Wet Dreams

She dreamed of Him. They were in the drawing room, in front of a roaring fireplace. He was sitting, she was straddling him, planting a trail of kisses up his neck on a long, winding path to his mouth. When she reached it, she paused and met his gaze, staring into eyes that burned with strange, alien intelligence. "No running this time, clever boy," she purred, leaning in and catching his lips with her own—sucking, tonguing. She was wearing the red dress—the other one, threaded with a pattern of white spots and patches of darker burgundy. It was short enough that in her current position it was riding up to offer him a peek at the sleek black knickers she had on under it, a shock of dark cotton resting snug and enfolded by the slim paleness of her legs, drawing the eye toward what lay between them. "Do you like them?" Her smirk was saucy, teasing, brimming with barely-contained glee.
"I do." He grinned, reaching around to lay a hand on her bum. His hand was on the rear of her knickers, stroking them, savouring the texture; it stayed there for a moment before he went a step further and slipped it under them to fondle and squeeze to her arse to his hearts' content. His hands were warm and soft, and they felt oh so pleasant on her skin. She'd wondered how this would feel for ages. It was everything she'd wanted, everything. Quivering excitedly, she bit her lip and went to slide them off, but he stopped her before she could get them past her knees. "...My pants?" She adopted a puzzled expression. "Shouldn't I...?"
He shook his head. "I like your pants. Pants...are cool."
"Oh? Does this mean I need to keep an eye on my pants now?"
"I'd be happy to watch them for you, if you'd like." Another playful squeeze from him. Clara moaned quietly. "Mmm, yeah...I think I'd like that." Another kiss from her. "I've waited for so long...I mean...I've wanted to for..." she trailed off, batting her eyelashes cutely. "You don't need to say it. I know." He reached up, and a moment later she felt his fingers playing with her breasts through the fabric of her dress. "T—take it off," Clara gasped. Grasping her dress by the hem, he obeyed, making it rise and rise like a curtain to eventually reveal her pussy, already slick with moisture. He flung the dress aside, leaving her naked. Clara let out a mock squeal, before running a finger down between her bare breasts. He was looking, god was he looking. She'd always wanted him to look at her like that, to stare so hungrily at her tits, to touch her so intimately. Clara sighed happily. "Now, speaking of pants, let's see about yours." With that, she went to work unzipping his trousers, searching through the layers of cloth to find it. Her face lit up as she touched it, feeling it stiffen even as she took it in hand. A faint but unmistakable pulse ran through it, and she couldn't help but giggle. "There it is," she said, glancing back up to see the look on his face. He wanted it, and she wanted it too. Lucky day. She was pulling it out of its hiding place beneath his trousers when the dream began to flicker and fade. The flames reared up inside the fireplace, turning pink and swirling furiously behind the grate, and spots of light twinkled like stars on the walls and ceiling. No! she thought. No, not yet! We haven't even started! We haven't—
Clara's eyes snapped open. She found herself staring up at the ceiling, her tongue swirling reflexively around something that was no longer there. Her mouth was full of saliva, her whole body shaking from the thrill of it; but it was just a dream, there had been no fireplace, no drawing room, he wasn't playing with her, exploring her body...
She sat up and drew her knees to her stomach. The room was a valley of shadows, the silence absolute. Nothing out of the ordinary...except...
There was a spot of cold somewhere beneath the quilt. She frowned, grasped the quilt, drew it aside. Not on the sheet she realised, prodding at the mattress beneath and around her. Shifting positions, she winced, sensing another note of cold, and this time she could feel exactly where it was. Not on the bed, but on her. Clara got up into a sitting position, fumbled for the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, pulled them gently down. With tentative, probing fingers she reached down and touched the spot; when they made contact with it, it felt like she was dipping them into a glass of water. She explored further, running them over her soft, glistening lips. Wet. Very, very wet. "What the...?" She'd had, shall we say, pleasant dreams in the past, and sometimes had even managed to enjoy herself a little too hard while sleeping, but she'd never woken up like this, never been quite so flushed or...wet. And then there'd been that other bit of strangeness, just before the dream had ended. Why the shining? Why the pink? Clara shook her head, took a few deep breaths, then lay her head back down on the pillow and closed her eyes. She was off to sleep again in no time, but again things were...off. They were back in the drawing room together, she was wearing a mesh lingerie bodysuit and kneeling at his feet. He was stroking her cheek, and every time he touched it she seemed to run just a little hotter. There was something tied around her neck, she knew what it was but she wanted to know for sure. "No," he muttered. "I like it on you."
"You would," Clara gazed up at him sweetly. "You always did like your bow ties." At that, he laughed, and she felt the uncontrollable urge to get up and pounce on him. "Anything I want, anywhere in time and space you always say...but all I want is you. Right here. On the floor if that's what it takes." She slipped out of the bodysuit and slinked up onto his lap, nude and blushing, her curves backlit beautifully by the fire behind them. "My clever boy." Putting her arms around his neck, the perfectly formed teardrop mounds of her breasts were inches from his mouth, her nipples blooming like flowers from the light brown soil of her areolas, and pointing boldly in the direction of his lips as she mounted him and raised her chest up to his mouth. Something solid prodded at her backside, she grinded against it, fitting it safe and sound between the cheeks. "My Doctor..." Again, the room started to swim, again, the fire swirled and turned pink, constellations glittered on the walls, and the drawing room dissipated like so much smoke.
Clara lay awake, flushed and terribly frustrated, the wet patch in her pyjama bottoms still fresh and larger now than it had been before, her pussy soaked in its own juices. What is wrong with you? She chided herself, turning her hand this way and that to catch the glistening wetness on her fingers on the feeble shafts of ambient light drifting in through the closed door from the hallway outside. Wet dreams? What are you, seventeen? This was ridiculous, she had the right to a good night's sleep without leaking all over the bloody bed like this. Turning on the lamp next to her bed, she got up and shucked her bottoms down, wandering bottomless to the bathroom that sometimes adjoined her bedroom (sometimes because the TARDIS was a tricksy beast) and returning with one wad of toilet paper stuck to her crotch, and another which she promptly placed all around her on the mattress. "Come on, sleepy's more important than horny." She said to herself in the mirror, before climbing back into bed and turning the lamp off. A third time—eyes closed, slow, calm breaths. In short order: lights out.
The same dream. Again. This time it was a feverish whirlwind of lust. She was naked and bouncing up and down on top of him, her breasts slapping against her chest as she went. His hands were holding tightly onto her bum, squeezing and squeezing, and the girth inside her pussy was like nothing she'd ever felt, sliding in and out and bringing rolling waves of ecstasy with it. "Cum for me!" She cried. "Cum, you clever boy, and remember!" It was building, she could feel it. The pulse was getting stronger and stronger, in preparation for the...
The fire crackled angrily, she was facing away from it but she could both hear it and see the light hitting the walls turning pink. "No!" Clara yelled. "Faster! Do it faster! Please, Doctor! Before it's too—"
Late. Clara sighed even before she'd fully opened her eyes. She was back in her room. Alone. Hopelessly wet, and with The Doctor nowhere nearby. There was nothing for it. She sat up, threw back the quilt and swung her legs down off the bed, patting the toilet paper cocoon she'd made for herself to find it drenched and distinegrating all over the sheets. On came the light. She stared down at her pussy. At the tiny, triangular plot of neatly trimmed hair up top. At the lips so full they were almost pouting below that, and the thin trickle of pinkness sliding out from beneath them, all of which was still shining and slippery in the lamplight. "Stop it!" Clara whispered at it. "Just stop! This isn't fair! I'm trying to get to sleep, and we're due on in less than a week! The last thing either of us need is whatever this is supposed to be!" Unsurprisingly, it didn't have much to say in response. Running her fingers through her hair, Clara weighed up her options. It was obvious by now there was no sleep to be had, what was less obvious was why. She wasn't a 'wet dream' kind of girl, and besides which she was pretty sure girls didn't have wet dreams like this anyway. So what was going on here? Why the same dream, returning whenever she went back to sleep like a TV program taken off pause? Why the pink fire, and the twinkling stars all over the place? It was weird. Exactly the kind of weirdness he specialised in. But how to even begin to broach this with him? How to explain? How to get through it without cringing herself to ****? She was stuck. The only way forward seemed to be going in search of The Doctor and telling him what was going on, except that would mean torching her own dignity and changing the way he saw her. If he knew what she really thought of him, what she really wanted. Hmmm... She put a finger on her chin.

Wait

It may be true that the only way forward was going to him and telling him about what was going on...but that didn't necessarily mean telling him everything that was going on, did it? She smirked, rising off of the bed and retrieving her pyjama bottoms. She pulled them on, reminded herself to tie their drawstring to secure them at the waist (she'd had them for years, and they'd always been a touch baggy) Clara Oswald, you genius. That was it! She had this! There was no possible way this could go wrong!

The Doctor was tinkering. The Doctor was always tinkering. Whenever she was up late, whenever she returned after ducking out to change clothes in the wake of their latest excursion, whenever she turned her back it seemed, she'd always find him tinkering. Fiddling with one panel or another, sitting in his maintenance harness beneath the console, wandering around running his hands along the walls and railings, testing, always testing. When she found her way back to the console room, he looked as if he'd been doing just that. Hunched over the console, eyes closed, one long strand of it following the path of gravity to hang straight down. Clara walked in, she'd changed her bottoms to a pair with a blue and green tartan pattern on them, but was still wearing the red vest top she'd gone to bed in in the first place. Lingering at the bottom of the staircase nearest to her, she waited, but he didn't acknowledge her. She cleared her throat."Late night?"
The Doctor looked up, rubbed his eyes, turned to face her. "Every night's a late night when you've got things to do!" He clapped his hands for effect, already winding back up into that manic performance of his. "What about you? Tossing and turning? Bad dreams?" He wiggled his fingers mockingly. Clara tried to smile bravely, but really succeeded only in smiling. "Um...something like that?"
The Doctor cocked his head. "What's that supposed to mean? Are we doing riddles now? I thought I expressly forbade any riddling on the TARDIS; you remember what happened on our trip to Egypt." He shivered uneasily. "I mean who knew the Sphinx was such a stickler for the rules?"
Clara made a concerned face, her hands had found their way behind her back and now she was swinging her upper body from left to right and back again, her whole demeanour screaming 'nervous'. The Doctor's expression hardened, he took a step toward the top of the staircase. "What is it?" He demanded. "What's the matter? Did something happen?"
She looked up at him, a hint of a blush creeping onto her cheeks. "Things are always happening, everywhere, every—"
"—when, yes I remember what I said to you last Thursday but you know what I mean; now what is it?"
Clara mulled it over, trying to see how best to approach the subject. "Bad dream," she said. "Not the uh...not the worst way to describe it, but it's not...not the whole..." she trailed off and put her palm over her face, suddenly wishing very much that the TARDIS would just get on with things and swallow her up. "It was a dream."
"And?" He descended the first two steps. "What happened? Do you remember anything? Generally humans only get flashes of their dreams after they wake up, but even that could be use—"
"I remember," Clara cut in, firmly. "Vividly." He wasn't getting it, forcing her to circle closer and closer to the truth of things. But how to explain? How to even begin to approach it? She swallowed nervously. "You need to understand, this is...it's embarrassing and it's personal, but I wouldn't be coming to you if it wasn't real."
The Doctor paused, licked his lips thoughtfully. "Ooookay...right. Well...there's a little known fact about humans, you have very low level psychic potential, sometimes...sometimes strange things happen, sometimes your thoughts can become...augmented, the potential becoming realised in small, momentary ways. It might have seemed vivid, it might have even seemed real but—"
"No, Doctor you don't—"
"It's alright, Clara. Really!"
"Doctor, if you could just—"
"Just trust me, Clara. These things are never as bad as they seem!"
"WILL YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME?!" Clara stamped her foot. She went to say something else but was interrupted by an odd sensation—the feeling of a weight being lifted off of her hips, and a barely audible rustle of...cloth? She stopped and glanced down to see her pyjama bottoms pooled at her feet, the drawstring that had been holding them up apparently undone. How? She must have forgotten to retie it after she'd pulled them down back in bed…but she thought she had! She was sure she had! That was bad enough, but it was made worse by her remembering a moment later that she hadn't been wearing any knickers. The glint of white on her pussy made her look at it closer, and to her eternal shame she realised she’d left the toilet paper stuck to her crotch, and the continued wetness had caused it to slowly disintegrate into dozens of pieces of frayed confetti, all of which was now stuck to her landing strip and clinging to her labia, plain for all to see.
"Shit!" Clara let out a horrified shriek and dropped into a sheepish crouch, her first instinct to cover her exposed pussy with her hands. By the look on his face he'd seen, noticed the torrent of wetness and the remains of the paper down there! No, no, no! This was rapidly turning into everything she'd feared it would be!

[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!]