I hate the phrase "plot bunnies," but oh, they cannot be denied! So I offer you some new smut, a sequel to Pressure, which you should probably read… but I'll recap for you anyway, because I'm nice.
In Pressure, the Doctor gets shot in the groin by a device that literally replicates and inflates organic material – and replicates indefinitely, possibly causing rupture! He and Martha know, as do we all, what the best way is to relieve pressure in the groin. Martha is all too happy to oblige, of course, and when it's over, the Doctor is left feeling as though he'd like to reciprocate. And reciprocate and reciprocate. Later, he goes and speaks to Martha, telling her that if she said the word, they could have a happy, reciprocating kind of relationship…
I think this will be 2 chapters, unless I get really really inspired!
Fair warning: if you don't like a Domineering Doctor, don't go any further.
PART 1
If she was hearing this right, all she had to do was tell him when to open the floodgates, and he would be hers. He wanted to prove himself to her, take his time, do it right. What was she supposed to do, wait for a day when she couldn't stand it anymore, then say, "Take me, please?" And it brought up another problem.
"Doctor, when you do... prove yourself to me," she said quietly, trying very hard to hold his eye. "I'm going to want to, you know... prove myself right back to you. And then you'll want to again, and then... you see?"
"I know."
"I don't think this is something that you can prove in one shot."
"That's the idea," he said, and he smiled at her.
"And I'd need you to prove yourself when you're vertical, as well. During the day, with your clothes on."
"Yep. I can do that."
"And all I have to do is tell you when?"
"Yes. It's all up to you."
"Okay," she sighed. "Sometime in the next month, surprise me in my sleep."
"Surprise you in your sleep?"
"Yes. Sneak in here, crawl into bed, don't say a word. Just... let me see you for all your worth."
He liked this idea. "All right," he smiled. "I will do that."
"Surprise me on a night when the day's been really tough."
"Okay. And after that?" he asked.
"After that, you can surprise me any time you like. Or I'll surprise you."
"You've already done that, Miss Jones," he said, letting out a pent-up burst of air.
"Oh, I've got more. Just wait."
He smiled and stood up, sure that he couldn't. He left the room and let her sleep, or whatever she was planning on doing in there.
He returned to the console room and scanned the universe for signs of something really tough that he could drag her through, someday soon.
It had been twenty-eight days since he'd promised to surprise her in her sleep. Twenty-eight days of Business As Usual. No furtive glances, no undue hand-holding, no discussion of it; just the memory of her mouth on him, making his eyes go crossed, and the knowledge that someday soon, he'd have any part of her he wanted. He was feeling the pull like mad, and he had a plan.
He'd seen the signs of a rogue Atmosphere Orderly two weeks before, but he hadn't been able to catch up to it, or prove anything to the Shadow Proclamation. He and Martha had been chasing after it in the TARDIS for the better part of the fortnight, and it was exhausting, yes, but it was nothing compared to the fight they were in for when the battle came to a head. There would be the danger of suffocation, dust storms, tornadoes, possibly a really pissed-off alien with a motley crew of violent minions. Children screaming, sharp things flying through the air, tears and recriminations. If they came through it alive, they were almost sure to wish they hadn't.
But today, the Doctor had a sure lock on the Orderly. It was in the Ourt Nebula terrorising a peace-loving civilisation of mole people. Today would be the day when it all came crashing down. The mole people would be vindicated today.
And Martha had said, "Surprise me on a night when the day's been really tough." It was going to be a tough day.
She hadn't got up yet, so he decided it was the perfect time to get everything ready. He'd crawl into bed with her tonight, show her just how patient and soft the frenetic, shouting Doctor could be. Then, he'd take her into the formal dining room for the perfect inter-coital aperitif, then back to bed for another three or four hours. It had been a while for him (apart from when he'd been shot in the groin), but nine hundred years, he reckoned, was long enough to learn what women like.
He scoured his music collection, and found nothing that suited them. He didn't want Barry White in the background – that was a bit too on-the-nose for him. He asked the TARDIS to download some Rachmaninoff Adagios – he trusted her to choose the most romantic of the lot.
Then he parked in London, put on his coat, grabbed his bottomless rucksack and headed for the shops.
He returned with an array of interesting items. He had gourmet foods, including truffle oil and a pre-prepared raspberry reduction with espresso extract. He spent the morning in the kitchen, listening for the TARDIS' distress signals, creating Shiitake mushrooms stuffed with saffron bread crumbs, with gorgonzola truffle dipping sauce for the side. He also made lady fingers, painstakingly measuring and sifting the flour, then using his super-duper Time Lord abilities to know exactly when to stop soaking them in rum. Later, he would cover them with the raspberry/espresso drizzle, and watch Martha swoon as she tasted them.
He chilled the champagne (chosen specifically to go with the raspberry), filled a five-gallon crystal vase with filtered water and arranged twenty-four white lilies in it. He extracted the silk table linens from a far-flung place within the TARDIS and prepared the table in the formal-looking room adjacent to the kitchen. He adjusted the dimmer just right, piped in the Rachmaninoff, just to see if it would work. He took the new black silk bathrobes from their plastic packaging and put them on hooks just inside his bedroom door, so he could have them tonight when he went in to be with Martha, and then they could have them for afterwards and in-between when they were enjoying this little tableau of romance.
He walked back to the console room very pleased with himself. Music, flowers, champagne, rich and drippy finger foods, and dim lighting. What more could he possibly need?
He was ready to annihilate the Atmosphere Orderly, and then turn Martha Jones to mush.
But it was nearly one p.m. Why wasn't she out of bed yet?
She was well aware it was past noon, but she just didn't want to get up. It had been twenty-eight days since the Doctor had promised to surprise her in her sleep. Lately, each time she awoke to a new morning after a night during which she hadn't been ravaged senseless by a Time Lord, well, it just seemed futile. He had agreed to her request, "sometime in the next month," and after twenty-eight days, she was beginning to feel like he'd changed his mind.
Depressed, she lay in bed for a while, figuring that if he needed her for something, or a crisis arose, he'd let her know. She tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. There was no music she particularly wanted to listen to. The television was overwhelming with the billions of choices it offered from throughout time and space, and she had long-since given up on trying to navigate it.
So she just stared at the ceiling, thinking of what she was missing.
She was getting impatient.
When the sirens started blaring and the TARDIS started jostling, the Doctor set a course for Erissepou, planet of the mole people. He hit the button for the speakerphone-like device that would let him communicate with Martha in her room, and shouted, "Ha! We've got him! Where are you? I need you in the console room!"
"I'm on my way!" she shouted back, already on her feet and pulling on her jeans. She buttoned them, threw on a black tee-shirt, grabbed some socks and her boots and ran down the hall.
She flew into the console room and flung herself into the chair and started to put on her socks. "What's the buzz?"
"The rogue Orderly is on Erissepou, exactly where I thought he'd go," said the Doctor. "We're going in, and he's going out."
"Doctor, he's an intangible being that steals wind," Martha argued, sipping up the first boot. "How the hell are you going to do that?"
"He doesn't steal wind, he discombobulates it. Makes the atoms and ions and whatnot all unstable so the atmosphere is more volatile..."
"Yeah, I know, we've been through this before," she sighed, pulling on sock number two.
"Is that what you're wearing?" he asked, turning to look at her.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked, zipping up the second boot, and looking herself over.
"Nothing, I guess. I mean, what do you wear to a dust storm the size of Jupiter, anyway?"
"You're wearing a suit, you daft..."
"Martha, grab onto the manual deflux," he said. "Hold it steady. We're going in the old fashioned way!"
She held onto a yellow steering-wheel thing, while the Doctor navigated the TARDIS into a fog of dirt and rain and debris moving hundreds of miles per hour. Her job was to hold the TARDIS upright, so they didn't knock around inside like the vessel was a maraca. The gravity boosters sometimes failed when the old girl was concentrating on not getting crushed, along with the Time Lord and companion inside.
It was an hour of epic stormy weather before they were stabilised on the terra firma of Erissepou. Even then, the Doctor had to activate the TARDIS' external gravity boosters to make her two-thousand times heavier than normal, so she wouldn't blow away. They themselves wore gravity belts of the same sort, because they had no choice but to leave the TARDIS to bring the mole people to safety. The nearest colony had over four hundred citizens, and they had built an underground railroad of sorts, but it had been blocked off by, wouldn't you know it, the Orderly's minions. The Doctor and Martha climbed down into the ground and helped dig them through again, then went back to the surface to help those who were stranded in the wind. They looked up and could see that quite a few had been taken up into the skies already, and that the increasingly unstable ionised atmosphere had singed and killed dozens, whose bodies hung charred and lifeless, jostled in the wind. Martha went out to find the baby of a hysterical woman who was hiding underground, only to find it impaled on a pitchfork. This might have done her in, except the Doctor took it, wrapped and buried it, then told the mother that it had been blown away. It was a snap decision in a crisis, and he reckoned this was preferable to the truth, and having the mother beg to see the mutilated corpse.
And finally, when the showdown came, they took the TARDIS once again up into the sky. They hung on for dear life as the Time Lord and his trusted vessel weaved their minds into and through the time vortex, and Martha used the console's instruments to help the TARDIS churn matter. They interlocked it all to form a net to envelop the Orderly and fling him through the vortex, harmlessly to wreak havoc over the fledgling universe, just after the Big Bang. No life to destroy, no fear to conjure. Once that was done, they returned to the ground, assured the mole people it was safe to rebuild, and left them some provisions with which to get started.
They trudged back onto the TARDIS, exhausted.
"Go get some sleep," the Doctor said. You're going to need it, he thought to himself.
Martha went to her room and peeled off her dirty tee-shirt, her soiled boots and torn jeans. She walked slowly into the attached bathroom where she turned on a hot, hot shower. She stepped under it, trying not to cry.
In her mind, she couldn't shake images of children crying, a baby impaled. World-destroying winds carrying people away both dead and alive. Dirt and digging, joints aching, screaming, holding on...
The hot water was helping to ease some of the tension in her muscles, but there was another cloying ache. It was an old, old ache for her, something she'd learnt to live with, and then had got rid of, and replaced with hope. The hope that was dying again. Why had she believed it? He'd promised, but why give herself that crumb, when she knew it would only torture her?
But she couldn't help it. She wanted to be held. She wanted to be caressed and told it was going to be all right. And he had promised.
She worked out some of her aches, turned the water off, dried herself, then pulled on her robe and flopped down on her bed. She lay there in semi-dark, thinking.
As she calmed down, her thinking grew clearer, less maudlin. They had had a bad day, but it was nothing they hadn't seen before – just never all at once. And yeah, there had been a few casualties, but they had saved the majority of the mole people, and without her and the Doctor, so many more would have died. Thinking about the day, she felt the adrenaline come back. She thought about the physical exertion, the running, the surety that they were doing something good. It filled her with something new... her exhaustion melted away and she felt a kind of aggressive euphoria. She bit her lip and sat up.
Did she really want to be held? Did she want to be caressed? No, and no. She knew what she wanted.
This had been the hardest, most horrific day they had seen in a couple of months. The Doctor had promised himself to her on a night after a day like today.
But she didn't entirely trust him to come through, and after what they'd been through with the mole people, if she woke up to another day having spent the whole night alone in her bed, she wasn't sure what she'd do to herself, or to him.
Rubbish. Time to take the bull by the horns.
The Doctor stood barefoot in the dining room, in his usual suit trousers and shirt and tie, without the jacket. He was busy fretting over the details, before going in to surprise his sleeping beauty. The lilies were perfect. The music was the right volume. The food was arranged in a pleasing way upon the plate. The tablecloth was even on all sides. Martha would melt when she saw it.
Then he heard something.
"Doctor?"
He groaned inwardly. Why, why now?
"Doctor, where the hell are you?"
"I'm here," he said, his voice cracking a bit. He cleared his throat, and the voice came out stronger. "In the dining room. Come through the kitchen."
Damn it. Well, I guess she'll see it before succumbing. Probably makes more sense anyway.
She walked into the room with purpose, then stopped short, looking around. She had a light blue terrycloth robe on, the waist cinched and tied off lopsided. Her hair hung down listlessly, straight, some of it in her face.
"What is all this?" she demanded blowing her bangs away from her eyes.
"It's... it's for you," he answered lamely, not sure how else to put it. "For later."
She took it all in. Flowers, music, champagne...
He continued. "I thought it might be nice to surprise you tonight, and then, all this would be waiting..."
"Sod it," she shot at him
"Excuse me?"
"Sit down."
"What?"
"You heard me," she said, nice and low. "Sit down, Doctor."
"Martha, I'm really not..."
She stepped forward and grabbed one of the heavy chestnut chairs and turned it so that the seat faced him. It made a loud racket against the wooden floor. "Don't argue. I'm tired of waiting for you to bloody do something, and now you've lost your chance to make a move. Sit. Down."
His eyebrows went slowly up and his mouth formed simultaneously into a surprised "Oh," position. A small smile spread over his face as he sat down.
She came round front to face him. She shoved her knee between his legs, to lean on the velvet upholstery. She perched herself on it as she bent his head back by the hair and shoved her tongue in his mouth. She heard him grunt with surprise and strain, and she felt his hands instinctively grasp her thighs, and then bum. And then she pulled away, keeping her hands full of his hair. With her nose still just a millimetre away from his, she hissed, "Are you listening?"
"Oh, yes," he breathed.
"Good," she whispered. "Then take your hands off my arse."
He obliged, however reluctantly.
Still with his head bent back and their faces precariously close, she pushed her knee harder into his groin, enough to hurt, but not badly. She smirked as he groaned, and hardened. "There it is," she said, almost sang, breathily. "Is that for me, Doctor?"
He nodded.
"Are you hard for me?" she asked, sweetly.
He nodded, gulped.
"Then what the hell has been taking you so long?" she spat. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.
There was a pause, and she tugged at his hair, reminding him to speak now.
"Waiting for the right moment," he whispered. "Wanted to make love to you at a time when you needed it."
"Needed it..." she echoed.
"After a terrible day. Like today," he explained, slowly.
"And you think making love is the answer?" she sang, dipping her head down to bite his bottom lip.
"One of them."
"I don't think so, Doctor," she breathed, snaking her tongue out to lick his upper lip. "I don't want you to make love to me."
"No?"
"No. Never wanted that," she lied.
Gulp. "Then what did you want?"
She let go of his head, but he kept it bent slightly back. He was breathing hard. She placed her hands on his shoulders and dipped her head down to the side. "I wanted to be held down and filled up," she whispered sweetly, just before licking the area right behind his ear. "I wanted to be spread open and licked raw."
"Yeah?" he asked quietly, like a child, trying to maintain his composure.
"Mm-hm. I wanted to scream, Doctor. Until I went hoarse."
"I can make you scream," he told her, gritting his teeth, holding his jaw tight.
"I know. And I wanted you to do it. Wanted you to do it."
"Me."
"You," she said, her voice turning harsh. She took his ears in her hands and said with narrowed eyes, "Just you, do you bloody understand that? You."
"Yes."
"Your cock, your tongue, my body. It's what I want," she told him, feeling the annoyance rising. "All the fucking time."
He had never, ever heard her use language like this before, and it made him shudder with shock and lust. Blimey, had he got it wrong on her! Yes, she was properly brought-up, well educated and poised. However, currently, she was sitting with her knee pressed into his crotch, saying utterly filthy things without compunction. Yes, she'd come top in her class at Cambridge, a year younger than everyone else that year. And as he thought about that, she shoved that knee against him once more, just to feel the throb, just to feel him get hard, just to watch his face contort with some kind of blinding need.
Still waters run deep, and sometimes they boil.
Then she let go of his head again, with a little shove. She stood up in front of him.
"All the time?" he croaked.
"Yes. Feel me," she said. He didn't respond, so she took his hand roughly from his side, and not-very-gently grabbed two fingers. "Feel me," she demanded again, pulling the sash of her robe loose and letting the terrycloth hang open.
He pushed those two fingers in between her legs, and he could feel that she was gushing, soaking wet. She was swollen and so slick, he couldn't believe it wasn't dripping down her thighs. Her clitoris was distended and hard, and he gave it a rub. She moaned and shivered a little, though never losing herself, never taking her attention away.
"What does it feel like?" she demanded, eyes narrowed.
"It's hot," he whispered.
"And?" she asked.
"Wet."
"Now bury them in me, those fingers," she said. When he didn't move fast enough, she said. "Now."
He did it, pushed the two fingers up, and inside her. The throbbing became unbearable to him.
"Now how does it feel?"
He gulped, hard this time. "Tight."
"That's right, darling. This is me. This is how I am," she said, purring as she spoke. She bent at the waist, placing one hand against the thick bulge in his crotch. Her mouth close to his, she said, "Think how good that could feel, Doctor. Hot, wet, tight little me gripping round big, hard, hungry you."
"God..." he croaked. "What are you doing, Martha?"
"And you could have had your way," she said standing up again, raising her eyebrows and smiling. "Any nasty little thing you wanted."
He dropped his hand. She picked it back up and authoritatively put it back in place. "No, I didn't say stop," she protested.
"Anything." He said it flatly, as though contemplating.
"God, yes. I'd have done anything for you. Or to you," she added with a naughty tip of her eyebrow. She took his wrist in both hands and showed him a rhythm. "You want me on my hands and knees?"
He couldn't do anything but make an inarticulate sound.
"You'd have me, then. You want me tied down? Then I want it too."
Her breathing was now growing laboured, as the strokes he was giving her suited her perfectly. Her body was on edge, every molecule.
"Or," she breathed. "I would have wanted... if you had got to me yesterday."
"I'm sorry," he said steadily.
"Too late," she said. "Now you have to wait."
She shed her robe and stood naked before him.
"Stand up," she said. "And don't even think about taking those fingers away from me."
He kept stroking her as he stood up. She backed up to the table, and he followed, never missing a beat.
She pushed the little china plates aside and skewed the tablecloth as she hopped up on it and sat with her legs spread. She grabbed his tie and pulled him closer. She looked up at him with dark, needing eyes and demanded, "Don't get lazy, now. Fingers all the way in."
He buried both fingers to the third knuckle, and twisted them, caressed the top of her inner walls, moved them back and forth. She demanded a third, then a fourth. She'd already been so, so close to coming, but before she knew it, she'd lost all control and was spasming, grasping the tablecloth, shaking the whole setting as she gushed all over his fingers. He panted, she could see desperation in his eyes as he brought her down carefully. She could feel the desperation radiating off him, like a fluorescent buzzing.
"Don't think that lets you off the hook, mister," she said, picking her robe up off the floor.
He shook for a few moments after she left the room. He sat in the chair where Martha had just turned his world upside-down, and trembled with his fingernails digging into his knees. He was reacting partly in surprise. Mostly with want.
He had to martial his emotions. Emotions and impulses and body parts. They were flattening him like a runaway bus.
Sixty seconds was all he needed.
When she'd left, he'd heard her wander into the kitchen and run a glass of water, pausing to drink and then leave the glass in the sink before, presumably, swaggering back down the hall to bed.
He gathered himself quickly and jogged through the kitchen into the hallway. He only had to round one corner before he found her, walking leisurely toward her room.
And oh, he'd seen the real Martha Jones; he knew where she lived now. So he knew exactly how to get the ball back in his court.