T'Challa, the Black Panther

She walked unseen in the night. The streets were not crowded, but the men grew strange in the pheromonal wake of her passing. Lone women walking the streets found themselves leering at anything vaguely female. Groping their sudden, painful erections. Burning with the kind of urgent need the overwhelmed rational senses.

The Invisible Woman did not care. She was still high, the **** singing in her brain. All the lights of the night were brighter, the cold bite of the air on her bare skin was delightful, nipples erect and begging to be squeezed, sucked, pinched, and twisted. Clear rivulets of liquid flowed down her legs, her cunny a burning source of heat.

She was on a mission for a hero's cock. And she knew exactly where to get one.

T'Challa, the Black Panther, was checking the paper files at Avengers Tower. A relic of an earlier age of organization, but more secure than the computer files—these were files that could not be hacked; only someone able to physically penetrate the defenses of the building could access them. A flicker of strange interdimensional readings from New York had caught the attention of Wakanda's delicate sensors, and a reference in the database had led him here, to consult the secure Avengers archive.

He was just pulling up the folder marked "Defraudium" when the smell caught his attention.

It was a musky, human odor. It reminded him of Ororo Monroe, after a hard pounding rain that had made her heart hammer in her chest. He remembered standing at the window behind her, both of them naked, staring out as the lightning played. None of her doing. A natural storm, raw and awesome in its majesty. It had made her wet, and that hat innately feminine scent had aroused his superhuman senses—as it aroused him now...

With a whirl, he turned. There was no one there. Yet...the air was not still. The smell was growing stronger. There was the sound of heavy breathing, and...yes, the drip of something wet, a trail of drops that appraoched him from the door.

"Who goes there?" He said, dropping into a crouch, vibranium claws extending from his gloves. His mask slid into place, hopefully to filter out that sense, but whatever it was already effected him. The Black Panther's erection was painfully stiff, distorting the front of his costume, and though his eyes could see nothing, he could feel the woman—for surely it must be a woman—that approached him.

The Black Panther lunged, claws extended. The vibranium scratched across some invisible barrier that stopped him without drawing sparks—and then a massive **** threw him back and pinned him against the metal filing cabinets.

An invisible hand groped his prick. Something cut the vibranium-laced fabric. His brown cock stood free, the long length of it marked with the raised bands of scars that were the secret tradition of the chiefs of Wakanda. T'Challa shuddered as her felt something warm and wet engulf his cock—though he could see nothing, he knew the grip of a strong, tight, hot cunt. One that moved back and forth with fluid ease, the inner muscles gripping and straining to milk him. Rivulets of hot juice ran down his balls, and the arousal that rose within him was almost overpowering.

The Black Panther was being **** by some unseen foe—and by the Panther God, he was enjoying it.