for muse_erotica:Teach someone/be taught something in the area of pleasure, pain or sex.
You think, after all the time you've spent with the Master, you know him by now. You know you used to be friends. You know that things were said and paths were taken, and now you're just…not. Worse than not. Now, he's cruel. Now he's vicious.
You can't understand his obsession with humiliation, though.
Take now. You're tied to an examination table, which is suspended vertically along a wall in one of the many torture chambers of the Valiant. Since you couldn't seem to stand on your own very well (or as well as he'd have liked) in your 100-year-old form, he changed you back to your younger self. In "payment" for his kindness, he strapped your feet to tiny footrests on the table and told you to stand there.
Naturally, after a day or so, the left footrest broke and now you've had to put all of your weight on your right leg. Because of the way he's got you strapped to the table, if you try to rest your legs, your arms or shoulders take the brunt of your weight. At least he's not feeding you very often. You don't want to think the pain you'd be in if you weighed as much as your sixth self.
You're also cold. The room is dark and void of the heating that's protecting the rest of the ship from the December cold. And, naturally, you're nude. Can't forget the humiliation.
There's a creak, and a blast of outside light comes into the room. You wonder who is next. Francine and Tish? Jack? Someone else, new and humiliating to see the spectacle of the Jesus-Doctor, strapped up and helpless?
No, it's just him. The Master. Harold Saxon. Whoever he's pretending to be today. He leans against the doorframe, and his eyes are already staring directly at you by the time the door opens up.
He's far beyond intoxicated, and the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand shows that long before your mind brushes his. He spent nearly all of his last incarnation as a human and sometimes he resorts back to human vices. He doesn't need to be intoxicated when he drinks, but he chooses to be so. He steps inside and takes a swig of the liquor. The intoxication swims over his consciousness again, and you pull away from his mind so you don't feel it, too. That would be the last thing you need, strapped up here in your twisted crucifixion in this tiny torture chamber.
There's the squeak-squeak of a cart following the Master, and you can see he has one hand pulling it behind him. On it is some sort of machinery you haven't seen before, along with a variety of torture utensils you have.
Your first thought is, naturally, a few inappropriate curses. Well, they feel appropriate for the moment, at least. After all, the Master is completely pissed, and he's got you in a position where he could perform various unpleasant surgeries on you without you being able to do anything but scream.
"You comfortable up there?" he asks. His words are slurred, and he nearly misses the red button that lowers the table off the wall to a horizontal position. You can't help but wince at the change of blood flow to numb areas, and your nerve endings can't help but cry out in glee as your weight no longer rests on your aching right leg.
"Sorry to pull you away from all that…fun," he purrs as he leans over you. "But I? I have something far, far better. You see this?"
He holds up a thin metal rod that is attached to the mechanical box. You think you recognize it from some of the torture chambers during WWII. Electric shock…somethingorother, they had a very scientific name that isn't coming to you.
"Do you know what this is?" he asks.
You take a breath through cracked lips. "I only have one thing to say to you."
He knows what it is. Since the first time you said that, months ago, he's brushed your mind in search of what it is you want to say. He knows. He just doesn't want you to say it.
I forgive you.
You want to imagine it's because he wants to redeem himself. He wants to earn your forgiveness rather than you simply giving it to him. You know better. You wish you didn't know better. He doesn't want your forgiveness because that means he has to stop
"No, no, no, no, no, Doctor," the Master hisses, and a little spittle hits you in the cheek. "This is an electric prod. Sort of like how your beloved humans used to tame cattle. You see?"
He prods you sharply in the rib, and your body shakes. It takes a millisecond for your mind to catch up with the sudden jolt running through your body, and you cry out in pain. You're keenly aware of the blood vessels the electricity is ripping through, of the marks you're going to have along your side and stomach from the shock.
He pulls the rod away, and you try to regain your breathing. Try to put on the masks you've seen your companions---Jack and Tish and Francine and Martha's father you can never remember his name, they're your companions now---wear during the most painful of the Master's rages. It's hard to be calm when everything hurts. When you feel like it's…
You're suddenly aware of the Master's fingers tracing along your rib. It's an almost ticklish sensation, he's touching you so lightly, tracing over the lightning-like red marks left from the jolt of the prod.
"Your skin is delicate like theirs," he says, and his voice sounds…almost awed with the realization. "Must be a trait you got from your mother, Doctor."
Despite his obvious intoxication, the gentle touch of his hand isn't inconsistent as it traces up your torso to your forehead. You take in a breath and wait. You've experienced his equivalent of a connection before, which is nothing short of mind-rape. You've never been very good at making hypnotic or controlling connections (you always tried to keep from making trips into people's minds a habit), but the Master is more than adept at it. He relishes in tearing through memories and poking fun at personal and embarrassing thoughts.
You brace for it, relax your mind to accept it and ease the blow and…nothing. The Master sits in your mind for a long, long moment, then moves elsewhere, rewires parts of your pain center. He does it so quickly, you can't figure out what he's done, yet. You imagine you will, and it will take time to undo what he's done, but you'll manage. Just have to go with it. Stay strong while Martha's wandering the Earth. Keep Martha---
You silence your mind. That is one part of you he has yet to access. You refuse to give it up. Martha needs that chance.
The Master, however, doesn't seem to care about your stray thoughts. He finishes his rewiring and retreats to his own mind. He studies you again, then turns the cattle prod's strength down. No matter how low it is, it will still hurt, so your muscles tighten in anticipation.
The prod is pressed into your thigh, and your muscle twitches as pain rips through you. At the same time, it feels…good. Incredibly good. You're immediately returned to the feel of Reinette's lips pressed against your thigh as you "danced" in the palace at Versailles. The same deep, sexual pleasure is returned along with new, unbearable pain.
The noise that escapes your throat is not quite pain now. It's choked and incredibly confused.
"You never learn how to loosen up, my dear Doctor." Again, he's purring, but this time he's so close you can smell the alcohol heavy on his breath, and the sweat from whatever it is he's been doing today (killing Jack again and again most likely). Your body is clearly confused by the reaction to the prod, because you think he smells good.
"I've rewired your pain centers and your pleasure centers. Something that should hurt also feels very, very good. Along with the pain." He runs the prod along your inner thigh this time and the confusing mixture of sexual pleasure and intense pain returns. He traces the painful instrument up your thigh, then out. You can feel the bruises and marks it is leaving, but part of you doesn't care. It feels good for all that it hurts.
"Something that feels good, as well…" He wets a forefinger with the tip of his tongue and runs it along one of your nipples. The sudden, unexpected pleasure causes your body to buck, and the pain that comes with it makes you want to scream.
You feel the Master invading your mind again. He's checking on his work in there, brushing up against your emotions, seeing what you're feeling. Gloating, no doubt.
"Tut tut, Doctor. You should be grateful; I'm teaching you a new lesson in the pain-pleasure variant. I know you always liked to sleep through psychology courses, so it's like I’m giving you summer study. You should say thank you." He sounds sober, now, but you know he's not. He's just focused.
"I only have one thing to say to you," you repeat, and he cuts you off with a finger on your lips. The touch is delicate and light, and the softness of it makes the skin of your already cracked lips burn.
"You don't want to say it," the Master says, in a voice low and cool as if he were seducing a lover rather than chastising a victim. "You don't want me to stop." The cattle prod again, this time pressed to your collarbone. You cry out in pain, even as your body reacts to the pleasure.
Humiliation. It has to be about humiliation. Why else would he be doing this to you?
"Not everything is about you, Doctor." The cattle prod is removed, and the Master's mouth takes its place, suckling the raw skin. Your body is never one to react to those sort of advances, but the intensity of the experience causes you to scream even as your mind wails in confusion.
You want to demand to know what's going on. What the bloody hell is he doing? Why is he---what is all of this? But no. No, you only have one thing you will say to him.
"Then stay silent." The Master's lips crush down on yours, and you can't tell if he's kissing you gently or roughly because there's an equal rush of burning agony and unimaginable pleasure shooting through you from it. You don't return the kiss, but that hardly stops him from sweeping his tongue into your mouth and biting down on your swollen lips. 900 years of being bitter enemies and the last thing you ever expected was for him to snog you. Well, he's nothing if not unpredictable.
He moves astride you, one leg between yours and the other firmly on the table. You can feel how ridiculously erect he is from the entire experience. He rubs it against your thigh, over the red and swollen skin.
"You never notice anything beyond that perfect goodness you try to enforce, do you?" he demands as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. He presses the electric prod into your stomach and your body convulses as you cry out in pleasure.
Notice. What in Rassilon's name are you supposed to notice? Right now, you can't see anything past the haze of your zig-zagging emotions and nerve endings. His hand moves down and takes a hold of your involuntary erection, and you're fairly certain it's possible to die from a near-orgasm coupled with pain that sits at about a level 10.
"Doctor." He chokes out your name against your skin as he touches you, and you can swear he's pressing his own pleasure onto you (perhaps because it hurts to feel it).
You can't control yourself. You feel the name come from your mouth in an uncontrolled, pained cry. "Master."
He likes it when you use his name. He shows you he does by kissing you again and pressing the electric prod against your throat. You jerk and shake, but his kiss and his hand stay true and in perfect rhythm. It's involuntary, you imagine, but you find yourself returning the drunken kiss. It hurts to slide your tongue against his but you do and it feels good. He moans into your mouth, and that doesn't make any sense but maybe it does. Maybe it always did.
He cries out your name, suddenly, and you feel a white-hot streak of agony slide through you as he shares his orgasm. It's painful, but so good, and you feel your own body nearing release---
The Master's hand is suddenly gone, and he flicks off the cattle prod. He lets out a barking laugh against your mouth. Wide-eyed glee replaces the dark-eyed lust he had a moment ago.
"You know, sometimes the Missus just doesn't do it, you know?" he laughs again, and hops off where he was astride you. You can't help but stare at him. He steps forward and pokes your erection with a finger. He laughs again.
It's all about humiliation.
"You know, you never learn," he says, shaking his head. "Never notice things until 900 bloody years have passed and it's too late."
You feel the urge to ask what he's talking about because clearly, you're just not getting anything that's been going on. But you only have one thing to say to him. It's getting harder and harder to say it.
"I'm moving you out of this room. You can go back to being Granddad-Doctor. I'll even make you a tent. Rulers give tents to their concubines, don't they?" He laughs again, and stumbles towards the door.
You wonder if he's going to remember any of this in the morning. He's made himself so intoxicated; you wouldn't be surprised if he didn't.
You know that you…you will remember it. Your limbs ache from staying strapped to the table, but that feels good at the same time.
You just wish what he's done to your mind could turn humiliation back into pride.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 2,395
You can't understand his obsession with humiliation, though.
Take now. You're tied to an examination table, which is suspended vertically along a wall in one of the many torture chambers of the Valiant. Since you couldn't seem to stand on your own very well (or as well as he'd have liked) in your 100-year-old form, he changed you back to your younger self. In "payment" for his kindness, he strapped your feet to tiny footrests on the table and told you to stand there.
Naturally, after a day or so, the left footrest broke and now you've had to put all of your weight on your right leg. Because of the way he's got you strapped to the table, if you try to rest your legs, your arms or shoulders take the brunt of your weight. At least he's not feeding you very often. You don't want to think the pain you'd be in if you weighed as much as your sixth self.
You're also cold. The room is dark and void of the heating that's protecting the rest of the ship from the December cold. And, naturally, you're nude. Can't forget the humiliation.
There's a creak, and a blast of outside light comes into the room. You wonder who is next. Francine and Tish? Jack? Someone else, new and humiliating to see the spectacle of the Jesus-Doctor, strapped up and helpless?
No, it's just him. The Master. Harold Saxon. Whoever he's pretending to be today. He leans against the doorframe, and his eyes are already staring directly at you by the time the door opens up.
He's far beyond intoxicated, and the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand shows that long before your mind brushes his. He spent nearly all of his last incarnation as a human and sometimes he resorts back to human vices. He doesn't need to be intoxicated when he drinks, but he chooses to be so. He steps inside and takes a swig of the liquor. The intoxication swims over his consciousness again, and you pull away from his mind so you don't feel it, too. That would be the last thing you need, strapped up here in your twisted crucifixion in this tiny torture chamber.
There's the squeak-squeak of a cart following the Master, and you can see he has one hand pulling it behind him. On it is some sort of machinery you haven't seen before, along with a variety of torture utensils you have.
Your first thought is, naturally, a few inappropriate curses. Well, they feel appropriate for the moment, at least. After all, the Master is completely pissed, and he's got you in a position where he could perform various unpleasant surgeries on you without you being able to do anything but scream.
"You comfortable up there?" he asks. His words are slurred, and he nearly misses the red button that lowers the table off the wall to a horizontal position. You can't help but wince at the change of blood flow to numb areas, and your nerve endings can't help but cry out in glee as your weight no longer rests on your aching right leg.
"Sorry to pull you away from all that…fun," he purrs as he leans over you. "But I? I have something far, far better. You see this?"
He holds up a thin metal rod that is attached to the mechanical box. You think you recognize it from some of the torture chambers during WWII. Electric shock…somethingorother, they had a very scientific name that isn't coming to you.
"Do you know what this is?" he asks.
You take a breath through cracked lips. "I only have one thing to say to you."
He knows what it is. Since the first time you said that, months ago, he's brushed your mind in search of what it is you want to say. He knows. He just doesn't want you to say it.
I forgive you.
You want to imagine it's because he wants to redeem himself. He wants to earn your forgiveness rather than you simply giving it to him. You know better. You wish you didn't know better. He doesn't want your forgiveness because that means he has to stop
"No, no, no, no, no, Doctor," the Master hisses, and a little spittle hits you in the cheek. "This is an electric prod. Sort of like how your beloved humans used to tame cattle. You see?"
He prods you sharply in the rib, and your body shakes. It takes a millisecond for your mind to catch up with the sudden jolt running through your body, and you cry out in pain. You're keenly aware of the blood vessels the electricity is ripping through, of the marks you're going to have along your side and stomach from the shock.
He pulls the rod away, and you try to regain your breathing. Try to put on the masks you've seen your companions---Jack and Tish and Francine and Martha's father you can never remember his name, they're your companions now---wear during the most painful of the Master's rages. It's hard to be calm when everything hurts. When you feel like it's…
You're suddenly aware of the Master's fingers tracing along your rib. It's an almost ticklish sensation, he's touching you so lightly, tracing over the lightning-like red marks left from the jolt of the prod.
"Your skin is delicate like theirs," he says, and his voice sounds…almost awed with the realization. "Must be a trait you got from your mother, Doctor."
Despite his obvious intoxication, the gentle touch of his hand isn't inconsistent as it traces up your torso to your forehead. You take in a breath and wait. You've experienced his equivalent of a connection before, which is nothing short of mind-rape. You've never been very good at making hypnotic or controlling connections (you always tried to keep from making trips into people's minds a habit), but the Master is more than adept at it. He relishes in tearing through memories and poking fun at personal and embarrassing thoughts.
You brace for it, relax your mind to accept it and ease the blow and…nothing. The Master sits in your mind for a long, long moment, then moves elsewhere, rewires parts of your pain center. He does it so quickly, you can't figure out what he's done, yet. You imagine you will, and it will take time to undo what he's done, but you'll manage. Just have to go with it. Stay strong while Martha's wandering the Earth. Keep Martha---
You silence your mind. That is one part of you he has yet to access. You refuse to give it up. Martha needs that chance.
The Master, however, doesn't seem to care about your stray thoughts. He finishes his rewiring and retreats to his own mind. He studies you again, then turns the cattle prod's strength down. No matter how low it is, it will still hurt, so your muscles tighten in anticipation.
The prod is pressed into your thigh, and your muscle twitches as pain rips through you. At the same time, it feels…good. Incredibly good. You're immediately returned to the feel of Reinette's lips pressed against your thigh as you "danced" in the palace at Versailles. The same deep, sexual pleasure is returned along with new, unbearable pain.
The noise that escapes your throat is not quite pain now. It's choked and incredibly confused.
"You never learn how to loosen up, my dear Doctor." Again, he's purring, but this time he's so close you can smell the alcohol heavy on his breath, and the sweat from whatever it is he's been doing today (killing Jack again and again most likely). Your body is clearly confused by the reaction to the prod, because you think he smells good.
"I've rewired your pain centers and your pleasure centers. Something that should hurt also feels very, very good. Along with the pain." He runs the prod along your inner thigh this time and the confusing mixture of sexual pleasure and intense pain returns. He traces the painful instrument up your thigh, then out. You can feel the bruises and marks it is leaving, but part of you doesn't care. It feels good for all that it hurts.
"Something that feels good, as well…" He wets a forefinger with the tip of his tongue and runs it along one of your nipples. The sudden, unexpected pleasure causes your body to buck, and the pain that comes with it makes you want to scream.
You feel the Master invading your mind again. He's checking on his work in there, brushing up against your emotions, seeing what you're feeling. Gloating, no doubt.
"Tut tut, Doctor. You should be grateful; I'm teaching you a new lesson in the pain-pleasure variant. I know you always liked to sleep through psychology courses, so it's like I’m giving you summer study. You should say thank you." He sounds sober, now, but you know he's not. He's just focused.
"I only have one thing to say to you," you repeat, and he cuts you off with a finger on your lips. The touch is delicate and light, and the softness of it makes the skin of your already cracked lips burn.
"You don't want to say it," the Master says, in a voice low and cool as if he were seducing a lover rather than chastising a victim. "You don't want me to stop." The cattle prod again, this time pressed to your collarbone. You cry out in pain, even as your body reacts to the pleasure.
Humiliation. It has to be about humiliation. Why else would he be doing this to you?
"Not everything is about you, Doctor." The cattle prod is removed, and the Master's mouth takes its place, suckling the raw skin. Your body is never one to react to those sort of advances, but the intensity of the experience causes you to scream even as your mind wails in confusion.
You want to demand to know what's going on. What the bloody hell is he doing? Why is he---what is all of this? But no. No, you only have one thing you will say to him.
"Then stay silent." The Master's lips crush down on yours, and you can't tell if he's kissing you gently or roughly because there's an equal rush of burning agony and unimaginable pleasure shooting through you from it. You don't return the kiss, but that hardly stops him from sweeping his tongue into your mouth and biting down on your swollen lips. 900 years of being bitter enemies and the last thing you ever expected was for him to snog you. Well, he's nothing if not unpredictable.
He moves astride you, one leg between yours and the other firmly on the table. You can feel how ridiculously erect he is from the entire experience. He rubs it against your thigh, over the red and swollen skin.
"You never notice anything beyond that perfect goodness you try to enforce, do you?" he demands as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. He presses the electric prod into your stomach and your body convulses as you cry out in pleasure.
Notice. What in Rassilon's name are you supposed to notice? Right now, you can't see anything past the haze of your zig-zagging emotions and nerve endings. His hand moves down and takes a hold of your involuntary erection, and you're fairly certain it's possible to die from a near-orgasm coupled with pain that sits at about a level 10.
"Doctor." He chokes out your name against your skin as he touches you, and you can swear he's pressing his own pleasure onto you (perhaps because it hurts to feel it).
You can't control yourself. You feel the name come from your mouth in an uncontrolled, pained cry. "Master."
He likes it when you use his name. He shows you he does by kissing you again and pressing the electric prod against your throat. You jerk and shake, but his kiss and his hand stay true and in perfect rhythm. It's involuntary, you imagine, but you find yourself returning the drunken kiss. It hurts to slide your tongue against his but you do and it feels good. He moans into your mouth, and that doesn't make any sense but maybe it does. Maybe it always did.
He cries out your name, suddenly, and you feel a white-hot streak of agony slide through you as he shares his orgasm. It's painful, but so good, and you feel your own body nearing release---
The Master's hand is suddenly gone, and he flicks off the cattle prod. He lets out a barking laugh against your mouth. Wide-eyed glee replaces the dark-eyed lust he had a moment ago.
"You know, sometimes the Missus just doesn't do it, you know?" he laughs again, and hops off where he was astride you. You can't help but stare at him. He steps forward and pokes your erection with a finger. He laughs again.
It's all about humiliation.
"You know, you never learn," he says, shaking his head. "Never notice things until 900 bloody years have passed and it's too late."
You feel the urge to ask what he's talking about because clearly, you're just not getting anything that's been going on. But you only have one thing to say to him. It's getting harder and harder to say it.
"I'm moving you out of this room. You can go back to being Granddad-Doctor. I'll even make you a tent. Rulers give tents to their concubines, don't they?" He laughs again, and stumbles towards the door.
You wonder if he's going to remember any of this in the morning. He's made himself so intoxicated; you wouldn't be surprised if he didn't.
You know that you…you will remember it. Your limbs ache from staying strapped to the table, but that feels good at the same time.
You just wish what he's done to your mind could turn humiliation back into pride.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 2,395