Spider Cat Redhead 8

Anastasia Tatiana Kravinoff slept with her mother, as usual. Cuddled tight within Sasha’s embrace, like she was back in the womb, Ana was safe from the nightmares that screamed through her weakness. She still dreamed of the training, the animals, the hunts—blood—screams. In reality, she had walked out of the jungle after her five months, a woman, her first blood having come at the appointed time and enough animals slain for meat to grow her body and their pelts to armor her nudity. She had emerged from her trial in patterns of blood and fur, a beast.

In her dreams, she had not left. Her mother had never come to get her.

For the past few weeks, after her return from the other world and their hunt for another Kravinoff to continue the line, her dreams had no longer tortured her. She spent dreamless nights still in her mother’s embrace. But now, her mind returned to that distant world, with its own Kraven still drawing breath and its own Spider-Man, almost her age. A beast-master in his own right, she still shivered with the pleasure of when he had sicced his black beast upon her—its liquid tendrils taking her body, so cruelly, so captivatingly.

She dreamed of him now. Awake, her body as excited as it would be on her hunt, she slipped from her mother’s hold and went to the bathroom, not bothering with a robe to shield her naked body from servants’ eyes. She looked in the mirror and saw the vivid red scratches upon her body, the pinker ones across her groin. She had not sustained them in combat. She had done them to herself, in her pleasure. It was the only thing she could do as the Spider ravaged her. Try to add to, to own, the ecstasy inflicted upon her.

Ana stared at the body the Spider had so harshly used. Her strong thighs were welted from his owning grip. When she turned around, she saw the marks in her proudly fleshed ass where his fingers had embedded in her. Her body kept moving, Ana turning herself this way and that, examining the graffiti on the great structure of her physique.

She felt like a whore who’d serviced a strange-tasted customer, one who was wealthy enough to make it worth her while. He’d left his mark on the merchandise, but she’d made him pay dearly for it. Now she would return to the bordello, strutting her wounded body through her fellow whores, letting them look and know what she’d endured. What she’d enjoyed.

Ana felt guilty, sexual, her pleasure secret and stolen. Her fingers went to her nipples, finding them already erect. She pinched them as hard as she could, filling her chest with a smoky sort of pleasure. Her sex was beginning to moisten; she squeezed her thighs together for a momentary relief. It wasn’t enough.

Brazenly, Ana put her foot up on the porcelain sink that stood alone before the mirror, splaying her pussy, putting her own body on display for her own delight. If she were a whore, she’d have the best body in all the brothel. Not her mother, not the witch Calypso, not anyone else. She’d be the star attraction—men coming from miles to experience her, to offer up fortunes for her, in the hopes that they would please her with their lovemaking and she would spare them… or at least let them taste her before she destroyed them.

The thought occurred to her that there was an Ana Kravinoff who prostituted herself—it was the woman in the mirror. The idea pumped hot breath from her mouth, fogging a spot on the mirror, obscuring her face: the face of a whore. Ana touched her burning nipples to the cold glass, reached down her soft belly and felt the four scratch marks running from her pubic hair to her navel. From when she’d climaxed. Her fingers followed the lines down, to the mound of Venus, the bud of her clitoris. She barely touched herself, but her body thrummed with pleasure, her clitoris became a flower about to bloom.

It only made sense. She wasn’t doing it to herself, she was doing it to the whore, and the whore was doing it to her. With both hands, she reached down and opened up the pink weakness in her golden-tanned armor, her sex nakedly glistening, everything wet, alive, a lascivious garden. Her eyes fluttered like butterfly wings as she touched the fruits of her garden.

Her eyes were almost closed, watching the whore in the mirror through narrow eyelids. She imagined the whore doing this for the Spider, letting him watch her—exciting him—pleasing him. She sunk her fingers into the wet clasp of her need, slippery and tight at the same time, and it felt so good—to saw in and out, to pump her ripe hips in time with her strokes, to see herself, the whore, burn hot and needy with this molten sensation. She wanted a cock, to be fucked, to have a man cum inside her—the words were obscene to her, brutal, ugly words, but that excited her more. She could just see her wild face through the foggy mirror. It was a woman enjoying herself.

Her pleasure became a ripple, then a series of undulations, then a wave that swept through her—she tensed, gasping for breath, falling against the mirror. Her exploding breasts defused by the cool surface, the wave now a flow—whitewater rapids that burst and swelled from her groin. She slipped, her legs spread by the sink basin under her, held far apart by the icy porcelain like a man’s cold body between her thighs as he thrust into her. In the mirror, her eyes showed all-white.

The mirror was amber, it was a portrait, holding her transfixed in time, caught in the moment of her body’s betrayal, the second it degraded itself with pleasure. The whore loved it so much.

Her face was against the glass, but she couldn’t even look at it.

Ana looked down at her own body, seeing it quivering, trembling from the orgasm. Still the whore’s. Still Spider-Man’s. She went to the shower, turned the water as hot as it could go, endured its blistering temperature as she scrubbed herself until her body had healed itself, a uniform bronze once more.

The hunt had begun again.

***

The Spider was attending to an apartment fire in the city. She made the distance quickly, first in a stolen car, then taking to the rooftops, where she found the ample spoor of his weblines, left behind in his carelessness. Foolish beast. How had it taken her family so long to kill him?

She found the last of the webbing, a scent she had learned as intrinsically as her alphabet, and looked around the cityscape. From here, he must’ve crawled or ran—she did not smell the exposed sweat of him changing clothing. He must be around, still in his totemic armor…

Then she heard it, up over her head—her body sung so, it was like she’d been awakened from a conscious sleep, into a hyperreality. She was hearing the squeal of an animal being put to a slaughter. Up over her head, on the crest of a skyscraper.

Ana drew a grappling hook and fired it up to one of the building’s gargoyle, letting the mechanism pull her silently up. She could hear more sounds echoing down, unfamiliar to her, but seeming to be of terror and pleading. Perhaps the Spider was finally showing some bloodlust. Or perhaps he had run into an enemy who was too much for even him. Ana hoped it was a male. Then he would make a most suitable mate.

Ana stopped under the rooftop’s parapet, suspended below and behind a gargoyle, hidden from sight—embracing the demon like a lover, she held herself. Listened. Heard whimpering, a long low moan, shouts of frenzy: “Peter! Peter! Peter!” Then silence.

She heard a man’s voice. Not the boy she had met in the other universe. This was deeper, more confident. “I think that’s filled to capacity. Let’s get it back to Mary Jane while it’s still warm.”

“Oh, no, Spider—“ said in a sultry tone, a woman’s voice. “Not while that cock’s still hard. I’m a professional. I have a reputation to live down to. And I still have room.”

“Alright, Cat, but you’re gonna be the death of me—roll over.”

“It looks like rigor mortis has already set in…”

Ana moved up the gargoyle, as if about to kiss its snarling face, and looked over its head. Her heart leapt into her throat. She recognized the Black Cat, who she had battled once and found a worthy enough foe—for a female. She was naked now, her moonlight hair streaming down onto a rooftop so black it might’ve well have been an extension of the dusk sky, her pale body starlit, churning underneath the Spider. He was taking her—pinning her to the ground, forcing her legs open with his muscular thighs.

Ana couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight. The Spider, her prey, her chosen predator—a figure as close to her as her own totem—fucking a woman. The violence, the ecstasy was that of the hunt. Ana had little knowledge of sex, despite the deeds she had done on behalf of her mother—the notion of enjoying it had only come during her time with the other Spider-Man and his black beast. And though she should’ve been excited to find the Spider so vulnerable, and attack him in his weakness, her curiosity was such that the thought did not even occur to her.

Peter kissed the Cat, his lips on hers soft and warm in contrast to his merciless loins. “Sorry—gotta wrap this up.”

“Oh, come on—can’t the city do without you for an hour or four?”

“Maybe, but MJ can’t. I’m a married man, now, remember.”

“Not yet you’re not!”

Ana watched, horrified, thrilled, as the naked Cat struggled under the unmasked Spider—Peter. The name tasted odd on Ana’s tongue. Was it the same man as the one who had taken her? Who had shamed her, humiliated her, publicly disgraced her? She had sworn vengeance on Spider-Man, and all possible Spider-Men. Peter. It seemed a strange name for her nemesis.

His body rose and fell in powerful bounds between the Cat’s long white legs, separating them even further with each stroke—but it was Ana who felt her loins fill with sweet warmth. Especially when she saw Peter’s cock, eaten greedily by the woman’s splayed cunt. The Cat’s sex was slippery with her own juices, and as Spider-Man fucked speedily into her, he slipped out of her. The Cat moaned in dismay, amusing Peter, who kissed her and held her tight as she struggled valiantly to get it back in.

It was immense, even bigger than his doppelganger’s. The foreskin slipped over the purplish tip, then the head burst forth again like some monstrous serpent crawling from its lair. Ana had no idea how a woman could keep such a huge thing in her belly—how was there room?

Black Cat kneed Spider-Man in the gut, rewarded with an ‘oof!’ of slight pain, and manhandled him back inside her, moaning happily. “Almost lost you,” she teased. Ana could not understand why she wasn’t struggling against being invaded by such a monster, how she seemed to enjoy the thing. “So, is this your bachelor party?”

Peter kept fucking happily into the impossible depths of her sex. “Are you my stripper?”

“I’m drunk enough to be!” The Cat whooped with laughter. “Fuck me like a stripper, baby!”

“Well, which is it, fuck you like a whore or fuck you like a stripper?”

“Just fuck me!”

Ana held her breath as she watched Black Cat be taken with escalating viciousness, the sharpness of a hunt drawing to a close. There was a low gurgle from the Cat’s throat, her ass jerking up against the manhood sunk so deep inside her churning body.

“I’ll be your whore, your stripper—“ Black Cat wailed. “Anything you want me to be!”

“Be my friend!” Peter groaned above her, grinding down into her cunt, his cock beginning to spurt. Ana watched wide-eyed as his cream richly filled her passage, then ran down the valley of her buttocks to fall on the rooftop. The two expired in a drawn-out sigh, lying still joined atop one another.

“Be your friend?” the Cat asked breathlessly.

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“I’m aware of that, okay, I wear spandex—well, an unstable molecule facsimile of spandex that is surprisingly fragile…”

“I can’t feel my legs. Mind carrying me home?”

“Sure. But you’re going to have you put on your clothes. I can’t be seen carrying around naked women—“

“You’re no fun.”

Ana continued to watch as the Cat dressed and the Spider put his mask back on. Seeing him in that aspect convinced her it was truly him. Still, she did not engage. As he swung off, the girl upon his back, Ana followed at a discrete distance, ignoring the tingle in her body like the hot blood of a kill splashing across her skin.

***

Atop the Carlyle, the sun hung low over the horizon like a flipped coin about to render its decision. Barbara "Bambi" Modica, Candice "Candi" Muggins, and Miranda "Randi" Couper were soaking up the last rays of the day around a glistening blue-green pool and amidst a collection of swaying palm trees that turned the rooftop into a tropical island. Lying side by side by side, the three could’ve been triplets: they followed the same work-out regime, kept to the same diet, and had almost the same measurements. Once, when they had all weighted in at the same poundage of a hundred and seven, they had thrown a party.

They lay as though dead, luxuriating in each other’s company—the reflection of each one’s physical perfection. Randi’s wide, inviting hips that flared out into Candi’s shapely thighs that became Bambi’s sleekly tapering legs… though all their toes were painted a different color, matching Bambi’s blonde hair, Candi’s brunette, and Randi’s auburn.

They weren’t total mirror images, of course. Each had a different hairstyle, and each wore a different (though no less skimpy) bikini. On a neighboring rooftop, crouched low, Peter and Felicia could see much of their similarities and differences.

“I think Candi’s a natural blonde,” Felicia said, her mask’s goggles extending her sight a thousandfold. “But Bambi sure isn’t…”

Peter elbowed her in the arm. “I know they dye their hair, Cat, they used to be my neighbors in Chelsea. How’d they afford to move into your hotel anyway?”

“They starred on a reality show. Now Bambi has her own clothing line, Randi sells perfume, Candi released a single last year that went platinum—“

“Meanwhile, I invented artificial spider-silk and I have to live as your rent boy,” Peter groused.

Felicia pinched his cheek through the mask. “Poor baby, having to have threesomes with the mean old heiress and his nagging supermodel wife…”

“Point taken. So maybe this is a real—somewhat esoteric—white people problem… not being able to get to the private elevator to your penthouse apartment because of sunbathers. But it is a problem.”

“Don’t worry.” Felicia goosed him. “I’ve got a plan.”

***

“Oh, hi there neighbors,” Felicia said, stepping out in front of the trio. “Didn’t know you guys were getting a tan too.”

Randi, Bambi, and Candi lowered their sunglasses to take in Felicia’s naked body. “We didn’t notice you either. But we sure do now,” Randi said.

The rooftop was big enough that they hadn’t noticed Spider-Man and the Black Cat touch down nearby, or strip off their costumes and web them to the side of the building. They did, however, notice Felicia strutting naked to the elevator, dragging an equally nude Peter along with her.

“Great to see you finally working on your tan,” Randi continued, “but you spilled some lotion on your thigh.”

Felicia wiped it off with her hand. It was quite near her groin. “I let Peter apply it. He just got it everywhere… You’ve met my boyfriend, Peter? He says he used to live next-door to you. Can you believe it?”

“Oh, hi Peter.” Candi batted her eyelashes. “We haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“Or so much of you,” Bambi added.

“Ladies.” Despite Felicia tugging on his arm, somewhat maliciously he thought, Peter kept his hands clasped in front of him. “Sorry to, uh, impose—“

“Oh, we don’t mind,” Randi said. “We’re all friends here. It’s nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Bambi’s eyes were fixed on Peter’s hands. Peter thought distantly that it was a good thing Felicia had insisted on a double-dip. Otherwise, he’d have more of a problem on his hands.

Hey, pun, he thought. Still got it. “It’s great seeing you guys too,” Peter said, wincing inwardly when he realized, given the state of their two-pieces, that counted as a pun too. “Seems like just yesterday I was helping you fix your television.”

“And we were giving you tips on courting that lovely Mary Jane Watson,” Candi said in her wilting Southern accent. “Whatever happened to the two of you, anyway? I hope you still keep in touch.”

“You could say that,” Felicia grinned.

“Well, let me know if you need your TV fixed. Me and Phe here have got to be running along.”

“Actually, there is something you could help us with,” Randi said, on the far left, before flipping over onto her belly.

“Something that could use your delicate hands,” Bambi added, in the middle of the threesome, before rolling over herself.

“Mind doing our backs?” Candi asked finally, turning over herself. Then all three undid their tops.

“Did they choreograph that?” Peter asked Felicia under her breath. Then, louder: “Maybe some other time, Felicia really has to—“

“Oh, nonsense, go and play with your friends. I’ll just go for a quick dip to cool over. It was a very hot evening.” Felicia smiled fiercely, before whispering “C’mon, their backs are turned, they’re not going to see your dangle…”

“I have a girlfriend! Two of them!”

“Peter, this is a bachelor party worthy of the man who I’m having an affair with. Lather those bitches up. Don’t do it for yourself, do it for your gender. Girls like that don’t make this offer to just anyone—you have to have at least one hand…”

***

Ana watched through her binoculars, breathily upset, as Peter poured a little lotion on Randi’s back. She giggled and flinched. “Oh! It’s cold.” But she relaxed as Peter kneaded the sunscreen into her naked skin. “That feels good.”

Why did that upset her, Ana wondered, and not upset Felicia? The thief soaked in the pool, holding onto the cool metal of the ladder, watching with beholden eyes as Peter’s hands glided over another woman’s naked back.

“Do me too,” Bambi said, sharing a look with Randi and smiling. “Can’t you do us both at once, Peter?”

“Sure…” As he continued to rub Randi down with one hand, Peter dutifully squirted onto Bambi’s back with the other and spread the lotion over her shoulders. He stopped at the curve of their buttocks, hands in the small of their backs.

“Hey, come on, Pete,” Bambi complained.

“Do the rest of me,” Randi ordered, wiggling suggestively.

Peter had to think a moment to realize they meant their legs. He used the crook of his elbow to squirt the tube of lotion into his hands, rubbed them together to get his palms nice and gooey, then started with their rounded calves, worked his way up until he was at their full thighs.

Peter hunched over as he felt his cock harden. This was why he was so reluctant to get into a thing with Felicia. It was just like in the comic books, why Batman wouldn’t kill the Joker. As soon as he did, he turned into a serial killer. Now that Peter had done Felicia, he was some kind of sex fiend.

“Hey, what about me?” Candi whined. “Someone do me—I’m burning up!”

“I’ll do it,” Felicia volunteered, climbing out of the pool, a spackle of water hitting the deck. Peter imagined the Botticelli sight of her naked and wet and dared not look. His flag would rise from half-mast to over the pole. He felt more than saw Felicia take the bottle from where he’d set it and squirt a thick trail of lotion from the nape of Candi’s neck to just above her ass. Then he chanced looking over at Felicia’s nimble fingers rubbing the lotion in.

“You’re so tense,” Felicia murmured. “I wish I had my massager with me… you could really use it.”

“That sounds nice,” Candi replied, nestling her face in the crook of her elbow.

With both hands, Felicia slowly rubbed the slippery lotion in, even slicking down Candi’s sides and the outer curve of her breasts. Soon, Candi was breathing quicker than before. Felicia smiled at Peter.

“You had such great skin,” she told Candi, digging under her bottoms, feeling her cheeks mold to her touch. She rubbed a great deal of lotion into Candi’s firm ass.

Candi wiggled almost imperceptibly before spreading her legs behind her. Felicia kneaded the lotion into her inner thighs; Candi gulped. Felicia moved slowly higher, skirting the wiry hair trapped by the crotch of Candi’s thong.

Randi slowly rolled over. When Peter turned away from Felicia, her breasts were pointed in his face. She smiled lazily, his hungry eyes blinking and blinking and never breaking the eye contact she had with him.

“Want us to do you now?” Bambi asked, picking up the suntan lotion.

“No—no! We already got done tanning for the day.” Peter backed up, grabbing Felicia’s wrist and pulling her along. “C’mon, Phe, let’s go. We’ve really gotta do the thing—with the people?”

“Yes. The thing. The people. How could I forget?”

And far in the distance, Ana watched and waited.

***

The phone rang as Peter was checking his e-mail. He picked it up on the first ring. Darcy.

“Hello?”

“Petey, it’s Darc. Did you send me the photos you took of Hardy?”

Peter frowned. “Uh, I thought I did…” 

It might do serious harm to his nerd reputation, but despite his smarts, he had to plead both poverty and a lack of time to learning the ins and outs of the latest tech. Cruel, cruel irony. He had puzzled out the Stark tech that went into Quinjets, because that was useful, but not all the settings on his smartphone. Which had a cracked screen to boot.

He could hear Darcy’s smirk right over the line. “Try uploading them to the cloud. You have your camera on you?”

Peter picked it up from where it was plugged in to his laptop, scrunching the phone against his ear and shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Go into Options, select Photo Roll, and press Sharing Permissions. Then just punch in my e-mail address. I’ll get a message and bob’s your uncle.”

“Alright, got it. That’s done. Your e-mail’s darcylewis@dailybugle.net, right?”

“Uh-huh. Good memory. I must’ve made a bit of an impression on you.”

Peter felt a bit of a guilty flush over him. Any woman who rivaled Felicia in the breast department would give a guy picture-perfect memory, but he couldn’t very well say that to a co-worker. Especially on the day of his almost-kinda-wedding. “I think everyone you meet would find you pretty memorable. Oh, says my photos are uploading.”

“Awesomesauce. I’ll have the J-man cut you a check. And if they look good, maybe you can do some glamour shots of me. I have a nice top I’d love to look gorgeous for the camera in.”

“Well, with a girl like Felicia, it doesn’t take much effort to make the pictures come out good.”

“Like it’d take much effort with me?” Darcy asked drolly. “Take care of yourself, Parker. Don’t let that Spider-guy push you around just because you’re getting his table scraps.”

“Who says he’s not getting mine?”

*** 

She waited while the two got their web-bundle, Felicia simply opening a window and grabbing it from her apartment. Peter checked his e-mail on a laptop, spoke excitedly to Felicia. The two showered. Felicia showed Peter a tuxedo she had bought for him, Peter trying it on to find it fit perfectly, Felicia squeezing herself into a little black dress that Ana found surprisingly elegant for her. Then they were downstairs, jumping into Felicia’s Coupe and driving off.

Ana followed, watched.