'You know,' the Doctor remarks, staring up at the ceiling, 'the bondage really wasn't necessary. I never expressed any particular desire to resist you on this; we could have just had sex like regular people.'
Despite his protests, however, the bondage in question is much preferable to most such things the Doctor tends to end up getting himself wrapped up in-- no pun intended. No nasty manacles or chains or the Ildurian psychic control bracelets that become very popular in the 45th Century, and which he has far more experience with than he'd like to admit. Instead, long, slick strips of black silk are wound around each wrist, tying him to the headboard of a large, entirely unnecessarily opulent bed. He's naked. He's also very, very hard, and considering the fact that there's a fingertip tapping idly against the head of his cock, stretching out thin strings of precome, he thinks he's doing a remarkable job of keeping his composure.
The man to whom he'd addressed his comment, in stark contrast, is entirely clothed; indeed, no skin shows at all below his high collar-- even his hands are clad in perfectly-fitted gloves of supple, matte leather, blackest black. The Master-- because who else could it ever be?-- smiles, a wide, pleased, dagger-sharp sort of smile, and on the bed, the Doctor isn't able to stop himself swallowing. 'My dear man, don't pretend you don't enjoy it.' The mattress dips under him, shifting as the Master takes a seat comfortably between his spread legs, and that gloved hand abandons his erection (he squeaks) to spread itself across his stomach; the thumb brushes against the hair under his navel, and oh, that's such a tease that the Doctor twitches. 'Besides,' he continues, thumb tracing minute circles against the Doctor's skin, 'I was always going to, whether you resisted me or not. You have no idea how very gratifying this is.'
'Is it now?' manages the Doctor. 'Well, you know me, always glad to be of service.'
The Master chuckles. 'You look so very pretty tied up, Doctor. You always have worn it well, of course, but this particular regeneration seems to have something of a penchant for it.' He pronounces the word with all proper French pretension, and the Doctor nearly gets out a laugh before one of those smooth, leather fingertips traces over the divide between silk and skin, and it cuts off into a gasp. The Master's laugh is something akin to a purr, and even though that won't happen to this particular Master for centuries yet, the Doctor can't help but feel that there's something rather... feline about him.
Insistent without being vulgar (he thinks), the Doctor inches his hips up, trying to redirect the Master's attention towards certain other parts of his anatomy. Nice though the slowly warming leather feels against his stomach-- the heat from his own skin, bleeding through the material to meet the blood-warmth of the Master beneath-- he thinks that he deserves a little more, tied up like this as he is. 'Impatient,' the Master chides, and though his hand does move, it's only to stroke over the Doctor's hip, possessive and placating, and the Doctor whines a little in the back of his throat.
Until the Master leans down to drag the soft, neatly trimmed bristle of his beard up the length of the Doctor's erection, and he yelps, hips jerking up reflexively. It's nothing like lips or a tongue, but oh, does it feel good, and even better when it's followed by the hot air of the Master's laughter when he bounces back to the mattress.
'I am,' he concedes breathlessly. 'Impatient. I've even been known to be called shameless.'
'Shameless?' the Master rumbles, intrigued, and this time, there's a soft, wet heat of the Master's mouth against his thigh, and when it's followed by the scrape of teeth, the Doctor's hands clench around his bonds.
'Shameless,' he agrees, his voice strained. He's fooling himself if he thinks the Master is anything but in charge of this situation, but seeing that perfectly--combed head between his legs, black streaked neatly with silver-- all he wants to do is muss it up, bury his hands in the neatly oiled strands, find a grip in them. He groans outright when the Master sits again, taking him in hand and setting up a maddeningly steady stroke. 'Master--'
He cuts him off. 'Silence. Shall I tell you, Doctor, what I'm going to do with you?' The hand slips away again, cupping his balls, stroking over the warm, roused skin of them as a finger presses firm against the smooth, sensitive skin just behind, lips twitching at the way the Doctor arches. 'Not, of course, that you could stop me, even if you wanted to. Though I expect you've some idea, hmm? I am, after all, nothing if not consistent in my desires.'
Well, he certainly is that, and the Doctor's wry comment of, 'Predictable, Master, you?' is neatly silenced when the Master does that trick with his beard again. Instead, he flops back, groaning. To hell with it. The Doctor has always been skilled with keeping up on his witty banter at the worst of times, but now, well, he frankly hasn't the energy to devote to it. So he closes his eyes, breathing in deep; he imagines he can almost smell the sharp scent of leather, and his exhale goes a bit shaky. 'Tell me,' he murmurs, taking a moment before looking back up at the Master, meeting his eyes. 'If you expect I know you so well, Master, go on. Tell me what you want to do to me.'
And the Doctor is quite sure he doesn't flatter himself when he sees the Master shudder, just a little bit.
'I'm going to break you,' the Master informs him luxuriantly, like he's tasting each word and relishing it, stroking a finger slowly up the underside of his cock, squeezing, oh, just right, and the Doctor's breath hitches as he goes on as if he's entirely unaffected himself. 'Not permanently, of course, that would be unforgivable of me, but this body... oh, Doctor, this face of yours looks so innocent. Begging to be debauched and ruined, told who its Master is. Such a young, lovely body. And I'm sure I'm correct in imagining that no-one else will have had it yet. All the better.' The Doctor whimpers as the motion of the Master's hand speeds up, the muscles in his thighs clenching as he wills himself on. He may not especially like what the Master's saying, but this regeneration always did have the most marvellous voice, like velvet and leather and those cigars he used to smoke, and he sighs. The feeling of those gloves against sensitive skin is incredible, and oh, yes, like that, just-- there-- oh, Master, yes, Master, whatever you like, really, just--
'I think I'm going to leave you with some time to yourself.'
And with that, he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, and after a moment of stunned, painfully aroused silence, the Doctor curses. Typical, bloody typical. He twists his hands vainly for a moment in their knots, but the silk holds fast, and, infuriatingly, the little sting of pain that results when they pull too tight sends his hips twitching, if only the tiniest amount. The Master probably has a camera on this room, he thinks, and flops back with a resigned sigh, glaring up at where he imagines such a camera might be.
Sod that about Ildurian psychic control bracelets, this is far worse.
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