X-Men: The Summers Drive Pt. 04

Scott unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out to let Emma see it. Her eyes went wide; shocked once more at his size and what's more, how ready he was. He crawled onto the bed, rising over her until they were face to face. He could see from the frenzied look in her eyes, the expression on her face that stopped just short of begging, how much she wanted it. There was no point in lubing her up. She was too aroused to need it.

He pressed into her, her cunt snapping shut on his cockhead almost as though it were trying to keep him out. Slowly, steadily, he fed himself into Emma's sex, watching the change go over her as she went from a poised dilettante to a cock-hungry whore—giving into the sheer need he could feel inside her pussy, burning at his prick, sucking at his cum.

Quivers went through her voluptuous body, her breasts jiggling particularly attractively on her chest, while her expression wobbled, twisted, caught between pain, satisfaction, and a keen desire for more. Furthermore, he could feel her desperation through their psychic link, her thoughts like an echo of his, only with no original sound to produce them. She enjoyed the thickness of his cock as much as he enjoyed the tightness of her sex, and it was almost agony not to give in and drive all of himself into her, relish all of her tightly clasped pussy at once, and begin the frenetic movements of their fucking. Thrusting into her for however many hours he decided she could take before she'd earned his cum.

"Say it," Scott told her. "Beg."

The White Queen might've refused, but moony-eyed, open-mouthed, this slut he'd revealed her as was only too willing to give in. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmeFUCKME--!"

Fitfully he gave Emma his last few inches, leaving her nearly orgasmic by the time he slid into her up to his hilt, her sapphire eyes rolled back in her head, her lips twitching with the demands she could no longer utter. Scott himself groaned, feeling her tightening around him, washing his cock with her juices. Her entire pussy was his, as snug around his cock as if it were built for him, massaging him with masterful pressure—both serving him and urgently demanding his seed with a servile brattishness that was so perfectly Emma he nearly hurt with affection for her.

He held himself inside her, letting Emma clench on the hardness of his cock as if in disbelief, her active hips unwinding against his stationary ones like she was opening a dance, trying to entice him to join in by beginning the motions that would bring them both so much pleasure. Her cunt gulping his prick, swallowing and relinquishing it in perfect measure, and cajoling him to thrust into her and complete their togetherness. Move and countermove. Rhythm and beat.

Emma's perfectly full lips formed a dazzling smile, aimed up at him both in gratitude for getting her way and anticipation of him giving in further. "You know you want to, Scott. You know how good it feels. Now really fuck me. I didn't ask for just your cock, after all. I asked to be fucked."

She leaned up to kiss his square chin, her entire body quivering around his penetration of her. Her breath heaved her cleavage up against his chest, then broke sweetly over his face as she exhaled.

"Give me what I want."

Scott looked down at her, the single red eye of his visor unreadable. "What about what I want?

"Yes, yes—" Emma turned her head to the side, baring her throat, showing him her perfectly cut profile, surrendering to him while her pussy kept up its wonderful invitation, her hips pumping weakly up to him as if taunting Scott to show her how he could really thrust into her. "Take what you want."

"What I want," Scott said, lowering his lips to her exposed throat, stopping an inch from her visibly racing pulse, "is to fuck Jean while I'm wet from your cunt. To have so much of your juices dripping off me that I won't need any lube. To have her swallow you along with my cock... when I fuck her beautiful face."

He pulled himself away from her, all of him, from his cock to his face. Emma moaned and keened, begging him to stop, rattling against her bindings as she tried to free herself—"No-no-no-no-no"—but Scott didn't let up. Even as Emma threw her groin up to his, savoring every last moment of his slowly withdrawing cock, impaling herself on it as many times as she could in a sprint for orgasm. Scott could feel it brewing, the pleasure of it pouring into her mind, about to overflow; but the more he pulled away, the less of his cock there was for Emma to fuck herself on.

Finally, he was entirely outside of her, his weighty erection slapping against his thigh as he let it weaken—still with the heft of a sword in a scabbard. Emma rolled her hips some more, desperately trying to conjure up something to fill her, but it was useless. Her ass fell back to the bed and she quaked, this time in anger.

Scott came up to straddle her waist, folding his arms over his chest, his thighs holding down her still-twitching lower body. He looked at her with his coolly burning eyes. The link between them was still open. He could feel Emma's arousal growing.

"You bastard," Emma said, her voice shaking with emotion. "I should kill you. I should fucking kill you. Maybe when you come back—son of a bitch—you'll show some respect..."

Scott smiled humorlessly down at her. "Why? You loved every second of my disrespecting you."

"You're the worst fuck I've ever had," Emma dared. "I wish I'd fucked your brother. I wish I'd fucked Logan. Oh, no wonder your wife keeps leaving you!"

Scott's jaw muscle twitched and Emma knew she had gone too far. But she didn't have the humility to take it back. She had to own it. She eyed Scott challengingly as he crawled over her body to plant his knees in her armpits. A part of her hoped that he would find her across their psychic link, see how she regretted the jibe, but she couldn't back down.

Taking hold of his cock, he slapped her across the face with it, knocking her head to the side. He held her in place by the hair and brought his erection down on her cheek repeatedly, like he was pounding a nail home with a hammer. Emma knew, knew, that she was his. Scott would only bother to discipline his woman. Anyone else he would release. It was the only comfort she had as the humiliation mounted, the discomfort, the certain knowledge that she had no power beyond the restraint of Scott's inviolable decency. He might punish her, but he would never do anything so rash as to damage his property.

"I should prop that dirty mouth open," Scott said, his voice a threat. "I should fuck your throat until it's worn raw. I should come on your face until I don't have to look at it anymore. I should choke you until you have bruises for days, and when anyone looks at you, they'll know you were the filthy whore that enjoyed it. You would enjoy it. Wouldn't you? And that's why I'm not going to do it. I'm going to leave you here and let you think on if you want to be a good girl for me or a bad girl. Good girls get fucked. Bad girls get to watch."

Emma had never been closer to begging than she had been at that moment. She sincerely wanted to apologize to him—at least as much as she wanted to get fucked, even. But however much she needed his cock, needed him, she already had her pride and she would not let it go now, not one scrap of it.

She met his eyes as much as possible through the wall of ruby quartz. "Use your hand, you little poof."

His hand jerked back, then flew across her face. Pain flared over her cheek, a dark red mark marring the pale perfection of her face. Her lip was impregnated with bitter pain as well—it'd torn, a trickle of blood soaking her mouth, even hotter than the rest of her. A diamond didn't burn in a furnace. It only heated up.

Tears welled in Emma's eyes involuntarily. Scott swiped one up with his thumb and tasted it. Emma could see his manhood respond, the knob pulling free of the foreskin, throbbing over her as it leaked precum onto her features. Scott seized her by the throat and held her still a moment longer, rubbing his cock over her face, smearing her with cum and spit and her own arousal, her make-up becoming a fright mask, running mascara, smeared lipstick. But he pulled his cock away before he'd rubbed too much off on her. He was saving it for Jean, she knew.

Scott tucked himself away, zipped up, then wiped her lips with the back of his hand. Emma's tongue lapsed out and licked the blood away. For a moment of silent communion, Emma could see she was forgiven. Scott wouldn't punish her if he didn't think she could be good. She wouldn't enjoy it if she didn't know he could be bad.

"I'm going to go find you a gag," Scott said, pressing his fist against her mouth, one last kiss of her own saliva and blood, leaving her lips a vampiric red. "One you won't like the taste of."

***

Lorna Dane looked out at the car window at the storefront the red light had stopped them next to and gazed almost lustfully at the mannequin on display. Black jacket, black blouse, shorts, fishnets, and big punkish boots. It would look just hellacious with her green hair.

She turned her head the other way, looking at Alex Summers in the driver's seat. She thought of dressing up in that for him. It would surprise the fuck out of him, maybe give him the biggest hard-on of their marriage—or he might think she looked cheap, slutty. Alex could be so passionate, so rebellious. But he wasn't always the most adventurous. He wasn't an X-Men after all. They always made love in bed, usually with him on top, usually in the dark. He didn't like taking her from behind and while he seemed to enjoy blowjobs well enough, they'd been married a full year before Lorna had ventured to get down on her knees and indulge her own curiosity on the subject.

And she'd never once told him how she fantasized about being fucked in the ass. He'd be shocked if he knew she was even more curious about that than she had been about oral sex. No, Lorna was the broken bird, the fragile bipolar girl, and she shouldn't be subjected to Alex's vile sexual urges—even if it was Lorna who wanted to have her breasts fucked, Alex coming all over her face and hair alike, finally making her green hair match her pale skin...

The car jolted into motion. Lorna put her thoughts aside. It was probably best not to get too excited. She was in recovery, everyone kept telling her, and she had to take things slow. That's why they'd 'retired' to this small town, with no bigger responsibilities than running a store and living their lives. But what was she recovering for except to be a good wife—maybe one day a good mother? And Alex certainly wanted to be a good husband. So why couldn't she dress a certain way and have him treat her a certain way?

She wondered if Alex's brother had this problem with his... whatever Emma was. Frost was a crazy bitch, certainly, but Lorna had a hard time believing Scott restrained himself to missionary sex for fear she'd go back to the Hellfire Club. Shit, with Emma, the first thing boring sex would do was drive her back to that supervillain strip club...

"Penny for your thoughts?" Alex said.

Lorna smirked. Marital issues or not, Alex just had to flash that grin and make those little jokes and she was utterly smitten. Was it any wonder she'd magnet-fuck anyone who hurt him? Or touched him? Or tried to take him away?

"You know us girls," Lorna replied, thinking back to dark fishnets on pale skin. "Fashion."

"Maybe we could open a boutique if the shop keeps doing well," Alex suggested. "You've had some pretty nice costumes over the years."

"A manic episode can lead you to pull off some real crazy outfits," Lorna retorted. "I don't know how the sane people do it. Remember that bikini thing Storm wore?"

"You're plenty sane," Alex said seriously. "Storm's the one who keeps fighting giant robots. And calling herself a goddess."

"I don't know—she really pulls off that biki—"

Alex jammed on the brakes. Lorna was thrown forward, having to stop herself by repelling against the metal in the car's frame.

"Alex! What the—"

She stopped, seeing what Alex had seen. The store was... in ruins. Windows broken, merchandise scattered across the floors. The closed/open sign hung in a door that was partially knocked off its hinges, one of many graffiti tags strewn across it. This one read MUTIE GO HOME.

***

There Jean was. The girl Scott had been in love with since he'd known girls as more than boys who could wear skirts and dresses. A simple, uncomplicated love, neither pushed to the side nor pulling to the lead now that Emma had a place in his heart, but simply there. Part of him.

Something refreshing about the surge of warm, unreserved emotion he felt looking at her, even though he knew intellectually that there was nothing simple about any of this. She'd died and come back, pushed him away and pulled him back. He knew that things had changed, but had they changed so much that what they'd once had was now transmuted into lead? Or was it still gold?

Complications. Between time travel, space travel, and Congressional hearings, Scott would've thought love and sex would be a cinch, but they remained vexing. Even his timing was complex. He was looking through the door to Jean's classroom, where she was monitoring the students as they took a test—the powerful telepath easily able to discern any kind of cheating. Of course, it seemed rude to interrupt. But how long could he wait before Emma worked her way free—in the hopes of her disobedience netting her a more satisfying punishment—or before Betsy woke up?

Could he afford to wait or was it better to be bold, imperious, challenging Jean openly on her home turf? That almost seemed more the kind of move Emma would go for... but with all the changes in their lives, Jean might have more in common now with Emma than she didn't.

He was still hard from Emma. He wanted to fuck Jean so badly, it felt like he finally understood how she'd talked about having the Phoenix burning inside of her. Maybe that was what Jean wanted from him—what she'd found so engaging about Logan. Nothing from the intellect. Just raw, uncaring sex. At that moment, he would've gladly fucked Jean in front of each and every one of her students. What were the odds that Jean would enjoy being more scandalous than Emma Frost for once...?

Scott spared one last look at Jean. She was the Phoenix—not just Death but Life, Destroyer as well as Creator—and appropriately enough, she struck him as the polar opposite to Emma. Emma flaunted her power, her sexuality, her beauty, everything in her arsenal. Jean tried to downplay it, as though she could be modest about coming back from the dead. As beautiful as ever, she wore a wool cardigan over a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, her blazing hair in a bun that actually managed to be demure, a tartan skirt coming down to her knees, her pearly white stockings, reminding Scott of the schoolgirl who had grown up alongside him. He'd loved her then. He loved her now. Even dressed like a librarian, repudiating all the fire of the Dark Phoenix, she tempted him as strongly as Emma ever had. Scott had no choice. He could either be traded between the two women, fought over like a poker chip, or he could come up with a plan to satisfy everyone.

He'd come up with a plan to defeat Dracula once.

Scott charged into Jean's classroom, each foot falling with its own heavy import. On the one hand, there was the famous drive he was known for—the leader of the X-Men, the crusader, the heir to Xavier and the point of the spear for all mutantkind. He may have been amoral, he may have been ruthless, but there was an efficiency to him that couldn't be denied. He only had to decide on the best course of action and he took that route like floodwaters raging downstream.

But as if that weren't enough, there was the man himself. The blue eyes long since buried under his ruby quartz visor, guarded by his mutant power. Even with the force that constantly smoldered in them, ready to be released into destruction, they still looked lovingly at Jean.

For months since her return, they had been on the outs. She was unsure of what to make of his relationship with Emma, while feeling adrift herself. Unsure who she was, how much of her was the Phoenix and how much was Jean, how she felt about Scott and who it was that was even feeling whatever it was she felt.

Emotion, frustration, friction—it all added up to a passion that was rarely seen in Scott and Jean responded to the telepathic vibe coming off him like the tingle of ozone before a storm.

"Scott," Jean greeted, irritated by the intrusion but also bemused. It seemed like her wry eyes could never be truly angry with him. The Dark Phoenix and her very real wrath seemed like something that had happened a million years ago. "You kinda caught me in the middle of something."

Scott glanced sidelong at the students: heads down, scrawling on their test papers, but obviously straining to catch what was being said. The Stepford Cuckoos weren't even hiding it. Emma's little monsters had, of course, finished their test early.

"Let's talk privately," Scott said.

Jean sighed. "And they say I get you into trouble." She looked out at the students and when she spoke, her voice seemed to echo—both inside their heads and out. "Class, you're to focus on your work and pay no attention to Scott. He's not even here."

And like that, the classroom forgot all about Scott. As far as their young minds were concerned, he wasn't there.

Scott half-grinned. It was funny. Jean and Emma were so different, but they were hardly the Madonna and whore so many of the X-Men liked to see them have. Jean was as willing to be ruthless as Emma, she just coated it in moral rectitude—telling herself it was for the greater good. Scott supposed Emma did too... but Frost made it abundantly clear that she considered herself a very large part of that greater good. Jean was either less self-aware or more, but she was definitely on a different level than Emma.

"I don't recall putting in an application for your harem," Jean said, still amused, but her eyes now flashing dangerously. It was possible Scott had made a misstep in hiding this conversation from the students. Jean had no reason to censor herself. "Are you here headhunting?"

"More or less," Scott admitted.

"I can taste them on you," Jean said. "Emma... Betsy... you do have a type. Do you really need three of a kind?"

"They have a type in me too," Scott told her. "Why do you think that is?"

"A strong jawline and an excuse to wear sunglasses at night," Jean teased.

"You think it's a coincidence that all the psychics on the team seem to have a thing for me?"

"I think you must be the first person in history to fish for compliments telling you you have a great personality."

"I wouldn't say I have a great personality," Scott said darkly.

Jean tsked. "Typical. Every guy on this team secretly wants to be emo. Guess that visor hides a lot of eyeliner."

"It's not that," Scott insisted. "You, Emma, Betsy—you have something else in common. You're all ruthless."

"And you are too?" Jean asked. She looked out at the classroom. "Eyes on your own paper, Jerome."

"I'm cynical, and I act accordingly. It seems like that puts us in the same boat. Maybe it's because you can see how many times people are operating in good faith and how many times they aren't."

Jean smiled ruefully—a little dazzled by Scott's insight into her. As awkward as he had been as a teen, the moment he'd gotten those ruby quartz shades, he'd never stopped looking through them. Never stopped seeing. "You should hear a person's thoughts when they find out I'm a mutant. And being a beautiful woman doesn't help either."