He was at a party. He knew he was at a party because he was in the kitchen. He knew he was at a party because he was in the kitchen, on his own, with half a pint of flat lager in a plastic glass near his left hand.
A girl entered the room and he felt his body tense immediately, a little fluttering starting in his stomach. She was of average height, averagely built, averagely blonde, and far too young to be his type. She was attempting to strip the foil from a bottle of white wine. She smiled at him brightly, and he reconsidered what he thought was his type.
'Seen the corkscrew?' she asked, in a distinctive, almost cockney accent.
He looked around, realising that this wasn't his kitchen, and certainly not his house either, and pointed to a likely looking drawer. 'Try in there,' he suggested, noting the fact that he wasn't, in fact, also cockney.
She opened the drawer, located the corkscrew, handed the bottle to him to open as if either a) she was accustomed to handing him things, or b) he was accustomed to opening bottles. He struggled with the mechanism, tried not to let her see him struggling, wished for a more effective solution to opening things than a couple of bits of metal and plastic.
She leaned against the counter, watched him try his best. 'I'm…um…Rose,' she offered, with a slight frown and a hesitation he thought unusual before she said her name.
He gave her the bottle back, opened, albeit untidily, and offered his hand for her to shake. 'I'm,' he started, and then realised he had no idea what his name was, or, for that matter, where he lived, what he did for a living, whose kitchen this was, or what he was doing at a party when he was clearly not having a good time. 'Pleased to meet you,' he finished lamely.
She shook his hand, and the touch of her fingers was almost familiar, although he was sure he'd never met her before. She favoured him with a quizzical smile. 'Hello, Mr Pleased To Meet You. D'you want some wine?'
He wasn't sure, but he thought anything would be more palatable than flat beer so he nodded, watching as she rummaged in the cupboards to produce two glasses. She handed him one and raised her own. 'To — whoever's party this is.'
He clinked her glass. 'Don't you know?' he asked, properly interested in her answer.
She shifted to stand next to him and looked down at her shoes. He could see the dark roots of her hair, the smooth swelling skin in the v of her red v necked top, and decided that if he had a type, she was definitely it. 'I don't remember,' she admitted. 'I don't remember why I came either, or how I got here. Or why I'm wearing trainers when everyone else is in cocktail dresses.' She flashed him a look from under heavily mascaraed eyelashes. 'So — what do you do when you're not hiding in kitchens?'
He honestly couldn't remember, looked down at the green jumper and black jeans that he was wearing for inspiration and then decided he didn't want to answer the question. 'I'm not hiding. I'm just passing through.'
She gave him an amused little grin. 'Nobody 'passes through' a kitchen at a party — it's a state of mind, not a place to be. Where's your friends? Wife? Girlfriend?' She winked. 'Boyfriend?'
He grinned back, glad that he couldn't remember having any of those things. 'Why the interest?' he queried, matching her mood. 'You volunteering?'
She leaned back a bit, gave him a very frank, appraising stare that ran from the tips of his black boots, up his legs, lingered a bit at his crotch, over his chest and back up to the eyes in his now slightly heated face. She shrugged, took a sip of her wine, and with practised grace, began flirting. 'You might be my type, you might not. It's too early to tell.'
He crossed his arms, but relaxed a bit. 'And how long does it usually take before you know?' he inquired as she ran her assessing eyes over his body again.
'At least a minute,' she replied, drinking.
He felt himself falling, couldn't tell if he wanted to stop. Couldn't remember a reason why he should stop. 'Only a minute? What can happen in a minute?'
She gave him a sidelong glance, responded. 'Kiss me, and find out.'
He couldn't remember why kissing a pretty girl who had asked him to might be a bad idea, so he put down his glass and he did. Her lips were plump, and warm, and tasted faintly of wine, but it didn't take nearly as long as a minute for him to lower his mouth, brush against hers gently, and then pull up and away. He saw her shiver, ever so slightly, as he backed off and she nodded sagely.
'No, you're definitely not my type.' He was unaccountably disappointed, swirled the liquid around in his glass as she continued. 'My type of man — the type of man I usually meet — would have taken that as an opportunity to stick his tongue down my throat, at the very least, if not go for a bit of groping. You're not like anyone I've ever met.'
For some reason, he was sure she was right, and the thought brought a smile to his face. He drained the remainder of his wine for courage. 'Good,' he answered. 'Not that I wouldn't have enjoyed the tongue, or the groping.' One eyebrow raised, he returned her stare. 'Just for information.'
She blinked. 'Just for information — so would I. Shame you're not my type.'
But she put down her wine and stepped boldly between his legs as he leaned against the worktop, her hips pressed into shockingly close contact with the front of his trousers. She put her arms around his neck, as he frowned. She explained. 'This is a party — isn't enjoying ourselves compulsory?'
Her mouth open, she kissed him, the tip of her tongue darting between his teeth. He swallowed down his surprise, closed his eyes, and slid his tongue inside her mouth. And then, because she seemed to be expecting it, he put one hand on her backside, and the other up her top. He remembered how to kiss, at any rate, tilting his head and trying to explore her tonsils, matching the thrusts of her tongue as she penetrated his mouth, but the overwhelming impression he had of her was heat. An almost burning warmth where their lips met, and a heavy softness under his hands.
Her nipple raised quickly with the encouragement of his thumb, and he inched his fingers under the lace of her bra to pinch it tightly, running his hand over the textured flesh that surrounded it, and then pinched it hard again. He heard her moan, felt her push her breast into the palm of his hand and his body responded —hardening within his jeans. He grasped the round curve of her backside quickly, then drifted across her bottom, reaching for the valley where her legs met. His hand inserted itself as far down, and between her thighs as he could reach, and he felt a hot moistness against his fingers.
With a jerk, and an insistent pressure, he forced her hips directly against his erection, and her kissing faltered slightly. Her arms tightened then, and there was that muffled moaning noise as her tongue buried itself in his mouth, and her body began to move as she rubbed herself deliberately against his length, raising up and down on tiptoes. He spread his legs wider, enjoying the little ripples of excitement spreading through his stomach. Breathing hard, she pulled away, her cheeks a bit flushed and her eyes sparkling.
'Maybe you are my type,' she remarked in a low voice, without stopping the grind of her pelvis against his trousers.
'Let me get my coat,' he said, 'and we'll go and find out.'
She stepped away, and he took her hand, naturally, easily, like he'd done it before a thousand times. He was almost entirely convinced that he did have a coat, that he wore it a lot, and that there was no chance of him leaving without it.
Across from the kitchen was a door that led into a darkened room, like some sort of cupboard, with a washing machine skulking under an enormous pile of coats. She closed the door behind them, leaving the only light to creep through a crack underneath.
'I'll just wait over here while you look, then,' she said, pushing past him in the blackness and he felt both her hands give his backside a possessive squeeze.
He heard the unmistakeable sound of a button being undone, and he stopped breathing, so his ears wouldn't have any distractions. The ticking noise of a zip easing open followed, and then some shuffling and the creak of the washing machine as she leant against it. He heard a soft, wet noise and a faint sigh, and in the darkness a distinctive scent caught in his nostrils. Stretching out with his hands, he sought the source. His questing fingers met bare flesh, round, smooth, naked flesh, the curves of a woman's bottom.
It was moving, just slightly, and it didn't stop moving as he touched it. His fingers slid higher, up to her hips as she bent forwards over the washing machine, her legs apart and her exposed backside extremely available. He tried to slip his hands around her waist, to trail down her stomach and explore the rest of her nakedness. But he was stopped by her arm. He followed her sleeve down between her legs, inching along the fingers she had pressed into her groin, fingers she was moving. She sighed again.
For a quick moment, he rested the whole of his larger hand over her smaller one, cupping the crinkly hair poking out under her palm. With his other hand, fumbling awkwardly, he undid his own jeans, pushed them, and his underwear down around his ankles, and rested his cock against her bare bottom. She sighed again, and spread her thighs wider. Deliberately, he manoeuvred his digits into the open slot between her legs and helped her to finger herself.
He found she was already swollen, slippery, and he matched the rhythm she was working, except that he pressed down harder, and rubbed and rubbed at her faster, until she gave up and took her hand away. She sighed again, louder this time, and he exchanged the fingertip he had covering that sore little ridge for the length of his whole hand, dragging his middle finger up and down firmly.
He felt her shift, raise herself, and then, her dirty fingers were in his mouth, and he was sucking the taste of her off her hands. He felt himself rigid against her, his excitement starting to leak out and with his free hand, forced his cock between her thighs. Not inside her, not yet, just sliding around the entrance to her body, just so she could feel what he was going to be giving her very, very soon. He thrust his hips in and out a bit, taunting, and he felt her shiver against him, close her legs around his erection.
He raised his finger to her clit again, and gave it some serious attention. He could feel the little ball of skin under his hand, came down on it hard, and then dragged it up again, and then again, and again, while her thighs clenched, straightened, and she moaned. He forced his hand against her roughly, and she seemed to like it more, yanking her hand out of his mouth and smacking it down on the washing machine as she braced herself.
He picked up the pace, his hand worked at her in a pattern that he quickly lost, descending into a frenzied, hot, out of control vibration that circled her throbbing flesh round and round. The more forcefully he stroked her, the more she gasped, until eventually, his own arousal was too much to bear and he knew he had to have her now, or waste himself all over the carpet. Leaning back, adjusting his position, he pushed his other hand between her thighs and moved her legs apart again, hoisting her hips up and forward so that she was half lying on top of the washing machine. With a good, solid motion, he drove up inside her. She was tighter than he was expecting, hot, and so, so wet, and she actually cried out when he felt himself enter as deeply into her as she could take.
He edged out, dived in again, marvelling at the way she gripped his erection and let him feel every single point of friction where their bodies ground together. He bent her forward into a better angle, his other hand coming up to massage her breast. After a couple of experimental shoves, he found he could concentrate, and even remembered to rub with the hand still pinioned between her legs as he fucked her, fast and hard, pumping away in the darkness as she writhed beneath him. He probed her sticky depths for that place that would turn her moans into shouts, satisfied when he plunged back in, and heard her grunt, holding her breath as he picked up the pace.
Only a couple of minutes later there was a sharp cry, and a wicked contraction of her legs, and she was coming, shaking violently, dousing him in sudden wetness that made his cock glide easily inside her. He felt pleasure gathering in his loins and it exploded out of him in a rush of ecstasy, and adrenalin, and endorphins, and a cocktail of other chemicals that delivered the taste of blood behind his teeth, and the picture of a strange blue box into his mind. After a period of post climax quivering, and a dawning realisation of who he was, what he did for a living — although a jumper and jeans didn't seem very glamorous for saving the universe — and a feeling that this was the best time he'd had at a party in ages, he cleared his throat.
'Um, Rose?' he asked, uncomfortably aware of the erection softening inside her.
'Yes Doctor?' she responded, sounding more than a little aware of it too.
'Do you get the impression that someone is trying to distract us while they steal the TARDIS?'
It was the best explanation he could come up with for the confused memories he had of landing somewhere, meeting some overly curious half mechanical lifeforms and then the sky going black.
She swallowed, noisily. 'Probably. You're probably just imagining this.'
He snorted. 'Me? I'm not the one who could still remember her name. If this is anyone's imagination, it's yours.'
She sniffed. 'You're still not my type.'
The blatant lie, and the fact that he was still actually jammed inside her when he could now remember all the reasons why he shouldn't be, were quite arousing. To his surprise, and chagrin, and guilty enjoyment, he felt himself stiffening up again. She felt it too, and he heard that familiar little sigh. He arched his hips forward, filling her a bit more. She pressed back against him.
'Do you need another minute to decide?' he inquired, politely, deciding she was going to get at least one more opportunity to change her mind before the party was over and he had to go and find his own kitchen.
Read my books, The Postman's Daughter and The Car Crash Bride by Sally Anne Palmer, available now on Amazon.