A Racy Test Dream

Bzzzzzt

Bzzzzzzzt

Green light bled through the gaps between Clara’s fingers as The Doctor waved the sonic around her. She couldn’t look him in the eye right now, not after she’d apparently forgotten to do her bottoms up properly and accidentally flashed him. It had been such a ridiculous, casually stupid mistake: leaving the drawstring untied when she knew they were too big for her, not giving herself any extra security by putting on underwear, and—the worst and most mortifying thing of all—she’d left the toilet paper stuck to her crotch, and over the course of her journey to the console room it had disintegrated courtesy of all that moisture, leaving dozens and dozens of pieces of damp two ply coating her crotch. A perfect comedy of errors. He wasn’t speaking, which was just as well because she didn’t think she could manage speech right now, it was taking everything she had just to endure the pervasive layer of cringe that surrounded her like background radiation. She kept replaying the moment her pjs had dropped over and over in her head, the expression he’d had—shocked, bewildered, with the slightest bit of something more salacious under it, although that last bit may have been amplified by her imagination, and those damn dreams…

Bzzzt

Flickt

The sonic had extended, she knew that just from the sound. Now he was probably staring intently at it, getting readings from it only he could see or however it worked. “Alright. Preliminary scans show no physical abnormalities, except for…” he trailed off. She was glad, it didn’t need to be said. "Elevated stress levels. Understandable under..." another polite omission. "So," he clapped his hands. "Dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams, dreams, dreams. Thing about dreams is—" he paused. "Clara. You'll want to have eyesight for this."
She sighed, gave a slow, furtive nod lowered her hands, and opened her eyes. He was smiling. It was a kind smile, one that said, everything's going to be alright rather than, nice vagina, I especially liked the toiletries you accesorised it with. She sat with her knees as close together as possible, trying not to succumb to the desire to run back to her room and spend the next fifty years under the duvet. "Yes, Doctor?"
"Dreams!" He snapped his fingers, twirling around and dinging a bell on the console for added effect. "Dreams are fascinating, nearly every species in the known universe dreams in one form or another; in most cultures they're respected, interpreted, seen as vast wellsprings of everything from psychological insight to mystical symbolism. Dreams, or so much of the universe will tell you, are as vital to take note of as a pain in your chest or an aching in the stomach. Dreams are meant to tell you things about yourself, and about the kind of life you're living."
Clara hesitated, having expected more. "...And?"
"Well, what are they about? That's the beginning of this rabbit hole, figuring out just what's troubling you and why."
She shook her head frantically. "No! Doctor I really don't think...I mean..." she gulped. "What I meant to say...is that dreams are private. You know, like...like thoughts are private!"
The Doctor folder his arms, staring at her intently. "Who was it who came to whom?"
"I—"
"It's just that I'm getting mixed messages here, Clara. You waltz in here, middle of the night—not that there's any such thing as night in the time vortex but that's neither here nor there—and you're clearly frazzled because you..." he waved a hand vaguely to indicate his **** to mention the trouser dropping. "And you ask for my help because you're having strange dreams but...you won't tell me what they are." To accompany the last few words he made sharp chopping motions for emphasis. "Dreams are private'," he gave her a bemused look. "But how private is 'private'? And how much more important is your privacy to you than your safety?"
Clara didn't answer at first, she stared sheepishly down at her feet, feeling thoroughly scolded. On the floor she noticed a speck of white, and with a sinking sensation she recognised it as a stray bit of toilet paper. She swallowed, hard. "They're...racy dreams."
He raised his eyebrows. "Racy? Racy? Racy..." he said the word like he was testing it out, sizing it up. "How racy is 'racy'?"
Her mouth became a pencil thin line. "...Very."
"Very? Very. Ver—" he slapped himself. "Sorry. Yes, racy. Very racy. Understood. And what do they...what is it that, um...occur—"
"We're not discussing that." Her gaze was cutting. The Doctor nodded. "Un-der-stood. Um...so, is that it? Racy's one thing but it is just one thing, people have racy dreams all the time. I imagine." He coughed awkwardly. "It's not...it's not inside...which is to say...it's not within normal parameters?"
"No," she said, quietly. "Definitely outside normal parameters. Way outside."
"And the physical—"
Enough. No use drawing this bit out. "It's..." she tensed before she even said it. "It's wet. It's very, very wet. The bed was..." she covered her mouth, ashamed.
The Doctor looked away, moved to step around the console, started to pace in a circular path. "REM activity far outside normal activity. Physical...erm...physical effects accelerated and pronounced. Could it be...difficult to say...need more data. Need..." he reappeared from behind the console. "How would you feel about a little...experiment?"
Clara blinked.

"What is it?" Clara held the pill between thumb and forefinger, eyeing it dubiously. "Cloraste. It's from the Sense Sphere; the Sensorites use it to diagnose certain medical problems among their kind. Telepaths, they can look into each other's minds at will but when a Sensorite becomes sick or injured, their mind closes itself off. They give them Cloraste and their mind's defences lower, allowing them to better understand the problem. What we're gonna do," The Doctor pulled a helmet attached to a long cable, which in turn was attached to a boxy-looking device on the console, "is induce a dream state using the pill, deeper and more lasting than the ones you've experienced up until now. If the dream is allowed to progress, we should be able to get an idea of what the impulses its made up of are, and which parts of your brain they come from."
Clara nodded, taking it all in. Something occured to her. "Will...will you be able to see the dream?"
The Doctor frowned. "See the...? No, I mean yes I could if I wanted to but it shouldn't be necessary. If all goes well I'll be able to get all the readings I need from the Circadian Analyser here." He patted the boxy device lovingly. "Now," he said, turning back to her. "Are you ready?"
The whole idea made her a touch light-headed. He wouldn't be able to see what she was dreaming about, but what if it showed somehow on her face? Or...elsewhere? But was there really any other choice? She couldn't go on like this forever, spending every night chasing depraved, horny highs in her dreams only for them to be cruelly snatched away at the last second. She wouldn't be able to take it. Her bedsheets wouldn't be able to take it! This was it. It had to be done. She steeled herself, balled her hands into fists. "Okay. I think..." she met his gaze, trying to conceal as much doubt as possible. "I think I'm ready."

She was back in the drawing room.

Clara's was back in her knickers—only her knickers, mind—and The Doctor was up out of his chair. The firelight danced across her breasts, painting her skin a burnished, deep gold. "If I remember right, you wanted my pants?" She tugged at the waistband on one side, it made a satisfying snap when she released it. He nodded mutely. Clara puckered her mouth. "That's too bad, because I'm not so sure I want to give them up just yet. Seems to me you'll just have to come get 'em, Time Lord."
The Doctor grinned. "A chase, then?"
"A chase," Clara agreed. "Get them off and I'll be as helpless as a Cyberman in a gold mine. Get them off and I guess I'll be..." she lowered her head, so that she looked harmless, innocent. "Naked." She turned around and gave him a good look at her back, at the way the sleek black knickers came up through her legs, wrapping her gorgeous arse—a pleasingly spherical shape that jiggled at the slightest provocation—up in a triangular, cottony hug. Over her shoulder, she put a hand up to her mouth in mock surprise, then bent forward, showing off more of the strip of black gusset that covered her underside and only hinted at the wonder of her pussy. He took a step forward. Clara straightened up and spun back around, wagging a finger playfully as she backed away. "You're good at running, right?" She skipped behind the armchair he'd been sitting in. "I'll let you in on a little secret," she cupped her mouth with one hand, "I'm not!" Clara let out a squeaky laugh, and with that, the chase was on.
True to her word, Clara put up a poor 'fight', and within half a minute he had his arm around her waist. "No fair!" She giggled. "You must have cheated!"
"In my defence, you never said we had to play fair."
"No..." Clara let her head fall back onto his chest. "I guess I didn't..." In that instant, seeing his chance, he slid his hand down to her hip, twanged the waistband naughtily, and stole the knickers right off of her. Clara couldn't even say for sure how he did it, only that she was wearing them one moment, and the next they were scrunched up in his hand, and she was naked as the day she was born. She gasped softly, pushing her thighs together and sliding a hand down between them to play at hiding her pussy. She loved teasing him, making him long to see every last inch of her, making him hungry for her. "How did you do that?" She looked up at him, eyes positively sparkling. "It was like..."
"Magic?"
"Mhm," Clara pushed her arse out into his crotch, and immediately got a response, "you're like a magician who specialises in stealing girls' undies."
His breath was hot in her ear. "There are worse things to specialise in."
"Mmmm, like what?"
"It's easier to show you," he whispered, nibbling gently on her earlobe. She made an approving sound, and heard the telltale click of belt buckle. A moment later, the rustle of fabric as his trousers fell, then another, and at last his girth was pressing into her bum—a pillar of warmth trembling and pulsing against the tightness of her cheeks. She breathed hard and fast, her heart thundering away in her chest. It was so exciting, such a thrill—she never wanted it to end! She let him get achingly, agonisingly close to slipping her his screwdriver, so close she swore she could feel it tickle the taut, warm space between her cheeks...and then she broke away, beckoning for him to follow. The chase was on, again.
For a long while they kept on playing; when The Doctor caught her he would hold her in his wiry arms as she wriggled and laughed, and when the wriggling had subsided he'd get around in front of her, kneel down, pull the front of her knickers aside, and give her the kiss of a lifetime. She loved that most of all. Kiss after kiss—rolling his lips, flicking his tongue, sliding, undulating, everything a person could do with a mouth he did—all while she squealed her head off and came and came until she was red in the face. After he'd reduced her to a trembling, stammering mess, he'd 'release' her and she'd totter away, punch-drunk on lust, so the chase could begin anew. All the while, Clara rubbed her pussy to alleviate the strong orgasmic throbbing he'd set off down there, fits of giggles bursting out of her as she scurried around the room. He'd quickly catch up to her, he'd give her another round of kisses before they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of sweat and pheromones, her face lighting up as he descended once again to continue his work, drawing ever more indecent noises out of her every time he picked up. "You're...d-driving me...c-crazy..." Clara whimpered, at one point, when it was all becoming too much to bear.
His reply was muffled, but she understood it all the same: "I know." After another few minutes of 'kissing', he again let her go. By now she was almost spent; her legs were jelly, so she crawled away across the carpet, deliberate in her slowness, still teasing him—her hips working back and forth as she moved, the wobbling of her arse drawing his attention so thoroughly it might have had its own gravitational pull. In one corner, there was a floor-length mirror. Clara watched herself draw closer in it, transfixed by what their little game had turned her into. There she was, red-faced and feminine. Her features a picture of bliss, her eyes were dreamy and heavy-lidded, her lips lightly parted as she breathed heavily, in and out. Long hair cascaded down over her shoulders, a brunette curtain from behind which her breasts hung, peeking shyly out. Though she couldn't see it, she could feel the wetness saturating her pussy, could see the drip, drip, drip of her cum falling from it to soak into the carpet. Closing her eyes, she reached down and touched herself, immersing her fingers into the wet and navigating the soft folds to find her spot, and there she began playing with herself, her mouth and nose twitching from the sheer, concentrated pleasure of it all. This was heaven. Nothing else mattered. Clara wanted nothing more than to stay here, being fucked and doted on by the man of her dreams, for the rest of time.

[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!]