Gently Yet Firmly

The green velvet under my fingers feels soft and fuzzy, and a little prickly when I rub it against the grain. But that doesn't stop me from running my hands down his arms, and then down his chest.

He looks at me with an intensity that could kick-start a sun. But there's something slightly lost in his eyes, lost to the sensations in his own body, overcoming him. He gasps quietly, then sighs a sigh that's almost a moan, a sigh of relief, of needs getting met.

He needed this. He needed this greatly. He needed to be touched and to touch back. And most of all, he needed to let go and get lost in himself and the feelings inside.

After all, when you spend your time saving the universe, sometimes what you need most is to have someone save you from yourself.

I look in his eyes, the unspoken question in my own, asking him if this is ok. He nods in consent, ever so slightly, never breaking my own gaze.

Such a powerful man sometimes wants the power taken from him.

I know this need. Intimately. I, too, have the need to sometimes be powerless at the hands of another, sometimes by force (or a fake facsimile thereof), sometimes to be devoted to them of my own accord.

I take his cravat in my hands. Gently, I lead him down, lower than me. He doesn't like harshness. He doesn't want me to be mean to him. He just wants me to be in control of him, to lead him, to take him to places others don't, can't, won't.

I will. I'll do it. Lovingly, gently, yet firmly at that.

I take a gentle hand, stroke his curly locks. His eyes close, cutting off the outside world. My other hand strokes his face. He snuggles into it, something between a moan and a purr escaping his lips.

"Such a good boy. Such a pretty, pretty boy." I intone, gazing lovingly upon the Time Lord kneeling at my feet.

He sighs, looks up at me with pearly eyes of blue. "Thank you."

I nod. We share long moments between us, speaking volumes with our eyes, gazing adoration from him, loving nurturing from me.

I feel honored that he would wish to share himself with me in this way. That he would trust me with power over him, and would trust me to wield said power ethically and lovingly. As he serves me in these moments, I serve him by being what he needs me to be in the here and now.

"Please rise," I say simply. He obeys.

"Good boy."

I take the ends of his cravat and lead him into his bedchamber. He follows, almost in a trance, not a bit of hesitation. So willing to go where ever I lead. So willing to follow. So trusting.

Such a gift from such an amazing man. How did I get to be here? What did I do to deserve such devotion?

I stop him near his bed.

"Take off your cravat."

He does so, his fingers deftly working the knot, stripping the fabric from around his neck. His collar hanging down, exposing the loveliness of his skin, he presents it to me. I accept, hanging it out of my pocket for the time being.

I run my hands down the front of his brocade vest, touching him. He gasps, moans.

I remove his coat, and then work on his waistcoat, his hands assisting my own with the buttons.

"Remove your shirt." He does so, leaving himself exposed from the waist up.

I inspect the body in front of me. Such a nice smooth chest. Such lovely nipples. His hair hanging in lovely golden brown ringlets, just brushing the top of his shoulders. And those clear blue eyes, filled with need, filled with desire, filled with want, filled with devotion.

I lead him onto the bed, have him lie down, face up. I take his hands, put them above his head, tie them to the headboard with his cravat.

He is bound. Undone.

I take what he gives me freely. I give himself back to him, along with my love and devotion.

Leaning over his lean body, my tongue finds his left nipple, licks it. A moan escapes his lips. I bring my body up to sitting, watch his reaction.

Panting. A request for more.

"In due time, my dear Doctor." I trail off as my eyes scan his body, reacting in various ways to the withdraw of my physical affections. "In due time."

He lays there (for what else can he do?), lips parted, stuck in need and want. His muscles twitch a bit. He's getting erect.

I lean over again, lick the other nipple. An even greater moan escapes his lips.

"Please, please..." he pants. "Please."

Please is his one word entreaty. Please is all he can manage to get out.

That's ok with me.

Licking and sucking, I continue to work his nipples. Teeth and lips get involved. Sometimes gentle, sometimes featherlight, sometimes strong and firm and a little sharp. Fingers come out to play, touching, rubbing, teasing, twisting, pinching.

He moans and writhes, the tent in his trousers getting larger, tighter. I move my ministrations from solely the nipples to all of his exposed skin. Clavicle and jawbone, temples and forehead. And that little spot right behind the ear.

He rises up to me, squirms, tries to meet my body with his when I pull away or tease. I chuckle a bit, gently scolding him for his impatience, reminding him that good things come to pretty boys who wait.

He tries to be good. Oh, how he tries. But his body's need is beyond that now, and he doesn't quite succeed. That's ok. I understand that.

I stop him with a finger on his lips. "Shhh..." I say. He pants, catching his breath, his hearts beating a million times a minute.

I lay a gentle kiss on his lips. And then another. And another. My own desire for him overcomes me as the kisses get less gentle and more needy, probing, searching. Searing kisses, bruising, in my need for him. My hands run down his sides, down to the hard bulge in his trousers. I stroke it through the fabric. He moans and lifts his hips up and into my hand. I moan and continue kissing and stroking. My own need builds and rises and I find it hard to resist.

I'm past the point of no return as I break off the kiss, stripping off my own clothes with fervor, tearing down his pants, the erect cock springing out of the fabric. Planting another bruising kiss on his mouth, my tongue probes the interior of that dark, wet chasm as I roll a condom down over his shaft. Straddling him, I lower myself onto his cock, the feeling delicious and satisfying. We are both undone by our passions, submissive to our desire, as we rock and buck and ride, moan and groan our way to orgasm. The explosion is shattering, deep throughout both our bodies, overtaking us completely.

Spent, and very well spent, I lay upon his chest, reveling in the warm, fuzzy afterglow that consumes my body. "Mmmm..." I moan, opening my eyes. I look at him, disheveled, his sweat-drenched hair clinging to his head like seaweed to the rocks at low tide. And yet still so beautiful. He opens his eyes, gazing up at me from lala land, big pools of blue filled with bliss and love and wonder and adoration. "Thank you," he says, almost reverently. "Thank you so much."

I let out a small gasp of wonder at the intensity of the emotion. Stroking his cheek, I smile down at him. "You're such a good boy. Such a very good boy." He smiles at me. I untie his hands so he can hold me in his arms. We sit together just like that, enjoying the afterglow, long into the TARDIS's night.