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Chapter Text

Masturbation & Orgasm Control (SpyDoc)

The Doctor was alone.

Really alone, this time; no Yaz, no monsters, no timelines unraveling in her face. Just the hum of the TARDIS and the weight of silence pressing against her skin. She sat up in bed with a sigh, the sheets still tangled around her thighs, a book discarded somewhere at her side. Sleep wouldn’t come, her thoughts were too loud and her body louder, and she was desperate for the brief reprieve of sleep. 

The Doctor let her hand trail slowly down her stomach, her fingers slipping under the waistband of her soft sleep trousers. No underwear, (she never wore them in bed. It was one of her many indulgent secrets).  She bit her lip as she touched herself, just barely, just enough to make her exhale, slow and shaky. Her fingers slid lower, dipped through heat, and she gasped, sharp, surprised by how wet she already was. How badly she needed this.

She closed her eyes.

One hand between her thighs, the other rolling one aching nipple, the pad of her thumb dragging slowly over the hard little peak. Every tug, every brush of sensation made her arch and clench. She let her thoughts blur and her hips move, her thoughts empty and her lips gasp, and the moment she did… Something stirred. Not in the room or in the ship but in her mind.

A spark. A flicker. A presence she hadn’t felt since….

“Hello, Dear.”

Her eyes flew open, wide and panicked.

She sat up too quickly, heart pounding, legs still slick and trembling. The psychic field around her pulsed with warmth. Her shields were down, she’d let them fall during… Oh Rassilon.

“Oh please, no, don’t stop on my account.”

The Masters voice wasn’t in the room. It was in her, brushing up against the folds of her mind like silk sliding over bare skin. It wasn’t just sound, it was sensation. Heat. Pressure. Want.

She tried to slam the door shut, tried to throw her walls up fast, hard, brutal, but he was already in. Already coiled around the softest part of her mind, already touching everything she’d tried to keep buried.

“Look at you,” he purred. “Dripping. Desperate. And so stupidly alone.”

“Get out,” she rasped aloud, but her voice was thin and full of need.

“No.”

“I said get out!”

“Make me.”

She tried. She really did. She dragged her nails down her arm, grounding herself, she reached for the console with her mind, tried to override the psychic channel, sever the bond, anything. But the second her hand slipped between her thighs again, he returned with a moan.

“God, I missed that.”

“Shut up,” she spat, furious and shaken.

She pulled herself up into a seated position, still half-naked, breath ragged, fingers trembling with the ghost of pleasure denied. Her hearts thundered in her chest, her thighs were damp and aching and her clit pulsed once, hard.

He didn’t answer. Not right away, at least.  Instead he pressed, not with his hands or his mouth, but with a thought.  A gently psychic push, like a thumb gently brushing over the heat center of her brain, a slow, deliberate stroke down the neural corridor that linked desire and reward, pleasure and arousal… 

The Doctor gasped as her core flooded hot and sharp, and her spine arched involuntarily. Her nipples stiffened. Her mouth parted in a breathless whimper she didn’t mean to make.

“There,” he purred. “That’s better.”

“Get out of my head,” she hissed, but her voice was shakier now.

“You’re the one that invited me,” he laughed. “I'm just… encouraging the parts of you that were already begging.”

She clamped her thighs together, grinding them hard, desperate to smother the pressure.

It didn’t work. If anything it only made it worse.

“You feel that?” he asked, softly now. “That unbearable ache? That pulse under your skin? That’s you, Doctor. I just opened the floodgates.”

She groaned, shoving a pillow between her legs and tried to not move, tried to ride it out but her body wouldn’t cooperate. She dipped her fingers back between her legs, moaning and cursing herself as her fingers grazed her clit.

“There’s my good girl,” the Master whispered, full of affection that made her want to scream.  But she didn’t stop this time, couldn’t stop this time.  Her head bowed, her toes curled and he watched through her eyes.  He felt every stroke, heard every moan…

“Slower,” he whispered, not aloud, but into the core of her. “I want you to feel every second of this…”

And Rassilon help her, she obeyed. Her hand moved in slow, torturous circles. Her thighs trembled and her stomach tightened. She could feel his grin, even if she couldn’t see it.

“Good girl,” he whispered.  The Doctor hated that phrase but she couldn’t find it in her to argue at this particular moment. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he said, soft now, teasing. “I can feel your pulses in your cunt.”

She gasped, spasmed, bit her own hand to keep from crying out. “You’re so vulgar,” she spat through her moans.

“Maybe but I’m not the one fucking myself with an audience, my darling,” he countered but she hardly heard him.  She was so close to finishing she could taste it. Her back arched, a cry was on the tip of her tongue, her body surged, ready for the explosion…

“Don’t cum.”

Her body seized. The orgasm was right there, high and tight and burning… but the heat never overwhelmed. It stayed frozen, just on the edge where she couldn’t reach. “Don’t you dare.”

She clenched, and pulled her hand away with a sob of frustration.

He laughed, genuinely laughed, low and cruel and delighted. “Oh, you poor thing.”

“I hate you.”

“That was almost pretty, Doctor.”

“Shut up!” she gasped, but her hips kept rolling.

“Your face when you stopped, the way you gasped…” His voice curled down her spine, warm and cruel. “You almost cried for me.”

Her clit twitched violently with every word he spoke, and she could feel him feeling it. The bond shimmered with shared sensation.

“You know what I miss most?” he murmured. “The way your mind tastes when you’re frustrated. When you’re aching, desperate, shaking for release you know you shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t want you,” she spat, but even she didn’t believe it.

“Lie again. I dare you.” His voice went razor-sharp, sliding beneath her ribs, slicing her open like she was nothing but soft skin and pride. “Say it while your fingers are still wet from your cunt.”

She gasped, bit her lip until she tasted blood. She hated him. Hated how his voice made her wetter. Hated how she hadn’t stopped touching herself. Slow, shaking strokes over her clit, one knuckle brushing the edge of her entrance every time she circled lower. Her thighs trembled violently.

And her other hand was still up under her shirt, rolling her nipple, pinching it hard when the frustration grew too loud to ignore.

“That’s it,” he purred, like he was coaxing an obedient pet. “Be honest. You can lie to everyone else, the Doctor always lies, but not to me.”

She wanted to scream and hurl him from her mind. She wanted rip the bond apart with psychic fire and spit and fury. But all she did was whimper, pathetic and wet and loud. And he felt every inch of want and desire.

“You’re going to cum for me,” he said, “eventually. But not yet.”

“Please-.”

“No.”

The second her orgasm surged up, closer this time, bright and sharp and searing, he seized control. Her nerves fired cold. Her body jerked. Her clit throbbed violently, painfully, and then… nothing.

Her release vanished like it had been yanked from her bones.

The Doctor screamed. She didn’t need to look in a mirror to know what she looked like. Her legs spread, her cunt flushed and glistening, her face streaked with tears, lips swollen, one hand still pawing at her breast like it would help... Her nipples ached from the attention, sensitive, overstimulated, but she couldn’t stop.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” he breathed. “A masterpiece of denial.”

“Shut up!”

“No.”

He didn’t force his way in. He didn’t have to. He moved deeper into her mind like a lover returning home, brushing through memories, ghosting over the fault lines of her shame and pleasure. Her body hummed like an instrument he’d spent lifetimes learning how to tune.

“You touch yourself thinking about me.”

“I don’t-.”

“Liar,” he said, almost tender now. “Don’t forget I’m in your head, Dear.”

She tried to deny it again, but the images hit her too fast to stop them. His hand around her throat in Paris, his mouth on her thigh in Australia when she believed him to be a different man, her on her knees at the gallery… The Master saw everything, even what she had wanted him to do in that moment. His fingers inside her, knuckle-deep, curled just right…

“You want me to take you like I own you.”

“No-.”

“Yes you do! Say it!”

She clenched her teeth, her fingers still moving over her clit in tight, rhythmic circles. The sensation had passed from pleasure to desperation, then to pain, then back to pleasure again. Her whole body trembled. Her cunt clenched against nothing.

“Please,” she begged.

“Not good enough.”

“Please let me cum…”

“Call me by my name and I’ll consider it.”

She shook her head, tears running hot down her cheeks. “Say it,” he growled, voice low and final. She could picture his brown eyes flashing with impatient rage, his beautiful golden brown skin flushed with sweat… “Or I’ll keep you like this for hours. I’ll wrap your pleasure in barbed wire. I’ll haunt every touch you give yourself until the only thing that makes you cum is me.”

“You already-…” her voice cracked, broken, humiliated, “already ruined me.”

“Then say it, Love. Admit it.  Say who owns you…”

The word rose in her throat like bile. She choked on it. Gasped. And then finally, “Master.”

He groaned. A real sound. Full-bodied and hungry, he felt it hit him like lightning.

“Again.”

“Master…”

“You’re mine when you say it like that.”

The orgasm surged, violent, blinding, almost there… 

And he stopped it again.

A scream tore from her throat. Her legs kicked, useless and wide, her fingers clenching over her clit, still circling, still trying, still wanting.

And he still wouldn’t let her come.

“Please! Please, Koshei, please, I can’t-!”

“Yes, you can, Theta,” he whispered. “You will. You’ll stay on the edge until your vision blurs. Until you’re sobbing for me. Until you admit you want this.” His voice, soft and certain, wrapped around the root of her mind. “And not a second before.”

She’d been touching herself for what felt like hours. Circling her clit, pressing down, easing off, trying to sneak her way toward release. But every time she got close, he took it away. Like it was his to give, like her body had become his possession.

Her thighs were soaked. Her pillow ruined. One hand still moved between her legs, the other palm pressing her breast into her ribs, fingertips pinching and tugging, desperate for friction, for relief, for anything. Her nipples were swollen and raw and her cunt throbbed helplessly.

She was muttering now. Whispering broken things she didn’t want to hear. Please. Please. Please let me cum. Please, Master. Please, I’ll be good.

He was silent.

Not gone but rather just watching. Watching and feeling everything. Letting her wear herself down until there was nothing left but need and surrender.

She didn’t even know when the tears started again but there they were, hot on her cheeks, smeared across her mouth, caught in her breath as she sobbed, grinding against her own hand like she was being punished.

“That’s it,” he finally said, low and gentle and terrible. “There’s my good girl.”

“Please,” she begged again, unable to stop the word.

“Tell me what you are.”

“Yours,” she gasped. “I’m yours, Master, please, please let me-!”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours! I belong to you-, I can’t1! I can’t take it anymore-!”

“Then cum for me.”

The words hit her like a detonator.

Her body snapped. Orgasm slammed through her like lightning; white, brutal, full-bodied. Her back arched, thighs clamped down, mouth open in a silent scream. Her muscles locked, then shattered, pulse racing so fast it felt like drowning.

She came hard, soaking her hand and soaking the sheets. Riding the shockwave until it was almost pain, until the pressure broke into sobs, until she saw stars dancing before her, and he felt every second of it. The bond lit up, his presence flooding with dark joy, possessive and hungry and satisfied.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered. “You cum so beautifully when you give in, Doctor.”

She collapsed. Arms limp and shirt twisted, skin flushed and sticky and sore. Her breath dragged in and out of her like someone recovering from battle. Her thighs twitched. He didn’t speak again. Not right away. But he didn’t leave.

And the worst part?

She didn’t want him to.

Chapter Text

The guards didn’t speak.

They just marched her, wrists bound, coat gone, sonic confiscated, down a gleaming hall of alien stone and strange sigils, toward something called the “Office of the President.” She’d already tried three times to get them talking, four times to pull her psychic charm, but nothing. Either they were mute or immune. Possibly both.

“Bit dramatic, isn’t it? All these guards for little old me?”

No answer.

They stopped outside a set of gilded doors. Alien steel, carved with spiral patterns she half-recognized. The taller guard pressed a glowing seal to the lock, and the doors groaned open.

A wave of warm, perfumed air spilled into the corridor.

The guards shoved her forward, locking the doors behind her. Silken banners framed the walls. The floor was glossy black stone. At the far end, a massive window stretched from floor to ceiling, overlooking the conquered capital city. The desk at the center wasn’t even cluttered, just a few metal artifacts, a closed file, and a half-finished glass of something amber.

The guards shoved her to her knees.

The Doctor hissed between her teeth, shoulders tense beneath her shirt. “Take it easy, alright?!”

“Forgive them, my dear,” came a voice from behind her. “They’re just doing what they’re told.”

Her body stiffened.

She knew that voice.

She knew that voice.

He stepped in from a side room like he owned the planet, which, by the looks of things, he very much did.

High collar, medals gleaming, gloves she remembered too well, smoothing down the front of his jacket like it wasn’t already perfect. Cold, smug cruelty wrapped in a tight, black leather uniform.

“My dear Doctor,” he said, and his smile could have sliced diamonds. “Welcome to my planet.”

She didn’t answer, she couldn’t answer, because there he was. Not the wild-eyed sociopath of her most recent nightmares, not the beautiful version she once tried to save. No, this one was older. Sharper. Smoother.

This was the original.

Slicked-back dark hair with a faint gray coloring, not a strand out of place with a neatly trimmed goatee. That same unbearable air of smug superiority and perfectly measured sadism. He looked like a man who would gut you and then sit down for wine without missing a beat.

But it was the uniform that undid her.

Jet black leather from throat to boot. The high collar hugged his neck while silver-braided epaulettes gleamed under the amber light. His rank insignia, a stolen emblem from this planet’s true government, no doubt, sat centered on his chest. A thick belt cinched his waist while black leather gloves flexed slowly over long, thin fingers. He moved like someone used to being obeyed. Like someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to destroy you.

And he was gorgeous.

Older than her, but in the timeless way Time Lords sometimes were; elegant, commanding, untouched by the decay of mortality. A man who knew exactly what he was, and made no apologies.

She swallowed, and that was when she realized her mouth was dry.

“Well?” the Master  asked when the guards had left them alone, stepping closer in that upper refined accent they were both fond of in their older days. His boots clicked softly on the stone floor. “No clever remark? No witty defiance?”

The Doctor straightened her shoulders. Forced the tension from her jaw. “Give me back my TARDIS and give these people back their planet.”

The Master smiled, slow, amused. “All in good time, my dear Doctor.” His voice was smooth, soft, indubitably upperclass. He stopped a foot in front of her, tall and imposing, smelling faintly of leather, ozone, and the iron twist of domination. He reached out and cupped her chin between two gloved fingers. “But first, I believe you and I have something to… discuss.”

Her pale skin flushed beneath his touch. “Why are you doing this?”

He tilted his head slightly. The smile didn’t fade. “I was bored.”

The words hit her like a slap. He didn’t need a reason, he never did. He just needed the itch of control, the thrill of seeing her brought low. And she hated, hated, how fast her body reacted.

“You’re sick.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said smoothly. “And you, my dear, are dripping. You’re sweating,” he remarked calmly. “Heart rates elevated, pupils dilated...”

She scoffed. “It’s called being annoyed.”

“It’s called arousal,” he corrected, stepping in just a little closer. “Whether you welcome it or not.”

She opened her mouth, indignant, but he cut her off before she could lie.

“You’ve been glancing at my gloves,” he said rather matter-of-factly. “Twice in the last minute. You flinch when I speak, but not from fear. You react to pressure, instruction, tone... And you’re very, very bad at hiding it.”

The Doctor sat straighter, letting her hazel eyes narrow. “And you’re very good at talking like a psychopath. Guess we both have our talents.”

Still, she didn’t move when he stepped into her space.

He reached out, slow and deliberate, and let the backs of his fingers trace her jaw. The leather of his glove was warm from his body, and the pressure was feather-light.

She didn’t flinch this time but she didn’t lean in, either.

His smile deepened. “Start with my boots.”

The Doctor blinked. “What?”

The Master didn’t repeat himself. He simply shifted his stance, placed one polished boot between her knees, and waited. The movement was minimal. Elegant. She could have laughed, mocked it, pretended not to understand, but the command in his eyes was clear.

He tilted her chin upward with the crook of two fingers, steady and precise.

“I want to know,” he said softly, “if there is still something primal in you. Something not wrapped in sanctimony and cleverness. Something that knows what to do when ordered.”

Her jaw tightened. “Or you could just monologue a bit longer until I throw myself out the airlock.”

“You could,” he agreed, almost kindly. “Or I could call the guards, have you returned to your cell, and you can spend the evening deciding whether sarcasm is more satisfying than relief.”

She swallowed hard. His tone hadn’t changed. It didn’t need to. She wanted to say something cutting. Wanted to tell him he wasn’t worth the mud on her boots. But she was still on the floor, and his voice had settled into her bones like gravity.

She exhaled through her nose, sharp and bitter, and lowered her lips. One slow kiss. Then another.

She pressed her lips against the toe of his boot, then along the ridge, the metal clasp, the soft inner curve where it met his ankle. Heat flooded her cheeks. Her mouth opened slightly. She licked. Slowly. Her tongue flattened against the leather, warm and damp, and she felt him tense, just barely,  through the grip in her hair.

His eyes shone with something that looked like appreciation, but deeper. Something darker. “Thats it my dear,” he said. “Better.”

His other boot pressed higher. Her hips rocked involuntarily,  a traitorous grind of pleasure against his foot, and he laughed, rich and low. Then his other hand came up.

He slid two gloved fingers between her lips. Slowly. No command. No threat. Just the soft, deliberate pressure of leather against tongue.

She whimpered, closed her mouth, and sucked. Her saliva slicked the smooth surface, and her tongue curled instinctively around each finger. He pushed deeper, curling them against her inner cheek, and her breath hitched.

“Beautiful,” he said.

The Doctor moaned around his fingers, around the pressure of his boot still between her thighs.

“You always fall apart so easily for me,” he said, drawing his hand back just far enough to let her breathe. His fingers trailed down her jaw, still damp with her spit. “So eager to kneel, even now.”

“This isn’t-” she rasped.

“It is.” He cupped her face in both gloved hands, thumb brushing just under her eye. “You just don’t want to admit it.”  

The Master’s boot slid higher between her knees, and slowly pressed his sole up against her clothed sex. His posture stayed immaculate. Effortless. Hands behind his back, like a general waiting for obedience.

She gasped as the heel caught her right where she needed it most.

“Don’t stop,” he said softly. “Grind on it.”

Her mouth parted. “Master…” She bit her lip, one hand bracing on the floor, the other on his calf as she began to move.

It was slow at first. Hesitant. Just the faintest shift of her hips, trying not to give in too quickly, not to let him see how wet she already was. But he could feel it. Through the heat of her, the slick friction of her ruined trousers, the way her whole body trembled against his boot.

“Look at you, my dear,” he murmured. “On your knees, soaking my shoe.”

She groaned, pressing harder.

Leather dragged against her clit. Every movement sent fire through her nerves. Shame warred with want, but it was want that won. She rocked harder, chasing friction, her thighs trembling, sweat dripping from her brow.

The Master just stood there watching, wearing a calm, pleased smile as if she were nothing more than a well-trained pet.

She moaned, louder now, her breath catching as the edge crept closer.

He leaned forward as his gloved hand tangled in her hair again. The other moved between her breasts, cupping one through her shirt before sliding beneath the fabric and tugging her bra aside.

His fingers brushed her nipple.

She gasped, sharper this time, as he rolled it between thumb and forefinger with the same clinical focus he might use to turn a dial on his TARDIS. She arched into it. His boot rocked just slightly upward to meet her motion, and her hips jerked forward, grinding herself down on his boot as the orgasm hit her like a pulsewave. Her mouth dropped open in a cry,  no words, just breath and heat and the rawest version of herself.

He held her steady, let her ride it out.

His boot remained still beneath her, soaked through, his fingers soft on her nipple as her body spasmed in waves.

When she finally collapsed forward, panting against his leg, he let her rest there a moment.

Then: “You’ll clean that up, of course.”

She nodded, still dazed.

“And then,” he added, crouching once more, gloved fingers lifting her chin, “you’ll thank me properly…”

Chapter Text

The TARDIS didn’t land, she was taken.

The Doctor had barely adjusted the coordinates, just a minor detour into an uncharted sector, the kind of quiet pocket she used for a breather between crises when everything inside the console room froze. Not the TARDIS herself. Not malfunction. But space itself, frozen mid-thought.

“Environmental override detected,” the TARDIS warned, but the sound was sluggish, like moving through syrup.

A white pulse hit the walls.

The Doctor turned, eyes wide, mouth open to shout and then her limbs wouldn’t move. Her hearts stopped, just once, but long enough to matter. She fell forward, head slamming hard against the grate. She didn’t feel herself hit the floor.

She woke up naked, disoriented and floating. Not weightless, but rather removed from her own sense of gravity. Overall not the best position to be in. Light-bound cuffs glowed around her wrists, thighs, and throat. Gentle, warm, even, but unmoving. She could breathe. She could move… barely. But she couldn’t leave.

“Right,” she muttered, throat dry as she yanked at the cuffs. “This is new. Definitely not the TARDIS...”

A voice pulsed through the room, cold and clinical:

“Subject acquired. Phase One: Neutralization and Isolation. Temporal signature confirmed: Gallifreyan. Regenerative model. High resilience. Suitable.”

Her eyes flicked around but found nothing but a void lit by a spotlight. She tried to speak again, louder, but her tongue didn’t quite obey. Her memories slid back in pieces, not gone, just… reordered. Catalogued. She could feel it happening like someone filing her away.

“Oi!” she barked, or tried to. “Hands off the hippocampus. I need that for remembering how to win.”

“Psychic firewall: fully resistant. Dream sequences corrupted. Memories inconsistently volatile. Proceeding with physical mapping.”

“Oh good,” she croaked. “A full work-up. Do I at least get a gown or- ah!”

Something passed over her skin. Cold and not-cold. Her whole body jerked.

“Hey!” she gasped. “Buy me dinner first, why don’t you?”

Her nipples peaked, involuntary. The heat in her cheeks followed close behind. A hundred invisible touches skated down her body, non-invasive, but intimate in the way only clinical attention can be. They weren’t trying to hurt her, but they were learning her with ruthless efficiency.

“Phase Two: Peak arousal and reproductive climax,” a voice said, echoing from the dark. Emotionless and fluid. As bored as a bus stop announcement.

“Oh, come on,” she snapped. “Bit excessive, don’t you think? I mean, I know I’m fit, but you could’ve just asked for a sample.”

“Subject demonstrates high cortical resistance. Physical arousal detected. Orgasmic threshold untested. Phase Two initiated: subject stimulation for observed climax. Begin olfactory release and tactile manipulation.”

“Don’t you dare,” she warned. “I’m very married to my boundaries, and I have excellent lawyers.”

The first scent hit her like a gut punch.

Yaz’s perfume.  Warm amber and bright citrus, the scent of joy and tension and shared breaths. The scent that had clung to her coat after that first hug. The one she couldn’t bring herself to wash out for a week.

Her breath hitched. Just once.

Then another hit; muskier, spiced. Hotter.

The Master.

Leather and gunpowder and the singed edge of madness and smell of home. Her mouth went dry, and her knees might’ve buckled, if she’d been standing.

“Oh no, absolutely not. That is low. That’s cheating.”

“Cortical spikes detected. Subject responding to olfactory stimuli. Begin secondary stimulation.”

Two clamps descended, surgical, gleaming, and inhumanly precise. They looked like something from an operating theatre, cold and clinical, suspended on jointed silver arms that whirred softly above her chest.

“No, no, no,” the Doctor muttered, her voice pitching high with unease. “Listen! You don’t need to do this! I swear if you touch me I will find out who you are and end you!” She thrashed before she could stop herself, trying to twist away as the first clamp hovered directly over her left nipple. “Wait… wait, hang on, can we talk about this like- ah!”

Click.

The metal closed with mechanical finality around her nipple; tight, cold, and exactly calibrated. Pain tore through her chest, sharp and hot and immediate, shooting up her spine like a live wire. Her breath stuttered.

Click.

The second clamp latched onto the right with equal precision. She didn’t even have time to curse before her whole body convulsed, back arching violently off the platform. A guttural scream tore from her throat, raw and involuntary. Her wrists strained against the glowing restraints.

“Breath rate increasing. Clitoral swelling detected. Begin rhythmic stimulation.”

“Oh brilliant,” she hissed through gritted teeth, blinking through tears. “So glad you’re tracking that. Maybe log my blood pressure while you’re at it, yeah? Throw in a cholesterol screening?”

The clamps pulsed, sending small, perfectly timed vibrations through her already throbbing nipples, sharp, electric shudders that bounced off the nerve endings in her chest and echoed through her stomach. Each beat pulled at her, delicate and punishing, keeping her trembling and on edge.

The Doctor whimpered, jaw clenched tight as the throbbing pressure forced her to feel every sensation more acutely than the last. She was being studied, and she was starting to come undone.

The clamps began to pulse. Gentle, rhythmic, and unrelenting. Her body twitched, thighs trembling, still locked open. Still restrained.

Then the touch. Not skin or a hand, just the idea of one, sculpted pressure, ghosting down her side. Not cruel, but not soft either soft. Simply curious.

“Oi!” she snapped. “Don’t touch me! I mean it! Don’t you dare! Ah!”

The touch slid between her thighs. Her whole body bucked.

“Too far,” she gasped. “Far too far, and you’re not even my type, whatever type you are!”

“Subject stimulation optimal. Penetration incoming.”

Something slid inside her. Something long and thick, shaped from intent, from pressure, from some mercilessly precise design. Smooth but unyielding. It breached her with mechanical certainty, pressing deep in one slow, unbearable motion, filling her in a way that felt deliberate, like it had been calibrated to stretch her just enough to make her feel it.

Her breath caught. Her eyes burned.

“No, no, no! Don’t you-! Fuck!”

“Increase nipple pressure.”

The clamps tightened, dragging jagged sparks of sensation through her chest. The pain didn’t lessen, it only changed shape, twisting with the heat now pooling low in her belly. Her clit throbbed. Her body moved without permission, grinding down against the artificial presence inside her, chasing pressure she hadn’t asked for.

Her voice broke. “You’re not real,” she gasped. “This- this isn’t-! Ahh!”

“Subject nearing climax. Intensify stimulation.”

The phallic probe inside her twisted, hitting a spot so deep and devastating she nearly blacked out. At the same moment, a second tendril, more fluid, almost serpentine, brushed against her clit, circling it with maddening slowness before applying steady, unrelenting pressure.

Her whole body jolted like she’d been struck by lightning.

“Stop- stop it! I’m not just some- some lab rat with a sex drive!”

But the orgasm was already rising. Fast and relentless, but engineered. Not hers. Not entirely, anyway.

“I’m the Doctor,” she whispered, shaking. “I beat gods. I-!”

And then she broke.

She screamed; high, raw, throat-shredding, every muscle clenching violently. Her body bucked in the restraints, hips pumping around the thing inside her as wave after wave ripped through her. The clamps tightened again, pulling tighter at the moment she shattered, riding her out like a seismic echo. Her vision blurred.

Her brain flickered, her soul cracked, her name didn’t even feel real anymore. The lights dimmed, the clamps loosened and the feelings vanished.

So did the scent.

“Climax complete. Subject retention no longer required.”

The restraints fell away.

The Doctor collapsed, panting, twitching. Her fingers curled uselessly on the platform. No words came. Just breath and science.

Chapter Text

The Master came to with a sharp inhale.

Not in his own bed. Not even standing. Something was wrong. His arms jerked, and metal scraped metal, cuffs, not rope. His wrists were clamped to the arms of a chair, ankles bound tight to the legs. His chair in his control room in his TARDIS.

He blinked up at the lighting. Dimmed and warm, it almost appeared like hisTARDIS was… calm.

No. Not calm. Compliant.

The screen in front of him flickered once and came into focus. A seamless digital feed that bathed the chamber in flickering red in dozens of angles. 

Dozens of her.

The Doctor in a bedroom of some sorts. Naked and on her knees on a mattress in some dingy hotel room. Her soft skin aglow under soft, amber light. Her expression empty and open, blissfully obedient. Her lips were , her arms dangled at her sides and her eyes… oh, her beautiful hazel eyes, were wide and glassy.

The Master inhaled sharply and his big brown eyes went wide with shock. “What the hell is this?!”

Footsteps echoed across the console room. Then that voice; smug, smooth, infuriatingly theatrical:

“Oh good, you’re awake! Took you long enough.”

The Master turned his head and saw a man stepping onto the screen with a flourish and an absolutely sickening smile. His own face, another version of it at least, smirking like the cat who ate the canary. Hair a silvery grey, eyes a cutting cold hazel…

“What the hell is this?!” The Master snarled. “What did you do to me!?”

Saxon tilted his head, amused. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Little self ignited psychic bomb. You were out like a light.” He smiled. “Our TARDIS never did care much for boundaries, did he? Let me walk right in. Her TARDIS on the other hand… she’s always been a stubborn little bitch isn’t she?”

The Master’s wrists strained against the leather, metal biting his golden brown skin. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, a double-thrum of rage and panic.

“Let her go,” he snarled. “Now! She’s my Doctor!”

Saxon laughed . “You sound like a toddler!” He turned his lips down in an exaggerated pout, his voice obnoxiously high and whiney. “‘No, that's my toy, don’t touch’!” His smile was a slow, cruel stretch. “Sorry to tell you this, Doe Eyes.” He didn’t look at him. “But right now I’m playing with her.”

He moved toward the bed with deliberate grace, boots whispering across the floor. The camera tracked him automatically, centering the Doctor’s still form. She sat upright on the edge of the mattress, hands loose on her thighs, eyes glazed like a doll’s.

The Master twisted against the restraints until the chair creaked. “I swear if you touch her-!”

“Oh, I intend to do much more than touch.” Saxon’s tone was velvet and venom at once. He began to circle her, one hand trailing over the back of the headboard as if marking territory. “Do you know what it does to me,” he murmured, “seeing her like this? All that brilliance folded up into obedience?”

He crouched in front of her, close enough that his breath stirred her hair. “Say it,” he whispered, thumb brushing her bottom lip. “Say who I am.”

Her lips parted. A shudder of breath. “Master,” she whispered.

The Master’s stomach lurched. His hearts hammered against his ribs.

“That’s not her,” he rasped. “That’s not her.”

Saxon’s smile deepened. “Oh, it’s very much her. Watch.” He slid his palm down her throat, across her collarbone, teasing down her spine with a hypnotist’s patience. “Every word out of her pretty mouth right now is mine. Every sigh, every moan, I built it.” His eyes flicked to the monitor. “You’re looking at a masterpiece. I taught her to beg for this even if she didn’t know she was learning.”

The Master shook his head, as if trying to shake off the words, black hair falling into his face. “You hypnotized her.”

“Exactly,” Saxon purred. “I rewrote her. And look at her.” He tilted the Doctor’s chin up with two fingers. “Show him, sweetheart.”

The camera zoomed; thighs glistening, slick catching the light. The Doctor’s pupils dilated, a soft moan spilling from her lips without thought.

The Masters hips jerked involuntarily, shame burning under his skin.

Saxon saw it. Of course he saw it. “Ahh,” he purred, “there it is. That little twitch. Even now, you’re hard for the idea of her on her knees, aren’t you?” His thumb stroked the inside of her thigh as he spoke, slow circles that made her tremble. “She’s purring for me, Doe Eyes. You hear it?”

The Master squeezed his eyes shut. This isn’t real. His nails bit into his palms, but the restraints wouldn’t give. The monitor burned behind his eyelids anyway: her pale thighs opening, his hands guiding her like a puppet.

“Eyes open or I kill her,” Saxon warned. The Masters head snapped up, dark eyes flying open. “There we go… Good boy.”

Saxon crouched between her thighs, tongue dragging a slow, deliberate stripe up her cunt. She trembled beneath him, breath stuttering, mind soft and blank in trance. Her chest rose with each shaky inhale, bare, flushed, her nipples stiff from exposure and arousal. A whimper caught in her throat as his tongue swirled again, obscene and unhurried.

He bit her thigh, not hard enough to bleed, but sharp enough to make her twitch.

“Good girl,” he purred against her skin, his smirk audible. “So eager… So fucking easy.”

Up in the shadows, the Masters gut twisted. His cock throbbed painfully against the fabric of his trousers, already straining and soaked.

“Do you know that she begged,” Saxon said, voice raised slightly,  just enough for the mic to pick up, for the feed to carry his words up to the man watching. “Begged for my hand, my cock, for permission to come... Called me Master like she meant it.”

He turned to the camera, lips glistening. “Bit of a step down from ‘savior of the universe,’ hmm?”

The Master shifted in his seat. The leather groaned beneath him. His breath was hot and heavy in the silence.

Saxon rose, fingers trailing up her ribs, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of her breasts. Her nipples stiffened further under his touch, automatic, responsive, humiliating.

“Look at these,” he said with a click of his tongue, cupping one with deliberate fondness, “perky little things aren’t they? Shame you never got your hands on them, isn’t it?” He leaned down, mouthing at one, teeth grazing the peak. The Doctor gasped,  her head tipped back, lips parted, eyes unfocused and dazed.

“She’s perfect like this,” he said with a mouthful of tit. “Blank, wet, willing…” He snorted. “Not that you would know.”

Saxon positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock brushing her entrance, already slick and dripping. Her hips tilted toward him instinctively, offering him everything.

The Masters mouth opened, but no words came. Just a soft, broken: “Please…”

“Oh please,” Saxon mocked, eyes glittering with smug cruelty. “Now you want to beg? How adorable.”

And then he pushed in,  slow, deliberate, stretching her inch by inch until he bottomed out. Her body welcomed him with a helpless moan, legs twitching as she clenched around him. 

The dark eyed Masters vision blurred as he watched, his hands fisted against the armrests, and his cock grew harder…

“That’s it,” Saxon hissed in her ear, hips beginning to move. “Take me. Let him see what a filthy little whore you are under all that righteousness.”

The Doctor mewled beneath him, breath catching with every thrust.

“She’s squeezing me,” Saxon panted, loud now, taunting. “Fucking soaking. You hear that, Doe Eyes? That’s the sound of your precious Doctor losing herself on my cock.”

The Master bit down hard. The taste of blood flooded his mouth.

Saxon’s rhythm deepened, not rushed, just punishing. “She won’t even remember this,” he murmured, lips dragging over her neck. “She’ll just wake up dripping and not even know why.” He nipped her earlobe. “But you’ll know. You’ll always know.”

Onscreen, the Doctor gasped his name; broken, blissed-out, obedient.

The Master shattered. His orgasm hit like a knife in the ribs; silent, convulsive, humiliating. Hot shame flooded his limbs, leaving him shaking and breathless as a large stain covered his trousers.

But Saxon didn’t stop. He was still moving. Still panting praise into her skin. Still cupping her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers as her body shook.

“You watching closely, Doe Eyes?” Saxon groaned, dragging her hips down to meet his next thrust. “You’ll never have it but by all means…” He winked at the camera. “Enjoy the show.”

Chapter Text

Dan knows it’s her before she even knocks. Three soft taps; hesitant, but familiar. Not afraid, but rather a little ashamed. Enough to bring the tiniest of blushes over the breakfast table but not enough to stop her from shopping up here. It’s well past midnight. Closer to morning than night.

When he opens the door, the Doctor is already halfway faded at the edges, blonde hair wild, pale blue coat clutched around her like armor. Her eyes are glassy, wide and dark, like she’s been running from herself for miles and only now realized there’s nowhere left to go.

She doesn’t wait for an invitation. She never does.

She walks in without speaking. Doesn’t sit or take off her coat or even really look at him. The timeless Time Lord stands in the middle of his room like she’s deciding whether to fall apart or vanish entirely.
“I need to feel something.”

Dan nods. Because he always does. “Get on the bed.”

The Doctor climbs onto the mattress, kneeling. Arms locked, hands gripping the duvet, breath shallow. Her mouth is open, like she wants to speak but doesn’t know how. Her whole body is braced,  not against him. Against herself.

Dan sits beside her, waiting. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t coax. She grabs his wrist, puts his hand toward her mouth. Takes his finger between her lips.

It’s slow. Intentional. Not seductive, not even really sexual, just necessary.

Her tongue moves along the pad of his finger, slow and languid. She sucks him in deeper,  down to the second knuckle,  lips sealing with a quiet pop as she pulls back. Her eyes don’t leave his. They’re bloodshot, blown wide, aching with something he’s too scared to name.

He feels it in his gut, the heat, the hunger. The hopelessness of settling for a single piece of coal on a freezing day when a million suns sleeps just down the hall. 

“Tell me what to do,” she whispers.

Dan swallows. His voice comes out low, rough, the way it always does when she, a woman whos all but a God (and is likely one in several galexies) comes to him. “Take your shirt off.”

She moves like someone going through steps she’s walked before. Not confident,  conditioned. The coat slides off, then the rainbow shirt, and finally the white undershirt. She’s left in a slate-gray bra, arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying to hold herself inside herself.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, not as comfort, just fact.

She doesn’t respond as she lays down on the mattress. Doesn’t need to.

He lights the white candle on the nightstand. The one he keeps just for her. She nods. Dan tips it, slow. The first drop of wax lands on her collarbone.

The Doctor jolts, a small intake of breath, sharp and shuddering. A second drop falls onto the curve above her breast. She hisses through her teeth before another falls, and then another, and another…

The wax glides and cools, clinging in pale trails across her chest, thickening along the slope of her sternum. Her nipples harden beneath the bra, visible now, rising with every breath.

A drop lands at the center of her breast, just above the fabric line. Her whole body twitches as she gasps; quiet and controlled. Her head tips back, her lips part, and her back arches slightly, like her body’s reaching for the pain.

Dan drips another stripe, this time across the top of her breast, deliberately tracing the edge of her bra. She shudders, and her hands tighten in the sheets.

He leans in and closes his lips around her straining nipple through the fabric. Not rough, not playful, but tather pressure. Warm, real, pressure. .

Her breath stutters, and her hips twitch. Her whole body arches up to meet him like she’s been starved for touch.

The fabric darkens slightly where his tongue dampens it. Her nipple hardens even more under the wet heat, straining against his mouth.

It’s not about teasing. Or getting her off, not really. It’s about reminding her she’s here.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

Her breath catches. “What?”

“Say you want me to fuck you.”

There’s a long moment of silence before, “I want you to fuck me.”

Her voice shakes, torn from somewhere too deep for pride.

Dan unbuttons her trousers without another moment. She lifts her hips, silent. He peels her out of them, underwear too, revealing damp thighs and slick heat. She’s warm and wet in that quiet way that comes from needing sensation, not arousal. From being lost, and needing to come home to her body.

He undresses quickly, but not hungrily. Gently. Like a ritual. When he climbs over her, the Doctors still staring at the ceiling. The wax is cracking now, spidering along her sternum, delicate and bright.

Dan lowers himself between her legs, positioning at her entrance. “Last chance,” he murmurs.

She nods, and he pushes in.

The Doctor gasps; loud and raw and immediate. Her body clenches around him like it’s starving and Dan bites down on the feeling rising in his chest, trying to drown it before it forms into anything real.

She’s a beautiful woman, and he’s a man with eyes and a cock and not nearly enough self-control to turn her away. What else is he supposed to do? Refuse her comfort? Pretend he doesn’t want her?

It’s nothing; just sensation and survival. It has to be.

He moves again, deep and steady. He watches her face. Watches her breasts, still streaked in white. The wax softens again with the rise in her temperature, melting into shine. It drips slowly across her skin, sliding between her breasts, over her ribs, catching on the edge of her stomach.

Her hands are still clenched.

Dan threads his fingers through one of them. Slowly unspools her grip. She doesn’t squeeze back. Just lets him hold her.

“You thinking of me?” he asks, barely audible, his lips brushing against her ear.

She doesn’t answer. Not at first before she whispers, “no.”

Dan closes his eyes. Breathes through it. “Didn’t think so.”

He keeps moving.

When he shifts just right, deeper, angled, precise, she lets out a strangled moan. Her thighs clamp around his hips. Her head tips back, and from her parted lips comes a sound so soft it almost doesn’t reach him:

“Yaz…”

A whisper. A ghost. A name caught in the breath between pain and release.

Dan pauses, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat. He always pretends he didn’t hear it but he always does. 

He moves again, steady, deliberate, as if the name hadn’t shattered something inside him. “You can let go,” he says softly.

Her face crumples. Her breath catches, and then she does.

She comes like she’s being exorcised with a sound halfway between sob and scream, burying her face in his neck as her body clenches and pulses and trembles. The wax slides with the sweat now, running down to the sheets in pale drips.

Dan follows soon after, groaning low against her skin as he spills inside her, hips stuttering, body folding in on itself. When it’s over, he stays where he is. Still buried inside her. Still holding her hand.

Eventually, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Dan brushes her hair back, sticky and damp with sweat. “Don’t be.”

“You know I-.”

“I know.” A pause. “You’re too scared to go to her. It’s okay.”

She curls in against his chest without another word. The sheets are sticky. The wax cools to stillness as her heartbeats slow.

And Dan, poor, aching idiot Dan, lets her stay.