It’s like the first time again, every time. A new face, a new body, a new sexuality to discover. The Doctor has no idea what sex is going to feel like, what’s going to send him over the moon, what’s going to irritate him or break the mood. Some things usually work out. The classics. A partner’s mouth on his body has never failed to delight him. Fortunately this time kissing turned out to be something he likes, because Clara likes it a lot. The hugging took him a little while, but now he’s good with it.
They’re on the couch in Clara’s flat. There’s a film on the telly, but they’ve long since stopped paying it the least attention. Clara is on top of him, all tangled up with him. Her tongue is in his mouth, and his is in hers, and probably tonight is the night they’re going to go beyond snogging. Tonight. He’s ready at last. He knows she’s been ready for weeks, but she’s been considerate of him. Considerate of his fears, of his difficulty with getting close to people. Even people he’s as crazy about as Clara.
He rolls them over so he’s got her pressed against the back of the sofa, his knee between hers. He’s rubbing himself against her, fully clothed. She’s getting something from the feeling of his body against hers, and he’s frankly nearly out of his mind just from this. Frottage, okay, he likes frottage. He doesn’t always like that.
She’s tugging at his shirt, pulling it out of the waist of his trousers. He returns the favor by tugging at her skirt, sliding his hand up along her thigh. He hasn’t touched her yet, but he’s about to. Okay. Okay. It’s happening. This is it. They are going to do it. He’s going to make love to Clara.
She’s fumbling with his belt. He pulls back to let her pull it open. Oh, it’s going to happen. He’s going to feel her around him, he’s going to hear her cry out in pleasure. He’s ready. He wants it so badly. He presses himself against her hand as she slips it into his trousers, ruts against her shamelessly, almost helplessly. She touches bare flesh and he whimpers. Takes him out all the way and he’s crying out, pushing against her. Curls her hand around him and that’s it, he’s gone, he’s past the point of no return, it’s on him, he’s coming, he’s pulsing, he’s coming in her hand.
It’s messy. He hasn’t come in this body ever-- a year of celibacy, of abstinence-- and it has apparently been wanting to. He’d feel embarrassed about it if he could but he can’t do anything but slump back and pant. He hears himself making little noises as she eases herself away from him. He’s whimpering again. He’s so sensitive in the aftermath it would hurt if she touched him, but he wants it again already. That feeling. If only he can meet her eyes. If only he dare look at her.
Instead he burrows his face into her shoulder so he can’t see the laughter he knows must be in her face. She might mock him. He’s just come in his pants. Now the shame floods over him. He resists her fingers under his chin, trying to coax him out. He presses himself against her harder.
“Hey,” she says. “Been a while, huh?”
“One way to put it,” he says, into her shoulder.
“First time for this body?” And that was surprising sympathy in her voice.
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” she says, then. “I should have gone slower. Or talked to you first.”
“It’s okay. You weren’t to know. I didn’t know I’d-- um.”
“We’ll have other chances. Other nights.”
He pulls away from her enough to meet her eyes at last. The expression on her face is affectionate, almost tender. “Tonight isn’t over,” he says, and he smiles, tentatively.