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A Quick Stop-Off for Tea and Fisting	By : Ksennin Category: 1 through F > Doctor Who Views: 12371 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or any of the characters therein. I make no money from publishing this work.

Chapter List
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“Oh, yes! Finally!!” Clara reclined on the console of the TARDIS, spreading her legs for her love, her husband, her Doctor.
Above her, the Doctor hurried out of his clothes. His suspenders drooped down his pantlegs, his shirt flew off his chest, his pants fell down his legs, but his bowtie stayed on. “Oy! You’ve been very naughty, Clara. Acting very much like a Dalek again. I’d best do an interior scan of your pussy to make sure you don’t have any Dalek in you.” He grinned rakishly. “Just Time Lord. Although, actually, you would not like being half-Gallifreyan. I tried it once. It was awful.”
“I don’t care! You can make me as Gallifreyan as you want, just do it with your big cock!”
“Oh yes!” The Doctor yelled. Grabbing Clara, he yanked her hips over his groin. Clara cried out in—expectation.
Expectation that was not met.
“Hunh,” the Doctor said with a baffled expression. “Am I in?”
“Are you in? You tell me!”
“Feels a little—“ He waggled his hips a bit. “No—let me try the sides.” He gyrated like Elvis. “Nada. Oh! I know what it is.” The Doctor tapped his nose. “All that fisting you’ve been doing with Jenny and Vastra, most likely. You’ve been stretched so wide that you’re a urinal and I’m the urinal cake.”
“No!” Clara shook her head frantically. “My pussy is really tight! Men feel like black guys when they fuck me! I’ve convinced five different people I lost my virginity to them!”
“Who do you think you’re kidding? You’re so baggy your pussy could inspire Wes Bentley in American Beauty. No, Clara, I’ll just have to tighten you up again or the only people who’ll enjoy having sex with you are the Donkey-Men of Claron V.” The Doctor hefted his sonic screwdriver. “Hold still. I’m going to reverse your cunt’s polarity.”
Clara woke up sore, naked, and horny. It must’ve been her dream of the Doctor, because there was nothing sexy about her present circumstances. The skin of her groin, thighs, and ass were all sticky. They clung where they pressed together; she had to peel the sheets off her body below the waist. The year was 1893. She was in 13 Paternoster Row. And over the course of the past evening, she had watched pornography with a lizard-woman and a Victorian maid, kissed them both, seen them both naked, allowed the lizard-woman to fist her, allowed the maid to fist her… in fact, she was pretty sure her salad had been tossed.
She got out of bed to find no signs of life in the bedroom she’d been deposited in. The only motion was her own reflection in the chinoiserie mirror on the wall. Clara saw her naked body, still flushed and red in places from the evening’s festivities. Almost bruised. And, surprisingly, she didn’t shy away from her reflection. And she did not feel self-conscious. Her body had had two women’s fists inside it; what was the big deal about it not having any clothes on it?
Relishing her temporary nudist status, Clara padded around the room. She even checked the door, just to make sure she hadn’t been locked in by some psycho while she slept, but it swung open easily. She didn’t step outside, of course. Not buck-naked.
Spending time with the Doctor, not to mention teaching children, she’d quickly grown an eye for the unusual. Noticing a wall socket was blue instead of white was the kind of thing that could save your life, or help the Doctor to save your life, or at least make him smile at you and call you a good girl, which was a good third place.
Clara noticed two things. First was the note on the bed pillow she hadn’t been sleeping on, left there like a flower in a music video. She picked it up to read daringly in front of the large mirror. As she read, she could see her nudity from the corner of her eyes. It was nice. She had a very reassuringly pretty body.
It was a simple note. Vastra had gone to make sure the Doctor and Strax hadn’t gotten into trouble, as she would do every day until they got into trouble. Until she got back, Jenny would see to her needs. In case Clara could possibly fail to see the innuendo, Vastra had underlined ‘needs’. But first, they’d let her sleep until (Clara checked the clock) 2 PM so she could recuperate from a stretching that bordered on the methods of the Spanish Inquisition.
That was the second thing Clara noticed. In the mirror, her sex did not look the same as it did in the shower and such. Clara had never exactly stared at her pussy. It was what it was, she wasn’t ashamed of it, she wasn’t proud of it. She gave it the occasional trim and it gave her the monthly trauma; aside from that, they left each other alone.
But now, it most definitely looked different. Redder than she recalled, perhaps owing to the other night. And there was something to the curve of her labia—it seemed to open, or be trying to open. It almost could’ve been larger than it once had been. Like the events of last night had literally stretched her out.
Jenny had talked about how loose her pussy was. Teased her about it. Even as she and Vastra made her feel like a prude, she’d lost control, admitting to all her sexual quirks and fantasies. Allowing them to go full ravish with her, like she was some Jack the Ripper bait they’d picked up for an anniversary threesome. No, no, she’d enjoyed it. She’d wanted all of it. If she hadn’t, why was she still horny?
And she was horny. It wasn’t just some lingering remnant of her dream. Her pussy was tingling with anticipation, as she couldn’t stop imagining Jenny or Vastra or both returning from their errands to pick up where they’d left off. But Clara didn’t want to put her pleasure in their hands (not to mention their mouths) just yet. She’d always been too much of a control freak, and she wanted to work on that. She wanted to own her pleasure, her sensuality, not just pawn it off on two convenient courtesans.
When Clara looked back on this trip, she would remember wanting, and getting, sex. For herself. Because she wanted it. Because she was not a prude. Because she was in control. So she’d touch herself, just like she always did. But this time she would watch herself. Clara smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This time she would see her completely naked body erupt in pleasure; it wouldn’t be a sight reserved for Jenny and Vastra.
Sitting down on the bed, she struck a quick pin-up pose—the same one she had for Robert McGinnis in 1963. Even she felt a little aroused, seeing that beautiful naked woman in the mirror. She wondered why the Doctor had never made a pass for her. Maybe because he’d never seen her like this—smooth skin bare and tanned from a beach on the Planet of the Omega Rainbow, hair still rough with lovemaking, nipples towering in their ache to be sucked, kissed, pinched, licked, BITTEN.
She started there, hands cupping the soft weight of her cleavage with a reverent care. For a second, she thought of herself as being a real slut if even her own touch could excite her. But that was everyone, wasn’t it? Nevertheless, she splayed her hands on her breasts, tenderly digging her fingers in, savoring the feel as she tugged at them and the muscles of her chest drew them back. It felt heavenly—she just wished Vastra was doing it. Or the Doctor. Mainly the Doctor.
She watched in the mirror as her hands went lower. They ticked off each rib, and she was so nervous she pressed her hands down hard enough to feel the bone inside. It was like she was trying to hang onto the protuberances, keep her hands from reaching her cunt. But she wouldn’t be stopped, even by herself. Clara made her hands follow her eyes down her flat belly, so compact, so smooth. Her breath came quickly as she saw her hands, so alien and foreign in the mirror, approach her tanline. One hand followed the crease of her hip to a creamy thigh; the other settled between her legs.
Clara had just been fisted the night before, so it was no surprise that the single finger didn’t bring her much pleasure. A second finger was added, quite easily. The third was also easy. Clara worked her three fingers inside herself, wondering when it would become difficult, but her pussy never clenched, not even when she pushed her pinky finger in. She was easily taking all the fingers on her right hand. Only the thumb remained.
The mirror showed a look in Clara’s eyes that crossed over from determined to crazed. Both reflection and woman knew what was coming next. Clara tucked her thumb between her pinky and index finger. She was wet, but it still surprised her that she didn’t need any more lubrication. Perhaps last night’s was still working.
She felt a slight stretching, an awkward discomfort, but in the mirror was a startling shock of pink—her labia opening up as wide as a blooming flower. Her knuckles barged in and she felt her sex spasming around her fingers. It seemed to be in invitation, but she didn’t need the mirror to know her eyes would be wide with fear. Had she been able to go so quickly the other night? Wasn’t she too tight to fist herself? She was at the halfway point, her fingers in but her palm still outside, and she wasn’t sure if she could actually do it without pain, even injury.
Then she looked at herself in the mirror again. Her flushed, naked body beginning to shimmer with sweat. She could almost make out the throbbing in her cunt that needed a whole hand to meet it. And she could most definitely see the need to come in her eyes. Because it wasn’t about fear. It was about what she needed.
Remembering the wonderful elasticity of her body and how warmly it had welcomed both Vastra and Jenny, she pushed and her cunt opened to accept her entire fist. She held her labia open with her other hand, not so much for comfort but to see in the mirror how her sex let itself be reamed, hugging her wrist like an old friend.
She wasn’t fingering herself. She wasn’t masturbating. She had entered herself; forced one whole piece of her body into another. It was as unnatural as devouring her own flesh, but it had happened. She bent her arm at the elbow and plunged her fist in deeper. She couldn’t stop now. Even a control freak was a slave to her own body in the end.
She could feel her fingernails, like little dance shoes, as she ground her fist inside her cunt. God, how could it be so different—so utterly different from just her fingers? That was naughty. This was obscene. Biologically, her vagina was meant to receive a phallus, or at least a take-off on it. But her fist had gone in, her wrist, the start of her forearm; no man had a penis that big. Yet she’d taken it.
Good God, what kind of woman was she to enjoy something so far removed from any natural sex process? How could she be loving the feel of the brisk hairs of her arm skirting the walls of a cavern meant to only hold six inches of male flesh? Why was she tilting her hips upward, holding her legs far apart, actually applying pressure to fill herself up more?
Because it felt so good. It felt so goddamn great to be totally aware of the muscles guarding her cunt when they were giving way and grudgingly being driven apart by an invader of the same body as them. Her mouth stretched open in gasping breath, just as much a part of her as her cunt—the scream coming out of her belly just like the fist going in. God, were the walls of her pussy even trying to stay closed, or were they actually sucking her fist inside? Did her body need this as much as her clearly depraved mind did?
Inch by inch, she was feeding her arm into her own pussy. Making it disappear like a magic trick. The next time she shook hands with the parent of one of her students, it’d be with an arm that had been inside herself. And she still had further to go to reach her itch—the place inside herself that needed to be erased by the presence of a deeply set fist.
She paused, her breath rasping through wide-open lips, taking in the sight of herself. Her forearm was halfway in, shifting in her pussy with each intake of air because it was part of her. Not a man’s penis, not a dildo, not even another woman’s fingers or tongue. Hers. She was doing this to herself. She was making herself come like this.
Clara pushed further—why? Why was she doing this?—and even her slender arm thickened as it went. As her forearm opened up her cunt, it pulled at the skin of her groin like a body on a bedsheet, drawing her clit down to the corded muscles atop her arm. Now her sense of fullness became heated, blinding lust. Every move she made put a wonderful pressure on her clitoris. This couldn’t even remotely be called masturbation. She had to be fucking herself, because Clara could feel herself being fucked.
Maybe she’d get in up to the elbow. For the woman in the mirror, it seemed like no problem. She saw a stranger now. Aroused, pleasured, wanting to be fucked and getting it. Sensations were churning inside her, swirling around the leaden weight of her penetration. It all mixed together. The taboo nature of her act, the decadence of it, the fear that the Doctor or Vastra would walk in to see her like this and the hope that they would. Her body pulled her arm further in, each fraction of an inch rubbing her clit like sandpaper. They ricocheted all the way up her cunt, everywhere her fist bored inside her.
She cursed, something she never did, as she pushed to satisfy her need once and for all. Her reflection looked like a woman touching her own cervix, but Clara didn’t give a damn. Fuck the mirror. She was the one having the orgasm.
She held her arm inside her cunt and that was all it took bring her to a sexual overload. It was her flesh and it sought to pleasure her. She could feel every muscle in her arm flexing, every twitch of every finger on her hand, and in the mirror she could see her own glassy-eyed expression, her own pubis bulging with what it held. She wasn’t even moving her arm and yet her climax kept hitting her, a cycle of violence as her cunt shook her fist and her fist shook her cunt and pleasure turned to pain and pain turned to pleasure.
She held on to the last second, but with a final broken gasp it became too much. Her body had been drawn as taut as it could without ripping. She squirmed her fist down the long passage of her cunt, and her flesh clung to the ecstasy it had known; her moans went higher and higher with another two orgasms before she finally let herself go limp on the bed, her gushing snatch making her thighs as wet as her arm. She’d been fucked, well-fucked, and she had no one to blame but herself.
“Cor blimey, it’s a good thing you stopped, ma’am,” Jenny exclaimed. “Any more of a ruckus like you were making and the bobbies would show up, expectin’ a murder! And here you’ve only murdered that quim of yours!”
Jenny had changed into an absolute masterpiece of an outfit. All in black: elbow-length gloves, a spiked collar, a slim thong that soundly covered her pubis and not an inch more, and a whalebone corset that cut across her breasts to give them a grand fullness.
“It’d take a real slattern to want a fucking after cramming her cunny like that! But shall I, miss? Madame might be cross with me if she finds you had yourself a spending and I did no more than watch.”
“You were watching?” Clara asked blearily.
“Sorry I didn’t announce myself. Wanted to see if you could take the whole thing. Now that I know what a loose goose you are, we can really have some fun!” Taking Clara’s continued, shameless nudity as answer enough, Jenny spoke a word in Silurese. The Silurian tech in her thong activated immediately, futuristic technology replacing the empty air before her crotch with the assemblage of an eight-inch dildo, strapped to her groin as firmly as could be.
Clara stared at the strap-on dildo with reawakened shock. Her cunt, so recently blown up like a balloon, now seemed small and tender. Her whole body seemed small next to Jenny’s swaggering confidence, muscular body, and intimidating apparatus. Clara just couldn’t believe that her or her pussy were built to take that oversized phallus.
But she wanted to. She wanted to so badly.
Her eyes torn from the mirror to the dildo, Clara dropped her hands between her already wide-set legs. She acted as if her present action were as innocent as scratching her nose in opening up her pussy for both Jenny’s eyes and erection.
“There’s a good girl,” Jenny said, voice rich with irony.
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A Quick Stop-Off for Tea and Fisting