Ooh! Long absence - sorry about that, friends.

When we left off, the shamans were a bit vexed, because the Doctor and Martha, under the mind-probing influence of the Temple Server, weren't distilled enough in their respective masculinity and femininity to recombine, and bring balance. But could they effectively evoke each other's gender traits? Let's find out.

The Doctor has already spoken about Martha, his thoughts of her, how he sees her, and ultimately revealed that he has a few impure thoughts about her as well...

But what about her? Heh... enjoy!

Oh, and, this chapter is most definitely NSFW. ;-)

PART 2

"Miss Jones, tell me about the Doctor," said Undershaman Protha. Since Martha Jones and the Doctor were not sufficiently able to delineate their own gender in a clear manner, Protha and the other Shamans and Undershamans were hoping that perhaps they could do so in one another.

"What about him?" asked Martha, still entranced.

"Is he attractive, in your eyes?"

She sighed in a way that would have made her cringe with embarrassment, if she had been fully aware, then said, "Oh, yes."

"Why such an emphatic, oh yes? Why not just a simple yes?"

"I can't explain it."

"He's handsome?"

"Yes, but… that's only part of it."

"What's the rest of it?"

"He's… impish."

"And that makes him beautiful to you? His impishness?"

"Yes," she said. "It's all over his face. It makes his features somewhat smouldering. Like, there's always a naughty eyebrow-tilt, or a secret smirk, just dying to leak out. There's a fire in him, and he keeps it at bay, but the flames lick at his face sometimes and it can make my stomach flutter."

There was a long moment while Martha paused, and Protha let her. Her breathing was steady, and her trance was fairly complete…

"You mentioned his face. Tell me about his face," Protha urged.

"He has a razor-sharp face," she said.

"A masculine one?"

"It is, in some ways, quite pretty," she sang. "Large, expressive eyes, thin nose, sensual mouth… yet there is a severity about it. A primal quality that… I don't know. I feel those qualities reverberating throughout my body, whenever he looks at me."

"The severity? The qualities that are primal?"

"Yes. The severity in him, and in his face, can be intoxicating. It can make me ache."

"Ache?"

"Yes…" she trailed off. "This is very personal."

"Personal is what we're after. Don't be scared, Miss Jones, no-one will hear you."

She hesitated for a long while, long enough that Protha prompted her again to speak about the ache she feels, over the Doctor's sometimes "severe" facial features. Though Martha herself had never used the word masculine, Protha was hoping that this was where she was headed, either consciously or unconsciously.

"Why do you ache, Miss Jones?"

Martha's breath quickened and her voice was reduced to almost a hiss. "He has dark eyes like an eagle – they see everything. They dig, they go deep. But his eyebrows tell you everything you need to know. They wear his anger and pain, his whimsy and happiness. He doesn't seem to know it, either, so his face is very, very readable via the eyebrows. No matter what he says with his mouth… But see, the eyebrows are angular and efficient. As is his hair. And the sideburns that frame his face. The shape of his face is rather angular as well. It's a smart package. Finely-wrought and everything about it is penetrating."

"Penetrating."

"Yes," she sighed, with resignation. "And this is why I ache. Because I want more. His severity, his baseness, if you will… his power, passion, rage, joy… it all makes me want more. Want. With my whole body."

"Talk about the body," Protha encouraged, not sure where she would go next.

"Mine or his?"

"His."

After a long pause, she said, "The space he occupies is vast."

"Do you mean, the space he occupies in the universe?"

"That too," she told Protha. "He's known throughout the galaxies, as a saviour, as a legend… sometimes as the scourge of their existence. If you had a visual representation of the scope and reach of the Doctor, it would be, as I said, vast."

"Indeed," Protha agreed.

"Fast-moving lines going zoom, zoom! all over the universe, until all of existence looks like a big ball of twine that one cannot untangle. And I find that amazing. Stunning. And every day, I am learning more about what he can do, what he knows, and what he inspires," she continued.

This was all a bit too cerebral for Protha's purposes, so he asked, "Let's talk again about the physical space he occupies."

"There's a lot of it."

"Yes, we've established…"

"I mean, his person. His body."

"All right."

"The way he moves, the way he carries himself… there's a swagger."

"Is this characteristic of the Doctor himself?"

"A lot of men behave this way," she said. "But only a select few can pull it off with any sort of grace. The Doctor is one of them."

"Keep going."

"He wears this long, heavy coat that swishes when he walks slowly, and billows heroically when he walks with purpose. It fans out like wings, and no-one can come near him. The coat itself is a statement of him, of his prowess…"

"His power."

"Perhaps," she said, thinking. "But when he is calm, he walks with his hands in his pockets, putting the big, powerful coat behind his arms and his hips. This makes a statement, as well, I think… that he comes first, maybe? That he is in control? He wields power, the power does not envelop him?"

"Interesting."

"Is that too weird?"

"I don't think so. It's just that, we being who we are, we would never have noticed such a thing," Protha commented.

"I reckon not, at least consciously. It's something I notice consciously as someone who…" She paused and gulped. "…loves him, desires him. The large way he presents himself is effective upon just about everyone. But I see that, as well as the way he moves, because I'm tuned into him as a physical being, and, as we said, the space he occupies."

"Are you even conscious of the space around him?"

"Not as such," she said. "But, for example, two days ago, we were in a shopping mall in America – that's on Earth. We had to split up, to triangulate a signal that would entrap this alien who was trying to spread a plague. I was in position, waiting, but then the Doctor used the comm system to tell me that the alien had changed its tack, and I was going to need to shift my post, and he was going to do the same. I happened to turn around, and saw him running down the stairs. And I could not stop watching him. Not until he got to the bottom, even though I knew that every second counted."

"Why not?"

"Because he took the steps two at a time. Both arms were running along the railings on either side of him, and his hands were fanned out. Each move he made took up as much space as possible, and was grandiose. I deliberately filed the image away…"

"I see."

"When he is problem-solving, he doesn't move with efficiency, necessarily. He stumbles, he shouts, he spins like a windmill. He uses his whole arm to point and order and sweep. He'll work with one whole leg fanned out beside him. Even his hair is styled so as to give volume to his head. When he is still, he stands with his legs apart. When he is sitting, it is with knees apart, often with a hand fixed on his thigh and his elbow crooked outward. When we were in sleeping quarters in the Palace of Kwadro a week ago, he sat on the bed and repaired my phone… knees apart, leaning on his right arm, which was stretched out as far from his body as possible, without allowing him to lie down. I watched him for several minutes, just sit there, spreading out, wanting to be the one to pull him back into himself. Sometimes, it's torture. Sometimes it's a special kind of painful bliss."

Protha did not know what to say.

Martha was sheepish when she began to speak again. "As you can see, the space he occupies within me, it's vast as well. Something of him pervades just about everything I am, at this point in my life. My whimsy and sense of humour, my instincts as a doctor… certainly my lot as a woman."

"Something of him occupies your lot as a woman."

"Of course. Everything I've just said came from… well, not the intellectual side of me."

"I understand that. Nevertheless, tell me more about that."

"My womanhood is my physicality. It is inseparable from me as a living, breathing being. And when he looks at me, I can feel it in my gut, in my bones, in my extremities. I feel a warmness all over, a vibration, a spectrum of emotion from joy to excitement to fear to doubt to ache, all at once. And sometimes, not always, but sometimes…" she hesitated. "…it all comes to roost…"

"It all comes to roost?" Protha probed when she did not continue. "All of that warmth and emotion comes to roost how?"

"How? Where?" Martha asked herself. Then, seemingly from far away, ever so lightly, she said, "Like a ton of bricks. Between my legs."

Protha let her ruminate without saying anything.

"Heavy, decadent desire sucker-punches me, and moves down into other parts of me, and suddenly… I'm so aware of myself and my body."

Protha was savvy enough to realise that Martha had hit upon something now, that could be helpful.

"When you become aware of your body in such away, what is going on inside your head?"

"Do you mean, the fantasy bit? The part where I imagine what it would be like to…"

"Yes," Protha finished her thought, reckoning that her laboured breathing was enough to indicate what was meant.

"I can't," she nearly whimpered.

"Of course you can. You can trust me. You can trust all of us, Miss Jones."

"It's not you. I don't know if I can trust myself."

"Trust yourself to do what?"

"Not fall apart."

"Sometimes it feels good to fall apart," Protha offered. "Isn't that something that humans believe?"

"Yes, but, this…" she stopped. She sighed. She took in a deep, courageous breath, and said, with a ragged, desirous voice, "I'm already a quivering mass of skin and sweat."

"Now?"

"In my mind's eye, when my imagination goes to that place where I don't want it to… but I can't stop it. I never see how or why it happens, I only see when. I'm standing, fixated, not unable to move, but unable to extract myself, or abate the craving. And he approaches me with the same look in his eye that he gets when he's about to fly into battle and conquer the enemy. It's his you are mine, face. It's the severity we talked about earlier… the aggressive side of him that wants to vanquish and own… only he wants to own me. He's going to conquer me. He's going to claim me. And I know that once he does, I will never be the same again."

"So, when he makes love to you, he's still a Time Lord."

"Yes. Though he still thinks before he dominates. He gets a sense of things… of the shape of things, the shape of me, and the texture of my wanting. He wants to see exactly how easy it will be to…"

"To?"

"Make me yield. Both now and later. First to him, and then to pleasure."

"And how easy is it?"

"For him? Laughably so," she told Protha with a little chuckle. "When I said that I'm a quivering mass of skin and sweat, I meant it. My thighs open to him almost as a matter of course. It's the most natural – and necessary – thing in the world for me. He's there, occupying the space that he does, and the figurative space inside of me that he does… but then there's the literal space inside of me…"

Her breathing was even more laboured now, and Protha saw this as a good thing.

She continued, "It's another one of the interesting dichotomies of men and women, Protha – I don't suppose you've ever thought about it - but, in order to be together, he needs to become hard and insistent, and she needs to become slick and pliable. And without this, it cannot work. Without this, life on Earth, and other planets, literally ceases to exist."

"Indeed."

"But there is no without. There is only within," she mused. "Everything about him is insistent and hard, and I feel it, want it within… and from within. His gaze, his clenched teeth, his coiled muscles, holding back from springing forward and just having me as he likes. And of course, the hardest bit, the thing below the waist… this is where it all lies. For him, anyway. All of it makes me conscious of the literal space inside of me that needs occupying. But then, suddenly he's there, occupying every space in the universe, as far as I'm concerned, and it takes my breath away. I have hardly any air nor voice left to say his name, nor anything else, because all my oxygen is spilling over across my body, across our collective space now.

"And I'm not pliable anymore – I feel quite knotted and tense now. It's like, once he's within me, I'm no longer myself. Perhaps he's no longer himself either, because his eyes are no longer those of a conqueror, but of a man giving in. And now we're just together, and compelled toward a common goal… the texture of wanting has changed for both of us. In fact, it changes a little, every few minutes. The compulsion carries us both forward, and infuses us as one. He wraps around me, and I around him. His movement is harsh, and so is mine. We writhe and flow together. His voice becomes a low, predatory growl, coming from the deepest of places… mine mirrors it, with its feminine high. There is muscle and bone and stone and sinew and ground and we change from one thing to the next, all at the same time… then suddenly, nothing can hold its integrity. Everything is… splashing."

This final word resonated in her mind for a few moments, before she continued, breathlessly, "Solid has become liquid. Everywhere. It is displaced rather violently now, and can't hold any shape. It's exploding – or rather, we are, and going in every direction. It's loud, and gorgeous and… disordered."

"Disordered is good, is it?"

"It's bloody fantastic," she answered, practically whining. "It's what we've both been needing. Both of us have spent so much time being orderly, and wandering in the desert, some good, messy splashing is the only…"

After a long moment, Martha gave a groan, but not one that indicated desire. Her outburst was more one of pain.

"Martha these last few minutes have been excellent for the cause," Protha told her.

"But not for me," she told the Undershaman, still with pain in her voice.

Satisfied that Martha Jones and the Doctor were safely in their trance-state and weren't going anywhere, Undershamans Protha and Conshi met up with Shaman Ablengo in the sterile space, just beside the bridge beneath the giant orb.

"I don't know what's going on up there in the white chambers with the Doctor and Miss Jones, but something is going right," Abglengo told the other two. "The Horticultural Arm has contacted me with good news.

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed Conshi.

"One moment please, Undershaman. There is good news, but there is also discouraging news. The good news is, the rate of growth has slowed significantly. What is discouraging is, it has not stopped. Even at the rate it's going, we can expect extinction of all animal species – that is, they will be crushed to death by vegetation – within the next week."

"Well, they initially told us one day, did they not?" Protha pointed out.

"Yes," said Ablengo. "That is something positive. But look at the orb."

The three of them looked up. Indeed, the colour of the orb had changed, as had the oscillating nature of the energies therein. There were two distinctly new signatures moving about inside the sphere, but they were not mixing with one another. Without this, there could be no balance.

"Miss Jones and the Doctor have successfully managed to distill one another's masculine and feminine qualities, and the effect they have on one another has also been helpful in producing a reaction that invokes the masculinity and femininity in themselves," Ablengo said. "But, as you can see, this is not enough to provide balance, to make our vegetation return to normal."

"For that," said Conshi. "We must make the two elements fuse."

There was a moment while the three of them stared up. Then Protha said, "Shaman, you did say that their reaction to one another was almost as helpful in the distillation process, as was their descriptions or interpretations of one another."

"Yes," said Ablengo. "Their reaction to one another has been potent. When the energies in the sphere come close to touching, there is a literal spark, and a small surge of the healing, balancing vibrations that we will need for full balance. But it's not enough."

"Indeed, I have noticed a potent reaction to Miss Jones in the Doctor," Conshi offered.

"I have noticed the same in Miss Jones," Protha agreed.

Calmly, Ablengo said, "So it would be infinitely interesting to find out what would happen if we put them together, while in this state."

"Not just interesting…" Protha began.

"…but also necessary," Conshi finished.

"They will need guidance from both of us," Protha asserted.

"I can research the sort of meditative counsel they will need for such an act," Conshi offered.

"No," Ablengo told them. "If what you tell me is true, then heir own minds and bodies have been guiding and counselling them more than enough."

Undershaman Conshi urged the Doctor forward. "Take three more steps, and you will hear a loud sweeping sound, rather like the one you heard when you came up the stairs. This will put you inside the orb. From there, no-one can see nor hear you."

"Our meditations have not been enough?" the Doctor asked.

"Not quite," Conshi admitted. "But they have been a tremendous help. There is just one further step that needs to be taken."

"A deeper meditation?"

"Perhaps, if you like," said Conshi. "A cerebral, as well as physical, manifestation of all that you have told me."

"I don't understand."

"You will. Don't be alarmed – you are not in danger. Just take three steps forward, and you'll find yourself part of the orb."

The Doctor's brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded and did as asked. Indeed, he heard a loud whoosh, and he found himself isolated again in a completely white space. In front of him, there was a bridge that curved subtly upward, lined on each side with a white railing. He moved forward over the bridge, at the highest point of which, there was a circular platform, about the height and circumference of a dining room table. Upon it, there was a slim pyramid perhaps three feet high, capped off by a sphere, the size of a football. From this sphere, differently-coloured bolts of energy radiated back and forth, to and from the main orb above. He looked up, and saw the vastness of the orb, the seat and centre of all power and balance for the planet below. He didn't understand what any of the churning bits of smoke and light and colour meant, but it was mesmerising.

When he looked away from the sphere above, his eye was drawn to the opposite side of the bridge, where there stood a figure who had not been there before.

"Doctor," she whispered. And she walked toward him slowly and steadily.

Clearly, like him, Martha was in some sort of mild trance-state.

He didn't respond.

Because the next thing he knew he was in the throes of something powerful, as he had never experienced before. Above, there were claps of electricity, in brilliant colours…

He was irresistibly impelled toward her, and he walked around the platform, meeting her just a few feet from it.

He wanted to kiss her. But more than that, he wanted to devour her. He wanted to be all over her. He wanted everything about her.

Suddenly, impulsively, his hands were on her, running from her shoulders, down. Firmly, he explored her soft breasts with his hands, then her rubbery, flat stomach then the place where hips became legs. He squeezed her thighs, then moved his way round to her bottom. And as he did, he pressed against her; this revealed his arousal. At this, she leaned her head back and moaned unabashedly, her voice singing with the clash of energies above, the boom, and hum. He ran his hands up her spine, and felt the perfect arch, from the very feminine small of her back, all the way up past her shoulder, to her neck and head.

Over their heads, crackling swells lighting up. Somehow, the Doctor thought he could feel it giving him fire.

He cradled her head for a moment in his large hand, and then slightly severely, he tugged at her hair. She gasped, and the Doctor planted a confident kiss just below her chin, then gave it a light lick. He then moved his exploring lips and teeth and tongue over her jaw and down her neck.

With one hand still on her back, he was still pressed to her, and had the all-over sensation of her whole body writhing. Desire had seized him quickly, was taking him over, clouding him more, penetrating his mind further than the Temple Server itself. It all manifested overhead as igniting billows, filling the space. He could feel that perhaps the same was true for her, but he had to know…

Unable to wait to find out, he grabbed her white tunic and pulled upward. She cooperatively raised her arms and allowed him to pull it off of her and toss it over the railing. She now stood naked, gorgeous, bronzed, and totally still except for her chest moving up and down with her laboured breathing. He looked her over, and let his eyes linger upon where her thighs met, and he saw them quiver. This confirmed what he'd suspected (and hoped), and he felt a familiar surge of power and greed, and the desire to seize victory. An avaricious, forceful look now crawled over his features…

And he took hold of her around the waist, and moved her quite hurriedly over to the platform, then lifted her onto it. She put her hands behind her and leaned on them, and when her breasts jutted out, he placed his hands upon them once again. He looked her in the eye while he squeezed from underneath, then slid the palms of his hands over her distended nipples. Her body was on-edge just like his; he could see and feel it now. And when she moaned, he could hear it.

Then he ran his hands possessively down over her chest and stomach again, only this time, with much more take, much more hunger.

And this was when she yielded completely. Her thighs parted, and two of his fingers slid quite smoothly into her, and a veritable lightning storm began in the space above… and inside of them both. He moved them in and out slowly, watching her already distant eyes absolutely glaze over, and begin to water with strain. After a couple of minutes, he pressed his thumb against her clit and stroked it as well. Her back arched, and she gave another heady moan, and he began to see and sense her body tightening up, gaining impetus, working toward a new goal.

He stroked the hard, pink little bud with small movements of his fingers. It was amazing what such small gestures could do for her…

"So easy," he whispered, watching her pant and arch against the pleasure he gave her. "So easy."

The snapping, cracking supernovas over their heads gained intensity…

And with that, she slid into the easiest orgasm of her life, pleasure bursting inside of her, then flowing to her extremities. Her body hummed loudly for about half a minute, and then it all subsided…

Martha opened her eyes, having vaguely heard perhaps popping from above, and perhaps even a deafening explosion… but she still far away from here. She was aware of him, aware of the sensations. She was aware that he had looked at her rather predatorily, touched her, squeezed her, seized her, pressed his erection against her, fingered her and watched her orgasm greedily…

… and that now she felt empty inside. Not the emotional chasm as she had sometimes felt after climaxing alone, or with someone she didn't much care for…

But the need to be filled.

The need to have him inside of her, taking up space, claiming that space again and again, and knowing that once he did, she would be a changed woman. Desired, handled, unhinged and then fucked by the Doctor… there was no way she could go back to the way things were, either inside or outside of her physical body. This was it.

And yet she was still seeing everything through a haze. All of this was somewhat artificial, she knew. She was conscious, even if her unconscious was distracting her and driving all of her actions. It seemed that the Doctor was in the same state, though… he would never have touched her that way, nor done anything that he had just done, had the Undershamans not put them under hypnosis and brought out the lustful side of both of them.

It was a violation of sorts, planet in peril, or no. Hypnotically coerced into sex they wouldn't normally have, by people with unfair power…

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she mused, they should really answer for this.

But she didn't really care that much, because at this moment, she was sitting upon some sort of platform, her loins still throbbing and flowing, her legs spread. And God help her, he was climbing out of his tunic, and suddenly, her hand was wrapped around his cock.

He moaned at the sensation as the crackling and snapping began again, and he leaned forward bracing both hands against the platform as far one either side of him as they would go. He bit her shoulder as her fingers slid over his distended flesh, and back. He then pulled away, and looked her in the eye again, and she had to fight not to look away from the intensity of his gaze. She wanted it so badly – all of it – the tension, rage, the strength with which she could clearly see him straining to contain the mad eruption within.

"Stop holding back," she whispered, desperately.

And the next thing she knew he had grabbed her by the knees and pulled her forward rather roughly, and thrust inside her, burying himself deep… all in one go.

Lightning storms churned again…

Her breath left her. She wanted to moan, to say his name, beg him to take her as hard and fast as he could manage… but she had nothing. Her body and voice seemed to turn to vapour, and for several light-headed moments, she was made of only vibration and sensation.

But when he pulled back, and drove through to her centre with a hard, ragged moan, she was there, quite suddenly, in the moment again. Her physical being was present, knotted, coiled…

He pulled back and drove forward again, with another heady groan, and a hiss of her name. She heard him rasp "Martha," and knew: this was real. He was with her, aware of her, knew her name, and now knew all too well where she lived. He knew what she wanted. He knew what she felt like. And he already knew the sound and look and slipperiness of her when she came. In his eyes, she realised, she would never be quite just Martha Jones again. She would be something else…

Again… she would be changed. Something in him would be, as well.

And with this revelation, new colours of bright blue emerged over their heads, lighting up like Las Vegas.

He held onto her knees and thrust forward a few more times, and allowed his eyes to meet hers. They morphed into a down-turned expression of worry and need, the look of a man desperate to find something, and/or hold onto something. The vindication in his eyes had faded, and now he revealed how frantic he was… just like her.

Suddenly, he growled, and once again, leaned forward, bracing his hands out to his sides, against the platform. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, and her arms around his neck and shoulders, and felt everything go rigid – an impetus was found, as an objective was sought. He moaned in her ear, a low grumbling sound that she felt in her veins. She responded with a high-pitched grunt-cry each time he gave a shove forward, stabbing at her deepest place. The explosions in her mind were now indiscernible from the explosions in the orb overhead…

And they began to drive, move forward, pedal, pump, strive toward a common goal… moans, cries, hissing of words, names… orgasm rising, rising, rising… both bodies strong, thriving, thirsty…

She grasped him tighter and tighter. He gave her his all, harder and harder…

And then….

And then, any strength found, any impetus, any striving, it all suddenly became a splatter of feeling, fluids and deep groans. It all fell apart. Things went dark, and shattered, as the masculine and feminine reached their mind-numbing climax together. He flowed into her, she around him. They pulled and pushed at each other like the struts and trusses of a bridge, a harmony of structure, symbiosis and total, complete, perfectly-suspended pleasure.

Okay, so... wow. What are your thoughts? :-D

One more chapter is on its way, sort of a cool-down, as it were, or a post-mortem. Stay tuned... meanwhile leave a review!

Thank you for reading!