Twenty Four Seven
By Angelina Vansen (angelina@gunmetaldark.com)

RATING: NC-17
CODES: J/7/Mark
SUMMARY: Back on Earth, Janeway and Mark have discovered they can't live without each other, and are having an affair. This is dedicated to my beloved friend Maul Mistress. Sorry that this is such a thoroughly unpleasant story again. Probably just getting something out of my system!


Mark and I meet up on Mars once or twice a week, during my lunch break. We daren't risk any more than that. I have a small apartment here, just away from the base I command. It would be growing dusty otherwise. We come here, and usually we have a meal, and then use the bedroom. Usually more than once.

We both feel guilty. Adultery isn't really done any more. Least of all in nice, sanitised Starfleet rooms like these. I feel like a creature out of time when he's fucking me doggy-style, pulling my hair. This kind of fucking was barely acceptable when we were engaged. Now it's out of control, both of us snarling and sweating and cursing. Both of us howl when we come.

Afterwards, my hair goes back in its bun, and I go back to being an Admiral. I go back to commanding the base. Heading up operations. Overseeing the facility. Not quite as exciting as exploring the Delta Quadrant.

****

Seven of Nine brings me some tea as I sit watching the clouds from my office window. Ensign Hansen, as I'm supposed to call her now. It sounds absurd. Ensign Hansen.

"Are you all right, Admiral?" she asks me.

"Yes of course," I tell her.

She's started wearing her hair down, I notice. An Alice band to keep it out of her eyes, but down, all across her shoulders, and soft pink silk lipstick, too. Dolly mixture pink.

I sip the tea she made, and look at her painted fingernails.

****

Mark waits for me inside the apartment. Sleeping mostly. He still smells of sex when I return. He watches with his green and patient eyes while I strip away the uniform. The jacket, the pants, the boots, the hair, the undershirt. The standard Starfleet sports bra, the grey undershorts, already stained with his semen.

Only naked do we touch, then fuck. Hard against the wall, he takes me from behind, his grey pubic hair rubbing hard between my buttocks, his cock impossibly hard like a bone inside me. I'm so awfully wet. He holds my hands pinned hard above my head and my chin grinds against the metal of this Starfleet wall. I cry out, then scream out. The angle of his cock in my body presses hatefully against my bladder, over and over. I come, choking on the spasms as they burst from my throat. He follows me, grunting into my hair as his pelvis pins me. Shouting.

I feel bandy and broken-legged when we part. I flop onto the bed, disgusting with his trickling seed, but not caring. I hold the back of an arm over my eyes and lie there with my legs apart. He doesn't say a word. How like a man. He showers and dresses in his civilised slacks and jumper, and leaves to go home to Melissa. Tuesday, he says. Tuesday he has told her he has a conference on another world. We can do this all again.

I nod, and my lips feel too swollen to say anything at all. My throat is too sore. After he has gone, I bathe and then take the transport back to Earth, and my real house.

****

The next day I have very little work to do. Once again, Seven of Nine brings me tea, and we discuss the findings of her scientific group. She seems so excited by her work, passionate almost. I find it difficult to muster enthusiasm for anything these days. I remember how wonderful it was to have a purpose.

While she talks, I play with one of her data chips, tapping it against the desk, against my other hand. I watch her while she speaks, maybe trying to feel some of that passion myself.

"Have you ever had sex, Seven?" I ask suddenly.

Her eyes move from her PADD to me. No shock in them, though. She's still Borg enough in that respect.

"Why is that relevant?" she asks.

I shrug, a little amused at my own daring. "It's not," I say. "I'm just curious."

"Your curiosity is unwelcome, Admiral," she replies eventually. "To ask such a question is an invasion of my privacy."

"Maybe," I smile.

She holds my gaze for long moments, unflinching. "Yes," she says at last.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Yes, I have copulated, Admiral. On twenty-three occasions."

"Oh? Who was the lucky person? Chakotay?"

"He accounts for only two of those times," she replies. "Shortly after my posting here, I became involved with a human male who works as a Yeoman in one of the eating establishments. His name is Bobby Mink. We no longer see each other, but we had a very ... pleasurable relationship."

"That's wonderful."

"Yes, it was."

Her stare is almost challenging me now. She realises she is not the innocent I believed her to be. "And you?" she asks then, her chin going out a little, defiantly.

I let out a short laugh. "My goodness, I'm a forty-seven year old woman," I tell her. "I know I wasn't exactly ... promiscuous on Voyager, but I promise you, I'm not a vestal virgin."

"No," she says. "That's not what I mean."

"What DO you mean, then?"

Her eyes take on a lilt I've never seen before on Seven. Dangerous. Mischievous. "You take long lunches twice a week. When you return, your skin is flushed and you often have a red abrasions around your chin and mouth. The officers upstairs often remark on your "just-fucked walk". In short, everyone believes that you engage in copulation on these occasions."

I can't find my voice for a long moment. "DO they," I say at last, and it's a voice of pure stone.

"Yes," she says simply. "They do. They find it humorous to speculate upon who your partner might be. The current belief is that it is Commander Croft from your Command Staff."

"George Croft?!" I ask in wonder. The man is half my age, a blond Adonis who likes to bring me little biscuits for my tea.

"Yes," she says. "However, I am aware that it is not Lieutenant Croft with whom you spend your lunches. While I am able to detect certain post-sexual pheromones from you ...."

"All right ..." I say, holding up my hand to stop her. I feel a little queasy. I didn't know I smelt of sex. "Maybe this was a bad subject."

She smiles and nods, rather triumphantly.

I go back to my PADD, screwing up my brow, pretending to be concerned about some of the equations.

"Who is he?" she asks.

I look at her sharply. "You made your point about curiosity," I warn, and take a sip of my tea.

She smiles again, a slow, spreading grin from her lowered head. "Not curiosity," she says. I know the end of that statement.

My whole body stops cold. The tea sticks in my throat. My body temperature changes. I meet her eyes.

She is moving across the desk at me, her voice a growl. "It arouses me to think of you copulating in your lunch hour. I wish to know details. I wish to know intimate things so that I can contemplate them while I masturbate."

She's all the way across the desk right now, her breath on my mouth. Her eyes are wide, pupils huge. The scent from her hair is like parma violets. A child's sweets.

Something about candy and babies springs to mind, but I wonder just who is the baby here. It's a tempting proposition. To go home tonight knowing this beautiful woman will be thinking of me in her pleasure. "That isn't appropriate," I say, though.

"I know," she replies. And her eyes don't leave mine. Her body doesn't leave my desk.

I meet that gaze. I, after all, am the Admiral. She's just Ensign Hansen. "If it arouses you, you should come and watch," I say to her. "Join us if you like."

Now I have surprised her. Called her bluff. "You are having fun at my expense," she says.

"Not at all," I say smoothly. "Now, shall we get back to our data?"

She shifts in her seat, and picks her PADD back up. I notice she has licked her lips, because they are wet, and shiny.

****

On Tuesday morning, while I am dressing in my home on Earth, I receive the usual communique from Mark.

"See you for lunch," it says. He never signs it. Encodes it so it's untraceable, but there he'll be, away from his wife. In my bed. In my apartment. On my territory.

I have to return to work right afterwards with stubble rash and a sex-flush and a "just-fucked" walk, and the risk is mine. Everyone knows I'm having an affair. No one suspects anything of Mark.

I am not allowed to reply. I just have to leave my apartment unlocked for him.

****
I do not do any work at all that morning. PADDs do not interest me. The work of Ensign Hansen's team is tedious. I take my boots off underneath the desk and file my fingernails, all morning.

At 1100, I eat a salad from my replicator. Belatedly, I realise it has a garlic dressing, but then I eat it anyway. I don't think it would make much difference if I rolled in garbage before I went to Mark.

Before I leave, I use the restroom and wash my body clean. I put on perfume, just a little, and I refresh my lipstick. Already, between my legs, I feel excited. Prickling. I neaten my bun.

Walking down the corridor between the stations of the officers is difficult today. Knowing that they know. At the end of the hall, Seven of Nine's eyes, blue and accusing.

"I'm going to lunch," I tell her. "Ensign."

"Yes, Admiral," she replies. Her naked face.

I leave the compound, and go to my apartment.

****

Mark has showered, and is wearing a towel. He has lowered the lights. Perhaps he thinks it is more romantic, but it just makes it seem like he doesn't really want to look at me.

He goes to the replicator, but I shake my head. I don't want the pretence today. I want the sex for what it is, raw and bloody. I want to be his piece of meat.

I pull the uniform off my shoulders, remove the boots. He watches, his wide green eyes. The towel starts to tent where he's getting hard, but he doesn't make a move towards me. Only when I'm naked does he touch me, ever. Only when there's no Starfleet keeping us apart.

My bare feet on the burgundy carpet. In the grey undershorts, the grey t-shirt. Underneath, the Starfleet bra. I'm not stripping for him, just taking off my clothes.

There is a knock on the door.

Not the chime, a knock. Mark's eyes fly to mine, full of fear. "Who is that?" he hisses. His erection has fallen, fast.

"I don't know," I say, feeling very underdressed. But I do. It was naked in her face as I walked right by her. She was always coming with me.

I pull my pants back on, but stay only in the t-shirt. Mark shrinks back, against the table.

Of course, it's her.

"Seven," I say.

She inspects me, up and down. Wonders if I've done it yet, or if she interrupted me. "I intend to take you up on your offer," she states. Face blank. Expectant.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say. I try to shut the door.

She blocks it with her hand. "I am intrigued by the possibilities."

That makes me angry. "Return to your post, Ensign," I hiss. Eyes narrow.

"I won't," she asserts. "Admiral." The last is spoken as if it were the worst kind of slur.

Mark, having understood it's not Melissa, comes up behind me. "Kath?" he asks, uncertainly.

Seven looks at him. I think she's a little disappointed. He's not exactly Commander Croft. I just wish he had put some clothes on. "Oh," he says then. "You're Kath's Borg, aren't you?"

"Ensign Annika Hansen," she says crisply. Resistance is futile, Mr. Johnson. "Seven of Nine."

"Mark Johnson," he smiles. "I'm visiting with Kathryn."

"Indeed."

This is not what I wanted. Ensign Hansen standing right here on this doorstep. How can I shut the door and have the Admiral pant and groan in her lover's arms now? She won't be able to do it.

"Seven was just leaving," I tell Mark, my voice firm. "Weren't you."

"No," she says. "I wish to watch you copulate. Like you said."

Mark stiffens and gasps behind me. Oh God. "Ka-kath?" he stammers.

My voice is sheer ice. "I don't know what you think you're doing here, Seven, but you're not welcome. Go back to the station. Now."

She is utterly taut, head back, chin out. Quite the drone. "I won't," she says. "You requested my presence. I did not misunderstand. Only now you have developed cold feet, and are attempting to make it appear as if the error were mine."

"Hold on ..." Mark says. "Kathryn invited you here?"

"She did. We were engaged in a discussion about copulation, and she invited me to observe you in the act. To join you if I desired."

"Did you?" he asks me. His voice is harsh. "Did you, Kath?"

"I didn't think she'd take me seriously," I whisper.

"Great!" he yells. "Fucking great! What ... so now we're selling tickets?!"

"No!" I protest. "It wasn't like that."

"Oh, well, hey, why stop at your Borg, Kath? What about the rest of your staff? Why not the whole base, too? Hey, why not my fucking wife?"

"Mark, it wasn't like that," I say again, but this sounds bad.

"Get inside!" he explodes, and grabs my arm so hard I cry out. Pulls me through the door. "You too," he says to Seven.

That surprises me. Her too, I think, but she follows nonetheless. Closes the front door behind her.

"Mark, you're hurting me," I tell him. His grip doesn't loosen at all.

"Oh, I haven't even BEGUN," he spits. "You stupid, stupid bitch ...."

"I didn't think she'd ..."

"Be quiet!" he yells, pulling me up close. "My God, did you WANT us to get caught or something?"

"Of course not," I say, and my voice sounds calm, even to me. "I was teasing her, okay? I was bored, and it was a game. A stupid game."

His breath is hot and wild in my face. He smells of my shower gel. Eucalyptus. "She obviously took you very seriously!" he pants.

"Yes, well ... sometimes Seven ... that is ... sometimes she doesn't understand ...!"

"I think she did," he snarls. "I think she understood you perfectly, Kath."

"No, she ..."

"Shut UP, Kath," he warns. Then he turns to Seven of Nine. "You wanna see copulation?" he asks her.

"Yes," she says breathlessly. Her eyes are shining in the ridiculous half-light he wanted so much.

"Mark!" I gasp out.

"Shut up," he cautions me. "I think you've said quite enough recently, oh great Admiral."

He twists my arm behind my back, hard enough so that tears spring to my eyes. I cry out, and a jolt of nausea crackles through me. "Mark, that hurts!" I yell.

He ignores me. Throws me forward, pitching me onto the polished hard wood of my dining room table. My chin bangs against it, my teeth bite my tongue. There is blood in my mouth.

"What the hell are you DOING?!" I cry.

He pulls me up by the bun and I gasp and pant. Disoriented, seeing stars from where I fell.

"Your Borg wants to see, Kath," he says. "She wants to see how you get fucked by me."

"No! No ... Mark, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay?"

He is on top of my back, pressing against me. The erection is back beneath the towel. He's not listening to me.

"No one will know!" I scream. "She's my subordinate, I'll order her ...."

I think I might be crying. Something very close. He's not hearing a word I'm saying.

"Let's show her, shall we?" he pants in my ear. "Let's show her how we do it ... rutting like animals ... let's show her how you squeal like a stuck pig when you come. Let's show her what a disgusting whore the Admiral really is."

"No ... no, please Mark ..."

His hand takes hold of a bunch of my t-shirt and pulls. It splits down the back, and then off from my arms. Violent. Oh God, he really is going to do this.

Fuck me in front of Seven of Nine. She's right behind him, mute over his shoulder, mouth open just a little bit. The scent of her, high and sweet like a candy cane, is all through this room. There's no denying it. Even if I closed my eyes, she'd still be here. She'd be everywhere around me.

I'm in my bra. Mark takes a bite out of the upper portion of my left breast. Holds it, dragging the breast out of my bra with his teeth, so the nipple peeks out over the top, brown with a pink tip. Seven watches. His mouth goes there next, growling and snorting. The animal he spoke of. His hot mouth and teeth so sharp, biting me.

He's so angry. I think if he could rip my breast from off my chest he would. I see a film of my blood on the seal of his lips. My breast is red, bright and bitten when he moves away and lets it go. The imprint of his teeth is plain. There is blood staining his teeth and in the furrows of his lips.

Seven's eyes are just enormous.

Mark shoves me. Pins my arms, as hard as he can. Pushing them. I scream out. One of my shoulders slips briefly out of its socket, and there is agony like a sickening wave. I can feel the muscles tear.

But he is pressing me down against the table again. Rubbing my face in the mucus coming out of my nose, and the blood coming out of my mouth.

Cold air across my bare bottom as he pulls my trousers down. The first time he's touched the uniform, I think. Rips them off me. Spreads me. Cold air on the wet lips now. I can hear Seven's breathing even over my own whimpers. Hard, turned on. Little cries under it.

"No ..." I moan, strangled. But he shoves two fingers hard inside me, and it hurts. I grunt. Splutter. Grit my teeth.

"Your Borg's gonna see SUCH a fucking now, Kath," he moans.

"Yes," says Seven dreamily. "Please ... yes."

"Seven, get out of here!" I yell. "That's a fucking ORDER!"

But even I wouldn't obey the woman who just said those words. Naked weak Kath on her belly on the table. White flesh nude and sickish, one nipple bloodied and conquered. So completely conquered. Still got the bun, but that's not the Admiral. Admirals don't get spread and fucked in front of Ensigns. Not in peacetime, anyway.

"I will not ... comply," she mutters dreamily.

But Mark leans across me, cock nestling against its target. Towel falling on the floor. Fiddling and fumbling, pushing to get inside.

"Fuck her," Seven says then. "Hard, for me."

"No!" I scream, again and again. "No, no, no, no!"

But Mark won't stop. It's Seven. She's on fire. My eyes lock with hers, narrow and pained as Mark grinds into me. Christ she looks like the Borg, bug-eyed and blue-skinned and bald. Stiff in her Starfleet uniform. Her boots gleam and her hair shines. She is pale and Aryan and terrifying.

So much pain it brings tears to my eyes. I gasp. I twist and writhe. He's burning and splitting me, and every push against me makes my injured shoulder scream.

Seven is gasping, elegantly.

I must be tight; he doesn't last long. Falls all over me with an awful moan, his sweaty chest clammy on top of my back. He crawls off of me.

"Mark ..." I croak, standing up on bent and shaking legs.

He is sweating, shaking, shivering. Rage and orgasm and hatred. He looks at me, his strong green eyes. "Get out of my sight, Kath," he says, and he means it.

Seven's eyes follow me, and the room's a mile wide as I cross it. Shamed, bleeding a little, full of come. Face wet, thighs wet, nipple ripped. I should be crawling, really, but I'm not hurt enough for that.

In the bathroom mirror, too, my hair is wild. My eyes are shot and yellowish. My shoulder throbs and can't be moved. I need a Doctor, too, but I can't do that just yet. I pour a sink full of tepid water, wincing as I dab some tissues between my legs to soothe my poor torn flesh.

I watch myself in the mirror with Seven's haughty eyes. Sick in my throat at my grey skin and sallow body. The fat on my bottom, the scar on my lip. My breasts are too small, they don't look good without a bra. I have too much pubic hair. I must make Seven sick. She wasn't looking at me with lust today. I doubt she'll masturbate over me any more.

I bring my garlic salad up into the sink. Over and over again, retching until there's nothing in my guts but bile. How much the strains of vomiting are like the thrusts and jerks of orgasm, I think. Almost good in the way that orgasm's almost bad.

I wipe my mouth, but I have a feeling this won't be the last time I'll vomit today. Seven is groaning outside, in my bedroom. Mark is grunting. My headboard is banging against the wall. The kind of sex I always have with Mark, but she sounds so good. So beautiful. Not like the stuck fat pig he described me as.

Mark is howling, coming again. He's had quite the afternoon.

I creep out of the bathroom naked, in the shadows.

"Admiral," calls Seven naked, from the bed.

I turn to face her silently. Her mouth is set and sullen. Her naked flesh is luminous, her breasts almost lunar in their paleness. She looks like a planet. Mark looks like a creeping plant, sweaty and replete all round her.

"You are bleeding," she tells me.

I know. I feel it trickling down my leg. I turn from Seven's glowing stare and dress in silence in the dining room. My shoulder is agony, but I go back to work.

****

I sob in my office. The great spacious walls are just too much for me. I cry till there's phlegm in my mouth and snot in my nose. Till my eyes sting with make-up. I cling to my desk, my toes curling in my boots. I'm so afraid. Terrified in fact. I want to get on the floor, curl into a ball and never get up again. The Delta Quadrant never fucked with my head like this.

I'm sick again, in the toilet in my office. Nothing inside me.

I call Commander Croft to bring me a cup of tea, and by the time he comes in, I am back at my desk, my eyes neutral, my uniform straight. I don't smell of vomit, or sex, I am sure. I am the Admiral.

On the tray is a small plate of shortbread.

"For you, Admiral," he smiles shyly.

"Thank you, Commander," I smile efficiently. "And could you possibly call me a Doctor? I think I may have injured myself playing squash at lunchtime. My shoulder really hurts."

He smiles again, a smile rich with honey. "Of course, Ma'am," he says, and leaves me all alone.


THE END


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