Dw Dead Virgins And Slutty Ghosts

Osgood was quite liking the Nethersphere. Of course, being killed had been a huge inconvenience. She'd had a lot of things to do and she was sure there were several people who had been relying on her for work that would never be completed now. It really bothered her. She had also been expecting some packages, and there'd been a number of coupons she hadn't used, and she was pretty sure she'd left a tab or two on her computer open to some Johnlock fic she would not like anyone else to see.

Still,

the Nethersphere.

She'd gotten to meet Peter Cushing! Sure, most of the really big names were still being mobbed and she didn't want to be a big fangirl bother—Shakespeare was

impossible

to get next to—but she had found Amy Pond and Rory Williams, who'd quite liked exchanging stories with her about the Doctor and acting them out a bit. There was also a boy named Adric who claimed to know the Doctor very well, but Osgood didn't like talking to him as much.

There was also an inordinately high number of people, it seemed, who had been saved by the Doctor, or not saved, and it was a fun project to play Twenty Questions with strangers, see if she could find if they had met the Doctor and, if so, which Doctor it had been. She'd only been at it for a few months, but she'd gotten a few cases where she had multiple viewpoints of the same incident—usually Daleks, a lot of people seemed to die when Daleks were involved—and it was very exciting trying to

Rashomon

all the different eyewitness accounts together. She thought she'd write a book, well, she called it a book; more of an epic detailing the Doctor's travels from his first incarnation all the way through to the latest regeneration.

People were very interested in reading what she'd written so far. She thought, with so many dead actors and writers and producers and directors milling around, she might convince them to put the Doctor on the screen. Just imagine it—the Doctor in an

anime!

Of course, she was a bit lonely—had thought she'd have a bit more time to date before she met her Maker, or at least was put on the Maker's waiting list. And it was a bit hard to compete when there were literal Amazons on the dating scene. Not to mention Marilyn Monroe, who went through men like tissue,

that trash.

Some things never changed.

"Oh, God, Kate! Don't take this the wrong way, but why can't you be dead? Why don't you come eat me? Not in a zombie way, but in a—" Osgood groaned in frustration. Steady throbbing built inside her body, but was stubbornly

missing something.

The shower spray wasn't a bad substitute for being eaten out—well, it didn't feel like one—but Christ, to die a virgin and then get turned down by

Lord Byron...

Osgood put that out of her mind, stubbornly returning to her imagination. "Eat me, Kate, please, make me come, I'm almost there! The heat—in my body—yes, yes, YES!" She chanted as her pleasure smoldered from a warm glow to an eruption, then she let the water beat on her burning clit until the sensitive bud could stand no more.

As her orgasm subsided, Osgood realized she was broiling. Back when she was alive, her apartment had never had any regular, hot running water. The Nethersphere wasn't heaven, but it did have hot showers. Too hot. The stifling heat made it a little hard to breathe. She shut off the water and threw the door open, gulping in the cool air that marbled her wet skin. Her legs were wobbly and she felt drained of all strength, but she still forced herself to draw a towel before her pleasingly damp body started in on the icicles.

Then she leisurely toweled herself dry, affectionately rubbing at her thighs, feeling her clit tinge again when she dabbed it with the towel. It went back to sleep as she blow-dried her long hair, then brushed it as she studied herself in the bathroom's mirror. Why such poor luck with the opposite sex—with any sex? She had an alright body.

A bit rounded, yes, but that came with her big, solid breasts and the large brown nipples that capped them so perfectly. So she didn't have a tiny waist. Her hips were flared, her ass was good enough to warrant tighter pants, and she really did think the glasses looked cute. Wearing contacts just let all the attention wander to her chubby cheeks—which were also cute, but not so cute she wanted them to be the first thing someone marked about her face.

Maybe she should start a diet. If a near-death experience could be a wake-up call for some people, how much more so an actual death? Osgood had seen Cass Elliot running around and she looked

great.

There was a sharp knock at the door. A pounding, really. Osgood grabbed her robe and put on her glasses, hurrying out into her apartment to answer it. Odd, she didn't know anyone who'd died, unless Nana had finally kicked the bucket...

"Danny!" a voice yelled through the door. "Danny, are you in there?

Danny Pink, I swear to heaven—"

The voice, and the woman, stopped abruptly as Osgood opened the door. She, of course, recognized Clara Oswald, who had a little Mean Girls clique of reincarnations running 'round the Nethersphere, making fun of the wigs on the 18

th

-centuriers. This one, though, she could just tell was the real thing.

"Oh God, you died?" Osgood clutched her heart. "The Doctor must be so sad—"

"What? No! Who are you? Wait, Orville, right?"

"Yes. No." Osgood wasn't sure if she was supposed to salute or offer her hand—maybe say 'boo'? "Missy killed me."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

Osgood shrugged. "It happens. Honestly, at least I went out with one of the big'uns. Imagine dying because of a Macra!"

Clara looked at her askew. "Yes. Right. Listen, I'm having a near-death experience."

"Oh my!" Osgood's hands flew to her mouth this time.

"It's alright, I'm in a hospital, they've put me in ice and stopped my heart, it's all very Flatliners. Di'ya see Flatliners?"

"Yes." Osgood nodded. "I've had a lot of time to catch up on Netflix up here."

"You have Netflix?"

"It's Heaven—sorta—so yeah."

"Hmm." Clara stepped inside, brushing past Osgood to begin looking through her rooms and closets. "Danny! Danny, you in here?"

A bit unwillingly, Osgood closed the door behind her, figuring it might as well just be one person who saw her in a bathrobe. "There's no one in here but me. I'm not very happy about it either—"

"

I heard you

talking to someone before I came in," Clara insisted. "Danny, have you been having sex with this woman? I won't care, really—I mean, I think you can do better, but you're dead, I'll understand!"

Osgood pulled her robe tighter around herself. "

There's no one in here.

I was—talking. To myself."

Clara rolled her eyes. "This is Danny Pink's apartment, I checked with the weird secretary guy!"

"It used to be. He left."

"Left?" Clara demanded, eying Osgood again. "What do you mean,

left?"

Osgood felt a bit smaller than normal. "Something about becoming a kid's imaginary friend?"

"A

what

?"

Osgood shrunk some more. "Well, the kid was being bullied, or so I heard—there aren't many career paths in the afterlife, you understand. It's that or being a poltergeist..."

Clara raised her hands, forefingers and thumbs pinched together as if she were crushing very tiny Osgoods between them. "Are you telling me... that after Danny died in a car accident... then

blew himself up as a Cyberman...

then sent a little Muslim boy back from the afterlife... that now he's ducked me to become a Fairly Oddparent?"

"Well, no, he doesn't grant wishes. I think it's really just moral support."

"

Do you know how long it's been since I've had sex?"

Clara demanded.

"A... bit?"

"A bit! I came all the way to this crappy robot heaven for him, and he's

still not here!"

Clara roared.

Osgood didn't like shouting. "Well, I'm sure if he'd known you were coming... maybe if you'd told a cancer patient or someone to pass along a message..."

"

Who were you talking to?!"

Clara

really

demanded.

"No one! Nothing! I just talk to myself sometimes when I masturbate!"

Clara blinked. "What?"

"I didn't say anything," Osgood replied, less than honestly. She shuffled her glasses on her nose.

"You..." Clara looked Osgood over, as if for the first time. "Oh.

You were in the shower."

"Yes." Osgood took Clara's meaning. "No!" Osgood realized Clara's meaning was right. "Yes."

"Don't they have, like, hunky angels up here for that?"

"No. If you're Rock Hudson. No, mostly no..."

"Masturbating in Heaven. Good to know that doesn't get you kicked out." Clara planted her hands on her hips. "Sorry. I didn't mean to imply... you and Danny, you're probably not his type. I mean, you're really pretty, you might be—"

"I don't think I'm anyone's type. Little bit a virgin."

"Oh." Clara looked at her closely. "They don't—give you to a Muslim bloke for that?"

"No. They don't even ask."

Clara sighed, knocking at the wall. "I thought I'd be catching up with Danny right now. I guess time works differently here, so I'm stuck here a couple hours while they resuscitate me. Kinda boring when I'm not reuniting with, ya know, my lost love."

"Well, I could introduce you to Michael Crichton, if you want."

"Nah." Clara's eyes traced over Osgood again. They seemed to have a knack for that. "Virgin masturbating in Heaven, huh?"

"I wouldn't call it masturbation, exactly... more of a forced autoerotic response—really, it was the shower water doing it, not me."

"Sounds like you could use another pair of hands."

"What?" Osgood sounded shrill. She hated when she sounded shrill.

"I am not waiting around for Danny

fucking

Pink to finish being a vampire or whatever he pulls next to get out of marrying me!"

"Being dead was to get out of—"

"And you're not so bad looking..."

"I'm not?"

"And with those glasses, you have to be a little gay."

"Thank... you?"

Clara began to undress. Her sweater and buttondown shirt and pleated skirt all looked very complicated, but Clara seemed to have a system that slipped her right out of them. "I've got some time to kill and I'm an old hand at lesbianism thanks to a lizard and her maid. We should fuck."

"Okay, I mean, wait, no—"

Clara ripped Osgood's robe away. Osgood could no longer speak. Probably for the best.

Osgood had never been kissed by a woman before. At their first touch, she felt lightheadedness, a certain fear like she was on top of a roller-coaster. She hesitated, not unaccepting, but unsure how to respond. Then her body just—relented. She felt a thrill that was only partially the kiss; mostly the femininity of who was kissing her.

A girl, a girl, a goddamn pretty girl...

Osgood reached out with a timid hand until a bare shoulder was soft and warm against her fingers. Clara was down to her bra by then, and now she unhooked the clasps on it, revealing her velvet-smooth breasts to Osgood's helpless eyes.

"Here, feel this," Clara asked of her.

Osgood virtually basked in her own helplessness. Her hand only not trembling because it was flat on Clara's body, Osgood steered her palm down to Clara's heaving cleavage. She watched, spellbound, as her squeezing molded and heated the flesh, the nipples coning to pert erection. Then a shudder went through Clara's body and for all her smarts, it took quite a while for Osgood to realize that her touching was the cause. A weak sigh passed through Clara's body; more quickly, Osgood realized she felt the same way.

She gave voice to a trembling moan; maybe to silence it, she sought Clara's mouth. Their lips pulled together, tongues meeting as eagerly as their hands swept over each other's naked bodies. Clara was

tantalizing

Osgood's untouched body with her busy hands, playing over her unclaimed contours like a swarm of hungry predators cannibalizing the tender scientist. Urges slashed deeply through Osgood's body. She touched Clara just as eagerly. Clara's hands moved with the skill of experience; Osgood's with the urgency of experimentation.

The electric contact of their mouths broke, lingering, sparking on Clara's lips as she realized she was the one who had pulled away, put an intervening distance between them. She tried not to look into Clara's smoldering eyes. "I've never had sex with a woman before," she said, not sure if it was excuse, defense, confession, pardon.

"Have you fucked a live person before? Because I've never fucked a dead one. I think you've got the best of me."

Osgood tried to parse this, but Clara recaptured her mouth with almost savage vigor, her upper leg moving between Osgood's pale thighs, spreading them until the two women were intertwined, mingled, their loins together, their bodies nestling close.

"You've just gotta go slow," Clara explained, reaching around to the full, round ampleness of Osgood's quivering buttocks. She pulled them in tight. "But steady."

Osgood's cunt sparked against Clara's. Osgood didn't know whose was so amply lubricated, but there was a strange friction in the two slick sexes' meeting. They slid right off each other, but always stayed connected, always transmitted alien messages on unheard frequencies, into and through Osgood's body. Then, one hand still groping Osgood's bottom, Clara's other moved down between their bodies, an extended finger finding the throbbing tautness of Osgood's clit. The stroke was ever so gentle; it felt like a wrecking ball being swung into Osgood.

"That's it, that's nice," Clara said. She watched Osgood's eyes cross behind her fogging glasses. "Just do what feels good. That's all there is to it."

Osgood was crooning, she was making confused and needy and loud

sounds,

and they only got louder and more confused and more

wanting

when Clara slithered down her body, mouth filling with the passionate throb of Osgood's breasts, kissing them, sucking them, a constant erotic pressure on her nipples.

The sucking pulled right through Osgood, pleasure from her breasts and chest and blood and bones, keening straight into Clara's devilish mouth. The finger stroked in firm circles, a puppeteer's string working Osgood's hip in countering rhythm to their own beat. Osgood felt like she had no free will, no sin in her, just this holy feeling. Finally, no purgatory, just heaven.

"Oh... God!"

As if that were the pistol shot at a race, Clara now moved down, avidly exploring the fascinating slope of Osgood's potbelly, charting her navel with an agile tongue. Osgood's knees were weak. It took nothing at all for Clara to flutter her down onto a settee. Her toes peeled off the carpet. Osgood couldn't feel them, couldn't feel anything but the gentle insistence of the hands spreading her thighs.

Her cunt was exposed, she could

feel

its exposure like Clara's lewd gaze was a physical force. Moreover, she could feel its

need

coupled with Clara's eyes, a strong wind blowing a heatfront. She was so aware of Clara's face between her widespread thighs; intimately knowledgeable of the hands moving on her smooth, unexplored thighs.

"I've always believed you have to have a firm hand in the bedroom," Clara went on, almost a lecture. Wasn't she a teacher? "You can't both just flop around. You've got to take charge.

Make

the other person enjoy it.

Tell them

how much you love it in your tight little pussy. Don't you love it, Osborn? In your tight little pussy?"

"Osgood," Osgood corrected.

"Yes, it is good," Clara agreed, then put her mouth to slightly more pressing use, lips cresting Osgood's thighs, her hips, her belly, her taint even—Osgood felt that one with a hummingbird flutter right beside her clit. Then Clara's lips were coming in for a landing right on the pulse of Clara's hard-beating sex. Anticipation goosepimpled every inch of her skin. She knew it would happen and she knew she wouldn't stop it.

Then that probing, licking, tantalizing tongue was on her clit, her whole body going numb as her brain filled with the voluptuous ecstasy of it. "I'm not a virgin anymore!" she cried out.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," Clara countered, and her mouth dropped back to Osgood's seething flesh. Osgood's world was liquid depths being seared by a swooping tongue, a rhythm set by her spasmodically winding hips, a scream that went on and on in her breast but barely made it out of her cloying mouth. Until, finally, it did.

"I'm going to come!" she yelled, and it seemed like a miracle. A blessing. Because if she didn't come, she knew for certain that she'd go mad.

The electric mouth paused. "Mind if I join you?" Clara asked, but it wasn't a question.

She pushed Osgood down onto her back and then swung around to straddle Osgood's face, her own lovely visage falling into place over Osgood's loins. Osgood could see Clara's moist cunt hovering right above her, like a cloud threatening rain on a hot summer day. She couldn't do anything to make it rain in the real world, but perhaps in heaven...

"That's the thing," Clara said with a swivel-hipped wag, her pussy coming down insistently on Osgood's mouth. All Osgood had to do was open it and... "It's always nice to help out a friend, but if they don't get you off, what's the point? At least hookers get paid. Anyway, just start in whenever you're ready—

but you're not leaving until I've come all over your face."

Then Osgood felt Clara's tongue wrap around her clitoris again. A long moan blossomed in her chest and opened up her mouth as she nuzzled into Clara's womanhood. Unthinkingly, she tasted Clara—a slightly pungent flavor that was actually quite good. Better than some vitamin waters.

She tried to replicate Clara's questing tongue; slithering from her lips, surrendering to the moist warmth of Clara's sex, finding the most amazing feel at the tip of her tongue and the inside of Clara's body. It was like a puzzle, a rare delicacy, a cut on the roof of her mouth that she healed by tonguing. She became bolder, licking, then sucking, falling into a rhythmic pattern of matching Clara's dexterous eating with her own.

Together they spiraled up, bounding higher and higher, testing the limits of pleasure before they reached relief. Cunts throbbed and tongues slashed, hands grasped, a kind of purring running through both their chests as they failed to hold in the mutual ecstasy their mouths couldn't express.

Tied together, mouths and loins, they gave and received. Osgood had her fill first—a long shuddering convulsion pushing her into a jerking, climbing sensation of wave after wave, washing out her entire body of all pleasure, leaving her weak and spent. Clara too welcomed an orgasm, her hand slapping powerfully at Osgood's rump as she spun down. True to her word, her pleasure flowed right out of her, wetly covering Osgood's mouth—some even going up her nose.

"Oh, that was lovely," Clara gasped as Osgood snorted and choked, then nodded in half-conscious agreement. She clung to Clara's long, lovely legs as the idea came to her to take a quick nap.

Her confusion sorted itself out entirely behind her eyelids. When she awoke, a scant half hour later, she was ready for far more. Osgood shimmied out from under Clara, who had likewise lost consciousness on Osgood's thigh, and hurried to her walk-in closet. When she returned, Clara was stretching awake.

"Oh, did I ever need that. You've got a gift, Osmond."

"Osgood," Osgood corrected her. "And you're right, I have."

She held out the box she had retrieved, but Clara looked far more interested in her ample breasts and—Osgood moved the box down to cover her sex. Clara laughed, got up, and made a lump form in Osgood's throat, just being so naked. Slapping the box away from her, Clara shocked Osgood with the feel of warm flesh against hers. They held each other tightly, breasts mashing together, lips melting into one, and kissed until Osgood felt herself being dragged back to the settee.