What did it feel like, she wondered, to wander home and feel full, completed?
It's a bad sign to end your day with thoughts like that Samantha. A bad, bad sign. Just leave.
She withdrew the pencil from where it sat lengthwise in her mouth and used her forefinger to wipe the collected slobber at the edges of her lips. She'd been carrying pencils around like that for at least five years: you'd have thought her mouth would have gotten used to the feeling and not insist on salivating constantly. Because if she didn't put it in her mouth then it tapped and waggled and drove her teammates crazy in meetings. So she learned to put things in her mouth and keep her fingers in straight lines on the table, or laced - prettily, firmly - on the top of her lap.
But no, her body continued to behave unfavourably; she continued to drool like an idiot. When she was thinking of something else - the exact contributions of carbon in Naquadah, the movement of Selenium through the water cooled combustion system of the reactor she was working on - then the pencil sat firmly in a dry mouth between her canine teeth, top and bottom. But as soon as she came back to herself for a moment, then her masticating faculties started working.
She stared at the instrument in her hand for a moment, its blue length smooth and even except for three sets of teeth marks in the middle of it. Her teeth marks. Unfortunately, not her pencil. Staedtler Mars Blue HB's were not standard military office issue. They were used by one man on the base - a man who, with his penchant for messiness and chaos, had a rather odd relationship with his pencils. They were always razor sharp, tossed out when they were less than half their original length, and never had a mark on them. Not nail marks or nicks from tapping on a table; and definitely not teeth marks. She had, on some occasions, absentmindedly reached for a pencil during a briefing and gathered up his. Lifting led inevitably to tapping, which led to Daniel frowning, which led to Sam chewing on said pencil. Once it had been in her mouth, he never wanted it back.
"Like, ew Carter, I don't want that now. Gross."
All of which had nothing to do with her being lonely, nothing to do with her feeling incomplete because there was no one to share the world-changing insights of pencil topography and how it reflected one's inner state.
Nor was there anyone to share the little things she did to ease her station in the team. To tamp down the energy that she harbored, had harbored, since the very first time someone told she couldn't do something, because she was too young, too blond, too female.
A quick wrist flick showed the clock yawning at 11:17 pm. On a Monday. The first day of the week and already 6 hours of overtime. She wouldn't log these hours. She didn't want people to know she had so many. The base logged her check-in and check-out times but she didn't claim them, and when General Hammond had commented on the discrepancy near the beginning of her assignment with the SGC, she had shoved her hands in her pockets and looked him right in the eye, saying, "I was in the recreation room sir. Playing ping pong."
"For...," he checked the sheet in his hand, "eighteen hours?"
"Yes sir," she'd replied firmly. And he had nodded and pursed his lips and not said a thing about it again. And she'd gotten a fairly sizable bonus at Christmas instead.
Making up for it, she guessed, shrugging as she cracked her neck from one side to another. She tossed the pencil into her pencil cup before grabbing her stuff and heading for the elevator.
11:30 meant no one she knew - the night shift, more for monitoring and early warning than anything, nodded as she stepped by them, their faces a little relieved when she didn't haul anyone aside to help her or ask for weird, annoyingly hard-to-get equipment.
"Goodnight," she said.
No one said you work too hard or what are you still doing here at this hour? Not anymore.
She stepped into the elevator and stared at their retreating backs and thought about grey concrete until the doors shut and the steady, pulsing throb of the SGC faded into the distance as the elevator car trolled to the surface.
Maybe it was that damned hum, she thought as she executed the last left turn onto her street and parking in front of her house. It was like a weird vibration all the time, those generators and exhaust fans and the duct work that hollowed the sound into a cavernous reverb. Maybe that's where the feeling of alwaysalways excess energy came from.
But as she stepped across the threshold of her doorway and her heel hit the entranceway carpet she knew she was lying to herself if she thought that's what it was. It wasn't the SGC. It was her. She threw her briefcase into a corner of the sofa, put water on for tea and returned to the living room and sat on the other end of the it, staring at the worn corners of the case's soft black leather. The Bosca had been a very expensive gift to herself that she had bought when she had first received the SGC assignment (and made sure it wasn't due to any string pulling by her father). Now after several years it was slightly faded - completely serviceable, but a little saggy in some spots, the front dulled from rubbing against desks and legs, the back end a little bulgy from being stuffed to full of reports and notes and the occasional overnight toiletry pouch.
Sam, you're getting a little maudlin. The curt whistle of the kettle brought her out of her seat, making a quick face at the briefcase as she did, tucking her fingers securely into her palms just in case. I will not open that thing, I am at home, I will relax. Stood facing the stove while she slowly stirred the apple cinnamon tea bag. When she finally moved back to the couch, tea in one hand and the latest issue of Harper's in the other, ignoring the double gusset was easier. She sipped tea and read Harper's Index, shaking her head and smiling at the irony of Henry David Thoreau burning 300 acres of forest in 1844 while trying to cook dinner.
The belt on her jeans was digging into her belly, and she reached down to unbuckle it. She was, after all, at home. Shoes off, no boots!, no ankle suffocation, no socks even. Her toes grinned up at her happily. She grinned back and placed her empty tea cup down on the side table and contemplated taking Valerian. Valerian, chamomile tea, bizarre Australian roots - she'd tried them all to calm herself after work. The truth was, she was either working and not paying attention, or not working and staring at her loneliness. The physical ness of it.
The seam of her pants pushed upwards, reminding her of her slouched position. It was a nice position, slouching, despite the back ache that she had from peering into a microscope for too long. Nice to rest her hands on her belly where the shirt was lifted up and the skin talked to air. Very white skin. She frowned at her midriff and pulled her shirt up a little more. She needed a vacation. On a beach. The laughter that came after that thought was the best she had had in awhile.
She hadn't taken a vacation since...since about the same time she started carrying pencils around in her mouth. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd worn a bathing suit. She was a late twentieth century cliché. All she needed was to be asking for a bigger office....
A frown chased away the laugh lines after a moment. Office. Meeting earlier that day, where Jackson had casually mentioned wanting to get a new, bigger office.
"Not that I'm expecting anything with a window, you understand," he added jokingly to Hammond as they were leaving. "Well, maybe an interior one, you know, something so that I could see other humans working in the same vicinity. It might help me lose that feeling of being a worker bee in a hive. Although in this case perhaps an ant in a colony might be a better analogy...," he trailed off. She had been on her way out the door, already leafing through the days briefings for something that was interesting beyond who was shooting at whom from where and how many guns they were using to do it, when she heard O'Neill's voice.
"What, you want a window looking into Carter's lab so you can see her staring at her 'apparati' all day, sucking on my pencil?" A pause. Her mouth had tightened into a small 'o' for a moment. She had kept walking and not turned around though, just slowed down enough to hear his tone, to make sure it was the proper shade of jeering, and not sexual. Assured herself it did not sound sexual. From the other side of the room Teal'c's calm voice - "I find the unadornment of walls in the SGC an atmosphere most conducive to contemplation. I would prefer to remain windowless," and then she had been out of hearing, walking quickly to her windowless lab. Her briefcase had been there, waiting for her. It had waited for her until she left at 11:17.
Sam glanced over at the black Bosca, then at her living room window sash, folded neatly against the night. The lamp next to her was glowing dully. After the click of the switch she sat quietly, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, bringing the whiteness of her skin back into view. The couch moaned creakily as she nervously edged two hands down her bellyskin, grimacing as a sharp nail dug into the sensitive place by her thigh.
The pinch was instantly awakening. Don't be a fool Samantha, go to bed.
She rose with purpose and strode to her bedroom, brushed her teeth with compact, angry motions, and then shucked off her clothes before getting into bed in a tee shirt and undies. No breeze through the open window, no weather at all, as far as she could tell. She imagined her briefcase downstairs sitting silent and slightly weary on the couch. Waiting for the next day's work. Was that all she was, a pocket of skin stuffed with knowledge, useful for fixing things, put away at the end of the day?
Definitely maudlin, girl. Get over yourself. You're smarter than this. Stretching out, covered with her smokewhite duvet, she felt the earlier languidness of the evening slip away. The pallor of tiredness had left; her body hummed, nipples and crotch. She bunched the duvet between her legs and pressed it to her centre to ease the burn there. What does she want? She wants....
She wants a goddamn hand between her legs, doing things to her body. She wants a tanned hand with no rings on it, coarse blond hair on the knuckles, short trimmed fingernails, brushing across her pubis. Sam lightly traced the outer parts of both thighs with the backs of her thumbs. She knew exactly which pair of hands she wanted rubbing her skin - she had stared at them through meetings, watched them tap and tinker and grab for a blue pencil too late. The Colonel's hands. Both of them.
One on her belly, and one on her breast, to start. She moved her own hands there, circling her bellybutton for a moment, her right hand sliding up over her nipple, unrestricted. She tried to conjure up an image of him, freshly showered, newish haircut, his eyes dark and a bulge in his pants, slowly undressing her, tenderly kissing the whiteness of her throat. Her body lay still, unresponsive.
She ground her teeth together. Was there any use to foreplay, anyway? Would she even bother, or would she just drag him down onto a table top somewhere, rip off his pants, and climb on top of him, rattling cups and spoons and whatever was in them to the floor. Hadn't she had enough foreplay for one human being?
Wasn't that what she was doing now?
She felt sick with the edginess of giving in to her body. Always before she was not concerned with her fantasies at night. She knew that humans used fantasy for sexual pleasure, that for her it was a far safer venue than the actual thing, especially given who she was and where. She had fucked him many, many times, at night, with her fingers inside herself and her tongue pushing her bottom lip down. She didn't feel guilt at that - and knew he was probably doing the same. So what was different this time?
"...so you can see her...sucking on my pencil...," there was something too mean about that sentence, too crass and obvious for someone like him. As though he wanted to hurt her. As though he was hurt.
That was why she couldn't abandon herself tonight to his spectre, why his presence intruded on her imagination. He wanted her, but not necessarily the way she wanted him. He wanted her and it felt like a lesser thing, somehow. Juvenile. Hurtful.
When her hand reached her nipple it was not erect and she moaned in despair. Her body was thrumming, angry and taut - starting to fill with guilt even though she stared at that guilt and swore at it and brought up every single Naomi Klein argument she could think of. She thought of other men, even, in desperation, of Jonas. But she had conditioned her body over time to respond most quickly and most ardently to his image. A far safer venue, the imagination - but it had its drawbacks.
"Oh for Christ's sake," she muttered, and threw off the blankets. Then took off her clothing as well.
Uncovered, it went a bit better. Uncovered, the new chill of evening touched her body and stroked her nipples with its frosty touch, and they hardened. She looked down at them appreciatively. Would it be stupid to thank Mother Nature for making her more in the mood? Maybe. She should be committed. Most people (she realized she was thinking of men when she said people, and corrected herself fiercely), went home, took off their clothes, and went at it until they were satisfied. But oh no, not Samantha Carter. She had to make it hard.
Well, was masturbation all about just getting off? Couldn't she just lie here and stroke herself quietly, play across the belly of her skin and upper thighs with fingertips like spiders legs, just touching the downy invisible hair, swirling and nearly-but-not-quite touching her pubis? She remembered doing this since childhood, running her fingers softly over her body, calming and soothing herself at night before she fell asleep. It had not turned to true masturbation for several years but even now the familiar pattern of her fingers touching herself delicately, lovingly, allowed her libido to stop gnashing its teeth and enjoy for awhile. She had never had a lover that had done that, explored her skin without eventually heading - usually sooner than later - for 'the good stuff'. There was a difference between getting off and getting pleasured. And not enough men knew the difference. Sweaty torsos, pinching fingers rubbing the wrong spot for three seconds before climbing on top. Then a cursory bump and grind, thank you and good night. Often without the thank you.
Could that be why she was having trouble now? Because Jack's comment this afternoon was like a warning that he would, in real life, be just like the rest of them, a roll, a quickie? And that was the fear which was hampering her now?
She sighed quietly in the darkness. She couldn't tell people that she analyzed fucking herself. Even Janet would think it was daft.
Without her noticing, her fingers started to circle closer and closer to her centre. The thrumming at her crotch nipped at her conscience. She was angry; angry that she couldn't separate Jack from love and sex and make them three separate things. To get off and then get on with her life.
In retaliation she slid the fingers of her left hand underneath her, cupping her bottom, stroking the inside labia with her middle and forefinger. The right hand continued to circle and knead her pubis and clitoris. In her mind she put Jack behind her, she on all fours with her head on a pillow, arched and wanton. He pushed violently into her, goring her, but she didn't care. She couldn't see his face - there was no need to mask wanting to have that done to her. And she wouldn't see his face twisting into some tinny substitute of love that he thought she would want to see but would only make him look stupid and childish. That was good. She moved a finger in and out of her cunt in a steady, tender rhythm. The fingers on her clit moved only a fraction of inch now, pushing steadily in a small circle around the hood.
He started to move faster and so did she, pushing upwards off the mattress. Her nipples tingled and she moved her right hand to one, pinching it hard, pulling it out, coating it with the secretions of her own body. The tight tingly feeling streaked downwards and she pushed two fingers into herself, still stroking evenly, gently. He could not stay in her mind now because he was becoming too excited and would not be able to keep the steady rhythm she needed. She banished him and concentrated instead on the feeling of her hands spreading herself, the throbbing of her crotch under her fingers, the shooting spasms of pleasure. She did that for awhile, moving her hand to her clit and massaging it and then up to her nipple, one then the other, while beneath her, her other hand fucked mercilessly, genially. The warmth of her body radiated outwards. Jack was nowhere. Just her and pleasure.
She was losing coherency though, rushing faster and faster towards orgasm. The anger was falling away but not all the way, it still clung to her in spots, made her grind downwards on the bed onto the palm that cupped her buttocks. She wished she had a third hand to pull and worry and pinch her nipples because it was becoming harder and harder to get her hand to leave her clit and travel upwards. Instead she settled on letting their wanting escape through her vocal cords.
For a moment there was motion under her eyelids - he had come back to watch. She held her breath, her fingers on her clit moving fast, stroking hard, her other hand beneath her, enclosed between her legs, three fingers now deeply penetrating herself.
Stay. Stay, she panted. He did, his eyebrows arching delicately, 'what's this?' and she opened her legs as wide as they would go, pushed her fingers in as deeply as she could, pressing the hard nub of her G-spot, the sensation of urinating present then passing quickly and she very, very high off the ground. The urge to give voice to it, to the anger and sex, became unbearable and a moment later she withdrew her hand from beneath her and drove her forefinger into her mouth, sucking herself off the digit so that she wouldn't scream out loud as she cameandcameandcame again.