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"I can't do this," Rose muttered, for the Doctor's ears only. Of all the bizarre customs they'd had to observe... Sure, she expected the Doctor to get her in trouble most places they went, so she hadn't been all that surprised when they were hauled before a judge for the crime of singing in the streets on a Tuesday morning. Well, the Doctor had been singing; Rose had been laughing at him. Once Rose had (with a quick glance at him for confirmation) hastily agreed that, yes, she was responsible for the Doctor, she'd been let off the hook with a scolding about failing to control her man's behaviour.
For the Doctor, however, she was told to choose between a fine of a thousand zorkmids (she wasn't clear on the exchange rate, but they didn't have any zorkmids at all) or mild corporal punishment. The Doctor, muttering something about debtor's prison, urged her in whispers to opt for the latter. Which she had, only to discover that she was supposed to administer the punishment herself.
"Sure you can," he whispered back. "I probably deserve it. Didn't bring you back for tea with your mum last week, did I?"
"Doctor!" she hissed. "I am not spanking you."
"Believe me," he murmured, "it's a refreshing change from gender roles on some other planets. A few token swats, and I'll be duly chastised." He waggled his eyebrows as the judge looked down to scribble on some paperwork.
After a little more bureaucratic buzzing around, an aide led them to the small room where the Doctor's sentence was to be carried out. There was a low leather couch along one wall, and an assortment of implements in a rack on the other, everything from flyswatters to nasty-looking whips. Rose blanched. "I'm not using those!"
The aide sniffed, twitching the hem of her robe away from the Doctor. "Bare hand on skin will do. Forty strokes, please, and the record will be satisfied." She brushed past Rose and left the room, closing the door behind her with a solid click.
"Forty?" Rose said, appalled.
"It sounds worse than it is," the Doctor reassured her. "Don't worry. You'd hurt your hand before you hurt me."
She looked around the tiny room. They were alone, and there weren't any suspicious holes in the wall. "Well, it doesn't matter. We're just going to pretend, right?"
He indicated what she'd assumed was a small decorative plaque on the opposite wall. "That's a camera. There's probably only one observer, though. Minor crimes wouldn't attract audiences." He took off his suit jacket and folded it neatly on the arm of the couch, then loosened his tie. "Sit down."
Rose sat carefully, as if the couch might bite her. "And you're okay with all this."
"I've been through worse," the Doctor said. He scratched the back of his neck. "The classic position for this sort of thing would be bent over your knee, but maybe I'd better lie across your lap."
She was starting to blush, she knew it. It got worse when he unzipped his trousers and let them drop, revealing a pair of pinstriped boxers. "What are you doing?" she squeaked.
"Has to be bare skin, Rose," he said. "One more thing—don't hold back. Each stroke has to count. Anything half-hearted, and they'll demand a repeat." He hooked his thumbs into the elastic waist of his boxers and looked ready to drop them, too.
"Wait!" Rose yelped. "Not, uh, yet. Why don't you lie down first?" She wanted the camera to see as little of him as possible. As for her own curiosity, she put it firmly aside. This was going to be awkward enough already.
The Doctor knelt next to her on the couch, then draped himself over her lap, crossing his arms on the far side and resting his chin on them. When he was comfortable, he lifted his hips a little bit. "Go ahead," he said.
She took his boxers down to mid-thigh, baring his smooth, pale arse, and he settled down and waited. For her to spank him. Which she was going to have to do, before he could get up again.
"Forty strokes," he said quietly. "Let's get it over with."
Rose gathered herself. "Get ready," she whispered, and lifted her hand. Reminding herself to make it count, she brought it down hard. The Doctor jerked a little; the place where her hand had landed turned white, then flushed blotchy red. "Oh, God," she stammered. "I'm sorry." Her palm echoed with the memory of the blow, of the soft resilience of his flesh.
"That's one," he said calmly, his voice a little thin. "Keep going."
She took a deep breath, and smacked his other cheek just as firmly. Two. Back to the first, a little lower. Three. Over to the other side again. Four. She was quickly running out of new places to spank him. Once more on each side, and the Doctor made a tiny noise, arching his hips. She hoped changing the angle would make it less uncomfortable for him; she couldn't stop now or she'd lose her nerve entirely. Singling out the roundest part of his buttocks, where he had the most padding, she gave each cheek another stinging slap. The skin beneath her hand was reddening, growing warmer with each stroke.
The Doctor squirmed a little when the next blows landed, left and right. They'd made it to ten; how would they get to forty? Mindful of the camera, she put her free arm over the small of his back, holding him still as she delivered several quick swats in a row. Maybe the best way to get this over with was all at once. "Are you okay?" she asked out of the side of her mouth, shaking out her hand as she prepared to continue.
The Doctor mumbled indistinctly, shifting, and she suddenly felt something in her lap that hadn't been there before. She gasped in realisation, and the Doctor hid his face in his crossed arms. "I'm sorry," he groaned. "I didn't know—I wasn't expecting—"
To be turned on by this. There was no denying it, not with the evidence still poking her in the thigh. She tried to swallow down her own arousal and embarrassment. "Don't be sorry," she whispered. "I don't mind." If he wanted this, well, she could give it to him. Had to, really. Doing it for him, and not for whoever might be watching, made it easier, even if it suddenly seemed vastly more intimate.
He sighed, the line of his back relaxing a little, and situated his erection more comfortably against her. She was going to have to hurry up, or whoever was watching would wonder what was wrong. She patted his reddened arse in warning, then gave it several more firm swats. He moaned when she stopped, twitching against her thigh. Halfway there, she thought. "Rose," he said, and it was low, pleading.
He needed her to finish this, she realised, and soon. "Here it comes," she murmured, and began to spank him briskly, alternating sides in a quick, steady rhythm. The Doctor rocked with the blows, rubbing himself back and forth over her lap. His breathing grew heavier with each passing moment. She continued relentlessly, spanking his arse hot and red, until he was grunting softly as each stroke landed. Nobody observing would wonder why he was squirming now. Her hand stung with the effort, and she could only imagine what it was like for him as it rose and fell, over and over, on his exposed flesh. She'd lost count of the strokes, but the unflagging firmness of his erection as his squirms subtly turned to thrusts told her to keep going.
"I'm going to come," he said abruptly through gritted teeth, and it might have been a warning but she wasn't about to stop now. She swatted sharply, rhythmically, driving him across her thighs again and again until he writhed, biting off a groan. Wet warmth spilled into her lap and she kept spanking to the rhythm of his jerking hips, disguising his muffled noises of pleasure with the sound of hand meeting skin. She kept going until her hand was sore, until the quick clench and release of the muscles in his buttocks finally slowed and stopped. Her hand came to rest on his hot, swollen arse, and he shuddered, collapsing over her messy lap.
"Oh, Rose," he gasped, and just lay there for a moment, quivering. Rose gingerly pulled his boxers up, glad they were loose. He fumbled for his suit jacket and passed it to her as he rolled off her lap, and she held on to it, using it to cover the wet marks on her trousers. He found his own trousers and finished getting dressed, raking his fingers through his hair. He looked flustered, but that would be normal for any man who'd just had a thorough spanking. She wondered what she looked like; his eyes were unreadable, and now that his armour was back on she wondered if any of this had really even happened.
But then he grinned – facing away from the camera, thank goodness – and she knew it would be all right. "I think," he said mildly, "that was more than forty strokes."
She swatted his arse again.