(no subject)
Sometimes my brain goes strange places.
This is for woodface, since I was so mean and and evil and subverted the shippy supply closet smut she'd very politely demanded from me.
Unbetaed, utterly plotless and pointless, and maybe just a little bit of a reaction to my plot-related melodrama in the previous post.
"Code Red"
Jack liked Tuesdays best. Tuesdays meant last week's reports neatly stacked in his out tray, chocolate cake in the mess, and Carter straddling his lap: hot and wet and clamped tight around his dick.
"Mmmmm. Right there."
He slouched lower, one hand cupping her ass, the other teasing her clit. He stroked a little harder now, grinning when her head fell back and she sucked in a deep breath. Her unbuttoned shirt had fallen off her shoulders and she'd pulled the cups of her bra down. Her nipples were hard and dark, and wet from his tongue.
Somehow she'd managed to get her pants off over her boots and there was really no way anything could beat a mostly-naked blond in combat boots fucking him in his office chair. Jack wrapped his arms around her hips, pulled her down hard and almost came when she said "Fuck!" in a tight, eager voice, right in his ear.
And then the phone rang.
He peered at it over her shoulder and it rang again, the little red light flashing. Carter squirmed in his arms and panted, "It'll go to voice mail."
"It's the red one, Carter," he whispered against her collarbone, and she went absolutely still.
"Oh, God. Oh, no."
A third ring, while he stared at the phone and Carter buried her face in his shoulder and muttered something about becoming a nun. Jack dug his heels into the carpet and rolled the chair closer to his desk. But Carter's hand tangled in his sleeve as he reached for the receiver.
"Wait! You can't... we can't... not while you talk to the president!"
His dick (which had initially - and understandably - reacted poorly to the executive interruption) thought that was actually an excellent idea, and Jack groaned, thrusting up hard and fast.
And then the phone rang a fourth time and Sam swore, scrambling off him and retreating to the couch across the room. She adjusted her bra and pulled one of the cushions over her lap.
Jack grabbed the phone on the fifth ring and tried not to watch just how far down Carter's skin flushed as he said "Hello" and "Yes, Mr. President" and "Just fine, sir" and "Of course I can have that report to you by tomorrow."
His hand shook just a little as he put the receiver back in the cradle, and he caught Carter's eye. "Okay. That was… kinda hot."
"Yes, if you're into mortal terror and humiliation." But her cheeks and the slope of her breasts were still red and she was back in his lap - sinking down onto him with drawn-out moan - before she'd finished speaking.
And she was very, very wet.
"You know," Jack said, and grinned as he pushed her back against his desk, and licked at the little hollow between her breasts, "I have to call the Pentagon in half an hour..."
This is for woodface, since I was so mean and and evil and subverted the shippy supply closet smut she'd very politely demanded from me.
Unbetaed, utterly plotless and pointless, and maybe just a little bit of a reaction to my plot-related melodrama in the previous post.
"Code Red"
Jack liked Tuesdays best. Tuesdays meant last week's reports neatly stacked in his out tray, chocolate cake in the mess, and Carter straddling his lap: hot and wet and clamped tight around his dick.
"Mmmmm. Right there."
He slouched lower, one hand cupping her ass, the other teasing her clit. He stroked a little harder now, grinning when her head fell back and she sucked in a deep breath. Her unbuttoned shirt had fallen off her shoulders and she'd pulled the cups of her bra down. Her nipples were hard and dark, and wet from his tongue.
Somehow she'd managed to get her pants off over her boots and there was really no way anything could beat a mostly-naked blond in combat boots fucking him in his office chair. Jack wrapped his arms around her hips, pulled her down hard and almost came when she said "Fuck!" in a tight, eager voice, right in his ear.
And then the phone rang.
He peered at it over her shoulder and it rang again, the little red light flashing. Carter squirmed in his arms and panted, "It'll go to voice mail."
"It's the red one, Carter," he whispered against her collarbone, and she went absolutely still.
"Oh, God. Oh, no."
A third ring, while he stared at the phone and Carter buried her face in his shoulder and muttered something about becoming a nun. Jack dug his heels into the carpet and rolled the chair closer to his desk. But Carter's hand tangled in his sleeve as he reached for the receiver.
"Wait! You can't... we can't... not while you talk to the president!"
His dick (which had initially - and understandably - reacted poorly to the executive interruption) thought that was actually an excellent idea, and Jack groaned, thrusting up hard and fast.
And then the phone rang a fourth time and Sam swore, scrambling off him and retreating to the couch across the room. She adjusted her bra and pulled one of the cushions over her lap.
Jack grabbed the phone on the fifth ring and tried not to watch just how far down Carter's skin flushed as he said "Hello" and "Yes, Mr. President" and "Just fine, sir" and "Of course I can have that report to you by tomorrow."
His hand shook just a little as he put the receiver back in the cradle, and he caught Carter's eye. "Okay. That was… kinda hot."
"Yes, if you're into mortal terror and humiliation." But her cheeks and the slope of her breasts were still red and she was back in his lap - sinking down onto him with drawn-out moan - before she'd finished speaking.
And she was very, very wet.
"You know," Jack said, and grinned as he pushed her back against his desk, and licked at the little hollow between her breasts, "I have to call the Pentagon in half an hour..."