The Devil's Butthole

WARNING: This short story, a parody based on the classic Doctor Who TV serial entitled "The Daemons", contains explicit material of a sexual nature

Volume 9 in the Doctor Wank series of misadventures

© 2015 Jo Doyle

Bert Bassett slipped out of The Randy Old Devil Inn shortly after nine-thirty in the evening, his destination the cottage he shared with his family in the sleepy little village of Devil's Butt, nestled amongst the many miles of winding country lanes in the south west of England; having indulged himself in several pints of Satan's Knob real ale after assuring his wife he was only taking the dog for a walk across the village common.
Outside, in the inadequately-lit lane, a tremendous gale howled eerily amongst the creaking, rustling boughs of the many trees, blowing a light showering of fine rain along in its wake; accompanied by brief bursts of lightning and the distant rumble of thunder.
"Fred! Fred, come back here!" he cried irritably, as the dog suddenly slipped its lead; charging off in the direction of the darkened churchyard.
Old Bert hurried off at once in pursuit of Fred, for it would be more than his life was worth to return home to the cottage he shared with his wife and adult daughter without the beloved Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Carefully weaving his way amongst the many old, ivy-enshrouded headstones of the fairly small cemetery, he paused awhile, straining his ears against the howling gale; instantly detecting the faint sound of barking from the far side of the churchyard.
As Bert edged his way ever closer, the agitated barking became more and more apparent; yet suddenly the spaniel fell silent after emitting a single terrified whine.
"Fred? Where have you got to, boy?" he called, continuing towards the source of the disturbance as the storm steadily became more severe; the stinging effect of the now heavy rainfall upon the pensioner's eyes reducing visibility even further.
"Is that you, Mr Yates?" cried Bert, as a fairly short, furtive form emerged from the shadows of a twisted willow tree, its branches tossed and tousled in the storm; assuming the figure to be the verger of the Devil's Butt church.
Drawing several steps closer towards the figure silhouetted against the night sky, Bert instantly recoiled in horror, screaming as a pair of ruby-red eyes burned brightly in the darkness; the sinister sight becoming the final thing the unfortunate old man would ever witness...

Dressed in a set of navy blue, oily overalls, ready to enjoy the still warming, welcoming rays of the late afternoon sun, the mysterious traveller in time and space known only as the Doctor emerged from within a vehicle storage bay; carrying a large metal chest containing a variety of hand tools.
Running gnarled fingers through grizzled, balding hair brushed back from his deeply furrowed brow, a smile slowly spread across the old man's heavily-lined features as he placed the tool box upon the tarmac.
He had the jowled, hangdog expression, tired, saggy old eyes and impish leer of one who should perhaps be enjoying their twilight years in peaceful retirement rather than gallivanting throughout the galaxy from one misadventure to the next; however the Doctor was far more ancient than the casual observer could ever possibly imagine, having lived for no less than nine thousand years.
Yet for the time being, the old man's adventures in time and space were temporarily at an end, for his own people, the all-powerful Chronolords of Falligray, had exiled the Doctor to Earth after a lengthy trial; charged with the constant interference in the affairs of other beings, ignoring entirely his planet's policy of engaging only in impartial observation. Issued with a TASBO - a Time And Space Behaviour Order - the Doctor's ankle had been fitted with a Time Tag monitoring his every movement.
Meanwhile, the Astrid, the Doctor's tired old Type-20 time and space travelling craft, had been impounded after the trial; his young companions returned home to their respective times. Over the course of the intervening years, the Doctor had kept himself busy by assisting TWIT - the Tactical Worldwide Intelligence Taskforce - in the unpaid, unofficial capacity of scientific adviser.
"Pass me my sonic Swiss Army knife, would you, Joy?" requested the Chronolord, head now buried beneath the open bonnet of a canary-yellow, four-seater convertible roadster of Edwardian design; its registration plate reading W4NK 1.
"What are you tinkering with now, Doctor - I thought Bessie was working again? Didn't you repair her after the incident with the Auto-Eroticon invasion?" replied Joy.
She was a stunningly attractive, small, slender young lady of twenty-one years; somewhat Scandinavian in appearance with large azure eyes and flawless fair skin; dimpled cheeks and full, fleshy lips framed by shoulder-length blonde hair; attired in a claret-coloured roll neck sweater, its figure-hugging form highlighting the curvy contours of her torso, with white denim mini skirt and matching coloured knee-length leather boots.
"Bessie? Her? What on Falligray are you babbling about, Joy?" frowned the Doctor, "Are you referring to the Shag Wagon? Because I've told you before, it's a stud muffin mobile - not some girly bimbo barge!"
"If you say so, Doctor!" giggled the girl.
Joy Grunt had joined TWIT some months earlier, hired as an assistant to the Doctor after the previous employee occupying the position, Lesbia Forshaw, hadn't worked out; the young lady, fairly masculine in appearance and mannerisms, having made it quite clear she would not be requiring the Chronolord's companionship outside of hours prior to receiving her P45. Joy possessed no practical experience or qualifications relating to a scientific background, her only duties comprising of occasionally handing the Chronolord items of equipment as and when required, fetching cups of tea and generally making the exiled time traveller look good by constantly requesting explanations as to what was transpiring at any given moment.
"Oh bugger, I seem to have dropped my sonic Swiss Army knife again, Joy - be a dear and pick it up for me, would you?" requested the Chronolord, "You know what my old back's like!"
"Honestly, Doctor - that's the umpteenth time you've dropped it today!" sighed Joy, blissfully unaware she was bending down only to afford the Doctor an eyeful of her pert posterior.
"Thank you, Joy!" beamed the Doctor, "And in answer to your question, I'm just making a few minor modifications, that's all!"
"What sort of modifications, Doctor?" enquired the attractive assistant.
"Well, I had a young lady passenger run out on me the other night before I'd managed to charm the knickers off her, you see - so I'm trying to create some sort of forcefield to ensure it can't happen again!" he explained.
"When will you be finished?" wondered Joy, "Only there's an old black and white movie I wanted to watch this evening - I was hoping you'd join me!"
"I don't appear to have the parts I require to continue any further, so it looks like I'm done with tinkering for today!" he replied, wiping oily palms upon an old rag, "Well, parts of the automobile variety, anyway! I still retain all the equipment I need to undertake another type of tinkering - what do you say, Joy?"
"I thought you'd never ask!" grinned the girl, hopping up onto the Shag Wagon's bonnet.
The Doctor proceeded to unfasten his overalls, allowing them to slip down about his ankles; exposing the angry red weal caused by the overly-tight Time Tag.
"Going commando, Joy?" he smiled, slipping down the girl's mini skirt to reveal no knickers beneath, "How appropriate, given that we're on a military base! Well, you'd best brace yourself against the bombardment of my balls, because my old cannon is about to blast open the gates of Fort Fanny!"
The Chronolord thrust back and forth firmly with a regular pelvic rhythm, the shaft of his ramrod penetrating deeper and deeper into the dark, damp depths of the girl's gaping growler; Joy jubilantly exploding in ecstasy all the while.
"It's lucky we're outdoors, Doctor!" groaned the girl in elation, the wetness of her gash gushing over the car's bonnet, "Otherwise this could give a whole new meaning to the term messroom!"
"Ah, Doctor - there you are! Giving the old girl a good servicing, are you?" came the clipped, upper-class tone of Colonel Alastor Letherbridge from somewhere in the vicinity of the vehicle.
"I beg your pardon...?" gasped the Doctor, hastily hauling up his overalls.
"The car, Doctor! You're fixing it up I see!" replied the Colonel, turning to face the Chronolord; apparently oblivious to what had taken place mere moments before.
He was a tall man, fast approaching middle-age, with short, neatly-combed dark hair and slim, tidily-trimmed moustache; chestnut brown eyes betraying a somewhat world-weary outlook on life, evident also in the almost permanently peeved expression engraved upon his fairly handsome, chiselled features.
The sometimes sceptical, strictly no-nonsense Commanding Officer of TWIT had initially encountered the Doctor during the attempted invasion of Earth by an alien intelligence known as The Big Knob; its huge, hairy servants the Gronads - robotic beings resembling Yeti with enormous testes dangling between stubby legs - infiltrating the London Underground.
"You off somewhere nice, Letherbridge?" enquired the Chronolord, admiring the Colonel's mess dress consisting of smart, scarlet jacket emblazoned with many medals, black bowtie and waistcoat over crisp white dress shirt; finally a pair of tightly-fitting black trousers and highly-polished boots completing the ensemble.
"Yes, actually - I'm just off to a TWIT function in London! Shan't be back till late, although I daresay you'll be watching that live excavation broadcast by the time I return!"
"What live excavation?" enquired Joy.
"Some barrow out in the back of beyond, Miss Grunt!" explained Letherbridge, "The Devil's Butthole, if memory serves!"
"The Devil's Butthole... now why does that name sound familar...?" muttered the Doctor, gazing off into the distance; a sure sign he was deeply lost in thought.
"And it's live, you say?" enquired Joy, "On the TV, you mean?"
"Yes, on BBC3!" confirmed the Colonel, "Can't say as it interests me, but it'll make a welcome change from all those dreadful Family Fellow cartoons, I'd imagine! Well, my driver's waiting, so I'll see you both later - I hope!"
"What do you suppose he meant by that, Doctor?" pondered Joy, gazing at the departing Colonel crossing the tarmac towards an awaiting TWIT Land Rover.
"Oh, didn't you know, Joy?" grinned the Doctor, "His driver is Private Leak - you know, the weak-bladdered Welshman! Letherbridge will be lucky to reach London by the middle of next month what with all the stops Leak will be making along the way!"
"Oh, I see!" laughed Joy, "So how about it, Doctor - shall we give this excavation a go later? We can watch it on the TV in the canteen!"
"Yes, I suppose so..." sighed the Doctor, the vague recollection of hearing mention of the Devil's Butthole somewhere before still gnawing away at the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, "But first let's go and get ourselves cleaned up before dinner, shall we? Oh bugger, I've dropped my sonic Swiss Army knife again!"
"Honestly, Doctor..." grumbled Joy, stooping once more to retrieve the Chronolord's equipment...