"D'you know what I love about the Doctor?"
Lucy looks up into her husband's dark eyes and smiles. "What do you love about him?" she purrs. They are laying in bed, the high-thread count sheets billowing around them like she imagines a cloud would. The light has begun to fade outside, and the setting sun paints the room in a deep violet hue.
His hand is resting on her leg, stroking slowly up and down, each movement tingling under the surface of her skin like she's been given an injection, a vaccine coursing through her veins. Harry's eyes are electric and shining, his lips wet with wanting.
"The licking. It's just brilliant, isn't it?" Harry answers, a sick smile upon his face. "What does he think he's going to find out, licking things? Especially now. D'you think he believes licking all those bars will lead to him figuring a way out?" His voice is light but focused, and he glances at the soft skin of Lucy's thighs as he orates.
She glances at his suit and licks her lips. As she's anticipated, Harry's hard-on creates a tent in his crisp, pressed pants. He always seems to be aroused when they discuss the Doctor, which happens ever more frequently now that the stupid man is just a floor below them, forever under lock and key.
Lucy's become tired of looking at the Doctor each day, that sad pathetic little creature, all wrinkles and spots and stringy hair. She thinks she may just have to kill herself before that happens to her, although Harry's assured her that will never happen. They'll spend forever travelling through time and space, or the universe may just end before then. Whichever it is, it doesn't seem to matter to Lucy, so long as she can savor these moments with him.
She bares her teeth at Harry, enticingly, she hopes. His fingers have stopped roaming, and this conflicts with her belief that each evening should be spent screwing and fucking wildly before they retire to dinner, her limbs sore and her breasts aching from his bites as they sit down to eat and exchange pleasantries.
"Oh, Harry, show me! I love it when you pretend you're the Doctor!" she moans carelessly. It's something she knows he cannot resist. There's a drive within him to become that silly man, and Lucy is willing to indulge him if it means she'll get off.
Harry chuckles to himself and brings his face close to hers. She can smell the clean scent of his shampoo, the one she picked out herself long before Harold Saxon was the leader of the free world. It is masculine and soapy and smells faintly of eucalyptus and entirely intoxicating. She leans her neck into his breath, and he gives her long, deep lick along her collarbone.
The feel of his tongue along her flesh and bone is not in itself arousing to Lucy, but she giggles and squeals like a little girl to encourage him. It is a bit like that song she sang as a child about the way certain bones in the body were all connected, the way Harry progresses from licking her face to burying his head between her thighs. It is the neck which begins the ritual, a few laps of his tongue across it- with some sucking as well, if Lucy is lucky- and this leads to the space just above her breasts and Harry is then required to undo the buttons on her shirt to reach her chest, her stomach, and so on.
She can tell he's in a good mood today though, because he runs his fingers gingerly over her pearl necklace while he nips and sucks at the tiny square of flesh where her shirt collar begins. The feel of his teeth against her skin is beautiful and brutal, and Lucy can already feel that familiar wetness beginning to form between her legs. Harry's hands move down to press against her breasts loosely and she finds herself writhing a bit, in spite of the ridiculousness of this action. Lucy is not frigid, of course, but neither is she a wanton little slut who gets off on all of her husband's movements. It's a process, an extensive one that leaves her exhausted and hurting later, and so alive in those brief moments of pleasure that she may as well be drowning in Harry.
He is eager, she knows, and he undoes the middle button of her blouse to wriggle his right hand inside. He continues licking her shoulders and clavicle, and runs his fervent fingers over her breasts, slipping between her skin and bra to squeeze her nipples gently. His fingers roam and search, alternately running softly over her breasts and rubbing his thumbs roughly over her erect nipples. Lucy longs to kiss him, to pull his lips and tongue into her mouth and bite them until he bleeds, but she knows this would ruin the mood. He would stop what he's doing, kiss her hard for a few moments, and then shove into her ten times before coming quickly and efficiently, and that is not what she desires now.
Instead, she lets his tongue lap at her neck, moving sluggishly, and she moans theatrically, "oh, is this what he'd do, Harold?" It is almost too silly for her even, but she knows he loves to hear it. His erection is pressing against her legs, and he rears his head up to look into her face.
"Remember that little blonde bitch of his?" Harry asks, his eyes shifting about.
That one, she thinks. There was a serious-looking young girl they'd met while travelling about in the Doctor's machine, a golden-haired thing with pouty lips and dark eyebrows Harry had located in another world. He'd told her they were breaking apart the fabric of the universe itself to do it, and he'd laughed about it so cheekily, as if this were some everyday amusement. The girl had been quiet and subdued, and she'd had none of Harry's advances, telling him there was a little one waiting for her and no, she really couldn't go with him and if he was so desperate to be fucked, he should try his right hand.
"Oh, yes, Harold, that one. Named after a flower. Daisy, maybe?" she replies, grinning.
"Rose," he corrects her. "Her name was Rose, and no, I don't think he'd ever fuck her like this, but he thinks about it, still does. I've heard him in the dark."
His hands pull away from her breasts and latch at the fabric of her top. In one quick moment, he yanks her shirt open, the buttons popping and slipping all across the bed like skipped rocks. He grasps her bra and draws it down fast, exposing her breasts to the cool air.
Lucy gasps. "Oh, you're better than the Doctor, Harold. Last of the Time Lords, darling."
Harry doesn't reply, just presses his mouth to her breasts and begins to lick at them. Lucy sucks in her breath. Her fingers are drawn to his scalp as he teases her nipples with his tongue, laps at them and devours them like they're a dessert. He is murmuring something, his lips pressed against her so that she can barely make out the words, but she thinks she overhears Rose's name in that voice he uses when he imitates the Doctor. It's higher than he normally speaks, but he cannot entirely erase himself from speech, and his cruelty and harshness still comes through.
His fingers have descended to her thighs now, and they're rubbing against her furiously, pushing the slightly itchy cloth of her skirt against her soft thighs. Lucy groans and arches into his hand, and he laughs gutturally, a frightening and arousing sound within his throat. His tongue is on her midsection, licking just above her navel, and suddenly his hand is pressed against her panties, firm and weighty. Lucy knows he can feel her wetness through the little bit of cotton and she hopes he can smell it too. His fingers are rough as they grab hold of her knickers and yank them down to her knees.
"Tell me," he groans, his voice deep and stiff. "Is this what Rose wants from her Doctor?"
His hand is impossibly close to her throbbing clit, and she finds herself desperate, a woman on the verge of either sighing in relief or crying salty tears. "Oh, yes. Yes, Doctor, that's exactly what I want," she whispers urgently.
And just like that, he slips two fingers deep inside her cunt. She feels herself spasm at this first contact and her hips buck into his hand. His fingers are tough and forceful as they invade her body and stroke her insides. His thumb is pressed firmly against her clit, not moving, letting her writhe and bound against it. She is wet, impossibly wet, and he quickly slips another finger in to slide around inside her.
When she moans, he looks at her, grinning menacingly. "Oh, you see what we've been missing now, Rose," he mutters. It doesn't bother Lucy that he likes to call her by this name occasionally. She knows it doesn't stem from his lust for Rose, or any unattractiveness within Lucy herself. Both of them know that the girl wouldn't be willing the same way Lucy is, she wouldn't moan and sigh at all the right moments, wouldn't call him the Doctor, wouldn't let Harry become the man he wants so desperately to be. He calls her Rose because he needs to fully be that stupid man from Gallifrey and he has to possess everything the Doctor can and cannot have. Lucy has never doubted Harry's love for her. These moments when they are in bed, entwined in each other, and the moments out of it when they sit and talk for hours on end are enough to prove the depth of his feelings for her. No rough blonde whore will change that.
His fingers are plunging into her, hard and so very rough, and she thinks she may just shatter here, just come into his hand so wild and pretty. He must sense this though, because he slips his fingers out and places them on her lips gently. "Tell me this is what you want, girl," he says dryly, and she opens her mouth so he can slip his fingers against her tongue. He has always been fond of this sort of thing, wants her to be aware of the feel of her own juices, and he loves it when she kisses him right after she's swallowed his own.
Lucy's own taste is deep and salty, almost sour, and she licks his fingers greedily, a horse eating sugar cubes from its rider's palm. She licks them over and over until it's all gone, and all that remains is the sweet taste of her own saliva. It is only after she has obeyed that he returns to her, his mouth now upon her thighs. Her body tenses in anticipation as his lips move ever further, now sucking at the skin delicately. His fingers are back, rubbing slowly against her clit and stroking the short, silky hair down between her legs.
It's all too much, and Lucy cannot resist grinding into his face and hand, moaning softly and fervently. Like a flash, his hands move to press her legs down hard against the bed and his tongue sweeps across her opening. She shivers against him, coming quickly and tenderly, surprising even herself. Lucy feels his lips twitch into a smile against her, and he's back to licking her again, his tongue more invasive as he slurps the wet evidence of her first orgasm away. His fingers dig into her skin as his tongue explores her hesitantly. He allows himself to lick about the outside and slip between her folds for just a second, just to feel her squirm, she thinks. It's this light touch that lets Lucy feel herself mounting toward another orgasm, and she grinds her fingers into his scalp roughly, her tongue unable to form any coherent words.
Harry takes the hint and slips his tongue in a bit farther, tickling and tasting her. Lucy once overheard an ex-boyfriend describing cunnilingus as "eating her sugar walls," an expression she had found to be offensive and embarrassing then, but she now hopes that's what her husband is thinking as he eats her out. He twists his tongue about and his nails are scratching into her arse as he does, and she feels herself crying out in a voice that can't be hers, it's too frantic, fraught with need Lucy considers herself to be above.
"I want you inside me, Harold."
He runs the full length of his tongue over her once more, and then he's up on his knees, pulling his tie away, tossing it to the side of the bed, and pushing his shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it. His shoes and socks are always off before they fuck, and so he's left with just his trousers to remove. The slide down his legs so nicely, shimmying to the foot of the bed like they were guided by an invisible force. He never wears underwear, no boxers or briefs for him. It's as though he wants to be there for her at any moment, available for the taking all the time, and she smirks when she remembers how many ridiculous government meetings they'd survived with her hand tucked neatly into his pants, fingers folded as delicately as a handkerchief.
He slides between her open legs like a flash, leaving her unable to inspect his bulging cock with her eyes. She settles for her fingers, running over its length and stretching them like a pianist at the keys. He shudders and she can feel the way he's already dripping wet at the tip. It always comes as a shock, the sensation of him pressed against her legs before he fucks her. His erection is throbbing in time with the beating of his hearts, and Lucy lies back to relish the feeling of every organ in his body working together, working for her alone.
Harry doesn't bother with any more foreplay, doesn't need to. Her orgasm has left her slick and swelling, and all his tongue reenactments have produced even more wet warmth inside her. He groans very softly as he enters her. It's so hard and forceful, the way he pushes himself into her. She finds herself gasping for breath when he's inside and her hips move of their own accord to accommodate him. She is always surprised by the feeling of his cock thrusting into her depths. Quite frankly, he's the largest man she's ever been with. He's larger even then that strap-on prick she used to fuck an ex with, back when she still dated the dark-haired, skinny, tattooed girls she met in bars.
When he fucks her, she feels pain, tremendous amounts of pain, and she's bewildered that he even manages to fit inside her. Her body is resilient though, it swells and stretches around him. She had worried that this would make her loose and simple, but the last time she touched herself, in the Tardis last week while Harry watched, she found herself to be just as small and tight as before. She can only thank Time Lord science for this medical miracle.
The feeling of him, turning and slamming into her, is exquisite, unlike any sensation she's felt before. It's a feeling of fulfillment, her entire being consumed and focused on allowing her to experience his cock deep within her body. Her senses are in overdrive and she can feel it all inside her head. She hear the buzz of a fly on the windowsill, the almost inaudible creak of the bed, the sticky, slapping noise his prick makes when he penetrates her. She can smell the sweet, sugary scent of the milky coffee he drank hours ago in the very back of his throat and the harsh, yeasty smell that is purely sex. She can taste the too-clean-air produced by a million air purifiers and the salty flavor of Harry's sweat. It's the most intense experience of her life, and it's like this every time now.
It didn't used to be. They'd screwed for the very first time on the second day after she met him. She was in a musty office belonging to some politician Harry knew, seated upon a pea-colored couch that had been built sometime during the 1940s. Her tape recorder was on the coffee table before her, and Harry was seated directly across from her in a looming leather chair that threatened to swallow him up. She was interviewing him for that bullshit biography she'd been assigned to write. He had just finished feeding her a fake story about how he'd wanted to be a helper of the people ever since seeing a child fall off his bike in the street. Lucy had no idea how this related to politics, but she'd pushed the microphone closer to him and dutifully transcribed his entirely bullshit answer in shorthand on her yellow legal pad.
"Mr. Saxon, this boy in the street, did you ever see him again?" she had asked, her eyebrows raised and a bored smile upon her face.
Harry had glanced up into space for a minute, stroked his chin lightly, and then looked back at her, an intense glaze over his eyes. He licked his lips and folded his hands in his lap. "Take off your knickers, Miss Cole," he commanded, the epitome of calm.
She should have slapped him, but instead, she didn't say a word, just stood up and slipped them off quickly. She balled them up in her hand and pressed them to his fingers, a triumphant smile beginning to play at the edges of her mouth.
There had been no more words then. Harry had grabbed her so suddenly and pulled her to the desk in the office. Lucy remembered that it was made of cherry wood, something that came to her as he bent her over it, her face pressed against the wood. Quicker than she thought possible, he'd pushed into her and begun thrusting violently. He grabbed her arms and pulled her back after a moment, the action causing her to fall back against him and his erection to slip even deeper inside her. She'd gasped loudly, the only time she made any noise during the experience. He pulled her blazer off quickly, leaving her in only a flimsy, thin faded red dress. She'd chosen this ridiculous get-up purposely because it was so drab, but he seemed pleased by it. He had pushed her back down against the desk and proceeded to fuck the dress right off her small frame.
Lucy didn't come that time. There was no technique, just obscene thrusts like he was fucking something inanimate, and his cock had seemed quite small, she thought. She hadn't really enjoyed it at all, just found it to be so odd and random and not the sort of thing that happened to her. It lasted all of five minutes and he'd come gripping her shoulders for dear life.
Just as calmly as before, Harry had zipped up his fly and sat back down in his chair. He'd sat there, sort of twiddling his thumbs, while she adjusted her clothes and returned to the couch. As soon as she was seated, he'd begun answering her question, emphasis and fake tears in all the right places as he described this poor little boy. Lucy hadn't heard any of it though, and she called it a day early, shaking his hand primly as she walked out of the office.
She rewound the tape and listened as soon as she got home, intending to scribble down some notes about his answer. Instead, she sat in the kitchen, listening to the sound of her body being thrown against a desk, the little mechanical tweak of Harry's zipper being undone, her little gasp as he penetrated her, and the rhythmic groaning noises he made as he pumped into her. She listened to all of it, and then rewound it a second time. This time, she slipped down to the kitchen floor pulled her panties off, spread her legs, and masturbated while she listened to the sounds of herself being screwed. As the fingers of her right hand disappeared inside her cunt and the left hand rubbed circles around her clit, she had thought, I am going to marry that man.
No hesitation, she'd just known then that they would be together forever, and they really would be now. The next day, when she'd entered the office again and found him in the same spot, she'd yanked off her little red thong and thrown it on the ground. He had given her a devilish grin when she turned the tape recorder on and then climbed atop his shoulders and gripped the chair while he ate her out. Harry had pulled her down after she'd come over his tongue and pushed her head into his lap. Lucy undid the zipper on his pants and took him into her mouth without even a glance at his manhood. She'd nearly choked from shock at his size then, and she did the same several moments later when he'd pulled away from her, only to fuck her deep and rough on the floor. Her arse was covered in carpet burn afterwards, but all she could think was that he must have stolen some poor man's cock because this couldn't be the same thing that had violated her the day before.
It was though, she knew that now. He'd explained to her afterwards that he'd only needed the right encouragement from her to bring this monstrous thing into existence, rather than the little snail poking its head out into the world yesterday.
And over time, she was certain it had gotten much larger, because she was surely being penetrated harder than she ever had been before at this moment now. It was because she had been so willing and compliant and just plain sexy, she considers. She used to think he only got this big and screwed her like this because they were thinking and talking about the Doctor, and she supposes that's part of it. For a while, she was worried he'd rather be fucking the Doctor's arse and mouth, the way she knows he does sometimes when he slinks away into the night. It's not strictly about a desire to fuck the Doctor though, she knows. Harry simply wants to crawl inside the skin of that man, to become the true last of the Time Lords, and sometimes he has to fuck him to feel that.
Lucy will always be Harry's partner though, she knows, and she isn't bothered that he screws that stupid man occasionally. He always comes back to her, always, and she can smell the stench of the man upon his skin and cock, and she sucks and takes him inside her because there is no confusion about who she is then. He calls her by her name, calls her "my love" or "darling" when he's pressed against her tongue, and cradles her face delicately, and when he collapses afterwards, he falls asleep telling her how much he loves her. If the Doctor is the reason for this attention and affection, that's fine with her. Lucy's his wife and confidante, and she knows he doesn't really share himself with anyone else. Not the Doctor, not Jack, nor even Rose when she finally gave in. Harry is hers forever, and it's never more evident than when he screws her five minutes after he's been inside someone else.
His prick is buried deep inside her now, and she lets out several yowling noises that are entirely undignified as he grips her arse and yanks her onto him. She cries out his name over and over, along with chants of "Harder, oh, Harry, I need it deeper!" He rarely says anything when they fuck, just growls and groans loudly, but there's nothing for him to say when he's in her, turning her insides about like a merry-go-round. His thrusts are fast and deep with little varying rhythm. It's not so different from the way he screwed her that first time, just a bit more polished and with a hand firmly between her legs. She finds it amazing that the presence of a few fingers and a large cock can make such a difference in her enjoyment, but there is more between them now, and she fancies this has something to do with it. He has taken her to the ends of the universe, to the moment when it all fades out to the very second it was birthed into the cosmos, and it fills her head so often when they're together, even more when they have sex.
It's this mind full of the whispered secrets of time and her heightened senses that make her come again, loudly this time. His cock is pushing at her walls so intensely and deeply that she can only cry out, "More!" There's a fire spreading through her veins, blazing through her limbs like they were filled with gasoline, and a spasm like an earthquake that makes her sputter and shake. The warmth of her orgasm reaches her finger tips and her nipples and nose and even the ends of the hairs upon her head. It leaves a tingling in her toes and she feels so gloriously alive as her cunt involuntarily squeezes around Harry's cock.
He cries out when he feels her pressing down around him, and he begins to thrust even faster now, his breathing labored and heavy each time. He's moaning more and more, and as Lucy feels the last of her orgasm reverberating through her body, she shifts her hips up over and over to meet his thrusts. He lets out a loud groan.
"Oh, god, Lucy," he says through gritted teeth. And she can feel it inside her, that intense spark like a supernova when he pushes into her one last time and tries to pull out quickly. Lucy loves and understands this man more than he will ever know, but it's taken her ages to comprehend why Harry insists on extricating himself before he can come inside her. He's marveled before at these experiences, the way they jam their genitals together brilliantly like waves crashing on the shore, and it's all about procreation. These dirty words whispered in the fading light and the feel of her clasped about him is simple because there should be more little Saxons running around. He doesn't like to finish inside her though, doesn't want to risk that they'll be creating another individual to entreat upon this space here. It's his destiny to be the last one, forever, and he doesn't like the chance that he might be usurped.
Lucy has no illusions about children, but she relishes the feeling when, on a rare occasion, he spurts suddenly inside her, and she wants desperately to squeeze every last drop from him, wants to drain him dry. He's slipping out of her now, his teeth biting his bottom lip as he tries to hold on. She's having none of it today though, and squeezes her wet little cunt around him one last time as he pulls out. He cries out again, and she can feel a little of him seeping out into her body as he finally climaxes, the rest all over her thighs.
The arms holding him above her are shaky, and he finally gives in and falls atop her, panting like a dog. His right hand moves instinctively to her breasts and he plays with them very softly as his breath blows against her face. She can feel him, warm and dripping over her legs, and the feeling is indescribable. She rubs her thighs together harshly to spread the feeling, and practically climaxes again at the feel of his come all over her pale skin. She wants it to slip and drip down her legs and she looks forward to pressing her fingers down there discreetly while they eat dinner.
Harry blows out a long breath and kisses her shoulder very softly. He is always tender after he's finished, and she rubs a hand over his side and watches him quiver.
"Lucy," he says quietly, "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"
Her heart swells, but she gives him a prim answer that won't betray the pitter-patter in her chest. "Yes, Harry," she replies, her voice simpering and still submissive. She is his servant and she answers him in a tone she knows he loves.
He waggles a finger in the air and lets his hand drop down to the bed. "Ah, ah, what did I tell you?" he asks. He is still catching his breath, but she can hear his love and cruelty burning through.
"Yes, Master," she says, so proper and sweet. And she wants to cut out and eat her own tongue, the words are so delicious.