TITLE: Louisiana
AUTHOR: Terma99
EMAIL: terma99@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Xemplary-YES!
Clinique's Chaos, XFFFA-YES!
Anywhere else-YES! But be kind and let me know about it.
SPOILERS: Nope--PMS-driven PWP
RATING: NC-17 for human mating behaviors
SUMMARY: Moisture in the air and bath can lead to steam.
POST DATE: 8/21/99

MY NOTES: This one's for Michelle at XFFFA who custom-ordered this
fic from the Terma99 smut mill. What can I say? Girl's got taste in
I'd probably never think to write about Mulder shaving otherwise.
(Of course I realize there's about fifty good MSRs that involve nasty
Bureau sex and New Orleans, but what's one more, eh?)

SPECIAL THANKS: to my smut typo checkin' team:
Let's hear it for the girls! Sue (who loves me), Michelle
(who stalks me), Deb (who whoops my lazy punctuation ass),
and Lydia (who inspires me to be as filthy as I wanna be).

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Moose and Squirrel, but tonight
it's all about moisture. All regards to 1013, FOX, and such
for providing the fodder for my dirty little mind.

FEEDBACK: Send buckets of ice to: Terma99@aol.com

by Terma99

If I look down I can see the bottom of my breasts disappearing into
the tepid bathwater where I've submerged myself. My nipples have
vanished just below the surface where I watch the rattan blades of
the overhead ceiling fan oscillate in reflection. I'm not here for
warmth, I'm here to cool off and unravel, to take time for my
heat-swelled mind to steam off and condense into serene simplicity.

I raise my hands from the water and pass them over my face. My
fingers strain water through my hair, slicking it back from my eyes.
Night falls carrying with it the sound of drunken reveling and
the tinny bass, sax and guitar of old New Orleans blues. Wafting
through the open bathroom window are the sounds and smells
of hot summer nights--heat, humidity, stale beer, and human
sweat--that remind me of an old movie I can no longer name.

I sit still as glass, submerged in clear liquid touched with a thin
film of lavender oil that anoints my skin and caresses the damp
fan-swirled air with mild fragrance. The red light of the dying day
is turning the cooling bath water into wine as the heavy silver
faucet drips and drips in metronome accompaniment to the whir
of the fan.

My mind is miles from Louisiana when he enters carrying a thick
cylindrical candle. It glows gently green, flickering amber light
on the humid sweat moistened skin of his face and bare chest. I
roll my head back against the tub as I turn to watch him
through lazy lids. He is miles from here as well as he sets the
candle on the back of the toilet and turns the porcelain sink
fixtures on. Cupping his hands under the flow, he bends to
splash cool water over his face. With long fingers, he guides the
flow of water through his short cropped hair and down the
back of his neck. The water travels down the canal of his spine in
long droplets disappearing under the lip of his Levi's as he
bends again to the sink to wash his face and hands.

I wonder if he can feel the difference between the wetness in the air
and the wetness of the water. The heat and dampness has left us
bathed in sauna air for most of the week. I traded mascara for dark
lenses as nothing will stick to the skin under a constant fall of sweat
and water. He had faired no better, swatting gnats from his face and
forearms, trying to escape the trappings of his long sleeved shirts.
Damp at the neck and under the arms, he took every advantage to
loosen the tie, roll up the sleeves, and let his skin breathe under the
relentless Louisiana August. Behind the glasses, I found my blurry
eyes more than once falling to the base of this throat while
he spoke, where the salty perspiration pooled and settled. I
would have chided myself were it not for the times I caught his
eyes falling to the dampened descent between my breasts, as
open to the air as decorum would allow in this weather. I
had collapsed a few hours ago under the blast of the rental car
air conditioning, rolling off my nylons and raising my skirt to
cool my legs. His damp palm came and settled on my exposed
thigh as we drove to escape another long sultry day.

Six days of this heavy air and our bodies were begging for cool, dry,
comfort. Returning to the hotel with damp limbs and brows, we
found our rooms thick with oppressive air--and the lights dead and
dark as the silent phones and street lights. Still, the music plays on
below and with windows wide, he sets candles about. I can see some
flicker in the hall and through the door to the bedroom, fat and
glowing with dripping green and blue and red waxes, turning our
little rooms into a Mardi Gras of playful light. I think he will sleep
here tonight. The heat will be unbearable and we will lay apart, but
my hand will reach and tangle in his before I doze. We are finished
here. This is our last night. He always comes back to me when
the final nail is driven. He is washing in my bathroom and I
find myself already thirsty for his kiss.

He doesn't look at me watching him in the reflection of the mirror.
I see him scrub his jaw with the back of his hand and pull a
razor from the side pocket of his jeans. He rubs a thin film of
soap across his chin and down his neck before he begins,
running the faucet in chorus to the quiet scrape of stubble and
wet whip of the blade as he flicks his wrist to clean it after
each stroke.

There is something subtly erotic about watching a man shave. The
way he regards himself in the mirror as he drags the blade across
the planes and curves of his face. I watch his eyes as they focus on
his features in a subconscious form of worship. He is a beautiful
man and I can't help but think this ritual is a form of display for
the both of us. He finishes slowly, running wet fingers over the
freshly cleaned skin, examining his work. He bends to the basin
and sends a splash of water over his eyelids and nose and down
his arms to drip to the floor.
"I can order food," he says, rising. Acknowledging me, he shakes the
water from his face with a whip of his chin.

"I wonder if I can eat tonight," I answer, eyes closed, sinking to my
chin from wetness into wetness. "Too hot."

"I can bring ice," he offers, and I smile. He leaves and I hear
him walk out the door into the hall. This is how it begins, I
think, feeling my skin prickle under the caress of the water.
I've missed him. My body misses him. Damn the weather, I need
him tonight.

I lie in a half doze, submerged to my neck, when my eyes open
at the rattle of the key. My eyes roll to the doorway and he
enters with a large aluminum tin of ice. He gives me a clever
glance and tips the contents into the tub. Ice depth charges
splash water across my face and I can't help but give a little shout.

He sets the bucket aside and kneels behind me on the mat.
He reaches for the soap in its metal basket gripped to the lip of
the freestanding tub. His arms surround me and his lips touch
the wet fall of my hair as I watch his hands roll the soap between
his fingers, slowly gathering foam. His breath is a gentle breeze
across my cheek as he sets the bar aside and smoothes the suds
over my shoulders, kneading with his fingers. I sigh for him and
let my head roll back against his chest as he simultaneously
cleans and rubs the heat and sweat of the day from my neck
and shoulders, smoothing foam down my arms, taking his
fingertips to my brow and temple in tiny heavenly circles.

He pauses to gather more soap and I gasp as the tickling bubbles
are spread over my breasts under his splayed fingers. I arch up
out of the water to give him full exposure. His thumbs play with
my nipples, teasing them with foam, tracing bubble trails around
each areola, coaxing the tips. He plays with their resilience,
thumbing them stiff, then smoothing them, pressing the
points gently into my flesh, with the pads of his fingertips. Tease
and relax--he enjoys watching my body respond to him in this
minute way. My nipples are sensitive from the glide of the soap
and the magic of his hands, and I moan for more and lean back
for his kiss.

Falling for this man was easy, it's being in love with him that's
difficult. To never have the freedom to take what I need--to always
have to wait for rare pauses in time, when we can fall into a crack in
the master plan and release our bodies from the frustration and
tension that comes with our disjointed lives. The years I spent
fighting for distance only made my heart sink deeper and more
painfully into him. I tried to fight, and I tried to leave, but much
like the way a beestings in defense, I would have torn my insides
out with the attempt. I belong to him. He belongs to me and
together we are both beautiful and terrible and all the shades
of midnight and sunrise when we come together like this.

He pulls a washcloth down from the rack and lets it soak in the
water. Raising it up, he showers me with a twist of the cloth, rinsing
the soap from my face and shoulders. When I'm clean, I see his hand
fish for a small cube which he places in his mouth and, lowering his
lips to my neck, breathes cooled air on my skin.

His lips are cool with ice and his wordless voice low and soft as
he licks my neck, rolling the melting cube against my skin. Ice
and lips find my shoulder and pause as the cold water on his
tongue heats with the rising of my blood to the surface of my
skin, relaxing the cube into liquid. He swallows the fluid and
sucks at my flesh. He enjoys branding me this way, leaving
little footprints on my skin where only I can find them as I
dress hours later, trying to shake myself back to sense. These
little fading purple reminders tell me that if I am patient, he
will return to this place again and claim me.

His hands grow eager, and slide down my body into the water where
they play wetly over my stomach, slipping over my curls and
forward to curve down between my thighs. His fingers brush
my folds, slicker than water, and I moan and tighten my thighs
to urge them closer. He slips my lips apart and slides a long
finger between them, gently stroking the nerves standing taut
under his attention. I gasp and toss my head encouraging his
slow discoveries. Two fingers play to torture me, stroking,
squeezing the aching flesh, easily kneading me into a heady throb.

It's been too long and I cannot hold still under his deliberate
hands. I need it fast and soon, and my hand splashes into the
water grinding his fingers against me. I flush and ache and feel
my body licked with wet flames as I come, thrashing in the bath,
soaking the floor and the front of his jeans, tight and full of his
hardness. Only partially sated, I'm desperate to have him fill me,
my body, my mouth, anywhere I can open up to him.

He laughs and jumps back as I rise, shaking the water from my
hair. I pull him to me by his waistband and my eyes lock with
his, green and gold. I open his fly, releasing him into the care of
my hands, eager to feel him. He grabs my face and kisses me
hard. Fingers in my damp hair,he locks us together as his
tongue paints lust across my lips and dips deeply into my
mouth, warming his ice-cooled tongue.

My hands rediscover the contours of his chest and long,
strong back. He's deliciously wet with wayward bathwater
and saline sweat. I want to lick him dry as I break from his
lips and drop to my knees in the water. My tongue finds his
belly as I kneel, and my fingers tug and squeeze the full hard
length of him. I want to take him into my mouth but he stops
me with a brush of my chin. His eyes tell me he wants
something more physical, more moving. Arms under my
bottom, he lifts me from the tub.

He slides me to my feet, turning my back to him. He points
for me to step up on the overturned ice bucket below the
high pedestal of the sink, while he slips out of the denim.
With my wet toes up on the metal surface, he settles my
abdomen against the porcelain rim of the sink. Gliding
down my spine to my tailbone, his hand dips between my
legs to collect the slickness of my folds, dragging his
fingers from my opening to my ass, spreading the moisture
like butter on hot bread. Suddenly the sweet touch is
replaced by the hot length of his cock slipping between
the curves of my ass. Rubbing himself against me, he moans
softly and leans into me, his hand finding my breast and

The smooth glide of his cock between my cheeks is more
arousing than my imagination presumed, and I rise on my
toes to grind against him to increase the friction against my
tender anus as he slides over it. My body begs for him,
making me whimper as his hand brushes away the hair at
the back of my neck and his teeth find their mark, nip by
ardent nip. He groans and begins to lick my neck, sliding
warm and wet down the height of my spine just as his cock
continues to stroke, nestled in my bottom.

I cannot stand his teasing and I lean forward, rolling my hips and
his erection slips lower, points, and the swollen barb of his head is
right where I want it. I curse my height and strain my calves to
draw him inside. He takes me at my urging and, with a sure arm
wrapped about my hips, he lifts, sliding me onto him. He lowers me
until my toes touch the bucket, rocking against the tile floor. I slide
down until I'm filled to the last inch with him, and the soft tuft of
his scrotum settles against me. He pauses hot and thick in me
and his fingers pass over my cheek like fan blades and he tilts
my head up so I can see him in the mirror. His eyes are
powerful and between the tracings of the fallen drips raining
down the steamy mirror, I can see them fixed on mine,
the expression dark and primal. I feel my sex swell and
excrete under the dangerous glance. And his voice mixes
with the voodoo of dusk as he whispers roughly in my ear.

"You know what you do to me. You can see it. The way you
look at me all week. You think I don't know it, don't remember
you. As if it were possible to forget how much my body needs
to fuck you." His hands move and grasp my hips burying him
deep. "Watch me and I'll showyou what little command I have."

He pulls back, rolling my hips forward and I feel him begin
to withdraw, but before I can allow him to separate, he spreads
my cheeks and thrustsme hard down on him. My hands scramble
for the edge of the sink, my toes just tipping on the cool metal
edge of the ice tin. He guides my hips up and down his cock,
with strong arms and a wide grip, leaving me to hold on and let
him carry me through the ride.

My lover has the stamina of an ox, but on occasion he can be so
lost with hunger for me, it's all he can do to stick it in before
he explodes.  He moans between his teeth as he pushes into
me over and over--mindless, aimless, but unable to stop or
direct the rising impulse. His eyes close in pleasure and his
teeth seek the skin behind my ear. He gyrates, fighting the
sensation, trying to vary it, yet I can tell by his focused
expression in the mirror, he's helpless to make himself
stop and take it any slower.

I reach my hand down between us to stroke his balls, they're small
and pulled tight against his body. He's close and the delicate scrape
of my nails over the shriveled skin elicits a hungry groan from him.

He slides in full and tight, pressing me against the sink to the
point of pain, as he takes a series of quick deep thrusts.
To my astonishment, he disengages from me with a slick
pull, landing his wet hard erection squarely back in the
curves of my ass. Letting go of my hips, he squeezes the
globes of my ass around him, uttering a long low sound of
pleasure as his cock unloads over my bottom in hot creamy

When his eyes fall back into his head, he lowers his face
and presents me with a satisfied, almost shy smile. His arms
slide around me as he takes me away from the sink and lowers
me back to the floor. He holds me tenderly against him,
rubbing the redness from my abdomen that he can now see
reflected in the mirror. My low lidded eyes and lazy roll of
my head against his chest tell him he's done me no harm.
He flicks his thumbs across my nipples to feel me start and
rub my thighs together in impatience.

"Thank you," he says, low and quiet, nuzzling my neck
then looks directly into my eyes in the reflection. "I can
see again." He kisses my shoulder and settles me more
onto my feet, beginning to pull away. I grumble in disap-
pointment but he pats my sticky bottom. "Need to clean
you up," he says, reaching into the tub for the lost washcloth.
"Can I ask you to grab the sink again?" he teases, wringing
the excess water from the cloth. I lean forward slightly and
spread my legs while he wipes himself from me--from my
thighs, my ass, my lower back, letting the water slide down
my legs to the floor already covered in a shallow puddle of
bathwater and ice cubes.

He cleans himself next and I watch in the mirror, always
secretly thrilled by the sight of his long fingers manipulating
the organ--lifting it to wipe away the results of our coupling,
dragging the wet cloth under his balls.

I never thought I'd be so turned on by the sight of man handling
himself, then again I never thought I could be so deeply aroused by
any man, owned this completely. He runs his still partially inflated
shaft across his palm, determining its mass, giving me a wink, telling
me odds are good I'll be having seconds tonight and I feel yet
another anxious involuntary contraction between my legs.

"Grab a towel, Scully. It's wet in here."

We dry off in the hall and he rubs the drips from my hair, kissing my
cheek and forehead with a mother's caress. He takes the
biggest towel, wrapping me in it and to my delight, lifts and
carries me into the bedroom ablaze with red, gold, and silver
candles. The ceiling fan is whirling at top speed, sending a
breeze that makes the flames whip and flicker. I'm tossed flat
on the bed against the velour patchwork bedspread and my
lover takes a pillow and kneels at the foot of it. Dragging me
close to him, he opens my legs to slide over his shoulders.

I can feel the fanned air buffeting my swollen sex as he parts
my folds and kisses me gently, burying his nose in my curls. I
feel the air moving under his face as he pulls back, hovering.
He's pausing to smell me, swirling my aroma under his nose
like a Madeira. His lips are soft and press against my swollen
flesh as he blesses the opening of my body with these small
offerings. I don't want him to be that gentle, and I lift my hips
to urge him to try a little harder.

His hands stroke my thighs and he laughs, "You can struggle all you
want tonight. But you know I mean to have my way with you."

I whimper and relax, trying to wind down enough to appreciate
the care he wants to take in pleasuring me. I know what he can
do and I don't have long to wait before his own hunger for my
sex coaxes the long steady swipe of his tongue across the full
of me. He moans at the taste.

I open my legs wide and invite the sweet invasion of his mouth and
fingers. He drags his tongue between every wet dip and fold
one section at a time, exploring, slowly imbibing as much of me
as he can. I feel him sliding his tongue into my body--it wiggles
against the flushed walls growing hungry for the deep thrust of
his cock again. But I learn to become fond of the more
manipulative feel of his mouth tugging the skin of my lower
lips between his, gently vibrating with his throaty moans. Never
a quiet man, his hungry tones are often more apparent when
he's feeding on me then when he fucks me, and I love him for

"I don't know what it is about you tonight," he says in a
growl, tracing the hood of my clit with the tips of his index
fingers, feeling its subtle throb. "But I swear I could swallow
you alive," he confesses, and lets his tongue grind tightly,
greedily, over my tiny organ, making me gasp and thrust
shamelessly into his face. He rotates my hips back and I
bend my knees toward my breasts as he licks me from ass to
curls in  long heavy strokes. I can believe the ceiling fan over
my head is drawing closer as my flesh tries to float off the bed.

I'm moaning without restraint when he turns his palm up and slides
his middle two fingers into me, using the rest to spread my lips
apart for a final assault. He licks and rubs my clit all
around the root for several delicious moments and then suckles the
cluster earnestly between full lips. His long beautiful fingers seek
that perfect spot inside and press up, testing my ability to hold onto
the lower crest of a rising orgasm. I try to relax under the flutter
quick motions of his mouth as he repeats the sequence, and the
culminating sensation abates temporarily. He begins again with
more urgency and I manage to hold on through it, not giving in. I
want to tell him to stop, to make it last just a while longer, but the
syllables won't form. It's becoming hard, so hard...

He stops just a sliver of a second too soon.

"You're close, aren't you?" he says, sliding his fingers slowly out,
wiping his face on the bed like a dog.

Yes. I nod helplessly, inching up the bed. He stands up, his cock hard
as nails again. He looks at me hungrily, hands at his hips,
asking silent permission to move on. "Please," I whisper. I
want it, and I want it to last.

He smiles that slow sexy grin that makes me crazy and if I had any
stimulation against my clit at that moment I'd be gone. I'm back to
the breeze of the fan, but not for long as he leans down over me,
turning me onto my stomach.

"On your knees, baby," he whispers. I move into position, on
all fours, while he remains standing, petting my wet sex with
the back of his hand. "I think you're going to like this."

He grabs my hips and in one solid thrust his length is buried in me. I
cry out and grind against him as he holds us. He just holds us there,
joined, my body screaming for friction to add to the thick
invasion and I can't stand it anymore. I toss wet tendrils of hair
from my eyes as I turn my head to tell him so.

"Stop screwing around Mulder, and just fuck me."

"Is there a difference?" he smiles, and for once tonight does as
he's told.

I arch my back and tilt my hips to facilitate him as his body begins
to move, penetrating me fully, his pelvis thudding against me in a
pleasant loping rhythm. There's an initial flush of sensation as my
nerve endings fire-up and I bite my lip to hold back the noise I want
to let loose, as I wait to adjust. Then finally, finally, I'm delivered
from the frustrating ache of waiting for orgasm. I'm so
swollen inside, the friction is heavenly, making my core feel
like the recipient of a very deep tissue massage. In this state I
know I can wait forever just reveling in the feel of being
thoroughly fucked, dominated, while my bones resonate with
the force. He can read me well enough to know what I need,
and keeps his pace even and full, giving me his complete
attention, making minute adjustments to pressure and angle
as I shift my hips and moan recklessly for him. He loves it
when I let him hear what he's doing to me, which is why I save
it for the finale, just letting the sounds rise and release from
the depth of my chest in a dark female growl. He answers me
with a restrained, subtler sound as not to drown me out.

I feel his body shift and he lifts to brace his foot on the low
frame of the bed, allowing him to deliver a marvelous
snapping action with his lower body. The force of it makes
his balls connect with my clit and I know from the hot tingling
deep in my sex I'm going to lose it whether my brain thinks
I'm ready to let go or not. That steady hard, wet slap of his
groin is driving a steel railroad spike into my pleasure center,
threatening to split my mind if I don't release soon. My
plateau is crumbling all around me and I begin to whimper.
He slows and pushes me forward onto the bed climbing up
with me, draping his body over me, reaching between my legs
with his fingers as he dives back in, just lightly brushing over
my clit with each slow measured thrust, his labored breath in
my ear.

It's too much to hold back and I feel the bloom of climax rustle
and stir from my fingertips to my toes. The incredible sensation
waxes and wanes again and I think maybe it's over, but god, my
eyes close and I let the sounds in my throat and the rush of
my blood take over as everything goes white and brilliant as
day, and I'm coming, I'm coming and it's so so good.

I lie on my stomach, only partially aware I'm being thrown around
like a freshly hooked fish under his desperate, grunting thrusts.
He's grabbing me, trying to hold my limp hips off the
bed long enough to climax. I'd love to provide some assistance, but
my muscles have dissolved and my brain is hidden in a cloud of
endorphins. I am only half aware that he even exists. He finds his
own way with me soon enough, his hands gripped on my ass
groaning an obscenity which I interpret as a compliment as he
rewards my insides. He moans softly and slides down onto me,
spreading a thin finish of sweat between us. I feel the warm
wetness ooze and drain out of me along with the exhausted flesh
of his spent penis.

I wake sometime later. I think we've managed to kill the day. It's
dark outside and the man next to me mumbles some sleepy
incoherence as I wiggle out from under him to go clean up. The
candles have burned to stumps and I'm thankful we didn't burn
the hotel down in our rush to mate. His hand slides weakly down
my arm as I slip off the bed. I stand slowly. I'm still dizzy from
our exertions, and my insides pleasantly ache where he has visited

I am feeling my way into the bathroom when the lights flicker back
on. In the bathroom mirror I admire his handiwork. I am marked at
the back of the shoulder, the skin behind my hairline, the tendons
low on my neck. As reckless as he seems, he knows where my skin
can hide under my suit and I'm always surprised to find him so
mindful of this. I wash between my legs, then run my hair under
the faucet to cool my head. I look at the floor, as wet as when we
left it, and I don't wish this mess on anyone. I'll throw down towels
in the morning, I think, as I walk naked to the resurrected phone on
the table near the door. I'm ravenous and anxious to wake the
moist, exhausted man in the next room with a spoonful of spicy
Cajun rice and red beans. I dial down for dinner.


Well, I'm hungry now. Anyone for hot spicy Cajun?

To place your order, email: Terma99@aol.com

Dessert assortments can be found at: