You’re looking at two persons 4 almost decades old a piece fuck.
She can run a 6 minute mile, but he can’t climax without her nails digging into his throat.
Maybe you’re only cumming half as hard you should because your wife, lovely woman, has to white knuckle her cankles to keep balance when they should be reaching for your jugular?
We all have our own discriminate peculiarities.
It’s not dangerous or unduly painful, but sometimes he has to wear a scarf to work.
Repeatitivity is an issue.
Bruising turns into abrasions.
Lies have been told to submerge the truth.
Considering this beast with two backs in process is wearing a groove into their antique bath tub, the aquatic environs should mean that Mark is be able to selfsmother himself by reclining under the surface, but this tireless crusader has always counterinsisted that that’s not the sort of rush he’s after from a mode of powerless he desires to give in towards unwholesomely. Her otherwise almost perfect Husband claims that the cranked up thrill from almost nearly being murdered is about putting his life in a girl’s hands he doesn’t completely trust. Which is when she should start wondering why he doesn’t trust her, and what life with this person would more wonderfully feel like if he did trust her? Aren’t relationships supposed to be built on trust? At least that’s the garbage Federation psychologists, therapists and councilors keep peddling to all the short bus rubes who will put up with any psychoprattle as long as there’s a prescription for something strong at the other end of all that holier than thou ranting, but truthfully what turns a bedroom into a gymnasium for Mark is fear. His pupils shrink to pinpricks and all the blood in his body rushes to a different prick 90 centimeters south from where he blinks. Universally, fear is why the stronger sex are gah-gah for getting head. Fear of cannibalism. Boys believe there’s some deranged universe where that carnivorous eventuality is a possibility, and that that infinitesimal possibility is hawt because it’s only their natural musk keeping their todger tethered to their taint, that a woman continuing to felate is slightly more enjoyable than taking a small snack! The anticipation winding up to climax as a girl’s face is bobbing around down there is not shouldering the art of mixing moisture versus friction priming an orgasm, god no, who the hell is afraid of ecstasy? It’s actually a pathology about forcibly repressing the seething terror that “she” is going to bite down and take it. Stop rolling your eyes when I’m telling you facts …Which if you had never figured it out, is also why men only ever initiate sex after a meal, it’s not because this is how they (we) historically once paid for a leg over per the social contract and common courteousy, but that (all) men have to make sure proof positive that there’s no more room still in her tummy for yet more than a tablespoon of human DNA before she parts her teeth and beckons entry. Every second that a gent’s handsome tallywacker is hidden inside a sex opponent like a toothbrush after those hard to reach places is giddying like perpetually almost falling off an unsteady stool, and only Love, love damnit, and a lack of appetite keeps everything conveniently where god left it. Women on the other hand, simple creatures, have orgasms that are actually worth putting up with men, men’s insecurities and men’s sick needs, men, men, men. Maybe that means that female orgasms are more potent, or that women are far more annoying than men. Toss a frakking coin, but this is nice. Two old people, almost 40, it’s disgusting, doing it like forty isn’t the finish line? NO! This isn’t no causal lark. They’re submersibly making life, which is so unusual for this planet, that the sex which they are engaged in is real intercourse and not regular outtercourse, now that contraceptive baring act of god is %100 foolproof, because man and wife here are trying to make a baby, and every pelvic volley feels %160 more real, %380 more honest and %600 more likely to ruin their lives forever, because there are no safety nets, and the happy couple happily coupling certainly ain’t hampered by none of those useful hormone tinkering drugs that jams the production line early on, there is no goalie guarding her net, no cork in his cannon, and for all her talk aboard starships that the service men and service women and service things functioning under her are like her real “family” during those patriotic rants to make sure no one runs from the Romulans advance, has become all bosh compared to tea cup of spunk Mark is winding up to hurl into underneath her pubic area as soon as he blacks out from eight pounds per square inch of pressure flattening his esophagus into a concave ignition switch dent.
One day, light asphyxiation is not going to be enough, but hopefully by then they’ll be sleeping in separate beds.
That, thank god, is Future-Kathryn’s problem.
Present-day-Kathryn is busy living up to past-Kathryn’s promises.
Carrying on the Johnson line.
DAMN YOU PAST-KATHRYN!
It has been 3 months since Mark turned Kathryn into a treadmill to kickstart his fatherhood fantasies, and after abstaining like a good girl from two years in the Beta Quadrant, this was the sort of regularity she needed to remind her body that it can make fireworks, but they were beginning to wonder where their damn baby was? A Doctor talked about if there were any obvious problems after some vicious probes investigated the Johnsons like they were a bloody good book, dismissing their concerns that something medical was afoot, which is when this medical professional suggested that medically they investigate the additional referral of a medical holographic medical sexual medical surrogate? Medical, medically to teach them how to shtup. Kathryn shot down any notion about using a default Zimmerman template, since 8 months of that face representing her primary physician was the root of enough of her nightmares but Mark was providing a poor pokerface about other templates, maybe a blond Klingon’s or a Deltan he enquired, or someone famous from sports or politics? She said Zephram Chochrane, and he named some post modern 4d film teenage ingénue to his misuses disgust which earned Mark the sort of slap she usually saved for when the dog pissed on their rug. Kathryn dismantled this cheaters loophole by awarding her dutiful husband with a diminutive pool that If he was interested in a sexual surrogate, for purely medical reasons, to help them medically, making sure he hit the right hole, she was positive he had been hitting the right hole, this wasinsane to think that she didn’t already know every thing there was to know about sex from trial and error and bumping around under the covers for the last quarter century… Although sometimes it’s quite dark and suddenly there’s very little difference between a vagina and an elbow… He was allowed to pick any male character in the database he wanted, however the only female welcome in their bedroom was another Kathryn Johnson, but make her 10 years older with an obviously bigger bottom, otherwise he can sleep on the settee for the rest of his life.
(Why not just get holographic children? It’s all the rage? You can clock up all the big experiences in a fraction of the time and skip over all the bullshit, and then just save the recycle the file for photon economy. The alternative means giving up caffeine for nine months. She’s not sure mark could survive that. Kathryn would have to punch him the face just to get out of bed every morning.)
The entire sexual surrogate experiment was a wash after examples of extramarital fornication you figuratively have no interest in listening to, but lets just say that Mark and a young Hirakaru Sulu were discovered bare chested sword fighting when Kathryn was supposed to be out to lunch, after-which things got heated about what “defined” cheating, and that if she thought he was going to back down from the opportunity to hump a fantastically beautiful person just because that fantastically beautiful person happened to be a man, then she should listen to his drinking stories form college a little more carefully, and really how is having sex with a male hologram any different than having sex with a female hologram, or for the matter a holographic birdhouse, since it’s all most likely going to be the same photons clutching his pork sword moistly? Kathryn squawked furiously that he would be forgiven if he would knock one out in a bird house, but Mark was afraid of splinters.
That hootenanny was all stress for Past-Kathryn, best left in the past and long since resolved, and she currently loves this man more than Starships... Not that the memory of her poor dear Voyager’s crumpling flaming hull skidding into the front doormat of the celestial temple and snapping it’s keel didn’t make her wince... I should explain.
Two years ago this unstoppable woman single handedly castrated the Maquis threat with one brave stroke. Per her geniuses military direction, (still then) Janeway’s curt tactical officer entrenched within an enemy mine relayed his position, emptied their terrorist scum hard drives, took key prisoners and escaped with prisoners in hand for later advanced interrogation as two tricolbot devices were used to mop up the other millions of terrorists as well as the planet underneath which they had been standing on which was parked a vast yet highly unformidable Maquis fleet of scrappy junkers which would have added unnecessary years to this volatile disagreement between citizen and government. Politically the Maquis were fair targets according to the rules of engagement, no matter how temporarily they were positioned noncombatively or possibly even “sleeping”. It was a fair cop. They collectively endangered the Federation way of life, therefore the continued existence of these retched unwashed agitators was literally unsustainable if common decent people still had the strength to smother their marginal difference of opinion. Stop looking at me like that! I’m righteous! Janeway was righteous! The Federation was righteous! Goliath probably had a good damn reason to eat David. You don’t build planet busters, unless there are military operations that call for planets to be busted. Have you never heard of general order 24? The Maquis had, and still they thought war on the Federation was a good idea even though they were fully aware that the Federation blew up planets when they were in danger of losing a moral argument.
So after the celebrated megacide, the hailed conquerors retuned, beloved Mark Johnson was waiting on Deep Space Nine for his auburn haired delight with a surprise wedding party. Kathryn would have just been happy for a victory zero-gee-zero-clothing tussle. Endorphins have to go somewhere. But that smug bastard would declare mere sex as a half measure for pussies, so instead went all in with love and faith and commitment, and put a ring on that claw. The Groom paid off the right people to flood DS9’s promenade with flowers, and the late Commander Sisko, who was also some kind of local deity, which had to be 10 shades of a Prime Directive violation, officiated the ceremony even as she was still wet and driven hard from travel, since Mister Johnson had finally caught his Starfleet Widow flat footed between emergencies and forced her to accept a prepackaged and homogenized happily ever after finally whether she could stomach it or not… Which was the very end and demise of (Captain) Kathryn Janeway and genesis of the Irrepressible (Commodore) Kathryn Johnson. Taking his name is quaint, but at least she didn’t have to get anything remonogrammed. Kathryn might have struggled to think if she did have anything that is monogrammed? Sometimes the replicators did it automatically to be cute. “Johnson” formerly “Janeway” did not like cute, since cute always got stuck in her fangs.
The huge black man said “man and wife” and that was that.
Cementing this catastrophe couldn’t‘ve come clearly so complete if that Paris kid hadn’t been such a cocky asshat and sent half the wedding cake off to the chained to a wall Maquis prisoners of war in the brig stewing in their own funk & defeat, which put a 40 thousand watt spotlight on how the good law-abiding folk upstairs were dancing on their blasted boon buddies burials like cackling maniacs. No frakking respect. In retrospect the commission of enquiry to the disaster wondered if it was a Revolutionary France joke which was far too on the nose for good taste to condone after you remember the man’s surname, but deciding the little cock who had a moon sized ego’s sentence of his conviction generated from these events believed that Paris was a poor winner who criminally excited a riot the blonde little shit should never see the light of day no matter who his damn parents are. Think about how he poked the bear (DON’T POKE THE BEAR!), you’re in a tiny cell built holographically on a deck usually reserved for dip-willed manchildren where they act out their sexual fantasies about Revenging Vulcan love Slaves… Whatever happens on the holodeck might stay in the holodeck, but the Maqis were STAYING in the holodeck, kipping down on the sediment of a thousand poorly hosed down/off orgies, and as far as they were concerned the entire sex-dungeon/literal-dungeon is rank with the stink of wankers they despise splooging in every conceivable direction, and then insult to injury, they’re given cake to a party they are not invited to! It was beyond the pail! If Tom Paris hadn’t antagonized that surly mob into a homicidal mob, they probably would have just snuck off when everyone’s drunk heads were turned by the happiest day of Kathryn Johnson’s life, but they were not in the mood for slinking. The Maquis violently and quickly turned Deep Space Nine into the house of a thousand corpses after their true secret leader and also, as a charming coincidence, Ds9’s Head of Security was revealed as the twofaced despot running the entire criminal terrorist organization because he unlocked their fastenings and led his motley rabble to storm Voyager, seize control of the half pint star ship, and bulldoze Deep Space Nine into a collision with the maw of the Bajoran Wormhole terribly misalignedly that only half of it made it all the way inside the Prophet’s porch somewhat explosively which raked and gutted the walls of the tunnel forcing a collapse that was probably going to be spitting peculiar aftermaths into space time for the next 47 generations, before these convicts ran away with their intrepid prize under the command of righteous political dissidents just asking for it for all of 3 minutes, before the USS Gandhi blew Voyager into atoms, and out of space into a blazing hulk that followed the space station gurgling down the drain of the winking busted wormhole into a billion billion pieces of absolute Humpty Dumpty grade mess and clutter that not all the kings plumbers could put back together again.
Immediate reflection from all was concise & mirrored universally: “Fuck.”
The smiting of the wormhole and the end of all the trade possibilities with the other side of the galaxy did seem like a colossal backslide as far as Bajor was concerned that that planet seemed to nearly immediately become just as unimportant and backwater as it had always supposed to have been the year before, before the short cut was discovered, no bloody use to anyone, left to wallow in their own dank disgruntled devices. So there it was, the loss of a key Star ship, the Gamma Quadrant and a 40 year old Cardassian piece of crap salute to their inflated sense of proportion on one hand, and the absolute removal of the lone thorn in the paw of Federation harmony in the other. From a PR point of view, there was no choice but to ignore the black eye and Orwellianly declare young Kathryn the total all out victor, even though it was Tom Riker who gunned Voyager down while she was drifting in an escape pod wondering how someone could have boosted her ship, but real actual human beings get uppity, writing letters to their newsfeed when transporter clones get medals and parades as if they think they’re people, when there are undeserving actual people near by who can steal credit. Johnson was promoted to Commodore immediately, and in his absence (due to death.) she was given Sisko’s mission to civilize the Bajoran frontier and over see the fast tracked construction of Starbase 4132 that had plans to always be on the other side of the sun from where the minefield of turbulent space time was acting up that subsisted of a immense wormhole alive graveyard (You do not build your house on top of a worm hole alien burial ground.) which brings us to present day where the bath tub is that the coitus is happening. Oh no, happened. He’s spent. Game over, that lads going to be asleep in thirty seconds, so Kathryn better remember to pull the plug before he drowns.
Old people. They can’t come anywhere.
She’s buggered, that means “tired” or “exerted” in this context, hardly caring that as she stands up any chance of a baby is running down her leg. Kathryn reaches for a towel while trying as elegantly as impossible to dismount from her husband, and pivot towards where she thinks she left her book from last night, leaving poor dumb Mark to marinate in their slick wetspot. But for what it’s worth this w.o. m-a-n is proud enough to pat herself on the back for a job well done if it wasn’t the height of arrogance which is when Johnson first noticed the angry Admiral glaring at her 6 feet from where Mark just sealed the deal… But should she be insulted? He’s keeping eye contact, furiously so, there’s almost smoke billowing out his cornea. Clearly she should feel insulted because Kathryn has been promised that her completely exposed boobs are fantastic for a woman half her age yet her stalker doesn’t seem to care or notice...
“WHERE WERE YOU???!!!!”
How odd. Apparently she was supposed to be somewhere important? Johnson decides to drop the towel. It’s hard to do jujitsu and remain bashful at the same time. Shame is for losers. Besides, he has to check out her goods eventually and then the curvy commodore can call him a pig where-after all will be right in the universe, because she’s beautiful and he’s another creepy misogynist. Talk about the Queen of the win-win situation.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat the Question?”
WERE [/BYOU[/B]??!!” The highly decorated prowler repeats while shaking a fist for effect.
The stark C.O. of Starbase 4132 decides in future that it would be good to keep a phaser in her bedside table from now on. “You must excuse me, I don’t seem to have my social calendar with me at the moment” She cups her left tit, lifts it overcompensating for 3 and a half decades of gravity until the nipple is level with her shoulder so that hunching slightly Kathryn can now see under where the flesh usually rests “It’s not down in here.”
“Oh? Are you naked?”
Her brow furrows. “Yes. I do happen to be completely naked. If my husband wasn’t sleeping I’m guessing that right about now is when he would punch you in the nose for being fresh, but I guess we’re 30 seconds from me taking matters into hand myself unless... ” She tilts her head, because the Commodore has no idea who this invader is or how he got past security and if her life is in how much danger, but this here reeks of magic cosmic woogy.
The tall man with a full head of hair in command red strides over to the tub past the angry nude to inspect her prize, a soup comprised mostly of lightly snoring man. “You married this? Oh Kathy…” He admonishes “You could have done so much better. There are some kings I know of a few extremely affluent galaxies, I could have made introductions. Why sell yourself short?”
She changes tack. “Where was I? You did ask me where I was? Well, I was here.” With the same flare you would expect from a spokesmodel on The Price is Right, her toned arms rise quite high, then each of her hands swish left and right a couple times to articulate the fact of the matter that she had been proximate “Just hanging about here, doing nothing special other than holding the Federation together with shear force of will. Have you met the Cardassians? This has been my Year of Hell.”
This makes the stranger smile. “Well that’s just a pointless waste of time! You’re not supposed to be here
, you’re supposed to be out there” The mad-man gestures at a random direction “and you’ve ruined everything. Q is livid! You were supposed to let him out of that comet a week ago so that he could kill himself. You’re late! And you clearly seem to be way off course and have no intention of living up to your larger expectations as a smaller being, I don’t know what to do with you sometimes Kathy. You are a worry.”
This person might still be an escaped mental patient, but things could also be taking a turn for the worse “Did you say that Q would be livid? Does that mean that you’re not Q? Are you Q? Aren’t you all Q?”
“Humans! I always expect so much from you but… Yes, Kathy, we are old friends who have had so many adventures together and…” Aghast a little that she could have forgotten him “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“You’re Q? Or you think that you’re Q.”
“I assure you that we are best friends! I surprise you in your bedroom all the time, it’s sort of our thing.”
“Of course I am. Right, wait… You’re not omniscient? You’re not omniscient! Sorry. It’s just that you’re practically surrounded by prophets right now, sneaky invisible little critters, so I assumed that a little bit of that was rubbing off on you, but this disaster is starting to make a little more sense to me now… Kathryn Janeway, this is not your life!”
“Really? Oh well. Captain Johnson! This is not your life!”
“Good grief. I think I’m lucky at this point that you’re not wearing a trim little van dyke, but you get the point that this is not your life Kathryn, you’re sure it’s still Kathryn? Well, what ever you think your name is, there is something terribly wrong with space time and we should probably put it right for the greater good.”
“No.” Johnson buckles down.
“The universe is fine. “
“No it is not. Q is still alive and he’s about to throw a tantrum, and then there is no war and you don’t get to wear the fancy hoop dress and I don’t become a father and… To you from where you are standing the future must seem complicated.”
“I’d rather shoot you than be involved in your…” (Cringe.) “Sexuality
“Shooting me I assure you would leave me unphased.”
“I am not having a baby with you. I’m barely having a baby with him” She points at Mark oblivious to this congress between God and a couple steps up from your basic package mortal. “but you sir can check your business area at the door as far as all this” With a sweep of her fingers she points to every inch of her assets, balls each fist, then heroically plants them on her kidneys and completes her indignant flood of belligeration ”Because you’re an arrogant weirdo who makes my blood run cold.”
Q smiles ear to ear. “Frankly that’s where we always begin negotiations.”
“You’re not funny. I need some god damned trousers; I’m going to catch my death of cold in here. Computer! Turn the thermostat up 3 degrees.”
“When there’s something wrong in this corner of the Universe it’s always your fault or Jean Luc, but this temporal upsidedowning is very you
“Upsidedowning? Is that a technical term?” Johnson accepting that the threat of murder or rape is about nil at this point opens a cupboard to find the appropriate underclothing starched to a dire firmness which her rank demands. Presents a foot into the brief leggings of the regulation issue fleet brand boxers, flops backward onto her queen sized bed like a scuba diver into the ocean, points her toes toward the ceiling, and pulls the course material down over her ankles, calves, thighs and snuggly berthing the apparel into her respectable buttocks so that Kathryn is half way there to beginning to feel like a lady again.
“I’m not the enemy here!”
Back on her feet Kathryn reaches for a bra, then her command red under skivvy and finally the one piece uniform which determines that she is better than almost everyone.
“I’m talking down to you because I have to, and sometimes I might accidentally talk a little too far down” This Q creature continues on and on and one “I’m actually still amazed that your species isn’t afraid of fire or the sun vanishing at night time. GOOD FOR YOU!”
Now that everything that is supposed to be private between the Johnsons is sealed in for freshness “If you’re omniscient, it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing, I’m always naked? Right?”
He shrugs his shoulders because she’s really not talking about anything important.
Gods might be worse than men, she must remember to tell the rest of the women in the sector at the next meeting. Gods are real, and they’re all repulsive morons.
“Get your head out of the gutter; I’m talking fate of the universe, not your progressive and enlightened lack of a wardrobe. You have things to do essential to the ongoing integrity of the Q Continuum, so Kathy, you should hop to it before the… Where’s Voyager?”
“Oh that just will not do. That will not do at all.”
The sound of Q snapping his fingers precursors a miracle you can hear about later.