"Fruit at the bottom, my lover's got 'em…"

I couldn't help it; I laughed out loud at the combination of banality and frank sexuality in the lyrics of the dumb eighties song playing on the radio. Walter just threw me one of his patented confused frowns, followed by the even more familiar indulgent smile. It's a paternal look, one that really pisses me off some days.

Today was not one of those days.

Of course, I was probably still cruising on some sort of endorphin high from the evening's events. 

Dancing with my lover, in public, has been a long time fantasy for me, although one so cheesily romantic and foolish that wild horses could never have pulled that truth from me. Or Scully, even.  I know she thinks I haven't got a shred of romance in my soul, and for the longest time, she might have been right.  Too many years spent floundering in the dark, wallowing in all the misery that the human animal is capable of, and torturing my own soul over delusions of guilt and self-pity; not exactly the most fertile ground for nurturing the seeds of romance to fruition. Add to that a nice big closet that made me overcompensate for every perceived lack of machismo by turning myself into a sexist-jock-porno monster, and no one was going to mistake me for Danielle Steele.

And then I fell in love with my boss.

Walter Skinner's the man; there's no doubt about it.  He doesn't need to be bald to prove he's got an over-abundance of testosterone.  Everything he does, every movement, gesture, act—all about as macho as you can get without actually joining the Village People.  I mean, he was a marine, for Christ's sake.  Some days I half-expect him to club me over the head and drag me away by my hair.  With a grunt.  I can picture him in pirate drag challenging Ol' Smokey to a duel to defend my honour.  Or cutting a swath through thick jungle with a machete to save me from cannibals.

My grade school teachers always said I had a vivid imagination.

The point is, until we finally found that place where we could be honest with each other, I never saw Walter as romantic. I firmly believed that the concept was emasculating at best, and that you couldn't be a real man if you were too busy crying at chick flicks and worrying about dry skin while you picked out flowers for your 'significant other'.

I've never been so happy to be proven wrong.

Walter cries. Walter likes patchouli scented massage oil. Walter makes a killer stir fry, with fresh cut oregano. Walter likes roses.

And he's still the man.

Tonight, when he accepted my invitation to dance, he led. There was no question about it, and I didn't take offense from it. He can do that, somehow, in a way that other men, other women, hell even my own self-analysis has been unable to do. To take control of any situation, any experience that we might have together, and not make me feel like less of a man when I give it to him. It's a remarkable gift that I am almost in awe of sometimes. Even before we became a couple, when he was just the big bad boss, and I was his eternal thorn in the side, he could do that. Tear apart my budget requests, roll his eyes at some of my more 'out there' conclusions, or even just flat out deny a travel request on the grounds that I was out of my mind, and somehow still convey a respect for me that pulled me in, little by little, until now. Until I'm here with him, unable to imagine life without him.

And he makes *me* feel like the man.

With these wonderful thoughts racing through my mind, I laughed again, and Walter took me in his arms, still smiling, though there was more intent to it than just paternal indulgence for my silliness. It's that look that I know is just for me. A slow, sexy grin that always makes me shiver. And I did. 

I gave him a level look right back, doing my manly best to convey my feelings through my eyes, (my best feature, Walter claims, when he's not taking cheap shots at my nose), having one of those no-need-for-words moments and hoping he was too.

He was.

It had taken another four hours drive to find a motel, but at least this one had king-size beds, and didn't smell like bean soup cooked on a hotplate. So when Walter and I tumbled onto the bed, nobody's legs were hanging over the edge. A minor point, but one that we both appreciated briefly, before his mouth found mine.

He started with light kisses, peppering my face with them, my cheeks, my nose, which made me squirm and made him laugh, my eyelids, my lips. Walter is nothing if not thorough.  When he caught my mouth with his a second time, I latched on, slipping my tongue between his lips.  I'd had enough teasing on the ride here, and was ready to move on.

Apparently, so was he.
 

I could feel his hands roughly dragging through my hair, pulling a little but not hurting, as he stole my breath with a kiss that I initiated. For a moment I thought I could taste champagne, and then I had to turn my head away to catch my breath.

I should have known better. His busy mouth was immediately nuzzling and nibbling at my ear lobe. He bit, licked and blew softly, and I felt his warm breath all the way down to my toes. I don't know when exactly he found out that my ears and neck were a hot spot, but since that time, he's taken every opportunity to use that bit of knowledge to his advantage. He says he likes the results. I think he just likes to hear me whimper.

Our hands got busy with pulling shirts out of pants, and I wriggled around until our mouths were joined again. He'd worked my sweater up to my neck, and his thick fingers were tugging on my nipples, softly at first, then, when he tasted a groan, harder. We were lying side by side, but slowly he was forcing me over onto my back. Not that I was resisting all that much. It was a comfortable position for both of us. 

After one more sharp pinch, he abandoned my chest for the front of my pants, and I couldn't help thrusting into his hand as he skimmed his palm over my cock.  Some sound came out of my mouth that must have pleased him, since he quit trying to open my zipper and just opted to stroke me through my jeans.

I was still struggling with his shirt and trying to catch his wandering mouth when he sat up abruptly, resting on his knees, pushing my legs apart to sit between them.

He smiled at me then, and I know my sweaty, excited state amused him.  He's told me on several occasions that he admires the abandon I have in bed, and I've told him that I couldn't be like this with anyone else.  I trust him enough to be completely open in my desire for him.

Be that as it may, I don't trust him not to tease the hell out of me, just to watch me go out of my mind.  He's done it before, and even though at the time I contemplated shooting him outright, I really have no cause for complaint; generally, he doesn’t leave me hanging for long. 

I wasn't in a teasing mood.

When he began unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness, I reached for him and pulled myself up to a sitting position with my arms around his thick neck. I bent my legs at the knee and tightened them around his hips, holding him firmly in place.

He glanced up from his buttons and I couldn't believe how dark his eyes were. He was breathing softly but quickly through his mouth, and I know if I hadn't been so caught up in my own wants and needs, I would have realized just how excited he really was.  But even in this, the most vulnerable and open of acts, Walter plays it close to the cuff.  I understand why he does it, I think, but that doesn't mean that I accept it. Or that I'll let him get away with it.  Besides, this is supposed to be his vacation, or something. Doesn't that mean that he's supposed to relax and enjoy himself?

Well, relaxing could come later, I decided. For now, it was going to be all about Walter Skinner enjoying the moment.

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his, and he closed his eyes, then opened them wide when I brushed my hands around his neck to his throat, paused there just long enough to feel his pulse, then tore open his shirt with a quick slashing motion that sent buttons flying.

I gripped tighter with my legs, now that my hands were no longer locked around him, and smothered his yelp of protest with my mouth, then poked said protest right back down his throat with my tongue, just to be on the safe side. Then I tugged on his torn shirt front and fell back, pulling him with me, and we wound up back on our sides again, joined at the mouth like some crazy Siamese twins. 

His mouth was hot on mine, his tongue demanding entrance, which I gladly gave.  He was shoving at my sweater again, which I had managed to pull off my arms, but which was now half-strangling me as he pushed it around my neck to get his hands on my nipples again. When his mouth joined his fingers, I gulped air, then pulled the restrictive garment off and tossed it over the side of the bed. 

He licked his way down the center of my chest, to my stomach, across it, then back, and I shivered from the heat—he may as well have been dripping hot candle wax on me. But it was a good burn, and my back arched up to meet his mouth.

His hands were back on my pants, and there was no hesitation this time. The button and zipper presented no problem, and then my jeans and boxers were little more than another crumpled pile of cloth on the floor. His mouth was still doing it's trailblazing across my torso, and I squirmed and twisted, trying to get him to go lower.  But apparently he was more interested in tasting my belly button, tickling it with his tongue, and making me giggle. Yes, giggle. He's done that before, and we've had more than one conversation about what would happen if he ever told Scully I was even capable of making such a sound.

He was still wearing too many clothes for my liking, so with a tremendous effort, I threw him off me, rolling him onto his back and draping myself over him, deciding that the motto for the moment was give a little get a little. I snaked my way down his torso, and couldn't stop a little gasp from escaping me at the friction his body created with mine.

Spreading the remains of his shirt, I took a moment to visually appreciate his wide expanse of chest, tapering neatly to his well-developed abdominal muscles and all of it covered with just the right amount of hair. Then I let my mouth do it's own appreciating.

It's a little known fact that Assistant Director Walter Skinner giggles, too.

While my tongue was dipping into his navel, then laving the skin to either side, I struggled with the double button fly on his pants, then decided that if the shirt was a write off, then the matching pants would be too, and gave a tremendous yank. So much for the double button problem.

He raised his hips obligingly, and his already hard cock sprang to full attention as I whisked his pants away. Slipping off to one side of him, I laughed breathlessly as his body twisted in an attempt to stay in contact with me. I laid one hand on a hip, and he stilled. I took a moment to relish the warm skin under my hand, and then I reached gingerly for his cock, touching it lightly.

"Hey," I murmured, "is that for me?"

His reply was to reach down and put a hand on my hair. 

Still keeping my grip soft, I stroked his swollen shaft, marveling at the combination of velvet and steel that slipped through my fingers, a contradiction that never failed to delight me. Another stroke, this one with more purpose, and I suddenly became aware of his shallow panting breaths as his hand tightened in my hair. I varied my technique on the third trip up and paused to rub my thumb over the head, which earned me a catch in his breathing and more pressure on the back of my head.  This impressed me, so I did it again.

Walter is not a screamer. He's not a talker, a whiner or a moaner. Generally speaking, I'm the one who's usually invoking the names of various saints, cursing same or just crying out his name by this stage of the game. More of that abandon he loves so much, I suppose, although I think the sounds, or lack thereof, that we make speak volumes about the men we are outside of the bedroom, too. I've been accused of verbal diarrhea in the office on more than one occasion, so it makes sense that I'd be pretty verbal in the throes of passion too. 

What doesn't make sense is why I get tagged with the name puppy when he's the one who growls.

It was a low, throaty sound that vibrated through his whole body, and if I hadn't already been sporting a regular rail spike, that sound would have been guaranteed to make me rock hard in an instant. It's a sound of barely restrained passion, a vaguely threatening wild animal noise that I think would have been heard in The Lion King, if that movie had had an R rating.

I needed no more coaxing than that, and I shifted my body around to make myself more comfortable, and, I admit, to get closer to his hands, then, cradling his balls gently in one hand and holding him at the base of his cock with the other, I slipped my mouth over him.  I started with the crown, licking over the tip while I held him trapped in my mouth, and I could taste the sweet and bitter combination that signaled his rising excitement.  Still swirling my tongue around to lap at every bit of smooth hot skin, I took a little more into my mouth, creating gentle suction, and combining it with the short hard strokes of my hand.

His thick fist was still in my hair, but he wasn't forcing me, just gently guiding me a little. A tug, a sigh and another growl, and I twisted around even more, to take more of him in a more comfortable position. The hand left my head and then I felt it grip my cock, which my maneuverings had brought nearer to him. Without preamble, he took up a short jerking motion that had my hips bucking involuntarily within moments. Not to be outdone, I sucked harder, and didn't bother to smother the moans of pleasure he was giving me, which, if his own thrusting was any indication, put us back on an even level.

His hand on my ass upped the ante, and I remember thinking that wasn't fair, that he knew what he was doing to me, and how was I supposed to concentrate on the task at hand, or mouth as the case may be, when his big rough hands were stroking front and back, combining to turn my center into something molten and volcanic. I redoubled my efforts through a pre-orgasmic haze, using more hand movement now that his cock was slick from both my mouth and his excitement, and just letting my mouth cover the head, going back to exploring with my tongue. I felt his balls tightening in my other hand, and I released them with a  gentle squeeze. That's when I felt a finger lightly circling my opening.

"Oh God!" I couldn't help it. I pulled my mouth away for just a moment when he pushed into me, one finger, then two, quickly but with care, and crooked them inside of me. I felt my orgasm boiling over and took his entire length in my mouth to mask another cry. Then I just held onto his hips and swallowed repeatedly as we came together, bucking and thrashing and writhing against one another. I thought I heard him growling again, but it might have been coming out of myself. 

You know how all those porno mags have those letters columns that generally start out with "I never thought I'd be writing to you…" and end with the author cumming so hard he blacks out? I always used to think that was bullshit.

Surprise.

I came back to myself with my head resting on Walter's stomach. I smiled up at him, and he grinned back, looking totally smug and self satisfied.

"You cheated," I whispered.

"I did," he agreed mildly, running a hand through my hair.

"But I think I still won." I worked my jaw and felt a little twinge.

"I think this one was a draw, puppy."

Which, I think, was his way of saying we're both the man tonight.