TITLE: Bed and Breakfast AUTHOR: David Stoddard-Hunt CATEGORY: V, R KEYWORDS: MSR RATING: R/NC17 SPOILERS: none. SUMMARY: I've never been a B&B type of guy. Until now. Until Scully. ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer yes. Elsewhere? Ask and ye shall receive DISCLAIMER: My Scully and Mulder bear no resemblance to Their Scully and Mulder. You disagree? Oh, yeah? Prove it. FEEDBACK: stoddardhunt@earthlink.net AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is from the IWTB List's exciting new genre, 100 Lines of Smut. Actually, this one has 102. But, since it's my first foray into erotica, IWTB has pretty much forgiven me. Huge thanks to my mentor in the subtle form of erotica, Tess, and to her partner in fic, the one and only Queen of Da Nook, Char Chaffin. ******************** One thing you already ought to know about me is that I've never been a B&B type of guy. Until now. Until Scully. And it's taken her seven years to get me to change. But, change I have. As of this morning, a beautiful, southern one, with the laughter of gulls and the scents of Buddleia and fresh coffee melting into the humid air around us, I have foresworn flea-bitten motels forever, no matter the allure of soft moans heard in the thick of night through cheap plywood connecting doors. Coming back up to our room with coffee about twenty minutes ago, I found Scully in the tub. A massive, claw-foot tub. Our room has a small balcony, located, interestingly enough, right off of the bath. Scully had opened that door, letting morning air waft through the screen. Her head, when I entered, lolled back against the near end of the bathtub, her arms draped lazily along the rim on either side. Fragrant lavender rose with the steam. Elegant fingers on her left hand absently grazed the pink skin of her thigh right above her knee, and I heard her gasp softly. Quietly, I brought the two china cups out onto the balcony and laid them on the low wrought iron table. The screen door spring groaned an agonized second before the frame smacked home behind me. I looked up quickly, fearing I'd disturbed my lover's reverie, but her eyes stayed closed, her face relaxed. The only change was a smile that crept across her face, softening the sharp planes of her cheeks leaving them awash and glowing. I watched her inhale, deeply, slowly, as the scent of coffee and, I hoped, of me, flowed over her. She filled her lungs in one, smooth breath, her breasts rising above the surface of the water, shimmering rose petals shedding their dew. As she began to breathe normally again, I realized I'd forgotten to do just that. I reentered the small blue and white tiled room and sat on the toilet, behind her head. Pouring some of the inn's shampoo onto my hands, I rubbed it into her hair, massaging as much as I was shampooing. A delighted sigh escaped her, but no words followed. I rubbed her temples with my fingers, smoothing back through silken hair to her nape. I will never say this to her, but I pay special heed to her neck because, therein, lies the reason she is still alive, for me to adore. I helped her stand and patted her dry, the towel plush and thirsty. When I'd dried her torso and worked up each leg to the juncture of her thighs, I raised my eyes to hers in plea. Scully's eyes shone with indulgence, with amusement, with every throb of her splendid heart. She handed me her scissors and sat back on the toilet seat, legs spread out to either side of me. One thing you need to know about Scully that you might not suspect otherwise. I certainly didn't. Scully, my fastidious Scully, is, on certain parts of her body, lushly, effulgently furry. You wouldn't know it because she's so meticulous about her appearance in general and, in particular, about shaving her legs and her underarms, although one day I may buck up the courage to talk to her about that last one. Sure, go ahead, cringe. But, then, you have no idea what a glimpse of this forbidden fruit does to me. The curls covering her mons aren't wiry, but soft and lush, spreading luxuriantly across the crease of her thighs. I've begged her not to shave it and, until now, she's acceded. We're going to be in bathing suits tomorrow, however, and even I acknowledge that, in public, she might feel more comfortable being somewhat less richly "endowed." I've agreed that it makes sense to shave, on one condition: that I am allowed to do it. Though a light breeze comes in through the screen, the air where I am kneeling is heavy, tumescent with the ghost scent of the drained bath and the heat of Scully's skin. As I begin with the fine coppery hair at the crease of her mons and right thigh, I'm keenly aware of the accompaniment of a mockingbird. With the delicate task at hand, I take extraordinary care. Up this close, and not otherwise distracted, I'm fascinated by the mix of colors in Scully's curls. Cinnamon, Curry, Cardamom. It only occurs to me to wonder why I'm associating the color of her hair with spices just a second before the answer wends its way into my conscious mind. This *is* her scent, spicy, tangy. I can taste a somewhat subtler version whenever I kiss her neck, just behind her carotid artery. One whiff of Scully's scent, no matter where we are, and I am instantly, painfully hard. Nearly finished now, I pause to steal a glance at Scully's face. The smile I'd seen from the little porch is still there, firmly ensconced, her eyes closed. She's swaying languidly, a slow rolling motion from her smooth stomach to her sweet head. My attention turns to the strawberry hued vee I've left at her center, trimming, stopping after only a few judicious snips, my efforts, at least to me, a rousing success. The lushness of her curls tamed for a while at least, a hidden facet of Scully's beauty ambushes me: the sunset palette of color at her center. A sudden hunger for her drives me to part the curls on either side of her swollen, claret-tinged lips. Several damp curls stubbornly refuse to part and allow me access to her ethereal essence. I blow, gently, almost imperceptibly, onto these curls and, from there, up in a line, to where I know her clitoris hides. Slowly, as an iris opens to the morning sun, the petals of her inner lips part and I am overwhelmed by the wash of color present. Mauve blushing to crimson, then fading to coral pink. A deeper, richer hue appears at her entrance, and I realize that she has opened for me without so much as a touch. As I shift in my crouch, I feel a not unwelcome friction as my pants scrape along the underside of the head of my cock. I shift every so often, just to repeat this feeling. Although the morning sun has not yet appeared on this side of the inn, a shaft of reflected light reveals delicate beads of moisture on the open petals of this most beautiful flower. I can't help myself. Pursing my lips lightly, I blow a diffuse stream of air from below her opening up to the slightly swollen hood covering her clitoris. On the next pass, I purse my lips with a bit more pressure. This stream of air is more focused, a substitute for my tongue. When my breath laves her clitoris on the following pass, her thighs fall open, a gasp and an expression of wonder replace her sweet smile. Our only touch is a brushing of her curls against my cheeks. More moisture appears on her. In sympathy, a drop of fluid rushes up and leaks from the head of my cock. On every pass of breath over her entrance, her coral and rose lips, I am enveloped in her scent. With every second that passes, I know that I will come from this. There is nothing I can or want to do to stop it. Scully's head has rolled back onto her shoulders. Her breasts jut slightly forward, her aureolas the same deep pink as the glistening flesh below. Her breath has begun to quicken. On my next pass, I don't blow out, but inhale. Scully shivers, and I feel my cock continue to engorge. I bend low for one final pass up from her perineum, over the lips which have begun, involuntarily, to pulse open and closed. Up to her clit, now prominent, bright pink and demanding my attention. I move in as close as I can without touching, as if to reach out with my tongue, and Scully doubles over with a shallow gasp. I circle her clit with my breath, in ever narrowing circles, and she convulses, her abs contracting violently, her mouth open wide, in a silent scream. Seeing this, seeing her convulse in pleasure, I am undone. I want to come. I want to weep. In a rush, my orgasm begins at the base of my spine, leaving me in violent spurts. A cough and the bump of my head against her leg alerts Scully to my response. Her eyes fly open, and she reaches down to raise my chin up, staring at my contorted, tear-filled expression with wonderment and joy. After a few moments, she rises to turn on the tap for the tub. This next soak will be for the both of us. We've at least an hour before check out time, if we skip breakfast. -end-