Clara's Humiliating Wake-Up

When the orgasm came it was just a spark, a drop in the ocean of the pleasure she was already experiencing. Clara saw him coming up behind her in the mirror. "Look at you down there, on the ground. You certainly look like you're enjoying yourself." He extended his hand to run it through her hair and shuddered; his fingers cupped her chin and she melted. Her thoughts were a jumble of erotic sensations, she was putty in his hands and he knew it; he put a finger in her mouth and, without even hesitating, she formed a seal around it with her lips and sucked on it. It's SO hot, she thought, and for a moment she entertained the idea of taking all her clothes off to cool down, until she remembered she wasn't wearing any. Every bit of her was running fiendishly hot; when she'd played with her pussy her fingers had come away warm as well as wet, and even now beads of sweat were running freely down her face, back, legs, tits. The Doctor let her keep sucking for a couple fleeting moments, then withdrew his finger. Disappointment flashed up on Clara's features--she wasn't done, not by a long shot. She crawled after him as he took a step back, sat up on her haunches and begged. "Please..." she whined. "I need it, I need you." That seemed to satisfy him, because the next thing he did was find the bow tie that was still wrapped around her throat like a knotted string on a present and pull it loose, before crouching down, taking her wrists and binding them together with it. "Up," he commanded, and Clara rose to her feet, jittery with desire. He prodded her tummy with the still-wet finger and she moved back, back, back until her rear end was flush with the mirror. It made her jump, and everything with an ounce of fat on it jiggled; the coolness of the glass was such a shock to her system that it was a wonder it didn't set her buns steaming. The Doctor closed the gap between them and stroked her lightly on the wrist. "Up," he repeated, and she put both hands up behind her head, resting them against the glass above her. The action made her straighten her spine a bit, which pushed her breasts out--the little brown nipples were still eagerly erect, but like the rest of her they were also now wet—saturated by enough sweat that if you popped them in your mouth, they'd probably taste of salt and sex. "What are you going to do?" The words came out in a breathless rush, she sounded excited and fearful all at once. Every sentence was punctuated with a huge breath, each one making her bosom heave and her breasts bob gently up and down. "That depends," he croaked, leaning in so that his breath was hot and heavy on her face. "What do you want me to do?"
What did she want? Oh, what didn't she want? She had so many fantasies, so many filthy things she'd pictured happening between them. Just the thought of the thought of them made her engine run hotter and hotter still. "I want..." she looked away, even when he had her trussed up and in her birthday suit she couldn't admit it to his face, couldn't look him in the eye while she said it. "I want you to...finish what you started...back over there," she finished, glancing up at him with a mix of hope and hesitancy. The Doctor's features were smooth—impassively, impossibly cool, given the circumstances. He arched an eyebrow. "You mean...?"
"Mhm," she pursed her lips, nodding vigorously.
"You want me to..."
"Up my..." her blush brightened.
"With my..."
"With your..." she looked away again, so anxious she could feel her stomach doing backflips. He smirked. "I know how it's done, Clara Oswald. And yes, I think that can be...arranged."
"I'm...I'm sorry!" she squeaked. "I...I just meant...I'm just..."
"Nervous?"
She blinked, trying to keep her eyes from watering. "...Yes. God, yes..."
He was gentle, turning her slowly around so that she could see herself in the mirror, him smiling sweetly at her over her shoulder. She felt his fingers cradling her arse, another reassuring squeeze of the left cheek that send spasms of excitement coursing through her. "Mmmm, yes...yes..." just being touched by him was doing it for her, thickening the torrential flood that was still drenching her inner thighs and running in steady streams down her legs and onto the carpet. Some of it was even spattering across the mirror, smearing and fogging the glass with moisture where it fell. His finger probed her arse, going between and through until it found the narrow ring of heat. She made a tiny, wonderful noise. "Are you alright?" he asked.
"Yes...please...just p-put it in..." Clara moaned, and a moment later she felt the pulsing girth of him again, and her heart beat so fast she thought it would burst right out from behind her ribcage.

The Doctor was worried. Clara had gone under five minutes ago and was showing no signs of surfacing again. The brain scanner component of the machine was fitted over her ears and covered most of her head, and while she dreamed her brain lit up here and there, fits and starts of activity that flared up like intermittent flashes of lightning. He'd been studying it intently, observing the way the dream state was affecting her, his eyes growing increasingly wide at how much her pleasure centre was being stimulated. Whatever she was dreaming about, it was the kind of thing that made a person feel very, very good indeed. Already this dream was going on longer than the others, but how long was safe? How long until whatever this was started having a harder time letting her go? Clara jerked violently in her sleep, back resting against the leather chair she was sitting in, head lolling backwards onto the railing behind that. Her hands were curled into fists and resting resolutely in her lap, but past them he could see the fabric of her pyjama bottoms darkening as something that looked suspiciously like a wet patch spread. The Doctor tapped his expansive chin. Was there enough data to pull her out? He whirled round and scrolled upwards through the machine's activity log. "Oh. Oh, wow..." he muttered. That really was quite a lot of data.

He was inside her, a pulsing rod filling her up. "Mmmm...Doc...tor..." her breasts pressed into the mirror, her breath gathering on the glass. Each thrust pushed her pelvis back into it, her pussy making an audible shlick as it made contact. This was it. This was her life, and she loved it. Without saying anything, he slid his arms around her waist and placed them protectively over her tummy, the gesture made her heart flutter. "I...I...lo--" She began, but was cut off by another strong thrust, and the sensation of his tip going as high as it could go. Clara squealed, then, as the surprise of it subsided, smiled crookedly at herself in the mirror.

She was being overloaded, that much was obvious just from the scans. The Doctor fussed around the console, alternating between searching in and under it and rummaging through his own pockets. Where were they? He'd had them for centuries, ever since Lumina IV and that escapade with Romana and those Psycho-Electric Mollusks. Where...? WHERE??? "Aha!" he withdrew a clear vial from his anterior trouser leg pocket--he always forgot about the anterior trouser leg pocket--and uncorked it, giving it a whiff only to start coughing immediately. "Yep..." he said, hoarsely. "Smelling salts are still a-okay." He rushed over to Clara and knelt down in front of her, trying to ignore the by-now-very-obvious wet patch spreading outwards from the, uh...front of her bottoms. "Come on, Impossible Girl. Wake up, just wake up..." The Doctor cupped her chin to hold her head in place, and raised the salts to hold them directly under her nose. "Come on, come on." Her face twitched noticeably, but she gave no signs of waking. A glance back at the scanner--still deep in REM, it said. The Doctor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. There were too many unknowns here, the longer she stayed under the more dangerous it was. "Alright," he said, rolling up his sleeves and turning back to her. "Percussive maintenance it is." Out of options and worried for her safety, he winded up his arm...and slapped her.

The slap genuinely took her by surprise. "Ow!" Clara cried. He stopped. "What? What is it?"
Clara rubbed her cheek. "Did you...did you just slap me?"
"What?" The Doctor looked confused. "No?"
She frowned, the mood had been thoroughly disrupted. Suddenly, her nakedness and the fullness in her arse felt off. Wrong, somehow. And what was that smell?She pried his hands off of her tummy and had him take it out of her backside, exhaling sharply as he did. Clara turned to face him, holding her dribbling pussy protectively. "Why did you--OW!" Another sharp sting as an invisible hand slapped her again. Touching her cheek, she looked up at him. "Is that...that's not you, is it?"
He shook his head. A few seconds later another slap took her on the other cheek. Clara looked around as the room started to take on the consistency of vapour, the fireplace casting pink light and strange shadows onto them both. "Oh...it's..."

And then she woke up.

She came to already lurching to her feet, staggering sideways as The Doctor called out to her. "Just a second, Clara! I'm sorry about the slapping but it and the salts were the only way to get you back out!" His back was turned to her as he fiddled with the machine, powering it down and disconnecting it from her mind. Clara blinked groggily and furrowed her brow, hyperaware of the uncomfortably tight helmet on her head. Reaching up, she ripped it off and tossed it onto the chair she'd been sat on, then lurched backwards, her legs still uselessly unsteady beneath her. The test dream had done a real number on her, she felt as if she'd been asleep for a hundred years, and flashes of what she'd dreamed about were coming back to her, embarrassing fragments of the desires she'd always kept private. She hoped he hadn't been lying about not being able to see the dream, having to address all of that would be just too much! The Doctor unplugged a few wires from the machine, then stepped around the console, fussing with something just out of sight. "Again, very sorry about this, I'll be with you in just another...second...I just need to make sure it's all powered down or the psychic feedback could fry half the console..."
Clara wasn't listening. She realised now that standing up had been a mistake, her eyelids were drooping, her was still giving the console room was a blurry, smeared look and her head postiviely spinning. She staggered back until she was touching the railing, breathing heavily to try and wake herself up, but it was no use. Sagging into it, she went to to try and hold onto it with clumsy, fumbling fingers, failing to get a good grip and instead grasping at thin air. Finally, her legs gave out, and with a jolt of panic she sensed she was losing her footing entirely. Uselessly windmilling her arms, Clara see-sawed backwards, and promptly toppled the railing. As she fell to the lower floor under the console, Clara could hear the tearing of fabric, and dimly sensed her pyjama bottoms being harshly yanked off of her, though at first she didn't quite fully register what that meant.

With a sound halfway between a dull thud and a smack, Clara hit the floor side-on, the impact winding her and sending a wave of pain jarring through her body. The **** of the impact jarred her awake, forcing her to sharply suck in a lungful of air through her teeth as the immediate aftereffects of the fall began to hit her. Rolling onto her front, Clara rode the pain out, biting back the urge to swear as she inspected her surroundings and realised where she now was. The very next thing she did was check herself, making sure she hadn't banged up or broken anything too badly before trying to get up. Nothing hurt too much when she moved or bent it where her uppder body was concerned, so she went to move on to the lower...and paused when she saw her legs. Her bare legs. She didn't dare breathe. No... With trembling hands, she touched a fingertip to the smooth, uncovered skin. Bare legs, bare thighs, bare front and back, bare everything. Oh....oh no... Clara's mouth fell open. She couldn't believe it, this wasn't happening! This wasn't happening! She made a kind of strangled squeak, and instantly her cheeks rouged. Sick with worry, she scrambled to her feet, listening mutely to pinpoint where The Doctor was before quickly padding out from under the console until she could see the edge of it above her; sure enough there they were—her bottoms, hanging torn from a protruding section of the railing upstairs. Jesus Christ, you idiot! she scolded herself, glancing down and pressing her hands to her crotch. No bottoms, how could you do this to yourself twice?! "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" she swore, under her breath. There was no way...she couldn't get them back without going upstairs and she was not going back upstairs bottomless. This wasn't fair! This wasn't fair damn it! She stood there, trying desperately to think of a solution...and, of course, that was when The Doctor's voice rang out: "Clara? Clara, what happened? I heard a bang, did you drop something?"
Clara gulped, trying to steadying her breathing. "Uh...n-no...no I...I just...I'll be back up in a second." She winced, instantly regretting saying that.
"Back up'? Wait, was that you? Did you fall? Are you alright?" Footsteps clanked around the console above. "Do you need help?"
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no! Anything but that, anything but him coming down here! "Uh...no, no I think it'd be best if..." she was struggling to put words together, so distracted by the air flow around her nether regions and so focused on the nightmarish image she had in her head of once more standing in front of him baring her bottom half that she couldn't even think straight.
"You don't sound right. It's no wonder after our little experiment, I'm coming down!"
"No! No, wait!" Clara heard him moving around upstairs and scampered away, fleeing to the central column to hide behind. What would he think if he saw her in this state again? He'd think the worst! He'd think she was doing it on purpose! That she was some kind of pervert or something! And even if he didn't, she couldn't handle being seen by him like this, all flushed and cringing—naked by accident, instead of by choice! She had to get away, had to somehow get her bottoms back before he saw! "Clara?" The Doctor hurried down the stairs, and Clara flattened herself against the column, trying to ignore the odd, rough texture on her bare bottom. For a moment or two there was silence, hen his footsteps started up again, but this time much, much closer. "Where did you fall? Do you need help getting back up?" His voice was coming from just around the corner, or so it sounded. "I can carry you if you can't walk—sprained ankles are nothing to sneer at, believe me I know!" She heard his steps clanking away in a pattern that was most definitely circling round the central column from the other direction, and she whimpered, her heart hammering away in her chest as she fled. "Y-yes! Yes, I'm fine! Honestly!" She insisted, fear running strong and cold through her veins as she shuffled along, teetering on the edge of discovery. "Just...just go back upstairs and I'll be back with you in just a—" she gasped, tripping over her own feet and having to reach out and steady herself on a support strut.
"You're not fine! Clara, there's no shame in asking for help! It's what brought you here tonight in the first place, remember?" His voice was compassionate, concerned. She felt a pang of guilt at having to do this, but she knew she'd feel a whole lot worse if she let him get another look at her in this state.
He was close, footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the underconsole. She went round one support strut, and another, pressing herself into the gloom to better stay hidden, but he was relentless. The whole thing was beginning to reminder her of another chase between them, a chase that hadn't happened in a room that didn't exist. The memory of it made her blush just that bit deeper, and made her bite her lip to stop her from making a distressed noise at the fresh torrent of wetness that accompanied it, dribbling out from the gaps between her fingers and leaving a trail of liquid spatter behind her. "Clara? Clara!" She ignored his calls, growing more and more embarrassed the longer the chase went on, face burning with shame. She passed by one of the support struts, preparing to go past it and up one of the other staircases to get up to the console, but her shirt snagged on something. "No, no!" Clara's voice was a furious whisper as she pulled at the obstruction with both hands, so **** to escape that she started to tear at the hem of the shirt where it had caught. "Clara!" He was too close, disentangling herself would take too long! She couldn't get away! Oh, god she couldn't get away! "No! No! Stop! Doctor! Doctor, PLEASE!" she shrieked, outright ripping a huge section of the hem away to get free and starting to move away...but it was already too late. There were seconds left, just seconds! Clara closed her eyes and moaned shamefully, bracing herself for what was about to happen while trying not to tease her throbbing pussy too badly as she moved her hands back down to cover it. The Doctor rounded the corner to find her frozen in place, mortified by her own bottomlessness, hands shoved down between the bare, creamy thighs she was pushing tightly together to keep some semblance of modesty. Her face was a canvas of scarlet, the lips parted, the cute little button nose wrinkled; under his gaze, Clara was wilting, too overwhelmed to even move. Below the hem of her vest, her nudity was announced by an hourglass waist, complimented by full hips—curves that demanded attention and refused to let go once it was given—from there, her figure levelled out into shapely legs, gorgeous pins that seemed to almost glow in the gloom of the underconsole. Her feet were as bare as the rest of her bottom half—red nails, freshly painted—and the harsh metal floor was sending a chill through them that made her fidget and periodically shiver in discomfort. Her crotch was of course hidden from view, but her thigh creases were on full display, a tantalising glimpse of what she was hiding under her palms. Last, but by no means least, her arse. Though it should have been out of view on account of her facing him, the Doctor had previously mounted a circular convex mirror up on one of the support struts to help with the maintenance work he so often did down there, and the position Clara was standing in meant that what should have been out of view was instead all too visible. To glance up, you'd see it, right out in the open, painted teal by the cool, sparse lighting of the room. In the reflection, Clara's bum currently bore a striking resemblance to an apricot dipped in berry juice—ripe, juicy and wonderfully formed in its heft and curvature. She had no idea what she was showing off, but The Doctor's peripheral vision certainly did as he approached, taking in the image of that plump, jiggling fruit she was carrying around with her and no doubt filing it away in the vastness of his alien brain.
Meanwhile, back up front, Clara felt as if she might cry. There was no denying it or hiding it—she was horribly, horribly exposed. The current state of things was leaving her unable to cope with how aggressively, blatantly naked she was, in spite of—or possibly even because—of the fact that she'd lost only her bottoms. To make matters worse, she was intimately aware of the wetness her palms were now immersed in as it trickled over and down through her fingers, forcing her to remain painully cognisant of how achingly aroused she still was. He fell silent as he took her in, naked below the waist for the second time tonight. "I...I can..." she reddened, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, her big doe eyes as wide as saucers. "...explain. I lost..." she took a deep breath. "I lost my balance because of the dream and...and my...my bottoms must have gotten snagged and—" she trailed off, overcome by an intense, full-body cringe. The cringe rolled down from her shoulders—an awkward shimmy of one, then the other, past her abdomen—a shiver and a shake from side to side, her breasts moving subtly under her shirt, down to her hips—a lovely little roll, and beautifully understated from the front; from the back the blue fruit that was her bottom shook on the vine, jiggling in its ripeness, all of it reflected clear as day, to her legs—the thighs shivering alluringly, terminating in her toes—they wiggled, shining with moisture from the drip, drip, drip of musky fluid from above.

[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!]