Sick Beats and Surprise Encounters

Out past the protection afforded by the TARDIS, the sounds of Hedon Station are nearly deafening. Moans and screams fill the air, undercut by the shouting of vendors and customers trying to transact without going deaf. The rush of air overhead from the enormous fans built into the high ceiling can't clear the stench of millions of people fucking on every single inch of the chamber over the years, but can lend everything a hollow, echoing timbre. Heavy beats thump out of hidden speakers relentlessly, seemingly more to help the fucking masses keep their rhythm than anything else. I dodge, duck and weave through the crowds, following the Doctor's hot pink outfit like a beacon as she slips past everyone between her and her target - an enormous doorway filled with a shimmering barrier.

It seems to be some sort of soundproofing, because the Doctor passes through it with nothing but a small ripple to show for it and when I follow her I'm immediately hit by a wall of noise that nearly makes me fall flat on my face. The music is... odd. At first, it seems like it's nothing more than shrieking and moaning noises mashed together with no regard for tune or rhythm, but when I try and focus on the heavy bass track underneath it all, the rest suddenly falls into place as a weird, rolling melody that's quite pleasant to the ear. Then I slowly notice that, while the men around me are all moving at their own pace - even if they're trying to keep in time with the music - the women are matching their actions to the bass track perfectly. Every step, every sway, every thrust, every moan, all blending together like some kind of party pulse.

I track the Doctor to where she's watching a small knot of women in a comparatively empty space on the dancefloor. She beckons me over, right as the group manages to sync up their dancing with a hard slap on their own asses. "Pretty nice, right," she asks, her own hips twitching left to right in time with the beat. "Rigellan Sine," she explains, "music designed to influence a female listener's actions through harmonics and patterns in the beats. The darling of clubs and gyms everywhere, and as a bonus-" She rounds on me and grabs the bulge in my pants, grinning wildly at me as her body continues to sway to the beat. "-it makes us super fucking randy! Do you know how hard it's been for me to keep control since you showed up packing that monster down there? I've never been so horny in my life - and that's quite an accomplishment!"

She squeezes me through my pants, mistaking my silence for concern. "I know, I know," she groans, "you're probably thinking you accidentally did this with whatever you added to my orange juice-" There's got to be a word for the minor heart attack I experience at that, but damned if I know what it is. "-but don't worry, all that mix of chemicals does to me is make things sweeter!" Not if I made a compound that would only work on a certain subset of women and then made it normal for all women to react that way because I didn't want to have to redo it to account for genetic differences, it doesn't. "I've been adding it to everything since the first time, don't know why I never tried it before." And then the bass drops and so does she, into a deep squat and back up again without missing a beat.

"Are you..." I pause for a moment, considering whether this is the right moment, before settling on what I'm going to do. "Are you sure it's me specifically," I ask, watching her expression change from mad lust to confusion and uncertainty. "I mean," I continue as she schools her expression back into a reasonable facsimile of her previous one, "you normally get off faster and harder the more of an audience you've got, and you did mention you hadn't had a live-in companion for a while." Nice try, Doctor, I think, but if you want me, then you don't get to claim extenuating circumstances. "I had a look at the timetable for this room on the way in and they normally start looking for volunteers up on the main stage right about now, maybe that'll help," I say in my best 'helping' voice. Then I grab a handful of ass in one hand, a handful of hair in the other, and yank her close as I tilt her head back to look at me and lean in close. "Knock 'em dead," I growl - or at least, as close to it as I can manage with bone-jarring bass beats thumping me in the ribs - and shove her back.

She doesn't protest or stumble, instead mouthing a rattled 'thanks', setting her face in a determined expression and vanishing into the crowd in the direction of the main stage. I think about following her, but before I can a girl with short blonde hair dressed in unbuttoned jeans, boots and a faded Greenpeace t-shirt of all things slides ass-first into my path. She reaches back and puts her hands on my hips as she grinds against me, letting me reach around to grope her braless breasts and tease her nipples. "Smooth talking," she smirks, "she's great, but she can get into a bit of state sometimes - at least if she's not changed too much since I traveled with her." My eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Didn't expect one of my predecessors here," I say, noting that yes, she is indeed certifiably caked up, "you on holiday or is this a full-time thing?" She laughs and reaches up to guide one of my hands into her pants. "H-Holiday," she gasps, as I slip two fingers into her, "my sister's over near the stage somewhere, probably sucking a few guys off for cash." I make a polite noise and begin to pump my fingers harder, making her squirm a little in my arms. "Funny thing, actually," she continues, licking her lips and moaning softly, "for some reason we're named the exact same thing on our birth certificates - and we're identical twins so, y'know, hair dye and makeup does not get shared if we want people to tell us apart."

"Twins, huh," I drawl, "does she normally get with whoever you've got your eye on?" Suddenly, the blonde is being pushed to one side by a topless doppelganger with dark hair and a pair of denim shorts in place of the former's full-length jeans. "Yeah," she says bluntly, as the pair of them each drop into a squat on either side of me and start working to get my pants off, "but the goody two-shoes here insists we share everything." She licks her lips when they pull my half-hard dick free, then the blonde grins at her dark mirror as I allow myself to get fully hard. "Not like either of us could handle this on their own," she retorts, already spitting on her palm.

"We're Sam, by the way," the dark-haired twin says off-handedly while the pair of them stroke me, "Sam Jones."

Author's Note: The Doctor doesn't want to knowingly give up control - or at least, to admit to doing it - because when that's happened in the past, it's tended to involve a multi-digit body count. John, on the other hand, won't settle for anything less than an outright, no-excuses admission of submission before he indulges her desire for his dick - and he has literally nothing better to do than revel in chipping away at her until she finally breaks.