Military

St. Petersburg, winter 1708.

The half-built city crouched on its swampy bones, ice cracking in the Neva, wooden scaffolds groaning under snow. Inside the unfinished Winter Palace—still more timber than stone—Peter the Great’s private chambers glowed with beeswax candles and the red pulse of a single brazier. The Tsar himself was absent, marching north to crush the Swedes at Poltava. In his place: the Scarlet Witch.

Wanda Maximoff stood at the center of the bearskin rug, crimson velvet cloak pooled at her feet. Beneath, a corset of black leather laced so tight her breasts threatened to spill over the top, nipples barely hidden by scarlet lace. Thigh-high boots of the same leather gleamed; between them, nothing but the glint of a silver chain that disappeared into shadow. In one gloved hand she held a riding crop of braided silk and whalebone; in the other, a length of crimson cord that shimmered like liquid blood.

Kneeling before her: Captain Alexei Volkov, Peter’s most trusted courier, stripped to the waist, wrists bound behind his back with the same crimson cord. His uniform trousers were unlaced, cock thick and flushed against his thigh, pre-come already pearling at the tip. A leather collar circled his throat—her mark, her claim.

“You carried the Tsar’s orders,” Wanda purred, voice low, accented with the forests of her childhood. “Now you carry *mine.*”

She circled him, boots clicking on the parquet, crop trailing over the sweat-slick ridges of his back. Each pass left a faint red line; each line made his cock twitch harder. When she stopped behind him, she pressed the crop between his shoulder blades and pushed—slow, inexorable—until his chest kissed the rug, ass high, thighs spread.

“Count,” she commanded.

The first strike landed across his ass—sharp, precise.

“One, Mistress.” His voice cracked like thin ice.

The second crossed the first, blooming crimson.

“Two, Mistress.” A bead of pre-come dripped to the rug.

By ten, his skin was a lattice of welts, his breath ragged, cock leaking steadily. Wanda knelt, gloved fingers sliding beneath him to milk him slow—thumb pressing the vein, fingers squeezing just enough to keep him on the edge. When he whimpered, she stopped.

“Not yet, pet.”

She rose, stepped over him, and settled into Peter’s own carved oak throne. Legs spread wide, boots planted on the arms, the silver chain between her thighs caught the firelight. With a flick of her wrist, the chain dissolved into crimson mist—revealing her cunt, swollen, slick, framed by the black leather. She crooked a finger.

“Crawl.”

Alexei obeyed, knees scraping wood, cock bobbing with every movement. When he reached her, she tangled gloved fingers in his hair and pulled his face between her thighs. His tongue found her instantly—long, worshipful licks from entrance to clit, then tight circles that made her hips roll. Wanda’s head fell back against the throne, a low moan echoing off the vaulted ceiling. She rode his mouth with the same ruthless rhythm she used to bend reality—slow, then faster, grinding her clit against his nose until she came with a sharp cry, thighs clamping his head, flooding his mouth with the taste of salt and chaos.

But she wasn’t finished.

She pushed him onto his back, straddled his chest, and slid down until her cunt hovered over his cock. The head nudged her entrance—hot, slick, begging. Wanda sank onto him in one slow, deliberate glide, inner muscles clenching like a fist. Alexei’s bound hands flexed uselessly; his hips bucked, but she pinned him with a single gloved hand to the throat.

“Still.”

She rode him like a warhorse—hips rolling, leather creaking, breasts bouncing with each thrust. The crop lay forgotten; now her magic did the work. Crimson tendrils snaked from her fingertips, wrapping his cock where it disappeared inside her, stroking in time with her movements. Another tendril circled his balls, squeezing gently, then tighter, until he sobbed with the need to come.

“Please, Mistress—”

“Not. Yet.”

She leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest, and bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of iron sparked her second climax—harder, deeper, cunt spasming around him in waves that dragged him over the edge despite her command. He came with a broken roar, hips jerking, spilling inside her in thick, hot pulses that overflowed and ran down his balls in creamy rivulets.

Wanda wasn’t done.

She rose, turned, and presented her ass—still impaled on his spent cock, now half-hard again from the serum of her magic. With a flick of her wrist, the crimson cord unbound his wrists and re-bound them to the throne’s arms. She sank back down reverse, taking him to the root, then leaned forward, hands on his knees, and rode him hard. The angle let him watch—his cock disappearing into her cunt, slick with their release, her ass bouncing, the silver chain now reformed and glinting between her cheeks.

A third tendril of magic slipped lower, circling the tight ring of his ass. Alexei’s eyes widened; he shook his head, but Wanda’s voice was velvet over steel.

“Take it, pet. Take *all* of me.”

The tendril pressed in—slow, slick, stretching him open while her cunt milked his cock. The double penetration shattered him; he came again, weaker but deeper, a guttural sound that echoed the thunder outside. Wanda followed, grinding back, magic flaring crimson as she squirted around him—hot, endless, soaking his thighs and the throne beneath.

They collapsed together, her back to his chest, his bound arms trapped beneath her. The fire had burned low; outside, the Neva froze solid. Wanda traced a lazy rune on his collarbone, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Tomorrow you ride to Poltava with Peter’s orders,” she murmured. “But tonight, you are *mine.*”

Alexei’s cock twitched inside her, spent but stirring. Wanda smiled—slow, wicked—and clenched around him once more.

The Scarlet Witch always collected her due.