The Morning After the Night Before

By the time the flow of women looking to bounce on my cock or ride my tongue tapers off, the massive hall is surprisingly quiet. The speakers are silent, the enormous screens are all either blank or playing a loop of the day's most popular broadcast - in all cases, the Doctor's hot pink booty shorts and thong succumbing to physics and disintegrating - and the only sounds from the carpet of fucked-out people all around me are soft moans and gasps as those with truly exceptional endurance weakly masturbate or make love to whoever they can coax into the mood. The front of my shirt is in tatters, with the red scratch marks on my chest showing me just how that happened, and my pants are nowhere to be seen. Still, there's a reasonably sanitary-looking pair that look to be about my size draped across an **** woman's body a few meters away that I happily take.

Up on the stage, the Doctor is lying on her back fingering herself lazily, moaning occasionally as she humps her hand and gropes her tits with the other. She's less of a wreck than I was expecting besides being covered in lipstick stains - between the distraction of everyone off-stage and the sheer dumb devotion she was inducing in the ones on-stage, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd danced until she dropped. "Mmm... Thanks, John," she coos happily as she opens her eyes to see who's approaching her, "I really needed that. I'm, ooh, sorry I was throwing myself at you earlier, it's just..." Her eyes grow a little vacant at the memory. "...the music, and the vibe, and knowing that so many people could see me shaking my phat ass like a... a... AH!" She throws her head back as her hips buck upwards and she squirts a gout of pussy juice across a few of the insensate dancers. "S-Sorry," she slurs, "jus' feelsh sho gooood..."

"Well," I say, hooking my hands under her arms and pulling her up on unsteady legs, "if you've got the energy to squirt, you've got the energy to do it in the TARDIS. I ran into a couple of your old companions, by the way." I pause for a moment as something occurs to me. "Or at least, I think they were old companions. Does the name Sam Jones mean anything?" She nearly topples over, though I can't tell whether it's from shock or exhaustion. "Sam Jones... Yeah, she was... blonde? No, she had dark hair - why did I think she was blonde?" I sigh and slap her on the ass, which besides jiggling delightfully seems to bring her back to her usual alert state. "Sorry, yeah," she continues apologetically, "twin sisters, liked jeans, great cocksuckers. I don't know what's got into me, I've got a hell of a headache right now. I don't think I've cum so hard or so often... well, ever."

"Well, you've never reached the peak of twerking addiction before," I reply, as we pick our way through the mass of semi-conscious clubgoers towards the doorway. Strange spherical drones descend from openings in the ceiling, levitating select people with rays of blueish light before carrying them to a large driverless flatbed parked by the exit and placing them in the back. Maybe some sort of ambulance, I think to myself, people fucking until they die probably isn't the sort of publicity this place wants. The corridors and halls are just as loud and lively as when we arrived, the Doctor's peak seemingly having been broadcast outside of the station and buried under the feeds from competing halls inside it. We make surprisingly quick progress considering we can't duck and weave through the crowds in our current state, with my hand firmly groping the Doctor's ass 'for support' and her occasionally feigning a stumble so she has an excuse to feel me up through my stolen pants 'to stop herself falling'.

Eventually, we make it back and I successfully shoulder my way through the TARDIS doors before depositing the Doctor on a leather chaise longue that the TARDIS has helpfully provided to us. I head off into my room to get changed and blink in surprise as I step through the door feeling clean and refreshed already. I look down and see the suspicious stains on my stolen pants have vanished, then run a hand through my hair and feel that it's as clean as if I'd just dried it after a shower. I look at the en suite bathroom suspiciously and wonder...

"Enjoy your shower," the Doctor asks from her position at the console when I return, confirming that my suspicions of her spying on me are probably right. Oh well, I think, it's not like I'm any better. "Yeah, thanks," I reply, "you feeling better?" She grins and steps around the console to flip a couple of mysterious switches and turn a dial. It's not the exaggerated gait she was unknowingly putting on before, but everything she's packing below the waist combines into something that can't really be described as anything but a strut. "Loads," she replies, "I just needed another glass of orange juice and I was right as rain. Anyway, next destination! I noticed you seemed more interested in history than partying, so I picked out a nice little moment for us to attend..."

I'm just about finished with the history of Venus I'd been reading when we arrived at Hedon Station, having been splitting my attention between that and the Doctor's evident desire for attention when she was working the pole. She hadn't even bothered to get dressed before we departed, although I at least managed to convince her to wear more than a perception filter once we arrived. "And you're sure that's appropriate for a guest at a treaty signing," I ask skeptically, more to agitate her than out of any actual disapproval. "Oi, I'll have you know that this is the height of late 21st century fashion," she shoots back, doing a little twirl that shows how the sparkly purple suit she'd dressed in is practically vacuum-sealed to her figure, "and I've actually been here and now before, more or less. Okay, so it's 2120, but I'm sure this is still good!"

I gesture for her to lead on and follow her out of the TARDIS. The structure is far cleaner and more 'administrative' that Hedon Station's repurposed industrial environment, with octagonal bulkheads occasionally whooshing open to admit us to corridor after retro-looking corridor. Panels of blinking lights, which I assume mean a great deal to anyone who uses this place on a day-to-day basis, give the whole thing a very 'future of the sixties' look. "Welcome to Wakeford-082," the Doctor says by way of introduction, "also known as Space Station W3, and better known as-" She gestures with a flourish at a large framed photograph on the wall, presumably this place from the outside. "-The Wheel! Home of Earth's first defeat of a Cyberman attack ****, one of my smarter Companions and now the official first contact between humanity and the Drahvin population of Venus!"

I raise an eyebrow at that. "I figured you'd want to see the fruits of your hard work," the Doctor continues, "so we've got a front-row seat to the signing. They've been bouncing radio communications back and forth for a decade by now, but it's only recently that they've agreed to open proper diplomatic ties rather than just messages to one another." She ducks past a man in a silvery jumpsuit with a rifle marching in the opposite direction to us and gestures to the right-hand fork of a junction up ahead. "Earth's in for a bit of a shock, frankly," she smiles, "the details on Drahvin society keep getting censored until they actually have physical proof to present. Not that I blame them; 'buff blonde dommes from Venus who view sex as a way to keep the peace' sounds a bit too good to be true, doesn't it?"

"Doesn't really matter how good it sounds," I reply, "there's going to be a lot of men disappointed to find out their alien mail-order brides are faking all their orgasms." The Doctor rolls her eyes as we approach a much more ornate set of doors, that seem to have been done up especially for the occasion with what looks like the bastard offspring of a British flag and the UN logo. It whooshes open, revealing a curvy woman who looks to be in her... well, it's a bit difficult to tell, but she's solidly old enough to pass the MILF check, especially in the same super-tight purple suit the Doctor's wearing. The Doctor herself seems a little taken aback, but quickly recovers and advances on her.

The woman turns to us and smiles. "Zoe Heriot," she says in greeting, looking both of us up and down and biting her lip subtly, "Station Chief of Wakeford-082." The Doctor shakes her hand enthusiastically. "Doctor Joan Smith," she replies, which draws a raised eyebrow from Ms Heriot but no objection, "and this is John Doe, my plus-one."

Some distance back down the corridor from the room where Zoe Heriot was wondering how her memories of the Doctor had managed to get so jumbled that she'd forgotten that she was a blonde woman instead of a dark-haired man, the guard that the pair of uninvited guests had passed suddenly felt a sharp pain in his ankle. Before he could bring his weapon to bear on the small, low-crawling robot that had attacked him, the door behind him opened and his rapidly-seizing body was snatched through it.