The Orgasmos

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

Volume 6 in the Doctor Wank series of misadventures

© 2015 Jo Doyle

In the deepest, darkest depths of the void, the Astrid slipped swiftly and silently through the vast vortex of the space/time continuum. In appearance, the often unreliable Type-20 time and space travelling craft resembled a rectangular box, silver in colour, roughly the same dimensions of an outdated police public call box found once upon a time on the streets of the planet Earth. Within the Astrid's interior, far greater than its exterior, lay the vast, high-ceilinged control room, at the heart of which stood the central console; huge and hexagonal, resting upon a pedestal containing the complex inner workings, its surface a mass of brightly lit, frequently flashing switches and dials, long-handled levers and many computer keyboards. At its apex sat the central column, its regular rising and falling motion a sure indication the Astrid was in flight. Before the control console, busily punching a series of coordinates into the directional units, stood the mysterious wanderer known only as the Doctor; currently clad only in a pair of brightly coloured Bermuda shorts.
The self-imposed exile of the planet Falligray, home to his people the Chronolords, ran gnarled fingers through grizzled, balding hair brushed back from his deeply furrowed brow, a smile slowly spreading across his heavily-lined features. 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.
Currently, the Chronolord and his companions were returning from an unscheduled stopover upon the planet Sexxilon; the Astrid drawn down towards the harsh, inhospitable world, its surface a sea of swirling sand dunes, by an unknown loss of power. Initially mistaking the planet for the popular holiday destination of Floramarj, the Doctor had discovered the source of the energy drain afflicting the Astrid whilst waylaid; a most magnificent marble city, the impressive erection topped by a purple-headed beacon maintaining the structure through the use of bootlegged power from passing spacecraft. However before the Chronolord could disable the beacon, he had been forced at spearpoint to mate with the daughter of the Sexxilon peoples' High Priest; the hostile, once highly advanced yet now primitive, sex-mad savages inhabiting the planet. Fortunately, the arrival of the Doctor's sworn enemies, the Dialadix, had interrupted the enforced wedding ceremony that ensued; allowing the Chronolord to continue with his efforts into escaping the planet. Yet since departing Sexxilon, K-Y, the Doctor's loyal, logical little canine computer, had since remained motionless within a corner of the control room; his power cells still not fully recharged after experiencing the energy drain.
"There we are, bound once more for adventures anew, Jaime!" beamed the Doctor as the Astrid continued upon its travels through the inky void of time and space, addressing the Scots girl standing beside him attired only in a two-piece tartan bikini; a stunningly attractive, slender, strawberry blonde girl of eighteen years, with sparkling sapphire eyes and a faint cluster of freckles creeping across the bridge of her button nose.
"Now come along and join me in the shower," continued the Chronolord, "I'll scrub the sand from your back and... ahem... any crevices it may have crept into!"
"Aye, alright!" agreed Jaime, accompanying the Chronolord, "But dinnae rub hard, Ah've got awfy bad sunburn all o'er mah boobs!"
"Oh, don't worry about that, Jaime - I've some of my own special cream I'm going to massage into your breasts!" grinned the Doctor with a wink.
Jaime McCrivvens had joined the Doctor many months before, after initially encountering the time traveller upon the present day streets of her native Glasgow. The Scots girl had assisted the Chronolord in defeating an invading army of aliens known as the Auto Eroticons; strange, sexual beings composed almost entirely of a living plastic. The aliens had infiltrated Earth disguised as a whole host of well-known celebrity supermodels, their plastic appearance utterly indistinguishable from the real thing; before the Doctor, ably assisted by Jaime, had put paid to their attempts at global domination.
Leading the smiling, sandy Scots girl by the arm, the Doctor headed along the lengthy, labyrinthine layout of interconnecting corridors deep within the Astrid's dimensionally transcendental interior, towards the enormous bathroom; its interior housing a huge, heated swimming pool serving as its bath. Once within the shower, Jaime sighed in sensual satisfaction as the Doctor gently massaged the exposed surfaces of her bare breasts and buttocks beneath the luke warm water; an accumulation of wet sand soon surrounding the plughole of the shower.
"Can ye open the curtains, Doctor?" requested Jaime, "Ah dinnae like 'em closed - it feels kind o' claustrophobic!"
"Oh, trust me, I'm about to part the flaps, I can assure you!" confirmed the Chronolord; soon, the chubby digits of his right hand slowly crept their way towards the Scots girl's gushing gash to engage in a spot of clit carressing, Jaime panting in pleasure as the Chronolord rapidly thrust gnarled, wrinkled old fingers back and forth.
"Can ye gie mah back a wee scrub noo, Doctor? Ah'll pass ye the loofah!" requested Jaime, "Help m'boab, Ah've got shampoo in mah eyes - Ah cannae see a thing!"
Fumbling blindly, the Scots girl's fingers flexed around a long, wrinkly object and, mistaking it for a loofah, squeezed firmly; the Doctor emitting a faint pant of pleasure as she did so.
"Och, it seems tae be stuck!" grumbled the squinting Scots girl, "Nae bother, Ah'll gie it a good tug!"
"Phwoar... yes, you do that!" cackled the Chronolord, "No, wait - don't!"
The Doctor howled in agony as the Scots girl attempted to wrench free the object in her fingers; immediately he collapsed in a groaning heap upon the cubicle floor.
"Jings, are ye alright, Doctor?" enquired Jaime, rubbing her eyes in desperation, "Did ye slip an' hurt yasel' or somethin'? Och, Ah would gie ye a wee hand but Ah cannae see whit Ah'm daein'!"
"No... thank you... no more hands..." winced the Doctor, hauling himself to his haunches as he leaned against the cubicle wall for support.
"What a sandy hole you've got, Doctor!" exclaimed the overly-eager voice of a young male, the head of whom now appeared between the partition of the shower curtains, "Would you like me to give it a wipe down for you?"
"What? No, certainly not, you stupid boy!" raged the red-faced Chronolord furiously, "Get out, Godric!"
"I was only wondering if you wanted me to clean the sand out of the plughole..." mumbled the admonished youth.
Godric had joined the Astrid's crew following a visit to the swamp planet of Fulsurkk, albeit as a stowaway. The Doctor had attempted on countless occasions to drop subtle hints to the sixteen year-old that his continued presence aboard the Astrid was far from desired; however his constant misgivings had seemingly fallen upon deaf ears. Thusly, the unusually thick-skinned Fulsurkkian continued to frequently appear unannounced within various areas of the Astrid's interior, often at the most inopportune of occasions. He was a rather cross-eyed individual, doubtless the product of inbreeding; the large oval face and borderline-retarded expression framed by locks of collar length dark hair, the style somewhat medieval in appearance. On the left breast side of his beige flannel tunic flopped a fairly cheap looking star-shaped badge the boy insisted had been awarded for Academical Excellence by his own people; however the Doctor remained firmly under the impression the tacky trinket had most likely fallen from a Christmas cracker or, failing that, given away as a novelty by some fast food restaurant chain or other.
"Sorry about that, Jaime..." sighed the Doctor, as Godric shambled out of the bathroom, "Now, where were we?"
"Och it's nae guid Doctor, Ah'm no' in the mood nae muir!" grumbled Jaime, "That wee pudden poppin' up all o'er the place is a proper passion killer, sae he is! Can ye nae get locks fitted?!"
With that, the sulky, soaking-wet Scots girl stepped out of the shower to dry herself, before dressing in her usual attire of T-shirt emblazoned with an image of The Proclaimers, mini kilt and sporran traditionally worn with no knickers beneath; finally slipping a pair of clumpy, well-worn Dr Marten boots upon her feet.
As Jaime stormed out of the bathroom in a fit of frustration, the Doctor emerged from the shower to dress; his claret-coloured cardigan; cream, cotton shirt and black trousers neatly folded upon a wicker chair where they had remained ever since arriving upon Sexxilon; slipping on a pair of comfortable crimson carpet slippers once he had attired himself.
"How may I serve you, Master?" squeaked the voice of a somewhat small, attractive, tanned girl with large, chestnut eyes and long, raven hair cascading about her exposed shoulders; approaching the Doctor, the softly-padding soles of her bare feet produced no noticeable sound as she sashayed towards him, her slight and slinky form scantily clad in a highly revealing loincloth.
"Cleo, be a dear and give the shower a good scrub, would you?" smiled the Doctor, addressing the eighteen year-old.
Cleo had accompanied the Chronolord ever since he had rescued the girl from the brutal beatings administered by a particularly cruel, calculating High Priestess of the Temple of Horus in ancient Egypt, where she had served as a handmaiden. In the time that had elapsed, the Doctor had found many uses for those soft, slender hands; for Cleo obeyed without question his every command, regarding her Master as a God dwelling within his mysterious temple that travelled to many strange places; the likes of which the serving girl could not begin to comprehend.
"The Great God visited me again in my resting chamber last night, Master!" beamed Cleo, "He bestowed upon me a mighty offering unto my Inner Temple of Love, just as you promised he would!"
"Well, that's good, Cleo!" confirmed the Chronolord, "For it is a sign of how far along the path of spiritual enlightenment you have travelled under my expert, hands-on guidance!"
"Truly you are a most wonderful and wise prophet, Master!" squeaked the excited serving girl, "Do you think The Great God will bless me with another visit tonight? For you instructed me that I must accept his offerings unquestioningly, if my soul is to be saved in the next life!"
"Oh, I can pretty much guarantee he will visit you again tonight, Cleo..." grinned the Doctor with a knowing wink, "In fact, at roughly the same time as I myself have retired for the evening, I'd imagine..."
With these words, the Doctor left the beaming serving girl to carry out her cleaning duties; returning to the control room...