By Sergeeva [November 2001]

Rating: NC-17, slash

Pairing: Skinner/Doggett (my first, yay!)

Disclaimer: Not mine. CC's, 1013's, Fox's, Mitch's & Robert's (bless you, Mitch and Robert). ...and of course, Mistress Xanthe is totally her own woman!

Summary: Xanthe and I thought it was about time there was a place where our "best boy" Walter would be properly looked after and adored, and who better than stalwart, sensible, caring Doggett to help that happen.

XXX~ This is really a belated birthday story for the wondrous Xanthe, who has written more and better appreciation for Walter than anyone I know. Long may you do so, pet! ~XXX

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FBI Headquarters,

AD Skinner's office, 8pm

The big man leafed through the case file one more time. Re-read the witness reports and his Agents' reports, spread the small bunch of photographs across his desk blotter and re-examined his own reaction to it all. It wasn't such a strange case, not really... he'd overseen many more disturbing cases in his years supervising the X Files department, he was at a loss to understand why this particular case seemed to have such a grip on his thoughts.

Two members of the exclusive, private, "Good Boys Club" in Georgetown had reported suspected use of dangerous drugs at the elegant townhouse that was the Club's headquarters. That would have put the case firmly in the purview of the DEA, but then one of the men claimed that the club was running nothing less than a slavery racket, so that got the Bureau involved. The first Agents assigned had gone in with an attitude, upset the club management and members and consequently got nowhere with the investigation. Skinner had been diplomatic, apologised all round and reassigned the two incompetent Agents. By that stage the case was several weeks old and Kersh was on his back about performance figures and clearance rates. John Doggett was just back from a few days leave and there were no new X Files, so he'd assigned Doggett to wrap the matter up. His own desk was fairly clear that morning (despite Kersh's accusations) so on a whim he'd accompanied Doggett.

The owner of the club had shown them round herself, thanking Skinner for his tact compared to the previous Agents' hamfistedness. She wanted an end to this unpleasant matter, she said, and appreciated that there had to be an investigation. The men who had reported her to the authorities were no longer members of the club. They'd "been unable to enter fully into the spirit of our activities here" she'd told Skinner and Doggett, and she suspected that their resentment at being asked to leave had prompted a malicious reaction. There was really nothing illegal or sinister taking place, she assured them, and they were welcome to see for themselves what services the club provided to consenting adults.

Mistress Xanthe ran a discreet and orderly establishment for men only. Men who's tastes ran towards a BDSM lifestyle. She'd been completely open with the FBI men about what went on behind the sober oak-panelled walls of the Good Boys Club. Skinner and Doggett had been shown room after room of beautifully appointed furnishings, all a mix of traditional gentleman's club and something out of a high-budget Hollywood vision of a dungeon. Polished oak bondage frames and spanking benches, oiled leather manacles and restraints, racks of floggers, whips and canes, cabinets and drawers full of objects that Skinner could only guess the purpose of... Until Mistress Xanthe allowed them to observe "a scene" as she called it, with the permission of the participants.

Sitting in luxurious velvet armchairs, Doggett and he watched as one man handcuffed another to a bed and proceeded to "play" (the term Mistress Xanthe used to describe it) with the naked, spread-eagled man for over an hour. The submissive's nipples were adorned with tiny silver clamps, connected by a chain to a leather harness that lifted and bound the man's penis and testicles. A fat polished dildo was inserted into the bound man's ass and then his Master flogged him, gently at first, then with increasing intensity, swapping soft suede cats for heavier leather, then rubber, whips, until the slave's body glowed and glistened.

Skinner sat transfixed, ashamed and embarrassed by his profound reaction to the scenario. Beside him, John Doggett seemed perfectly relaxed, leaning back in his chair, ankles crossed, while Skinner sat tense and uncomfortable. He was fascinated by the responses of the submissive man... his gasps and moans were full of pleasure and arousal, he arched against his restraints in sensual abandon. And his tormentor spoke to him continually in stern, loving tones, taking charge in the most basic way. Skinner found himself getting hot and bothered in a most unprofessional way.

Afterwards, he left most of the questions to Doggett, concentrating on gathering his scattered wits as the other man efficiently wound up the investigation. The "dangerous drugs" were simply aromatherapy capsules and massage oils used to enhance sensitivity and mood for the members' games. The slavery was entirely consensual - sane, adult man indulging a lifestyle choice. Statements were taken from Mistress Xanthe and from several club members, photographic evidence was obtained, case notes checked. Only the routine paperwork remained, so they'd headed back to HQ. But Skinner couldn't get the experience out of his head. Images kept coming back to haunt him at the most inopportune moments. In the midst of Kersh's weekly briefing he'd found himself speculating how a padded ottoman in the DD's office would make an ideal spanking bench. Burying himself in budgets and requisitions had kept his wayward thoughts occupied until late afternoon, then Doggett had come up to hand in his report and go over the case.

It was all in perfect order. Unlike Mulder's imaginatively worded and creatively phrased reports, John Doggett had a soothing crispness to his writing style. No wasted words, no unfounded speculation, no wild unsubstantiated theories. All was clear, thorough, intelligent and efficient. Doggett gave the stranger aspects of the case due attention and measured consideration but he didn't strain after the exotic answer, just the facts. Skinner found his already considerable regard for the other Agent warmed by a sense of relief. He wouldn't have to endure more of Alvin Kersh's sneering criticism over this case. It was solved, closed, over.

So why was he still here, four hours later, the open file still in front of him?

He let words leap out of the printed pages to confront him: "discipline scenarios", "submissive roles", "consenting to bondage", "coercion only within agreed limits", "safeguards", "safe words", "safe... safe... safe..." His eyes flicked over the photographs - men pleasuring each other, the Slaves as much as the Masters, men finding something they clearly needed. Was it something he needed too? Skinner shivered at the idea, it was both scary and exciting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Doggett exited the elevator on the fourth floor and wondered if he was making a fool of himself. Something about Skinner's manner earlier in the day had caught his attention and made him think that maybe the AD wasn't quite as neutral about this particular case as he'd appeared. Of course, Doggett had learned, with Walter Skinner there was always more going on under the surface than met the eye.

Over the months he'd been working under Skinner's supervision, he'd gotten pretty good at reading the Assistant Director's expressions and picking up all the things he said in between the things he said aloud... The man provided a wealth of signs and clues to someone who paid attention, and John Doggett had come to enjoy paying attention to Walter Skinner. He enjoyed the big man's company, they worked well together, Skinner was an excellent boss - responsible, realistic, dedicated, intelligent. He'd been surprised at first by the older man's openness to the unusual and put it down to over-exposure to Mulder and his outré propositions. However, even in matters completely unrelated to the paranormal, the AD had shown himself to be flexible in his thinking, respectful of other's ideas. That counted for a lot with John Doggett.

He'd grown to respect Skinner in return and to view with increasing disgust the way his superior was treated by many in the Bureau, including Kersh, his own boss. Skinner ran the largest, most demanding division of the Bureau with faultless professionalism. He worked incredible hours and got through massive amounts of work, but lately it seemed that his every decision was queried, his actions double-checked, his judgement called into question, as if he was a probationer or a rookie agent, instead of a high-ranking, experienced officer. The politics in the Bureau was worse than anything Doggett had encountered in the Corps or in the NYPD, and he'd had enough of seeing Skinner disregarded, sidelined, ignored and undervalued. He made a point of acknowledging the man's rank and experience in his meetings with Skinner and to others. The other man's authority was earned and well deserved.

Doggett had been all the more surprised that morning when his senior Agent had more or less handed over the investigation to him, allowing him to direct the questioning of Mistress Xanthe and her staff. He'd noticed Skinner's unease during the "scene" of course, and hoped he hadn't misinterpreted it. He'd maintained a patient silence that afternoon as Skinner read his report and praised his work, not failing to pick up the strain still in the man's voice and posture. He was sure now that he knew the reason for that tension and it was that understanding and concern that brought him up to Skinner's office level now.

Just as he turned the corner from the bank of elevators, he saw the AD come striding out of his office, heading for the stairwell. The hail on his lips died as he saw the other man's distracted state and instead he set off in pursuit, keeping a discreet distance.

Skinner was walking fast, long legs eating up the flights of stairs down to the parking level, big hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, no coat, no briefcase. Before he slammed into his car and pulled away, Doggett got a glimpse of a tight jaw. Following in his own car, he was relieved to see that Skinner's driving was not erratic - that was Skinner all over, he thought, no matter what stress he was under: control, control, control.

As he'd expected, the drive led them back to the Good Boys Club. Skinner parked and leapt out of his car, then seemed to lose his purpose. Staring up at the tall building with its shaded windows and unmarked door, the big man seemed fraught with indecision. Doggett could see his jaw working, then his head swinging away from the place that both drew him and frightened him. Finally, he watched with a curious pride and affection as the other man gathered his considerable courage and climbed the steps to the heavy door. Quietly, he got out of his own car and walked up behind Skinner, just as the door was opened by a uniformed manservant.

"Gentlemen?" said the man, politely, and Skinner, suddenly realising he was not alone, whirled round, his face a picture of guilt. Seeing Doggett, he flung a wild glance back at the street, as if expecting to see a full Bureau investigation team descending on them. He worked dry lips:

"Whaa…?" Doggett put a calming hand on Skinner’s shoulder:

"Just me, Walter." He thought it was the first time he’d called Skinner by his first name. It felt like a kind of Rubicon to him – a deliberate setting aside of their work roles for something very different. "Now come on, don’t keep the man waiting." Just a hint of an order. Walter’s jaw sagged even further, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement. Doggett could feel the battle of need and nerves going on inside the AD as an almost palpable vibration. Seeing Skinner lost for words, he stepped around him and took over: after all, that was why he'd come.

"I wonder if we could see Mistress Xanthe? We met with her earlier today, though we are here now in relation to another matter." No need to flash badges or make demands. He looked the manservant steadily in the eyes, hoping to dispel anything threatening about their unannounced visit, yet at the same time convey the importance of their mission. Yes, that was what it was - a mission to rescue Walter Skinner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Xanthe was in her dressing room, choosing a costume for the evening when the quiet knock came on her door. At her word, James her butler entered. She let him wait while she continued her leisurely scan of the enormous closet, fingering silks and velvets, looking for that perfect look for tonight. Drawing out a purple silk robe for closer inspection, she spoke over her shoulder:

"What is it James? Did I hear the bell? Unexpected guests, I think, yes?"

"Yes, Mistress. Two gentlemen asking to see you. They are the... law enforcement officers... who were here this morning, Mistress." The ever so slight emphasis on "enforcement" did not go unnoticed by the lady of the house, nor did the appreciative gleam in James' eye. She wagged a finger at him,

"You greedy boy, James! Now which of the gentlemen is it who lights your fire, I wonder? Never mind, they're not for you tonight. And not entirely unexpected either. Show them into the Red Room, I'll be there shortly. And send my apologies to Jack and Gunther in the Blue Room, they'll have to play on their own tonight."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No, the purple silk is not right for tonight after all... too casual, too feminine. Ah, this is more like it! I draw the dark costume out of the closet. It's been a while since I wore this, but it has happy memories. Tonight is going to be very important for the two men downstairs and every detail must be as right as I can make it. The fine dark fabric is almost severe, but the bias cut of the floor-length skirt is romantic and together with the black leather bodice gives a look of a Regency riding habit, very dashing and evocative. With its long sleeves and high collar it's too warm for active play, but perfect for instructing. More importantly for me, it's wonderfully comfortable. The close lacing of the bodice holds me firmly without the need for corset or boning, and the silk lining of the skirt swishes pleasingly round my legs as I move... It's so important for all the players to be attuned to their senses, including me. There - perfect. My new pupils await me.

I wasn't lying when I told James they weren't unexpected. I'm well accustomed to recognising men who might be suited to our world here at the Good Boys Club. The very specific services we offer here appeal to many men who would run a mile from a more conventional homosexual encounter, but equally, sometimes taking charge of or handing over control to another man is a way to re-examine their sexuality and find a peace that the rest of their lives can't give them. The Assistant Director now, there's a man who badly needs to learn to let go. I knew it as soon as I saw him. His body language is all about passion restrained. Clearly he feels deeply but I imagine in his work he has to be constantly controlled, circumspect. And if he has no-one outside of work to open up to...

The other is harder to analyse... He's done some commanding in his time, and has the focus and ability to be very good at it, but in the context of work, he defers to the Assistant Director. Genuinely, willingly. And he cares about his boss, I saw that very clearly. He paid attention as much to him as to the players, this morning. He's thought about reaching out to the AD, but hasn't done it yet. Maybe here, maybe tonight in my Red Room...

The Red Room is my own favourite - the first playroom I designed and fitted out. It's not as large as some of the salons, but the rich colour on the walls gives it an intimacy and warmth good for focussing the emotions of ingenues. I've decided that's what these two are. Not totally ignorant of these things, but both untried. My part tonight will be to guide them together, show them how to find release: the one who needs to let go and the one who longs to help him do that. There are only a few toys in the Red Room - none of the more complex playthings because it's vital not to scare novices, who always think they can take more than they can at first. I will have James bring us refreshment and plenty of fresh linens, I think we may need the whole night this time.

Before I open the door to the Red Room, I pause to centre myself and focus on what awaits me. Now I enter. The older, bigger man is standing nervously next to the day bed, looking as if he wants to bolt. His companion is very close to him, wants to reach out, I think, but thinks it might spook his friend. Two pairs of remarkable eyes flick in my direction as I enter. Cool blue and warm brown, both reassured by my relatively modest appearance. I saw the reaction that red latex body suit provoked this morning. No doubt they were expecting Miss Whiplash tonight, poor boys! All right, let's begin.

"John and Walter, if I'm not mistaken? Good. You're very welcome here." John steps forward, pushing Walter with him. Both men thrust out a hand to me. Two very different handshakes. John's firm and brief, Walter's huge paw gripping a little too hard until he realises and hastily slackens that iron grip, aware of his strength. Walter looks distressed, consumed with diffidence and uncertainty. John has to nudge his arm before he lets go of my hand apologetically and my smile eases the tension a little and brings a tiny lifting of his lips in response. He looks sidelong at John, who smiles also. Oh they're so near, these two, so very near...

I won't make them tell me why they're here, we all know why. Instead, I start talking in a light conversational tone.

"Do you know what this is called the Good Boys Club? You saw the sort of thing that we do here - to many people it would look like punishment, even torture. Who would willingly submit to that, who would deserve it, surely only very bad boys?" John still has that faint smile on his lips and Walter's mouth is open, he's hanging on my every word. "That's what most people never understand... there are no punishments here, only rewards, gifts, shared pleasures. And only very good boys deserve such things: attention, patience, understanding, love."

John's moved even closer to Walter now, watching him closely, nodding in agreement.

"Good boys try hard all the time. They work hard, they think of others, they take responsibility."

Walter eyes are crinkling up, they look hot with unshed tears. John's arm snakes around Walter's waist, not quite hugging, not exactly holding him up, just letting him feel someone is there. I think these two men know each other quite well, but only on a professional level. There is mutual respect and mutual attraction, though they may hardly be aware of that yet themselves. John has already worked out what Walter needs, I think, but Walter has no idea that his innermost longings have been recognised.

"Good boys look after everyone else. They grow up fast, they learn to be sensible and they put their own needs aside. They never complain, they don't admit when they need something, they won't let others in, they have to be strong all the time..."

John's other arm wraps around Walter from behind. Now the big man is held tight. John's steady blue gaze locks with mine over Walter's shoulder and Walter's eyes slowly close.

"But good boys don't have to do that alone, Walter. Good boys need good friends they can trust." John is saying something next to Walter's ear, too low for me to hear. "Because sometimes it's hard, isn’t it - to carry it all? Sometimes you'd just love to have someone else take a turn. Sometimes you long to let go, don't you, Walter?" I can see John's arms tightening and realise that Walter is shaking. Something deep is unravelling inside him now, thank goodness John is holding on, his solid strength holding firm.

"Good boys are the most worthy of love, of attention and here is where good boys can find that. Here someone else can be in charge, make the decisions, do the looking after." Walter's mouth opens in a heartfelt cry but no sound emerges. John holds him as the big shoulders heave silently. Now John is hesitant, wanting to do more, worried that Walter is going to break into pieces. I stand close to them, one hand on John's back the other on his hands where they hold tight to Walter's suit coat. I change the tone of my voice. Before I was talking to Walter, trying to reach into his poor confused head, now I'm talking to John.

"That's right, John, just keep holding him. He feels you there, he trusts you. Let's get him to the bed, shall we, sit him down." Together, we walk Walter to the bed and John pushes him gently down onto it, sitting beside him, arms still holding tight. I kneel in front where I can see both their faces. John looks pale, his lean, chiselled face softened with worry and tenderness. Walter is gasping, sobs that he can't give voice to, eyes still closed to the truths that he isn't quite ready to meet yet.

"Take his coat off, and his tie, make him comfortable." Reluctantly, John loosens his grasp on Walter and, as carefully as a father with a sick child, starts to undress Walter. Like a child Walter allows it. His eyes open when he feels John's fingers at the knot of his tie and he looks at me in confusion. I lift the big hands from his lap and shake them to get his attention. His eyes focus as if from far off, then fix on me intently.

"No, Walter, it's John who is taking care of you now. I'm just here to guide. John knows what you need. You trust John." Those big beautiful eyes search my face then shift across to the man beside us. John stills his fingers and looks back at Walter. I have to hold my breath, there's so much happening in this moment between them. Then Walter nods, and John pulls him in close and hugs him hard. "Talk to him, John, show him you understand." I free Walter's hand and drop down to start taking off their shoes and socks. I'm here to facilitate and I'll do anything from taking over when a whip-arm tires to towelling off sweaty bodies, whatever it takes to preserve the place they're in, the spell they're under.

"I know you're strong, Walter. No one's stronger. You've given all that strength to the job, everythin', almost your whole life. Will you give somethin' to me now? Will you give me what's inside you: the anger and pain and guilt? Let it out and let me in? Will you?"

He's slighter than Walter but John is making himself big and broad and solid as he speaks, gripping Walter's arms, looking intently into the other man's eyes, an equal not a Master. It's very beautiful - they could be two gladiators saying their farewells before battle, all very manly and noble - but I'm not sure it's what Walter truly needs.

"You need to take charge, John. Take the anger and pain, don't ask for it. Walter hasn't the energy to volunteer anything on his own, he needs you to reach in and unlock it for him. Try moving him, handling him, give him some directions."

John just nods, his eyes staying with Walter. Then firmly he pushes the big man down flat on his back on the bed and starts stroking his face.

"It's no good lockin' it all up inside there, Walter. I can still see it. I can see how it weighs you down. Well I'm takin' it now, you don't have a choice." His hand moves from Walter's face to his chest, landing firmly to emphasise each word, almost slaps. It seems to be working - Walter looks a little shocked but less desperate. "You're gonna give it up to me, cos you're mine now, all of you is mine." Walter's shirt is unbuttoned now and John's hand kneads possessively at the glorious muscles. "Stay still now, I'll tell you when you can move."

I knew I was right - this boy is a born Master, firm and caring. John's steady words keep coming and his hand works open Walter's belt and pants. "Okay, now roll." He shoves Walter over onto his belly and strips the shirt off his back. "Good boy... such a good boy, Walter, ...doin' so well..." Leaning close, he smoothes down the broad tanned back, hesitating when he realises Walter still has his pants on. I catch his eye and step up to make myself useful, pulling the open pants down and off. My appreciative eye meets John's over long strong legs and white briefs snugly stretched over the firmest, curviest bottom I've ever seen.

"You're nearly there now, I think, John. I'll bring you what you need."

While I'm fetching the soft leather flogger, John quickly peels out of his own shirt, revealing a tight compact body in a white undershirt. He stretches out alongside Walter on the bed, hooking one leg over Walter's, one arm across his back. It brings their faces close together.

"Now baby, you're gonna let it all out," John whispers. "I'll show you how to feel the hurt and the anger, really feel it, but this time you're not hangin' on to it, I'm takin' it away. Understand?" His forehead is against Walter's. "I'm gonna whip this sweet ass of yours and you can scream and holler all you want and then that heavy weight will be gone." His hand pushes Walter's briefs down off his hips and I help them the rest of the way then put the flogger into his hand. He never breaks eye contact with Walter.

The whipping isn't going to be that serious. It's a psychological act as much as a physical one, this first time. I selected a particular implement with that in mind. The lash has 18 long leather strips but they're butter soft hide. Wielded with real force they could stripe and sting, but Walter doesn't need that. He's so deep in submission now he'll believe it's hurting even if it's not, just because John has told him so. The point is to give him a sensation to rage at, a rhythm to scream against, a safe scenario within which to release his anguish. It's almost symbolic this first yielding. I've been impressed with how skilfully John has handled this so far. Now I have to trust him to treat Walter right.

He starts with slow circles over Walter's back, just trailing the ends of the lash across the skin. He spends a long time over and around the enticing buttocks, using his fingers to touch and pinch lightly, as well as the flogger. I guess John Doggett is as taken with that lovely backside as I am. I foresee some delightful evenings of serious cathartic spanking.

"Feel that, Walter? It doesn't sting yet, but it will... the leather will bite but it's okay to yell. I want you to yell." In the position he's in he couldn't do more than caress with the flogger, but his words are what matter and Walter's breathing speeds up, until he gasps with every flick of the leather tails. John sits up now and slides off the bed to kneel alongside. Now he lets the lash fall with a little more force, criss-crossing Walter's back and buttocks in a steady rhythm.

"Think of all those times you went the extra mile and no one said thank you. Think of every time they made you justify your decisions or pulled you before some board of conduct." Now he puts a snap of the wrist into each stroke, giving an edge to the lashes, making the sleek skin heat up and redden. Walter's gasps have a deeper note now, a wordless groan.

"How many years did you fight your own bosses to protect Mulder and Scully? How many sneers did you suffer when you supported their findin's?" John stands up, stands over Walter's prostrate body and the strokes are coming thick and fast now, still not damaging but inescapable, relentless. A yell breaks forth, torn from the soul of this strong man, from layers of pain laid down over years and years.

"How often have you been passed over because you fought for them? There was hurt after hurt and it's way past time to shout about it now. You did your job, you never gave way, you were so strong..."

It's those past wounds that Walter's feeling now, the beat of the lash merely a way to focus, something physical to draw out what's been churning inside Walter's head.

"It hurt every time, didn't it, but you never showed how much. I know there was never time for the hurtin', for the healin', there was always another battle to be fought, but now I'm in charge and I'm gonna make time for it. You're gonna give it all up to me and then we can start the healin'."

Walter is sobbing now - not wet, teary sobs but raw shouts of outrage that he lifts his head to cry out. Maybe there will be actual tears, maybe not. There will be loving, for sure. My part is almost over.

"It's okay to feel sorry for yourself, Walter. I will never think less of you for that. It takes a very strong man, a very good boy, to face the hurt and let it go. Are you ready to let it go? I love you Walter - let me take the hurt away."

That's the coup de grace. A howl comes from Walter and he curls up on the bed as if in real physical agony. At once, John drops the flogger and climbs on the bed with him, gently prying open arms and legs until he can cuddle Walter close against his chest. He lifts up the smooth head and Walter's face looks as if he's gone six rounds with a heavyweight - red and raw and puffy - so he was crying. John brushes the back of his fingers down the blotchy cheek, leans in, and as easily as that they're kissing, and John is murmuring over and over "I love you, it's okay, I love you, you're safe now, it’s okay, I love you, I love you..."

I slip quietly out of the room. They can find their own way from here on.

THE END

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