Lucy's Dress: Dr. Who Fic
Author: Bitterfig
Title: Lucy’s Dress
Fandom: Dr. Who
Pairing: The Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master
Summary: The rules of the game couldn’t have been simpler—whoever wore Lucy’s dress was supposed to be Lucy.
Beta Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 807
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Forced cross-dressing, rape, allusions to violence, bat shit craziness.
Author’s Note: Set during The Year that Never Was (Season 3). Written for the prompt "Doctor Who, Doctor/Master, wearing Lucy's dress" at
comment_fic.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fan fiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator
Lucy’s Dress
The rules of the game couldn’t have been simpler—whoever wore Lucy’s dress was supposed to be Lucy.
The Master excelled at the game. He could do several versions of his wife. Sometimes he would be a shrewish Lucy, screaming “you’re insane!” or making demands for attention. “You never touch me anymore,” he’d bleat convincingly. Then there was submissive Lucy, who cried and flinched at any sudden movement, who cowered and stared with wide, teary eyes. And sometimes when he was feeling sentimental the Master would play the woman he had fallen in love with, a vivacious Lucy awestruck and eager to play along with whatever her husband came up with.
Unlike the Master, the Doctor was frankly atrocious at the game. Simple as the principle was—whoever wore Lucy’s dress was supposed to be Lucy—he couldn’t seem to grasp it.
When the Master was being Lucy he never reacted properly. He didn’t slap shrew Lucy about or comfort submissive Lucy, swearing he’d never hurt her again. He didn’t make any effort to draw in agreeable Lucy. No. He asked disconcerting questions like “why are you doing this?” He would incessantly try and talk sense to the various Lucys, as if he were negotiating with the Master.
And when it was the Doctor’s turn to wear Lucy’s dress and be Lucy he was even worse. First he never wanted to wear the dress. It usually had to be put on him by force with the help of several armed guards, threats and beatings. When he finally did get into the dress, there were more whys. Worse, he made no pretext of being Lucy. He made no pretext about being anything except the Doctor in a frock and what could be more tiresome than that?
It fell to the Master to pick up the slack and keep the game going all by himself. The trick to doing this was to react to the Doctor not based on what he did or said but on how Lucy had acted the last time she wore the dress in question.
When the Doctor wore the pink sundress with white swiss dots the Master put an arm around his shoulders and talked about the future. When the Doctor wore the little black dress with fishnet stockings and a choker the Master blacked his eye. When he wore Lucy’s inauguration gown, the blue one that made her look like Grace Kelly, the Master ran a hand down the Doctor’s bare back where the jagged bones of his spine stood out then kissed him so tenderly that a softness came over the Doctor’s sharp, gaunt face and he didn’t resist.
“You’re beautiful tonight,” the Master whispered stroking the Doctor’s frenzied hair as he pushed him down onto the bed. The Doctor tried to rise, but the Master was forceful, pinning him down on his back until he finally lay still of his own accord.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” the Doctor pleaded. “You’re not well, you need help…”
“I’m Prime Minister now,” The Master said. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Lucy.” He pushed the skirts of the gown up around the Doctor’s waist and grasped his leg, stroking it from his ankle all the way up to his hips, finally hooking Lucy’s panties with his fingers, pulling them down and off.
“Stop this, please…”
“We have time, I’ll be quick. I won’t muss up your hair.”
He laid a kiss on the inside of the Doctor’s knee then worked his way down, licking and sucking and teasing until the Doctor’s cock stood up against his stomach and he was writhing despite himself.
“Are you wet for me Lucy? Are you ready?” The Master asked, crouching over the Doctor’s prone body lying amidst the sky blue taffeta. His lubricated fingers reached inside, probing, opening. The Doctor moaned but when the Master tried to enter him he struggled.
“Stop these games, you don’t understand what you’re doing,” the Doctor said. “Every time you do this you’re a little further beyond my reach…” The Master pushed inside him anyway. Tears welled up in the Doctor’s eyes as he turned his face away. He whispered a name, an old name that the Master didn’t use any more and didn’t like to hear. Memories flooded his mind shattering all illusions of frivolity. For the briefest instant he knew who he was and what he was doing. The Master scowled in annoyance and pressed a hand tight over the Doctor’s mouth. He finished in a few harsh strokes and stumbled to his feet.
“Why do you have to ruin everything?” The Master snapped. “Whoever wears Lucy’s dress is supposed to be Lucy. How hard is that to understand? If you can’t play nicely I think it’s time you went back to your cage.”
Title: Lucy’s Dress
Fandom: Dr. Who
Pairing: The Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master
Summary: The rules of the game couldn’t have been simpler—whoever wore Lucy’s dress was supposed to be Lucy.
Beta Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 807
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Forced cross-dressing, rape, allusions to violence, bat shit craziness.
Author’s Note: Set during The Year that Never Was (Season 3). Written for the prompt "Doctor Who, Doctor/Master, wearing Lucy's dress" at
comment_fic.Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fan fiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator
The rules of the game couldn’t have been simpler—whoever wore Lucy’s dress was supposed to be Lucy.
The Master excelled at the game. He could do several versions of his wife. Sometimes he would be a shrewish Lucy, screaming “you’re insane!” or making demands for attention. “You never touch me anymore,” he’d bleat convincingly. Then there was submissive Lucy, who cried and flinched at any sudden movement, who cowered and stared with wide, teary eyes. And sometimes when he was feeling sentimental the Master would play the woman he had fallen in love with, a vivacious Lucy awestruck and eager to play along with whatever her husband came up with.
Unlike the Master, the Doctor was frankly atrocious at the game. Simple as the principle was—whoever wore Lucy’s dress was supposed to be Lucy—he couldn’t seem to grasp it.
When the Master was being Lucy he never reacted properly. He didn’t slap shrew Lucy about or comfort submissive Lucy, swearing he’d never hurt her again. He didn’t make any effort to draw in agreeable Lucy. No. He asked disconcerting questions like “why are you doing this?” He would incessantly try and talk sense to the various Lucys, as if he were negotiating with the Master.
And when it was the Doctor’s turn to wear Lucy’s dress and be Lucy he was even worse. First he never wanted to wear the dress. It usually had to be put on him by force with the help of several armed guards, threats and beatings. When he finally did get into the dress, there were more whys. Worse, he made no pretext of being Lucy. He made no pretext about being anything except the Doctor in a frock and what could be more tiresome than that?
It fell to the Master to pick up the slack and keep the game going all by himself. The trick to doing this was to react to the Doctor not based on what he did or said but on how Lucy had acted the last time she wore the dress in question.
When the Doctor wore the pink sundress with white swiss dots the Master put an arm around his shoulders and talked about the future. When the Doctor wore the little black dress with fishnet stockings and a choker the Master blacked his eye. When he wore Lucy’s inauguration gown, the blue one that made her look like Grace Kelly, the Master ran a hand down the Doctor’s bare back where the jagged bones of his spine stood out then kissed him so tenderly that a softness came over the Doctor’s sharp, gaunt face and he didn’t resist.
“You’re beautiful tonight,” the Master whispered stroking the Doctor’s frenzied hair as he pushed him down onto the bed. The Doctor tried to rise, but the Master was forceful, pinning him down on his back until he finally lay still of his own accord.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” the Doctor pleaded. “You’re not well, you need help…”
“I’m Prime Minister now,” The Master said. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Lucy.” He pushed the skirts of the gown up around the Doctor’s waist and grasped his leg, stroking it from his ankle all the way up to his hips, finally hooking Lucy’s panties with his fingers, pulling them down and off.
“Stop this, please…”
“We have time, I’ll be quick. I won’t muss up your hair.”
He laid a kiss on the inside of the Doctor’s knee then worked his way down, licking and sucking and teasing until the Doctor’s cock stood up against his stomach and he was writhing despite himself.
“Are you wet for me Lucy? Are you ready?” The Master asked, crouching over the Doctor’s prone body lying amidst the sky blue taffeta. His lubricated fingers reached inside, probing, opening. The Doctor moaned but when the Master tried to enter him he struggled.
“Stop these games, you don’t understand what you’re doing,” the Doctor said. “Every time you do this you’re a little further beyond my reach…” The Master pushed inside him anyway. Tears welled up in the Doctor’s eyes as he turned his face away. He whispered a name, an old name that the Master didn’t use any more and didn’t like to hear. Memories flooded his mind shattering all illusions of frivolity. For the briefest instant he knew who he was and what he was doing. The Master scowled in annoyance and pressed a hand tight over the Doctor’s mouth. He finished in a few harsh strokes and stumbled to his feet.
“Why do you have to ruin everything?” The Master snapped. “Whoever wears Lucy’s dress is supposed to be Lucy. How hard is that to understand? If you can’t play nicely I think it’s time you went back to your cage.”