I'm pretty sure this isn't what she meant, but...
For surrealphantast, who was demanding Stargate porn...
NC-17. Jack. S8.
The light from the television was the only illlumination in the room, and Jack searched through the couch cushions for the DVD remote. After he'd dug it (and three very stale Cheetos and a buck eighty in change) out from among the couch springs, he hit play, settling back and loosening his belt. As the credits flickered across the screen - cheap computer effects generated on somebody's home computer - he worked his hand into his boxers, fingers scratching through sparse hair and along hardening skin.
He'd ordered the DVD online. Risky, because he was sure that would look great in some Kinsey-ordered investigation, SG-1's CO ordering cheap porn on the internet, but he'd been through the meager offerings at the local video stores. Twice.
Stroking himself with a firm grip now, he let his eyes slip closed, listening as voices started: a woman, with a breathy laugh, and the low rumble of a man's response. Sometimes the sounds did it for him more than the sights, especially in the cheap stuff. The woman's laughter peaked in a squeal, slid into a moan. He tuned out the dialogue and concentrated on her panting breaths, her drawn-out whimpers, her sweet voice demanding more. Jack groaned along with her partner.
"Oh, General! Yes! Now!" That caught his attention, and he opened one eye. The other snapped open a split second later, and he shot upright, fumbling for the remote. He stabbed the pause button and peered at the screen. A man fucking a leggy brunette in stilletto heels, her expression frozen in a manufactured orgasm. On a big desk. A familiar big desk with a familiar red phone. And behind it a wall with familiar framed certificates and diplomas. He ran it forward, frame by frame, picking out the picture of Sarah and Charlie behind his desk, the antique astrolabe SG-1 had gotten him as a promotion present, the stack of incredibly classified memos the woman was using to prop her left leg.
Apparently it was time to review the security protocols.
Jack hit play again. The woman played out her release, a virtuoso performance, all things considered, and with a loud grunt her partner pulled out, coming on her stomach and, oh, no way, no fucking way did he just come on Jack's desk.
Okay, tomorrow, somebody was getting fired. And Jack was getting a new desk.
NC-17. Jack. S8.
The light from the television was the only illlumination in the room, and Jack searched through the couch cushions for the DVD remote. After he'd dug it (and three very stale Cheetos and a buck eighty in change) out from among the couch springs, he hit play, settling back and loosening his belt. As the credits flickered across the screen - cheap computer effects generated on somebody's home computer - he worked his hand into his boxers, fingers scratching through sparse hair and along hardening skin.
He'd ordered the DVD online. Risky, because he was sure that would look great in some Kinsey-ordered investigation, SG-1's CO ordering cheap porn on the internet, but he'd been through the meager offerings at the local video stores. Twice.
Stroking himself with a firm grip now, he let his eyes slip closed, listening as voices started: a woman, with a breathy laugh, and the low rumble of a man's response. Sometimes the sounds did it for him more than the sights, especially in the cheap stuff. The woman's laughter peaked in a squeal, slid into a moan. He tuned out the dialogue and concentrated on her panting breaths, her drawn-out whimpers, her sweet voice demanding more. Jack groaned along with her partner.
"Oh, General! Yes! Now!" That caught his attention, and he opened one eye. The other snapped open a split second later, and he shot upright, fumbling for the remote. He stabbed the pause button and peered at the screen. A man fucking a leggy brunette in stilletto heels, her expression frozen in a manufactured orgasm. On a big desk. A familiar big desk with a familiar red phone. And behind it a wall with familiar framed certificates and diplomas. He ran it forward, frame by frame, picking out the picture of Sarah and Charlie behind his desk, the antique astrolabe SG-1 had gotten him as a promotion present, the stack of incredibly classified memos the woman was using to prop her left leg.
Apparently it was time to review the security protocols.
Jack hit play again. The woman played out her release, a virtuoso performance, all things considered, and with a loud grunt her partner pulled out, coming on her stomach and, oh, no way, no fucking way did he just come on Jack's desk.
Okay, tomorrow, somebody was getting fired. And Jack was getting a new desk.