The fingertips come to brush over sensitive skin, sliding down his neck, his chest, his abdomen, and lower. His nerves spark.
Nothing has been like this.
Never has he felt these fingers on his body, these new fingers of the man he loves and hates so much. Never has he felt such dead fingers on his body, fingers that had such a short lifespan.
Never has he tried this, in all of his lifetimes. Never had the chance, never even thought of it.
The pads press flat against the flesh of his length, and slide down as he makes them. Stroking himself through them. Gentle, gradual, near teasing. Just as he imagined with the full body.
Eventually, the Master comes, and lays back on his bed with the severed hand laying motionless on the sheets.
If only the hand were still attached to the Doctor's body..