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                      Stories that will knock you out.

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Agent Scully's Sleepy File (From Gustav, I think)

One question kept reoccurring to Scully, just one. It kept picking at her,
appearing from out of the cloudy, indistinct horizon that now constituted
her conscious mind. It was an irritating question, partially because it
would not go away, but mostly because she could not seem to find the
answer, though she knew it. She lay there on the recliner, the bright light
of the operatory far above her face. Occasionally she sensed that she was
moving, but she never seemed to leave the recliner.

Then the thought would resurface, bringing a furrow to her brow: How did I
end up here? No matter how hard she tried to focus, Scully just couldn't
remember exactly how she got here, her eyes slipping in and out of focus,
her limbs unresponsive, the gray rubber shape of a nasal inhaler strapped
against her face, the strangely arousing scent of nitrous oxide filling her
nose. And the figure that moved above her, leaned over her, but did not
hurt her--yet.

One week earlier FBI Headquarters Washington, DC

There was a knock at the closed door, which told Mulder it was Scully. No
one else ever knocked. If he'd desired the illusion of privacy, Mulder
would have locked the door. Most people in the Hoover Building were
realists, however, and in this respect even Mulder was a team player. As
the saying went in this place, A locked door invites intrusion.

Scully entered and, as always when he was in his headquarters mode, Mulder
mentally relaxed for a moment and allowed himself to be struck by her
appearance. She is, he thought, the most beautiful woman I have ever known.
The smile was fleeting, as Mulder did not want Scully to know his mind was
in this particular zone. He hoped it hadn't cracked the surface of his
face, and if it had, that Scully hadn't seen it. Slowing down in the mental
fast lane when Scully was around could prove embarrassing.

"You wanted to spend some time on the range, Mulder," she said without
sitting down, maintaining that cool, professional attitude she used with
everyone. Sometimes it was an offensive weapon used to get what they needed
from uncooperative bureaucrats, congresspersons and the usual conglomerate
of civilians, innocent and guilty alike. Sometimes it was a defense against
unwanted or feared personal intrusion. And sometimes not even Scully could
say which it was.

He kicked a chair out so that it rested against Scully's legs.

Scully was also one of the realists, especially in this building,
especially where it concerned Mulder, so she sat.

"Scully, do you know how many dentists there are in Jackson, Michigan?"

"About 95 in the general area," Scully answered. "And approximately 150
registered dental assistants. The assistants tend to be part time. It's an
efficient way to avoid paying benefits."

"And there have been exactly how many complaints of this person who is,". .
. he lifted the file from his desk, " . . .rendering female dental
personnel unconscious or semi-conscious and then raping them?"

Scully stood, took the file from Mulder's hand. She glanced at the top
page, set the file down. She opened her own briefcase and took out her
notebook. In one small motion she removed a sheet of paper from her file
and placed it on the top of Mulder's file. "Until yesterday, two. As of
today, ten. Just under seven per cent. You ought to keep up on your
reading, Mulder." She walked to the door, and turned around. "Shall we get
to the range? You could use the practice."

He jumped up and started through the door, stopping just in front of her.
He turned and nodded. "It's ten reported this year. In Michigan. Thirteen
last year in Colorado. Thirteen the year before, in New York. One more year
back, thirteen in Indiana. Can you guess how many were reported the year
before, and so on back nine more years?"

Scully conceded the point with an arched eyebrow, but they still went to
the range. Scully was right. Mulder needed the practice.

Friendly Dentistry Associates, P.C. Jackson, Michigan

Bridget Gustafson hummed while she worked. Everyone was gone, so she had
the office to herself. No nervous patients, no anal-retentive billing
clerk, no pompous dentists with really poor senses of humor and wandering
hands; none of them were present to interfere with her pace, priorities or
methods. She could go through her weekly inventory and setup the work
stations for the new week's beginning blessedly free of the comments of men
who couldn't find dental decay without an x-ray unless the hole was big
enough to trap a school bus. Sometimes the hygienist would wonder aloud
exactly what Bridget was doing every Friday evening when she worked late
and alone, but Bridget was convinced that the hygienist was only trying to
feel her out to see if she could get a little quality after work time
hooked to the nitrous oxide. The hygienist was one of those many people who
loved the warm fuzzy feeling she got when she was under the laughing gas,
but who couldn't figure out a way to get it more often than at every six
months' checkup. To be truthful, Bridget did enjoy the gas. But she never
broke the rules at work

The last tray of instruments was sterilized and stored when Bridget first
became aware of a noise. It was only the hint of a background noise to
start, no more than the white noise used to mask distracting sounds in
offices that either could not or would not choose to use canned music or
that most annoying of alternatives, a soft-rock FM station. She hesitated
in the corridor, listening. Almost at the threshold of her hearing, but it
was definitely something. Low and persistent, it played with her attempts
to identify it. She followed the sound to the back of the office until she
turned into the last operatory. The noise grew minisculely louder, but
still she couldn't quite place it.

Though she was not alarmed, Bridget was becoming slightly irked. The sound
was very familiar, but she just couldn't name it, which was silly, since it
just couldn't be that strange a thing if she knew it to be so familiar. She
was confused and her mouth seemed a bit cottony. She walked into the
operatory, but because she wasn't thinking clearly, she didn't turn on the
lights.

The sound was louder now and Bridget smiled suddenly as she recognized it.
It was the hissing of pressurized gas being released from a container. In a
dental office, she knew that usually meant an N2O-O2 machine.

She must have said it aloud, as she heard a muffled reply from a figure who
had been standing in the dark behind her. "Very true, Angel." The voice
came as an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back and a hand
reached around her face to press a rubber mask over her nose and mouth.
Already weakened by the gas that had been spreading throughout the office,
Bridget could not resist. Her body immediately acquiesced to the wishes of
her captor, and she willingly inhaled the medicinally scented gas--which
her sleepy brain confirmed was a high concentration of nitrous oxide to
oxygen. Her head filled with a deep echoing ring and she was hardly aware
of being picked up and gently placed on the examination chair.

The figure strapped the mask to her face, then stood back, admiring its
work. Her limbs were rearranged, and the operatory lights were turned up.
Bridget drifted in and out of consciousness as her body was repositioned
time and again. At times her eyes opened and she caught quick glimpses of
the figure above her. The person wore a long leather coat and black latex
gloves. The head was covered by a hooded black gas mask with tinted eye
lenses and a long corrugated breathing tube that led from the front of the
mask's snout around her captor's left waist and to the back, where it
disappeared into a large backpack.

Bridget tried to protest aloud, but she was never sure that her words
formed into speech. Continually she was aware of being moved, though she
always remained on the chair. At one point she thought her face mask had
been removed, replaced by the common nasal inhaler dentists use. But even
then she could not speak, as her mouth seemed to be blocked or filled by
something. She slipped in and out of a long dream of being gassed and
helpless.

The hissing noise of escaping gas that had led her to this quiet corner of
her workplace had disappeared. She thought it had been replaced by a
clicking noise. It tended to occur after each change of position, followed
by mechanical whirrings. For the time being she relaxed and breathed in the
sweet, warm nothingness of the gas so insistently provided to her through
the rubber mask strapped to her face. She had no choice.

Then he reached for her waist, pulled her slacks down over her knees, over
her feet, and set them carefully to the side. He did the same for her
pantyhose. He ran a finger over Bridget's bush, felt the give of her lips.
He smiled behind his mask. One of the nicer things about using nitrous
oxide was that it tended to arouse most of his victims. His entry was
seldom consciously or unconsciously resisted by his angels. He fingered her
softly, then deeply to draw out the lubricating fluids. Yes, very nice,
very nice.

He slid a pillow beneath Bridget, raising the angle of her hips to better
facilitate the event. Then he drew back his coat. His penis was hard and
ready, its thick head and glistening shaft covered by the black condom.
Kneeling between her legs, he entered her quite gently, but irresistibly.
He felt her body engulf his, her muscles seize on his cock. His thrusts
were slow and steady, and he was pleasantly surprised to feel her orgasm
come hot and fast, a muscular spasm that tensed her entire body. Her pussy
muscles gripped his cock tightly and hungrily, and as he thrust again he
came, violently, as always, his back arching and his cock straining to
reach as deeply into her as possible.

Three days later Lincoln Avenue Condominiums Jackson, Michigan

Scully angled the Oldsmobile Aurora into the parking shelter with a tiny
feeling of regret. Perhaps Mulder didn't care what kind of car the Bureau
provided, but Scully had become deathly bored with the steady procession of
Fords equipped with underpowered six cylinder engines and the usual rap
sheet of mediocre options. Thanks to a friend at the Detroit field office,
she had managed to five finger an Aurora that had made the long circuit
from confiscation to rehabilitation to reuse from a local drug duke. ("A
drug lord would have a Cadillac or Lincoln. Only a drug prince or a drug
duke would drive an Olds," her friend had offered with the delivery of a
Heehaw veteran.) The eight cylinders had performed quite admirably on the
I-94 drive from Detroit to Jackson, a sunny, crisp, autumn day combining
with dry pavement to elicit the reappearance of Scully's need for speed. As
she parked the blue metallic beauty and left its gray leather seats, Scully
rededicated herself to the proposition that Mulder would not become
conversant with this vehicle's driver's eye view--he could luxuriate in the
pilot's seat of the next Taurus the Bureau saw fit to grant them.

They knocked at Bridget Gustafson's door, Scully presenting her
identification when the woman answered.

"Ms. Gustafson," Scully began, "we'd like to get some information from you
regarding your experience Friday."

"No problem," the blonde answered, "though I'm a little surprised this has
become a federal matter."

"This case is very serious, with implications far beyond your single
experience," Mulder observed. "You may know that ten other dental
assistants in this area have had a similar experience."

"Yes. After I made out the report I mentioned what happened to a friend.
The next thing I knew, I was hearing all about it. You know, I wondered
that whole night. I mean, nitrous oxide does tend to affect your memory. A
lot of people imagine things happening--that's why reputable dentists never
use it without an assistant to serve as a witness that nothing unseemly
occurred. I just thought for a while that maybe I had dreamed it."

"Are you in the habit of inhaling nitrous oxide when you work alone, Ms.
Gustafson?" Scully asked.

"I am not," she answered firmly. "I've worked hard to be as good as I am,
and I'm not about to risk my entire career for a little after hours fun at
the office."

"But you thought you might have been dreaming. Why?"

"Because when I awoke, there was no evidence that I'd been. . .well,
abused. Nothing."

"What made you change your mind?" Mulder asked. "The angel?"

"Yes. I found the fabric angel cut-out taped over my heart when I woke up.
I certainly didn't make it while I was gassed. And then there was the
noise. Everything was dreamy, yet so persistent, but there was the noise."

"What noise?" Scully asked. "The ringing, the aural vibrations from the
analgesia?"

Bridget nodded. "Yes, the ringing was there. But there was another noise. I
kept hearing a clicking sound, and then another after it. It's hard to
describe, kind of a mechanical. . . grinding. It was so artificial it had
to be real. Not an expected result of the gas."

Mulder took a microcassette recorder from his pocket and held it out. "Was
it like this?" he asked, pressing the "play" switch.

Bridget Gustafson listened intently for a few moments, then nodded, staring
at Mulder, then Scully. "Yes. That's exactly what it sounded like. What is
that?"

Mulder frowned. "We're not sure. But it was recorded at another site last
year. Where the same thing happened. Once we find out, we'll see what good
it is. Thank you for your time, Ms. Gustafson." Mulder replaced the
recorder in his pocket and nodded to Scully. She stood and followed him to
the door.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Scully said. She left, walking leisurely to
where Mulder was trying to endure the cold wind stoically as he stood
outside the locked car. Scully activated the remote entry after a suitable
hesitation.

Inside the car, the motor running, Scully put out her hand. Mulder placed
the recorder in it and pressed "play." Scully said nothing, listening. "All
right, Mulder, where did it come from and what is it? And what angel were
you talking about?"

"The tape came from Albany, New York, last year. A dental assistant named
Julie Camarda was dictating notes to herself when her gassing occurred. The
recorder stayed on." He placed the machine back into his coat pocket. "It's
the automatic advance of a camera."

"And the angel?"

Mulder handed her a picture of an angel. It was actually more like a
Valentine's Day Cupid, the kind of red cardboard cut-out people tape to
their windows or walls for the holiday.

Scully would have sighed loudly in frustration, had she not been Scully.
"Pictures. And a Cupid. So what we seem to have is an individual using
nitrous oxide to sedate female dental workers, some at their offices, some
at their homes. The victims are semi-conscious for periods of up to four
hours. They agree that they glimpsed their assailant only when under the
influence of the gas, and cannot provide any useful identification. It
appears that this person picks up and moves to a new state each year to
find new victims. The events are the same in each case: surreptitious
sedation, transportation to a nearby chair, continual movement of their
persons during the sedation, sexual assault, culminating with full recovery
of faculties. And this person takes pictures.

"Mulder, while we've definitely got a disturbed person or persons
committing crimes across state borders, there does not appear to be any
evidence of paranormal activity here. It seems to be a straightforward--if
pretty weird--case that ought to be handled through normal Bureau channels.
What are we doing with this?"

"It's been on my desk since I came across it last year," Mulder noted
softly. "I had begun to wonder if I could rely on the red flags I'd
installed. Thirteen per year, every year, always in one general area, but
before we've always been well behind the event. Now we're here, in the
middle of it. Or more correctly, just prior to the end.

"Scully," Mulder said, turned sideways in the seat, animated. "Can you
imagine the logistics for only one or possibly two people? Access to the
facilities or homes. Knowledge of the procedures necessary to overcome the
victims--we're not talking about a rag soaked in chloroform, here. It's
been a subtle use of a fair amount of relatively difficult to obtain gas.
The victims describe their overpowering as a gradual succumbing to gas
being breathed from the air, not from a concentration delivered by mask.
And there's the precise taking of thirteen victims per cycle, no more, no
fewer. The constant risk of discovery, yet never being discovered, never
even being interrupted.

"I've run the computers ragged on similarities among the first twelve
sites. Names, birth dates, employers, licenses, supplier companies, you
can't name an angle I didn't take. None of it works out. Doing all this and
not getting caught, not leaving a clue, it's not normal."

"So that makes it paranormal?"

"No, that makes it abnormal. It's the angels that make the difference. Each
year, thirteen women are attacked and probably photographed. The first
twelve wake up with angels, or cupids. The last one is found with a similar
red card cut-out image--one with two forehead horns, forked tail and cloven
hooves, a satanic image. Perhaps the thirteenth is photographed; I don't
know. But I am certain that the thirteenth is sexually assaulted, because
all of them die in childbirth precisely 270 days after that assault, as do
the babies." He handed her a fax. "That came in from Washington while you
were checking in with the local cops. Apparently it was left out of the our
files.

"Whatever is at work here, it's well beyond normal," Mulder insisted. "Even
if it isn't legitimately satanic, it certainly acts like it is."

Scully nodded. "And eleven down with only one more before it happens
again," she said.

Two days later 1831 Pine Street

Chrissie Holloway tossed her jacket on the couch as she closed the door
behind her. She was tired, worn out, really, after an exhausting day at the
office. The day had been scheduled well enough, but one could never
schedule for the unexpected emergencies, and Doctor Harris never turned
away a patient in pain. After two unforeseen crowns and a really nasty
broken tooth at 6:00, Chrissie was ready to just kick back and vegetate
with the television and a book tonight. She frowned at the jacket, then
picked it up and hung it in the closet. She couldn't abide clutter.

She popped a sandwich into the microwave, and pulled out the latest Stephen
Hunter novel. Her friends thought she had pretty weird literary taste
because she read, enjoyed, and dared to actually tell people about books
like Dirty White Boys, and Black Light, but she didn't give a rat's rear
end what they thought. Sprawled out on the couch, book in one hand,
sandwich nearby and the latest Drew Carey on the tube, Chrissie could feel
the tension draining from her muscles. Maybe her TMJ would take the night
off as well.

Eventually finding herself beginning to doze off, Chrissie decided to
shower and hit the sack. Clean and rested, she'd be able to face anybody's
damaged mouth tomorrow. She went into the bathroom and slowly, almost
exotically, stripped off her clothes. She gauged her appearance in the full
length mirror, smiling. She was not a fanatic about her body, but knew that
problems acknowledged immediately were easiest to solve, so she critically
examined and gladly acknowledged that she was in pretty fine shape. Her
small breasts capped a torso that narrowed at the waist in almost precisely
the same relation it had when she was a college gymnast not all that many
years before. Her muscle tone was firm, she noted, especially happy to
confirm that the rear view was as hard as the front.

She stifled a yawn and stepped into the shower, the warm water massaging
her body and bringing forth another smile. She soaped up, rinsed for a long
time, then lathered her short, black hair. Another yawn pushed forth, this
one a long, languid event. She shook her head to clear it, but lost her
balance, stumbling against the door of the stall. This was not good,
falling around in a bathtub with all of the nice, body-unfriendly porcelain
and metal fixtures. Time to exit, stage right, she thought, and turned off
the water.

Chrissie hesitated a moment to catch her balance, the water dripping from
her nude body. She slid the door open a little, her nipples crinkling at
the cold air. She stopped yet again. This stumbling was becoming
irritating. She lifted one leg over the edge of the tub, then turned to
lift the other when she lost all balance.

She fell into the arms of the waiting figure. Her momentary relief at not
toppling backwards onto the floor was chased by her realization that
someone was in her house, in her bathroom, and that person's arms were
wrapped tightly around her naked body. She did not even have time to open
her mouth when a hand pressed a rubber mask over her nose and mouth. She
struggled, but knew from the outset that it was useless as she was already
dazed and her assailant was quite professional--she could not open her
mouth to scream or try to shake off the mask because the hand tightly
pressed it against her while also gripping her chin from below. She was
helpless and knocked out almost immediately.

He carried her wet body into the bedroom, using a towel to partially dry
her. He set her on the bed, a pillow under her, and removed the backpack
holding the twin cylinders of oxygen and nitrous oxide, placing it at the
top of the bed, careful not to tangle the hose which led to the mask on her
face. He intended to move quickly, for he was approaching Number Thirteen,
and his excitement was getting difficult to contain.

Chrissie shifted her legs slowly and a moan escaped her mouth as he
massaged her crotch, his rubber gloved hand coated with k-y jelly to hurry
the event. He slipped a finger past her lips, searching for and moving into
her vagina, thrusting cock-like deeply into her body. He slid in and out,
making sure to slip across her clit, feeling her body jump with helpless
excitement to his touch. In her gas-induced arousal Chrissie begged him to
take her, so he did.

On his knees between her legs, he guided his sheathed penis into her,
barely hesitating at the entrance to her pussy. He filled her with his
thick cock, the pleasure striking both of them immediately. This delight
wrapped his penis in hot, tingling electricity. This one was the best of
all!

He thrust again and again, wanting to possess her totally, yet wanting the
pleasure to last forever. He pulled his gas mask from his face, revealing a
rubber hood that covered all but his eyes, nostrils and mouth. He leaned
forward, taking one of her nipples into his mouth and sucking greedily,
thirstily. Both nipples were erect, crinkled with the unconscious pleasure
she was receiving, so he alternated, one nipple to the next, sucking,
tonguing.

Her breathing came in deep, harsh intakes, the force putting strain on the
valve of the gas cylinders, but still it pumped the drug-filled air into
her lungs. In her delirium she cried out when the orgasm hit her, a deep
groan accompanied by her arms suddenly gripping his body to her, scratching
at the suit that protected him.

The force of her orgasm gripped his cock and wrenched his own pleasure from
deep within him. He spasmodically shot his cum into her, the liquid barely
contained by the expanding condom, the heat and force of the orgasm like no
other he had ever known. He collapsed onto her, his lips kissing her throat
uncontrollably, licking and drinking the sweat from her body.

Sometime later, Chrissie drifted up that long and winding road to
semi-consciousness. A long time recreational visitor to the land of
laughing gas, her body did not mind the leisurely pace of her voyage. She
heard her name persistently called, though, and her instincts overruled the
most relaxed manner in which her lungs deeply pulled what had been heavily
dosed nitrous oxide-oxygen in through her nose. She was consciously
disappointed that her breathing was lessening the gas's effect rather than
deepening it.

"What?" she finally whispered groggily.

"Chrissie, I need you to remember," a muffled voice came back. "You must
remember."

"Remember what?" she complained, her eyes opening and staring into a
painfully bright light. She made out a figure at the edge of the light, a
shape enclosed in a long, black coat or cloak, the head fully covered by a
hood and mask.

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise," she said plaintively, still breathing deeply through her
nose, her body hoping that the nitrous would be returned.

"I'm leaving an envelope for Dana. Be sure she gets it, but only her. No
one else is to see it. Or I shall be most unhappy."

"Package for Dana. Only her." Chrissie was awakening now, her eyes
straining to make out the figure. She tried to sit up, looked around. She
saw a portable nitrous system on wheels next to the couch, the hoses
leading behind her. She clearly saw the blue and green cylinders. And she
saw the cameras on their tripods quite vividly. Her eyes widened and then a
hand covered her mouth and the gas was increased again and just a couple of
involuntary breathes through the nasal inhaler led her to deeper, more
willing breaths. The warmth and swaddling effect the drug brought was so
pleasant, so enjoyable. . .

Restaurant d'Iago

The restaurant was thinly patronized on a weekday afternoon. Downtown
Jackson did not appear to be economically thriving under this
Administration--and Scully doubted that it had been for some time. On the
other hand, people who work normal hours eat at normal times, so perhaps
that was more the reason for the lack of patronage at 2:00 in the
afternoon.

The blackhaired woman standing at her table holding a large manila envelope
looked quite nervous, quite unsafe, in this most public, safe, place. "Are
you Agent Scully?" she asked.

"Yes. Please join me. How can I help you?"

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

". . .and he was quite specific that I should give this to you only. That
no one else should know about it."

Scully gazed at the envelope on the table before her. "Did you tell
anyone?"

"No. Not a soul."

"And you didn't even report the incident to the police?"

"Aren't you the police?"

"Touch." Scully reached out and pulled the envelope over. It was bulky,
and the seal appeared to be unbroken. It was addressed Special Agent Dana
Scully, FBI. She looked up at Chrissie again. The woman was obviously
afraid, skittish as a gerbil at Richard Simmons' house. Scully drained her
coffee and took the envelope. "You'll be fine, Ms. Holloway. This person is
finished with you. You have nothing more to be worried about."

She stood, touched Chrissie's shoulder, and left the restaurant at a
leisurely pace, though her heart was racing so fast Scully was very happy
that she'd parked close. Once in the car she opened the envelope.
"Pictures." She took out a thick bundle of photographs, each named,
numbered and dated. There were thirteen for each of the twelve preceding
years, but only eleven prints and one blank sheet bearing neatly printed
script: IOU Number 12, Chrissie Holloway. This mountain of potential
evidence scared Scully. It indicated a total lack of fear in the
perpetrator.

There was also an envelope addressed to her. She opened it and read the
letter contained within, starting Dear Agent Scully. . .

"And now we move on to Number 13," Scully murmured. She glanced at her
watch. There wasn't much time.

Gentle Dental Associates, PC

Scully didn't need to break into the office. She used the key she'd
finessed from the owners by flashing equal parts reassuring smile and
badge. Notwithstanding the news media and the self-inflicted wounds of the
Branch Davidian and Centennial Park fiascoes, lots of people in the
heartland still held enough respect for the FBI that an enterprising agent
could get what she needed.

Two hours early for the meeting, Scully hoped she had been surreptitious
enough to enter the office without being spotted. The alarm was off, as
she'd instructed. The lights were also off, and she left them that way. She
took out her Smith & Wesson 1076 (some thought it was a little bulky for
her hands, but she didn't mind--and she liked the action) and slowly,
quietly moved down the hallway, checking each room as she advanced. In the
main operatory, she adjusted the wall controls to the analgesia machine and
found a corner in which to hide and wait for whatever would happen.

An hour later, one hour before the scheduled meeting, it began.

After considering everything they had on this person, Scully had come to
respect his abilities, but she was still surprised by how silently he
moved. Had it not been for the air movement through the operatory when the
office front door was opened, she would not have known he was in the
building. She molded her body into its corner. She wordlessly mouthed a
prayer that there was only one person, and that she was up to it. And she
waited.

There was no sound to indicate any further movement and with the door
closed, there was also no air motion to betray his coming. Scully felt a
line of sweat forming along her forehead. She came to the conclusion that a
single meet might have been a really, really bad idea on her part. She
hated to rely solely on speed and her gun, but it was beginning to look
like nothing else would get her out of this. . . He had demanded the
meeting, had stated that he would start killing instead of photographing if
there was no meeting. Like Mulder, Scully believed that he had already
killed at least one woman per year over the thirteen years. But he promised
many, many more and it was her considered opinion that he would do it.

Her weapon, twelve Glaser rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber,
was all the comfort she had at the moment.

Cold air brushed her face again. The only noise Scully was making was
tightly controlled breathing, breathing she had first learned in front of a
candle flame. No one could hear breathing that didn't make a flame flicker
at two inches. But how much noise was her heart making, pounding its way to
the outside of her chest as it was doing right now?

She resisted the temptation to move, to look into the hallway, to change
hiding places, whatever. Movement would be suicide. She listened, willing
her ear drums to convey some sound to her brain, some noise that didn't
belong, anything. Nothing came for the longest time, but then a subliminal
ringing began to echo throughout her head. First it was barely at the inner
ear; then it danced to the front of her eyes; then it filled her head,
ringing, echoing, echoing, ringing. She caught her eyes closing and willed
herself awake. As soon as she phrased the thought, she knew the answer.

She was being gassed.

As she had stood in the corner of the darkened room, weapon in hand and
ready, all body senses on alert, he had known she was there, he had put
something in the ventilation; somehow he had overcome her without even
touching her. Her legs were weak and useless and she started to settle
towards the floor, her eyes fluttering and her mind refusing to accept,
still sending out orders to unresponsive body parts until at last she was
seated in the corner of the floor, her pistol loose in her hand at her
side, her entire body tingling with the gas. Now she knew what had happened
to the others.

He reached down and as he effortlessly lifted her Scully could feel the
texture of the leather coat and the rubber hooded gas mask, smell their
strong odors. She looked into his face, but there was nothing to see but
the snout and nozzle and tinted lenses of the mask.

". . .thirteen. . ." she managed to whisper.

"Number thirteen," he acknowledged, placing a soft cloth over her nose and
mouth and holding it there, the harsh odor of chloroform her last
experience as she passed into complete unconsciousness.

So now here she was, lying on the dental recliner, semi-conscious. She kept
her eyes closed, listening, and she heard what she expected to hear, though
with an echoing effect from the gas. It was the sound of a camera shutter
and the whirring of its automatic film advance. She heard the creak of
leather as her captor moved around the chair. She heard the rasping intake
of air as he continued to breathe through the mask that still covered his
face.

Scully felt the warm pressure of a nasal inhaler strapped against her face,
smelled the intoxicating odor of the nitrous oxide she breathed. Her body
had a fuzzy, semi-attached feel to it. She also felt the elastic pressure
of rubber straps that bound her to the chair. This was something none of
the other women had mentioned. In fact, they had told about being moved and
repositioned numerous times, probably for new camera angles. Scully's
picture was definitely being taken, but she was not being moved.

She sensed a decrease in the nitrous mixture. He was letting her come out
of it slightly. He wanted to talk. . . . Fine, let's talk a while, Scully
thought, and while we're at it, where's my gun?

"Dana," the man said, "Dana, wake up. Time to wake up and smell the
coffee."

Scully opened her eyes slightly.

"That's right, Agent Scully. Wake up. We have lots of work to do. Well,
it's not going to be work for me, exactly. And it doesn't have to be work
for you."

"Is work a new synonym for rape?" Scully asked.

The man pulled off his mask. He was actually somewhat attractive, Scully
thought, if you like a Hitler youth motif. Classically Nordic, with blonde
hair, short cut, blue, twinkling eyes, and a healthy, robust complexion
that indicated regular exercise. And a forehead that seemed to show. .
.horns? Scully would have gladly crossed herself just like an old Catholic,
one of the superstitious wrinkled women she'd seen at Novenas as a child,
but the rubber restraints prevented that simple plea for Divine assistance.

"Dana, my angel. You and I do not need to have such a word pass between us.
This is all for the best, you know. Just a matter of doing what our Nature
requires of us. Surely you can understand that?" His voice was syrupy,
cloying, searching for acceptance.

She found herself staring into his eyes, liking what she saw just long
enough to be horrified. "Why?" she said at last. "Who are you?"

"You may call me your Dark Angel. As you are my angel, so I am your Dark
Angel. As to why, well. . ." he laughed softly. "Because you are special.
Because I have fulfilled the necessary adorations for thirteen years.
Because it is preordained and very necessary for my Infernal Father's
Return in Glory." He smiled and shrugged. "Because at the moment you are
the logical thing to `do.'

"In short, because you are here."

He dropped his coat, revealing a costume of stunningly and medievally
erotic construction. It appeared to be hardened leather and latex, molded
into the shape of the body beneath it, shiny brown or black depending upon
the light. He was shaped into an avatar of male sexuality, a compelling
codpiece protecting his groin. He turned a circle, presenting himself for
her, preening. He unbuckled the codpiece and freed his penis, huge,
tumescent and dripping.

"What do you think, my Angel?" he asked.

"Very little." Scully answered with as much sarcasm as she could find.

"Well, Angel Dana, your position is not proper for our deed and I must move
you with or without your cooperation." He reached over and increased the
gas flow. "Not until you're properly sedated, however. Then I'll untie you
and we'll begin our time--oh, I shall try to increase its duration for your
sake, but still--our too short a time together."

Scully breathed as shallow as possible, and that through her mouth.

He laughed. "You don't really think that will work, do you?" He held out a
two-and-a-half inch red ballgag with chin strap. Scully's mouth immediately
clamped shut, but a moment of breathing through her nose reminded her that
this was not an option. She turned her head and tried to breathe softly
through her barely open lips. The man she knew only as Dark Angel placed
the ball firmly against her lips and then squeezed sharply against her jaw.
The grinding pain forced her mouth open, and he pressed the gag into it,
strapping it in place around her head and finally under her chin.

"Unless you can breathe through your ears, I would suggest giving in," he
noted.

Scully knew further resistance to the gas was useless. She had come close
enough to full consciousness, though, to realize that her backup plan of
cutting off the gas supply at the wall had not worked. Turning, she saw
that her assailant was using a portable gas machine, with its blue and
green cylinders independent of the main nitrous supply.

The ballgag filled her mouth with the taste of rubber; the nasal mask
filled her nose with the smell of rubber and nitrous. Her eyes, still able
to focus, were presented with this horned, blonde-headed vision encased in
black rubber and leather, even to the sheath that covered his balls and the
shaft of his cock. Only the head of his penis showed, enlarged by the
constriction of the latex tube and glistening with his lubricant.

As the ringing in her ears increased and the warmth of disconnection
embraced her body, Scully realized that in another circumstance she would
be extremely aroused. Kinky, she thought.

Her head lolled to one side as she fell asleep.

Dark Angel smiled a smile of pure joy. He had been amused by her attempt to
outthink him by disconnecting the wall-mounted gas machine. Try as she
might to escape him, to stop him, to apprehend him, she had not come close.
His Infernal Father protected him so long as he did His bidding. And now
the time had come for the Thirteenth of the Thirteens, the one who would
not die in childbirth, and whose child would not die, but only bring Death.

He did not laugh aloud, but his smile increased in brilliance until its
glow filled the operatory with a soft yellow light. She would be his, and
although he would take her in Another's name, still the experience and the
woman would be his alone, as they had all been!

After a suitable wait for the gas to take its full effect, he reached
forward and released Scully's bonds, one strap at a time, until she lay on
the recliner, free but for the hoses of the nasal inhaler. He took a few
more pictures, then opened her jacket. He unbuttoned her blouse slowly,
savoring the moment. He had nothing to worry about--there was never any
time pressure with his procedures, and he enjoyed the details of the work.

Scully's bra was front hook. That's serendipitous, he noted as he freed her
small and pleasantly firm breasts. He removed the nitrous mask and quickly
leaned her forward, pulling the coat, blouse and bra free from her arms and
placing them on the floor. She started to stir a little--the biggest
problem with nitrous oxide was its quick purge from the system. He laid her
back and replaced the mask over her nose, tightening the hoses for a firm
face mold.

Her shoes were next, and then her skirt. A zip and a tug and it was gone.
Then came the ever-present panty hose and finally the simple midnight blue
satin panties. He stood back again and admired the temple he would soon
claim.

She slept like the angel she was, like the baby she would soon bear for his
Despised Father. Her hair was red, so he recognized her as a daughter of
Lilith. The hair defied description as it caught and bent and returned
light in such manner as to deny a complete categorizing of the colors. Her
green eyes were hidden beneath sleepy lids, but he'd seen them enough to
love the way the green flashed and glimmered. Her body was youthful, but
not young; mature but not old. It lay at the height of its agility, catlike
in its slender muscularity. Her breasts were firm, the nipples brown and
semi-erect. He parted her legs slightly to gaze upon the trimmed red bush
that protected her virtue. Such a silly word, and soon very inappropriate!

The man who called himself the Dark Angel, well aware of his Master's
needs, prepared Scully for her experience. A combination of the required
position and the limitations of the nasal inhaler and its hoses led him to
remove the rubber nosepiece. He placed a full face anesthesia mask over her
nose and mouth (a large one, since he did not desire to remove the gag) and
strapped it in place. Detaching the gas hoses from their nasal connector,
he reattached them to the front of the new mask. The switchover was done
with an economy of effort that came from practice. With the hoses freed
from the back of the recliner, he could now move Scully into the necessary
stance.

He lifted her from the chair with ease and moved her to the floor. He
placed a firm, trapezoidally shaped pillow under her, resting her stomach
upon it. Her rested her head on its side on another firm pillow and checked
to see that the mask was still firmly strapped and delivering its gentle
sleepiness.

Standing back, he admired his work and her body. He spread her legs apart a
bit more, and slid the pillow back so that her ass was slightly higher. His
hand then gently massaged her ass cheeks, running a finger up and down the
crack eventually coming to rest as her moistness. He fingered her slowly,
deeply, searching for the flood of lubrication he knew would be
forthcoming. When he found it, his fingers led it to the outer folds of her
vagina and back to her ass. He sniffed his fingers, felt his erection
become even larger, straining at its rubber sleeve.

"No time like the present," he said to an unheeding Scully.

He lowered the gas level again, as he wanted her to enjoy the event, but
left mask and gag in place. He rather liked the sight of her kneeling
before him, her gag and mask straps winding about her head, the rest of her
naked and open to him. A few pictures later he knelt between her legs and
took his penis in his hand. Preparing to enter her from behind, his cock
dripped lubricant from its naked head, its veins showing through the rubber
sheath.

"Stop right there. FBI!" a voice roared through the room.

The dark man was on his feet instantly. Another man stood in the doorway,

"Back into the corner and stay there!" the other shouted, gesturing with
his pistol.

"You must be the partner. Mulder. If you drop that silly gun and leave
right now, I'll forget your trespass," the would be rapist offered. "I can
be magnanimous, you know."

"If you get back in the corner right now, I won't forget a damned thing.
But I won't kill you," Mulder responded.

"Idiot!" he said as he took a step towards the FBI agent. "You can't kill
me. I am protected by my Father Below. . ." As he said this he started to
step again so Mulder fired two rounds from the .40 caliber Smith & Wesson
into his chest. When the Dark Angel took another step, seemingly unbothered
by the slugs, Mulder sent the next eleven rounds into his head and
throat--practice gave good results.

The Dark Angel staggered, screeching, clutching at his head.

At the last shot, he vanished in a burst of light, leaving behind only a
faint but distinctly unpleasant odor of sulfur.

Mulder took in the scene quickly. He reloaded and holstered his weapon and
went to Scully. He quickly removed the mask and unbuckled the ballgag,
taking it out of her mouth and setting it aside. Scully's eyes opened, then
closed and a moan issued from her throat. Mulder picked her up and placed
her on the chair. Not finding any cover, he draped his coat over her and
shook her a little.

"Scully, it's me. Mulder. Wake up. Are you all right?" He asked all of the
inane questions he could think of, but Scully only regained her faculties
in her body's own good time. Breathing air rather than nitrous made things
move along with dispatch. When the cotton was finally plucked from her
brain, she looked up and recognized Mulder standing over her.

"Mulder, is it you?"

"It's me, Scully."

"Where's the bad guy?"

"Good question. He's gone, but where. . .I don't know."

"You let him get away?"

"Only if you consider shooting him thirteen times letting him get away. He
just disappeared in a flash of light," Mulder said, grimacing. "So he got
the drop on you after all."

"And you followed me where I didn't want you to follow," Scully replied.

"Good thing I did."

"Yes. Thanks, Mulder."

"I guess we struggling agents have a lot to learn."

Scully looked down at herself, realizing she was naked underneath Mulder's
coat.

Mulder reddened a little. "Sorry. Your clothes are by the chair. I'll step
out so you can get dressed." He started to leave, stopped and looked at
her. "Did he. . .did he hurt you, Scully?"

She smiled. "No, Mulder. He tried, but you stopped him."

"Good."

"Mulder, are you angry with me?"

His look became puzzled and he returned back to the chair. "No. Why do you
ask.?"

She rested her hand on his hip. "Then why are you leaving?" She flipped his
coat onto the floor and slid a leg around him, and pulled him to her.

"Scully, we can't. The gas, it's still. . .working on you. And. . ."

"Forget the gas. Unless you want me to use it on you later?" Scully said
with as wicked a grin as Mulder had ever seen.

Then she whispered, "Just follow the doctor's orders, Mulder."

Scully's arms reached up to pull him down. Mulder let his inner smile find
its way out. Their lips clung to each other and Mulder refused to think at
all, and they found themselves on in the other.

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JANET IN SLUMBERLAND

by morpheus

Janet Sanders opened the front door of her car and stepped inside, placing
her purse and briefcase on the passenger seat. As she closed the door, a
small motor engaged and pulled the shoulder strap snugly into place across
her lovely, full bosom. As always, she felt a tingling sensation traveling
the length of her spine and a more familiar thrill from her hardening
nipples as the strap pressed against her. A thought occurred to her --- not
for the first time --- that this was something like bondage. She had never
played any b&d games, but she had often wondered how such an ordinary thing
as a seat belt could cause such intense, albeit momentary, pleasure. She
supposed it had something to do with compression --- a feeling of
comfortable but unyielding restraint --- and more than a little something
to do with applied friction. She hoped to try it sometime in bed.

Janet was about to turn the key in the ignition when her eyes were drawn to
a rectangle of bright red on the dashboard in front of her. DON'T FORGET
THE LAP BELT, it said. The dealer had put it there himself. At first, Janet
couldn't see the point of having it...until she found herself forgetting to
use the belt almost every time she drove anywhere. Smiling to herself, she
drew the belt across her lap and slid the metal catch into the slot. As the
catch clicked audibly into place, a strange hissing sound began inside the
air conditioning vents. She looked up and was caught full in the face as
the vents emitted streams of thick vapor at her. Instantly, her eyes
watered; as the mist played over her, she felt first lightheaded and then
strangely sleepy. Blinded by her tears and the billowing cloud filling the
compartment, she fumbled frantically for the lap belt release, but she was
no longer in control of her body. She wanted to wipe the tears away, but
she couldn't raise her arms...and it seemed her thoughts were becoming
increasingly soft and fuzzy, almost as though her head was being filled
with cotton. The gas had no odor that she could detect, but each indrawn
breath had a substantial effect on her, draining her strength and will. Her
head lolled from side to side, finally coming to rest on her right shoulder
as she sank helplessly into a deep, peaceful sleep.

There was another audible click inside the car, and suddenly the nozzles
spraying the anesthetic tear gas at Janet shut off. A dark van pulled into
Janet's driveway and parked next to her car, completely blocking the view
from the street. The van's sliding door opened and out stepped a man
wearing grey coveralls, a gimme cap, and a black gas mask. He opened
Janet's door, the shoulder strap obediently sliding aside for him as he
reached in to cut the lap belt. It had been rigged to lock permanently upon
being fastened, just as it had been rigged to activate the gas nozzles. The
man turned Janet by lifting her ankles and pulling them out of the car.
Then he leaned towards her, pulled her to him by her wrists, and lifted her
onto his shoulder. The man seemed slight, but he had no problem carrying
Janet's voluptuous, sleeping body to the van. He deposited her gently on a
mattress in the back, careful not to cause any discomfort or injury, then
removed his gas mask. From a large sports bag on the floor he pulled a
sponge-lined foam mask and a dark glass bottle. With practiced ease, he
twisted off the cap and tilted the bottle, soaking the sponge lining with a
clear fluid, then capped the bottle quickly so as not to breathe the fumes
issuing forth. With great care, he pressed the mask to Janet's face and
drew the elastic band over her head to hold it there. That ether will keep
her sleeping comfortably for a while, he thought to himself, a smile
spreading on his face as he enjoyed the sight of the lovely lady. There was
no need to tie or gag her with the sleep-mask in place, so he simply made
her comfortable. Returning briefly to her car, he grabbed her keys, purse,
and briefcase, then closed the door; the gas had already dissipated enough
that he hadn't needed his gas mask. He put the purse and briefcase inside
the van and pulled the sliding door closed, then locked it with the press
of a button on his keyring. He proceeded up the steps to the front door of
Janet's house and used her key to get in. He went directly to her bedroom,
located her suitcase in a closet, and packed it with every item of skimpy
clothing he could find: bras, panties, lingerie, even a garter belt or two.
Janet was a big girl and somewhat shy about displaying her body, so the man
found nothing in the way of swimwear or spandex, but he wasn't the least
bit disappointed. Now that he had her, she would wear what *he* liked.

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By Rick

It was your typical sleep-over. A whole room full of teenage girls,
watching movies, talking about the guys they like at school, homework,
being happy it's the weekend, munching on junk food, pillow fights...again,
your typical sleep-over.

Experimenting was the flavor of the night that night....on many levels. A
few of the girls tried new foods, which was nothing terribly exciting. Bu
tthen, things got a little more interesting. A few others - there were 15
girls at the sleep-over - decided to get a little daring. Darla had always
had an inkling of a feeling for Sherry, but nothing was ever said nor was
anything initiated. However, it was during a small game of "Truth or Dare"
that things were brought out into the open. On a dare, Darla had to kiss
Sherry. The two, naturally aprehensive, decided to do so and get it over
with. But when they kissed, something sparked between them, and it lasted
quite a bit longer than they expected. Everyone thought it was kinda neat,
especially Darla and Sherry. Well, as is with some teenage girls, they all
tried this. And some of them found that they enjoyed this sensation. The
ones who didn't sat back and watched, enjoying the show.

There was one 15-year-old, Michelle, who didn't really get in on this
little "experiment." She was also someone who hung around with the wrong
crowd, and the others, though they liked her a lot, thought she was kinda
strange. Michelle thought to herself, "Well...if they can have fun, so can
I." Her idea of fun wasn't quite the same as the other girls.

Some of the people she hung around with were drug dealers. She never did
any of it - it wasn't her "thang" - but she knew these people could get
their hands on pretty much anything they wanted. She told one of them about
the sleep-over...and decided to see if they could get anything on the lines
of an anesthetic. Michelle had a fascination with putting people to sleep
like this since she was a child. She watched "Wonder Woman" almost
religiously, and scenes with women being rendered unconscious always had an
effect on her. When she started hanging around with the dealers, she always
asked if they could get their hands on anesthetics. They really had no
problem getting the stuff for her, but never asked why she wanted it,
thinking maybe she was hooked on them. Such was the case...but not quite
the way they thought.

Her friend managed to get her quite a few things for the sleep-over.
Sleeping drugs, spray-cans filled with sleeping gas, etc. They also managed
to find a container of a special drug being manufactured for the hospitals,
as a replacement to the normal anesthetics used during operations. This
drug was many times more potent than usual, so only a little needed to be
used during medical procedures. Michelle's eyes lit up when she saw the
container. She paid her friend...in the only way she knew how.

Later on during the sleep-over, around bedtime, the girls changed into
their nightclothes. Some wore lingerie, just to feel older and sexy, some
just wore their bra and panties. Darla slept in the nude...and Sherry
decided to do the same, much to Darla's delight. Michelle went into the
bathroom, taking her bag filled with "goodies", and began to prepare. The
bathroom she went into was adjacent to her mother's room, apart from the
rest of the girls. She emerged in a black spandex bodysuit. For a
16-year-old, she was very well-endowed. She snuck downstairs, where her
mother was watching television. Taking a can of sleep gas from the bag, she
crawled over to the couch where her mother sat, and began spraying the gas.
It was candy-sweet. Her mother smelled the scent, and got up to see where
it was coming from. But the fumes had already done their work, and within
seconds, Michelle's mother had collapsed on the floor, unconscious. She
smiled at the sight of her mother's body falling to the floor, and the
sound it made. At that moment, she became very aroused, and was already up
the stairs to the unsuspecting guests.

Outside the bedroom, Michelle waited. Two of the girls had gone to the
bathroom to freshen up. They both wore silky camisoles. As they came out of
the bathroom, Michelle sprang up, spraying the girls with the gas. Both
girls gasped, deeply inhaling the fumes. The first one, like Michelle's
mother, instantly collapsed to the floor. The other tried to fight the gas'
effects, but soon surrendered to the anesthetic, and slid down the
doorframe, knocked out. Michelle smiled, as she dragged their limp bodies
to her mother's room, laying them on the bed. A pitcher of cola sat on the
table just inside the bedroom where the other girls were staying. She
dumped an entire vial of sleeping drug into the pitcher...and waited. Six
of the girls drank the drugged pop. Soon, moans were heard, and the sounds
of falling bodies hitting the floor. She looked back in the room, as the
last two sank into oblivion. At this time, Michelle was in orgasmic heaven,
cumming many times over as she saw the girls on the floor. As with the
others, she dragged their bodies to her mother's room, laying them on the
bed. "Six more to go," Michelle thought.

One young girl wandered her way through the hallway and inadvertently found
Michelle's mother's room. She walked in, and saw the girls laying on the
bed unconscious. By the time she could turn around, Michelle was upon her,
covering her mouth and nose with a cloth that had been soaked in the
anesthetic used in the gas. Michelle could feel the young girl's ass rub
against her sex, causing her to orgasm. The drug took its toll on the
youngster, sending her to the floor in a drugged sleep.

By this time, the other girls had wondered where their friends had gone.
There were far too many of them missing to consider this a practical joke.
Darla and Sherry were too wrapped up in each other to bother trying to help
the others find their friends, and they stayed in the room, making out on
the bed. The other three went out to find the others. One wore a satin gown
over her bra and panties. The other two wore teddies. As they made their
way down the hall, they began to feel dizzy. Michelle had hidden in a
darkened part of the hall, and was spraying the gas into the hallway. The
one wearing the robe was the first to succumb to the gas, her body making a
loud thump as it hit the floor. The other two followed suit, giving slight
moans as they too collapsed onto the floor, knocked out cold. They were
gathered up and put in her mother's room, along with the others. "Now," she
thought. "Darla and Sherry..."

Darla was on top of Sherry, caressing her naked body sensuously, kissing
Sherry's lips , when a candy-like fragrance filled the room. They both got
up to see where it was coming from. They both saw Michelle in her bodysuit
standing in the doorway spraying the gas. Darla let out a soft sigh as her
naked body crumpled onto the floor. Sherry tried to hold her breath, but
could not, having already inhaled the gas. Sherry fell to the floor, her
breasts jiggling as she landed. Michelle had already cum many times over
again, simply watching the two collapse.

14 girls lay on Michelle's mother's bed. She took pictures of them all in
their drug-induced slumber. She then took them all back into the bedroom
and laid them on the floor and the bed, so that when they woke up, they
would think they were simply tired from all the excitement.

Having done that, Michelle went into her mother's room, and sprayed herself
in the face with the gas......she orgasmed many times, as the floor came up
to meet her....

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