Clara Oswald was not entirely sure what she was doing sat on a slightly sticky sofa at the back of a dingy gay bar in Soho. Or, at least, she knew why she was there in a broad sense — she’d been invited, after all — but she wasn’t overly certain why she’d actually agreed to come. She was getting too old for nights out, and hen dos certainly weren’t her thing, but her best friend was getting married and this was apparently a prerequisite for attending the wedding, thus here she was. Forcing a smile and adjusting her overly sparkly dress in an attempt to avoid flashing the girl sat opposite her, whose name Clara had learned and immediately forgotten, she resolved to try and enjoy herself, come what may.
Beside her, Bill finished the last of her drink and set the empty glass down on the table, before tilting her head to one side and affixing the luridly coloured straws sticking out of the top of it with a critical eye. “You know,” she began, poking at one with a fingertip and looking pensive, “I feel like there is a distinct lack of lesbian hen do merchandise.”
Clara snorted. “There’s probably a reason for that.”
“Which would be…?”
“It’s a lot easier to make penis-shaped drinking implements given that they lend themselves nicely to straws and such… but you can’t use a pair of boobs to drink a cocktail.”
Bill sucked her teeth for a moment, weighing up this point. “I guess,” she said, then grinned wickedly at her friend. “Well, you can. Just not in a way that’s strictly appropriate to do in public.”
Clara smirked. “Point. Then again, it is dark, so if you fancied giving it a go using me as a demonstration model, I’m sure no one would notice. Or object.”
Bill thumped her friend lightly on the shoulder, and Clara uttered a tokenistic noise of complaint.
“Clara!” Bill protested, giving her a mostly reproachful look that was tinged with amusement. “I’m getting married next week!”
“Yes, and I’m volunteering to be your entirely platonic cocktail drinking implement.”
“You need to get laid,” Bill told her sternly. “And soon. When was the last time you actually took a nice girl home?”
“I don’t do nice girls,” Clara reminded her, rolling her eyes heavily, but casting her mind back nonetheless. There had been that Scottish woman she’d met at the local kink night; the surprisingly dirty-minded blonde girl she’d encountered in a shop and done unspeakable things with in the changing rooms; Nina, for old time’s sake; and then… ah, yeah. The smirking substitute physics teacher from work, four months prior. Clara had ended that encounter with more bruises than had been entirely reasonable, and she’d spent a paranoid week at work wearing the highest-collared blouses she could manage. “But… a while.”
“Well then, we definitely need to get you a nice girl. I’m sure there’s some here tonight, you should go and mingle.”
“But it’s your hen do,” Clara protested, although she had to admit that the idea was an appealing one. “I can’t just…”
“I am willing to make sacrifices if it means you don’t make any more comments about your boobs and my mouth being in the vicinity of each other,” Bill deadpanned, then tipped her a playful wink. “Although I don’t mind, Heather might.”
“Where even is Heather?” the woman from across the table piped up — the one Clara had been striving not to flash. “I thought she was coming tonight.”
“She was gonna,” Bill shrugged. “But then she decided she wanted to do her own thing tomorrow night instead.”
“Seems a bit rude,” the woman muttered. “You could’ve had a joint bash.”
“But I wanted to spend time with you guys,” Bill beamed around at the assembled women with a sickening level of sincerity. “And if there were more of us here, you wouldn’t all get as much of my attention.”
“You adorable dork,” Clara said fondly, reaching over and patting her friend’s knee. “I’m going to the bar, does anyone want anything?”
“Could you get a bottle of red?” the woman — Shona? Shaz? Shireen? — asked. “For the table?”
“Sure,” Clara shrugged, resolving to make it two bottles — one for the table, yes, and one for her. If she was going to survive the rest of this hen do, alcohol was a necessity. “Be right back.”
She got to her feet a touch unsteadily in her high heels, swaying on the spot as her sense of balance adjusted, and she was about to step away from the group when she noticed something… unsettling.
There was a police officer approaching them. And not just any police officer: an impossibly tall woman who seemed to be made entirely of legs, with flame-red hair tucked under her helmet and a smirk on her face.
It was the smirk that gave it away to Clara, and she sank back into her seat with a breathless little oh of comprehension. Before Bill could say anything, the woman had reached the group and stepped into their circle of chairs, moving fluidly around the table until she reached Bill and then stopping in front of her. Up close, she seemed even taller, and Clara couldn’t help but gape as the stranger leant down until her face was inches from Bill’s, her smirk contrasting with the bride-to-be’s wide, terrified expression.
“Bill Potts?” she asked in a serious tone, and Clara swallowed as she realised that, much like Missy, this woman was Scottish, and, therefore, more than likely to push her buttons just by talking.
“Y-yeah,” Bill managed to squeak, starting to tremble with fear. “W-what…”
The stranger’s smirk, if anything, intensified. “Well, Miss Potts, it is my understanding that you have been a very, very bad girl.”
With that, she slipped her helmet off, shook out a mane of flame-red hair, and grinned suggestively as the assembled hens shrieked with glee, realising at last what was about to happen.
“Oh,” Bill began, looking a touch overwhelmed at the prospect of receiving a lap dance from someone with such an improbable amount of leg. “My. Actual. God.”
“It’s not God you’ll want to be thanking,” the stranger said, unclipping a portable speaker from her belt, setting it down on the table and pressing Play. “It’s your lovely housemates, who decided to make up for their absence with... well, me.”
The dulcet tones of Rihanna’s S&M began to play, and the stranger began to gyrate her hips as Bill turned a lurid shade of red and started giggling in a way that Clara would have found acutely embarrassing had it not been for the fact she was entirely transfixed by the red-haired woman and the rhythmic motions of her body.
As the music continued, the dancer unzipped her black equipment vest, shrugging it off until it landed on the table with a dull thunk and rolling her shoulders in perfect time with the music. With practiced ease, she began unbuttoning her white blouse until a crimson bra was visible, and then, in one fluid movement, the shirt was cast aside, fluttering onto Clara’s lap and draping itself over her thighs.
Subconsciously, Clara licked her lips and brought her hands up to twist into the fabric, and it was then that the dancer looked over at her and tipped her a wink. Unable to do much more than gape as the woman continued to dance and Bill continued to giggle like a schoolgirl, Clara could only watch, mesmerised, until the track finished and the woman straightened up, giving a little curtsy to the assembled gleeful women before turning back to Bill.
“Is this your bridesmaid?” the dancer asked, and Clara realised that she was being gestured to. “She looks a little hot under the collar.”
“She is,” Bill grinned wickedly, and it was only then that Clara noticed that the dancer was still clad in her sensible-yet-short black skirt and probably-not-police-issue utility belt. “I think she needs some… ahem, attention.”
“No, I-” Clara tried to protest, but it was too late: the dancer had shifted her focus on to her, one side of her mouth twisted into a smug little grin as she noticed quite how red Clara had gone.
“I’m sure I can do that,” she purred, as the next song came on and she moved to straddle Clara’s legs, her skirt riding perilously high on her hips as she did so. “What do you say?”
Clara was, it seemed, entirely incapable of saying anything as the dancer arched her hips upwards and undid a concealed zip on her skirt, removing it to reveal an impossibly tiny crimson thong that Clara made a valiant attempt to not to stare at too overtly.
“Hey,” the woman breathed, leaning down until her breasts were almost level with Clara’s eye line, but instead cupping her face in her hands and affixing with an expression of great amusement. “Darling, if you want to look, look.”
Clara tried hard to remember how to breathe, and she clenched her fists as the dancer continued her routine, resolving not to make a fool of herself in front of Bill’s colleagues and other friends. She wouldn’t delude herself that this frankly ludicrously attractive woman had anything other than a professional interest in her. She was just doing her job. She was just doing her-
Against her better judgement, Clara found herself reaching up, her hands coming to rest on the woman’s thighs. She knew it was tremendously improper, and some distant part of her brain protested that there was usually a rule against touching, but the dancer only laughed, reaching around her back and removing something from her utility belt. Before Clara could fully comprehend what was happening, she found her wrists cuffed together with a pair of novelty handcuffs, as the woman winked and murmured to her: “Hands off the merchandise, madam.”
Tugging uselessly against the restraints and feeling her face flush as the group laughed at her self-inflicted misfortune, Clara was both disappointed and relieved when the song came to an end. To her considerable surprise, the dancer plonked herself down on her lap and patted her cheek, affixing her with an amused, pitying look that Clara tried exceptionally hard to not find arousing.
“Would you like me to unlock you?” the woman asked, shifting just enough to retrieve her blouse from underneath herself and pulling it back on, leaving it unbuttoned. “Or shall I leave you to stew a little longer?”
“Doesn’t sitting on me count as touching?”
“Well, it’s initiated by me, so that’s different. Babe, if the handcuffs float your boat, I can happily leave you locked in them a little longer.”
“I…” Clara swallowed, unwilling to admit just how much the handcuffs and the proximity to this improbably attractive half-naked woman were turning her on. “I’m alright, thanks.”
“I thought you might be.”
“Do you sit on all your clients?”
“Only the cute ones.”
From her left, Clara was dimly aware that Bill was smirking at her.
“I… I’d get you a drink, but…”
“Not to worry,” the woman got up, rolling her hips just a tad more than necessary as she did so. “What’ll you have?”
“Urm,” Clara blinked, trying to recall anything at all about alcohol. “Surprise me.”
“Oh, I will,” the dancer turned away, and Clara was presented with a superb view of her arse. Dear God, she began silently. If you’re up there, please grant me the willpower necessary to not die in the next five minutes.
Out of a begrudging sense of self-preservation and public decency, Clara decided to protest the dancer’s state of undress, but found herself unable to get further than: “Urm…”
“You can’t… the bar… no clothes…”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” the woman winked, wiggling her arse a little as she did so. “The bartender is an old friend.”
With that, she disappeared in pursuit of drinks, and the assembled women erupted into amused crowing about Clara’s predicament.
“Oh my god,” Bill said once the cacophony had died down a little, chuckling as she looked at her helpless bridesmaid. “Only you could end up handcuffed by my stripper on my hen do.”
“Well,” Clara said, as magnanimously as she was able. “You did say I needed to meet someone. And get laid.”
“This is a good point.”
“Thank you,” Clara twisted her hands again, wondering if there was a way to unlock the cuffs. Not that she objected to being restrained — quite the opposite — but she wasn’t overly sure how she was supposed to drink without the use of her hands. “Bill-”
Before Clara could enlist her friend’s help, the dancer had returned with a glass of wine, from the top of which protruded a pink crazy straw that clashed horribly with the red liquid contained within.
“Ta dah,” the woman said with a flourish, sitting beside her and holding up the glass, to which Clara only scowled. “What? I promise it’s not poisoned. Look.” She took a sip herself, and Clara’s glare softened a fraction.
“I don’t even know your name,” Clara reasoned in an attempt to stall for time before she had to allow herself to be given wine, even by someone as attractive as the redhead. “It would be rude to accept a drink from you without even knowing your name.”
“Amelia,” the dancer said, tossing her hair over her shoulder and looking — for just a second — inexplicably bashful. “Amy, for short.”
“That’s pretty,” Clara smiled, then realised it was probably polite to reciprocate with her own name. “I’m Clara.”
“Well, Clara. Nice to meet you. Wine?”
Amy held up the glass and Clara resigned herself to the inevitable, taking a long drag on the straw and grimacing as the wine entered her mouth. Forcing herself to swallow, she shuddered as she did so, resisting the urge to gag.
“That is…” she managed after a moment of spluttering to try and get the taste out of her mouth. “Not good wine.”
“Apologies,” Amy rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I didn’t realise you were a wine snob.”
“I’m not!” Clara protested. “But that is… basically vinegar.”
Amy took another, longer gulp, then made a face of disgust. “OK, point taken,” she laughed. “If I uncuff you, will you come up to the bar with me so we can order something we both like?”
Clara arched an eyebrow at the casual use of “we.” “Sure.”
“Excellent,” Amy produced a key from seemingly nowhere and unlocked one of Clara’s cuffs, swivelling it over and attaching it to her own wrist before she could protest. Clara’s eyes widened, but Amy only grinned. “What? I can’t have the prettiest girl in here wandering off, can I?”
“Do you flirt this much with everyone you dance for?”
“Only the really gorgeous ones,” Amy winked, getting up and pulling an abruptly shy Clara to her feet. “Now. Drinks?”
Clara looked over her shoulder at Bill, who only flapped her hands encouragingly, and she shrugged, throwing caution to the wind. “Sure.”
Amy led the way, Clara trailing behind her and becoming painfully aware of the looks that Amy’s sheer blouse and microscopic underwear were attracting. As they arrived at the bar, Amy leaned over it with a grin, and the tall, good-looking barman affixed her with a bemused expression.
“Well now Amelia, don’t tell me you’ve finished your drink already,” he said in a warm American accent. “That has to be a new record.”
“That wine was undrinkable, Jack.”
“Did you drink it anyway?”
“A little,” Amy clicked her tongue. “But that isn’t the point. Can I get… Clara, what do you fancy?”
Before Clara could respond, the bartender had grinned and said, mischievously: “You, by the looks of things.”
Clara blushed as Amy rolled her eyes, giving a sarcastic laugh before telling him: “Not funny.”
“Well, she does,” Jack said.
“Like she said, not the point,” Clara mumbled, dropping her gaze to her hands and examining her shoddily painted nails. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.”
“Same,” Amy said breezily, perching on a nearby barstool and drawing Clara to stand between her legs. “You know, you’re cute when you blush.”
“I’m cute in general,” Clara said with faux-indignance.
“Mm, but especially when you blush.”
“You’ve not seen me do it much.”
“You’ve been nothing but red-cheeked since I walked in here.”
“Well, at least I match your underwear,” Clara shot back, and Amy looked wrong-footed for a moment before raising an eyebrow and laughing. “So, there’s that.”
“Are you going to keep flirting with me, or are you going to kiss me?” Amy asked, and Clara blinked at her in stupefaction, unsure whether to make an immediate move or flirt a little more first.
“I…” she began, then settled on the latter. “Isn’t that client-initiated contact?”
“So, what happens if I kiss you?”
“Well,” Amy mused, pulling Clara towards her by the front of her dress. “I suppose you’ll have to find out…”
The next morning, Clara awoke to find herself wearing an oversized T-shirt in a strange bed, and she was momentarily confused before recollections of last night and Amy flooded back to her. Rolling over and squinting around in the half-light, she realised two things simultaneously: one, she was alone; and two, the novelty cuffs from the previous evening were still attached to her left wrist. Sitting up and turning her attention to trying to remove them, she was engrossed in fiddling with the locks when the bedroom door opened and Amy backed into the room, dressed in a huge hoodie and peacock-blue thong, and carrying a mug of coffee in each hand.
“Morning,” she hummed, perching beside Clara and handing her a cup. “Sleep OK?”
“Yeah,” Clara replied, scooting a little farther up the bed and taking a sip of her drink. “Really well, thanks.”
“Good. Damn, woman, you look hot with bed hair.”
“Well, you look devastatingly attractive for first thing in the morning, so it’s only fair.”
“Thank you, I try,” Amy leaned back against the end of the bed and stretched her bare legs out in a way that Clara was almost certain was intended to tease. “I could put more clothes on, if that would help you feel less… distracted.”
“No,” Clara said almost at once, contemplating the idea of peeling the duvet back to reveal her own — admittedly less enviable — legs, before remembering that she was naked from the waist down, and that she might therefore look somewhat less than subtle in her attempts at seduction if she did so. “No, you’re fine.”
“Good,” Amy smirked and sipped her coffee, running her tongue along the rim of the cup to catch a dribble of dark liquid that threatened to escape and drip onto the white bedsheets. Clara swallowed and took a tremulous mouthful of her own drink, making a concerted effort to not think about Amy’s tongue and what it had been doing the night before and failing only slightly. She was desperately trying to think about anything — honestly anything — else when Amy looked up at her and the redhead’s smirk intensified. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you?”
“N-no,” Clara squeaked. “Not at all. You’re really not-”
Amy set her mug down on the floor before crawling up the bed towards Clara, who had the presence of mind to do the same before any of the scalding liquid could be spilled.
“Am I not?” she asked, straddling Clara’s hips and pressing a kiss to her neck, one hand coming up to cup Clara’s cheek while the other twisted into her hair, pulling her head back and baring her throat. Clara tried to remember how to breathe as Amy’s lips traced the column of her throat, her breath hot against her skin as she found herself whimpering for more contact.
“Please,” she managed, her still-cuffed hand pawing at Amy’s wrist, hating herself for how needy she sounded. “Don’t tease…”
Amy only pulled away a little in response, looping a finger through the vacant cuff and toying with it provocatively. “I’m not teasing,” she said, pouting as she spoke. “If I was teasing, I’d tell you that I was thinking of cuffing you to this bed and doing unspeakable things to you until you begged for mercy.”
Clara whimpered again, her eyes going unfocused as Amy reached under the duvet and traced the hem of her T-shirt with a fingertip. “Please,” she whispered. “Please…”
“You look so pretty when you beg,” Amy murmured, grinding down against Clara’s hips as she removed first her own hoodie, then Clara’s top. “Ask me once more…”
“Please…” Clara begged, and at last Amy relented, pressing her lips to hers and kissing her until she was breathless.
“You know, the coffee is going to go cold…” Amy mused, skimming her hands over Clara’s waist and taking hold of the vacant cuff once more.
“Fuck the coffee,” Clara panted, squirming as Amy lifted her arm and locked her wrist to the bedpost. “Fuck-”
“And here I was thinking I was fucking you,” Amy’s eyes widened mischievously. “I can always…”
“Oh, shut up and do me.”