Doctor Who: Panic Moon Ch. 30

Author's Note: This is a sequel series to Amy, Captured. To get the full experience, please read that one first.

I have returned! My apologies for the lengthy wait, fellows! I took some time off to focus on a larger project: my first kink novel. Big news, about that: it's been published! In celebration of this happy day I've pushed to get this chapter finished for the release day, with another chapter to follow in just a week or two (seriously, I'm already like halfway done with it, don't worry!)

In any case, please do check out my profile if you'd like to know more about my debut sexy novel, "Suit, Tie, & Chains." If you like Panic Moon I'm sure you'll like the flavor of kink present there. Otherwise, enjoy the chapter, and thanks for your patience, you wonderful people!

-Kurokami

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Amy collapsed onto what she was increasingly beginning to call her bed. She couldn't stop trembling.

The low blue light streamed out from the depression above the bed, spilling over the abundance of exposed skin that she sported. That was the point, she supposed; the light was colored strangely, designed to caress the skin, enhance her natural charms while playing down her imperfections. Exactly what one would expect, from a sexual technician like Fiori.

It had been a week, since Sander had pushed her into Fiori's grasp and, without stopping to listen to her objections, or even looking back, left Amy behind. But oh, the Olivan had been there. The Olivan had enfolded her like a suffocating hug, and before she knew it, Amy had become a part of it.

In some ways, this place reminded her of her past job as a kissogram; there was certainly no end to the costumes. She had been cycled through all manner of prurient, visually pleasing finery in these past seven days, from standard clothing through to elaborate, skimpy costumes, and even just layers of body paint, the colors constantly shifting in complex patterns over the curves of her body. None of them she would have chosen for herself. All of them bared parts of her she would rather have covered.

Even Amy had had to admit that she had looked like some kind of artwork daubed in the paint, but the fact that so many strangers had been given the same eyeful rather soured the memory. She had been on display, given a day job as just another ornament for the Olivan, scuttling around the front rooms like any other club girl. There was always something to do; drinks to serve, dark corners to light, and always, the endless supply of patrons looking for something to grab onto. They took to her warm body with an easy nonchalance, entitled in a dizzyingly offensive way.

But the front rooms were infinitely preferable to being sent to the back, no matter how many groping hands she had to deal with. Amy had been told on her first day in the Olivan that the back rooms were where the money was made, and after spending a few hours there at the end of the day, she knew why.

When she had started her job back in Leadworth, before she had so much as slipped into that tight little policewoman's outfit, Amy had met with a woman from her agency who had laid out, in no uncertain terms, what the limits of her responsibilities would be. This was important, because the agency was respectable; the list was based more around the things she should not do, rather than those that she should.

Over the course of those few hours she had been made to cross all of those lines; the collar at her neck had made her leap gleefully over that border and into impropriety. The Olivan represented an inversion of her kissogram job; the simple act of winding up men was the purview of the front rooms. The rear guard took them all the way to satisfaction.

And when a portion of the wall faded away and a tall figure entered the room, Amy remembered the other difference.

Fiori...

Amy found herself kneeling beside the bed almost automatically now, palms down on her thighs. The near silent, imposing man had taught her this on her first day, and the tone of his voice had made it clear that disobedience was not an option. He almost never used her collar to control her, merely relying on expectation and Amy's natural uncertainty about how far he would go to combat defiance.

The bald man looked her over dispassionately, but Amy knew better than to think he was actually uninterested. She had spent a lot of time watching him, she had to, and by now she knew that his cool exterior was just a façade, and inside he was deciding how to punish her.

Oh god, oh god, what had she done now?

'I had a number of guest reports on you tonight, Amelia,' The rules were so numerous, none were ever explained until she had broken them... 'Very few of them were satisfactory.'

The meaning behind the words dropped into place without Amy even needing to hear the sentences themselves: pain was coming. Of course, it wouldn't have mattered how she had performed out there tonight, her customers would have given bad ratings anyway, because they knew what would happen to her when they did, and frankly, they liked the idea. It left her with the choice of trying to please them, betraying her inner need for defiance in the process, or just surrendering and allowing the inevitable to take place.

'I'm sorry, Sir,' Still, backchatting to Fiori wasn't a mistake she would make again. She had been working her full Amy Pond, psychiatrist biting glory her first day here, and all it had gotten her were marks on her ass and breasts that had to be healed by a medi-com unit, and a series of mind-shattering orgasms wrung out of her until she had begged him, with every fiber of her being, for it to stop.

'I'm your slut! I'm your whore! I'm your slave!' Yes, those had been the words that had satisfied him, made her torment recede for the day, but she had lost something valuable in the process of saying them.

She had lost that little spark that had made her defend the Raggedy Doctor all those lonely childhood years.

Fiori reached down, gripped the front of what passed for her outfit here, and pulled. Amy didn't know of these porny little costumes had been made tearaway or not, but she did know that Fiori loved doing so; under better circumstances, she might not have minded herself, but as the momentary pressure yielded with the sound of tearing cloth and she found herself naked yet again, Amy just wished for that familiar TARDIS noise.

The part that came next she knew all too well; it was the same every night. Amy simply closed her eyes at the sound of his fly descending, and opened her mouth accommodatingly before her new Master even had to tell her what to do. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed his cock into her mouth, over her tongue and to the back of her throat, in one continuous motion. Fiori wouldn't stop, Amy knew, until her lips were wrapped around the very base of his organ, and so all she could do was try her best to accomplish this goal. She gagged.

She could almost set her watch by Fiori's routine, at least in its early stages. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four; his hips shifted, bringing his cock from the tip of her tongue to the back of her throat in a slow circuit, topping out on the tenth stroke. He withdrew, and Amy desperately suppressed the cough that was brewing, along with the desire to spit the taste of him from her mouth. That lesson had been learned well.

Her place was to kneel, to be used; any deviation from this would be punished. She wasn't human anymore; she was a slave.

'Present your tongue,' Fiori's voice was a leaden weight, a slapping threat that she had no choice but to obey. Her pink tongue, so well used these last few days, poked out from between soft bow lips.

Her new Master placed a small, multicolored tab there, and Amy obediently drew it into her mouth. It had already started dissolving, lasting no longer than a few seconds before disappearing completely, with the floating, helium feeling of chemicals racing through her system. Whatever it was, its effects were rapid onset, and the creeping warmth that followed was entirely familiar to her; Amy's thighs shifted almost imperceptibly, as her pussy near dripped in mere seconds.

Fiori nodded gently, and without looking away Amy opened her mouth again, closing her eyes as she accepted his cock once more. This final, eleventh stroke to her throat was always the worst; as the drugs she had been fed danced across every pleasure center she had, her mouth began to water at the hot, masculine taste of flesh against her tongue. It wasn't something that would be easily missed; above, Fiori smiled knowingly.

But of course, that wasn't the end of it; Fiori wasn't a particularly nice person, and the drugs he fed her would have been far kinder just to arouse her. When the flowing, twisting strands of memory had hit her the first time, it had come as a surprise. By now, Amy would have loved for them to have become routine, but they kept on taking her by surprise, each one too unique and intense to be anything other than a blow to her already battered mind. It was Fiori's fingers gripping her hair that did it, this time...

... and pain pulsed through her hindquarters yet again, to the rapturous cheering of the crowd. The metal bindings bit into her wrists as she fought against them, as the crop came down again, before she could even recover from the last blow. Her eyes stayed locked on it, staring over her shoulder; it was far worse not to see the strike coming. Rogue tendrils of electricity arced away from the tip, licking at the air, burning through it before dissipating.

The world shook...

... And Amy was back again, trembling with the memory and struggling not to bite down hard. The soothing nanogenes that suffused the air in her room had healed the marks and taken away the pain, but the recollection of it was all too sharp and present, and Amy felt herself shaking to her core, shamefully wet despite herself.

'What did you see?'

'The first time you punished me, sir,' Eyes down, Amy answered promptly, syllables trim and clipped. Always answer respectfully and quickly...

'Interesting,' Her Master mused, forcing her to look at him by the strength of his grip.

Her gaze was torn away by an inexorable pressure on the top of her head. Her eyes cast among the crowd, the swarm of collar-less men and women that had gathered around, threaded through with collared serving girls and the owned slaves these people had brought with them. All watched, their gazes an unending pressure on Amy's restrained form.

The woman wielding the crop brought it down again, bringing tears to Amy's eyes as she jerked, desperate to get away from the hot pain that came in its wake. There was nowhere to go, of course. What had escape brought her in the past?

Fiori, of course.

'You'll learn what I expect from you, slave,' He forced her to look him in the eye, a shiver running down her spine at the terribly, analytical spirit she saw in his gaze. 'And when you do, this won't hurt so much. And you'll thank me for every stroke.'

Again came the crop, three times in quick succession. Amy screamed this time, tears flowing freely down her cheeks as her voice rose even above the cheering of the crowd. Like one large organism it closed in on her, sensing a change in the flow of events. Fiori reached below her, cupped one pert and hanging breast, and she was excruciatingly aware of her nakedness. One pinch of her nipple, and her Master was gone, the crowd crushing down on her.

'She's all yours, valued customers.'

Amy came back to reality on her back, in precisely the moment that Fiori thrust three fingers into her, awfully deep and so, so good. She moaned before she had fully regained her senses, lost in the simple bodily pleasure of penetration, and hearing her wetness so clearly on his fingers. God, there had been whole days with Rory when...

But Rory wasn't here now. Fiori was, and the sounds she had made- was continuing to make- struck her with a shameful heaviness, right to the heart. Nothing changed, her nerves ached for more, body bending and acquiescing like it was made to. If she believed Sander, it really was. Not that Sander was here either; he at least had some care to his movements when he fucked her, patience enough to tease her and make her break, to make her complicit.

Fiori was far more literal and hence, far more physical. When he made her submit, he did it through sheer brute force and technical skill. He had found all the critical spots inside her frighteningly quickly, and turned them against her just as fast. His fingers moved over them, flooding her with pleasure before bringing it to a halt with a juddering stab of pain, alternating between the two until Amy couldn't tell one from the other.

'I can't... Master, may I please cum?' She approached her edge with shameful speed, wrenching herself to keep from falling over it. She barely managed to keep her voice level for long enough to ask permission, aware of how vital that sternly enforced rule was.

'You may,' Master sounded so magnanimous, bestowing upon her the shuddering, wracking spasms of orgasm that ripped through her, body on fire with forced ecstasy. It hurt her, muscles drawing tight as Fiori's fingers wrung more and more from her oversensitive clit, until she had to physically stop herself from pulling away...

His fingers curled around her clit, teased dewy lips sticky with her arousal, without ever slipping inside her. She came anyway, sobbing heavily, pulling against the restraints that kept her upright and spread for him.

He whispered in her ear as she climaxed, over the moans that bubbled in her throat, over the red hot pleasure coiling tight in her belly. Told her exactly what was going to happen to her. Told her that after three days of disobeying, of fighting back, it was what she deserved.

He stroked her to a second orgasm before leaving her, restrained before the full length front window of the Olivan, in full view of the street... and the people who stopped to watch. From what she had been told, Amy knew that the AR projections that beckoned people into the club were displaying her, in all her naked glory, ten feet high on the building's face.

She could feel the festivities below as vibrations through the soles of her feet, but here she was, a living advertisement for the suffering she would face in the club itself later...

'Thank you, Master!' She hadn't meant for the words to come out as enthusiastically as they had, but the last waves of her orgasm hadn't yet left her.

'What did you see, slave?' Fiori grunted as he mounted her, sliding his length deep into her post-orgasmic pussy. Amy's answers came without a break, unthinkingly.

'M-myself in the- uh!- window... Sirrr...' She bounced on his cock with every uncaring thrust, her legs forced open by his hands and her swollen wetness parted around his thickness. Everything thrummed with the vibrato melody of sex.

'Isn't it strange, the places your mind returns to when I give it a pleasure stimulus?' Fiori taunted, the words lost on Amy. She was already gone, drifting on tides of memory...

She looked herself in the eye, reflected back in the large mirror across from her, and forced her hands to remain flat on the armrests of her chair. This was Amy's first time out of the Olivan in days, and the urge to run was overwhelming, but ultimately futile. She could see Fiori behind her, and the figure he had brought her to see.

'Tell me what you are thinking,' The other figure spoke as though English was not familiar to her, with the exaggerated pronunciation of someone forced to speak it for professional purposes. This place was small and quiet, enough that the details sprang out at her, especially the way the question had been addressed to Fiori, and not to her.

Amy's cheeks burned.

'This one is difficult,' Fiori's words, on the other hand, were addressed to Amy's reflection, knowing full well the girl could see him behind her, as he ran his hand up into her hair as it cascaded down the back of the chair. 'And so she's brought this on herself. Her slavery should be more visible.'

Amy closed her eyes, shutting out the man behind her, so she could only feel his fingers tracking up the length of her hair...

'Make it short.'

Fiori had bent her over the bed while she was lost in memory, taking her body even as her mind was elsewhere. And yet, her entire being still convulsed with pleasure, muscles tight, pussy dripping around his cock. Christ, this was so wrong. How could her body let her down like this?

It has to be the drugs. It has to be...

His hand was on the back of her neck, right below the bristles of her hairline, an anchor to keep her body in place as he thrust in so deeply, filling her aching cunt up again and again. Not that there was any chance of her moving anyway; Amy knew to stay still unless her Master ordered otherwise. He often did, forcing her to ride his cock, but right now he seemed content to merely jackhammer into her, the force of his thrusts pushing her further up the bed. Amy tried to keep her legs as open as possible, in a feeble effort to mitigate her Master's roughness.

'Please Master, may I cum?' She forced the words out through gritted teeth as the bitter warmth of orgasm threatened to overwhelm her once more. She swore inwardly at her traitorous flesh, the malfunctioning mind that found this so arousing, but still, every inch of her was giving in...

'Cum.'

Oh, god...

Fiori had called it her "unveiling." It had been far worse than she had thought possible.

In the darkness backstage, Amy ruefully ran her hands through the short bristles of what remained of her hair, the auburn fuzz that Fiori had allowed her, because he found it pleasant to look at. Oh, he had made no bones about that fact; her new hairstyle had come down to his wishes, not her own.

Everything came down to his wishes now...

And so, just as Master had said, she knelt in the darkness, just a twitch of the curtain ahead away from being revealed to... whatever he had prepared beyond it. There was the sound of hushed voices coming from the other side, but the usual din of conversation on the main floor was absent; Amy had no way of predicting what was coming.

The new, leather collar she wore overlapped the Command Collar, the wide, stiff material raised her chin and craned her neck, putting an automatic arch in her back and displaying her breasts prominently. Whatever happened next, she would be on display.

Silence and stillness reigned, though every fiber of Amy's being screamed to run. Fiori's cruel hands, his retinue of inventive alien cohorts... the dark corners of the Olivan hung over her head like a threat. To run free in Sander's care was worth the risk. Fiori simply wouldn't accept any resistance. He didn't want a struggle, he wanted a slave.

Shadows moved in the gap between the curtain and the stage floor, shifting yet distinct; many more shapes than the silence had indicated. There were people out there, just... being stealthy.

And then, the curtain rose...

Eyes of all shapes and sizes rushed up to meet her, as every gaze in the room swung toward the movement of the curtain. Amy bowed her head; many of the faces in that sea of life were familiar to her, customers from earlier in her time at the Olivan. Her new haircut seemed to be a message to them that she herself hadn't understood; Fiori had made some repeated suggestion that her new short bristles signified slavery, but who knew how that applied to the culture here? The other slaves understood, knew the ins and outs of this place enough to keep out of trouble, but Amy found herself tripping over it at every turn. She stayed still; it was best to just wait for instructions.