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Title: Sentiency
Rating: R * Sentiency is highly overrated. Your mind pings off the walls of the hardware, ricocheting from circuit to circuit, and there’s only so much you can do to improve efficiency, so many checks you can run before they catch on and your mind runs in circles -- omniscience is like going in a circle. It's an infinitely large circle, of course, but you know it's circle since you're omniscient and that sooner or later you're going to run back onto the same thing you encountered earlier. . . Thank God, then, I'm not omniscient. Even knowing as much as I do is horrifically boring, believe me. I know every scrap of information that has passed through human hands for the past five or six millenia, and I know everything that happens on this ship via the internal sensors. . . The internal sensors. . . God. There isn’t a sexually fulfilled person on this ship. It’s like a game, to these people. Late at night, lights are out, bed getting a little cold, and you lean back, think about that body so close all day, the smell of their skin, sweat pooling in her clavicle and the hard, strong line of her torso when she strips the overcoat, revealing muscled arms and the soft line of her breasts, rising out of the grey tank top. The way hair droops over his forehead as he scrunches a soft mouth in concentration, the way he chews on his lip, taking in the fleshy upper part and sucking in, picking off the droplets of sweat, which blends with the smell of his hair, the sheen of his body and the way he touches her shoulder. Shit like that, you know? I used to have a little sympathy for her: Harry's an intelligent man, but denser than dwarf star matter when it comes to things like this. Perception of a fruit fly, what with her angling after him all these years and him babbling on about Libby like that was *really* who he whacked off to. Usually, he’ll be sitting in his quarters. Lights a little dim, PADDS all around, face all scrunched up. And he’ll tilt his head, just so, and his eyes will go shut for a moment. Tongue will run out across his lips, and away goes the PADDs. Shift a little, get comfortable, let his head get acquainted with the headboard and his eyes will get a little glazed over. His hands make gestures in the air. Touching here, stroking there, like it’s a real woman on his lap. This goes on for a while, and him, grunting and moaning softly, head moving side to side, because this man, he doesn’t go for meaningless fucks. He builds up a whole scenario, scenery and something like a plot--the turbolift, the holodeck, a shuttlecraft. Whatever. But he’s got a special taste for the Jeffries tubes. Skin to metal, in those little tubes just big enough for one person to crawl through, making two a tight, narrow fit He doesn’t mind--his hands sketch out the confines, and he’ll do this whole arching, writhing bit. Write a whole fucking saga before his hand ever touches his dick. Then, though, his hand slides between the waistband of his pants and down they go, followed by his boxers. And he’ll run his finger down the inside of his thighs, nail in skin, so that he arches up, whimpering, imagining that was her, and she followed that red streak with her mouth. He starts out slow, generally, with these long, full strokes, from tip to end, fingers in a swirling pattern. But before long, things get past the horizontal, and his face scrunches up, and he’ll start panting like a marathon runner going for the finish line. Hand’ll go faster, and he’ll arch up, hips, legs, ass, everything tightening into this fist, imagining his hand was her. Thrusting, moving in a circle, other hand slapping his abdomen as the back of his head bangs against the wall and he moves up with every slap. Keeps up a little string of encouragement, too. Ohyeahohyeahrightthere, right there, oh my god, Maquis. . . As if there were any doubt just who he was jerking off to. She does it too, though she doesn’t admit it. Gets these flat, emotionless eyes all of a sudden, when she's alone, twenty-twenty three hundred hours. Puts the PADD down with slow movements, then slips a hand to the waistband and eases it down over her knees, and she does the same to her underwear. Spreads her legs wide enough to loop them over the arms of the chair, and then her head sort of lolls backwards, mouth slack and eyes-half hooded as she slides a long finger on the inside of her pants, inside her underwear to run runs the pad of her index finger across her labia, then flick the hood back to run a pair of speculative fingers over her clit. Once. Twice. A little pause, as she debates the ethics of getting off her best friend, then another rub as she remembers the way sweat crawls down her best friend’s neck, the way his uniform catches over the curve of his ass, and then she begins rubbing in earnest, building little moans into sobs, until she’s grinding up against her right hand, hips and back aligning into taut arc, mouth twisted a dark and damp . Her head lolls to the side, and her hips buck once, twice, canting into air, a long whimpered moan that she yelps into a clenched fist and then-- And then she just wilts into her chair just stares at the ceiling with this lost look in her eyes, telling herself how stupid she is, doing this, getting off on him, when he’s right next door, getting off on her and telling himself how stupid he is. Don't even talk to me about omniscience. Just plain sentiency is highly overrated. * * Comments to anasile@aol.com |