Chapter 35 by zd11

Somewhere, the TARDIS is probably laughing at us...

Slimy Secrets and Curative Cosmetics

"Hi, Doctor," I **** myself to stay calm instead of grabbing her, pinning her up against the glass and banging her brains out like the manipulative slut on the speakers clearly wants me to, "how've you been finding Salacia?" She huffs and crosses her arms under her bare breasts, then looks at me. She's clearly wearing makeup - eyeshadow and lip gloss, most obviously - but there's something odd about it. "Well," she replies, "so far I've only had two of the permanent cosmetic procedures I requested done-" That'd be what's odd, though I'm surprised she had the restraint to limit her lip modifications to a permanent layer of lip gloss. "-and my attendant was teleported away halfway through my third. Which wouldn't be so bad, but he took the equipment he was carrying with him." I see her shift her hips from left to right uncomfortably and wonder what she means, but don't press her for further details. Instead, I gesture to the ongoing orgies all around us. "You got any idea what's up with these people," I ask.

She hums in thought and taps a fingertip against her shiny lips. "Well," she replies, showing no sign that the sight is anything unusual for her, "there's a few things it could be - ****, exotic diseases, alien possession, you name it. But the way they're clearly so... so horny... and, um, they're all clearly loving it when they get blasted with all of that hot, thick cum..." She moans softly as she absentmindedly sucks on her finger, and it takes all of my willpower to restrict myself to slapping her ass. She gasps and I see her eyelids flutter from the feeling, before she finally manages to remove her finger from her mouth. "S-Sorry," she lies, before continuing, "there's a few alien species this could be, but I'd need to have a look at that terminal to be sure."

She leans over and begins fiddling with the touchscreen, fingers flying through possible passwords faster than my eyes can track, before there's a flash of blue light from the screen and reams of text begin scrolling by at high speed. The Doctor's expression quickly drops from curious to scandalised as she reads, her hands clenching down on the sides of the monitor hard enough to leave visible indentations in the metal. "Those... Those..." she makes a noise of fury, then settles back down again. "Those arrogant, blinkered, greedy idiots," she snarls viciously, "what the hell were they thinking?! No, no, they weren't. Of course they weren't. Stupid, stupid, stupid!" I tap her on the shoulder and she tenses up for an instant, then slumps into her normal posture.

"Right, sorry John. Those people," she sighs, waving at the screen and the rooms full of overly-productive nymphomaniacs on either side of us, "are currently infected with trace elements of Bacchanalians - they're a species of amorphous organisms that use other species as host bodies for their reproductive cycle. They integrate with the host's reproductive organs and alter them to only birth more Bacchanalians, while also spiking their libido and leaving trace elements of themselves in the sexual fluids and saliva of the host." I nod. "So far, so weird," I say, "I guess this is where we get to the stupidity." She nods, her expression darkening - which, with the permanent eyeshadow, is honestly just making her hotter.

"The trace elements can infect anyone that ingests them," she explains, "but they **** within moments of leaving the host if they don't find a new one. All that-" she gestures to the shallow layer of fluids that the infected people are sloshing through. "-is probably safe to drink - if you're only worried about Bacchanalians, obviously. And that means that, for this many people to show symptoms while at the spa and for the five-hundred people on this list to be identified as patient zero of a Bacchanalian outbreak at some point after visiting Salacia," she explains with a tremor of anger in her voice, "the management of this place need to have had several full-grown specimens in their water supply for who knows how long. No inspections, no shutdowns, no requests for decontamination, just letting people walk out of here with a Bacchanalian infection and locking up anyone who shows symptoms too early in here because it's cheaper than paying off a few news outlets to downplay the bad publicity."

I roll my eyes. "Some things are universal," I reply, "but what are we going to do?" She smirks and gestures to the text that's scrolling ever-faster, even now. "I'm going to make all of their problems go away," she says in a faux-innocent tone, then laughs. "Actually, that's a lie," she admits, not that I really needed the confirmation, "I'm going to make most of them much worse - but I will be fixing their original Bacchanalian problem, because these people really need to stop fucking before their infection can't sustain them anymore and they die." That last bit of grim information conveyed, she taps a couple of points on the thick glass, listens to the minute tink-tink of her fingernails on the material carefully, then rears back and punches it. "Raxacoricofallapatorian fracture-point martial arts," she grimaces, massaging her red-looking knuckles as gossamer-thin cracks spread across the window, "completely superfluous if I've got the sonic screwdriver - or a heavy paperweight, come to think of it - but dead useful if I don't."

The effect on the people inside is as immediate as it is intense. Every one of them seems to undergo an instant orgasm so powerful that they collectively coat the window. The various liquids seem to stick for a moment, some of the mixture even bubbling around the cracks in the glass, before whatever's inside it finally dies off and it begins to slide down the glass to reveal a room full of ****, but very much alive - and, it seems, no longer leaking - people. Even better, the lack of constant replenishment means that the stuff is actually draining away. I pointedly don't turn to look at the sound of a second thump of fist on glass, instead waiting for a second and trying to suppress the memory of what I just did witness. "Come on," the Doctor calls, already making her way out of the room, "we've got one more stop to make."

I'm painfully reminded of the state I was in before I got distracted when I lay eyes on her swaying, bouncing ass and my cock starts throbbing with every step she takes. "You sure they'll be alright," I ask, somehow unable to bring myself to fully catch up to her. "Only, that must've been a lot of slime that just died." She waves the question off. "They'll be fine," she replies breezily, "and don't worry, Bacchanalians need an uninfected partner to fertilise them in the first place and plenty of uninfected genetic data afterwards to develop into a sapient creature - the trace elements in those people were only about as 'alive' as a common cold, gestating an actual Bacchanalian for half a second would have made that trick impossible." Slightly grim, I think, but oddly reassuring. "Wait," I say, almost laughing in disbelief as the implications hit me, "are you saying they normally need cum to become intelligent?"

"Yep," she chirps, "thick, fresh and lots of it! It triggers hormone releases that bond the trace elements to the host's brain, helps the developing offspring properly mimic the host's neural architecture, accelerates the maturation process, the works." She gestures to herself. "It also interferes with the little trick I just pulled with the Magellanic Moth honey they used in my treatments. Bacchanalians go wild for it, they can't help themselves; if someone's infected but they're not gestating a Bacchanalian, the trace elements send chemical signals to make the current host to expel them towards the obviously-superior host. That'd be me, in case you weren't sure."

"And since there was a big pane of glass in the way," I add, resisting the urge to say that her hips make that fact pretty obvious, "anyone who didn't already have a Bacchanalian growing in them just masturbated themselves healthy instead."

"Bit crude, but yeah, basically," she says, "and the adults are going to go gaga for the chance to get at me too."

"And we can trap them when they leave the water to do it," I surmise. That's... actually kind of brilliant. "Come to think of it," I say, "it's probably how they've kept the number of infections over the course of an entire year so low in a spa this size - if their cosmetics are causing the infected to expel the trace elements, then anyone who gets so much as a complimentary tub of skin cream between infection and actually getting knocked up would end up curing themselves just by openi- Gah!" I come to a dead stop as she spins around and pokes me in the chest. "I'll have to get the TARDIS to give you something extra nice when we leave," she smiles, "because that was great! It's always so nice, watching people figure stuff out on their own." The words 'take her' are thundering in the back of my mind, but I clamp down on them as she begins to walk off again towards a set of ominously-lit booths.

One reassurance that it'll be fine and a flash of light later, I'm rummaging through a maintenance worker's locker for a pair of overalls in my size while the Doctor fiddles with one of the main water access points and the guy who was on guard is snoozing in a corner. Apparently, the effect on these things is so intense that just opening one of the pipes up will have them rushing from all around the spa's water system to get to her. "Got it," she calls, taking several quick steps back as the hatch swings open. Almost immediately, a mass of pale blue goo flops its way up and over the rim of the hole with a wet splat, before another follows it as the Doctor takes another step back.

And then another, and another, and several others, and then some more...