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Wednesday, July 14th, 2010 09:58 pm
Story: Collared
Author: The the-dark-side-is-fun-and-I-like-porn-cookies [livejournal.com profile] loveslashangst
Beta: the should-be-doing-her-homework [livejournal.com profile] ophymirage
Characters: Amy Pond, Evil!Eleventh Doctor, Captain John Hart, Captain Jack Harkness, OMTA (Original Male Tentacled Alien).
Pairings Amy/Evil!Eleven. Amy/OMTA. Several others I’m definitely going to Hell for.
Rated: XXX for porn, porn, and more porn. Dub-con. Non-con. Slavery. BDSM. Alien!sex. Anal and vaginal plugs. Shock collars. Evil. And more evil. Oh, and lots of naughty words, some of them profanity. This is seriously me throwing in everything AND the kitchen sink. Camera does NOT pan up… like… ever.
Disclaimer: I don’t own this lot, and they are profoundly glad I don’t. Did I mention I’m going to Hell for this?
Spoilers: Series 5 Doctor Who. Sometime. Not sure. This is the sequel to “The Doctor Dances Darkly”, so we’re already AU as it is.
Summary: The Doctor is evil. Rory is dead. Amy is a nympho with a taste for dark sex. Unfortunately, she keeps wandering off. So it’s up to the Doctor to teach her a lesson she will NEVER forget. Written for the kink-bingo prompt "Bondage".

Okay, so here’s the dealio…

The sickness continues, now with slash. And the obligatory shower/bathing scene. No porn is complete without a shower/bathing scene.

On with the show…

The Doctor is annoyed. It’s no fault of Lir’s really -- the Sulamid’s good as his (carefully contracted) word, sending up that absolutely scorching vid of him and Amy. About two hours of her panicking, screaming, then slowly being talked into all kinds of deliciously dirty feats. (A few of which he’ll have to file away for future reference. Nice to see what a genuine sadistic top can do with a little determination, a couple of plugs, and a half-decent obedience collar. The whole chaining-her-to-the-headboard kink? Genius.)

No, he has to give the captain full points for kink and for stamina. But while the Doctor spends the better part of the day watching his Companion and wanking like a deranged monkey, gradually the whole arrangement starts to bother him.

It’s not the abasement -- he’s tied up and switched Amy enough times to love a little “Please Doctor may I” as much as the next man. No. Let Lir fuck the girl within an inch of her sanity. But that’s the problem -- Lir really will. And is. And handily too. It’s enough to make a man have a pang or two of jealousy (if the Doctor were the sort to admit to jealousy), because though he’s fucked her up the arse plenty of times, she’s never BEGGED him for it.

Come to think of it, she’s not big on begging him full stop, which is even more annoying. She SHOULD beg him -- he’s a damn good lay, if he does say so himself, and certainly better than anything she’s had in her previous memories, which is what happens when you’ve been around the block a time or nine hundred. She certainly came like a demon when he used his full arsenal of kinky tricks. So it can’t be that there’s any risk of her actually LIKING Lir. That’s just not possible. And it’s a good thing it’s not possible, because her liking Lir would really put a crimp in the Doctor’s plans.

The whole point of this little object lesson was to teach her not to wander off. If she wanders off into her deepest darkest dirtiest fantasies of sexual fulfilment at the hands of some weird alien, this whole thing could backfire. And if Lir starts to fall for her in return, credits alone may not be enough to buy his silence.

The Doctor scoops up another handful of popcorn from the bowl on the console of the TARDIS, watching grimly for the fourth time as Amy screams Lir’s name while he fucks her into incoherence. No. This could be a bad thing. If he knows Amy, she’ll fight the Sulamid at first -- part of her charm is there’s a sweet mix of fight with her fuck. (The Doctor has always had a taste for the feisty ones.) But Amy’s also got that pesky masochistic streak. It’s well brilliant when he’s the one doing the fucking, but what if Lir proves to be the more satisfying sadist?

He really should’ve planned out his strategy better. Done some kind of screening process to make sure he had the perfect combination of “squick” and “just good enough in bed”. Instead, he seems to have found himself a tentacled Don Juan.

So what does he do now? It’s far too soon to come to Amy’s rescue. Firstly, he promised Lir rights to Amy for about a week, though that alone wouldn’t be enough to deter him if it becomes really necessary to stop this. Secondly, and more important, Amy still believes he’s coming to save her, which means she won’t fully submit to her enslavement. Lir has to break her a little. Make her obedient. Then she’ll be gratifyingly happy to see the Doctor when he comes for her.

The key here is to time it just right so that she’ll fall into his arms, kissing him in grateful relief and -- here’s the payoff -- promising never to disobey him again. Too soon, and she’ll nag him endlessly about “leaving her to be sold”. Too late, and she’ll lose that feisty spark that makes him just want to bend her over the nearest surface and shag her till she squeaks.

Popcorn tastes bitter now. He really has to do something about this new mouth -- it’s driving him crazy to have all his favourite foods taste so weird. The rest of this body is quite acceptable, but the taste buds? Fucking Regeneration always cocks up something.

And speaking of cocks…

Good to know that the fit on the port in the console is just as snug and satisfying as ever, though the studs along the interior are a nice addition. (TARDIS always was a kinky old bird.) She can’t add to the bliss with a bit of an impromptu dip into the Time Vortex, but even stationary she’s a lovely shag.

He times his orgasm just right -- just when Lir fills Amy’s arse, the Doctor comes in an explosion of temporal energy.

Nothing like a decent fuck to make a man feel better. He gives the console a loving pat, sets himself to rights, snatches up his jacket, and makes for the door. He’s got at least half a week to kill before he picks up his lovely ginger fucktoy. Might as well go see what the Bouncers are doing.

One of the nice things about being a Time Lord: stealing credits is ridiculously easy, and he’s always gone before anyone can track him down.

It’s simply... FANTASTIC… to be the superior being.


“Check it again.” His partner’s in a foul mood.

“Why?” But he’s already consulting his wrist strap.

“Because those readings are fucking impossible.” Pretty grey eyes turn cold. “Nothing emits that kind of energy -- not at those kind of levels and not in this century. You’d have to have a line to the Vortex, open constantly, at levels that would kill a normal person.”

“So what is he?”

The man beside him grins. “AWOL, just like us. Not from around here, not authorized to be around here, and therefore…”

“Useful.” He shares the grin, thinking of the warm welcome they’ll get at Central if they bring in a temporal criminal. This will make the perfect cover; once they return, Central can rewrite their assignment to make this their mission. Causality never bothered them much, and he’ll worry about the memory-paradox some other time. “So how do we get to him, now that the girl’s gone with the Sulamid?”

His partner calls up the surveillance feed as a hologram on his VM. Scans forward through it until he finds an image of the geeky-but-shaggable hottie in the tweed jacket. Said hottie is locking the front door of what appears to be an early twentieth-century blue box. Police. Weird. Looks like it may be contemporaneous to Earth, somewhere right around the Second World War, which is brilliant, because that’s one of their favourite times.

“Bow tie,” his partner comments.

He’s already there and sending postcards. “Could he be any more adorable?”

He and his partner exchange a lascivious look.

“Whatever that thing is--” Oooh, that twinkle means they’re going to be up to something fun. “We have to have it.”

They begin to wend their way toward the impromptu pub that’s been set up in a “borrowed” transport cruiser, which happened to be carrying several thousand cases of very lovely Andorian ale. “Just doing our job?” he says.

“We would be otherwise neglecting our sworn oath,” says his partner with equal sarcasm.

There are times he loves being a Time Agent.


Amy jerks awake. Docking. The ship’s docking. Or landing. Or something. She blinks, bleary-eyed, and tries to figure out how long she’s been out. Her neck’s slightly cricked from sleeping in an awkward jumble, but otherwise she’s actually not much the worse for wear. She sniffs herself surreptitiously -- whew! she’s minging something awful. Here’s hoping for a bath.

The ship lands on the roof of a villa. She wouldn’t have figured octopus-people (or whatever Lir is) for Art Deco, but the neat lines and geometric shapes of the main house and its out-buildings seem like they’d be more at home with Jazz and flapper dresses than plugs and shock-collars.

She forces herself to be calm as Lir draws close. He unfastens her collar from the chain on the headboard. Clips on a lead. She follows him. As they step out of the ship, she blinks at the sudden burst of humidity. Hot. Muggy -- so muggy it’s almost hard to breathe. The roof is covered in fine sand, which actually feels good on her bare feet. And her lack of clothing is actually not uncomfortable in this climate. She might even enjoy exploring this new world if she weren’t starving and in desperate need of a shower.

Oh yeah, and a kinky-sex slave. That does kind of put a damper on the outing. She seriously has to get the fuck out of here, and fast. (And WHERE is the damn DOCTOR? She is going to curse him till his ears bleed once he gets here.)

She takes a quick look ‘round, though, before they get off the roof. Villa. Definitely a palatial villa. Square roof. Square servant’s quarters. (At least, judging by the few cat-man-aliens that are coming and going.) All on an estate that seems to stretch for miles in the few directions she can peer at. Isolated. Landscaped in endless, nodding tree-things in shades of purple and chartreuse and mauve. Things are calling like songbirds, though she’s afraid to look for fear that the first sight of a “song-squid” might snap what remains of her sanity. The whole place is like the bottom of an exotic aquarium.

Lir leads her through a neat doorway and down a slanting passage to the house below.

Whoever this guy is, he’s loaded. A small herd of the cat-man aliens meets them in a large hallway. Lir speaks to them in that weird guttural language, which is damned annoying because Amy can’t make out a word. She’s become so accustomed to the TARDIS translating everything that it’s disorienting to be back to wishing someone around here spoke some English.

Once Lir is done briefing the servants, the black notch-eared one -- who seems to be in charge of the group -- takes Amy’s lead from Lir and escorts her quickly and efficiently down the hall to what appears to be some kind of kitchen. She nearly faints with relief when she smells cooked food. Thank God she’s not actually on the Planet of Sushi. (Of course not -- how rude would it be to eat one’s cousins?) The neat angles and geometric mosaics seem so incongruous for a species that’s all curves and boneless bodies, but she supposes that some people are attracted to the opposite of what they are. Anyway, there’s a low, central table, like she’d expect in a Japanese restaurant. The cat-men-things set down cushions. Notch-Ear demonstrates kneeling. Indicates that she should occupy the one next to him. (Him? Her? Who can tell?)

She kneels on the cushion. A cat-man drapes a cloth around her neck to cover the chains. She jerks her head at her hands. “Don’t suppose you could help a girl out?”

She can’t tell if Notch-Ear responds to the verbal or non-verbal cues, but he silently shakes his head no. Another, smaller ginger cat-man (woman?) settles in on the other side. Notch-Ear feeds her bits of some sort of delicious, roasted meat. It tastes so good she could cry. The ginger cat feeds her weird-coloured lumpy slices that taste like pears if she imagines really hard. A third cat-man (grey striped) stands just behind her shoulder and offers her occasional sips of a cool blue drink like an excellent new flavour of Lucozade. Refreshing and perfect and not too sweet. The balance of flavours and textures is fantastic, made all the more appetizing by hunger and thirst.

She’s careful not to bite any fingers as they feed her, which only seems to amuse Notch-Ear and his friends. And she’s glad of the cloth covering her chest, because it’s very hard to drink without one’s hands, no matter how careful and attentive the grey-striped cat is.

Once she’s eaten her fill, the cat-men strip the cloth from her throat and the plates from the table, efficiently returning it to clean austerity. Notch Ear snaps a lead to her collar. Urges her to her feet. She follows, trying not to cross her legs as she walks, because she really needs to pee. “Please tell me we’re going to the loo next.”

Notch-Ear ignores her.

He leads her down another hall, Ginger and Grey-Stripes in tow, to what appears to be a dressing room. This seems weird, as she’s the only biped here who’s clothed. Notch-Ear unstraps her wrist-cuffs. The other two take off her skirt and chains. A blush burns her cheeks, but she bears up as best she can at being starkers in mixed alien company.

Notch-Ear leads her through the rather embarrassing process of learning an alien toilet -- which is as much bidet as anything. Not sure what else to do with the anal plug, she sets it aside.

Efficient as always, Ginger picks up the plug. Notch-Ear cries a warning, but too late. Poor Ginger is badly singed, the fur on and around her hands scorched. Notch-Ear cuffs her for what must be stupidity. Ears still laid back in annoyance, he indicates that Amy should retrieve the plug herself.

She does. “He shouldn’t do this to me, you know. I’m not a slave. Do you understand?”

Notch-Ear brushes his jaw along Ginger’s jaw, a soothing and reassuring gesture. Mewling softly in pain, Ginger bows and retreats, probably to go have her hands mended.

“Slave?” Amy says. “You understand ‘slave’? See, I was taken against my will. Stripped and sold to this crazy place. I don’t belong here.”

Notch-Ear barks a command. Grey-Stripes buggers off.

“Please,” Amy says, hoping against hope that this means he’ll finally talk to her. “I need to get back to the TARDIS. It’s my ship, see? Or rather, it’s actually the Doctor’s ship, but I travel with him. I’m with him. I don’t belong here.”

Notch-Ear grabs her lead firmly. She digs in her heels. He unsheathes claws. Pulls her down to meet his eyes. Talks in a low and no-nonsense voice. Points to the plug, which sits forgotten beside her. Though she can’t understand the words, she knows that he’s not going to take her anywhere until the plug is back in.

Resettling it is just one more embarrassment on the day, and honestly, it’s nowhere near the worst that she’s suffered lately. (Though now she REALLY wants a bath.)

Notch-Ear leads her to a large atrium. Strange flowering plants cover the walls and drip from garden terraces. In the centre of the room is a huge, steaming pool of what smells like salt water. Notch-Ear unclips her lead. The square pool with its elaborate geometric mosaics along the edges is not exactly what she had in mind for a bath, but it’s a damn sight better than nothing. Maybe she can even have a bit of a swim and get the stiffness out of her limbs.

Notch-Ear hands her down into the water, then settles in on his haunches, hackles bristling slightly as his eyes brighten into what appears to be protective vigilance.

The sandy bottom of the pool is a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. She dives under the water. Scrubs herself clean with a handful of soft sand. The bath is vaguely saline, but not horribly so. Probably just enough to kill off whatever microbial life she inherited from her master. And if it is saline, why doesn’t it sting? It really should -- Lir used her pretty roughly and thoroughly and she is NOT thinking about that. This whole thing is a dream anyway.

Her ears prick up at the muffled splash of someone else getting into the water. She turns, startled at the sudden proximity of her “master”.

Lir surfaces. Stands. She’s having trouble figuring out just how tall he actually is -- it seems to vary with his mood. Water sheets off his skin, which has gone orangey-red. (What emotion does that mean again? Damned if she can remember.) She has to drive her heels into the sandy floor of the pool to stop herself from shrinking away. He’s just a dream. She’s not afraid of him. Any minute now she’ll wake up, and then Doctor, TARDIS, reassurance, real life.

Lir touches her gently. Brushes her arms. She closes her eyes and swallows hard as he touches her face. Teases lightly at her breasts. Drifts a touch across her belly. Draws her a little closer, turning her to face away from him.

That helps, actually. He reaches down, just as clinical as when he first slipped the plugs into her. Removes each gently.

“Hold these.”

Even quiet, the authority in his voice is hard to resist. On Naos, his voice was hoarse and gravelly. It’s warm and mellow now, as if he’d just needed water to speak properly. She obeys the command, scrubbing the plugs absently as she tries very hard not to think about what’s going to happen next.

He presses her to him briefly, her back against all those ropes of smooth muscle. Trails a touch across her throat. He could strangle her if he wanted. Maybe even rip her in half. The danger should not be (is not. It’s really not.) this erotic.

Tomorrow, he wants her to fight him.

He’s caressing her between her legs. Running sensitive touches along her labia. She holds her breath, not sure how to react.

“Amy.” The voice is very near her ear. With a start, she realizes she has no idea what his mouth looks like. Teeth? Beak like an octopus? Some sort of lips? It bothers her more than she should. How could she not have noticed his mouth?

And no matter what he might think, she is NOT leaning back into his arms. She’s just waiting for him to be done touching her.

He takes the first plug. Settles it gently but firmly back into her quim. She gasps at the sensation. He slides the second back into her arse. She’s still a little stretched from where he… Anyway, it’s not a problem to accept that one either. Just a dream. Just a really weird fucking dream.

“Good,” he murmurs, and is gone as quickly as he came.

She can hear the sudden rush of water as he exits the pool. Imagines it sheeting off him. She’s not sure if she should shudder, shiver, or what she should feel.

And she only turns once she’s reasonably sure he’s gone.

Shaken again, she gets out of the pool. Notch-Ear is waiting. Grey-Stripes hands her a towel of sorts -- sort of a weird absorbent cloth that sucks the water neatly from her skin and hair, which must be a fright. Notch-Ear hooks a clawed finger in the ring on her collar. Pulls her down to kneeling. The other cat-men come in, a whole herd of them, this time with what are unmistakably beauty supplies. They sit her down. Brush out her hair and condition it with something that smells vaguely like… seaweed maybe. Others shave her armpits and legs. Smear strange stuff along her upper lip and eyebrows. (Some kind of depilatory?) Next is smooth, delicious lotion, spread from head to toe as pairs of cat-men finish a manicure and pedicure. There’s so many of them it’s impossible to fight, and is a little like Body By Feline Ewok.

At least they’re not using their tongues.

She doesn’t bother to repress the (slightly hysterical) laughter. Fortunately, they ignore her, each intent on his or her task.

Once they’re done and she’s beautiful again (what a girl wouldn’t give for a mirror), Notch-Ear urges her to her feet. Fastens a fresh skirt around her hips. It’s a stupid little thing that sits low on her hips and barely covers her arse, but she feels better for having SOME clothing on at least. She bends a little to allow him to fasten a new chain-collar around her neck. Yeah, it leaves a lot to be desired in the clothing department, but semi-clothed breasts are still better than naked. And she will admit to feeling much more human thanks to the Kitty Day Spa.

Notch-Ear clips the lead onto her collar. Escorts her to a comfortable room that’s all angles and straight lines and geometric mosaics. Completely not what she expected -- not that she’s sure what she expected. Okay. Inventory time. One egg-cup chair. A neat table that’s all cool angles and geometric patterns. A mosaic of mirrored pieces that amplify the light without making her feel like she’s on the set of a porn film. Not much in the way of lamps that could be turned into clubs or convenient chains that could throttle octopus-alien-guys-who-aren’t-real-anyway-but-why-take-chances?

Speaking of octopoidal aliens, Lir is waiting by the bed. Tentacles drape around him like a living cloak, changing colours in a subtle shift of hues. If she knew them all (no, she’s not going to be here long enough for that) she’d be able to read his every mood. He speaks lowly to Notch-Ear, who brings her over.

Lir buckles a new belt around her waist. She doesn’t fight him as he straps her wrists into fresh cuffs because he’s just a dream anyway and so everything is fine. Just fine. So let this be erotic in a kind of weird, sick, twisted, anime fashion. That’s fine. He leads her to a very soft-looking bed that appears to be a collection of four softer-padded versions of the egg-cup chair Lir had on the ship.

He helps her balance as she settles into one. It’s oddly supportive. For a weird moment, she feels like a guest.

“You will sleep here,” he says.

“Yes, Captain Lir,” she replies.

A tentacle tip brushes down her cheek. Drifts across her lips. She resists the perverse urge to taste it.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“Yes, Captain Lir,” she says. Tomorrow she’s going to kill him if she can. Tomorrow she’s going to get off this planet. Tomorrow the Doctor will come for her.

Or, most likely, tomorrow she’ll wake up and this nightmare will be over.


It’s a dream come true. Seriously, wonderfully a dream come fucking true. That’s JACK. And not the wounded-but-immortal clingy dishclout he left back in Cardiff. No. This is a raw Jack. A YOUNG Jack. Still fulltime with the Time Agency, no doubt, which means he’s going to have his memory wiped, which means the Doctor can do whatever he bloody well pleases with no repercussions. And if memory (and the rather amazing holo-vids during Amy’s auction) serves, there’s an equally-scrumptious partner around here somewhere. Have to keep an eye out for that one, but in the meantime…

He sidles up to Jack, who’s pounding down shots of something vaguely yellowish. He can smell the alcohol in it from here. “Hello.”

Jack does a rather telling double-take. Yup, the lad was hoping to get the drop on him. Still an amateur when it comes to subterfuge or anything subtle. (Worst. Conman. Ever.) But what Jack lacks in smarts, he makes up for in sexy. And the Doctor’s going to shag him through the nearest thing resembling a bed, and then leave him again. And he won’t even know who he’s dealing with.

“Well, hello.” At least Jack’s not bothering with the American accent. Would be wasted out here anyway. His native accent is a warm drawl with just a hint of Castilian lisp to make it even sexier. “And you are?”

“Thirsty,” he says smoothly. “And you’re going to buy me a drink.”

Jack’s lashes dip. He gives the Doctor a long, slow once-over. He enjoys the almost tangible trace of those blue, blue eyes, down and then up. This new body is made for narrow escapes, fast chases, and sex. (Witness the shag-a-thon he’s been enjoying with Amy.) But, the Doctor still hasn’t broken this new form in on a man yet, and young-Jack here would be a perfect opportunity, even if fucking him didn’t have the most fantastic metaphoric significance.

Jack’s eyes smoulder lazily by the time they meet the Doctor’s again. “You seem pretty sure about that.”

He’d almost forgotten how that chili-spiced musical drawl affected his Ninth. He’s out of practice at resisting, even if he were motivated to try. Now he’s more determined than ever to claim what’s rightfully his, a little earlier than before. He returns the slow grin, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, the other hip cocked against the bar. A slight movement of hips to attract Jack’s infallible eye to the goods. “I am… sure, that is. So… drink?”

Jack leans back a little, all blue eyes and charming grin. Displays his own well-muscled and gorgeous wares. “It’d be my pleasure.”

He really should know better, for though he eagle-eyes the barman innocently pouring the drink (no additives, no poisons, no funny business), he fails to keep any sense open for anyone sneaking up behind him.

As soon as he’s tipped the drink to his lips, looking over the rim of the glass at Jack, a warm hand presses to his neck. Energy scrambler. Fuck. He HATES these things. The tech gives him a massive sodding headache. Makes it hard to keep his balance. And if the stupid apes set it too high, he’ll drain off quantum energy, like being bled to death drop by drop.

Jack catches him as he staggers forward. Snaps on a pair of wrist-cuffs, quick as you please.

The partner beats him to it. “Is that really necessary?”

“Better safe than sorry.” Jack waggles his eyebrows. “Besides, handcuffs are kinkier.”

The partner grabs his other side. Beautiful cheekbones and GOD does this fucking HURT. “We’re not in this for kinks; we’re in this for profit.”

“When are those ever mutually exclusive?” Jack grins. “Now ramp down the scrambler and we’ll have some real fun.”

“With this one?” The partner scoffs. “You want a repeat of Tau Ceti Five?”

Jack sulks. “I MEANT to be naked.”

“Yeah,” he partner says, unconvinced. “And the testicle electrodes, sounding rods, and mag-lock manacles were your idea too?”

Jack pouts prettily. “It was just starting to get interesting when you showed up.”

The partner rolls his eyes. “You never learn.”

Jack, sulking again, heaves the Doctor a bit higher. “Let’s go.”


A sharp slap across the face startles Amy awake.

“I will be cruel,” murmurs a low, sexy voice.

She reacts at once. Her hands are free. Dunno when that happened. Doesn’t matter. Lir’s looming at the edge of the bed. Large. Aggressive. Real. Pulsing greyish-purple and red in rapid stripes. Tentacles like whips grab at her. She fights them. Knocks them away. Punches. Slaps. Kicks. Claws at his eyes. He retreats. She scrambles out of the weird bed. Runs across the floor. He trips her. Catches her by the ankles.

The floor’s smooth. Nothing to grab onto as he drags her close. He’s faster and stronger, but she’s not about to lose. She turns over. Surges straight up, aiming for eyes. He knocks her to the ground. Sharp slaps set her ears ringing. She kicks and bites and claws. Sinks her teeth into one of his limbs. He hisses in pain. Knocks her off of him. Wraps merciless tentacles around her jaw and throat. Grabs her by the wrists. Encircles her legs. No getting out. No escape.

He pins her to the floor with yet more tentacles. (How many of these fucking things ARE there?) Wrenches her knees apart. Rips out the plug in her cunt.

She screams. Struggles.

He waits, calm and strong in his victory.

“You will be silent while I take my pleasure,” he says.

“Fuck you!” she spits.

Tentacle-click. Pain shivers down her body. She shudders under him.

He lets her suffer until she runs out of curses. Tentacle-click.

He chuckles. “Well done, Amy. You’re faster and more merciless than I expected.”

He strokes up the inside of her thigh. She struggles bodily, trying to lever against his body to throw him off of her.

Tentacle-click. Pain.

“You will be silent while I take my pleasure,” he says again, with the casual air of someone who knows he’s won.

Tentacle-click. Breathless, she bites her lip to keep from snarling at him again.

He bends closer. Pulses in hypnotic patterns. She relaxes in spite of herself, entranced by the fascinating dance of colour and texture over his skin. He’s weirdly beautiful, though she knows she should fight. She will fight. In another minute.

“Beautiful,” he purrs.

She remembers herself. Tenses beneath him.

He holds her firmly, a warning. Strokes down the inside of her thigh. “If you remain silent while I take my pleasure, you will be allowed to come when I’m finished.”

It’s not exactly the most persuasive proposal, but she’s not about to let this fucker win either. Fine. He wants silent? She can out-stubborn him.

Pale green and mauve-shading-red. “Good.”

She expects him to just hold her down and force her. And though he is holding her down and her quim’s pretty much bared to the elements, he makes no move to shove anything inside her. It’s a weird omission. She figured she knew what he wanted -- make her submit and maybe cry a little -- but that’s not what he’s doing.

Tentacle-tips thread into her hair. She bites down hard on her lip, because it’s quite the freaky sensation. He pulls her hair. Forces her head up so her chin rests on her breastbone and she’s looking down along her own body. She bites down even harder on her lip at what he wants her to see.

She’s seen guys wank -- sometimes clients were a little confused about what kind of “dancing” they were paying for. She’s seen hands on cocks. Mouths on cocks. One guy even fucked his girlfriend while she danced and pretended not to notice. (He was an excellent tipper.) But this beats everything.

Lir’s cock pulses pale green and red. Tentacles swirl around it. Stroke in concentric rings and spirals. It’s completely gross and utterly hypnotic. She’s kind of glad to have the excuse of the fingers in her hair, because then it can be his fault that she’s watching, because of course she’d never watch on her own. It’s not fascinating at all. Not hypnotic and fuck NO she is not the least bit aroused. She’s just humouring him so she can survive and do whatever it takes to make it back to her Doctor. She has to do this. She has no choice but to watch the fascinating turning and twisting (and think of the way he felt when he fucked her.)

She shuts her eyes, just for a moment, because she knows the bastard’ll shock her again for not watching. Okay. She’s watching. And it’s doing it for him. His colours flicker and speed. The harsh hiss of breath. He’s strange and utterly alien (and beautiful) and unless she’s mistaken he’s about to…

Hot come splashes her cheek. Jets across the chains on her chest. Douses her quim with liquid heat.

She breathes a little faster, but doesn’t make a sound.

Chuckling, he traces patterns on her skin. Like finger-paint, only weirder. He rubs come-doused tentacle-tips against her clit. She avoids his eyes. Bites her lip until she tastes blood. No. She feels nothing. She refuses to be aroused, no matter how good he feels.

He tweaks the end of her nose with one bifurcated tentacle. She glares at him.

“Ahh,” he sighs. “There’s the fire.”

He flips her onto her belly. She takes advantage of his relaxed grip to try to scramble out from under him. He hauls her close. Encircles her arms to the wrists. Holds them out to either side of her body. Forces her onto her knees.

She’s breathing hard, but stays silent.

He holds her knees tight together. Bends her over yet more tentacles, like she’s a naughty child put over someone’s knee. Whatever’s going to happen next, she will take out of his hide in pieces.

A lash across her arse. He drags the tentacle slowly up her slit. The flick of a tentacle-tip across her clit.

Two lashes. A slow drag up her quim. Two flicks.

Three lashes. A slow drag up and down her quim. Almost breaching her. A fluttering over her clit.

She has to find a new spot on her lip or she’ll bite through it.

The fluttering on her clit continues. Four lashes, harder than the last. The first tease just inside.

Harder rubbing on her clit. Five lashes, each rocking her. She blinks back tears, but doesn’t even whimper. Two teasing tips inside her. She doesn’t want him to make her come.

Six lashes. He’s frigging her sweetly. Something thrusts inside. Then two, or is it three? His “fingers” move so quickly it’s hard to tell.

Seven lashes. She has to stop herself from leaning into them. Her clit’s swollen now. Pulsing with his strokes. Deeper thrusts inside her quim.

She swallows the moan and hates him for it.

Eight lashes. It really fucking hurts, and she really doesn’t want him to stop, even as she knows he has to stop or she’ll be unable to keep quiet. Full fucking -- at least four of them inside. He teases her clit until she almost gives up and begs him for it.

But no. He doesn’t get to win. She can outlast him.

Nine lashes. He withdraws everything. Her arse is stinging. Throbbing. (And dammit, this would be the point at which the Doctor would just fuck her good and hard until they both came.) She bows her head, determined not to let him break her.

He shifts them both. She’s no longer bent over his “knee” but is kneeling, arms straight out. He’s behind her, hot and wanting. She flashes with guilty heat at the memory of last night. Being full to overflowing with him. It should be traumatic and disgusting to think about -- being forced and ravished -- but instead…

Gentle tentacle-tips part her labia. The air’s cool against her heat. His cock brushes her swollen slit. Unmistakeable. The flanges are even more pronounced when her legs are lashed together like this. He drags his cock up. Down. Bumps lightly against her clit. Again, it takes every ounce of her willpower not to just beg him to fuck her. Instead, she waits, bound and helpless. When he fucks her, it won’t be her fault. She can truly say he made her do this. She had no choice. She was his slave.

He presses slowly forward, stretching her until his cock is buried as deep as it’ll go. Her breath hisses in. It feels so good. He holds her hips. She bows her head, desperate for him to take what he (they) want.

“You were born to be used this way,” he says.

He begins to thrust. Hard. Slow. Deep. His cock claims her. His voice is harsh in her ear, counting the strokes. “… seven… eight… nine.”

She’s right on the edge…

He pulls out.

She waits, holding her breath. Her cunt twitches, empty and aching to be filled.

It’s an eternity.

She refuses to move or make a sound.

He chuckles, a low sound of pleasure. “You are mine, Amy.”

Ten lashes. She almost doesn’t make it, but this has to be the end. Has to be. She can do it. She will do it. Her arse is burning. Her quim is burning. She’ll die if he doesn’t…

And then he thrusts into her. Fills her full of the thick heat of his cock. So different from the Doctor’s coolness. And instead of thrusting, he just stays there inside her, impaling her. He’s deep. Fluttering, like every flange has a mind of its own. Confusing and strange. If he just fucked her normally, she’d come for sure. Instead, he holds her. Makes sounds like this is doing it for him.

“I’ve wanted you like this,” he whispers. “Since the first moment I saw you.”

Faster movement, like being stroked with fingers that never reach quite the right place. She’s mad for release. Can’t move. Can’t resist. Can’t do anything but hope…

Hot, wet come. He gushes inside her. Twice. Three times. A final half-hearted shudder against her arse.

He shoves her to the floor.

She catches herself, too stunned to fight.

He turns her over. Pries her mouth open. Pries her knees apart. Thrusts a tentacle into her mouth. It tastes of something sludgy and horrible. He strokes her throat. Forces her to swallow. Another tentacle invades her quim. Smears something inside. Shoves the plug back into her.

Then he leaves her there.

She’s about to spit when the drug hits her bloodstream. Twin points -- mouth and groin. Pleasure. Mad. Complete. Consuming pleasure. It arches her back. Ripples through her body. Can’t see. Can’t speak. Writhing. Consuming. Burning. Flowing. She comes apart. Comes to pieces. Comes screaming.

It goes on and on and on. She screams and howls like a woman possessed. Rides wave after wave of pleasure. So good. God, so good. Higher and higher as if each orgasm feeds the next. Unbelievable. Miraculous. Perfect.

When at last she recovers her sanity, she’s sprawled on the floor. Her mouth still tastes awful and she aches in weird places, but somehow she doesn’t care. Everything throbs pleasantly between her legs.

Notch-Ear sits on his haunches, watching her with cool amusement.

She pulls herself together. Hauls herself somewhat clumsily up to sitting.

“He gives you gift.” Somehow she expected low and gruff, but Notch-Ear’s voice is more squeaky than threatening. No wonder they don’t talk much.

“Gift?” If he’s squeaking, she’s croaking. Fuck. How long was she screaming?

“Sulamid male excretion. All pleasure.” The way he flicks his ears looks like laughter. “Captain comes hard, makes special. Aliens pay big price. You get for free.”

She spits pointedly. Wipes her mouth.

The ears shift again, this time facing back and flat against the head. Angry. That’s angry. “Lucky human.” He rises to his feet. “Don’t be stupid.”

Still sullen, she looks down. Submission is probably wise here. She could really use another bath and something to wash her mouth out.

Notch-Ear snaps a lead on her. Pulls it taut.

“Where are we going?” When he unsheathes claws, she gets obediently enough to her feet.

“Clean up,” he says. He jerks the lead for her to follow. “He takes you out.”

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Crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] eleven_amy, [livejournal.com profile] elevenfic, and [livejournal.com profile] dont_wander_off


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