I'm Amelia-Rose Martha Oswald, but my friends call me Amelia-Rose. I'm 18 years old, and my height is 5 feet, 5.5 inches (recurring). My waist-length hair is golden as the midday sun and blows in the breeze that follows me through life, the fringe hanging low over my TARDIS blue eyes. My iridescent skin is alabaster, unblemished, and milky-white. So, yeah, given I'm so plain and ugly, it's no surprise the only man who loves me is made of stone.
Flint Livingston. How can I describe him? The chiselled jaw, those stony features, those rock hard abs. Wow. He is so beautiful I can't even.
He thrusts into me and I cry out, the silk blindfold caressing the contours of my face as his polished mountain peak ravages me to my very core. By which I mean my cervix.
"Oh," I cry out. "Yes, do it to me with your rock-hard cock."
I orgasm three times just from his first thrust. I can tell from his stony silence and the sand caressing the velvet innards of my treasure-house that he enjoyed himself too. I roll onto my back like a majestic stallion and unfurl the blindfold from my face, freeing my glittering TARDIS blue eyes. I hate them.
"Don't look at me," I weep, knowing that the sight of my slim but curvaceous body will disgust the man whom I love so, so much. He says nothing. I understand.
In the blink of an eye, he points one long, slender finger at my arm, the smooth grey stone the work of a hundred master craftsmen toilling in unison. I glance down to see a single black mark tarnishing my disgustingly unblemished milky-white skin. I don't know why, but looking at it makes me smile and a warm feeling begins to blossom in my loins, where fine grains of sand elegantly fall from my dark curls. But I totally don't dye my hair or anything.
I sense his question in his stony gaze, and bow my head, my eyes closed in shame, with a hint of arousal. When I look up, his hands are over his face, but I don't know why.
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As I walk through my forest with my chipmunk friend Erasmus the Third, I feel as though a perfect pair of obsidian eyes is watching me, for some reason. My loins stir again with a twitching kick of excitement and anticicpation, shaking loose the final few grains of sand. Beneath the shade of the trees, a tall, dark stranger is watching me from afar. I turn around, my eyes wide but alluring, like a terrified chipmunk staring into the gaze of a lustful wolf, and he is there. I turn around again, and I forget.
As I walk through my forest with my chipmunk friend Erasmus the Second, I feel as though a perfect pair of obsidian eyes is watching me, for some reason. My loins stir again with a twitching kick of excitement and anticicpation, shaking loose the final few grains of sand. Beneath the shade of the trees, a tall, dark stranger is watching me from afar. I turn around, my eyes wide but alluring, like a terrified chipmunk staring into the gaze of a lustful wolf, and he is there.
"Hello," I ejaculate. My breath mingles with the forest wind.
He strokes my face with one long, tender, rubbery finger, and I feel that I know him. The memories come flooding back. My consciousness stirs from its deathly repose. We had sex, I remember now! I dampen at the memory as fleeting images of sexual delight dance through my mind palace. I feel a flash of guilt.
I gasp. "How can I do this to Flint, whom I love so, so much, almost as much as I hate my dazzling TARDIS blue eyes?"
I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THESE CHARACTERS OR THINGS EXCEPT THE ONES I MADE UP MYSELF. DOCTOR WHO BELONGS TO STEVEN MOFFAT, THE CREATOR OF DOCTOR WHO (AND SHERLOCK WHICH IS AMAZEBALLS) AND THE BBC. DO NOT STEAL THE CHARACTERS.
Roger Silencio misinterprets my gasp as one of sexual desire. I moisten further. Slowly, sensually, he adjusts his tie, his rubbery finger sneaking its way down my swanlike neck. His pallid visage glows with sexual need.
"Amelia-Rose," he whispers hoarsely, his mouth not moving. The rumbling undercurrent which punctuates his breathy voice, as gravelly as I have always imagined Flint's, is like the rumblings of an Oncoming Storm. He gives a low, throaty growl of desire. I moisten even more, my dark curls matting together with my juices of lust. His deep ebony eyes brim with concupiscence, glowing yet dark as the abyss inside my soul.
As he thrusts into me, the blinding light of my multiple orgasms builds like a wave crashing over me, flooding the forest as my gushing walls tighten around his clammy, eel-like appendage. He fills me with his seed, a guttural growl reverberating throughout my forest like a cat being thrown into a river. It was the Big Bang Three in my womanly burrow. As he retracts his supple, pliable manhood from my ravaged chamber of lust, I reach another glorious climax, attaining new heights of pleasure.
"Roger," I moan in my frenzy.
As his impressive penis reels away, his posture straightens and he adjusts his tie once more. He pats me gently on the behind.
"I love you, Amelia-Rose," he says in that voice I cannot resist.
I gasp again. I try to stand, but fall over a log, twisting my ankle for no discernable reason, foiled again by a light incline. I'm so clumsy.
He catches me in his muculent arms, his grip firm yet slippery, much like his sexual embrace. Procuring a pen from my voluminous bosom, I make a single tally mark on my arm. I'm not sure why.
"Come on Erasmus," I say as I turn to leave. "Flint will wonder where I am."
I turn to leave, my passionate encounter forever forgotten. Perhaps...
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It is Tuesday afternoon, and I am wearing clothes. My best friend, Ryan Davros, is going to meet me at the mall. Nervously, I pick at the hem of my My Chemical Romance t-shirt with trembling, marble-white hands. I look in the mirror, praying my outfit looks acceptable. My eyes quake. It's so hard to look good with hair the colour of the midday sun and TARDIS blue eyes like mine. If only I had a cool yellow casing like Ryan to hide me from the cruel vagueries of the world. He's so stylish.
I am clad in dark skinny jeans, adorned with a chain on the side. They cling tightly to my shapely legs and my curvaceous, womanly hips. I wish my hips were not so womanly, and my bottom were not so shapely and round. I can never find underwear that fits my narrow waist and contains my firm, round bottom simultaneously, so I am wearing a wispy powder-blue thong to match my TARDIS blue eyes. I'm so ugly, a single tear rolls traitorously down my cheek. The region between my legs grows damp.
I worry that I look like a lesbian. Not that I have any problems with lesbians; after all, Ryan is my best friend and he is gay, and you can't be homophobic with a gay best friend.
I hear a knock at the door. It must be Ryan. I never know how he manages to knock. I answer the door.
"HELLO AMELIA-ROSE," he greets me in his tender, screaming voice. "OF ALL THE DISGUSTING HUMANS IN THE WORLD, YOUR APPEARANCE IS THE LEAST OBJECTIONATIONABLE."
I hug him, his hard casing pressing against my breasts. I have always hated the size of my breasts, they are so large yet firm and perky, the nipples so delicate and pink against my neon orange bra.
As if he knows what I am thinking, Ryan reassures me. "YOUR SECONDARY SEXUAL CHARACTERISTICS ARE PERFECTLY SATISFACTORY AND WILL ONE DAY PROVIDE ADEQUATE NOURISHMENT TO YOUR YOUNG."
"Oh, Ryan," I giggle coquettishly. "If you weren't gay I'd kiss you."
"I AM NOT GAY," he replies in his delicate scream. "AND KISSING IS NOT PROHIBITED."
"Oh, Ryan," I laugh, "You're such a joker!"
"DALEKS DO NOT HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOUR."
I pat him on the casing and he makes an unusual sound. His eyestalk rises slowly and steams up.
At the mall, we browse through a plethora of clothing, like explorers cutting through the vines of a treacherous jungle. Suddenly, I see it – a bright-yellow skater-dress! Nirvana attached to a coat-hanger! I let out a gasp, and moisten slightly. Hands clasped to my gasping face, I dart to it, like a hummingbird to a blossoming flower.
"Ryan! This is so you!"
Tearing the dress from its hanger with a magician's flourish, I gently place it atop Ryan's head. It fits perfectly. I keep shoving it down, forcing it over his elegant, hunchbacked frame. Ryan screams for five minutes.
"DESIST! DESIST! REMOVE THE APPAREL!"
"But it matches your eyes!"
Ryan's eyestalk whines, as it slowly jerks down. He examines the dress as if for the first time, his pupil glimmering with newfound desire.
"THIS SERVES NO FUNCTION. IT MUST BE DESTROYED."
He loves it. I can tell – I have a fashion degree from Gallifrey University. Excitedly, I wheel him to the changing rooms. Ryan's head swivels majestically, like a lampshade attached to a rolling pin, if you were swivelling it at the time.
"ALERT! ALERT! THIS APPAREL MAY FULFILL YOUR HUMAN DESIRES!"
He pushes me over to a rack of beautiful summer dresses in many pastel colours, and guides me to the changing room, my arms full of the beautiful textiles, all the colours of the rainbow sliding over one another in my arms. They are not emo enough for me. I hate them. I want to buy them all.
As soon as we enter the changing room together, I begin to slowly lift the hem of my My Chemical Romance t-shirt over my flat, toned stomach, brushing my full breasts as I do so. I lift it over my head, freeing my smooth, soft, milky-white skin to the air of the changing room. I try not to catch sight of my own TARDIS blue gaze in the mirror as I unclasp my generously-sized lime green bra and let it fall to the floor like a leaf on the wind. I watch how it soars.
Ryan's eyestalk faces directly at my exposed mounds, the nipples hard as bullets in the cold air. I blush, knowing how he must be judging my form. His plunger twitches, no doubt in repulsion. I moisten slightly.
"YOU ARE AS BEAUTIFUL AS THE DEATH OF A THOUSAND CIVILISATIONS," he intones in his gentle scream.
"Oh, Ryan!" I moan. "That is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me."
As I say these words, I hook my fingers into the sides of my ebony jeans and slide them down my long, slender legs gracefully, accompanied by my deep red thong. A slight breeze moves my dark curls down there, and I silently long for Ryan to turn away his judgemental gaze.
He stands there, not moving, his lights flashing as his eyestalk moves up and down my body.
"I'm so lucky to have you as my gay BFF," I say in my delicate voice.
"I AM NOT GAY," he replies, ever the joker. "I WISH TO PENETRATE YOUR FEMININE AREAS."
To be continued...