Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's

The webline fired into Fenson's mouth, hitting the paper but driving it down Fenson's gullet. Fenson gagged, tried to scream while choking, didn't do a good job of it. Ana lifted an eyebrow as Spider-Man dragged the webline back up, pulling the paper with it, until it had burst out of Fenson's throat. Fenson immediately doubled over and vomited.

"Next time we do it without the paper in the way." Spider-Man cocked his head. "C'mon, Fenson. Spit it out."

He walked. Ana still didn't listen. She was paying attention to one of the still, sleeping Reavers, and the nice little 9MM in his hand.

She hated Spider-Man. Her hate was so great it spread to all possible Spider-Men, like a flame. She knew, on some level, that this man had not killed her father. But this was about blood. She was hunting spiders. As Spider-Man was arrayed against the line of Kravinoff, she was aligned against his totem.

In one swift motion, the gun was in her hand.

***

Peter had just gotten an address from Fenson when his spider-sense went off. It'd been more responsive lately, but Ana was still fast, still a crack shot. There was nowhere to dodge in the cramped room. He juked to the side, into the air, and a bullet lodged in his leg. Cringing, he hit the wall, cratering the plaster, and fell. Even as he dropped, another two bullets were pumped into him. He hit the ground coming up, ready to fight, but Ana was upon him, plowing into him, pinning him into the wall and jamming the gun in his gut. She fired, her face crazed, ecstatic as she emptied the magazine into him. The pain was too much, the damage was too severe.

He passed out.

Venom awoke.

***

Ana couldn't believe it. He'd taken twelve rounds. And he just stood there. Fear welled up in her. She could control it, that was nothing, but the thing was—she knew its source. The moment in the hunt when the wounded animal, cornered, now struck.

He grabbed her, not the grip of a dying man, and threw her into the wall. Her head struck rebar through plastic and consciousness tried to detach from her as she clung to it. And still it ran through her fingers like sand. She was vaguely aware of something black and terrible—hatching from Spider-Man. Tendrils of it like the many shadows on a hot day, seeking throughout the room. They touched the Reavers, but were not interested. The meat was bad.

They touched Fenson. He was more to their liking.

Fenson screamed and Ana watched as the darkness just—took Fenson. With the casual naturalness of a predator at hunt, it devoured him whole. It was simply the order of things.

Ana realized her mistake as her eyes blinked with awareness. Her Spider-Man—he held a certain appeal. He had beaten her family enough times to prove he had something to teach, a lesson to be learned in spilling his blood. Sometimes, when the warm, sticky feelings of her weakness came to her in the night, she thought of keeping the Spider as a prize once he was defeated. Breeding stock, perhaps, for the next generation of Kravinoff.

But this Spider-Man... he was not merely master of the totem. He was part of some great pack—a magnificent predator owed its allegiance to him. He rode it into battle—he wore it into battle like a mighty steed. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

Fenson was gone now. Just bones and bits of clothing. She watched the black thing withdraw, slink to its master's heels once more. She saw the wounds she had put in him heal, untarnished flesh through the holes she had made. She heard its voice—the voice of the predator's master.

"We had a deal," it said.

"I helped you find him," Ana argued. "That was the bargain! I honored my end!"

"Tried to kill us."

"It is the natural state! There can be no accord between predator and prey!"

"Agree."

The blackness crept toward her. Across the floor. Like a spreading pool of blood. She backed herself against the wall.

"No, wait—I can be useful to you!"

"Agree again."

"He said," Ana tried to remember. What had that idiot Fenson been babbling about? "The three girls! I can help you find them, like I found him!"

"And why should we trust you?"

The blackness touched her feet now. She tried to pull her legs up to her chest, but the darkness tugged at her. It nearly jerked her away from the wall, even with her clawing at it.

"Please!"

The thing that was and had been Spider-Man tilted its head. "New deal. We let you live. You help us. Start with giving us—needed things."

"Yes! Of course!" Ana lowered her head. Submitting as a pack animal would to an alpha.

"Must do something else, as well." The blackness crept onto her legs. Moved up to her thighs. "Must punish you."

***

"What the hell are they doing in there?" Scott asked, watching the apartment through binoculars.

Martinique was crowding past him, staring through her camera. "Well, Scott, sometimes when an octopus and a Japanese schoolgirl love each other very much..."

"I hate this city."

"I think it's hot," Wanda said.

"YO, EVIL-DOERS!"

Scott would later curse himself for looking. There was a woman standing on top of the hotel, looking like one half of a Who Wore It Better post with Thor. Valkyrie.

"Evac," Scott said crisply, and thanks to Regan and Martinique's illusions, the van became a clown car, emptying out a steady stream of Cyclopses to run in every direction.

***

"Goddamnit!" Carol threw down her headset. "What the hell is she doing?"

Valkyrie's case officer was already on the line with her. "Valkyrie, what are you—"

Carol grabbed his headset from him and held it to her face. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Chill out, slut. I've got this. Two minutes and your mutant problem is, like, in the bag."

"Valkyrie, you are facing multiple mutant terrorists, wait for back-up."

"GIRLPOWER!"

***

The real Scott ran for the nearest subway entrance, the rest of the Brotherhood also disguised as him. He turned and spoke to his reflection.

"Regan—"

"I'm Martinique!"

"We're identical, idiot," another Scott Summers said.

"Martinique," he insisted. "Can you make it so everyone sees your illusions but Valkyrie?"

"Yeah, but if only Valkyrie sees us, she's going to follow us."

"Exactly."

***

Valkyrie tugged her earpiece out. What a bunch of boring grown-ups they were being; cramping her style. She looked out at the mob of Scott Summers, looking for which one was only wearing one sock or whatever, and suddenly all but one of them disappeared. The one running down the subway stairs.

Inexplicable magical powers for the win!

***

The cool liquid turned suddenly, harshly solid, wrapping around Ana's slender ankles. She was dragged to Spider-Man like a lawn-mower cord being pulled, suddenly underneath the bulge in his pants. More tentacles whipped out, hard as raw meat. They wrapped around each of her wrists, forced their length into her hands. Spider-Man looked down at her.

"Hold them."

She closed her hands, finding that while the tentacles were somewhat soft around her wrists, they were very hard between her fingers—hardened cylinders of congealed darkness. Hard and throbbing, a little heated. She tried experimentally to move her hand up and down and was just able to. The tentacle's head pounded against her wrist. Like a cock. Just like a hard, hot cock. Like the one in the Spider's pants.

A tentacle slid around her throat, formed a noose, pulled her up onto her ass so she was sitting right in front of his hard-on. She could see it twitch.

"Open," he told her.

She tried moving her hands, but the tentacles pulled them back, keeping her spread-eagle. Then they tightened painfully around her wrists and she started rubbing them again.

"How am I supposed to open it without my hands?"

"Mouth."

She could see the tab of his zipper dangling in front of her. The tentacle tightened around her throat, making it just a little hard to breathe.

"Now."

Ana leaned forward. The tentacles let her. She opened her mouth and bit down on the tab of Spider-Man's fly and pulled it down with her mouth. His cock sprang out, large, erect, hitting her in the face. A few drops of precum stained her cheek.

"I can suck it," Ana said, though in all her preparation for the hunt, she had never found much time for men. Just a few necessary matings at her mother's instructions, when it was required to close a deal or obtain something. More often they were able to simply kill to get what they wanted—she was better at that.

Spider-Man loomed over her, as immovable and unyielding as the erection he faced her with. He was silent, his mask unreadable. Ana wondered if he understood. She moved her head forward, lips open to show him, and the tentacle at her throat jerked her back like a choke chain, pulling her back several feet—brought to heel.

Ana was lashed spread-eagle to the ground, face-up... another tentacle, long and slender, lowered itself to her mouth, examining her almost quizzically, slime dripping onto her chin. She wondered how it tasted. She'd eaten raw meat to survive—surely, it couldn't taste any worse?

Somewhat daintily, the slight tentacle moved forward. Ana sensed its intent and opened her mouth obediently. The tentacle slowed. Its tip coiled in invitation. Ana looked quickly to Spider-Man's imposing mask, colored by the shadows of the dark room. Or it was just blackening. She stuck out her tongue, slowly meeting the tendril... tasting the bead of slime on its tip. It wasn't bad. Sugary, in fact. The tendril withdrew, timid as a small animal, then pressed in with greater confidence. The tendril touched her tongue again, rolling over it, slipping and sliding with her tongue's instinctual counter-movements—kissing her.

It felt good. Warm. None of the men she'd been offered to had spent much time kissing her. They hadn't aroused her like this. She licked the tendril inside her mouth and felt it twine around her tongue, then press deeper—to the back of her mouth—deeper—harder—into her throat—she began to gag. The portion of the tentacle around her neck pushed and pulled, pressing her head down onto the length entering her mouth. She remembered the American word for it—deep-throating.

"You can suck it," Spider-Man said, parroting her earlier tone. And Ana obediently caressed and sucked the phallic length now inserted into her mouth; its thickness withdrew and penetrated in slow, supple motions. Testing her. Then the noose around her throat tightened precariously. She remembered—the tentacles in her hands. She began tugging on them again, feeling a fresh rush of their slime between her fingers. The noose loosened.

The darkness was growing from Spider-Man like weeds overtaking a garden, its oily mass seeping over Ana. It coated her lower body, and she felt roots of hardness within the material, wiggling against her legs. The hardness coiled on the belt loops of her pants and pulled, taking her trousers down her sleek, coltish legs. Now she felt the cold slime not just through the cloth, but on her bare flesh. Led by two tentacles winding around her legs, their glistening tips like ice cubes being run over her. She shivered.

The glistening, roiling bulk of it pushed onto her belly, a heavy blob, sprouting a varicose vein network of tendrils to loop and criss-cross under her vest. Her bra was quickly ripped open, her breasts coated with its glimmering excretions. The chill hardened her nipples instantly. She moaned around the tentacle she was sucking. It felt good, giving into this new hierarchy. So good...

She was jerked into the air suddenly, her head spinning, the tentacles holding her arms and legs apart in an X. Her pants laid on the floor. The slime was close to her sex but didn't touch it, making it feel even warmer than it was. Ana bayed as a pair of slimy tentacles caressed her breasts, wrapping tightly around the flesh, pinching her nipples in their grip. There were more tentacles now, always more, an endless array. A thick one around her hip, rubbing her pussy, its slime chilling her sex like she was lying on a cool bed sheet. Her legs were spread wide.

The tentacle rubbed harder, more insistently; another massaged its slime from a few inches above her anus to her perineum, its rubbery tip pressing at her asshole but never getting in. It was like they were licking her. Ana's hole pulsed, opening a little every time it was lapped at. Ana's thoughts were a babble of Russian, all fear and arousal and confusion and need. When the tentacles wound firmly around her thighs, holding them wide open, and the largest one shot inside her, she thought nothing at all. Only felt.

Her mouth and pussy were filled with obscene thrusting. Her ass was next. Another thick tentacle penetrated her there. She screamed, but only into the mercilessly probing tentacle already in her mouth. She strained and pulled taut inside Spider-Man's entrapping grip, all of her body being used by the ruthless tentacles. She came almost instantly.

After her first three orgasms, she fell limp. The orgy continued, an unending stream of climaxes that wracked her body without pity. Ana bit down on the tentacle penetrating her mouth, but it only pumped harder, throttling her as it fucked her throat. Her body was thrown between the three pistoning tentacles like a broken component in a speeding machine; undulating at her anus, cunt, and mouth.

Ana cared nothing for the abuse her body was being put through. She'd had worse. All she could feel was the pleasure of being taken so thoroughly, so masterfully. None of her other lovers had ever been so forceful, had never really conquered her as this man had. If her lips could move, they would say Master, Master, Master. She would run naked to her mother, to tell Sasha she had found a worthy scion at last. Her body trembled... her sphincter tightened... her sex clenched... all with such force that they almost trapped the invading tentacles in their vice-like grip. Spider-Man grunted with satisfaction, slime now running freely from his many tentacles. He stepped forward, his stiffened cock leading the way.

She looked up at him, begging with her eyes, pleading with him—use me. Let my cunt be your end. He shook his head. His hands reached down—he actually touched her—opening her vest to her naked chest. He laid his prick between her heaving breasts. His hands pressed her tits together over the hardened inferno of his real cock. He groped her lustful curves as he fucked her cleavage, Ana only able to watch as his cockhead appeared again and again in between her tits. She could feel his balls swinging against her ribs, his shaft like a steel bar against her flesh. It was so hard, so hot, she wondered how it wasn't burning her.

"Mine," he rumbled, and his cock exploded, so hot it felt like it had burst into flame, the tentacles following suite but Ana only paying attention to his cock, gushing, splashing beneath her chin, sending spurt after spurt of his boiling cum onto her neck and tits and running down her chest. Her eyes closed tightly, her thighs closed tighter, pressing down hard on her contracting cunt and the tentacle expanding to fill it still.

Rivers of slime were fed into her sex, her ass, down her throat, so much that it overflowed her and drenched her firm thighs, her muscular ass. As the tentacle came out of her mouth, still spewing its seed onto her face, she was finally able to scream—filling the room with the sound of pure, animal rapture.

Ana dropped to the floor; without the penetrations to hold her up, she was literally like a puppet without strings. Spider-Man's cock pumped another load out onto her fallen form, some of it reaching as far as her mouth. She was able to taste the bitter, perfect tang of her master's orgasm. Her tongue reached all around her mouth, but that was all there was. Her eyes still shut in pleasure, she nipped blindly at the air, hungry for more of his cream. Then that as well was too much effort for her. She was left concentrating only on heaving for air, a degraded toy curled up on the ground—still shuddering in ecstasy.

After several long minutes, she was able to lift her head. She could see Spider-Man, the magnificent beast once more cloaked in perfect camouflage. Only she could distinguish it moving beneath the garish costume.

"Please, master—may I clean your cock?"

Spider-Man regarded her. Then he webbed her discarded bra into his hand and used it to wipe off his member, wadding it up before he tossed it aside. He liked her better without it.

***

Valkyrie rushed through the subway platform. The mutants didn't attract much attention, just people in plain clothes running around, but Valkyrie, with her sword and armor, caught a great deal of second glances. The mutants jumped the turnstile. She ripped it off its moorings, then saw the mutants sliding off the platform, down into the tunnel. She pursued, static flickering from her earpiece as SHIELD continued trying to reach her, but had difficulty getting a signal through underground. Not that Barbara cared. God, they were boring. If SHIELD was so great, how come none of them had superpowers?

She charged down the tunnel, putting all her speed into her long strides, then quickly pulled herself short. Where were they? There was no way she couldn't have overtaken them by now, she'd run nearly a quarter-mile. She looked around, scouring the shadows. The space was cavernously cramped—barely lit, which gave the impression of more space than there really was. Without a train running through, it was maybe as wide as two cars idling next to each other, with a walkway along the left wall. The only sound was the charge of the third rail. She wondered what to do—say something. She should say something. Something Thor would say.

"Come out now and you won't be harmed!"

The gravel at her feet shuffled—footsteps in the dark. She turned just in time to take the optic blast full-on. It snapped her head back; she heard her earpiece buzz one last time as it was incinerated. Then she was staring at Scott Summers—no lasers, just the red fading from his eyes.

"Alright," she specified, "come out now and surrender and you won't be harmed!"

Scott's hand jumped to his face again—a reflex action, preparation to fry her again, but before he could, two meaty hands latched onto either side of his face. His head was jerked aside. Neck snapped. Eyes suddenly vacantly. The hands retreated and he dropped like a bag of cement. And behind him, like somehow Cyclops' slim frame had concealed all that bulk, was her Thor.

"Blondie-bear!" Valkyrie cried, running to him so hard, the gravel she kicked up ricocheted down the tunnel like bullets. She dropped her sword as she leapt into his arms, kissing him, feeling the familiar burr of his beard against her lips.

"M'lady—are you hurt? Are you alright?"

"Now that you're here." She kissed him like she was guzzling down ale; couldn't get enough. "Oh, Thorry-poo."

***

"Thorry-poo?" Regan repeated. "Jesus."

Scott carried Valkyrie. Despite her armor she was quite light. The other three fell behind him as he walked, trusting he knew their destination.

"Any reason we can't just ditch her?" Martinique asked. "Much as I like staging little reunions in people's heads, she does want to kill all of us. Let's let her have her wet dream in peace while we go somewhere else. Anywhere else."

"Can't," Scott replied. "We need her."

"He's waiting to explain his brilliant plan," Wanda broke in. "You should know that by now."