SATELLITE
by Angelina Vansen (angelina@gunmetaldark.com)

RATING: NC-17
CODES: J/7
SUMMARY: Seven's notes on Janeway's habits during different parts of the day. Translated from the Borg.


One of Nine: Sleeping

Kathryn sleeps, I do not. I regenerate. I stand up, neat. Efficient. Clothed. Kathryn lies, sprawled across a bed, which requires an entire room to house it. She wears pyjama bottoms and sleeps with her small breasts bare.

Kathryn also sucks her thumb. She cautions me never to mention this to anyone. She thinks that if anyone knew this, it would lessen her ability to command a starship. Kathryn is one for her secrets.

Sometimes, she dreams, and talks in her sleep a little. Moans, unhappy ones. Her eyes flicker, under the lids, back and forth. I go round her bed one step at a time. Orbiting, her light. Satellite.


Two of Nine: Dressing

First, Kathryn's underwear. Under her clothes, it goes. Kathryn is one for her secrets. Over her body, and she arches. Skin as white as whalebone, curved.

Her breasts are raised, and rounded. Kathryn's padded bra. Head between those breasts, but that is later. Later, when it has been all day. Her skin will smell a darker shade of her.

Panties, just a slip and up, white elastic and white cotton over thighs. Later parted. Later, maybe. Later round my head, her ankles on my back, a circle. The cycle of the human day.

The tank. The undershirt, the pips. The pants, the jacket, the hair, the Captain. Pants stretched taut against her rear, jacket flared across her shoulders. Long with her legs, stretched, back arched. Toes curled. Later. Later. Sex and the Captain, circling my mind.

In the mirror, me behind her. Manmachine interface. Me around her, watching. Recording. Later I will send the information back, along the texture of her skin to please her.


Three of Nine: Duty

She is too decadent for me. On the bridge, she is the most sexual being she can be. The slip of her tongue to Chakotay while she speaks is all too clear. She wants him to want her.

The breath in her voice to Paris. The hand on her hip, fingers curled. Look at my sexual organs. Look at my buttocks. Look at the way my breasts press together in my uniform, curve forward right before your eyes, men. I know that tone of voice. She wants them all to want her.

But when she leaves the bridge, it's me she fucks. A female. Dragging her heat over mine in short explosions of hips and breath. Over me, around me. Satellite. Rolling her eyes. All of these things speak to me, and she

says "but this/they are too easy, Seven."

says "challenge me."


Four of Nine: Velocity

I challenge her, but still she wins. Grins. Brushes sweaty hair from out her eyes and pants like she's not loving this.

Laughs at my anger and frustration. Only a game, Seven, she says. Yes it is, but she plays it better, makes me briefly hate her. All my passions, Kathryn. Kathryn.

My superior visual acuity is too busy taking in her jiggling breasts. I have suggested a better sports brassiere. Her eyebrow raised, she smiles, and nods. She knows, then dives for the shot, and my mouth is open. My breath is not there, no air to be gasped. My body, becoming sexually aroused.


Five of Nine: Bathing

Kathryn likes to bath. She sings, and thinks I that don't know it is to cover the sound of her splashing hand. Kathryn relieves herself of tension in the bath by manually stimulating her genitals through a washcloth. Kathryn is one for her secrets.

She thinks I don't know. Near the end, her singing's way off key.

I enjoy her bathing, when I watch. Her wet breasts are appealing. The way they move on the surface of the water. I bring her coffee, or fruit, diced mango on sticks, and I dress in my own robe. A short, black silk one. I see her watching my buttocks, thoughtfully while she eats. Thinking stimulating thoughts. So am I. I envisage her gentle white hand on my buttocks, later, circling. Turning. Whirling. Orbiting.


Six of Nine: Food

Often, when Kathryn consumes, she complains of indigestion or nausea. This, the Doctor has informed me, is probably stress related. So she eats gingerly, her silver fork a diving bird, pecking.

Her mouth looks wet inside, masticating. It is hard for me to associate Kathryn's tongue with anything other than sex. Consequently, I enjoy this. I love to kiss her after she has finished eating, because sometimes she is sloppy and there is sometimes food around her mouth, embedded in that sweet-tasting lipstick. After she has eaten, her breath has the aura of food, of meat and cheese and garlic. How human. Food is something that the Borg never gave me. Only Kathryn.

What must it be like to be digested by Kathryn? The wetness of her mouth, and the sound of her breathing as it echoes through her throat. My regeneration is sometimes disturbed by this thought.

Imagining the slow process of going through her intestines, my nutrients extracted by her gastronomic juices, broken down to nourish and sustain her. I am already consumed by her.


Seven of Nine: Work

After dinner, we both work. Sometimes, Kathryn affectionately calls this our "homework". I understand the inference, but not why she considers this humorous.

She is diligent. After her desk, her mug of coffee. Her plant. Her PADDs. her brow furrowed, her fingers flickering on the controls. My work is difficult, watching hers.


Eight of Nine: Sex

Stripped to the bone, her touch is agony. Too much across my waist and belly. Too much as her mouth explores across me. Underneath my systems scream. The Borg, I hear them flickering somewhere, something. It is my mind, talking to me. It is my mouth, making noises.

I hear her talking to me. Giving me the words, her mouth against mine. I kiss her with my eyes open, not a human practice, but I love to watch her.

Our bellies together, her arm round my waist, pressing us together, twining her skinny little legs round mine to make it tight and good. She moans. The world folds into static. Transmission. Orgasm. Broadcast. Crying out, me and Kathryn.


Nine of Nine: Sleep Again

My world buzzes. Hers is gone. Curled, sticky with her perspiration, her arms in mine, head on my hip. From above it would look as though I was rescuing, she was drowning. She is sleeping.

My world is buzzing, crisp and fading. Air a little stagnant, nothing quite acute. Ears hear crackles, slightly. In the distance. The walls are blurred. I need to regenerate.

I spread her, on the cool cream sheet, limbs out and reaching. Watch her. She curls in protest, brow wrinkling. Thumb to her lips, slipping in. Six hours in my alcove ...

This will start again I will orbit round her, silent, pale and lunar . Over, round, looping like the hands on that ancient clock that stand for the movements of the distant human satellite I hope we never see.

THE END

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