TARDIS Trouble, Part 1: Collision

"And where, exactly, did you learn to work a pole like that, young lady?" The Doctor pours all of her 'stern, disapproving mother' energy into the question, glaring over her shoulder at Aphasia. The younger blonde merely grins in response, running her free hand through her hair as the other slowly leaves an imprint in the pole at the centre of the TARDIS's control stage. Her feet are planted firmly and her legs bent as her hips roll, grinding her denim-clad crotch against the metal rod. Or she's trying to, at any rate - the presence of her mother's bouncing, jiggling ass, clad in matching, barely-covers-half-of-it booty shorts, is rather impeding her attempts. "Sat in John's lap," she fires back, landing a heavy slap on one of the Doctor's cheeks, "watching you do it." The words 'and practicing on him' go unsaid, presumably for purposes of plausible deniability - not that she knows that the Doctor already knows about that.

The Doctor responds by abruptly ceasing her twerking assjob of the pole and straightening up, grabbing it and twirling around behind Aphasia in her 'daughter's' moment of triumph. The bratty buttslut is too preoccupied with finally feeling something hard against her pussy that her first warning of the change in position is when her grinding suddenly gets a lot more **** behind it, the Doctor's hips adding their own gyrations to the mix as her hips press tightly against Aphasia's ass and start to roll. The pressure against her crotch quickly gets to her and it's not long before she's moaning happily and dragging her tongue up the pole in a fugue of incestuous exhibitionism. For her part, the Doctor seems perfectly content with sandwiching her daughter against the metal, gyrating her hips and toying with the younger blonde's prominent nipples through her too-tight t-shirt.

"You know what they say," the Time Lady coos, punctuation her taunt with a moan-inducing, knee-weakening tug, "MILFhood and treachery beat bratty enthusiasm." The last syllable is still hanging in the air when the entire room lurches several degrees to one side, sending both blondes toppling off of the stage with synchronised yelps of surprise and nearly flinging me out of my chair. I grab its arms and push myself the rest of the way out of it so I can stagger over to the console and take a look around it to see how they're faring; they're doing about as well as can be expected, the Doctor apparently having used her superhuman coordination to cushion Aphasia's fall and ensure that they've ended up with their faces firmly planted in each other's crotches. "You know," I say to the Doctor as I offer my hand to her psychic parasite - and isn't that a weird thing to remember occasionally - and give her a largely unnecessary pull upright, "if you want to spend all day teaching your daughter to French-kiss your cunt as well as all night, you don't need to be this theatrical about it."

"Oh, sod off," she grumbles, hauling herself up with one hand on the console and the other grabbing my dick through my pants, "if that was my fault it'd have been a lot more dignified. Also, we probably ought to start worrying, 'cause whatever hit us just did so while we were in the vortex." Indeed, a rattle of keys and a glance at the external camera comes up with nothing but the swirling, flickering mass of ever-shifting caverns and tunnels that it normally shows while we're 'in flight'. "Well, that's a bust," the Doctor turns away from the console and heads for the door leading to the infinitely spacious 'wardrobes'. "Alright, let's get some proper gear on an- Oh, that's not good." Aphasia and I crane our necks to get a clearer view and I find myself agreeing with her assessment; instead of endless rooms full of outfits, the doorway now leads to a plush-carpeted, wood-panelled corridor that looks - and, more importantly, feels - uncomfortably familiar.

"I don't suppose," I ask carefully, "that the TARDIS is playing a practical joke?" The solemn shake of her head that I receive in reply is rendered faintly ridiculous by the surprise having apparently caused her lips to revert from their compressed form to their 'drooling blow-up doll' form, but the situation has plenty of gravitas even so. "Nothing for it then," Aphasia remarks breezily, hip-checking us out of her way as she sashays out into the corridor, "we'll have to go exploring."

"I don't know what you're so upset about," I tell the Doctor as we follow the younger blonde through yet another room, "she definitely got this from you." The Doctor pouts, having finally caught on to the state of her lips and shrunk them down again, but says nothing - mainly because she knows I'm absolutely correct. Personally, I'm more interested in where the hell all of this came from; the carpets and fittings are pretty clearly the same style as Wakefield Manor - literally one-to-one duplicates in some cases, I'm willing to bet - but the décor is, well...

The inhabitants of the Manor may have been nothing but porn-brained parodies of their roles before the machine in the attic stopped running its free trial mode brainwashing and we could fix them, but the building itself had been perfectly mundane. This place, though? Every painting depicts one or more women in a barely dressed state at their most modest, with group scenes being everything from heavy petting to outright lesbian orgies. Every statue or ornamental figure is fat-tittied, phat-assed, pillow-lipped and generally obscene, from the brass sculptures of open mouths surrounding keyholes to the figures sculpted to be pole dancing on silver candlesticks. I'm trying to remember where I've seen the face of one particular portrait's subject when Aphasia grabs me and drags me behind a decorative column as the Doctor slips behind another.

A dark-haired woman - with the biggest tits I've ever seen on someone that height - in a stereotypical, pornographically-skimpy French maid's outfit struts in through the door to this sitting room that we didn't come in through, fluffy feather duster ghosting over the various bits of silverware without even attempting to actually clean any of it, before strutting right back out through the way we came in, ass three-quarters exposed and wobbling in a way that makes it very difficult for me not to walk up behind her and lay the heaviest slap I can on it. I decide to burn off the urge by inflicting on Aphasia instead, the brat biting her lip to stifle the resulting moan even as the Doctor looks torn between shushing us and asking for one of her own. Not one to disappoint, I oblige her, and soon we're hurrying into the next room with both women wearing visible blushes.

"Did you see how fucking stacked she was," Aphasia asks the Doctor giddily as we brace the door shut behind us with a chair. "No way you're fun enough to leave that as the setting when you left Wakefield, so this is seriously weird." She takes a deep sniff of the air and abruptly rushes over to a painting of a redhead flat on her back, with her ankles crossed behind her head and two fingers spreading her pussy open, before leaving a shining smear of spit behind as she gives said pussy a long, slow lick. "Sort of sizzling," she muses, "like the background radiation's different here. Tastes almost like your toys after you've squirted all over them, Mum!" The Doctor winces at being reminded just how spectacular her orgasms have been getting since she started upping the intensity of her masturbation, but nods in agreement. "Parallel timeline," she confirms, "I was wondering why the air felt so sticky, must be a version of Wakefield that we never visited."

"Or that you never left," I correct her, finally looking up at the portraits lining the walls. Because one of them - significantly less bottom-heavy but still boasting an ass to make most women green with envy, clad in a bright red leather bustier with matching knee-high boots and silk thong - is quite obviously the Doctor, circa my first trip aboard the TARDIS.