The Cat Was On The Bed And Other Stories

The Cat was on the bed.

She didn’t appear to be wearing anything other than the black gloves and domino mask that made such an alluring contrast against her pale skin, the gloves’ fur lining lost in the whiteness of his sheets and mattress. She could’ve been wearing her boots, it would be like a cat to not care if those went on the furniture, but if she did, they were lost in the tangled sheets which rose to her thighs.

She lay, poised in a little turn, on her belly, her oversized breasts flattened against the wrinkled sheet fitted on top of the mattress pad, with her upper body lifted up a little on her elbows so she could turn her head to him, her long white hair cascading down her bare back and lapping at her cleavage. And even with her lifting herself up, her breasts were so big that she might as well have been lying prostrate, the nipples hidden as the heft bent the mattress pad inward. Her hips were slightly turned to him, hiding the full exuberance of her buttocks from view, while the tapering of the top sheet concealed her pubis, dwindling to nothing between her firm thighs. In just a glance, Peter saw both nothing and everything, which he knew was just what Felicia wanted.

Her costume lay on the gray wood flooring, pointing to the bed, bra and panties on top of it, as if any further proof were needed that she was naked. He couldn’t see her boots, though. Maybe they were under the catsuit.

There was also an opened condom wrapper on top of the costume, empty. Just as Peter noticed it–and just his luck–Felicia blew a bubble, like she was chewing gum. Peter made out the shape of the condom before she let it deflate and sucked it back between her lips. Ready to be donned in Felicia’s own inimitable way.

“Ready for bed, Spider?” Felicia asked, poking her tongue into the latex. “You don’t look tired…”

He didn’t feel tired either.

*** 

“Be nice,” Mary Jane said, with the kind of firmness that made it hard to remember when she’d seemed like a girl without a care in the world.

“I’m always nice,” Peter said innocently. “Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, remember? Thor, he carries a hammer around, Iron Man, bullets and rockets. Me, just soft little webs…”

“Don’t shoot my father with a web,” Mary Jane said, still firm, but just a little leavened with amusement.

“Hey, if you can forgive the guy, I can at least be polite to him.” Even if he did make every Father’s Day a minefield, give you just about half of the tears you cry when you have a crying fit in my arms, and oh yeah, abandoned you and your mother and your sister for decades…

“I know that look,” Mary Jane said. Not as firm anymore, but not quite consoling either. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

“I know that–”

“And I’m not going to let him do a number on me. I can handle myself if he steps one toe out of line.” Mary Jane’s face fell and her temper mellowed. “Honestly, I’m more scared that he won’t. Part of me would love to let you throw him into the Hudson River… maybe from Central Park…”

“I could build a little webbing sling,” Peter said, “and launch him like a rubber band shooting a paperclip. Pretty sure I could work out the physics in my head.”

Mary Jane laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet. But he’s not one of your supervillains, tiger. He’s not–he wasn’t all bad. I have good memories of him too. Him reaching out to me feels like getting that man back. And if you could have your uncle back…”

Peter felt his face darken. “Don’t compare–”

“It’s not a good metaphor, I know, but wouldn’t you… if there were even a chance…”

Peter saw tears clinging to the orbits of Mary Jane’s eyes. “We’ve gotta stop letting him make you cry, red.”

“I could have a father again, Pete. Our kids could have a grandpa.” Mary Jane shrugged. “If the X-Men can forgive half the psychos they have on the team–”

“Yeah, what is up with them?” Peter asked, grateful for the escape valve. “I feel like any day Red Skull is going to be on the roster.”

Mary Jane shared a smile with him, then fixed Peter with a look. “Be. Nice.”

“I will. But I’m still working on the logistics of that slingshot…”

***

Elastigirl was proud of the way she looked, but when the plan called for her to seduce a guard, she took a page from Bob’s book and went for overwhelming force. A charm offensive. First, she made herself taller–six feet, with a model’s poise. Then she put some meat on her bones. Her breasts swelled to 32Fs, triple Ds, and she pumped up her hips and buttocks to match, knowing that whatever fashion trends said, guys loved a fat ass. She had to inflate her belly a little to match, not wanting to look outright pneumatic like some silicone-enhanced Barbie doll, but she left herself with a waspishly narrow waist, dipping inward between the voluptuous breasts and the child-bearing hips. Her face she left alone, aside from making her lips a little plusher and her eyelashes a little longer. She wasn’t that kind of shapeshifter and she couldn’t make herself look like Marilyn Monroe–plus, giving herself a new face for a seduction was just asking for self-esteem issues.

She stepped out to introduce herself to the guard with a beguiling Eastern European accent that had only seemed to get more popular with guys since the Cold War started.

The jumpy little shit shot her with a tranq dart before he’d even looked at her.

It’s the hair, Helen thought as she spiraled down into unconsciousness. Maybe I should’ve done something with my hair…

***

Peter knew what his hands could do. Crush. Beat. Lift. Fail. They could hold his uncle while he bled out, or snap Gwen Stacy’s neck as he tried to save her. Even on good days, nobody-dies days, it seemed like all he could offer was being more violent than the violent. 

Mary Jane wasn’t like that. Peter could rub tiredness out of his bones, massage at aches at his muscles, but MJ gave a kind of peace. Took away more than the hurt, she took away the conflict that seemed to rage inside him so hot at times that it spilled out and became the madness he fought in the real world. Because of course, he would blame himself for that too.

Except when he felt Mary Jane’s fingers burrowing into his scalp, soothing away the headache that was threatening to take root. All her hands knew how to do was heal, comfort, soothe. He wished he could return the favor, take away the pain he knew he caused when he got banged up like this. But he didn’t know how.