SCARLET, SONJA, SPIRAL, SILVER: Chapter 8

Peter breathed hard, sweat covering his body, his manhood sore and aching. He’d been this tired before, this worn out, but only in battle, fighting the kind of guys who gave Thor a hard time. Not this.

Mary Jane had always had an impressive appetite and Wanda was a mutant, a superhero too, so naturally her stamina would give Olympic athletes a run for their money, but still…

He could only conclude that Wanda had been deprived far, far too long of the kind of treatment a woman of her beauty should merit. And seeing her receive it at long last had inspired Mary Jane to new heights of… goddamn… he’d never had this much fun being sore before.

Wanda was breathing hard too. She was not so much exhausted as overwhelmed. She’d had Mary Jane to help her, take over for her when Peter was becoming too much for her to take, but now she almost regretted not taking the full force of Peter’s passion. She looked yearningly at how Peter and Mary Jane’s naked bodies fit together, a perfect contrast in his scarred, muscular flesh and her pale, freckled skin—Peter like armor protectively wrapped around her. 

Wanda still felt like she was on the brink of orgasm, trembling all over. She reached out to run her fingertips over Peter’s sculpted arm, with the raised keloid notches of scar tissue where bullets or knives had left their mark, and followed the well-developed bicep down to the tender underbelly of Mary Jane’s body, feverishly warm and sweetly sweaty.

Mary Jane might’ve been experienced with Peter’s lovemaking, but she was by no means used to it. Wanda could see it in her eyes—a vacant gaze, a spacey smile, like she was lost in the pleasure Peter’d given her, yet was ineffably proud of having taken it, provoked his lust. And with Wanda watching, joining in, sharing everything with them and witnessing just how special it was. Mary Jane shuddered, as if she were still feeling the aftershocks of her last climax, and then her eyes focused on Wanda and she smiled at her, clearly pleased with both how well Wanda had taken Peter’s cock and how she eventually hadn’t proven its equal.

“How’d you like my husband?” MJ asked mischievously, knowing the reaction she could get, knowing perhaps even the fond tremors that would go through Wanda’s sex as she was prompted to remember just what she’d done with Peter.

Wanda nodded, too overcome to speak, but taking a deep breath that swelled out her dusky breasts, the sweat on them shimmering, like sand on a tropical beach caressed by the surf. But as if totally ignorant of just how alluring she herself was, she ran her hand over the glowing heat that radiated from their joined bodies, her touch awestruck as it ran over Mary Jane’s breast and then Peter’s forearm which cradled it.

“How’d you like more of my husband?” Mary Jane teased, writhing luxuriously against Peter, enjoying the feeling of his erection growing in response to her sinuous movement, even if it wasn’t meant for her this time.

Wanda quickly nodded. It was a revelation to her that she wanted to be with them again more than she wanted to be with Vision—that she wanted someone other than her ex-husband, that she wanted someone, that she wanted when once she could barely even exist—but Wanda squelched that thought. She felt blissfully unimportant. All her trials and tribulations mattered little when she could be an extension of their perfect life for even a few moments more.

Mary Jane pried Peter’s hand away from her body, his wedding band burnished gold on his slender finger, and she moved his arm so that he was feeling Wanda, they both were, husband and wife moving their joined hands over Wanda’s small brown nipples and along the fertile plains of her stomach. Wanda could feel the warmth of their touch in her womb, her childless belly. She wondered idly how much probability would need to be altered for her thoughtless birth control to be gone, banished from the recent past to let her have a family—bearing them a child like some third parent in whatever exotic society featured magicians and mutates—but she exiled the idea from her mind. Much as it blazed in her in its few brief moments of life. 

Peter and Mary Jane’s hands separated—Mary Jane feeling one of her thighs, Peter the other. Wanda simpered, squeezing her eyes shut, holding back tears. Why’d it have to feel so good? She thought this would just be an obligation. Now it was like she’d been given a glimpse of Paradise and told she wouldn’t be allowed inside. And yet, she wanted to keep looking. She was addicted. No, she was starving. A bite of food would paradoxically extend her suffering, yet how could she say no to it?

Mary Jane, for all her insight, didn’t see how deeply buried Wanda’s feelings were. She tantalizingly stroked the strong nerves of Wanda’s inner thighs. “I think I could pimp out Peter to you for a little while longer, if you make it worth our while. Maybe do the dishes. Make the bed. That sort of thing. And I have this French maid outfit that should fit you—“

Wanda knew MJ was joking, but that still sounded—so good. Domestic but decadent. Traditional, yet very much naughty. Dirty and wholesome all at once. She was too turned on by the thought to deny herself.

“Can he do it?” she asked Mary Jane. “One more time? He has to be completely exhausted. For the… for the ritual.”

Wanda was sure she had ruined it—sure that suspicion would curdle Mary Jane’s face at any moment—but the door pounded with shocking force then, the side of the hand, like a cop. 

Mary Jane grabbed her robe up. “I’ll get rid of them. Peter, take her to the bedroom. And Wanda, why don’t you try sucking him off? He really is delicious and if you’re not going to do the dishes…”

Before Wanda could respond—explain that it had been almost a joke—Peter picked her up, carrying her forcefully over the clothes scattered across the floor. Wanda gave in. It was clear neither of them would mind her being ravished once more and she needed it. She’d needed so many things she’d been denied and this she needed more than any of them and if she could just get it, if she could have this one need met, then she could suffer all the others in her usual silence. But she needed to drink from the oasis before she returned to the desert.

On some level, Peter felt how important this was to Wanda. His sluggish brain couldn’t tell him if it was the ritual or something she needed or just his own wanting body projecting on her, but after Mary Jane had suggested Wanda blow him, every blood cell in his body surged into his cock, readying it to have those warm wet lips wrapped around it. His anticipation was so great that sheer contrariness argued against it, a momentary uneasiness at this not being his wife, but Mary Jane had encouraged it, cheered it on, poured enthusiasm into the sex until he’d made love to Wanda as easily as if they were married and not him and MJ.

Habit led him to the bedroom, as if he were taking Mary Jane there, but when he faced the bed, lit by the glow of the city, the shadows of raindrops flowing over its white linen—the bed he shared with Mary Jane—he hesitated. No matter how comfortable Mary Jane was with it, should he want someone who wasn’t his wife? Wasn’t it still cheating, even if MJ approved of it? In some mythological perfect marriage, shouldn’t he be desperately unattracted to any other woman, as disinterested in Wanda as he would be in a poodle? Mary Jane was the only woman for him—so why did he want another so badly?

Damnit, Parker, can’t you reschedule the anxiety attack for once in your life? Then his eyes caught on the door to the laundry room and he pushed Wanda inside, closing the door behind them. As wild as their sex lives had been, he and Mary Jane had never actually done it in there. It felt odd to be christening the room with Wanda, perverse, but a kind of perverse he could live with. He lifted Wanda up and sat her on the dryer, putting her at the perfect height for him to enter.

“I thought you were going to put it in my mouth,” Wanda said in her vivacious accent, sounding a little disappointed, but also pleasingly excited by the new turn of events. She folded her legs coquettishly. “Mary Jane said it was delicious.”

Peter straightened her legs and spread her thighs. “It’ll taste a lot better after you come all over it,” he promised her.

***

Grabbing Peter’s jacket from the hall tree and throwing it over her already robed body, Mary Jane went to the peephole. After how intimate things had gotten with Wanda, the interruption had her feeling exposed. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable even in a hijab. Mary Jane promised herself that even if it was a Publisher’s Clearinghouse Check for a million dollars, she would be getting rid of them as rapidly as possible, only for her to pull the guard aside to see that there was nothing through the peephole, nothing outside in the hall.

What a fucking time for a juvenile delinquent, Mary Jane swore inside her head. She shed Peter’s jacket, telling herself they’d make the most of it. Maybe Wanda would be interested in a few toys, or even be persuaded to stay the night. The weather outside was frightful, as Bing Crosby said. And in the morning, maybe…

Mary Jane shook her head. Talk about being over-domestic! Once she’d fucked her way through the Soho district, now she couldn’t have a one-night stand without trying to recruit the Scarlet Witch into a ménage a trois? The sex did seem to be good for her and it wasn’t too bad on Mary Jane’s end either, but Wanda was an Avenger. Surely, she could do better than sharing another woman’s husband. Even if, Mary Jane thought with a bit of evangelizing pride, husbands didn’t come much better than Peter Parker. Who knows? Maybe in one of those parallel universes, I’m sharing Peter with Gwen. Or, God forbid, Felicia. 

Suddenly, Mary Jane felt like she’d been plunged into a nightmare. Her heart raced. Tears came to her eyes. She felt the bleakest possible sense of dread, of despair and fright, like everyone she’d ever loved was in danger. She’d been around the block enough times to recognize a psychic attack, maybe even an attempt at possession. Grasping the amulet Wanda had given her, Mary Jane thought at it as fervently as she could. C’mon, magic feather, do something, DO SOMETHING.

Darkness was engulfing her, the strength draining from her body. Then, with a rush of adrenaline, she felt a sense of power. Anger. Strong-willed, invincible—she could do anything! 

“Get out of my head!” Mary Jane barked, slamming her hand against the door, and her words were so vehement that the spirits that had attacked her soul went howling away from the fortress her mind had become.

Only it wasn’t Mary Jane’s mind anymore.

The strength of her ancestors had brought a wielder with it.

“I had thought my mortal body destroyed in battle,” she said, opening her robe to examine the flawless flesh underneath. “But this skin carries neither my blood nor another’s. And this place surely cannot be in Koth. Where has Red Sonja found herself now?”