Well, it's been almost a year since I've posted on this story... I wanted to keep it going because messed-up as it is, it's also delicious! And fun to write. And hey, thanks for coming back to it, if that's the case!
If you'll recall, the Doctor had, for a few days, appeared to have been forcing Martha into various, slightly deviant, sexual acts without her knowledge, by way of the "Crux Herb," and a ritual that causes people to do your bidding, with an amnesiac after-effect. He was drunk on power, blind with lust... but weighed down hard, with feelings of guilt.
But in the second chapter, we find out that it's actually Martha who has used the Herb and a different ritual on the Doctor. The ritual she used required the "Light of Recall," which means that he does her bidding (has slightly deviant sex with her), and remembers doing it, but does not remember that she made the suggestion.
At the end of the story, on Day 7, both of them were feeling horrible for what they'd done to one another.
Here, we jump ahead to Day 11. As before, please pay attention to the order of events. We will see what led them to the events of Day 11, all in good time...
There's mild, suggestive smut, and also some fairly unambiguous smut. Obviously, NSFW, as if you needed to be reminded! Please enjoy!
PART 3
DAY 11
Four days ago, Martha had learned parts of Gallifrey's numbering system via a set of combined and recombined symbols, set on a base-sixteen system. She hadn't realised how much she might enjoy it, until she really got going. It had given her brain a good stretching; it had been frustrating, and a few times she had wanted to give up, but she had found it, in the end, immensely satisfying.
With her newfound knowledge, she had helped the Doctor to catalogue some journalistic archives stored in the TARDIS' limited Dimension-1 memory banks, and then jettison anything that the Doctor deemed unneeded.
The consequence of this was, what Martha had dubbed, "Outer space spam," a form of information-firing, that had begun late in the day, just after the purge had been performed. The Doctor had thought this nickname apt, as it was unfiltered communication, coming to and from different channels, and the TARDIS happened to be in the way, gathering messages whether it needed to or not.
"Although, really, it's more like when you've got a CB radio, and you catch others' conversations, just because you're on the same frequency," he said.
The point was, that in all the din, with the fifty or sixty messages that came in every hour, there was bound, eventually, to be at least one that would make the Doctor respond.
"Distress call," he had sighed, this afternoon, looking through the 'outer space spam folder.'
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Half the planet Hypotasso receives its electrical power from these, erm…" he paused long enough that Martha looked up at him "…steam pumps."
"Oh."
"Essentially, they are engineered tributaries of this massive geyser."
Something came over her at this revelation. "Oh," she repeated, practically choking on the syllable, and swallowing hard.
He caught the high-pitched, yet subdued, tone of her oh. "What was that?" he asked her, shifting his eyes, quickly to hers.
"Nothing," she said, shifting her own eyes quickly away.
But she could feel his eyes on her. All over her, as a matter of fact.
With the state she was in, she could feel everything. Her pulse pounded all the time, her skin prickled at the tiniest provocation. Her nether regions throbbed whenever he looked at her the way he was looking at her now, and it was utterly ridiculous how her body was reacting to him using the words massive geyser, and even steam pump. It was almost shameful.
Almost.
Because, the fact was, he knew exactly what he'd said to make her choked oh come out the way it had. He may or may not have done it on purpose, but no matter – he was onto her now.
She tried to lean coolly against the console with her arms crossed over her chest. But, she knew, the fact that she also crossed her legs tightly over one another, this was giving her away. He watched her with one eyebrow raised, taking in everything there was to see of her at this moment, knowing that she was trying to abate a certain heat he'd ignited, and that she was probably failing.
"So, what about the… the, er…" she began.
"The pumps?" he asked, practically whispered, trying to attract her eye.
And he succeeded for a short moment, before she couldn't hold his gaze anymore, and she blinked away.
"Yeah," she said.
"Well, it looks like they're about three hours from destroying a hemisphere," he said, turning his attention back to the screen.
With that, he threw the TARDIS into gear, and the familiar sound of the universe echoed through the room as, presumably, they arrived on the planet Hypotasso.
He strode toward the door, and opened it. "Oh, the heat. You'll love it." He fluttered a very intentional eyebrow at her, and she felt another wave of something powerful. It washed over her like a tide, except it did not ebb.
She watched as he stepped back into the TARDIS, shed his jacket and his tie, and hung them up on the coat rack by the door. Then, he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.
Once again, he looked her over, and she couldn't help but notice that steam poured in through the door, slightly ajar. "You might want to reduce the thread count," he said.
"Okay," she obliged, and shed her corduroy jacket, in favour of the spaghetti-strap top underneath.
He held out his hand to her, and she took it, practically trembling now.
They stepped out of the TARDIS into a large room, that was panelled on one side completely with windows. The rest of the room around them contained computer screens, perhaps fifty of them, all of which were flashing with red-alerts of some kind.
"Why aren't there fifty alarms going off in here?" she asked, looking about at the urgency transmitted visually in a quiet room.
"Someone must have silenced them," he said. "Clearly, they're aware of the problem…"
"They just don't know how to solve it?"
"Hence the distress call."
"What is the problem?" she asked.
The Doctor led her to the glass and they looked out. Whatever building they were in was clearly up on a mountainside, or at least on stilts, because they were peering down a thousand feet into a valley of low, rocky hills.
"Just wait a few moments, and I'll show you," he whispered, his voice low and raspy. After a longer-than-normal beat, he asked, "You know how to wait, don't you?"
"Yes," she practically whimpered, staring out at the hills.
"Yes, you do," he growled at her, and again, she felt his eyes slide over her. "You've got the patience of Job, you."
"Haven't had much choice," she muttered, swallowing hard, pointedly avoiding eye-contact.
Within about thirty seconds, she felt a trembling of the floor beneath her feet. The whole building, whole terrain, seemed to be vibrating.
"Feel that?" he asked, squeezing her hand harder.
"Yeah."
"That is the problem," he told her. "It's a mounting of tension. On this planet, just beneath the surface, there's heat gathering. Heat and moisture and pressure churn and swirl, and it all culminates in a great big p-shhh!"
She had to catch her breath when he said this, the onomatopoeia that signaled release. She caught a hot frisson, which settled in between her legs, and made her juices flow.
"P-shhh?" she asked, mousily, looking up at him like a child.
"Mm," he said, eyes flashing, totally conscious of her arousal. "P-shhh. A geyser, right there, outside this window, is supposed to explode all over this valley, at regular intervals. All that ramping-up, all that stoking of the internal fire, it leads there. And then, there is relief, all over this hemisphere."
"I see."
"Thus, equilibrium everywhere else."
"I see," she repeated.
"When the pressure is allowed to vent, then other things beneath the surface work more smoothly. Plate tectonics, vegetation and ecosystems…"
"I see," she repeated, yet again.
"Yes, I think you do," he murmured. "But watch." He gestured out the window.
The quaking of the world around them mounted and mounted, and Martha inwardly begged it to stop, as she could feel the trembling in her bones, and in every other part of her body.
When suddenly, there was a "Tsss" sound, and a gigantic black hole in the hills below released a small, rather anticlimactic, spurt of water.
"What?" she cried out, rather too passionately. "That wasn't a geyser, that was a… blorp. A bubble. What's going on?"
He shrugged, smirking. "Something's holding it back."
"Well, make it stop!" she shouted. Then, she found a measure of lucidity, and backpedaled. "I mean… this can't be safe for the planet."
"Indeed, it's not," he said.
Just then, a door opened at the side of the room, and five people spilled inside.
"The Doctor, I presume?" asked a woman who came at him with her hand extended.
He shook it. "Yes," he said. "And this is Martha Jones."
"I'm Captain Moni Herzog."
"Enchanté. Got a bit of a pickle here, do you?"
"Yes," she said. "More than a bit. Thank you for coming."
The other folks went to different computer stations around the room, and began chattering at each other about the different readings. One of the men in the group began talking directly to the Doctor and Martha, showing them one of the screens.
"Each screen represents one of the steam pumps," he explained. "There's one steam pump in each major city in this hemisphere, and the city's power grid is run this way. When the geyser blows, so does each steam pump, as we have engineered a tributary system. The kinetic energy is harnessed as usable, clean, renewable electricity."
"That's clever," Martha said, lamely. She was listening to the man, but was still distracted by her own screaming body.
"That earthquake you felt?" said the man. "That's not supposed to happen. Under normal circumstances, the geyser goes off about every three minutes without ceremony, without incident. There's no warning, except the fact that we know exactly when it's going to happen… because we've studied it, obviously."
"The quake is only occurring because something is keeping the tension held in," the Doctor said.
"Exactly," said the man. "Except, it's not being completely held in. It's being vented through the steam pumps."
"Oh, I understand," said Martha. "And the steam pumps are being forced to accommodate more pressure, as they vent, than they are equipped for."
"Right," said the man. "And for the past twenty-four hours or so, the problem has been building."
"So, venting in the cities gets longer and harder each time," the Doctor said, squeezing Martha's hand.
She cursed him inwardly, and bit her bottom lip against the massive throbbing this gave her.
"Yes. The venting lasts longer and unleashes more pressure," the man said. "We don't know how long this can go on, before the steam pumps fail completely, and explode, with the collective force of the geyser."
"Which will level the cities," the Doctor said. "Well, sir, based on the information gleaned from my TARDIS, I estimate you've got about three hours before that happens."
The man spoke up. "Captain!"
The woman who had initially shook hands with the Doctor looked up from her computer. "Yeah?"
"Three hours, the Doctor thinks."
"Damn," she spat. "That's less time than we thought."
"Then we'd better get moving," said the Doctor. He looked about the room, and gave everyone a job, as far as monitoring, testing and contacting. Then he looked at Martha. "What do you say? Are you ready to stop holding back?"
She couldn't answer. She just looked at him with disbelief, and total, all-consuming, lust.
He smiled and said, "I thought you might be. Let's do it."
Over the next two hours, the Doctor, of course, worked out what kind of mineral build-up was forming inside of the geyser, and how to rig the underground tributary system to whittle it away, thus leaving the way clear for total release.
At last, he stood at the computer station nearest the windows, while Martha stood before the glass and waited, again, to see the geyser blow. He watched the countdown, noting to the whole room that there was no more earthquake.
When the massive spray of steaming water came out of the ground, there was a cathartic burst of shouts and cheers inside the room. Martha, on the other hand, nearly lost her breath, and lost her ability to stand. She leaned against the glass for support, and closed her eyes against the sight. She panted, trying to gain her balance, and when she did, she turned and looked at the Doctor. He was smug – more smug than his usual I-just-solved-a-big-bloody-problem demeanour. She made eye-contact, and allowed him to see her whole body heaving with tension.
She exhaled harshly, and began to walk toward the TARDIS. As she passed the Doctor, she growled at him, "I fucking hate you right now."
He smiled, and watched her disappear, without another word, inside the blue box.
When, after about ten minutes, he stepped into the console room, he found her sitting in the lotus position on the stool. He reckoned she was trying to calm down. This delighted him.
However, he said to her, with no whimsy, "Why did you walk away from me? You know you're not supposed to be alone."
"Fuck off," she said, annoyed.
"Mm-hm," he replied, setting the TARDIS' gears to depart. "You know what this means, don't you? It means waiting an extra night."
"Excuse me?"
"I know that the agreement was three nights only," he said. "But you also agreed never to be out of my sight. And you know why."
"Well, I didn't… do anything while I was alone, I swear," she told him, with a mixture of supplication, and bitterness. "I just sat here and tried to meditate."
"I know," he said. "The TARDIS is telling me as much. But that doesn't change the fact that you broke the rules. The consequence is, an extra night, as I said."
"Whatever. If I can sit through that geyser business, I can sit through anything," she insisted, though her voice quavered with uncertainty. "Did you set that up?"
"No, the geyser malfunctioning was a happy accident," he answered. "And oh, Martha, you know that it could get so, so much worse than that. Don't assume you have the mettle." He smiled at the prospect.
"Yeah. I know."
"Mm. Now, will you help me purge the last wave of outer space spam?"
"Why not?" she said, hopping off the stool, grateful for a distraction.
And she clicked away at the computer screen in the way the Doctor had shown her, while the Doctor did the same job while interfacing with the TARDIS in a much less-tangible way.
Purging.
Such a great word. A word that was à propos of their situation.
Because, not only was she glad for the current distraction, but she was glad to be purged of the guilt she had been carrying. Today, there in the console room, this was just them. No more lies, no more "magic," no more rituals or Crux Herb, secret stashes of benign Maple leaves squirrelled away within the TARDIS. This was real. Everyone was truly responsible for his or her own actions.
Although, real didn't mean there wasn't still some manner of mask-wearing involved, it was just that everyone now knew the score, and was acting of their own volition. A hot shot of lust radiated through her. For three days, she had been tolerating the Doctor's cleverly meted-out whim, which left her a quivering mass of nerves. She had done so, well, because she rather enjoyed it. It put her near him, underneath him, pressed between him and furniture or walls, on the back foot, totally at his mercy… of course she enjoyed it. But also, in part, she'd done it, all the while knowing that tonight, she would finally have some respite…
But now, it looked as though that would not happen, as he had told her she would now have to endure it for one more night. From this moment, it was another thirty, perhaps thirty-two hours before she could look forward to a letting-up of pressure, and between now and then, there was torture to be endured.
Not that this particular brand of torture was entirely unpleasant. In fact, it was quite pleasant indeed. That was precisely the difficulty of it.
She tried to calm her body as she worked, but she couldn't help but re-hash, in her mind, the events that had brought them to this state of affairs.
DAY 7
How could I have non-consensual sex with someone I care about?
It was a question they'd both been asking themselves separately. He had used a ritual, and an herb, to lull her into submission, then had used her body for his own pleasure, for three nights in a row.
Yet, he had no idea that the only reason he had done it was that Martha had used the same herb, and a similar ritual of suggestion, on him, for three nights in a row.
And so, for the third morning in a row, she could see that he was a coiled spring, a bundle of neuroses, riddled with guilt and doubt. Just hearing her voice probably called up a tornado of memories from the previous three nights – first bending her over the armchair, and forcing her arm and neck into a painful position while he enjoyed himself. The next night, having her on her back, on the floor, making her come over and over, watching her with violent avarice in his eyes, until she genuinely couldn't anymore. Last night, he'd had her in the mouth with totally selfish abandon, then rammed her hard and fast with a sex toy. And now, he was probably trying to force all of his emotions and lusts into check, and wondering why he couldn't stop this madness.
She almost wished, today, that she could talk to him about it. She almost wished she could let him know that he's not the one with the fucked-up desires, that she was the one who, for some reason, wanted to be used, ordered about, handled roughly and thoughtlessly…
Paradoxically, she realised, it was about the power. Over him. Power over the most powerful man in the universe, who was still not immune to the whammy she could lay on him.
And power over him, the man she genuinely loved and hungered for. Being used like a sex doll was one thing, but having him use her, feeling him exploding inside of her, hearing his voice order her to her knees… she reckoned that was really at the heart of it all. Him.
Why was she doing this? Perhaps because he wasn't coming round to it on his own quickly enough for her? Perhaps because, even if he did, left to his own devices, he'd probably make love to her, the thought of which bored her to death. He would try to suppress what he really wanted, and it would take possibly years to drag it out of him. This was quicker, it led to uninhibited sex, and put her in-control even if what she wanted was to be submissive.
And in these mornings-after, his total confidence in her, and knowing the guilty, delicious memories flooding behind his eyes just now, made her ache and burn. In a little while, he would take her hand, lead her into adventure, trust her with his life. Her baser urges and her conscience should be impeded by this.
But they were not. Somehow she'd got over it so she could have him…
…and now, she had to strain not to allow her arousal to give her away.
A few hours later, Martha was well on her way to learning the base-sixteen system of Gallifreyan numbers that was leading her into cataloguing and categorising articles that had been in the TARDIS' Dimension-1 memory banks for far, far too long.
Which meant that the console room was now silent.
And that was an appalling state of affairs.
When he was talking with her and interacting with her, he didn't have to think about what he had done. It had only been a few days, but he was already extremely weary of the heavy combination of lust and guilt he felt. Ulcers were forming. He was torn inside by the memories of her sweat-soaked, writhing body, her moans, her face contorting in the throes of orgasm, juxtaposed against the fact that it had all been without her knowledge, against her will, and his actions had gone against everything he thought he was.
However, today was a bit different.
He felt the same crippling desire/self-loathing paradox when he thought of being with her, but somehow, much more in control of his faculties. Today, in a way, he felt more lucid than he had since this all began…
And he knew this because fear was now also a dominating factor. He'd always been scared of her finding out and/or realising what he'd been doing to her, but today, that fear actually seemed as though it might supersede the compulsion to do it again. On previous days, he had discounted the nervousness and put it into a space of denial, because he knew deep down, he'd have her again, in her drunken, mechanical state – he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
Yes, today was definitely different.
I have to come clean, he said to himself. I have to purge.
For a few hours, this thought had been knocking at the door of his consciousness, but trepidation had kept him from letting it in.
I have done something terrible, and I will need to face the consequences.
And he tried to bat it away for a while, but it kept coming back, like a haunting.
But, once she learned what he'd done to her, she would likely begin throwing things, screaming, and/or leave him (totally justifiably) before he could even finish the story. Because, let's face it… what reason would he give? He had no idea.
"Seemed like a good idea at the time," he might say.
This thought actually made him give an involuntary, bitter laugh. Talk about minimizing a grave situation.
Or possibly, "I saw an opportunity to get to know you better."
Ugh. No. Just no.
"The craving for you was bigger than me," perhaps. This was the truth, but it was still just a lame excuse.
"I'm an arsehole who's been drunk with power for a while now, and I took the liberty." That was more like it.
He scoffed at himself.
What a fucking disaster.
All the same, what if there was a way to keep her calm, while he told her? A way to have her hear the whole story (such as it was), hear his apologies, hear his promises to make things right, but not have her freak out and lose the ability to process it? Ideally, he would tell her, she would listen, then let it incubate, and calmly decide what to do next. He could accept her wrath and/or the loss of her from his life forever, if he had the chance to finish speaking, and knew that she understood everything there was to understand.
How one might accomplish that, he had no idea. However, he did know who might know.
"Martha?" he said to her from across the console where they worked.
"Hm?"
"What would you say if we went back to Dimin today?"
She leaned to the side, so she could see him better. "For what?" She seemed surprised.
"I need to talk to one of the priests about something," he said. "You don't have to come. You can just stay here in the TARDIS. I'll only be a half-hour or so."
"Okay," she shrugged, and went back to her computer screen.
When the Doctor walked out of the TARDIS, she knew that something had changed. His whole demeanour was different, muted somehow.
It was guilt. She knew it, because she was feeling it too. And she had been able to smell it on him ever since their first morning-after.
But she also noticed that there was an edge, of sorts, missing. The wolf-like hunger was gone from his eyes. In the previous mornings, she had seen it there, still, coveting her, hungering for her… under control, of course, quelled by the Doctor's conscience in those moments. But it had definitely been there.
She reckoned this meant that the spell had worn off. The effects of the Crux Herb, and the chant had left him, as had the fire. All that was left was charred, now sodden remains of culpability and regret, and she wondered if today, he was going to Dimin to consult with a priest about some sort of spiritual contrition.
She could, she supposed, lay it on him again. It would be easy enough…
But given the look of total self-loathing in his eyes when he left the TARDIS today, she reckoned, the game was over. It had been fun (actually, fun didn't even begin to describe it)…
…but I've done something terrible, and I will need to answer for it.
Martha lay in bed that night, unable to sleep – much like the last several nights, actually. Only, this time, it was not because of anticipatory lust, it was because scenarios of confession were running through her mind. How would she tell him? Would she start by coaxing him into telling the truth as he saw it, and confessing to him that it was all her doing? Or would that be unnecessarily cruel? Could she just come out and openly say it? "I used you. I violated your trust. Your guts tied up in knots over the last three days – I did that to you. I made you question everything about yourself, your life, your ethics. I turned you into a rapist, because I liked it. I was selfish, impatient, greedy, short-sighted, and I'm sorry."
She thought about looking the man she loved in the eyes, and saying these words. She thought about the rage that would melt into his features, as she explained how she'd switched the Crux Herb and the Maple leaves. She imagined the cold, hard stare he would give her, that asked, How could you? followed by the restrained reeling he would do, all over the room. Things might break. There would be colourful language.
She thought about him hissing some cruel words about her moral character, and then ordering her to leave the TARDIS and never come back. She wondered if she would be able to take it without shattering into a thousand pieces.
I have a lot of strength, for myriad things. I just don't know if this confession is one of them.
And then, a familiar sound stirred her.
It was the sound of the handle of her bedroom door being gingerly turned, so as to disturb as little as possible.
Quickly, she closed her eyes, miming sleep, and hoped that he couldn't hear her heart beginning to beat three times as fast. Nervousness and persistent, stubborn lust had taken her over again. What was he up to?
Actually, a more interesting question was, what would he do to her? Had the "spell" not worn off yet? Did she have a fourth night of glorious debauchery ahead of her? Or, had he somehow learned the truth of her sins, and come to punish her?
She listened to him tiptoe in. She heard the faint sound of the dry Maple leaves swishing about in the bowl. She heard him strike a match, and smelled the sulfur, and then the burning of the leaves. And then, she heard him strike yet another match.
She took a risk, and opened her eyes momentarily, sneaking a glance at what the Doctor was doing. The room was filling with smoke as it had on three previous nights, but now, she could see, the Doctor was now igniting the Light of Recall.
He wants me to remember.
That was when something unexpected happened.
"I have a message for you, Martha," he said to her, across the smoke, in the dark. "I want you to internalize, in your own way, what I am conveying, without interrupting. What I want from you is… well, the benefit of the doubt. Remain calm, and consider. Really consider, Martha, and don't react too strongly until I have finished. And, until you have had a chance to work out what it all means… for you, for me, for us, for the future."
And that was all he said. He did not tell her how to feel, or to ignore aspects of what she assumed would be a confession. It seemed, he just wanted her to listen.
He's afraid I'll freak out and storm away before he has a chance to apologise, and explain, bless him. I really should let him know now…
She remained still while the Doctor stirred the words he'd just said into the smoke.
…now, come on, Martha. Open your eyes and tell him you can hear him, and that all of this is your fault. Do it!
But she couldn't bring herself to. What would she say?
Oh, God, what would I say? I can't do it…
He had been careful not to tell her how to feel, nor to ask her to forgive or forget. He hoped, in the end, she would forgive him on her own – but it had to be her choice. He'd wanted desperately to build in a guarantee that he would not lose his best friend to his own debauched sense of need, but this whole thing was built on mind-control and lies and defilements of their friendship… it was time to let all of that go.
He stirred his words into the smoke, so that she would inhale them, and then he waited, as he had done three nights previously, for the instructions to set in.
Only now, he was sick with worry because what happened tonight, she would remember. He would not be able to put her back in bed and simply lull her to sleep, safe in the knowledge that the imprint of this abuse would be gone.
To his surprise, she sat up in bed a lot sooner than usual, and she did not say his name with the faraway, autonomic voice she'd had the previous three nights. He reckoned that something in her subconscious knew that this night was not going to be like the others.
She looked at him with wide, nervous eyes, and he fought to hold that gaze.
Oh God, she looks like a rabbit caught in headlights. She looks so innocent and frankly, terrified.
"Martha, I…" he began.
And he was choked.
Damn it, Doctor! Just do it! Say it! Tell her what you've done! You know she won't lose her temper just yet, you know she'll hear you out first, you've seen to that…
But he just stared at her, unable to move, unable to speak. And Martha stared back, looking now expectant.
"I have something to say," he finally managed.
"Yes?"
Again, he seized. He flogged himself internally. He thought about all of the death-defying moments of his life - Daleks, laser beams, wars, falling through the vortex, running from invisible monsters, trying to reason with murderous despots – and yet, he did not have the courage for this.
The wrath of Martha Jones is worse than a Cyberman attack?
No, but her pain might just be. The loss of her, might just be.
He turned away from her, and began to wander away from the bed, thinking about his dilemma. When he turned back around, his eye was automatically drawn to the Light of Recall, burning on the nightstand.
What happens here tonight, she will remember.
And I will be buggered.
So, what if he didn't have to say anything?
In his incantation, he had said, I have a message for you… What I want from you is the benefit of the doubt. Remain calm… don't react too strongly until I have finished. And, until you have had a chance to work out what it all means…"
Though he'd been careful not to try and control her feelings, he had, again, forced her to submit to his will.
Whatever happens, she will remember. Why not let the chips fall where they may? If I confess or I don't, either way, now, she'll ask questions I won't be able to dodge.
The Doctor had said nothing of substance yet. She reckoned he was having a lot of the same thoughts as she was, wrestling with himself in the same way. As in, come on, you coward – out with it!
He walked away from the bed in a tortured pace. It hurt her to watch, and yet, she could say nothing. But then, he did something wholly unexpected.
He crawled up onto the bed, and across it, grabbed her by the jaw and kissed her heartily. It was not like the kisses he'd planted on her during the previous nights' activities. This was not a desperate, famished kiss with flavours of depravity hiding beneath, tongue driving forward, trying to fuck her mouth. It was not all breathless, indecent grunts, moans of muffled, nasty words.
This kiss had passion and sentiment and promise.
She saw what he was doing: this little act would save them both some anguish, in the end, or at the very least, it would open up the discussion in a way that neither of them would be able to elude.
He had already instructed her not to react too strongly until he'd "said" what he had to say, so she played, once again, the submissive role. She allowed the gentle force of him to guide her onto her back. She felt the weight of his body sink down on top of her, and continued to allow his tongue to probe, and dance against her own.
Eventually he shifted back, peeled off his t-shirt, then her blankets, and joined her under the covers. He buried his mouth behind her ear, licking and sucking at the tender flesh, carefully enlacing his fingers through her hair, though mindful not to yank. Eventually, his hands came round to the front, and crawled up inside of her night shirt, and helped her shed it. From there, he kissed and caressed her stomach and breasts, squeezing gently, and lapping at the nipples.
To her surprise, this profound, scrupulous prelude to lovemaking inflamed her quite madly. The thought of going through this sort of thing with the Doctor had seemed rather tedious in the past, and yet she found that when he pressed down on her, moaned her name, bit her neck gently, and ground his erection into her thigh in askance, her legs parted of their own accord.
"Is this the message that you have for me?" she asked him, unprepared for how breathlessly her voice would come.
"More or less," he said, pulling back to look at her squarely. "Is it all right?"
"You're asking me if it's all right?"
"Yes. Is it?"
"Of course," she told him.
He sighed. "You trust me?"
"With my life."
He seemed now to gaze at her a bit sadly. "I wish I knew for sure…"
But with that thought, he resumed what he'd been doing. He switched to the other side of her neck, gave her gentle licks and bites, and she moaned at the sensation, almost in spite of herself. She could feel the simmering wetness gathering between her legs. He felt it too, as his fingers pressed against the soaked fabric of her knickers, and began to move in circles.
She squirmed against this treatment, as urgency grew. And then, shockingly, quickly, almost without warning, she came. It was like a punch to the gut, and she groaned as such, and couldn't help but growl "Fuck!" as her body tightened, then released. Her mouth opened wide as if in protest against the shock, and her eyes searched his, as though to ask, "What the hell did you just do?"
And like the gentleman he was, he brought her down slowly, expertly, kneading her clit gently, watching the waves of pleasure subside.
When they did, he hooked his fingers through the hips of her knickers and pulled them down her legs, and off. And, he did so without any of the brusqueness or severity with which he had done this before.
And, there was a chasm in her body, begging to be filled… and it was screaming at her.
It was a familiar scream. The Doctor was taking an eminently normal and docile path tonight, and it had made her nether regions melt, and had given her a proper pop of an orgasm as nothing quite so "tame" ever had before. Yet, she wasn't surprised to realise then that her body was bursting for a good fucking. She was craving the rough, dissolute, thoughtless, artless pounding to which she'd become all but addicted, over the last few nights…
What's more, she knew unequivocally, from experience, that his body was screaming at him for the same thing.
But then, yet another unexpected thing happened. He held her eyes, and she held his. He positioned himself between her legs and slid inside of her forcefully, though not roughly… and it felt amazing.
It felt properly amazing.
Her body sparked with want as soon as his cock slid home, and immediately, she wrapped her legs around him and whimpered. He just remained this way for a few long, long seconds, lodged inside of her, his eyes penetrating her as much as any other part of him. And even this was gorgeous to her – the stillness, the gathering of her attention, anticipation, and desire.
She reckoned he could feel it all collecting, building in her… she practically quaked in longing for him to drive it into her again and again. She could feel him practically vibrating with the suppressed compulsion…
And it all seemed to reach a head, and she almost let out a frustrated demand that he fuck her into oblivion, when he seemed to read her mind. He pulled back and slid in again, nice and hard, and began to do it over and over, with burning groans, and an almost triumphal look on his face… though he continued to watch her eyes. His thrusts were firm and compelling, but not fast. And when he slid forward, he gave a little grind of his pelvis against hers, rubbing her clit with his body, something he'd never done before. Another storm started to spark within her, and she could feel orgasm on the rise again. She panted, she whispered "yes," she bit her lip, and waited for another explosion to take her over… and watched him, as intently as he watched her. She looked at him with absolute awe behind her eyes – she couldn't help it, because she was utterly astonished…
Here she was, in bed, in dim, romantic light, on her back, being made love to in a basically prosaic, considerate, respectful way…
And it was good.
God, it was good. It was so good, that…
…there it was, the second orgasm flooded her senses, and she tilted her head back, and cried out, while her thighs clamped his hips and her insides pulsed around his cock.
He didn't stop moving just because of this. In fact, the impish bit of him that wanted her as helpless as possible continued to thrust into her because he knew it would make her whimper and swear, and make her eyes water, and make her beg him to stop and give her respite…
But he didn't. And that was okay. He still smiled at her, and watched her soar down from her high. He just kept going, as though he was far from finished with her, or himself. He leaned down and kissed her heartily, with a lovely groan, then he kissed and nipped again at her neck, and the area behind her ears.
He whispered her name, he told her how amazing, how chuffing brilliant, and fucking hot she was. And eventually he told her he was going to make her come again. And he did. He leaned back on his haunches and thrust upwards into her until her eyes went crossed, and she cried out, and her body went into spasm for a third time. When she was finished, he brought her down again, like the skilled, self-disciplined lover that he was (or could be), and then planted his elbows on either side of her, and hissed in her ear, "I can't wait anymore."
"Then don't," she told him, resisting the urge to say something utterly filthy about what she wanted to happen next. Her body was still buzzing, and she wondered if another orgasm could be coaxed out of her, with his inevitable eruption deep inside of her body…
But alas, she felt spent. She simply laid there, let him plunge in and out, let herself twitch with the overwhelming sensation of it, and waited to feel him let go, and fill her.
And when he came, he announced himself (as he sometimes did, she knew) and gave a civilised, but intense groan. He grabbed her eyes again with his, and made her feel his cock throb over and over, as warm liquid flooded her insides. He looked at her, again, with a bit of vindication as he finished, then he gave the last few shuddering thrusts, pulled out, and fell on his side.
"Wow," she couldn't help but muse.
She hated herself for it, but realised it was warranted.
She had never before been able to feel fire for proper lovemaking. She had engaged in it, as a matter of course, in different relationships, because that's what one does…
…but this was the first time she felt the wow afterwards, the sensation of buzzing, of excitement and euphoria, at the same time as feeling exhausted from the experience.
This was the first time, after a bout like this, when she hadn't wondered how in the hell anyone could stand to have sex this way time after time, after time. Because she now had her answer.
The answer was love.
She loved him, and she had come to terms with that a while back. And with that, came a healthy dollop of lust. And, the Doctor represented her first foray into this depth of feeling…
So, she lay there beside him, panting, sweating, feeling surprised, satisfied and totally smitten.
And this realisation was going to make her confession so much harder.
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