Ten Thousand Year Old Stick
The day was pretty much uneventful, as had been yesterday, and the
day before that. With Aiden grounded for another two more days, Rodney
had requested that they all stay on this side of the 'gate so that
he could get some back-logged work finished. Not that he minded the
pseudo-vacation, but he was getting just a bit bored.
It was still rather early, but he figured that it was probably for
the best if he just went to bed, since everyone else was either too
busy to play or were already asleep themselves.
"Awh, gross!" Damn it. Something had found its way around
the calf area of his right pant leg, and it was sticky. "What
the heck is this stuff?" he wondered aloud, while tossing his
garments in the laundry bag and making his way to the sink. It took
a while before he was thoroughly satisfied that not a trace of whatever
it was could be felt on his hand. And after finishing up his nightly
regimen, John headed off for bed, anticipating nightly thoughts on
wraith killing, or maybe even home.
He went to bed four hours ago. Granted he wasn't exhausted at the
time, but he had been confident that sleep would have claimed him
Eventually should have happened already. John lifted his upper body
to punch his pillow a few times. As he was having difficulty getting
Toss. Suck in breath. Holy...
There was a reason for his being uncomfortable, and it had nothing
to do with his pillow, but everything to do with his head. Not the
one attached to his neck though. Looking down, in the barely lit room,
John could still see the well shaped tent, indicating how very turned
on he was.
His mind on the other hand was screaming at him on how turned on
he shouldn't be. Not with the thoughts he was currently running.
Sure, Wraith baiting was fun, but not that much fun. And Steve just
didn't do it for him.
As Wraith went, he was sure that Steve was one of the more good-looking
specimens of his species, possibly even GQ standard. But that shade
of blue just didn't do anything for him.
Turn. Groan in frustration.
One thing for sure was that his 'not little at all' problem wasn't
going away without any help. He made his way out of bed and headed
for his quarter's facilities.
The race that made the Stargate also knew a thing or two about plumbing.
Or maybe plumbing was a required skill in 'gate building. Whatever
the case was, they knew how to make an efficient water system with
instant hot water. A luxury he didn't have while living on Earth.
After setting the temperature to 'almost hot enough to rip your skin
off', he faced the cascading water with his eyes closed and his head
tilted back. Blindly grabbing the conditioner bottle, John squirted
a large amount in his hand. Up until now, he was cautious of rationing
all of his personal products. But this time, he really didn't care
even if he was using the last drop.
Bringing his left forearm up, and resting it against the wall in
front of him, the rest of his body followed to lean forward with the
added support. His forehead nestled into the crook of his arm, as
his conditioner-filled hand made its way down towards his insistent
His mind went to unforgiving places as he caressed his shaft, advancing
further down to give equal attention to the sack beneath. He bit his
lip as a desperate moan surfaced, his body urgently needing release.
John grunted, squeezed his eyes shut, and balled his left hand into
a tight fist. His right hand tightened around his straining cock,
as his imagination escaped reality freely.
He bit down on his lip all the more harder, surprised that he hadn't
drawn blood, knowing that he was about to cross the finish line. "Ah!"
Despite all attempts he couldn't help but voice his release.
In one final stroke, his eyes flew open, hoping that would stop him
from picturing the unattainable as his orgasm fervently plastered
the shower wall. But it didn't work. Even with his eyes wide open,
his mind still played out what he wanted as he came. What he needed.
He slid down onto his knees, his erection sitting at half mast, the
water cleaning the mixture away from his fingers and palm.
At home, he didn't care much of what had turned him on late at night,
but in Atlantis, his thoughts were dangerous.
To Be Continued