MY NOTES: Um, let me first apologize to our agents for putting
them in this position. This is what happens when I let my
disturbed imagination run amok and fail to stop myself just short
of writing it down. I should also add that this style of humor
was inspired by the brilliant works of Plausible Deniability,
the master of funny MSR.

SPECIAL THANKS: to Khyber for doin' that 69 beta job for me.
Was it good for you too?

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, but damn, if they don't occupy
my fantasy life. All regards to 1013, FOX, and such. Thank you
for feeding my sick sensibilities.

FEEDBACK: Send me your hospital stories!
Terma99@aol.com
 
 

The Wrong Arm of the Law

by Terma99

I'm having the single most humiliating week of my life. I'm lying
flat on my back in a Contra Costa County hospital bed staring at
the beige ceiling tiles with my right arm wrapped in industrial
strength, hermetically sealed gauze from elbow to the tips of
almost all my fingers. I haven't seen or heard from my thumb
in days.

I should be bragging--it's a gunshot wound inflicted upon me
as a result of swashbuckling through the Easy Bay Mud after an
oily slobbering non-human who had the audacity to threaten
the cleanliness of my partner's suit. I caught it making a
gloppy surreptitious attempt to grab her ass while we were
"investigating" the wrong maintenance hallway.

We were sent here to check out some mysterious sightings of
large blue lights hovering over the San Pablo Bay, near the Shell
oil refineries. Scully and I spent three nights huddled in a boat in
the wind trying to keep anchor just offshore of the belching
carcinogenic hulk of silver and black tanks and smokestacks
that is the main petroleum distillery. I didn't mind the huddling
so much as I minded the need to pitch my head over the stern
every few hours whether I tried to eat anything resembling food
or not. Scully, the hardened little sailor she is, always finds
that weakness amusing. At least I can keep my lover entertained.

She, of course, cannot verify "sighting" the monster in question
(like all good paranormal creatures, it came up on her from
behind and then slipped quickly out of sight), nor did she see
it crawling out of the murky bay onto the shore as we hastened
to dock the boat and I took off up the hill after it into the
refinery complex. She also cannot verify my story of firing upon
the black oozing hulk and watching the bullet recoil and bounce
right back at me and into the flesh of my right forearm. By the
time Scully rounded the corner, it had courteously collapsed into
a harmless puddle of bubblin' crude. And they say there's no
conspiracy afoot.

So to sum it up, the antics of Scully's favorite monster boy
has detained us here for the last three days, topping off a whole
fun-filled week of what amounts to high romance for us. I'm
lying here listening to her drone on over the case details while I
have an IV pumping my veins full of antibiotics, a head full of
boredom, my firing arm in a temporary cast, and a hard-on the
size of the Space Shuttle Columbia hidden under the sheets.

Did I mention I usually wield more than just my weapon with
my right hand?

"So how do you want that particular detail spelled out for
Skinner?" she asks, sitting next to me in a stiff plastic chair
typing into her notebook with her cute little librarian glasses
balanced on the end of her nose.

"Which detail?" I grumble, shifting to attempt to get a bit
more comfortable. It's difficult staying focused as my eyes
keep dropping to the hem of her skirt which isn't doing anything
to cover up the peachy soft curve of her thigh, crossed firmly
over her knee. I'm hoping she'll get uncomfortable in that hard
bottomed chair and switch legs for me.

"The part where you manage to shoot yourself in your own
firing arm."

"Can we skip that part of the report?"

"How?"

I smile. "We can always say you shot me."

"No good, Tex. My gun is smaller and the rifling on the slug
won't match up."

"Was worth the crossover...." I sigh...pink panties.

"Excuse me?" She asks, resettling her left leg over the right.

"Are you getting uncomfortable in that chair? Why don't you
come sit on the bed with me?"

My partner pinches the spectacles from her nose and looks at
me like I just asked her to kneel and present.

"You have a roommate, Mulder."

I roll my eyes over at poor old Mr. Bathgate who's still trying
to recover from his barium enema administered by the not-so-
tender callused and hairy-knuckled hands of nurse Abigail
Flannery--a charming lady who I am certain only recently
escaped death from being thrown from a train by Billy Crystal.
One might tactfully say this woman lost the genetic lottery,
big time.

He looks like he's still in deep shock. Poor ol' coot, we've all
got problems. Mine is beginning to take over my ability to
think business before pleasure. My partner and I haven't hit
the sheets in well over ten days and I've been too goddamn
nauseous and exhausted to even think of jerking off in the
hotel room shower, so my oversight is coming back to haunt me
at a rather awkward moment. Maybe grandpa will doze off a
few minutes and Scully can pull that curtain around...?

My thoughts are suddenly cut short by the unmistakable clump
of the terror of the fifth floor. Thud, thud, scuff, thud, Nurse
Flannery cometh.

She shuffle-thumps her way into the room and my heart
stops beating and my hand reaches out and clutches Scully's
until she skulks to a stop at the foot of Bathgate's bed. I begin
to relax, then suddenly realize that bluish purple mole on her
chin with the three thick black curly hairs, is beginning to rotate
in our direction. The cavernous maw of her mustached mouth
opens and the ogre speaks.

"Fox Mudler, I'll be back in fifteen minutes for your bath. Tell
your ladyfriend visiting hours are over," and the maw grinds
shut and the black patchy haired head turns and it slugs back out
of the room in a fleshy lump of too much starched white cotton
and rubber nursing heel.

God, compared to that freakshow, Scully is just molded from a
slice of heaven.

"Mulder," my shameless vision of loveliness speaks. "My god,
that woman is homely." I blink out of my smitten horny reverie
to fully realize what that seven foot Cyclops just said. Bath? Now?

I panic. No way in this lifetime that thing's gonna bathe me.
Not when I'm beyond positive the wood I'm sporting isn't going
to leave me for at least another hour and that's only if I can
think really hard about baseball and Scully gets the hell out of
here fast.

"Scully! Didn't they clean me when I came in? I was splattered
with oil. Go tell her!"

"Well Mulder, you have been here a few days," she says with a
weird twist of her nose.

Great, so I smell, too?

"Scully...!" I whisper-shout at her.

"What?" she whispers back, leaning closer.

"I have to tell you something..."

Finally her ass leaves that chair and she plants it right next to
my hip. Tease. I motion her to lean close and dammit if I can't
see right down her blouse as she turns her ear to me while I
relate the situation in as few words as possible.

I see her holding her turned head in puzzlement a second and
then her eyes go teenaged-girl wide and she makes an absurd
snorting sound as if I've just delivered the $10,000 punch
line.

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth as she looks down at my
lap and her whole chest heaves as she snorts again. If I didn't
know better I'd say she was about to do a repeat performance
of my boating antics.

It's a few seconds before she can compose herself, wiping a
tear from her eye. Why did I fall in love with her again? She
sits back and eyebrows up, battles to keep her lips still and her
arms crossed over her chest.

"Can't you take care of that yourself?"

Exasperated, I nod to my bandaged arm. She smirks and
points smartly at my free left hand lying on the blanket.

Nice try, honey, but it doesn't work that way for men. I know, I
tried yesterday afternoon in the tiny bathroom jiggling the IV
while my roommate was being X-Rayed. It was an exercise in
futility and only left me all the more frustrated. I'm not, as
they say, ambidextrous. My stubby exposed fingertips on my
right hand were doing a better job, but after a while even
they couldn't keep up. Next thing I know Flannery's bellowing
for me and the whole exercise came to a crashing halt. Why
the hell isn't that happening now, I wonder? As if the sight of
those varicose veins weren't enough to freeze hell over.

I motion Scully close again and attempt to explain why, gee,
hadn't *I* thought of that?

"Come on Scully, flash a badge, do that 'I'm a medical doctor'
thing and send her packing. Better yet, why don't *you* offer
to bathe me?" I wink. God, that would be great. Seeing her walk
in all trimmed up in a tight short white nurse uniform with her
hair tied back in the little hat, taking hold of that bar of soap,
foaming it up and getting me all nice and clean, nice and clean.
Fuck! Why did I just go there?

She rolls her eyes. "I don't have a license to practice medicine
in the state of California. And you do realize your body will
take care of itself, eventually."

Right. I haven't had a decent wet dream since I was nineteen.
For some reason that subconscious facility doesn't operate
anymore with my 39 year-old reproductive psychology. I get
to the part where she's all spread and gooey and suddenly I
remember I have to leave the apartment and go deliver a
check to my hairy landlord. It's worse than a Polish joke when
I forget my keys and have to spend the rest of my dream in
the hallway without my pants.

"Scully," I whisper anxiously. "Please don't make me beg."

"Mulder, I can't believe you're serious. That would be so
embarrassing..." This, coming from a woman who likes to
perform ventriloquist acts with my limp penis while I'm trying
to sleep.

"The creature is coming to give me a bath in a few minutes and
if I have to go through that like this, if even for a minute, the
next time I fire my gun I'll be aiming a little higher." Just one
more feat to induct into the Spooky Hall of Fame.

"What exactly, do you expect me to do about it?"

"Close that goddamn curtain and give me a hand."

I see I said that just loud enough and with enough urgency to
break Bathgate out of his probed trance. He's sitting up, mouth
open, staring at the two of us in disdain.

"Do you mind...?" I mouth to him silently, glad Scully's too
busy winging the curtain closed around my bed to notice him.
This happens in the movies all the time. He'll get over it, I think,
as the blue sheet is drawn around us. At least it happens all the
time in the movies I watch.

Curtain secured, she comes about, turns off her computer,
opens her file bag and slips her glasses back in their case.

"Uh, sweetie, we don't have a lot of time," I say, trying to keep
my voice calm. Staying focused would probably help get things
moving along.

"I'm planning a quick exit," she informs me with a glare, zipping
the bag shut. She comes back and sits on the bed like a good girl
and places her hand under the sheet.

Her warm fist slips under my fortunately breezy gown and grabs
on to me. Thank you Jesus, she's starting to comply. I close my
eyes and concentrate, feeling her soft touch along my not-so-
little problem, hoping to god this is going to work, and fast.

Maybe it's that I'm just not very deserving of a little divine
influence, but I'm soon very aware that Scully and I have
rarely engaged in this type of activity. And when we have, it's
only been foreplay. She really isn't doing it right and looking up
at her I see she's bored--her eyes are reading the detailed
medical orthographic of the descending colon framed over my
bed.

I've had high school dates that turned out better than this.

"Scully..." I'm getting really tired of whispering.

"What?" she says, irritated.

"This isn't working."

She withdraws her hand and sets it on her hip. "Well excuse me
if I was absent they day we covered this in med lab."

Great, now she's gone from amused to pissed. Not a shift in
my favor. Maybe my left hand has learned something from the
right after 24 hours. Time's wasting, I give it a second chance.

"Mulder...? Oh for Pete's sake, that *is* pathetic...let me..."

To my utmost joy, she pulls the sheet back and leans over,
opening her lips. Is the penis clean, I'm wondering?
Reasonably clean?

Her wet warm mouth slips over me and I gasp outright. Nothing
is better than this, nothing. She takes me in almost all the way to
the base, swirling that hot wet tongue all around those places
where I need it the most. She's certainly in no want for practice
here. I feel like I'm going to melt right into the mattress.

I get four or five slow perfect sucks when she stops abruptly.

Shit. Now what?

"Mulder, I won't do this if you're going to moan like that."

I was moaning? I clamp my good hand over my mouth and
eyeball her to continue. She does and now that I am quiet I can
hear my roommate making a noise I never want to hear again
while sharing a bedroom with a man. Scully's busy with me, but
I realize the sidelamp she left on is probably broadcasting our
tryst across the big blue curtain like a Japanese shadowbox
play. Lucky for you Mr. Bathgate, but this show's about to end.
I don't pity him too much, at least he has use of both hands.

Without trying to disturb her, I lean slowly to the left to flick
the light off. Bless her, she doesn't stop and even I can tell
she's killing little sounds in her throat before they clear her
mouth which is marvelously full at the moment. She'll never
admit this is turning her on. Scully's got a perverted streak
almost as long as mine, she just hides it better.

Lick lick lick, suck, lick, suck...I'm absolutely dying to touch her,
to suckle a breast, kiss her deep and hungrily, slip some fingers
under that skirt. I wonder how those little pink bikinis are
holding up. I want to find out and put this hydromatic
adjustable bed to some good use--sample some new assisted
positions. Traction sounds pretty fun. Oooh, that thought
did something for me and I feel my relief beginning to head in
over the horizon...

...until some incredibly stupid part of my brain decides this
would be a good time to relax and savor the feeling a while
longer and I miss my window of opportunity by milliseconds.
Scully feels that too, and raises her head, looking none too
pleased with me.

"Mulder, dammit, could we for once work *together* on
something?"

And then I hear it--The Thud. Momma's heading this way. I've
got about 20 seconds for my body to decide if it's gonna shoot
this one now in a warm familiar place or wait a few minutes
and spray all over a white plastic name tag while soaking in
Mr. Bubbles.

I look my savior in the eye. She looks almost as petrified as I
am. I pull her face to mine and kiss her quickly with valor.
"Don't think, just make it happen!"

She drops and gulps me down again while I try to call up every
last one of the top ten most indecent incidents I've had the
pleasure of sharing with my most devoted and beloved partner.
It works for a while, getting me nice and hard and full of
purpose, but I need more, something new, something fresh
to catapult me over the wall.

My mind wanders... I'm no longer trapped in a hospital bed.
Scully and I are somewhere clean and plain and white and
there's a huge warm tub in the center of the room and we're
naked and wet and kissing, rubbing against one another
covered in slick foamy soap. The ogre is standing in the
corner spraying us down with a hose, rinsing us both off as
we sink to the tile floor and I'm in Scully, pumping madly,
slipping across the cold floor and we smell like Johnson's No
More Tears Shampoo...

...that did it, that really did it, not only I'm I about to have one
of the most intense orgasms of life, but also one of the wettest.
The clump is almost at the door, but right now all I can think
about is whether or not I should warn Scully to drop everything
and run for cover before I...
 

[..............................................................................]
 

I'm positively weeping when I come to. "Oh baby, baby, that was
so good...thank y..." I open my eyes, wet with relief, and come
face to face with three curled, gnarled hairs. Holy fuck, the
creature is looming right over me--that huge head glaring at
me through yellow smeary eyes.

The maw erupts and speaks with a mighty lisp, "I thought I told
your ladyfriend it was time to go?"

Ungh! Breath mint!

I scan the room and see Scully lingering by the doorway,
reapplying a touch of lipstick. Oh, thank god she's still alive.
That petroleum mutant had nothing on Nurse Quasimodo
here who lifts me up, IV and all, and deposits me into a
wheelchair, sliding her leathery paw out from under my bare
ass. Now I definitely want a bath.

"Enjoy your spa treatment," Scully says with a sweet smile as
she heads out the door for the nearest exit. God, I love that
woman. She never lets me down. I couldn't give a shit if I were
about to be trampled by bulls at this point. I feel that good.

The nurse wheels me past the rather constipated-looking
Mr. Bathgate. I smile at him, all relaxed and happy, and see
a familiar panic cross his face as our resident nurse turns to
him and spits out, "You're next."
 

*******************************************

Oh, that was so bad!
I didn't just write that did I?
I'm so embarrassed.

Come bathe me at:
Terma99@aol.com