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When the Master landed on Earth, rather than the storage unit on Venus that he had been aiming for, it put a large hole in the first step of his new plan. He needed cash, and the Doctor’s coordinates-lock was effectively cutting him off from his stashes. The Master’s next idea was to sell some of the TARDIS' treasures in order to fund his new plan. This was before the TARDIS locked him out of everywhere except the console room.

All the Master needs is a suit. Oh, he would like to just be given all the technology and power he needs, but he can work for his goodies just as well. Once he has a beautiful tailored suit, the Master can con his way into everything else. He could steal one - he stole the jeans and t-shirt he's wearing now. But stealing a bespoke suit presents some problems. If nothing else, the thief would be very easily identifiable by the measurements the tailor would have kept on file.

So for the suit, the Master needs money, and he’s uninterested in wasting much time in earning it. He knows just the place.


Instant Phone Sex Incorporated is one of the last old giants of the London phone sex market. They have an actual office, rather than just a bunch of employees working from home. They have cards in telephone booths and restrooms, each proclaiming ‘no taboos’ and ‘all needs catered to.’ The Master breezes through the hiring interview with only a minimal application of hypnosis. For his pains, he gets a cubicle and a phone. The phone has three buttons - accept call, end call, and transfer (for if things get threatening in a non-negotiated way). He won't have access to billing information or blackmail material. The Master scowls, his third idea for getting rich quick squashed. It looked like he'll have to do this the hard way.

He slips on his headset and waits for the first call. He wishes he'd brought a book, or at least a crossword. But the call-light flashes quick enough, and the Master hits 'accept.'

"Hello," he purrs. "What can I do for you?"

"Yes, yes, hello," says the Doctor.

The Master's mind screeches to a halt. How had the Doctor found him so quickly?

"Are you still there?" demands the Doctor. "I'm paying a pound a minute, so I'd like to get on with my sexual fantasies."

The voice is deeper, smoother than the Doctor's is now. The Master relaxes as he realizes it has to be a coincidence. This is, what, the Doctor's fourth body?

"Sorry," he says. "Sexual fantasies?" Oh, he'll be able to hold this over the Doctor forever.

"Exactly," says the Doctor. "It's going to take some explanation, but I'm sure you have enough time." He chuckles, a rolling sound that sends shivers up the Master's spine. No, no, no, he's supposed to be stringing the Doctor along, not getting involved himself.

"I've been imprisoned for a crime I didn't commit. I've been strung up by my wrists, hanging in agony for hours as I'm questioned. They're using a torture device on me, and it spikes through my nerve endings like fire." The Doctor's voice drops even lower as he speaks. "Then the Castellan - the chief of security - comes in. That's you, by the way."

"Right," says the Master. This is sounding familiar. Was this what had happened to the Doctor after Goth's assassination of Gallifrey's president? "Am I rescuing you?"

"You did in reality, more or less," says the Doctor, thoughtfully. "But since this is my fantasy, I'd prefer it if you took the torture device and used it yourself."

The Master grins into the headset. Oh, this is good. This is very good.

"Well, criminal," he says. "You won't give yourself up, will you? Let me see if I can change your mind."

"That's good," says the Doctor. "But your voice is all wrong. Can you do, let me think, sort of a Russian accent. More Czech, actually."

The Master suppresses a groan. He remembers this particular Castellan now. An older-bodied Time Lord who had been annoyingly diligent in discovering the President's true killer. The Doctor had been fantasizing about him?

Well, the Master supposes that he had been falling into bits at the time, so he can't blame the Doctor. Much.

"Vell, criminal," tries the Master again. "Let us see how much of this pain you can stand."

"You'll never break me," pants the Doctor, his voice going suddenly weak.

"Oh, but I vill have so much fun tryink," says the Master. Not actually that much fun. Keeping up this ridiculous voice is a lot of work.


The Doctor rings off after twenty-five minutes, having earned the Master almost fifteen pounds. For a reasonably well-made suit, he needs about five hundred pounds. This is going to take a while.

Fortunately, the light on his phone is flashing again. The Master hits the button and adjusts his headset.

"Hello, what can I do for you?"

"Hello," says a soft voice after a brief pause. "You were recommended to me by a... very close friend of mine."

It's another Doctor. The second, the Master thinks - the one with the ill-fitting clothes and the bowl-cut.

"I'm delighted to hear that," says the Master. "What's your pleasure?"

"I’ve lost someone recently," says the Doctor. The softness in his voice is edging into sorrow, and the Master frowns into the microphone. "We'd known each other for a long time, but now he's gone and I never got to tell him how I felt. I was wondering-"

"Of course," says the Master. Ooh, he's going to get to play himself, isn't he? This must be after the Doctor's encounter with the War Chief, before the Master had regenerated out of those awful sideburns and that awful name. "My dear," says the Master, trying to slip into the more cultured way of talking he had back them. "What would you like to tell me?"

"No, that's not quite right," says the Doctor, apologetically. "Could you try to be a little more Scottish?"


After almost an hour of listening to the Doctor's tearful confessions of love for that Jamie, the Master is sick of it. He can't even enjoy the tender descriptions of fucking, since the Doctor keeps fixating on imaginary Jamie's imaginary kilt and throwing the Master out of the scene.

The Master limits himself to saying "och, aye, luvvie," and "dinnae fash yerself," which seem to satisfy the Doctor in terms of Scottishness. His standards aren’t very high.

He gets thirty pounds at the end of it, though. Almost a tenth of the way to his goal.

The next call is another Doctor, this one claiming to remember him from somewhere. The Master isn't sure how he feels about being the Doctor's go-to for pent-up sexual lust. When it's actually directed at other people, that is.

"I'm just going to talk," says the Doctor. "You needn't say anything. You can masturbate, if you like - actually I think I'd quite like that. Would you do that for me, please?"

"Of course," says the Master, with no intention of doing anything but sit. This sixth incarnation had always loved the sound of his own voice, but the Master couldn't say that he'd ever especially appreciated it. Much too pompous for his tastes, obviously.

"Here we go, then," says the Doctor, oblivious to the fact that the Master is judging him. "I enter your darkened room, shucking my coat as I go. You stir in your bed, opening your eyes to see my magnificent frame. You open your mouth to say something, but I dart forward and stop you with a kiss. You stiffen and your hands come up, but then you relax, clutching my lapels instead of pushing me away. You're crumpling my shirt, but I don't care. You've been sleeping naked - waiting for me? No matter. I reach down and grasp your turgid manhood, stroking until you whimper." The Doctor pauses, waiting for the response to his cue.

The Master gives the whimper, not as forced as it might be. As ridiculous as the scenario is, he'd always liked this Doctor best when he was being forceful, and oh, to think of the Doctor doing this one night while the Master was asleep on his own TARDIS. The Master whimpers again, unprompted, his treacherous hand creeping toward his crotch.

"Very good," says the Doctor, warmly. "I reach into my pocket, where I've secreted a tube of fragrant oil. You watch me with heated eyes as I trace my slippery fingers over your entrance. I press into you with one finger, then two, then three, too fast. I'm not gentle. I want you now, and you don't deserve gentleness in any case."

The Master gives a pained moan, and the Doctor makes a pleased sound. The Master has opened his trousers now, but he's managing not to actually touch his erection. He's... just giving it some room. No sense constricting it, even if he's going to ignore the arousal.

"I turn you over and position myself at your entrance, just brushing your hole as I slick myself. You're shivering with anticipation, your muscles straining as you try to relax yourself for me. 'On the count of three' I say, and then I plunge in at 'two' relishing the feel of your surprised tightness. You scream-"

The Master manages a small scream. It won't attract attention, not here. His hand is on his cock, and he wishes he was in private, where he could kneel up and fuck himself on his fingers.

"-and I thrust with all my might, impaling you on my shaft. I could fuck you all night. I will."

The Doctor starts going on about the sheen of sweat on the Master's back and the way his anus ('perfect pink hole') spasms around the Doctor's erection ('massive spear'). It's florid and purple and awful, and the Master's hand is working his cock like it's going out of style. He pants into the receiver, and the Doctor chuckles.

"You can come now," he says, carelessly, and the Master bites off a real scream, a loud one, as he covers his hand with semen.

The Doctor continues to talk, but the Master just sort of murmurs, tiredly. That was the hardest he's come in years.

Not that it’s actually that impressive, given that he was a barely-sexual science-obsessed Human for a while there, but still. The Master feels warm and boneless and disposed to be pleased with the Doctor, no matter how ridiculous and frustrating he is.

"I shoot my hot load into your heart-shaped posterior," says the Doctor, at last. "I grab your curly hair, exposing your neck and bite, bite, oh Rassilon's knickers, Maxil-"

The Master goes cold. Stupid, stupid, of course it was another one of the Doctor's crushes all along.

The Doctor rings off not long after, having given up a full thirty pounds plus a fifteen pound tip to the suit fund. The Master says goodbye and then stares at the mess he's made of his only pair of stolen jeans.

"Bathrooms on the left," says his shift manager, Jennifer, looking in on her way by. "Don't worry about it, it happens to everyone. Especially the first day."

"Thanks," says the Master, a little sullenly, before going to make use of the sinks.


The light is flashing again when the Master gets back, on-off-on-off, until the Master’s sure the caller will give up. But it keeps flashing, and eventually the Master settles himself and hits the button.

"Yes?" he says, still a little annoyed with himself and the Doctor.

"Yes, is this the right number? I'm trying to work out a fantasy." The words are fast, the voice a little airy. It's another one of them - the eighth Doctor, this time.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" asks the Master. He tries to make his voice sound interested, or at least not obviously hostile. He really does not want to talk to the Doctor, but this is paying.

"Oh, wait-" There's a muffled sound as the Doctor covers the receiver. Not very well, given that the Master can still hear the Doctor's voice. "Just a moment, Charlie, I'm busy."

"Are you really talking to a prostitute?"

"A very nice sex worker, Charlie, now go play with C'rizz or something.” There’s a huff of surprise and footsteps. “I'm sorry about that," says the Doctor, returning to the phone.

"Not at all," says the Master, amused despite himself. This Doctor could always be so much fun, when he wasn't thwarting the Master's designs on his body or fighting in doomed wars.

"Anyway," says the Doctor, "I've been having this dream where I'm an adorable rabbit and I, as rabbits do, desperately need to have sex with another rabbit. Frankly, I'm finding it a bit disturbing. Do you think we could play it out so that I can stop thinking about it? I mean, I realize catharsis is a discredited psychological concept, but then again, my brain doesn't always work the same way as other people's do."

"All right," says the Master. On the other hand, he'd forgotten how weird this Doctor was. "I'm ready."

"Excellent. So, I'm hopping around, twitching my nose and looking for carrots. Oh, I'm a white rabbit, by the way. With black ears, I should think. What sort of rabbit are you?"

"Brown," says the Master, and pinches the bridge of his nose.


The Master takes a break after finishing that session. There's being a sex worker and there's having to participate in excruciatingly detailed rabbit sex, and his tolerance for the first is much much higher than his tolerance for the latter.

He supposes pretending to be a rabbit should be approximately the same as pretending to be a Human. They're both mammals, after all. He thinks about it for a while, sipping on a cup of awful coffee he made in the break room. After a while, he has to consciously stop himself from thinking about it.

He's had twenty minutes off, now, and he's only earned about a hundred and ten pounds. Back to work.

The light is already flashing when the Master gets to his cubicle. He sits down hastily and jams his headset on.


"Ah, yes, hello." The voice is nervous but immediately recognizable. It's the beige one, the fifth incarnation. "Tell me, do you have access to the internet?"

"No-o," says the Master. He looks around his bare cubicle, as if a laptop might be hiding in the corner. "Is that necessary?"

"I'm afraid it is rather," says the Doctor. "I can wait while you find a connection."

"Just a moment," says the Master. He sets down his headset and goes to find Jennifer. He's back in ten minutes with a tiny notebook computer and a pledge not to get 'anything' on it, or at least disinfect the computer after.

"Still there?" he asks the headset.

"Yes," responds the Doctor. "Everything ready? Now, do a search for the novel 'My Secret Life.' You should be able to find the full text. Go to chapter twenty-seven."

The Master finds the book easily enough. It is, the housing website announces, 'The Sex Diary of a Victorian Gentleman.'

The Master smirks a little. This is exactly what he has always imagined this version of the Doctor enjoying. Sitting in his library, reading pornography from a repressed era. The addition of the Master to this ritual is somewhere between gratifying and frustrating.

The Master scrolls past chapter titles such as 'Virginity Slaughtered' and 'The Hairy Bum Furrow.' The chapter the Doctor wants is headed 'A Convalescent Amusement.'

"Read it to me," says the Doctor. His voice is tight, in contrast to how comfortable the other Doctors have been. "Fifth paragraph down."

"Providence has made the continuation of the species depend on a process of a coupling the sexes, called fucking," reads the Master. He feels a little self-conscious about this. This is the Doctor he had created, killing off the last incarnation (the masochist one with the crush on the Castellan, adds that annoying bit of his brain which will never forget). He forged this man by tipping him off that tower, and he’d never really understood the result. This is his chance. "Fucking,” repeats the Master. “It is performed by two organs.”

The Doctor murmurs something, indistinctly.

The Master scans the rest of the paragraph as he continues to read. This is a tech manual. This is a tech manual for sex.

"The prick, broadly speaking, is a long, fleshy, gristly pipe."

This is legitimately disgusting. But the Doctor is moaning breathily into the receiver, and the Master decides he isn't going to judge. No, he's going to cross his own time line as soon as possible and let his past self know about this Doctor's penchant for fucking by the book. He can do it without upsetting history. Whatever the Doctor may think about his own importance, his sex life is not a fixed point in time.

His past self is probably desperate enough for the Doctor to actually try this. It's not doing anything for the Master right now. The Master thinks that's probably healthy.

"The balls, or stone bag, is a wrinkled skinny bag," says the Master, resolutely keeping his eyes away from his own crotch, "hanging at the root of the prick and a few inches on its under side from the bum hole."

"A little - ah - slower, if you please," says the Doctor. He begins to say something else, but it trails off into a squeaky gasp.

The Master, healthiness aside, really wishes he could ignore the text and enjoy this.

"The stem of the prick is smooth," he reads, "and usually free from hair until towards the point at which it connects with the belly and balls."


The Doctor has him read the whole chapter before hanging up. The Master shakes himself and gives the notebook back to Jennifer.

"No accidents?" she asks, handling the computer suspiciously.

"No danger of that," mutters the Master, and tells her he's going home.


When he comes back the next morning, the Master's not sure if he's hoping for another day of Doctors or not. On the one hand, easyish money and insights into his greatest enemy. On the other hand, the encounters so far have been incredibly intense or incredibly frustrating or incredibly weird. Or all three. Probably all three.

In the end the Master can't decide if he wants Doctors or not, but it doesn't matter. He gets Doctors anyway.

The one on the phone first is one the Master doesn't recognize. He might be a future Doctor, or one that the Master missed while hiding from the War. This Doctor has a rough voice with a northern accent, and it makes the Master wonder whether the Doctor looks rough enough to fit it.

"I want you to insult me," the Doctor says. He's not emotional about it, just matter-of-fact. "Abuse. I deserve it."

"Okay," says the Master. Easiest job ever.

"You're a fucking coward," he begins, leaning back in his chair, "who runs away at the first sight of anything serious. You play with children and animals because they're the only ones who will take your bullshit. Also, your clothing is generally awful. You should consider hats in order to hide the monstrosity you frequently claim is hair."

"...That's a bit specific," says the Doctor. "I meant more like swear at me."

"Oh," says the Master. "Um."

"Having love troubles?" The Doctor's voice is filled with amusement and sympathy all of a sudden. It's a stark contrast to his earlier emptiness. "No, go on. This is... this is good."

"I hate you," says the Master, haltingly. "You ruin everything of mine that you've ever touched."

"I don't want to," says the Doctor, flat, as if it doesn't matter.

"Don't fucking lie to me," says the Master, and tells the Doctor exactly what he's always thought of him.

The Doctor takes it all, not like the punishment he'd probably wanted. It's too nice for that. The Master keeps throwing words at the Doctor's murmured understanding until he doesn't have anything else that he wants to say. Until he's just gulping back what he doesn't want to say.

"You should talk to him," says the Doctor. "Or her. Not like this, maybe. But life is short, and you don't realize it. You never know who you'll lose."

"Yeah, right," says the Master, and hangs up first.


When the light flashes again not long after, the Master is reluctant to hit accept. Yesterday was fun, and then weird, and now today has started off with feelings. Uck.

But he's got a hundred and fifty pounds out of five hundred and he's going to make this work. Yes.


"Eh? Is this the, hem, sex hotline?"

"Right," says the Master. He doesn't recognize this voice either. It's an elderly one, full of half-starts and stutters.

"Excellent, excellent. Now, I don't have very much time, my fellow- what's your name?"

"Harry," says the Master. That's what was on his application for this job, anyway.

"Making things up," says the Doctor, clear and cold, and the Master has him. It's been a very long time since he heard the voice of the Doctor's first body in their proper time lines. And he had sounded a little different when they crossed paths later on - time distortions, probably.

There's a pause, and then the Doctor continues, his voice stumbling amiably along again.

"I suppose that's what I want from you, hey? Making things up. Let me see..."

The Master waits, tapping his fingers nervously. He'd always wondered what the Doctor thought of after they first left each other all those centuries ago. He'll finally know.

The Doctor draws a breath, loud in the receiver. The Master leans forward, as if he were actually sitting across from the Doctor, watching him prepare to reveal his early fantasies.

"My arms are transformed into tentacles," says the Doctor, thoughtfully. "Fifteen of them. I love a good shokushu goukan, don’t you, Larry?"

The Master is pretty sure this is what an out of body experience feels like.

"They're covered in convenient slime, of course," says the Doctor.


The Master makes it through a two hour conversation in a sort of haze. He briefly wonders how the Doctor got rid of Susan for so long, and then firmly stops thinking at all. Nothing good will come of it.

He's determined to take a break as soon as the Doctor hangs up, but the call light starts flashing again right away. The Master's hand hovers over the accept button.

Okay, he's never been good at pacing himself. He hits the button.

"What year is it?" demands the Doctor. It's a commanding, slightly bitchy voice, characteristic of his third incarnation.

"Two thousand... hold on," says the Master. His cubicle is still as empty as it was when he needed a laptop. Where's a convenient newspaper when you need one? He stands up, peering over into the next cubicle. "Hey," he hisses at the man sitting there, "what year is it?"

"Oh my God, Mister Gladstone." The man points at his headset, then holds up his index finger. "You can rescue me from a life of sin anytime." He covers his headset's microphone with one hand. "Two thousand five."

"Thanks," says the Master, and ducks back down. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," says the Doctor. "Your callers have some bizarre fantasies, don't they?"

"You could say that," says the Master, wasting his perfectly straight face on this audio-only connection. "I meant the year."

"Yes." The Doctor's voice is filled with triumph now. "I have surpassed the limits of my prison! Not by much, but, honestly, I'll take what I can get. Can you describe where you are to me?"

"I suppose." The Doctor must still be trapped on Earth. The Master knows that he hadn't had much luck getting his TARDIS working before the Master showed up. "It's just one of those cubicles with a phone in it."

"Oh, we have those now," says the Doctor, disappointed. "Wait. This phone - is it one with an electronic display?"

"Right." The Master tips the phone up so he can see it better. "LED display and everything. Caller ID, probably. That's turned off to protect your privacy."

"And personal computers?" The Doctor's voice is hungry, now.

"I was using my manager's yesterday," says the Master.

"Tell me."

"It's a notebook laptop, about as big as a small textbook." The Master is pretty sure he should sound confused, but he's slipping fast toward seductive, his voice becoming husky. He can understand the desire for even primitive technology, when you're trapped in a time before microprocessors. "I needed a specific text for a client, so I just connected to a wireless internet signal."

"Miniaturization," murmurs the Doctor. "Hypertext."

"I used a search application, and found the text on a website that has digitized a few books. I used the touch pad to scroll down the page." The Master lingers on 'scroll,' but actually this part is pretty dull. Starving for development is one thing, but who can get off on interface changes?

"Touch pads, oh. Yes."

The Doctor, apparently. The Master listens in fascination as the Doctor comes apart on the phone, crooning about technology. He isn't sure if the Doctor is approaching physical or mental release, but over the phone it really doesn't matter.

"What did you do then, my fellow?" The Doctor's words are running together, and the Master sucks in a sharp breath.

"I gave the notebook back," he says, drawing the moment out. "My manager plugged it back in to recharge the battery."

"It's lithium, isn't it?"

The Master says nothing, just wanting to hear the Doctor say something else with so much desire. He'd been very attached to this incarnation. All right, to all of the incarnations, but this one actually needs something specifically from him and it's intoxicating.

Possibly he should have been thinking about the phone sex job like this the whole time.

"Come on, man," says the Doctor. "Lithium?"

"Six-cell lithium ion polymer," says the Master, and the Doctor gives a stifled shout. The Master imagines him biting his hand, trying to keep his UNIT coworkers from hearing him.

The Master grins and puts his feet up on his desk. He wants a cigar after all this.

"Tell me," says the Doctor, still wrung-out and panting, "tell me about organ transplants. They'll have worked out the immune system suppression by your time."

"Um." The Master skips straight from satisfaction to worry. He was not prepared for this. Unlike some people, he's not obsessed with Earth history. "Give me a second."

"Cyclosporine," says the Doctor, with that hungry voice again, and the Master is already frustrated with his insatiability.

Which is a sentence he never thought he'd ever conceive of.


It's been a long, long day by the time the Master gets the Doctor off the phone again. He had to borrow Jennifer's laptop once again and spend about an hour on wikipedia. He now knows more than he'd ever wanted to about Human medical technology and late twentieth century advances in astronomy.

The Doctor had almost cried with joy while the Master read the article about the Hubble Space Telescope. The Master had never realized telescopes were really that useful in sex, except as innuendo or possibly extremely disastrous dildos.

In any case, the Master's got 250 pounds now, halfway to his goal, and he's so sick of the Doctor's sex life. Every time he thinks he's getting used to it, nope, it gets weirder. He's done. Finished. He's going to just go out and mug someone.

The light flashes.

He's going to leave right now.
The light flashes again.

The Master hits accept.

"I'm not doing anything else weird," he announces.

"Of course," answers the Doctor, mildly. It's the seventh Doctor, made obvious by his stolen Scottish accent. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to."

"Hah," says the Master, dragged down so far that he will actually say 'hah.' "Right, what do you want then?"

"To talk," says the Doctor. "And what do you want?"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds," says the Master, straight-to-the-point. One of them has to be, and it's not going to be this Doctor.

"That could be arranged," says the Doctor. "Nothing 'weird.' Unless you want it, that is."

The Master waits, wary.

"Tell me about yourself. What do you look like?"

"Brown hair," says the Master, ruffling his hand through it. "Short. Skinny little body, not sure I'm pleased with that. Nice face, though." He thinks back to his time spent in front of the TARDIS' bathroom mirror. "Pretty good grin."

"Mhm." The Doctor sounds pleased about something. "I've never met you."

"No," says the Master, unnerved again. He needs to do better at playing the dull human sex worker. "This is just by phone. I'm not open to anything else."

"I'm sorry," says the Doctor. "I was just thinking aloud."

"Whatever." The Master drums his fingers on his desk, jittery from trying to work out what's going on. This Doctor's twisty mind rivaled his own for incomprehensibility.

"What do you want?" asks the Doctor again.


"I'll give you your two hundred and fifty pounds if you tell me what your fantasy is," says the Doctor. "You can lie if you like, as long as I can't tell."

"Thanks," says the Master, dryly. "Done. Let me think."

He has no intention of telling the Doctor the truth, even with his anonymity. He’s not about to make himself as vulnerable as the Doctor has done, revealing his deepest wishes to a supposedly uninvolved party. So the Master ignores the sincere and heads straight for the ludicrous.

"I've had dreams about motorcycles," says the Master, and he doesn't miss the Doctor's cut-off laugh. "Can you imagine being fucked on a motorcycle while racing down the highway? Because I can. I'd sit myself down on his cock-"

"-my cock," interrupts the Doctor. "Or don't I get a place in your fantasy?"

This is actually one the only Doctors the Master's ever seen on a motorbike. He supposes that's what put the image into his mind. It's becoming more vivid now, the shorter, dark-haired Doctor replacing the faceless man who had previously occupied the motorcycle's second seat.

"Fine," says the Master, admiring the way the imaginary Doctor looks in leather. "I lean forward in my seat, gripping tight to the handlebars. You get me ready and I start the engine as you push in. I take your cock, all of it, the vibration between my thighs making my eyes roll back. You curl your hands around mine as the motorcycle starts moving. Each buck of the bike on the ground makes a tiny thrust into me, and then your feet brace against the pegs and you thrust properly." The Master has never considered this before, but actually this is really hot. "My hands twist on the handlebars and my legs spasm, and we go faster."

"And then we crash," says the Doctor, adept as ever at puncturing a surprisingly good idea. "I'd think it might be wiser to try stationary motorcycle sex instead."

"That's reality," says the Master. "This is fantasy. I haven't made fun of any of yours." He's already mentally cursing as soon as he finishes talking. He's not supposed to know that all of his callers have been the same person. No human would be able to tell based on voice alone.

"No, you haven't made fun of me," says the Doctor, soothingly. "Which is why you'll be safe if you tell me an actual fantasy."

"You said I could make it up," says the Master, not sure if he's gotten away with anything.

"I said," says the Doctor, archly, "That you could lie if I didn't notice. I noticed."

There's silence for a while. The Master has no idea what to do next, and the Doctor doesn't seem inclined to give him any more hints.

The Master decides to just go with honesty for once, if only because he's already tried inventiveness.

"I want to be talking," says the Master, slowly. "And then I want you to kiss me. I want you to be desperate for me. I want you to be pulling at my clothes. I want to fuck you, and I want to see what you look like when you come harder than you ever have in your life. And then, when we're done, I want you to look at me and not be disgusted."

"I'm not disgusted with you," says the Doctor, and the Master knows he knows.

"I know," says the Master. "You're disgusted with yourself."

The Doctor doesn't say anything, just huffs a little sigh into the receiver.

"When did you figure it out? Is that why you've all been calling the last two days? To laugh at me?" The Master's angry, but his voice is calm, poisonous. He didn't realize this body was capable of that.

"I call because I like you," says the Doctor. "They're so bunched together because the next day my fifth self calls and you're not there. And my first self made a call a few days before, and you weren't there either. I know the parameters of your employment, and all my selves are trying to crowd each other off the switchboard. Like skylarks trying to catch your attention. Or vultures trying to get as much as they can of a good thing before it's gone."

"You didn't answer my first question," says the Master, ignoring the metaphor.

"I might have always known," says the Doctor, thoughtfully. "But I didn't really figure it out until just now, when you were talking about your body. You're not used to it yet. Did you just regenerate?"

"I'm not answering that," says the Master. "Why are you falling over yourself to call a sex line?"

"I have the money," says the Doctor, as lacking in guile as the regeneration ever could be. "Or someone else's credit card. And," he pauses, long enough that the Master wonders if something's happened. "And I get lonely. I'm sitting in my chair, and the TARDIS is dark, and I want another voice. Your voice."

The Master gives it to him, because at least one of them should get their wish. Maybe he'll get his as well, someday. Maybe not.

Today he gets a long conversation with the Doctor, and then he takes his paycheck and gets measured for his suit. It's a start.


A year later, the Master has a closet full of five-hundred pound suits and is rocketing his way up through government. He's sitting by the fire with a glass of scotch when it occurs to him.

The Doctor who had wanted abused knew he was calling the Master. He was later than the seventh Doctor, because the Master didn’t recognize him, and he knew.

The Master takes a moment to consider exactly how embarrassing that was, and what exactly it says about the Doctor's masochism and manipulative streak. That moment starts to drag into a rather long series of moments, before another thought occurs.

The Doctor knew exactly who he was calling for the rabbit sex as well.

The Doctor is either the most perverted or the most sadistic person in the universe. The Master's not sure which of those traits is responsible for the grin spreading across his face.

He is sure that he's going to take the first opportunity to get back at the Doctor for all of this.


Two years later, the Doctor sits in his dog house, a prisoner of an incarnation of the Master who's turned out to be a politician as well as a sex worker. It's been made very clear exactly why he's been aged and given a bowl of his very own.

He wishes his eighth self hadn't had so many bloody whims. And perhaps not forgotten important things quite so often.

If he'd been in full possession of his sense back then, the Doctor is one hundred percent sure that he wouldn't have called the Master. Well. Eighty percent.

Who is he kidding? The rabbit sex had been amazing.