Title: Second Place
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/The Master
Fandom: Doctor Who
Table: Buffet 2, fc_smorgasbord
Prompt: 46, Beg
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor or the Master. Please do not sue.
***"Beg for it," the Master said as he trailed the whip over the Doctor's shoulder. "Beg for the kiss of the whip, Doctor. You know you want it. And you know that you want it to come from me." His voice was soft, satisfied, a purring tone underlying the words.
The Doctor didn't answer; his jaw clenched, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. He was trying to steel himself for the pain he knew was going to come, and taking his mind away from that by speaking was only going to make things worse.
He surreptitiously flexed his muscles, testing the strength of the restraints that held his arms above his head. Just as he'd thought, he was bound too tightly for any sort of freedom of movement -- this time, the Master hadn't even left him any wriggle room.
His muscles tightened as the tip of the whip danced across his bare buttocks; he had no doubt of just where the Master intended to focus his unwanted "attentions." At least he was lying face down on the bed, so any damage would be confined to his backside.
The last time something like this had happened; the Master hadn't spared any part of his body; it had taken longer to heal than he'd thought it would, and merely the idea of a whip had made him cringe for months afterward. Hopefully, this time it wouldn't be so bad.
"By the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging, Doctor," the Master whispered, leaning close to the Time Lord. "You'll be begging me to stop -- or will you be begging me for more? It'll be interesting to see which way you turn."
The Doctor still didn't answer; he wasn't going to dignify the Master's taunts with angry words of his own. That would only goad the other man, and he'd learned from experience that it wasn't something he wanted to risk doing when he was in a vulnerable position.
"Don't speak if you don't want to, Doctor," the Master told him, hot breath against his ear, that sibilant whisper echoing in his brain. "I'd much rather hear you scream, anyway. And I'm sure that you'll be doing quite a lot of that."
The Doctor clenched his jaw, waiting for the inevitable blow to fall across his back. He knew that the Master would probably start there and work his way down; that was usually the case when he decided to mete out this kind of "punishment."
His muscles tensed, waiting, anticipating. He heard the whip whistling through the air seconds before the blow landed across his right ass cheek, the pain only registering after it had already started to spread through his body.
The sharp sting made him gasp with surprise; this hadn't been what he'd expected at all. Had the Master changed his tactics to get more of a response out of him? That had to be it; he would have to rein in his reactions more carefully.
But would he be able to? The Doctor knew all too well how the Master would play this game; he could anticipate the other man's actions and keep himself from reacting in the way that he was expected to. There was some small satisfaction in that.
He could feel a wave of panic rising within him; he didn't want to give in to the Master, didn't want to beg for this to stop. But he hadn't been prepared for the first blow, so what made him think that he could steel himself for the others that were sure to come?
There was nothing for it but to try -- and hope that he wouldn't give in.
Three more blows fell in quick succession, each one making him catch his breath. He could feel the red welts rising across his ass; it would be painful for him to sit down for the next few days, or even to wear trousers that fit him snugly.
But so far, he'd managed not to cry out -- or to beg the Master to stop. That was what the bastard wanted to hear, the Doctor thought grimly, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep from whimpering. So he was going to do his best not to make a sound.
The Master's hand was between his legs, fingertips stroking over the reddening welts before moving lower to cup the Doctor's balls, rolling them between his fingers. This time, he couldn't help but let out a sharp gasp, his hips jerking spasmodically.
"Ah, maybe I've been paying attention to the wrong area of your body, Doctor," the Master purred, one finger working its way between the Doctor's cheeks to press against his entrance. "It looks like I'll get a much more satisfying reaction if I concentrate my attention elsewhere."
With that, his grip on the Time Lord's balls tightened; the Doctor struggled to hold back his cry of pain, but the sound made its way past his lips, to resound in the air around them. He could almost see the smile of satisfaction on his tormentor's face.
"Ah, that's better, Doctor." The tone was smug, victorious. "Now, to make you not only cry out, but beg for more. I think that should be fairly easily achieved, don't you? After all, I've always known just where your weak spots are."
He couldn't deny that. All he could do was try to stay resolutely silent, and hope that the Master didn't do anything that he wouldn't expect. But given what had already taken place, he was no longer so sure of his ability to anticipate his rival's actions.
The Doctor felt the bed dip beneath him as the Master swung himself onto it; a moment later, he was kneeling between the Doctor's spread thighs, his hands moving over the velvet of the Time Lord's flesh, pushing his legs further apart.
The Time Lord winced as those fingers spread his cheeks, the pad of one thumb stroking over his opening, coaxing him open with each feather-light movement. He didn't want to respond; he wanted to scream, to protest being touched like this.
But his traitorous body had other ideas. His muscles were relaxing, giving the Master access to the most intimate part of him; much more of this, and he would be begging the Master to take him, begging for what he not only wanted, but at this point, needed.
"Are you ready to beg yet, Doctor?" the Master asked, leaning forward as he slid first one, then two fingers inside the Doctor. "I know you want to. You're holding yourself back, aren't you? Just let it go, Doctor. Give me what I want. It'll be much less painful for you if you do."
The Doctor whimpered as those long fingers pressed inside him, curling against his prostate, sending shivers of pleasure up his spine. This could feel good -- if he let himself relax and accept it, and gave the Master what he wanted, which he would never let himself do.
He cried out as the Master's other hand came down on the rounded curves of his ass, the slap reverberating through the still air. The stinging welts on his sensitized skin felt as thought they were burning; but it was a strange combination of pleasure and pain.
He wouldn't beg, the Doctor told himself, squeezing his eyes closed. He wouldn't. He couldn't. But as the Master's fingers pressed deeper, he knew that he couldn't hold out for much longer -- and in this game, he would always have to be content with second place.