SCARLET, SONJA, SPIRAL, SILVER: Chapter 7

The sweat that coated Betsy and Scott’s nudity had nothing to do with the heat the fire had once shed on them. It still glistened in the fading light, emphasizing Scott’s toned physique, the muscles he had used while the logs in the fireplace burned to ash. Betsy had thought she was in good shape, but Scott had pushed her to her limits—the man was hung like a horse and his disciplined body seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of stamina to use it with. It’d taken almost an hour before he’d finished with her, and that was just the first round. 

Her endlessly throbbing sex would sleep happily tonight. Along with her tingling mouth, still sore from how it’s stretched around her erection—but her hotly glowing asshole still demanded attention. Perhaps it was the Briton in her, but she wanted to make a clean sweep of it. Offer everything to Scott, have him dominate her every hole, and know all the pleasures that her body had to offer.

The fire was dying down, letting in the chill of the sleet outside, while its cooling embers let out less and less light. Betsy knew it was wicked of her, but she couldn’t help but be amused by the outcome of her secret rivalry with Jean. Here she was fighting a duel with the Phoenix over Scott, and not only had she come out the winner, but she’d created a monster out of the dull, devoted husband Jean evidently preferred. 

Imagine, letting that dud of a redhead keep Scott a dud of a man. A little of her attention and he was the best thing to happen to a bed since sheets. He was as relentless in the boudoir as he was in battle, as single-minded about using his delicious cock on her pussy as he was about everything else. If not more so: as determined as the man could be about school papers and training sessions, no hot-blooded male could fail to put her hot body on a higher pedestal than all that nonsense.

Betsy kissed his square jaw, feeling the burr of his five o’clock shadow under his lips. He’d look better with a bit of scruff than clean-shaven. Maybe she’d press him to grow a beard. Imagine how that would feel between her thighs as he worked her sex into an orgasm machine. “Oh, you’ll never know how long I’ve waited for this. I imagined what it would feel like over and over, but I was starting to give up hope it would ever happen. I thought you’d never want anything I could give you, but now you see—I can give you everything.”

Scott said nothing, but Betsy could feel his mind at work, the satisfaction of what they’d done warring with his guilt over Jean, his marriage. He’d barely rebelled against Xavier; how could he countermand her? But Betsy wasn’t Jean. She wouldn’t try to micromanage his feelings, just give him space and time to work out the simple fact that she could satisfy him as wifey never could. That, and give him more inducement to see things her way. The right way.

Betsy stood, displaying her naked body in the last of the firelight, wondering how much of the red illumination that painted her was the embers and how much was Scott’s ruby quartz sunglasses. She preened, stretching, running her hands through her hair, and feeling some fond aches where Scott had been particularly enthusiastic with her. She didn’t mind. Bring it on, she thought. She wouldn’t be satisfied until Scott left her one big bruise. 

“Come,” Betsy said, a wry grin making her double meaning perfectly clear as she reached down to help Scott up. He instinctively acquiesced, taking her hand and letting her pull his bulk up to his feet. There he stood, a head taller than even her statuesque height—if you liked tall men, swapping bodies with an Asian woman was great for that.

Naked, abandoning their clothes to the cool, passionless darkness, Betsy drew her new conquest to the bedroom. Scott stumbled along behind her, working the kinks out of his body. Betsy lit an oil lamp, rekindling the warm glow that had overseen their lovemaking in the other room, and she lay down without removing the bedspread, reaching out again to pull Scott down on top of her. 

He went with her beguiling grip, laying on top of her, kissing her with more of his unending reservoir of passion. This will be our marriage bed, Betsy thought with kinky British traditionalism, though she was careful not to let that thought be broadcast. Scott might still be working out his feelings, but she knew they fit together as perfectly as their bodies did.

Scott reached down her slender form, taking her softly curved ass in his hands and squeezing the juicy flesh. He’d once tried not to give away how Betsy’s prominent ass attracted his notice, but now he’d well and truly given away how it was his favorite feature of hers. His cock quivered violently—he was addicted to Betsy’s body, groping her to get another fix, and Betsy kissed him so passionately that she had to be getting high too.

Scott played with her luscious ass, his erection pounding, straining with wild impatience, and he wondered how to tell Betsy that he wanted her ass with the same careless nonchalance he had before, in the midst of their lovemaking.

Betsy sensed his desire, hardly needing her telepathy when he was groping her buttocks so fervently, and she took it as another opportunity to show off her candor. If Scott couldn’t tell his wife what he wanted to do in bed, then let her be on the receiving end of all his dirty little desires. 

“If you want to fuck me in the ass, Mr. Summers, it’ll be easier if I turn over.”

Scott nearly gasped at the shock of the refined Braddock casually tossing around the kind of gutter talk he’d expect from Logan. But with Betsy’s chilled accent and sweetly depraved lilt, it seemed not only natural, but delectable how at ease she was with what would be perversion outside this little oasis of a cabin.

Scott pulled away from her, fingers curling in the bedspread, giving her just enough space for Betsy to work her magic. She arched up, brushing her lips against his as she did a 180, coming down with arms folded under her, while her plump ass jutted out against Scott’s body, bearing him backwards a few inches with the same cheeky teasing as Scott’s withdrawal. She gave her ass a shake in obscene invitation, then clenched her buttocks until her anus tingled with sweet anticipation.

“Don’t worry about hurting me,” Betsy drawled. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it far more than it could ever hurt. That’s the benefits of shagging a monster like yours! Just ram it into me and don’t hold back one inch! And hurry up, wanker—I’ve waited long enough.”

Now standing over her, Scott reached down to open up her satiny cheeks, leaving her tiny anus fully exposed—helpless and vulnerable between the juicy roundness of her ass. He put his burning cockhead squarely against the puckered sphincter and took a deep breath before slamming it forward. Betsy cried out in surprise as his brutal thrust easily conquered her asshole. 

“Ooh, shit, Betsy, that is—mmmf—so fucking tight! God, it’s hot… unngh… milking my cock!”

“Bloody hell!” Betsy gasped, pumping her hips back to his groin, sliding her asshole down his long prick. His manhood burned and throbbed up her ass, sparking the perverse excitement that Betsy loved so much, the feeling of a cock where one didn’t belong, giving her pleasure she wasn’t meant to feel. “Roger me, darling! Right up the arse! You can tell I fucking love it!”

Betsy wailed, clawing at the bedspread as Scott pumped into her at a savage tempo, groaning and panting with the excitement of using her, his hands gripping her broad hips and hauling her fat ass against his groin so hard that he threw his head back, grunting animalistically as his cock lunged into her boiling rectum.

Determined to be the perfect cocksleeve for Scott’s pleasure, Betsy feverishly writhed and pumped and clenched her warm asshole on his cock. She wouldn’t rest until she felt his boiling cum spurt up her ass, Scott marking his territory the way he’d already claimed her mouth and cunt. She felt his huge cockhead like it was in the pit of her stomach, rearranging her guts with how hard it was fucking her.

“Fucking—unnnh!—fucking your asshole, Bets!” Scott bellowed, pistoning savagely into her jiggling asscheeks. He felt her squirming around him, her ass pressing in on his erection from all sides, and knew that he couldn’t hold out long while enjoying the thrill of sodomizing the tight ass that he’d lusted after for so long.

Any decorum Betsy might’ve had was crumbling as well, blown away by the white heat of sensation she felt as Scott fucked her ass. She pounded her fists on the mattress, creaking bedsprings underscoring the action as Scott used her asshole madly.

“Oh Scott, you wonderful man!” she ranted, eyes bulging as she felt his first jet of cum spurting into her bowels. “Hot cock in my ass! Oooo, YES! I’M YOURS, SCOTT! MY ASS IS YOURS! AAAAH!”

Her feverish asshole clamped down hard on Scott’s prick as she came, almost as if she were trying to keep his cum out of her ass, but Scott hilted himself between her curvy buttocks anyway, his cum bursting out of his cock in violent throbs, the fierce thrill ripping through both of them, almost too much to bear. Even in Scott’s hazy mind, he knew that this was the ultimate, there was nowhere else for that insatiable orgy to go. 

His manhood slipped out of her trembling body, feeling like tenderized meat, but he still let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. All the strength had left his body. He laid down beside Betsy to recuperate. It felt like it might take years, but there was a hot glow in his groin, a feeling of profound satiation that he had to admit came from having gone the distance with Betsy. He’d fucked all of her that there was to be fucked and that gave him a sense of fulfillment he hadn’t even had with Jean, despite all they’d shared.

The comparison flickered a sharp twinge of guilt in Scott. He had it all. An effective team, a lovely wife, good friends, respect, admiration, and what was he doing while this beautiful machine he’d helped build in the X-Men hummed along on its way? He was fucking some temptress in her plump lips, her wild little cunt, her deliciously taut asshole. 

But Scott’s misgivings were quickly washed away when he looked at Betsy again, her body so perfect it almost made him hard again, and he went to sleep with a sense of feverish anticipation, having her again as soon as he woke in the morning.

As silent and insular asleep as he was awake, Scott’s nostrils flared as he breathed through them, exhales scouring over his full lips—that lips that had given Betsy joy wherever they touched her. She slowly pulled herself to her feet, her breasts heaving with lingering excitement, and then tugged at the covers to bring them over Scott’s body. She was about to circle around the bed and join him on the other side; embracing him in sleep being the perfect cap to a perfect evening. But before she could, she felt the presence of someone else in the room—the psychic blizzard of another telepathic intellect, willful, raging, suddenly needling her with wrathful attention.

Betsy twisted to see Jean’s burning eyes trained on her, as baleful as her husband’s optic blasts. Her own face flushed with embarrassment as the outside world crashed down on this perfect little moment she’d shared with Scott, all its judgment, all its mores. 

Then surprise took her. Jean was dressed as Betsy had never seen her before. A black thong skated over her pelvis with the same skimpy simplicity as the plunging crotchband on Betsy’s leotard, while a corset was cinched around Jean’s chest, too small and too tight to contain her cleavage. Her full breasts spilled out of the top and stretched the laces in front. Black leather gloves plunged down from her elbows, though her hands were behind her back, and a leather choker continued the look, as did knee-high black boots, which stopped only to show off her firm thighs as she stood legs akimbo.

“If you’re done with my husband, come with me. At once!”

Betsy narrowed her eyes. Of all the tacks she expected Jean to take if she discovered the affair, this one was daft even for the X-Men. She recognized the garb as a darkened version of Emma Frost’s wear. It had to be what Jean had worn as the Black Queen. But if she expected it to intimidate Betsy, she was sorely mistaken. The contest was already over. Jean had lost the moment Scott’s arms closed around Betsy’s body.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Betsy said snidely, sending a psi-bolt Jean’s way. She hardly expected it to penetrate Jean’s defenses, but it wasn’t meant for that—merely a warning shot to let her know she couldn’t boss Psylocke around.

The psi-bolt didn’t bother Jean at all. In fact, Jean showed no sign of even noticing it. Then Betsy was swamped, dwarfed by a psychic volley that hit her like she was suddenly at the bottom of the ocean. Her ears popped. She lost all psychic awareness, even the feeling of her psi-blades at her fingertips. At that moment, she might as well have been powerless in the face of Jean’s onslaught.

No. Phoenix. She was dealing with the Phoenix.

“I don’t like your tone of voice and I don’t care for the way you spoke to me. You must learn to treat your betters with more respect,” Jean said, unblinking. She took her hands out from behind her back and showed herself to be holding a thin birch cane—holding its handle in one gloved hand, she patted the business end in the palm of the other. A cruel sneer distorted her ruby lips. “You’ll pay for that indiscretion now. And don’t wake my husband. I’m sure he needs his sleep after satisfying a whore like you.”