SCARLET SONJA SPIRAL SILVER Chapter 15

In the bathroom, with the door shut and locked, Wanda felt safe. Or at least, Peter felt safe from her. There was a tempest raging inside her and knowing that it was limited to her own mind and body seemed like the best she could hope for. 

She listened at the door, hearing Peter occasionally mutter—not knowing whether she was there or not. Yes, he was safe from her. And she, she had time. Her breath came quickly. When she looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes were aglow with an inner excitement. She pulled away the straps of her nightie, letting it trace its way down her shoulders and off her belly, becoming a puddle at her feet. 

Wanda examined herself in the mirror. The only illumination came from a window high up on the wall, letting in the mingled muddle of streetlamps and moonlight from outside. It rendered her in shades of blue with roaming patches of antiseptic yellow, but she could still see the vivid scratches on her tender skin, the darkening bruises of tightened fingers and hard kisses. Her lips had always been full, but now they were swollen, tingling with a little pain from all they’d been kissed.

All the little hurts—the aches, the soreness—excited her in their reminder of the intensity she had felt. Wanda wondered guiltily if there were something wrong with her, if this was a manifestation of Chthon or another aspect of mutation, that she liked and was excited by sex that some would say she’d been forced into. It’d been her duty; did that make her a whore? And what were whores called when they so enjoyed their work?

Wanda refused to finish the thought. Her skin had already turned to goosebumps.

She stared at her breasts in the mirror, sleek and upthrust, caramel with her gypsy coloring. She cupped one and held it up, then let it fall. It quivered, barely giving into gravity’s pull. Her flesh was simply too pert to really sag. She pinched the nipple between her thumb and forefinger, watching the action in the mirror, seeing her nipple wake and swell, coming alive with fat engorgement. 

Her lips parted slightly, her breath coming differently, the air seeming changed as it went into her lungs and circulated through her body. In the mirror, she watched herself put both hands on her breasts and pinch her nipples. Her eyes were half-lidded, an indulgent look on her face and a lewd quirk to her lips as she woke the tender flesh to her touch. Her nipples grew very taut, very sensitive. Wanda closed her eyes, shuddering with the next breath she took. It felt… new. Good. But she knew it was only echoes of how Peter had treated her.

He hadn’t been rough, no, never that, but he had been energetic, aggressive, knowing to such an intimate extent what she wanted and how much of her desires she could take being made real. And that had all been intuitive—no experience, only what Peter assumed she would like. The thought of him learning her body, of truly knowing her needs and wants, made Wanda shake with a shameful excess of excitement.

Every inch of her body trembled and in her soul, she felt an arousal she’d never imagined before—an anticipation of a thrill she both knew and didn’t know. She knew what it would be like, but she desperately wanted to know exactly what it would be, to relearn what it was to be Peter’s lover when he actually loved her.

Her hands shaking, she stepped out of her nightie entirely. Wanda looked at her naked body again, now wondering how Peter would see it. Her magnificent thighs, that all of her costumes showed off, led to a sex that was flushed pink. She turned around, looking over her shoulder to see her proudly rounded buttocks. A shudder rolled deep within her body as Wanda remembered how his hands had slapped and groped into the softly yielding flesh.

She felt completely alive inside this moment: stolen and secret and guilty and sensual and entirely hers. Brazenly looking at her body and thinking of what Peter had done with it, turning this way and that, touching her flesh here and there. She grinned, wondering if Mary Jane had ever done this after an exuberant bout of lovemaking with Peter, her husband. Then the guilty taboo descended. Mary Jane was his wife, not her. Mary Jane had the right to this satisfaction—all she was entitled to was the guilt.

And yet, this was her time, her secret moment. She had stolen away from Peter to get it, resisted the temptation to seduce him like so much of both of them had wanted… didn’t she deserve at least her moment? Her imagination?

She stood still, gazing out the window. The yellow moon was crisscrossed by high-tension wires, at least from this vantage point. She knew what it was to be married, to Vision, who was always calm and loving and attentive and sensitive, in his own unprepossessing way. His not-understanding way. Going through the motions? she asked herself. Giving her what he thought she wanted instead of taking what they both wanted him to have, as when she’d been with Peter. 

Wanda found herself excited by the idea. Peter was as caring and as tender as the Vision, but he was also something else. Something animal, something aggressive, something that wanted her in a completely selfish, desperate way. Even if that was only a part of him, submerged under all the love and compassion, it was a vital part—a soulful part. Perhaps Wanda needed to be needed, in a way that only someone like Peter could crave her. The Vision was an angel, to be sure, but she needed something of the ape. Because she was no angel herself.

Her hands went to her erect nipples once more, fondling them, twisting them, letting the tender pain sting into her and become so much more. Her pussy was wet, smoldering with its own need. Wanda squeezed her thighs together, putting pressure on the lips of her pussy. She felt a momentary relief that was almost ecstasy itself.

Panting, Wanda moved closer to the mirror, thinking now that her body was one Peter couldn’t possibly resist. The thought sent electricity through her spine. She breathed hard, leaving a foggy spot on the cold glass of the mirror. Her palms moved over her rib cage, down her taut stomach. She felt how sensitive she was—creamy skin ready to welcome her touch, any touch, with pleasure, while bruises and scratches tinged her delight with pain.

Her exploration went down into her pubic hair—she cupped her mons, touched her sleeping clitoris with the tips of her fingers. The pad of her finger barely brushed against the hood of her clit, but it reverberated with the lust she was feeling, rippling through her entire body. Her clit swelled from its hood, becoming a little pink bud offering itself up to her touch. With each swipe of her fingers, it sent another wave of lascivious sensation through her.

Wanda paused, licking her lips normally. She knew about masturbation, but it had never interested her—she had never let it interest her. But she was so aroused now, so desperate, that somehow it felt right to be wicked. Surely, it would be so much worse to express her feverish lust to Peter. So something like this, no matter how taboo it was, couldn’t really be wrong; not in comparison to something as shameless as… that.

After making sure the door was locked, Wanda sat on the closed toilet lid. She eyed herself in the mirror, taking in her lithe body, crowned by the glory of her full, heaving breasts, and realized that she was not looking at herself as a source of lust for a man, but as an instrument of pleasure for Wanda herself.

She spread her legs, exposing her pink, glistening pussy, even if it was only to her reflection. Her eyelids fluttered as she reached down to it, slowly, even temptingly spreading the lips of her cunt. It occurred to her that she was seducing someone with this show of nudity—herself. 

She looked in the mirror, scrutinizing her sodden womanhood, the tiny clitoris standing up with fervor. Without really thinking about it, her fingers circled the sensitive bud, sending lewd spasms shooting through her body as her touch went around and around and around the source of all her intense, intimidating pleasure. She didn’t know if she could bear to wrack herself with ecstasy as Peter had.

Wanda’s eyes were almost closed, while her nostrils flared wider than ever. She stared at the woman in the mirror, barely recognizing her, but knowing she was as glamorous and as wild a vixen as Peter could ever ask her. She would love if he could see her right now, as the mirror did, wanton and willing.

She sank her middle finger into her clasping pussy, feeling the slipperiness of the arousal that was meant to welcome a phallus inside her, the hot silk walls that should’ve been milking a cock instead of her own finger. But still it felt so good, contracting her inner muscles, squeezing the finger that she fucked in and out of herself as if it were Peter. She pumped her ample hips in time with the rhythm of her masturbation, feeling hot all over and molten at her groin.

Her climax built with the increasing tempo of her masturbation. Her hips pumped easily, naturally, as though she were doing a belly dance in a gypsy caravan. This dance, though, was not for the beauty of it, not to entertain the clan, not even for loose-pursed customers. It was for Peter. Her mind reeled with lewd thoughts that didn’t seem to fit into it. It was no more used to these fantasies and desires than her body had been used to Peter’s lovemaking. Yet, in adapting to take such a savagely different change from what she was used to, there was pleasure she wasn’t prepared for either.

Her own brazenness fueled her going further. Even better than the pleasure was the broken taboo, the final bodily admission of what she wanted. Wanda fingered herself harder, faster, as though her dream lover’s lust was shooting far ahead of her own. With her free hand, she cupped her breast, squeezed the nipple as before. The pained passion she felt seemed like a poor substitute for how fervent Peter had been with her, but it was enough to fuse with the delights she already felt. The mingling pain and pleasure pooled in her cunt, boiling, churning, snowballing like sex only had once before. With Peter. When she’d been his.

This wouldn’t be as sweet as it had been with Peter, or as searing, but it would remind her of what it had been like to come for him. Just that flooded her senses, made her anticipation come alive. Her voluptuous body was tense with need, breasts jiggling as she sawed her finger in and out of her pussy. She needed more, but she was afraid to try it, to alter this ecstatic alchemy when she was so close. She didn’t have Peter’s skill, his superlative knowledge of her own body. Wanda remembered how he had virtually brutalized her with pleasure, giving her so much that she was almost afraid to feel more. And now, that was what she craved.

As wrong as it was, it thrilled her to think of all the things she could do with Peter, especially when all his attention was focused on her, none for Mary Jane. And that thought too was hateful, wrong, she was bad for thinking it, but being bad only made it right that Peter was so savage with her, punishing her in ways that only a bad girl could manage to enjoy. 

The shame, if that was even what it was at this point, fused and exploded in her brain. She was wild with orgasm, with abandon, her face a mask of lust for the mirror to reflect back at her. Sweat flew down her body and she still desperately fingered her own soft cunt, sparking more mad thoughts and obscene ideas. She didn’t know whether she wanted Peter to love her or punish her anymore—only to do something to her.

Her hips pumped, her belly undulated. She felt like she was fucking the mirror with how fervently she thrust herself into its reflection. Wanda watched her finger thrusting into the wetness of her cunt, her thumb massaging the little nub of her clitoris. She panted, blinking away the sweat falling in her eyes. 

The fuck was more intense now, yet she was relaxing more than she had all day. She wasn’t the chaste little naïf now, not the Vision’s wife or Pietro’s sister. If she was Peter’s, she chose to give herself to him. And she owned him just as entirely, because what man could resist her body? Not even she could—she shoved two fingers into her warmly milking sex alongside the one she already had inside it. That was what she wanted, to be fucked.

The word was obscene, yet the obscenity only excited her more. Wanda could see the mirror with all her secrets, her wild face, her nakedly splayed body—heavy breasts swinging and quivering with the motion as she acted out what she wanted, what her body needed. 

A ripple started in her body. She needed more, and out of that need, the ripple became a wave, crashing waves, one following after another, the froth building and swirling and churning until it’d become a storm of sweetly hot sensation taking over her body. Wanda tensed, gasping for air. She arched her back, her breasts jutting out to the mirror as if in offering. Her womanhood convulsed, the spasms impossible to control as her climax filled her. Her legs shook; she fell from the toilet and curled on the porcelain tiles, panting, her eyes rolled back in her head.

She was held, transfixed, centered perfectly in her private moment as the orgasm—the perfect memory of how Peter had fucked her—ravaged her body in the most beautiful way imaginable.

Slowly, it subsided, and she was left lying on the floor, gasping for breath.

Guiltily, she pulled herself to her knees and saw herself in the mirror. Her reflection was still quivering from her orgasm. Shame came over her—if not for what she’d done, than what she hadn’t. She could’ve been in Peter’s arms and she’d contented herself with a mirror. A pale reflection of what had happened earlier. She couldn’t look at herself.

Getting into the shower, Wanda blitzed herself with water as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed until she was bright pink all over and it was like the scratches and bruises had never existed at all. God, she was ashamed of herself. She vowed that even alone, nothing like this would ever happen again. She wouldn’t even think about such things.

Wanda put her nightie back on. She unlocked the door and, peeking through it, saw that Peter was still sound asleep. She got into bed next to his still, silent body and waited for sleep. She forced herself not to think of Peter. They would get MJ back and that would be that.

But if they couldn’t…

Now, that was a truly shameful thought. More than just personal preference or a bit of kink—that was wrong. She couldn’t think like that. They would get Mary Jane back. Wanda had no right to hurt Peter by failing in that task, especially after all he’d done for her—the amazing things he’d made her feel.

But if they couldn’t… she would take care of him for Mary Jane. Be a good wife to him. Fulfilling his every desire.

Wanda hated herself for it, but the thought entranced her far more than any physical pleasure could.