Stands Revealed

Mary Jane didn’t realize how lightly, how restlessly she was sleeping until Peter came in through the window, stripping away the barely tangible layer of slumber on her consciousness and bringing her to grouchy wakefulness.

She knew her acrid longing for sleep would go away with some coffee and her morning calisthenics. Still, she savored some bitterness. How was she supposed to sleep when Peter was out there, playing hero? She’d been able to mute her worry, like a good fireman’s wife. But how was she supposed to be comfortable with him spending so many night hours with Felicia Hardy?

Still, she was glad he wasn’t injured. She could hear his footsteps, strong and careful, trying not to wake her. No limp. No smell of blood. Just a rustle of clothing as he took off his costume, stripping from it down to the thin undershirt and boxers he wore underneath that skintight layer of fabric that showed him off so well.

Almost as well as Felicia’s catsuit showed her off. Leather sheathing her voluptuous body like a layer of paint poured over her. And despite the great shape she was in—running and jumping with Spider-Man all night long—she still had that ass the size of a toss pillow, and just as comfortable looking. Breasts the size of volleyballs, bouncing around just as much, and definitely not underinflated.

Even Mary Jane felt a flicker of arousal, imagining Felicia in that costume that was as much lingerie as superhero uniform. That’d be as suitable to a bondage dungeon as an Avengers meeting. Maybe on Liz Allan, it wouldn’t be such an advertisement for sex, but Felicia had the proportions of a Playboy centerfold. She’d look good in the outfit of a Civil War reenactor. In an unzipped catsuit, she looked just… sinful. Like one of those ex-cheerleaders who’d ended up on Baywatch. No matter how you argued it was just normal working attire, everyone could tell what was really going on under the service.

And despite Peter’s nerdiness, Mary Jane knew he was too kinky not to know the score.

So she was predisposed to be angry at him, no matter how precisely he pulled back the covers, slid in beside her, and took up his position as the big spoon. As soft as a feather drifting down from on high, he kissed the curve of her shoulder. His hand graced the smoothness of her hip, feeling the only thing she wore to bed—the line of her panties, running around her waist and between her legs for a fig-leaf of modesty.

Mary Jane liked both the scintillating outline she made under the sheets, her covered physique like a statue set in silk instead of stone, and having a degree of reticence.

Sometimes, she felt on display at all times, her every waking moment only half her own, half an item for sale. A product in the window that might turn into a paparazzi photo or a selfie with a fan. So, even alone, she treasured knowing that she had some boundaries. That even if an army kicked down the door, she could deny them some of her charms.

Peter wasn’t on that wavelength, though. He and her body were. Through her irritation, her flesh responded, warming at his assuring kiss and his relieved feel of her skin. Peter only wanted to convince himself that she was still there, the light at the end of the long tunnel of his patrol, but at her unconscious permissiveness, it became something more.

He began stroking the length of her thigh. He kissed her neck more passionately, sensing that she was awake and needing, not knowing that he was mistaking the heat of anger for a flush of desire. Mary Jane felt his prick press between her buttocks, its torpid heat seeming all the stronger for having to pierce through the back of her panties.

That was the last straw. He was hot as hell, prick jutting out like a horn, and she could tell (or thought she could tell) that he’d come in with that erection. It had nothing to do with her, besides her being a convenient receptacle for it. He was hard because of Felicia and now here she was, a masturbatory aid while he worked out all the lust that cat burglar had provoked in him.

With a fiercely dismissive grunt, Mary Jane rolled out of bed. She’d never get to sleep now and she didn’t want to fuck. As good as it’d feel, she couldn’t stomach the thought of how much Peter would enjoy it.

“What?” Peter asked her, lying back on the bed. “I thought I’d help wake you up for the day or put you to sleep or something, but if you want to sleep—come on, come back to bed. It’s the middle of the night.”

“I couldn’t sleep while you’re gone, why should I be able to sleep when you’re back?”

“Seriously.” Peter scooted back onto his side of the bed. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. Lie down. I’ll get you some—do you want some warm milk? Hot cocoa? We can cuddle… I can’t sleep while you’re running around.”

“You can’t sleep,” Mary Jane repeated, letting some incredulity into her controlled voice.

She knew she was handling this the wrong way. She should either tell him it was bothering her—that the only thing affecting whether he was joined at the hip to a beautiful cat burglar was whether or not he had a red and blue costume on. Or she should get over it, remember that Peter was as faithful as a Yellowstone geyser.

But it was like somehow, the effort of keeping from snapping at him made it impossible for her not to be passive-aggressive. She had to take out her frustrations on him, even when he’d done nothing more than fight crime alongside one of hundreds of heroines who were goddesses of beauty. It wasn’t like the Wasp or Ms. Marvel were slouches in the looks department.

But did they wear their catsuits unzipped to the navel?

Thank God she was meeting with the girls today. She needed a release. Too long since she’d taken a me-day, that was her problem. It was making her cranky enough to turn molehills into mountains. Like there wasn’t enough stress in her and Peter’s joined lives.

Peter was about to ask her what was wrong. She could see it on his face.

“Don’t worry about it,” she forestalled him. “I have to get an early start. Hair, nails, then I’m meeting some girls for an early lunch. You get some sleep. Now that I know you made it home okay, I might as well start my day.”

And, she thought as she went to change into her workout clothes, if he’s that randy the moment he comes in, at least he probably didn’t actually do anything with the Cat…

***

Kon wasn’t expecting her to come by, that was obvious. He was half-dressed: shirtless, with his jeans unbuttoned and the zipper at half-mast, showing boxers with a number of Superman logos printed on their fabric. Cassie wasn’t sure he’d thought through the implications of that. And he was reading, much as she might doubt his literacy at times.

Or at least, he was doing something with the magazine in his hands, the cover one big photo of Size-G breasts in a Size-C bra.

Cassie’s lips curled wickedly. “Whacha doin’?” she asked lightly, watching as he fumbled the magazine up into the air like he’d suddenly seen a spider crawling on it.

He shot to his feet. “Cassie! What are you doing here!?” Kon asked, managing to catch the magazine at the cost of a small rip down one of its pages.

“Coming to visit my boyfriend. And what are you doing here?”

Kon stuffed his hands behind his back, the magazine in them. “Reading. Now that you’re here, though, let’s do some flying. Or make-out. Or ask Tim if there’s any monsters he needs us to pound. He’s probably working on a briefing right now—if we hurry, maybe we can get the 411 before he adds a lecture about ancient Byzant to it.”

“It’s not called By—“ Cassie began, before refusing to get sidetracked. “Kon, I can’t do much, Mrs. Lane invited me to get lunch with her and some other women.”

“Alright then,” Kon said. He surreptitiously dropped the magazine behind him onto the kitchen table he’d been sitting at. “Let’s have a quickie.”

Cassie rolled her eyes. She should’ve known this would happen when she lost her virginity to Kon. He was actually something of a gentleman about not pressuring her into sex, but now that she’d given in once, he seemed to take it for granted that she’d loved it and was looking forward to more. Like he’d enlightened her to how good sex could be. And now that she knew, of course she’d want to do it as much as he did.

He was frustratingly close to being right.

Kon headed off her denial. “Hey, I’m a feminist, I’m not saying you just have to give me a blowjob. I can, you know, give you a little tactile telekinesis—emphasis on the tactile. And if you end up incredibly horny and can’t resist ripping my clothes off… wait, I like these jeans.”

He shucked them off. Cassie averted her eyes from the half-hard erection he had in his boxers. The boy was as eager to get at her as a dog was to go after a squirrel. She supposed it was flattering. Or it would be, if he wouldn’t do the same for anyone from Starfire to Wendy the Werewolf Slayer.

“You’re that eager to get into my pants?” Cassie asked him, sidling a little closer.

Her nearness made Kon shake. Again, flattering, but Cassie half-thought it had to be his own suppressed lust. Whenever he talked about her ripping his clothes off—in his dreams—he was really thinking that she just felt the same way about ripping clothes off that he did.

She darted a hand past him, snatching up the magazine. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather stick with the Maxim girls? Emphasis on the stick?”

“I love having emphasis on my stick,” Kon grinned at her before seeing she was holding his girlie mag. “Hey, that’s what you meant, right?”

Cassie paged through the magazine, backing away from Kon as he tried to take it back. Page after page of blue-eyed blondes and raven-haired brunettes and redheads with alabaster skin. All of them with Double Ds or better. Narrow little waists. Toned little muscles. Butts either flat as a pancake or the size of a bakery’s prize pastry.

Cassie didn’t think herself a slouch in that department. She’d really filled out since she’d first become Wonder Girl. But who could compete with these girls—genetic freaks of nature that then got state-of-the-art plastic surgery and top-of-the-line hair, make-up, swimsuits? You’d have to be Power Girl… Cassie was beginning to regret that her superhero costume was simply a cute top and a pair of jeans.

Sure, Kon had little more than that too… but it was a tight T-shirt he wore. Usually wore.

“What is it with you?” she asked Kon, stopping on one girl who looked like sex personified. Lips open as if she dearly needed to fulfill an oral fixation, eyes limpid and vacant, breasts popping out of her bra. “I’m just a phone call away. If you have to look at a girl, you could just send a text. But instead, you want to look at a bunch of ink on paper. I’m your second choice.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like that!” Kon protested. “I mean, of course I want to mess around with you, I always want to mess around with you, but I can’t call you up whenever I really want to mess around.” He assumed a hopeful look. “Wait, can I?”

“No, but you should want to,” Cassie insisted. “Not want to look at a bunch of half-naked models!” She turned the page. “Or… okay… very naked models.”

Kon spread his arms wide. “Cassie, how am I supposed to not want to look at a bunch of scantily-clad bimbos? That’s like you being able to write your name in the snow!”

As per usual, Cassie gave him a disgusted look. “You’re supposed to want me more.”

“Like you want me?”

“I do! And I certainly don’t want—“ She looked down at the magazine, really looking at the girls on page. Kon was a good-looking guy. James Dean with a six-pack. How many of them would hop into bed with him if he asked?

And… what was wrong with that again? She’d known Kon was a horndog since always. He understood the notion of look but don’t touch it and Cassie didn’t like the thought of being such a disciplinarian that she wouldn’t even let him buy a Swimsuit Issue.

So why’d she dislike the idea of him being himself with girls like that? Just because they were prettier than her in certain respects? To Kon? To herself? They did look pretty… those curvaceous bodies… the swimsuits and lingerie more like petals on a flower than something separate from their flesh… those willing expressions, voluptuous looks of arousal and passion and play and sultry smoldering on face after face. Each page a new kind of lust.

She imagined Kon with the buxom redhead. All those curves… he’d have to touch her differently than he did Cassie’s athletic physique, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t it be interesting to see what Kon was like… all the faces he made… how he thrust and kissed and stroked… all the things Cassie couldn’t pay attention to en flagrante delicto because it was all she could do not to climax the moment that big dick was inside her.

Watching him… with the muscular blonde, the willowy brunette, the dark-skinned twins… any combination of them… it’d be like making a sex tape, only this could never leak. It would just be for them, Cassie and Kon. No matter how many of them he fucked, it would be for her. And Kon would love her so much for being such an understanding girlfriend…

Cassie shook her head. Where had that come from? Sure, the girls were cute, but… no, no, she didn’t want Kon fucking anyone but her. Not even her, not right now!

She tossed the magazine to him. “As long as your Goodreads list looks like a catalog of swimwear, do me a favor: find me one of those that looks cute and buy me one. I can’t just go skinny-dipping on the beach, now can I?”

Kon seemed slightly confused by her 180… if that were enough degrees for the turn she’d been through… but the idea still enthused him. “Oh, I am going to find you the perfect bikini, bae. Wait, does it have to be a bikini?”

“What else is there?”

“Well, there’s a monokini, that’s—“

Cassie held up her hand. “If it’s so kinky there needs to be a new word for it, I’m not going to wear it.”

“You don’t exactly wear it, though, you…”

“Kon, you can’t pull this crap with me. I’m strong enough to kick your ass.”

Kon smiled rakishly. “You wouldn’t do anything to hurt my ass. Your mom’s an archaeologist.”

“So?”

“So your family is all about preserving priceless treasures.”

Cassie checked her watch gratefully. “I have a girl thing to get to. Put your pants back on.”

Kon assumed a hangdog expression. He hated hearing that when he’d only taken his pants off for a few minutes. As far as he was concerned, pantlessness should last at least fifteen minutes. More, if you wanted to be nice and give others a chance to join in.