It was an odd thought for a girl who had traveled the universe, gone through space and time, but the engagement party of Clara's friend, clearing out the local pub and filling it with music and shouted conversation, was proving too lively for her. She thought to go outside to clear her head, but first she ducked into the bathroom.
There was a grimy feel to the inebriated air and pounding music, enough to make Clara sweat, and she wanted to quickly wash up before she stepped outside. God forbid the Doctor should see her looking like she felt, even if he was now an old man, not...
Clara touched up her make-up, but typically, the bathroom was out of paper towels. She went into one of the stalls to use toilet paper to blot, when she heard the door open and two of her friends, their high heels distinctively ticking, came in. Clara decided to keep the stall door closed and wait until they'd left to go herself. She didn't want to get dragged back into the elongated conversation of the party.
"Yeah, Sabrina, it was so neat!" one of them was saying. Clara recognized Betsy's voice. "Freddy unloaded at least a quart, right up my ass! Ooooh, I came at the same time! It was like he was shooting right through me!"
Sabrina laughed. "Oldest method of birth control known to woman! That and blowjobs! Are you going back up to the room with him now?"
"You know it, babe!"
The door closed and Clara was alone in the bathroom. She sighed and waited until she was sure the pair would be away from the door, then she slipped out of the pub.
Walking along the metal railing overlooking the village where she lived, the pub being erected on a hill overlooking it, Clara felt as small as one of the pinpoints of light in the sky overhead. Her friend was getting married, and she was still going off to have some fun before her vows. Clara didn't know if she envied her or pitied her. Either way, she couldn't do the same. Not that way.
"What's the matter, Clara?" a husky female voice asked.
Turning, Clara saw Justine and Mr. Snart walking arm and arm toward her. Mr. Snart was thin and aging, a biology prof at the school where she herself worked, while Justine was a former student of his.
Wonder if he's gonna fuck her on the grass or back in the room? Clara wondered to herself bitterly. In the mouth, the cunt, or the ass - or all three?
Clara shook her head, as if to clear it of such filthy thoughts and language. "Nothing. I just always cry at wedding and, well, this is almost a wedding."
"That it is," Mr. Snart agreed, nearly oblivious to Justine tugging on his sleeve.
"Honey, you go on ahead," she said. "I need a word with Clara."
"Jolly good," he replied, and headed on up. So, it was to be in the room.
"I know what it is," Justine said, once they were alone. "You haven't dated in forever, Betsy's getting married—it's okay to be jealous. That's practically required!"
"I'm not jealous!" Clara protested. Although she had to admit, it hardly seemed fair that her Doctor was now an old man, while Betsy's fiancé—and her lover—were strapping young men.
Justine took her by the arm and led her back towards, oh no, the pub. A dance was starting in the lounge, she could hear the band tuning up, and she thought, desperately, that perhaps she could dance some of her cares away. She was a great dancer and she loved to lose herself in the pounding beat, the way she lost herself in the Doctor and his adventuring when they traveled together.
"Either way, you need to get laid. And this is a party and you do look like the Queen of Sheba in that outfit."
I met her, actually, and I actually don't have nearly enough mandibles to be a lookalike. "I don't need to get laid," Clara said.
Justine pushed through into the pub, and gestured widely at the various party-goers. "Look around! There are a ton of handsome guys, even some from out of town! Not saying you're going to marry any of them, but even a quick shag would be more of a date than you've been on. It's all about shaking the rust off, you know."
"I don't... have rust. And anyway, they're not my type anymore."
"What is your type?" Justine insisted.
***
It happened a few weeks ago. Clara had just been dropped off by the TARDIS and discovered that one of the problems of time travel was that if you lost your keys, there was literally no way to retrace your steps. For all Clara knew, she'd misplaced them in the future, then gone back to lift them from fifteen minutes ago, thus screwing over the her in between.
As if being locked out of her house wasn't enough, it began to rain. Not an uncommon occurrence in England, but this was an uncommonly heavy downpour. She huddled in her doorway, wishing desperately that the Doctor would open her front door from the inside as his younger, older incarnation had once done, when she noticed headlights on the dirt road leading to her cottage.
She scrambled out to her front gate and saw, luckily, that it was Simon LeMarch, one of her neighbors. He was a skinny, elderly man who always reminded Clara of a sea captain, with his thick white beard and crinkled eyes, his serious but not unfriendly visage topping a stout, muscular body. He only had a few inches on her own sprightly height, but he was thicker and more robust, a bit of a fireplug.
"Miss Oswald!" Simon said with surprise, once he'd rolled down the window on his truck. "What are you doing out here in the rain?"
"I locked myself out," Clara told him. Then, for no reason she could fathom, she leaned closer to the truck. Her dress was loose, and thin underneath the coat she wore—it gave him plenty to look at it. She wasn't wearing a bra and her large breasts nearly fell out of her top.
She remembered all of the times she'd caught him looking at her and she knew what he'd been thinking. It was what he was thinking now. If he wasn't a dirty old man, he wasn't a clean one either.
Simon coughed and tried to look away, but couldn't. His eyes were practically bulging right out of his head. He shifted his position behind the wheel, indelicately reaching for the lock control and fumbling it until he finally got the passenger door unlocked.
"Well, get in here," Simon said, staring straight ahead. "You can stay at my place for the duration—dry off. Once the rain dies down, we'll call you a locksmith. Sound good?"
"Sounds great," Clara agreed. She slid beside him, intentionally letting her dress slide halfway up her thighs. Simon took one long look and coughed. "I really appreciate this, Mr. Lemarch. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along."
The cottages in this row were spaced out, but still it didn't take long for him to park the truck and for them to hurry into his small, comfortable-looking home. It was small, but Simon had no family and didn't need a big place. With Clara dripping all over the floor, he lit a fire in the fireplace, already prepared with dry logs and wadded up newspaper for when he got back from his trip.
"Mmmmm," Clara moaned, warming herself. "This feels good. I didn't even realize how cold I was."
"Good thing I had that ready to go," Simon said. "You might think about getting out of those wet things."
Clara turned her head toward him and saw the glint of lust in his eyes, even if he tried to hide it. There was never going to be a better time than this moment.
"Alright," she said, and took off her coat.
It had been a heavy, even leaden Burberry thing, navy-blue with big black buttons. Coupled with her frilly white dress, it gave her an adorable mien, like something a teddy bear would wear. But when she took it off, she was only in her gown, and it was soaked through, the flooded white showing her black panties and hints of her full breasts where the garment slicked against them.
She knew that with her youthful enthusiasm, her unabashedly feminine mannerisms, and her preferences in clothes and make-up, that it was easy for men to see her as a little girl, a kid sister. She was sure that was how the Doctor had thought of her, at least on occasion. But she also knew that her frank sexuality and ripe body, when she chose to share them, mind-blowingly contradicted that impression of her.
