Her robe fell gently to the floor, and there they stood: two naked figures bathed in moonlight. Even at this distance, she could feel the warmth of his body pulsing with desire, perfectly in sync with her own. She leapt into his arms and they sank together into the soft blankets of the canopy bed. Skin touched skin. Two became one.
And then they smooched for a while, with tongue and everything, and then they did the sex.
And there were no complaints; none at all. He knew exactly what he was doing, and had done so many times before.
Minutes later, they lay together in the afterglow, overcome with definitely-mutual satisfaction. She quietly admired and caressed his semi-erect manhood, noting with an impish glee that at full length it would comfortably fit within the average size range cited in several peer-reviewed scientific studies, if you factor in the margin of error on the lower end of the scale, cited in the Journal of Sex & Marital Therapy, 2021, volume 47 issue 1. Pages 68-70.
These passionate thoughts suddenly dissolved into a new surge of erotic bliss as he expertly cupped both of her ample breasts. Not that he had any curiosity to satisfy — he knew exactly what lady boobs looked and felt like — but because he knew how much it would please her. And sure enough, her nethers were fiercely aroused in a way that doesn’t need detailing. Everybody knows how that works, and none more than him.
With confidence and control, he picked her up by the dainty teacup-sized waist, carried her to the kitchen without too much audible exertion, and romantically sat her down on the chilly laminex benchtop, where they did it again (the sex).
“You are very good at this,” she said when they were done, referring to the sex. “Just thunderingly sensual. You put all your bits into mine correctly, and I didn’t have any reason to laugh at all — nor you, my love, any reason to cry in shame, which you would never do.”
He didn’t respond; just stared at the ceiling in stoic silence, adrift in his own complex and very interesting male thoughts. The sun was rising outside, its pink warmth glistening off the sweat upon each of his individual neckbeard prickles. For the first time, she noticed that he looked completely identical to the young man she turned down in freshman year. If only she could apologise for rejecting him so meanly. She just didn’t understand what a nice guy he was. It was a burden she would just have to carry for the rest of her life.
Alas, the planet Earth and the 21st century were beyond reach. With the TARDIS navigation systems hijacked by the Time Lord Celestial Intervention Agency, they remained lost adventurers in space and time, righting wrongs and liberating repressed worlds with their sexually-charged escapades.
“Now, Natasha,” said the Doctor. “Where to next? Shall we visit the Planet of the Nymphomaniacs? Or take another jaunt at the Sex-Spas of Raxacoricophalapatorius?”
“Stop,” she interrupted, placing a delicate, waiflike finger to his ruggedly semi-chapped lips. “Tell me again about your cryptocurrency investments. I find them very, very erotic.”