The red hair darkens to a deep chestnut, lengthening into elegant waves. The face softens, the sharp Hollywood features reshaping into those of a classic silver-screen beauty, but with lips fuller, eyes wider and bluer. The distended belly recedes, smoothing away into a flat plane, as if the seed was instantly absorbed. The shredded leather vanishes, replaced by a crisp, impossibly tight 1940s-era SSR uniform, the star-spangled jacket straining over a bust that would have made the real Peggy Carter blush.
“Hello, soldier,” the new form says, her voice now a polished, mid-Atlantic accent brimming with assertive warmth. She leans forward, her new, larger breasts pressing against your chest. “The war effort requires your… continued service.”
“I… I can’t,” you manage, your voice broken.
“You can,” Peggy Carter whispers, her lips brushing your ear. “You will. For queen and country.” She rides you with a purposeful, grinding intensity, each motion a claim. “Think of it as your duty. A much more pleasant duty than, say, prayer.”
The callback to the church, to Sister Angela’s vacant eyes, hits you like a physical blow. This was the reward? Another endless, consuming performance? Your hands, still on her hips, feel numb. The posters on your walls seem to watch, indifferent. There was no escape, not in faith, not in fantasy. Just the slick, steady motion and her knowing smile, forever shifting, forever in control.
“No,” you grated out, the word raw.
Your hands, which had been gripping her uniformed hips, moved. With a strength you didn’t know you had, you lifted her. She made a small, surprised noise—not a scream, but a sharp inhalation. Her Peggy Carter face flickered with genuine confusion for a split second.
“My turn,” you said, your voice low and unfamiliar.
You turned her, ignoring her raised eyebrow, and laid her back on the cluttered desk. Rulebooks and miniatures dug into her spine, but you didn’t care. You loomed over her, the SSR uniform crisp and absurd under your hands. You didn’t kiss her mouth. You went lower.
You yanked the star-spangled jacket open, buttons pinging off the monitor. The white blouse beneath was thin cotton. You put your mouth over one nipple, cloth and all, and sucked, hard. You bit down, not gently. A genuine gasp escaped her lips, not a performative one. Her back arched off the desk.
“Steven—” she started, her accent wavering.
You tore the blouse open. You lavished attention on each nipple, licking, sucking, biting with a focused intensity you’d never applied to anything. This wasn’t worship. It was conquest. You were mapping her reactions, learning what made her breath catch, what made her fingers curl against the wood. You moved down her body, your mouth leaving a wet trail over the stiff fabric of her skirt.
You hooked your hands in the waistband of her period-accurate underwear and ripped them away. You didn’t pause. You buried your face between her legs, your tongue seeking not to gently please, but to devour. You licked a broad, firm stripe from her entrance to her clit. She tasted of ozone and honey and power.
Her legs tightened around your head. One of her hands fisted in your hair. “You insistent… mortal,” she breathed, but the sentence ended in a shudder. You found a rhythm, relentless and demanding, using the flat of your tongue, then the point. You were learning her architecture, and you were a quick study. Her hips began to move against your mouth, a small, involuntary surrender.
Her moans lost their theatrical quality. They became shorter, sharper. The hand in your hair pulled, not to guide, but because she needed to hold onto something. The room filled with the sound of your own ragged breath and her escalating cries. You felt her body tighten, a coil spring beyond its limit.
She came with a cry that was pure Inara, a sound of shattered glass and deep, shuddering pleasure. Her back arched violently, pressing her soaked cunt against your mouth. You didn’t let up until the last tremor subsided, until her grip on your hair went slack.
You rose up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You looked down at her. The Peggy Carter visage was blurred, sweat-dampened, her eyes half-lidded and dazed. For a moment, she looked simply like a woman, thoroughly ravished, and not the character played by Hayley Atwell.
You saw your opening. Your own need, held back by sheer will, roared forward. You grabbed her hips, pulling her to the edge of the desk. You didn’t guide yourself into her. You sheathed yourself in one brutal, claiming thrust.
Her eyes flew open, the purple fire in them blazing anew, but mixed with something else—shock, and a flicker of respect. “Ah! Finally,” she gasped, a wild smile touching her lips.
You set the pace now. It was not the steady grind of a commander, nor the athletic piston of a spy. It was something primal, born of a week of humiliation and helplessness. You fucked her with deep, powerful strokes that shook the desk, each impact a punctuation to your silent fury. The miniatures of knights and dragons trembled and fell.
“Yes,” she hissed, her nails digging into your forearms. “Use it. Use all that lovely frustration.” Her legs locked around your waist, pulling you deeper. “You think this is control? This is just a different kind of surrender.”
You didn’t care. In this moment, you were the ****. You were the thing overwhelming her. You watched her face contort, her perfect façade cracking under the physical onslaught. You felt her inner muscles begin to clench and flutter around you again, tightening like a fist.
“You feel that?” she panted, her head thrashing side to side. “That’s me. That’s not the costume. That’s me.” Her second climax ripped through her, longer and more violent than the first. Her cry was a raw, unadorned shatter of sound.
It triggered your own. Your release was not a relief, but a detonation. You saw white. Your hips slammed forward, anchoring you deep inside her as you poured yourself out, a seemingly endless flood that had been building since the mall, since the church. You shook with the **** of it.
When it was over, you slumped forward, braced on your hands above her. The Peggy Carter form had dissolved completely. Inara lay beneath you, her own dark skin gleaming with sweat, her true face wearing an expression of sated, profound amusement. She reached up and traced your lips with a fingertip.
“There,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Was that so hard? To stop being a passenger?” She shifted slightly, a wince of overstimulation crossing her features. “You put a dent in the desk, you know. And in me.” She laughed, a low, rich sound. “I’ll allow it. This time.”
She vanished from beneath you, leaving you kneeling before an empty, scarred desk. Her final words hung in the air, more chilling than any punishment. “Remember this feeling tomorrow, Steven. Remember what it’s like to take what you want, when you finally make a *real* wish.”
Comments