Work Text:
The Doctor cannot speak, and for once that particular restriction feels more like a respite than an imposition. For the moment, he doesn’t have to spontaneously think up all the right things to say to reassure those around him. He doesn’t have to articulate what the Master has done to his beloved human race. And perhaps most shamefully of all, he doesn’t have to admit that, despite everything, he is glad to see his oldest friend and enemy once again. Were it not for the heavy strap across his mouth, the words that would tumble forth would be enough to make everyone within earshot blush. And so, for all its coarseness, that single strap is the only thing that spares the Doctor from having to express what he would rather not say.
From several feet away, Wilf studies him intently, no doubt worried about Donna and expecting some small gesture of confidence, of hope. Strapped firmly upright on the dolly, the Doctor attempts to give him a token nod of comfort, willing him to know that everything will be alright in the end. But he knows that getting there is going to be the real problem.
The Master is momentarily absent from the room, and despite the limitations on his field of vision, the Doctor can sense the other Time Lord’s copies eyeing him like a prize trophy. The figure that was once Naismith’s daughter gazes from a far corner, bright pink dress enveloping a slender, now-masculine frame. The guard posted just behind the dolly is noticeably attentive as well, lowered visor unable to conceal his interest. The Doctor feels the hairs on the back of his neck spring up and begin to tingle; the vulnerability of his body is painfully obvious, both to himself and to those who lurk around him like wolves waiting for the first drops of blood.
When the Master returns, he merely gives the Doctor a perceptive smirk and motions to the duplicates, who immediately encircle the dolly. Without needing instruction, the guard takes hold of the handles and prepares it for transport.
“You’ll have to excuse us, gramps,” the Master announces mockingly. “We have some private business to attend to.”
“Hey!” Wilf shouts as the group begins to retreat. “Where are you taking him?”
The question falls on deaf ears, however, and no one spares him a second glance as the Master and three of his duplicates exit the room with their quarry. A single guard remains behind to watch over the older man, who stares helplessly after them with concern and anger.
The bound Doctor is wheeled swiftly down the wide halls of the Naismith estate, the Master leading the procession with a hyperactive glee. The small posse strolls past room after cavernous room, finally coming to a stop before an imposing set of oak doors. With a sly wink at the Doctor, the Master throws them open to reveal a spacious suite complete with a king size bed and large mahogany writing desk. Laughing amongst themselves, the three clones roll the Doctor to the middle of the room, positioning him to be the centerpiece of a very perverse production. The strap covering his mouth is loosened and its last protective vestiges fall away, unexpectedly leaving him without the security he so desperately craves.
“Master…” he blurts out instinctively, voice cracking slightly from being kept silent for so long. “Master please…”
“Begging already?” the Master inquires with a delighted smirk. “Excellent!”
The three copies snicker menacingly, a predatory edge to their upbeat demeanor. Once again, the Doctor feels himself being appraised like a Christmas ham, the figures circling him slowly with a palpable air of expectation. When the Master finally removes the wide strap that holds his head in place, the Doctor is able to look around the large suite. The bed sheets, drapes, and accents are all pink, and the room has a distinct feminine aura.
“What do you think?” the duplicate that was Naismith’s daughter asks, running a finger seductively down his cheek. “We know how much you so love to play with Earth girls.”
“No.” Subdued horror tinges the Doctor’s tone as realization dawns. He stares at the Master in pleading desperation as Pink Dress, Guard, and the man who was once Joshua Naismith move in closer and begin to unfasten the web of straps that bind him to the dolly. He can feel their warm, eager breath on his neck as they wait for permission to claim their prey.
“What a shame,” the Master sighs quietly as his copies continue their work. “I remember a time when having multiples of me would have been your ultimate fantasy.”
The Doctor shakes his head. “Not like this,” he replies mournfully. “Never like this.”
“Well, it was never a requirement that you enjoy it.”
With that pronouncement, the Master nods affirmatively to the three figures, who remove the Doctor from the cart and roughly escort him to the mahogany desk near the picture window. The pink drapes are drawn tight, but lingering rays of late afternoon sun peak through, casting an ethereal glow across its polished surface. The Doctor doesn’t struggle as Pink Dress and the others unceremoniously hoist him onto the desk, pushing him flat on his back against the cool, solid wood. As the duplicates hold him firmly in place, the Master hovers above, staring down into imploring eyes with an unsettling mixture of affection and cruelty. The dim light illuminates his smirking, unshaven face, giving the familiar features an eerie radiance.
“You don’t have to do this,” the Doctor whispers up at him.
“But I promised!” the Master pouts. “They’ve really been looking forward to it!”
Pink Dress giggles at the far end of the desk. Although the figure is now distinctly male, the laugh retains a slightly high pitch that is instantly unnerving. The clone that was once Naismith’s daughter wastes no time in removing the Doctor’s trousers, exposing the lower half of his body to the chill air of the suite. Without fanfare, two fingers immediately force their way into his arse, and the Doctor hisses in pain at the unwelcome intrusion. When he begins to squirm and buck upward, the Master takes hold of his shoulders in an effort to keep him still.
“Don’t struggle,” the other Time Lord advises softly. “They know what you can take.”
“But I don’t want this…”
“It won’t be so bad if you cooperate,” the Master replies coolly. “Still--” he leans down and brings his lips close to his fellow Time Lord’s ear, whispering an admonition that only the two of them can hear “--you better brace yourself, Doctor.”
As if on cue, Pink Dress hikes up the awkward garment, revealing a matching pair of frilly lace knickers and a stunning mirror image of the Master’s erect cock. Guard and Naismith quickly unzip their trousers and follow suit, taking hold of impressive lengths that are identical replicas of their original template—one the Doctor already knows far too well.
“You really did change them…” he breathes in awe.
“Of course!” the Master exclaims haughtily. “Can you imagine? Me with girl parts!”
The Doctor is given no opportunity to respond; the sudden, searing pain of Pink Dress burying himself to the hilt inside his tight, unprepared body catches him viciously off guard. He cries out in agony, but the Master continues to hold him fast, making any attempt at escape futile. The white-hot pain causes stinging tears to spring from his eyes, blurring his vision. Reacting entirely of their own volition, his muscles spasm and contract against the assault, inducing violent cramps in his lower abdomen. The careless addition of a small glob of spit is the only courtesy he receives; even then, the intent is to make things easier for Pink Dress, not him, and the extra lubrication only fuels the clone’s brutal thrusts.
“Ssshhhh…” the Master lulls hazily from above, wiping beads of sweat from the Doctor’s brow and stroking his dampened cheeks with deceptive tenderness. “You’re okay…”
The Doctor takes deep breaths in a desperate effort to ease the torn muscles of his stretched sphincter, but Pink Dress continues to pound into him with enough force to make his entire body quake in misery. He can feel a disturbing wetness inside his ruptured arse, and realizes immediately that it can only be his own blood.
“Open your mouth,” the Master commands. The order is firm, but with a noticeable touch of what might be described as sympathy. Or perhaps it is just the Doctor’s own wishful thinking.
Through rapidly pooling tears, he realizes that Guard is now at his right-hand side, pressing a stiff length against his parched lips. Seeing no alternative, the Doctor obediently allows the clone to shove a fully erect cock straight to the back of his throat, forcing his gag reflex to react in surprise at the unanticipated invasion. Still a mere observer to the proceedings, the Master runs firm hands through the Doctor’s tousled hair as Guard takes his mouth slow and deep, allowing him only the occasional moment to catch his breath.
“Good boy,” the Time Lord purrs. “You always know what we like…”
The Doctor fights to relax both his throat and his arse, but the struggle proves to be an uphill battle; his body is utterly overwhelmed and unprepared, unaccustomed to being used with such flagrant disregard. With Pink Dress and Guard overpowering him on both ends, he barely notices Naismith approach from the left; the next thing he registers is the Master grabbing his hand, lifting it up and placing it onto the throbbing erection being presented for his attention. Bombarded by searing pain and struggling to draw breath, the Doctor is incapable of processing the competing demands for his body. Without thinking, he yanks on the cock haphazardly, promptly earning a smack across the face from the dissatisfied duplicate.
But the Master is right there beside him, offering a soothing palm to caress his smarting cheek. The Doctor moans pitifully around the shaft that fills his throat, hoping against all odds that the man who was once his dearest friend will show mercy. But a small part of him, a part that he instinctively tries to suppress, knows that the Master enjoys his suffering, his abject humiliation. The thought chills his hearts like ice; he wants to cry out, to scream, to weep—but his mouth is gagged, his jaw aches, and all he can do is choke back the oncoming torrent of emotions. Every inch of his ravished body sings in unimaginable agony; he suddenly feels disoriented, and yearns fervently for the bliss of unconsciousness.
“You make me proud, Doctor,” the Master leers softly. “I knew you would.”
Teetering on the very edge of consciousness, the Doctor is dimly aware of Pink Dress withdrawing from his burning orifice. The emptiness down below is a welcome relief, but Guard remains encased to the hilt in his throat, fucking his mouth in a slow and steady march toward climax. Before the Doctor can be lulled into a false sense of security, Naismith pulls free of his mindlessly grasping hand and quickly plunges his own cock into the Time Lord’s already sore, overstretched arse, rendering him nearly blind with anguish. This time, the pounding is even more vicious, and dancing stars explode like supernovas across the Doctor’s field of vision.
Giggling manically in that unsettling feminine pitch, Pink Dress stakes out a position by the side of the desk, enthusiastically stroking an engorged cock while patiently waiting for a turn at the Doctor’s mouth. It isn’t long before Guard begins to spasm at the back of his throat, withdrawing abruptly before splashing hot and sticky across his sweaty, tear-soaked face. The sheer force of the clone’s release stains the Time Lord’s brown pinstriped jacket and tie, and the unmitigated depravity of the spectacle draws a low chuckle from the Master.
Finally free, the Doctor gasps for air like a starving man, managing only a few halting breaths before Pink Dress replaces a sated Guard and shoves yet another cock past his swollen lips, wasting no time in scratching the back of his bruised throat. He can taste himself, a distinct sweetness combined with the faint tang of something slick and metallic, a flavour almost like copper. He retches around the massive erection, but the Master holds him steady, a composed, constant presence among the chaos of his duplicates.
A few feet away, Naismith continues to ravage the Doctor with abandon, igniting a stream of blistering pain and creating fresh tears in the delicate tissue. The Time Lord’s lower half is ablaze with scorching torment, and his sore throat goes numb as Pink Dress spears him without pity, forcing him to taste the bitter aftereffects of his own abuse. The hem of the vibrant garment brushes against the Doctor’s face in bizarre, fluid movements that would surely look outlandish to an outside observer; he thinks deliriously that the whole thing would be rather entertaining were it not for the absolute horror of the situation.
Without warning, Pink Dress plunges in deep, and with the assistance of the Master, holds the Doctor’s head firmly in place as a torrent of hot liquid shoots violently down his throat. Unable to pull back, he feels himself begin to choke as the terrifying sensation of drowning crashes over him like a rogue wave. At the other end of the desk, Naismith groans loudly, giving one final thrust before simultaneously flooding the Doctor’s insides with his own eager release. Seconds later, it is all over, and they both withdraw from the wounded Time Lord with total indifference, leaving him bruised and bleeding on the cold, hard surface of the desk.
“Leave us,” the Master orders quietly.
Without hesitation, the three duplicates compose themselves and exit the suite in silence, closing the heavy oak doors behind them. At long last, the Doctor is alone with the only other Time Lord in existence, his body wracked with unbearable pain and his head dizzy with exhaustion. He tries to move, wincing in discomfort as his limbs vehemently protest.
“There, there,” the Master soothes, helping the Doctor to his feet and leading him like a hospital patient across the room to the comfort of the waiting bed.
“Master…” he sighs hoarsely, collapsing limp onto the sheets.
“My Doctor,” the Master murmurs back, “my beautiful Doctor…”
He should hate the Master for orchestrating such a brutal assault, for torturing him with the most unspeakable cruelty, but in this private moment between them, the Doctor doesn’t care. He longs only for comfort from the one person who knows him better than anyone else ever could. And the Master readily obliges, holding him close and whispering words of reassurance until at long last the Doctor feels a dozy sense of contentment. Just as he is about to pass out from sheer fatigue, he is startled by a familiar finger slipping inside his moist body.
And that’s when he once again feels the Master’s fervent breath at his ear. “Ssshhhh…”