Adult-FanFiction.org : Marvel 'Verse

Do It For Charity	By : Ksennin Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Spiderman Views: 26029 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel comics, Spider-Man, the Avengers, or any of the characters within those properties. I make no money from publishing this story.

Chapter List
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It was a three-hour drive to upstate New York, which meant Tony made it in an hour and a half. Surely thereafter, they were parked at the Ark of Omon-Kra Resort, with Greg, who looked like a Greg, giving them a tour of the garden grounds. He was trying to explain the herbs and their effects on the human body so they could choose what their Herbal Garden Treatment would be, but Tony cut off each explanation with “that one” and moved them along.
“As you know, Bob,” Tony started, then laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, screenwriter talk. As you know, Peter, after World War 2, Peggy Carter and my daddio formed SHIELD. One of their many hobbies was hunting down Nazi war criminals.”
Peter had heard of it. He struggled to remember his high school history class—they’d watched a pretty cheesy movie about it, but although MJ had rejoiced in how easy all this spy stuff was to memorize, Peter had been eager to get back to polygons and polymers. “Baron Zemo. Baron Strucker. Baron Blood. A lot of barons.”
Like a whirlwind, next they were getting a body mask ‘using honey and blossoms from the indigenous trees.’
“One of the worst of the lot was Sebastian Shaw,” Tony explained. “Not a baron; not even a Nazi, per se. Mutant supremacist. Major-league asshole. As soon as the bomb dropped on Hiroshima he wanted a full-blown nuclear war between the United States and Russia to end humanity as we know it and, hey, crazy person version of evolution.”
Peter was pretty sure he’d seen that movie too, though not in school. It was pure SyFy Channel. A massage came next. Peter tried hard to concentrate on Tony’s words as Rudolfo chopped the tension out of his spine.
“After the war, Shaw joined a very old gentleman’s society called the Hellfire Club. Took it over, got it into prostitution for the pocket change, smuggled drugs, lotta bad stuff. Using the whores, he got to some of Washington’s finest—big surprise there—and eventually managed to leak the A-bomb to the Ruskies. As you might imagine, that didn’t go down too well with Howard Stark Esquire.”
After the massage came peppermint foot care (“For centuries it’s been used for calming and relaxation,” Rudolfo explained, though Peter didn’t point out that so had cocaine) and organic ale. Thankfully, the latter they drank.
“It’s the fifties. Shaw’s well-connected. He’s even got friends in McCarthy’s office, so anyone who steps up to him risks getting branded a Commie. The only way to get to him was through the girls. So Peggy and a few of the more,” Tony winked, “female agents, went undercover as prostitutes.”
“Bull shota!” Peter cried. By then, he’d been subjected to a facial using sandalwood, lemon, and bitter orange that claimed to ‘exfoliate and boost the senses.’
“It was the fifties. Don’t you watch Mad Men?” Tony accepted his green tea from an attendant with a gentle “moshi moshi.” After a drink, he pressed on. “Now, imagine the kind of people who’d be in the gentlemen’s club to end all gentlemen’s club. And I mean that—it wasn’t too long after this that the women’s libbers started in and places like the Hellfire Club had to open their doors to everyone from Gloria Steinem on down. You’ve got athletes, you’ve got movie stars, you’ve got Kennedys. They’re having a good time, they’re throwing money around, no one’s pulling switchblades. Just good, wholesome sex.”
“Hold on, I think I heard about this in a letter someone wrote to Penthouse…”
The conversation paused until they’d started a foot scrub with matching finishing butter. Tony insisted on pink grapefruit.
“Laugh if you want,” Tony said, “but keep in mind, these ladies are working fourteen-hour days, in a job where the moment they show a hint of lust, they practically get branded traitors to their country. Folks thought women were especially vulnerable to the old seduce and destroy routine. So at this club, they’re having great sex, they’re making thousands of dollars, and if anyone asks, they just say they’re serving their country.”
“I won’t judge,” Peter replied. “Better than working at Starbucks.”
Next, the one Hispanic man in the place introduced them to the Mayan Massage, in which brightly colored shawls that were meant to carry babies were wrapped around them for a stretch treatment. Peter asked and found out it cost two hundred dollars. He made a mental note to find out if this place was hiring. For two hundred dollars, he would massage Man-Wolf.
“And what do they do with the money?” Tony asked; the question, like most he posed, rhetorical. “They give it to charity, minus what they skim off the top. So they’re making money and they’re buying toys for orphans and they’re serving their country and they’re having more orgasms than a screening of Twilight. Where do you think this is headed?”
“A movie starring Jenna Jameson.”
“Close, but no.” The Mayan Massage included rain sticks and finger cymbals to enhance the rain forest relaxation, which Peter thought would work better if the mosaic on the wall wasn’t one of redwood trees. “So after a few months, they get the dirt on Shaw, they bust him, throw him away and lock up the key, but Peggy Carter has a great idea to keep morale high, raise funds, all that. She keeps the place going.”
“The brothel, you mean?”
“Yes, the brothel.” Tony had already gestured to move onto the lemon massage. Because lemons were cold, they absorbed all the bad energy one had in their body. Peter didn’t know how much bad energy a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist with a superhero girlfriend could accrue, but Tony had a lot of lemons. “They make money hand over fist, they have a virtual vacation spot for their female agents (and a few lucky male ones), and they get to use the place to spy on certain jerk-offs. Win/win/win.”
“So what happens? The place can’t just keep going.”
“It does!” Tony insisted, so emphatic that he spilled a lemon. “The thing just keeps going and going and going. It turns out to be great for morale. You tell a women you’ll pay thousands of dollars for sex, make her cum, then tell her the money went to buy some kid a new heart. See if it doesn’t put her in a good mood.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“The program works out so well, that certain high-ranking officials remember it when superheroes start showing up. Suddenly, you’ve got a bunch of women with no time for a social life, no way to relieve stress, no revenue flow because they’re busy beating up bad guys all the time. What do you do?”
“Whores?”
“Whores!” Tony pounded the ground with his fist. “And keep in mind, female superheroes are scientifically proven to be forty percent hornier than the average woman. It’s science.”
“Alright,” Peter nodded, “so in their spare time, most superheroines like to… whore themselves out, would be the proper terminology?”
“Yes. Villainesses too. As soon as they find out that they can make a lot more money sucking a few dicks with Ms. Marvel than robbing banks—“
“Oh, obviously,” Peter nodded more heartily, “so these brothels also function as reform schools?”
“And superhero headquarters. Makes for a much looser commute. I honestly wondered why no one questions how many mirrored ceilings I put in Avengers Tower.”
“I’ve been on a tour of Avengers Tower!” Peter protested. “I didn’t even see anyone get a handjob.”
“Did you go to Floor 69?”
“No.”
Tony tapped his nose knowingly.
“Alright,” Peter said, as acceptingly as possible, “thank you for letting me know what kind of dreams people have on Viagra. But just for the sake of argument, what does this have to do with me?”
“Well, unlikely as it may seem, a bunch of beautiful women with such great personalities that they’re willing to fight evil for free, who also tend to wear skimpier outfits than a children’s television host in Brazil, do manage to find boyfriends. Boyfriends who may not be cool with their girlfriends getting paid for sex.”
“Philistines,” Peter said sarcastically.
By now, a bike messenger had arrived with the prototype for Peter’s new wardrobe. A Smartcar had already delivered Tony’s identical twin assistants (Tony had identical twin assistants, to Peter’s non-surprise). They pulled Peter into a changing room, helping him out of the spa’s kimono and into the suit. Peter would’ve resented the implication that he didn’t know how to dress himself, were it not for the fact that he didn’t actually know what one of the little bits of cloth included was (it turned out to be a bowtie).
Tony went on right outside the door. “Unless, that is, the boyfriends are allowed into the brothels as johns. All their fees are covered by SHIELD, obviously. Sort of like benefits for military spouses. So it’s less being cheated on, more being a swinger.”
“This started in the seventies, didn’t it?”
“Correct!”
Peter was pretty sure Tony was welcoming him into the fold with some gigantic Punk’d sort of hazing, trying to make him look like the idiot that actually believed there were superheroes moonlighting as hookers. Well, Peter had seen this gifset on Tumblr. He was going to be just like Neil Patrick Harris. Just act way too cool to be pranked.
Just then, the assistants finished stuffing a pocket square into Peter’s jacket and shoved him out of the changing room. Tony looked him over, thumb stroking his chin like he was trying to figure out modern art—the kind that was made out of dried macaroni.
“Hmm… Harris Tweed jacket from Napoli Su Misura, knit cashmere waistcoat, flannel trousers…” Tony tapped the corner of his lips a few times. “Bowtie by Le Nœud Papillon?” One of the assistants—the handsy one, Peter had come to think of her—nodded. “I should edit a fashion magazine. Devil Wears Prada made it look so much fun. I’d get to yell at Anne Hathaway.” Tony flipped his sunglasses off his head, aiming them at Peter like a gun. “You, old sport, are adorkable.”
“A dork… what?”
“Play to your strengths, kid. You’re never going to be Lee Marvin, I’m never going to not be James Bond…”
Peter craned his neck for a mirror and found one. “Geez. I look like Harry Potter going to a wedding.”
“Good. Bitches love Harry Potter.” Tony clapped Peter on the shoulder. Through the suit, it felt a lot nicer than it did through Peter’s “The Dark Side Has Cookies” T-shirts (they’d been on sale—four for five bucks). “Where was I before we sexed you up? Ah, yes. Now you, Parker, are not dating a superhero. But Mary Jane has hooked you up with her place on the ‘Global Freebie List,’ as I like to call it. You can have any whoreoine you want, at any time, in whatever way you want. Assuming Galactus isn’t attacking or something. But why would you want to have sex then? Wait…” Tony’s head tilted to the side like a dog hearing a dog whistle. “Yeah, I’m gonna try that next time Galactus attacks. Thanks for the tip!”
“How did you pronounce ‘whoreoine’ without getting punched?”
“Comes with the facial hair. Ready to go or would you like a snack first?”
“Oh, by all means, let’s not keep the hookers slash superheroes waiting.”
To Peter’s surprise, they did drive to Avengers Tower. Peter fully expected it to be full of superheroes and mechanics ready to haze him over Tony’s prank—he practiced saying “Oop, ya got me” in his head, very sardonically—maybe followed by a job offer now that they knew he was cool. Peter wondered if Mary Jane would be okay with him building webshooters into Rescue’s armor. It was sort of her trademark now.
The guard on duty, and Peter resisted the urge to call him a eunuch and see what he’d say, waved Tony through on sight. They parked underground, besides five Mercedes that Tony said were in case of ‘emergency’. Peter walked with him to the elevator. He was surprised by how quality his clothes were. They didn’t bunch or stretch or seem to do much of anything besides hover off his skin. If nothing else, he would have to show off his new look to Aunt May. And Mary Jane would probably be delighted with how small his pores were after that cleanse. Pores were supposed to be small, right? Right.
The elevator did stop on Floor 69, opening up into a small lobby that was empty except for a squat man in an unremarkable but well-made business suit. Peter recognized him from a few press conferences he’d felt obliged to watch because Jackpot was getting honored or, at least, standing in the background looking proud of herself. Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD. Peter was surprised to find him going along with this.
“Mr. Parker, step this way please,” he said, giving Tony a look that said stay right there.
Peter obligingly walked over to a booth in a corner, something that looked like an airport security machine. Coulson directed him to place his hands on two cold and slightly damp surfaces. They felt electric. “I trust Mr. Stark has informed you what this place is.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Peter nodded at Tony, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Just so you know, I know this is a prank.”
“Mmm?” Coulson said through a mighty good poker face.
“The whole… I mean… the sex workers thing. You’re hazing me or whatever. It’s fine, I’ll go along with it. I’ll act all surprised. But just, let’s be clear. I don’t really think a bunch of powerful, successful, independent women are going to take up hooking for charity.”
“Why not?” Coulson asked, with only slight curiosity in his voice.
“Well… it’s ridiculous!”
“Ah. Good reason.” Coulson picked up a tablet from a nearby table and looked it over. “Biometric scan is complete. You are free of any sexually transmitted diseases. Birth control will be provided inside, although all the ladies have taken their own contraceptive measures. A quick note about the rules, Mr. Parker: you wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t be trusted to be discreet and use common sense. But for the record, no recording devices of any kind. Do not divulge anything that happens inside the Ball. If you want to tell your ‘dawgs’ that you got lucky, that’s fine, it’s not a state secret. But keep it vague. And, obviously, any belligerent behavior will not be tolerated. If you act in a way that uneases others, you’ll be given a warning. At that point, I suggest you go home, cool down for a while, try again some other night. If you don’t, and the misbehavior continues, you will not receive a second warning. SHIELD will eject you from the premises and take measures to ensure you don’t bring any repercussions against this facility.”
“Uh-huh, I got it.” Peter winked at him. “I can’t wait to have sex with all these super-hookers.” He gave a thumbs up to Tony and lowered his voice again. “There’s gonna be a bunch of male strippers in there, aren’t there? That’s the gag? I go inside, thinking I’m going to put a twenty dollar bill in Jean Grey’s thong, and it’s going to be—wait, no, cross-dressers? Is it gonna be cross-dressers? Just wink if it’s cross-dressers.”
“That would be a strip club,” Coulson corrected gently. “This is a brothel. But some of the ladies are good dancers. I suggest asking if you’re that curious.” A small machine, like a card shoe from Vegas, beeped on the table and ejected a laminated plastic card. Coulson picked it up and handed it to Peter. It looked for all the world like a credit card, though the two black sides lacked any security details or other pictures. It was just a solid weight. “This is your card. It will give you entry into the Ball, as well as pay for any transactions. The money is provided by SHIELD for this very purpose; don’t try to use it to buy McDonald’s. It works by swiping three times over the blue light on the bracelet the ladies wear. This signals that you’ve arranged a transaction and have agreed on terms. The girls will be happy to walk you through it. Don’t lose this card, don’t loan it to a friend, try to forget about it when you’re not using it.”
Peter nodded seriously—Coulson didn’t seem like the type of guy you responded to unseriously. Coulson looked him over one last time, as if weighing whether anything he’d just said had lodged in Peter’s brain, then stepped aside. “Enjoy your time here.”
The double doors opposite the elevator—the only exit from the room except for a clearly marked restroom—opened. The next room was much larger; glossed with midnight-black paneling instead of the institutional white plaster of the lobby. Ebony floor tiles, brass furnishings, tinted glass. And it was so dimly lit that Peter stumbled going inside. The smell was that of the sea again—it must’ve been Tony’s personal preference—but it was undercut by the pungent incense of cigarette smoke, the occasional sweet whiff of hashish.
There were three main parts to the oblong room, as far as Peter could see. On his left was a dining area of twenty or so blackwood tables, two plush black leather chairs to a table. Each table held a candle inside an intricate glass setting, which spilled out just enough light to illuminate the diners to each other. From Peter’s perspective, it turned the many twosomes into pairs of silhouettes, glossing and melding together with the flickering light. And lining the wall was one continuous couch, like a snake winding around the room, though it seemed reserved for the many stages of stupefied collapse the clientele had found themselves in.
Just in front of Peter there was a dance floor sunken into the ground, LED lights shooting out from the recessed floor to illuminate the glossy sweat, the relentlessly mobile legs, the swaying hemlines and leather shoes. But the further up you went, the more the light dimmed—most of the dancer’s heads were in shadow; all Peter caught of them were flashes of grinning teeth and bright eyes.
To his right, the room narrowed—becoming a bar on one side, more bottles on the wall than there were books in Peter and Gwen’s combined library, with what looked like a serving wench out of a Viking movie behind the bar (she couldn’t be from Asgard, could she?). On the other side, Peter recognized an element lifted from a nightclub MJ had dragged him to: an aquarium that ran the length of the wall, transparent so that people could look through it and into the restrooms that stairs on either end of the ‘throat’ led down into. The portion of the bathroom that Peter saw was just the sinks where a restroom attendant patiently waited.
Past the restrooms and the bar was another set of tables. There, the music was loudest—Mary Jane’s obsessive viewing of A Star Is Born let him identify it as ‘The Man That Got Away’—being sung by a lounge singer tucked away in a little stage at the far wall. The floodlights on it made the one part of the club that wasn’t dipped in shadows. There was faint stage lighting coming from the tops of the walls, which Peter guessed would increase in case of emergency, but most of the real illumination beaconed out from that stage. He supposed that the dining area on the left was for people who didn’t want to have to talk over the music, while the right was for people who just wanted to enjoy the show. Not that many were at the moment. Even the singer, lovely and obviously talented as she was, faltered now and again like a bad audition on American Idol. Peter couldn’t blame her.
Right below the stage, Wolverine had a woman on her hands and knees. A redhead. Peter actually recognized her, though it took him a moment to recognize her without the utilitarian leather uniform. It was Jean Grey. Jean Grey, in a black corset, panties, and a fucking cape. The latter two brushed out of the way, the panties pulled down Jean’s joined thighs, the cape flung up so it covered her shoulder and half her face. One trembling arm was braced on the floor support, while the other was flung up to Jean’s face, where she bit down on it to gag herself—block up her cries and moans and screams.
Behind her, Logan was mostly dressed, in the only clothes he seemed to own; the flannel and leather jacket and jeans that Peter could recognize from a couple hundred TMZ posts and viral videos and the rare press conference. But he’d dropped trou, belt undone and zipper down, to expose some of the bristly body hair that covered his incredibly muscular frame. It was glossy with wetness, Peter could only assume from Jean. She was bouncing under him, but not by choice—he was impaling her with wild force, like a hammer trying to nail her to the floor. Each thrust burying half Jean’s face in her own cape, making her slide along the floor. She pushed back with psychic force, trying to orient herself, hold still, but it was weak and inconstant, the power of it doing more to cause turbulence than to stabilize herself. Around them was a small maelstrom of cigarettes, matches, bits of paper, even condom wrappers—sucked into the maw of Jean’s telekinetic exertion.
The singer couldn’t take her eyes off the spectacle; though most of the patrons ignored it like it was someone playing guitar at a subway station. The barmaid was even polishing a glass,. But a small crowd had gathered, like gamblers placing bets around a fight, and a cheer went up each time Jean’s control slipped and she let out one of the shrill screams Logan was obviously producing inside her.
Peter felt his cock jump against the tight enclosure of his new trousers, his breath quicken and beads of perspiration form on his extensively cleansed forehead. Instantly, he felt ashamed of himself. Getting off on some woman being humiliated in public—it was practically rape.
Only when Logan stopped to take a pull from the vodka bottle he held in one hand, Jean sprang into action, desperately bringing her hips up to try to cajole him back into motion. With his other hand, Logan splayed his fingers on her upturned face and held her down. “Wait your turn, darlin’. You gotta admit, the liquor’s been a lot kinder to me tonight than you’ve been.”
“You beast—damned bastard—finish me off!”
Logan reached under Jean with his free hand to roughly knead one of her plump breasts, smearing her sweat across its voluptuous contour. Jean moaned expectantly and that did it; Logan pulled hard on her flame-red hair, waking her up for how he suddenly briskly moved inside her. His hips slapping against her hindquarters, Jean’s entire body shaking with turbulence, her teeth biting down on her forearm hard enough to draw blood. Logan laughed, short and cruel, and tossed the bottle away to land on its side and drool alcohol onto the tile floor. With both hands he grabbed at Jean’s arms, pulling them back so Jean was facedown on the ground with her ass in the air and trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, vulnerable to how he drove himself mercilessly into her.
Peter could see Jean fighting to keep silent, clenching and swallowing her moans, but the thick member he forced her to take inside was just too much. She came before the bottle had even emptied out, screaming loud enough to silence the lounge singer for good, then sinking her forehead against the cool tile. Logan released her arms and she slumped off his cock, puddling peacefully on the floor. He wouldn’t give her the rest. Flipping her over brusquely, he pulled her up a foot by the hair, aimed his fading erection at her face, and with his free hand forced the last bullet of cum from it. Jean moaned weakly as a several flecks of his seed marked her face, his territory. Then Logan, not unkindly, lowered her back to the ground and put his dick in his jeans.
“Remember this next time someone says I don’t satisfy my women,” he growled, “or that I won’t fuck one of ‘em in front of everybody.”
“Yes, yes,” came a voice behind Peter, and he barely got out of the way in time to avoid Emma Frost, parting him and Tony and the rest of the crowd to get to her girlfriend.
Like most red-blooded males, Peter had seen her both in the GQ photoshoots where she wore next to nothing, and on red carpet events where she was covered head to toe in stylish business attire. What she lounged in here was less than either—white elbow gloves, white heels, white panties with most of their fabric dedicated to an upward projection over her belly, a white choker that similarly projected downward to her chest, and white pasties (Peter guessed you would call them) that altogether made an X of Emma’s cleavage and belly. And to think she worked at a school.
“We’re all very impressed with what the big bad caveman does after he’s clubbed his cavewoman over the head,” Emma continued, with a fond but mocking smile toward the somewhat comatose Jean. “And it only took you half an hour. Imagine that. But then, I suppose I find Jean more irritating than you do. When I want to shut her up, I only need five minutes.”
“Does it count if you need more buzzers than an apartment building?”
“Does it count if you need a mutant healing factor to avoid being labeled a minuteman?” Shifting seamlessly to diamond, Emma bent down—Peter couldn’t believe she wasn’t aware of the how her thong rode up when it faced him—and picked up Jean in her suddenly strong arms. “Thank you for the contribution to my little ginger’s good looks. I think I’ll enjoy washing it off.”
“Gives ‘er flavor,” Logan grinned.
Peter was spellbound watching this—almost more so than he’d been by the sex. That really was Wolverine, and the White Queen, talking about… about whoring. It wasn’t a joke. None of this was a joke. It was all fucking real. These women really were hookers. Powerful, successful, strong-willed, independent women—with superpowers—hooking. He felt lightheaded. And he hadn’t even considered that he had some kind of… expense account here. Oh. Now he had considered it. He was actually expected to… with them… and him?... coitus?
Tony took him by the shoulders and sat him down at one of the lounge’s tables, much the same way Emma was carrying Jean off. Logan, for his part, retrieved the bottle of vodka, wiped off the mouth with his shirt, and gave it a swig.
“First sex show?” Tony asked. “I always forget what it’s like for first-timers. Doesn’t shock me anymore. There aren’t even any twins.”
The centerpiece of the table they’d sat at held an odd-looking set of glass tubes, vials, and hoses, something like a coffee machine from IKEA. Tony detached a brightly-colored pipe from it and held down a button on it, drawing an oddly tinted smoke through its translucent throat. An opiate, Peter realized. When Tony took a lungful of it, Peter almost expected him to start babbling like a cartoon or faint like… another cartoon, but all he did was smoothly exhale. Whatever it was, Peter doubted it was something truly hard. More like marijuana, he reckoned—hoped.
“These are sex workers.” Peter was suddenly very mindful of his phrasing. “This is a sex worker… place. A sex workplace.”
“Yes, Peter. It’s a sex workplace.”
Peter had so many questions—but in the end, only one could make its way out of the traffic jam. “Why me?”
Tony blew smoke like a little kid blowing bubbles. “Your friends. Mary Jane and Gwen. They talk about you. At least MJ does. This great guy who helps her out all the time, listens to her problems, gives her a shoulder to cry on, laughs at her jokes—this great guy who just can’t catch a break.” He patted Peter on the shoulder. “You take good care of them, Pete. Let them take care of you. Enjoy yourself. Have fun. Relax, for a change.”
“What if…” Peter gestured around. A woman was mopping up the spilled vodka, wearing a brief French Maid outfit. Peter thought he’d seen her fighting ninjas in Hell’s Kitchen. “What if this is all too much?”
“You can leave. If you want, turn the card in at the front desk. Go on with your life. Tell your friends you appreciate it, but just give you a pizza next time.” Tony shook his head. “But I don’t think you’re that kind of guy. The kind that backs away from a challenge, from an opportunity. I think you’re just a late bloomer. And right now, you can either fucking bloom already or get ready to relive this moment ad nauseum in the old folks’ home.”
“Tony,” a scratchy, somewhat accented voice came. Peter looked past the din of the lounge to see a woman at the bar, a bottle of tequila by her side. He’d seen the Black Widow before, but she usually zipped her catsuit up above her navel.
“Gotta go, kid,” Tony said. “Back to the salt mines.”
Tony departed with Natasha, putting a familiar hand at her waist. Peter stayed at the table. He cast a look at the pipe but that, at least, wasn’t for him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a trap—some kind of a test by Gwen and MJ to prove he was a pervert, some loathsome voyeur out to use their relationship for his own gratification, and they’d kick him out and brand him a creep. But he also had the idea that that feeling wasn’t real.
It was something ginned up his underdeveloped self-esteem, some way to avoid taking responsibility for any of this. To actually put himself out there like Tony was doing. It would be easy, so easy, to just run back home and congratulate himself on being some sort of good man, but there wasn’t any real goodness in that—was there? Just cowardice. Doing things made you good, not just resisting temptation. And participating in what was at the end of the day nothing more than some kinked out sex may not have been the height of morality, but what exactly was wrong with it?
Peter looked around, at both the women and the men. The women tended to wear skimpy but becoming outfits—stuff that wouldn’t be out of place in Moulin Rouge, Coyote Ugly, your average Victoria’s Secret runway. The men weren’t slumping either, though there was a greater variety to what they wore than the showy female outfits—exotic costumes, tailored suits, simple but well-made jeans. It all gave the place some Mardi Gras spirit.
None of the women looked uncomfortable, ill at ease, anything like that. They were having fun. As Peter watched, in the wordless distance a man approached Sue Storm, made his pitch, got a headshake of disinterest, and continued on his way with no hard feelings. A nearby woman had overheard, and made a ubiquitous gesture daring him to approach. Soon after, he was swiping his card over her metal bracelet. Once, twice, three times. Linking arms, they disappeared through a set of double doors artfully concealed in the shadows.
He looked around again. The little crowd that’d watched Wolverine’s performance had dispersed to take in a song from the revitalized singer, this time "One for My Baby (and One More for the Road).” He recognized one of them and before he could stop his mouth, cried “Dr. Foster? Jane Foster?”
She turned to look at him, a hand going to self-consciously tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes?”
Peter thought of what Tony would say—“Fucking commit.”—picked himself up from the table and joined Jane’s at hers. Although she was easy to ignore among the Avengers—just a plain-jane scientist who happened to have superpowers without the body to match, would be a kind summary of most online comments about her—Peter found her unbearably cute. Even more so in person, springy, delicate and refined, with perfectly shaped featured that seemed tiny in comparison to the kissable lips and smoldering eyes that dotted the room. Her body was practically boyish in comparison to them, and her cautious Ivy League diction could never be mistaken for much of the crude, boisterous flirting he caught snippets of. And she wore a simple, light summer dress over lace-up shoes, the kind of thing Gwen might wear—showy for her, dressing down for an Avenger.
“Peter Parker,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand, relieved when she shook it. He wasn’t sure if one shook hands at a whorehouse. “I’m a huge fan of your work on quantum tunneling.”
“And how do you feel about the way I punch cave trolls?” she returned, chin on her hands.
Peter was taken aback, but then, he supposed most men would be. “That’s pretty great too.” She didn’t have Mjolnir with her, not unless she’d found a way to shrink it into the tiny clutch bag resting on the table, but he knew those bird-like arms could still snap him in two and a moment’s thought would summon the hammer through however many walls were in the way.
She clicked her tongue. “Parker, Parker…” She smiled in recognition. “Not Richard Parker’s son?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And—hold on, don’t tell me—Otto’s lab assistant.” Finally, she placed him, her jaw dropping a little. God, it was adorable. “You’re Jackpot’s mechanic!”
“I didn’t know that word an hour ago, but yeah, I think so.”
“Oh my God, those webshooters, the webbing itself--!” She balled her hands up in little fists of nerd exultation. “Did you do all that by yourself?”
“Well, it was based on a formula my dad was trying to crack, and this friend of mine, Gwen Stacy, she helped a lot.”
“C’mon, don’t be modest. I’m gonna guess—eighty percent you?”
Was he blushing a little? “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Christ, he was blushing. He tugged at his bowtie. “Sorry, this thing—I’m not used to this thing. Comes up on me. Like I’m being strangled by a very weak ghost.”
Jane laughed and Peter won a hard-fought battle not to sigh. When she laughed, the cute was downright dangerous—got that peculiarly masculine reaction of both wanting to hug someone and tell them everything would be alright forever, but also, well, banging their brains out.
“Drink?” she asked, with such a sweet smile that Peter felt like he couldn’t deny her anything. “You look like you could use one.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “I mean… nothing too hard. This is all a bit much. I keep thinking I belong in some parallel dimension where I’m conducting a raid in World of Warcraft.”
Jane tapped on the tabletop, which apparently opened a line to the bar, judging by the little hologram that lit up. “Two daiquiris.” The hologram listed two daiquiris in text, including a cocktail book illustration and a list of ingredients, blinked a few times in confirmation, then disappeared. “Lightweight?”
“It’s just my first time. My first time here, not my first time with a… well, actually… it’s complicated.” Jane was staring at him. To put her at ease, Peter decided he might as well tell her. “There was this girl… turned out she was trying to get to Jackpot through me.”
Jane nodded sympathetically. “Was the sex good though?”
Peter laughed. No, make that giggled, he realized to his horror. Thankfully, the drinks arrived to spare him any further embarrassment. Jane took a sip of hers, thanked the bartender. Peter followed suit, tried to thank the bartender as well but she was already walking off. And with a sway that made Peter wonder if, as a serving wench, she was more ‘buxom’ or ‘lusty’.
Realizing what he was doing, he wrenched his eyes back to Jane. “This place, huh?”
“Don’t apologize. I’ve always wanted to do a threesome with her.”
Peter wasn’t sure how, but if it was possible for daiquiri to go down the wrong tube, his just did. “Crap, sorry…”
Jane rested her drink on the table. “Are you a talker?”
“Excuse me?”
Jane’s nails, short and blunt, stampeded on the table. “Sometimes guys just wanna talk. It’s fine, but then they think I’m gonna fall in love with them and abandon this life of sin and go meet their mothers. That’s bullshit. I’m not some Zach Braff character. I just want someone to holla at me.”
For some reason, that relaxed Peter. “I promise to objectify you very soon.”
“Would you please?” Jane leaned back in her seat. “Don’t go thinking I’m a seductress now. I haven’t come here that often either.”
“If you don’t mind my asking…” Peter nervously rotated his drink. “You and Thor, you’re still… together?”
“Yeah.”
“So why…?”
Jane nearly finished off her drink with a long sip, finally pulling off the fantasy object femme fatale thing. Peter thought he could definitely objectify her. “I… do consulting work with SHIELD. I’m pursuing my doctorate. I have this magical hammer which I have to hit a lot of things with. I’m an Avenger, which means I’m a celebrity, which means there are interviews and red-carpet events and charity fundraisers. And my boyfriend is a prince of Asgard, so even with his powers currently… mine, he’s still expected to go on goodwill missions and play diplomat and party with his old friends. And when we are together, he needs to teach me how to slay dragons and control the weather, not to mention all the mythology talk I feel compelled to do. Every time I turn on a tape recorder around him, it leaps the field of anthropology forward ten years. And that… doesn’t leave a lot of room for personal stuff. Especially when I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want to have an affair. I love Thor. But sometimes, I really want to get laid, and if I don’t want Darcy to share her vibrator with me and get all weird, I come here. I fuck someone like you—someone very cute and a little charming—and the NASA Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena gets ten thousand dollars to spend on using pair of mirror-identical spacecraft to perform precision gravity measurements.”
Peter laughed a little unconvincingly, spun his drink the other way. “I wasn’t expecting something so… thought-out.”
“What, did you think everyone here had a handsy uncle or a drug problem?”
“No, no. I just thought—you’re a beautiful woman. Can’t you just go to a bar—“
“And have some guy call me a dyke when I tell him not interested, or try to take an upskirt pic of me, or a hundred other kinds of bullshit that’ll put me off sex altogether? No. I just want sex. I just want sex with you, really.”
Peter brought his card out of his pocket, fumbling it a little. “So if I… oops… if I showed you this…” He set it down on the table. Didn’t touch it.
Jane laid her hands flat. “Yes,” she said simply. “If that makes me a slut, I’m fine with it. I’ve been to universes where it makes me a prude, if you can believe that. But I’ve made my choice and I’m good and not that it isn’t lovely talking to you, but I really, really want to do something naughty.”
“Ummmm…” Peter’s databanks came up empty, which he guessed meant there was nothing else to say. “That’d be fine with me.”
He picked up the card. Jane reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“What you want to do with me.”
Peter’s voice lowered of its own accord. “I want to fuck you.”
Jane’s eyes closed a little, her voice heavy when she spoke. “Okay. Yeah, okay. I want you…” She put her arm on the table, the blue light on her bracelet glowing. “I expect you to treat me like a whore. Not like your girlfriend, not like your wife. Someone you paid for. I don’t make this kind of offer to just anyone, but I’m making it to you.”
Peter pulled his hand loose of Jane’s grip. “So. What do you want to do, then? A blowjob? That seems…” His head tilted, trying to fidget nervously, but he held it steady. “Whorish?”
“Yes. It does.” Jane turned her palm up, exposing the light. Peter waved the card over it, back and forth and back. The light turned off. “Now I’m taken.” She finished her drink and picked up her purse. “Come along now. Let me show you my bed.”
There was apparently a set of double doors in each separate area of the Ball, because Jane led him through one just nearby. It opened up into a hotel hallway of old world opulence: black carpet, black and red wallpaper, red lights, red doors interspersed with black. Black wood paneling, red plush that Peter guessed was soundproof, judging by the silence coming from them. He wondered what happened behind those closed doors, when the black rooms weren’t exactly shy…
Jane waved her bracelet over one door’s lock rail—it didn’t have a doorknob—and it swung open. Inside, the place had the flavor of a hotel room. Lush, but sparsely deviating from the norm. Peter supposed it was where Jane stayed when she needed to be in New York on some superhero crisis. Most of the time, she’d probably just get a hotel. He couldn’t imagine this place would offer much in the way of a breakfast bar.
Adding to his impression of the room as a working space, it had the accompaniments of an office on the wall opposite the expected bed. There was a well-sized mahogany desk, bare except for a few magazines, some leather armchairs with a matching couch, several lamps scattered about the room, and a few windows draped with a plush curtain that distracted from how the glass was one-way tinted. A vase of flowers, card attached, stood on an end table by the door, along with a set of keys and a smartphone, some spare change. Under it, Mjolnir leaned against the wall like a phone charging. Jane giggled, a little lustfully, at how his eyes boggled at the sight of it.
“I have Thor’s superpowers, but not his muscles. Here I am, all willowy and stuff, and I can lift an eighteen-wheeler. Makes me feel like a Youtube video.”
“It’s cool. The way you’re not, you know, ripped like She-Hulk, but you can still go toe to toe with her.”
“Yeah…” Jane slipped her heels off. “Honestly, though—even Rescue has a robot suit. I feel like a bit of an idiot just putting on armor. It offers barely any protection—I might as well fight in a Snuggie, only it would get ripped off at the first energy blast. You think the internet is mean now, imagine how they’d like me after I fought in the nude.”
“Probably a lot more?” Peter joked.
Jane smiled, but ruefully, and sat on the bed. “Sometimes I wish I were a bit more like Peggy. All lithe and acrobatic, jumping around and throwing my shield at people instead of… juggling cars.” She shook her head. “But look at me, rehashing my body issues like you’re going to be the great big feminist who’s so understanding and politically correct and holds my hand.”
Peter had a Nixonesque feel that he was the butt of the joke, but wasn’t sure what it was. “I, uh, I could try that.”
“No, no. I get enough of that from Thor. Hell, I get enough of that from Selvig. I get enough of that from Darcy playing sassy gay friend. Not that she’s entirely gay. I don’t know what she is; I saw her hit on one of Tony’s robots once.” Jane smiled at him. It turned sexual in a heartbeat. “What do you want me to do?”
“Uhhhh…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Uhhhh…” Stop saying uh! “Uhhhcould you take off your clothes?”
Jane’s eyebrows rose.
“I know we’re not doing anything—naked—but I’d really like to see you. I’d really like to look at you. You’re beautiful. Not, like, in a way that’s—uhhhhhhh.” Shit!
“Simmer down, Hugh. I gotcha.”
She reached for the straps on her dress, shifted them beneath her arms like it was nothing. Then she wiggled the dress down her body and off her legs. The sight of her cemented his impression of her as a delicate sculpture; all the knowledge he had of her as a superpowered Avenger increased the cerebral dissonance of seeing her as a fragile piece of porcelain. He looked her up and down, as if she were smuggling muscles somewhere. She was just a little thing. Her nubile breasts hardly filled out her bra, while a few ribs showed through her flat torso. Her belly button was as tiny as the dimple on an orange and her trim thighs barely held her panties. Thin runner’s legs, carefully shaped, ended in a lovely pair of tapered feet. She balled her toes in a bit of nervousness.
“Have you done this—“ Before? “A lot?”
Jane shook her head carefully. “Twice. First time I just went with the first guy who offered. It wasn’t very good; my fault. I was nervous. Darcy dragged me here another two times, but I didn’t end up doing anything. Just drank and watched people hook up. Fourth time, there was a guy, and he was… my type. Very sweet, very funny, and I wanted it to work so bad that I just jumped as soon as he offered and. It was like being in a porn film. One of the ones with a black guy, you know?”
Jane’s little mask of experience cracked, she blushed and lowered her head, holding up her hands in a mea culpa gesture of ‘that’s not what I meant.’ Peter shook his hands as well, laughing low-key. He understood putting his foot in his mouth. When Jane looked him in the eye, smiling apologetically, he felt at ease. It helped that Jane was wearing lingerie and yet seemed about as self-conscious as a stripper.
“Go on,” he prompted.
“Not what he was expecting—not what I was expecting—but it was fun. Flash-forward a couple months, and Thor’s gone, and I have a few hours to kill, and you’re cute…” She shuffled her head about, like it was all kismet. A meet-cute. “There’s nothing wrong with us. Not with me for selling it or you for buying it. So. What do you want me to do now?”
“Take off your bra,” Peter said, feeling a gust of self-confidence, a deepening in his breath. “No, wait. Turn around. Let me.”
“Oooh.” Giggly as a schoolgirl, Jane turned and looked at him over her shoulder. He felt more than sexual lust, aesthetic appreciation. Like she was a work of art. A painting that lived and breathed. “Sure you know how to pop a bra? It’s the reason I was a virgin til college.”
“Probably just should’ve bought one that clasped in front,” he quipped, making eye contact before his hands went to the bra hook. He hadn’t been aware of them—this was surprisingly close to an out-of-body experience, for all that he was aware of his anatomy—but he would’ve expected sweaty palms and shaky fingers. But his hands were cool and dry as they simply pinched both sides together and slid the hooks from the eyelets.
The bra fell away, Jane trying to catch it but missing. She was bare from the nape of her neck to the plastic indentations her panties’ waistband left on her skin. Peter leaned in to kiss her shoulder—not quite sure how he should do it, just pressing her lips to her skin and trying to… taste her, somehow, as gently as he could.
“You don’t kiss hookers. Didn’t you ever see Pretty Woman?” Jane asked, laughing it off a moment late.
“No. I’m slightly too manly for that.”
“You should. It’s a charming movie. Mind if I unzip you?”
“Go ahead.”
She stepped back, knowingly exposing herself to him. Her breasts were small but not too small, jiggling when she moved—tantalizing, but happy somehow, almost innocent. Peter stared at them as he quietly obeyed Jane’s psychic command to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress had more give than he expected. He rocked back, seeing a mirror above the bed. He laughed nervously.
“I’m guessing I’ve given more of these than you’ve had them,” Jane said, kneeling down between his legs, opening his knees with her hands to make room for her petite body.
“Safe bet.”
“Well!” she cried, with sudden chipper enthusiasm. “I’ll take it from here.”
Peter was half-hard as she undid his fly—erect just from talking to her, the nearness of her, but nervousness keeping him from full hardness. Still, it was a relief when she scattered his briefs aside and eased him out of his confinement, already hardening in the open air. Peter breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t just erupted at her touch.
Jane’s eyes skittered over his length, as if there’d been some mistake—rolling from the bloating tip to the wiry hair at the base, once, twice, three times, a fourth. She gulped, laughed at herself. “You’ve been holding out on me, Parker. Pretending that a guy who’s hung like you has to pay for it. Fuck, I’m dating a fertility god and even I think that’s big.”
“I, uh—“ an insistent itch behind his ear had Peter scratching away. “I always heard size doesn’t matter.”
“When your dick could go for five dollars at a Subway restaurant, it matters.” She ran her finger over it, delighted at how responsive it was. Just itching to get hard and get started. She’d known a guy as long as Peter, but some blood flow issue kept him from getting erect. It was like trying to masturbate with a loofah. There’d be no problem here, though. “You don’t mind if I sneak in a little practice, do you? I’ve always wanted to deep-throat my boyfriend, but I never seem to have a cucumber on hand when there’s time to rehearse.”
She was very gentle at first; almost nervous. Breaking her own rule to kiss his cock all along its length. Her tongue traipsed over the tiny veins that ran over it. Peter felt his mouth slowly working, a groan half-formed in his throat. Then Jane licked her hand sensuously, to run her wet palm over him. Stroke him and caress him in a unhurried massage as she daintily kissed his head. He felt himself swelling, growing, expanding. Hardening like concrete. He almost reached for her head, to force her to take all of him into her mouth, but buried his hands in the bed’s comforter instead. Christ, it was good. How could anything be so good?
In just a few seconds, he was harder than he could ever remember—harder than morning wood, harder than that scene in Wild Things, harder than MJ flashing him. His cock towered above his opened fly, blocking out fully half of Jane’s face from sight as he leaned back to keep from falling over. Jane ducked under to lap at his swelling testicles, the sudden heat in Peter turning liquid as precum ran down his shaft. He trembled violently as Jane’s warm, wet hands settled on his thighs, clutching them in the slow massage of her touch as she licked her way up his manhood, nipped at the purpling head. Once, again, the pleasure shocking. She kissed a drop of precum rolling down the underside, then opened her mouth and seemed to just—inhale him, like he was the only oxygen in the room.
Peter’s eyes rolled, his balance left him and he fell down to the mattress, his head rebounding off the wrinkling sheets. It felt insane—hallucinogenic, drugged, ecstatic. Unreal. He’d never enjoyed masturbating, how insubstantial it seemed, but this: this was the real thing. He felt the slipperiness of his precum a thousand fold, the wet heat inside and out, warm and tight as Jane’s mouth hollowed desperately around his cock. A moan came from Peter, almost sickly, as Jane’s tongue danced where the pressure of her mouth couldn’t reach, seeming to almost pass through his cock, down to the nerves. And all while—he met her eyes—all while she looked up at him, as many emotions as he felt flooding through her, nervous and wanting to please him and wanting to control him, delighting in the feel of his pleasure in her mouth and wanting him to feel the same, wanting him to fall in love with the soft, fast confines of her mouth, her throat, her body.
“Fuck,” he said, feeling the need to say something, anything, “fuck, Jane… Jane, please…”
Her eyes locked to his, joined by what they both felt, she moved slowly down his length. As if wanting to prolong the feast. The sexual pressure he felt spilling out of his groin and weighing down his entire body, spreading, unspooling. She stopped halfway down and pulled herself back, his cock slipping the red collar of her lips to show him how it glistened with saliva, the proof it was explored and claimed territory. Jane left him escape, all the way to his cockhead, her lips tapering to its edge as if she had changed her mind, but he wasn’t fooled. He expected, but still wasn’t ready, for her dropping her mouth down over his cock, almost to his balls this time, her hands kneading his legs as she sucked on him like hard candy.
“Christ, you’re the best, Jane.” His hands slipped from the sheets like dogs off a leash, going to her head, delving into the glossy hair that seemed intrinsically connected to the sensation she was giving him, the softness one and the same. Beneath it, the warm weight of her skull. He cupped it between his palms. “You’re so good at this… no one could be better… no one…”
His voice broke as she screwed her mouth down onto his organ again, swallowing him to where her chin hit the folds of fabric at his crotch, but still not able to take all of him. Didn’t matter. The warmth of her seemed to burn hotter, spreading up through his entire body. He barely felt her hands leave his knees, fall off the edges—one went to his balls, feeling them churn with energy, and another dipped out of sight.
As much as Peter wanted to keep looking into her eyes—the sultry soul he saw in them was intoxicating—his mind slipped from his body and he fell back again upon the mattress, dashed himself on its sheets. The mirror on the ceiling snapped into his mind as soon as he could focus. His dark clothing made him a shadow on the bedspread, unreal, while the flash of pale flesh that was Jane drew all the light in the room. He strained to focus on the sight, include it in his memories and not just the drugged feeling of pleasure stealing away all his senses. A mass of brown hair spilled over his crotch, his stomach, his thighs like ivy growing over a status. As he watched, it started to bob.
To Peter’s undying pleasure, Jane’s head bounced up and down in natural rhythm, a lily-pad riding the ripples in the water. The orgasm welling in his groin felt big enough to be the tide. Peter pushed all his perception, all his feeling into that ceaseless kiss, the sound of his racing heart in his ears becoming the sound of the ocean, a fierce but calming soundtrack only broken by the slurping noise as she tried something new, then something else.
Jane lowered herself further. At first, her knees had been together as if in prayer, but now she spread them like a tripod. Her back undulated smoothly to make room, her torso leaning forward as her ass lifted, waving in the air like a dance partner to her bowing, rising, bowing head.
“Jane…” Peter didn’t know what else to say. It was a prayer, a chant, something to keep him focused and not blowing off with the breeze; the wind that built and built. “Jane… shit… Jane…”
The lowered light began to settle on the untanned surface of her ass, the two smooth mounds flat and taut with exercise. He studied their motion, the almost fastidiously tidy birthmark that hid in a corner, the crack he traced with his eyes, the shadows that fell hard at the bottom and glistened with motion. Fingers, he realized. Fingers at her crotch.
She was touching herself. Enjoying this as he was.
Jane hummed as if in confirmation, “M-m-m-m,” her song coming through loud and clear around her mouthing of him.
Peter spoke to her with an authority that sprung up in him fully formed. “Spread your legs, Jane. I want to see you touching yourself.”
Jane did as she was told without thought, rolling onto her side and keeping her head tilted to continue mouthing his cock. Her legs spread. She let him see everything. Even the slight glistening inside her, the juices beginning to flow.
“Always nice to see someone enjoying their work,” Peter breathed, not sure where the one-liner had come from, but liking the look Jane gave him. She was so… engaged with him. He pressed on, remembering her words. She liked being told what to do. What to do for cash… “Fuck yourself, doc. I won’t do it, so do it for me.”
Jane was good at following orders; no wonder she wasn’t in charge of the Avengers. Both hands moved to her body, his own holding her head tight. Her left hand held to her small but firm breasts, and it wasn’t clear if she was touching them more for Peter’s pleasure or her own. And her right hand clamped down between her legs, fingers deftly stroking, rolling from her slit to her clit and even down to her asshole, teasing it just a little. That was all for her.
Peter rocked his hips into her suction, the bed creaking musically under him. His hands ran a circuit through her hair, petting it, dividing it, pulling on it under it slipped through his fingers. He didn’t exert himself, but he got the feeling Jane wouldn’t be deterred if he tried to try her off his cock with a crowbar. She was getting hot, he could feel it, sense it coming off her in waves. When she moaned through his manhood like it was a gag, he couldn’t keep combing her hair like he was at a slumber party. Peter caught it between his palms and forced her down on him, carefully but inexorably. He heard her gag. Heard the mercilessly wet sound of her fingers going hard in her cunt.
“Come on, Jane,” he said, the command sounding oddly encouraging when he heard it exit his mouth. “Earn your pay… Jane, you whore, earn your pay!”
He felt his seed throbbing, his orgasm like the roiling waters behind a dam about to burst. He was going to come and it would be how it was supposed to be, how it was meant to be between a man and a woman. An explosion, a deluge, something as resounding as fireworks to mark the occasion.
And he heard her moan, her flesh now resounding as she slapped at her cunt with a firm hand, the impact taking in her clit, her labia, everything. She moaned into his cock and it answered, a river of his cum draining his balls and flooding her mouth. Forcing its way down an eager throat. Peter pumped into her tightly sealed lips until she pulled away, gasping, breathing out his seed, her eyes still begging. Imploring.
“Give it to me!” She moaned as if in agony. “Peter, give it—come on my face!”
Her back arched, her pert breasts were thrust out, her face cast upward pleadingly. Peter breathed out, a long loose exhale—then stroked his cock a half-dozen times, as he’d seen Logan do, the dregs of his cum flying in every direction before more came. It seemed like another orgasm, another plateau he reached. The first of his cream shot over Jane’s shoulder, into her hair. She moaned again, anguish, and grabbed him with both hands, as fast as a Norse god but thankfully not with the same force. And she herself aimed his bursting at her own eager face.
Peter lost track of time, his own body’s racking spurts. Her forehead was covered, then her chin—her right eye, her left cheek, her eyelashes, the dripping deposit tracing the hollow of her cheek below the bone. At some point she came, her mouth falling open on a moan that went from pleasure to pain, and he shot into her parted lips as well. Her eyes widened, then closed in her ecstasy. He fired into her begging mouth again and again and once more.
Jane swallowed, feeling Peter’s warmth, a part of himself, rush down into her body. That was all she needed to finish. Both hands clasped between her legs, she came, curling up into a kinky little ball of pleasure, as if centering herself on the heated weight in her gut—proof that she had made a man come with nothing but her mouth. The wave of sensation rolled over Jane’s small body, catching her again and again, as for once she felt her orgasm die not in the strong embrace of Thor, but on the floor at the foot of a strange bed. Like she wasn’t a hero at all. Just a sex object. A whore.
Drenched in sweat and drained past his limits, Peter collapsed down to the mattress for the last time. His tool faltered, its job done, reposed between his legs like a planted flag. Jane licked the last few drops from it with her clever little tongue; her goodbye kiss.
A few minutes later, Peter came to. He jerked upward to find Jane at a vanity with a kimono neatly wrapped around herself. She was staring into the mirror, but not applying make-up. Instead, she slowly wiped her face off with a wet cloth, almost regretfully. As Peter watched, she held the cloth to her chin, thought better of it, then licked below her lips. When her tongue had caught all it could, then she let the cloth do its work.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said immediately, sounding high-pitched to himself, even though it was just his normal voice.
“You don’t have to apologize for that,” Jane laughed. “I think you lasted as long as you could, under the circumstances.”
“No, I mean, uh—uhhhh—those things I called you. I shouldn’t have said that stuff. I don’t know where it came from. The stuff.”
“Did you lie?” Jane asked, the cloth traveling down into the hollow of her throat.
“That’s not the—I didn’t mean to call you that. You’re more than that.”
“And I am also, simply, that. A slut, Peter. A whore. Whatever you want to call it.” Her smile in the mirror reached his eyes. “It’s not just one or the other. I can be a scientist, a hero, a wife, a mother—and that.” She turned around to face him. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She seemed more… plaintive. Questioning. “Can I be that to you, though?”
“It was intense,” Peter said noncommittally.
Jane got up. She let the robe go from her body and, naked, went to a wardrobe. Fresh clothes came out and she pulled them on. Peter realized the simple act of watching her dress seemed far more intimate than what they’d just done.
“I’m going to come back here,” she said, gathering her hair. He’d made a mess of it. “Soon. I’ll shoot you a text before I do. And I’d really like it if the next time I was here, you were too.” She gave him a smile, her biggest yet. Like some burden had kept pulling her lips toward a scowl, and now it was gone. “You can catch a nap here if you like. I have to get going. SHIELD wants a report on some physics acting up in London and I’ve blown them off long enough.”
She didn’t kiss him goodbye, but she did kiss her hand as she left, touching it to his cheek. It made Peter feel warm. He sagged back into the bed, feeling neither dressed nor undressed, and let his body shut down one piece of a time. His face went last, still burning where she’d touched him. She kissed me, he thought as the darkness blanketed him.
“Dude!” a husky voice came, waking him right the hell up. He looked the wrong direction, seeing the windows dark—been a few hours at least—then the right way. There was a woman standing in the doorway, wearing at least four layers of clothing, none of which was enough to hide her curves. Same story with the horn-rimmed glasses and her angelic face.
“Uh—hi?”
She goggled into a smile. “And you would be the reason Jane smells like fish. You mind if I crash here? Jane kinda promised me I could after I got done clubbing. Guess she forget that after you spritzed her in the face with your dudesauce.” All this said as the woman slid into the room, door shut behind her, and threw off her scarf, beanie, and jacket like a Marine disassembling a rifle.
“My… what now?” Peter asked, her sitting down on the bed next to him.
“Scoot over, man. The Carrie Diaries is about to come on and it’s, like, my crack.” She used her iPhone as a remote control to turn the TV on—it was set to the appropriate channel, so apparently this was a regular occurrence—and then set it down at her side. The side Peter was on. “Whoa-ho!” she said, feeling where she’d laid it. “No wonder Jane let you introduce yourself to her tonsils. If she’s even breathing after sucking on that thing. Bigger choking hazard than the Tonka Trucks I used to play with—“
“That’s my knee,” Peter interrupted, before she could try any harder to make him blush.
“Oh.” The woman groped around further—got him. “So that’s your love-gun. I knew it. Jane’s a total size-queen. I’m Darcy, by the way.” She gave him a very unconventional handshake.
Peter wrested himself away and set about getting himself back in his trousers. Down, boy. “Peter Parker. I’m a… mechanic.”
“Isn’t that a little presumptuous?”
“I, uh, maybe? I did come up with a way to short-circuit Electro…”
“Not being a sidekick, doofus. Putting Puny Parker there away.” She batted some eyelashes at him. “Maybe some of us weren’t done taking in the view.”
Somewhere, Peter was sure Tony Stark was laughing triumphantly.
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