Amy Pond (Doctor Who)

Coinciding as it did with the period when Doctor Who was at the peak of its popularity, the emergence of RealDreams perhaps unsurprisingly resulted in an abundance of Amy Ponds flooding the market during those initial years, so you are hopeful of getting a good rate for her. Sure enough when you type her name into the search bar you see that you are in luck. A list of booking options flash up onscreen, each presented as “packages” with suitably themed titles. “The Girl Who Waited,” is the first item in the list, accompanied by bold text reading “best value.” Clicking this brings up a new window with additional details and payment options. It is a standard package with all perks included, en-suite room for two nights with free cancellation, plus complimentary champagne, a choice of custom character outfits and of course, breakfast included. Satisfied, you enter your details into the payment portal and within minutes you are all set.

A week later you are standing in a plush, warmly lit lobby while a woman in a smart uniform bearing the Dreamscape logo reads back the details of your booking before taking your signature. In return she slides a glossy key card towards you across the reception desk, accompanied by a pocket sized touchscreen remote control.

“Have you stayed with us before at all?” she asks with a polite, professional smile, before explaining that the remote operates the lighting, air conditioning and all other electronics in your room. “You are on the third floor, you’ll find the lift just along the corridor to your right. Have a nice stay and just come let me know if there is anything else you need.”

With that you make your way over to the elevator, slipping the remote into your pocket. Anticipation rises as the leisurely purr of the lift conveys you to your floor. The corridors of the upper floors are laid out just like those of any modern hotel building, numbered doors separated by the occasional cleaning cupboard, the scent of freshly laundered bedding permeating the air. Finally, you reach your own door, scanning the key card with an electronic click before turning the handle.

Inside the room you are greeted by intimate lighting and the enchanting swell of string music which you recognise as Amy’s theme tune. The walls are painted navy blue and along the one nearest a familiar crack, like a jagged smile, has been carved into the plaster. Pressing your fingers into the gap reveals that the crack in this wall is not in fact a portal to another dimension but in reality is less than a centimetre deep, with artificial shading giving the illusion of greater depth. Still, the effort that has gone into the theming of the room you have to admire. Another detail you notice is the suitcase by the window, the same one, or to be more accurate most likely a facsimile of the one that Amelia packed the night she first met the Doctor. You doubt it is the original prop, though even if it were, presumably that wouldn’t technically make it the same one from Amy’s own universe. Fictitious realities are a tricky subject to get one’s head around.

Laying across a luxurious four poster bed, framed by the delicate, wispy thread of the curtains complimenting the fairytale vibe, is where you find Amy Pond, the flaring orange of her hair striking against the backdrop of crisp white linen and the cream of her own skin, as she adopts a pose not dissimilar to the one used during her abortive seduction attempt from Flesh and Stone, silk nightdress clinging to her curves and prominently displaying her long ivory legs. To one side of the bed is an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, to the other stands a rail of alternate outfits, some immediately recognisable, like Amy’s wedding dress, and her policewoman attire that she was first seen in. Others are original pieces, sets of lacy lingerie in a selection of colours, a skimpy maid costume… The shelves surrounding the decadent burgundy headboard are lined with other paraphernalia, pairs of fluffy handcuffs, scented body oils and lubricants, a crystal butt plug and a variety of other toys cast in silicone.

“Are you just gonna stand around there all day or are you gonna come join me?” Amy feigns a sulky expression, pouting her lips, as she gazes up at you, “it’s such a big bed and a girl gets lonely here all on her own…”

Though her tone is unmistakably sultry, made all the more blissful by her Scottish accent, it somehow doesn’t feel entirely natural, almost like the words are being read from a script. As tempting as it is to accept her invitation, your first priority is to turn down the music, since the mushy swells of Murray Gold, while a nice mood setting addition at first, have already started to become distracting. Remembering what the woman on reception said, you fumble in your pocket for the remote that she gave you. As you do so, Amy’s expression changes to one of fear.

“I’ll do whatever you want okay,” she says, eyeballing the remote as you pull it out, “just please, don’t do the… mind control stuff.” She looks haunted, on the verge of tears, as though traumatic memories are replaying in her mind.

Realisation hits you as you examine the settings on the remote, seeing that they not only include controls for the room, but also for Amy’s behaviour modification chip. “The signal strength can be increased to ensure full consent, however this can result in a loss of personality,” it said in the FAQ. Now it makes sense why Amy’s seductive words were so laboured. In reality she must hate this, being pulled out of her own universe and having her whole life turned into this fetishised parody solely for the benefit of guests like yourself, night after night. But she will do whatever it takes to satisfy you. She has ****, because the alternative is even worse, being a passenger in her own body, doing and saying things with no control over her actions, totally at your mercy.

Taking the initiative, Amy crawls slowly toward the edge of the bed, emphasising the motion of her hips, gaze fixed on you with bedroom eyes, as the sheets softly deform beneath her hands and knees. If there’s one thing she knows it is how to be provocative. She did formerly work as a kissogram after all.

“Do you like seeing me in my nightie like this?” Her words are once more laced with seduction, making a point of showing her compliance, “are you going to sweep me away on an adventure and show me the stars… or perhaps you’d like to take me as your prisoner.” Her voice lowers further. “You can handcuff me, if that’s what you’re into.” The bitter taste of the words passing her lips is almost tangible, despite the sensuous manner in which they are spoken.

So many possibilities. You glance up again at the shelves, the toys, the outfits, the champagne, then back to Amy’s sultry form, poised at the edge of the duvet, ginger locks cascading down the side of her face, shimmering in the low light. It’s going to be an enjoyable night ahead. Plus, even with her being this well behaved, there is always still the option of having some mind control fun with her chip should you feel like it.