Spider-Man: Cumming Home - Chapter 15 (A Spider-Man Fanfiction) (Patreon)

Chapter 15: First Life

Strange pointed us at a spare room on the first floor and told us to get the river off our skin. Forty minutes. Ninth outline on the cellar stone. Gwen went with him because she could read the drawing. Jones went because she did not trust the pair of Ottos to face anything unsupervised.

Felicia followed me in and shut the door with her heel.

I had seen her for hours already. On the Midtown camera. Coming through the seam with the white wig crushed in her fist. On the rooftops, claws ticking on brick. None of that had been a look. This was. The catsuit was still damp from the span and it clung like it had been painted on. Black leather shone along the heavy curve of her breasts and went narrow at her waist, then flared over an ass that filled the seat of the suit so tight I could see the split of it when she turned the lock. White fur at the collar was flattened with rain. Her hair was black, glossy, stuck in points to her cheek and throat. When she looked at me her mouth was already wet.

"You stared on the bridge," she said. "You can stare here."

She came across the rug without hurry. Up close she smelled like cold river and perfume put on before she jumped worlds. She set both palms on my chest, felt the extra width there, and smiled with her teeth.

"My Peter was lean. Fast hands. He kissed like he was nervous." Her fingers opened my ruined shirt and pushed it off my shoulders. "You're bigger than he was. And hotter. It hasn't worn off."

She shoved me onto the edge of the bed. The frame creaked. She stood between my knees and dragged the hidden zipper of the catsuit down from her throat. The leather peeled. Pale skin came out of it an inch at a time: the long line of her sternum, the inner swell of her tits as the cups lost their hold, pink nipples already tight from the wet suit. The zipper cleared her navel. She shrugged and the top half dropped to her waist and her breasts settled, full and bare, a faint red line where the seam had bitten under them.

She watched me look. She liked that I looked.

"I came here for the map and the chip," she said. "And for you. I'm taking you first."

She went to her knees on the rug. Her tits rested on my thighs when she opened my jeans. My cock came out heavy in her hand, darker than her skin, the head already wet. She made a low sound and leaned in until her lower lip touched the underside. Her eyes crossed for a second taking the length of it against her face. Then she opened and sank down.

Her mouth was hot and sudden. She took me to the back of her throat on the first push and held there, throat working, spit running out the corner of her lips onto my balls. One hand stroked what she could not fit. The other slid under, cupped me, and squeezed. She pulled up slow enough that I saw the shine she left on the shaft, then dropped again and set a pace that had no patience in it.

I lasted like a first time.

The orgasm hit low and ugly. My hand fisted in her wet hair. I came over her tongue in thick pulses she did not bother to manage. She swallowed twice, lost some of it, and kept sucking until I twitched hard enough that it hurt. When she drew off, a string of spit and cum hung from her bottom lip to the head of my cock. She broke it with her tongue, sat back on her heels, and looked up at me with smeared mouth and bright eyes.

"There," she said. "That's how this goes. I put you on your back. I make you come. You're mine." She wiped her chin with two fingers and sucked them clean. "My Peter needed a minute after that. You look like you need a nap."

I looked down.

I had not gone soft. The first load had taken the shake out of me and left the rest of it standing against my stomach, wet from her mouth, still thick. The residue sitting in my blood did not punch a clock. Felicia's gaze caught on it. The smile stayed on her mouth a second too long, then thinned.

"That does not happen," she said.

"It does here."

I stood. She stayed on her knees until I lifted her by the waist and sat her on the bed. The rest of the catsuit came off in one pull down her legs. She had been bare under it. Her pussy was a neat dark strip over swollen lips, already slick, a bead of it on her inner thigh. Her legs were dancer-long. The muscle in her stomach jumped when I put my hand there. I pushed her knees apart and looked at her the way she had wanted on the other side of the door: the flush spreading from her chest to her throat, the way her tits shifted when she breathed, the wet pink of her when I opened her with my thumbs.

"Peter."

I put my mouth on her. She tasted like salt and skin. I licked through her folds and found her clit and sucked it while two fingers pushed into her cunt. She was tight enough that the second finger made her hips jerk. Her hand landed in my hair and stayed there, not guiding, just holding on. A sound came out of her that she tried to turn into a laugh. It did not make it.

I stood before she finished. I dragged her to the edge of the mattress, set the head of my cock against her, and pushed in.

She took the first inches with her jaw locked. The rest of it made her mouth fall open. I watched her face while I fed her the last of it: the flicker in her eyes, the way her brows drew, the flush going darker across her cheeks as her pussy stretched around the shaft. When my hips met hers she was panting through her teeth, tits trembling, a wet ring of her own making already shining at the base of me.

"Wait," she said.

I did not. I drew back and shoved in to the root. The bed knocked the wall. Her tits bounced. She grabbed the blanket and then grabbed my forearms instead, claws out enough to break skin. I fucked her in long strokes I could feel all the way in my spine, pulling out until the ridge of the head tugged her open, then filling her again. Her cunt clung. Every time I bottomed out her stomach jumped and a raw noise punched out of her.

"That was supposed to be the end of it," she said. "You came in my mouth. You're supposed to be done."

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

Her legs locked around my waist.

I hooked her knees over my elbows and folded her. The new angle put me against the front wall of her cunt and she stopped talking in sentences. Sweat stood on her upper lip. A strand of black hair stuck to her open mouth. I watched my cock split her on every thrust, her lips stretched pale around it, her clit wet and dark above the place I was driving into her. She came with no warning, a hard clench that milked the shaft, her back lifting off the bed, a broken sound she bit into her own wrist. I kept the same pace through it. Her eyes went wide when she realized I had not followed her.

"You are still," she started, and lost it when I ground against her.

I pulled out. She made an offended noise at the empty stretch. I turned her onto her stomach, dragged her hips up, and pushed back into her from behind. Her ass came up pale and round against me. I spread her with my hands and watched the shaft sink between her cheeks into her pussy, in to the hilt, her hole gripping when I withdrew. I slapped the meat of one cheek once. The mark came up pink. She shoved back onto me even as her arms slid out from under her.

"I had you," she said into the blanket. "I had you on the floor. That was mine."

"You had the first one."

I reached under her and found her clit with two fingers. She came again with her face in the sheets, thighs shaking against my hips, a string of wet running down to my balls. I did not let her drop. I held her up and fucked her through the aftershocks until her claws tore a line in the blanket and her voice went thin.

"Peter. I can't keep doing that. It's too much. It's too deep."

"Say stop if you want to stop."

She reached back, found my wrist, and pressed my fingers harder against her clit.

I hauled her up so her back hit my chest and I could get a hand on her tit. The breast filled my palm, heavy, nipple tight under my thumb. I pinched and she clenched around me. Her head dropped onto my shoulder. From there I could see down her body: the bounce of both tits, the wet mess where we joined, her stomach tightening each time I lifted her and let her fall the length of my cock. A smear of my first load still sat at the corner of her mouth. She looked wrecked and furious about how much she wanted the next one.

"Say it," I said. "Who's in charge."

She tried to laugh. It came out as a moan. "You. You are. I came in here to put you down and you're fucking me stupid on this bed. Don't stop."

I put her on her back again. I wanted her face. Her mascara had run. Her lips were swollen. Her tits lay flushed and moving with every thrust, a sheen of sweat in the valley between them. I drove in until the second orgasm started climbing my spine, heavy and late. She felt it. Her pussy fluttered and she hooked her heels in the small of my back.

"Come in me," she said. "If you've got another one, put it in me."

I came buried. It went on longer than the first, thick pulses I could feel leaving me, filling her until it squeezed out around the shaft and ran down her ass onto the sheet. She shook through it with her mouth open, watching my face, her cunt milking every spurt. When it finally eased I stayed in her, panting, forehead against hers. She was slack under me except for the small aftershocks. The smug set of her mouth was gone. What was left was wet and marked and looking at me like she had lost on purpose and wanted the loss written down.

The door opened.

Jones stood in the frame with her hair still knotted from the river run. She took in the room the way she took in a crime scene: my jeans at my knees, Felicia naked and dripping, the wet spot spreading under her hips, the claw marks in my shoulders. She shut the door behind her. She did not raise her voice.

"Strange sent me to get you. The outline grew a throat." She crossed to the bed, looked at the cum leaking out of Felicia around my cock, and wrinkled her nose once. "Pull out."

I did. A thick line followed and ran over Felicia's pussy onto the sheet. Jones put a knee on the mattress, bent, and licked it off her. Slow. No performance. Her tongue cleaned the inside of Felicia's thigh, then the swollen lips, then the mess at her hole. Felicia jerked and grabbed Jones's hair with a startled hiss. Jones did not hurry. When she lifted her head her mouth was shiny.

She looked at me, not at Felicia.

"Next time it's me," she said. "I'm done sending you into locked rooms and licking another woman clean. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Good." She stood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Suit. Shirt. Both of you. The two downstairs turned toward the drawing again at the same time and the sand packed itself against the glass. Gwen wants you on the floor before that thing starts breathing."

Felicia sat up on her elbows. Cum still wet the dark strip between her legs. The cat smile came back only halfway, wrecked at the edges.

"I still want my chip," she said. "This doesn't make Otto smaller."

"Nobody said it did," Jones said. "Move."

I found the spare shirt on the chair and pulled it on. Felicia got the catsuit up over her hips and tied the empty arms around her waist rather than fight the zipper with her hands shaking. The bite I had left on her neck sat above the fur collar in plain view. We hit the stairs behind Jones.

The holding wing was louder than when we had left it. Gold light stood in a column off the stone between the two Ottos. Gwen crouched at the edge with chalk on her fingers, tracking the rise of a ribcage that had not been there when Strange first called us down. Eight cages still held. I counted them because I needed the number. The ninth shape on the floor had a throat now, open, gold, empty, waiting for air.

Strange did not look at Felicia's neck. He pointed at the drawing.

"Whatever you did upstairs made this worse," he said. "The drawing got stronger. Stand here, Parker. If that thing starts breathing, I want you in the room."