Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's

"What brings you here unannounced, Walter?" she asked, using his name. His name! "Some new twisted thought in that head of yours you'd like us to explore together? Something about Mona, perhaps? I do so enjoy the ones about Mona..."

"No, Mistress," Fenson said, fighting to control a burgeoning erection. The sight of her alone... but the sound of her voice too! "It's the Goddess—I've found the Goddess!"

"Those girls in your car? And here I thought you'd brought some toys to play with." Her voice was rich and amused, her gloved hand touching her breast—he could almost feel it at his own fingers. "The Goddess, you say?"

"Oh, yes Mistress! I saw her! I saw her flames! I don't know—which of them it is, but it has to be one of them!"

"So you brought all three. That was very clever, Walter. Very well done."

Fenson moaned. He couldn't help himself. Her praise overwhelmed him. He fell to his knees, vaguely aware of his own ejaculation.

"But..." She was in his head. He could feel it. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. "Oh, my. Shooting your superior officer?" The Mistress tsked. "That won't be good for your career."

"It was worth it, Mistress. To get the girls."

"Yes, I should say so. But that does put your usefulness to an abrupt end."

Fenson cringed. He fell. Curling into a fetal position. They'd never talked about that—what would become of him when the Mistress was done...

"Don't fret, Walter. Don't worry your filthy little head. The church will reward you for all your years of service. Tonight, we'll celebrate your heroism. Tomorrow, an island with no extradition treaty. How does that sound?"

"Will... will you be there?"

"Oh, Walter—" She leaned forward on her throne. "Only during bikini season. Now, on the off chance that SHIELD does pick up your trail, we can't have you hanging about here. That would be... embarrassing. Wash up and change; I'll have a slave drive you someplace suitable to wait. How's that sound?"

"Wonderful, Mistress," he gibbered, his mind nearly gone. It never lasted long in the presence of perfection. "Unspeakable... but... please... my apartment... my things..."

"The church will provide you with new things, Walter. Pretty new things for your pretty new life. On the island."

"Yes, Mistress. But my father's watch—it's all I have to remember him by. Please, Mistress?"

She was checking her phone. "My, these girls—where did you think you picked them up? Queens? I had no idea they were growing such good crops. A Goddess—and two maids, I should think. Once we've sorted them out." Her phone chimed as she blacked it out. "You've made me feel exceptionally grateful, Walter. Three women; three favors. I've already given you a new life, now I'll send someone to retrieve your precious watch as well. And what is your third wish?"

Fenson could only think to ask for one thing. "Please, Mistress, please... may I see you from behind?"

She stood, high heels clicking like chess pieces in motion. Her white gloves worked deftly at the clasps of her cape, and like that, it fell away from her like a dream upon waking. Then she turned. He saw the creamy petals of her ass, separated by only a white streak of fabric.

Fenson moaned as he came again.

It was of no consequence to the Mistress. She enjoyed Fenson's addicted devotion. It was only right and proper for a sophisticate and a power such as she. Besides, she had been brought up to act in accordance with her mood, and her mood was now one of extreme satisfaction. After the extreme poor taste of that Magneto business, everything was coming together.

Who could stop her now?

***

Barbara thought about Thor as she masturbated. She thought about Thor a lot these days—now that they'd started dating. The thought of her big, strong Asgardian boyfriend was like a warm fluffy blanket to her. God was her boyfriend, but not in some lame Midwestern way. In a sexy way.

Her mind was a flip-book of cocks jabbing into her, strong hands groping her willing body, thick gooey cum covering her like frosting. She kicked the covers off her sweaty, naked body and turned to look at the photo collage covering the wall. She kept the more immodest pictures of Thor on her phone, where they were safe, but a lot of the posters were of Thor with his shirt off and he'd signed them too, showing his eternal love for her. Her entire body quivered, seeing her sexy boyfriend, and she skimmed her jerking hands all over her body until they were kneading her soft, sensitive breasts, nipples taking an electric charge from frantic fingers.

"Oh, shit," she sighed, "Thor, where are you? I need some hammer so bad..."

Her hands were tired of tits. She ran them down her sizzling body, feeling slim hips and soft stomach on the way to moist, sticky sex. All chiseled, all sweaty, all perfect. Who else had the tight, taut bod worthy of the God of Thunder? A hundred cheerleaders put together didn't have the flesh to match hers. Her hips rocked, but she didn't put her fingers in her sopping wet pussy. She was saving it for Thor. She knew if he weren't needed in Asgard, he'd be here, pleasuring her like he had so many times before, and some day he would be back, and he would burst in to see her fucking herself, and he would take over. Her big, beefy Viking warrior and his sweet little love slave Barbara.

She couldn't wait any longer. Barbara brushed her fingers across her cunt's swollen lips and felt her hot, moist passion searing her fingertips. She moaned, spreading her legs wide, bending her feet back with all the flexibility of a good shield maiden—she would splay herself for Thor when he got back.

"Do me, Thor!" she cried, impassioned, in love. "Do me, I'm your Viking bitch!"

She thought of his big, hairy muscles—his long, fat cock—his piercing blue eyes and ruffled beard and long, flowing hair. Her body almost fucked herself, he made her so hot. She lunged up into her own touch, eyes glassy with her pleasure and the thought of Thor finally penetrating her. She screamed, rolling over onto her belly, tormenting herself by rubbing her clit into the worn sheets. Flashes of ecstasy lit up her body again and again, cries of need muffled with her face buried in a hot pillow. Her blonde hair fell down her back almost to her small, heart-shaped ass.

"This is your pussy, Thor! Your Valkyrie pussy! Come and get your pussy!"

Her entire body working like some machine at full power, she went mad with want—wriggling her hips, grinding her belly, fucking the bed like she was trying to show her Asgardian mate what she wanted him to do to her. Her face turned red. Her eyes bulged. Drool issued from the corner of her mouth. Every strike of her engorged clit on the mattress got her closer and closer to the kind of orgasm her Thor would surely give her if only he had one finger inside her, one second to be with her, one word to whisper in her ear-!

"You can fuck my ass, Thor! You can fuck my fat, rap-video ass!"

She clawed the sheets, pounded the bed with her wet cunt, her juices boiling, her inner channel ready to embrace whatever slender invasion it was offered. In a stroke of comparative genius, Barbara groped under her humping body and entered herself with herself. Her clit swelled and she twisted around like a dancing snake, but even her long fingers were nothing compared to Thor's big, callused digits. It was torture! She stayed at her peak, in a state of ecstasy that was beyond anything she had ever known—before she had met Thor. Now, it just wasn't enough to make her cum.

Barbara was about ready to sob at the injustice of the universe when her phone began to rang. Her phone, which she had set to vibrate.

Another moment of inspiration—two in one day, a record for Barbara—had her snatching the phone up. She used it to find the bloated need of her exposed clit. It whirred viciously at her with each ring. That was all she needed. In one short, smiling second, she was thrashing wildly, screaming "You're making me come, Thor! I'm creaming!"

And she did just that. Her empowered body, supercharged in every aspect, climaxed like it was entertaining a nuclear blast, the orgasm sweeping through the young woman like a tornado. Her contracting sex pumped out a cloudburst of cream, gushing down to stain sheets that had long since been discolored.

The sheer potency of her finish was so addictive, it was no wonder she had done it three times in the last hour, her broken vibrator finally convincing her to swear it off. But now that she knew how truly versatile her smartphone was...

"You're what?" Carol demanded, and Barbara was confused enough to wonder if she and Thor had had a threesome again—wait, Thor was still gone, right, she'd just been masturbating...? Then she remembered the phone. Apparently, it wasn't quite waterproof enough. She brought it up to her ear, grinning at the sweet smell it bore. Thor loved how her pussy tasted.

"I said I was dreaming. As in, I was asleep? So this had better be something good. I'm an Ultimate, you can't just wake me up and stuff!"

Carol sighed. People were always sighing to Barbara. What was it with SHIELD agents and being rude? "Suit up. I need you in Queens. The Brotherhood is in the city and you're the only superhero I've got."

Miles away, in a now-heavily-fortified hospital with a well-bandaged gunshot wound and tubes going everywhere, Carol mused that it was statements like that which had driven her to try recruiting Spider-Man in the first place.

"The Brotherhood?" Barbara asked. "Is this, like, a black thing, because I don't think Thor would approve of me fighting a bunch of black protestors who are probably really being peaceful, it's just the media that—"

"The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants," Carol interrupted harshly. "Magneto? Scott Summers? Does this ring a bell?"

Just then, Carol would've taken the spider-kid and his anger management issues for her division in a heartbeat. They could hate stuff together.

"Yeah. Those guys are gross. I'll be there right away."

"Thank you, Valkyrie," Carol said, feeling more relief than she had when the painkillers kicked in.

"Wait, Carol?!"

"Yes?"

"Was it good for you too?" Barbara laughed as she hung up. But underneath her sunny exterior, Barbara was troubled. Haunted even.

I need a cock, she thought to herself.

***

They brought Agent Tad to one of the closed schools, Midtown High. In the boiler room, no one could hear him scream. No one but Scott, upstairs, sitting against a line of lockers. He didn't think he'd ever be comfortable in a school, not after Xavier. You never quite learned the right things in one.

Wanda came up to him, her ankh catching the light that seeped into the darkened halls. "What are the Twins doing to him?"

Scott pursed his lips. "Showing him his worst nightmares. Covered in spiders, that sort of thing."

"Sounds unpleasant."

A particularly loud scream echoed up through the floor tiles. "Yeah."

"C'mon. Let's go mess around in the teacher's lounge. They've always got good shit in the teacher's lounge."

Scott looked at her. With the visor gone, he wasn't used to having to hide his anger. "I'm having a man tortured, Wanda. The least I can do is not pretend otherwise."

Wanda crossed her arms. With Magneto gone, she was in similar straits. Not used to expressing herself. "This was supposed to be our honeymoon, remember? You haven't even touched me since we got here."

"We have business—"

"Your business! Not the Brotherhood's! We should've bugged out already!"

"We don't leave our own behind!"

"She's not one of us, I am! Doesn't seem to be helping me out much." Wanda turned away. "Would you rather pretend I'm her doing a shift?"

Martinique came up the stairs. She found Scott and Wanda leaning on opposite ends of the hallway, standing on a floor littered with dropped books and incomplete homework. "He's ready to talk."

***

Tad was in a cold sweat, his eyes bugged out. Scott imagined his hands, held behind his back by duct tape, were locked into white-fingered fists. "Address."

Tad nodded desperately. "305 Ansbury Drive, apartment 403. But you won't find him there."

Scott took a step closer. "Why not?"

"He... he... he..."

Scott glanced at Regan. "I told you to go easy on him."

"He's a fucking SHIELD agent! They don't break easily."

Scott moved in, grabbing Tad by the chin. "Agent! Where can I find Fenson?"

And suddenly Tad's hands were free and a knife was in his right and Scott was backpedaling, Tad lunging for him, knife held high—and the light went out of his eyes, all at once. He stumbled drunkenly into Scott's arms, the two men doing a clumsy pirouette as Scott tried to hold the knife away and hold onto Tad at the same time, but the dead weight was too awkward for him to manage. Tad slipped out of his hands, leaving the knife. He hit the ground dead.

"Brain aneurysm," Wanda said. "Very hard to do on short notice."

"Yeah, you rocked it, Wand," Martinique said.

Scott whirled on the Witch. "You didn't have to kill him!"

"He didn't have to come at you with a knife! And I know you're not lecturing me on when to kill someone!"

Scott bit down an angry reply. His words leaked out, slow and bitter. "He was just doing his job."

"So is everyone else who ever hurt us. You can't help him now. Let's find your goddamned girl and get out."

***

Don't do it, Peter. The thought sounded a lot like Uncle Ben. Or Aunt May, or his father, or his mother, or Nick Fury, Captain America, Carol Danvers—all the other people who wanted to run his life. Don't do it.

Well, why shouldn't he? (And this voice sounded different, new. Peter wondered if it was himself.) He'd been looking for Gwen, and Liz—and Mary Jane for hours. He'd combed the city, interrogated a couple dozen crooks, pissed off every gang in the Five Boroughs: nothing. He'd tried calling Sue and she wasn't there.

He hadn't even had time to repair his costume. He wore a hoody and slacks, his mask, gloves, and boots underneath. It felt looser. Like something was moving around his body underneath. Maybe he'd broken a rib and it was floating around in there. That'd be just perfect.

So now he'd try this.

He crouched on the steel tower of the George Washington Bridge, watching and waiting until the van bearing the legend 'New York's Boldest' came through. Correctional department. He took off, dropping a few stories before firing a webline that brought him parallel to the van, then a quick shimmy through the air dropped him lightly on top of it. The driver probably hadn't even heard.

In the present crisis, all but the essential services were shut down. That including the justice system, except when it came to super-criminals. They were still being processed, one judge, one transport. There were only about a half-dozen cases to be run through, and Peter was hoping his still hadn't been done. Creeping to the back of the van, he poked his head down to the wire-mesh glass providing a view of Manhattan receding. Inside was Ana Tatiana Kravinoff.

Her blonde hair was tamped down by a few days of prison shampoo and her orange jumpsuit did little to flatten her. Still, she was radiant. He'd ask her out if he weren't a little afraid she'd eat him. He tapped on the glass.

She looked up sharply. "You!" she cursed. Her chains rattled as she jerked toward him, soundly securing her to the van's bench, its only occupant. "I will kill you for what you did to my mother and I!"

"Hi Ana, nice to see you too, how's your guest spot on Orange Is The New Black going?"

Ana jerked her head away, facing front, as if resolved to ignore him. "What do you want?"

Peter looked around. Yup, the van was empty. "Where's your mom?"

"Escaped," Ana spat.

"She forget something?"

Ana stared at him out of the corner of her eye. "She said if I was worthy, I would free myself." The chains strained again. "And when I do, arachnid, I will tear you—"

"Okay, pause, pause button," Peter interrupted. "That's cool and all, but how about we make a deal instead?"

Ana hissed. Literally hissed. Her eyes trailed over him, what little she could see of his body through the window. "What kind of deal?"

Peter eyed her in turn, noting that her hair had been cut short in prison, a sort of flattop look that reminded him of a lion without its mane. The lionesses—they did all the real hunting. "I let you out, you track someone for me, then we go our separate ways."

Ana laughed. "How do I know you will not just put me right back in here when you've done with me—had your way," she added, leaning back against the wall, legs spread.

"How do I know you won't try to kill me?"

"I could always give you my word, arachnid. What word have you to give?"

"Uh, the word of being a superhero and not a crazed furry?"

Ana kept staring, like a cobra trying to hypnotize. "Why would you do this thing? My world's Spider-Man would never free such a dangerous person as I."

Peter counted off on his hand. "One, don't flatter yourself. Two, you know people think you're crazy when you talk about how you're from another dimension, right? Three—" He tapped three fingers against the glass. "Much as I hate to admit it, you're probably going to bust out sooner or later anyway, so you might as well do some good while you're at it."

Ana faced the opposite wall again. "As you say—I don't need you to escape. My mother will come for me—eventually."

"If you can't get out yourself, you mean?"

Ana bit her lip. Her voice turned strident. "If I agree, you must provide me with suitable attire! Cloth befitting the line of Kravinoff!"

"Well, I was doubtful for a second, but it's official—you're a girl."

***

An abandoned costume shop netted them a lion's-head vest, like the one ol' Sergei had used to wear on his reality show—discounted, since his show was canceled, he was put in jail, and he'd tried to invade the White House with Norman Osborn. Peter was grateful for that, leaving the appropriate payment on the counter. His costume may be shitty, but at least it had pockets now. A Victoria's Secret in the same mall gave Ana a leopard-print bra and cheetah-print pants, which was apparently all she needed, because she left the dressing room looking like that and didn't ask for anything else. It was more of a hit to Peter's finances, but at least he didn't have to buy her a shirt.

"What do you have to go off of?" she asked, running her hands over her body as if gauging her attire. "Spoor? Tracks? Watering hole?"

Peter showed her the piece of fabric he'd gotten off of Fenson. With the mall mostly empty, two weirdoes in costumes weren't to be disturbed, but he still felt like a tool.

She sniffed it. "He sweats—the scent is strong. Good. It will make tracking him easier. You must convey me to every subway station in the city. Perhaps the great luck of the Spider Totem will prevail."

"You're a funny gal, Kravinoff. Tina Fey should be worried."

"I do not know this woman."

"Oh, they don't have her in your world? What do you do when you need to make fun of Sarah Palin, just listen to her? Like yokels?"

Ana put her hands on her hips. "Will you be carrying me to nearest subway station or not?"

He eyed her. She hadn't even zipped her vest up. "Tempting, but I can't be seen swinging around with someone who wears fur. Totally ruin my rep with the vegans." He stepped outside, raising his hand. It wasn't long before a taxi, grateful for a fare in the empty city, pulled up. "I need to go to the nearest subway station."