TARDIS Trouble, Part 9: Wring

Surprisingly, the sudden and violent intrusion of whatever's outside the control room into it doesn't seem to phase the Valet. In fact, if anything, it relaxes her; her relentless riding slows more and more from its previous hazardous pace and level of violence, until she's doing little more than pinning my hips to the bench with her own and rolling them in small, lazy figure-eights as her walls clench around me. "Ooooh, Lady Wakefield's going to be so angry," she croons, straightening up and running her hands through her hair, "when she finds out that the new man of the house knocked me up before her." It's hard to see her expression from my current position, what with the light-headedness and her massive bust blocking most of my view, but from her tone - so much like the Doctor's 'oops, sorry, I didn't mean to sit in your lap like that' voice - it's pretty clear that whatever brainwashing the Manor-Machine-TARDIS has inflicted in her is the only thing keeping her pretending to be contrite instead of outright gloating about her accomplishment. My accomplishment? It probably qualifies as a team effort.

"Sorry if you thought we were going to be interrupted," she continues, directly addressing me this time with an audible smirk, "but it's just a bit of redecorating." The tunnel of white plastic descends further, black lips sealing around the base of the central column as the material tightens around the pistoning pillar of crystal. Another pair slither from the new holes in the dome, and drive themselves through the floor on opposite sides of the central platform with more crashes; the pace at which bulge in the central tube grows and shrinks picks up dramatically, the now-muffled hum speeding up with it until the rhythm blurs together into one continuous noise. Slowly, with great difficulty given how much of my brain is being pulled every which way by the feeling of the Valet's impossibly form-fitting folds massaging my cock, I tilt my head far enough to get a decent look at the Doctor, the Whore, and their respective daughters.

"So close," the Valet pants, her voice thick with glee and arousal, "she's so close to full integration. Oh, you're going to love being the man of the house once it's ready; anywhere, anywhen, Wakefield Manor is going to be right at home." Whatever's getting her breathing so heavily, it seems to be affecting her other selves too, with the two Aphasias just as perplexed as I am to see the Whore - and especially the Doctor - rolling and pumping their hips as they stare dazedly into space. "Is there anything I can get you, Sir," the Valet asks, suddenly sounding the very model of prim professionalism. "A drink, a bite to eat, something to smoke, a week non-stop inside my tight Time Lady snatch?" On cue, she clenches around me, and my whole body goes limp as a guttural noise crawls out of my slack mouth. "Very well, I'll keep riding your perfect dick until you tell me to stop, Sir."

I try to get my mouth under control and... well, do anything, but then she starts to bounce again, and it becomes a supreme effort of will just to see, never mind move. Two more black-tipped tunnels of white plastic punch through the dome in sprays of wood and glass that vanish into thin air, before punching through the floor at the two remaining cardinal directions of the central platform, and the rapid, rhythmic bulging of the central one stutters for a moment before surging up its entire length. The Doctor and her two copies suddenly let out low, keening moans, before suddenly relaxing - not that this slows down the Valet any, it just means that her tits are now bouncing even more thanks to her now-limp shoulders - while the hum begins to separate out into its old rhythm, this one much more intense to match the long, smooth strokes the crystal column is now making into its sheath.

The Valet grabs her chest with both hands and squeezes, groaning happily as pale flesh bulges slightly between her splayed fingers. "Thank you," she all but purrs. "We're going to be so much better off with a man of the house like you around, punishing everything we do wrong like you should. We've been such naughty girls, acting like we're more than just tits and holes, you know; and I've been the naughtiest, thinking I deserve to be in charge because I'm such a hot piece of ass when really I'm just tits and holes and a hot piece of ass and a hot piece of ass like me is just tits and holes..." Her voice gets breathier and quieter with every step of her inadvertent self-hypnosis, until she's practically sighing them to herself in an endless circle of the two terms. Whether they've got superhuman hearing or are just piggy-backing off of the Doctor and the Whore being dragged down into a mindless, chanting trance by the Valet's whispers, the various maids and even the Aphasias soon join her.

Before I can resign myself to spending as long as the machinery that brainwashed them likes as a particularly sticky bit of furniture, a loud chirp and ear-splitting whine from the doors we originally entered through sends all of them wincing and rising blearily back to reality. They swing open in a shower of sparks from all around the frame, the nearest two baton-armed maids already advancing on the newest batch of intruders before a pair of tinnitus-like whistles send them falling to their knees and then the floor in matching seizures. Two tall, broad-shouldered, but unmistakeably curvy figures in yellow armour dart into the room and jab wicked-looking, futuristic cattle prods into their victims' abdomens, intensifying the seizures and dragging out moans that make it very clear what's got their muscles locking up. "Oh, for goodness's sake," the Valet snarls, straightening her legs and pulling herself off of me with a slight pause to bite her lip and moan in disappointment at her newfound emptiness - which I choose take as a win, given that this is my first time being topped by any version of the Doctor, let alone one who's apparently been planning to do so for an nonspecifically long time.

Thankfully, the various improvements I've made over the years to my body mean that I'm not a helpless heap of meat in the aftermath of the first truly draining fuck of my life, so I have just about enough energy to frantically redress myself - such as I can, since now I realise that someone has torn suspiciously-even slashes down the front of my shirt, and start making my way on unsteady legs to the other side of the central platform. The pairs of Time Ladies and... whatever the hell Aphasia is take advantage of the sudden brawl that's erupted around them to do the same, their tits and asses jiggling distractingly in their various silver-

Nope, focus.

Pulling my attention back onto the new arrivals, it seems to be a day for getting distressed by Doctor doppelgangers; this time, by the downright sadistic grin on the face of one of the black-armoured figures as she bats aside a maid's surprisingly well-wielded shock baton and ripostes with her own nastier-looking instrument right onto the poor woman's cunt, before shooting another in the back with a boxy pistol that makes the air wobble when it lets out one of the sharp, ringing whistles from before. If it weren't so clearly non-lethal, I'd call it a massacre - well, that and if the Valet weren't also there, having plucked what's obviously her sonic screwdriver from... somewhere and taking out three of her opponents in one zap that sets off the pistols still in their holsters. "Recognise them, Doctor," I ask, slapping an Aphasia's hand away as she attempts to 'help' me finish wrestling my pants back on in a way guaranteed to do quite the opposite. The younger blonde's outraged pout turns into a happy gasp as the Whore slaps her ass.

"I don't- Oh, bloody hell," the Doctor mutters, drawing some slightly incredulous looks as the sharpness of her voice proves more urgent than the ceiling exploding again and a pair of the attackers being snatched up by two more lip-tipped tubes. "Those are Drahvin." And just as enthusiastic as the last batch we met, if the way the helmetless one's grinning while she fences playfully with the Valet - cattle prod on sonic screwdriver, having thrown her pistol away for what must seem like perfectly sensible reasons to her - is any indication. "How many generations of incest did it take for them to get me pregnant with a daughter who looks that much like me?" Before the Whore, who seems to have figured it out on the spot, can answer and ruin the Doctor's rhetorical question, the wall decides to explode in a much fierier fashion than the 'redecorating'.

My heart sinks as a quartet of Cybersluts level their guns at the still-sparring pair, clearly unaware of the shit they're about to drop themselves into, and I remember that we weren't the only ones chasing down the locations of the various TARDISs' control rooms. "Best not stick around and ask," I reply, watching the Valet send two of her attackers to the ground as the sole unincapacitated Drahvin of the original half-dozen snatches up her pistol and dispatches the other two with a shot and a jab of her prod each. More Cybersluts advance over the fallen, sending the Valet stepping hastily back and the Drahvin lunging for the safety of a new group of her fellows as they step through the doors - all of them helmetless and showing that, however many generations it took to breed a near-Doctor, they certainly didn't waste the opportunity once they had it. A little ways to our left, part of the wall splits open into a sliding door to admit a gaggle of Wakefield maids armed with archaic-looking rifles that spit purple lightning into the two sets of intruders, while even more women from all three groups begin piling into the room.

There's an almost psychic connection between myself, the Doctor, the Whore, and the two Aphasias in that moment, an instant of truly synchronised thought. This is going to get really stupid, really quickly. Minds made up, we turn as one and hustle through the doors behind us, neither knowing nor caring which TARDIS just created them or why as we slam them shut behind us and watch a moaning, cursing Drahvin disappear into a large opening in an otherwise normal ceiling made of blue coral, hoisted up by the tentacles of blue slime wrapping around her arms and chest. We give the hole as wide a berth as we can as we pass, with only one hefty slap of the Doctor's ass being necessary to chivvy her along when she pauses to eye the dripping orifice expectantly. "Alright, so I've got good news, bad news, and great news," she informs us as we make our way down a familiar-ish warren of TARDIS corridors, littered with pools of slime and scorch marks.

"Good news, I remembered to get a scan of that control room," the Whore follows up, great minds clearly thinking exactly alike in this case, "and I know just how to fix this. Bad news, we-" She gestures to herself and what must be her Aphasia. "-aren't going to survive this." The younger alternate universal blonde's jaw clenches, but she doesn't react otherwise.

"The great news," the Doctor chimes back in, voice a little more forcefully cheerful than before, "is that neither pair of us will. Best I-"

"We," the Whore cuts in, as the Aphasias shoot them incredulous looks.

"Best we can tell, because we're so similar, we're two halves of the same timeline. You two are what happens if John's not around, and we're what happens if... Well, if something else that never happened happened, haven't quite got that far yet. Anyway, the point is that it's going to be less like one pair of us disappearing, and more like the real us waking up from a very satisfying wet dream." I'm pretty sure that's not how this is supposed to work, given that I should probably have been duplicated on account of literally being in the same room when we rear-ended their TARDIS, but I decide to defer to the expert opinions.

"So, Doctor," I ask mildly as we keep walking, hoping to distract them all from their sudden existential crises, "how's it feel knowing that there's a version of you out there cranking out Drahvin daughters in job lots?"

She bites her lip as the Whore and the Aphasias look at her expectantly. "Well, obviously I'm not happy it's the Drahvin, because knowing them they've got entire armies of them running around and conquering planets, but if I'm honest with myself the thought of getting knocked up tens of thousands of times over by my own daughters is making me drool a bit, especially because my rack must be gigantic after so many pregnancies. I'd love to go down on every last one of them and suck or lick until they see things my way, but we really don't have the time."

"So is that a broken brain-to-mouth filter on top of a 'broken' translation matrix, mum," Aphasia asks cheekily, grinning as the Doctor blushes at her own unexpected candour.

"Aphasia," I tell her sharply, grabbing a handful of hair and jerking her head back in a way I know she loves deep down, "that's no way to talk to your mother." Before she can reply, my other hand crashes down on the Doctor's ass, leaving the older blonde moaning softly as I start to grope it before it's even stopped jiggling. "And you, Doctor," I add, grateful that my power can keep my next words sounding reasonable even without actively flexing it, "need to give your daughter a kiss to apologise for admitting that you love incest so much. A proper kiss." Completely ignoring how absurd the demand is, the Doctor runs one hand through Aphasia's hair as soon as I release them both, pulling her in for a long, deep French kiss that leaves the two aliens' tongues clearly lodged down each other's throats. "Alright, break it up you two." There's no lingering gazes as the pair pull apart, no moment of hesitation, just ending their kiss with as little sentiment and fanfare as it'd begun with. And why should there be any? From their point of view, it was just a quick apology for a minor faux pas.

"Right, shall we get a move on? Only, I'm not too keen to be half of myself for any longer than I have to be." Her piece said, the Whore approaches the doorway that's suddenly appeared before us and flings it open with both hands, to reveal-

"Oh, well that's convenient," she remarks.

"It is not," the Doctor fires back, "how are we supposed to set everything up like this?"

-two identical TARDIS control rooms, smushed and jumbled together until one of my jackets lying on the floor is the only sign that one of them is the once-unharmed one that we left behind at the start of all this.