The Protege

The Protege

SPOILERS: Zero Sum

RATING: R

SUMMARY: The Cigarette Smoking Man (CGB Spender) has to teach his new protege a lesson.

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television

program "The X-Files" are the tiontions and property of Chris

Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have

been used without permission. No copyright infringement is

intended.

FEEDBACK: please send to m_a_r_i_t_a_c@yahoo.fr

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The Protege

Every time I see her I am reminded of a high-priced whore who

has grossly overestimated her worth in the marketplace. It is not a

particularly genteel tht, ht, but I have never made a claim of

gentility. That she is now considered a part of the Consortium is an

insult to those of us who have earned our positions here through

effort, ingenuity and well-executed covert operations. This

obscene trollop has gained access to one of the most rarefied

circles in the world by keeping her legs open and her mouth shut;

her only reliable skill is her ability to take direction.

Now that she has been accepted within our organization, it is left

to me to mentor the b. It. It is a task I find distasteful in the

extreme. If there were some way I could pass her off to Mr

Skinner, I would not hesitate. However, I suspect that even he

would balk at the task. And being the paragon of virtue that he is,

Mr Skinner has been quite clear about drawing the line at murder.

Regrettable as this one inconsequential extermination would afford

him countless freedoms.

I am compelled to report that the blond hair is not genuine and is

as artificial as her nails and her pompous lisping accent. Where

ever she sits, in the car, in the library, in the dining hall, she leaves

a trail of brittle, black-ended strands that, coated with countless

layers of hair spray, stick to whatever surface is available. It is

disgusting. Twice now, I have found my gorge rising at evidence

she preceded me for a meal.

Moreover - that she is singularly privileged to receive my tutelage

is utterly beyond her comprehension. If it is not insult enough that

I must mentor her, this rare honour is unhappily received. The

revulsion she has for me is matched only by my contempt for her.

Her ignorance of me - of who and what I am - is astounding and

she has erred in her critical assumptions about the scope and depth

of my influence. Stupidly, she ies ies herself my match and has

acted on her own volition against me. I have discovered through

covert sources that she has even attempted to undermine my

position, proffering her commonplace talent as her single

bargaining chip in exchange for freedom. I took great pleasure in

interrupting the transaction, but only after she had rendered her

services to one of my colleagues.

If nothing else, it taught her a lesson of obedience. Mercifully, I

found myself quite free of her for a week and when she returned,

she presented herself in a contrite, conciliatory fashion. We

worked together several times, she ever at my elbow observing,

learning as we proceeded with the small pox tests in South

Carolina. After making contact with Mr Skinner and realizing him

to be much closer to the truth than expected, she wasted no time

contacting me in a panic. I had something she wanted - advice,

reassurance. More importantly, I had the power to decide the

ultimate course of action.

And this is the key. My power appeals to her and she hates herself

for it. She finds it irresistible that I can whisper a few words in

someone's ear and have my will done. If I wish it, people die.

Governments fall. She wants that kind of power. Mine mesmerizes

her and she will do anything to get it. Once again, I am privy to the

price of another hapless soul. It delights me to know that I have

found her weakness for now I can prey upon it at my leisure.

Recently, I was unavoidably required to call on her late in the

evening and found her wrapped in white satin - truly one of the

most gruesome and ironic costumes I have seen her wear. She did

not appreciate my leer and her ego interpreted it as the carnal

interest of a needy older man. When she approached, she crossed

her arms to hide her fulsome breasts. The sudden modesty made

me sneer.

"You have nothing I have not already dined on." I blew smoke in

her face, taking my time with the words. "You have my assurances

you cannot possibly interest me. My tastes are too refined." Like

all women, the most provocative words are those of rejection and

distaste, and like all women, she had no desire for me until I

dismissed her as undesirable. Her face betrayed a pinched frown of

hurt pride and surprise. It is quite possible she thought me beyond

having sexual desires.

Upon further consideration, I realized I had an excellent

opportunity to exploit my position with her. Certainly well-thought

of as a woman of varying morality, she could be of ser to to me.

It was possible, in fact, for me to provide her an illusion of having

power and in exchange, I would have the entertainment of

watching another marionette dance to my slightest whims. Even
ter,ter, it served a dual purpose - for her; unavoidable humiliation

and for me; a trifling yet mildly pleasant diversion.

Our first assignation was in the dining hall. It has long been an

observation of mine that, after a meal, colleagues sit back in their

chairs and sigh deeply. It is a peculiar habit; one that I find

amusing and telling. It is as if they have positioned themselves for

sex in recline. The more I noticed it, the more I fantasized about

the possibility but never had an opportunity to experiment. That is,

until now.

We entered together, she leading in a tight low-cut sheath that

revealed to all who cared to look even cursorily, that she wore no

underclothing. It is cliche, I know, but I requested it more for

appearances than my personal gratification. She does have the eye

of several of the others in the Consortium and I am not above

enjoying the moments when they look at me with unbridled

jealously. Indeed, I have often reminded thhat hat there is very

little fair in this world, not even within the Consortium. Yet I

always manage to exact my unfair share. It is a secret victory I

guard vigorously.

We were seated at my usual quiet table by one of the windows.

The hall was half full with patrons with others continuing to arrive

in twos and threes. The ivory and dark green table cloths dipped

almost to the floor and center pieces of fresh flowers dotted the

room with muted colour. Fine bone china and heavy filigreed

silver settings lay beneath fans of white linen tucked in crystal

goblets.

We were served promptly and ate in relative silence; she less

heartily than I. In fact, I inquired after her appetite, remarking on

how she seemed to pick at her food. She seemed unsettled and

resentful of the question.

After dessert, I ordered coffee and she did likewise. When the cups

were poured, I stirred in the cream with slow deliberate turns.

Under my unwavering stare, she likewise creamed her coffee but

stirred with a nervous jangle. Patiently, I waited for her to finish.

"Drop your spoon." I said to her, once she had clattered the silver

to the saucer.

She looked startled and glanced over her shoulder at the room now

almost full of patrons. When she turned again to face me, she was

pale.

"Drop your spoon." I repeated, removing the napkin from my lap

and tucking the fabric under the saucer. With a well-studied sigh, I

slowly sat back exactly as I had seen my colleagues do so many

times before. Once again, I waited.

She set the spoon to her right and very discretely swept her hand

against the silver. The spoon dropped with a muted thump.

Gradually, she stooped in her chair and finally knelt on her hands

and knees, disappearing from view. I surveyed the room. No one

had noticed. The music played. Silver clattered against fine bone

china.

Earlier, I had informed her of my expectations deliberately using

vile, agressive langage. I spoke calmly, almost serenely, and

clarified my demands in detail that no one could misunderstand.

Quite expectedly, I watched the blueness of her eyes fade in

revulsion as she began to fully comprehend my orders.

Now, without a signal from me to halt, she proceeded as I had

instructed. I heard the rustle of the taffeta indicating she had

disappeared under the table. The sound inspired anticipation and

unexpectedly quickly, I felt my loins begin to pool with blood. I

uncrossed my legs and rested my thighs against the arms of the

chair. Placing a finger in the ashtray, I drew the crystal skimming

forward over the smooth table cloth.

She began at my knees slowly working her fingers in a circular

motion towards my groin. I leaned back in my chair slightly and

removed the matches from the ashtray. Casually, I turned it over

and read the inscription on the coat of arms and took a moment to

exercise my Latin for the translation. The words were tired and

trite. It did not really matter; other things garnered my attention -

namely an erection pressing against well-rehearsed but uninspired

hands. She stroked downwards several times before I began to

squeeze my knees against her, providing her an impetus to

continue. Quite deliberately, she brushed against my penis in an

effort to undo my zipper.

Casually, I opened the lapel of my jacket and removed a package

of cigarettes. From the far door, a colleague waved to me. I

returned the salutation and he went on to join three others already

seated and waiting for him.

She held my penis in her hands and I could feel her breath along

the shaft as she leaned forward to gently kiss the tip. She lingered,

delicately touching her tongue to me in moist deft motions.

I placed the cigarette in my mouth, slowly turning the filter in my

tongue to moisten it. A grain of tobacco fell to my lips and I

pinched it away as I set the cigarette to my mouth. Reaching for

the match book, I flipped open the cover and bent a middle match

before my focus once again turned inward.

Her mouth was around me, her teeth slightly grating against the

shaft, forcing a brief shiver across my shoulders. Gradually, she

increased the pressure of her tongue and began a strong tight pull

that ended only to pull again. I fought to concentrate beyond the

carnal effects of the repetition and escalating tension.

I tore off the match and noticed a slight tremor in my hand -

evidence of the final intense moments before my release. The

power of her mouth was fierce. Willing my actions, I struck the

light with a single hard stroke. The sulfur ignited and was

consumed by a growing flame. Her tongue wrapped around the end

of my penis, then she surrounded me once more with a warm wet

mouth. I cupped the tip of the cigarette, touched the flame to the

tobacco and inhaled deeply. She drew against me one last time.

My orgasm occurred a moment later and lasted until I deposited

the spent match in the ashtray. In languid satisfaction, I closed my

eyes and let the smoke seep out of me. There was a motion

between my legs and I caught her with my knees before she could

flee.

"Put it back," I said quietly but loud enough that she could hear.

After tucking me in, she redid the zipper and only then did I

release her. When she returned to her seat, I viewed her overly

made-up face with a critical eye and noticed there were traces of

me around her mouth.

"Wipe your chin," I said, sitting back and crossing my legs. I drew

another long breath on my cigarette as I watched her mutely obey

me. As I have noted earlier, her single genuine talent is her ability

to take direction.

FINIS