All Alone...With A Creeping Angel

She was in the foyer of a big, draughty old mansion, instinctively she patted herself, still
burning with the shame of being ogled in that little yellow bikini, and was relieved to find that she was now wearing something much less revealing; her black leatherminiskirt, matched with the yellow cardigan she'd so liked (and which had been suspiciously cheap when she bought it at a street market in Shoreditch and, unsurprisingly, had begun to bobble not long afterwards). Her legs were covered by tights, the sleek nylon conforming nicely to their shapely dips and curves. She breathed out, feeling like she could release the knot of stress gathered at the base of her neck for the first time since they'd started this little experiment with Ood Sigma. Speaking of which...she gave the place a once-over, called out a few more times, but still there was no sign of him.
As for The Doctor...had he gotten lost somehow, in the span between one side of the door and the other? Dreams didn't have hard rules as such, she reasoned, but regardless him disappearing like that was gut-wrenching; just when she'd started to feel like it might all be alright, she was alone and being flung off somewhere else again. This time to this spooky old place...
Why might a mansion appear in her dreams? She wondered, considering it briefly before recalling it; Caluburn House, the haunted mansion where they'd met the two ghost hunters. That had definitely gone into this place, she mused, looking around with fresh eyes. Something else was here, though, the layout was different in ways she couldn't chalk up to simple misremembering or dream logic; it was as if another house had gotten entangled with this one, melding together with it in the vast cauldron of her memory. Clara sighed, no use overthinking it right now, she wasn't exactly lijely to find answers standing around here day. She paused, glanced out the windows. Scratch that, all night. Squinting, she stood on tiptoes tory and see what was outside, but for her trouble all she got was a sudden flash of lightning from among the darkness, followed swiftly by muffled rolling drums of thunder. She jumped, stepping back. "Doctor?" she ventured, but there was no answer. "Doctor? Are...are you there?" Still nothing. She popped a finger between her teeth and started nibbling nervously on the nail; she didn't like this, not one bit. "Any...anybody?" Clara cleared her throat. "Anybody here?" She repeated, a little louder this time. Nothing. It had been worth a try, but she'd never expected it to yield much in the way of results.
Up ahead, a staircase either side of her, curving upwards to meet at the foot of the upstairs landing, the wall above it framed by a large oil painting of a graveyard, what looked like a winged figure standing with its back to the viewer. Another peal of thunder rang out, and Clara decided it was better to keep on the move than it was to stay rooted to the spot while her anxiety went on simmering away. She hurried to the bottom of the staircase and scurried up it, careful not to trip on the thickly carpeted steps. Up close, the painting gave off an unsettling vibe; the figure was grey all over, and stood on what could only be a pedestal. An angel, then. Angels had always given her the creeps, you never got anything pleasant out of them; either they were simpering piousness incarnate or the weird talking doohickeys the Bible supposedly described (she didn't know, she hadn't read past the introduction, and had only gotten that far because, as a teenager, her Dad had insisted she give it a go).

There had also been the incident with the Nativity, back in school, where she'd been roped in to play Gabriel—quite against her will, no less—and ended up in a cheap Angel outfit Mrs. Carwell had made from part of an old shower curtain, the back of which accidentally became hooked on the harness they'd had her wearing for a bit of stage magic 'flying', resulting in her flashing an audience full of parents with her favourite pair of Hello Kitty! knickers for a full two minutes. Sometimes, on rare nights, she still had nightmares about it, of being a grown woman in an Angel costume hoisted up above a cheering audience with her undies on full display; sometimes, very, very rarely, she wasn't even wearing undies.
Angels...creepy buggers, when they wanted to be. This one was shrouded in the eerie half-glow of twilight. A mausoleum loomed above it, a scrap of white cloth fluttering limply in the breeze. What was it? A banner? A...flag? She took a step closer, squinting at it to get a better look. Now, she thought its shape looked familiar, kind of tapered and curved in places, elegant almost, and she could make out a small hole in the bottom of the scrap, not ragged, like it had been torn out, but neat and clean, like...

Underwear.

Her gaze flicked back down to the Angel, and straight away she noticed something...different. She could see part of its face, blank, pupilless eyes staring at her over its shoulder. Weird, she hadn't noticed that before, in fact on close reflection she'd remembered it looking ahead, up at the Mauseoleum and the...pants? All of a sudden, Clara felt terribly uneasy. She stepped away. "Doctor?" She tried again. "Doctor, if you've ended up in a broom cupboard somewhere, now would be the time to get out here?" This place was giving her the creeps; she wanted out. Another step back, and for a split second she looked away, up at the balcony above her, staring nervously into the gloom that slept there. When she looked back, the Angel had turned its body to face her. She jumped, grasping at the banister to steady herself. "What the hell...?" She whispered. "What are you... What are you...?" Her jaw clenched, she had the urge to turn and run, but her gut told her that would be a mistake. It moved...how had it moved? She swallowed, instinctively blinked...and it moved again. Clara swore under her breath. What was happening? What had she done? She thought back over it; she'd looked away, looked away, and then she'd...blinked.
She tried to think back to what she remembered...from Trenzalore, from her dive into the ragged seam that had marked The Doctor's final resting place, far far into a future she wasn't entirely sure would ever even come to be, the long fall through The Doctor's timestream, the things she'd seen, the slivers of her sheared off and scattered through the fifth dimension.

Most of it, she recalled only dimly, fragments of memory flashing up at random moments in disconnected streams of sound and colour. Angels... she pondered. Angels... Something about sinister stone statues, something about the frozen wings and the blank, sightless eyes. Don't blink, a distant, whispery voice warned, and she knew then that that was the key. She was sure now she needed to get out; find The Doctor. Find The Doctor. She walked tentatively backwards, trying to keep the painting in view, going with the hunch she was forming about the importance of keeping it in sight. She didn't know why, but she had the impression she didn't want that Angel to keep moving, that, in fact, she wanted to make sure that didn't happen at all costs. She was fairly confident she had it under control, that she could find a way out of this...that was, until, the light on the great, dusty chandelier flickered, and for another split-second, she lost sight of the painting. The flickering resolved, and to Clara's dismay, she saw that in the brief instant when she'd not been looking, the Angel had moved closer to the foreground, down from its pedestal and across the ground. "Okay," she breathed. "You're fast. Faster than fast. Can't look away, can't even blink..." she licked her lips nervously. "Just have to play it cool, play it...cool..." Her eyes darted all around the Angel's form, but she made sure this time that they never left it. Again, the chandelier flickered; she tried to look past it, ignore the failing light, narrowing her eyes, fighting to keep it in view. But, try as she might, she couldn't see through the dark. The chandelier flickered more and more intensely, and then, at last, winked out completely. "No!" She cried. She heard the painting creak ominously and found herself rushing forwards, thinking she could get close enough to see it in the sudden gloom the foyer had been cast into. She took three-and-a-half steps before the light returned, and Clara **** herself to stop, rocking violently on her heels with only a scant few inches between her and the Angel. The real Angel, the fully three-dimensional Angel, still smeared with oily brushstrokes, and smiling thinly at her, torn canvas trailing on the floor behind it where it had broken through from the world of the painting to the mansion itself.

The lights flickered, then winked out. In the darkness, Clara felt a rough, cold hand on her waist, and heard the subtle creak of leather as it pulled her skirt up over her arse. "Wh—" And then it hit her; the fluttering scrap of white cloth. Not a banner, not a flag, but underwear. But not underwear. Women's underwear. Panties. Knickers. Her knickers. Clara squeaked, already turning a shade redder. It wouldn't...no, it couldn't...she couldn't let it happen! Not again! She pulled away with a sharp jerk, and heard a series of pings as the teeth of the zipper on the back of her skirt burst apart, caught between the leaden weight of the Angel's grip and the sudden pressure of her escape attempt. The skirt came off of her, and Clara couldn't help but whimper as she

She looked down to assess the damage; the absence of the skirt left her in just her tights and a pair of plain white knickers, a triangle of cotton showing dully under the tinted, translucent nylon. Gasping, Clara thrust a hand over the junction between her legs to hide them from view; though it was technically better than being naked, the shock of having her skirt broken open and torn off had made her default to the normal reaction. The skirt was designed to hide her knickers from view, the tights an extra layer of security under that, but now that was gone, taken, and all she had was the fragile sheerness of the tights and the snug, snowy little pants themselves. "N-no!" She held up a finger warningly. "You don't...you don't touch me! You're not taking any more! You're not taking them as a...a trophy or..." The train of thought made her blush a half-shade or so deeper. She moved sideways, attempting to skirt around it and get to the next set of stairs up to the second floor. Above them, another round of flickering from the lights. It took everything she had not to look up from them, and instead keep her eyes trained on the Angel. "Come on, come on, don't go out, don't go out," she kept repeating under her breath, but she knew it was no good, and was already preparing to leg it. When the chandelier went dark again, Clara was ready; in an instant, she pivoted and made to run up the stairs. Behind her, she sensed movement. It can't be that fast, the thought flashed through her mind, as she thundered up the stairs. It could, it turned out, be that fast. Impossibly fast, flitting up the stairs in her wake so quickly she barely had time to register it before she felt a hand tugging at her rear. She faltered, and at that moment the light returned. She looked over her shoulder, and was greeted by the sight of the Angel stretching the seat of her tights out, the nylon caught between its rough stone fingers. "Oh, no...no you don't!" She tried to shake it loose, but its grip was too solid, and all she accomplished was pulling the trapped section of nylon almost to its limit. She stopped, brushed her hair out of her face, and sighed.

Think, Clara, Think. How to get free? The lights kept flickering, she guessed that much was somehow being caused by the Angel. That made sense, she reasoned, because if it could only move when she was looking, how could it get any closer...unless it took away the primary means she was using to see it. And when the lights were on...stone, just stone, as heavy and motionless as any statue she'd ever seen or touched. But when they were off, it moved. Was it stone when it moved? Or did it change, become something other than stone? It was fast, but could she be faster, if only for an instant? She looked up at the chandelier, then at her more immediate surroundings. At the foot of the banister below her, just barely in reach, a knob attached to it. If it's a screwtop... Carefully—so as to keep the Angel in sight—Clara twisted her upper body, extended her arm and grasped for the knob, hooking it into a weak grab and attempting to turn it. At first, it didn't budge and she feared it was built into the banister, but after a few more tries it yielded, twisting stiffly an inch or two to the left. "Yes!" She hissed, bolstered by the result to keep going, twisting and twisting by degrees, until the knob came loose and toppled off the banister and threatening to tumble onto the landing below, but Clara jerked sideways and made sure to catch it. "Gotcha!" She hefted the knob, testing its weight. Not much, but it should be enough...

The main problem was having to throw it more or less blind, and with only one shot at it. The Angel and the chandelier were just barely close enough that she could keep one in her peripheral vision while focusing on the other, and she didn't trust the Angel would stay put if she were only looking at it from the corner of her eye. So, blind throw. One shot. Easy peasy. Clara took a long, steady breath, tossed the knob straight uo into the air, caught it, tossed it a second time, caught it. One shot, she reminded herself. One. Shot.

Here we go.

She threw it so suddenly she almost surprised herself. She saw the vague, blurred shape of it sail through the air, moving, moving, moving....and...bullseye. The chandelier's bulbs buzzed irritably, and the lights began to flicker. She held her breath, waiting for the room to be plunged once more into...

Darkness.

Clara moved, and for a few beautiful seconds she thought she'd gotten free...until her delusion was broken by the subtle, near-silent sound of tearing nylon. Her heart sank as the Angel made a hole in the seat of her tights and her knickers became exposed, the back of them no longer flattened and held perfectly in place. Instinctively, her hands found it; it was massive, ragged, leaving her underwear-clad backside defenceless. "No! She shrieked. "No, no, no!" She was furious, fear giving way to rage. "Do you know how much these cost?! You...you stupid lump of granite!" That proved to be a mistake; though it couldn't speak, she could tell it was angry. The bulbs in the chandelier died without so much as a jitter, and the Angel moved up the stairs so fast she could them groaning under the sudden shift in weight. Clara's eyes went wide. "What—" The Angel interrupted her by grabbing the waistband of her knickers. A note of lucidity cut through her righteous indignation, realising moments too late what she'd done. "Wait...wait, don't, I didn't—HNNNH!" A painfully sharp yank on her knickers made her bend forward, a jarring jolt travelling through the elastic to cruelly pull on the delicate cotton of her undies. "Ah...ahhhh..." Clara moaned breathily, shaking her head. "N-no!" she said, struggling to catch her breath. "Let go! Let go of them! You can't...you can't touch my—eeeeeeeeeeeee It was so strong, each pull felt as if her pants had somehow gotten stuck in an industrial conveyer belt. 'S-stop it...I don't know what you want, but you can't...can't have...uuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhh! More rounds of flickering swept the hall, and the instant it reached them, the Angel would strike again, yank after powerful yank sending pasms of pain and awkward, disgusting pleasure jarring through her.

"H-hold on! Hold on! Wait!" She shouted, and to her surprise the Angel actually stopped. She took several moments to regain her composure. What it was doing to her, it was...disgusting. She never, ever wanted to think about underwear—hers or anyone else's—as much as she was right now; it struck her as somehow, undeniably, wrong. This kind of thing, pulls and...ugh, wedgies had always been something she thought of as the exclusive domain of the perviest perverts. It was all well and good to admire the way a person filled out their lingerie, but the other stuff... Truth be told, the whole ordeal was making her a touch queasy; making a girl scream as you **** so much fabric up her unmentionables...no, it wasn't right. "Can we...can we just take a time out and.." she paused to catch her breath. "And talk?" There was no answer. "Can you talk? I'm guessing...guessing not, am I right? 'Cos, you're a statue, aren't you? When I'm looking, and I am looking." She didn't know why she said that last bit, reassurance for herself maybe. "Just...I'll tell you what, just make the lights go out and tap me on the shoulder, just..." she demonstrated. "Just like that. You're fast, aren't you? Even if I wanted to run, you'd catch me, so just do this for me so we can talk on equal footing for a few minutes, yeah?"
Still no answer, but a couple moments later the lights cut out yet again, and she felt a stone finger tap her on the shoulder. "Okay, okay that's good," she sighed in relief. "Now, now if I ask you some 'yes' or 'no' questions, can you answer them by tapping me on the shoulder? Once for 'yes', twice for 'no'?"
A pause, the lights cut with a pzzt, followed by one tap. Clara nodded. "Alright. Alright, this is good. Let's...let's start with...do you know who I am?"
Pzzt Tap.
"You know me? Clara Oswald? You know I travel with The Doctor?"
Pzzt Tap.
"But if you know who I am, why do this? Why...why try to take my clothes?" She realused it wasn't the right kind of question and added: "Are you trying to...to humiliate me?"
Pzzt Tap.
"Why? What did I... Did I do something to offend you?"
Pzzt Tap Tap.
Clara groaned in frustration. "Then why? Did I..." she thought of the draughty old mansion, how from the Angel's perspective she'd barged right in. "Did I trespass? Am I not meant to be here?"
Pzzt Tap.
"But...you know this is a dream? My dream? You're not real, none of this is!"
Pzzt Tap.
"So why are you doing this? You're a dream with a mind of its own, is that it? Is that what all of you are, these dreams I've been having?"
Pzzt Tap...tap.
"And what you want is to embarrass me? In my dreams?"
Pzzt Tap...
She sensed the hesitancy in that last one. "And outside of them, too?"
Pzzt Tap.
"And that's why...why you want my..." she cringed. "My pants; you want to embarrass me?"
Pzzt Tap.
Clara's face fell. "Isn't there anything...anything I can do? Anything else you want? You can't seriously exist only to steal my pants!"
There was a long pause before she finally got another reaction from the Angel.
Pzzt Tap.
Her eyes were as big as saucers; it was poking fun at her, letting her know how small it was going to make her feel. "Wait! Wait, no! There has to be something! You can't just—"
The Angel pulled, her underwear stretched, and Clara squealed. Her knees knocked together, her kitty already starting to hurt from the pressure. "Mmm...mmno...no...don't..." she was directing it at herself more than the Angel now; this latest attack had made her feel...funny, made a curious, distinctly unwanted sensation go through her. Now, hee shoulders were hunched, a guilty look flashing across her features. She'd felt it, right at the instant of that last pull. You're not...this is disgusting, it's...it's sick... she told herself, but it didn't make the feeling any less real. The tugging on her knickers was, against all odds and everything she'd ever understood about herself, making part of her...horny. The truth was, Clara had butterflies in her tummy, and that insatiable wetness spreading over her crotch, already leaving the front of the knickers damp and heavy, the kiss of cotton rubbing naughtily against the sensitive nub of her clit, leaving sparks of forbidden, perverted pleasure wherever it went like tiny static shocks. They were everywhere; cotton sitting firm and tight between her the cheeks of her arse, cotton clinging to her kitty, cotton tickling her thighs. She was so horny for it. "You're not," she whispered insistently to herself. "You're not. But even as the lady protested, her hands were doing nasty, nasty work; pressing the knickers' soaked crotch into her, finding her clit with fabric-covered fingers and diddling it with a length of that damp white cotton. It made her temperature rise, to say the least, made her breathe in sharp little pants and suck on her bottom lip for comfort. "Mmm...mmmm...Imm...the...mmpossible...g...g...g..." she stood on tiptoes reflexively as she played with herself. "D-d-doctor..." she whimpered. "When he...when he finds me...you'll be...be...sorr—"
The Angel gave its reply in no uncertain terms; namely, by killing the lights and, with its horrible, evil strength, wrenching Clara's undies upwards into her kitty and threatening to pull them into a full-on frontal wedgie. "N-no..." she groaned, her display of uncontrollable horniness coming to an abrupt end as she realised what was happening. "No! NO!" she yelped, all in a panic, planting a finger and thumb each side of the front of her knickers to keep them from slipping into her pussy, the beleagured fabric saturated with moisture and so darkened by it that it looked more grey than white. "Leave..." she gasped. "Leave...me...alone!" She swatted angrily at the stone hand holding her waistband... and received yet another mind-numbing pull for her trouble. That one hit her just the wrong way, making her pussy dribble. "You...let go!" She insisted, crossing one leg over the other to alleviate the pressure on her pussy. "You think I'm b-bad...you wait till my friend gets hold of you..." Sweat was pouring down her face. "Please...? Please wait...till my friend..." she ventured, though she knew it wouldn't help her.
"Oh no! Oh, oh, oh, oh...oh...no!" Clara shook her head desperately. It had called her bluff, it didn't care about the consequences and knew there'd be none anyway; she was trapped, and it was happening again! She covered her eyes, too overcome with shame to be able to look down at what was happening. She felt the Angel's hand jittered upwards, forcing the gusset up into her underpussy, her inner lips folding over the strained white cotton. Clara's legs turned liquid, and she let out the most piercing, girlish scream: "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!*" She threw her head back as her knickers escaped from her grip and sank down between her lips with a slick, sickening snap. One thing she wasn't clear on, even long afterwards, when she had time to reflect on it, was which of the two things that happened next happened first.

What did happen was this: Clara Oswald's body reacted to the awful, disgusting, perverted Angel giving her an awful, disgusting, perverted full-frontal wedgie by cringing and by orgasming. What she didn't know was if she first came all inside her soaking wet white cotton knickers, then cringed at how awful, disgusting and perverted everything—including, apparently, her—was, or if she instead cringed at how awful, disgusting and perverted everything was, then came all inside her soaking wet white cotton knickers at the thought. Either way, all she knew in the moment was that it felt really, really ridiculously good, and that she'd succeeded in putting the final nail in the coffin when it came to utterly ruining her undies.

[Author's Note: I always enjoy and appreciate feedback in terms of what's working and what isn't, so please feel free to like and/or leave comments!]