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Catsuit	By : Ksennin Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Spiderman Views: 29418 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Spider-Man franchise or any characters in it. I make no money from publishing this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Catsuit
- 2-Wake Up Call
- 1
- 2
She came like a genie out of a bottle, almost less a part of the real world than something summoned by Peter’s questing mind, his fantasies, his nightmare. It was December, bracing cold in the winter snow, even with the padding he wore underneath his spider-suit. He’d stopped on a rooftop momentarily to soak in the steam coming off a heating unit, rubbing warmth into his arms and legs. And as he did—his own brisk touch feeling animatedly good—he thought of Gwen Stacy, his girlfriend.
It’d been a long time since she’d touched him. When they’d first started dating, he couldn’t believe someone so adorable, so pretty and cute, was interested in him. She was an enthusiastic partner, always wanting to hold hands, to hug, to cuddle. After a few dates, they were kissing regularly, and she seemed to respond to whatever innate skill he had, but then things had petered off. When he kissed her just a little more forcefully than usual, she made little moans of discomfort as she broke away, always with a joke like “down boy!” or “get a room!”
Once, as they’d sat together on the bus late at night, he’d watched the curve of her neck, bent over her phone—the long strands of her golden hair, the little conch shell of her ear in between some messy locks. He’d leaned over, kissing the side of her face, pulling on her scarf to bring her lips into his range, sucking on her neck –she said “hey!” a couple times, not disinterestedly—then he’d pulled her closer and she’d felt the imprint of his dick inside her pants. Instantly, she’d wailed and pulled away. It even caught the bus driver’s attention.
Later—maybe seeing how Mary Jane Watson was flirting shamelessly with him—Gwen had invited Peter over to her house, her parents not home. When he got there, she suggested watching a movie—R-rated—and while the credits rolled, she kissed him. Took out his prick as the outtakes played and pulled on it. She’d done it nervously, skimming quickly over his manhood with an unsteady grip, only one hand, her other pushing him back when he tried to move closer, to kiss her or fondle her in some way. Peter had leaned back, just trying to enjoy it as she fecklessly masturbated him, but it was hard to even get hard when she clearly regarded the whole thing as messy, maybe even immoral. He’d climaxed almost perfunctorily and then Gwen had excused herself. When she came back, she smelled of soap.
He didn’t understand it. On the surface, Gwen was smart, funny, pretty—there was just this odd streak of Puritanism that ran through an otherwise normal girl, like she thought her blonde hair made her the Madonna. He was beginning to feel desperate. For two months now when she let him kiss her, she was passive and disinterested. He couldn’t even masturbate properly—he tried to think of her, for propriety’s sake, and couldn’t even imagine her body as a sexual instrument. She seemed dead-set on putting the ‘unattainable’ in unattainable ideal.
Peter’s mind sped over the familiar debate. Was it cravenly misogynistic to break up with her, just because his sexual urges weren’t being met? Could he really find someone he cared about as much as Gwen, who was so effervescent, so pure, so kind-hearted? He didn’t know if he could love Mary Jane in the same way—not when Gwen was his soulmate, his better half, his heart—but Christ, the way she looked at him, what he wouldn’t give for her to follow through. Maybe it’d just be a kiss, but he imagined it being the kind of kiss Gwen would never ever give him. Not chaste, not affectionate, but sexual, dirty, wrong.
Then he saw her. A whorl of black and white in the snowstorm, a dark figure running along a rooftop parapet in a surefooted sprint. Peter got just a good enough look at her to realize there wasn’t a flurry of extra snow about her head, just a bounce of stark white hair, then she sprung to the neighboring building, caught onto its cornice, and vaulted up onto the rooftop.
Peter figured there were two reasons for someone in a very tight costume to be on a rooftop in New York at night. Either she was a superhero he’d never met before—and it was undeniably a she, there was more bouncing going on in her stride than in a McDonald’s ball-pit—and she was on her way to an emergency, or she was a supervillain he’d never met before and she was on her way to some wrongdoing.
Either way, he should get after her.
It had nothing to do with the bouncing. Really.
He followed her at a discreet distance. She had zip-lines and some kind of grappling device—she made her way across intersections almost as fast as he did, snowy rooftops marked with the unmistakable impression of a stiletto heel. Peter shadowed her until, weary but exhilarated, she skidded to a stop. He could see the exhale steaming from her mouth in big, mouthy gulps, a silent roar. Her blood hot, her heart racing, she eased off the high. A few dizzy steps, then she sank to her knees with a crunch of snow beneath her. Before, her high-heeled boots had been nearly silent.
Even the barest glimpse of her before had left no doubt she was a woman. A longer, harder look revealed no trace of masculinity or the neuter in her. Her breasts jotted out ponderously, as proud as monuments, shiny black vinyl acting as a prison. Even that armor-like material didn’t seem capable of containing her boisterous sexuality. It stopped at the crest of her cleavage, a zipper down her front undone down to the sternum. With the spread of the vinyl, it seemed impossible that her nipples could actually be hidden, but the fur trim of the opening obscured that—however slightly. It matched her platinum blonde hair and a similar trim that fluffed her boots, demanding the question of whether all of her hair was that ironically virginal color.
The rest of her wasn’t as spectacular as her breasts—how could it be?—but it kept pace nicely. Her pointed, high-heeled boots molded themselves up her long legs, all the way to her thighs, the sturdy leather giving way to her black vinyl leggings just above the knee, making the thin, tight material seem all the more exposed. It caressed her buttocks, her taut stomach, and her well-defined arms, fastening snugly at her neck with its collar of white fur and halo of white hair. Everything it touched, it clung to with possessive, worshipful tightness, the black otherworldly immaculate, reflecting the moonlight like the touch of a caressing hand.
Most of all, the vinyl sheathed her ass. With her back to him, it was what he saw most: the sharply delineated curve and valley were shown off, every inch, by the clinging material. It swathed her cheeks like a second skin, seeming to give them a lifting, constraining pressure that made them powerful and prominent.
The rooftop’s neighbor was an office building, dark windows closed for the night. He could see a phantasmagorical vision of her face in the reflection. A black domino mask—a pair of diamonds—clung to the curves of her noble face just as her catsuit did to her body: strong chin, full lips, smooth cheeks. Not the slender, classical look of Mary Jane or the cherubic gracefulness of Gwen. There was a shamelessness to her, a prominence given over to her sexuality that with any other woman would’ve been a performance. With her, though, it seemed as natural as a cat’s slink, its fur.
She examined her reflection, a small smile quirking her soft lips. Her gloved fingers flickered as she raised them to her generous breasts. F-cups, they had to be. Whereas Gwen’s were petite and unconstructive, almost polite in how they conformed to the line of her body, and Mary Jane’s C-cups were perfectly proportioned to her tall, leggy body, this woman seemed outright over-endowed. But the sheer gratuitousness of her cleavage seemed right for it. It’d be outrageous at a bridal shop or an office party, but her body was built for skintight vinyl or a nude photoshoot, and he couldn’t picture her anywhere else.
Her cleverly flexing hands—reminding him of a cat’s kneading claws—struck as suddenly as a feline with a mouse. Forefinger hooking in the pendulous O-ring of her zipper, dragging it down her lean stomach as she purred excitedly. The wide vee of her catsuit widened further, her breasts forcing the tight confines of the vinyl open, fur trim sprawling to either side as her tits nearly spilled out, rosy red flesh basking in the chill of the open air. Still she unfurled herself, rotating her neck as she watched her own autoerotic display in the windows of the neighboring building. She stopped with the O-ring at her groin, skipping her claw over it but continuing to pull its sharp tip down between the lips of her sex, where it seemed as if the vinyl must pull so tight as to be sheer. Peter couldn’t tell. The reflection was too dark and he was too far away.
The woman hissed in pleasure as her hand came back up, flattened, pads of her finger running over her crotch again. With the zipper down, a broad dagger of flesh plunged through the now wrinkled vinyl, its swath exposing the gentle stir of her abs, her pierced belly button, perhaps even the first Persian-white hairs of her pubis if that wasn’t just the glint of her zipper teeth in the dim midnight glow. She played her clawed forefinger again in-between the narrowest parting of the zipper, grazing her pelvis with its sharpness, before drawing her finger up so sharply that Peter worried she was cutting herself open.
Instead, her claw drew up a long string of pearls from inside the crotch of her suit, the woman moaning openly as the leaden diamond at the end of this necklace finally hoisted itself up her belly, sharp facets of the gumball-sized gem nipping at her bronze flesh, digging into her body like it was a scratching post until she’d teased the necklace up around her delicate neck, amongst her mane of alabaster hair. The diamond rested between her magnificent breasts, gleaming with the moonlight, a sudden sweat on the woman’s exposed sweat seeming to reflect its captured light and give the woman a pale glow of steady, sensual intensity. She stared at herself in an unworthy reflection, in awe of her own beauty, her youth, her invulnerability, the skill that had brought her this clearly stolen item, and the grace with which she wore it.
“Oh, baby,” she purred, a silken voice moving unhurriedly over every syllable she graced with being spoken. “You’re just too pretty for a dusty old museum. You deserve to be between tits like mine!” She laughed, giving her impressive bust an utterly unnecessary adjustment with either hand.
She bent low then. Peter felt hypnotized. The diamond necklace hung low, almost to the ground, and he could see the curvature of her breasts between her akimbo legs, their pale undersides, only the very tips and furthest sides concealed by her wide-open catsuit. She was doubled over as if to touch her toes, but instead she was scratching at the unleavened snow that misted over the rooftop.
The ripe apple of her ass grew prominent with her bent over, straining the already skintight vinyl. It seemed unbelievable her voluptuousness didn’t just burst free of such merciless confinement, her firm, powerful buttocks just exploding into view. Then she straightened, her ass swaying back into place atop her long legs and under her straight spine, still as big and juicy as it had appeared before.
When Peter finally tore his eyes away from how the vinyl delved between the woman’s asscheeks, he saw that the woman was looking over her shoulder, blue eyes fixed upon him with a color that seemed like it couldn’t exist in nature. He started, as if she could see through the mask to his wide eyes, his parted lips, the complete consternation on his face. That same small smile returned to her soft lips, tugging the lower redness under her teeth in a brazen display of sexuality. She had known he was there the whole time.
Suddenly, she broke away, leaping off the rooftop. Peter bolted after her, landing in a crouch atop the parapet she had just jumped over, but when he looked down, she had disappeared into the night. A guilty feeling grew in his gut—it seemed unbelievable he hadn’t thought of Gwen once during that entire interlude. Shouldn’t he have remembered he had a girlfriend and stopped that… whatever it had been?
He straightened, turning around to see patterns of roofing blacktop through the snow. The woman had carved letters into the snow with her fingers. He hopped over them to examine her words right-side up.
LOOKING FOR LOVE?
HOTEL DEMILLE, ROOM 2104
FELICIA
***
He knew the building, darkened windows that tinted everything they reflected with a heavy shade. Tonight, their smoky glass reflecting the snowfall outside, he was reminded of Felicia’s shiny vinyl. His eyes leapt over the building, counting the floors to the 21^st, and then he rocketed up it, barely feeling the chilled floor-to-ceiling glass under his thin gloves. Her room was easy to find. The window was open, curtains riding the breeze from outside. Inside, Felicia had her back to him, but this time he immediately assumed she was aware of him.
“It’s not smart, giving out your home address to strangers. Imagine if I’d been on the internet.”
“This isn’t my home. It’s just a hotel room that no one’s checked into. Champagne?” She turned, bubbling champagne saucers held in each hand, at chest level. Obvious, but that appealed to him on some level. She made no secret of what she was doing. She did everything but say it out loud.
“You should return that diamond. It doesn’t fit with your motif.”
“I’ll give it to a friend of mine. He likes them. I’m sure he’ll trade me some fur. And a few million dollars.” She sipped one glass, holding the other out to him. A sudden gust of wind from outside pressed against Peter’s spine, sending a tingle through him. “What? Are you going to take me in, Spider? Tie me up? Leave me… helpless to resist you? You don’t need your goop to do what you want with me…”
“Maybe I’m already seeing someone.”
“Maybe.” She kept the full glass pointed at him like a gun while she finished hers off. It was becoming off-putting. “You can’t run around in a skintight suit for very long and not get offers, believe me, I know. So tell me, is it that pathetic little bint who calls herself a blonde? The one you’re always saving? With the flat ass? The teensy little tits? She can’t hold onto you. I can tell just by looking at her. She doesn’t have what it takes to keep a man like you satisfied.”
She tossed her empty glass over her shoulder. It shattered and Peter jumped. Felicia advanced on him, light pouring over her black-clad curves.
“I always get what I want, Spider, even if it doesn’t belong to me. You’re no different.”
He could smell her, one of those fragrances that was such a complicated mélange of scents that he couldn’t ever untangle it. Beneath it, only the scent of the vinyl—strangely erotic, thinking it was the only thing touching her. The only thing but him. Something inside him was preventing Peter from saying no to her, from doing anything. More than any of the criminals he had captured, he was a fly in a spider’s web, transfixed, paralyzed, knowing that struggling would only imprison him more tightly.
Felicia wrapped herself around him, her flesh seeming to merge with his, the vinyl catsuit so thin and at once such a boundary. She kissed him, putting her tongue against where the mask covered his mouth, working it sweetly against the raised webbing that covered his costume and licking intimately into the spandex in-between. She rubbed and caressed his body, a sound like static crackling as her costume met his. Her teeth nipped at his throat, the material over his pulse point, pulling it away from his skin and dragging it with her teeth up over his mouth. His dry lips were suddenly revealed and Felicia kissed him there, moaning into his mouth at the exposure.
“Oh, Spider—a white boy, huh? You’re definitely not hung like one.” Her thigh was on the huge erection breaking up the smooth lines of his suit. “Where d’ya wanna touch me, Spider? Here?” She took his left hand away from her face—he’d been holding her as they kissed—and put it on her ass. He stroked it, rubbing the supple cheek which felt even better than it look. “Or here?”
His right hand was redirected to her breast, resting lightly inside its fur-trimmed confinement, playing it. It wobbled deliciously with the tensing and pumping of his fingers, finally slipping out of its prison, revealing the full luxurious curvature of her teat. It was a perfect hill, its teardrop shape clinging tenaciously to her chest, gravity only able to do so much against the overstated sexuality of her.
He squeezed it until Felicia squeaked, then threw himself down on it, mouth seeking to conquer that insurmountable slope. Felicia laughed joyously as his hands worked between her buttocks, their groping pushing her forward against his body, pulling the tightly stretched vinyl at her groin against the bulge of her pubic mound. She felt the warmth of her own dribbling juices rubbing against her. She wanted more. She wanted him to have a taste, a whetting of his prodigious appetite…
Felicia shoved Peter down onto his knees, thrust her crotch into his face. “I want your tongue now, Spider. I’m taking your tongue!”
Peter had a blurry glimpse of the artwork of her cunt, bulging through the thin vinyl, then it was savagely brought against his face. He kissed it strongly, crashing his lips against the moist material, drawing as much of it as he could into his mouth and biting it. He could almost taste her through the thin vinyl, pungent and wild, hear her moan whenever he managed to find her with his questing tongue. The vinyl sunk at his probing, into her vulva as he vainly tried to penetrate her suit.
Abruptly, Felicia turned over, rolling onto all fours with her ass in the air like she wanted him to fuck her doggy-style. “Lick my ass, Spider. I know it looks good enough to eat. Lick it, push that vinyl deep inside my asshole, and you can rub your big cock against my boots while you do it. You won’t get that offer from your little blonde, will you?”
Peter groaned as he gave in. He hated her reminding him of Gwen. It was so easy to forget her when he was so turned on, enjoying this so much. He wouldn’t let himself be derailed from this, though. He shoved his face into Felicia’s ass as hard as he would his cock. Licking at her pussy through the vinyl until he felt her fingers inside her suit. She was reaching down her open, frontal vee, fingering herself as he licked her, and he wondered which of them was fucking her harder.
“My ass, Spider! I want your tongue in it! I want your goddamn tongue in me!”
With a clenched-teeth roar, Peter moved his face upward, to spend a tantalizing eternity on her perineum. The tiny strip of land between anus and cunt was rubbed almost raw from the intensity of his tonguing. He felt, heard her fingers thrust deeper and harder and faster into the creamy cunt just inside her costume. His hands moved down to her feet, steepled between his legs. He picked up one marvelous leg and raised the thigh-boot to his groin, rutting shamelessly against the sturdy leather, the heat and the feel and the knowledge of her making it so much better than his hand.
“Yes, yes!” Felicia moaned, feeling his raging erection insistent against her calf, squirming and moaning with every trip its hardness took toward her thigh. “Oh God fucking yes!”
Inspired, Peter’s tongue moved a half-inch north into the valley of her glorious ass. Felicia sharply took in breath. Peter took one hand away from her leg and moved it to cup her buttocks, spreading one half, baring the tiny pink tightness of her clenched asshole just beneath vinyl. Felicia could feel its separation from the skintight material inside her suit. His tongue rimmed and tickled the vinyl that was supposed to shelter her, pushing it against her little rosebud, conducting electricity that pried gently but determinedly at the very idea of resistance.
“Love me there, too,” Felicia teased, feeling him fuck her leg harder, feeling her tiny hole open and his tongue push the covering vinyl inside her opening. The tongue that was transmitting through it flickered and stabbed, arousing shallow but undeniable sensations in her most sensitive place. She jerked at every motion of his tongue, like he was spanking her with a hairbrush instead of licking her through vinyl. Her asshole was growing hot and her fingers were almost maniacal in masturbating her.
“Oh!” Felicia panted suddenly. He’d covered her asshole with his mouth and was now sucking, the vinyl against her opening feeling like it was on fire. Her body shook and quivered in excitement, responding to his fiendish mouth, and she pushed her ass into the air, against his face like an offering.
They’d formed a sort of tent. Peter kneeling behind her, Felicia with her ass in the air and her face against the floor; yin and yang. Then, Felicia realized she could reach back, between her legs, to him. She could draw the waist of his costume down over his so-hard prick. She could fit it in her hand and rub it, just like his tongue was rubbing her.
“Eat my asshole,” she told him, voice choked, “while I fuck your cock.”
He obeyed, tongue worming into her ass, carrying the vinyl with it. She felt the pulsation beating a tattoo through his hard cock, the river of precum flowing from his cockhead that greased her gloved hand. When she tightened her fist, she could feel his racing pulse chiseling at her palm. She loved it. His size, his hardness, the so-obvious eagerness he showed to get inside her. It was all she could do to get her fist around such a maddened erection, and all his tongue could do to stimulate her asshole’s crushing tautness. She thought her own suit had gone further up her ass than any set of anal beads ever had.
“Oh fuck!” Felicia moaned in private ecstasy. His tongue had felt so good that she’d barely noticed its pleasure transitioning into a full orgasm, but she knew it by the rush of warm juices flowing down her inverted belly, her pussy tightening against his pistoning fingers, her breasts suddenly climbing as she hollered in broadening satisfaction. She was coming and coming and coming and she needed to come, needed more, needed him.
“Fuck my ass!” she ordered, pulling his cock to her, and Peter rushed atop her, mounting her like an animal, fingers ripping at her catsuit as he tried to force a handhold, to get it open, even as she held herself obligingly still and he thrust helplessly against her bubble butt, the vinyl so sleek and warm and even wet with his own saliva. He was dry-humping her, his aching cock harder than ever inside the crack of her ass, Felicia moaning even deeper as she felt it so close but so far away.
“This is,” she panted, “as close as you can get—to my perfect—fucking—ass!”
“Now, Felicia!” Peter grunted. “Right now!”
His cock swelled larger than it ever had before, a monstrous weapon that seemed to dwarf Felicia’s thick ass before it shot, his cum flying to the back of Felicia’s neck. Peter grabbed hold of its base, squeezed, seemed to channel the explosion he felt into load after load blasting from his cock. He fired as far as Felicia’s white hair, and coated the sable-black material over her back and ass with his seed.
Felicia felt the heat of his spurting right through the vinyl, heard his groans as he exorcised himself of all the cum that had gone unused by one Gwen Stacy. She thought she was coming again, knowing this was all for her. The cum that covered her ass flowed down between the abundant cheeks, into the crevice between her legs. Felicia smiled dazedly as she felt the heat of his seed against her pussy, like it was meant to go there, like it wanted to.
Peter came one last time, this final shot landing in a puddle underneath them. Then he fell forward atop Felicia. There was an audible splatter as he landed on a dozen wads of his own seed, but he couldn’t care. He just panted, staying against Felicia’s magnificent body for warm, wonderful minutes as his spunk cooled and congealed.
Felicia breathed deeply as she reached between her legs, fingered the jism slowly running over her crotch, and brought it to her mouth. The man definitely ate enough vegetables…
Peter suddenly stood, the smell of cum obnoxiously thick in his nostrils. He pulled his mask down, his pants up, and Felicia looked over her shoulder at him once more. Her pose now not displaying her body, but the layer of cum that marked it. The same cum covering the front of Peter’s costume like a camouflage pattern.
“Explain that to blondie,” Felicia teased.
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