A Day in February [Snapshot #5]
Fighting a bit of writer's block at the moment (in fact, this story was meant to be much longer -- a "week", not a "day" -- but I was struggling too much with it), so apologies for the delay in posting. I hope you guys enjoy it.
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Title: A Day in February [Snapshot #5]
Author: radiantbaby
Characters/Pairings: Martha/Dr. John
[Note: Dr. John was a David Tennant character from “Love in the 21st Century”]
Word Count: 4148
Genre: Romance, Smut
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Post-S3 new!Who [AU]
Summary: A day in the life of Martha and Dr. John. Experiments in POV. Crossover of Doctor Who and “Love in the 21st Century”
Disclaimer: All your Doctor Who are belong to us Sadly, I own nothing related to Doctor Who or ‘Love in the 21st Century’ et al. I am just playing around in their sandbox for a bit of fun.
Author Notes: Thank you to persiflage_1 for her beta-work. Any other mistakes are mine.
This is Part Five in the group of supplemental short pieces called “Snapshots.” It takes place during the time between persiflage_1’s stories Home Is Where the Heart Is and Trusting You.
You can probably enjoy this piece if you’ve not read either of those stories, but it may make more sense if you have. YMMV.
Feedback is happy-making, so please leave a word or two [even if I am a bit slack in responding, your comments always make my day].
===
[1]
John | Scent
I can still smell her on me, her scent between my fingertips, almost barely there but still insinuating itself into the deep cracks and swirling crevices there until it finally moves beneath my skin like the blood hot in my veins.
Perhaps it was from the rush we were in this morning. A fervent morning tryst - that neither of us wanted to end - didn't lend itself easily to enough time to shower, enough time to wash her away before resurfacing back into Real Life and Responsibilities.
Perhaps that is why she has been on my mind so very much today - my subconscious mind is bringing her to the forefront of my thoughts every time I catch just that simple scent of her. It is like memories the morning the scent of dew might bring of childhood or certain foods might bring of fussy aunts in their kitchens.
It is the scent that I find so intoxicating about her, my beautiful Martha -- the scent that defines her to me on such a primal level that I can’t even dare to render it into words, but instead I simply desire it like a drug that draws me back again and again.
I can feel my stomach knotting, fighting me as I approach the sink. As much as there are parts of me that struggle with it this afternoon, I must wash my hands. I am no longer able to simply sit with my memories in my office as I (futilely attempt to) pour over medical reports today, but instead I must answer the call for shining knives in gloved hands, bright lights, and exposed beating hearts in chests that are not hers.
I plunge my hands into the water, pressing the soap into those same crevices and cracks her scent has invaded, but I know that it is too late. She invaded those cracks in my soul ages ago, pressing herself against my very insides and caressing my own exposed beating heart from within before I’d even known what had hit me.
I wipe my hands dry on the towel nearby, smirking at the imagined futility of ridding myself of her, until a voice calls me back, leaving me focused and alert again:
“He’s ready, Dr. MacLachlan. He’s in operating theatre #3, just on the left.”
+ + +
[2]
Martha | Passion
I love it when John reads to me, I must confess. It’s one of those simple little things, but I still do.
In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t get many stories read to me as a child growing up. Mum and Dad were almost always too busy wrangling Tish - who was, as always, a bit of a wild child - and then later Leo (who was also a bit of a handful by all accounts), to give me that sort of attention. Mind you, I had mostly thought it was alright at the time, in that way you don’t miss something you’d never known, but the first time someone read me a story as an adult, I realized, quite sadly, what I’d really missed out on.
Strangely enough, the Doctor was the first person to read to me again. It was back when we were trapped in 1969 together and, with our television quite often on the blink, he would read me whatever books we could get a hold of - anything from Homer’s The Odyssey to the poetry of William Blake -- to pass the long hours of the night after I’d come home from my job.
Sometimes, on our scratchy, ratty old couch, I would just relax in his arms - even falling asleep on several occasions - and find myself getting a bit lost in the soft cadence of his voice as he told classical stories and intoned beautiful poetry.
I was surprised to find that he had such a lovely voice, actually - that is, when he wasn’t shouting vaingloriously at aliens or speaking far too frenetically (with fast and complicated words that even I found challenging) for nearly anyone but him to understand.
It was probably one of the few ways I ever actually felt close to the Doctor back in those days. It was as if somehow, deep beneath the words he was reading and the (almost) reticent embraces, that I actually meant something to him. It was a bit silly, I know, but it kept me going, you know? So many times the Doctor just seemed so utterly far away, but during those times on that old couch - the two of us just relaxing with one another - he finally seemed almost in reach.
And then there was John.
I had been at John’s flat helping him pack for our recent move when I’d found his own collection of books. At first glance, they seemed to be your average medical books and journals that many doctors keep at hand for reference, but hidden back on some of the less exposed shelves were volumes of poetry. Admittedly a bit nonplussed by my discovery, I asked him about them and he seemed immediately uncomfortable, almost embarrassed even - a blush coloring the tips of his ears, which I tend to find oddly adorable.
It took a few moments of coaxing, but he soon admitted that he was quite a big fan of poetry. He even made a few chagrinned remarks about his ‘reputation as a bloke’ being in question, which made both of us laugh as John - no matter how hard he tries to convince people otherwise - is really so much more than just ‘an ordinary bloke’ (whatever that is, really).
I mean, I may have only been around men just a few times before John, but I know enough to know that he is different - not as different as the Doctor (being an alien and all), of course, but definitely different.
Anyway, much to his apparent surprise, I’d asked him to read to me some time. I have to admit that I’ve missed those times with the Doctor, and while I haven’t spoken to him again for nearly a year now, sometimes I crave such simple intimacy again. It’s strange when words can be like blankets -- warming and calming you in the evening as the world around you swirls in chaos -- but
I needed that comfort again, and I had a feeling that John could give me that gift as well.
Surprisingly, I discovered quite quickly, the passion John brings to kisses and caresses was the same as he brings to words. In fact, I was almost mesmerized by him when he first read to me, as if I’d tapped into some deep part of him that had lain dormant for a long, long time. It sounds ridiculous, but he seemed to almost stroke each word with his tongue, feeling it in his mouth before pushing it sensually past his lips.
His melodious accent is honestly enough to break me apart most days, but the deeply resonant, sultry tones he reads to me in is an intensely erotic experience unto itself.
It is also like seeing a brief glimpse into his soul and somehow - strangely, inexplicably - it always makes me feel so much more relaxed and at peace. Unlike the Doctor, John is actually in reach in those moments - perhaps more in reach than ever, really - and I find myself clinging to him as the tempest of worries and stress spins around me, but leaves me untouched in his arms by the armor of his words.
It’s funny, they say that I once saved the world with words, but in an odd way, John saves me with them.
Alone in our new home, awaiting his call, I find myself drawn to John’s shelves of books - the volumes of poetry more prominently displayed now. I run my fingertips over the spines - Keats, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, and even old William Blake - as I revel momentarily in my connection to him.
It is a connection that both frightens and strengthens me, perhaps more than I will ever fully realize or even tell him, but it is somehow alive in the poetry within these books, alive when I see his soul in those stolen moments and I know, with great humility, how much he truly loves me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, flipping it open with one hand as I caress a volume of Blake’s poetry in front of me with the other. Such a different time, I think as I remember the words within read by that other Doctor who’d had such an impact on my life and then I speak:
“Hello, sweetie. I was just about to give you a call. Are you on your way home?”
+ + +
[3]
John | Phone
I cradled my head in my hands, elbows bent and pressed against the hard wood of the desk, as I sat in the office that evening. I’d had plans involving a nice quiet night at home with Martha, to be honest - plans that didn’t involve me being at the hospital still.
Quiet nights were something of a luxury of late, something we’d unfortunately rarely had the chance to experience in the month since we’d moved into our new place. Between both of our hectic work schedules and the two of us organizing things at home during any free time we could find, the time for simple quiet moments was falling through the cracks a bit.
(In fact, nights that could have been spent with Martha in my arms, just simply enjoying one another, were instead often being spent in the bathroom, repairing some of the grout in the bath, or in the living room, moving furniture around this way and that to get things just right.)
I had hoped tonight would be different, but after filling in at the last minute on a surgery late this afternoon for another doctor, it looked more like I was going to be stuck at the hospital in my office for a while longer, left reviewing the notes on the surgery and awaiting lab results that couldn’t be left until the morning.
I pulled out my phone with a sigh, frowning as I simply stared at Martha’s name on the phone for a moment before pressing the send key to ring her.
“Hello, sweetie. I was just about to give you a call. Are you on your way home?” she answered.
I blew out a deep breath, my stress calming a bit at the sound of her voice. “Unfortunately it looks as if I’ll be here another hour or two. I had to take the Hughes surgery today and that lasted a little later than expected. I still need to get the results on a few tests from the lab tech and write up my report before I leave. I’ve got most of the report written, but the lab results are taking quite a bit of time due to the backlog from some problems they were having down there earlier. It’s going to be a long night, it seems.”
“Oh, John. I was looking forward to some nice one-on-one time tonight and I know you were too.”
“Yeah,” I groaned in annoyance, tapping my pen on the desk to try and help alleviate some frustration. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. It’s what we do, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do. Of course, I do. Some times are just more difficult than others, I suppose.”
“So,” Martha began, her voice starting to take on a more sultry tone that I’d begun to easily recognize, “you said you had at least an hour or two?”
“I did.”
“And are you alone in your office?”
“I am.” I smirked.
“And is your door locked?”
“It’s not, but that is easily remedied,” I replied, my smirk easing into a full grin as I hopped to my feet to cross the room and turn the lock on the door. I then sat down on the couch nearby. “What are you up to?”
“Just a few ideas about how to pass the time.”
“Really?” I asked, feeling myself begin to harden in anticipation of where the conversation might be headed. I reached down and quickly brushed my fingertips against myself and hissed from the surge of pleasure.
“Yes, really. Have you ever, I mean, have you ever had - ”
“Phone sex?” I finished for her.
She gave a nervous laugh. “Exactly.”
“Hmm, if I have, it’s been a long time and I don’t remember it. And you?”
“Never,” she replied, her timidity about the situation apparent in her voice.
“So, are you propositioning me, Dr. Jones?”
“I’m afraid so, Dr. MacLachlan.”
“Then I suppose we should go ahead and get the clichés out of the way first - what are you wearing?”
“Pajamas actually.”
“The cotton ones?”
“Yes, the ‘unsexy’ cotton ones.” I could just about imagine the self-conscious frown she likely had on her face.
“Oh, you know how much I love those - ”
“I don’t understand why, but yes, yes I do know.”
“An enigma wrapped up in a mystery, I am.” Winston Churchill said that once, if I remember correctly - I always thought it was clever.
“More like a bit pretentious at the moment, I should think.”
“Oh, you love it.”
“I love you,” she corrected, laughing.
“And I love you, but you know what else I would love?”
“Enlighten me.”
“If you slipped your hand inside your knickers.”
“Going a bit fast tonight are we, mister?”
“Not necessarily, I just want to see how wet you are before we do anything.”
“Why?”
“Call it…curiosity.”
I could hear a bit of shuffling on the other end of the line and smiled to myself as I tried to picture her on the couch in her ‘unsexy’ pajamas, tentatively slipping a hand into her knickers for me.
“That would be a yes,” she finally said, her voice softening.
“A yes?”
“As in, yes, I am…very wet.”
Imagining her on the other end of the line had already been enough to arouse me, but there was something about the breathy way she’d said those words that caused me to harden even more in my jeans, pressing almost uncomfortably against the denim.
“Good, because I’m very hard.”
She moaned a little in response and it honestly almost undid me completely. Thank goodness I was able to keep my head on and carefully evade making a pubescent mess in my pants. That would have been rather embarrassing.
“What should we do next, Dr. MacLachlan?” she asked, her voice now maintaining the soft, erotic breathiness of her previous statement.
“Well, if I were there, I would slowly unbutton your top. Will you do that for me?”
“Unbutton my top?”
“Yes, but imagine it’s me doing it.”
“It might be a bit awkward one-handed, but I’ll give it a shot.”
I could hear her shuffling and the slight mews and grunts she was making in frustration. “You can put the phone down in you need,” I offered.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, her voice somewhat muffled as her mouth moved closer to the mouthpiece.
“If you need to put the phone down to make things easier - ”
“Oh.”
I heard the sound of the phone tossed against fabric as she put the receiver down and couldn’t help but wonder where she might be in the flat. Was she sitting or even lying on the bed? Was she on the couch? Was she somewhere else entirely?
Of course, thoughts of Martha topless anywhere in our home is a very enticing thought for me. I found myself thinking of the soft curves of her breasts and how her small dark nipples puckered at their peaks. I thought of how hard her nipples might be and how much she loved it when I’d surprise her with a hard little pinch of them between my forefinger and thumb -
“It’s off,” she said, interrupting my reverie.
“Good,” I breathed. “Now, I’d like you to slowly touch yourself. Run your hands over your belly, over your breasts and nipples, and…play with your nipples between your fingers, yes.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Aren’t you going to take your shirt off?”
“Is that something you want? It’s not half as exciting as a woman’s curves. Remember, I’m all bones and angles instead.”
“I like your bones and angles,” she chuckled. “And besides do you know what I really love?”
“Enlighten me,” I replied, mirroring our earlier conversation.
“I love that soft downy hair on your belly, especially that nice line of hair that leads downward into your trousers. Will you slowly run your fingertips over your chest and belly for me while I touch myself?”
“Your wish is my command. Won’t be a tic.”
I laid the mobile down on the couch next to me and then pulled off my lab coat and the jumper I was wearing, laying them beside me as well. I then laid back against the fabric of the couch, slowly unbuttoning my shirt as I thought of Martha’s fingers on me.
I had to admit, though I’d often enjoyed her caresses, I didn’t realize after so many months together her particular penchant for my belly. The thought of anyone enjoying my own body to the extent I enjoy hers sounded vaguely preposterous, I must admit.
I’d sadly had my share of people making fun of the shape of my body throughout my life and, even worse, women wincing once I pulled of my shirt, staring in overt disgust at my slightly protruding ribs and sternum. I’m quite sure I’ve never seen Martha wince though or look at me as if I were some object of horror, though. In fact, to the contrary, she’s always made me feel more desirable than anyone else ever has.
As I finished my last button - letting the sides of my shirt hang to my sides - I sighed deeply, again thinking of how lucky I was to have such an amazing and caring woman in my life.
I picked the mobile back up. “I’m touching myself now,” I whispered into the receiver.
“As am I.”
We spent the next few minutes cooing and moaning as we touched ourselves, imagining one another’s hands on us, urging on our respective feelings of arousal to more and more of a fevered pitch.
“Follow that line of hair into your trousers. I want you to touch your cock,” Martha finally breathed.
I could feel a twinge of excitement that hardened me - to an almost painful degree now -- even more from her words. I quickly slipped by hand down to unbutton the snap of my jeans, and then much more slowly slid my hand past the waistband and into my underwear.
I groaned once my fingertips grazed slightly dampened curls to grasp myself and then cradled the mobile between my chin and shoulder for a moment, lifting my hips slightly to shove my trousers and underwear down to my knees with my free hand.
“And what about you?” I asked, trying to concentrate enough to form the words needed to converse as I settled back onto the couch.
“Me?”
“I want you to touch yourself too.”
“You do?” she asked with a faux innocence, obviously playing coy with me.
“Why yes, in fact, I was thinking more specifically of slipping your hand into your knickers and then slipping a finger inside yourself as you rub your clit with your thumb.”
“That sounds enterprising.”
“It,” I gasped, stroking myself harder, “certainly does.”
“Slipping my hand in my knickers?” she asked playfully, the faint rustling sounds on the phone teasing me with images of the movements she was making.
“Yes.”
“And, then slipping a finger inside myself?” she asked in a breathy whisper and then cooed, “Oh.”
“Yes.”
“And then I should rub my clit with my thumb, yes?” she asked, her words starting to get obviously strained between clenched teeth.
“Yes,” I repeated, each time the word becoming more of a hiss.
“Are you thinking about my hand on you right now?”
“I am,” I breathed, squeezing myself at the tip and then slipping the resulting lubrication along my shaft for a delicious friction. I shuddered at the pleasure. “Are you thinking about my finger inside you?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “I am.”
“I want you to add another finger and, as you feel comfortable, add another after that. I want you to imagine me fucking you right there on the - ”
“Couch,” she finished. I smiled, now able to visualize her better now that I knew where she was.
“Yes, on the couch. Imagine that I couldn’t even wait to get you to the bedroom. I came home from work and had to have you right now, so I pushed you back on the couch and began to make love to you.”
“You should do that more often, you know.”
“Eh?” I slowed down my ministrations.
“Just grab me and have sex with me right away after work.”
“Perhaps I should, I never knew you would want that. You always seem so focused on getting dinner ready and all that.”
“You never tried.”
“Okay, well, duly noted, then: Throw myself on Martha once I come home from work.”
“Unless we have company.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” I teased.
“Okay, depending on who the company is.”
“Fair.”
“Now, where were we?” she asked, giggling a bit nervously.
“I was fucking you on the couch like the wanton woman you are.”
“Wanton woman?”
“It sounded good.”
“Ah, right,” she teased. “So, are you fucking me hard or softly at the moment?”
“Pretty hard, I should think. I did say I couldn’t wait to have you - ”
“Oooh.”
“Oooh?”
“Three…fingers,” she ground out. “That’s nice.”
“I should think so. I only wish it were me instead.”
“But it is, of course. You are fucking me, remember?”
“Of course, how silly of me,” I said, chuckling as I started to speed up the movement of my fist. “And you feel so good. I love being inside you, Martha.”
“And I love when you are inside me, John. I can feel your hips slapping against me and the soft weight of your body on mine.” Her moans were becoming louder and the soft panting of her breath against the receiver was certainly daring to bring my orgasm quickly.
“Oh, Martha. You feel so good, so good, “I groaned, imagining myself on top of her on our couch. Our new couch in our new home - the two of us together, in our home -
“Oh, John. God, I think I’m, I think I - ” Martha keened loudly, growling and grunting until she finally seemed to catch her breath. When she spoke again, her voice was very small, “Coming.”
I could only moan in response, lost in the fantasy of her inner muscles caressing my cock inside her as she climaxed - kneading and pulling on me as I moved within her. I could feel the telltale tightening in my groin and my muscles begin to tense. My toes curled as I moved my hand harder and faster against myself, twisting and pulling in myself until my own orgasm hit me and I called out her name at least once -- but it may have been a hundred times for all I knew -- and pumped my release onto my belly.
“Did you make a mess?” Martha finally asked and I found myself laughing while still trying to catch my breath from the climax.
“Just a small one, mostly on my stomach. Nothing a bit of tissue won’t be able to handle.”
“I don’t know the thought of you on the - ”
“Couch,” I finished her sentence with a laugh. “I’m on a couch, too.”
“Well, the thought of you on the couch in your office with your trousers down and your ejaculate on you is…strangely rather appealing.”
“Is it?” I asked, reaching over to the tissue box on the end table. I began to clean myself off. “Perhaps we can reenact this at home so you have a better view? Maybe both on our mobiles?”
“In the same room on our mobiles?” Martha laughed.
“Possibly.”
“John, if you were on the couch next to me, I should think I would rather the real thing, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course, of course,” I replied, glancing up at the clock. A very pleasurable thirty minutes had passed since he’d been on the call with her. “You know what, Martha?”
“Hmm?”
“I only have another hour or so until I can leave here.”
“And?”
“Well, I could be wrong, but I have this strange suspicion that I might come home so aroused that I have to have you right then on the couch.”
“You won’t even be able to wait to get to the bedroom?” she teased.
“Nope.”
“But…I have dinner to worry about.”
“Pardon?” I couldn’t tell by her tone of voice if she were being serious or not.
There was a brief silence on the line before Martha started to laugh loudly. “Just teasing,” she managed between laughs. “I couldn’t resist.”
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Title: A Day in February [Snapshot #5]
Author: radiantbaby
Characters/Pairings: Martha/Dr. John
[Note: Dr. John was a David Tennant character from “Love in the 21st Century”]
Word Count: 4148
Genre: Romance, Smut
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Post-S3 new!Who [AU]
Summary: A day in the life of Martha and Dr. John. Experiments in POV. Crossover of Doctor Who and “Love in the 21st Century”
Disclaimer: All your Doctor Who are belong to us Sadly, I own nothing related to Doctor Who or ‘Love in the 21st Century’ et al. I am just playing around in their sandbox for a bit of fun.
Author Notes: Thank you to persiflage_1 for her beta-work. Any other mistakes are mine.
This is Part Five in the group of supplemental short pieces called “Snapshots.” It takes place during the time between persiflage_1’s stories Home Is Where the Heart Is and Trusting You.
You can probably enjoy this piece if you’ve not read either of those stories, but it may make more sense if you have. YMMV.
Feedback is happy-making, so please leave a word or two [even if I am a bit slack in responding, your comments always make my day].
===
[1]
John | Scent
I can still smell her on me, her scent between my fingertips, almost barely there but still insinuating itself into the deep cracks and swirling crevices there until it finally moves beneath my skin like the blood hot in my veins.
Perhaps it was from the rush we were in this morning. A fervent morning tryst - that neither of us wanted to end - didn't lend itself easily to enough time to shower, enough time to wash her away before resurfacing back into Real Life and Responsibilities.
Perhaps that is why she has been on my mind so very much today - my subconscious mind is bringing her to the forefront of my thoughts every time I catch just that simple scent of her. It is like memories the morning the scent of dew might bring of childhood or certain foods might bring of fussy aunts in their kitchens.
It is the scent that I find so intoxicating about her, my beautiful Martha -- the scent that defines her to me on such a primal level that I can’t even dare to render it into words, but instead I simply desire it like a drug that draws me back again and again.
I can feel my stomach knotting, fighting me as I approach the sink. As much as there are parts of me that struggle with it this afternoon, I must wash my hands. I am no longer able to simply sit with my memories in my office as I (futilely attempt to) pour over medical reports today, but instead I must answer the call for shining knives in gloved hands, bright lights, and exposed beating hearts in chests that are not hers.
I plunge my hands into the water, pressing the soap into those same crevices and cracks her scent has invaded, but I know that it is too late. She invaded those cracks in my soul ages ago, pressing herself against my very insides and caressing my own exposed beating heart from within before I’d even known what had hit me.
I wipe my hands dry on the towel nearby, smirking at the imagined futility of ridding myself of her, until a voice calls me back, leaving me focused and alert again:
“He’s ready, Dr. MacLachlan. He’s in operating theatre #3, just on the left.”
+ + +
[2]
Martha | Passion
I love it when John reads to me, I must confess. It’s one of those simple little things, but I still do.
In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t get many stories read to me as a child growing up. Mum and Dad were almost always too busy wrangling Tish - who was, as always, a bit of a wild child - and then later Leo (who was also a bit of a handful by all accounts), to give me that sort of attention. Mind you, I had mostly thought it was alright at the time, in that way you don’t miss something you’d never known, but the first time someone read me a story as an adult, I realized, quite sadly, what I’d really missed out on.
Strangely enough, the Doctor was the first person to read to me again. It was back when we were trapped in 1969 together and, with our television quite often on the blink, he would read me whatever books we could get a hold of - anything from Homer’s The Odyssey to the poetry of William Blake -- to pass the long hours of the night after I’d come home from my job.
Sometimes, on our scratchy, ratty old couch, I would just relax in his arms - even falling asleep on several occasions - and find myself getting a bit lost in the soft cadence of his voice as he told classical stories and intoned beautiful poetry.
I was surprised to find that he had such a lovely voice, actually - that is, when he wasn’t shouting vaingloriously at aliens or speaking far too frenetically (with fast and complicated words that even I found challenging) for nearly anyone but him to understand.
It was probably one of the few ways I ever actually felt close to the Doctor back in those days. It was as if somehow, deep beneath the words he was reading and the (almost) reticent embraces, that I actually meant something to him. It was a bit silly, I know, but it kept me going, you know? So many times the Doctor just seemed so utterly far away, but during those times on that old couch - the two of us just relaxing with one another - he finally seemed almost in reach.
And then there was John.
I had been at John’s flat helping him pack for our recent move when I’d found his own collection of books. At first glance, they seemed to be your average medical books and journals that many doctors keep at hand for reference, but hidden back on some of the less exposed shelves were volumes of poetry. Admittedly a bit nonplussed by my discovery, I asked him about them and he seemed immediately uncomfortable, almost embarrassed even - a blush coloring the tips of his ears, which I tend to find oddly adorable.
It took a few moments of coaxing, but he soon admitted that he was quite a big fan of poetry. He even made a few chagrinned remarks about his ‘reputation as a bloke’ being in question, which made both of us laugh as John - no matter how hard he tries to convince people otherwise - is really so much more than just ‘an ordinary bloke’ (whatever that is, really).
I mean, I may have only been around men just a few times before John, but I know enough to know that he is different - not as different as the Doctor (being an alien and all), of course, but definitely different.
Anyway, much to his apparent surprise, I’d asked him to read to me some time. I have to admit that I’ve missed those times with the Doctor, and while I haven’t spoken to him again for nearly a year now, sometimes I crave such simple intimacy again. It’s strange when words can be like blankets -- warming and calming you in the evening as the world around you swirls in chaos -- but
I needed that comfort again, and I had a feeling that John could give me that gift as well.
Surprisingly, I discovered quite quickly, the passion John brings to kisses and caresses was the same as he brings to words. In fact, I was almost mesmerized by him when he first read to me, as if I’d tapped into some deep part of him that had lain dormant for a long, long time. It sounds ridiculous, but he seemed to almost stroke each word with his tongue, feeling it in his mouth before pushing it sensually past his lips.
His melodious accent is honestly enough to break me apart most days, but the deeply resonant, sultry tones he reads to me in is an intensely erotic experience unto itself.
It is also like seeing a brief glimpse into his soul and somehow - strangely, inexplicably - it always makes me feel so much more relaxed and at peace. Unlike the Doctor, John is actually in reach in those moments - perhaps more in reach than ever, really - and I find myself clinging to him as the tempest of worries and stress spins around me, but leaves me untouched in his arms by the armor of his words.
It’s funny, they say that I once saved the world with words, but in an odd way, John saves me with them.
Alone in our new home, awaiting his call, I find myself drawn to John’s shelves of books - the volumes of poetry more prominently displayed now. I run my fingertips over the spines - Keats, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, and even old William Blake - as I revel momentarily in my connection to him.
It is a connection that both frightens and strengthens me, perhaps more than I will ever fully realize or even tell him, but it is somehow alive in the poetry within these books, alive when I see his soul in those stolen moments and I know, with great humility, how much he truly loves me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, flipping it open with one hand as I caress a volume of Blake’s poetry in front of me with the other. Such a different time, I think as I remember the words within read by that other Doctor who’d had such an impact on my life and then I speak:
“Hello, sweetie. I was just about to give you a call. Are you on your way home?”
+ + +
[3]
John | Phone
I cradled my head in my hands, elbows bent and pressed against the hard wood of the desk, as I sat in the office that evening. I’d had plans involving a nice quiet night at home with Martha, to be honest - plans that didn’t involve me being at the hospital still.
Quiet nights were something of a luxury of late, something we’d unfortunately rarely had the chance to experience in the month since we’d moved into our new place. Between both of our hectic work schedules and the two of us organizing things at home during any free time we could find, the time for simple quiet moments was falling through the cracks a bit.
(In fact, nights that could have been spent with Martha in my arms, just simply enjoying one another, were instead often being spent in the bathroom, repairing some of the grout in the bath, or in the living room, moving furniture around this way and that to get things just right.)
I had hoped tonight would be different, but after filling in at the last minute on a surgery late this afternoon for another doctor, it looked more like I was going to be stuck at the hospital in my office for a while longer, left reviewing the notes on the surgery and awaiting lab results that couldn’t be left until the morning.
I pulled out my phone with a sigh, frowning as I simply stared at Martha’s name on the phone for a moment before pressing the send key to ring her.
“Hello, sweetie. I was just about to give you a call. Are you on your way home?” she answered.
I blew out a deep breath, my stress calming a bit at the sound of her voice. “Unfortunately it looks as if I’ll be here another hour or two. I had to take the Hughes surgery today and that lasted a little later than expected. I still need to get the results on a few tests from the lab tech and write up my report before I leave. I’ve got most of the report written, but the lab results are taking quite a bit of time due to the backlog from some problems they were having down there earlier. It’s going to be a long night, it seems.”
“Oh, John. I was looking forward to some nice one-on-one time tonight and I know you were too.”
“Yeah,” I groaned in annoyance, tapping my pen on the desk to try and help alleviate some frustration. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. It’s what we do, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do. Of course, I do. Some times are just more difficult than others, I suppose.”
“So,” Martha began, her voice starting to take on a more sultry tone that I’d begun to easily recognize, “you said you had at least an hour or two?”
“I did.”
“And are you alone in your office?”
“I am.” I smirked.
“And is your door locked?”
“It’s not, but that is easily remedied,” I replied, my smirk easing into a full grin as I hopped to my feet to cross the room and turn the lock on the door. I then sat down on the couch nearby. “What are you up to?”
“Just a few ideas about how to pass the time.”
“Really?” I asked, feeling myself begin to harden in anticipation of where the conversation might be headed. I reached down and quickly brushed my fingertips against myself and hissed from the surge of pleasure.
“Yes, really. Have you ever, I mean, have you ever had - ”
“Phone sex?” I finished for her.
She gave a nervous laugh. “Exactly.”
“Hmm, if I have, it’s been a long time and I don’t remember it. And you?”
“Never,” she replied, her timidity about the situation apparent in her voice.
“So, are you propositioning me, Dr. Jones?”
“I’m afraid so, Dr. MacLachlan.”
“Then I suppose we should go ahead and get the clichés out of the way first - what are you wearing?”
“Pajamas actually.”
“The cotton ones?”
“Yes, the ‘unsexy’ cotton ones.” I could just about imagine the self-conscious frown she likely had on her face.
“Oh, you know how much I love those - ”
“I don’t understand why, but yes, yes I do know.”
“An enigma wrapped up in a mystery, I am.” Winston Churchill said that once, if I remember correctly - I always thought it was clever.
“More like a bit pretentious at the moment, I should think.”
“Oh, you love it.”
“I love you,” she corrected, laughing.
“And I love you, but you know what else I would love?”
“Enlighten me.”
“If you slipped your hand inside your knickers.”
“Going a bit fast tonight are we, mister?”
“Not necessarily, I just want to see how wet you are before we do anything.”
“Why?”
“Call it…curiosity.”
I could hear a bit of shuffling on the other end of the line and smiled to myself as I tried to picture her on the couch in her ‘unsexy’ pajamas, tentatively slipping a hand into her knickers for me.
“That would be a yes,” she finally said, her voice softening.
“A yes?”
“As in, yes, I am…very wet.”
Imagining her on the other end of the line had already been enough to arouse me, but there was something about the breathy way she’d said those words that caused me to harden even more in my jeans, pressing almost uncomfortably against the denim.
“Good, because I’m very hard.”
She moaned a little in response and it honestly almost undid me completely. Thank goodness I was able to keep my head on and carefully evade making a pubescent mess in my pants. That would have been rather embarrassing.
“What should we do next, Dr. MacLachlan?” she asked, her voice now maintaining the soft, erotic breathiness of her previous statement.
“Well, if I were there, I would slowly unbutton your top. Will you do that for me?”
“Unbutton my top?”
“Yes, but imagine it’s me doing it.”
“It might be a bit awkward one-handed, but I’ll give it a shot.”
I could hear her shuffling and the slight mews and grunts she was making in frustration. “You can put the phone down in you need,” I offered.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, her voice somewhat muffled as her mouth moved closer to the mouthpiece.
“If you need to put the phone down to make things easier - ”
“Oh.”
I heard the sound of the phone tossed against fabric as she put the receiver down and couldn’t help but wonder where she might be in the flat. Was she sitting or even lying on the bed? Was she on the couch? Was she somewhere else entirely?
Of course, thoughts of Martha topless anywhere in our home is a very enticing thought for me. I found myself thinking of the soft curves of her breasts and how her small dark nipples puckered at their peaks. I thought of how hard her nipples might be and how much she loved it when I’d surprise her with a hard little pinch of them between my forefinger and thumb -
“It’s off,” she said, interrupting my reverie.
“Good,” I breathed. “Now, I’d like you to slowly touch yourself. Run your hands over your belly, over your breasts and nipples, and…play with your nipples between your fingers, yes.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Aren’t you going to take your shirt off?”
“Is that something you want? It’s not half as exciting as a woman’s curves. Remember, I’m all bones and angles instead.”
“I like your bones and angles,” she chuckled. “And besides do you know what I really love?”
“Enlighten me,” I replied, mirroring our earlier conversation.
“I love that soft downy hair on your belly, especially that nice line of hair that leads downward into your trousers. Will you slowly run your fingertips over your chest and belly for me while I touch myself?”
“Your wish is my command. Won’t be a tic.”
I laid the mobile down on the couch next to me and then pulled off my lab coat and the jumper I was wearing, laying them beside me as well. I then laid back against the fabric of the couch, slowly unbuttoning my shirt as I thought of Martha’s fingers on me.
I had to admit, though I’d often enjoyed her caresses, I didn’t realize after so many months together her particular penchant for my belly. The thought of anyone enjoying my own body to the extent I enjoy hers sounded vaguely preposterous, I must admit.
I’d sadly had my share of people making fun of the shape of my body throughout my life and, even worse, women wincing once I pulled of my shirt, staring in overt disgust at my slightly protruding ribs and sternum. I’m quite sure I’ve never seen Martha wince though or look at me as if I were some object of horror, though. In fact, to the contrary, she’s always made me feel more desirable than anyone else ever has.
As I finished my last button - letting the sides of my shirt hang to my sides - I sighed deeply, again thinking of how lucky I was to have such an amazing and caring woman in my life.
I picked the mobile back up. “I’m touching myself now,” I whispered into the receiver.
“As am I.”
We spent the next few minutes cooing and moaning as we touched ourselves, imagining one another’s hands on us, urging on our respective feelings of arousal to more and more of a fevered pitch.
“Follow that line of hair into your trousers. I want you to touch your cock,” Martha finally breathed.
I could feel a twinge of excitement that hardened me - to an almost painful degree now -- even more from her words. I quickly slipped by hand down to unbutton the snap of my jeans, and then much more slowly slid my hand past the waistband and into my underwear.
I groaned once my fingertips grazed slightly dampened curls to grasp myself and then cradled the mobile between my chin and shoulder for a moment, lifting my hips slightly to shove my trousers and underwear down to my knees with my free hand.
“And what about you?” I asked, trying to concentrate enough to form the words needed to converse as I settled back onto the couch.
“Me?”
“I want you to touch yourself too.”
“You do?” she asked with a faux innocence, obviously playing coy with me.
“Why yes, in fact, I was thinking more specifically of slipping your hand into your knickers and then slipping a finger inside yourself as you rub your clit with your thumb.”
“That sounds enterprising.”
“It,” I gasped, stroking myself harder, “certainly does.”
“Slipping my hand in my knickers?” she asked playfully, the faint rustling sounds on the phone teasing me with images of the movements she was making.
“Yes.”
“And, then slipping a finger inside myself?” she asked in a breathy whisper and then cooed, “Oh.”
“Yes.”
“And then I should rub my clit with my thumb, yes?” she asked, her words starting to get obviously strained between clenched teeth.
“Yes,” I repeated, each time the word becoming more of a hiss.
“Are you thinking about my hand on you right now?”
“I am,” I breathed, squeezing myself at the tip and then slipping the resulting lubrication along my shaft for a delicious friction. I shuddered at the pleasure. “Are you thinking about my finger inside you?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “I am.”
“I want you to add another finger and, as you feel comfortable, add another after that. I want you to imagine me fucking you right there on the - ”
“Couch,” she finished. I smiled, now able to visualize her better now that I knew where she was.
“Yes, on the couch. Imagine that I couldn’t even wait to get you to the bedroom. I came home from work and had to have you right now, so I pushed you back on the couch and began to make love to you.”
“You should do that more often, you know.”
“Eh?” I slowed down my ministrations.
“Just grab me and have sex with me right away after work.”
“Perhaps I should, I never knew you would want that. You always seem so focused on getting dinner ready and all that.”
“You never tried.”
“Okay, well, duly noted, then: Throw myself on Martha once I come home from work.”
“Unless we have company.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” I teased.
“Okay, depending on who the company is.”
“Fair.”
“Now, where were we?” she asked, giggling a bit nervously.
“I was fucking you on the couch like the wanton woman you are.”
“Wanton woman?”
“It sounded good.”
“Ah, right,” she teased. “So, are you fucking me hard or softly at the moment?”
“Pretty hard, I should think. I did say I couldn’t wait to have you - ”
“Oooh.”
“Oooh?”
“Three…fingers,” she ground out. “That’s nice.”
“I should think so. I only wish it were me instead.”
“But it is, of course. You are fucking me, remember?”
“Of course, how silly of me,” I said, chuckling as I started to speed up the movement of my fist. “And you feel so good. I love being inside you, Martha.”
“And I love when you are inside me, John. I can feel your hips slapping against me and the soft weight of your body on mine.” Her moans were becoming louder and the soft panting of her breath against the receiver was certainly daring to bring my orgasm quickly.
“Oh, Martha. You feel so good, so good, “I groaned, imagining myself on top of her on our couch. Our new couch in our new home - the two of us together, in our home -
“Oh, John. God, I think I’m, I think I - ” Martha keened loudly, growling and grunting until she finally seemed to catch her breath. When she spoke again, her voice was very small, “Coming.”
I could only moan in response, lost in the fantasy of her inner muscles caressing my cock inside her as she climaxed - kneading and pulling on me as I moved within her. I could feel the telltale tightening in my groin and my muscles begin to tense. My toes curled as I moved my hand harder and faster against myself, twisting and pulling in myself until my own orgasm hit me and I called out her name at least once -- but it may have been a hundred times for all I knew -- and pumped my release onto my belly.
“Did you make a mess?” Martha finally asked and I found myself laughing while still trying to catch my breath from the climax.
“Just a small one, mostly on my stomach. Nothing a bit of tissue won’t be able to handle.”
“I don’t know the thought of you on the - ”
“Couch,” I finished her sentence with a laugh. “I’m on a couch, too.”
“Well, the thought of you on the couch in your office with your trousers down and your ejaculate on you is…strangely rather appealing.”
“Is it?” I asked, reaching over to the tissue box on the end table. I began to clean myself off. “Perhaps we can reenact this at home so you have a better view? Maybe both on our mobiles?”
“In the same room on our mobiles?” Martha laughed.
“Possibly.”
“John, if you were on the couch next to me, I should think I would rather the real thing, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course, of course,” I replied, glancing up at the clock. A very pleasurable thirty minutes had passed since he’d been on the call with her. “You know what, Martha?”
“Hmm?”
“I only have another hour or so until I can leave here.”
“And?”
“Well, I could be wrong, but I have this strange suspicion that I might come home so aroused that I have to have you right then on the couch.”
“You won’t even be able to wait to get to the bedroom?” she teased.
“Nope.”
“But…I have dinner to worry about.”
“Pardon?” I couldn’t tell by her tone of voice if she were being serious or not.
There was a brief silence on the line before Martha started to laugh loudly. “Just teasing,” she managed between laughs. “I couldn’t resist.”