prompt response: just_fck_me 16.5 - voyeurism
Tosh slips her an unlabeled DVD with a wink one night as she's leaving the Hub. Martha flushes a little, immediately knowing what it is - Gwen's the one who told her about it, in hushed tones. They've all watched it, even Owen, though he'd never admit to it. She has to admit, the thought intrigues her, maybe even arouses her. She hurries out the door, pulling her jacket up around her face so that nobody else can see the blush that remains on her face till she gets back to her hotel.
Unfortunately, the cold rain pouring down has dampened her ardor slightly - but not her curiosity. So she shucks out of her drenched clothes into a white terrycloth robe, hangs a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, and pops the DVD into her laptop, settling down in bed for the show.
She's actually rather surprised by the quality of the Hub's security feed - a little less so that Tosh has a camera aimed straight at Jack's desk. Jack's sitting behind it, his hands folded, looking just like he normally does.
Ianto, though...Ianto is buck naked, his erection jutting out as he stands in front of the desk. The shot is absolutely perfect, and if she didn't know any better, she'd swear Jack's positioned him for the cameras.
It's just a shame there's no audio, she thinks idly as Ianto sits on one corner of the desk. Jack reaches out, stroking one pale white thigh. She thinks back on Ianto describing Jack as "innovative, bordering on the avant-garde". (It is, she thinks, a very Ianto sort of description.) Jack reaches out and wraps a silk tie around Ianto's cock, letting the silk fabric slither around the sensitive skin, teasing him before he knots it expertly round the base. Ianto tips his head back, letting his eyes fall shut. He looks blissful at Jack's touch, and Martha doesn't blame him - she'd probably look like that if she were shagging Jack Harkness, too.
Jack pulls him closer and dips his head down to suck his cock, cheeks hollowing as his fingers dig into his hips and arse. It's an absolutely gorgeous site, one that renders Martha breathless. hitching her own hips. She can only imagine what Jack's tongue might do to her. A bloke from the fifty-first century's got to know all sorts of innovative things about oral sex, after all. He could probably teach her a fair few tricks.
Martha's fumbling to undo the knot of her bathrobe when Jack pulls away and stands up - and she swears his eyes dart in the direction of the camera, but it's only for a split second, and she could very well be mistaken. Ianto reaches out to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one. (Tosh had said this was the tamest video, nothing too kinky - Martha wonders what the hell the kinky ones must be like, and makes a mental note to request them tomorrow.) Jack's undershirt is a bright, unmarred white (who does Jack's laundry? is there a washer/dryer combo in the Hub?), clinging to his torso tantalisingly. It's nearly enough to make Martha drool.
Ianto reaches out and snaps the braces with his thumbs, letting them thrum before sliding them down, and the undershirt comes off, revealing an expanse of broad, muscled chest. Martha groans - and feels a little bit like Tosh ought to have edited stripper music into the video. The trousers are next, and of course Jack's going commando under them. (He must have changed out of his underpants after work; Torchwood work is really something you want to have support for, she thinks.)
Fifty-first century blokes, she notes idly, are definitely lacking in the body hair department. Which isn't something she minds; she actually finds it rather intriguing. Apparently Ianto does, too, because he nuzzles Jack's chest as Jack ties his hands behind his back. Jack pauses for a moment as Ianto swipes his tongue over a nipple, his face screwing up as he moans soundlessly. Martha grazes one of her own nipples with a fingertip, feeling it harden beneath her touch - but imagining that it's Jack's callused fingers touching her instead.
Jack guides him to sit back down on a corner of the desk, tipping his chin up with two fingers and kissing him for the first time. Martha groans as she watches; he looks like an absolutely fantastic kisser, and his lips are already red and swollen from his previous activities. 'Kissing Jack' is definitely high on her list of priorities (and has just been moved a few slots higher).
He picks up a long glass object from his desk - a dildo, obviously, from the shape of it. He offers it to Ianto, who sucks it greedily - Martha's jaw drops open at that, because it's completely incongruous to see the normally decorous Ianto sucking a dildo like some debauched rentboy. And God, is it hot. From the expression on Jack's face, and the way his cock twitches, she can tell that he thinks so, too. But he pulls the dildo away, smearing it liberally with lube, and spreads Ianto's legs, placing the blunt head just so. Martha can see everything; it's positively indecent, this is, but she can't stop watching as Jack pushes it in bit by bit. Ianto seems to be taking it well - better than Martha would if she were having something shoved up her arse with no preparation, anyway, but he's presumably more practised at this than she is.
She's rubbing herself now, slowly, because she doesn't want to come just yet, but it feels good in conjunction with the video. She wishes she had a vibrator here (but what sort of pervert travels with a vibrator in their luggage?); she aches to feel something inside her, filling her the way Ianto's full. Jack works the dildo in and out, and Ianto's gasping, his chest heaving; he's got to be hitting his prostate with every thrust. Martha pushes a pair of fingers inside herself; they're small, but they're better than nothing, especially because Jack's replacing the dildo with his cock now, and, fuck, it's just about the hottest thing Martha's ever seen.
Ianto wraps his legs around Jack, drawing him in, and Jack fucks him hard and fast. (Martha can't remember the last time she had sex like that; Tom pretty much sticks with the 'slow and gentle' method, no matter how much she wants him to vary things.) There's a hunger to it, like Jack wants to feel alive. He pumps Ianto in his fist, kissing him again, desperately, and Ianto's movements become more erratic. She wonders if he's begging Jack to let him come, if his voice is husky and raw now, throaty with arousal. Her fingers are moving faster, matching Jack's merciless pace, and she hopes he lets Ianto come soon, if only for her own sake.
Jack pulls the tie free and Ianto arches his back in climax, coming all over Jack's chest, and Martha gasps loudly, tightening around her own fingers as she works them in and out, her orgasm washing over her until her vision blurs and she can't see the screen anymore. She keeps going, and another orgasm rocks her, and then a third -
- and then her mobile rings.
"Fuck!" she swears, fumbling for it - bad timing, but it could very well be an emergency - she flips it open and answers, trying to compose herself. "Martha Jones."
"Enjoy your film?" The voice is Jack's, deep and throaty and seductive, and somehow, she's not surprised.
"It was..." she pauses for a moment to catch her breath, because panting into the phone seems, well, entirely too debauched. "Innovative, bordering on the avant-garde."
Jack laughs. "I'll have to arrange for a live performance. Tomorrow night, maybe."
Martha swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry and her arousal surging. "I'll pencil you in."
Muse: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 744
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex of the m/m variety, slight bondage. Fairly standard pornybits.
Unfortunately, the cold rain pouring down has dampened her ardor slightly - but not her curiosity. So she shucks out of her drenched clothes into a white terrycloth robe, hangs a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, and pops the DVD into her laptop, settling down in bed for the show.
She's actually rather surprised by the quality of the Hub's security feed - a little less so that Tosh has a camera aimed straight at Jack's desk. Jack's sitting behind it, his hands folded, looking just like he normally does.
Ianto, though...Ianto is buck naked, his erection jutting out as he stands in front of the desk. The shot is absolutely perfect, and if she didn't know any better, she'd swear Jack's positioned him for the cameras.
It's just a shame there's no audio, she thinks idly as Ianto sits on one corner of the desk. Jack reaches out, stroking one pale white thigh. She thinks back on Ianto describing Jack as "innovative, bordering on the avant-garde". (It is, she thinks, a very Ianto sort of description.) Jack reaches out and wraps a silk tie around Ianto's cock, letting the silk fabric slither around the sensitive skin, teasing him before he knots it expertly round the base. Ianto tips his head back, letting his eyes fall shut. He looks blissful at Jack's touch, and Martha doesn't blame him - she'd probably look like that if she were shagging Jack Harkness, too.
Jack pulls him closer and dips his head down to suck his cock, cheeks hollowing as his fingers dig into his hips and arse. It's an absolutely gorgeous site, one that renders Martha breathless. hitching her own hips. She can only imagine what Jack's tongue might do to her. A bloke from the fifty-first century's got to know all sorts of innovative things about oral sex, after all. He could probably teach her a fair few tricks.
Martha's fumbling to undo the knot of her bathrobe when Jack pulls away and stands up - and she swears his eyes dart in the direction of the camera, but it's only for a split second, and she could very well be mistaken. Ianto reaches out to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one. (Tosh had said this was the tamest video, nothing too kinky - Martha wonders what the hell the kinky ones must be like, and makes a mental note to request them tomorrow.) Jack's undershirt is a bright, unmarred white (who does Jack's laundry? is there a washer/dryer combo in the Hub?), clinging to his torso tantalisingly. It's nearly enough to make Martha drool.
Ianto reaches out and snaps the braces with his thumbs, letting them thrum before sliding them down, and the undershirt comes off, revealing an expanse of broad, muscled chest. Martha groans - and feels a little bit like Tosh ought to have edited stripper music into the video. The trousers are next, and of course Jack's going commando under them. (He must have changed out of his underpants after work; Torchwood work is really something you want to have support for, she thinks.)
Fifty-first century blokes, she notes idly, are definitely lacking in the body hair department. Which isn't something she minds; she actually finds it rather intriguing. Apparently Ianto does, too, because he nuzzles Jack's chest as Jack ties his hands behind his back. Jack pauses for a moment as Ianto swipes his tongue over a nipple, his face screwing up as he moans soundlessly. Martha grazes one of her own nipples with a fingertip, feeling it harden beneath her touch - but imagining that it's Jack's callused fingers touching her instead.
Jack guides him to sit back down on a corner of the desk, tipping his chin up with two fingers and kissing him for the first time. Martha groans as she watches; he looks like an absolutely fantastic kisser, and his lips are already red and swollen from his previous activities. 'Kissing Jack' is definitely high on her list of priorities (and has just been moved a few slots higher).
He picks up a long glass object from his desk - a dildo, obviously, from the shape of it. He offers it to Ianto, who sucks it greedily - Martha's jaw drops open at that, because it's completely incongruous to see the normally decorous Ianto sucking a dildo like some debauched rentboy. And God, is it hot. From the expression on Jack's face, and the way his cock twitches, she can tell that he thinks so, too. But he pulls the dildo away, smearing it liberally with lube, and spreads Ianto's legs, placing the blunt head just so. Martha can see everything; it's positively indecent, this is, but she can't stop watching as Jack pushes it in bit by bit. Ianto seems to be taking it well - better than Martha would if she were having something shoved up her arse with no preparation, anyway, but he's presumably more practised at this than she is.
She's rubbing herself now, slowly, because she doesn't want to come just yet, but it feels good in conjunction with the video. She wishes she had a vibrator here (but what sort of pervert travels with a vibrator in their luggage?); she aches to feel something inside her, filling her the way Ianto's full. Jack works the dildo in and out, and Ianto's gasping, his chest heaving; he's got to be hitting his prostate with every thrust. Martha pushes a pair of fingers inside herself; they're small, but they're better than nothing, especially because Jack's replacing the dildo with his cock now, and, fuck, it's just about the hottest thing Martha's ever seen.
Ianto wraps his legs around Jack, drawing him in, and Jack fucks him hard and fast. (Martha can't remember the last time she had sex like that; Tom pretty much sticks with the 'slow and gentle' method, no matter how much she wants him to vary things.) There's a hunger to it, like Jack wants to feel alive. He pumps Ianto in his fist, kissing him again, desperately, and Ianto's movements become more erratic. She wonders if he's begging Jack to let him come, if his voice is husky and raw now, throaty with arousal. Her fingers are moving faster, matching Jack's merciless pace, and she hopes he lets Ianto come soon, if only for her own sake.
Jack pulls the tie free and Ianto arches his back in climax, coming all over Jack's chest, and Martha gasps loudly, tightening around her own fingers as she works them in and out, her orgasm washing over her until her vision blurs and she can't see the screen anymore. She keeps going, and another orgasm rocks her, and then a third -
- and then her mobile rings.
"Fuck!" she swears, fumbling for it - bad timing, but it could very well be an emergency - she flips it open and answers, trying to compose herself. "Martha Jones."
"Enjoy your film?" The voice is Jack's, deep and throaty and seductive, and somehow, she's not surprised.
"It was..." she pauses for a moment to catch her breath, because panting into the phone seems, well, entirely too debauched. "Innovative, bordering on the avant-garde."
Jack laughs. "I'll have to arrange for a live performance. Tomorrow night, maybe."
Martha swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry and her arousal surging. "I'll pencil you in."
Muse: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 744
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex of the m/m variety, slight bondage. Fairly standard pornybits.