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The Gwen Stacy Syndrome	By : Ksennin Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Spiderman Views: 39315 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Spider-Man, nor the characters in the franchise. I make no money from publishing this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
A Saturday evening—the night club was packed. A hot spot to begin with, it burst into supernova with the weekend crowd, the rich and famous. Peter didn’t think he’d get in, but Felicia and Mary Jane dragged him by both arms, past the long line of wannabes and never-woulds, and didn’t even break stride as they pulled him past the waving bouncer.
Inside, everyone was just a bit too young for Peter to consider a contemporary. The glitzy red and blue neon hurt his eyes as much as it thrilled them. The deejay was loud, the champagne bar was obscenely priced. Peter discretely smeared some webbing over his ears to subdue the blaring dance rap. He wasn’t here for the music. He was here for the girls.
Felicia and MJ wore body-hugging minidresses like the metal in a furnace, trapping the fire inside but letting the heat waft off them. Just looking at them, Peter felt drugged. High on the atmosphere alone. He’d never been that guy, never wanted to be that guy, never much liked that guy to begin with. But seeing the dude clubbers look at them, look at him like they wanted Puny Parker’s life—it wasn’t the worst.
Mary Jane and Felicia were like the Secret Service, he was like the President. They ushered him through the club chaos until hitting a booth. There was one of those white rappers in it. He left as soon as he saw Felicia coming. Then all three of them were packed in, finding respite in the shadows from the red floods that filled the room like lightning. Peter didn’t hear the music so much as feel it throbbing inside him.
Felicia put her feet up. “We need shots! Bring vodka!”
A waiter nodded, more from lip-reading than anything else. Felicia laughed and Mary Jane tugged the blonde’s hip-hugger down her legs a few crucial inches, keeping everything covered.
“I think I’ve figured out your cunning plan,” Peter said, somehow making himself heard over the din.
Mary Jane was next to him, already kissing his neck, hand twisting on his knee. “Yeah?”
“Yeah—basically, you’re going to make us all look like such sluts that we’re in a menage a trois while Felicia does Spider-Man on the side. Then we’ll all move in together and no one will suspect my secret.”
“It’s a good plan!” Felicia cried. “I like it!”
“I wouldn’t expect it to work,” Peter said, “but then, I wouldn’t expect Tony to use a satellite to wipe everyone’s memories of him being Iron Man, so screw it, yeah, let’s go for it.”
“And let’s celebrate Red getting the fucking part!”
Felicia’s vodka arrived. She stood to take it, didn’t sit back down. Instead, Peter and Mary Jane watched as her hips began to move. Then the rest of her body. Slow, sexy, controlled when so many of the idiots on the dance floor were freaking out. Peter tried to keep from gaping as she gyrated in front of him, all seduction, finally turning around. Teasing her way back to him.
“Of course,” she said, pushing his head back with one finger, “for the plan to work, we have to be seen together. Acting intimate.”
His mouth was open. Felicia poured vodka into it. Then Mary Jane’s mouth was on his, kissing a shot off his tongue. Felicia displayed a naughty smile as she poured a long gulp of vodka onto their dueling tongues.
“All three of us,” Felicia added. She took Mary Jane’s hand and pulled the redhead away from Peter. They grinded together, Mary Jane shimmying her way down Felicia’s body, then wiggling back up it—her swinging ass in Peter’s face—Felicia rewarded her by tipping the bottle into her mouth, making the model chug as Felicia licked the sweat from her gulping throat. The tonguing almost became a kiss, but Felicia tapered her tongue off Mary Jane’s chin and moved the bottle to her own mouth, sucking the vodka out of the bottleneck… as Mary Jane kissed the bottle.
Peter watched as if hypnotized, glad he was sitting behind a table as Mary Jane licked the bottle’s mouth with Felicia, dancing again, a mish-mash of high fashion and sculpted flesh, tanned limbs and pale, the woman he loved and the woman he loved.
Suddenly, Felicia bolted away from Mary Jane, holding the bottle high, claiming Peter’s lap. The last third of the vodka sloshed in its glass home as she waved it about. “Tell you what, Parker.” She dropped her hand to his crotch. Rubbed. “I’ll keep doing this as long as you keep chugging.”
The vodka was gone in one go. Peter nearly came in his pants. Then Felicia was spinning away from him, a nymph fleeing from a satyr, embracing Mary Jane, picking her up and spinning her around and locking their mouths together—throwing away the key.
Peter joined them, kissed one, the other, both… moaning as their two tongues slipped over, around his own. Peter lost a hand in Mary Jane’s hair, fisted it, pulled her head back, then took Felicia by a hand at the nape of her neck and pressed her lips back to Mary Jane’s, the two kissing as he circled, pressed himself against Felicia from behind. She felt his conspicuous bulge between her buttocks.
Mary Jane swayed invitingly in Felicia’s arms as the thief cooed back against Peter, playing with his tie like a cat with a string. “Christ, Peter, you and the vodka have got me so hot—“ Mary Jane kicked her a little. “And Red, of course. Are you gonna fuck me right here on the dance floor?” Felicia looked down at her crotch, almost exposed by the high hem of her dress. “I know a certain someone who likes that idea… an old friend of yours, in fact…”
Then, laughing, Felicia shoved her ass back and bumped Peter away. He stumbled back, the vodka hitting him like a charge from the Rhino. He fell on his butt and watched Felicia and Mary Jane dance above him, the electric currents of their lips and bodies running together. He put a hand on Mary Jane’s bare leg, playing the smooth skin like a flute. Mary Jane let Felicia practically dry-hump her as she put out her leg like Angelina Jolie at the Oscars… Peter bit her thigh and the women both laughed as they pulled him back up, Mary Jane’s dress too short to cover the hickey on display.
Like a diver caught in a whirlpool, Peter was pulled to the center, swept onto the crowded dance floor along with them as Felicia and Mary Jane grinded on either side of him, their hands consuming him, Felicia tagging away any frat jerk or thirsty co-ed who tried to step into their perfection.
Peter had never felt so blissful. He didn’t even want to have sex—at least, not beyond the slow fire that burned in him with their names, heating into an inferno whenever he saw either one. He wanted to stay in this moment, when having a drink didn’t make him sick, but left him loose and massage-warm, when he didn’t have to be a disguise because they both understood, when he could be as uninhibited as Felicia, as infectiously happy as Mary Jane.
The three of them spun and whirled, Saturday Night Fever remade with a two hundred million dollar budget, all quirk and fun, Peter dancing with Felicia, then Mary Jane, Felicia again, then Darcy Lewis—hipster chic with glasses like he’d used to wear, a T-shirt with a Captain America propaganda poster from back during the war… and of course, skinny jeans.
“I leave you alone for five minutes…”
“It was a lot more than five,” Felicia interrupted, hugging Peter from behind, pulling Mary Jane with her in her undertow. “Who are you? One of Peter’s friends? Are you as much fun as firecrotch here?”
“Darcy Lewis? I interviewed you yesterday.”
Felicia nodded mock-solemnly. “Sounds like fun. Wanna dance?”
“Nah, I just used up all my dance moves.” Darcy stepped away from Peter, Felicia and MJ flanking him now, the four of them statues inside the revelry. “So, Spider-Man’s personal photographer starts hooking up with the webster’s old flame. That is whack. And Peter, you’re back with the supermodel. Wonder if Spider-Man will get back together with his ex too.”
Peter shrugged. “It’s a free country, now that Norman Osborn’s gone.”
“Anyway, use protection, enjoy your kinky hook-up sex, fellow millennials.” Darcy gave some air quotes that Peter thought were misused, then went back toward the bar. The deejay ended his current set, dropping the lights down to dusk, and a slow R&B song started playing. To Peter, it sounded like Boyz II Men, which meant it definitely wasn’t and he should get more up to date on urban culture.
Mary Jane was swaying gracefully even before Peter turned back to her. He extended his forearms. She took them.
“Is she Lois Laning you?” MJ asked.
“She might be Lois Laning me,” Peter admitted.
“Hate to kill someone with a rack like that,” Felicia said. They stopped dancing and looked at her. “Kidding! Her rack isn’t that great…”
“Let’s just enjoy the evening,” Peter said. “We can always murder later.”
Felicia grabbed another bottle of vodka from a passing waiter, leaning against the wall as Peter and Mary Jane danced in front of her.
“You asked me to marry you once, remember?” MJ breathed into Peter’s hair as they danced in tight embrace. His hands read invisible braille across her bare back.
“More than once,” Peter replied, feeling her slender arms slipping up to his neck. His face dipped down to hers, his lips crossed her cheek to her mouth. “Who’s counting, though?”
“Can I still say yes?”
Peter’s head shot up an inch, though his reaction was impressively restrained. Mary Jane continued to sway with him and he gave in to continuing the dance. “You can have anything you want, MJ. You know that.”
“I figure it shouldn’t be too hard to find a justice of the peace before I’m due on set. Felicia can be the witness… we can do the ceremony any time. I just want to be yours. Your wife, your fiancé—whatever.”
“Does this mean I get to the mistress?” Felicia asked, swaying mockingly with her bottle of vodka.
Mary Jane broke away from Peter, hand going down to her garter belt and the box she’d felt there all evening. She opened it. There were two rings inside. “They belonged to his parents,” MJ said. “This was his mom’s engagement ring, this was her wedding ring. I figure I won’t need an engagement ring if we’re getting hitched tonight.”
Felicia took it. Her eyes didn’t dew up. They just closed softly. “Fuck, this feels heavy. Okay. Okay. I reserve the right to steal a better ring later, but…” Felicia slipped her necklace off, opened it, slid off the teardrop diamond it displayed, and put the engagement ring in instead. Then she put her new necklace around her neck. Dipped its cold weight between her breasts.
She left her head, still unsentimental. “So why didn’t you two get married in the first place?”
“A fat guy fell on me,” Peter explained.
Felicia shook her head. “Your lives are so stupid.”
Mary Jane grabbed the ring from between Felicia’s breasts, digging her finger into it as she pulled the blonde close, into an embrace with her and Peter. They kissed both of her cheeks and Felicia felt Peter’s callused hand on one leg, Mary Jane’s soft small one on the other. She knew she’d been wise not to wear panties. Something buzzed against her hip.
“Ooh, Spider,” she whimpered, “you brought toys for our playdate? After all these years of talking about your spider-sense; finally going to make me tingle?”
“It’s my phone,” Peter said, taking it out of his pocket. “I have it set to check Twitter for breaking news about crimes in progress or disasters…” He continued, checking the scrolling feed. “There’s an apartment fire five streets over. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m coming with,” Felicia said immediately, but MJ held them tight.
“You’re not going anywhere. Darcy’s at the bar, watching you two like a hawk. If she is Lois Laning, how hard do you think it’ll be for her to make a connection between you two slipping out and Spider-Man showing up on the Black Cat’s arm?”
“We need a distraction,” Peter said, looking at the cat burglar expectantly.
“I don’t think me slipping a nip is going to get attention off me.”
“I’ll handle it,” Mary Jane said. “Give me thirty seconds, then slip out the back.” Then, because there was no way Felicia was ‘the sexy one’ in their triad, she gave Peter a good long manhandle of the ass. “And bring this back in one piece. I have plans for it.”
Felicia said something about how she’d love to bring MJ’s plan to fruition—clearly meaning ‘orgasm’—then Mary Jane had her back to them and was walking to the bar. Darcy spotted her coming and held up a flute of champagne, toasting her as she came into range.
“You here to tell me to stay away from your boyfriend? Because he’s not my type and if he was, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Do I look like I’m worried about Peter being with other women?” Mary Jane asked, leaning against the bar as Peter and Felicia disappeared into a darkened corner of the club, hands all over each other, but still visible. “You’re a reporter, right?”
“Not really. I’m a gossip columnist.”
“And you’re interested in Felicia?”
“Ever since Tony Stark started being a regular thing with his secretary, she’s the most interesting superhero hook-up around. I keep hoping she’ll score with Captain America.”
“Well, right now she’s scoring with us. How’d you like an exclusive about that?”
Darcy looked her up and down, scanning more for any subterfuge than for how Mary Jane filled out her dress. “Is it juicy?” Okay, maybe a little bit how Mary Jane filled out her dress.
“It’s very juicy. Is there someplace private we can talk?”
“Ladies’ restroom.”
“I said private.”
“Alright, men’s restroom.”
***
The men’s room was temporarily deserted. Darcy kept it that way, taking a CLOSED sign out of her purse and slapping it on the door before stepping through. Inside, she took out a door wedge and slammed it into the doorsill. “Alright,” she said, turning to Mary Jane, “what’s the scoop?”
“Off the record? This is how Peter likes to be kissed.”
Mary Jane’s kiss was fast and urgent, insistent almost to the point of violence, but surprisingly sweet. Mary Jane had prided herself on being a seductress, of commanding the attention of every man (and quite a few women) whenever she walked into a room. Now she was a serious actress—a wife—but she’d been sending low-key signals to Darcy from the moment she’d started walking to the bar. Even if Darcy hadn’t realized it, she’d responded.
And now the kiss was a full-court press, and Mary Jane could tell, just like with a man, that Darcy had given in. Unconditional surrender. She could hear Darcy’s blood boil, her heart race, even louder than the music pulsing through the door.
With Darcy giving in, Mary Jane pursed her hands under Darcy’s thighs and picked her up with all her spin class muscles, heaving her onto the sinks, stepping into her parted legs, closing near to her lips. “And now do you wanna know how Felicia likes being fucked?”
Darcy nodded eagerly. Mary Jane smiled at her, like a proud teacher with a prize student, and fondled Darcy’s breasts—plucking at each nipple, eliciting sharp gasps, pleasurable jolts from the brunette. Darcy tilted her pelvis to press her sex against Mary Jane’s thigh, shivering hotly at the new pressure winding into her body.
“You know what Peter and Felicia both like, though?” Mary Jane asked, quite rhetorically.
“What?” Darcy gasped.
Mary Jane flicked her dress’s straps from her shoulders and pulled her mini down to bare her well-proportioned breasts in their bra. Darcy pushed her hands aside and handled the bra for her, squeezing her thighs on Mary Jane’s long, lean leg as one hand mauled MJ’s breasts, the other peeled a strap down her creamy shoulder. And just as Darcy pulled Mary Jane’s bra away, MJ kissed her again, hiding the sight from her—Darcy had to close her eyes in pleasure, sucking MJ’s long tongue into her mouth, feeling the effects in her sex like it was down her throat, probing into her cunt from the inside.
Darcy felt herself bloom with a small, fast orgasm that left her panting, the feeling lingering, burning between her legs like it was still going.
“Was that a hot enough scoop for you?” Mary Jane asked, the dazed reporter nearly tipping over and falling off the sink MJ had deposited herself on.
“First rule of journalism,” Darcy gasped, her cunt still squirming on Mary Jane’s thigh. “Confirm any story by more than one source.”
Mary Jane pushed Darcy back, dinging her a little against the mirror, and slowly peeled away her bra. She’d never been prouder of her C-cups than seeing Darcy, who had the breasts of a fertility goddess, get all moony over what she was packing. Darcy ducked down, catching MJ’s nipple in her mouth.
Mary Jane stroked her long black hair as she suckled. “Oh God, you’re just as much a breast man as Peter—there, there’s a scoop for you. You reporters can ferret information out of anyone…”
She broke the belt on Darcy’s skinny jeans, tugged at the denim until they finally rolled off Darcy’s mountainous hips; then a pair of boxer shorts were all that were in her way. She pulled them off and Darcy stopped suddenly, looking up at MJ with a goofy grin.
“My readers will want to know what your cunt tastes like.”
Mary Jane obligingly backed up, raising her dress with her hands, revealing the pretty pink panties caressing her pubis. Darcy nearly fell getting off the sink—she knelt down between Mary Jane’s open legs, pulled off her panties, and looked inside Mary Jane, finding her wet, pink, her clit erect, her scent incredible. Mary Jane didn’t give her long to look. She tugged at Darcy’s hair until the girl’s hot mouth was on Mary Jane’s hotter pussy.
Her tongue stiff, Darcy stabbed into Mary Jane’s slit and licked at her abundant juices. MJ leaned back against the air dryers, kicking her leg out so her heel was on the rim of the sink. Darcy crouched before her like an devotee, wet kisses smacking on Mary Jane’s thighs and groin, her head twisting to push Mary Jane’s legs further apart.
“Fuck, you’ve got a good mouth,” Mary Jane cried, her voice so strained she sounded almost agonized. “As good as Peter’s… as good as Felicia’s… keep doing that, I’ll start thinking you want me to come!” Then MJ thought of something Felicia had done to her on their first night together. Something she never would’ve thought would make her come so hard. “Open your legs. Open your legs, Darcy—I want to get to that cunt.”
Mary Jane’s heels clicked back down to earth, before Mary Jane pressed the pointed toe of her Louboutin to Darcy’s core. Darcy clamped her thighs tight, almost preventing it from burrowing into her. but it was in her and it felt better than her last boyfriend, penis, fingers, or tongue. She felt like she was still cumming… no hurry at all to it. No end in sight.
“Yes, yes—“ Mary Jane muttered gently, thrusting her cunt into Darcy’s tongue, squirming her naked ass against the cold tile of the wall—wiping away bits of Sharpie’d graffiti that she’d find running down her legs during her shower the next morning. Her voice rose. “Yes!” She clutched Darcy’s head between her legs, her breasts in her hands. “YES!” Her beautiful face became a mask of lust somehow even more beautiful. “YES! YES! YES!” she howled, her shouts rocking the walls, her hips flashing against Darcy’s face, Darcy reaching an equally frenzied orgasm as her tongue slashed into Mary Jane like she was hacking through a dense jungle.
The redhead sighed and relaxed, feeling wet, feeling like she’d just stepped out of the shower. Her thighs shimmered with her juices, as did Darcy’s—Darcy’s face was wet with her cream, and when Mary Jane drew her in for a kiss of sudden ardor, so was her own. Darcy helplessly felt her arousal spike again.
“Take that shirt off,” Mary Jane ordered. “I’m not leaving this restroom without seeing those tits.”
Darcy was quick to obey. Mary Jane was quicker to act. She caught a fat tit in both hands and swirled around the turgid nipple with her tongue, sucking and licking at Darcy’s incredible breasts like she would never see another pair in her life.
“You’re really good at breastplay,” Darcy breathed, her fingers clenched in the shirt she was holding up to keep herself from masturbating herself. She wanted Mary Jane to do it. “Do you give out blowjobs too? I think it’s the same skillset. I know a girl whose name was Blowjob Sally, and she made me see God using my nips as jawbreakers.”
Mary Jane kissed every bump around Darcy’s nipple. She didn’t look up.
“No comment,” Darcy sighed. “That’s cool…”
***
“Is everyone out?” Peter asked, tugging his mask up to his nose. It’d been a harrowing eight minutes, first getting to the apartment building in time, then diving in with Felicia. He’d run out of all but his emergency webbing, putting out small blazes so they could make their way inside and clear a path for those trapped inside. Felicia had a device in her belt that could pinpoint people’s locations through unshielded walls—Peter suspected it was intended more for keeping tracks of guards than for fire rescue, but he’d taken it. Now the fire department had taken over, leaving the couple singed and soot-befouled, coughing up smoke as they rested on a neighboring rooftop.
Felicia checked her device again. “There’s no one.”
The building’s top floor collapsed in on itself under the pressure of the firehose’s spray. Peter winced. He really hoped Felicia was right. Popping his last cartridges into his webshooters, he called down to the fire chief on scene. “Hey, everyone out?”
“Yeah, Spidey! Thanks for the assist!”
The crowd that had gathered—those that hadn’t already noticed him—turned to point, gossip, take pictures. Peter heard some scattered applause, mainly from those the EMTs were tending to. He’d saved a family of four. That was worth his hand having briefly been on fire.
“Told ya so,” Felicia said, drawing him into a kiss. That got a reaction from the crowd—cheering, wolf whistles, a few unsolicited suggestions that Peter considered quite rude. Then Felicia brought his hands to her breasts, which thrust into his palms, far too large for his fingers to eclipse. He squeezed them through the black leather and fur trim that half-covered their enormity. The shouted suggestions got louder. Or maybe those were in Peter’s head.
“Maybe we should take this someplace private?” Peter suggested when Felicia let up on his lips a moment.
“Why? We need to sell this thing.” Cameras flashed down below, the tiny lights dimpling Felicia’s magnificent, half-shadowed body. “I think we’re doing a very good job…”
“There’s selling a relationship and then there’s public indecency…”
Felicia jumped up, wrapping her legs around him. Peter found his hands on her ass, so often overshadowed by that famous bust, but spectacular in its own right. Down on the street, it sounded like a riot was breaking out.
“And then there’s filming a sex tape in public.” Peter raised his hand and fired off a webline, trying not to think of what Freud would say.
Felicia still clinging to him, he took a swing, lips constantly barraging his neck and face as he whistled through the air. He quickly put on some altitude, which coincidentally made Felicia clench tighter around him—feeling his hard cock prodding into her belly. Peter looked around for somewhere to set down and finding a shadowed skyscraper with a collection of gargoyles on its summit.
He landed on its northern face, sticking to the wall with Felicia pressed up against it. He jammed her against the cement, gyrating his hips so he ran his cock against her leather-clad groin, returning her kiss now with vigor. Felicia was panting, gasping for breath. Letting go of his body, trusting his embrace to hold her up, she whipped open her costume—drawing her arms out of the sleeves until the abbreviated top was dangling off her like a set of undone suspenders.
Naked from the waist up, save for her gloves, she licked his face then clawed her fingers into the walls, using her metal nails to pull herself up onto the rooftop. Peter scurried after her, catching her just as she stepped out of the rest of her costume—he’d seen her in just her boots, gloves, and mask so often, it was like her alternate costume in a fighting game.
“Seventy stories up,” Felicia breathed, the night air howling behind her, a far better soundtrack than the muffled shouts and sounds of traffic far below. “That private enough for you?”
Peter undid his pants from his top. “God, I hope Nova doesn’t fly by…”
“I wouldn’t mind. He’s cute.” As soon as his pants were falling, Felicia dug her claws into Peter’s shoulders and flung him to the ground. He landed on his back and Felicia landed on him, straddling his hips, positioning her white-tufted pussy above his stiff prick.
“Fill ‘er up,” she told her favorite gas station attendant.
Peter’s hands massaged her breasts, keeping her nipples at a constant throb as she lowered herself onto his cock—felt her labia stretch wide to accommodate him, grip his shaft tightly as she slid down its great heft. Every time they fucked, she felt a little surprised she could take such a monster. But finally, her panting breath steaming in the cool air, she settled down at the base of his prick. She felt his reassuring width deep inside her, stretching her out, making a home in her. He was pulsing inside her and she could feel it, like a great big bell being rung between her legs.
“That’s it, lover. Keep that cock in my pussy. I just gonna sit here and feel your big cock inside… stretching me tight… fuck, that feels good.”
She dropped her head down to his chest, wrapping her arms around his trim shoulders. For a blissful eternity, his mouth was on hers, his tongue hers to pleasure her as she wished. It was almost perfect. She opened her eyes, seeing her own lovely face reflected in the lenses of his mask, and realized what was missing.
“No need for this anymore, Peter Parker,” she said, ripping away what was left of his mask. She tossed it aside—Peter, quick-thinking as always, affixed it to the rooftop with a small jot of webbing.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked, starting to groan as she pumped herself onto his cock in short, clever motions. “Wearing the masks—doing it as ‘Spider-Man and the Black Cat’?”
“That’s fun, but it’s gotten a little old… I’m ready to try Peter for a change.” She laughed, almost hysterical. “Parker’s peter…”
Peter moaned, Felicia began to pant as she rode his cock. Her hands came down, claws embedded in the cement by his head, giving her something to hold onto as she thrashed… shocked with every jolt of pleasure his deep-set cock gave her sex.
“Fuck me, Peter!” She loved using his name. “Fuck that big cock into my pussy, Peter, and fill me with all your cum! Pound me with cock! Fill me with cock! Goddamnit, Peter!”
Peter bucked up into her as she slammed herself down on him, his strength nearly sending her flying off him. She was riding him at a gallop now. Peter forced himself to slow, as good as stuffing himself into her felt, and undulated below her instead, picking her up and settling her back down with his dancing body.
“Better cum inside me, Peter,” Felicia taunted. “Mary Jane said she wants to taste your cum all over my pussy, so you’d better fill me up—fill me to the brim!”
Peter had been gripping the parapet of the building—now he felt it crumbling in his hands. Too strong. He slapped his hands onto her asscheeks, gripping them tightly, pumping her atop his cock as hard as her pelvis could take. Felicia whooped in a combination of pain and pleasure—he quickly relented, even though she groaned in dismay. Instead, he groped one of her asscheeks, pulling it away from her crevice, and used his other hand to tease her asshole.
“Ohhhhhh yes,” Felicia moaned with pleasure. She pulled her claws out of the rooftop and ran them over her supple body, tracing scarlet lines over her pale skin, drawing blood in some places. “That’s it, Peter. Ream out my asshole. I’m not your wife, Peter—I’m your whore. Fuck me like a whore!”
Peter dug his finger in deeper, slowly battling the tight muscle until it gave in, letting him slip smoothly inside her. A second finger followed. Felicia grabbed him by the neck, hard enough to choke him, and threw herself down on his throbbing erection like she was trying to break into his body, ramming the base of his cock in a lustful frenzy. Every move she made was accompanied by an ecstatic grunt.
“Come inside me, Peter! Come inside your whore! Give MJ plenty of seasoning for tonight!” Felicia slammed herself down around him, on all fours, feeling his cock so deep inside her she wondered how his fingers could fit in her ass. She had his fingers, his prick—all she needed now was his mouth. Felicia kissed him with all her hunter’s appetite.
His cum boiled out of his prick, shot into her receptive body to warm her from the inside out. Felicia quivered, the sudden rush of an orgasm like a lightning strike. Peter laughed down her throat as he pumped into her pussy, each thrust launching a hot spurt into her. Felicia shrieked into his open mouth, the two breathing the same breath as he painted every crevice of her pussy.
“Say my name,” Peter ordered, even his breath taxed by his still ongoing climax, his ejaculation tapering off inside her, but still pulsing into her sex.
“Peter,” she whimpered, collapsing atop him, using the dregs of her energy to tighten her limbs around his sweat-soaked body. “Peter, Peter, Peter—”
His cock gave one last jump, a fresh rush of warmth deep inside her. She could feel it dripping out of her now.
“Peter…”
There would be more than enough for Mary Jane.
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The Gwen Stacy Syndrome