A nightclub. Well, not a nightclub. A fetish club. There was music-- too loud, for his tastes, without nearly enough guitars in-- and drinking, and smoking what were on this planet legal intoxicants. The Doctor wasn’t sure about it. He wasn’t sure about anything, really, other than the pleasure on Clara’s face. That was definitive. Also his own excitement and fear and anticipation and whatever it was that was making his hearts hammer as they were. He was in t-shirt and black jeans and boots and he felt completely exposed. So little clothing. So much compared to some of the beings around him. There was a lot of sex going on around them. That was the point, he supposed. Sex, pain, pleasure, sensation, flesh, leather, strange smells, strange sounds.
The Doctor followed Clara around the club and up to the balcony, wrists crossed behind his back, his erection preceding him. Clara was almost trembling with excitement ahead of him.
“Here,” she said. There was a little table and a single chair, right next to railing. She set her drink down on the table.
She undid the buttons of his jeans and took him out, right there, on the balcony, in front of dozens of people. Some of them were looking at him; some were otherwise occupied. He had no underpants on underneath the jeans, something she’d been at pains to specify before they’d left the TARDIS. He’d had his suspicions about the reason, now justified. The Doctor gulped and kept his wrists where they were, behind his back, no matter how much he wanted to cup them over his crotch. She was fondling him, cupping his balls and squeezing a little, and the expression on her face was sharp, intent. She liked his penis. So did he, come to think of it, but she expressed her enthusiasm for it in ways he hadn’t ever thought about before. Well, not recently. Not in the last fifteen hundred years. Some of her expressions of enthusiasm left him a sweating puddle on the floor. This one had him blushing red and frotting himself against her hand right here in the fetish club, in front of them all, in front of anyone who cared to watch him, and he couldn’t stop it. He screwed his eyes shut and concentrated on the feeling of her hand on him.
“Eyes open,” Clara said.
He obeyed instantly. They were all still there, the people, the green-skinned fellow with the hookah at the table five feet away, the human-seeming woman kneeling at his feet, both of them watching him. His ears felt as if they were on fire he was blushing so hard.
“Next time we come here, I think I’ll check all your clothes into one of those lockers.”
“Er,” he said. He bit his lip.
Clara pushed his jeans down to his ankles. The Doctor stood with his cock jutting out proud. He gripped one wrist with the other behind his back and held on for dear life. She’d stopped stroking him and begun stroking the suspicious bulge in her own jeans instead. Suspicious? There was no mystery about what that bulge was. The Doctor wondered distantly which one she’d chosen to wear tonight. He supposed he was about to find out.
Clara pointed at the railing. The Doctor shuffled up to it.
“Bend over,” she said. “And spread your legs as wide as you can.”
God, he was doing it, he was bending over the railing with his jeans around his ankles, wrists still behind his back, and he was as hard as he ever got without a cock ring on. It was a wonder she’d omitted that tonight, because she liked him helpless and a little desperate, and he was whistling in the dark here, waiting for it, waiting for her. There it was, cold and wet and slippery, his mistress’s prick against his arse. God, he knew this one: the one with the wide head, hard and thick and relentless and pushing into him, yeah. He pushed back. Wanton, she liked him wanton; she liked him moaning; she liked him begging for it, for her prick up his arse, for her to take him. Bravo for him! He was wanton, he was moaning, he was ready to beg. He loved this. The people watching him, he wasn’t sure he loved that, but oh God, Clara did. Clara liked that they were looking at him, that they were watching her penetrate him, watching him push back against her and plead for her to take him harder, faster. She told him as much, in a very clear voice. He would do anything for her, anything for this feeling, for the flush of joy he felt at the pride in her voice as she told him he was amazing, he was obedient, he was the best, and he didn’t get to come yet.
Whimpering, oh bloody hell, that was him whimpering. He bit his lip again to shut himself up. She withdrew from him and he stayed where he was, perfectly well aware that his arse was exposed and open and slick with lube and ready to be taken by anything or anybody she wanted him taken by. He stayed there, chest against the railing, legs bound up in his own jeans, trembling a little, waiting for whatever it was Clara wished him to experience. It was a blessing, a gift, his time with her was. A wild ride.
The Doctor waited.
Not satisfied, no, because Clara had stopped him before he’d come, and he’d whimpered and pleaded, right there in front of them all. Now he was on his knees beside her, prick jutting out of his unbuttoned jeans, hands behind his back. He watched her taste her drink then have a bigger gulp. He knew that expression. That was Clara working up her nerve to do something new.
“You remember your safeword?”
He rolled his eyes at her. She’d reviewed that with him before they’d left the TARDIS. Say Rassilon and whatever it was they were doing would stop. “Yeah.”
Clara took something out of her jacket pocket, several somethings. Colored bands with snaps. He’d seen them around the necks of many beings here in the club. Some kind of signaling, then, an understood code. Clara wrapped one around his neck and snapped it. He very nearly reached up to touch it, because it was snug, but caught himself in time.
“May I ask?”
“Light blue means you want oral, black means you receive, and orange means anybody can take you.”
“Oh,” he said, and licked his lips.
“Do a good job. I’m watching.”
It took a little time for him to be noticed, kneeling there on the balcony, with his prick out and his collars on and his hands carefully resting on his ankles, but eventually someone came by and stopped. He talked with Clara briefly first, verified that he’d read the signals correctly, then he was in front of the Doctor, unbuttoning his jeans. A human, male, olive-skinned and dark-haired, had a cock that tasted faintly of seawater. Circumcised, what a pity, took a while to come as a result. When he did come, he pulled back and shot onto the Doctor’s throat. Hot come, dripping down his throat, onto his t-shirt. Rude, if you asked him, but the excitement on Clara’s face told him that he would not be complaining. He would stay where he was, on his knees, thighs well-spread, hands behind his back, lips parted.
So strange, this business, kneeling here, waiting to be used. Clara was the one they asked permission of, when they bothered to. He was a thing, a mouth, an eager tongue. What he wanted didn’t matter to them. What he wanted was to please Clara, to show off for her, to show her how good he was at this, as he was at going down on her, how patient he could be when he was so hard and his arse was so sore and he’d gone without for so long.
One of them was rough, gripped his hair and pulled his head back and drove for the back of his throat immediately. The Doctor gagged, got control of himself, relaxed, took it all the way in, rerouted his breathing-- nice trick when doing this, good to know he hadn’t forgotten it-- and let him thrust. Let him come, this time in his mouth properly. Swallowed, licked the head clean. It had been years since he’d done this. Years since Jack in the TARDIS, threesomes, the occasional orgy. Taking, being taken, sucking, being sucked.
He worked his jaw a little. Clara held a glass of water for him. He licked at his teeth, swallowed. His hard prick betrayed him, as ever, let her know exactly how much he liked this. If only she’d bend him over the railing again, let these men take his arse for her pleasure and his. He’d probably come, though, and she obviously didn’t want that.
Next was the green-skinned man at the next table, who handed the hose of the hookah to his kneeling naked partner and came over. He exchanged some whispered words with Clara that made her laugh, but which the Doctor could not hear. And then he was unzipping his trousers and taking himself out. Not hard yet. The Doctor licked his lips unconsciously. A piercing on this cock, a thick ring coming out of the slit and into the bottom. It felt strange in his mouth, rubbing against his tongue, deeper and deeper as he rose. This man also wanted to find the back of his throat and stay there. He liked the piercing, liked the way it make him choke, the way it brought him to tears.
Sometimes he thought Clara knew him better than he knew himself.
After this one she gave him more water and wiped his face clean. He leaned his head against her thigh.
“Clara,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Am I doing it right?”
“God,” said Clara, “you’re beautiful like this. Come all over you. You keep looking over at me and you’re so desperate it’s amazing.”
“How many has it been? I’ve lost count.”
That got her attention. “Okay,” she said. “Time for a little break.”
She unsnapped the bands from around his neck and this time he did slip and raise his hand and touch where they’d been, because he missed them already.
1750 words; reading time 6 min.
tags: p:twelve/clara, f:doctor-who, c:clara-oswald, c:twelfth-doctor, c:dom!clara, c:sub!twelve, kink:dom/sub, kink:pegging, kink:exhibitionism, kink:oral-sex, kink:public-use, kink:exposure, blushing, genre:kink