angelrelics (angelrelics) wrote,

Daughters of Zion -- A Doctor Who Fanfiction (PWP One-shot, NC-17)

His mane of curly hair was against the silken pillow. Her fair head was resting on his chest. She had parted his coat and opened his shirt to press her ear against his flesh and listen to his twin hearts beat. She had gone no further and indeed dozed there now, as if content to stay forever. His strong left arm cradled her against him; his right felt rather lonely being stretched out across the large bed.

His chiseled face was thoughtful and at peace. He had no jest now, no intelligent comment to drop from his cuff. He felt himself to be on the brink of something great and marvelous and could be no more or less than serene and quietly joyful, despite himself.

At length he reached across his chest to stroke her face once, gently. She awoke instantly, raising her face to look at him.

"You." He smiled, trying to convey his unusual loss for words.

"Yes." She grinned, mocking in a loving way. She rose up on her hands, prowling like a lioness, watching him intently. Her long hair brushed his bare skin, causing tremors. He curled his toes inside his socks, one red, one blue. She tilted her face slightly and kissed him. He shut his eyes, surrendering. Eons passed. There was nothing in those years but her supple lips and when he awoke at the sundering of that intimate touch he was surprised to find himself still young.

An erection was flowering in his long gray tweed trousers. Everything tingled. She unwrapped his insanely long scarf and tossed it over one shoulder, laughing silently. She kissed him again, his long thin lips, his aquiline nose, his high brow, slowly. One tiny hand sank into his curly hair and cupped the back of his head.

"Oh," he managed. His hands were shaking as he gently removed her rose-pink trenchcoat. Another tiny hand was stroking his sleek side, beneath his shirt. She was driving him insane with those light touches.

Now she lay against him, her arm around him, her teeth nipping at his earlobe. He forced himself to endure it calmly, and only his rapid shallow breathing and the lower lip caught between his white, regular teeth betrayed his restraint. His companion (oh, how his mind added volumes to that previously innocent label!) helped him to shrug out of his own maroon overcoat, leaving him to feel a bit exposed in only a thin, white, medieval-type linen shirt. He discarded her smaller, more sensible scarf and met with another jacket-like garment. She wore too many clothes, he conceded wryly to himself, and he too damned few! Strange that he should feel so shy and modest at a time like this after over five hundred years of life, but this was his bedroom in the TARDIS, and Time was not all that it seemed.

She leaned back long enough to remove the jacket and shirt beneath. Now she equaled him in garments: socks that matched, tight brown breeches, and a tiny white bra that was innocently lacy. Amazingly, he was the one to blush at her frank display. His member was fully engorged now, his sensitive glans making life exquisite hell by rubbing spasmodically against the rough tweed. The fairly young looking man was embarrassed by the brash tenting of his pants.

His long, graceful-fingered hands reached for her of their own will, cradling her heart-shaped face. He kissed her, his lips afire with the rapid pulse of his own blood. She melted, pressing against him, still stroking muscles of his sides and abdomen that contracted and released skittishly in reflex.

Now he moved with purpose, pulling off his shirt in one fluid movement so that she could look at him. Long, lanky, wiry in frame, his sinews were sleek, built for both power and speed. She had seen him grapple before with lesser men and hurl them away from him. His strength was inhuman. She teased a nipple with a tapered fingertip and watched it crinkle and harden.

Then she leaned back, haloed in the dim light, her hands behind her. He whispered her name for the first time.

"Romana..." he breathed, every fiber of his being aching.

She unfastened her bra and let it fall away. Her petite breasts were full, drawn tight by the hardness of her own sensitive nubs. He reached up a hand and cupped one breast caressingly, massaging it in a way that made her writhe.

He was watching her through narrowed eyes, his pupils dilated in the shadows. He pulled her down on her back. Answering the call of his blood, he was now the predator. Seeing him pressed so to the limit of control, Romana remembered a quite appropriate bit from a fairly new Terran religious tome.

"Oh, Daughters of Zion," she managed as he unfastened her pants with one hand. "Do not seek to arouse or awaken love, unless it so desires."

"Indeed," he growled in his rich, mellow baritone. He knelt between her legs and, grasping a pantleg and sock in each hand and tugging, stripped her down to her little white bikini panties. Her hands found the fastening of his trousers and undid them. He groaned soulfully as his uncomfortable erection was freed.

His fingertips urged down her underwear slowly, an inch at a time. His tip grazed her thigh and left a slick trail of pre-ejaculate behind. He shrugged his pants and socks on the floor with his long, prehensile feet.

Their body musks filled the room. He drank the fragrance in desperately, with flaring nostrils. Her hands were urging as she stroked his shaft and scrotum, leading him ever closer to her unprotected opening. He wanted to. Oh, he wanted to.

His shoulders and back were a mountain range of hard, taut muscles. Sweat of arousal and self-control streamed down his knotted sinew. His buttocks tightened as his super-sensitive head nestled in her moist vulva. With ungodly patience, he eased his impressive member inch by inch into her warm, gripping vagina and held it still. It must have been centuries since he'd made love to someone. In fact, one last coherent thought said snidely before expiring, it must have been never.

She was looking deeply into his eyes, brushing his sweat-dewed hair away from his face and smiling slightly, smugly, like a cat in the cream. Her muscles were clenching around him in a grip that was exquisite. Unable to bear it any longer he pulled back, every ridge of his shaft tugged by her tight flesh. She moaned and arched back against her pillow. She was so unbelievably tight. Gritting his teeth he thrust slowly in again, torturing himself. The ginger-colored hairs on his muscled thighs tickled her sensitive skin. Her nerves were bare. Her vaginal wall closed on him like a fist, then started to loosen slightly as he moved. He stepped up his pace a bit.

Now she could not grin so smugly but instead wrapped arms and legs around him, rocking her hips to his thrusts. Here was her G-spot, his mind murmured, this wrinkled patch of flesh just inside her on the upper-facing wall. He sank himself to the hilt. Here was the opening to her cervix. She must be at full arousal, to have extended enough to hold him completely.

He tightened the tendon controlling his cock, flicking her womb, and she shrieked in surprise and pleasure. Suddenly her uterus shifted and the opening irised. The very tip of his penis slipped into the narrow tunnel thus created. It felt like being held in suction by a tiny mouth.

"That's not supposed to happen, is it?" he demanded, panting.

She squirmed a bit, afraid of the hunger she saw in his eyes, but reluctant to break this most intimate connection - a miracle of chance. "I don't know," Romana replied simply. "I don't care."

He thrust shallowly against the suction, her muscles rippling in response. Oh my, he thought, finding no god big enough to swear by in this awesome moment. I am in her womb. He wanted to ejaculate, to feel his warm seed fill her. He pistoned his hips more and the tightness and friction within her made her orgasm for the first time, soaking him with her honeyed fluids.

"Do not seek to arouse love," he murmured, sweat running down his beaky nose and high, solid cheekbones, "or awaken it, unless it so desires." She was panting. He bent to suckle a nipple as his hand slid between their joined bodies. His thumb rubbed their juices tenderly over her hooded clitoris, while his long fingertips stroked her buttocks. All the while he continued thrusting until eventually her cervix loosened and let him go. Eyes slitted with arousal, she groaned in disappointment.

"Easy, my dear," he replied, placing his hands on either side of her slender hips. "You have aroused me, but I shall not let you regret it." Now he took her, pistoning deeply and quickly. Any modestly left now abandoned, she clawed at his back and moaned as he rode her. Every stroke was wonderful, quickening his blood. How could he have gone so long without rejoicing, without worshipping, without loving in such a distinctly singular and profound fashion?

Her orgasms were arriving more quickly. Their bodies were soaked. He made love to her joyfully, intent on joining her in her pleasure. He felt his tightening, the boiling of his juices and with wondrous release, it began. Waves washed over him. He cried out in delight, blinded. His spasms triggered her own again and their voices mingled. He let himself empty in her caressing cavern, feeling all the tension drain with his seed.

She closed her arms around him tightly and for a long while they lay there joined. He nuzzled her throat silently, waiting for his member to relax enough to withdraw without exciting her raw nerves. He kept her in his embrace after he disengaged, cradled against his broad chest. Smiling, he pressed his lips to her ear and whispered: "Thou shalt not read the Bible for its prose."

She wriggled even closer as he pulled a light sheet over them both. "I'll remember that, Doctor," she promised quietly, smiling slightly too. He held her petite nude body protectively, marveling at how light and delicate she felt, yet how sturdy she most be to have taken the force of his ardor without ill effect. Soon he'd be ready again, he thought complacently, and this time he could take it more slowly, making the effort a work of art instead of need. How he enjoyed his beautiful companion, her mind and her body.

"K-9, please oblige us," he said to the empty air. In the study next door, something came alive at the sound of its name. "Yes, master," it replied in prim, exact tones. The door whooshed open and K-9, faithful robot friend, entered bearing a tray on his blocky back. On the tray were two glasses filled nearly to the rim with orange juice. K-9 wheeled them over to the bed, too proper to have listened in through the TARDIS's onboard speakers and too wise to make any comment aloud about the flushing, contented couple before him.
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