All She Can Think About update

Boize moi, Natasha Romanov thought, lying in bed that night. What had come over her? She wasn’t some kind of slut. So why had she been acting like such a bimbo, practically throwing herself at Spider-Man?

Thankfully, he’d left once the Quinjet had returned to base, and although Natasha hadn’t been able to resist flaunting her body at him every moment he was with her, she had managed to fight the urge to follow him back to his private life.

Of course, she knew his identity—could easily find out where he lived and go to him, wherever he was. See him in private, perhaps while he showered or changed. They’d be together, near his bed, and they wouldn’t be disturbed. She could even bring condoms… perhaps dress in something nice. She knew her catsuit was flattering, but it was probably too much like what the Black Cow wore. Natasha didn’t want him thinking of her while they were together. Now if she wore lingerie—nothing but lingerie—and a coat over it, so she wasn’t arrested until she got to his doorstep… Peter, of course, was welcome to put her in handcuffs…

Natasha tried to stop thinking about him. This proved to be an impossible task. She’d been denying her sexuality for a long time, sublimating her desire into a monomaniacal focus on her work as an Avenger. Now her body was demanding just as much attention. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Peter’s muscular body, his handsome face, and she pictured just how well-hung he was beneath that form-fitting suit. The vagueness of her imagination, not knowing for sure how well-endowed he really was, affected her more strongly than any cock she’d actually encountered in real life. She didn’t know if she wanted him to be just big or for him to have the kind of porn star cock that a woman feared as much as respected. You had to really like a guy—really be sure of him—to let him open you up. Nat didn’t want to get her hopes up, but the way his costume bulged…

Webbing. Was webbing better or worse than handcuffs? They had some give, could stretch—almost let her out, but hold her fast… let her struggle no matter how futile it was. It was like being dominated, Peter webbing you up. And of course, being covered in white slime… it was little like being marked, wasn’t it? Owned.

Her mind drifted back to her relationship with Bucky, her last steady lover. Natasha had tried not to think of him either, but now, in her keyed up state, Natasha realized how much she missed being with him. Being fucked. The more she thought about Bucky—tried not to think about him—it made no difference—the more she wished he would fuck her just one last time.

She pushed away thoughts of his face, his voice, his touch, but the remembered sensations continued. A phantom lover arousing her, her own sex drive his foreplay. With an inevitable quickness, he gained Peter’s face, Peter’s voice, and Natasha was unable to lie still as she imagined him touching her instead of Bucky.

Sleep refused to grant her a reprieve from her ongoing fantasies. Her body—seductively voluptuously and tautly athletic all at once—grew more and more feverishly. She felt her breasts jiggle, her muscles responsively clench, and didn’t see how it was that a woman with her perfect body should have to sleep alone.

Soon, she was struggling with the need to touch herself, a weakness that the Red Room had left her with a conditioned disdain for. Trying to deny herself, she locked her legs together and clenched her buttocks tightly.

A mistake. The contraction of her muscles sent shockwaves into her sensitive loins. Almost unwillingly, she cupped her full breasts, large and plump, but too firm to really sag. She caressed them through the sheer material of her nightgown, getting a little rush of adrenaline every time she felt the stiffness of her tightened nipples. She was both shocked by how hard they were and jolted by the pleasure she released when she touched them.

“Zaebis… Blyat…!” she swore. Then, in the privacy of her darkened bedroom, she caught her nipples between thumbs and forefingers. Lightly tweaked their tender hardness.

It felt magnificent. She could do nothing to downplay the surge of arousal she got from her kneading fingers, both satisfaction and an urgently unsatisfied need for more.