Clara Oswald: Into the Vortex (An Erotic Doctor Who Fantasia – Part One)

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Clara Oswald: Into the Vortex (An Erotic Doctor Who Fantasia – Part One)

The central unit of the TARDIS’ slowly rose and fell with a dynamic, rhythmic whirr, propelling the mysterious craft forever onward, to continue its fantastic journey through space and time, while Clara lay dreaming,naked, in bed. A strange hand lovingly caressed the console, clicking buttons, pulling levers and twisting dials until the soft whir became a deafening roar and the motions of the main pillar increased in fury and vigour until the control room was awash with movement and noise; a deafening alarm, then a crash followed by an uncanny silence. And through it Clara slept on; and Clara dreamed on.

Clara dreamed of many things that terrified her; she dreamed of the terrible monsters she’d unluckily encountered, the single-minded Cybermen, the mechanical killers, the Daleks and the chillingly fearsome Ice Warriors. As the dial turned on the console and the temperature soared dangerously in the control room, Clara’s dreams slowly shifted from fear into an altogether different realm; Clara was experiencing strange dreams that terrified her and then aroused her; Clara dreamed of the Doctor, and of sex. The mysterious figure operating the dials chuckled to itself and exited, satisfied that a job had been well done. The TARDIS went spinning back through time. Or was it forward? Or perhaps a combination of the two. Either way, a cryptic alien message on the display screen flashed with urgency. Roughly translated to English, it read “next stop,
oblivion.”

“Next stop, oblivion,” came a sweet but worried snarl from Clara’s chapped, sleeping lips. The TARDIS had jerked from side to side and the jolt appeared to startle her into action. Her eyes flashed open and she sat bolt upright in bed, throwing a blanket aside as she did so. Any observer could tell that she wasn’t actually awake since her face clearly had the vacant, morbid expression of a somnambulist. The next time she spoke was markedly different; soft, gentle and enticingly sexual.  The voice of quiet seduction. ‘Oh Doctor, you saved me.’ As she spoke a silk sheet that clung tightly to her skin slid gently away exposing her astonishing figure to the electric illuminations of her private chamber. “Doctor, you saved me,” she breathed. “You’re a wonderful, wonderful man. I want you. Take me Doctor, let me reward you, Let me give you what I know you
crave.”

Inner heat and tension rising fast, the TARDIS froze in time, span around quickly, and then abruptly exploded. It then lurched forwards in time, stopped and disintegrated once again before being propelled backwards in time only to be rend asunder for a third time, then a forth, a fifth, a sixth and so on, over and over caught in an infinite and devastating time loop. Clara, oblivious to the apparent mathematically impossible events taking place around her, continued to dream an unabashedly erotic dream. The electric light flickered once again, illuminating her soft skin, the tight curve of her breast, and every desirable inch of her unworried nudity. The illumination picked out the sweat of the heat on her skin, the goose-bumps covering her flesh, the gentle tremors of her aroused and shaking form. The illuminations looked dispassionately on as Clara’s uncontrolled, unawake hands, uncertainly explored the subtle contours of her body, slowly touching, caressing and enjoying every inch of her unaware, but vulnerable form. As the ship exploded again and again Clara’s hands slid excitedly across her breasts and dainty, firming nipples; they slid down her stomach, stroking and playing as they went lower still until eventually resting on her wet cunt, and a finger entered into that playful private vortex. As it gently slipped deeper and deeper inside Clara managed to moaned again out loud, “Doctor, you shouldn’t put that in there… oh! Yes Doctor, that’s one hell of a sonic … OH! OH!”

BOOM!

A further explosion occurred, and Clara awoke and fell, unsatisfied, to the floor. A further explosion and it all ended as the TARDIS flew itself out of the deadly infinite time loop and into a dimensional vortex of unknown worlds and desires; into a vortex where literally anything might happen; where Clara might encounter the whole of space and time … and memory. Clara – the impossible girl – was about to experience the impossible.

…and Clara Dances

… and Clara Dances, Like a Feather in the Wind.­­

 La donna è mobile
Qual piuma al vento,
muta d’accento
e di pensiero.

Feather

Clara span round and around. Naked men sucked one another to satisfaction as they watched Clara spin around and around on her point. They watched as she span but she could not watch them, for she was locked tightly alone in a world of darkness, a cover on her eyes forbidding access to the dazzling colour; forbidding access to the succulent pleasures of the male sex she so greedily desired to feast her eyes upon. She couldn’t have them, she could only spin around on her axis and dance.

And so Clara danced, and as she did, although denied vision, her sense of enveloping sound and music increased. She heard the rough whine of an old needle scratching a record as the light tenor voice of Pavarotti singing an aria from Verdi drifted pleasantly across the room. She heard the slow incessant drip-drip-drip of water from a tap, picking out every painful note of its ceaseless rhythmic torture. She heard the pop of a bottle uncorking and the slow dank pouring of wine in a glass, and she smelt the spiced cherry grape of the delicious vintage Cabernet she’d been expressly forbidden to taste. She heard the light, gentle tap-tappety-tap of her own bare feet upon the ground as she danced around graciously in time to the music, her feet picking out and accentuating the beat, as light as a feather in the wind. She heard the soft sounds of sex from every corner of the room, from far away and close beside her, and she could feel fucking warmly embrace her. She heard the sound of bodies pressed tightly against one another, the slow salivating suck of cock slipping deep down into a hot willing mouth. She heard moans of pleasure sing out, drowning out the melodic cries of Pavarotti. She heard the shrill shriek of male orgasmic lust and she heard the light slap of balls, and the swishing jet-spray of cum as thick members thrust hard in and then emerged softly from their adoring pleasures.

And as she heard all of this, Clara danced ever on like the wind.

Clara did not dance voluntarily. She span around and around because they wanted her, desired her, made her. She danced for them and they watched keenly, lusting her feverishly, aroused by the music she sang as she span. The wild music of her silken hair as it flung exuberantly about her shoulders, the tiny music of her breasts as they thrust firmly forwards in time to the drip of the water. The swaying music of her hips as they jiggled sensually from side to side, and the supple music of her legs as she span them faster and faster so that she might be free. But she could not dance free while the hands grabbed her body and held her, and twisted her, and forced her down. She could not be free as they came upon her, big, hard and filled with intent. Could not be free as they gave her themselves to their grip, to tease, to fondle and jerk. Could not be free as she was surrounded, overwhelmed, dizzy and confused. They desired her and they had her, and she wanted them back. She could not see as they slipped down her throat, first hard, then sticky, then soft. She could not count as they came at her insatiably and left her satisfied. She could not see her desire, just hear it, feel it and taste it.

Clara danced on her point until she stumbled and fell. She danced until they grabbed her and took her and held her down. They grabbed her arms and they bound them, took her legs and then tied them, they took her clothes and they ripped them. The Versace dress she wore was violently stripped away, leaving her naked and exposed.

“I’m frightened,” she confessed as they held her down, tore her clothes, stripped her naked and bare. She couldn’t see who, she couldn’t tell how and she couldn’t know what manner of pleasure or punishment awaited her. Clara was alone, scared, vulnerable and defenceless. Clara’s cunt dripped wet.

Clara Dances

As they strapped her up, her body ached and trembled. Bound tightly as she was, she was no longer free to dance; yet Clara danced inside as the tannic red wine splashed across her naked breasts, hands crawled slowly across her skin and probing fingers buried themselves deep inside of her most private holes. The softness of touch told her that these fingers were feminine, and as a delicate nipple flashed gently across her mouth, begging her to lick, her mind and body flushed hot with new sensations. The world seemed strange and she danced; sensations were soft and she danced; sounds sang pleasant and she flew, soaring upwards and ever higher as the groping fingers of a girl – or two, or three – penetrated her tight, clenched ass; she soared higher still as a full pair of breasts rubbed erotically across hers; she soared up to the sun as the rough tongue of a girl lightly licked up the scented juice that gushed like a torrent from her pussy.

“Let me go, please let me go,” she begged, almost screamed. “I want to be free.” She heard the stern reply of “Never.”

“Take off the blindfold, untie me. PLEASE. I want to see, I want to touch.” She implored her captors and they replied without mercy, “Never.”

Clara moaned aloud in pain and in pleasure. Clara screamed a happy, delirious scream and then she saw the entire world from above as a bright white light streaked across her senses; and then there were rainbow colours. She saw an intense streak of electric light and she felt it shock through her throat, constrict her back, pain her wrists and then sear through her brain, wrenching her entire body rigid. She saw her life in 16.7 million colours and she saw her death cloaked all in black. She saw Clara shrouded in dark blood red floating lightly around the room as a feather flies in the breeze. Looking down from above, Clara could see herself clearly, surrounded by lust and debauchery, smeared all over in nudity and wine, her face flushed tannic red, her mouth silently twisted, grinning with crazed notes of pleasure; her arms and legs pulling furiously on her bonds as her groin and chest thrust desperately upwards again and again; and Clara begged them again and again and again:

And the bonds on her wrists tightened, the straps on her ankles tightened, her constricted chest tightened and blood flowed freely from the stress of her bonds; her tentative grip on life and the world collapsed. She felt faint, overwhelmed with intense swirls of dizziness dancing around her skull. She descended into a world of pain and fear, and as the fear touched her heart she finally came. Her orgasm released her mind as the fingers, the hands, the breasts and the cocks danced across her helpless body, round and around; tongues thirstily licked the sticky wine that dripped from her chest, as two, three, four fingers penetrated her lusting holes, and the exploding cum drenched her body, squirting, smearing, and joyfully shooting its slimy sex across her tiny helpless figure. “Set me free, I must dance.”

She wrenched, contorted and collapsed exhausted. “Yes, I want this,” she managed before tiredly closing her eyes and finally embracing her dark prison. “I really do. This is all I’ll ever want. Thank you.”

And they nodded, satisfied, then released her body and un-strapped her bonds. She lay back and slept silently to the soothing sounds of a quietly dripping tap and the gentle clunking of the needle as the record played out its last operatic melody. And Clara was content. And Clara was free.