Some thoughts, before you begin reading:

1. FYI: This chapter has been finished for some time, but editing smut is a tricky business, and cannot be done just anywhere, at any time. Sorry for the delay... trying to do this AND have a life!

2. I am requesting that you re-read the two previous chapters before you dive into this one so that it doesn't feel like disjointed smut. :-) It makes much more sense in context!

3. This wound up a lot more "epic" than I had envisioned! I could feel it going in that direction late in chapter 2. There was nothing I could do about it. It developed a mind of its own, and the Doctor had a few moments of epiphany.

4. We won't get to see what happens with the Deloux children and the Ampys people. It wasn't the point, after all. They were just a problem that Martha could get distracted from helping solve. The point, of course, was a plot bunny, in the Doctor's voice, that said, "If I shag you rotten, will you shut up for a while?" (Mean, I know, but that's the problem with plot bunnies. They're jerks.)

And now, the trilling conclusion...

Part 3

The last couple of minutes, Martha's brain had been running much more slowly than normal, mostly because the Doctor was short-circuiting it. It refused to process the fact that she was being pulled down a TARDIS corridor by an unsettlingly calm Doctor, who wanted to "rid" her of all "desire" so she could get her head in the game.

So, she asked, "Where are we going?"

"To my bedroom."

"Why?"

"Because the carpet in the media room hasn't been vacuumed for quite some time. Also, I don't fancy rug-burns."

She chuckled, but did not say anything in response. She couldn't.

When they arrived at their destination, the Doctor opened the door and pulled her inside. It was her first time inside his bedroom, and she was shocked at how neatly it was kept.

But not for long, because after only a second, the door was shut, and she found herself pressed between it and the Doctor. His mouth was on hers, his hands were on her hips, and she gave a little shriek of surprise. And though chaos took over her mind and made everything blurry and shapeless, and she struggled to come to terms with what was happening, she could not ward off the fire she felt seizing her on the inside. It started at her pounding heart, and was spreading to her lower extremities. His insistent body, his lips, his hands, even the feel of the hard wood against her back, it all made her ache.

He pulled away from her lips and kissed her cheek three times, hungrily and in quick succession, leading toward her ear, then down her neck. He sucked at the sensitive flesh there, worked his tongue against her skin, making her nearly lose all strength in her legs.

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes muddled, her fingers clawing at his arms.

"Maybe, but we don't have time to find out," he told her.

"I don't want you to do this just to shut me up," she protested, though, not exactly with the vehemence she intended.

He echoed his words from that morning. "There must definitely be more unpleasant ways of trying to shut you up."

She was reminded of how she had felt then, how he made an effort to strip away her craving by giving her exactly what she had wanted, and how she had been very glad that he had enjoyed the pastry as much as she had.

He bit her neck slightly, and it made her moan. Her body gave way even more, and the heat now settled between her legs, flickering uneasily like a candle.

"Doctor, this isn't like going to be the pastry shop," she breathed.

"Sure it is," he said, now working his way underneath her chin to the other side of her neck. "Because, come on, everyone loves pastry."

"You're insane."

"Look," he said, lips never really leaving her skin. "I haven't been craving the exact pastry in the exact way that you have, but I'm sure as hell going to enjoy it as much as you."

"Are you sure?"

In lieu of an answer, he shifted positions and pressed his whole body against her, making his own craving immediately obvious. Feeling that hardness digging into her abdomen, she moaned again and knew all at once that she would never find the willpower to tell him to stop. Even if it was just a means to an end, even if it was only his intent to grab her melancholy by the throat and shag it out her... she wanted it.

He returned his insistent mouth to hers, and pressed his tongue against her lips. She let it in with no hesitation and a new wave of desire came over her as she pressed back. He shifted his body again, and his hand went to the waistband of her jeans, and popped the button open, followed by the zip. His fingertips spent a moment finding the elastic of her pants, but wasted no time snaking inside, once they did.

Her flesh was hot, and growing hotter by the moment, and when he found her centre, and pushed two fingers easily into her, he found it positively boiling, flowing like lava.

As if the thought escaped on its own, he groaned, "You're like a volcano."

"I am," she whispered. He hadn't fully been aware that he'd said it out loud, so was pleasantly surprised by her reaction.

He added another finger, and began moving all three back and forth. Martha's eyes nearly rolled back in her head, and her mouth hung slack.

"Ready to blow like one?"

"Yes," she rasped.

For a few more seconds he lazily advanced those three fingers forward and backward within her, intermittently kissing mouth and neck, and watching her spiral out of control.

Then he withdrew the fingers and instead, repeated the rhythmic action on her clit. Her whole body tightened and she let out a cry. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him squarely, watched his jaw clench and his eyes fill with lightning as she came. She gushed. She swore. She spun and flew and throbbed and her fingernails from one hand dug angrily into his brown polyester sleeve, while the other scratched at the door behind her. Her toes nearly went numb. It was the orgasm that had been building for six months, and as it subsided, it nearly took her down, like it was sweeping her away with the undertow.

She wanted to close her eyes and recover, but she didn't dare. She held onto that gaze for dear life, for fear of it disappearing.

A little bit of her guard went back up at that point, and she whispered, "We can stop now, if you want."

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no," the Doctor insisted with a smile. Again, he echoed his words from earlier in the day. "We're going to do this right. Come on."

He took one hand and led her across the room. She followed, shaky and breathing heavily, still not quite back on Earth, so to speak, yet.

In a matter of a few seconds she had some very complex thoughts. She had spent her share of time thinking about how this might go, if it ever happened. She had her favourite scenarios, go-to fantasies that sometimes she relished, and other times were just a damn nuisance. And in none of them had he pushed her against a door nor thrust his fingers inside her jeans and knickers, nor betrayed aggression when he watched her lose her composure in pleasure. All of that was a surprise.

Though, none of it was unappealing.

She wondered, when he said "we're going to do this right," if he was intent on giving her exactly what she'd been wanting in order to regain her concentration as he had with the blueberry tart, then how could he know what exactly that meant?

Well, she knew, of course, and had always known, that her fantasies could never do him justice. Anything he could give her or do to her, that was what she craved, even if she didn't know it. It was about him. He would clearly supersede any "perfect" scenario of long, elegant lovemaking of the sort she often conjured, sometimes against her will. And, something told her that nothing about this would be what one might call elegant.

Maybe someday she would get to tell him about her dreams, how she'd imagined him before that day. Maybe someday she'd get to unleash those favoured fancies upon him, but... one thing at a time.

She hadn't noticed, but as he moved, he had been unbuttoning, once again, his suit coat. Halfway, he shrugged it off and discarded it on the floor. When they reached the bed, he turned and faced her, and in one cool motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and fell backward, with his head coming to rest upon a pillow. She landed on top of him, rather startled, and pushed herself up on her arms to look at him. He was giving her a whimsical scowl, daring her to do anything... to protest, to roll off, to move at all...

She bent her arms and planted a hungry, wet kiss on him. As she did, he groaned with the all-over impact, then threw his arms around her one more time and rolled to his left, placing himself on top, and taking control again (as if he'd ever given it up). He never pulled away from the kiss, only deepened it.

The next few moments felt familiar. It was the necessary but awkward, desperate, peeling and tugging of clothing, the next sign that the Doctor was not planning on going the elegant route. First he grabbed at the hem of her white tee-shirt, and pushed it artlessly toward her breasts. He pulled away just long enough that she could pull it over her head. Then, she went for his tie, where her fingers fumbled. He eventually held himself up on one hand, and used the other to pull the Windsor knot loose and drop the long piece of silk on the floor. Meanwhile his feet kicked hard against each other and the bedspread to rid him of his shoes. They both hit the floor with a thud.

He went back to work kissing her while she scratched at his waistband and tugged the shirttail loose on all sides. Then she went for the buttons, and undid them with shaking fingers, as quickly as she could, without pulling the threads loose. As soon as the last one was undone, he sat up, unbuttoned his cuffs and shed the entire shirt.

He never broke eye-contact with her. The last thing he wanted at a time like this was to have her think that he had disengaged even a little bit. His focus could not stray from her, he reminded himself, which would make things a bit difficult, given that this romp was supposed to clear her system (if only for now) of any harboured desires, which meant it had to be good. Preferably, good and exhausting. But it had been a long, long time since he had done this, and frankly, if he was obliged to commit all attention to her, then... well, he couldn't see it lasting very long.

But that was a neurosis that ultimately wouldn't do much good, especially since this body had never been tested in the arena of sex, not with another person present, anyway. With each regeneration came a change of personality, and with that came a change of tastes and proclivities. He had no idea how he would perform! All along, he'd had some idea that this incarnation was not the candlelit-dinner type, and that with the mass of energy, the increased running and shouting that this body tended to do, there might come with it a more explosive and urgent libido. Even more reason to think that worrying about his performance was moot.

So far, he'd been right. He'd done what came naturally, which had included unceremoniously pressing her back into a door, his tongue into her mouth and his fingers between her legs. Then, narcissistically relishing in the wet heat he brought out of her, and getting a ridiculous amount of satisfaction from watching her get off on just his touch. He had pulled her down, flipped her over like a ragdoll, and then pawed at her t-shirt as if he were a teenaged boy at his first snog. Yep - explosive and urgent.

Thankfully, none of it seemed to bother Martha, whatever dreams may have existed inside her head before today.

Having thrown his shirt aside, and now gazing down at her, he let his eyes rove over her body. There were two perfect breasts still enveloped in a white lace bra, crowning an expanse of absolutely delicious-looking, caramel-coloured stomach. To his surprise, he found that all he wanted was to taste that skin.

He moved back, then leaned over, planting his mouth just above her navel. He swirled his tongue and sucked at her skin as though he could pull sugar to the surface. He moaned, and her hips lurched upward at this gesture, the sensation and sound having shot straight to her groin.

He licked her navel, which caused her to moan back at him, and jolt her hips against him once more. Just barely, as he went for another lick, he whispered, "You're perfect," and his hands once more grasped her hips.

Then he moved to one side and repeated the swirling, sucking action, then the other side, then down. He covered her skin with kisses, and complemented them with light moans and whispers. "You're like silk... like a warm bath... you smell amazing... I want to kiss you everywhere... "

He had expected none of this. It was so much more sweetness than he had thought he would fancy, especially after the door to the room was shut, and the seizing had begun.

She heard every word and every sound he made. She memorised them in tandem with each lick, each surge of lust that plunged from a kiss straight down through her hips and made her throb. His actions kept her wanting, needing, reeling with pleasure, but his words kept her conscious and connected to the moment.

Eventually, though, the sweetness melted off, and they were left with the bare bones of pure lust once again. Her jeans had lain open since he had pulled the zip loose at the door, and now his hands sought to push them farther open. The waistband of her knickers was visible, and he tugged it away from her skin. The creamy, licking, sucking kisses across her abdomen turned to hungry, searching licks, even bites, below the waist. His fingers groped for a belt loop on her trousers, and once found, they tugged harshly, pulling the well-fitted garment loose only by a couple of inches. But it was enough. His lips and tongue and teeth went for any new sliver of flesh they could find.

With the sweet body language, out went the sweet spoken language as well, and the gentle moans. The moans turned to growls. The perfect little whispers became ravenous, combustible and much less poetic.

"You are so hot," he said through gritted teeth, after he had nipped at her hip bone with his teeth. She had answered with a mighty groan. "I just want to bury myself in you..."

Where the hell did that come from? he wondered.

Martha responded with a slow hiss of, "Yes."

"I want to do it over and over, and never stop," he said, biting the other hip.

"Do it. Do it now," she commanded, still hissing, whispering as though all of the moisture had gone from her mouth.

He smiled at the unmistakable hunger in her voice, the yearning. "You want to explode, don't you? You're just ready to..." he asked her, digging his fingers deeper under the waistband of her jeans, still pulling.

He finally got the denim down to her thighs, he leaned down to plant a quick kiss on the triangular mound, swollen and waiting beneath a pair of thin cotton knickers. She did not have to answer his question, because the mere brief touch of his mouth, even through a layer of fabric, was enough to make her cry out and practically hit the ceiling.

Again, he felt an egomaniacal satisfaction at this violent reaction, but quickly realised that he was in much the same heightened state, and that he needed her. All of her, and now.

He got up onto his knees and tugged the jeans down her legs the rest of the way, and threw them on the floor. He followed suit with her soaked underpants, and was not very gentle about it. He briefly leaned over her and bit her nipples through the lacy fabric, until she cried out, first one, and then the other, before telling her to sit up so he could unhook it in the back. She obeyed, then tossed the bra aside as well.

Now totally naked, she reached out and squeezed the bulge threatening to burst open his trousers. He moaned, and for the first time, lost control for a few seconds. He put his hands on her shoulders for leverage, and squeezed, as an outlet for the aftershocks that surged through him. She took the opportunity to unbutton his trousers, and pull down the zip. She did very much as he had done, searched for his belt loops, found them, and pulled. When his trousers and pants were low enough, she reached inside and found a long, hard, hungry appendage and she pulled it the rest of the way, into the open.

She looked back up at him, and was delighted to find him finally showing signs of cracking. His eyes were glazed over and his mouth hung open as breath escaped in slightly ragged spurts. She watched his face as she stroked, letting her fingers slide over the hot, unyielding flesh. His eyes squeezed shut, and he bit his bottom lip. She fancied she could see sparks shooting through him, the way he shuddered in perfect concert with her touch.

And for a very brief moment, she took the swollen tip into her mouth, and sighed. And he did as well, until he seemed to come to his senses.

"I don't think so," he said, rather gently, removing her hands and pulling away.

He kept a firm hold on her wrists and pushed her onto her back, pinning her down, a bit less gently. She couldn't move now if she wanted to. Sealing off the fact that he'd regained the upper-hand, he pressed her wrists into the mattress and kissed her hard.

When he pulled away and looked down at her, she smiled. "Why not?" she asked.

He smiled back. "Because this is about getting past your bloody neurosis, not mine."

"Is that Evasive Time Lord Language for I want to be in control?"

He smiled wider. "Of course it is." There was no point in denying it. She had his number, and given how he'd behaved, it's not like it had been a difficult number to get.

She squinted at him and tilted her head as much as she could. "So, who is the neurotic one, exactly?" she teased. "My focus wasn't psychiatry, but..."

"Stop talking," he whispered, followed by another sudden, firm kiss. He pressed her thighs open with his knees, and pulled back again to look down at her.

"Shutting me up?" she asked, her voice breaking, trying to hold steady.

"Isn't that why we're here?" he responded with a smirk.

"Not nice, Doctor."

"You're right, I'm a terrible person," he told her, and without warning, lurched forward with his whole body, suddenly burying himself deep within her.

This is the moment, this is where I find out what this body wants, he thought.

The force of it bent her head back and she gave a guttural half-cry, half- moan, just before spitting out an expletive. She was slick and swollen and aching for this, still sensitive from the last time he touched and shattered her. The waves of liquid electricity moved through her, and she felt a sudden frenzy. Now, now, now! was not a conscious thought, but it was all she could think or feel. Against her will, her legs curled around him and pulled tight, trying to draw him in deeper.

The sudden, velveteen pleasure enveloped him everywhere, and he couldn't help but moan after she did. On instinct, he withdrew, even against the pressure of her legs pulling him down, then plunged in again, this time harder. She grunted, moaned his name. He let out the expletive this time as his vision blurred. He pulled back and drove in a third time, then a fourth, each time with more force, mounting the tension, watching her eyes glaze over, listening to her moan.

To both of their surprises, nearly straight away, Martha's hands, still pinned hard to the mattress, previously stretched out in tension and agony, they shut tight, and her fingernails dug into her palms. Immediately, they both felt that tell-tale throb coming from inside her.

"Do it again," she commanded, so he obliged.

She answered that shove with that same vulgar word, guttural and expressive, and somehow, exactly what the Doctor wanted to hear.

And as she said it, she gushed, exploded again with total ease and abandon, pulling at his cock from the inside. And he watched her face contort a bit, her eyes droop, then close, and her mouth release a million tiny shocks of breath.

He released her hands, and they went straight to his back, nails digging into his skin as she still buzzed and shook and came down from her high.

He planted one elbow next to her head, and the other hand along her cheek, and let it wander up into her hair. He buried his face beside hers, taking a deep, deep breath, trying to relax all over. But as he took in her scent once again, he found that it had changed. The usual sweetness had turned to pure sex, and there was just no holding back anymore. To hell with trying to calm himself. To hell with the perfect performance and the neurosis and...

"I need to fuck you. Hard and fast." He hadn't intended to say it, but there it was. A hiss, a whisper, right into her ear.

"Yes, you do," she agreed, and she unclasped her ankles from the backs of this thighs, giving him room to move. She shook from head to toe with the anticipation. She was now ultra sensitive and she reckoned if he let loose now, she'd probably go blind.

And something snapped in his brain, and he let himself go, let himself feel it all. He took one of her hands and pinned it down again, above her head, then the other. He held her that with way his right hand, planted the other hand on the mattress, and plunged in and out of her as hard and fast as he liked.

She had been almost right: his cock slammed into just the right spot, and almost immediately, her eyes filled with tears and she could no longer focus. Her arms ached with the strain, but she didn't care. She had been dying for this, craving it like nothing else she had ever known - and she hadn't even fully known it. She had had no real idea of what love and lust could be until she had met this man. Never before had she felt that relentlessness, the pure feeling she had for him that she could not shake off, even when he rejected her. Never before had she had sexual fantasies that would literally pop up inside her mind at inconvenient times, and refuse to leave her alone. No-one else had ever had that kind of effect on her. Living with it for six months, she thought she knew all the facets of this particular torture. But no - the domineering side of him, now giving her a blinding shag? That was all totally new to her, all thrown at her in the short time since the door to the bedroom was shut.

His demeanour was so wild and unhinged so much of the time, and that was part of what made him so sexy to her. How could it never have occurred to her that that's how he would be when the lights in the bedroom went dim?

Before long, he couldn't hold his arms the way he had been, and he just planted them firmly into the mattress and gazed into, practically through, Martha, never stopping.

Explosive and eager, constantly on-the-edge, communicative... driving hard and fast. These are qualities that described this incarnation of the Doctor, as it turned out, in every arena. He hoped that the previously-glimpsed sweeter side could be coaxed to come out and stay a bit longer on occasion, but this was not the time for it.

Because as much as they were, technically, pressed for time, as much as this was supposed to be about Martha's "neurosis," the crush, or whatever she had on him, that drove her to distraction... it was, he now knew, about his desires as well. Whenever two people come together like this, this violently, this perfectly and intensely, it could never be about just one of them. She'd been needing a shag, that was clear, and she needed it from him. And honestly, he had wanted to do it for her. Now, he was needing it.

He told Martha that he could think of more unpleasant ways of "shutting her up," which exposed the truth, that there were other ways. They didn't have to do this, and yet...

And as he shifted positions, and as she spied the urgency in his eyes, they both knew...

"Martha, this can't last much longer," he said through gritted teeth.

She hadn't thought it possible, but the explosive thrusts grew even more powerful, the grunts grew deeper, and she began to anticipate seeing and feeling his release. She knew that in a few moments, he would dig his fingernails into the sheets right next to her head, she would feel him throb inside of her, he would let go of any thin, remaining qualms and he would fill her. He would feel the absolute pinnacle of pleasure while her body was wrapped around him, and the thought... the mere thought put her own pleasure on the rise one last time.

And so soon, to both of their shock, they came together.

She couldn't hear nor breathe nor see. For a few moments, neither one of them felt entirely corporeal, in spite of the fact that their bodies were keeping them high. A sound she had never heard herself make escaped through her lips, and a filthy combination of words that the Doctor rarely said escaped through his. As always, they clung to each other as they flew, and leaned on each other as they came back down.

It took longer than usual for the stars to clear from her eyes, when she finally tried to open them.

His refused to stay closed. He had to see her in the last few moments of throbbing ardor, mouth gaping open, chest heaving, all manner of chaos going on behind her eyes.

Soon enough, they were staring into each others' eyes again. And in that moment, they both knew that their attempt to throw off all desire to regain focus had failed miserably.

He rolled off and lay on his back, throwing a harrowed forearm over his brow.

"All right?" she asked, slowly starting to come to her senses, not knowing any of what was going on inside his mind.

"Yep."

A long pause followed, during which Martha stared at the ceiling and wondered how she should proceed. Wait for him to pad off to the loo, get up and pad off herself, try to make small talk, get right in to discussing the Ampys People and their hostages...

"Martha?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Did we just make it worse?"

She thought about her answer. Then she said, "I'm afraid we did."

"I think we did too," he sighed.

And in spite of her exhausted state, her heart began to beat faster, and a nervous, but hopeful, knot formed in her stomach.

"You do?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Is that a good thing?" she wondered, tentatively.

"Oh, yes," he replied, sighing with a smile.

The End