Blackout update (warning: NC)

Peter slapped his cock against Carol’s smooth thigh, both his cock and the blow so hard that it sent reverberations through her firm, tawny flesh. Carol let out a sob. It wasn’t what he was doing. It was that she was enjoying it.

Though she was a beautiful woman, with a body that netted her plenty of attention, Carol didn’t have much experience with the opposite sex. She wasn’t a virgin, but she hadn’t enjoyed the few times she’d let a man fuck her. Her relationship with the boyfriend she’d lost her virginity too had quickly fizzled out. Later, on leave from basic training, she’d had a one-night stand, mainly because it was the thing to do. With both men, she felt little or nothing. Her cunt was filled, there was friction, but it’d brought with it no excitement, no thrill. After the second try, she’d given up the whole game. She told herself that she didn’t want to go through so much trouble just to please a man, while getting nothing out of it herself, but really—she was embarrassed at the thought that she was ‘failing’ at sex. The dumb bimbos she looked down on seemed perfectly capable of enjoying themselves with men who would never fit her high standards, so it came as an insult to her hypercompetitive nature that she couldn’t have an experience that seemed equal to all the salivating and fantasizing they did. She told herself that their standards were low. That flying was better than sex. That men were congenitally incapable of really pleasing women—after all, the alternative was that there was a man who could please her, and she could neither find nor attract him.

That was unthinkable.

Now, tied up, exposed and humiliated by Peter, she finally felt the keening thrill she’d thought would come to her all those years ago. And she hated it. She hated how her body was betraying her, not only by enjoying this, but in enjoying it now, in this way, when it’d been so stubbornly resistant to every other man she’d come across.

That, perhaps more than anything else, floored her. “Peter,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t I been nice to you?”

“You’re about to be a lot nicer,” Peter said, running a finger up her cunt, tugging aside her clitoral hood to find the little bud hard and engorged. “You have a pretty clit, Carol. I bet you love having it played with.”

Carol twisted her head from side to side, wishing she could block out his words. She didn’t even enjoy masturbating that much. It was the same lacking friction she felt with a man, but without a lover to fixate on, she had to try to conjure up a fantasy, and she could never come up with anything imaginative enough to overcome the awkwardness she felt in touching herself. 

Peter’s simple perusal of her clitoris was giving her sensations she’d never felt before. The irrational thought struck Carol that this was her body’s revenge—retribution for all the battle damage she’d put it through, all the sundry indulgences she’d denied it. It was deserting her. It was going over to Peter’s side, doing whatever he wanted. Her mind was now a prisoner of her body and her body belonged to Peter.

“No, no!” Carol roared. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t let me go right—“

Peter went from looking at her calmly to slapping her face as hard as he could. Carol cried out in pain. She’d expected to be able to shrug off any of his attacks, even imprisoned as she was, but with the symbiote enhancing his strength, Peter was easily able to bruise her. Carol’s eyes misted with sudden vulnerability as she felt her cheek blaze with heat. 

“Baby gonna cry?” Peter asked mockingly. “Go ahead, sweet stuff. It’s a lot less annoying than listening to you try and talk tough. I mean, you can’t even stop yourself from getting wet. How are you going to stop me from fucking you?”

He could see Carol’s sex quake. The blonde pubic hair was soft, good to the touch as he ran his fingers through it. The wetness was even nicer to feel, slick and warm as he glazed his fingertips over her slit. Carol cried, flushed with embarrassment, muttering obscenities under her breath as she tried to pretend she was some badass warrior swearing vengeance

“You’re liking it already,” Peter said, running his hand over Carol’s thigh, absorbing the sweet warmth of it into his massaging hand. “Who knows how much you’ll enjoy having my cock inside you? What if you end up begging for it? We could make this a regular thing. If your cunt makes for a good fuck, that is. I’ve had some good pussy today—you have a high bar to clear.”

He pinched the vulnerable underside of her groin, just beside her thighs. Carol gasped, squirming her ass. She could already feel a bruise developing. She swore to herself Peter’s prediction wouldn’t happen—she wouldn’t end up his sex slave, no matter how good it felt—but she could feel her pussy clenching tighter and tighter. This could happen every month… every week… every night!  

Peter’s attention went to her breasts. Not as big as he would like, but he had to wonder if they were as sensitive as the rest of her. Carol was turned away from him, either trying to hide her bruised cheek or too embarrassed to look at his face. Either way, the red shade on her exposed cheek gratified him. 

“Let’s have a look at those tits,” he said, gripping the collar of her uniform and ripping a cleft down her cleavage.

Carol’s breath caught. She choked, muttered “Fucker” under her breath. It was useless to insult him—he would simply hit her again. And a small voice said that if she offended him enough, he might stop. Did she want that? He’d already stripped her, humiliated her, defeated her by any measure. Why not at least enjoy herself with this… accident of fate? If she ordered a meal at a restaurant, but they were unable to make it, then brought out a different and possibly more delicious order, should she spurn it just because it wasn’t what she initially wanted? 

The intoxicating voice insisted otherwise. This was the sex she’d always wanted, the pleasure everyone else on Earth seemed to enjoy without restraint. Was there any reason she shouldn’t find out what it was like? She hadn’t done anything wrong—why was it necessary for her to suffer when she could feel bliss instead? There was no guilt to be laid at her feet, and her not enjoying this certainly wouldn’t deter Peter any.

In fact, he might enjoy it more, knowing how he was humiliating her. It would probably shame him for Carol to enjoy herself even more than he did. It would be empowering! A victory for women! She could feel her lips forming the words, their birth ringing lovingly in her ears—“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

In the time it took these thoughts to race through Carol’s head and crowd into her overjoyed erogenous zones, filling them with guiltless anticipation, Peter grasped either side of her rent uniform and further tore it so the cleft stretched down to the rip at the bottom. Flinging her divided costume to either side, Peter saw her bra. As sturdy and functional as it was, it was not meant to hold Carol when her body was heaving with passion. Her creamy breasts strained against the confines they were imprisoned in. 

Peter studied the undergarment a moment, wondering how to get it off while he had Carol tied down—then he grinned under his mask. If Carol was such an independent type, not needing a man, then surely she didn’t need a bra either. He grabbed between the cups of her bra and ripped it off her. Then he sucked in his breath. Her breasts might not’ve been large, but they were well-formed, thrust up swollenly, her pink nipples hard. 

Peter touched them, caressing the contours of her breasts almost tenderly, amused by how Carol shook and made them ripple. He looked into her eyes, trying to see if she was expressing feverish denial or outright enjoyment. As he cupped her breasts, squeezing them, rubbing her swollen nipples, the look in her eyes seemed to change from second to second. Gwen, Mary Jane, they had broken after a little time spent wrapped around his cock, but Carol seemed to be cracking just from a few light touches. He wondered how long it had been since she’d been fucked; apparently long enough that she was ready to break down and kiss his feet in gratitude for finally getting her off.

Taking her nipples into his hands, Peter pulled slowly, stretching her nipples further and further, Carol crying out as the pain started. The louder she cried, the harder Peter gripped her, grinning wickedly as he saw how far he could pull her breasts out. His cock jerked with need. No more waiting—his cock was already about to go off! 

Releasing her nipples to snap back into place, he dropped between Carol’s parted legs. He would’ve loved a long look at her wet little cunt, but his cock was too hard, his balls too full. He pressed his cockhead to her slit and felt for a fact how wet she was, her arousal gushing out of her every time he rubbed his knob up and down. The feel of her slippery softness on his sensitive tip proved almost too much for him. The heat of her pussy ran down his shaft and made his balls throb in their sack. 

“F-fuh-fuh-fffff…” Carol mumbled, both trying to voice her innermost desire and restrain herself at the same time, dissolving into a series of stutters instead. 

Peter didn’t even appear to hear. He notched his swollen cockhead between the swollen lips of her cunt. Carol moaned, her litany finally coming to an end. Peter held his knob just inside her, trying to become inured to the heat of her succulent pussy. If nothing else, Carol had one hell of a nice, tight cunt. Her body being supercharged to its godlike power level had changed her pussy too, turned it into a sweltering furnace, a cavern that caved in at the slightest touch, and Peter would have to be diamond hard just to penetrate her. No wonder she was so desperate for a fuck, desperate enough that she was begging to be raped. 

Well, almost.

“Say it,” Peter insisted. “I know you want to. I can smell it on you, how you’re enjoying this—I can see it in your eyes, bitch. You think you can get out of saying it just because I’m raping you? Oh no—fuck no, cunt. You’ll say it or I’m leaving. And you can stay here, naked, dripping wet, thinking about how you were gagging for it, how it was literally on the tip of your tongue. Think you’ll be proud of yourself because you didn’t come out and say it? Because you didn’t get fucked? Say it.”

Every word Peter spoke to her slammed into Carol with its truth, its awful threat, the resounding thought of everything he’d said. She tried to consider his words, argue with the voice in her head that was screaming about how good the very tip of his manhood felt inside her, but there was no argument to be made. The part of herself that would argue for stopping this—that could even conceive of it being a good thing for Peter to stop—that was gone. Dead and buried. Broken. Carol’s eyes glazed over.

“Fuck me.”

Peter smiled down at her. “Bitch,” he said fondly. Only that one word was needed. He’d been calling her that all along, but the affection in his voice made it clear—she was his bitch.