Sugar Momma

Sometimes I wondered if Peter knew how much he’d rewired my pleasure centers—all the times he’d webbed me up, spanked me, indulged all his kinky fetishes with me, his bad girl, his Cat. The girl up for anything. To the point where I might’ve desensitized myself to simply ‘good’ sex, and especially to masturbation.

I’d bound myself for my next solo session. Yes, just like Spider used to do to me. He probably wouldn’t have been able to resist me enough to marry the redhead if I let him know how often I jilled myself off after he did his part to make me all white and sticky. But I liked having a secret. He knew something of what he did to me; I enjoyed keeping the full stretch of my depravity away from his innocent ears.

Still, I wondered what he’d do if he saw me now: tied up, whipping myself, and pulling on the ropes that strangled me to get me off that much harder.

And I was going to get off hard.

I whipped my ass, pretending I could hear Spider’s voice, calling me a bad girl, saying he was going to punish me for all my crimes, saying I had to be a good girl like Mary Jane and he would make me one so he could fuck me all night long like he did her.

My subconscious is even kinkier than I am. I’d learned not to take it seriously.

My climax was close, very close, but I wanted it too much. One end of the doubled belt I held slipped out of my fingers and I couldn’t give myself the kind of hard, stinging lashes I really needed anymore. But it didn’t matter then. The Peter in my head had told me he was going to make me such a well-punished good girl slut that I’d even be worth breeding.

Of course that got me off.

I came, doubling over, hugging myself, ducking my head. My face felt like it was blistering from how flushed it’d become and I clenched my teeth into bedrock to keep from crying out the kinds of things that I’d love for my fantasy Spider to order me to say.

My cunt was on fire from the rope’s friction and that fire swept over me, leaving nothing untouched by its heat. I shook and writhed, the ropes cutting into my spasming body, chafing too damn hard at my soft flesh. Peter’s webbing didn’t rub me the wrong way like that, but good luck explaining to him that I needed some of his fluid to really fuck myself in style.

The ecstasy passed. I slumped forward, pressing my sweaty forehead into the mattress, panting for breath, feeling the sweat flowing over my naked body.

And then the door opened.

I froze. It was locked! I knew I had locked it! But even so, there were Peter and Mary Jane, looking every bit the perfect couple, and me looking like the credits of a porno should be running over the mess I’d made of myself.

“Fuck. It’s not just the costume.” Mary Jane shook her head in wonderment. “At least I’m not a weirdo for wanting to see you fuck my husband. Or get fucked by him.”

I must not’ve been hearing her right. Was it possible to come so hard you busted an eardrum?

Peter looked grave, like he was trying to be cool as a cucumber and overdoing it, pretending he wasn’t attracted to me. Mary Jane, though, was all smiles. She was scandalized, shocked, and loving it. Maybe a second away from hopping up and down.

“Sorry to bother you, Hardy, but if a woman with your measurements needs to masturbate, clearly it’s far part time we paid you a visit.”

Belatedly, I put one arm across my breasts to hide them and covered my groin with my other hand.

“Here’s what you missed if you didn’t get our Christmas card,” MJ continued. “Peter and I have been talking things out and we realized that I’m the breadwinner and he’s sort of my sugar baby. Pete’s trying to be an enlightened modern kinda guy and not mind it too much. I’m having the best sex of my life; I mean I am really into ordering him around. I think it’s because I take direction from people all day on set and at shoots. Feels good to dish it out instead.”

I should’ve screamed obscenities at them until they left. But they’d beaten me at my own game. Sexualized things so much that I let them, and especially Mary Jane, get away with this all-out sexual harassment. Or maybe I should consider it flirting; I absolutely wanted to hear more about her domming Peter.

“Which brings us to you. I really do love telling Peter what to do, but I still love the big lug. He’s the best. So I don’t want to make him do something he’d hate like screwing the Human Torch. No. But he’s always loved fucking you—don’t deny it—so I want to watch him doing that. But only if you agree to do as I tell you, just like Pete. There’s only one top around here, got it? Even if she doesn’t wear skintight leather as much as you do.”

So there I was. Caught, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. Caught not red-handed, not stealing something, not in for another silly, enjoyable chase or at worst a chance of proving my bona fides in the slammer. No. I’d been caught nude, tied up, and touching myself.

“She agrees,” Peter said.

“She didn’t say she agrees,” Mary Jane pointed out.

“She doesn’t need to. Just look at her. She’s so turned on, she’s acting like she’s in a dream and afraid to wake up.” Peter closed the door behind him and locked it again from the inside. Either he or Mary Jane had learned how to pick locks. Was it any wonder they’d guessed I was down for a menage a three with them?

I wiggled on my back, trying to be a little less than totally exposed. Maybe a tasteful Playboy pin-up instead of one showing off my vag. I was humiliated—but in a way that worked for me. God forbid Peter ever figure out how it somehow turned me on to be caught by him, embarrassed by how he outfoxed me, vulnerable to being outmuscled anytime he even slightly exerted himself.

Of course, Mary Jane would know how hard that sort of thing got me. How could she not? If there was anyone in New York that was as much of a woman as me, it was her. Part of me wished I’d been able to play hard to get, to make her seduce me, to be tempted the same way I’d so often tried to tempt the two of them.

But I probably would’ve folded immediately, so it didn’t really matter.

I thought of rolling onto my belly to hide my breasts and womanhood, but then I would have shown my ass, all marked with red from my attempts to provide the punishment these two had denied me until now.

Peter cleared his throat. “How’s it going, Cat?”

He sounded ice-cold, like he was serving tea, and I guessed that was part of Mary Jane’s fetish.

“I guess MJ explained everything. Obviously, she’s into it, and so am I. I figured you would be too—you definitely look like you are—but if you want to stop, we’ll leave you alone. I just want to be sure you want this, because Mary Jane is going to ask me to get pretty rough with you. As rough as some of the stuff I did when I had the symbiote. I know you were pretty happy when I got rid of that thing…”

“Yeah, because it was a creepy fucking alien blob, not because it made you put it in my ass! Fuck, Peter, I’d love you putting it in my ass! I’d love you treating me like a sex object instead of a temptress. And if MJ has some fantasy she wants me for, I’m in. You know what my safe word is, Spider. Don’t you dare leave me wanting unless you hear me beg for mercy.”

Peter nodded. Mary Jane hugged him from behind, squeezing him in her arms while she looked at me over his shoulder.

“That was the right answer, Felicia. I knew you were the right person to pay a house call to.” She picked at some lint on Peter’s sleeve. “Tell me, did you tie yourself up, pretty kitty?”

“You know I did,” I retorted sarcastically.

Leaning over, Mary Jane slapped me. Her palm cracked my face. I was way more stunned than hurt, but the pain was still… something. Spicier than the kind I gave myself. More provocative, because I didn’t know where it would end with MJ—if it would end.