Chapter Text
The Doctor will rescue her. Yaz has been clinging to that certainty ever since she made the mistake of offering to walk that enchanting blonde woman back to her pod on the space shuttle. Everything had gone black, and then she'd woken up in some sort of bedroom with a locked door and two unopenable windows. But the Doctor will figure out where she is soon enough, and everything will be fine.
Yaz paces across the hardwood floor for the dozenth time, back and forth in front of the elegant bed. The bed frame is made of dark, sturdy wood carved in the shape of twining tentacles, and the sheets are a rich purple. It almost feels like something out of the cheesy sort of romance novel Yaz had checked out from the library once as a young teenager. Like she's some virginal ingenue about to be ravaged or sacrificed. She isn't sure which option is worse, here.
After… well, she doesn't know how long, but too long, something changes. There's a thud from the direction of the bed, and Yaz spins around to look.
Splayed on her back, looking just as confused as Yaz is feeling, is the blonde woman from before. Her blouse is rumpled, her business-like skirt pushed up her thighs by the impact in a way that Yaz forces herself not to look at. The woman's hazel eyes are wide when she jolts upright.
"Where am I?" she demands. "What's going on?"
"Hey, it's okay," Yaz soothes. "I'm Yaz, remember? We were walking to your room together, since you didn't feel safe going alone."
The woman blinks, somewhat unsteadily. Awareness dawns. "Right. That asteroid belt we were going through."
"Yeah." Yaz nods. "No idea where we are now, though. Or why. What's your name, by the way? I don't think I caught it earlier."
"Lucy," the woman replies. She stands up, straightening her clothes as she makes for the door.
"Already tried that," Yaz says. "And the windows. Can't get 'em open."
Lucy frowns, then sits back down on the bed. Restless fingers tap against her leg in an endless four-beat pattern, slightly staccato. After a momentz Yaz joins her.
"I've got some friends who'll find us," promises Yaz. "We just need to wait."
"Only so long as we can," Lucy points out. "There's no food or water in here."
Yaz had been trying to ignore that tiny little detail. She doesn't like the implications or the predictions that it brings with it. Dying of hunger or thirst sounds like one of the worst ways to go, and it's only made worse by the memory of how often the Doctor tends to misshoot his landings by a few months or years. They could both die here and he would show up a week later to their corpses.
But that won't happen. The Doctor will rescue her right on time, and she just needs to wait it out.
"He'll be here," she insists.
Lucy makes a dubious-sounding hmm, but doesn't say anything more. Her fingers keep tap-tap-tap-tapping against her leg as the two of them sit there in silence.
She doesn't know how long that lasts.
Time begins to feel strange, stretching onward in a ribbon of tense, dead air. Yaz hears Lucy's tapping stretch and warp like taffy, the syncopated rhythm dragging on for hours — faster at times, slower at others, just enough to stand out against the heartbeat-steady thrum of how it should sound. It makes her head hurt, throbbing in time with every fourth beat, and Yaz doesn't know how long it's been since she last blinked or took a breath. It's like each second is being pulled out of time for a moment, expanded and torn apart before having its corpse put back in line.
After several infinities of the tapping, that soft, muted noise comes to a stop. Yaz can still hear it echoing in her skull, bouncing one-two-three-four off the confines of her mind. It's overriding every other thought in her mind, pushing any attempt at coherence away.
"Are you listening?" Lucy asks softly.
Yaz nods, dazed. Lucy's voice fills in the gaps of the rhythm like honey, pouring sweet and sticky into the cracks of her mind.
"Come here." Lucy pats her thigh, one-two-three- nothing, and the break of the pattern makes Yaz frown. But she obeys, moving to sit perched on Lucy's lap. Lucy adjusts her slightly until Yaz is looking into her eyes, then smiles.
One hand, cold and slender, cups her face, thumb tracing over her lips. Lucy smiles when Yaz opens her mouth to lap at the pad of her thumb, tasting clean skin. When Lucy moves her hand, bringing her first two fingers to Yaz's parted lips, her thumb leaves a damp trail across Yaz's skin.
"Get them nice and wet, pet."
Yaz obeys instantly, dragging her tongue over Lucy's fingers, sucking them in deeper until they're dripping with spit. All the while, her eyes are helplessly locked with Lucy's, brown meeting hazel.
Lucy pulls her fingers out of Yaz's mouth, letting them rest for a moment on her bottom lip before sliding them beneath her trousers. Yaz gasps as both slick fingers rub against her lower lips, cold and sudden and wonderful. They tease around her opening but never press inside, leaving arousal pooling between her thighs and soaking her underwear.
"You want me to fuck you," Lucy says, and it isn't a question. Yaz is in her lap and she has two fingers down her pants — of course Lucy knows what Yaz wants. She knows better than Yaz does, probably, with the way her head is swimming and most of her thoughts are being spun into candy floss by the beat still thud-thud-thud-thudding in her ears.
There's a final press of cool fingers to Yaz's clit, then Lucy withdraws her hand. It's shiny and wet, and she considers it for a second, letting sticky fluid drip-drip-drip-drip onto Yaz's trousers. Finally, she holds her hand out, palm up, in front of Yaz's face.
"Lick them clean," she orders.
With a hungry whine, Yaz does just that. She drags her tongue over every inch of Lucy's hand, licking up the slick that coats it. Her own arousal sits heavy in her mouth, heavier in her stomach when she swallows and it settles next to the need burning through her. She wants to obey her master, wants to take anything she'll give.
Lucy's other hand settles in Yaz's hair, petting it gently. "Good pet. So well-behaved, I can see why the Doctor picked you. Pity he hasn't trained you up properly, though he hasn't had much time." A cruel grin tugs her lips upward. "I'll be doing him a favor, and he won't even appreciate it."
Yaz makes a soft, confused sound. How does Lucy know the Doctor?
The hand in her hair slides down, Lucy's fingertips against Yaz's temple. Every thought in her head goes faint and faded in an instant, like a photograph left in the sun, and Yaz forgets what she was even curious about. Everything is want and behave and one-two-three-four and Master.
"Get on your knees, pet," Lucy commands.
As she stands, then kneels in front of Lucy, Yaz wonders if this is what puppets feel like. The gentle tug of strings as she moves to her master's orders, the boneless feeling when there's even a hint of slack and her body forgets how to work without a purpose. She stares adoringly up at her puppeteer, awaiting the next command to breathe life into her cut-loose limbs.
Once again, a hand lands in her hair, idly stroking over the strands. "You know how to eat someone out, don't you?"
Silent, Yaz shakes her head. She's never done anything like this before, but for her master, she would do anything.
"Oh dear," Lucy sighs. "I suppose I can't mind too much — it's delicious to know I'll be your first. I'll break you all nicely and fit you back together so he won't notice a thing, but those itty bitty fractures…" She laughs, a little cruel and wonderful in Yaz's ears. "What can I say? It's an art."
Lucy guides Yaz's head forward, into the warm darkness beneath her skirt. Somehow, it's no surprise to learn that she's not wearing anything else, and Yaz's mouth waters as an unfamiliar instinct washes over her. The same new knowledge, sharper than her own thoughts and standing out against the drumbeat echoing in her mind, directs her to bury her face in her master's cunt, to lick at the tender flesh.
As she paints her tongue across Lucy's slit, Yaz feels the hand tighten in her hair, repositioning her to the precise place her master wants. It feels like she's being used, reduced to nothing but a source of pleasure, degraded. Yaz never thought she would get off on someone fucking her face like she's a toy, but every time Lucy drags her cunt across Yaz's face, smearing slick all over her chin and nose and cheeks, Yaz gets a little jolt of arousal.
"Hungry thing, aren't you?" Lucy murmurs. "Like a dog. Even have the eyes for it." She pets Yaz's hair, forcing her clit against Yaz's nose. "You'd look wonderful in a collar."
Lucy's slow grind turns to short, sharp thrusts, her hand tightening in Yaz's hair. Following the thoughts taking root in the soil of her mind, Yaz licks her way into the wet heat of Lucy's cunt as her vision begins to go fuzzy from the lack of oxygen. She doesn't care — if her master wants to use her until she passes out, then so be it. Pale thighs tighten around her head, the pressure and heat only making the black spots in Yaz's vision swell and swirl faster, and then Lucy moans and everything compresses into a white-hot point of good pet, very good pet, yes yes yes yes.
By the time Lucy tugs Yaz away from her cunt, Yaz can't see straight and is sure she's soaked through her trousers. She looks up at Lucy's flushed cheeks and dark eyes and tries to be a good pet, tries not to squirm. Every little movement makes her achingly aware of how much she wants to be fucked, to have Lucy's fingers inside of her thrusting in that endless rhythm.
"Strip," Lucy says.
Yaz has never undressed so quickly in her life. She has to peel her trousers off, they're so wet, but she's naked in less than a minute, standing before her master without an ounce of shame.
"Pretty," Lucy muses. Her eyes trace up and down Yaz's body, lingering on her chest. "Mmm, particularly those."
Lucy stands, takes one of Yaz's breasts in her hand, and gives it a proprietary squeeze. Her nails — painted bright, knife-wound scarlet — leave crescent-shaped indents in the flesh when she lets go, and she flicks her thumb over the nipple with a casual cruelty. Yaz gasps, unprepared, her head falling forward with pleasure.
"You've been a lovely pet," Lucy purrs, "and I can be a very merciful master when I'm pleased. You can either have my mouth…" Here, she tilts Yaz's chin up and licks her own arousal off of Yaz's mouth, tongue firm and deliberate. Then she snaps her fingers, and a tangle of black leather and gleaming buckles appears on the bedsheets. Somewhere in there, Yaz catches a glimpse of a long, curved dildo studded with ridges. "Or my cock. Take your pick, love."
Yaz doesn't know what to do — she wants both, and would simultaneously be happy with neither if it pleased her master. She makes a distressed sound, unable to form the words to express her dilemma.
Lucy laughs. "Poor dear. You're so suggestible, your mind just pops right off at the barest hint of control. How about this, then: you can have my mouth now, and when we meet again, I'll collar you up and fuck you with my cock like the desperate bitch in heat you are."
The words fill Yaz with a rush of want so strong she feels more slick spill onto her thighs, trickling down her legs. She can already imagine herself on hands and knees, a collar smooth and heavy around her throat, her master's cock plunging into her dripping cunt.
"Ah-ah-ah-ah," Lucy chides. "Next time, pet. Get on the bed and spread your legs."
She obeys, clambering onto the soft purple sheets and parting her thighs as far as they'll comfortably go. Lucy lays down between them, sucking a mark into one thigh. Then, nails biting into the sides of her legs, Lucy drags her tongue across Yaz's cunt.
It barely takes more than that — the slightest tease of tongue inside of her and a faint brush of teeth to her clit — to bring Yaz to the most earth-shattering orgasm she's ever had in her life. She screams, except it comes out more like a howl, and Lucy laughs with delight. Before she pulls away, she sinks her teeth into Yaz's inner thigh hard enough to break the sensitive skin, and she draws back with Yaz's blood on her lips.
"Good pet," she smiles. "Good dog."
Yaz nods blearily, still caught in the aftershocks of enough pleasure to short out her brain. She's a good dog, and that makes her master happy with her.
Still bloody-lipped, Lucy inches her way up Yaz's body and ends with a deep, possessive kiss. Her mouth tastes like iron and ozone, and she nips at Yaz's lips before sliding her tongue all the way into her mouth. It makes Yaz feel claimed, a flag planted somewhere deep inside of her warning everyone else that she's already spoken for.
Those sharp nails tap one-two-three-four against Yaz's throat as Lucy stops their kiss. Yaz looks at her, knowing there's a new order to come.
"Now, you're going to forget that any of this happened," Lucy says firmly. "When you left the Doctor, you walked me home and then were kidnapped by three humans in green jumpsuits. They locked you up, and nothing else important happened. Understood?"
Somehow, Yaz knows she's meant to reply with words. "Yes, Master."
"Good dog."
And then everything goes dark.