Gotcha! Master/Jack, Doctor/Jack, NC-17
Title: Gotcha!
Author: Becky_H
Character(s): Master/Jack, Doctor/Jack.
Genre: PWP.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers Possible spoilers for The Sound of Drums and Last of The Time Lords.
Warnings: Bondage, sensory deprivation, sounding, a mind-fuck and nonviolent non-con.
Beta: All hail - Matsujo9. Or give her lots of love and chocolate.
Prompt: DoctorWho_100 Prompt 34: Too Much
Word Count: 1,100-ish.
Summary: Kinky porn set between The Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords.
Author's Note: Please, please, heed the warnings. Short meme-response prequel here.
Jack wakes to darkness, silence, and a hand on his cock.
The darkness is complete and stifling. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the sound of his heart beating. Together they’re so disorienting that without the pull of gravity he literally wouldn't be able to tell which end was up.
The hand on his cock is cool and familiar. On the surface it feels safe. At the back of his mind, though, something tells him otherwise. He can't remember what it is.
While he's trying to remember -- and realizing his brain isn’t working right -- the hand squeezes and strokes. It feels good and Jack stops thinking, arching into the movement. That reflexive response tells Jack, clear even in his state, that more than his arch is helpless: He's tied down.
His heartbeat lurches but it doesn't speed up. That should be another red flag but before he can put the signs together, the hand on his cock strokes again, firmer and more insistent, more demanding. He responds, hardens completely and groans; he stops worrying about being restrained.
The hand continues to stroke, the dark silence closes in and Jack loses track of time. He drifts, half-conscious, aware of nothing but the rhythm of his pulse and the contrast between heated arousal and cold, alien skin.
He's just starting to think there's something too rough, too clinical, about it when his still sluggish mind gets jerked off track again.
Fingers are holding his cock right behind the head and something is pressed against it. There's a burning sting that spreads with a downward stroke that's too tight to be anything but painful.
The burn more than the pressure makes Jack gasp. He's still gasping -- just trying to breathe -- when there's something else pressed right against the slit. Something cold and hard. Something even colder and harder than the fingers holding his cock.
Jack tenses. His heart seems to skip a beat and this time it makes it all the way to racing. The adrenaline burns off the lingering effects of whatever drug he's been given and for the first time he's aware not just that he's bound, but that the straps are holding him spread-eagled. Spread open.
He remembers. He knows what's wrong. And he knows it's too late.
Gravity and the lube that's been worked down his cock earlier take over. The rod slides in, pressing and burning and invasive in a way that holds far more intimacy than Jack ever wanted from this pair of hands. That single searing press inward seems to go on forever. It hurts and it's intense -- too intense.
Jack isn’t prepared. He jerks his head to the side, curls his fingers into fists and locks his teeth against a cry he wouldn't be able to hear and that he won't give the Master the satisfaction of hearing.
The metal inside him is still for only seconds. Then it's moving, twisting first and then sliding out a bit. Jack hisses, fighting arousal, but when it’s pressed back in, it hits his prostate and his cock pulses, throbs, aches and hardens further. It's a losing battle.
It's all subtle motion. Slight retractions, drops back in. Fucking him. It hurts. Burns. Stretches. It's everything sex is but it's so direct that every time that thing touches inside him, it's devastating. He's got no defense against this.
He can't see, can't hear anything but the roar of blood in his ears, and it just adds to the overwhelming nature of the experience. Not just the feeling of metal moving inside his cock, but the slide of sweat against his skin, the sting of it in the cuts his nails have left on his palms, the burn of his lungs, the thud of his heart against his ribs.
Now he can even feel the straps that are holding him down, the pressure of the blindfold against his eyes. He can't believe he couldn't before.
The metal presses further inside him, lingers against his prostate in one long, screaming jolt that turns the darkness red and then white. When it slides out, Jack takes a fast, ragged breath, realizing only then that he's been holding it.
He expects it to stop after a second, just as it has before. To reverse direction and slide back into him. He's ready for that, braced against it, and still fighting the pulse and throb of his cock. But that isn't what happens.
It just keeps going; it feels like it's attached to something inside him. It's not just pulling the sounding rod out, it's pulling his orgasm out. He can't stop it. He can't resist it. He can't fight it. There’s no jerking, no spasming, shuddering relief. It's not waxing and waning. There's no room to even think about catching his breath, no time. There's just a single moment and peak of sensation turning him inside out and forcing his climax.
His heart is still pounding and he's shivering with the illusionary cold of sweat drying on his skin when an even cooler hand touches his face. Jack tries to jerk his head away but there's nowhere he can go. The hand grips his chin, hard, and holds it still.
The blindfold is ripped off and Jack blinks at the sudden light. He's blinded at first but it doesn't take his eyes long to adjust. When they do they focus on the insanely grinning face of the Master.
The Master holds on to Jack's face with one hand and uses the other to pull out the ear plugs. "Gotcha!" he says cheerfully.
Jack doesn't understand. He's not thinking, doesn't want to be thinking. He wants to get the hell away and he wants that hand off him. His hands are still in fists but, at the jeering tone and proximity of the Master, they tighten. His short nails are driven deeper into ragged flesh and there's a trickle of blood.
"Oh, come on. You're not really that slow are you?" He jerks his head toward the foot of the table Jack's been bound to.
Jack's stomach twists. He doesn't want to look away from the Master; he doesn't want to see whatever the Master wants him to see. He looks anyway, slowly and carefully, and somehow isn't at all surprised.
The Doctor is standing there. One hand over his face, his shoulders slumped. Jack manages to hold out hope until he sees the glint of silver and the slender metal rod dangling from the Doctor's free hand.
Author: Becky_H
Character(s): Master/Jack, Doctor/Jack.
Genre: PWP.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers Possible spoilers for The Sound of Drums and Last of The Time Lords.
Warnings: Bondage, sensory deprivation, sounding, a mind-fuck and nonviolent non-con.
Beta: All hail - Matsujo9. Or give her lots of love and chocolate.
Prompt: DoctorWho_100 Prompt 34: Too Much
Word Count: 1,100-ish.
Summary: Kinky porn set between The Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords.
Author's Note: Please, please, heed the warnings. Short meme-response prequel here.
Jack wakes to darkness, silence, and a hand on his cock.
The darkness is complete and stifling. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the sound of his heart beating. Together they’re so disorienting that without the pull of gravity he literally wouldn't be able to tell which end was up.
The hand on his cock is cool and familiar. On the surface it feels safe. At the back of his mind, though, something tells him otherwise. He can't remember what it is.
While he's trying to remember -- and realizing his brain isn’t working right -- the hand squeezes and strokes. It feels good and Jack stops thinking, arching into the movement. That reflexive response tells Jack, clear even in his state, that more than his arch is helpless: He's tied down.
His heartbeat lurches but it doesn't speed up. That should be another red flag but before he can put the signs together, the hand on his cock strokes again, firmer and more insistent, more demanding. He responds, hardens completely and groans; he stops worrying about being restrained.
The hand continues to stroke, the dark silence closes in and Jack loses track of time. He drifts, half-conscious, aware of nothing but the rhythm of his pulse and the contrast between heated arousal and cold, alien skin.
He's just starting to think there's something too rough, too clinical, about it when his still sluggish mind gets jerked off track again.
Fingers are holding his cock right behind the head and something is pressed against it. There's a burning sting that spreads with a downward stroke that's too tight to be anything but painful.
The burn more than the pressure makes Jack gasp. He's still gasping -- just trying to breathe -- when there's something else pressed right against the slit. Something cold and hard. Something even colder and harder than the fingers holding his cock.
Jack tenses. His heart seems to skip a beat and this time it makes it all the way to racing. The adrenaline burns off the lingering effects of whatever drug he's been given and for the first time he's aware not just that he's bound, but that the straps are holding him spread-eagled. Spread open.
He remembers. He knows what's wrong. And he knows it's too late.
Gravity and the lube that's been worked down his cock earlier take over. The rod slides in, pressing and burning and invasive in a way that holds far more intimacy than Jack ever wanted from this pair of hands. That single searing press inward seems to go on forever. It hurts and it's intense -- too intense.
Jack isn’t prepared. He jerks his head to the side, curls his fingers into fists and locks his teeth against a cry he wouldn't be able to hear and that he won't give the Master the satisfaction of hearing.
The metal inside him is still for only seconds. Then it's moving, twisting first and then sliding out a bit. Jack hisses, fighting arousal, but when it’s pressed back in, it hits his prostate and his cock pulses, throbs, aches and hardens further. It's a losing battle.
It's all subtle motion. Slight retractions, drops back in. Fucking him. It hurts. Burns. Stretches. It's everything sex is but it's so direct that every time that thing touches inside him, it's devastating. He's got no defense against this.
He can't see, can't hear anything but the roar of blood in his ears, and it just adds to the overwhelming nature of the experience. Not just the feeling of metal moving inside his cock, but the slide of sweat against his skin, the sting of it in the cuts his nails have left on his palms, the burn of his lungs, the thud of his heart against his ribs.
Now he can even feel the straps that are holding him down, the pressure of the blindfold against his eyes. He can't believe he couldn't before.
The metal presses further inside him, lingers against his prostate in one long, screaming jolt that turns the darkness red and then white. When it slides out, Jack takes a fast, ragged breath, realizing only then that he's been holding it.
He expects it to stop after a second, just as it has before. To reverse direction and slide back into him. He's ready for that, braced against it, and still fighting the pulse and throb of his cock. But that isn't what happens.
It just keeps going; it feels like it's attached to something inside him. It's not just pulling the sounding rod out, it's pulling his orgasm out. He can't stop it. He can't resist it. He can't fight it. There’s no jerking, no spasming, shuddering relief. It's not waxing and waning. There's no room to even think about catching his breath, no time. There's just a single moment and peak of sensation turning him inside out and forcing his climax.
His heart is still pounding and he's shivering with the illusionary cold of sweat drying on his skin when an even cooler hand touches his face. Jack tries to jerk his head away but there's nowhere he can go. The hand grips his chin, hard, and holds it still.
The blindfold is ripped off and Jack blinks at the sudden light. He's blinded at first but it doesn't take his eyes long to adjust. When they do they focus on the insanely grinning face of the Master.
The Master holds on to Jack's face with one hand and uses the other to pull out the ear plugs. "Gotcha!" he says cheerfully.
Jack doesn't understand. He's not thinking, doesn't want to be thinking. He wants to get the hell away and he wants that hand off him. His hands are still in fists but, at the jeering tone and proximity of the Master, they tighten. His short nails are driven deeper into ragged flesh and there's a trickle of blood.
"Oh, come on. You're not really that slow are you?" He jerks his head toward the foot of the table Jack's been bound to.
Jack's stomach twists. He doesn't want to look away from the Master; he doesn't want to see whatever the Master wants him to see. He looks anyway, slowly and carefully, and somehow isn't at all surprised.
The Doctor is standing there. One hand over his face, his shoulders slumped. Jack manages to hold out hope until he sees the glint of silver and the slender metal rod dangling from the Doctor's free hand.