Clara said, “I need something that really distracts you.”
The Doctor stirred on his knees, then, and gazed at her anxiously. “Why not the plug? I like the plug.”
“I know you do. You’re getting used to it, though. It’s interesting, that’s what it is, but not interesting enough for this. I want something that you can’t take your mind off for a single second. Something that makes your big brain stop spinning and focus on one thing.”
She went to a chest of drawers and had a murmured conversation with the TARDIS that he strained to catch but could not.
She held up something in front of him. Floppy. Black. Vaguely tubular with a sack at one end. Shaped like-- oh.
“Latex,” she said.
“Latex,” he said, foolishly, because he could see what it was, knew a million pointless facts about it, knew its storied history in the fetish play of humans and a thousand other species-- or the equivalent thereof, though the material and color varied. He in fact had a story about Jack and–
Clara’s hand was in his hair, pulling and twisting his head back. “Pay attention. This is the problem, you realize. You wander off.”
“Sorry, Clara. I don’t mean to.”
“I know. That’s why we do this. Is this okay by you?”
“Yeah. It’s, um, okay.”
He tried to hide his smile when she came to him with a handful of slick and stroked him with it. Oh, so good, and her hand was gone from him so quickly. So much slick, more, on his cock, on the inside of the sheath. He understood when she began sliding the sheath onto him: it was perfectly fitted to him, a tight tight mold around him from the tip of his cock to the base. Slick, cool at first, warming to him. The sack for his balls was equally perfectly fitted. Snug all the way down, slippery. Hot around him. Tight, so tight. He felt like he was inside someone’s body even though he wasn’t. He whimpered and thrust his hips, but it didn’t do any good.
“Good?” she said. She curled a hand around him and stroked and he couldn’t answer at first.
“That’s-- that’s good. Clara.”
It was marvelous, in fact, but he was afraid to tell her that unless she asked him directly. He closed his eyes and pushed into her hand. Tight around his balls, squeezing them, not hard enough to hurt but enough that he was profoundly aware of them. Then she snapped a cock ring over it all and he couldn’t help but moan. He was going to be hard for hours and hours no matter what happened. That was probably what she wanted.
“Ooh, that’s nice,” she said. “Look at you, all red in the face.”
He tried to frown at her, because it was scarcely his fault.
“If it hurts you tell me immediately, understand?”
Then she dressed him. One of his skeleton t-shirts, black jeans with nothing on under them. She buttoned his jeans up over his erection. Boots. A black hoodie. The Doctor kept his hands carefully out of the way and cooperated. He was already a little out of his mind. Out of his mind, into his body. Prick. Balls. The awareness of how obvious it was that he was erect and straining against the buttons. She was going to want to show him off. She liked that more than he could fathom.
He imagined what it would be like if she combined this with the plug and resolved to hint, perhaps. Next time. If he survived this.
It was more of a trial than he’d expected to watch her set the controls of the TARDIS and pilot them to their destination, wherever it was. He could pay attention and find out. He could use his senses. But instead he did what she wanted him to do: he paid attention to how his cock felt in that latex sleeve, how snugly it was held, how every shift of his jeans against his body gave him a little friction inside the sheath.
She said, at the TARDIS door, “Your job is to keep your hands behind your back as much as is reasonable.”
“You know what I mean. If something funky happens-- and knowing you it probably will-- do what you have to.”
The door opened and they stepped out, and he smiled because there would never be any doubt about where they were. Which year was a little murkier, but the where was obvious. It was the Folsom Street Fair on a cold, foggy summer’s day in San Francisco. He didn’t stand out at all in his skinny black jeans and and black t-shirt. He didn’t stand out because of his erection inside those jeans, either. Nor for his hands clasped behind his back. Clara, in black leggings and a motorcycle jacket with harness boots, looked perfectly at her ease.
“Let’s go shopping,” she said. He inclined his head to her and followed.
He blushed, actually blushed, at some of the things he saw. Nearly nude men, in leather harnesses and jockstraps, writhing around together on a mat with colored circles on it. Other men being paddled or spanked or-- well, that was certainly beyond Earth norms to see in public. At least during this particular puritanical age.
He was no Puritan. He was a citizen of the universe; he had lived for two thousand years. Nine hundred of them had been spent under siege in a tiny town, but that left eleven hundred years of wide experience. He hadn’t done exactly this before, but he’d done quite a lot. He’d done far more than even his demanding, loving mistress could imagine. Why then was he blushing?
This regeneration. So strange. So fussy about touch, about emotion, about boundaries. Only Clara could do anything with him. Only Clara. God, he was out of his mind about her. And about how hard he was. It was completely distracting. She’d been right. He was hard and as good as exposed and it was all he could think about. It was everything.
People did look at him now and then. Men, mostly, because the crowd was mostly men. Appreciative? He couldn’t tell. They didn’t look at his. Just his prick in the jeans, at his hands behind his back. Then they saw the woman he was following and dismissed him.
They went to booths, looked at sex toys, praised the work of whip-makers, and got lemonade that she graciously allowed him to use his hands to drink. By the end of the afternoon Clara’s face was a little sunburnt despite the fog and he was afraid to think of what was happening to his own blue skin.
“Seen enough?” she said.
“Would you like to go back to the TARDIS?”
“And what would you like to happen when we get back?”
He looked around them, at the lemonade vendor, at the pair of crop-headed women looking at motorcycle boots, and realized that she meant him to say it out loud no matter how many people could overhear. He decided to get it over with. All the way.
“I’d like to come inside the sheath, if I may, Clara.”
“Have you earned it?”
He looked at her carefully but couldn’t find any cues in her face. “I think so,” he said. “Yes? I’ve done all the things you asked. My hands are still behind my back even though there are two Silurians over there by the spanking booth.”
She laughed at him, then, but it was an affectionate laugh. She knotted a fist in his t-shirt and pulled him down to kiss him. He kissed her, hands behind his face, and blushed even more deeply. “Yeah,” she said, “you have. Let’s go.”