Fic: What Everyone Knows About Gallifreyans
Title: What Everyone Knows About Gallifreyans
Author: stick_poker
Beta: ms_prue , woo
Rating: Adult
Characters: Eleven, Amy, several others
About this: The kink-meme prompt summarises as 'tl;dr : The Doctor has tentacles instead of a wang, how does Amy react?' This raises many other questions, I feel (8,000 words of them, in fact), of which the first is 'how does she find out?'
Amy tries to ignore the feeling of her stomach rising within her. But then, she’s been having to ignore it all afternoon. The reduced gravity here robs her internal organs of their usual weight, and pressure sensors she never even knew she had aren’t giving her the usual answers. She wishes the Doctor had warned her, though, so she could have brought something to tie her hair down. It lifts away at the slightest impulse, making a waving halo around her head every time she moves it, which is nice but distracting.
And right now she needs to think. Jeavor, the alien she’d thought was on their side, has smashed the door controls, and stands by the hatch with a communicator in the tentacles of his hand. He’s threatening to call the police, and the police would quite reasonably arrest them for treason on the basis of what’s happened so far today. They’ll need to get out of here later, though, or the whole carefully balanced thing will fall to pieces.
She needs to think, think up a plan, because the Doctor seems inclined to give in to Jeavor’s demands. She wonders why she’s surprised, really; the Doctor will do all sorts of things to try to help people, or least be prepared to do them, from killing a star whale to fighting a monster he can’t see. Why should a demand for sex faze him? But it certainly worries her. Jeavor is, when you get down to it, a tripedal, tentacle-fingered, yellow-eyed Andophorian rebel, and she’s worried what he’s going to make the Doctor do.
The Doctor steals a glance back at their ally-turned-captor, from their tactical huddle on the other side of the chamber. “There’s nothing else we can do, Amy. I’m just going to have to.”
“But he’s... well...” stumbles Amy.
“What? A bit rough round the edges? Amy, you know he was brought here as a slave from another planet. He’s been working in the mines for decades.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s...”
“And there wasn’t exactly time for a bath after that dust storm.” He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, shaking more particles free; they drift slowly to the ground, but his hair stays ludicrously high aloft, his fringe floating over his forehead like a slow-motion wave.
“Doctor,” she hisses in exasperation, “which part of having sex with a tentacled alien do you not think is weird?”
His face crinkles with amusement. “Amy, I told you before; they’re muscular hydrostats. You’ve got one in your mouth.” He sticks his tongue out at her. “And as I recall, you didn’t mind shoving it in mine.”
She starts to protest further, but Jeavor clears his throat meaningfully.
The Doctor catches his eye in acknowledgement, then turns back to Amy, smoothing down her wayward locks, and he leans forward to kiss her forehead.
He straightens up and turns to face the renegade, taking a step towards him. Jeavor flows lithely away from the door post, pocketing the communicator. They slowly move together across the empty chamber, sizing each other up, and Amy shuffles nervously.
Jeavor is rather taller than the Doctor, when reared right up on his three base tentacles. The rough tunic he wears reveals the traces of scars on his boneless shoulders, and the fuzz of fur on top of his head is short and receding. His head is a little odd, broad, with those wide-set, yellow eyes, but at least his mouth looks normal. There is certainly something about him, a sort of battered ruggedness, that Amy can appreciate. She’d think about calling him attractive, if only it wasn’t for the mockery of hands that he has; a nest of tentacles at the end of each arm, too many to count, and always restlessly moving. It’s fascinating watching him pick something up, but she squirms at the thought of them touching her body. And even more at the idea of what else is likely to be... tentacled.
“Sorry, I’m not very familiar with how this goes with your species,” says the Doctor. “I mean I’ve met one or two before, but never...”
“Nor I with yours, Doctor,” smiles the battered alien. “Apart from what everyone hears about Gallifreyans. I’ve been looking forward to checking.” He raises a hand to the back of the Doctor’s neck, and the myriad of tentacles snake into his hair, tangling through it, massaging.
Something like a groan escapes him. Amy feels her stomach rise for reasons that have nothing to do with the gravity, but the Doctor just lifts his hand to Jeavor’s face, slides his fingers along his cheek, leans in closer as if to kiss him.
And stops just short. “My companion...” he says quietly. “She doesn’t have to see this. Or the deal is off.”
The renegade glances at Amy, and smiles. “It’s not her that interests me.”
“Right, then.”
There is a store cupboard at the back of the chamber, just a room full of spindly shelves and random boxes, and the Doctor herds her into it. She stares mutely at him, tries to reassure him with her eyes, unable to think what to say.
“Really, Amy, don’t worry. I’ll be okay.” The last thing she sees before he pulls the door closed is his tight smile, and she is once again astonished at what this man will put himself through for the greater good.
The door is closed but hardly soundproof, and she can hear low voices. She’s torn between wanting to stick her fingers in her ears and wanting to know what’s happening. Perhaps if it gets too outlandish she can burst out of the room and, and, overpower the alien that’s overpowering the Doctor? Yeah, right. She slumps down against the wall in resignation.
Her unwilling brain continues to catalogue the little sounds coming from next door: questions, and the slither of fabric; little wet noises, and the clump of discarded boots.
“No, that bit comes off too.”
“Fascinating.”
More unidentifiable noises, and was that a moan? This doesn’t sound like what she was expecting.
“Those stumpy things are more use than they look, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yeah. You can do a lot with a lever.”
A muffled sound, and then another busy silence, broken by -
“They don’t bend that way!” The Doctor’s shout makes her jump, but it’s immediately followed by a reassuring tone. “Sorry, higher-g planet, it’s levers all round. Well, almost all round.”
She frowns and wraps her arms round knees, wondering vaguely what she actually was expecting. There are more mysterious sounds, then -
“Mmm. Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely. Although hard to - perhaps it would be easier if we...?”
And then that was pretty unmistakeably a giggle. Two giggles, in fact. There’s an alien, no, there are two alien men next door, getting up to some sort of definition of sex, and they’re giggling.
Amy lasts another whole two seconds before cupping her ear to the crack in the door.
That breathy little moan has got to be the Doctor, hasn’t it? And the lower sound, the regular little grunt, that must be Jeavor. Suddenly fascinated despite everything, she tries to imagine what might be going on. If Jeavor’s got tentacles... down there, how does that work? Her imagination is failing her, and she stares blankly at the door. The closed door. But not a locked door.
She’ll have to stick her head out, but they sound busy enough that they might not notice. Quickly, before she can think herself out of it again, she turns the handle as quietly as possible, inches the door open, and takes a deep breath before peeking out.
Jeavor is on his back, cradling the Doctor in his sinuous arms. Two of his base tentacles coil around the Doctor’s legs where they straddle him, and the third rides up between his thighs, snaking folds over his arse and then extending up his back. But they seem to be lying still. From what she can see of the way they’re curled together, from their noises, they seem to be having fun, but there’s no thrusting, no movement, just the two of them pulled close, the Doctor’s face buried in Jeavor’s neck. For all that she wasn’t sure what to expect, she had at least thought it might be a bit less... static. And she can’t actually see what’s going on between them, which is quite frustrating.
As if on cue, the Doctor makes a different sort of moan and rears his torso up and back, his eyes still closed, his hands on the other alien’s broad chest. Her gaze takes in his pale body, travels down the line of him, past his navel, a line of dark hair, and then...
Her gasp of surprise is unstoppable. So is her squeak when the Doctor opens his eyes and glares at her.
“Do you mind, Pond?”
She retreats back into the cupboard and slams the door, her face burning.
----
They got out of the chamber, eventually. The prince’s children were led back into the sunlight, Jeavor got the promise of a pardon from the new administration, the police stopped chasing them for treason (although they started chasing them for theft of a transport unit instead) and generally the course of events that had been going to lead to the neutron implosion was averted.
But Amy can’t stop thinking of what she saw. Down between them, a nest of tentacles, and not just on Jeavor’s side, on the Doctor’s too. Right there at the apex of his groin, where she’d always imagined (and she had definitely imagined) a cock, there had been dozens of tentacles, sliding, twining, tangling. She eyes him nervously as she follows him back into the TARDIS, as if she can somehow tell by looking at him now, even though she never could before.
“Ha ha! Saving the day all round, eh? I think we deserve cake for that one, don’t we? There is a tea shop on Raxillion Gamma,” he declares, dancing round the console and jiggling controls, “where they serve a thing that, well, it’s basically Schrodinger’s Cake. No-one knows what flavour it is until the probability wave function collapses. Cake that’s not a flavour til you taste it! How about that?”
“Hmm. Maybe,” she replies. “What do the people look like?”
“What do you mean, what do they look like? They look like people.”
“No more tentacles?”
“Oh, I see,” he says, peering at her seriously around the rotor. “That was a dangerous thing you did there, little miss nosey. Jeavor could have taken offence, and then there’d have been trouble.”
“Why? What would he have done?”
“Well, he might have stopped, for one thing.” He reaches round the console, yanks on a lever, and the TARDIS shakes, sending Amy grabbing on to the nearest bit of anything to stay upright.
“Raxillion Gamma!” he shouts over the racket. “Marvellous place! I can’t believe we’ve never gone there before! The particle fields in the upper atmosphere...”
She settles into a comfortably wedged position for the rest of the high-volume lecture.
----
Once they’ve landed, she goes to shower, get the remains of the dust storm off before they hit the tea shop. The TARDIS has various sorts of shower, but she likes this one, just a small white cupboard-like space, with jets of water coming from the walls as well as overhead. With nothing to look at and nothing but the white noise of water for sound, with her body enveloped in steam and heat, her mind floats free.
And as so usually happens, turns to fantasy. Imagine him in here too, his hands gliding down her back, his mouth wet on hers. The hot water wrapping around both of them, pooling between them where her breasts press into his chest, where her hips slide against - oh god, the tentacles.
She waves her hands in the stream of water, trying to push the thought away, and gulps in lungfuls of steam. It’s not so much that she ever thought her imaginings would come true, but now she knows, how can she imagine him otherwise?
Okay, okay, think about this logically. Muscular hydrostats, he said, like a tongue. So it could be like... lots of little tongues. One tongue, one tongue on her is good, so how would lots of tongues be? Would they all move together, stroking in unison? Or independently? She didn’t get a long enough look to see. Some of them spreading her, like fingers, maybe, while others tease and explore her... That could be good.
But a tongue is wet. Would they be wet? And as soon as she wonders that she thinks slimy and has to shake her head to clear it, her hands pushing against the walls of the shower.
The mental image of him she has constructed smiles at her, waggles his fingers in a wave. And then he waggles something else too, and she fumbles blindly for the controls. The water switches abruptly off, and she starts wringing out her hair with somewhat unnecessary force.
----
Jam and almonds, like a good Bakewell, that one, definitely. It isn’t just slices of the cake that are different flavours, it’s every mouthful, which is entertaining, but a bit frustrating when some of them have been so tasty.
“Ooh, Circassian crunch fruit! Goes marvellously with the cream,” the Doctor enthuses.
She sections off another fork-full, lifts it to her mouth. Will this one be something alien?
She opens her eyes wide in alarm and swallows, fanning her mouth illogically and reaching for her tea-cup.
“Amy! Are you all right?” asks the Doctor, all concern.
“Yes, yes,” she waves after a slurp of tea (which, fortunately, just tastes like tea). “Lime pickle. The hot one, from the curry house in the market square.” She laughs her relief, the tea washing away the taste and the heat.
He smiles in return, and daintily pops in another piece himself. She’s still watching as his expression turns to internal concentration, followed by confusion.
“What? What’ve you got?”
He rolls his eyes upwards, waving a finger in the air, balancing the flavour on his tongue while he pins it down.
“Mmph. ’S definitely some sort of phyllosilicate,” he mumbles before swallowing, “but I can’t tell if it’s montmorillonite or palygorskite. Slippery customers, your phyllosilicates.” He screws his eyes up, squinting at the innocent-looking creamy yellow sponge.
The waitress, the thankfully non-tentacled, humanoid waitress, pauses by their table. Okay, mostly humanoid; she has got four arms, and four eyes, one pair set outside the other.
“Is everything all right for you?” she asks, looking between them both a little apprehensively.
“He’s fine,” Amy replies, “he’s just going all Gallifreyan again. I could use another pot of tea, though?”
The waitress stares at him for a bit longer, pairs of eyes blinking independently, then smiles hurriedly at Amy and bustles off in the direction of the kitchen.
“I am not!” he protests. “We don’t even have phyllosilicates on Gallifrey. Didn’t have.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Anyway, they’re common minerals on Earth. Clays.”
“But only you, Doctor, would recognise the taste of clay in cake form.” Even he can’t argue with that, so she turns her attention back to her plate.
The salty, savoury explosion on her tongue is thoroughly unexpected. She never liked smoked anything as a child, but as an adult, smoked haddock is tasty, although it doesn’t normally have the texture of cake. But while this is all unexpected, none of it seems to be new.
“How come I’m not getting any weird alien flavours?” she asks him. “I’d like to know what Circassian crunch fruit tastes like.”
“Ha ha, well done! I was wondering when you’d ask that. That’s how it does it, you see?”
“Does what?”
“The cake. It doesn’t really taste of anything, except cake. But your brain knows about lots of tastes, and with the right sort of prodding from the secret ingredients, you can remember them remarkably clearly.”
“So I’m only going to get flavours I’ve tasted before?” Why does that feel so disappointing?
“Well, I suppose that is one of the limitations. But remembering is good, isn’t it?”
“Huh. Nostalgia.” She hasn’t done enough with her life yet for nostalgia to be much fun.
He shovels another fork-full of cake into his mouth with a shrug, watching her thoughtfully.
“Is that why there are so many old people in here?” she muses.
His answering grin is quick, but slowly starts to dissolve as the cake brings him the memory of a flavour.
“What? Go on, you’ve got to tell me what that one is,” she laughs, but his face falls further, and he stares off into the middle distance like he hasn’t heard her.
The waitress arrives back with another pot of tea. Amy glances once, and then does a double-take to look at her properly. False eyelashes are even more noticeable when there are four of them fluttering determinedly, and Amy’s pretty sure her prim uniform wasn’t showing that much cleavage before. The lipstick’s quite attention-grabbing too, and all of this high-wattage pulling power is being aimed squarely at the Doctor.
He doesn’t even look at her, his fingers going to his lips. She leans one pair of hands on the table, lifting her shoulders, while the others fold behind her back, enhancing the cleavage effect even more.
“Is there anything else I can get you? Anything... at all?”
He finally notices her, gives her a brief little smile. “Ah, no, no thanks. I think... I think just the bill, please.” He dabs at his lips with a napkin, looks away, and eventually she gives a little huff, unposes herself and heads off back to the kitchen.
“What was all that about?” Amy whispers, with a smirk.
“Nothing! Nothing,” he replies. “I just thought that might be, ah, enough cake, for one day, don’t you think?”
“No, I meant her. The waitress.”
“What about her? From Raxillion Delta, I should think, before it blew up. Why, did she want something?”
She raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He sets off chattering about the particle fields again, and before long they’re heading for a nearby viewing point in the gathering darkness, to see the glowing light-show they produce just after sunset.
She watches, and wonders, and thinks about how many new things she’s actually tried.
----
No, that’s too much like him. She’s getting the hang of this visualisation interface thingy, now, the controller, but she doesn’t want him to look exactly like the Doctor; that would be weird. So, what, rein his hair in, and do something with that ridiculous jaw, too, though the green eyes can stay. It’s not really his face she’s interested in, anyway.
The Doctor has left her to her own devices in a shopping mall on fifty-first century Earth while he checks out some strange goings-on at a university, and it didn’t take her long to realise the potential of this particular store-front, or how wildly generous a sum of money she had access to. The credit chip flashes in the socket, and the message on the screen asks her to wait a moment while her Fantasy Companion (TM) is prepared.
According to the sales woman in the shop, with painless instant make-overs and all sorts of intelligent prosthetics available these days, the customer can get even more exactly what they want than ever before. Amy had walked right back out again when she’d twigged it was real people being altered. But some browsing at a data terminal told her it’s a fashionable job to do in your gap year, these days; being a kissogram was as far as she’d go, back in the twenty-first century, but if she was from here and now, well, maybe she might, too. She’d decided not to feel guilty about being a customer. And anyway, this could be her best opportunity to try a new flavour.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in the small room when the door opens and he walks in; a pleasant-looking young man, slim, with short, sandy hair. He looks almost familiar, somehow, but then the idea of him has come from her own head, so perhaps that’s no surprise. He’s wearing loose, neutral clothes, and she can’t help glancing at his crotch, but he just smiles when he notices, sits a short distance apart from her on the bed.
“Hi,” he says, his voice blandly pleasant. She hadn’t picked anything specific for that.
“Hello,” she replies, unable to tell if she sounds as nervous as she feels.
“Well. Since you didn’t specify a name, call me Kirrick,” he smiles. There were all sorts of options for names, role-playing, but that wasn’t the point either.
“Okay, but, look, the only thing I’m here for is - I just want to know - “
“Compatibility, right? How it feels with these particular non-human genitals?”
“That’s it, yeah.” God, it must be painfully obvious what a primitive she is round here.
“Well, don’t worry, I’m a bit of an expert in the tentacle field, and I can tell you, this is quite an effective form you’ve picked out. Very popular.” His knowing grin doesn’t do much for her confidence.
He reaches across the space between them, takes her hand. “But this is all for you, yes? All about exploring, if that’s what you want. We can take it as slow as you like.”
The touch of his warm, human, very normal hand is reassuring, and it somehow tips the balance and lets her be her usual bold self. She leans towards him, and when she kisses him, it’s new like it always is.
Things progress from there; she likes that he isn’t afraid to touch her, his palms skimming over her skin as she takes off more of her clothes, and yet he doesn’t push anything, ask anything of her. He removes his shirt when her hands have spent enough time under it that it’s irrelevant anyway, and even when she’s groped his delectable arse about as thoroughly as the thin trousers will allow, his questioning look makes it clear he wants to check before stripping them off.
And when he does, there it is, or they are, or whatever, right in front of her. They’re that flushed pink colour of anything with such thin skin, a bit paler at the roots, tapering to darker tips that flex in the air like curious creatures. Some of them as thick as a finger, many of them thinner; a couple of dozen or so in total, and she wonders idly if there’s an odd or even number of them. The Doctor’s probably got a prime number, knowing him, and the thought makes her smile.
“Can I...?” She reaches out tentative fingers towards him, still uncertain.
“Whatever you like.” He reclines on the bed, relaxed and open.
It seems they do move independently, but like a flock of little like-minded animals; when she touches one of them the others follow, the nearer ones curling round her fingers, the further ones trying to reach, tickling with their tips. They’re warm, and dry, and the skin puckers and shifts where they rub against her. She moves her hand deeper into the mass of them, letting them wrap around it, the strange muscular shapes flexing against her.
A moment later she’s aware of his hand lingering on her stomach, then pushing lower, his fingers curling between her thighs, but that’s fair enough, isn’t it? She lies down close to him, bending one knee to open herself to him, and it’s no surprise that he should be skilled at that. His fingers explore her, then rub leisurely circles on her clit, a gentle pleasuring. She sighs and draws her hand clear of him, leaving the tentacles stretching upwards, trying to follow the touch, and then she closes her fingers around the bunch of them, or as many of them as she can fit into her fist, anyway.
The significance of that dimension turns her eyes to saucers, and she looks at him in shock.
He laughs gently. “Not if you don’t want that much. See?”
The smaller tentacles on the outside wriggle down and out of her grip, and she’s left holding the thicker central ones. Pulled together like that they make, well, they make a suggestive kind of shape. She leans her head on his shoulder and giggles, and squeezes her hand around him.
When she feels the flexing pulse run along their length in return, she starts to realise why this might be such a popular arrangement.
His fingers stay on her clit when she swings her leg across his body, and she leans down to kiss him first, enjoying the feel of her excitement. But she has to stop that, close her eyes and concentrate as she lowers herself down, wondering if the first touch will freak her out after all.
Just one, first of all, just one thick tendril stroking against her, teasing its way along her entrance, and then another, moving with it. The two of them slip inside her, just a short way, exploring, and she knows then that she wants more. She catches his eye as she drops a little lower, and he’s watching her carefully, but there are more, another couple of them joining the others while his fingers still tease at her clit. She settles further onto them, feeling them stretch up inside her, and that’s good, that’s enough for now.
Some of the smaller ones are squirrelling around her entrance, they’re up to something, and that feels weird. She freezes above him, but he holds her gaze calmly. When he pulls his hand away, smaller tentacles replace his fingers on her clit, wet with her moisture and kneading, caressing. Not like a tongue after all, then; more like magical boneless fingers that know just where to press, just how to nudge against her to make this whole thing not just possible but amazing.
“Good?” he murmurs; the amusement in his eyes suggests he knows the answer already, but still he asks.
The remaining tentacles are lying quiescent between them, she can feel the smaller ones stretched along her thighs, the larger ones bunched up, pressed along either side of her cunt, and he’s not going to do anything else with them until she says. As if to remind her, as if she needs reminding, they flex briefly against her, an indescribable sensation against her most sensitive flesh. The problem now is that she’s not entirely sure she can speak right.
A groan escapes her, turning into a ‘yes’, and then she has to drop her head as more of them push inside her, sliding along each other. She moves against them instinctively and he holds them rigid, letting her ride him. And she does that with abandon, not thinking of anything else but the sensation of it, her cunt filled just right, the fingers that aren’t fingers working her clit until she comes shuddering and tense.
He laughs when she collapses into his arms, but he holds her close while she gets her breath back. She can feel how flushed she must look but she grins at him anyway.
“That’s one way to do it, certainly,” he remarks.
“What?”
“That’s one way. There are some others. If you want to try something more exploratory.”
She runs a hand through her hair, tipping her head back to look at him seriously. That’s got her intrigued, but of course, there must be more ways to use something so mobile, so flexible. Even a moment’s thought about that, in fact -
“Oh. Yes.” Oh yes.
His arms tighten around her and he rolls them swiftly over, and even a few minutes ago that would have worried her but now she stretches out luxuriantly under him. He balances above her, guides one of her legs a little higher, tucks one hip snug against the plane of her thigh.
“Now. Do you mind terribly if I do some showing off?” he asks, only half-joking by the sound of it.
She slips an arm round his neck, the other along his back, looking down at the way they intersect. Human bodies doing something they weren’t designed for, but with human ingenuity, it’s amazing what they can get up to.
“Go on, then. Show me why you’re popular, tentacle boy.”
She sees him smile, but he closes his eyes in concentration. A moment later there is the lightest touch on her, a single strand, almost tickling, and the touch travels along her, moving up towards her clit. And there is another, following the first, tracing a slightly different path, and then a third, while the first pauses, presses a little harder against her, then flicks away. More and more of them in a steady procession, each going somewhere slightly different, some of them dipping just into her, some of them lingering a little longer. It’s like fingers tracing along her, but so many of them, or a tongue darting against her but split into so many pieces, touching so many places at once, that it feels impossible.
No, it’s like what it is. One of them folds around the hood of her clit and tightens for a instant, and nothing else can do that. The shapes that dart into her, unfurling their length inside her before withdrawing, there’s only one thing they can be. Those are tentacles dancing against her, working her so skilfully, and she’s enjoying every second of it. She looks at his intent expression, and down to where he touches her, and then gives up trying to keep any sort of track of what he’s doing.
Perhaps Jeavor misses his own kind and the Doctor makes a good substitute, but that waitress must have been nothing other than a, a tentacle-chaser, and Amy’s beginning to wonder if she might be one too. Kirrick is a human controlling something artificial, even if he’s an expert and concentrating hard, so imagine what this could be like with the Doctor, where he was born to it and has had nine hundred years to practise... No wonder people hear Gallifreyan and turn loopy.
She is breathless with it, the myriad of stroking, questing tendrils on her, and she can feel herself trembling. Nothing deep, nothing hard against her, just the complicated pattern of the dance, and the excitement it teases out of her. The swollen hardness of her clit is at the centre of it, every brushing contact and leisurely flick against it sparking inside her.
The ecstatic shiver of her orgasm is as light as his touch but even as it passes through her she can feel his hands move, fastening onto the angles of her hips. A second later she cries out when instead of tentative darting there’s a determined rush, a mass of writhing flesh pushing hard into her.
She gapes at him in shock, and he stills, eyes turned up to watch her, but she is full, so full of him, stretched tight around him. It takes her a moment to remember to breathe, even, and then she takes faltering, shuddering breaths, trying to deal with so much sensation all at once.
This is part of it, too, isn’t it? They can tickle and tease but they’re strong, they’re bundles of powerful muscle, and there’s more of them than she can take. More of them than she thought she could take. She looks at Kirrick’s face but she imagines the Doctor, how he might look at her if he ever stuffed her cunt so full of his tentacled alien cock she couldn’t even breathe.
But it’s starting to feel, if not natural, then manageable. Her breaths become more regular, and only when her hands relax does she realise how tight she was gripping Kirrick’s neck. He must have been waiting for that, though, because as soon as she does something shifts inside her, the pressure flashing through her, and she gasps again.
She could stop him, she’s certain of that. She’s done something new, now, and she doesn’t have to like everything that’s new, even if she likes some of it. But stopping him means never being able to fantasise freely about the Doctor again, closing off something she always thought he might be for her, in a way more effective than any of his denials. It still means giving up, and she’s not giving up yet, not on dreaming, and not on what’s happening right now.
She makes a determined effort to relax into it, spreading her arms open wide, letting her head fall back, concentrating on the sensation of all that mass stretching her taut. Very slowly, because taking it suddenly away would hurt as much as moving further in, she feels him pull back just a little. The pulse of sensation as the heaving mass expands back into her makes her hands twist in the sheets but it is, she can’t deny it, good. He does it again, and she whimpers with pleasure.
His satisfied smirk is so like the one she’d imagine the Doctor would wear that she almost wants to slap him, but that needs more control than she’s got left. Instead she watches him in wordless, helpless awe while the powerful shapes inside her start to flex rhythmically, making her rock her hips in sympathy. Another impossible pattern, something no simple human cock could ever give her, the palpating waves of it moving up inside her. There’s even a fold, a loop of one tentacle grinding at her G-spot, making her wetter, building her heat, and she forces her thighs further apart, trying to open herself as far as she can to it. She runs her hands into her hair, arching back while thrusting tentacles of an alien sex fill her to the brink and she moans in delight at it.
And just when she thought she might be handling all these impossibilities somehow, there is one more, because with the Doctor there always would be. The tangle of flesh inside her twists. Not even all at once, in a shifting, pulsing sequence, every kink of every tentacle knuckling at her as they turn, and it’s mind-blowing.
She is determined to keep this together, though, take the most alien sensation she’s ever felt and use it, the power and the pleasure of it. She claws desperately at him, wanting something else but not knowing what. But when one small tentacle whips up to her clit and folds across it, raking back and forth, she finds out. She comes shouting, her head spinning, her body aching with it, her cunt flooding around him, but holding on to a new secret, something she never knew before about what she can take.
If Kirrick knows she was thinking of someone else, if he hears her whisper ‘Doctor’ as she surfs back down the enormous wave of satisfaction, he doesn’t let on. He pulls out of her slowly, withdrawing a few tentacles at a time not to leave her suddenly empty, and wraps an arm around her while she sprawls across the bed, thoroughly dishevelled and not caring at all.
Eventually she comes down far enough to think of something else. She rolls up on her side to look at him, one hand resting on his chest.
“What about you?” she asks, her hand straying down to his hip, touching a single waving tentacle with her forefinger. It submits to her control, letting her wind it round her finger like a lock of hair. “Can you, you know, get off, like this? With me?”
“Yeah, don’t you think I would have if I could?” he laughs. “The limits of the tech, I’m afraid, and what you can wire a human brain to deal with. If this was natural, there would be ways.”
“Really?” She lets her fingers tangle through him, the tentacles catching at them, twining round them. “How?” They’re slick with wetness now, but that’s from her, not him.
“That’s a good start. Bit more, um, resistance, though.”
Fascinated all over again, she moves her hand in the caressing mass, curling her fingers delicately, trying not to trap anything. She tugs gently against the handful of tendrils and they tighten in response, hooking together, and then releasing as she does, stretching further along her fingers to bring more of them into contact. The rhythm is right there to be found, twining tighter as she pulls, sliding looser as she releases, a pattern of pulsing movement that could so easily build to something intense. She can feel it and so can he, a soft moan escaping him despite his claims about the limitations of wiring.
“Mmm, yes,” he murmurs. “That’s it. I guess this Doctor is going to be one happy man, eh?”
She stops and stares at him, temporarily speechless.
“Sorry! Sorry. Stupid of me.” He puts a hand to her shoulder, squeezes it. “Compatibility checking; there’s usually someone particular in mind. But I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No, it’s...” She slumps alongside him, unsure how to explain.
“Ah. Someone you can’t have? Well, we get that too.” He groans and turns away, though, when he sees her stricken expression. “Sorry, just ignore me, please. I keep getting warnings, would you believe, and they never seem to take. I mean, you’re here to have some fun, and I’m...”
She sighs, takes his hand, lacing her fingers between his. “No, it’s okay. Someone I can’t have, I think.” Or she thought; what about now? “But it’s nice to know how well it could work.”
He clasps her hand in return, not answering in case he blows it again.
“Seriously. It’s not like I haven’t had my money’s worth, is it?”
“Well, thanks,” he smiles ruefully. “Kind of you to say. Anyway, you ought to try it with a real Andophorian sometime, your one or not; this bit’s pretty good, but you’d be amazed at what those leg tentacles can get up to.”
She laughs in return. “Maybe. I’ll have to have a think about that. Although he’s not, the Doctor, that is, he’s not an Andophorian.”
“Really? I thought, from the... Sorry, sorry, assuming again. God, I’m always rubbish at this end of the job. Not an Andophorian. Right.”
She smiles, and decides to answer his diligently unasked question anyway, since their reputation seems to precede them.
“Gallifreyan.”
“What?” he turns to look at her in surprise.
“He’s Gallifreyan. The Doctor.”
It starts as a little splutter of laughter, but it soon turns into great gales of it, and she doesn’t know what to make of it at all. It’s quite a while before he can explain.
----
The high priestess lauds Ainia in glowing tones, praising her courage and her cunning, her excellence in training but also her amazing nerve in action, and frankly she deserves it. They would never have got out of that one, and the city wouldn’t be standing now, without Ainia’s strength and speed. Her sheer irrepressible vitality glows from her like an aura as she stands before the dais, and Amy’s pleased to see her getting her due reward.
Mind you, they also wouldn’t have got out of that one without the Doctor’s knowledge of the local flora, Amy’s knack with getting into places she shouldn’t be in, and the plan they’d cooked up between them with about two minutes’ notice. Ainia had said herself that the three of them made a pretty good team.
The pick of the local men line one wall of the chamber. Apparently they’re all from good families, and the society husbands have been training them up to be suitable marrying material, but Amy’s not entirely sure she’s convinced. They wear close-fitting trousers and gauzy tops, showing off their pale skin and slender limbs. Smoky eyes smoulder over painted lips, and they look modestly downwards, the bolder ones sending covert glances to Ainia’s troop of warriors when they can. They’re cute and all, but a bit disconcerting en masse. According to the Doctor, though, the whole colony planet is like this; a 32nd-century human experiment in going back to sharply separated gender roles.
Maybe that’s why they haven’t left yet. The Doctor isn’t normally one to hang around for victory speeches, but in order to get anything at all done round here at all he’s had to fit in a bit. Amy wanted to see the temple, and so they came to the temple, and now he waits just behind her shoulder, as he ought to. She stands up a bit straighter, feeling a little self-conscious on the end of the line of priestesses; she’s a bit masculine, round here, with her slim frame and her distinct lack of, well, chest. Whatever combination of pecs and breasts it is that makes Ainia’s leather armour strain like that, anyway.
“Heroism of this level does not go unrewarded, Ainia,” the high priestess declares. “The inner sanctum is open to you, and you will take your champion’s reward in the sight of the Holy Goddess. She will look down upon your offering and bestow her bliss upon you.”
Ainia answers in a respectful tone. “Thank you, Your Holiness. It is indeed a great honour that you offer me.”
“It only remains for you to choose your companion. Who will serve you in the inner sanctum, Ainia? Who is worthy to feel the power of the Goddess with you?”
The warrior turns her head to the line of men, and for the first time Amy sees indecision in her face. She glances at the priestess again, and then paces slowly, pensively to where the men wait for her. Some of them simper and glance at her, and some of them try to look demure. Some adjust their poses, showing off their shape, not that the clothes leave much to the imagination anyway. Amy blinks and looks away when she realises how many of them have visible hard-ons.
Ainia reaches the end of the line, and begins a hesitant return along it. She gives Amy a distracted smile of recognition as she draws nearer, but then something seems to strike her and her face clears. She strides back up the hall, disregarding the line of foppish young men, heading straight for Amy. Her dark eyes shine with resolution, her mighty chest heaves in its confinement, and just for a second, just as her hand reaches out, Amy wonders what’s she’s getting into next.
“You will lend him to me, sister?” Ainia asks in a low voice, her hand reaching out past her shoulder.
“Oh. Yes! Yes, of course.” A grin unfolds across her face and she turns to see the Doctor staring up at Ainia in shock, her golden-skinned hand smoothing his hair away from his cheek. There is a rush of gasps in the crowd behind them, as the idea takes hold that she might be considering this half-wild stranger.
“No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly...” he stumbles, “I mean, obviously, honoured and all that, but really, I’m sure I’m not the right man for the job...”
Ainia touches her fingers to his chin, lifting it. “He is modest,” she declares to the room.
“Modest, okay, but all those lovely young men over there,” he gestures wildly, “well, I mean, look at them, much prettier than me...”
“He does not display himself for women’s eyes, but I have watched him. I have seen the form he hides,” she runs her fingers down the length of his neck, pushes the collar of his jacket fractionally further open, her voice dropping to an intimate tone, “and I do not believe it was made to be hidden.”
He stares at her incredulously, and there are a few open-mouthed seconds before he can summon a reply.
“Blimey. Right. But I’m not at all the thing round here, I assure you. What with my independent turn of mind, I mean, I’m positively rude sometimes. I’m sure I’d offend the Goddess.” In his desperate search for an excuse he lights on Amy. “Tell her, Amy, tell her I’m rude!”
“I wouldn’t say ‘rude’, exactly,” Amy remarks. “More like too clever for his own good.”
“His mind has not been dulled by the petty distractions our men squabble over.” Ainia's voice rises over the increasing hubbub of the crowd. “His intelligence is worthy of a woman! Let his reward be the service of the Goddess!”
He closes his eyes in apparent resignation when she takes his hand, and he doesn’t actually resist as she leads him to the centre of the dais. Amy tries not to laugh too much; there’s still some work to do on the equal rights movement round here, then, but it’s a start.
Acolytes pull curtains aside from the base of the huge statue at the head of the temple, revealing the altar. The big, flat, suspiciously soft-looking altar. More acolytes are trying to undress the Doctor and he slaps their hands away, but he gets on with the job himself, even if he looks a little sulky about it. Ainia watches him with amusement while the priestesses tend to her, unlacing the fastenings of her body armour, removing greaves and bracers, even unbraiding her long, black hair.
Ainia may well be the awesome result of unusual circumstances, some selective breeding and years of dedicated training, but whatever else she is, she’s human. And out here on the end of the line, from this angle, Amy’s got a remarkably good view of the Doctor, standing naked with his back to the altar while the high priestess intones a solemn prayer. Amy hadn’t been entirely sure whether to believe Kirrick, and the databanks were unusually coy on the subject when she tried to check, but there’s no doubting the evidence of her eyes.
He catches Amy watching him and she half expects him to glare at her, but it’s more of a ‘don’t you dare say anything’ sort of expression. When his eyes return to Ainia’s towering frame, it looks like he’s warming to the idea of serving the Goddess after all.
Once the prayer of dedication is finished, Ainia doesn’t waste any time, but then again it’s evident he doesn’t need her to. She pushes him roughly back onto the altar, one hand pressing down on his chest, and the other takes hold of his erect cock, stroking the shaft of it, making sure he’s good and hard for her.
According to Kirrick, once humans had spread across enough of the galaxy, and started having the right sort of conversations with other aliens, some anthropologist had worked out why the Gallifreyans got about so much. And the Gallifreyans had primly denied it, apparently, but the idea hangs around like an intergalactic urban myth, even now almost all of them are gone. So right now what Ainia’s got her hands on looks like a pretty typical example of a human penis, if rather on the large side; if you’re going to evolve genitals that change to match whichever species you’re mating with, after all, they may as well satisfy as many expectations as they can.
Part of her wonders if perhaps she shouldn’t watch, but that’s just her twenty-first century values showing; this is a serious ceremony, and the rest of the priestesses look on with quiet approval. Ainia has his hands pinned to the altar above his head, and the sleek muscles of her thighs flex as she takes him, a noise of satisfaction escaping her as she fills herself with his length.
Maybe he’s bored of humans these days, when there are always new flavours to be trying. Then again, maybe not, judging by the way he pulls one hand free of hers, takes hold of her hip, uses the leverage to thrust deeper into her. It makes her sway over him, spilling her long hair over his chest, moaning in delight. The priestesses look from one to another uncertainly, and Amy suspects they’re not used to someone who doesn’t just lie back and think of the Goddess.
So does he have a human cock by default when Amy’s around? Does he hang around with humans because he prefers that to anything else? She can’t see his face, now, but it would be difficult to conclude he’s not enjoying this, even when Ainia leans back, stretches her arm down behind her and grabs hold of his balls. If that’s meant to make him behave it doesn’t, and he carries on bucking under her, his other hand caught round her wrist in the air between them.
How long does it take him to reconfigure? Does anyone ever see the change? And why is he trying to wind her up? Ainia grabs his hand on her hip and pulls it away, and now it’s hard to tell if they’re fucking or wrestling, arms locked against each other, the bulk of her shoulders rippling. When she slams his hands down flat out on the surface, though, when she leans down over him and starts to pound her hips against him, Amy thinks that might be one question answered.
Can you request the tentacles anyway? Can he control what it looks like even within the particular type? Although presumably Ainia likes what he’s got this time, given her steadily rising grunts of satisfaction as she uses him hard. There’s another sound coming from there too and it might be pleasure or it might just be the breath being forced out of him, but either way he’s probably finding out something interesting under there.
What happens, it occurs to her as Ainia’s exuberance continues, if you get him into bed with two different species at once? So many unanswered questions, so many things to learn out here in the universe, and she grins to herself. All of space and time, everything that ever happened or ever will, and she’s only just getting started.
Author: stick_poker
Beta: ms_prue , woo
Rating: Adult
Characters: Eleven, Amy, several others
About this: The kink-meme prompt summarises as 'tl;dr : The Doctor has tentacles instead of a wang, how does Amy react?' This raises many other questions, I feel (8,000 words of them, in fact), of which the first is 'how does she find out?'
Amy tries to ignore the feeling of her stomach rising within her. But then, she’s been having to ignore it all afternoon. The reduced gravity here robs her internal organs of their usual weight, and pressure sensors she never even knew she had aren’t giving her the usual answers. She wishes the Doctor had warned her, though, so she could have brought something to tie her hair down. It lifts away at the slightest impulse, making a waving halo around her head every time she moves it, which is nice but distracting.
And right now she needs to think. Jeavor, the alien she’d thought was on their side, has smashed the door controls, and stands by the hatch with a communicator in the tentacles of his hand. He’s threatening to call the police, and the police would quite reasonably arrest them for treason on the basis of what’s happened so far today. They’ll need to get out of here later, though, or the whole carefully balanced thing will fall to pieces.
She needs to think, think up a plan, because the Doctor seems inclined to give in to Jeavor’s demands. She wonders why she’s surprised, really; the Doctor will do all sorts of things to try to help people, or least be prepared to do them, from killing a star whale to fighting a monster he can’t see. Why should a demand for sex faze him? But it certainly worries her. Jeavor is, when you get down to it, a tripedal, tentacle-fingered, yellow-eyed Andophorian rebel, and she’s worried what he’s going to make the Doctor do.
The Doctor steals a glance back at their ally-turned-captor, from their tactical huddle on the other side of the chamber. “There’s nothing else we can do, Amy. I’m just going to have to.”
“But he’s... well...” stumbles Amy.
“What? A bit rough round the edges? Amy, you know he was brought here as a slave from another planet. He’s been working in the mines for decades.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s...”
“And there wasn’t exactly time for a bath after that dust storm.” He runs his fingers roughly through his hair, shaking more particles free; they drift slowly to the ground, but his hair stays ludicrously high aloft, his fringe floating over his forehead like a slow-motion wave.
“Doctor,” she hisses in exasperation, “which part of having sex with a tentacled alien do you not think is weird?”
His face crinkles with amusement. “Amy, I told you before; they’re muscular hydrostats. You’ve got one in your mouth.” He sticks his tongue out at her. “And as I recall, you didn’t mind shoving it in mine.”
She starts to protest further, but Jeavor clears his throat meaningfully.
The Doctor catches his eye in acknowledgement, then turns back to Amy, smoothing down her wayward locks, and he leans forward to kiss her forehead.
He straightens up and turns to face the renegade, taking a step towards him. Jeavor flows lithely away from the door post, pocketing the communicator. They slowly move together across the empty chamber, sizing each other up, and Amy shuffles nervously.
Jeavor is rather taller than the Doctor, when reared right up on his three base tentacles. The rough tunic he wears reveals the traces of scars on his boneless shoulders, and the fuzz of fur on top of his head is short and receding. His head is a little odd, broad, with those wide-set, yellow eyes, but at least his mouth looks normal. There is certainly something about him, a sort of battered ruggedness, that Amy can appreciate. She’d think about calling him attractive, if only it wasn’t for the mockery of hands that he has; a nest of tentacles at the end of each arm, too many to count, and always restlessly moving. It’s fascinating watching him pick something up, but she squirms at the thought of them touching her body. And even more at the idea of what else is likely to be... tentacled.
“Sorry, I’m not very familiar with how this goes with your species,” says the Doctor. “I mean I’ve met one or two before, but never...”
“Nor I with yours, Doctor,” smiles the battered alien. “Apart from what everyone hears about Gallifreyans. I’ve been looking forward to checking.” He raises a hand to the back of the Doctor’s neck, and the myriad of tentacles snake into his hair, tangling through it, massaging.
Something like a groan escapes him. Amy feels her stomach rise for reasons that have nothing to do with the gravity, but the Doctor just lifts his hand to Jeavor’s face, slides his fingers along his cheek, leans in closer as if to kiss him.
And stops just short. “My companion...” he says quietly. “She doesn’t have to see this. Or the deal is off.”
The renegade glances at Amy, and smiles. “It’s not her that interests me.”
“Right, then.”
There is a store cupboard at the back of the chamber, just a room full of spindly shelves and random boxes, and the Doctor herds her into it. She stares mutely at him, tries to reassure him with her eyes, unable to think what to say.
“Really, Amy, don’t worry. I’ll be okay.” The last thing she sees before he pulls the door closed is his tight smile, and she is once again astonished at what this man will put himself through for the greater good.
The door is closed but hardly soundproof, and she can hear low voices. She’s torn between wanting to stick her fingers in her ears and wanting to know what’s happening. Perhaps if it gets too outlandish she can burst out of the room and, and, overpower the alien that’s overpowering the Doctor? Yeah, right. She slumps down against the wall in resignation.
Her unwilling brain continues to catalogue the little sounds coming from next door: questions, and the slither of fabric; little wet noises, and the clump of discarded boots.
“No, that bit comes off too.”
“Fascinating.”
More unidentifiable noises, and was that a moan? This doesn’t sound like what she was expecting.
“Those stumpy things are more use than they look, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yeah. You can do a lot with a lever.”
A muffled sound, and then another busy silence, broken by -
“They don’t bend that way!” The Doctor’s shout makes her jump, but it’s immediately followed by a reassuring tone. “Sorry, higher-g planet, it’s levers all round. Well, almost all round.”
She frowns and wraps her arms round knees, wondering vaguely what she actually was expecting. There are more mysterious sounds, then -
“Mmm. Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely. Although hard to - perhaps it would be easier if we...?”
And then that was pretty unmistakeably a giggle. Two giggles, in fact. There’s an alien, no, there are two alien men next door, getting up to some sort of definition of sex, and they’re giggling.
Amy lasts another whole two seconds before cupping her ear to the crack in the door.
That breathy little moan has got to be the Doctor, hasn’t it? And the lower sound, the regular little grunt, that must be Jeavor. Suddenly fascinated despite everything, she tries to imagine what might be going on. If Jeavor’s got tentacles... down there, how does that work? Her imagination is failing her, and she stares blankly at the door. The closed door. But not a locked door.
She’ll have to stick her head out, but they sound busy enough that they might not notice. Quickly, before she can think herself out of it again, she turns the handle as quietly as possible, inches the door open, and takes a deep breath before peeking out.
Jeavor is on his back, cradling the Doctor in his sinuous arms. Two of his base tentacles coil around the Doctor’s legs where they straddle him, and the third rides up between his thighs, snaking folds over his arse and then extending up his back. But they seem to be lying still. From what she can see of the way they’re curled together, from their noises, they seem to be having fun, but there’s no thrusting, no movement, just the two of them pulled close, the Doctor’s face buried in Jeavor’s neck. For all that she wasn’t sure what to expect, she had at least thought it might be a bit less... static. And she can’t actually see what’s going on between them, which is quite frustrating.
As if on cue, the Doctor makes a different sort of moan and rears his torso up and back, his eyes still closed, his hands on the other alien’s broad chest. Her gaze takes in his pale body, travels down the line of him, past his navel, a line of dark hair, and then...
Her gasp of surprise is unstoppable. So is her squeak when the Doctor opens his eyes and glares at her.
“Do you mind, Pond?”
She retreats back into the cupboard and slams the door, her face burning.
----
They got out of the chamber, eventually. The prince’s children were led back into the sunlight, Jeavor got the promise of a pardon from the new administration, the police stopped chasing them for treason (although they started chasing them for theft of a transport unit instead) and generally the course of events that had been going to lead to the neutron implosion was averted.
But Amy can’t stop thinking of what she saw. Down between them, a nest of tentacles, and not just on Jeavor’s side, on the Doctor’s too. Right there at the apex of his groin, where she’d always imagined (and she had definitely imagined) a cock, there had been dozens of tentacles, sliding, twining, tangling. She eyes him nervously as she follows him back into the TARDIS, as if she can somehow tell by looking at him now, even though she never could before.
“Ha ha! Saving the day all round, eh? I think we deserve cake for that one, don’t we? There is a tea shop on Raxillion Gamma,” he declares, dancing round the console and jiggling controls, “where they serve a thing that, well, it’s basically Schrodinger’s Cake. No-one knows what flavour it is until the probability wave function collapses. Cake that’s not a flavour til you taste it! How about that?”
“Hmm. Maybe,” she replies. “What do the people look like?”
“What do you mean, what do they look like? They look like people.”
“No more tentacles?”
“Oh, I see,” he says, peering at her seriously around the rotor. “That was a dangerous thing you did there, little miss nosey. Jeavor could have taken offence, and then there’d have been trouble.”
“Why? What would he have done?”
“Well, he might have stopped, for one thing.” He reaches round the console, yanks on a lever, and the TARDIS shakes, sending Amy grabbing on to the nearest bit of anything to stay upright.
“Raxillion Gamma!” he shouts over the racket. “Marvellous place! I can’t believe we’ve never gone there before! The particle fields in the upper atmosphere...”
She settles into a comfortably wedged position for the rest of the high-volume lecture.
----
Once they’ve landed, she goes to shower, get the remains of the dust storm off before they hit the tea shop. The TARDIS has various sorts of shower, but she likes this one, just a small white cupboard-like space, with jets of water coming from the walls as well as overhead. With nothing to look at and nothing but the white noise of water for sound, with her body enveloped in steam and heat, her mind floats free.
And as so usually happens, turns to fantasy. Imagine him in here too, his hands gliding down her back, his mouth wet on hers. The hot water wrapping around both of them, pooling between them where her breasts press into his chest, where her hips slide against - oh god, the tentacles.
She waves her hands in the stream of water, trying to push the thought away, and gulps in lungfuls of steam. It’s not so much that she ever thought her imaginings would come true, but now she knows, how can she imagine him otherwise?
Okay, okay, think about this logically. Muscular hydrostats, he said, like a tongue. So it could be like... lots of little tongues. One tongue, one tongue on her is good, so how would lots of tongues be? Would they all move together, stroking in unison? Or independently? She didn’t get a long enough look to see. Some of them spreading her, like fingers, maybe, while others tease and explore her... That could be good.
But a tongue is wet. Would they be wet? And as soon as she wonders that she thinks slimy and has to shake her head to clear it, her hands pushing against the walls of the shower.
The mental image of him she has constructed smiles at her, waggles his fingers in a wave. And then he waggles something else too, and she fumbles blindly for the controls. The water switches abruptly off, and she starts wringing out her hair with somewhat unnecessary force.
----
Jam and almonds, like a good Bakewell, that one, definitely. It isn’t just slices of the cake that are different flavours, it’s every mouthful, which is entertaining, but a bit frustrating when some of them have been so tasty.
“Ooh, Circassian crunch fruit! Goes marvellously with the cream,” the Doctor enthuses.
She sections off another fork-full, lifts it to her mouth. Will this one be something alien?
She opens her eyes wide in alarm and swallows, fanning her mouth illogically and reaching for her tea-cup.
“Amy! Are you all right?” asks the Doctor, all concern.
“Yes, yes,” she waves after a slurp of tea (which, fortunately, just tastes like tea). “Lime pickle. The hot one, from the curry house in the market square.” She laughs her relief, the tea washing away the taste and the heat.
He smiles in return, and daintily pops in another piece himself. She’s still watching as his expression turns to internal concentration, followed by confusion.
“What? What’ve you got?”
He rolls his eyes upwards, waving a finger in the air, balancing the flavour on his tongue while he pins it down.
“Mmph. ’S definitely some sort of phyllosilicate,” he mumbles before swallowing, “but I can’t tell if it’s montmorillonite or palygorskite. Slippery customers, your phyllosilicates.” He screws his eyes up, squinting at the innocent-looking creamy yellow sponge.
The waitress, the thankfully non-tentacled, humanoid waitress, pauses by their table. Okay, mostly humanoid; she has got four arms, and four eyes, one pair set outside the other.
“Is everything all right for you?” she asks, looking between them both a little apprehensively.
“He’s fine,” Amy replies, “he’s just going all Gallifreyan again. I could use another pot of tea, though?”
The waitress stares at him for a bit longer, pairs of eyes blinking independently, then smiles hurriedly at Amy and bustles off in the direction of the kitchen.
“I am not!” he protests. “We don’t even have phyllosilicates on Gallifrey. Didn’t have.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Anyway, they’re common minerals on Earth. Clays.”
“But only you, Doctor, would recognise the taste of clay in cake form.” Even he can’t argue with that, so she turns her attention back to her plate.
The salty, savoury explosion on her tongue is thoroughly unexpected. She never liked smoked anything as a child, but as an adult, smoked haddock is tasty, although it doesn’t normally have the texture of cake. But while this is all unexpected, none of it seems to be new.
“How come I’m not getting any weird alien flavours?” she asks him. “I’d like to know what Circassian crunch fruit tastes like.”
“Ha ha, well done! I was wondering when you’d ask that. That’s how it does it, you see?”
“Does what?”
“The cake. It doesn’t really taste of anything, except cake. But your brain knows about lots of tastes, and with the right sort of prodding from the secret ingredients, you can remember them remarkably clearly.”
“So I’m only going to get flavours I’ve tasted before?” Why does that feel so disappointing?
“Well, I suppose that is one of the limitations. But remembering is good, isn’t it?”
“Huh. Nostalgia.” She hasn’t done enough with her life yet for nostalgia to be much fun.
He shovels another fork-full of cake into his mouth with a shrug, watching her thoughtfully.
“Is that why there are so many old people in here?” she muses.
His answering grin is quick, but slowly starts to dissolve as the cake brings him the memory of a flavour.
“What? Go on, you’ve got to tell me what that one is,” she laughs, but his face falls further, and he stares off into the middle distance like he hasn’t heard her.
The waitress arrives back with another pot of tea. Amy glances once, and then does a double-take to look at her properly. False eyelashes are even more noticeable when there are four of them fluttering determinedly, and Amy’s pretty sure her prim uniform wasn’t showing that much cleavage before. The lipstick’s quite attention-grabbing too, and all of this high-wattage pulling power is being aimed squarely at the Doctor.
He doesn’t even look at her, his fingers going to his lips. She leans one pair of hands on the table, lifting her shoulders, while the others fold behind her back, enhancing the cleavage effect even more.
“Is there anything else I can get you? Anything... at all?”
He finally notices her, gives her a brief little smile. “Ah, no, no thanks. I think... I think just the bill, please.” He dabs at his lips with a napkin, looks away, and eventually she gives a little huff, unposes herself and heads off back to the kitchen.
“What was all that about?” Amy whispers, with a smirk.
“Nothing! Nothing,” he replies. “I just thought that might be, ah, enough cake, for one day, don’t you think?”
“No, I meant her. The waitress.”
“What about her? From Raxillion Delta, I should think, before it blew up. Why, did she want something?”
She raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He sets off chattering about the particle fields again, and before long they’re heading for a nearby viewing point in the gathering darkness, to see the glowing light-show they produce just after sunset.
She watches, and wonders, and thinks about how many new things she’s actually tried.
----
No, that’s too much like him. She’s getting the hang of this visualisation interface thingy, now, the controller, but she doesn’t want him to look exactly like the Doctor; that would be weird. So, what, rein his hair in, and do something with that ridiculous jaw, too, though the green eyes can stay. It’s not really his face she’s interested in, anyway.
The Doctor has left her to her own devices in a shopping mall on fifty-first century Earth while he checks out some strange goings-on at a university, and it didn’t take her long to realise the potential of this particular store-front, or how wildly generous a sum of money she had access to. The credit chip flashes in the socket, and the message on the screen asks her to wait a moment while her Fantasy Companion (TM) is prepared.
According to the sales woman in the shop, with painless instant make-overs and all sorts of intelligent prosthetics available these days, the customer can get even more exactly what they want than ever before. Amy had walked right back out again when she’d twigged it was real people being altered. But some browsing at a data terminal told her it’s a fashionable job to do in your gap year, these days; being a kissogram was as far as she’d go, back in the twenty-first century, but if she was from here and now, well, maybe she might, too. She’d decided not to feel guilty about being a customer. And anyway, this could be her best opportunity to try a new flavour.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in the small room when the door opens and he walks in; a pleasant-looking young man, slim, with short, sandy hair. He looks almost familiar, somehow, but then the idea of him has come from her own head, so perhaps that’s no surprise. He’s wearing loose, neutral clothes, and she can’t help glancing at his crotch, but he just smiles when he notices, sits a short distance apart from her on the bed.
“Hi,” he says, his voice blandly pleasant. She hadn’t picked anything specific for that.
“Hello,” she replies, unable to tell if she sounds as nervous as she feels.
“Well. Since you didn’t specify a name, call me Kirrick,” he smiles. There were all sorts of options for names, role-playing, but that wasn’t the point either.
“Okay, but, look, the only thing I’m here for is - I just want to know - “
“Compatibility, right? How it feels with these particular non-human genitals?”
“That’s it, yeah.” God, it must be painfully obvious what a primitive she is round here.
“Well, don’t worry, I’m a bit of an expert in the tentacle field, and I can tell you, this is quite an effective form you’ve picked out. Very popular.” His knowing grin doesn’t do much for her confidence.
He reaches across the space between them, takes her hand. “But this is all for you, yes? All about exploring, if that’s what you want. We can take it as slow as you like.”
The touch of his warm, human, very normal hand is reassuring, and it somehow tips the balance and lets her be her usual bold self. She leans towards him, and when she kisses him, it’s new like it always is.
Things progress from there; she likes that he isn’t afraid to touch her, his palms skimming over her skin as she takes off more of her clothes, and yet he doesn’t push anything, ask anything of her. He removes his shirt when her hands have spent enough time under it that it’s irrelevant anyway, and even when she’s groped his delectable arse about as thoroughly as the thin trousers will allow, his questioning look makes it clear he wants to check before stripping them off.
And when he does, there it is, or they are, or whatever, right in front of her. They’re that flushed pink colour of anything with such thin skin, a bit paler at the roots, tapering to darker tips that flex in the air like curious creatures. Some of them as thick as a finger, many of them thinner; a couple of dozen or so in total, and she wonders idly if there’s an odd or even number of them. The Doctor’s probably got a prime number, knowing him, and the thought makes her smile.
“Can I...?” She reaches out tentative fingers towards him, still uncertain.
“Whatever you like.” He reclines on the bed, relaxed and open.
It seems they do move independently, but like a flock of little like-minded animals; when she touches one of them the others follow, the nearer ones curling round her fingers, the further ones trying to reach, tickling with their tips. They’re warm, and dry, and the skin puckers and shifts where they rub against her. She moves her hand deeper into the mass of them, letting them wrap around it, the strange muscular shapes flexing against her.
A moment later she’s aware of his hand lingering on her stomach, then pushing lower, his fingers curling between her thighs, but that’s fair enough, isn’t it? She lies down close to him, bending one knee to open herself to him, and it’s no surprise that he should be skilled at that. His fingers explore her, then rub leisurely circles on her clit, a gentle pleasuring. She sighs and draws her hand clear of him, leaving the tentacles stretching upwards, trying to follow the touch, and then she closes her fingers around the bunch of them, or as many of them as she can fit into her fist, anyway.
The significance of that dimension turns her eyes to saucers, and she looks at him in shock.
He laughs gently. “Not if you don’t want that much. See?”
The smaller tentacles on the outside wriggle down and out of her grip, and she’s left holding the thicker central ones. Pulled together like that they make, well, they make a suggestive kind of shape. She leans her head on his shoulder and giggles, and squeezes her hand around him.
When she feels the flexing pulse run along their length in return, she starts to realise why this might be such a popular arrangement.
His fingers stay on her clit when she swings her leg across his body, and she leans down to kiss him first, enjoying the feel of her excitement. But she has to stop that, close her eyes and concentrate as she lowers herself down, wondering if the first touch will freak her out after all.
Just one, first of all, just one thick tendril stroking against her, teasing its way along her entrance, and then another, moving with it. The two of them slip inside her, just a short way, exploring, and she knows then that she wants more. She catches his eye as she drops a little lower, and he’s watching her carefully, but there are more, another couple of them joining the others while his fingers still tease at her clit. She settles further onto them, feeling them stretch up inside her, and that’s good, that’s enough for now.
Some of the smaller ones are squirrelling around her entrance, they’re up to something, and that feels weird. She freezes above him, but he holds her gaze calmly. When he pulls his hand away, smaller tentacles replace his fingers on her clit, wet with her moisture and kneading, caressing. Not like a tongue after all, then; more like magical boneless fingers that know just where to press, just how to nudge against her to make this whole thing not just possible but amazing.
“Good?” he murmurs; the amusement in his eyes suggests he knows the answer already, but still he asks.
The remaining tentacles are lying quiescent between them, she can feel the smaller ones stretched along her thighs, the larger ones bunched up, pressed along either side of her cunt, and he’s not going to do anything else with them until she says. As if to remind her, as if she needs reminding, they flex briefly against her, an indescribable sensation against her most sensitive flesh. The problem now is that she’s not entirely sure she can speak right.
A groan escapes her, turning into a ‘yes’, and then she has to drop her head as more of them push inside her, sliding along each other. She moves against them instinctively and he holds them rigid, letting her ride him. And she does that with abandon, not thinking of anything else but the sensation of it, her cunt filled just right, the fingers that aren’t fingers working her clit until she comes shuddering and tense.
He laughs when she collapses into his arms, but he holds her close while she gets her breath back. She can feel how flushed she must look but she grins at him anyway.
“That’s one way to do it, certainly,” he remarks.
“What?”
“That’s one way. There are some others. If you want to try something more exploratory.”
She runs a hand through her hair, tipping her head back to look at him seriously. That’s got her intrigued, but of course, there must be more ways to use something so mobile, so flexible. Even a moment’s thought about that, in fact -
“Oh. Yes.” Oh yes.
His arms tighten around her and he rolls them swiftly over, and even a few minutes ago that would have worried her but now she stretches out luxuriantly under him. He balances above her, guides one of her legs a little higher, tucks one hip snug against the plane of her thigh.
“Now. Do you mind terribly if I do some showing off?” he asks, only half-joking by the sound of it.
She slips an arm round his neck, the other along his back, looking down at the way they intersect. Human bodies doing something they weren’t designed for, but with human ingenuity, it’s amazing what they can get up to.
“Go on, then. Show me why you’re popular, tentacle boy.”
She sees him smile, but he closes his eyes in concentration. A moment later there is the lightest touch on her, a single strand, almost tickling, and the touch travels along her, moving up towards her clit. And there is another, following the first, tracing a slightly different path, and then a third, while the first pauses, presses a little harder against her, then flicks away. More and more of them in a steady procession, each going somewhere slightly different, some of them dipping just into her, some of them lingering a little longer. It’s like fingers tracing along her, but so many of them, or a tongue darting against her but split into so many pieces, touching so many places at once, that it feels impossible.
No, it’s like what it is. One of them folds around the hood of her clit and tightens for a instant, and nothing else can do that. The shapes that dart into her, unfurling their length inside her before withdrawing, there’s only one thing they can be. Those are tentacles dancing against her, working her so skilfully, and she’s enjoying every second of it. She looks at his intent expression, and down to where he touches her, and then gives up trying to keep any sort of track of what he’s doing.
Perhaps Jeavor misses his own kind and the Doctor makes a good substitute, but that waitress must have been nothing other than a, a tentacle-chaser, and Amy’s beginning to wonder if she might be one too. Kirrick is a human controlling something artificial, even if he’s an expert and concentrating hard, so imagine what this could be like with the Doctor, where he was born to it and has had nine hundred years to practise... No wonder people hear Gallifreyan and turn loopy.
She is breathless with it, the myriad of stroking, questing tendrils on her, and she can feel herself trembling. Nothing deep, nothing hard against her, just the complicated pattern of the dance, and the excitement it teases out of her. The swollen hardness of her clit is at the centre of it, every brushing contact and leisurely flick against it sparking inside her.
The ecstatic shiver of her orgasm is as light as his touch but even as it passes through her she can feel his hands move, fastening onto the angles of her hips. A second later she cries out when instead of tentative darting there’s a determined rush, a mass of writhing flesh pushing hard into her.
She gapes at him in shock, and he stills, eyes turned up to watch her, but she is full, so full of him, stretched tight around him. It takes her a moment to remember to breathe, even, and then she takes faltering, shuddering breaths, trying to deal with so much sensation all at once.
This is part of it, too, isn’t it? They can tickle and tease but they’re strong, they’re bundles of powerful muscle, and there’s more of them than she can take. More of them than she thought she could take. She looks at Kirrick’s face but she imagines the Doctor, how he might look at her if he ever stuffed her cunt so full of his tentacled alien cock she couldn’t even breathe.
But it’s starting to feel, if not natural, then manageable. Her breaths become more regular, and only when her hands relax does she realise how tight she was gripping Kirrick’s neck. He must have been waiting for that, though, because as soon as she does something shifts inside her, the pressure flashing through her, and she gasps again.
She could stop him, she’s certain of that. She’s done something new, now, and she doesn’t have to like everything that’s new, even if she likes some of it. But stopping him means never being able to fantasise freely about the Doctor again, closing off something she always thought he might be for her, in a way more effective than any of his denials. It still means giving up, and she’s not giving up yet, not on dreaming, and not on what’s happening right now.
She makes a determined effort to relax into it, spreading her arms open wide, letting her head fall back, concentrating on the sensation of all that mass stretching her taut. Very slowly, because taking it suddenly away would hurt as much as moving further in, she feels him pull back just a little. The pulse of sensation as the heaving mass expands back into her makes her hands twist in the sheets but it is, she can’t deny it, good. He does it again, and she whimpers with pleasure.
His satisfied smirk is so like the one she’d imagine the Doctor would wear that she almost wants to slap him, but that needs more control than she’s got left. Instead she watches him in wordless, helpless awe while the powerful shapes inside her start to flex rhythmically, making her rock her hips in sympathy. Another impossible pattern, something no simple human cock could ever give her, the palpating waves of it moving up inside her. There’s even a fold, a loop of one tentacle grinding at her G-spot, making her wetter, building her heat, and she forces her thighs further apart, trying to open herself as far as she can to it. She runs her hands into her hair, arching back while thrusting tentacles of an alien sex fill her to the brink and she moans in delight at it.
And just when she thought she might be handling all these impossibilities somehow, there is one more, because with the Doctor there always would be. The tangle of flesh inside her twists. Not even all at once, in a shifting, pulsing sequence, every kink of every tentacle knuckling at her as they turn, and it’s mind-blowing.
She is determined to keep this together, though, take the most alien sensation she’s ever felt and use it, the power and the pleasure of it. She claws desperately at him, wanting something else but not knowing what. But when one small tentacle whips up to her clit and folds across it, raking back and forth, she finds out. She comes shouting, her head spinning, her body aching with it, her cunt flooding around him, but holding on to a new secret, something she never knew before about what she can take.
If Kirrick knows she was thinking of someone else, if he hears her whisper ‘Doctor’ as she surfs back down the enormous wave of satisfaction, he doesn’t let on. He pulls out of her slowly, withdrawing a few tentacles at a time not to leave her suddenly empty, and wraps an arm around her while she sprawls across the bed, thoroughly dishevelled and not caring at all.
Eventually she comes down far enough to think of something else. She rolls up on her side to look at him, one hand resting on his chest.
“What about you?” she asks, her hand straying down to his hip, touching a single waving tentacle with her forefinger. It submits to her control, letting her wind it round her finger like a lock of hair. “Can you, you know, get off, like this? With me?”
“Yeah, don’t you think I would have if I could?” he laughs. “The limits of the tech, I’m afraid, and what you can wire a human brain to deal with. If this was natural, there would be ways.”
“Really?” She lets her fingers tangle through him, the tentacles catching at them, twining round them. “How?” They’re slick with wetness now, but that’s from her, not him.
“That’s a good start. Bit more, um, resistance, though.”
Fascinated all over again, she moves her hand in the caressing mass, curling her fingers delicately, trying not to trap anything. She tugs gently against the handful of tendrils and they tighten in response, hooking together, and then releasing as she does, stretching further along her fingers to bring more of them into contact. The rhythm is right there to be found, twining tighter as she pulls, sliding looser as she releases, a pattern of pulsing movement that could so easily build to something intense. She can feel it and so can he, a soft moan escaping him despite his claims about the limitations of wiring.
“Mmm, yes,” he murmurs. “That’s it. I guess this Doctor is going to be one happy man, eh?”
She stops and stares at him, temporarily speechless.
“Sorry! Sorry. Stupid of me.” He puts a hand to her shoulder, squeezes it. “Compatibility checking; there’s usually someone particular in mind. But I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No, it’s...” She slumps alongside him, unsure how to explain.
“Ah. Someone you can’t have? Well, we get that too.” He groans and turns away, though, when he sees her stricken expression. “Sorry, just ignore me, please. I keep getting warnings, would you believe, and they never seem to take. I mean, you’re here to have some fun, and I’m...”
She sighs, takes his hand, lacing her fingers between his. “No, it’s okay. Someone I can’t have, I think.” Or she thought; what about now? “But it’s nice to know how well it could work.”
He clasps her hand in return, not answering in case he blows it again.
“Seriously. It’s not like I haven’t had my money’s worth, is it?”
“Well, thanks,” he smiles ruefully. “Kind of you to say. Anyway, you ought to try it with a real Andophorian sometime, your one or not; this bit’s pretty good, but you’d be amazed at what those leg tentacles can get up to.”
She laughs in return. “Maybe. I’ll have to have a think about that. Although he’s not, the Doctor, that is, he’s not an Andophorian.”
“Really? I thought, from the... Sorry, sorry, assuming again. God, I’m always rubbish at this end of the job. Not an Andophorian. Right.”
She smiles, and decides to answer his diligently unasked question anyway, since their reputation seems to precede them.
“Gallifreyan.”
“What?” he turns to look at her in surprise.
“He’s Gallifreyan. The Doctor.”
It starts as a little splutter of laughter, but it soon turns into great gales of it, and she doesn’t know what to make of it at all. It’s quite a while before he can explain.
----
The high priestess lauds Ainia in glowing tones, praising her courage and her cunning, her excellence in training but also her amazing nerve in action, and frankly she deserves it. They would never have got out of that one, and the city wouldn’t be standing now, without Ainia’s strength and speed. Her sheer irrepressible vitality glows from her like an aura as she stands before the dais, and Amy’s pleased to see her getting her due reward.
Mind you, they also wouldn’t have got out of that one without the Doctor’s knowledge of the local flora, Amy’s knack with getting into places she shouldn’t be in, and the plan they’d cooked up between them with about two minutes’ notice. Ainia had said herself that the three of them made a pretty good team.
The pick of the local men line one wall of the chamber. Apparently they’re all from good families, and the society husbands have been training them up to be suitable marrying material, but Amy’s not entirely sure she’s convinced. They wear close-fitting trousers and gauzy tops, showing off their pale skin and slender limbs. Smoky eyes smoulder over painted lips, and they look modestly downwards, the bolder ones sending covert glances to Ainia’s troop of warriors when they can. They’re cute and all, but a bit disconcerting en masse. According to the Doctor, though, the whole colony planet is like this; a 32nd-century human experiment in going back to sharply separated gender roles.
Maybe that’s why they haven’t left yet. The Doctor isn’t normally one to hang around for victory speeches, but in order to get anything at all done round here at all he’s had to fit in a bit. Amy wanted to see the temple, and so they came to the temple, and now he waits just behind her shoulder, as he ought to. She stands up a bit straighter, feeling a little self-conscious on the end of the line of priestesses; she’s a bit masculine, round here, with her slim frame and her distinct lack of, well, chest. Whatever combination of pecs and breasts it is that makes Ainia’s leather armour strain like that, anyway.
“Heroism of this level does not go unrewarded, Ainia,” the high priestess declares. “The inner sanctum is open to you, and you will take your champion’s reward in the sight of the Holy Goddess. She will look down upon your offering and bestow her bliss upon you.”
Ainia answers in a respectful tone. “Thank you, Your Holiness. It is indeed a great honour that you offer me.”
“It only remains for you to choose your companion. Who will serve you in the inner sanctum, Ainia? Who is worthy to feel the power of the Goddess with you?”
The warrior turns her head to the line of men, and for the first time Amy sees indecision in her face. She glances at the priestess again, and then paces slowly, pensively to where the men wait for her. Some of them simper and glance at her, and some of them try to look demure. Some adjust their poses, showing off their shape, not that the clothes leave much to the imagination anyway. Amy blinks and looks away when she realises how many of them have visible hard-ons.
Ainia reaches the end of the line, and begins a hesitant return along it. She gives Amy a distracted smile of recognition as she draws nearer, but then something seems to strike her and her face clears. She strides back up the hall, disregarding the line of foppish young men, heading straight for Amy. Her dark eyes shine with resolution, her mighty chest heaves in its confinement, and just for a second, just as her hand reaches out, Amy wonders what’s she’s getting into next.
“You will lend him to me, sister?” Ainia asks in a low voice, her hand reaching out past her shoulder.
“Oh. Yes! Yes, of course.” A grin unfolds across her face and she turns to see the Doctor staring up at Ainia in shock, her golden-skinned hand smoothing his hair away from his cheek. There is a rush of gasps in the crowd behind them, as the idea takes hold that she might be considering this half-wild stranger.
“No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly...” he stumbles, “I mean, obviously, honoured and all that, but really, I’m sure I’m not the right man for the job...”
Ainia touches her fingers to his chin, lifting it. “He is modest,” she declares to the room.
“Modest, okay, but all those lovely young men over there,” he gestures wildly, “well, I mean, look at them, much prettier than me...”
“He does not display himself for women’s eyes, but I have watched him. I have seen the form he hides,” she runs her fingers down the length of his neck, pushes the collar of his jacket fractionally further open, her voice dropping to an intimate tone, “and I do not believe it was made to be hidden.”
He stares at her incredulously, and there are a few open-mouthed seconds before he can summon a reply.
“Blimey. Right. But I’m not at all the thing round here, I assure you. What with my independent turn of mind, I mean, I’m positively rude sometimes. I’m sure I’d offend the Goddess.” In his desperate search for an excuse he lights on Amy. “Tell her, Amy, tell her I’m rude!”
“I wouldn’t say ‘rude’, exactly,” Amy remarks. “More like too clever for his own good.”
“His mind has not been dulled by the petty distractions our men squabble over.” Ainia's voice rises over the increasing hubbub of the crowd. “His intelligence is worthy of a woman! Let his reward be the service of the Goddess!”
He closes his eyes in apparent resignation when she takes his hand, and he doesn’t actually resist as she leads him to the centre of the dais. Amy tries not to laugh too much; there’s still some work to do on the equal rights movement round here, then, but it’s a start.
Acolytes pull curtains aside from the base of the huge statue at the head of the temple, revealing the altar. The big, flat, suspiciously soft-looking altar. More acolytes are trying to undress the Doctor and he slaps their hands away, but he gets on with the job himself, even if he looks a little sulky about it. Ainia watches him with amusement while the priestesses tend to her, unlacing the fastenings of her body armour, removing greaves and bracers, even unbraiding her long, black hair.
Ainia may well be the awesome result of unusual circumstances, some selective breeding and years of dedicated training, but whatever else she is, she’s human. And out here on the end of the line, from this angle, Amy’s got a remarkably good view of the Doctor, standing naked with his back to the altar while the high priestess intones a solemn prayer. Amy hadn’t been entirely sure whether to believe Kirrick, and the databanks were unusually coy on the subject when she tried to check, but there’s no doubting the evidence of her eyes.
He catches Amy watching him and she half expects him to glare at her, but it’s more of a ‘don’t you dare say anything’ sort of expression. When his eyes return to Ainia’s towering frame, it looks like he’s warming to the idea of serving the Goddess after all.
Once the prayer of dedication is finished, Ainia doesn’t waste any time, but then again it’s evident he doesn’t need her to. She pushes him roughly back onto the altar, one hand pressing down on his chest, and the other takes hold of his erect cock, stroking the shaft of it, making sure he’s good and hard for her.
According to Kirrick, once humans had spread across enough of the galaxy, and started having the right sort of conversations with other aliens, some anthropologist had worked out why the Gallifreyans got about so much. And the Gallifreyans had primly denied it, apparently, but the idea hangs around like an intergalactic urban myth, even now almost all of them are gone. So right now what Ainia’s got her hands on looks like a pretty typical example of a human penis, if rather on the large side; if you’re going to evolve genitals that change to match whichever species you’re mating with, after all, they may as well satisfy as many expectations as they can.
Part of her wonders if perhaps she shouldn’t watch, but that’s just her twenty-first century values showing; this is a serious ceremony, and the rest of the priestesses look on with quiet approval. Ainia has his hands pinned to the altar above his head, and the sleek muscles of her thighs flex as she takes him, a noise of satisfaction escaping her as she fills herself with his length.
Maybe he’s bored of humans these days, when there are always new flavours to be trying. Then again, maybe not, judging by the way he pulls one hand free of hers, takes hold of her hip, uses the leverage to thrust deeper into her. It makes her sway over him, spilling her long hair over his chest, moaning in delight. The priestesses look from one to another uncertainly, and Amy suspects they’re not used to someone who doesn’t just lie back and think of the Goddess.
So does he have a human cock by default when Amy’s around? Does he hang around with humans because he prefers that to anything else? She can’t see his face, now, but it would be difficult to conclude he’s not enjoying this, even when Ainia leans back, stretches her arm down behind her and grabs hold of his balls. If that’s meant to make him behave it doesn’t, and he carries on bucking under her, his other hand caught round her wrist in the air between them.
How long does it take him to reconfigure? Does anyone ever see the change? And why is he trying to wind her up? Ainia grabs his hand on her hip and pulls it away, and now it’s hard to tell if they’re fucking or wrestling, arms locked against each other, the bulk of her shoulders rippling. When she slams his hands down flat out on the surface, though, when she leans down over him and starts to pound her hips against him, Amy thinks that might be one question answered.
Can you request the tentacles anyway? Can he control what it looks like even within the particular type? Although presumably Ainia likes what he’s got this time, given her steadily rising grunts of satisfaction as she uses him hard. There’s another sound coming from there too and it might be pleasure or it might just be the breath being forced out of him, but either way he’s probably finding out something interesting under there.
What happens, it occurs to her as Ainia’s exuberance continues, if you get him into bed with two different species at once? So many unanswered questions, so many things to learn out here in the universe, and she grins to herself. All of space and time, everything that ever happened or ever will, and she’s only just getting started.