Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's

The cabbie eyed them. "Sure you don't want a motel?"

***

They visited three subway stations, Peter's meager savings get even meagerer, until Ana located the scent.

"What would you've done if he didn't take the subway?" Peter asked.

"Tried the bus stops."

They took to the rooftops to continue the hunt, arriving at Fenson's apartment almost at the same time Cyclops and the Brotherhood did.

***

There was obviously no escape from the room. As prisons went, it was lovely. A spacious, richly appointed room full of ultra-modern furniture—Mary Jane guessed because they didn't want to go to too much expense to replace the stuff if a captive broke it. There was even a fully stocked refrigerator and a small but high-tech television facing the couch. Not that they had it on. Too depressing to watch the news and not see any story about their disappearance.

"I don't wanna die," Liz said, having flatlined right past denial. MJ could almost admire that.

"We're not gonna die!" Gwen fired back. The refrigerator had plenty of glass Evian bottles and she was planting them around the room, ready to be used as weapons. Mary Jane didn't know what the point was. If someone opened the door and pointed a gun at them, what were they going to do?

"Gwen, c'mon," Mary Jane called, sitting on the couch beside Liz. Gwen looked at them, torn between letting Liz simper and doing something for group morale or whatever. Eventually, she sat down on the other side of Liz. "We're not going to die, Liz. There are like fifty superheroes in New York and look at this place. This is clearly a supervillain lair. Someone is going to bust in here and save us any minute."

"We're going to die," Liz insisted.

"No, sweetie." Gwen put her hand on Liz's thigh, rubbing it meaningfully. "You just gotta think of something else. What are you gonna do when we get out of here?"

Liz looked at her, thinking, brow furrowed. Then she burst into tears. "We're not getting out of here!"

"Jesus," Gwen swore. "MJ, you do something. You're the guidance counselor."

"I am not a guidance counselor."

"This is exactly the kind of shit Peter pulls and you always handle that."

"He doesn't cry," MJ insisted, even as she drew Liz into a warm hug, rubbing her back. "It's okay, honey. Come on. Come on. Think of all the crazy shit the three of us have been through. All the mutants and robots and monsters? We didn't get through all that just to die in some fucking Stanley Kubrick exhibit."

"Yeah, c'mon." Gwen embraced Liz from behind, surrounding her with loving pressure. "There's no point in letting these assholes get you down. That's what they want. Think about something else. Anything else."

"Say anything," MJ added.

"I... I just... I don't want to die a virgin!"

Gwen's head jerked up like a dog hearing a whistle. "Uh... isn't it a little late for that?"

"Gwen!" Mary Jane cried.

"Hey, if we can't be honest while we're hostages in some hollowed-out volcano..."

"I know it's ridiculous," Liz continued, sobbing faintly. Mary Jane offered her a tissue and she wiped her nose. "I'm not, like, a virgin-virgin. But I've never really... enjoyed it. I just did it because it's something you're supposed to do, like putting on make-up or whatever. I wish I had had it like they do in the movies, where it's all soft and there's jazz playing or... like when you do it. It's good when you two do it, right? Because you're both girls?"

"It's very good when we do it," Gwen said, pressing a small kiss to Liz's shoulder.

"Gwen." Mary Jane said it softer than she had before, still irritated with her, but more annoyed with herself—that she was actually feeling a coiling heat within her as images of Liz with another woman slid into her mind. Images of Liz with Gwen. Liz with herself...

Liz turned her head to receive another small kiss from Gwen, this time on her chin. "I don't wanna die not knowing how good it can feel."

"We can show you."

"Gwen." Again, but this time MJ found herself rubbing Liz's bare leg, feeling how warm the skin was, how soft and smooth...

"We can both show her," Gwen said, and turned Liz's head back to face MJ's luscious, parting lips...

***

"Well done my pet," the mistress said, watching through the one-way mirror as the women began to undress. Sometimes her work was so rewarding. She petted her angel's blonde hair. "You deserve a reward."

As her angel continued to inflame the three's senses, lower their inhibitions, the mistress ushered her down between two legs of pale gold. She was already naked but for her fur cloak, and as her angel began to eat, the mistress covered the both of them in white fur. She wasn't sure which of them was more fortunate, herself for being able to enjoy the show, or her little angel for being able to taste such a divine cunt.

***

Liz felt Gwen's fingers steal along her thigh, sending some weird electricity right up to her throat, making her pant with desire. Like she'd just run a marathon, God, panting. She opened her legs. Felt a woman's touch on her pubic hair. It was so exciting—wrong—right. "Never been touched by another woman... never like this!"

"Oh, do you like it?" Gwen teased. "Just how much? Would you like Mary Jane and I to play with your little pussy until you come?"

"Yes, please," Liz replied, then laughed at her own politeness. "Pretty please..."

"Of course!" Mary Jane giggled along with her, a small part of her surprised at how quick she was able to forget their circumstances, lose herself in this new game. "I think Gwen would enjoy fingering you more than you'll enjoy being fingered!"

"Oh, I would?" Gwen kissed Liz passionately as she unbuttoned the girl's blouse from the bottom up. Mary Jane laughed like she was high; the sight of Gwen kissing another woman seeming absurd but also tantalizing. "Kiss her belly, MJ. You always love kissing mine..."

"But she doesn't have a sexy little belly button ring," MJ teased laughingly.

As Gwen pulled the two halves of Liz's shirt aside, MJ laid down flat on her stomach on the couch, wrapping her arms around Liz's sleek middle—kissing the soft flesh of Liz's tight little belly, licking it, then dropping her face to the beginnings of Liz's skirt. Gwen helpfully pulled it down, exposing Liz's groin as they kissed, Liz feeling lips all over her body as MJ kissed through her panties. When Liz started to moan, Gwen just had to draw back to watch her sexy little face contort trying to fit all the pleasure she was feeling.

"It's never felt so good," Liz muttered.

"Are you a little lesbian now?" Gwen asked, running her finger down Liz's face, over her lips. "Do you like fucking girls?"

"Oh God..."

"Are you a hot little dyke like us? Do you want MJ to kiss your pussy like she does mine?"

"God, God... please? Could you please? I've never..."

Mary Jane licked across the satin of Liz's panties, curling Liz's toes, screwing her eyes shut—she started to pull the panties down out of the way, but Gwen twisted her finger in their elastic band, holding them up.

"She'll do it if you're a lesbian like us—if you like kissing girls—if you like fingering them. Do you like fingering girls, Lizzie?"

Gwen took Liz's hand, the cheerleader staring transfixed as Gwen brought it to her mouth. She licked it, then sucked on it, slurping on each soft finger, and knew Liz's long gasp had nothing to do with Mary Jane's kisses. Gwen took Liz's fingers out of her mouth and down her body, until it was slipping into her pants. She felt Liz's fingers curl against her pussy—then reach into her soft warmth.

Gwen returned the favor, reaching down and putting her finger on Liz's clit as Mary Jane ripped her panties away. Liz had broken out in a hot sweat. "Eat her pussy, Watson."

Mary Jane's lips sealed to Liz's cunt. Her jeans ride low; Gwen could see the waistband of her panties twisting as she fingered herself. She kissed Liz—Mary Jane bucked her ass up and down in needful agitation—Liz moaned and panted and gasped as she was fingered, licked, kissed. Her breasts were fondled, by both Gwen and Mary Jane, then she felt a hand on her ass. Heat was rising in her body, growing, burning. She felt like she might explode!

"I'm gonna come!" she wailed in disbelief. It had never happened to her before. "I'm gonna come!" Not with Flash, big surprise. "I'm gonna come!" She'd never masturbated; it'd always seemed so weird and shameful. "I'm gonna—gonna-!"

Her flushed body was suddenly hot enough to burn. Mary Jane and Gwen pulled away from her before they were scalded, and then jumped away as Gwen burst into flames.

***

"Magnificent," the mistress breathed, standing, unclasping the furs from her neck. She strode naked into the room, the glass automatically opening for her, her body shifting to its crystalline form as she walked in among two cringing girls and the object of her desire, the burning naked body of Liz Allan... who could not imagine what was happening to her, could not fit it into her mind... knew only how good it felt.

The mistress embraced her, kissing her, penetrating her with a pair of diamond fingers, Liz's flames burning brighter, from orange to blue, licking harmlessly at the mistress's impervious body.

"Feels nice, doesn't it Ms. Allan?" She took Liz's hand and led it to her own needful clit, swollen by the submissive tonguing it had received from the psychic. "I'll wager you knew, on a subconscious level, that such a volatile feeling would trigger your mutation. It's why you've never really indulged your lustful nature. You just needed a little push, that's all. A little help from Auntie Emma."

The mistress lowered Liz's mouth to her breast and Liz was quick to obey, desperate for anything to continue the thrilling sensation she felt. She sucked as best as she could on the lovely glass nipple.

"Mmmmmm, yes," Emma drawled. "Make me come—fuck me with my fingers—we'll come together!"

"YES!" Liz exploded, her flame snuffing out with the force of her orgasm, suddenly a naked teenager again, pressed against the wall by a diamond statue that shifted back to flesh with her own climax. They kissed, softer but just as hot, before Liz collapsed, exhausted by the first orgasm she'd ever had—and the second use of her mutant power.

Emma Frost gathered the semiconscious girl up in her arms, turning on her heel to strut right back out of the room. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, Phoenix."

***

Scott stayed in the van with Wanda. Martinique was in the driver's seat, looking with binoculars through the window. Regan was down the street, staring up with a high-powered lens. Fenson's apartment was at the corner of its building, so looking in both the north and west-facing windows, they could see almost everything. Together, they projected an illusionary diorama in the middle of the van. People the size of action figures, replicating what the twins saw.

There were two men in bulky coats. Scott recognized the kind of disguise that advanced mutations like Nightcrawler or Beast would favor, but now that they were in private, they let the coats fall open. Inside were not mutations, but cybernetic parts.

"Reavers," Wanda said. "And here I thought we got all of them on Krakoa Island."

Scott was lost in thought, but enough of him was present to answer her. "The technology wasn't Genoshan. A piddling banana republic coming up with cybernetics rivaling the US of A? No. Somebody gifted them those things."

"Who?"

"Someone who wanted to see how their tech would do against mutants. Or just didn't care, so long as they got volunteers crazy enough to be experimented on. Those two aren't too worried how they'll look at their daughter's wedding." He turned his attention to the outside of the 'diorama.' Spider-Man clung to the side of the building in that shitty Eminem costume of his with a girl hanging from the ledge of a closed window, the two of them peeking inside and apparently exchanging words. Hiding their presence from the two Reavers.

"Who's the girl?" Martinique asked.

"Ana Kravinoff." Scott said it with confidence. "Claims to be the daughter of Kraven the Hunter. Superhuman strength and speed, advanced hunting abilities, skilled martial artist."

"Of course you'd know that..."

"Why's she with Spider-Man?" Wanda asked.

Scott rubbed his chin. "She's tracking someone for him."

The Reavers found whatever it was they were looking for. Although the Masterminds' vantage point obscured it, one bent down, put something in his coat, then the two went to leave. Spider-Man began crawling down the side of the building, Ana following him.

"Spider-Man's a do-gooder," Scott continued. "He's going after the girls. He finds Fenson's place, happens upon those two—decides to follow them." He came to a decision. "Let's let the pawn go first. Get Regan inside. We follow Spider-Man."

***

Inside SHIELD's NYU office, Carol centered herself again against the pain. The wound was treated, but she couldn't have painkillers dulling her reflexes. Still, she didn't think less would be thought of her if she sat down and didn't move much.

Around her, the situation room was at a boil. SHIELD agents AWOL, Spider-Man gone rogue—they were already stretched to the limit by Magneto. Carol had gone deep into the B-team to get manpower on this comparatively small issue. Most of the staffers under her now were raw recruits.

They didn't even have any satellite coverage. They'd had to deploy an aerial drone just to get surveillance on Fenson's apartment. Now it'd paid off.

"Track Spider-Man," she said, gritting her teeth against the pain. "Let's see what he's up to."

"Should we redirect Valkyrie?"

"No, let's not let that particular bull into the china shop yet. When he reaches his destination, put her nearby."

"She's—" the case officer rewound his headphones' auto-record to replay what Barbara had just said. "She's asking if she can stop for a latte, Agent Danvers."

***

Fenson was nervous, waiting in the dingy apartment the mistress had sent him to. He didn't mind the squalor. It was only for a little while. But the thought of it being so long before he saw the mistress again—

He jumped to his feet as the door clattered open. Those two cyborgs. He could almost wince at the sight of their mechanical deformities, but those were the very things that let them spend so much time with the mistress, serving her more directly than he ever could. He envied them.

"Here's your watch," the first said, tossing it onto the bed where Fenson had been sitting. "Shut up, lie down, we leave in the morning."

"But when will—"

"No talking," the second stressed, dropping onto the seat opposite the TV. The other had mechanical legs, and didn't mind standing.

The TV turned on—Reavers didn't need a remote—and music blared from it. Fenson laid down on the lumpy mattress. Worse than the one he had at home. It didn't matter. It wouldn't be long now, not long until he was far from all this ugliness, this metal city, these needling people, it would just be him and the mistress—

The knock came unexpectedly, followed by a heavy Spanish accent. "Housekeeping?"

"Do not disturb," the first Reaver retorted.

"Qué? It's housekeeping!"

"I said go away."

"Cómo estás? This is housekeeping. I'm here to clean the room?"

He got up to walk to the door. "Goddamn immigrants—nobody speaks English in this town anymore."

Pulling his coat tightly around him, he undid the door's bolt. When it made a noise, the rest happened. A red glove cracked through the door's thick wood, ramming into the Reaver, fingers splaying on his chest and, like a junkyard magnet, pulling him back through the door and out into the hall.

The second Reaver drew a gun, but someone was already through the window—Ana Kravinoff delivering a fast kick to his head, damaging the organics, then going after the machinery—pounding on the metal, popping compartments out, ripping at the wires and circuitry.

Outside, Fenson heard the little sonic booms of superpowered blows being exchanged. The room shook like a train was going by, then the wall bulged inward, something being pressed against it, and the noise stopped. Replaced with a spritz of sparks and whining as the second Reaver powered him.

Fenson had time to do nothing more than curl into a fetal position.

***

There'd just been enough time to get an agent on the scene when it started.

Twenty monitors made up the Wall in the SHIELD situation room. They pulled together camera feeds, updates on what was being worked on, streaming information, status reports, everything germane to the situation. Six grouped together to show a blowed-up view of their man on the scene's sunglasses-cam. Staring up at a second-story motel room as a Reaver's head was smashed through the window, then pulled back inside. The view momentarily shuffled as the agent backed away.

"We've got engagement—" the case officer reported. "Six calls to 911—"

"Reroute them," Carol ordered. "Josh, Abdul, you take them. Tell them to just fucking leave." She stopped, peering at the Wall. "Stop. Rewind that, my monitor."

The cam's feed was duplicated on her workstation. She rewound it, eyes scouring the footage. As their agent had moved away, his feed had captured some of the bystanders watching the disturbance.

She swiveled back up to the Wall. "Patch in CCTV, scrutinize the crowd, I want facial rec on everyone. Agent Ramirez, do not move. Take off your sunglasses and hold them sixty degrees to your right."

While Ramirez, their agent on the ground, continued to watch the motel room, he redirected the feed as instructed. Now everyone saw it. A van parked on the side of the road, a man in the driver's seat, head hanging out the side, elbow leaning on the door.

"He doesn't have his visor," the case officer said, though his disbelief was less for that, more that Scott Summers was really there at all.

"I've got a view in the passenger's seat," another agent reported, putting their CCTV feed up on the wall. The facial recognition scan came back positive for the Scarlet Witch—Magneto's daughter.

Carol didn't wait a breath. "Alright, I want STRIKE mobilized. We keep NYPD out of the loop, there's no time to liaison. Move Valkyrie in, but it do it quietly, we don't know how many Brotherhood members are on site. Get me Fury, get me the Ultimates, hell, see if you can get me the Fantastic Four. I want anyone who has so much as the power to burp the alphabet on this."

The case officer swiveled to her. "Ma'am, what about Spider-Man? The girls?"

"Another day. Which do you want on your resume, Magneto's second-in-command or three little girls?"

***

He was out of web-fluid. Ana could tell. He changed the cartridges, but it wasn't as polished a motion as her Spider-Man would make. Not as practiced.

The webbed-up Reaver he tossed inside, pulling up the door behind him and webbing it in place. He glanced at Ana's more effectively disabled foe.

"I said no killing."

"He's not dead," Ana pointed out. "Just depowered."

Spider-Man looked at the Reaver's rising chest, nodding. "Means we can't interrogate him, though. Maybe we can check his hard drive. Or—" He glanced at Fenson. "You could help us."

"No, never, I don't know anything—"

Ana didn't think Spider-Man listened any more than she did. He let Fenson babble while he ripped a page out of the motel's phonebook, crumpled it up, went to Fenson, and jammed it in his mouth.

Then he curled his middle fingers inward, stuck his pointer and pinky out, and tapped the heel of his hand with his thumb.