Other Life 
by Jen

morganablack@mindspring.com

 
Disclaimer: X-Files characters belong to CC, 1013 and FBN. The Mistress is mine. 

Warning/Summary: This is MulderTorture. Think of it as the torturist's response 
to slash's PWP "Plot, What Plot?". Mulder's thoughts during his captivity. 

Undying gratitude to Shirley who, if not entirely, is at least largely 
responsible for the abuse I heap on Mulder. Cyber worship to Kal, who assured me 
that not only does she not feel the need to take a long hot shower after reading 
my stories, she actually relishes them. And grins to Xan, who also revels in the 
extreme. 

Please ask author's permission to archive. 



Scully's prognosis worsened. She told me right after Thanksgiving dinner, took 
me aside in the hall. She kept trying to smile as she told me she had four, 
maybe five weeks left. Trying to smile to soften the blow. Trying to deny the 
horror she must surely have felt.


I wish I had held her then. I wish I had held her, I wish I'd pressed her 
softness against me just one last time. Instead, I stumbled to the bathroom and 
vomited. Yeah, just call me Prince Fucking Galahad. 
If I could just forget the way she looked as I left. That almost smile again, 
the one that jittered at the corners. That's the worst part. That I can't be 
with her when she needs me, the one and only time she'll ever really need me. 
And that she'll never even know why.


I fled the Scullys', no destination, just walking amidst dead November leaves at 
twilight. My hands shoved deep in my pockets, my muffler up around my ears. In a 
way she was lost to me already. I never even heard them. 

I hate that I didn't even think of Scully that first day. She deserved more, was 
worth more than a little pain. 

I awoke in the bitch's basement. Collared and shacked in iron. She likes to 
stand on ceremony, no fuzzy handcuffs or BDSM toys for her. A three foot chain 
attached my collar to the metal ring embedded in the concrete floor of my cell. 
I found out later that she has different lengths of chain she uses. I've learned 
to fear the three footer. I've learned its meaning. 

She likes to stand over me when she hurts me. She likes it when I cower. I 
fucking hate it when I do. 

I got my first look at her that night. Black shoulder length hair. Her features 
faintly asian, high cheekbones, full lips. Delicate neck and wrists, impossibly 
small waist, under other circumstances I'd have been all over her. At first, I 
was just scared. The hate didn't come until later. 

I knelt by necessity, not yet able to reconcile her beauty with my captivity. 
She studied me, her head slightly tilted and I blushed with the realization that 
she beheld by nakedness. Pressing my knees together, I told her my name, that I 
was an FBI agent. She bestowed on me a dazzling smile. I thought it angelic. 
Now, I want to scream when I see it. I try not to think about what she does to 
me. What she stole from me. Being touched by her is like being covered with 
cockroaches. 

She held her hands behind her back as she approached, and when she stopped her 
crotch was at eye level. Her index finger touched the hollow beneath my chin and 
raised it, so that I looked up to her. At her. That bitch. She has soft brown 
eyes and icewater for blood. She cracked that baton across my face so hard that 
blood flew from my mouth and sprayed a line across the wall to my left. 
Her tiny feet came sideways into view. The left side of my face felt glued to 
the concrete, so I rolled my eyes up to her. In time to see the baton in her 
fists. Hear it whistle down through the air. Feel it crash into ribs. Yeah, my 
ribs cracked beneath that blow. I must have screamed then. I'm not sure. My 
eidetic memory is gone. 

The bitch kneeled down next to me. I watched the baton tap her knee. "Look at 
me, Fox." she demanded. 

Don't you know my eyes flicked right up to her face? Whatever you want, babe. 
Just lay off the baton. 

"You're mine now, Fox. Say it." 

I only hesitated for a second. It didn't matter. Had I answered her without so 
much as missing a beat, she would still have done it. She's a sadist. Punishment 
is neither her intention nor her goal. Her goal is simply to inflict pain and 
she excels at it. This fact does not prevent her; however, from using it as an 
excuse. And so I hesitated and she plunged the end of the baton into my gut. I 
doubled, I couldn't breathe. And as I worked to restart my offended 
diaphragm, she shifted her threat, brought it in from another angle. Pushed it 
in, you might say. 

I'm fairly educated on the subject of rape, I was a .....I *am* a psychologist 
and FBI Agent. I'm able to recall statistics, I can tell you everything you'd 
ever want to know regarding the background, characteristics and motivations of a 
rapist. I can outline the most effective ways to avoid becoming a rape victim. I 
can cite proper procedure should you fall victim to a rapist. I can explain the 
emotional process a rape victim is likely to experience. 

Before the night was over, I said it, alright. Again and again. 

When she finally left me to myself, I crawled onto the cot and collapsed. At 
least she did me the kindness of lengthening the chain so that I didn't have to 
sleep on the concrete in the blood and the semen. That doesn't always happen. 
And her binding of my ribs was very professional. I don't doubt she's in the 
medical field. Most likely a surgeon, based on her knowledge of the human body, 
her skilled application of many subsequent dressings as well as her 
performance of minor surgeries her 'play' has necessitated. I've spent more 
nights than I care to count strapped onto that cot with an I.V. feeding into my 
vein. She takes particular delight in catheterizing me. Everytime she does it, I 
spend the next few days pissing the color of grape Kool-Aid. 

What I learned about rape that night was that you can't truly understand it 
until you experience it. Pain and violation are fun, sure, but the party really 
starts hopping when rage and humiliation arrive. Did I mention the bitch revels 
in humiliating me? As if I had any pride left at all. The presence of her 
'staff' always grace our little soirees. 

I fell asleep right away. Despite no T.V., no futon, no cellphone. Despite my 
chronic insomnia. Despite the knowledge that my partner was dying. Forgive me, 
Scully. 

***** 

Her wealth holds me captive. Her staff, her chains, her toys, and especially the 
wealth of evil in her diabolically inventive mind. My back and ass bleed already 
from the flogging one of her boys administered. By now, this sort of treatment 
holds little power over me. It hurts, of course, it just no longer terrifies. It 
almost comforts in its familiarity. She has my wrists cuffed close together, 
chained to the ceiling, my elbows by my ears. My ankle chain is 
absent this evening, replaced by a two foot spreader. 

"Who do you love?" she asks sweetly, looking up at me. She holds a power drill. 
The drill bit is about two inches long, the diameter maybe a quarter inch. In 
terms of size, not a terribly impressive phallus. The threat is in the thread, 
the razor edge that winds around the bit. She cradles the drill in her hands 
almost reverently, an offering. 

"You, of course." I snap. "We can't put off the wedding registry much longer."
 
Her lips stretch into that corpse grin. "*Who* do you love?" she repeats, her 
tone now lightly seasoned with menace. She moves the drill under my chin and the 
whirring sound it emanates originates from the curve between my neck and soft 
underjaw. She revs the drill again, working for a greater show of fear from me. 
Coaxing it. I lift my chin marginally. 

"Sandra Bullock." I choke out. My eyeballs roll downward, trying to see. I'm 
distracted from my sarcasm and continue lamely. "I think her work in Speed II 
was brilliant." 

The skin of my shoulder crawls under the touch of her hand as she circles behind 
me. Her hand trails down through blood over cuts to rest on my hip. She lays the 
side of her face between my quivering shoulderblades, and I hear the whirr of 
the drill down behind me, close to that place into which she so loves to delve. 
I'm sweating pretty good now. 

"Who do you love, Fox?" she murmurs this time. I know her rhythm, this is her 
final repetition. Nothing I say will stop her.
 
"Die, you fucking *cunt*." I spit, my invective infused with all my hate, all my 
contempt, all my revulsion. 

And on that night, the blood flowed. 

***** 

There's no escape. 

I lost track of time after Christmas. There are sleeping periods and eating 
periods. And her play periods. Scully is most likely dead, and I can no longer 
hope that I'll somehow find a way out of here. I blew my last, best chance to 
escape. And for penance, I think about how bad it was for her when she died. How 
betrayed she must have felt, perhaps beleiving I ditched her again for good. 
The bitch has her staff bathe me a lot, shave, blow dry, the works. Have I 
mentioned the iron collar she used around my neck? The shackles on my wrists and 
ankles? The thing about iron is that it rusts on contact with water. And so, 
during these cleanings, I was freed of the chains. Naturally, an escape plan 
evolved around this routine, this apparent achilles heel in her security. Not 
even much of a plan really, just delusions of kicking some righteous ass and 
running. But timing, I felt, was everything. I wanted her to be gone when I made 
my attempt. As tiny as she is, I'm afraid of her and the possibility of her 
catching me trying to escape scares me. Her playtimes with me seemed to occur 
mostly at what I thought was nighttime. She must have worked during the day. 
So I waited. For a time when I felt sure she was gone and I felt healthy enough 
to do it. The members of her staff who mostly take care of me, Thing One and 
Thing Two as I like to think of them, came to get me for my grooming. They led 
me into the bathroom and I maintained my cool, tried to seem bored and sad. The 
usual stuff. When the chains came off, I waited still, for the Seuss Twins to 
move away from the door. 

It couldn't have come off better. Thing One bent and turned on the water, his 
back to me. Thing Two stood between his colleague and me, watching me, but in a 
bored kind of way. I stood closest to the door and pistoned a sidekick into 
Thing Two's stomach that Jackie Chan would have been proud of. Thing Two said, 
"Oof." and tumbled backward into Thing One, and they both fell into the tub. I 
slammed the door behind me as I ran out the bathroom, across the basement and up 
the steps. 

When I reached the door at the top of the steps, I hesitated a second. All of a 
sudden I knew that on the other side of the door, the bitch waited, holding a 
knife or ax or some other horrible thing I couldn't imagine. Then the bathroom 
door below banged open as Things One and Two came running, and I threw open the 
door and flew through it. 

Oh, and the fucking bitch was there. There on the other side of the door with a 
baseball bat and she knew, she fucking knew I would run today. I tried to back 
away and backed right into Things One and Two who had just reached the top 
steps. And she went right to work with that bat, the first blow in the stomach 
doubled me, the second across the shoulders sending me face down to the floor. 
Then the fun really started. 

***** 

I can open my right eye a little now that it's not so swollen. My mouth is 
better now so that I can eat soft food. She wrapped my ribs again and they ache 
and itch alot. 

I sleep alot now. Alot more than I used to before I came here. Sometimes I 
almost don't remember that life. That other life when I was somebody. Now I 
sleep, I like to sleep. I eat sometimes and that's okay, too. But She comes to 
visit me alot. I hate that. She hurts me pretty bad and then She fucks me and I 
feel so ashamed. And I can't remember Scully's face. 

If only I could remember Scully's face. 




eeez done....