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.

Why Do Straight Women Enjoy Watching Lesbian Porn?

This question has been buzzing like crazy in my brain all day, demanding an answer I was worried that I’d never be able to give it. My inner bisexual knew what I wanted the answer to be. “theyreallylikewomentheyreallylikewomentheyreallylikewomen.” It would be more evidence to me that we are, after all, existing on a sexual scale of preference, rather than fixed to a straight/gay binary.

But that felt like an easy answer. It doesn’t seem quite that straightforward. Straight men, for instance, do not watch gay porn. They just don’t. They need some girl-flesh to get off to and watching men do things to men generally makes them squirm, or die inside or something. I’ve been told by men of the world that “guy on guy sex is just “unnatural”, whereas girl on girl is part of the way of the world – because men like to watch it DUH! And so do straight women, apparently. So if the answer is simply that “we’re all a little bit bi, then girls are clearly a little bit more bi than boys; a conclusion that makes very little logical sense.

It’s fairly obvious that men are anxious about their masculinity, and that so much as daring to watch Brokeback Mountain can be perceived as a gay, anti-male threat in many circles. There’s simply no reason for a manly straight man to watch gay porn if he isn’t immediately aroused by it.  And if he is, then then the instant conclusion is, of course, that it’s because he’s a repressed gay(not bi). On the other hand, straight porn is a harder sell to women because representationally it’s … pretty horrible mostly. In terms of power dynamics it’s not only all male fantasy, it more often than not features male dominance and displays of power over women.  Women in porn are mostly fuck toys.  As a woman, it’s not easy to get into a space/frame of mind for being aroused when the person on-screen you identify with is being objectified and shown as dehumanised or subservient.  

If we consider lesbian porn, instead, it’s entirely different. Of course, lesbian porn isn’t actually made for either straight or gay women to enjoy, it’s still a male fantasy game, but no matter how tawdry the onscreen dynamic is still entirely different. Instead of watching a male figure dominating and subduing women, two (or more) women are meeting for sex and pleasuring one another on rather more equal power- terms. How much easier to switch off and feel arousal if there’s at least something onscreen that the woman can identify with  How much more enjoyable. The male in straight porn is so often a little bit threatening, but in lesbian porn that figure has gone.  It may not be that all women are fantasising about fucking the woman onscreen as men are when they watch straight porn.  They may be using the sexual scenario as a way to fuel their own, more abstract, fantasies.

If this is close to correct, does that make straight women free from the potential, horrific curse of being labelled bisexual – are they still being honest with themselves if they call themselves straight? Well, I guess this depends on how one views sex/arousal; I doubt that most women who say this are actually lying, but I think that their language of sexuality and our culture of anti bisexuality suggests to them that the straight box is the one they should fit into. Does saying “I like watching women onscreen, but I wouldn’t go out and have sex with one” mean that you are definitely straight? For me, whatever the reason you’re doing it, surely the fact is that if watching two women having sex arouses you, takes you to a place in which you have erotic thoughts and desires, then you’re aroused by the thought of your own sex.(Do you have to actually have sex with a woman to consider yourself a bisexual woman?) In my mind, that’s still a strong indication that sexuality exists on a continuum, and that what we call ourselves, straight, gay, bi, pan or whatever, we still have the possibility to break free from the constrictions of our language and the boxes it tries to put is in and consider that sex and desire is flexible and more than a little unpredictable. 

She Wakes

She Wakes
(Author’s note: I wrote this attempting to capture a gentler, more sensual moment.)

Her body lies sprawling, naked and peaceful, an erotic adornment to the stark crisp linen of her bed. The dawning sun shyly observes her calm and unmoving beauty, for she lies perfectly still but for the soft regular rise and fall of her small delicate bosom. Strong male hands run lightly across the tips of her breasts and grab hold of her curving hips; a firm cock slides gently inside of her; and she wakes.

The first coy greetings of the morning sun tentatively shine through and brighten the room, illuminating her precious nudity. She yawns, stretches out her arms, and then blearily wipes away the encrusted sleep from her sticky eyes. The bolder rays beam their warmth across her smiling face and neck, bringing welcome heat to the exposed breast, recently cupped so tenderly by the man now thrusting his way deeper and deeper within.

She wakes as the gentle thrusting quickens, intensifies and heats; as the penetrating rays of the sun explode and refract into a light of a thousand beautiful colours; and then it burns and dies. She feels a husky breath on her neck, her warm body is surrounded, cradled in the arms of her lover, and she emerges into the day feeling safe and content. One arm wraps tightly around her, hand playing fondly with her chest, the other gently squeezing downwards on her thigh.  His semi-rigid cock lies pressed up against her ass, while the seed it spilled trickles innocently down her leg. She wriggles, pushes her body onto his, and then giggles sweetly.  She mutters, “I love you,” incoherently before drifting back into sensuous sleep.

The sunlight creeps ever over, caressing her soft, naked skin.

A Dark and Lusty Knight – Being a Clara Brooks Procrastination

Author’s Note As a writer occasionally you just want to write something, edit it lightly and share it with people.  It’s good for productivity.  I woke up this morning and realised that, whilst I have many Clara adventures in the works involving classic literature, it would also be awesome to be able to write the modern pop culture stuff.  It would be awesome if Clara met Batman.  I can’t possibly write and sell that without getting my ass sued and I don’t have that much time to spend in all these fabulous ideas.  So, I wrote this in a few hours of fun, and will write part two when I next have a rampant lusting after a few hours of fun.  Enjoy, in all its first – and possibly, but hopefully not the only – drafted glory.

A Dark and Lusty Knight – 
Being a Clara Brooks Procrastination

Part One

“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.””
– Polonius, Hamlet.

Clara lay on her back, on her boyfriend’s bed, uniquely dissatisfied.

“No girl was ever less satisfied than I,” she lamented.

As Clara lay demurely on her back, her boyfriend pounded into her with all the grace of a troop of horny monkeys.  Clara was reminded of the monkeys who had been set the task to write the complete works of Shakespeare.  If one randomly pushes Clara Brooks’ buttons in whatever manner one chooses enough times and for an infinite length of time, perhaps one day you will be lucky enough to create an orgasm.  The monkeys hardly cared at all whether they accidentally stumbled across the First Folio edition of Hamlet any more than her boyfriend seemed to care about the script for Clara Brooks sensual pleasure.  In both cases fun was being had pushing buttons regardless of the outcome, so long as – she supposed – there was some kind of innate physical response happening.

She closed her eyes and attempted to imagine an orgasm into existence.  It was awfully difficult to do as much whilst a man is gnawing at your breasts as if they were an overdone piece of  steak, ramming into you so hard and inelegantly, in a seemingly desperate attempt to find the back wall of your vagina, perhaps hoping that by doing so the seemingly elusive g-spot will make its first time appearance.

“Oh me, oh my!” She internalised.  “My dashing Romeo has turned out to have all the grace and passion of a Jeremy Clarkson.  Although I’m sure he, at least, could work through my gears a little more smoothly.  Externally, she breathed with a heavier, steady rhythm and began to moan, “yes darling, yes, just like that baby.  Oh, fuck yeah don’t stop, don’t ever stop!”

Please, for God’s sake let it be over with.  Just fucking cum already,”  her inner demon scowled..

“That’s a bit harsh,” the daintier Clara replied, a little shocked by her other self’s attitude.

Why, he’s a monkey, you said as much yourself not one – orgasm free – minute ago.

“True, but just in bed.  Otherwise he’s sweet, isn’t he?  He bought me an ice-cream earlier while we walked around Hyde Park and then laughed as we watched the squirrels.  That was nice and I simply love ice-cream.   Earlier, while we were getting naked, he said that my nipples were like juicy little cherries.  He simply loves cherries”

Is that really it?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Clara felt glum.

He’s got nothing else going for him than buying you an ice-cream?”

“He’s absolutely atrocious in bed, Clara.  It’s terrible.  I can have more orgasms when I flick through the Next Directory.”

That’s not good Clara.  Not good at all.  Although, some of those catalogue models are pretty hot.”

“I’m glad we agree on something.”  She nodded to herself.

Clara realised that she’d been discussing things too intimately with her other half, and that she’d forgotten to continue the play.  “Oh, shove that huge dick in harder loverboy,” she screamed.  “Was loverboy too much?” She wondered.  Maybe it was the wrong word, perhaps it sounded fake.  Could the guy tell if she was faking?  Would he even care?  Her concern was wholly misplaced since her pert little fruit pastilles were currently being chewed out of existence by what could only be described as a rabid chihuahua, who yapped annoyingly as he did so. “Oh Clara baby, you’re so hot, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cuuuuuuum.  UHHHHHHH!”

“YES – go on baby, DO IT.  FUCKING DO IT MY DARLING!!”.  For the first time since they’d arrived back at her boyfriend’s apartment she’d spoken with an ounce of sincerety.  “C’mon my amazing Superman, give it to me good and hard.”  The mistake was made, the agony was about to be prolonged.

He stopped abruptly, completely destroying  the rhythm of the thing….

(Interjection) – “there was no rhythm Clara, no rhythm at all.  If you’re going to describe this gruesome ordeal in minute detail, then at least get it right.  I’ve had better rhythms listening to 5 hours worth of Dubstep.  And you know what dubstep does to your neural pathways.  It’s not an experience I’m anxious to repeat”

… he stopped abruptly.  Breaking the condom as he pulled out.

(Interjection) – “Please, I don’t intend to get pregnant, not from this bad sexual experience anyway.  I need something better to remember the baby by.  If there’s going to be any condom breaking accidents, let it be during an orgasmic epiphany, OK?”

…he stopped abruptly.  This did at least stall the pain that had slowly devoured her increasingly sore breasts for a few seconds.

“Don’t be stupid honey.  I’m totally not Superman.  Superman is a douche and a pansy.”

“Errrr what? ( did he really just say that?)  Never mind, carry on pet, carry on” (did I just say, pet?)

The boyfriend mercilessly continued. “There’s no internal drama going on with Superman.  It’s all boy scout save the world stuff, and Apple Pie Americana.”

“Ok, sure, now fuck me baby.  I am so fucking horny for you,” came out slightly more monotone than Clara’s intention.  Her pleas for sexual attention were, however, wasted.

“I’d even prefer Captain America to Superman.  At least Captain America can’t just do anything he wants.  Fly, shoot lasers from his eyes, superhuman strength.  No one can beat Superman ever.  That’s just not awesome.”

“Riiiight, Ok.  So anyway I was just thinking he probably had a huge superpowered dick that can give me a good time like you do.  I bet no-one fucks like Superman.  So show me a good time, big boy.”  She was scraping the barrel of her sexual vocabulary, but admittedly she was also truly beyond caring at this point.

“Don’t be an idiot.  Superman would be a terrible person to have sex with.  He’s too strong and too powerful.  Not human.  He’d just break anyone he tried to enter into, in two.  You don’t want Superman to fuck you, honestly.”

“OK.” Clara screamed, sorely running out of patience.  “Forget I said anything.  Can we PLEASE just get back to having sex like a normal couple and stop talking about Fucking Superman – you moron.

“If anything, I’m Batman.”  Was she even there, Clara wondered?  “Batman has deep emotions.  Batman is badass.  Batman understands the shit that goes down.”

Batman.

Clara lay back, ready to embrace yet more missionary position torture.  She was demure.  The warmth she felt as he held her before re-entry was a moment of calm and pleasure before the onslaught continued.  She reached out her arm sideways to grab some lube from the dresser in an attempt to stop her being sore in the morning, but instead her hands found one of the many Batman graphic novels that were strewn around the room.  She sighed, winced in pain, opened the book and looked at something that seemed to resemble Batman kicking Superman on the jaw.

“C’mon baby, she muttered with a good deal less enthusiasm than before.  The difference it made was untraceable  “Fire that me that great big load inside of me.  Mmmm wow you turn me on so much, honey.”

*

“Oh wow.  This is the best sex I’ve ever had.  Truly”

Clara Brooks, you’re a filthy, dirty lying whore.  Why tell stories?  Why don’t you tell him the truth?  He’s a fucking terrible lover.

“I don’t know.  It’s easier.  It’s just easier.  Better.  I like stories.  He won’t get hurt this way.  Nobody will get hurt.  Stories are good.”

You’re going to hell Clara Brooks.  

No, shut the fuck up.  That’s a lie.  There’s no hell.  It makes no difference.

Lie back and dream Clara.  Take it like a woman.  Lie back and take it.  Be the girl you were born to be.

No, be the dream you were born to be, Clara.  The monkeys didn’t write Hamlet just by pressing buttons.  The monkeys will never write Hamlet.  You really can’t write a great play that way.  You don’t just press the buttons, you have to press them in the right order.

“To sleep, perchance to dream”

I’m Batman, I’m Batman, I’m Batman.  

“Why does he always get to be Batman?”

*

The ordeal was finally over.  Thick night had long since descended across North London, a dark squalid haze of pollution depressing the spirits of all but the night-owls, the lifeblood of the City;  aspirational bourgeois socialites who had partied hard, played hard and would soon go home to fuck hard; the petit bourgeois who deplored the stale heat of the working day and their calculated little lives run on schedule, preferring the fetid stink of manufactured fun, the ambiguous cocktail of sweat, stale vomit and casual sex.  The witching hour was about to come, the last tube home would be leaving imminently and woe betide any who should miss it, left out on the streets with the sneering homeless, the murderously insane, the troubled whores, and the hopelessly lost.   Clara, a conventionally pretty 20 year old medical student at UCL, wondered if she, too, was destined to be hopelessly lost, shrouded in bourgeois darkness with no escape save the Asylum.  Would anyone rescue her from this darkness?

 She had better leave her partner now and get the last tube back home to Claraland; if she missed it, how long before the next one?

 “If you’re Batman then who am I?” She asked as she quickly dressed.

“What do you mean?  You’re Clara.”

“I mean, If you’re Batman I could be your Catwoman, or Poison Ivy or something like that.  Catwoman is pretty hot, right.  Surely you want a Catwoman?”

He laughed sourly.  “Don’t be silly Clara.  Matilda is more of a Catwoman.  She has this sexy, sultry slutty, purry thing going on”

“My best friend Matilda.  You think she’s a purry slut?”

“No, not at all.  I just mean she’s probably a lot wilder in bed.  Into kinky shit.  You’re a little demure, and proper.”

“I am? Demure?”

“Sure.”

“I want to be Catwoman.  I want to be sexy.  I could be kinky.” Clara protested, but wondered why she bothered.

“Well, you’re not Catwoman.  I just don’t see you that way.”

“Who am I then?  Dark Phoenix, Wonder Woman, Black Widow?”

“Nobody, you’re none of those, you’re just Clara OK?”

“Is that who you want me to be?  Just Clara.”

“Sure. Just Clara.”

“Demure and proper Clara?”

“You can’t very well have a relationship with a slut, can you?  Good for one night stands, I bet Matilda is amazing in bed, but just not dependable.  Not like you are.  You’re lovely, Clara.  I know you’ll always be there for me.  You put up with my shit.”  He laughed and Clara was unsure whether it was at himself or her.

Dependable Clara.
Demure Clara.
Proper Clara.
Lovely Clara.

Just Clara.

Are you not wild, Clara?
Can you never be a slut, Clara?
Do you not fake your orgasms well enough for him, Clara?

Do you not fake life well enough Clara?

“Hey, there’s an RSC production of Hamlet on next week,” the thought just occurred to her.  “You wanna go?  I really love Hamlet.”  Why did she bother to ask, she wondered.

“No, I can’t, I’ve got an exam and I’ve already promised Vicky I’d go round hers and help her with Ophthalmology”

“Sight – that’s King Lear.”

“What?”

“Oh Nothing.  Vicky huh?  OK, whatever, it doesn’t matter” she sighed. “Look, can I borrow this Batman comic?”

She didn’t want to know any more about Vicky.  Vicky was a leggy blonde who had been receiving a lot of help on medical topics recently.  She pulled on her thick cloak and flew out into the night, ready to stalk the streets of London.