Wrong

Mary Jane Watson had made a mistake. She’d taken a slug from Tony Stark’s flash. She should’ve known he would only have the good stuff—and though she didn’t think of herself as a lightweight, the liquor was definitely treating her like one.

Then she made another mistake. She did another shot. As always when Mary Jane drank, she was getting ‘friendly’. While talking to the other guests in Avengers Mansion, she playfully touched their arms and hands, or when moving around, she would lightly brush her tits against a man. It was wrong of her, she knew, but she couldn’t resist the urge to taunt them with what they couldn’t have. 

She had just resolved to slow things down and drink a glass of water when she saw T’Challa standing nearby, looking at her. Her blood, hot with liquor, rushed into her head and turned her cheeks into open flames.

“Hello, T’Challa,” she said politely. “Thinking of giving me the royal treatment?”

“You do look lovely, Mary Jane,” he said, reaching out and taking her free hand. In her wrist, he could feel her pulse racing. 

She drank her water. It didn’t cool her down.

T’Challa licked his lips, seeing a misty look staring back at him when he met Mary Jane’s eyes. It was either lust or she was drunk. Perhaps both.

“You look flushed,” he observed.

“Yeah, I feel a little warm,” Mary Jane replied, almost defensively.

“Perhaps you could use some fresh air.” He led her by her captured hand like he was guiding a horse by its reins. 

She went along with him meekly as he took her away from the get-together. With the evening, the lights of the mansion had been dimmed, and it felt deserted with all its guests and occupants in one place, now far behind them. He led her up a flight of stairs and out onto a balcony overlooking the grounds, though all it showed at this time of night was darkness, somehow accentuated by the lights of the city far away. It felt like they were the only two people on Earth.

He turned Mary Jane around to face him; only then did she realize how close they were. She looked up into his eyes and saw something equally dangerous there, something that would be dangerous no matter how far apart they were. He kissed her and she moved eagerly into the warmth he offered, the pleasure, before pulling away.

“No—we shouldn’t!” she cried.

“We shouldn’t,” T’Challa agreed, and kissed her again, even harder.

This time she didn’t pull away. Instead, she braced herself, her arms going around his neck to hold her in place against him. “Forgive me, Peter,” she moaned, tip-toing even higher than her heels made her to return T’Challa’s kiss.

She was feeling too many things at once: ecstatic, drunk, wicked, enthusiastic. He took her even tighter into his big arms, his harsh lips crushing against hers. His tongue traveled deep into her mouth, and as she accepted it, sucking gently, Mary Jane knew that he had her as surely as if he’d planted a flag.

T’Challa pulled away to unbutton the front of her dress. Mary Jane felt each button being undone, the tiny rush of cool air sweeping in as her dress opened by degrees, the diligent work of T’Challa’s hands so close to her skin but so far away, like feeling a hand massaging an erogenous zone, touching it more and more firmly. Kissing him was bad, being undressed by him was bad, but despite her adultery becoming more and more serious, Mary Jane was less able to resist than ever. His strong, clever hands opened up her bra and she still didn’t, couldn’t protest. The tight straps loosened and the cups that secured her high, firm breasts fell away, leaving her bare and vulnerable—and feeling more beautiful than ever as he enjoyed her nudity.

“Mary Jane, you simply do not stop being perfect, do you?” T’Challa sighed, and lowered his mouth to the stark paleness of her untanned chest and the sweet taste of an erect nipple.

T’Challa loved touching a woman’s breasts while they were still warm from the confines of a bra, and Mary Jane’s were burning delightfully, a film of sweat proving that they were supposed to be restrained and he had broken them out. Mary Jane too felt the lustful excitement of the taboo being committed; her nipples were as hard as marbles, inside T’Challa’s mouth and outside it. T’Challa proved it by moving to her other nipple, finding that it was exhilaration making the tiny peak hard, not the pressure of his lips.

“I like that, I like that!” Mary Jane gasped, so softly she might not have even been aware that she was speaking.

His hand moved under her skirt and perhaps it was just the hidden nature of the flesh there, the secret of it, but it felt even softer and more tender than the skin of her breasts and face and lips. Mary Jane too felt more sensitive—when T’Challa touched her down there, she told herself she was lost.

Her legs opened and his fingers traveled up her inner thighs at a measured, deliberate pace, coming to the edge of her panties precisely when they meant to. There, they paused a moment, T’Challa’s fingertips edging sideways along the elastic band that separated flesh and satin. Then they were underneath the legband, T’Challa and Mary Jane experiencing what he found as one: hair that was lustfully wet, a slit that was deep and inviting in its openness. Mary Jane heard T’Challa provide a bass groan to her soprano sigh as his fingers slipped inside her.

T’Challa only needed one hand to do all that. With the other, he unzipped his fly. No sooner was that done then he’d grasped one of Mary Jane’s small, delicate hands and forced it into the opening. If he wore any underwear, he led her hand right through it. Her fingers touched his cock directly. It was as hard as it was huge. 

“This is wrong,” Mary Jane said, her fingers circling his massive girth as if it were an example, holding tightly the representation of everything she was feeling that she shouldn’t be feeling. 

“Yes, it’s wrong,” T’Challa said. “Do you think that matters?”

She drew his prick out of his trousers, her slender hand barely wrapping around it. “No. It doesn’t matter.”