The New Mutants, Captive [pt. V]

Magik’s fists clenched, the knuckles turning white as she stared at Spyke in the corner, his body moving in rhythm with the maid beneath him, her massive ass jiggling with each of his thrusts. The scene was disgusting—pathetic, she thought—but there was no denying the heat in her own body. Her throat was sore, a deep, raw ache that she couldn’t place. She coughed lightly, but the sensation lingered. She shook her head, trying to focus, but her mind kept drifting back to something disturbing—something wrong. She didn't know why, but she felt like she had been gagging on something… something big.

Beside her, Pixie was only wearing a thong. That was it. Her round, plump breasts were out in the open, her nipples stiff as if the cool air of the ballroom barely affected her. "It’s comfortable," Pixie had insisted earlier, bouncing around shamelessly with her chest exposed. "When in Wakanda, you know?"

Magik had barely contained her fury at that remark, knowing the telepaths had clearly planted that belief in Pixie's head. It was too absurd to be real, even for Megan. The Wakandans weren’t behind this. Mark was. His telepaths had wormed into their minds, twisting their desires, pushing them toward urges they never would’ve embraced otherwise.

She sighed, the rasp of her sore throat reminding her of that strange emptiness, as if something had been taken from her without her consent. She looked at the others standing with her—Sunspot, Prodigy, Armor, and Wolfsbane. They were all staring, wide-eyed, at Spyke as he rutted against the maid, his face a mixture of pure lust and confusion, like he knew he should stop but couldn’t.

Magik’s Russian accent thickened as she broke the silence, her voice laced with disgust. "Does he think we can’t see him?" Her words hung in the air, filled with judgment and frustration.

Prodigy shook his head, his brow furrowed. "He’s too far gone. She… the telepaths, they’re making this happen."

Sunspot, standing next to him, tried to adjust his pants discreetly. His cock was hard—painfully so. All of the boys, Magik realized, were dealing with the same issue. Boners everywhere. She couldn’t help the bitter smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Erections lasting more than four hours, see a doctor, da?" she muttered under her breath.

Armor glanced at her with concern, sensing her frustration. "Illyana, what do we do? It’s not just Spyke and Julian. Look at the others." She gestured around the ballroom, where twenty other students were scattered, each surrounded by hovering maids who whispered in their ears, offered fruits and drinks, and occasionally stroked a thigh or a chest. The air was thick with temptation.

The maids themselves seemed to have a singular focus: to fan the flames of mutant lust. They commented incessantly about it—how mutants were special, how their bodies needed release, how they were superior beings, deserving of constant pleasure.

Magik’s jaw clenched. She wanted to snap. She wanted to scream at them, to drag Spyke off the maid and snap Hellion’s neck for what he was allowing to happen. But she knew it wouldn’t change anything. This was deeper than just desire. It was a trap, designed to divide them, to weaken their resolve.

She turned back to the group, her voice firm, commanding. "Leave them alone," she said, gesturing toward Spyke and Hellion. "Let them do... this. We need to understand what the Wakandans are trying to do to us. Let Spyke and Hellion be case studies, da?"

Sunspot raised an eyebrow, looking doubtful. "You’re saying we should just... watch?"

"Exactly," Magik replied. "We need to stay in pairs. Help each other resist these strange impulses. I have no doubt they’re going to hit each of us differently." She looked at the others, her icy blue eyes sweeping across their faces. "Anyone having strange urges right now?" She paused, waiting for their responses, half-knowing that they all did. She had been fighting her own urges—dangerous urges—for hours now.

Pixie’s hand shot up, her smile as wide and innocent as ever. "Oh! I want to play with the guards’ ding-dongs!" she chirped enthusiastically.

Magik’s eyes widened in disbelief. "What did you say?"

Pixie beamed. "One of the maids showed me that you just have to ask!" she said, bouncing excitedly, her breasts jiggling with the motion. "Their codpieces just... melt away! And then they get all hard on command! And get this: their balls don’t have cum in them! It’s just lube! How cool is that?!"

Magik’s face twisted in fury, her sore throat almost forgotten as the urge to scream at Pixie clawed at her. "No one is fucking the guards, Megan!" she snapped, her accent thick with rage. "I swear, if you need penetration so badly, I’ll offer you the hilt of my Soulsword!"

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and for a split second, she felt a surge of embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to say that. And yet, the thought of using the hilt... slipping into the bathroom, where no one could see... feeling the hard, cool leather-wrapped metal hilt inside her, fucking herself with it until she came hard and fast...

Magik clenched her fists, pushing the thoughts away. No. She wouldn’t do it. Not here. Not like this.

Pixie blinked at her, her wide eyes filled with genuine curiosity. “Really? The Soulsword? Could it... work?”

Magik groaned inwardly, regretting ever bringing it up. “Forget I said that,” she muttered, avoiding the curious stares of the others.

She felt the familiar weight of the Soulsword at her side, and the thought of slipping away into one of the palace bathrooms flickered in her mind. She could be quick. No one would even notice. She could slide the hilt inside herself, deep, hard, and let it fill the aching emptiness she had been feeling ever since they arrived. One quick, hard cum, and she’d be back in control. She’d be focused again.

But she couldn’t admit that. Not to anyone. Not even to herself, really. This isn’t me, she thought, trying to shake the feeling. This is what they want. This is what Mark wants.

Wolfsbane’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts. "Illyana... ye okay?" Rahne asked, her voice filled with concern as her keen senses picked up on Magik’s inner turmoil.

Magik snapped back to the present, her expression hardening. "I’m fine," she said brusquely, refusing to let her voice waver. "We need to focus. Keep your mind sharp. These urges—they’re designed to break us. But we won’t let them. We stay strong." Her voice, hoarse as it was, carried a fierce determination, though inside she felt like she was walking a razor's edge.

Pixie pouted, clearly disappointed, but Armor, Sunspot, and the others nodded in agreement. They had to stay vigilant, had to resist, even as their bodies betrayed them, even as Spyke and Hellion gave in to the twisted pleasures around them.

Magik's hand rested on the hilt of her Soulsword as they huddled together, and she couldn’t help but feel the heat rise in her core again. No one can know, she told herself. Not until this is over. She hoped it wouldn’t be much longer before they found a way out.

Because the real battle was happening inside each of them—and Magik wasn’t sure how much longer she could resist.