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Corruption Is Just Another Change of Perspective	By : Ksennin Category: X-men Comics > General Views: 31577 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men or any Marvel characters and make no money from the publication of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Jean watched Emma apply her make-up in the silver lacquer of the mirror. It wasn’t clean and casual, like Jean did hers. Emma lingered on every brushstroke, every flavored dab, like an artist composing a masterpiece. And she never looked at Jean.
“I’m back,” Jean said, emphasizing it, though the point had been made abundantly clear by the vast Phoenix Effect in the night sky, her destruction of the Prime Sentinel before it could kill Nightcrawler, her night on the town catching up with the rest of the original five like she’d been on a long trip overseas. Not dead from a thing that thought it was Magneto stopping her heart.
“I’m well aware,” Emma said, her lips pursing together as she polished them with lipstick.
“You must’ve known I would be.”
“Yes. I thought it’d be sooner rather than later. You’ve been dreadfully tardy, Jean dear. Really let the boys wallow in their tears this time.”
“But I’m back. And you and Scott are still a—“ Jean compressed her distaste into the set of her jaw. “Thing.”
“Yes. We are, aren’t we?” Emma blotted out the color of her face with blush. Making herself as white and indestructible as any glacier.
“Shall I be the bitch, Emma? Just this once?” Jean sat, TKing the chair underneath her even as she lowered herself. “He’s not yours. He’s mine. Everyone knows it. Especially him. What they don’t know is you only wanted him because he was mine.”
“This is you being a bitch?” Emma asked. “It’s awfully hard to tell.”
“He is going to leave you for me. Just like he left Madeline. And she was the mother of his child. You’re just—what—a mid-life crisis with decent taste in clothes?”
“I must remember that one for the title of my autobiography,” Emma mused. She fixed her breasts in the mirror. She wore a white blouse that turned her cleavage into art, with a red leather belt on white leather pants, all ending in white Ann Demeulemeester heels and a helping of jewelry as platinum as the polish on her nails.
“Give him to me. Spare yourself the embarrassment. Spare him the angst. We both know you’re bored of him anyway. You were just holding on for this moment, for me coming back and asking you to do the right thing.”
“You really do think you’re some kind of goddess.” Now Emma seemed to see Jean’s reflection in the mirror. A drop of denim jeans and T-shirts in her lovingly furnished room. Blue-collar. Ruffled hair. “That the two of you have some epic love story because you went to prom together.”
“I can prove it, if you want. But I don’t think you’d like losing. You’re not a prideful woman, Emma.” In Jean’s eyes there was a flash of flame. “In fact, I don’t think you have much self-esteem at all.”
“Everyone says that when they see what I wear. As if it doesn’t take confidence to give Evil a hard-on while you’re fighting it.” Emma turned to smile at Jean with a grin that was as immaculate as her perfectly composed face. “My counteroffer.”
Jean crossed her arms.
“I’ll give up Scott if you be with me for one night.” Her smile was even more perfect when she tilted her head to the side. “My date.”
Jean casually, provocatively untucked her T-shirt from her jeans. “Sex, Emma? I’m so far beyond associating that with intimacy that you might as well be asking me to run a hand through your hair.”
“No, no, I’d never let you muss my hair.” Emma’s eyes traveled Jean’s body in open appraisal. “I have little desire to fuck you, Jean. Two doms never work out very well, and as far as redheads go, I’ve more than had that itch scratched. No. I want you to go to a club with me. I want the great Jean Grey to see if she can keep up with a mere mortal.”
Jean smiled slowly. “You’re testing me. You think you can break me. And yet, you have no idea how small you are. What’s it to be, Emma? What will you force me to look at through my microscope?”
“First of all, your fashion choices.” Emma got out from between Jean and the mirror, letting her see her T-shirt in it. “I have a surprising affinity for the Backstreet Boys myself, but that’s no reason to emblazon myself with them. Allow me to put you in something decent before I’m seen with you. It will make a world of difference if I can tell myself that you really do choose to look like that.”
An hour later, Jean had changed into a green one-shouldered evening gown by Jean Paul Gaultier, her feet slipped into Love Me Bright patent pumps by Michael Antonio. Even her underwear was different: dark red lingerie trimmed with tiny frills of dark yellow.
When Emma had given them to her, her smile had said she half-expected them to condemn them as obscene, but Jean had given her a knowing smile in return and slid away to put them on. She knew it was a reference to the Dark Phoenix, and she didn’t care. She liked the way they looked. Just wearing them under her clothes put her in the mood. When she got back, she’d let Scott see her in them.
Emma had also insisted on doing Jean’s make-up, coating Jean’s eyelids with a thick aspic of dark blue eye shadow that made them almost look bruised and giving her lips a purple gloss. When Jean looked at herself in the mirror, her mouth had the appearance of a scrumptious piece of fruit. The overall effect was subtly whorish. Jean just smiled sweetly, as if it were a real date they were on and Emma had just pinned a corsage on her.
And she wondered who would like her appearance more, Emma or Scott.
“So where are we going?” Jean asked, mock-curiously. “A crack den? A cockfight? Where do you intend to shock me so?”
“What’s your hurry?” Emma asked, reclining on the bed, the space between them dividing her room with abject symmetry. The understated masculinity of the way Emma wore her clothing and sprawled before Jean made the redhead feel like they were two opposite chess pieces. Just not light and dark, but fire and ice.
“Oh, we can stay in, if you like.” Jean sat on a coy little loveseat with a psychic residue of Italy. “I’m sure you can offend me perfectly well here. What claws do you intend to sink into me? Pornography? A sex tape of you and Scott, perhaps? Do you wear interesting outfits?”
“I don’t make sex tapes, Jean. I’m not some pop singer with a desperation to go platinum. No, I thought a little something to help us relax. You’ll be no fun at all if you spend the whole evening like this.”
She drew a flat cigarette case from where it’d been set on the nightstand, opened it, and unearthed a thin brown cigarette from within like it was a family heirloom. Carefully, she gave it a sniff and held it out to Jean, who took hold of it with her TK and brought it to her hand from across the room. She held it like a bomb.
“Have you ever has hashish before?” Emma asked, drawing another cigarette out from the elegant little case. “This is the very finest, my dear Miss Grey. It will take away even the sting of knowing that your husband has come in me five times a week these past few years. Or on me.”
“Only five?” Jean returned. “He must’ve felt obligated.”
Still, her back bristled. She hadn’t had marijuana since she was a teenager, and never hashish. The Professor had her careful even to touch the mind of someone on a hallucinogen. With her power, it could be—
Emma held up a hand, as if she could hear Jean’s inner monologue and wanted it silenced. “I’ll only ask you to have a few drags. If you don’t like it, you may stop.”
That was too fair an offer for Jean to refuse. She’d be backing down if she let Emma make her put her foot down this early on. Still, the sheer unexpectedness of this gesture put a feeling of dread deep in Jean’s guts.
“Light us, won’t you date?” Emma asked, as sweet as frosting on a wedding cake.
Jean flicked her fingers and the tip of Emma’s cigarette ignited, as did her own. She stared at the thin like of smoke that now drooled from her… ‘hashish’.
“Slowly,” Emma said as Jean brought the cigarette to her lips, “slowly.”
Without further instruction, she took a drag from her own cigarette. Jean watched how she inhaled, then tried to do the same, but very gently. The taste of the smoke was strange, and the feel of its inhalation unexpected, but it was not so unpleasant and she was gratified not to cough. When Emma took another drag, Jean did as well, inhaling deeper and holding the smoke in the way Emma was.
They smoked in silence, matching each other another four times until Jean could hardly feel it going down. The smoke had become smooth as water. The fifth time, it seemed she was simply holding her breath.
“Do you feel anything?” Emma asked, sounding so like herself that Jean expected to look up and see the White Queen standing before her, corset and cape.
“Nothing,” Jean replied, though her voice didn’t sound like her voice. But she had so many voices. Marvel Girl and Phoenix and Dark Phoenix. Scott was her only constant.
Emma piqued an eyebrow, pulled on her cigarette like she was performing a sex act on it. “I feel the world, Jean. The world is so aroused. The world wants to fuck so badly, but it never gets to fourth base.”
Jean wondered if she should’ve felt the same way, if this meant the hashish was not working. She’d been the Phoenix. She’d been aware of the universe around and inside her on a cosmic level. She still was, in the back of her brain, a quiet vertigo. But she could not imagine seeing it the way Emma did.
Emma got up and went to her, sitting down beside Jean. Her leg pressed against Jean’s leg with a dull but steady pressure. When Jean looked down at her cigarette, she saw she’d smoked it down to a stub. How had that happened? No matter. Emma offered Jean her own. Her blue lipstick swathed the end, turning it into a rare jewel.
Like a robot, Jean took it and killed the feeling of dread inside her. She didn’t even mind Emma’s leg against hers. She pressed back to let Emma know she didn’t mind, didn’t care. She was as sexual as Emma Frost the libertine, even if she didn’t advertise it with every breath she took.
Emma took the cigarette back. Breathed it in. Advertised. Her hand came out. It touched Jean’s cheek—somehow, her mouth opened—Emma breathed the smoke into her open mouth—Jean didn’t mind—she didn’t mind anything at all. The sweet smoke licked its way down her throat—it seemed as deep as coitus—she pressed her warm thigh harder against Emma’s—she would not back down.
Emma picked her up, got her to her feet, and with the smoke pooled warm and seductive in the pits of their lungs, they wandered out of the Institute, out into the evening air. Jean felt cold for a moment, then remembered Emma had put on mixed faux fur coats of gray and white, one for Jean and one for herself. They were two errant snowflakes, the same ice but different shapes—perhaps one pattern, just broken apart so they looked different. The smoke whispered this to Jean as she pooled into a car with Emma.
It was a 1936 Maybach Zeppelin Town Car, and Namor had bought it when he was part of the Invaders. He drove it now because it was the only vehicle he could stomach driving, much as his Tom Ford business suit was the only sort of human clothing he’d consider wearing. In the passenger seat, Felicia Hardy laughed and giggled, touching his bicep through his dark blue sleeve and drawing attention to her cleavage by splaying her fingers over it whenever she spoke. Her hands were in leather gloves with fur trim.
She was dressed the most casual of the lot, but her rock star chic I don’t give a fuck look worked for her. A Lauren Moshi V-neck Tee with an oversized paw print on the front, a sleek black Michael Kors leather vest with faux fur collar, a set of Luichiny platform boots with fur cuffs, MOTO Grunge raspberry ripped skinny jeans, and a chrome wallet chain with a kitten pendant hanging from it. Jean thought of snuggling with her in a coat room.
“I couldn’t believe it when Emma gave me the call,” Felicia babbling, her words coming out of her as fast as the smoke from her thin brown cigarette. “Jean Grey, alive and well, and wanting us to welcome her back to the land of the living. Always so wonderful to meet a friend of Emma’s, isn’t it Namor?”
He looked at her with a mix of keen interest and condescension. “Emma has many beautiful friends.”
Felicia laughed. This time she touched his thigh.
Even though the windows were down and the wind whipped through the car, trying to catch it as it hit upwards of seventy miles per hour, the odiously sweet hashish hung in the air as they drove. They were all crammed together despite the spacious ride. Sprawled out, limbs intersecting, hair pulled like puppet’s strings to each other by the wind, going with their hands couldn’t.
With Emma’s calf overlapping her own, Jean realized that the deathly wonderful scent was not in her nose, it was in her mind. She was glad for Namor and the white-haired girl, the Black Cat, to add strength in numbers. She didn’t trust herself alone with Emma. It was too easy to fall into a violent design. And alone—
She’d never been good at being alone. Not when her mind was meant to touch so many others. She’d always had friends, lovers, family. But dead… or the Phoenix… she was like a butterfly in a hurricane. Borne about and buffeted by forces beyond her understanding, the universe too vast and distracting and delicious for her to make a choice. The agony was too sweet. At least back on Earth, she mattered.
She giggled, suddenly feeling naughty. She’d picked up a mental whisper of where they were taking her. Namor was thinking of bare breasts, Felicia of putting a hundred-dollar bill in a G-string. A strip club, then. How droll. How Emma.
They went through some of the clandestine trappings that Emma enjoyed so much. She probably never would’ve joined the X-Men if you could just walk through the door; she got off on it being an exclusive club, and the same was true of her leisure hours. They went into a quiet subway, took something like a very futuristic mine cart onward, and ended up in a room of pitch black.
Jean threw her eyes wide against her squinting high, wanting to see. She even considered using her powers, but that felt too much like surrendering. She’d play Emma’s game as long as she was able. Namor, kind sweet Namor from deep under the sea where there was no light, took her hand and guided her. His other arm was linked with Emma’s, and Jean felt Felicia take her other hand in her cool leather glove, like a child wanting help from mommy. All together like Dorothy’s quartet in The Wizard of Oz, they breezed through the black space with its interruptions of light, revealing murals, stone benches, artwork.
She felt more than saw the space narrow, becoming a hallway with little wandering lights on the floor like a mix between a dark theater’s lighting and fireflies. Or maybe it was just the hashish. Emma gave her hand a little reassuring squeeze, but Jean did not squeeze back.
Finally, they came to a room with some light. It was like a dark forest in the moonlight of a cloudy night. Jean’s hearing, the way the ambient noise bounced around, told her it was the size of an auditorium. Tables loomed out of the darkness, barely revealed by candles topping them, but they were pinpricks of light next to the stage in the middle of the room, ringed with lit candles that provided the space with the bare illumination it received. Jean held up her hand and looked at its casual lighting from the distant stage. Her wedding ring barely glinted.
She wondered if people could tell she was high. Her thoughts seemed normal, rational, the order they came in was just… off. Like a skipping record. She suddenly remembered Emma calling Felicia and Namor as she’d gotten ready, telling them to pick her up, but she didn’t remember sitting down—suddenly she was sitting down, ringing one of the many tables with its own small flame. They were near the wall. Jean could see a red curtain flying up over them, disappearing into darkness. Where was she?
A waitress came by, wearing a concealing cloak and a lace mask to hide what little of her features showed under the hood. She bowed politely to Emma and the party. “What may I bring you, mistress?” Her clipped British accent stirred a memory in Jean.
“Drinks after the show,” Emma instructed. “A bottle of your finest. And anything else?”
“Rum and cola for me!” Felicia almost cheered.
“I’ll defer to the lady’s judgment,” Namor said with a sneer. “So few of your surface-dwellers’ drink are worth the piss they end up as.”
Their waitress scurried away.
The hum of conversation, politely muted as it was, filled the forest-room like the sound of cicadas in the night. It went still as spotlights thrummed on, illuminating the room from a far wall to the cusp of the stage. At the wall, the curtain parted. More darkness. But in it was a green shimmer. The greenness moved forward, into the slight, with a motion that Jean came to recognize as walking. A slow, sultry strut of swaying hips and shapely long legs. A woman.
The woman looked familiar, but Jean couldn’t place her. She wore a sort of nightie that covered her from head to toe in green silk, a hood going up her scalp and hanging down over her eyes. But the material was translucent. As the woman came closer, approaching the stage, Jean could discern her form through the sheer material. Large breasts stretching the front obscenely, their jiggling the only thing that hid the color of her fat nipples standing out in the filmy, clinging material. The motion of her hips similarly hid the triangle of her sex, through Jean saw flashes of brown hair standing out against the pale skin.
She was practically naked. That’s what kept Jean from recognizing her for so long, because though they’d known each other for years, in the past, Rogue had always worn layer upon layer of clothing, or a costume thick enough to keep from tearing. But the pride in her step, the confident sexuality that shielded her from the world, that made it obvious even before Jean saw her face. Rogue was explosive sexuality packed into taut-stretched clothing, like she’d taken a little beauty from every woman she’d ever touched. Or a little of the fantasies of every man she’d touched.
“That can’t be her,” Jean said softly, only to Emma. “Rogue would never—she wouldn’t.”
“Then who is she?” Emma asked philosophically.
“A shapeshifter. I’ve heard about these places. People who can assume other forms—they make themselves look like celebrities, superheroes, so they can sell their bodies.”
“If you say so,” Emma yawned. “You know her better than I.”
Rogue—or the imitation of her—had reached the stage. A well-developed leg stepping out of the folds of her robe, bare and creamy, to take the first step. Another took the second. She made a production simply of climbing to the stage. There, she stepped briskly to the center, the ring of candles surrounding her blanketing her nightie with light. Her silhouette inside seemed more visible than visible to Jean; like an x-ray developed on her eyelids.
Rogue casually pulled the nightie up over her head. She had the perfect hourglass figure alluded to by the skintight clothing she often wore. Her hips slim and her waist even slimmer, making her perfectly rounded ass stand out just as her voluptuously full breasts did. Her slender frame curved in just the right places, a well-crafted artwork. And like artwork, not meant to be touched.
It was almost enough to sober Jean, the shock of seeing her friend’s naked body with a group comprised mostly of complete strangers. She looked at Rogue almost timidly. Even if it was a Skrull or something, it felt like she was spying on Rogue in the shower. God, Jean could see her pussy. Her pubic hair had been pared down, letting Jean see the pouting mouth of her sex, tight and small like her own had been as a girl.
Rogue stood there, just letting her audience stare at her perfection. “Hello, lovahs. My name’s Anna-Marie and I’ll be dancin’ for you tonight. Not my first show, won’t be my last. But in case it’s your first show, I’m gonna let you know a couple of mah rules, okay? First off, I don’t have no problem with being touched, but other people do. Maybe you’ve hearda that. So unless we’re friends, when I come by, I recommend you keep your hands behind your back. Don’t worry about yer pecker or yer pussy: I’ll take care of those. If Ah want you to touch me, Ah will let you know. But I’m not wearing my usual jewelry.” She tapped the hollow of her throat. “So you’ll be doin’ at your own risk. Hope it’s worth it, sug!”
Softly aggressive music filled the air, signaling the start of the show. Jean recognized it as an instrumental version of Down in Mexico by the Coasters. Rogue began to move and stretch, painstakingly positioning her body in provocative stances. Her flesh rippled with each movement as she turned slowly to reveal herself to each corner of the room. When she’d completed one revolution and come back to face Jean, the redhead could see that her nipples were stiff and swollen.
Jean’s mouth fell open. Rogue was not only standing naked in a room of strangers, but she was enjoying it. Becoming excited by it. Rogue stopped, arched her back to thrust out her breasts, and took off from where she stood, floating up through the air like a fairy.
Jean didn’t know of many shapeshifters who could fly as well. Could that really be Rogue? Could a woman of grace and intelligence, her friend of so many years, really have hidden this side of herself?
Rogue touched down on a nearby table. She got down on her knees, throwing her head back, her entire body on display like a flower in the sun. One of the men at the table took the offer. He reached out and squeezed one of Rogue’s plump tits. He pulled his hand back nearly immediately, some of his life force having been leeched away; Rogue barely suppressed a groan as she absorbed it. She straightened and gave him a wink. “Feel good, don’t it babe?”
She rose again, leapfrogging to another table where she knelt and posed like a pin-up girl. A woman palmed her ass like she was checking a grapefruit for freshness. Rogue cooed again, taking her little sip of someone else’s life. When she stood, Jean saw that her sex was gleaming with moisture.
She understood now. Rogue wasn’t just stripping for these people. She was actually absorbing their lust for her, their arousal—mutual masturbation by the roomful. It was audacious. The sheer thought of Rogue with a hundred strangers’ lusts in her head pinched Jean’s thighs together. It would be like her reading the minds of an orgy; and that suddenly didn’t seem like an unattractive proposition.
Rogue took flight again. She touched down on Jean’s table, falling into a crouch like a cat dropping from the roof. She faced Jean so the redhead could see right between her legs to the tremble of her narrow slit. “Hey there, sugah. Been a long time. How long y’all wanted to see me naked, anyway?”
Felicia toasted her. “Forever and ever, my love.” Giggling: “Forever and a day.”
Rogue rose slowly, undulating her hips with every inch she gained, swaying her hands around herself in time with the music. With her hips jutting out, it was like she was offering her pussy up to Jean—inviting her to caress her sex. Jean licked her suddenly dry lips. Everyone in the room could see; everyone must know what was happening.
Emma ravished Rogue with her eyes. “A very tempting offer for the birthday girl,“ (Emma’s preferred euphemism for Jean’s rebirth), “but I think it’s a bit early in the evening for that. Our Jeannie likes to watch. Just like she did all that time she spent as some cosmic entity—while I was fucking her husband’s brain out.”
Her anger suddenly outweighed her shock. Jean kicked Emma’s shin hard but warningly. Emma just smiled.
Rogue looked over her shoulder at Namor, and slapped her own ass so it shook in his direction. “How ‘bout it, seaman? Got a little sumthin for me to suck?”
“If the Prince of Atlantis were to give a performance, it would last considerably longer than these good people have allotted time for, and I would be remiss not to give advance knowledge to all who would enjoy looking on my visage… and that of yourself, shattering with pleasure.”
“Thatta no, then.” Rogue turned beaconing eyes to Emma. She, in turn, gave a nod to Felicia, who was squirming in her seat, her hands out of view.
Rogue followed the unspoken instruction. Eyes hooded with the pleasure she’d already absorbed, she slunk her way to Felicia. Knelt down with her bent legs far apart and rubbing her hands up and down her thighs. Her pinkly glistening sex thrust out and drew back, not a foot from Felicia’s craven expression.
“Like mah titties, white-hair?” Rogue asked in her smutty drawl, drawing her hands out to the crowning caps of her breasts. She pulled at her own nipples, hard, and crooned out the pain. “Mmmm… y’all could slap ‘em around a bit. They’re so sensitive, and you wouldn’t be touching me none too much. Bet you could do it for a while. Just watch those babies dance for you…”
“Touch…” Felicia took her hands out from under the table. Her gloves’ leather reflected the candlelight. “Is not an issue.”
“Well then!” Rogue’s hands returned to her wide-spread lap. “Ah guess you can touch me—just anywhere.”
Jean had to be imagining this. It had to be the smoke making her see things. Every bone in her body told her this was Rogue while every thought in her head said it couldn’t be. It was like Anna-Marie had her own Dark Phoenix, filling her with a lust for everything and everyone in this world. And that touched a chord deep in Jean’s body, seeing Rogue act out her own most unhinged fantasies, and that chord vibrated deep inside her. It brought an itchy moisture to her cunt, a painful hardness to her clit, and she had to squeeze her thighs even tighter together to control both.
Felicia reached out with her gloved hand and simply sunk it into Rogue’s body, biting her lip as two fingers sheathed themselves right inside her. “Oh my—you’re really tight, Rogue. Really hot, too. Wonder how wet you are.”
“Find out,” Rogue urged.
“Oh, ah will,” Felicia teased. She pulled her hand away to see her fingers dripping with dew. Then she sucked them clean in her own full lips.
Jean turned to Namor, meaning to disbelieve everything she was seeing, but he was occupied. The waitress had returned, and Namor had pulled her to his broad chest. He was kissing her so hard her hood had fallen back, loosing locks of purple hair. Jean recognized her now. Psylocke. And with her cloak thrown aside by Namor’s exploratory hands, she was revealed to be just as nude as Rogue.
What the fuck was happening?
Rogue reached out, her bare hand traveling slow and warningly. “Need a taste, sugah. Little sumthin to take the edge off. Can Ah get that from you and still find you good for anutha round?”
“The magazines say you have a piece of everyone you’ve sucked on floating around in your skull.” Felicia clicked her teeth. “I think I’d like being inside you.”
Rogue stroked Felicia’s cheek, a long but fleeting touch, both women cooing as they shared their arousal. Rogue sensed Felicia wasn’t satisfied with the skirted contact. She offered up her own two fingers and Felicia sucked them into her mouth, head bobbing on them with sudden intensity, letting Rogue absorb her through her lips before breaking away with satiated pain.
Rogue licked her lips. “You touched yourself before the show. Naughty girl.”
“And you just felt me touching myself.” Felicia gave Rogue a smile that Anna-Marie reflected right back at her. “How’d you like the real thing?”
Rogue craned her neck to Jean, gaze suddenly including the redhead in this perverse conversation. “Honey, you need to find yourself a new gig. This one’s a mind reader too.”
Nesting her fingers in the fur lining of Felicia’s glove, Rogue held Felicia’s hand steady and simply fucked herself on her straightened fingers. Her hips seemed to be made of jelly; she gyrated and swayed herself on those fingers, danced her way through the masturbation, breasts jumping, jiggling.
The music hit an explosive section that made Jean wonder if Rogue did this with someone every night; Rogue cupped her melon-sized breasts and offered them to the world as Felicia gripped her ass with one gloved hand, continued to feed her fingers with the other. Jean found herself leaning forward—she could almost see Felicia’s fingers curling inside Rogue.
She only looked away when Namor spoke. “My lips are well-pleased with you, slut,” he was saying to Betsy, her head breathlessly tilted to the side like she was offering up her neck to a vampire. Her similarly offered breasts were wet with his licking. “But now comes time for your service to please the Rod of Atlantis.”
Betsy obeyed wordlessly. Following to her knees with her cloak in disarray, she unzipped Namor and pulled his fly open—all it took for his cock to spring out hungrily, ten inches of steel-hard flesh demanding worship. Jean would’ve been taken aback at such length, but Betsy simply popped her mouth open and buried her face in his crotch. Namor groaned, pleased, as his cock was swathed in the warm glove of Betsy’s throat.
His expression was almost pained as he regarded Jean with the wanton Rogue between them. “Your friends are adept at lovemaking, Phoenix. I wonder if you are equal to the pleasure they give.”
Emma’s chin rested on her nestled fingers as she watched Rogue’s fingering before her, lovingly interested in the spectacle. “Our shameless mutant sex-positivism makes us far better partners than most humans—but I think you’ll have to be satisfied with learning that from Rogue and Psylocke. Jean and I have nothing to prove to you.”
Namor roared with laughter as Psylocke gobbled up his cock like it was the last one on Earth. Every time its full length was sucked into her throat, she moaned around it like the very knowledge she could take it gave her pleasure. “The whores you’ve provided are ample evidence for your claims of supremacy.” He cupped Psylocke’s chin, smiling down at her. “Slut, please frig yourself as you take my manhood. I don’t wish for you to wait too long to fulfill the lusts my presence ignites in you.”
Betsy nodded and clawed between her thighs, his hands circling her head to hold her in place for a series of hard thrusts…
Rogue too seemed to be on the cusp of finishing, every muscle in her body tensing, showing off the sweat that covered her like a drizzling rain. Then Felicia pulled her hand away.
Rogue stopped dancing, though each panting breath bounced her cleavage in a way more enticing than any striptease. She stared down at Felicia in open hunger.
“I wanna taste,” Felicia drawled, “right from the source.”
Rogue was breathless as she scooted to the end of the table, her legs now dangling off the edge—she leaned back onto her hands and pushed her hips up, splaying her cunt right before Felicia. It was an obscene moment of intimacy. Jean could see her sex literally dripping.
And Felicia leaned in, the little tip of her tongue extended, to touch Rogue’s clit with a wet quiver. Rogue groaned aloud, audible well over the slowing music. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, her mouth openly panting. She nodded desperately. She was on the edge.
Felicia leaned in with her tongue and pushed her over.
It took a long moment: Rogue rolled her ass, grinded her hips on Felicia’s face, setting off an ecstasy that echoed through her for at least a minute after she’d collapsed back onto the table and Felicia had fallen back on in her chair. Rogue in satiation, the Black Cat in drained exhaustion, but both in pleasure.
Jean looked over at Emma, needing to ask someone she knew ‘Did you see that?’, but she found Emma hungrily staring from Rogue’s leaky cunt to Felicia’s glossily parted lips. Her eyes were half closed. And she’d never looked more beautiful.
The only thing that could’ve pulled Jean away from the dark sensuality of that look on Emma’s face was the sudden bellow from Namor. Jean looked over to see Psylocke, completely naked now, both hands on his shaft and her mouth on the head of his cock as it flexed in her mouth. Jean could see her cheek twitching outward. A tide of cum was crashing inside her mouth, and some melted out to return to Namor’s balls. When Betsy was done swallowing—a prodigious task—she lowered herself to lick the spill away.
Jean felt like she’d been buried here. She was no longer a cosmic thing manipulating a tiny puppet of flesh and bone through a model world that she’d grown fond of. She was immersed in this lewdness. Sex was everywhere, cutting her off from all other concerns. Men and women were lusting with such loud thoughts that it filled the room with black smoke. Some looked hungrily at her, even, as they awaited the next performance. It was exciting, and when Jean felt her own skin, it was excited too.
Emma clapped excitedly, all smiles. The room exploded in applause with her like she was the fuse to a bomb. “Well-done, Rogue! Well-done, Psylocke! Please, stand, stand.”
Betsy stood, coughing slightly and wiping her mouth. Her fingers and cunt were wet, but the latter was too inflamed to have been satisfied.
Emma tilted her head to the side in bemused affection. “Betsy… come.”
And like a well-trained dog, Betsy collapsed to the table in an abundantly obvious orgasm, both arms splayed on the tabletop to hold herself up before she simply laid down next to Rogue. Streams of her arousal now flowed down her thighs.
Namor had done himself up and now appeared as poised as ever. “Not very sporting to simply order someone to have an orgasm.”
Emma moved a chair for Betsy to sink into. “She’d earned it.” Then she patted Rogue’s upturned ass, causing her head to stir. “Come, Anna-Marie. Your shift’s not over yet.”
The room felt different now. Not mysterious—all too knowable. It was lewd, sensuous, immoral. Jean had never seen anything like it; just the fantasies that she’d overheard from mind to mind. She’d had no idea something like this was real.
She held her hand up, wondering if it would be there when she looked. Was she seeing things? Hallucinating? But her hand was there, even if her wedding ring was jet black without the light on it. She reached out and touched Rogue, felt a small suckle at her power and quickly retracted her hand. It was real. It was real and it had excited her far more than anything she could remember.
The only thing she could compare it to was the hunger she had known as the Phoenix. The frantic need that ignored all morality to be quenched.
She twisted and turned, trying to find a better way to sit when the whole of her pussy felt like it was on fire. Emma had pulled on white gloves, taking Rogue’s hand and leading her up while cloaked waiters and waitresses attended to the semiconscious Felicia and Psylocke. The drinks arrived too. Namor poured for them while Emma fed Felicia’s rum and coke to Rogue. Then she kissed her on the cheek before taking a small band from her jacket.
Jean recognized it. An inhibitor collar. Though Rogue had sworn never to wear one after a traumatic incident in the past, now she shamelessly offered her neck up for Emma to wrap it around. With her power blocked, Emma ran a careless hand through Rogue’s hair and down her body.
“I’m so proud,” Emma smiled. “You’re really coming into your own here. I think you’ve even aroused Jean.”
Rogue was giggly, grinning. “Ah can’t believe ya brought her here! She practically just got back!”
“I knew how much you’d love it.”
“Ah did. Her seeing me like this—oh, Gawd, I felt like my little coon would melt right off!”
Emma turned them to face Jean, who was still struggling to process all that had happened. She felt drugged now—sedate. She was trying to wake herself from the warmth, the arousal that had settled over her body. “I’ve promised her something of a backstage tour. Would you mind showing her to your next performance? I’m sure she’ll find it fascinating.”
“That? Already? Mistress, ain’t it a little—“
Emma was still smiling even as her voice left no room for argument. “I have a special surprise lined up. It would really disappoint me if my lovely Jean missed it. So take her to the holes and let her see what a whore you really are.”
Rogue shuddered in either intimidation or pleasure—or both. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Good.” Emma rewarded Rogue with a deep kiss that ended far too quickly for Rogue, judging by the look that next graced her face. Finished with her, Emma returned to Jean, taking one of the wineglasses Namor had filled and pressing it to Jean’s hand. “Here. Take this. Wine and hashish are such a sophisticated combination.”
“That’s really Rogue,” Jean said. She was staring straight ahead, to where Psylocke and Felicia were being helped away. “That’s her—my friend—how did you…?”
“I offered her a choice between remaining a scared little virgin who made a cocktease of herself to make up for getting less action than Beak, or facing her fears in a controlled environment run by the country’s premier sex therapist.”
Jean focused on Emma suspiciously. Puzzle pieces were snapping together in her mind. “Why did she call you Mistress?”
“Because I own this place, of course. I employ her. It’s one of the little things I ask of my guests, like keeping this delightful place a secret, or the occasional sexual favor. But now I must take my leave of you for the moment. As you can imagine, being a small business owner has its curses as well as its privileges, and I must attend to the former as much as the latter. Rogue will take care of you now. Since you’ve seen her first performance of the evening, I’m sure you’re dying to see what she does for an encore.”
Everything seemed too close. Usually, it was far away—just exercises in using her power waiting for an excuse. She looked at things through a telescope, and sometimes those things were marvels she wished to revisit again and again—like Scott. But now she was looking through the wrong end of the telescope. Everything towered over her.
“I’m… not sure… maybe I should call it a night.”
Emma spread her arms. “If you wish to forfeit Mr. Summers, be my guest. I’m planning to bring him here next. I think he’d enjoy tomorrow’s show—I’m planning an all-redhead number.”
Jean’s vision swam before her, stopping her from glaring at Emma as she wished. Rogue took hold of her as she swooned. “Hey now, don’t you embarrass Red. She can go home if she wants. I can fly her there in ten minutes and be back in time for my next performance.”
Emma shrugged. “Very well. Just hurry back. Not all our clients are so close-minded, and they expect their money’s worth.”
Namor pressed in on Jean’s side suddenly. “No need to be so uncouth to Ms. Grey either. You assume she wishes to leave before she’s even decided. Perhaps she’s simply trying to make up her mind.”
Everyone looked at Jean, who felt embarrassed and juvenile as she tried to look cool and unafraid.
“How about it, Jean?” Emma asked with perverse curiosity. “Will you stay or will you go?”
Jean couldn’t help thinking of Scott. What would she do to get him out of Emma’s clutches? Anything. Almost anything. “What’s Rogue going to be doing?”
Rogue opened her mouth to speak, but Emma held a finger to her lips. “It’s a surprise.”
“…will I be expected to do anything but watch?”
“Not at all,” Emma promised. Her smile returned. “But you can if you want to.”
“I’ll do it.” Jean pulled free of Rogue’s grip and advanced on Emma, getting right in the blonde’s face. “It’ll give us something to talk about when Scott’s in my bed, holding me.”
Emma stared right back at her. “The only way that will happen is if I decide Scott deserves a threesome for our anniversary—and Psylocke is busy.”
Rogue took Jean’s arm again and led her off. Jean’s body was all swirling memories, mixed emotions—arousal. She felt excited and daring and fearful and wicked to be doing this. The hashish played another trick on her, transporting her out of the room and into a crowded hallway, Rogue pressing tight to her as they threaded through the other people. Her champagne glass was empty but she still held it. Anna-Marie was now dressed in a tied-off tee and cut-off shorts, her sense of style finally matching her ability to touch.
“Who are all these people?” Jean asked.
“Don’t worry about them, they’re just the line.” Rogue smiled back at her. “Ah’m the star attraction here.”
There were two doors up ahead, at the end of the crammed corridor. One had the crowd filing into it in a straight line—all men, Jean saw. The other only opened when Rogue arrived. Jean giggled as they flowed inside together, equally weightless, two snowflakes on a stiff breeze.
She didn’t feel stuffy or boring or prudish, or any of the other insinuations Emma made about her. She felt like she shared a secret. Like she had a sister in Rogue, her co-conspirator. She and her mutant sister were going to do something illegal… immoral… lustful.
Jean couldn’t wait.
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Corruption Is Just Another Change of Perspective