Title: Workout Summary: Six different women get hot and bothered by watching their husbands workouts. Smuttiness ensues. Timeline/Spoilers/Explanation: This is part of a series of vaguely interconnected AU fanfics that Audrey_Jay and I collaborate on sometimes. Although Mulder and Scully are married in this, it shouldn't be confused with my regular "married" series (the ones where they got married in Las Vegas) that I write by myself. In this universe, nothing *bad* that happened after season one occurred. This is sort of a companion piece to a fanfic we wrote called "After the Party's Over", and takes place about six months later. I love watching my husband work out. Sean Pendrell plays tennis sometimes, but racquetball mostly. He's a surprisngly good racquetball player, came close to being nationally ranked during his college days; if he'd been a less dilgent student, he probably would have been, but academics always came first with him. As he's pointed out, it's a sport which is ideally suited to his body type, one which rewards speed and superb hand-to-eye coordination more than height, bulk or brute strength. I can watch him from above, looking down on his game from the catwalk around the courts. His opponent is a woman today, which surprises me. She's a good player, probably at least Sean's height, with a long reach, but she's simply no match for him. He wins both sets handily although he's drenched in sweat by the time he's finished. "Good game," he says, extending his hand to her. As far as I'm concerned, she grasps it just a little too long, but maybe I'm being paranoid. I'm in the seventh month of a much-desired pregnancy, but I sometimes have mood swings. "Thanks. You're an incredible player. I felt like I learned a lot going up against you," she replies. "Thanks. Anytime," Sean answers. Then, after removing his goggles, he takes it into his head to yank off his shirt. I practically start salivating, an almost Pavalovian response to my husband's near-nudity, and I notice that blondie down there is checking him out as he uses his shirt to wipe his face. "So, can I buy you a drink?" she asks. Okay, this has gone far enough. "Sean!" I holler, not sure yet if he's aware of my presence. "Hey, Missy!" he says, glancing up. He gives me his million-watt smile, the one he seems to bestow only on me. "You catch my game?" "Most of it," I reply. "Why don't you go take a quick shower, then we can go grab a bite to eat." "Sure thing, gorgeous," he answers. "Really nice playing with you," he says to the blonde, then walks out the door of the court. The blonde glances up at me and says, "You're his girlfriend?" "Wife," I reply teresely. From this angle, she can't see my obviously-pregnant form or our 19-month-old daughter, Kathleen, in the stroller beside me. When Sean comes bounding out of the men's locker room, he gives me and Kahtleen another million-watt smile. Then he drops a gentle kiss on my lips and wraps an arm around my shoulders. After we've eaten and gone home and gotten Kathleen bathed and put to bed, I wander into our bedroom. Sean's already there, stretched out on the bed with one of his science journals. I snuggle up to him and he immediately puts the journal aside, touching my face softly with his fingertips. "Missy? Is something the matter, babe?" "That woman you were playing racquetball with today; the blonde. Do you play against her often?" "No, that was the first time we've ever been matched up with each other, although I've seen her around the club before. Why?" "She's pretty." "Is she?" "Sean," I say with a scowl. I can't do the "look" as good as my sister can; she can stop Fox in his tracks with a single, withering glance. But I do all right with it. "Okay, okay," he says with a chuckle. "She's pretty. And, yes, being a normal man I wasn't completely unaware of that fact. But she's not anywhere near as beautiful as you are, Missy." Sean really does seem to think I'm some sort of. . .goddess. He tells me constantly how gorgeous and sexy he thinks I am. "Even when I'm. . .like this?" I ask, indicating my swollen belly. "Not 'even' when you're pregnant, Missy. *Especially* when you're pregnant. You absolutely glow." "Thank you," I murmur. "I guess I'm just being silly." "Missy, are you jealous?" "A little, maybe." "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted," he replies, looking confused. "There's no reason for you to be jealous, ever. I can't honestly tell you I never look at other women; I'm a man, we look. But I assure you that's as far as it would ever go. Even the kind of mild flirtation that some married men engage in with other women is out of my league. But I think you're misreading the entire situation, anyway. I sincerely doubt that woman would have been interested in me, even if I wasn't married." "You didn't see the way she was looking at you when you whipped off your shirt." "I knew you were up there. I was showing off for you." "Yeah, well, you ended up showing her, too." "Missy, *IF* I'm at all attractive to other women -- and I still think that's a mighty big if -- it's because of you. I've gained a lot of self-confidence over the past couple of years. Being married to a gorgeous woman will do that for a guy." It's true that Sean's self-confidence has improved dramatically since our marriage. He was so shy while we were dating that I thought I was going to have to propose to him for a while there. He's a couple of years younger than I am and his only really serious girlfriend prior to me dumped him in a nasty, vicious manner. He spent several years drowning himself in work before he even had the courage to attempt a new relationship. "You think I'm gorgeous, huh?" I ask, wiggling closer to him. "Mmmhmm," he says, nuzzling my ear. "And sexy?" I ask, moving my hand down his body. "Does that answer your question?" he inquires, guiding my hand to his erection. "You know what I think?" "What?" "That pretty soon I'm going to be under doctor's orders to take things easy and we'd better play while we can." He growls into my ear at that and we finish undressing each other slowly, taking time to touch and kiss as each article of clothing is removed. For the next hour or so, we only speaks in gasps and murmured whispers. Just when we're ready to go to sleep, the baby wakes up and begins practically turning somersaults. "Looks like we've got ourselves another active one," Sean murmurs, kissing my belly. "Go to sleep, baby," I murmur as I close my eyes. I love watching my husband work out. Compared to some of our friends, John Byers is not particularly athletic. He doesn't have Jimmy's brawn or Mulder's height. But he's agile and graceful and stronger than his middling height and slender frame would suggest. Johnny plays golf sometimes or rides bikes with me and the girls. But ice skating is his favorite form of exercise and he excels at it, twirling around the rink in an intricate combination of loops and glides. He comes here a couple of times a month, because the owner is a friend of his who's given him a key in return for Johnny listening to -- and occasionally even publishing -- the guy's conspiracy theories. Usually I stay home with the girls. They're too young to be left alone and would be cranky if we woke them up early to skate. But my mother's visiting this week and she said it was fine if I wanted to come along with my husband. I told her we might even go out for breakfast afterwards and she assured me she could handle getting Jill off to school and keeping Jackie occupied until I returned. The up tempo song he'd been skating to comes to an end and the CD player he's got blaring segues into a softer, more romantic ballad. "Dance with me, Suzanne," he invites, holding out his hand. I nod and reach out to entwine our fingers. I'm not really very good at this. Years of being married to Johnny have improved my skills somewhat, but I'll never be anywhere near his league. Even Jill is more graceful than I am when skating alone. But I'm not skating alone. I'm in my husband's arms and I feel, once again, the magic that always overtakes me during these moments. The first time we ever skated together, I felt myself transformed from a bookish, awkward college student into a princess from a fairy tale; with John Byers as my Prince Charming. It's still that way. We glide and twirl around the ice, Johnny occasionally murmuring suggestions to me, but mostly moving his body and trusting mine to respond. Which it does, in more ways than one. When the song is over I drag his mouth to mine for a deep, open-mouthed kiss. "We're going to melt the ice if you keep that up, sweetheart," he says softly when we come up for air. "I want to go home," I whisper. In case he has any doubts as to *why* I want to go home, I rub myself sensuously against his thigh, which just happens to be between my legs. "Your mother is there. And the girls." "We could tell them we need to take a shower." "We could check into a motel for a couple of hours." I tilt my head back and stare at him. This isn't the sort of suggestion he usually makes. Apparently misinterpreting my stare he says, "Sorry, Suzanne. We can go on home. Maybe your Mom and the girls will still be asleep." "John Fitzgerald Byers! You just offered me a couple of hours of hot, naked loving, uninterrupted by our kids, our parents or our colleagues. If you think I'm going to let you reneg on that deal, you're out of your mind! Even more so than you're commonly accepted to be!" He chuckles at that and pulls me close for another kiss. Somehow we manage to make it off the ice, into the car and down the road to a motel. Johnny checks us in and then hurries me into the room. We're naked almost before the door is completely closed. For the next several hours we practically devour each other. Johnny and I were both virgins when we married. According to current-day pop psychology, that's supposed to be a recipe for disaster, sexually speaking, but I haven't noticed it doing us any harm. I've gotten pregnant twice, so we've obviusly nailed the basics. As for more esoteric practices. . .we seem to have those down pretty good, too. Johnny's sexual appetite tends to ebb and flow more than that of most men. When he's involved with a project at work, spending long hours at the office, he'll often go two or three weeks without suggesting sex. If I request it, he'll meet my needs -- he's very generous that way -- but it's as if his mind is somewhere else than in our bedroom. On the other hand, when there's nothing to distract him, he'll turn his prodigious powers of concentraton and intensity toward pleasing me. It's become a private joke between us that I need a vacation to recover from our vacations, where making love twice a day for two weeks straight is not uncommon for us. Eventually Johnny, sounding regretful, murmurs, "Sweetheart, I really have to get to work. We're running the presses day after tomorrow, and I've got to finish my article today so Frohike and Langley can get it edited and do the layouts." "I know," I reply, dropping a light kiss on his lips. "And Mom is certainly wondering what's happened to me. She doesn't visit often and I was working yesterday; we'd planned on doing some shopping or sightseeing today." When we get home, my mother and Jackie are waiting for us. "Sorry we took so long," I say. "We went out for breakfast and spent a lot of time talking." As Johnny disappears upstairs to change and Jackie gets her shoes on, my mother turns to me with a small smile on her face. "You know, Suzanne, he's your husband I'm your mother. And you have two children, so I'm hardly unaware of the fact that you and Johnny have sex. You don't need to tell me that you were having 'breakfast' all this time." I love watching my husband work out. Of course, I don't know any heterosexual woman on the planet who *wouldn't* cream her panties looking at a shirtless, sweaty Jimmy Bond. He's got huge, bulging biceps, big, broad shoulders, a taunt, flat stomach long, strong legs and. . .lots of other yummy assets. Right now, he's baling hay on a farm belonging to a friend of his. The friend's back went out and he called Jimmy to help him out. Watching Jimmy toss around 80-pound bales of hay as if they were cotton balls is fueling certain almost-forgotten cowboy fantasies I had as a teenager. Sometimes I get embarrassed by the intensity of my desire for my husband. We didn't date for a particularly long time before we got engaged, but we knew each other for quite a while before we began dating. During all that time, Jimmy never made a secret of his desire for me, although he was never offensive or harassing about it. I fought my feelings for him for a long time. I didn't think we could be happy with each other on a long-term basis and I figured my desire was just that: physical lust. Once I finally admitted the truth to myself -- that I was in love with Jimmy -- it was like unleashing the floodgates. Ever since we got married, I have a hard time keeping my hands off of him. Jimmy teases me about it sometimes and I've found, amazingly, that I even like being teased by him. When Jimmy climbs up into the hayloft where I've been sitting and watching him he gives me a grin. "How about a roll in the hay, Yves?" "Okay." "Uh, baby, that was meant to be a joke." "Please, Jimmy?" Just in case he needs some persuading, I walk over and wind my arms around his neck. I rub up against him and stand on tiptoe for a kiss. Jimmy groans into my mouth murmurs my name. I can tell he's torn. Jimmy's actually kind of chivalrous and modest about the circumstances under which he expresses his desire for me. He'll tease me when we're alone, but he never brags in public. Right now his mind is probably telling him to back off and wait 'til we're somewhere more appropriate. His body, on the other hand, is responding exactly the way I want it to. And Jimmy at full mast is a damned impressive phenomenon. "Yves, I'm all sweaty," he points out. "I know," I agree, running my hands up and down his sweat-slick chest and swollen, pumped arm muscles. Finally, Jimmy grins and reaches for his belt buckle. He doesn't strip completely, just frees himself and then helps me remove my boots and jeans. He sits down on the nearest bale of hay and pulls me on top of him. Once, before we were married or had even started dating, Jimmy made a remark about being able to make love for "hours on end". At the time, I wrote it off as typical macho bragging. It's not. He can. Today, however, considering that we're in a semi-open space on someone else's property, we take things fast and furiously. After a few minutes of making love I whisper, "Jimmy, help me out here. I think I'm about to. . " "Yeah, I can tell. Doesn't feel like you need any help." "Not *that*. Well, yes, that. But I'm afraid I'm going to scream when I do." That's another think that I wrote off as fiction which has been proven to be fact within my marriage. I didn't have much pre-marital experience and I didn't usually climax and when I did I always maintained the stereotypical British reserve. With Jimmy, I *always* come --- sometimes more than once -- and you'd think I was Brazilian or something. I tend to scream as I climax. Jimmy wraps one arm around my waist and the other around my neck. Then he melds his mouth to mine and swirls his tongue against mine. I come, and I do scream, but it's muffled by his lips. He follows almost immediately. "I love you," I whisper as we descend from our mutual high. "I love you, too, baby. You took me by surprise today." "I'll take you anytime I can, Jimmy. I'd think you'd know that by now." I love watching my husband work out. We've got this exercise room set up in the basement, my yoga mats, his punching bag and weights. He's punching that thing right now with this stern look on his face that's just so cute. He's biting his tongue with it hanging out between his lips in concentration. I'm sitting halfway down the stairs, my usual staring spot. I'm going to need to find a new spot soon, maybe just sit down right in front of him and make my gawking much more obvious. I'm 6 months pregnant. I'm worried I'll need help to get up from my spot even today. This is a first, I think I'm stuck. Well, Monica, you got yourself into this, you're going to have to have John get you out of it. His muscular arms around me, lifting me up... "Monica." "Mon-i-ca. Earth to Mon!" "Huh?" "You were watching me again," he says as he wipes his fingers over my mouth, then on his shorts. "Is this drool for me? I'm flattered." "You're welcome." Nice answer. Think of something quick so he helps me up without finding out I *need* help. "Hug?" I give him a sweet smile and open my arms. "Aw, come 'ere." Now I hang on for dear life when he tries to pull away. "Clingy today, aren't we. Do I need to use some of those cling-free dryer sheets on you?" When I get done with him we'll have wet sheets. This is a horny pregnancy. Funny how this works, the horniness arrives after you're done needing it. "Mmmmm," I hum as I adhere my lips to his. Several minutes pass before he pants, "Stairs. Not. Comfortable. Bed. Ooof!" I guess I'll assist him in getting myself up. He may work out a lot, but we, baby and me, weight a lot. And I don't want him to hurt himself until we get where going and do what we're doing. In the hallway he looks around suspiciously, on guard. Worried about an audience, perhaps. Not that I'd mind showing off my man, but... "Luke's at school till 3. We've got a couple hours," I calm his fears. He's nervous about the birds and bees talk. I've checked out numerous library books for John to peruse to get his approval for use with our son, but something ends up wrong with them all. I've suggested winging it, but without some preparation and advice, I can see John stammering like a goof and his ears turning red and his voice getting higher and squeekier, just like it does every time Luke asks a question, which he's been doing quite often lately with the baby coming. "I'm still gonna lock our door. Don't wanna show and hafta tell." Such a man, yet such a shy guy. Bang! Bang! Bang! "Mommy! Daddy! Wake up! I'm home!" I wake up to some shuffling noise and someone yelling. We've got noisy neighbors. I roll over and look at the clock. 3:30. Good. Four more hours till morning. "Mommaaaay! Daddaaaay! I know you're in there!" Bang! Bang! Bang! The bed shifts. "Arrrrrrrrrgh." Silence. Then John gasps. "Oooh, no. Oooooo-ooooh no." "Hugggggh." I grumble and sit up. John is shaking his head like he's possessed but doen't say anything. "Luke's home. We overslept!" Immediately I wish I had a military-time clock. 3.30 pm, not am. Damn. Next the doorknob is shaking and I hear some scraping and rattling. "I can do it! See Daddy, I did it!" The door swings open wide to reveal a grinning eight-year-old with a pen's ink tube in his waving hands. John, you did this one yourself. You asked for it. You sow the seeds of lock-picking, you reap the open-door rewards. "Hi, sweetie. Wow, did Daddy teach you that? Daddy's a good teacher, isn't he?" Blond curls nod yes. The blond-with-hint-of-gray curls next to me are disappearing under the covers. "Luke, can you give Mommy and Daddy a few minutes? Go unpack your bag and we'll be downstairs in a moment." "Can I watch cartoons?" he pleads. "Yes, you can watch cartoons, but after your homework's done. Just five minutes and we'll get started, ok?" He's got that stern look on his face just like his father had earlier with the punching bag. Concentration. Thinking. Confusion. "Are you naked?" "Yes, I am." No use arguing that one. "Is Daddy naked too? Why?" "We were taking a nap. We just didn't put our jammies on." "Why?" "Because we were tired." "Why?" Why? He's not going to let this one go. "Luke, go unpack your bag and I'll be down in a minute. Shut the door please." "Why?" I give my Don't-mess-with-Mommy look and that's enough to get him bounding down the stairs. I move to shut the door that's still exposing his naked-but-hiding father to the hallway. "You can come out now, scaredy-cat." He shucks the covers and heaves a big sigh. This was a stressful event. Yeah. Like going after an armed and dangerous suspect in a dark alley. Only this suspect is armed with sex questions. "If we don't talk to him soon he's going to learn it elsewhere. We all got here that way, you know." "Yeah. That was close. You still got somma those books?" "Right here. He looks up to you, wants to be just like you. He loves when you teach him spy techniques. Obviously loves using them, too." "At least the lock kept him occupied a few extra minutes and gave us a warning. We were a little more prepared for his entrance." "Not so fast, buddy. *I* was prepared. You hid. " "Yeah, well, after this talk I'm treating myself to a deadbolt on that door." I love watching my husband work out. When I announced that I was marrying a 50-year-old man, a lot of my girlfriends thought that meant I'd be settling for a man who's mental and financial attributes far outweighed his physical ones. And even I have to admit that, from the neck up, the only movie star Walter Skiner is likely to be mistaken for is the guy who played Mel Cooley on the old "Dick Van Dyke" show. On the other hand, from the neck down he could easily be mistake for Arnold Schwarzenegger. He's got a *fabulous* body, much better than those of any of the men in their 20s or 30s I ever dated. He's quite tall, with huge shoulders, washboard flat abs and even his muscles have muscles. Of course, I didn't marry him for either his bank account or his body. I married him because, in the best tradition of the very corniest of old movies and Harlequin romances, I was a secretary who fell in love with her boss. I fell in love with both his strength -- not only of body, but of mind and heart -- and with his deep, albeit deeply hidden, streak of tenderness within. But, damn, his body is a nice bonus! We've set up a weight room in the garage. When I quit work to stay home with our baby, Michelle, I found that I missed seeing him all day long. He could hardly quit his job, but he did agree to give up his gym club membership so that he could come straight home after work. Now he's lifting weights while I, having put Michelle to bed, have tiptoed in to watch. "Hey, Kimby," he says, grinning when he spots me. "Want me to set the weights for you to use?" I'm fairly fit myself, although I tend to exercise more in aerobics classes and by taking long walks and bicycle rides, rather than with weights. "No thanks," I murmur. "I'll just watch." He goes to another weight bench and begins using both the arm and leg apparatus at the same time. He's clad in nothing but a pair of gym shorts and looks absolutely yummy. The "look but don't touch" rule I was trying to force myself to abide by suddenly seems silly. I walk over and straddle him, settling my weight firmly on the one part of his anatomy that's covered. "Want me to quit working out so we can play?" he asks. "You can continue your work out," I reply. "Don't let me bother you." "You're not bothering me," he answers. "You're arousing me." "Yeah, I noticed." His erections are as jumbo-sized as the rest of him is. And I'm sitting directly on the evidence. He gives me a grin and begins to lever his legs up and down. Each movement sends me skittering against his arousal. I'm only wearing a T-shirt and panties, so there's not much separating us. I reach down to grasp his bulging biceps and hold on for the ride. I climax during what is supposed to be foreplay. That's mildy embarrassing. Isn't it supposed to be men who suffer from that problem? Walt just grins and looks proud of himself. We move as far as the couch in the living room for the main event. An hour or two later, we're awakend from our afterglow doze by the sound of Michelle's cries. "I'll go get her," Walt murmurs, dropping a gentle kiss on my forehead. He returns a few minutes later, holding Michelle in his arms while he whispers, "Shh! I'm bringing you to Mommy as fast as I can. She'll feed you." I stare at the picture they make. I thought my husband looked good a couple of hours ago, while he was working out. But I've never seen anything in my life as sexy the tenderness my big, brawny husband displays toward our tiny daughter. I love watching my husband work out. Truth be told, I always did, even during the year we were working together as FBI partners and I was pretending not to notice. The suits and ties he wears to work every day don't do his body justice. We're at the park, where I'm pushing William in a swing and watching Emily climb on the jungle gym, while Mulder jogs in a wide circle on the path around the playground. Every time he passes us, he grins and waves or winks. Emily and I blow kisses back at him. William just kind of gurgles. Eventually, he calls out, "I'm just going around once more, to cool down. Want to come with me, Emily?" Hollering out, "yeah", she clambers off the climbing apparatus and runs toward her Daddy. He slows his pace to an easy trot and she runs along beside him as fast as her chubby little legs will carry her. I take advantage of her absence to focus my entire attention on William for a few minutes, smiling and talking nonsense to him while I swing him. I'm so intent on my son that I don't notice the other members of our family have returned until two large hands wrap themselves around my waist, nearly spanning it. I jump, which makes Emily giggle. "Me and Daddy were very, very quiet and we neaked up on you and William!" she announces. "That you did, Emily," I agree. I give Mulder my best "look", but he just grins in response. He lifts William out of the swing and tucks him against one side, then swoops down and picks Emily up in the other arm. He carries both children back to the minivan easily and we get them buckled into their car seats and start heading home. When we get home, Mulder heads upstairs to take a shower. Emily asks to watch "just one" episode of "Winnie the Pooh" and I agree, settling her and William in front of the TV and hurrying upstairs. Luckily, Mulder hasn't locked the door to the bathroom. If he had, I could pick it, but who wants to waste valuable time? I make sure I lock it after I enter, though. I don't mind Emily coming in to talk to me when I'm showering solo, but there are certain events no child needs to witness. I drop my clothes hurriedly into a pile next to Mulder's sweat-stained T-shirt and shorts and slide back the shower curtain. Mulder is under the spray with his eyes closed, but he opens them and grins at me as soon as I step into the tub. "I had a feeling you might be joining me," he says. "I saw the way you were looking at me in the park. What are the kids doing?" "Watching Winnie-the-Pooh." "What happened to our 'cartoons in the morning only' rule?" "I broke it," I reply, stepping under the spray and wrapping my arms around him. "It's not like you've never broken a rule in your life. Kiss me." Mulder kisses me and then proceeds to demonstrate why "Fox" is a very fitting name for him to have. We've finished in the shower and are in the process of getting dressed when Emily comes and knocks on the door. Other than Mulder still being shirtless and both of us being barefoot, we're clothed, so I let her in. "What have you been doing?" she asks. "Taking a shower," he answers. "You and Mommy together?" she persists. Whoops! Other than explaining the basic difference between boys and girls to her when William was born, I haven't had to answer many questions like this. "Yes. Sometimes Mommy and Daddy take a shower together, especially if we're in a hurry," I reply. "Like we were today, because we wanted to come back downstairs and play with you and your brother as quickly as we could." "Or sometimes it's because Mommy's horny and can't control herself until bedtime," Mulder whispers in my ear. "Shut up, Mulder," I reply. "Mommy, that's not allowed," Emily says. "You're supposed to say 'be quiet, please' but Daddy *was* being quiet, because I couldn't even hear what he said." "That's because it was a secret," Mulder replies. "Want a piggy back ride down the stairs?" She squeals her assent and we hurry down to see what William is doing. The End
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