The TARDIS Wardrobe

"First things first." The Doctor said, ascending nude up the spiral staircase of the ship's frankly colossal wardrobe. "Lingerie."

The word felt good in her new throat, nearly as good as nine inches of climaxing man meat would. The Doctor shivered in anticipation (or was that just from being naked in space?) as she rounded another flight and came to a certain platform. The place was festooned with bras and female underwear.

Some were from former companions, forgotten due to abrupt departures, some had been shed by the Doctor's various conquests across space and time. Others had simply their way into the TARDIS by some unknown provenance.

detailed mannequins dotted the floor, as they did on many levels of the spirals. They were adorned in underwear from various points in history, from 19th century bustles, 20th century lace and silk, to futuristic holograph emitters, the type that would broadcast small censor bars over each nipple, ass and pussy, allowing the user to provocatively strut her stuff.

As much as indecent holographs would appeal to any girl, the Doctor knew the preferences of her new body trended much more to fine silks, lingerie that made her look even better.

"I like it!" the Doctor remarked, running a hand down the front of one mannequin, decked out in a white lace bodice. "I'll have to put a pin in this." she was sure the mannequin winked from her praise.

No, the one piece look was certainly darling, but right now her entire body was thrumming, alive with regeneration energy and erotic potential in equal measure. She had a cherry to pop, no, the Doctor reminded herself, she had three. Something with a little ease of access would be required.

Colour would be important. A sizzling red perhaps, or TARDIS blue? Or perhaps she should complement her new raven-haired look, the Doctor realised.

"You'll do nicely." the Doctor remarked, pulling up a nice revealing set of satin lingerie. She stepped into the black knickers, pulling them up and letting them hug her divine new body nicely. Next came the bra. She put her arms in, and reached for the back.

"Not so hard from this side." the Doctor said, tittering at the absurdity of her own remark as she fastened the clasp.

"Well girls, it feels wrong to be covering you up so soon." the Doctor said, cupping her impressive chest. "If it's any consolation, Mummy will let you out for some funny fun-times really soon!"

Why am I talking like this?, the Doctor thought to herself. Certainly, regeneration sickness and the shock of the new form was one thing, but she was still the Doctor, still immensely intelligent. Why was cavorting like a brainless slut giving her such a sick thrill? The Doctor shook her head, knowing it would be some time before the peculiarities of her new way of life became fully apparent.

Better to focus on getting dressed for now, she realised.

For an overgarment, the Doctor quickly alighted on a double-breasted women's suit. The suit, black with thin white pinstripes, was Italian and had an eternally retro futuristic charm (no matter why era's fashion sense you approached it from.)

"I look like a female Mafioso." the Doctor chortled, taking herself in, and her new arse, in a body-length mirror. She pouted. With the right shoes and some accessories, she would look perfect.

The Doctor had just the pair in mind, she thought, as she descended to the nearest floor of shoes. No doubt sensible shoes, flats or boots were called for, as she'd be running, climbing, just as much as she ever had, even if a lot more of her new life would be spent on her back. But, on the other hand, the Doctor had never had legs like she did now.

"Come on..." the Doctor complained, bent over, on her hands and knees, arse up, reaching under a bench, smacking aside pair after pair of unacceptable shoes for the one she had in mind. "I am not wearing sneakers with a suit this nice. That'd never do..."