The TARDIS spins patiently in the Vortex.
Inside, the architecture has changed. The golden walls have cooled to silver. The grated floor has been replaced with hardwood and steel. Even the ragged jumpseat has gone, and in its place is a fine black leather couch.
The Master sits sprawled upon it, slumped with his legs spread and his trousers hitched slightly down. The Doctor's head bobs in his lap, guided by the gloved hand that holds a painful grip on his hair. He's been sucking the Master's cock for quite a while, and his knees and jaw both ache. The Master likes to take his time.
The Doctor shifts on his knees, and the Master gives a sharp tug. "I didn't say you could move," he says, with languid disapproval.
The Doctor moans around the Master's cock, and the painful hold eases slightly. He moans again, hums and licks. He's had enough experience by now to know what the Master likes, especially in this body. After a few minutes of this, the Master's hand shifts to the back of his head and pulls him closer, and the Doctor has only a moment to catch his breath before the Master's cock slides down his throat and stays there.
Strangulation is another favourite. Bruises ring the front of his throat, aged like tree rings. When the Master's fingers press against the old ones, the ache only makes it better. Usually it ends before his respiratory bypass gives out, but he's getting used to waking up with a sore throat and an unsatisfied erection.
This time, the Master's hand guides him back and forth, and he can snatch small breaths. That means he wants it to last. The Master has, he's found, far more patience than he'd imagined, but in hindsight it makes sense. It was the Master who would dedicate months or years to a plan, and the Doctor who would stumble blindly into it, make a mess, and improvise his way out again, usually in the space of a day or two.
He hasn't figured a way out of this one, but the truth is he doesn't want to. He knows what that says about himself, but doesn't care.
Well, maybe he cares a little. He cares about his ship, which isn't quite his ship anymore. She's changing more and more, becoming the Master's. Since the isomorphic controls were restored and upgraded, he's been locked out completely. The Master's imprimatur has become dominant. There's a part of him that welcomes her corruption, because it mirrors his own, and at least this way they'll still be together. The Master has a firm hold of them both, and he wonders if she's learning to need that as much as he is.
The Master's other hand touches his face, curves behind his jaw. The leather is warm and supple from wear, and he resists the urge to rub against it. He can do that later, when the Master's cock isn't spearing deep in his throat, when the Master's hips aren't at last beginning to rock back and forth, making the couch creak, when the Master isn't fucking his mouth. His own cock throbs in his trousers, untouched, but if he's good the Master will rectify that.
He swallows around the Master's cock, and scrapes lightly with his teeth, until the Master growls and shoves himself to the root and comes. When he pulls out, he leaves behind a trail of come that the Doctor licks from his swollen lips.
The Master leans his head back, smug with afterglow. There's just a peek of his pale skin at the waist, and then his softening cock and his balls, both flushed dark and wet with spit. The Doctor can't resist, and leans in and nuzzles at the gap between shirt and trousers, breathing in the rich scent, the honey-salt of his sweat. The Master pets his hair, smoothing down the wild disarray. He runs his thumb along the Doctor's swollen lips, and lets the Doctor give a few welcoming sucks on the leather before sliding down to prod the bruises. He does this until the Doctor whimpers, then relents.
"On your feet," the Master tells him.
The Doctor stands, steadying himself after so long on his knees. The Master's come still slicks the back of his throat.
"Open your trousers."
The Doctor obeys, and once undone they slip down his slim hips and pool around his feet. He's not wearing underwear--the Master put a stop to that. His cock juts out, swollen thick.
"Very nice," the Master murmurs. "It's tempting to keep you that way. Hard and wanting." He reaches out his hand, then pauses. The Doctor bites back a desperate whimper.
The Master gives a considering look, then leans back again. "Touch yourself," he says.
The Doctor wraps his hand around the shaft and almost groans with relief. He's needed this.
"That's it," the Master says, voice smooth as silk. "Nice and slow."
The Doctor's hand slides back and forth. The wings of his shirt brush his skin, but they're short enough not to cover too much. The Master wouldn't like that. The Doctor leans his head back and swallows, giving himself a firm squeeze.
The Master sees this. "Harder, or it stops," he tells him.
The second time is hard enough to make his eyes water, and the Master gives a nod of approval. The Doctor keeps going, stroking himself and every so often giving his cock a painful squeeze.
"Now the shirt. Just the buttons," the Master says. "And don't stop while you do it."
With his free hand, the Doctor slowly unbuttons his jacket. He doesn't wear ties anymore, and keeps his shirt open at the collar. As he undoes his shirt, his pale skin is revealed, scattered with marks from the Master's crop. There are so many things he needs to be punished for.
The Master tucks himself back in and stands, and makes a slow circuit around him. His eyes are slitted with satisfaction, his lips drawn in a thin smile. He slips his hand beneath the Doctor's shirt, caressing him with the pride of an owner. The Doctor shivers under his gaze, then winces as his nipple is given a sharp pinch.
"On your knees," the Master orders, voice low and hard.
The Doctor's legs go out from under him, and his knees hit the floor hard. He can't suppress a glare, that the Master does this to him when he knows full well that the Doctor would willingly kneel. The Master's fingers press against his chin and tilt his head back, roll it to the side, and then without hesitation he delivers a sound smack across the Doctor's face.
"Insolent," he says.
The Doctor's cheek feels hot, and he works his jaw a few times. When he straightens up, he's still glaring, and that earns him a backhand across the other cheek.
"Wilful."
Another smack.
"You can make this stop anytime," the Master tells him, when that fails to wipe the glare from his face. "Unless you want it." The Master grips his jaw, presses his thumb hard and forces the Doctor's lips to part. The Master leans down and kisses him hard, making him tilt backward and forcing him off-balance.
The Doctor moans into the kiss.
When the Master finally pulls back, the glare is long gone, replaced by a lidded, drugged look. The Master looks down and sees that the Doctor's hand is still moving back and forth on his cock, as instructed, and he wraps his own gloved hand around the Doctor's. He makes the Doctor squeeze himself hard, makes the strokes go from tip to root, until the slickness at the head glistens along the shaft and the Doctor's moans are low and desperate.
"Come before I tell you," the Master murmurs into his ear, "and I'll blind you for a week."
The Doctor's eyes widen. He swallows, nods.
The Master releases his hand, straightens up. "Two fingers," he says, eyes narrowed.
The Doctor raises his free hand to his mouth and sticks his first two fingers in, wetting them thoroughly. He meets the Master's eyes as he moves his hand down again, behind, and presses them inside himself. The position makes his back arch, his shirt and jacket fall further open. There's a strain on his neck, and he lets his head fall back. He works his fingers in and out as his other hand strokes his cock.
"Good," the Master murmurs. He rests his hand over the Doctor's neck, feels the bob of his throat as he swallows. The gloved hand slides down in a caress, and the Master leans in and nuzzles at his throat like a vampire. He licks and nips at his skin, feels the tension coiled in the Doctor's body.
"Do you know what I think, Doctor?" he murmurs against the Doctor's skin. He slides up and moves in to kiss him, then stops the merest fraction from his lips. "I think I might leave you like this," he says, then moves to his ear. "Perhaps I'll paralyze you and make you into a conversation piece. Or trap you in a perpetual time loop only seconds long. The way you are right now, it's just so very, very... perfect."
The Doctor closes his eyes and shudders. The Master reaches down and grips tight around his balls, and he cries out.
"Beg for me, Doctor," the Master hisses. "You're not making enough noise."
"Please," the Doctor begs, his voice cracking. "Please let me live, Master, please!"
Ecstasy spreads across the Master's face. "Keep going," he groans.
"I'll do anything," the Doctor pleads. "Anything you want. Please don't kill me."
The Master's free hand grabs him by the hair, forcing his head further back, almost making him lose his balance completely. "Say it like you mean it."
The Doctor whimpers, and his eyes are wide. "Master," he moans. "Master, Master, please."
The Master gives a snarl of pleasure, and the tight grip eases around his balls, replaced by a delicious massage. "Come for me, Doctor," he says, roughly. "Show me how much you're mine."
The Doctor's hand quickens on his cock, faster and harder, and he pushes his fingers deep inside himself. Each breath brings a noise of tortured pleasure, building and building until his hips stutter and his spine arches hard, and he comes shouting the Master's name.
When it's over, the only thing holding him up is the grip on his hair. The moment the Master releases him, he collapses to the floor, panting and dazed.
The Master stands over him, smirking with satisfaction. "Clean yourself up," he says, and walks away.