Peter's Birthday

The afternoon of Peter's birthday arrives with a soft, heavy tension settling over your Queens studio. Standing just inside the door, the quiet is broken by approaching footsteps and Mary Jane’s familiar, low giggle echoing down the hallway. She guides him through the threshold, his eyes masked by a thick black blindfold under the guise of arriving at a "specially rented luxury suite." Peter and Mary Jane are dressed appropriately for an upscale private dinner, with Peter wearing a suit and Mary Jane dressed in a tiny black minidress.

The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing the three of you inside. Before Peter can pull off the fabric or react to the thick, musky scent of raw sex lingering in the air, you lock your eyes onto his frame and strike.

Thump.

A massive, demanding tug hits the base of your skull. The ambient hum of Queens cuts to a dead silence. Dust motes freeze mid-air. Mary Jane is locked mid-step, a giddy, expectant smile fixed on her lips, while Peter stands completely frozen, hands arrested right before they can pull off the blindfold. You don't want him to see what is on the television screen until you have finished making your changes to him, after all.

Plunging deep into Peter Parker’s mindscape, you expect to find the dusty, disorganized archives of an ordinary, insecure college nerd. Instead, you are immediately taken aback by the incredible, hyper-accelerated density of his cognitive architecture. His thoughts fire on a physical and analytical scale that completely dwarfs your own, his synapses processing data at a blistering speed that briefly threatens to overwhelm you. You chalk it up to him simply being a borderline-genius science prodigy—a literal textbook brainiac whose raw intelligence makes his mindscape run like a high-powered supercomputer.

Navigating through the sheer mass of his mind, you locate his intimate history with Mary Jane and begin weaving your corrupting threads directly into their past encounters. To a memory of her giving him a blowjob, you slip in an intrusive thought: I bet she would look so hot getting face-fucked. It's too bad I don't have the nerve. It would be so hot if a more aggressive guy went to town on her, using her like the slut she is. To a recollection of her giving him a titjob, you embed an explicit image of his dick swallowed by her massive, heavy mounds so totally that nothing is visible. You force Peter to think about how sexy it would be if she had sex with a bigger man whose cock would proudly poke out past those suffocating curves. Accessing a memory of him cumming on her face, you substitute a lingering, inadequate wish that it was someone with thicker, more viscous semen painting her beautiful skin.

On and on you edit, building a deep, intoxicating layer of inadequacy that makes him crave seeing her broken around a real man's cock. You guide these manufactured impulses to a definitive focal point, crafting the perfect counterpart to Mary Jane's altered timeline: a late-night conversation where Peter breaks down, sheepishly begging her to cuckold him for his birthday. You make him remember reading her reaction—how he had caught onto her hidden excitement despite her playing aloof, and how he perfectly recalled the charged, sultry way she always looked at you whenever the three of you crossed paths on campus.

You feel his jealousy flare up, but with a swift, dominant flick of your power, you completely crush it. In its place, you flood his consciousness with a dizzying, giddy wave of excitement. You make him hope, with absolute desperation, that you were the specific man taking his girl, turning the thought of you using Mary Jane's spectacular body into his definitive, all-consuming fantasy. Moving rapidly into his recent memories, you start altering his past seven nights so that instead of sleeping, he remembers lying awake in the dark, aggressively jerking off while visualizing you burying yourself inside his fiancée.

Things are gliding forward flawlessly until you reach for his memories from last Friday afternoon.

Suddenly, the mundane college life shatters into a vivid, earth-shaking memory of a massive, armored villain—the Rhino—tearing through the concrete streets of Manhattan. You feel the terrifying, superhuman impact of Peter throwing a punch that cracks brick, moving in perfect, fluid synchronization with a girl clad in a sleek, white-and-magenta hooded spider-suit.

Peter Parker is Spider-Man.

A cold, paralyzing dread grips your core, and you wonder how you can get this unlucky. You had only just started using your powers, only to immediately end up rewriting the mind of one of New York's most powerful vigilantes. This is the exact opposite of what you wanted and had planned.

Your instinct screams at you to abort, to wipe both their minds and run. But the sheer weight of what you'd be giving up hits you. After an entire week of enjoying unrestricted access to Mary Jane's flawless, voluptuous body, the thought of never having her massive tits wrapped around your cock again causes a physical ache of pain in your chest. You can't give her up, and if you are going to keep fucking her, you can't stop modifying Peter. If he ever became aware of what you were doing, his raw strength could punch you through a concrete building, killing you instantly.

Reluctantly, you double-down.

You finish watching the aftermath of the Rhino fight within his mind. Peter and his costumed ally slip away from the chaos, retreating down a dark, secluded alleyway and into a shadow-draped, secret warehouse hideout. Inside the heavy silence, Peter moves to a locker, turning his back to give his partner privacy. Through his enhanced perception, you experience the raw sensory details: the sharp, distinct rustle of tight spandex peeling away from skin, the soft clatter of high-tech gear being set down, and the faint, rhythmic sound of heavy breathing cooling down.

Even with his back turned, you can feel the thick, suffocating wave of unspoken romantic tension radiating from Peter’s subconscious, charged with a fierce, magnetic energy. You note the crushing weight of his guilt, a burning undercurrent of desire, and the realization that the only barrier keeping him from crossing the line with this girl is his loyalty to Mary Jane.

The rustling of civilian clothes settling into place finishes. Peter finally turns around, and his gaze sweeps upward. Through his eyes, you see strands of straight, shoulder-length blonde hair spill free, framing a breathtakingly beautiful, familiar face with piercing blue eyes.

Gwen Stacy is Ghost-Spider.

That realization is followed by a darker one. If Gwen Stacy can sneak around playing superhero well enough to keep her own father, the NYPD police commissioner, completely in the dark, then she isn't nearly as well-guarded or out-of-bounds as you originally feared, and from how easily you are molding Peter's mind, maybe not all superhumans are out of bounds for you.

You still need to keep a low profile because if a sufficiently power telepath finds you, you are finished, but looking at her flawless face, you decide she is worth taking a small risk.

You keep Peter's guilty-laden romantic feelings for Gwen, but you surgically alter the context through the lens of his newly manufactured cuckold fetish. He still loves Gwen, but he no longer wants to have sex with her himself. Instead, his ultimate desire is to sit in his chair and watch you intimately possess both of the women he loves—Gwen and Mary Jane—together. You rewrite his perception of you to make him believe you are an incredibly charming, irresistible force, convincing him that if he acts as your wingman and gets you and Gwen alone together, your natural magic will easily win her over. He resolves to actively manipulate situations to set the two of you up.

And on top of that, given your central role in fulfilling your fantasies, you add a layer of protectiveness to how Peter feels about you. It's not much, but turning Spiderman into your loyal cuck bodyguard can't hurt your chances of survival.

With the massive web of edits perfectly anchored, you smooth over the remaining neural pathways and sever the telepathic connection.

Snap.

Darkness flashes, and your eyes open in the real world. Time violently slams back into motion. Peter yanks the blindfold from his face, his chest heaving as his enhanced eyes dart around, instantly locking onto you. There is no anger, and barely any surprise. Instead, a wide, sheepish smile spreads across his face.

"Adam..." Peter breathes, his voice trembling with a potent mix of nervous reverence and intense gratitude as he steps forward to shake your hand. "Man... I knew it. I knew MJ asked you. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this for my birthday. I... I can't even tell you how much this means to me."

"Happy birthday, cuck," you say.

Peter's eager smile falters for a fraction of a second, a flicker of raw human confusion crossing his face at the blunt insult. Before that confusion can spark into hurt, you activate your power. *Thump.* The room plunges back into a dead freeze. You dive straight into his immediate memory banks, surgically inserting a tiny, seamless fragment into his recollection of that late-night breakdown with Mary Jane. Now, he distinctly remembers begging her to find a dominant, unapologetic man who would treat him like the pathetic cuckold he is—specifically asking that the guy rub it in his face by calling him that exact title on his special day.

Snap.

Time rushes back. The momentary glitch vanishes from Peter’s eyes, replaced instantly by a deeper, flush of validation. His smile returns, wider and more grateful than before, his chest heaving with excitement.

With him subdued, you rise to your feet and approach the two of them, walking until you are next to Mary Jane. "Fucking a bitch as hot as MJ wasn't any trouble at all," you drawl, sliding your hand firmly over her bare spine until you get to her waist. Once you reach it, you hook your arm around her slender waist, physically pulling her away from Peter’s side and dragging her voluptuous form against your own.

Mary Jane lets out a low, sultry purr as she practically melts into your side, her heavy, unbra’d breasts pressing flush against your chest. Without waiting for a response from the young man standing a few feet away, you tilt her chin up and claim her mouth. It’s an aggressive, wet make-out session right in front of her fiancé. Your tongue slides deeply past her plump, glossy lips, claiming her mouth with an intoxicating, rhythmic ownership, while your free hand slides under her dress and up her tight midriff to heavily cup and squeeze her massive breasts.

Peter stands perfectly still, his breath turning into shallow, ragged gasps. His enhanced eyes are wide, locked onto the sight of his gorgeous fiancée willingly making out with you, her toes curling against the hardwood floor as she moans softly into the kiss.

You slowly pull back from her lips, leaving a glistening trail of saliva between you, though you keep your hand firmly anchoring her heavy chest. You look over at the legendary hero, letting a smirk spread across your face.

"Mary Jane and I have been talking over the last week while we were preparing your birthday present," you say. "And we think it’s time I take over for you on a more permanent basis. You can still be engaged to her. Hell, you can even go ahead and marry her down the line if you want. But from now on, I’m the only one who gets to fuck her."

For a split second, a heavy shadow falls over Peter’s face. A fetish of watching other men- namely you- fuck his girl is one thing. The total surrender of his woman is another.

Thump.

Time slams into a freeze again as you dive straight into the friction point. You find the residual spark of his masculine pride and ruthlessly excise it, replacing the void with an overwhelming, intoxicating flood of profound relief. You twist his thoughts, making him realize that relinquishing his sexual duties to a dominant provider like you is the ultimate blessing. It frees him from the guilt of his exhausting schedule, guarantees his stunning fiancée is thoroughly satisfied, and locks him into the permanent, exquisite role of the spectator.

Snap.

The tension instantly drains from Peter’s athletic frame. His shoulders drop, and a look of dazed, pure ecstasy washes over his features. "You... you'd really do that for us, Adam? You'd take care of her like that permanently? God, yes... please. That's... that's perfect."

"Glad to help," you say, not even looking at him anymore. You are guiding Mary Jane to the love seat you had set up in the middle of the room.

Peter steps forward to follow the two of you, but you stop him. "Not there, cuck. That's for me and your fiancée. You belong over there."

You point toward a heavy leather armchair angled perfectly in the corner of the studio, positioned to give him an unobstructed, cinematic view of both the couch and the large flatscreen television. Resting on the cushion of the designated cuck chair are two distinct items: a sleek plastic remote control, and a cold, heavy steel chastity cage.

"The remote is Mary Jane's present," you say, sitting down on the love seat and dragging the pliant, stunning redhead down with you. "The cage is mine. Because it's your birthday, I'm going to let you touch yourself today while you watch me handle your woman. But after tonight, I don't want to see your dick free when you're around us. You keep it locked up. You can only stroke it when you're alone at home, remembering what I did to her."

"Thank you, Adam... god, thank you. You're so generous." He quickly takes his seat, picking up the remote with trembling fingers while his other hand immediately goes to his zipper.

On the love seat, you pull Mary Jane onto your lap, and she straddles you effortlessly, the hem of her tiny black minidress riding up past her hips, revealing her bare pussy and ass. "More than you know," you tell Peter, groping his fiancée's glorious bubble-butt. "For the last week, I haven't been able to mark her without risking you catching on and ruining your birthday surprise. Now that you know, however..." the gloves are entirely off.

You deliver a heavy, resounding spank to Mary Jane's ass, the flesh giving way satisfyingly under your palm. As you alternate between groping and spanking her, doing your best to leave your handprint on her thicc ass, you lean forward and bury your face in her neck. Biting and sucking aggressively at the soft skin beneath her jawline, you deliberately mark her, claiming her flesh until dark, plum-colored hickeys begin to bloom across her throat.

Mary Jane lets out a sharp, ragged moan, her fingers locking into your hair as she arches her spine. The motion sends her massive tits, shoved together by the tight cut of the minidress, creating a deep, suffocating canyon of cleavage that practically begs for your attention, right into your face.

You take the invitation for what it is and grip her hips, anchoring her firmly over your thighs, before plunging your face straight into the middle of that soft, voluptuous expanse. You aggressively motorboat her, burying your nose and mouth deep into her warm, fragrant cleavage, shaking your head back and forth against the heavy mounds.

A loud, messy sound fills the space between you as your face blurs against her plush skin, forcing her breasts to jiggle violently in her dress. Mary Jane lets out a high-pitched, breathless squeal, a mixture of a shocked giggle and a helpless moan ripping from her lips as she clamps her thighs tightly around your waist. In the corner, you hear Peter's breath hitch.

Suspecting the birthday boy is watching, you decide to give him a real show.

Reaching up, you grab the narrow straps of Mary Jane's dress and pull them violently down her arms, baring her massive, heavy breasts to the cool air of the apartment. They swing beautifully, her pink nipples already stiffening.

You slide down, capturing one of Mary Jane's hard nipples between your lips. You suck and lick at the heavy mound aggressively, swirling your tongue around the sensitive peak before biting down gently. Mary Jane lets out a sharp, breathless wail, her back arching off your lap as she clamps her thighs tighter around your waist. You migrate to the other breast, working your mouth over the plush flesh, deliberately leaving faint, red marks across the pale skin to permanently claim her chest.

From the corner of your eyes, you see Peter’s hand works at a frantic, desperate pace as he jerks his cock with one hand. With the other, he grips the remote with white knuckles, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he alternates between staring you suckling his fiancée's tits and the large flatscreen tv. You see him click the remote, and realize he is at the halfway point of the presentation as the slideshow escalates from teasingly risqué photos to video.

The apartment fills with wet, sloppy audio. On screen, Mary Jane is on her hands and knees in your bathroom, her lips stretched wide as she greedily takes your thick, rigid shaft down her throat, her emerald eyes rolling back in pleasure as you fuck her throat.

The memory, and the video, excites you. Deciding you deserve some relief, you reach down, undoing your zipper and fishing out your cock. You lift her hips slightly, and guide your thick, rigid length directly against her soaked, dripping entrance.

With one smooth, heavy thrust, you bury yourself inside her to the hilt.

The wet, rhythmic slapping of your skin against her thighs echoes through the dimly lit room. Mary Jane arches her back, her fingers clawing at the fabric of the love seat as your smooth, deep thrusts anchor her firmly to your lap. Her head rolls back, thick red hair cascading over your arm as a low, continuous whimper vibrates in her throat. Every movement is deliberate, designed to give the man in the corner a completely unobstructed view of how seamlessly his fiancée has adapted to your ownership.

From the leather armchair, the sound of Peter’s ragged breathing fills the intervals between your thrusts. His hand moves in a frantic, desperate blur, his knuckles white as his thumb presses the remote once more.

The flatscreen television cuts from the bathroom blowjob video to one of you fucking her against the wall of the shower.

"Look at how wet she gets for me, Pete," you say, referring to both the sopping wet Mary Jane on screen and the whore on your lap. You raise her, pulling her off your cock so you could spread her pussy with your hands and show her hubby how wet she is. "You spent years treating her like she was fragile, having sex with her nice and slow. She isn't fragile. She's a slut that needs a man who treats her like one."

Mary Jane looks over her shoulder, back toward Peter, her eyes clouded and unfocused, completely detached from any lingering loyalty to him. "Peter... look at what he’s doing to me... look at how big he is inside me."

Peter’s chest heaves violently under his suit jacket as he stares at her weeping pussy while listening to the desperate begging of her on-camera counterpart. He clicks the remote again, desperate for the next transition, and the television shifts to a slow-motion video. The audio fills the studio with the unmistakable sound of heavy, breathless moans. On screen, Mary Jane is bent over the edge of your kitchen table. You are driving into her from behind, your hands firmly pinning her lower back, as you pound her with enough force to make her entire frame shudder.

This is the second-to-last slide. To prepare for the finale, you drive into Mary Jane from below and stand up from the love seat with her still impaled on your cock. Her legs wrap instinctively around your waist as her massive breasts press flush against your chest. She gasps at the shift in angle, her nails digging into your shoulders, and you begin walking toward Peter's armchair with slow, deliberate strides—each step driving your shaft deeper, forcing broken moans from her glossy lips.

You make out with her as you cross the room. Your tongue claims her mouth with lazy, possessive strokes while her hips grind in tight circles against you. The wet, obscene sound of her arousal fills the silence between her whimpers. Peter watches from below, his hand frozen mid-stroke, his enhanced eyes tracking every rivulet of sweat trailing down her arched spine.

"I want the remote," you tell the birthday boy. "Stand up and hold your girl for me. Brace her against you."

Peter scrambles to his feet, handing you the remote while simultaneously positioning himself behind Mary Jane like a living wall. His hands grip her ribcage with absurd ease—you feel the difference instantly as her full weight lifts off your hips, supported entirely by his deceptively lean arms. The hidden power beneath that suit jacket holds her as effortlessly as a child holding a doll.

You pull back your hips and slam forward.

The thrust is devastating. Mary Jane's entire body jolts against Peter's chest, her head snapping back onto his shoulder as a raw, guttural scream tears from her throat. Her massive tits bounce violently with each savage pump, and Peter holds her steady, his jaw clenched, his breath ragged against her ear as he stares down over her shoulder at where your cock splits her open.

"Where should I cum, MJ?" you growl between thrusts.

"Inside—" she chokes out instantly, her voice cracking. "Please, Adam, inside me—fill me up, I need it—"

Peter's eyes go wide. "Wait—MJ, are you... did you start taking birth control?"

Mary Jane shakes her head against his collarbone, her red hair plastered to her sweaty skin. "No... never have. You know I don't want those chemicals in my body, babe. That's why I always made you wear a condom..."

The implication is clear, but in case he missed it, you click the remote one last time.

The flatscreen cuts to the final slide: two photographs, side by side.

On the left, Mary Jane stands in a plain white t-shirt, the words 'Ready for a baby' scrawled across her chest in thick black Sharpie. She's lifting the hem to reveal her freshly creampied pussy, thick ropes of your cum trailing down her inner thighs, her expression one of blissed-out pride.

On the right, she's completely naked, bent slightly forward, knee lifted on a window sill to show off her creampied pussy. Written across the smooth, tanned expanse of her lower back in the same bold marker: 'Adam's broodmare.'

Peter stares at the screen. His cock twitches violently, but you can see the conflict on his face. Even with how far you have pushed him, this evidently crosses a red line.

Thump.

Time freezes. You slip into his mind with surgical speed, locate the spark of masculinity that doesn't want to see his woman swell with another man's child, and castrate it. You make him realize that this is the only path to fatherhood available to him. He can't have sex with Mary Jane anymore—that's your role now. But if you impregnate her, the child will grow up calling him Dad. You give him the memory of discussing this with Mary Jane weeks ago, both of them tearfully agreeing it was the most beautiful solution, and then a second memory of him coming to the realization you would be the father of Mary Jane's children back when the two of you had informed him you would be the only one allowed to have sex with her from now on. In both memories, you fill him with a sense of excitement.

Snap.

Peter's resistance evaporates. Tears well in his eyes—not of pain, but of overwhelming, manufactured gratitude.

"Adam..." his voice breaks. "You'd really... you'd give her a baby?"

"Give the two of you a baby," you correct, resuming your thrusts into his fiancée. "I know how much you want to be a dad, Pete, and how Mary Jane was never ready before, but she's ready. This is the only way the two of you are getting kids. They may biologically be mine, but they'll call you dad. They'll have your last name."

"Please," Peter whispers, holding Mary Jane tighter. "Please knock her up."

Mary Jane reaches back, gripping Peter's jaw, turning his face toward hers. "Baby, tell him—tell Adam to breed me—"

"Breed her," Peter begs, his voice raw and cracking. "Please, Adam. Give her your baby."

You bury yourself to the hilt one final time and hold. The orgasm detonates from the base of your spine, thick and volcanic, pumping rope after heavy rope of cum directly against her cervix. Mary Jane screams, her walls clamping down in rhythmic, milking contractions as her own climax tears through her. Her belly flexes against your abs, and you can feel the hot, liquid weight of your seed flooding her deepest point.

You stay buried inside her for a long, possessive moment, grinding your hips in slow circles to work every last drop into her womb. Then you pull out, and a thick, white rivulet immediately begins trailing down her inner thigh.

Peter gently lowers Mary Jane until her feet touch the floor. She sways, boneless and euphoric, and he catches her—wrapping his arms around her from behind with heartbreaking tenderness. He leans down and presses a soft, reverent kiss to her forehead.

"I love you so much, MJ," he whispers, tears streaming openly down his cheeks. "This is the best birthday I've ever had."