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'Dinner in half an hour,' the Doctor had called after her. 'Go and find Jack and tell him - he's wandered off somewhere!'
Amy had been unceremoniously shooed out of the Tardis kitchen while the Doctor cooked. Fresh from a lesson with Madame du Barry's personal chef, he was burning with enthusiasm and smelled vaguely of singed tweed and sage. She left him to it, went looking for Jack.
The Tardis had materialized him a room just along from hers, apparently without it being designed. He'd only been on board a few days, and she was still adjusting to his presence. When they're actually out doing things, he's bright and outrageous and funny, and riffs off the Doctor almost as if they were married, which is great fun to watch - but when they're drifting in the Vortex between trips, he spent a lot of time wandering around in areas of the Tardis that Amy didn't know. She thinks he talks to the Tardis. She's guessing, from something more than usually cryptic that the Doctor said, that they have a common history that none of them feels ready to share with her.
These reflections took her as far down the main corridor as his room. She tapped at his door, got no answer, so - yielding to understandable curiosity - put her head round and looked inside.
It's not what she expected. It's relatively plain, and thoroughly tidy. There's a bed - oddly not a double, she wonders why that is - a chest of drawers, a small bookcase, and a gorgeous Japanese folding screen which is completely out of place.
Amy looks closely at the screen. It seems so out of character for a room like this. It has nothing out-of-the-way on it (not that she'd assumed it had to have obscure tentacle erotica on it or anything, because even though the Doctor moans much too much about Jack's sexual proclivities, Amy has come to the conclusion that he talks about it so much he is probably projecting his own insecurities). In fact, it's decorated with a pattern of pink flowers, long trailing garlands of what look like roses.
She was just trying to work out why he'd own anything so obscure when she heard the Doctor's voice, vaguely in the distance, calling something about dinner. An answering shout, then footsteps, coming at a swift clip coming down the corridor. Acting on a daft impulse, she hopped behind the screen, so she could jump out on him and scare him when he came into the room. There's a gap between the panels, easy to see out of, but because of the way the room was lit, she was in the darkest corner and didn't think she would be seen.
Jack came into the room, added a book he was carrying to the small bookcase, and glanced at his watch. She saw (in the mirror, which is small and plain) a little smile cross his face. Clearly reaching a decision about something, he threw himself down on the bed and stretched, a long, luxurious stretch, drawing out every vertebra and culminating in a wrenching sigh. Then he relaxed, and she though he was going to roll over and snatch a catnap before dinner. It would, she thought, be even more fun to jump out on him while he was half asleep...
Stretching out comfortably, in full view of her hidden vantage point, he ran a hand idly down over his chest and stomach, and cupped his groin, massaging gently with his palm at -
Amy froze. He wasn't going to - was he?
That hand was lightly rubbing through his clothes at his cock, adjusting without haste as it grew slowly under his touch. From where she was, near to the foot of the bed, Amy has almost a perfect view. She could see that he'd grown hard, the bump lay along the line of his thigh, almost blatantly visible through his trousers. On his face (when she could drag her eyes back to his face) there was an expression of - oddly, peaceful enjoyment. He wasn't reacting to some specific turnon, or getting off because he was especially horny. He was responding more like the way Amy does when she gets a backrub - luxurious, sensuous, not focussed on a goal beyond sensual enjoyment for its own sake.
Palming his cock firmly through his clothes, he tipped his head back a bit, and she had to turn her eyes to watch the way his hand moved again. She has a thing about his hands, they are just the way she likes a guy's hands, big and solid and delicate and comforting all at once. Hands that can drive the Tardis (if the Doctor lets him) and catch her into a reassuring hug and - apparently - do other pleasing things too.
He's unfastened his belt, dipped one hand under the material of his clothes, and she can't see so clearly what's going on, except he's clearly enjoying it, working slowly in a rough up-and-down motion, his hips just beginning to shift too as he builds up. His lips part, and he looks - brighter, somehow, more glowy.
She's almost forgotten she shouldn't be watching this, it's so new and fascinating. It's not how Amy thought it worked at all.
She's seen a few porn films - after all, she is a twenty-first century woman - and she's read a few hot stories, and even if she's never seen it done, she knows how this is supposed to work, because after all it's a common enough joke in her culture. But this is not the two-minute, hasty, furtive action she'd heard about at school, and it doesn't seem to be a substitute for anything. It's like - and it sounds weird in her head even as she thinks it - it's more like he's making love to himself.
And then she thinks about the week after she bought her first vibrator - the long, pleasure-hazed hours that felt sort of like being in love, and sort of like having a big shiny secret and sort of - well - just fantastic.
He looks like she felt then. Specially now his breath is just beginning to quicken, his lower lip is jutting sightly, somewhere betwen a pout and a snarl, and he's undone his trousers and slipped his cock through the fly of his shorts, so she can see it.
Then - this is so spontaneous and individual, and sort of makes her want to laugh - he sat up, his cock bobbing as he moved, poking unattended and hard from his open fly. He undid his shirt fast and then threw it off, peeling off his undershirt and hurling it to the floor too. Then he reached left-handed to the chest of drawers, groped about in the bottom drawer and found a bottle, which he dropped onto the covers beside him.
Now he's bare to the waist, his hair pleasingly mussed up, and he lies down again, stretched out, and - for some reason this is erotic for Amy - he's still got his boots on, kicked up on the covers, and now he bends his knees slightly and spreads them so his legs are almost in a diamond shape, and starts stroking himself again.
He uncapped the bottle with his left hand and poured something over over his right, letting it seep down over his knuckles and between his fingers, gradually finding its way to his cock, slicking it til it was glistening. His hand was describing long smooth strokes, working all the way from the base to the tip and back, but once the oil is applied (she can smell it, a vague tang of lavender) he started to vary his moves.
She watched him pause, grip himself still with one hand and circle the tip sensitively against the palm of the other, held horizontal above him - rubbing the head against his open palm, sighing softly as he did it. Then he teased round the top, with one fingertip giving way to two, playing with the sensitive spot on the back of the head where the skin came together in a tiny fold - gently teasing over his foreskin, rubbing it back and forth, rotating it slightly, before another firm gripping stroke downwards that made him give a soft 'Uh' sound, and push his hips up fractionally.
He slipped one hand back into his trousers, circling, presumbably caressing and teasing his balls, while he traced up and down the ridge on the back of his cock, grazing gently with his nails, or using the tips of all found fingers in a line to run up and down the pale smooth skin. Then, to her fascination, he reversed his grip so the back of his hand is turned towards him, something she's never even considered, so his thumb is against the further side of his shaft, and rubbing gently in strong upstrokes, allowing the pad of his thumb to press over his tip each time before slipping his hand off, taking a fresh grip at the base, and repeating the move.
Through all this, even though she can barely keep her eyes from his cock, she keeps glancing at his face, and that is if possible, even hotter. For some of it, he's looking down with half-closed eyes, narcissistic and enthused, his broad pupils and the way he occasionally licks his lips attesting to his enjoyment of the visual as well as the sensory aspects of turning himself on. Then, as a particular touch moves him, he'll tilt his head back and exhale, sigh, maybe edge or thrust gently with his hips, and she can see all the details now - the slight dampness of his forehead, a few strands of fine dark hair sticking to his skin, and the delicious muscled curve of his left arm which he's now tucked behind his head, stretching out his torso beautifully so it runs in a set of strong lines from his shoulders all the way down to his narrow hips, and the eyecatching focus point of his cock being worked and teased and slicked by one knowing hand.
He's changing the angle too, varying strokes so sometimes he's rubbing upwards parallel to his abdomen, sometimes vertically, and a couple of times he pushed his cock back so it's almost pointing along his leg. For each angle he's varying the stroke slightly, but now he seems to be done teasing and to be settling into a pattern, and it looks like a classic that even Amy knows - the elegant flick of the wrist, dragging a firm grip along his length, his fingers holding tight, sliding the soft skin back and forth along his clearly very hard shaft, eliciting a bead of precome at the slit that sits for a second before his next stroke slicks it over his tip and it's lost to Amy's eye.
Now he's settled into a definite rhythm, his face is set, his jaw tightening slightly, and his breath is coming in soft gasps and sounds. Once or twice he mutters beneath his breath, 'Oh yeah,' or gives a surprised little hum, and again it feels less like a functional action, a need to simply get off, and more like he's taking time out to enjoy and surprise himself. He is clearly very ready, and could probably (Amy thinks) come in a few seconds if he wanted to, but he's spinning it out, taking in every sensation, playing with the variants, just enjoying the luxury of arousal.
Now Amy finds it impossible not to want to touch him, or touch herself. She's craving touch, from watching him get off on it. She wants to take his lower lip between her own and bite very gently on it - run her hands over his chest and feel the heat of him, the sheen of his sweat, touch the dark little peaks of his nipples - or possibly just take over touching his cock, rubbing and stroking and squeezing until he loses control and comes for her. He has such a beautiful cock - she's never had a 'type' that she visualises as the sort she likes, because all the ones she's encountered have been nice - but she could get very very attached to one like this, thick and smooth and generously long and tapering down to a slightly finer head, the shaft almost creamy and the tip pink and pretty, and with that gorgeous contrast of soft sensitive skin and bone-hard flesh beneath. She can imagine licking it, or feeling it slip into her wet, hollowing cunt, feeling him fuck her -
These are images she's definitely going to save up to play with later, but right now, he's smudged more oil over his cock (and, carelessly, his whole hand and his abdomen too) and he's speeding up, moving not just his hand but his hips and he's added his left hand back into the mix, cupped it over the other so he's thrusting upwards, gripping his length and allowing the head to bump into his cupped palm at each stroke. This is clearly going to be it, she can see him swallow edgily, his lips apart, his eyes locked on his cock, his body beginning to focus entirely on this sensation, thrusting up with an insistent, hungry rhythm, and then he moaned a word.
'Amy - '
It's soft, like a word from a dream, and she might have misheard it.
'Oh, Amy - '
Her eyes widened. He had definitely groaned her name. Had she unwittingly witnessed the physical half of an unsuspected fantasy? All the time she'd been thinking of what she might do to him, had he been picturing her hand, her mouth, her cunt - ?
'Amy,' stronger now, 'Amy, sweetheart, are you gonna hide back there all day or do you wanna come and join in?'
His voice has changed. He's more focussed, back in control of his arousal, and he's teasing her.
She backed aways, almost crashed into the wall in shock. Guilty horror made her stomach drop, and she felt a fierce blush flood her face instantly.
His voice, calm. 'Hey - I don't mind, you can keep watching if you like - '
She stepped from behind the screen. She feels crimson, and very small.
'Sorry, sorry, I didn't - ' she began. 'How did you know?'
'Saw your shadow in the mirror when I came in,' he said, rolling onto one elbow. He seems completely unphased, lying with his cock swollen and wet, looking at her. 'Couldn't resist making you jump,' he added.
She laughed a little.
'If you wanna run away, that's cool too,' he said, 'but I was kind of hoping you'd want to come play if I put on a show for you.'
That grin is beguiling.
She slid onto the bed by him, and wrapped her hand round his, and let their fingers interlock, all smooth and oily together, and then they kept stroking him til - not long after - he gave a deep moan and peaked. His cock throbbed and jolted with shocks of pleasure, and she watched as he spurted, cum slicking over his chest and abdomen and his hand and her fingers, and she felt him shaking with the strength of his orgasm, and he moaned her name again.
Afterwards, she awkwardly rested her head against his chest, listened to his hammering heartbeat as it gradually slowed.
He spoke first.
'So, was it good for you?' he asked, his voice goodnatured and a fraction mocking.
'So did you do that deliberately - just to wind me up?' she asked. She can't help feeling very slightly disappointed. If he'd been playing up to his audience, that meant it wasn't real - all that luxurious touching and teasing, all those moves were for her benefit, not his, and somehow she feels like he's cheated her of something.
'Yeah.' He sounds satisfied, sated. 'I couldn't resist showing off a little.' He is not at all contrite. In fact if she didn't like him so much she'd call that voice smug.
'Oh.'
'You sound disappointed. Want me to - ?' He's half sat up, dislodging her head, his body language offering to reciprocate and please her now, if she wants.
'I'm OK - I just - ' she grinned. 'It sounds weird, but I thought you did that for you, because you liked it. That was part of why I was turned on, you were so into it - like you were really happy - '
She articulated something she didn't know she knew. Jack has been funny and sweet and hyper and exhilarated in the time she's known him, but she's not seen him happy.
'Oh, I was,' he said, easily. 'If I didn't like having an audience, I wouldda told you I'd seen you. It was getting me off - thinking of you there, watching me.'
'Yeah?' she asked.
'Oh yeah. It was kinda tricky keeping going as long as I did - it got me so hot, thinking of you getting all wound up and trying not to make a noise.'
He lapsed back on the bed. His left hand is resting on the groove of his abdomen where it met his thigh, cosily near to his now quiescent cock. His other arm is wrapped round Amy. She still feels wet and aroused - more so after what he'd just said - but she's lulled by his afterglow, and she can totally wait til bedtime to get off at leisure on everything she's seen.
'So,' she asked, 'that screen. Is that just there to entrap casual observers?'
He half-laughed.
'No, actually, that's - well, a gift, I suppose. The Tardis created it from a telepathic memory she had saved in her data-banks.'
'Your memory?' she asked, feeling from his sudden shift in tone to low and sad that she was getting near to understanding what Jack and the Tardis shared.
'No - it was the memory of a girl I was with - ' he paused. 'She saw this in Kyoto, she was just about to show it to me, and then - then we had to start running.' He grinned at the memory. 'She never got to show me. We - went different ways not long after that.'
He paused.
'I miss her. Travelling with you and the Doctor, it's great, it's amazing,' he gave her a swift little kiss on the head, 'but I sometimes miss Rose. And so does the Tardis. Hence the gift.'
Amy lay still, feeling close to Jack. Seeing him getting turned on, watching him come, that was fun between friends, buzzy and exciting, but now - now she feels she knows him.
'You know what?' she said, after a long silence of drifting reverie.
'Hm?'
'I'd like to do this again. Play some more. If you want.' She's decisive, sure of herself. 'But dinner's in - ' she checked his watch, which he wore on the arm that was hugging her - 'three minutes, and if we miss it the Doctor will be furious.'
'Yeah,' he said, kissed her hair again, and moved to get up. 'I'd like that.'
'OK.' She leaned over, caught him as he sat up. 'My room, after dinner,' she breathed in his ear, in a low, deliberately sultry tone. 'If you're very good, I might just put on a show for you.'
And she'd got up and headed off to the kitchen before he can reply, leaving him to grin happily to himself, clean up and dress, and catch her up only a couple of minutes late for dinner.
END