Ocean  
by Merri-Todd Webster  
 
lonchura@yahoo.com 
4/18/00  
 
 
You are smiling as you settle down between my legs. I'm smiling, too--not 
just because I love what you're about to do, but because I know you love it. 
It's what you love best.  
 
You might be surprised that I know that. Well, it took me a while to figure it 
out. Honestly, at first I assumed you were like all the other men I'd known, 
that you thought sex meant intercourse, getting in there and doing it, and 
everything else was just foreplay. I think the first clue I had was the way you 
always took time to make me come, more than once if you could, before we 
fucked. How long we spent kissing, how you lingered over my breasts until I 
was slippery already, how you watched me and listened to me and 
remembered everything I liked. Until I went to bed with you, I'd never come 
just from a man rubbing my clit, never thought those books about the G-spot 
meant anything. You didn't so much fuck me with your fingers as massage 
me, waking up every nerve ending in my vagina.  
 
The second clue was how often you went down on me--nearly every time we 
were together, and I never had to ask. Do you have any idea how many 
times I've asked--meekly, in a tiny little voice, afraid of seeming too 
aggressive and demanding because I'd asked for the one thing that was sure 
to make me come? I could never bring myself to take *all* of my sister's 
advice when it came to sex. "Ask him to wear a condom, but don't let that 
be your only protection. If you don't trust him, don't take off your clothes. 
And always ask for what you want." The first two things were easy enough, 
but asking for what I wanted was never easy. Until you.  
 
The third clue was how rarely you asked me to return the favor. Real men ask 
for head a lot, Mulder, but it seemed like nobody'd ever told you that. You 
were happy when I offered, but you never asked. That made it all the more 
fun to go down on you; it was like giving you a treat, not like doing a chore.  
 
What clinched it for me was the time you came without fucking me, while 
you were going down on me.  
 
I spread my legs wider to make room for your shoulders. I like to feel your 
shoulders pressing against my thighs; I like that little bit of tension, that little 
bit of stretch. I like feeling that sensation while I'm watching you look at me. 
You always look at me before your mouth touches me. Did you know that? 
You always look before you touch, like you want to be sure it's me, and you 
always look amazed. After the first time you did that, I did something I 
hadn't done since I was thirteen. While you were in the shower, in the 
morning, I got a hand mirror and I looked at myself. That would have turned 
you on, I bet. But I didn't want it to be a turn-on, which is why I did it while I 
was alone; I just wanted to see myself. Hoping I would see what you saw.  
 
That time I looked at myself, my labia were red and still parted from sex the 
night before. That's how I thought of them, "labia," something out of a 
textbook. My pubic hair was fluffed up, not lying flat from being pressed 
under my clothes--you'd combed your fingers through it, called it peach fuzz 
and chuckled. I brushed my fingers over the fuzz, watching red highlights 
flicker in the gold. My clitoris was mostly hidden, but when I spread the lips 
apart, my vagina was still moist. I could see it glistening, see the little 
opening where you'd put your fingers, your tongue, your cock. And I knew I 
would never again think of this part of my body in clinical terms, as vulva, 
labia, vagina. It was my cunt, my pussy, my hole, because you had called it 
those names, lovingly, and you were my lover.  
 
You're looking at me now, Mulder, looking at my pussy, and then you start 
kissing my mound. You often do that, rubbing your face in my fur, breathing 
in the smell of me. I'd never have the nerve to tell you this, but even that's a 
turn-on. It's your nose, Mulder, the way you rub your nose against my clit. 
Don't ever let anyone tell you that nose isn't an asset! I almost came the first 
time you did it. And the way you breathed me in, that was so arousing. 
There was a time I'd never have had sex without a shower first, deodorant, 
perfume. I had to be neat and tidy and ladylike before I took off my clothes 
and tried to drop all that rigid control. You cured me of that with the touch 
of your tongue and all those sweet words of yours. Peach, pussy, kitten, 
honey, beautiful, in that low voice of yours that rubs over my skin like fine 
sandpaper and makes my nipples stand up. I know I'll be hearing those words 
again soon, and I can hardly wait.  
 
My hips jerk upward as the tip of your tongue touches the tip of my clit. The 
corners of your mouth crook upward just a little as the smugness comes into 
your smile. I guess I can't blame you for it. Not when you can make me feel 
so good. Now the flat of your tongue sweeps across my clit, and I arch into 
the sensation, feeling moisture gush out of me. You love to tell me how 
sweet I am, how sweet I taste. I was already wet from your kisses, your 
mouth on my breasts, the clasp of your hands on my waist, but now I'm 
flowing. My cunt turns into a river that always flows towards you.  
 
You look up at me across the slope of my belly, then dip your head lower. I 
lift my buttocks a little as you trail down my cleft to the hole, to the source 
of the sweetness. Your tongue pushes inside of me and your hands come up 
under my ass to hold me, support me. I love the way you grasp my ass, a 
possessive grip, a little dig from the tips of your fingers. You're starting to 
get carried away now, licking strongly and steadily, sweeping from my hole 
to my clit and going back again.  
 
This is how you break me, Mulder, this is how you make me drop the armor, 
this is how you make me yours. These steady strokes of your tongue over my 
wet pussy, over my clit, the bobbing of your head as your hunger splits me 
open. You've called me your fig, your peach, your pomegranate, and that's 
all I want to be right now. I'm shaking and shivering with wanting, wanting to 
be eaten and devoured, wanting to drench you and flood you, wanting drown 
you the way I'm drowning.  
 
You raise your head, panting. My wetness shines around your mouth, spreads 
like perfume from your skin as well as my cunt. "You're my ocean, Scully. You 
taste like the sea."  
 
I cry out as your fingers slide into me, long fingers stroking the front wall of 
my vagina, and your tongue swirling round and round my clit. So many times 
I've felt like I'm drowning, lost in your life, your needs, your passion, the 
sensations closing over my head like cold, dark-green water even though I'm 
hot, so hot with desire. I'm hot, I'm cold, I'm shaking, and your fingers press 
just so and push it out of me, oh Mulder, I'm coming....  
 
You inch forward and your shoulders press against my thighs, pushing me 
open a little further. Oh, God--you're going to make me come again. You 
take your hand away, leaving me so open, stretched wide, I'm frightened, 
and then you slip three fingers in, and I open up more. "You're so wet, my 
ocean, my ocean, Scully...." Your tongue fast and merciless on my clit, 
licking and then sucking, and then a noise in your throat that burns me, rolls 
through my nerves like the vibration that goes before an earthquake. I hear 
myself shout, a long vowel that has no name, as I come for a second time, 
and a third, and it never seems to end.  
 
When I can think again, when I can see again, I look for you. You're panting, 
your head on my thigh, and on your face that goofy grin I only see after sex. I 
grin back.  
 
"You came, didn't you?"  
 
"Mmm-hmh...."  
 
It's an ocean, Mulder. We're in it together.  
 
***  
 
end