Well, I've literally been sitting on, and revising and revising, this story for 4 months. It's been finished, and yet, I've been too skittish to post it.

Why? Well, here's fair warning: this story is dark. And a little bit f***ed up.

So, I have two pieces of advice, as you dive in:

1) Keep an open mind, because, if you stick with it, you will find that it's not exactly as it seems. It's still dark no matter how you slice it, but the, er, character dynamics will change, if you keep reading! I have posted both chapters at once, so that you don't have a chance to walk away!

2) To get the full effect of the story (and in order not to be confused) pay close attention to the sequence of events. Notice that it starts on Day 5, and jumps back to Day 1. We will see the events out of order, through to Day 7. Days 3 and 4 we will eventually see from two different angles, from his p.o.v., and then hers.

You won't like the Doctor in this, and you won't like Martha either. But if you like dark fantasies about sex and deception, then proceed!

PART 1

DAY 5

"Hiya," Martha Jones chirped as she walked lightly into the TARDIS' console room, as though it were a morning more or less like any other. She had coffee in her hand, a smile on her lovely face, and a freshly-showered look. Her hair was still wet and tied off at the nape of her neck, and there wasn't even a spot of makeup on her face yet.

She was shiny and clean, the night washed away.

She startled the Doctor somewhat when she entered. He had been staring blankly at the computer screen at the console, doing nothing in particular, except stewing in his own thoughts.

"Oh," he said, his hearts skipping a beat each. He searched her quickly for something amiss, something that would indicate that things were not all right as rain. He found nothing immediate, so he asked, "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, like the dead," she told him. "I was exhausted."

He gulped hard. "Good, good."

"Except I've got a kink…" she said, setting her coffee down on the console and rotating her right arm as though trying to work out a knot.

"Sorry to hear that," he remarked, his voice low. If she heard him, she didn't acknowledge.

She leaned against the seat he was occupying and rested her elbow on his shoulder. "What're you doing?"

At her touch, at the feel of her closeness, he felt a frisson, and he jumped a little.

"Tetchy," she commented, withdrawing from him. "Are you all right?"

The fact was, he was not all right; he had not slept a wink.

Because, four hours ago, he had put her back in bed, totally spent, and then come to the console room, and he'd been here since. Four hours ago, he had laid her on her back with her head on her pillow, pulled her night shirt down over her hips, and said, "Go back to sleep, love." When he'd left her room, it was in the unstable hope that in the morning, she wouldn't notice the stickiness between her thighs, or the fact that she had been wearing underpants when she'd gone to bed.

What if she asks questions? What if she realises? he had asked himself, every minute since closing her bedroom door.

"I'm fine," he told her, lying horribly. He indicated her coffee. "Would you please get me one of those? It smells amazing."

"Sure," she agreed, before bounding away to do what he asked.

He breathed a temporary sigh of relief as she walked away from him, because when she had touched him, it had brought him, internally screaming, through an involuntary sense-memory. Suddenly, he was back there…

He knew exactly why there was a kink in a muscle on the right side of her neck. Because her left elbow had buckled at some point during last night's adventures, and she had had to take the brunt of the pressure of his body with her neck in an awkward bent-sideways position. It hadn't been so bad, had it? After all, she came in that position. Came pretty hard, if he remembered correctly. And he knew it, because she had mumbled his name, and had breathed the words, "Oh, you're making me come," into the back cushion of the armchair where her head was being shoved at one-second intervals. And, he could feel a certain tell-tale pulsing inside of her, a gripping and releasing of his cock, just before he'd let go of himself with a vindicated grunt, and filled her.

He could have stopped fucking her long enough to allow her to replace her hands on the back of the armchair, giving her leverage, but… well, he hadn't. It hadn't suited him to do so, just then.

Before long, she was back in the console room with a second cup of coffee, and she handed it to him with flourish. "Here you go! Colombian. Better than gold."

"Thanks," he said, uneasily, not really wanting it, but sipping anyway.

"No problem," she replied, before taking her spot against the railing, to concentrate on sipping her beverage. She sighed audibly, and even chuckled a bit. "It's kind of shameful how good this makes me feel."

Those words. The sigh. Even just the sound of her voice. Again, he was transported…

…her body pliable but strong, just enough consciousness to make it worthwhile, with the perfect amount of mindless submission. It was an intoxicating combination, for which he now sort of hated himself. "Fuck me harder… harder!" she had demanded. He had delighted in hearing those words. They were mechanical, and yet spoke to a deeply-seated desire, and he had obliged when she'd said them.

And now, in the light of day, he was immersed in personal turmoil, guilt, self-loathing, torn between the need to confess his sins, and cover them up at all costs.

But at the same time, he felt virile, powerful, satisfied and free. He studied her body even now, on the next day in the console room…

Gorgeous, he thought. And she has no idea that I've used it for my own pleasure.

Which brought more guilt and more conflict. And also a tormented frisson of pure, brilliant, razor-sharp lust.

Within the next few minutes, the TARDIS expressed a need for a refill of a certain type of coolant, only available in particular sectors of the universe.

"Some of those sectors are dangerous, some of them are cut-and-dry, easy to get the coolant. So… where should we go?" he asked her. He regained a bit of his usual cheek, now he had a goal, something normal in which to engage with her.

"Somewhere dangerous, of course," she said.

He set the coordinates, and moved the TARDIS. When it stopped, he gave her a charming eyebrow tilt and held out his hand to her. She smiled, took it with total confidence in him, and let him lead her onto a planet where anything could happen. She was about to put her life in his hands.

Yes, there was guilt pulling at the pit of his stomach, heavy, like a brick.

But there was also a huge, intoxicating dose of power surging through him just now. And this time, making him feel powerful wasn't the touch of her, or the memory of her naked body begging to be used. It was the oblivion in her eyes, and the trust.

DAY 1

"Is this really necessary?" the Doctor practically whined, walking briskly down a long corridor in a clergy building on the planet Dimin. He was following a man and a woman, both with sweeping capes and unnaturally quick gaits, and both with large grey heads and proportionally gigantic ears. Martha jogged beside him, trying to keep up. "I mean… this really isn't my M.O."

"We know that, Doctor," the woman replied crisply. "But even a Time Lord can use some new tricks for his satchel. You're going to need something to get the Tesku King under control."

"Yeah, I know," the Doctor muttered.

"The Tesku are not impressed by you," the man said. "They are impervious to transmat, they can escape from the Vortex…"

"…they toxify the air around them and the soil beneath their feet," the Doctor continued, rolling his eyes, because he'd heard it all before. In explaining to them his usual type of problem-solving tactic, they had shot down just about every idea he'd had.

The Tesku King was thirteen feet tall, mean as hell, clever, and stubborn. The Dimin had tried their magic on him at different junctures over the decades, and he could now feel them coming at him, and knew how to deflect.

"It's up to you now, Doctor, Miss Jones," said the woman. "My fellow priests and I have exhausted our welcome with the Tesku King."

"Fine," the Doctor growled. "Let's just get this done."

"What are we getting done, exactly?" asked Martha.

"They're going to show us the magic they use for mind-control," he told her. "Teach us how to use it."

"Whoa. That's pretty serious," she commented.

"It's not mind-control," the man protested. "It's…"

"I know," the Doctor, yet again, interrupted. "Technically, it's called Guaranteeing Performance."

"Oh," Martha said. "So you can make someone do what you want."

"Yes," said the man.

"And you're hoping that if the Doctor or I do it, the Tesku King won't feel it coming and we'll be able to get him reined in."

"Yes," he repeated.

"I don't like this," the Doctor said.

"Do we have a choice?" Martha asked him.

"I suppose not," he admitted.

To save Dimin from the Tesku, they had a plan, and that plan included making the King open a safe containing the secrets to their planets' shared solar channel. The priests of Dimin had tried to open it themselves using their magical skills, but they had been unsuccessful, and of course their attempts to coerce the King had fallen flat.

"How long does this Guaranteeing of Performance thing last?" Martha wondered.

"A few hours," answered the Doctor, with a sigh.

"Okay, but that begs a huge question: what happens when it does wear off?" Martha wondered. "I mean, won't there be retribution one way or the other?"

"The type of ritual we are going to show you is very basic, but it includes an amnesiac after-effect," the woman told her.

The man and woman priests led them inside a round room. It had mostly white walls with some wooden pillar accents. In the middle of the room, there was a waist-high platform.

"Necessary for the ritual is the Crux Herb," the man said, and he gestured to the platform, a surface the size of a dining-room table. On it, there was a bowl filled with leaves that looked, to Martha's Earth eye, like common Canadian maple leaves. Except, they were dried out.

The Doctor stood scowling with his hands in his pockets and his feet apart, but he was paying attention.

"It's a smart herb," said the woman.

"What does that mean?" Martha asked.

"It means that it knows whom to affect and whom not to. That is to say, it is intoxicating, but not to the person who lights it," she replied. "At least for the purposes of this ritual."

"So it will put your victim under hypnosis, but not you," the Doctor said, gravely, mistrusting.

"If you like," the woman said. "Allow us to demonstrate. My colleague will be the subject of the ritual, and I shall administer it. Would the two of you mind going behind that glass partition?"

They obliged. Martha was glad to be behind glass, and out of the way of the whole business.

The priests were now about twenty yards away, and the woman called out, "First I am going to do a quick spell to put my colleague to sleep, as the ritual is best performed on someone who is unconscious." With that, she did some sort of hand gesture and incantation that seemed to make the male priest fall dead asleep.

"He slumbers," she announced. "And now the ritual can begin."

When the woman priest was satisfied that her subject was unconscious, she gestured to the side of the room, and a third priest brought her a burning torch. She used it to light the leaves in the bowl, and smoke began to fill the air. Martha now understood why she and the Doctor needed to be behind the partition.

The female priest then turned to the glass barrier and addressed her audience.

"As the room fills with the smoke of the Crux Herb, I will now make suggestion a part of what he is inhaling," she said. "And as it mixes with the herb, it becomes a command, with amnesiac consequences."

She turned to her subject and said, "You have a desperate desire for water. Voracious, single-minded, at all costs." Her voice was grandiose, breathy, spiriting.

She picked up something that looked like an ordinary walking stick and stirred it in the air, as though she were mixing her words with the wafting smoke.

And then they waited.

After about two minutes, the man priest seemed to wake. He stood up, and with a slightly mechanical lilt, he said, "I've got to have water!" and he began walking toward the exit. The woman motioned for the Doctor and Martha to follow.

For the next ten minutes, they followed him through corridors, while he desperately searched for water, in a single-minded quest. When he finally came upon the complex's kitchen, he shoved several people out of the way to get to the sink. He turned on the tap and then put his whole head underneath it, soaking his robes, his face, and making those around him mutter askance.

After a minute or two watching him gulp water and almost drown himself, two men pulled him away from the sink and subdued him. The woman priest called in some reinforcements, and the man was taken away and watched until he fell asleep an hour later. At that point, the woman priest, Martha, and the still-scowling Doctor went and sat in a lounge, waiting for the male priest to wake.

They drank a tea-like beverage and discussed what they had seen and invoked. After that, they decided to take a meal of several courses, and play a time-consuming card game, as they waited for the male priest to come to.

And surely enough, after about four hours, he darkened the doorway of the dining area and said, "Here I am."

"Hello," said the woman.

"Let me guess," the Doctor sighed. "You have no memory of what happened after you fell asleep."

"None whatsoever," said the man. "Though, my clothes are damp, as are my bedsheets, so I'm guessing… something with water?" He laughed with whimsy.

The woman recounted to him what he had done. Then of the Doctor she asked, "Are you having doubts, Doctor?"

"No, no doubts," he said. "I believe that he doesn't remember a thing. I just think this ritual, and that herb, are incredibly dangerous."

"Well, you're not wrong, Doctor," said the woman priest. "Thank goodness it's in the right hands."

DAY 3

When the TARDIS dematerialised from the planet Dimin, two days later, it was with a cache of the Crux Herb that the priests had used in the ritual. It was true, the herb had been instrumental in dispatching the Tesku King, yet the Doctor was still reluctant to take it on-board.

"It's all right," Martha had said to the same priest who had been the subject of the demonstration ritual they had witnessed. She took from him the sack he was holding. "We'll take it, and we'll say thank you."

The bag was the size of a large pillow, and Martha stood with her arms around it, trying not to crush the dried-out leaves inside. She nudged the Doctor for his rudeness in refusing the gift, as the priest had seemed somewhat offended.

When she took it off his hands, though, he smiled. "We just happen to think that the two of you might find it useful someday."

"Indeed we might," Martha commented.

The Doctor reluctantly thanked the priest, they closed the TARDIS' door, and he set coordinates for a new destination.

She deposited the bag at the foot of the passenger's seat, then held on as the vessel jostled them on to someplace new. She eyed it sideways, and remarked a few leaves spilling out through a gap in a haphazardly-stapled corner. Not for the first time, Martha noticed the resemblance between the Crux Herb and an ordinary Earth-based plant.

"Is it just me, or does that stuff look exactly like dried-up maple leaves?"

The Doctor held onto the controls, but looked down to examine the bag. "It's not just you."

"Hunh. A cousin species, perhaps?"

"Cousin species," he chuckled. "One of them has wicked powerful hypnotic and suggestive properties. The other makes syrup. But not really."

"So… no?"

"Nah," he told her. "Just a coincidence."

They spent that day exploring a resort mountain town on the planet Brewsdoon. Private walks in secluded hanging flower gardens, exquisite food, and an idyllic natural hot spring. They retired from swimming that night, neither of them mentioning that the Crux Herb was still in its bag, on the console room floor. The Doctor, however, made a mental note to put the blasted thing into storage, first thing in the morning.

That night, he lay down innocently, but in sleep, the Doctor dreamt.

Of her. Of Martha Jones, his trusted companion, his best friend… one of the cleverest human beings he had ever met.

And also, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

He rarely ever allowed himself to indulge this thought when he was awake – his soul was too damaged, his losses to recent, his needs too profound and too dark. That way lies disaster, he had unconsciously told himself, every time he found himself thinking of Martha…

…the way she looked at him, the way she moved, the way her spine curved out and became her bum, and how lovely it might feel just to lay his hand at the small of her back.

This much articulate thought rarely ever manifested within the Doctor's mind because he treated thoughts of her like a hot stove. One doesn't have to tell oneself, "That's hot, and will burn you – stay away." Rather, one simply stays away.

But then there was that lovely day together on Brewsdoon. Innocuous though it may have seemed at the time, the experience changed him.

He dreamt of a mountain resort town – and her. In private walks, under miles and miles of arching flowers, holding her hand, hearing the things she would never, ever say in real life… that she loved him, longed for him. That she wanted to be admired by him, loved, touched, kissed, licked, undressed, ravaged, used…

He was with her, in the Brewsdoon bistro where they'd had dinner, enjoying exquisite foods off her fingers, and she lapping at his fingers. Her tongue searched the sides of her mouth for the sticky syrup that had dribbled from whatever it was he'd fed her.

And then she was swimming toward him in the hot spring, first in her purple bathing suit, and then nude, twisting in the water like a catfish, like a mermaid. He chased after her in the salty water, burning his eyes, but it was worth it. Because when he caught her, he could do with her as he...

That was when he woke with a start. And a raging erection.

Something came over him. Something a bit mad. Voracious, ferocious, desirous.

In his entire, long, long life, he could not remember ever feeling this way before. He'd known craving, sure, for chocolate or wine or even for companionship. He'd known different types of intensity – lust, anger, despair. But he'd never known quite this combination.

He had to have her. And it had to be soon. There was no time for wooing, or any of that other rubbish…

… and from that moment, the Doctor was off the rails.

DAY 4

The day ensued with the Doctor just barely able to concentrate on basic things like language, eating and walking. She was all he could see, all he could think about; she filled his senses. Her obliviousness only made it sweeter – she chirped like always, spoke with wonder about time and space like always, flirted like a teenaged girl, like always.

Numerous times, he tried to talk himself out of his thoughts, but the possibilities overwhelmed him. The beauty, the satisfaction…the power. Every time he looked at the bag of Crux Herb on the floor, his pulse quickened.

Finally, when she wasn't looking, he hit a button on the console that made an alarm sound.

"What's that?" she asked.

"A distress call," he lied, squinting at the screen.

And so, he contrived to "answer" the false call from an invented psychic Native American tribe, in rural Alaska in the autumn of… some year. The year was, after all, not important. It was the time of year that mattered, a time when dried maple leaves would be abundant and brown, all over the floor of the forest.

"I'm not sure where their camp is, but it's near," he said, stepping out of the TARDIS with her, into the brisk Alaska air. "Let's go separate directions, and see if we can locate their signal."

He went on to describe a bogus "fire sign" that would certainly not appear in the sky as a beacon, and instructed Martha to walk for fifteen minutes in one direction, then turn back, and he would do the same.

Once she was out of sight, he gathered as many dried maple leaves as he could hold in his arms, and hauled them into the TARDIS. Earlier that day, he had cleared room in a trunk in a storage area to be the new home of the stash of Crux Herb. He took the sack and dumped the herb into the trunk, refilling the sack with ordinary maple leaves. He then replaced it against the foot of the seat in the console room, including with a few sticking out the corner, the way Martha had last seen it lying there.

The Doctor hates that stuff, she would think, if she glanced at it. He was reluctant even to have it in the TARDIS at all. He thinks the power of suggestion it's capable of incurring is far too dangerous…

From that moment, until he crept down the hall into her bedroom that night, equipped with a bowl of Crux Herb in his hands and a mixture of self-hatred and pure lust invading his body, it was all he could do to keep from exploding.

DAY 6

And two nights later, for the third night in a row, though every "morning after" brought conflict, guilt and self-loathing, he lay in bed, waiting for his moment.

He said a calming Gallifreyan mantra that he'd used when he was an adolescent, designed to quell lustful thoughts. Without it, he wouldn't be able to keep his erection at bay, and from there, he wouldn't be able to hold himself in check long enough to enjoy the evening's secret delights.

After ninety minutes of this he climbed out of bed. He padded past Martha's bedroom door and into the storage room that housed the trunk full of the Crux Herb. There, he found the large bowl he had stowed with it, as well as the necessary incendiary device. He also located the tree branch he'd been using for mixing words with smoke. He filled the bowl, then took all of the supplies into Martha's room.

Softly, so as not to arouse her suspicion, just in case she hadn't yet fallen asleep, he said, "Martha, are you awake?"

But she said nothing. He heard her breathing, snoring very softly, and was convinced that, like on the two previous nights, she was sleeping soundly.

He lit the Herb in the bowl and let the room fill with smoke, marvelling at the how the Herb was "smart," and would affect only the subject of the ritual, and not the administrator.

He began to chant in the way the priests of Dimin had taught him. He then fixed his eyes on her, gritted his teeth so as to steady himself and his body, and he said something very like the words that had worked so well the last two nights.

"You want sex – madly and immediately," he growled. Slowly, panting, he continued, "You are insatiable, and you want to be obedient, to be treated roughly, and to be used by only me. My total satisfaction is your deepest, darkest, most burning craving. You hunger for my pleasure, because it brings absolutely unhinged, explosive pleasure to you."

He "stirred" the words into the inhalant, and waited a few moments for the message to penetrate her. He turned, and began to pace slowly around the room.

After a couple of minutes, a soft light switched on and he heard, "Doctor."

He stopped and looked. She was sitting up in bed, the lamp at her bedside illuminated, her eyes fixed on him, her lips slack. In that moment, all control left him, and his cock sprang to complete attention.

She threw the covers off and swung her legs off the bed and stood up. He watched, titillated, as she crossed the room. She wore a black camisole and tight red shorts, which was different from the previous two nights' oversized tee-shirt.

Uncertainty seized him momentarily. Any difference in the routine made him nervous, made him wonder why? What is she adapting to? Compensating for?

But it didn't matter. Lust was in the driver's seat now.

She was bearing just a hint of midriff, a hell of a lot of thigh, and her nipples were taut, straining hard against the fabric. She was hot and ripe for it, panting already, blood pumping, teeming with desire – and so was he.

She reached him in the middle of the room and stopped. He lurched forward and grabbed her, kissing her hard, plunging his tongue into her willing mouth. She sucked at it dutifully, and even wrapped one hand around his head, tugging just-so at his hair, so as to make him moan. He, in turn, buried a hand in her hair and pulled. He tugged her head to the side, pulling her lips away from his and exposing her neck. He licked her salty skin and listened to her breath become laboured, then whispered, "On your knees."

She obeyed without comment. She wasted no time tugging his pyjama bottoms to mid-thigh, and when his cock sprung up in her face, she grasped it and engulfed it in her mouth. He moaned at the sensation and momentarily lost focus. She sucked as though starving for it; willingly, deeply, wetly, noisily. With her whole mouth. She moaned, creating a bit of vibration.

In coming here, in thinking the last two days about her, conjuring memories of himself buried inside of her squirming body, auditory recall of her begging to be taken harder and harder… his anticipation had been wicked. He'd been almost literally talking his erection into submission for most of the day, so he could see that this go-round wasn't going to last long. But that was all right. There was still plenty of time, plenty to do.

And so, he threw caution to the wind.

He grasped her head with both hands and shoved, watching his cock completely disappear between her lips. She gagged the first time, but she quickly acclimated. He fucked her mouth, and she took it like a champion.

He couldn't help himself, and moaned, "Oh, yes, take it all," as he enjoyed her oral cavity, jerking his hips back and forth like a man possessed.

"Mmmm," she moaned, her eyes practically rolling back in her head. She moaned again and again, and begged him with her eyes, when they weren't watering, and when she was capable of keeping them open. "Mmm… mmmmmm!" Over and over, she moaned, as he forced the head of his cock down her throat, and hissed at her, groaned at her, avidly watched his pleasure become her pleasure.

Two minutes was all it took. The Doctor heaved, "I'm close, Martha, so close to coming! What if I shoot it down your throat? You'd bloody love that, wouldn't you?" His tone became biting, cutting, and he almost couldn't believe, at this moment, the frenetic, desperate, absurd nature of what he was saying and doing, but… damn it, that was part of the package. The wantonness of it, the immorality…

And she replied "Mmmm!" with her mouth full, her voice tinged with blind enthusiasm. Her hands clawed at the backs of his thighs, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

He grasped the back of her neck and came in her mouth. It was a tight, explosive spurt, with an uninhibited cry of nothing in particular. This was followed by the command, "Swallow it. All of it." She may have gagged, but he didn't notice. Then he let go of her head and pumped out the last few drops onto her tongue with his own hand.

After regaining some focus, he stepped out of the pyjama bottoms and tossed them aside, then began to pull at the hem of his tee-shirt. She remained on her knees, her breasts heaving, saliva dripping down her chin, waiting expectantly.

He threw off the last of his clothing, took her by the hands and helped her stand up. He guided her to a half-seated/half-standing position with her bum against the footboard of her bed. He took a few steps back to admire her. He could see that considerable moisture had gathered between her legs and was soaking through her shorts. He made no secret of the fact that this pleased him, and he let his eyes rest there.

"Nice and wet," he mused.

"Yes," she whimpered.

"Good girl. That's what I like to see. Go ahead, get yourself off. I'll just watch."

She took a deep breath and wasted no time sliding her hand down inside her shorts, straight to the sopping-wet centre. Once again, she moaned, and the Doctor looked up at her face. Her eyes were glazed over, though she was still staring straight at him, biting her bottom lip, her fingers moving smoothly in circles, then in and out, all inside the crotch of her soaked red shorts.

The Doctor moved forward, bent and yanked the shorts down to her ankles, and she kicked them off the rest of the way. Now, her swollen pink mound could be seen, her fingers firmly lodged between the lips, shiny, slick juices covering every soft, hot surface.

"Oh, oh God," she groaned as her index and middle finger completely disappeared inside of her. She sat up on the footboard, leaned back on her other hand, pulled her heels up onto the bedframe, spread her knees far apart, and fingered herself until she screamed.

The Doctor watched her come in a gush, and by now, his cock was at full attention again, but he was in a better position to make it last now. He smiled wickedly at her.

"That was brilliant, dear," he said. "Now do it again."

She began to rub her clit with two fingers with a low whine, biting her lip squeezing her eyes tight for a few moments. He marvelled, once more, at how ludicrous this whole thing was. The amount of power he had was unreasonable and wrong, but God, she was exquisite like this. Filthy and exquisite. And addictive. How would he ever tear himself away from this? Why should he ever try?

He allowed himself to stroke his cock for only about ten seconds as he watched her, before he forced himself to stop, savour the moment.

After a few minutes, the Doctor asked, "Do you ever just fuck yourself silly, Martha?"

"Mm-hm," she moaned in assent.

"With what?" he asked. "Show me."

She stood up and walked compliantly to the wardrobe beside the bed, opened it, reached up onto the top shelf and brought down a shoebox. She opened it, and inside was a twelve-inch-long, pink, torpedo-shaped sex toy.

She perched on the end of the bed once more, spread her legs dutifully, and aimed the torpedo at her swollen, gaping lips. The Doctor held his breath as he watched it disappear inside of her. Straight away, she pulled it halfway out, and then pushed it back in. She did it again, and again at a medium pace, moaning each time the thing got all the way into her. With each stroke it went further and further, and the Doctor watched, practically drooling, shaking with the strain of holding back.

And just when he thought he might fall completely to pieces, "Stand up," he commanded.

Trembling, eyes pleading, she obliged.

"Put your foot there," he told her, indicating a spot on the footboard.

Again, she obliged.

He moved forward, took the toy out of her hand and took her quite off-balance by kissing her. With a kind of languid passion, he played at her lips with his tongue, teased at her tongue as well. He sucked at her mouth and delighted as she fell into it. He kissed her well and truly as he slid the toy down her clit and shoved it inside of her.

She cried out with surprise, and he smirked roguishly as he pulled it almost all the way out, before shoving it back in again. He entwined the fingers of his left hand slowly into her hair, and pulled back, tipping her face up to meet his gaze.

And without warning, he began ramming the tool in and out hard and fast. He held his grasp on her hair, and was reminded of one of his favourite bits about this whole business: he could watch her face, and memorize the pain, pleasure, stupefaction and chaos in her eyes as she got fucked. Without worrying about his own concentration, he could greedily take in the expressions that signified total abandon on her face. He stared at her with his jaw clenched, teeth grinding, watching as the sensations completely overtook her: being rammed detachedly with a plastic toy, twice as hard as she could ever ram herself, being jabbed in just the right spot, over and over... spread open for him and his whim, being held in place by her hair…

"Oh God, oh God," she repeated under her breath. "That's so good… so good. Fuck me, fuck me…" The words delighted him, of course, but there was nevertheless a slightly mechanical tinge to them.

Eventually, he let go of her hair and lent his thumb to the cause, pressing it against her clit as he continued his work with the toy. She quaked so hard, he wondered if she could stay standing, and indeed, when she came this time, she lost the strength in her knees. She fell back on the bed, but he didn't stop. He lay down next to her, and she gave high squeals as he rammed the thing into her repeatedly, sometimes varying the pace... She squirmed, panted, said filthy things, and eventually, came again. Then again. He wondered, not for the first time, how many times she could get off before she just went limp and couldn't go anymore, and would have liked to resolve to find out...

Except, he had almost no patience left himself, because watching her writhe was just too much – in the best, most shuddering, intense way imaginable. He could see things escalating in his mind, a sweat-soaked mounting of what pleasure meant to him. He could imagine upping the ante every night, and becoming more and more dependent and needy, and requiring more and more outrageous acts to satisfy himself.

Because something about this act was even more depraved than the previous two nights when he had actually fucked her himself. Something about watching her so completely abandoned because of a piece plastic, watching her writhing, whimpering, totally helpless to an onslaught of orgasms... it was profane and idyllically beautiful, all at once.

So much so that he couldn't take it anymore.

He withdrew the torpedo toy and threw it on the bed, inciting a beg of "No, please don't stop!" from her. He rolled on top of her, took her hands and pinned them to the bed beside her shoulders. She looked at him with surprise, but seemed to unconsciously slur the word, "Yes." He pried her legs even further apart with his knee, then plunged his twitching cock into her.

For perhaps a minute, he used her, held her down, pushed and grunted. At some point in that minute, she came, yet again. Her spasms milked his orgasm out of him, and he emptied into her, seeing stars, cursing, vibrating from head to toe.

Spent, he let his head loll forward, burying his lips against her neck, and gave her soft kisses as he recovered.

At last, he withdrew from her, kissed her on the forehead, then moved round to turn off the bedside lamp. He couldn't quite face her in the light, now that it was all over.

He talked to her softly, reassuringly, went to the top drawer in the bottom section of the wardrobe and found a new pair of shorts. He helped her sit up and worm her way into them, then put her back in bed. He took the torpedo toy, put it into the shoebox and prepared to take it with him, clean it properly, then he planned to replace it during the following day while Martha was in the shower or something.

He lulled her to sleep, once again hoping against hope that she would not notice the new pair of shorts, nor have any memories of what they (he) had done.

In the moment when he shut her bedroom door softly behind him, he loathed himself, and vowed never to use the Crux Herb again – for any reason.

All the while, of course, knowing that he was kidding himself.

DAY 7

"Good morning," she said, walking carefully into the console room, a mug in each hand. She handed him one of them. "I brought you one too, since the last two mornings, you've sent me back again."

"Thanks," he said flatly, and stared hard at the computer screen.

For the third morning in a row, he was a coiled spring, a bundle of nerves, riddled with guilt and doubt… but still, her presence, even now, was practically intoxicating.

And, he noticed, she hadn't showered yet. This made him nervous, but he felt a surge of that shameful power again. Last night was still on her. Not just his handprints and bodily fluids, but the air and mood in the room when they'd done what they'd done. She hadn't washed it away.

He fancied he could smell it on her, but he knew it was just his libido doing the thinking again.

He tried to invent another reason to send her away, but he reckoned if he did that, she'd be onto him somehow. So, he remained silent, and sipped his coffee. She leaned near him and did the same.

"Sleep well?" he couldn't help but ask.

"As always," she answered. "Adventures with you really take it out of me, I guess."

"I guess."

Once again, she leaned one elbow on his shoulder as she inspected the screen. He turned his head to look at her, and she was startlingly close. She didn't flinch – only smiled expectantly, cheerfully, waiting for an answer.

The oblivion within her was only growing, as was her trust in him. He wondered if the Herb was doing any long-term damage, and/or whether memories of what he was doing with her were stored in there somewhere, burning through, perhaps even threatening to burst and show themselves someday. How long could this continue, exactly?

He knew the answer: it couldn't. He should stop. Completely, immediately. He should confess, beg and grovel for her forgiveness, and work to make things right for her.

"Martha?" he said.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to say next, or even what he wanted to say next.

"Yep?" she asked, brightly, sipping her coffee.

"Nothing," he sighed.

"Budge over," she said, bumping her hip against him.

He tingled a bit when she did this, and moved over six inches, so that she could sit. It was impossible for any two adults to sit on that stool together without touching, so next, he felt most of the left side of her body pressed against most of the right side of his. With total boldness, no trepidation…

…with warmth. God, she was warm. And alive. And… trusting. She could press her body against him and not feel the contact at all, because it was innocent to her. Quotidian.

Yet she was lighting a fire inside him. Sparks so bright, they were blinding. And her total confidence within the fold, here in the TARDIS, made it burn all the brighter. In a little while, she would take his hand, follow him into adventure, trust him with her life, and his baser urges and his conscience should be impeded by this.

But they were not. Somehow he'd got over it so he could have her…

…and now, he had to strain not to become visibly aroused.

Thankfully, she asked a question to distract him. "So, what're you working on?"

"Actually, I'm just going through some old journalistic archives," he said truthfully, pointing at the Gallifreyan text on the screen. It was something he'd begun doing because it was mundane and doable in the throes of a self-loathing depression, but he'd eventually found that he had something like four billion files he didn't need, and reckoned that this task was actually worth undertaking. "I'm dumping what's not required, to make room for… well, other things."

"Wish I could help."

"Maybe you can," he said. "Do you want to learn the number system?"

"Seriously?"

"Sure," he said. "It's fairly easy – works on base-sixteen."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"You're up to it."

"Okay then," she said, a bit less enthusiastically than he would have liked. "Just let me shower first. If I'm going to work my brain… I'm going to need to feel refreshed."

"You don't have to. I'll just do it myself, it's fine."

"No, I want to help."

"We could just set the coordinates on random and go somewhere unknown instead, and have a proper adventure."

"Don't patronise me," she scolded, smacking him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. She started for the corridor. "I'll help you out. Of course I will. If it's really helping."

"It is. I just don't want to force you, if you're not into it," he said, absently. He was now busy organising data into a file, getting ready for her participation. He was grateful to have something to focus on, and not particularly paying attention to what he was saying.

These words stopped her in her tracks in the archway to the corridor. She turned, looked at him with a scepitcal, sardonic smile, and said, "Oh no, wouldn't want that. Now that would be very very wrong, indeed." Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but he missed them.

Then she chuckled and disappeared down the hall.

Part 2 follows immediately!

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