~~Part II
I was awake a minute before my alarm woke me to let my elderly dog, Motley into the back garden. I stretched and winced at my aching muscles. My pussy was sore and my nipples were tender. I could still smell John Smith in my sheets and on my skin. I buried my face in the pillows and inhaled deeply. The scent brought back the sounds he made and the expression on his face when he came. I moaned softly at the memory of his mouth on my clit and the long, almost unbearably exquisite orgasm he gave me.
He, I thought. Him. The Doctor.
I liked John Smith — a lot — but it was the Doctor I was thinking of when I was fucking John. In fact, my brain no longer let me think of him as John Smith in any context anymore.
I giggle-shrieked into my pillow like a teenager, blushing, even though I was alone.
“Oh my God,” I yelled into my pillow. I took the pillow off my face. “What have I done,” I asked my empty room. I covered my face with my hands and laughed.
I heard a low woof. I rolled over to the side of the bed and looked over the edge. Motley stared up at me from beneath his bushy, old man brows. I pulled a funny face at him. He frowned disapprovingly and waddled out the bedroom door. I disentangled myself from my fragrant sheets and grabbed the bathrobe that the Doctor had laid neatly on the settee at the foot of my bed. I gave it a sniff and was disappointed that it smelled faintly of laundry detergent and not of him. I shrugged it on and trotted down the stairs. Motley waited grumpily by the sliding glass door that led to the back garden. I knelt and ruffled his ears, giving him a kiss between the eyes. He protested, grunting and chuffing. Motley was against cuddling.
“You are adorable, you daft old man,” I said. “How cute would you be wearing a bow tie? Let’s get you one on our walk today, yeah?”
The morning was cool, overcast and breezy, signaling the end of the heatwave, the wind flinging droplets of water from the leaves of my beech trees. Motley plodded across the lawn towards my studio, stopping halfway to cock his head toward John’s house. I stepped quickly back inside and listened intently at the open door. I heard the low contralto of a woman’s voice but I couldn’t make out any words. I heard the door of the Doctor’s studio close. I stepped back further into the gloom of my kitchen so I wouldn’t be seen if they happened to glance my way. I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the wind rattling the trees. I watched Motley but he had gone on sniffing the grass, searching for the perfect place to relieve himself.
I ran upstairs to the room that would be Courtney’s. Two of the windows met in a corner, one overlooking the lane in front of my house and the other the front door and front garden of the Doctor’s house. I got there just in time to see him and a woman I assumed was his ex-wife walking down the drive to an Audi parked by their gate.
I peered through the sheer curtains without opening them. The Doctor was wearing a long-sleeved, black, high-neck tee, slim black jeans and dark blue trainers with white soles. He was freshly shaved and his hair combed back, somehow making the casual outfit look as formal as a dinner suit. He put on a pair of sunglasses and pushed them up his nose with his long middle finger. I felt a flare of heat at the memory of where that finger had been just a few hours ago. I switched my attention to his ex-wife.
If the Doctor was the physical opposite to Danny, then River Song was the physical opposite to me. Her honey-colored hair curled in the way that I had coveted since I was a girl. She was lushly curvaceous, like a 1950s pin-up model. She had a generous mouth, her lips painted the exact shade of red that would make me look dead washed out. She was wearing a pair of brown leather leggings tucked into knee boots, a white tee and she carried a thick black jumper draped over one muscular arm.
“I bet she looks amazing naked,” I murmured.
As they walked to their car, I saw with dismay the Doctor’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back. He opened the passenger door, gripping her hand as she sat, waiting until she was settled before closing the door. It looked like a ritual born of years of habit but still absently affectionate. He came around the back of the car with long-legged strides, looking lean and cool as Steve McQueen in the dark sunglasses. He glanced up. I froze. He made no indication that he saw me. I watched them drive away in the sleek Audi, the two of them invisible behind darkly tinted windows. I looked back at their house. There was no moving lorry or workmen’s van on the street or in their drive.
I turned away, telling myself to calm down. There were a thousand reasons for the Doctor and River Song to leave together. It didn’t mean that they were together.
“Just chill, Oswald,” I said. “We already negotiated this. Cordial distance. Don’t make it weird. Act like an adult.”
I heard my phone ping from my bedroom.
I spun away from the window and sprinted down the hall. I snatched up my phone and peered breathlessly at the screen, my heart racing. It was a text from Rory on our family chat.
Oswin’s first selfie!
Attached was a blurry closeup of an open, purple-stained mouth with four tiny teeth on the bottom and a smashed blueberry stuck to the chin. I felt a rush of love and sadness and longing that was mostly missing my family and a bit about the Doctor. I guiltily sent back a string of non-sensical happy emojis. I saved the photo and sent it to the printer in my studio. I sat on the edge of my bed and sighed.
“Action this day, Oswald,” I said. “Action this day.”
I stripped the bed and put everything into the wash. I rushed down to the kitchen and emptied the dishwasher, washed the wine glasses and put the wine bottles under some cardboard in the recycling, like I was hiding evidence of a crime. I pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a hoodie, stuffed my feet into my Wellies and snapped Motley’s leash to his collar. As I walked out of my front gate, I tried not to look at the Doctor’s house.
When Motley and I returned, I left my Wellies at the door and walked straight through the house to go to my studio. Cheema was bringing up folded sheets from the laundry. She looked me over, her eyes lingering on my face. I braced myself.
“My granny make Clara Oswald’s favorite cake,” she said. “I’ll bring some back to your shack with your cuppa.”
“Thanks, Cheema,” I said. “And please thank Granny for me.”
“That cake help you think of something better to write.”
I nodded, swallowing past a lump in my throat.
She smiled kindly. “No trouble.”
I walked down the flagstone path to my studio. I saw my still-wet running shoes and socks by the tiny sink in my writing studio. I’d forgotten about them. Was it only just the night before? I draped my socks on the sink and placed my shoes upside down on the windowsill to dry. I plugged in my phone charger and turned on my tablet. I picked up my phone again, put it on silent and laid it facedown in my desk drawer. I stared at the blank white screen of my tablet, the blue line of the curser blinking patiently. Cheema came in with a tray, Motley on her heels.
“Coffee go better with Granny’s cake,” she said.
“Fair enough,” I said.
She broke a piece off one of the slices and fed it to Motley. “This cake got rum and that’s okay for you, old dog. You go to sleep and no interrupting Clara Oswald,” she said, shaking a finger at him. She bent, straightened his new bow tie and tickled his chin. She turned and smiled at me.
“I made rice. You feel better,” she said. Rice could mean anything from plain, steamed white rice, to an elaborate dish with twenty ingredients. It was Cheema’s cure-all. And it always worked.
“You’re the best, Cheema,” I said.
She stopped at the door and gave her hips a little wiggle. “Tell me something I don’t already know,” she said and strutted back to the house.
“Motley, I think I’m going to create a new detective,” I said. “What do you think about the name, Malcolm Tucker?”
Motley stared at me with his head cocked, seeming to consider the question.
“I always thought that Malcolm was a name fit for a king. Tucker is a working man’s name. They sound good together.” I nodded. “Malcom Tucker. It’s a hero’s name. He’s tall and uncommonly intelligent. With nice hands.”
Motley gave a reluctant half-wag of his tail as if to say, “I’ll allow it.” He walked over to his bed in the corner, turned in a circle and laid down, staring at me with his head on his paws.
I turned to my tablet and started typing.
Malcolm Tucker strode down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets…
I stood and stretched and was surprised to see that it was dark outside. It was past midnight. I’d been writing for almost twelve hours. I was already in love with Malcolm Tucker and could write about him forever, but knew I needed to call it a night. I took my phone out of the drawer and looked at the screen.
There was a text from the Doctor.
I unlocked the screen and opened the text. It was time-stamped only an hour before. I blinked. It was an empty text bubble.
What the fuck was I supposed to do with that?
I debated responding with a question mark or something like goodbye or good night but decided against it.
“Ugh,” I groaned. I looked at Motley. “Should I call? The Doctor said that he liked late-night phone calls.” My thumb hovered over the tiny phone icon by his name.
Motley got up and walked to the door. He stopped and looked back at me. I sighed and slumped my shoulders.
“You’re right,” I said.
I frowned, irritated. That empty text bubble could mean anything. Was he interrupted in the act of texting? Was a pocket text? It might be a sign that I meant nothing to him— just a man in a long marriage, away from his wife, lonely, maybe a little bored — no matter how magical it might’ve seemed to me. I’d watched the Doctor leave with River that morning. No workmen had come to his house and no moving lorry had come to get their things. I was a distraction or —
“Grow up, Oswald,” I said. “It’s probably not what you think. It’s only been a few hours. He doesn’t owe you anything. Get some rest. Call him tomorrow when you have a clear head.”
*****
I lay in my bed, resting but unable to sleep. I glanced at my clock. It read 3:00am. I sighed. I didn’t really mind being awake. Some of my best writing ideas came to me during this sort of suspended animation, not-sleep state. I tried to think about Malcom Tucker. He had a backstory that I hadn’t written yet. I generally liked my protagonist’s story and physical appearance to reveal themselves through their actions or other characters’ telling. So far, he was tall, lean but not muscular, square jawed, Scottish, skittish about intimate relationships.
That hair. And those fucking eyelashes that were going to be the death of me.
So, yes. Malcolm was the Doctor, with a few adjustments.
“God damn it, Doctor,” I whispered.
I imagined that I could feel him. I closed my eyes and fancied that I could send the memory of us together to him. I hoped he felt it and I hoped that it was at an extremely inopportune moment for him. Then I smiled sadly to myself. I was fine. I’d lived through a hell of a lot worse than some quasi-one-night-stand, probably Very Bad Idea. I should be glad to have dodged a silly situationship. I decided to keep it as a bittersweet memory, now part of my secret history.
I had broken down and watched a YouTube clip of one of the Doctor’s shows. He was giving an impassioned monologue in a room with rubber monsters. He was very good. I stopped watching because he was also very beautiful.
I left his contact information in my phone, telling myself that it was just a point of interest, that bit of my secret history. I still didn’t know how to feel about him, but I would channel whatever that was into my writing.
The Doctor would be my muse. It was not like he was a real person who actually existed.
On a Sunday afternoon five days on, I relaxed on my sofa, getting drunk on mimosas, half-watching a shitty movie on the telly. It was my birthday, something I had never really celebrated since my sixteenth, because it was the same day my mother died. My phone pinged several times since early morning and I held off responding to all the family and friends’ well-wishing.
When I finally scrolled through to answer texts, I saw that the last text was from the Doctor. My entire body seized for a split second. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. I opened the text.
I’m going to call you. Fair enough if you don’t answer. I’m going to leave a message. Then I’ll fuck off.
I checked and there was a voicemail notification from him. It was one minute and thirty-two seconds long.
I set my phone down and poured myself another drink. I picked up my phone and stared at it for a long moment. Over the last five days, there had been no sign of the Doctor nor River Song at the house next door. No movers, no workmen. Just an empty house waiting for the owners to return. Cheema had not volunteered any new information from Gisela and I had pounded out my angst on my tablet keyboard, writing thousands of words about Malcolm Tucker.
I clicked on the Doctor’s voicemail message.
Hello, Clara.
I had to pause the message because the warm, Scottish way he rolled the “r” in my name nearly undid me. I forced my self to breathe again. I resumed the message.
I saw you at the window.
I clicked the message off again, cringing. He thinks I’m a nutter stalker, I thought. I prepared myself to be told off. I resumed the voicemail.
I’m sorry. River was the last person I expected that morning. I was just going to call you and ask you over for breakfast when she turned up. She wasn’t due in for two more days. She wanted to talk. I thought I owed us that, after all the years. But whole time she talked, I was distracted by the smell you on my skin. Made it very difficult to hear what she was saying. Anyway, while she was talking, our daughter called. Our grandson was in hospital with a fever. There no time to think. We had to go. He’s fine, just an intestinal thing, but he was in for three days and it was horrible and stressful I didn’t have a moment alone.
To her credit, River was amazing the whole time — as she always is in a crisis. After Carter was discharged, we went to Jenny’s with her because her partner is a bit useless… and Jen needed both of her parents. It was tense for a few hours, once the distraction of the hospital was gone. River and I sort of circled each other… talked a bit about reconciling. I tried, because Jenny asked. Part of me wanted it to work. It just … didn’t. Please believe me when I say that my decision had nothing to do with you. It had already been made months ago. Like I said, I felt like I owed her the attempt. When I told River I wanted to stay divorced, she did what she does when she’s hurt. She turned inward and put on a brave face. Which — as is her goal when she does this — made me feel guilty.
There’s a part of River that hates me. I’m not sure she’s even aware of it. And it manifests in behavior that is … I don’t know … passive-aggressive, perhaps? For example, River and I exchanged these sort of grandparents’ gifts. I had a gold locket made for her when Carter was born. I put in a picture of Jenny as a baby on one half and Carter on the other. It’s astonishing how much they look alike and how much they look like River. Anyway, River said, “I love it. Now I really feel like the Old Gran.” The ‘Old Gran’ was her family’s code name for her vicious crone of a grandmother, who the family placed in a care home and only visit at Christmas.
The gift River gave me was a wooden picture frame stained the exact blue of my box. It’s quite beautiful in the way plain, well-made, expensive things are. When she gave it to me, she cheerfully said, “It’s empty because now you can put whoever you want inside.” River always knew where to stick the knife.
Also, when I finally had a moment alone, my phone disappeared. I never kept my passcodes secret from River but I changed the one on my phone after … you. I wasted a whole day wanting to believe that I was the one who had misplaced my phone. We tore the place apart looking for it and River “found” it this morning.
I’m hearing myself tell you that and it sounds like nothing but it’s the cap on many years of that type of thing from her. A death of a thousand cuts.
That said, I’m no innocent bystander in the demise of my marriage. If you’ll let me, I’ll tell you about all the promises I didn’t keep.
There was a long pause and I could hear him breathing.
It wasn’t until my phone disappeared that I realized how much time had passed. I’m not asking you for anything and I’m not making excuses. I’m sorry to have involved you in my currently fucked up life. Anyway. I won’t keep you. Take good care. I’m in my loft now. River is still at Jenny’s. I’ll give you a heads up when she’s going back to the house. Once she’s cleared off, I’ll be back to pick through what’s left.
And please, the invitation to call me anytime still stands. Anytime.
I listened to his message again, closing my eyes so I could both hear and feel the sound of his voice. A text interrupted. I looked. It was the Doctor. He must have set an alert to notify him when I listened to his voicemail.
I made some drawings of you to keep me company.
My thumb hovered over my phone, then three dots floated in a text bubble. He was typing. I waited.
I know I said I’d fuck off but I don’t think I will. I sometimes have random thoughts that I’d like to share with you. You don’t have to respond. Or you can call me a bastard and block me. I assure you I’m not some nutter stalker. If you tell me to stop, I will. I really hope you don’t.
The three dots appeared again.
I can still feel you, Clara.
There was an attachment. It was a sketch of me from the waist up, my eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, my hair falling over my shoulders in messy waves.
I stared at the picture. Lines were both hazy and sharp, like looking through a soft focused lens. From the angle, it was me as I straddled his face. I covered my mouth with a slightly trembling hand. It was almost unfair. I was helpless against him.
I sent him a text.
Time. Space. I think we both need it.
I thought for a moment then sent another text.
I’m not saying no. I’m not playing games. I’m not angry. No hard feelings, remember? Just…deep breath.
I put my phone in a locked drawer for the rest of the weekend. I would let him work it out.
When I picked up my phone the following evening, he had sent me a stylized line drawing of the Doctor dancing a jig on the moon, next to his blue box.
Over the next couple of days, he sent random texts with silly drawings, late night musings and wild guesses about my pseudonym. I also got voicemail, some were just a simple good morning or goodnight. Others were rambling, hilarious, one-sided conversations. I loved the voicemails just for the sound of his voice.
His texts usually had a playful sexual undertone but they started to get more decidedly erotic as time went on. One night, my phone pinged at 2:00am. It was a text from the Doctor.
Hello, Clara. I’m lying in bed now. I’m exhausted in the extreme but too tired to sleep, if that makes sense. At the risk is sounding like a pervert, what I need is a wank. That’ll put me right to sleep. Problem is, I haven’t masturbated with any regularity since my very early twenties. I’m out of practice! I should work on that, seeing as it’s all I’ve got… currently.
***
Fortunately, I have a rich imagination. And pictures that I’ve drawn of you.
I squealed and dropped my phone. I picked it up. It was probably a huge mistake to finally respond because of an overtly sexual text but I couldn’t resist. Besides, I’d tortured him long enough. I typed:
Go on…
Floating dots popped up immediately.
Ah. There you are.
***
I typed:
And …
***
Can I call you?
***
Next time. You were saying something about needing a wank…
***
He sent a laughing emoji.
***
Ok, Clara. I guess I can … manage with one hand. Though, I usually don’t, if you know what I mean. It’d really, really … help if I could hear your voice
***
Better still, to see your face.
***
Next time, Doctor.
***
Fair enough. Ok. I’m in my bed. I can hear the rain. The duvet is kicked down to my feet. Just wearing boxer briefs. I’ve got my cock out. I haven’t touched it yet.
***
Are you still there, Clara?
***
Yes.
***
I’m laughing at myself because I’m alone in a dark room with my phone in one hand and my cock in the other.
***
My very, VERY hard cock
***
I wish I knew what you’re doing right now, Clara. What you’re wearing. I’ve always found it more compelling to imagine a naked body under clothing than to actually see it.
***
I had plans for you when next we met, darling. Sweet, tender, beautiful plans.
***
But right now, me with my hard cock in my hand, what I’m imagining is far from tender. Right now, the way I’m feeling. I just want to fuck you.
***
Face down on the floor or against the wall or bent over the sofa
***
Hard and fast
***
The thought of just taking you
***
I covered my face with a hand. This man knew how to push my buttons. I looked at my phone because more than a minute has passed. The three dots appeared at last.
Sorry. I had to stop or I was going to come before I wanted to. I’ve never done this before. I’m an old man!
I smile and type.
You’re not old.
***
Glad you’re still there.
***
Where else would I be, Doctor?
***
Clara, I’m going to put my phone down now because I’ll need both hands for what comes next. But first, I’m going to tell you how I’m going to get there, yeah? I’m going to remember you in that little dress. Your bare legs. How I could see your nipples through your dress when we were eating. First soft, then hard. I wanted to suck them, run my tongue all over them, perhaps pinch them—if you like.
***
And I think you might like it if I did that, you naughty, naughty girl.
***
My tongue in your sweet mouth. The heat of your body. You’re extremely warm for such a wee person. Anyone ever tell you that?
***
The feel of your hair in my hands when I kissed you. Your hairless pussy. Now, that was a surprise. A VERY lovely surprise.
***
Shall I go on, Clara?
I couldn’t reply because my head was spinning and my hands were shaking. The three dots appear. Then nothing. I typed.
Tell me.
***
I want to kneel in front of you, lift that maddening little dress up to your waist, pull your pants down to your ankles and eat your pussy until your knees are weak. Then I’ll carry you to my bed, spread your legs wide and lick your clit. I want to make you come and watch it happen. I want to see your face and hear the sound you make when I thrust my cock into you. And I want you to whisper in my ear again while I’m fucking you. All all the things you want me to do to you.
***
I need to put the phone down now, darling. Don’t go anywhere.
I covered my mouth with a hand, my heart pounding. It was 2:00am and the Doctor is stroking himself, thinking about me.
Five minutes went by. Then ten. I raised my brows. I picked up the pencil and pad I kept on my night table and made a note about Malcolm Tucker. I put the pad down and laid back on my pillows. Once again, I imagined that I could feel the Doctor. That we are somehow magically connected. My clit throbbed and my pussy contracted, hard. I gasped. I knew down to my bones that it was the Doctor. That he came in that same instant, my name on his lips. When I recovered, I saw the text from the Doctor.
Now I know how I really feel. Currently, as useless and weak as a wet paper bag. But can I call you? Whenever you say.
***
I thought for a moment.
Tomorrow? FaceTime? 6pm?
***
He texted a string of random emojis, the theme of which was very happy — even with a couple of accidental poos and vomit faces.
I spent the next day writing Malcolm Tucker, giving myself little time to think about my upcoming call with the Doctor.
My previous novels were the violent, testosterone-laden, cherchez la femme, noir detective archetype. I could write them in my sleep. They received consistently good reviews, won a few awards and usually remained in the top three or five bestsellers for my genre for the year when I released a book. I had even experienced a bit of a resurgence during lockdown. My Malcolm Tucker story didn’t have a treacherous damsel in distress, nor clear lines drawn between the good guys and the bad guys. It was darker, more violent and had a lot more sexual content. It also had a generous dose of magical realism, which was a new thing for me. Malcolm Tucker was a DSU at the Met who publicly worked for the Department of Professional Standards, but who actually worked for an even more secret, yet unnamed department. When people asked who watches the watchers, the answer was Malcom Tucker. He came and went as he pleased. Tucker is incorruptible but he isn’t always honest. There were things about himself that he had to hide. I wasn’t sure yet what those things were, but I was excited for Malcolm to show me. He’s breaking in a new partner, a smart, diligent, compulsively honest young woman, who may or may not be a true psychic, and who looks like Sophie Okonedo in my head. The sexual tension between them is off the charts and I plan to string along the “will they or won’t they” for at least three books.
At at exactly six o’clock that evening, my phone pinged. I took a deep breath and answered on my tablet. The Doctor’s face appeared on the screen. He was frowning, his face off-centered and too close to the camera.
“Hang on. Where’s the — oh. There you are.” His face brightened and he smiled. He sat back in his chair. He was wearing a dark grey tee with black graphics. It was the cover art for Danny’s final album.
“Hello, Doctor,” I said.
I heard a sound and he glanced over his shoulder. “My friend Martha’s here dropping off her dog for me to watch over the holiday weekend.” He turned his head again. “Like I’m her lonely old dad and need the company,” he said loudly.
I heard whispering and the Doctor’s face disappeared, the image on the phone spinning. I heard more hissing whispers and then a smiling, pretty face filled the screen.
“Hello,” she singsonged. She looked away and there were more whispers. Her face came back, but at a different angle, like she switched hands to keep the phone from the Doctor. “You must be Clara,” she said. “He tells me all of his secrets. I have to beat them out of him, mind you, but I’m a physician so we sort of have doctor/patient privilege.”
“For fuck’s sake,” said the Doctor.
“I’m Martha. John is my best mate. If you hurt him, I’ll kill you,” she said, smiling brightly.
The phone tilted again.
“Give me the phone, you shit!”
The Doctor’s face appeared again. “Sorry. She was just leaving,” he grumbled.
A dimpled cheek appeared and a pair of lips gave him several loud kisses on his face, deliberately smearing purple lipstick.
“Get off,” the Doctor said, smiling and frowning at the same time.
“Bye, grandad!” Martha yelled.
“Fuck the fuck off,” the Doctor yelled back.
“Sorry,” he said again. “She doesn’t believe me when I tell her that I’m fine. She’s a pain in my ass but it’s nice to be looked after, isn’t it?”
“She sounds like a good friend,” I said.
We were quiet for a long moment, gazing at each other. I grinned and winked. The Doctor laughed and I made a mental note of how his nose wrinkled adorably.
“So… that was sexting,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure that was sexting,” I said.
“It was so fucking hot,” he said.
“Very.”
“Might need to add that to the rotation.”
“Already on the list.”
“Oh.” The Doctor raised his brows. “There’s a list?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
“Maybe.”
He leaned forward, his face pained. “I’m sorry, Clara. I had sex with you, drove off with my ex-wife the next morning, then disappeared for five days.”
“Your grandson was ill. Your daughter needed you. An apology is not necessary.”
“You deserved better.”
“Doctor, at that point, you’d only known me for about ten hours. I had no expectations beyond that night. Well, I had hopes…”
“You must’ve thought I was a sleekit bastard.”
I shrugged. “I had a bit of a wobbly moment, I’ll admit. But I got over myself. And, as it turns out, a bit of angst was the cure to my writer’s block.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Yes, you will.” I laughed. “But you’re an idiot if you believe that River didn’t know you had sex with another woman the instant she saw you. A shower and a high-necked shirt was hiding fuck all.”
“I figured that out when my phone went missing. And I wasn’t hiding anything. I figured it wouldn’t do to turn up at the hospital covered in love bites like a horny teenager,” he said, giving me a stern look.
“What kind of face is that? You gave as good as you got,” I said. “My last bruise only just faded.”
“Are you up for another round?”
I squinted my eyes and tilted my head back. “Only if you don’t wear a tee with my dead husband’s last album cover on it,” I said.
“Fucking hell,” the Doctor said, looking down at himself. “I’m sorry, Clara. Shit.”
The phone screen shook then showed a high ceiling crisscrossed with massive concrete beams and huge industrial pipes. After a moment, the Doctor came back into view. He was shirtless, his hair mussed. I started laughing.
“If I were you, I’d call me a cunt and tell me to piss off,” he said.
“Oh my God.” I snorted and coughed, giggling and wiping away tears of laughter. “You should see your face.”
“Christ.”
“You look like an angry baby,” I chuckled.
“Now I’m freezing,” he said. “Maybe you know someone who can come keep me warm.”
“Do you like horror movies?”
“Uh, I do but I am a huge jessie.”
“Jessie?”
“That’s Scottish for pussy. I hide my face and scream like a girl. Why?”
“Love a scary movie. There’s one my daughter told me about but it’s no fun watching by myself.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” he mused. “I’ve got a massive telly that Martha forced me to buy so she can come over, shout at the football and drink all of my lager.”
“Do you have Netflix?”
“I have every streaming service on the planet. I’m pretty sure I’ve got that. Have to ask Martha.”
“That horror movie is on Netflix and my TV is small, so…”
“Hang on a minute. You’re trying to finagle an invite to mine in order to use me for my giant…telly?”
“You’ve seen through my cunning ruse, you clever boy.”
“Get over here now, Clara Oswald.”
xxxxx
The Doctor lived in a hulking, Victorian-era brick warehouse in Brixton Hill. It was four stories, with a plain facade and a flat roof. After texting that I had arrived, I drove into the vast, ground floor garage and parked next to the Doctor’s Audi. There was a low-slung, matte black motorbike parked on the other side, crouched in the darkness, kinetic and lethal-looking, like a wasp. There four lifts in the garage and I saw only four ornate metal letterboxes outside the garage entrance.
I lifted Motley out and walked across the polished brick floor to a lift of a size and age that might’ve serviced a dinosaur. Despite it’s ancient appearance, it had an access keypad that looked like something out of a science fiction film. There was a discreet metal plaque above the keypad that read, “Attention: Video Surveillance.” I entered the passcode the Doctor sent me and followed the computer’s polite instructions.
“Clara. Oswald. Retinal scan. Profile. Saved,” the computer intoned. “Welcome. Clara. Oswald.”
A horizontal, wrought iron accordion gate rattled open like an ancient mouth. Motley sniffed the air and let out a small whine. I picked him up and stepped into the scarred teak-lined lift. There were only two old-fashioned push buttons, one with an arrow pointing up and the other with the arrow pointing down. There was a video surveillance sign inside the elevator as well. I pushed the “up” button and the accordion gate closed. Inner doors made of iron slid closed with a heavy thud and the lift rose smoothly. Even after one hundred and fifty years, the aroma of the teak was still faintly present. The lift stopped, bounced gently twice and the inner doors opened.
“Clara. Oswald,” the computer announced as the accordion gate opened.
A futuristic-looking robot vacuum whirred swiftly across the floor and seemed to hover accusingly at my feet. It was topped with a clear dome that showed it’s internal workings and blinking lights.
A fat dog with a white body, a brown head and short, turned-in legs peered up at me. I stepped out and set Motley on the wood floor. They sniffed each other’s butts, grumbling and chuffing. Finally satisfied, they turned together and waddled away, the vacuum zigzagging fussily behind them. I didn’t see or hear the Doctor so I followed the dogs.
The loft was impossibly huge, taking up the entire fourth floor. The ceiling was at least twenty-five feet high. There was a brick fireplace large enough to roast an ox set in a wall of paned, arched windows. The windows were framed in the same heavy, dark teak as the lift. Stained glass rondels were set at intervals in the wall of windows. Above the fireplace was a curved marble banner that had Athanasios Kasterborus Olive Oil, Est. 1878 chiseled across it. Shelves filled with leather-bound books, scrolls, and odd-looking artifacts lined one wall above an iron catwalk raised about twelve feet off the floor. Two over-stuffed leather armchairs were set at the end of the catwalk closest to the wall of windows, a low table placed between them. It was the perfect place to sit and read a book on a cold, rainy day. Under the catwalk were what might’ve originally been offices, enclosed with the same paned glass and heavy wood as the wall of windows, the half-doors of which were ornately carved teak. In one, I could see at least three guitars on stands, amps, an electric piano, recording equipment and a table piled with sketch books and art supplies. In another, tools were neatly hung on pegboard. Beakers, tubing, electronics and machinery in various stages of build or repair lay on a work table.
Folding French doors next to the fireplace opened to a terrace.
As I followed after the dogs, I both felt and heard a whisper tickle across the back of my neck and into my ear.
…Claraaahhh…ssssible…
I turned around and saw in the furthest corner under the catwalk, a big, blue, old-time police box. The small lamp at the top seemed to briefly flare with golden light.
“Doctor?” I called out.
“Here,” answered the Doctor.
I rounded a corner from the lift foyer. Four massive concrete columns divided the living space into sections. The column closest to the kitchen created space for a dining area. The next one had an enormous leather sofa sectional, a low coffee table and a wafer thin television the size of a movie theater screen. Further down was a treadmill and a battered martial arts practice dummy on a pedestal, with padded half-gloves hung around it’s neck. Beyond the last column was another glass-enclosed space with a king bed set on a raised platform inside. Heavy, dark red curtains hung from a railing encircling the bed.
The Doctor was in his kitchen retrieving a takeaway carton from a microwave oven. It smelled strongly of garlic and chili oil.
“Mmm. That smells good,” I said.
“I’ve had no time to kit out the kitchen or even buy food,” said the Doctor. “So it’s day-old takeaway, if you’ve a mind.”
“It’s fine. Bit late for me to be eating, anyway.” I lifted the shopping bag I held. “I do have five tallboys in a torn box. I drank one yesterday.” I set the bag on the countertop.
The Doctor peered into the bag. “Perfect. Reminds me of when I was in school. Lager and dodgy noodles. Oh, hello, Motley. Very cool bow tie.” He pointed to the other fat dog. “That smashed-faced monstrosity is Martha’s dog, Trevor. You geezers go wait for Godot out on the terrace.”
Trevor huffed. Motley grunted. They slowly walked to the terrace like the two oldest best mates in the world.
The Doctor looked down at me. “Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
His eyes roamed my face. “Want to tell me about it?”
“I think so,” I said, taking off my jacket.
He took my coat and draped it over the back of a chair. I was wearing a soft knit, long-sleeved mini dress that was slightly fitted at the waist and had a deep V neck. I wore chunky Chelsea boots and long, black socks pulled up to mid-thigh. I had fixed my hair into a sloppy bun at my nape and lightly glossed my lips with a hint of color. The Doctor glanced down at my thigh-high socks then turned away — but not before I saw a slight flush bloom on his face.
He took two of the beers out of the torn box and put the rest in a refrigerator that had at least four doors and a touchscreen that looked like it belonged in a spaceship cockpit. I watched him flatten the torn box and put it in the recycling bin, busying himself while waiting for me to talk. He was wearing one of those tattered jumpers that cost upwards from fifteen-hundred quid but is made to look like it was discarded by a hobo. I could see his pale skin through the holes. Low-rise jeans hung off his hips and when he faced me again, I struggled to keep my eyes anywhere except the bulge in front. He ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, further mussing the already slightly wild waves. He opened the tallboys and set one on the countertop next to me. He took a long pull from his, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the long, strong column of his neck.
He was at least twenty years older than I, but he was the sexiest man I’d ever known.
“I didn’t know I was going to…like you,” I said.
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “You’re wondering what we’re doing.”
“Dating? Friends with benefits?” I shuddered. “The thought of engaging in either of those makes me want to top myself.”
“I get it,” he said. He walked over and leaned against the counter next to me. “Liking someone is scary, isn’t it? Especially if they like you, too.”
We stood side by side, arms folded, not looking at each other, both of us a bit red in the face, like a couple of schoolchildren with crushes. He nudged me gently with his elbow. I looked up at him.
“That everything happens for a reason is the biggest lie ever told,” he said. “The universe is violent and chaotic and gives fuck all about us. But sometimes, there’s a perfect confluence of probabilistic causality and the universe hands you a gift.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, brushing his fingertips against my cheek. “Think of the random series of events that led me to glancing down into your garden in that precise moment, and seeing you about to strangle yourself with your sports bra. It boggles the mind. And even then, if you hadn’t removed that one tree, I would not have seen you.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. “Anyway, that’s my long-winded way of saying I’ve learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth.” He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “I want there to be an us,” he said. “Me and you. But, I think I hear you asking to slow down a bit. I don’t mind doing that.”
“My father was walking along one day and a gust of wind blew a huge leaf off a tree, right into his face,” I said. “It surprised him and he couldn’t see. He nearly stumbled into traffic but my mum happened along and pulled him to safety at the last moment. That’s how they met. A weird, impossible sequence of events. My mum said it was luck, my father called it a miracle.”
“The universe made a gun out of leaves and fired one into your father’s face.” He made a starburst with his hand. “Boom! Now, Clara Oswald exists,” he said. “The impossible girl. We’ll take it slow, yeah? Build a friendship. I already like you so that won’t be hard.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. I turned my face into his chest. He smelled of wool wash and vetiver grass.
“We’ll do friend stuff. Get to know each other. Have coffees properly, in a cafe. Hang out. Remember just hanging out with your mates? Hungover Sundays eating chips and taking a nap on the sofa,” he said. “There’s all sorts of ways to be intimate without sex.”
I pulled away and looked at him with wide eyes. “What? I didn’t exactly mean —,” I started.
He was smiling.
“Oh, shut up,” I said.
I rested my cheek against his chest. “But, I had forgotten how a good cuddle feels.”
He wrapped me in his arms again and held me tightly, his hands stroking circles on my back. I sighed and sank into him, listening to odd rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“Let’s drink lager, eat noodles and watch your scary movie.”
We settled on the sofa with our beers and the container of garlic noodles, two sets of chopsticks poking out of the top. I pulled off my boots and tucked my toes under his thigh.
“What’s the name of this movie,” the Doctor asked.
“It’s called Aterrado.”
“Terrified?”
“Yep. That’s how scary this movie is. They straight up named it Terrified.”
“You know this commits you to spending at least two nights here protecting me,” he said, his face serious.
“Protect you? I’m five-two. And I’m a girl.”
“You’re a girl? I hadn’t noticed.”
I poked him in the ribs with my foot.
“Hello, Missy,” said the Doctor. “Please turn on the television. Find the movie Aterrado or Terrified, please.”
There was a tiny click and the massive screen bloomed with white light then went black. The Netflix logo appeared. There were two other account profiles underneath: Martha, and Sarah Jane. The screen went dark again then the movie cued up.
“Who is Missy,” I asked, looking around. Who is Sarah Jane?
He pointed to the vacuum. It waited under the television screen, it’s blue light within the clear dome fading and brightening as if it were breathing.
“M.I.S.I. Mobile Intelligence Systems Interface. It’s like Alexa or Siri, but with a more uh, advanced AI.”
“I thought it was a fancy Roomba. I’ve never heard of Missy.”
“You wouldn’t have heard of it. I built it for my private use. Well, if I feel like working out all of the bugs, I might sell it. I sort of collaborate with an agency to invent things or help make other people’s inventions more useful.” He shrugged. “It’s kind of a hobby.”
“So, your side gig is you’re a mad scientist? You’re full of surprises, Doctor.”
“There’s a drone function so it can fly, too. It can lift and carry up to forty kilos so don’t let it hear you call it a Roomba. I could send it to the market to pick up my groceries if I wanted to. I may need to make some edits to the code on this one, though. The AI is evolving in a way that’s a bit alarming.”
I watched his face as he spoke. His eyes were bright and he waved his hands around, occasionally running his fingers through his gorgeous hair. It was hard to actually listen to what he said because I was preoccupied by the memory of those hands on my body.
“And you’ve got that look on your face again.”
“What? What look?”
“The one where you’re imagining yourself with a knife an fork.”
“I was listening,” I protested. “You were saying the AI was evolving in a way that was alarming?”
“So, there’s a hologram feature, yeah? I programmed a blank, human-shaped form as a space-holder while I was tweaking other systems but the next day, I got this.” He picked up a cylindrical gadget from a charging dock on the coffee table. He held it up for me to see. “This enables or disables automatic functions. It’s an ultrasonic, multi-purpose tool — sort of a universal remote. Anyway, I disabled the hologram because, well. You’ll see.” He pointed the gadget at the MISI module. It emitted a high-pitched, oscillating buzz.
A woman dressed in a dark purple Victorian day jacket and skirt shimmered into view above the module. Her hair was fixed in an elaborate updo with one piece left out in a thick curl over one temple. Her features were severe — cheekbones high and sharp enough to cut paper, aquiline nose, steeply arched brows, a villainous slash of a mouth colored in with dark magenta lipstick. She was coldly beautiful, like a porcelain doll. Her ice blue eyes briefly studied me, flicking down to the Doctor’s hand on my knee.
“Everyday, it was adding something new. Shoes, the cameo broach, lipstick — something I never would’ve thought to do. When I was going out a couple of days ago, it turned up with a fancy hat and carried an umbrella. It was intent on coming with me and became indignant when I told it no.”
“Indignant? She has emotions?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. The point of AI is to learn and anticipate. Alexa and Siri can make fairly sophisticated jokes in response to questions. Missy can do that, too and then some. It quickly learned my morning routine and turned on the coffee machine without me asking. If I added extenders and grasping implements, it could probably make my breakfast. As it is, it created an algorithm that anticipated what I wanted to eat, complained about not having access to be able to order online for me, then scolded me for eating too much takeaway. I was thrilled at first, but became concerned at its reaction when I wouldn’t let it leave the loft. It practically threw a tantrum. It engaged the drone function on its own and actually got in my face.”
“That’s slightly unnerving,” I said.
“Yes. Slightly. It’s a good deal that I didn’t give it “arms”. I had already built Fort Knox-level firewalls. Not to keep hackers out but to keep Missy in. It can’t leave the confines of this loft. It’s networked in-house only and cannot access Wi-Fi or other devices brought in from outside. It may as well be locked in a vault.”
“Can she…hear us?”
“Well, yes but it’s on standby right now. Frozen. Why?”
“Because she just gave me a look. Specifically, your hand on my knee.”
The Doctor frowned.
“I didn’t imagine it,” I said.
“I believe you,” he murmured thoughtfully.
He walked over to the hologram and stared at Missy. Her eyes were fixed on a point over his shoulder — at me.
“Hello, Missy,” said the Doctor.
The shimmering hologram darkened and solidified. Whatever effect Missy was going for with her hologram, she only succeeded in making herself look like a psychotic Mary Poppins. Her eyes held mine for a fraction of a second before they shifted to the Doctor.
“Hello, John Smith,” said Missy.
“How are you this evening?”
“My systems are functioning within normal parameters.” Missy tilted her head and blinked twice. “How may I assist you?”
The Doctor stared at her for a long moment. He glanced back at me. “Nothing more tonight, Missy. Thank you.”
“Query, John Smith.”
“Yes, Missy?”
“Why does Clara Oswald refer to you as Doctor?”
The Doctor looked at me with his brows raised. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said.
“Clara Oswald has referred to you as Doctor on three occasions,” said Missy.
“Whatever her reasons are, they are her own, Missy.”
“Clara Oswald has exaggerated her height by 2.54 centimeters.”
“Missy,” snapped the Doctor. “That’s enough of that.”
Missy inclined her head, eyes lowered demurely. “As you wish,” she said.
The Doctor pointed the gadget at her. The gadget emitted a short burst of sound. In the instant before she winked off, Missy locked eyes with me.
The Doctor stood looking down at the MISI module. After a moment, he picked it up and turned it over. He pressed a button and a compartment opened with a quiet hiss. He reached in and extracted a component that looked like a golf ball dipped in gold. He walked over to his workshop and set the module on the table. He took a metal box off a shelf and put the gold ball inside. He closed the box, locked it and put it back on the shelf. He came back and sat next to me on the couch.
“I think I made a mistake building Missy,” he said.
“She’s a hoity-toity cunt,” I said.
The Doctor spit-choked on the sip of lager he was swallowing. “That’s my masterpiece you’re calling a cunt,” he laughed. “What was that gold golf ball thing?”
“I guess you could call it a motherboard — the component that lets all of the other components to communicate with each other — except far more sophisticated than that. It also powers the module. Even when it’s on standby, AI systems continue to develop. Taking out the core shuts it down completely,” he said.
“So she can’t make plans while you’re not looking,” I said. “Be careful, Doctor. I used to be married to a rock star. I know that look from other women. She’s jealous.”
He was silent, thinking, his brow troubled. “Anyway. Let’s watch the movie.”
I waited while he fussed with the couch pillows, settled in, then jumped up again to take off his shoes, search for his glasses, go to the toilet, put his phone on silent, re-heat the garlic noodles, and pour himself a glass of scotch because he “wasn’t feeling” the lager. He held up the bottle of scotch.
“Want one,” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, I do,” I said. “So I can pour it on your head then set you on fire.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sitting down, now,” he said.
He pointed the cylindrical gadget at the television and started the movie. He fed me a bite of garlic noodles from his chopsticks. He stuffed a massive wad of noodles into his mouth and sat back, one arm cradling his head. I settled back into the sofa cushions, letting him feed me bites of the noodles from time to time.
“Oh, shit.”
“What?” I asked.
“Subtitles. Can’t hide my face if I have to read subtitles.”
“I really hope you’re not a movie-talker,” I said.
“Nah. Mind you, I may scream like a girl a few times.”
During the opening scenes he commented on the low-budget, 1970s aesthetic but shut up when I gave him an evil look. The movie quickly turned ominous. The Doctor grabbed the throw draped on the back of the sofa.
“Shift,” he said.
He lay down behind me, pulled me down against him and covered us with the throw. I exhaled silently and relaxed into the curve of his body, his hard chest and slightly soft belly pressing into my back. He drew up his legs, spooning me. He rested his arm on my side, his hand balancing his glass of whiskey on my hip.
“Comfortable,” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He leaned over me and set his glass of scotch on the coffee table. He lay back and draped his arm around my waist.
“Are you cold?” he asked, fussing with the blanket.
“No.”
“You just shivered,” he said. “Which is weird because you are so warm.” He tightened his arm around me.
“If you hold me any tighter, I’ll be in back of you.”
“Sorry,” he said, not loosening his arm.
“I don’t need this blanket, either,” I said, kicking it off my legs.
“You wear these little dresses just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He plucked at the hem riding high on my thigh.
“I’ll wear tights next time.”
“Don’t you dare,” he said, smoothing my hem back down. He captured one of my feet between his. “Even your feet are warm,” he murmured.
“Watch the movie, Doctor.”
“I am.”
But he wasn’t watching the movie. The hand on my thigh rubbed me in small circles, calloused fingertips brushing the bare skin below the hem of my dress, the movement pushing it up again. He exhaled deeply and pulled my hem back down. His hand continued to stroke me through my clothes, moving slowly up to my waist, fingers lightly tracing designs or gently squeezing like a blind man exploring. He rubbed his hand up and down my arm. I felt him bend his head, and his breath, hot, then cool on my scalp as he smelled my hair. He hooked a finger in the collar of my dress and pulled it down over my shoulder, stroking a thumb over the exposed skin. He pressed his lips to the curve where my neck met my shoulder.
“Are we not going to watch this movie?” I asked.
“I am watching,” he said. “I can do both. I can stop if you like.”
“Do what you gotta do,” I said with feigned exasperation.
He laughed and shifted us around until he was on his back with me laying half on him, our legs entangled and my head on his chest. My dress had ruched up around my hips. The Doctor looked down. He looked at me. He pointed to my dress and made a figure eight in the air with his finger.
“Are you…naked underneath?” he asked.
“Thong.”
He covered his eyes with a hand. “For fuck’s sake, Clara.”
I pushed up on his chest so I could look him in the eyes.
“Shut up, stop fidgeting, and watch the movie or I will do a thing and it will not be a good thing,” I said.
He finally settled and watched the movie but his hands still roamed my body, almost absently. He had an erection of varying degrees that he didn’t try to hide, just rolling his hips a little with a pleasant wince or shamelessly adjusting himself with a hand in his pants.
I did my fair share of touching him, sliding my hand under his jumper to run my fingers over the hair on his lower belly, rubbing my palm in circles on his chest. It felt so good to touch and be touched.
The movie was wholly terrifying and intensely creepy, both of us yelling at the characters — “What the fuck?” “Don’t go in there by yourself!” “Oh, hell no he did not just do that!” . There were lots of good scares, during which the Doctor would hide his face in a pillow. We screamed and laughed at each other. It was exhilarating and got our adrenaline up.
“Holy shit,” the Doctor exclaimed. “I’m going to have nightmares and it’s all your fault.”
“Poor baby,” I said. I laced my fingers on his chest and rested my chin on them. “How can I make it up to you?”
“Well, I don’t know. I can come up with a few things,” he said. “But we’re just hanging out.”
He blinked at me, his eyes clear and blue and innocent. I was beginning to think that it wasn’t Cheema who cast a spell.
“How are you so irresistible,” I asked.
“I could ask I you the same, Clara Oswald.”
“What do you think if we start the whole mates just hanging out bit…tomorrow?”
The Doctor wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me up his body until our faces were even. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me deeply. When I plunged my fingers into his hair, he gripped my hands, gently pulled my arms down and crossed my wrists behind my back.
“I want you want to keep them there,” he said. He tilted his head and held my eyes. “Do you understand?” he asked.
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Tell me,” he commanded, gently.
“Yes,” I said with a soft gasp.
He lifted us both off the couch. He was deceptively strong in the way that tall men with long arms are. Something to do with leverage. He stood very close to me without touching.
“Go to my bedroom. Take off your dress.”
I turned and walked away, hands behind my back, wrists crossed the way he had placed them. I looked back at him. He was still standing by the couch, watching me. The Doctor simply standing there, hair mussed and breathing deeply was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.
In the bedroom enclosure, I pulled off my dress and dropped it on the floor. I thought briefly about striking a sexy pose but I understood that standing by the bed wearing only a thong and thigh high socks, with my wrists crossed behind me was damn sexy enough.
The Doctor leaned a shoulder casually against the door frame as his eyes traveled down my body. He tilted his head toward the bed. I sat on the edge, my knees together, my hands firmly behind my back bound tightly, not with rope, but because he told me to put them there. He walked over and stood before me. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. He reached out and brushed the back of his hand lightly across my breasts. He leaned down, his lips close to my ear.
“Take my cock out,” he whispered.
I knelt and unfastened his jeans, taking my time with each metal button. I levered his pants down to his hips. I reached into his boxer briefs and pulled his cock out. It was already erect but seemed to grow harder as I gazed at it. I looked up at the Doctor. He stared down at me. He reached down and worked my hair free, running his fingers through it, fanning it across my back. I folded my hands behind my back. I waited.
“Put me in your mouth,” he said.
I dipped my head and ran the flat of my tongue from the base of his cock to the tip. I planted tiny butterfly kisses from the tip to the base, then dragged my lips back up to the tip, sucking it into my mouth and swirling my tongue around it. I heard the Doctor sigh and gasp, his fingers tightening in my hair. I looked up at him. He gathered all of my hair in one hand. He stared into my eyes, asking with slightly raised brows.
“Hmmm,” I moaned and opened my mouth.
He gently but firmly tugged my hair until my head was slightly tilted back. He flexed his hips and slowly slid his cock into my mouth. I could barely get half of his length in before the head of his cock touched the back of my throat. He pulled out completely then pushed forward again, between my lips, past my teeth, and over my tongue, to press a little more firmly against the back of my throat. He repeated the motion again and again, going faster, his hands in my hair a little less gentle. He groaned my name and I could feel his cock swell in my mouth. I reached up and pushed him away with my hands on his hips. He stumbled back a step and looked down at me with concern, his chest heaving.
“Sorry. Sorry,” he panted. “Did I hurt you?”
“I need you inside me,” I said.
I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my thong and peeled it off. I lifted my foot and kicked it off my ankle. I sat on the edge of the bed and moved to take off my socks.
“Leave it,” said the Doctor, pushing his own pants down.
I yelped when he picked me up and crawled up the bed. He gripped my wrists and bound them in one hand above my head. He spread my thighs with a knee, held himself with his other hand and entered me to the hilt in one hard thrust that made us both cry out. He fucked me in long, strong strokes, his face buried in my hair.
“Fuck me, Doctor,” I panted, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Please. Harder.”
He groaned and pounded into me, holding himself above me like a man doing push ups. I watched his face. His eyes were closed and his lips parted, his long neck corded with muscle. I couldn’t reach his mouth so I kissed and licked and sucked wherever I could reach on his chest and shoulder and neck. I wanted all of him, as deep inside me as possible. As if he’d read my mind, he slid his hands down and under my body, and gripped my ass, all of his body weight crushing me into the mattress, our hips thrusting and grinding into each other.
He had me pinned. I was dizzy and could barely move. He was everywhere — in me, on me, in my mouth. I fancied that I could hear him in my mind
Clara…Clara…Clara.
It was as if we were in another dimension, alone, together, connected. I could feel what he felt— my pussy, hot and slick and tight around his cock. I squeezed with my vaginal muscles and felt intense pleasure ripple from my core and down the backs of my legs. I heard a moan that I think came from both of us. I unhooked my ankles from the small of his back and brought my knees up on either side of him, as high as they could go, opening myself completely, his balls slapping against me with every hard thrust. He suddenly went still, stiffened then shuddered. His cock pulsed and he started thrusting again, groaning loudly. The intensity of my orgasm caught me by surprise. Everything below my waist exploded with pleasure. My clit and pussy contracted once, twice, three times, then in tiny, arrhythmic bursts.
That was the Doctor, I thought.
The Doctor collapsed half on and half off me. I heaved him onto his back and lay on top of him, my legs straddling his hips, my head on his chest. We were sticky with sweat and come.
“Is this — ,” I started.
“You don’t weigh anything. It’s fine,” he said.
“How did you know what I was going to say?”
He was quiet for so long that I lifted my head and looked at him. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.
“Doctor?”
“Sorry,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.
He was quiet again. I laid my head back on his chest and listened to his strange heartbeat. He had something to say. I hoped it was something I wanted to hear. I tried to relax, not jump to conclusions. I waited.
“You’re in my head, Clara Oswald. And I don’t think you’re going to leave.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s the best thing.”
“Then why are you sad?”
He picked up my hand and kissed my fingers.
“You’re so tiny,” he murmured.
“I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”
He rolled us over then pulled me up to the pillows so that we faced each other. He smoothed my hair back and rested his hand on the side of my face. He kissed the space between my eyebrows and stroked his thumb across my lips. I stared into his eyes. Nested in the blue, was a jagged gold ring around the iris, like a starburst.
“I need to show you my box,” he said softly.
“Yeah?” I whispered. I kissed his lower lip, then his whiskery chin. “What’s in this box?” I nuzzled under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat. “God, I could just eat you,” I said.
“All of time and space.”
I looked at him, confused. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
“Your police box?”
He rolled out of the bed and held out his hand. We walked to the big, blue box. I snickered.
“What,” he asked.
“I need a shag rag,” I giggled.
He chuckled. “Shag rag. I haven’t heard that since school. I’m sure I can find one in my box.”
“You keep your linens in your magic box?”
We stopped in front of the police box. His hand tightened around mine.
“Among other things,” He said.
He raised his other hand and snapped his fingers. One of the doors opened inward, even though the sign on the front said, “Pull to Enter.” Golden light spilled out.
I tilted my head and looked inside.
XxxXXXxxx
Next up: The Widow, The Magician, and All of Time and Space
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