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“Turlough,” the Doctor said, folding his arms and fixing him with a look over the rim of his spectacles.
Turlough merely lifted an eyebrow. “What?”
“What?” The Doctor echoed. “That’s your defence, is it? Not an apology, not a moment of reflection. Just ‘what?’”
“I was only pointing out that your plan was ridiculous.”
“My plan was innovative.”
“It nearly got us killed.”
The Doctor sighed dramatically. “You know, most companions at least pretend to be respectful when they’re being insolent.”
“Maybe you’ve spoiled me.”
“Oh, I’ve spoiled you, have I?” The Doctor stepped closer, expression bright with amusement. “Is that why you’ve become so terribly cheeky? Honestly,” the Doctor continued, lowering his voice, “perhaps you’re in dire need for some discipline again.”
A faint flush appeared on Turlough’s face.“I am not.”
“No?” The Doctor’s grin widened. “Then why are you so turned on by that very suggestion, eh?” The Doctor stepped closer, letting his voice drop as his eyes searched Turlough’s face, “what’ll it be? The belt? The cricket bat? Or my bare hands?”
"You're... you're being ridiculous," Turlough managed to stammer, though the effect was ruined by the way his voice betrayed him, cracking slightly at the end. "The cricket bat?" Turlough repeated, a faint, breathless laugh escaping him as he tried to regain some semblance of composure. "That's... a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Harshness can often be my specialty, my dear boy," he murmured, his tone now a low, soothing hum that vibrated through Turlough’s chest. "Use your words like a good boy, what do you want?“
"You know exactly what you're doing to me." Turlough swallowed hard, his eyes darkening as he finally found the courage to answer the question, his voice dropping to a mere breath. "Your hands," he confessed, the words feeling like a delicious sin. "The hands... please."
"Honesty at last," he murmured, his eyes darkening with a sudden, focused intensity that made the TARDIS seem to fade into the background. "I knew there was a good puppy hiding under all that prickly defiance." He stepped even closer, the soft cream wool of his sweater brushing against Turlough’s chest, until they were sharing the same air. His other hand came up to rest firmly on Turlough’s waist, pulling him just an inch closer to anchor him. "I want you to bend over the console so I can teach you a good lesson.”
"The console?" Turlough repeated, his voice a mere rasp. He felt small, slim and vulnerable beneath the Doctor’s larger, more confident presence, but he didn't want to pull away. He wanted to be anchored. He wanted to be held. Slowly, his hands trembling slightly, Turlough reached out to steady himself against the smooth, warm metal of the TARDIS console. He moved with a hesitant sort of grace, his slim frame bending forward, his heart thudding so loudly in his ears he was sure the Doctor could hear it. He felt the cool surface of the controls beneath his palms, a stark contrast to the heat blooming in his cheeks. "I hope you don’t intend to keep me waiting?"
"Patience, Turlough," the Doctor murmured, his breath hot against the shell of Turlough's ear, "the best lessons are never rushed." His hand moved to the boy’s trouser waistband, tugging at it, “I won’t let you keep these pesky things on. I want you to feel how hard I can be with you.”
"Hard..." Turlough repeated the word under his breath, the syllable catching in his throat. He felt so incredibly exposed, his slim body arched slightly forward, his hips braced against the Doctor's hand. The vulnerability was a heavy, pulsing thing in his chest, but it didn't frighten him as much as it thrilled him. He wanted to be mastered. "Don't be gentle, then. If you're going to teach me... teach me properly."
With a sudden, decisive movement, the Doctor hooked his fingers into the waistband of Turlough's trousers and pulled them down just far enough to expose the pale, trembling skin of his hips, his knuckles grazing the heated flesh with a slow, possessive drag. He shifted his weight, pressing his thigh firmly between Turlough's legs to ground him, “now try to make as little sound as possible.”
The first slap was a shock a sharp, stinging explosion of sensation that tore a startled, high pitched gasp from Turlough’s throat. He flinched, his hands clenching so tightly against the console that his knuckles turned white. But then came the second. And the third. And the fourth. Each strike was heavy and deliberate, a rhythmic, stinging discipline that echoed through the vast, quiet space of the TARDIS. Turlough’s skin was burning, the heat of the slaps spreading across his hips in a throbbing, delicious ache.
He felt the sting, yes, but beneath the pain was a surge of that intense, electric arousal he so craved. The Doctor was right; the control he had spent his whole life cultivating was melting away, replaced by a primitive, overwhelming need to simply endure and receive.
let out a muffled, strangled whimper into the metal of the console, his eyes blurring with tears of both sensation and sheer, unadulterated pleasure. "Mmmph..."
"Such a good, quiet boy," the Doctor purred, the praise a warm, soothing balm to the stinging heat he had just inflicted. He slowed the rhythm of his hand, his palm coming to rest heavily against the throbbing ache of Turlough's backside, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the sharp discipline of the slaps. “But you're trembling so much, Turlough... is it the sting, or is it because you want more?"
"Please..." Turlough breathed, the word breaking in the middle. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into the metal of the console as he forced the words out, stripped of all pride, all sass, and all pretense. "Please, Doctor... fuck me.”
“Thats my puppy,". He wasn't going to be gentle now; the time for soft words was over. He pulled down his stripped trousers along with his underwear and pushed himself towards Turlough’s bare ass. “Now, hold onto the controls and don't you dare let go, because I'm going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to."
"I won't let go," Turlough choked out, his voice a wrecked, desperate promise. He squeezed the controls so hard he thought he might bend the metal, his slim frame tensing in anticipation of the invasion. "I won't... I promise..."
As the Doctor began to push, Turlough let out a long, low, keening moan that was lost in the hum of the TARDIS, his body trembling with the exquisite, terrifying realisation that he was finally, truly, being taken.
The Doctor let out a sharp, guttural growl of satisfaction as he felt Turlough’s body stretch and yield to his initial, heavy thrust, his hands moving from Turlough's hips to grip the younger man's waist with bruising force. He began to move with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, each deep, driving stroke designed to shatter Turlough's remaining composure and drive the breath from his lungs. "Tell me," he hissed, his breath hot and frantic, "tell me who you belong to while you're breaking!"
"You! It's you! I'm... yours!” He was weeping now, tears of sheer sensory overload blurring his sight, but he didn't care. He didn't want to be clever anymore. He didn't want to be in control. He just wanted this beautiful, violent, soul shattering proof that he finally, irrevocably, had a place to belong. "I belong to you!" he wailed, his voice cracking as he surrendered his last shred of dignity to the rhythm of the Doctor's hips. "Please... more... don't stop!"
"Say it again, Turlough! Say it until it's the only truth you know!" He drove himself home one last, devastating time, his hips slamming against Turlough's with enough force to make the entire console shudder. "Tell me... tell me whose puppy you are!”
"You!" Turlough shrieked, the word tearing from his lungs as the Doctor’s final, devastating thrust slammed into him. The force of it made the console groan beneath his hands and sent a white hot explosion of pleasure through his entire nervous system. His vision went completely white, his muscles seizing in a violent, beautiful spasm of release.
He was sobbing now, his chest heaving, his body trembling so uncontrollably that he could barely keep his hands on the controls. The command the final, humiliating, wonderful command ripped through the haze of his climax, demanding his ultimate surrender. "Yours! I'm... I'm your puppy! Your puppy, Doctor! Always!" He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the cool metal of the console, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gulps.
Turlough was pushed down to his knees, the cool floor of the TARDIS felt grounding against his trembling thighs. He looked up, his ginger hair damp and matted to his forehead, his eyes wide and hazy with a lingering, post coital fog.
The sudden, firm grip on his head caught him off guard. Turlough’s breath hitched, his hands instinctively reaching out to grasp the Doctor’s thighs for stability as he was guided forward. He was so vulnerable in this position, kneeling at the Doctor's feet, his face upturned and his mouth open in a silent, submissive gasp.
When the Doctor forced him onto his cock, Turlough’s eyes fluttered shut, a muffled, needy moan vibrating in his throat. The taste and scent of the man were overwhelming, a heady, primal intoxicant. He felt the sheer size of him, the heat and the hardness, and his instincts took over.
He didn't fight the command; he embraced it. He wrapped his lips around the Doctor with a desperate, hungry fervor, his tongue swirling to please the man who had just broken him. He wanted to be perfect. He wanted to show the Doctor that he was, indeed, the most loyal, most devoted puppy he could ever hope to own.
Between frantic, wet gulps, Turlough looked up through his lashes, his eyes pleading and worshipful, silently communicating his total, unreserved devotion.
As he worked, Turlough made soft, needy sounds in the back of his throat, a series of wet, rhythmic moans that he couldn't suppress. He looked up through his lashes, his eyes never leaving the Doctor's face, watching for every flicker of pleasure, every tightening of the Doctor's jaw. He was a creature of pure sensation now, driven by the singular goal of pleasing his master, his god, his everything.
He pushed himself harder, his tongue swirling around the head of the Doctor's cock, his throat tightening around him in a desperate, pulsing squeeze. He was a puppy, yes, but he was a puppy that was learning to crave the very hand that held his leash.