OINK! OINK! by aka "jake"

By aka "Jake"

Rating: NC-17
Classification: V, smut (SexPig!Mulder), established MSR
Spoilers: None
Summary: Mulder gets what Mulder wants.

Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.

Beta by
xdksfan and mimic117.

Author’s Notes: Inspired by mimic117, First Lady of SP!M Fic. Dedicated to banlu. Happy birthday, sweetie!

Office of Dr. Dana Scully
7:12 PM

A soft knock. A creak of hinges. One mischievous hazel eye appears at the crack of my office door.

“Come in, Mulder.” Sitting at my desk, I tuck my report into a folder, neatly stack the ME’s photos, and power down my PC. “I’m almost finished here.”

He ambles over to me, a half-grin making him look boyish. His eyes scan my pathology photos before his fingers sweep my hair from my shoulder and his lips descend on my neck.

I lean into the pleasant tickle of his kiss. “Where’s William?” I ask.

“Sitter,” he mumbles, heating the skin below my ear.

“We’re going to owe that woman a small fortune.”

“Money well spent.” His teeth scrape gently along my jaw. I feel like purring.

“Money we could--”

His mouth closes over mine, effectively shutting me up. We've been together for twelve years, two as husband and wife, and he's still getting the last word.

I relax in my chair and let him kiss me, long and deep and delicious, until I notice the office door is still open, exposing us to whomever might wander past.

“Mmmmulder....” I roll back my chair, leaving him kissing the air. “Let’s finish this later.”

He moans in frustration. “Famous last words.”

“What does that mean?”

“Come on, Scully, you remember. Last weekend? Flagrante delicto interruptus?”

“Ah...Right,” I admit, blushing. I had three orgasms. Three incredible orgasms, courtesy of Mulder’s talented tongue. And just as I was about to return the favor--

“I asked you not to answer the phone,” he chides, not for the first time.

“Mulder, I had to.”

“You could've let the machine pick up. That's what it's for.”

“Not when I’m in the middle of an important case.”

“*I* was in the middle of something pretty important, too.” He looms over me, grips the arms of my chair and traps me there. His expression is greedy and it elicits a pleasant tingle low in my pelvis. “I ‘served it your way,’ Scully," he parrots an old Burger King commercial, "but never got to place *my* order.”

“And I’m very sorry about that, but the autopsy couldn’t wait. I didn't have a choice.”

“Well, you have a choice now.” He plucks at the uppermost button on my blouse. Desire darkens his eyes.

“This is my office,” I remind him.


“Soooooo, we’re going to put pleasure on hold until we get home.”

I attempt to rise from my chair, but am blocked when he stands firm.

He leans closer. His nose is mere millimeters from mine. “I take it back, Scully. You *don’t* have a choice.”

His words worm slowly into my workday frame of mind.

“Mulder...we-we-we can’t. Not here!”

“Oh, yes, we can.”

“But the...the....” I wave my hand at the open door.

His focus slides to the hall.

“Right." He releases me and crosses the room, apparently coming to his senses.

SLAM! -- he swings the door shut. CLICK! -- he twists the lock. Then he spins to face me, arms outstretched triumphantly. “No excuses now.”

“Erm...the window?”

He glances at the window to my right. It overlooks a brick wall when the blinds aren’t drawn, which they are at the moment. Confusion creases his brow.

“In the door,” I clarify.

A narrow pane of glass runs down one side of the door just above the handle. Mulder turns to study it. Inspiration hits. He sheds his jacket and uses it to cover the glass, but the frame is too shallow and won't hold the coat. He improvises, stealing the letter opener from my desk and embedding it with a thunk into the door’s uppermost wooden panel. It sticks out like a hook.

He hangs his jacket on it and effectively blocks out the world.

“Tah-dah,” he says. He is sporting a hungry grin. “Now, it's time for my Happy Meal.”

Two fast food references in a single conversation means Mulder is horny.

Very horny.

“Mulder, you’re being....”

Should I say it?

“Being what?”

“A sex pig.” I mean it in a good way. Honestly.

“Me? That’s not the way I see it, Scully. After last weekend I’m oh-for-three. I’d say that makes *you* the orgasm hog.”

Orgasm hog? “I wouldn’t put it that way...exactly."


"I had every intention of reciprocating. And I will. I promise. As soon as we get home."

“Not good enough. It's already been five days and I'm starving." He points to his crotch and delivers his punch line. “Hold the pickle, Scully.”

I do a poor job of squelching my smile. He's right. Fair is fair. He did give me three wonderful orgasms and I do feel piggish about that. Not to mention pleasantly flushed by his demanding tone and obvious...dill.

"The door's locked, right?" I ask.

"It's locked."

"And your coat's not going to slip off that hook?"

"Stop worrying and get your ass over here." He waggles his fingers in a “stand up” motion.

I rise to my feet, rendered helpless by either the intensity of his gaze or my own insatiable libido.

When we are standing toe-to-toe, he targets my blouse with an index finger.

“Lose this,” he insists in a tone so firm, husky, and self-assured my knees go weak.

I fumble with the buttons. My skin heats as the blouse gapes and exposes my bra.

The bra is a new one. Lacy, silver-gray, deeply cut. It has spaghetti straps and a fragile front-closing clasp.

"Beautiful," Mulder breathes. "Keep going."

I shrug out of my blouse. As it flutters to the floor I'm nagged by what's happening here. A part of me likes this pushy side of Mulder, wants it, maybe even needs it. Yet at the same time I'm troubled by my willingness to comply. His persistence has me turned on in a big way, enough to risk my professional reputation by agreeing to undress for him in my office. But should I be feeling this way? I'm a strong, competent woman. Strong, competent women aren't supposed to encourage chauvinistic behavior, let alone enjoy it.

Yet here I am.

Mulder's knuckles graze my cleavage, nudging warmly into my flesh as he unhooks my bra. He parts the lacy cups and nods like a bobble-head doll at my bare breasts.

My nipples harden beneath his stare.

“It’s chilly in here,” I lie, not wanting to acknowledge his inexplicable power over me.

“Seems fine to me.” He's lying, too. Sweat dots his upper lip and his pinks are cheek...I mean, his chinks are peek...I mean, oh, damn, it’s hotter than the hinges of Hades in here.

I really should put a stop to this.

He maneuvers my bra down my arms. It falls and joins my blouse on the floor. His voice deepens to an almost inaudible but incredibly sexy baritone when he says, “Now...give me the world’s best blow job.”

The temperature in the room shoots up another trillion degrees.

I feel like Venus -- the planet, not the goddess -- swathed in greenhouse gasses and glowing like a supernova.

“In my-my-my office?” I squeak.

“Did I not cater to your every whim last Saturday?”

“Yes, but--”

“And did I quibble when you said, ‘do me, baby, make my eyes roll back in my head, ooo, yeah’?”

“I...never said that.”

“Well, that’s what it sounded like with your thighs pressed to my ears.” His thumb skims my left nipple.

He has a point, so to speak, and the tug of his fingers is intensifying the tingle between my legs.

I straighten my already straight skirt and, abandoning all common sense, kneel down on the blessedly cool floor.

Mulder positions himself directly in front of me. I'm eye-level with the evidence of his protuberant desire.

“Go ahead, Scully,” he says, “Super-size me.”

From the bulge in his pants, I’d have to say we’re waaaay past that point. Whopper Jr. is already a Big Mac.

And now *I* am using fast food metaphors. Great.

“If you make a joke about ‘special sauce,’ Mulder, I swear we’re done here.”

I mold my palm to his denim-clad groin, gripping the solid ridge I find there, exploring its curved length with a slide of my thumb. He surges against me, a gentle grind. The motion is accompanied by a faint purr in his throat and the flutter of his lashes.

“Niiiice,” he says, exhaling the word.

I’m thinking the same. Mulder is a handsome man, brutally sensual when aroused. A blush prickles my skin and lust blossoms wetly between my legs.

Piggish or not, maybe this is a good idea.

I unzip his fly to release him. A sigh of appreciation huffs from his lungs when I take him in my hand.

He is silky, warm, and solid in my fingers. I squeeze, marveling at the substantial feel of him, the weight and fire. The velvety sheath. The unyielding core. The glistening pearl of pre-ejaculate.

I lick my lips.

He shifts his feet, broadening his stance for better balance. There is assurance and power in his posture, a relaxed effortlessness in the way he steers our play by nudging my hand aside and taking hold of himself. He guides his plum-shaped glans across my forehead, down my cheek, beneath my chin, caressing me with his smooth heat, teasing my lips, stroking my closed eyelids.

A rap on the door startles us both.

“Dr. Scully?” calls a male voice. I recognize it as belonging to Dr. Pinchot, an irritating associate from down the hall.

Mulder hisses with frustration. “Blow me,” he growls, teeth clenched.

At first I assume he’s cursing Pinchot, until he prods my lips with his engorged penis.

He can’t want me to--

Not with--

I shake my head.

"Yes," he hisses.

Pinchot calls again. “Dr. Scully? Are you there? I have that file you asked for.”

Mulder grates, "Do it."

I can't believe how aroused I am. At Mulder's behest I am topless, on my knees, in my office. A colleague stands right outside my door. I should be mortified. I should rise to my feet and get dressed. I should insist we never, ever do this anywhere but the privacy of our own home. But ignoring the present circumstances and all logic, I do exactly as Mulder asks: I go down on him.

His chin lifts, his head drops back, he hums softly with appreciation. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as his hips push toward me.

I suck him in.

A slim file folder slips beneath the door and skids several  feet across the polished oak floor. We both freeze. I think I hear Mulder whimper. Or maybe it was me.

Then Pinchot’s footsteps retreat down the hall. Thank God. I have no desire to get caught in the act. I'm not an exhibitionist and the threat of discovery does not float my boat.

Truth be told, it's Mulder who's got me hot. He's so...so...*greedy* today.

He sways gently forward and I resume my ministrations.

Yes, this is good. This is very good.

I add pressure, swirl my tongue around him, nip him, tease him, take him all the way to the back of my throat. His unzipped pants ride low on his hips. I knead his bare backside as I steer him in and out of my mouth.

“Ahh, Scully... Sweet Scully.”

He is rock-hard, fully aroused. I scrape my teeth along his flesh. When I look up, we lock eyes.

His cheeks darken and his lips part. Desperation glistens on his brow.

He looks like he’s having intestinal cramps.

What the hell?

Clutching the base of his cock, he unexpectedly withdraws.

“What's the matter?” I ask, wiping my lips.

“Wannabeinsideyou,” he grunts.


"Earlier you said you wanted the world's best blow job."

"Changedmymind, getup."

I’m barely vertical when he starts bullying me backward. I stumble and accidentally kick Pinchot's file folder. Autopsy photos scatter. I bump hard into my desk. Mulder mumbles “sorry,” or maybe “hurry,” and struggles with my skirt, raising it up to my thighs. He reaches between my legs and is halted by my pantyhose.

"Off, off, off," he chants.

I'm sandwiched tightly between his hips and my desk. "I need more room, Mulder."

He steps back, just far enough for me to kick off my heels and wriggle out of my hose and panties. I toss them toward my blouse and bra.

Mulder's hand snakes between my thighs, searching, poking. A finger slides into me. I gasp. He delves deeper. I rise up on my toes and seek a kiss.

His lips ram mine. His tongue dives to the back of my throat. I wrap my arms around his neck. He prods me below, exploring my depths, stirring the wetness he finds there. The friction is exquisite. Heat and pressure build in my abdomen. Desire seeps from me, slicking my thighs and filling the air with my scent.

Unexpectedly, Mulder breaks our kiss and withdraws his fingers. I'm about to object when he grabs my shoulders and spins me around.

"Bend over." He pushes my shoulders toward the desk. The coarse seams of his jeans scrape the insides of my bare thighs as his knees force my legs apart. I feel his weight on my back. His erection pokes my spine.

We're not quite aligned, so he hoists my hips higher. I grab the edge of the desk for support, knocking photos and file folders out of my way. Reports seesaw to the floor. Paperclips scatter, pinging like sleet as they fall. Pens rattle across the hardwood.

Mulder exhales hotly against my shoulder and then penetrates me.

“*This*,” he growls, pushing his way inside me, “is what I want.”

Me, too, Mulder. Me, too.

He pumps. I gasp and hang on. God, he feels good. My bunched skirt cushions me from the hard edge of the desk. I'm pinned between his ribcage and the blotter. His hands roam over me, kneading my thighs, hips, shoulders. He nips my ears, laps my neck. He fills me. Pounds me.

“Admit it, Scully,” he says between thrusts.

Snaking a muscled arm beneath my hips, he locates my clitoris and pinches. I moan, push against his fingers and try to spread my legs wider. Heat sizzles in my belly. My pleasure builds.

“Admit what?” I ask through clenched teeth.

His fingers tease my oversensitive flesh.

“You like being married to a sex pig.”

It's true. I do. “Yes, Mulder. I like it. I like it a lot." In fact, I love it.

Invigorated by my confession, he quickens his pace. His angle and timing are perfect. The impact delightful. He brings me to the edge of release.

"Come for me," he says, knowing I'm close.

His request sets off my orgasm.

Wave after wave of contractions surge through me. I ride out their undulating rhythm, my limbs numb, my ears deaf. Mulder's scorching heat is all I can feel, on me, inside me.

I'm crushed in a brawny embrace when he climaxes. He stiffens, grunts, floods me with ejaculate. His thrusts become more erratic and less forceful. He slows and finally stops altogether.

The tide of pleasure ebbs and my overworked muscles go limp. I'm left tingly and satisfied.

Mulder is panting, forehead pressed to my back, chest heaving. He releases his grip on my hips and slides from me. I look over my shoulder. He raises a fist into the air and rasps, “He scores!”

“I'm still up by three,” I remind him.

He chuckles. “Doesn't matter, Scully. I’ve got game.” Sated, he has moved from fast food metaphors to sports.

I straighten up and turn on wobbly legs to face him. “Wanna try for a personal best?”

“Love to, but Mother Nature has me at a distinct disadvantage.” He sags against me. “Unlike you, I need a break between innings.”

I smile. "Seems only fair, given all your other masculine advantages."

"I have advantages?"

"You know you do. You can out-run, out-jump and out-throw me and most women. You have larger bones and muscles. Your lung volume is greater. You have a larger heart, higher systolic blood pressure, lower resting heart rate. Your capacity for carrying oxygen in the blood is superior."

"I am feeling pretty well oxygenated, now that you mention it." He wraps me in a bear hug and I revel in the powerful feel of his arms.

That's when my politically incorrect desire for a sexually aggressive lover begins to make sense. Evolution is responsible for Mulder's physical advantages. Natural selection also coded my genes to respond favorably to those advantages. Smart may be sexy, but physical prowess is an ancient and very persuasive aphrodisiac.

And it helps that I trust him and love him with all my heart.

I caress his sweaty cheek. He nuzzles my hand, then cops a feel of my breast.

"I'm not finished with you, Scully. We're gonna pick this up again at home."

Most of the time I'm grateful for Mulder's gentlemanly manners and self-control, but every now and again I kind of like -- and can't help responding to -- his more basic nature.

“You're insatiable,” I say and lean into his palm.

"Says the orgasm hog to the sex pig."

He's right, so I respond with the only thing that's appropriate at a moment like this.

“Oink, oink.”