'
"In short, because you are here."
He dropped his coat, revealing a costume of stunningly
and medievally erotic construction. It appeared to be
hardened leather and latex, molded into the shape of
the body beneath it, shiny brown or black depending
upon the light. He was shaped into an avatar of male
sexuality, a compelling codpiece protecting his groin.
He turned a circle, presenting himself for her,
preening. He unbuckled the codpiece and freed his
penis, huge, tumescent and dripping.
"What do you think, my Angel?" he asked.
"Very little." Scully answered with as much sarcasm as
she could find.
"Well, Angel Dana, your position is not proper for our
deed and I must move you with or without your
cooperation." He reached over and increased the gas
flow.
"Not until you're properly sedated, however. Then I'll
untie you and we'll begin our time--oh, I shall try to
increase its duration for your sake, but still--our too
short a time together."
Scully breathed as shallow as possible, and that
through her mouth.
He laughed. "You don't really think that will work, do
you?"
He held out a two-and-a-half inch red ballgag with chin
strap. Scully's mouth immediately clamped shut, but a
moment of breathing through her nose reminded her that
this was not an option. She turned her head and tried
to breathe softly through her barely open lips. The man
she knew only as Dark Angel placed the ball firmly
against her lips and then squeezed sharply against her
jaw. The grinding pain forced her mouth open, and he
pressed the gag into it, strapping it in place around
her head and finally under her chin.
"Unless you can breathe through your ears, I would
suggest giving in," he noted.
Scully knew further resistance to the gas was useless.
She had come close enough to full consciousness,
though, to realize that her backup plan of cutting off
the gas supply at the wall had not worked. Turning, she
saw that her assailant was using a portable gas
machine, with its blue and green cylinders independent
of the main nitrous supply.
The ballgag filled her mouth with the taste of rubber;
the nasal mask filled her nose with the smell of rubber
and nitrous. Her eyes, still able to focus, were
presented with this horned, blonde-headed vision
encased in black rubber and leather, even to the sheath
that covered his balls and the shaft of his cock. Only
the head of his penis showed, enlarged by the
constriction of the latex tube and glistening with his
lubricant.
As the ringing in her ears increased and the warmth of
disconnection embraced her body, Scully realized that
in another circumstance she would be extremely aroused.
Kinky, she thought.
Her head lolled to one side as she fell asleep.
Dark Angel smiled a smile of pure joy. He had been
amused by her attempt to outthink him by disconnecting
the wall-mounted gas machine. Try as she might to
escape him, to stop him, to apprehend him, she had not
come close. His Infernal Father protected him so long
as he did His bidding. And now the time had come for
the Thirteenth of the Thirteen's, the one who would not
die in childbirth, and whose child would not die, but
only bring Death.
He did not laugh aloud, but his smile increased in
brilliance until its glow filled the operatory with a
soft yellow light. She would be his, and although he
would take her in Another's name, still the experience
and the woman would be his alone, as they had all been!
After a suitable wait for the gas to take its full
effect, he reached forward and released Scully's bonds,
one strap at a time, until she lay on the recliner,
free but for the hoses of the nasal inhaler. He took a
few more pictures, then opened her jacket. He
unbuttoned her blouse slowly, savoring the moment. He
had nothing to worry about--there was never any time
pressure with his procedures, and he enjoyed the
details of the work.
Scully's bra was front hook. That's serendipitous, he
noted as he freed her small and pleasantly firm
breasts. He removed the nitrous mask and quickly leaned
her forward, pulling the coat, blouse and bra free from
her arms and placing them on the floor. She started to
stir a little--the biggest problem with nitrous oxide
was its quick purge from the system. He laid her back
and replaced the mask over her nose, tightening the
hoses for a firm face mold.
Her shoes were next, and then her skirt. A zip and a
tug and it was gone. Then came the ever-present panty
hose and finally the simple midnight blue satin
panties. He stood back again and admired the temple he
would soon claim.
She slept like the angel she was, like the baby she
would soon bear for his Despised Father. Her hair was
red, so he recognized her as a daughter of Lilith. The
hair defied description as it caught and bent and
returned light in such manner as to deny a complete
categorizing of the colors. Her green eyes were hidden
beneath sleepy lids, but he'd seen them enough to love
the way the green flashed and glimmered.
Her body was youthful, but not young; mature but not
old. It lay at the height of its agility, catlike in
its slender muscularity. Her breasts were firm, the
nipples brown and semi-erect. He parted her legs
slightly to gaze upon the trimmed red bush that
protected her virtue. Such a silly word, and soon very
inappropriate!
The man who called himself the Dark Angel, well aware
of his Master's needs, prepared Scully for her
experience. A combination of the required position and
the limitations of the nasal inhaler and its hoses led
him to remove the rubber nosepiece. He placed a full
face anesthesia mask over her nose and mouth (a large
one, since he did not desire to remove the gag) and
strapped it in place.
Detaching the gas hoses from their nasal connector, he
reattached them to the front of the new mask. The
switch-over was done with an economy of effort that
came from practice. With the hoses freed from the back
of the recliner, he could now move Scully into the
necessary stance.
He lifted her from the chair with ease and moved her to
the floor. He placed a firm, trapezoidal shaped pillow
under her, resting her stomach upon it. Her rested her
head on its side on another firm pillow and checked to
see that the mask was still firmly strapped and
delivering its gentle sleepiness.
Standing back, he admired his work and her body. He
spread her legs apart a bit more, and slid the pillow
back so that her ass was slightly higher. His hand then
gently massaged her ass cheeks, running a finger up and
down the crack eventually coming to rest as her
moistness.
He fingered her slowly, deeply, searching for the flood
of lubrication he knew would be forthcoming. When he
found it, his fingers led it to the outer folds of her
vagina and back to her ass. He sniffed his fingers,
felt his erection become even larger, straining at its
rubber sleeve.
"No time like the present," he said to an unheeding
Scully.
He lowered the gas level again, as he wanted her to
enjoy the event, but left mask and gag in place. He
rather liked the sight of her kneeling before him, her
gag and mask straps winding about her head, the rest of
her naked and open to him. A few pictures later he
knelt between her legs and took his penis in his hand.
Preparing to enter her from behind, his cock dripped
lubricant from its naked head, its veins showing
through the rubber sheath.
He felt the smooth skin of her bottom against his lower
belly as he positioned his cock head at her entrance. A
gentle thrust and he was in her. The dark man began to
thrust deeply into Scully's body, enjoying with triumph
his sexual power over the beautiful woman.
He was reaching his climax too fast, he wanted to
continue his contact with her body, he wanted to feel
his swollen penis thrusting into her, he...
"Stop right there. FBI!" a voice roared through the
room.
The dark man was on his feet instantly. Another man
stood in the doorway,
"Back into the corner and stay there!" the other
shouted, gesturing with his pistol.
"You must be the partner. Mulder. If you drop that
silly gun and leave right now, I'll forget your
trespass," the would be rapist offered. "I can be
magnanimous, you know."
"If you get back in the corner right now, I won't
forget a damned thing. But I won't kill you," Mulder
responded.
"Idiot!" he said as he took a step towards the FBI
agent.
"You can't kill me. I am protected by my Father
Below..." As he said this he started to step again so
Mulder fired two rounds from the .40 caliber Smith &
Wesson into his chest. When the Dark Angel took another
step, seemingly unbothered by the slugs, Mulder sent
the next eleven rounds into his head and throat--
practice gave good results.
The Dark Angel staggered, screeching, clutching at his
head.
At the last shot, he vanished in a burst of light,
leaving behind only a faint but distinctly unpleasant
odor of sulfur.
Mulder took in the scene quickly. He reloaded and
holstered his weapon and went to Scully. He quickly
removed the mask and unbuckled the ballgag, taking it
out of her mouth and setting it aside. Scully's eyes
opened, then closed and a moan issued from her throat.
Mulder picked her up and placed her on the chair. Not
finding any cover, he draped his coat over her and
shook her a little.
"Scully, it's me. Mulder. Wake up. Are you all right?"
He asked all of the inane questions he could think of,
but Scully only regained her faculties in her body's
own good time. Breathing air rather than nitrous made
things move along with dispatch. When the cotton was
finally plucked from her brain, she looked up and
recognized Mulder standing over her.
"Mulder, is it you?"
"It's me, Scully."
"Where's the bad guy?"
"Good question. He's gone, but where. . .I don't know."
"You let him get away?"
"Only if you consider shooting him thirteen times
letting him get away. He just disappeared in a flash of
light," Mulder said, grimacing. "So he got the drop on
you after all."
"And you followed me where I didn't want you to
follow," Scully replied.
"Good thing I did."
"Yes. Thanks, Mulder."
"I guess we struggling agents have a lot to learn."
Scully looked down at herself, realizing she was naked
underneath Mulder's coat.
Mulder reddened a little. "Sorry. Your clothes are by
the chair. I'll step out so you can get dressed." He
started to leave, stopped and looked at her. "Did
he...did he hurt you, Scully?"
She smiled at him and without blinking she lied. "No,
Mulder. He tried, but you stopped him."
"Good."
"Mulder, are you angry with me?"
His look became puzzled and he returned back to the
chair.
"No. Why do you ask.?"
She rested her hand on his hip. "Then why are you
leaving?" She flipped his coat onto the floor and slid
a leg around him, and pulled him to her.
"Scully, we can't. The gas, it's still... working on
you. And..."
"Forget the gas. Unless you want me to use it on you
later?"
Scully said with as wicked a grin as Mulder had ever
seen.
Then she whispered, "Just follow the doctor's orders,
Mulder."
Scully's arms reached up to pull him down. Mulder let
his inner smile find its way out. Their lips clung to
each other and Mulder refused to think at all, and they
found themselves one in the other.
THE END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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