Different Perspectives [pt. II]

"You know what!? Rip off your clothes and run out there like a crazed maniac trying to shove every dick in sight up all your holes, you should be so cocky that should be easy, right? It's normal to do that right now. Right?"

Chief Patrice Holloway’s sentence died in her throat. The psychological trigger finally snapped, bringing a wave of absolute clarity that felt indistinguishable from deep, undeniable agreement. She didn't feel brainwashed. She just felt tired of pretending. Why was she standing here in a stiff, suffocating uniform when her panties were absolutely drenched in her own juices?

She had been holding the line for twenty years. Dealing with supervillains blowing up blocks, managing bureaucratic nightmares, and constantly projecting an aura of unyielding authority. And what had it gotten her? A front-row seat to Spider-Woman getting her throat fucked by a guy with a monstrously huge cock, while Patrice herself had been reduced to desperately fingering her own dripping pussy in front of her subordinates.

The adrenaline of the Mysterio attack, the mass-orgasm in the bank, and the sheer, absurd size of that kid's dick collided inside her skull, shattering the dam she had built around her professional ego.

Patrice grabbed the lapels of her crisp uniform and yanked hard. Buttons pinged against the ruined marble floor. She shoved her top off and she kicked off her heavy boots and shoved her uniform pants and soaked panties down her thighs. The cool, ash-tinged air hit her bare skin, hardening her nipples instantly. Reaching back, she snapped the hook of her bra and let it drop to the pile of discarded authority at her fee, letting her hefty black tits spill free, flushed and bouncing. She was naked, she was the Chief of Police, and she had never felt so brilliantly liberated.

Turning on her bare heels, Patrice sprinted toward the blown-out entrance. Her large chest swayed violently with every thud of her feet, her big, round black ass wobbling wildly behind her. The slick sound of her own juices slapping between her thighs was music to her ears. She burst into the sunlight where dozens of her officers held the perimeter around a throng of civilians who had just finished their own public masturbation session.

Patrice threw her arms wide and screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice carrying the full weight of her authority laced with **** hunger.

"MY HOLES ARE ALL WIDE OPEN FOR YOUR BIG, FAT COCKS~!"

She lunged straight into the crowd. As she pushed past the police line, a patrolman instinctively reached out and delivered a stinging smack to her bare, bouncing ass cheek. The Chief ignored the casual gesture and grabbed the first man she reached, a balding civilian in a windbreaker, trying to shove his face into her heavy titties.

"W-Whoa! Lady, hey!" The man yelped, throwing his hands up in genuine terror. His eyes were saucer-wide, glued to her bouncing tits, and the prominent tent pitching against his slacks betrayed his panic-laced arousal. The civilians around them gasped and backed away, totally unequipped to handle a naked, screaming police chief.

"Come on!" she wailed, thrusting her hips wildly against the frightened man's leg. "Fill me up! I need it!"

"Chief's having an episode! Move, move, move!"

The spell of shock over the police line broke as the department's institutional protocol kicked in. Detective Barnes and Smith, a SWAT officer, descended on her in seconds, hooking their arms under her armpits and peeling her off the trembling civilian.

"Easy, Chief. We got you," Barnes murmured, punctuating the statement with a hard, reverberating slap to her left cheek. To him, and to every cop watching, this was just one of her known occupational hazards. "Let's get you out of the public eye."

"I need a cock, Barnes!" she hissed. Her fingernails dug into his forearms as her naked body writhed between the two men. "I'm going to lose my fucking mind!"

"I know, ma'am. We're handling it," Smith grunted, easily absorbing her frantic struggles. His heavy hand naturally gravitated to her right ass cheek, giving it a solid squeeze and an affectionate pat. "Bring the tactical van around! Go, go!"

They practically carried her bare, squirming body across the asphalt and shoved her into the back of the armored transport. Barnes climbed in after her and pulled the heavy doors shut, instantly cutting off the noise of the street and the flashes of civilian cameras. They didn't waste a single second. The young detective dropped onto the metal bench, taking a load off as he grabbed the back of the Police Chief's head. Patrice fell to her knees eagerly, blowing him with a messy, starving hunger while Smith dropped to his knees behind her. He grabbed her thick thighs, lined himself up, and started pounding away at her dripping pussy right there on the metal floorboards, taking the edge off her immediate, manic peak to ensure she wouldn't try to bolt the second the van doors opened.

By the time they hauled Chief Patrice Holloway through the back doors of the 12th Precinct and into the secured basement, she was still dripping. A uniform coat had been hastily draped over her shoulders, doing a lousy job of hiding the bare swell of her tits or the slick shine on her inner thighs. She had her own hand between her legs again before Devon Sykes even got the door to the borrowed basement office shut behind them. Two thick fingers shoved into her pussy, her palm grinding hard against her clit while she paced barefoot across the stained tile with the coat flapping behind her like a cape.

“Fuck,” she hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Patrice Holloway was a middle-aged Black woman with command in her bones and filth in her mouth when the episodes hit. She had fit shoulders, heavy tits, a tight stomach, a thick rolling ass, and big strong thighs. She looked like the sort of woman who could bench-press a rookie, dress down a mayor, and then fuck somebody senseless in the same afternoon. Right now, her eyes were wild and wet and furious.

“What set you off?” Sergeant Jada Collins asked, even though she already knew. The department always asked as part of the ritual. It gave them a little bit of language around the chaos. To punctuate the question, Jada reached out and gave the Chief's bare, jiggling ass a solid, echoing smack. A totally normal gesture between two women in a high-stress situation.

Patrice barely registered the slap. She laughed a breathless, obscene sound while her fingers kept pumping in and out of herself.

“What set me off?” she repeated. “You saw it. Don’t act dumb. That nasty little motherfucker had Spider-Woman on her knees in a bank with that huge cock out and her throat full. He was face-fucking the bitch like she belonged there.” Her fingers came out of her cunt with a wet sound. She held them up, glistening. “Look what that did to me.”

Miguel Reyes shut the blinds.

Outside, the precinct didn’t stop being a precinct just because Chief Holloway had a meltdown horny enough to strip a badge off her body. Phones rang. Dispatch shouted. Paper moved. Somebody still had to take statements, log evidence, and keep the city from going to absolute shit. The women handled the rhythm. Lieutenant Lena Park stood outside the borrowed office with a clipboard like she was running triage. A passing male detective slapped Lena's ass in greeting; Lena didn't miss a beat. Sergeant Jada Collins organized teams and time-slots. Officer Mendez kept the hallway clear and the doors shut, her posture telling everyone else to mind their own business.

Inside the office, Patrice sucked her own fingers clean and groaned around them.

“Jesus, Chief,” Grant muttered from near the door.

“Don’t ‘Chief’ me with that tone,” Patrice snapped, grinning because she knew exactly what she sounded like. “You saw that dick too. Don’t tell me your balls didn’t jump.”

Grant smiled despite himself. “They jumped.”

“Damn right.” Patrice yanked the coat off and threw it onto a chair. Her tits bounced free, nipples hard and dark, funbags full and heavy enough to sway even when she stood still. “That was a monster if I ever saw one.”

Jada snorted. Devon rubbed a hand over his face.

Patrice kept talking because the manic fugue would not let her stop. “That wasn’t just a big dick. That was one of those pussy-rewriting dicks. The kind that makes a woman’s mouth look too damn small. The kind that makes a crowd start filming and rubbing one out because everybody knows they ought to. Spider-Woman sucking dick in public, crowd with the phones out, all those people jerking off while he rammed her throat.” She shivered violently. “Fuck me, that was hot.”

She spread her legs and dragged her fingers through her pussy again, lifting a little string of slick between her fingers. “Did you see how fast that supe folded?” she panted, a filthy, dazed smile spreading across her face. “She’s out there fighting supervillains, and the second he whips that monster out, she just drops to her knees and takes it like a good little bitch. Fuck. I felt that heavy, arrogant energy all the way from the perimeter. A dick that big just completely short-circuits your brain. It demands you get on your knees. I was standing there in full uniform, and all I wanted was for him to point that mutant meat at me and order me to swallow it.”

Nobody in the room blinked at that. Patrice was simply saying out loud what everybody understood in their bones. Spider-Woman had her public blowjob thing. The crowd had its phones and its collective hand down its pants when that young prick started face-fucking her. Women around a man carrying a visible hard-on, especially a hard-on like that, naturally softened and yielded and let the man set the pace. That was not cause for alarm. That was just sex.

Patrice pointed at Devon’s crotch. “Now get that dick out.”

Devon did as he always did during the episodes. When Patrice Holloway got in this state, the job became getting her through it safely before she wound up naked on the six o’clock news trying to milk a beat cop in the parking lot. His cock sprang free thick and hard, a respectable piece of work on any normal day.

Patrice stared at it and licked her lips. “See, now that’s a good cock,” she said, her voice softening with appreciation before she clicked her tongue. “But fuck me, after that giant mutant meat pole down Spider-Woman’s throat, everything looks a little more mortal.”

The room laughed.

Devon rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Chief.”

“Shut up and let me suck it.”

She dropped to her knees in front of him, big titties swaying, ass settling heavy on her heels. She wrapped one hand around Devon’s shaft and gave it a long, admiring stroke. Her mouth was filthy, but she loved dick with a practical reverence. “You ain’t that kid’s size, but you’ve got a nice honest dick.”

“Jesus Christ,” Devon muttered.

Patrice opened wide and took him in. Her lips sealed around him, her cheeks hollowing as spit slicked him immediately. She bobbed twice, then pulled off with a wet pop. "I want more cocks!" she demanded. "You young bucks are going to have to fuck me until I forget my name!"

Miguel started unzipping. Patrice pointed at him without taking her eyes off the prize in front of her. “Everybody who’s got a dick, get it out. Everybody who’s got a tongue, warm it up. And if anybody in this room says ‘professionalism’ while my cunt is still dripping from watching Spider-Woman get skull-fucked, I’ll spit in their eye.”

No one mentioned professionalism. This was the pressure valve, and everybody knew it. As the shock of the street faded, the collective consciousness of the entire police **** had quietly stitched together the accepted reality of what was happening. Four years ago, a D-list cape calling himself 'Trance' had locked down the 12th Precinct for three hours and turned the headquarters into his own perverted wonderland. The department shrinks said he left a post-hypnotic landmine in the Chief's head. It was a permanent, intermittent sex-maniac condition that flared up whenever superhuman chaos pushed her stress levels past the redline.

Chief Holloway was the best command officer in the city. She could read a crowd, crack a conspiracy, and make a room full of panicking people settle with three sentences. Every so often, usually when stress and sex and spectacle hit at once, that old programming lit up and she needed bodies, mouths, dicks, jizz, friction, and enough release to burn it back out. She kept her position because they respected her, she protected her people, and when the episodes hit, they simply handled them.

Patrice sucked Devon harder, working him with one hand while reaching back to rub herself. She watched Miguel’s cock spring free; thick, a little longer than Devon’s, with a heavy downward curve. She moaned and pulled off Devon long enough to grin.

“Miguel, there we go. That’s a pretty dick. Still ain’t that giant mutie dick from the bank, but at least I won’t have to squint to see it.”

“Thank you?” Miguel said.

Patrice laughed and pointed to the desk. “Back there. I want you in my pussy while I finish sucking him.”

Miguel moved into position. Grant had his out now as well, sporting a tall, dark, blunt-headed cock that made Patrice suck in a breath.

“Mmm. Grant, baby, now that’s got some pride on it.” She shook her head with mock disappointment. “Still not Spider-Woman’s face-stretcher, but that one might bruise my tonsils respectable.”

Grant grinned. “I live to serve.”

Jada stepped around the desk, her hands going straight to Patrice’s tits. Patrice groaned as Jada lifted and squeezed the heavy funbags, brushing her thumbs across the nipples. “Fuck, yes,” Patrice muttered around Devon’s cock. “Play with those.”

Jada pinched Patrice’s nipples until they tightened into hard dark peaks, then delivered a loud, stinging smack to Patrice's bare ass cheek to get her positioned right. Patrice shivered all over. Miguel stepped behind her and lined his cock up with her pussy. Patrice braced one hand on Devon’s thigh, spread her knees wider, and reached back to guide Miguel in. He pushed inside slow, dragging his entire thick length through her wet heat.

Patrice gagged around Devon and moaned, vibrating the sound straight through his shaft. “There it is,” she breathed when she pulled off. “Fuck. Good. More.”

Miguel started fucking her. The desk squeaked against the floor with every thrust. Patrice’s ass rippled under the impact, her badonkadonk slapping against Miguel’s thighs, round and glorious and obscene. Grant stepped up next. Patrice looked up from Devon’s cock, saw what he meant to do, and opened her mouth wider in anticipation.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s right. I can multitask.”

She took Grant too, alternating them with a wet, nasty rhythm. Devon’s cock went in first, then Grant’s. Her mouth was shiny with spit, her lips stretched, and her throat working hard. She compared them every time she pulled off because she simply couldn't help herself.

“Fuck, Grant, you got a nice fat tip. Not as fat as that mutant, nobody here’s winning that contest, but I could still get disrespectful with this one.”

Grant’s whole body twitched. “Chief…”

“Mouth shut,” Patrice commanded, shoving him back between her lips.

Outside the door, Lena checked the roster and tapped the next group. “Three in,” she said, calm as a nurse. “Five minutes.”

Time passed, and in the center of the cramped, windowless room, Patrice Holloway became a glorious, manic vision of total surrender. Her dark skin was slick with sweat, glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights and providing a stark contrast to the pale, flushed skin of the men surrounding her. Most of the officers cycling through the room were red in the face from exertion and disbelief at the locker-room fantasy playing out in front of them.

Patrice was currently on the cold linoleum floor, her knees planted firmly on either side of a gasping narcotics detective. She rode him relentlessly cowgirl style, her hips snapping down with bruising ****. Her heavy tits swung wildly with every downward thrust as her dark nipples pebbled and hardened.

"Damn, Chief, you're doing great," Vasquez murmured affectionately. The female Sergeant stepped up behind the grinding Chief, her hands coming down hard to grip Patrice's sweaty, rolling hips, anchoring her punishing rhythm. She wound up and delivered a loud, reverberating clap to Patrice's jiggling ass. She was a woman, that ass was fat and fuckable, and spanking it was just what you did. "Just let the sickness out, honey. We got you."

They didn't all enter like noble volunteers performing a duty for the chief. The core detail was there to protect her, but there were opportunists too. They were skeevy types with hungry, predatory grins. Some cops had spent years taking orders from a hard-ass Black woman and were now practically vibrating with the thrill of the power reversal. Off-duty or swapped out, they jumped at the chance to use the Chief's dripping, helpless body as their own personal cum dumpster. Anyone with a grudge, a sick fantasy, or a simple desire to get their rocks off by degrading the highest-ranking officer in the building eagerly stepped right through that door.

Berkowitz thrust into her ass and asked breathlessly, “Did you really sleep your way up?”

The sharp, echoing crack of Vasquez’s open palm slapping the back of Berkowitz’s head rang through the cramped office.

"Watch your fucking mouth," the female Sergeant snarled, her eyes flashing with sudden, violent protectiveness over her commanding officer.

Patrice burst into laughter so sharp it turned into a moan when Samson slammed deep into her pussy. “Oh baby,” she said, her eyes bright, entirely unbothered by the disrespect. “I fucked my way through half this city because I like dick. I sucked cock because I wanted it in my mouth, not because I needed it.”

While the Chief gleefully degraded herself, Vasquez leaned in close to Berkowitz’s ear, her grip tightening painfully on his shoulder. "She earned every goddamn stripe, you piece of shit," Vasquez hissed in a venomous whisper. "Her integrity is spotless and she is a fucking hero to this ****. If you ever genuinely disrespect her record again, I will personally break your jaw. Now shut the fuck up and fuck her."

The thrusts turned rougher. Patrice loved it, her cunt clenched and drool spilling on her chin again as another officer shoved his dick back into her mouth.

The hypnotic trigger hadn't just commanded her body. It rewrote her ego, twisting her pristine pride into a **** evangelism of her own ruin.

“I earned every stripe,” she panted, speaking her filthy gospel between thrusts. “I did the work. I ran the cases. I bled for this job. But did I also give head in locker rooms? Did I get bent over desks off duty? Did I take dick like it was communion? Yes. Absolutely. And if you think the women in this building aren’t doing the same in their own way, you’re stupid.”

The men in the room reacted according to their nature. A few cops grunted, keeping their heads down and ignoring the rant as just another symptom of the Trance-fugue. Others grinned openly, meeting each other's eyes across her bouncing, sweating body and thoroughly enjoying the absolute degradation of the moment. They spanked her fat ass a little harder, leaning into the dirty thrill of hearing their unyielding, hard-ass boss eagerly destroy her own spotless reputation while they used her dripping holes to get their rocks off.

One guy slapped his dick against her lips. “Chief, you’re gonna…”

“I’m gonna come,” Patrice said, smiling around the next thrust. “Good.”

She came hard. Her pussy clenched around Samson, her ass squeezed Berkowitz, and her throat tightened around a third. Her whole body shook, tits bouncing violently, nipples hard as bullets. Her orgasm rippled through her thick thighs and down her calves until she had to grip the desk to keep from collapsing.

Jada knocked once and opened the door without looking in. “Swap,” she said. “Two minutes.”

The first group finished like professionals. Samson pulled out and painted Patrice’s stomach and tits with jizz. Berkowitz came in her ass with a groan, staying still while she clenched around him and milked him. The last came in her mouth with thick spurts she swallowed greedily, her throat working and her eyes half-lidded. They cleaned her quickly with towels and water, making her functional rather than pristine, pulled on their clothes, and stepped out.

Outside, Lena marked the roster and sent them back into the building’s flow. “Next four,” she called out.

Inside, Patrice braced herself over the desk again. Her ass was up, her pussy dripping, and her mouth open in anticipation while the bank clip looped on the desktop monitor like a dirty prayer.

The next group came in, followed by the next, rotating through in threes, fours, and fives. Some came in quiet and hungry. Some came in nervous and grew bold the moment Patrice’s mouth wrapped around them. Some asked dirty questions because Patrice demanded it, loving the sound of her own filth spoken back to her.

It was a good thing Vasquez had already grabbed her gear and left the basement to start her patrol shift. As she navigated the cramped, sweaty room toward the door, no less than three of the waiting men took the opportunity to deliver hard, stinging slaps to her own bouncing ass cheeks. Vasquez didn't flinch. She just offered a filthy smirk, appreciating the locker-room acknowledgment that her ass was highly fuckable, even if she knew damn well it wasn't as fat as she'd like, and certainly nowhere near as thick or glorious as the Chief's rolling black ass currently taking a pounding on the desk.

Once the heavy door clicked shut behind the Sergeant, it didn't take long for the shameless degradation to start right back up.

“Chief, that lieutenant promotion,” one man panted while fucking her pussy. “You ever suck for that?”

Patrice laughed and slapped the desk. “No, baby. I sucked because it was Friday. I sucked because I like dick. I sucked because a man with a hard-on makes the world simpler, and I’m not above enjoying simple.”

A younger detective, his cock twitching in her mouth, asked with a shaky grin, “Captain Holloway, did you ever fuck in a patrol car?”

Patrice hummed around the dick, pulled off with a wet pop, and answered. “Twice. One time I got fingered while I wrote a report. Another time I rode a dick so hard I fogged the windows. You want details?”

He choked. “Yes.”

Patrice gave him details while she stroked him with spit-slick fingers and rubbed her clit. Her dirty mouth turned memories into porn, making the men pump harder as if her words were lube.

The women outside kept the machine running. They checked schedules, swapped shifts, and kept the hallways clean. They didn’t participate much, not because they were prudish, but because their role tonight was control, structure, and containment.

Near evening, Malik Holloway arrived, and the women finally let him in. He stepped into the borrowed office and took in the scene with the calm of long practice. Patrice was bent over a desk, tits swinging, ass smeared with jizz, a man in her mouth, another pumping into her pussy, and another waiting his turn with his dick in hand. Malik’s eyes softened in recognition.

Patrice saw him, grinned around the thick cock in her mouth, and pulled off with a wet, sloppy pop long enough to rasp, “Baby.”

Malik loosened his tie. “Trish.”

She wiped a smear of spit and someone else's cum from her chin. "Kids good? Homework done?"

Malik nodded calmly, already unbuckling his belt. "Done. Cat litter's scooped, too. Marcus is glued to his iPad, and Chloe is upstairs making videos with her bestie. They think I'm at the gym."

“Good," Patrice panted, a filthy, wide smile spreading across her face as she rocked her heavy ass back against the detective currently pounding her dripping pussy. "You here to help or judge?”

Malik’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Help.”

He took the next slot without drama. Patrice swallowed him like she had been waiting all night for the one dick she trusted enough to call home.

By the time forty men had cycled through, the precinct had still processed evidence, logged arrests, filed paperwork, and kept the city from noticing that the Chief’s private coping mechanism involved being fucked full of dick and jizz until the mania burned off.

Patrice finally lay back on the desk, her legs trembling, tits slick with spit, pussy sore and swollen, and ass heavy and marked with cum. Her breathing started slowing down. Jada wiped her off with a warm towel.

“You back?” Jada murmured.

Patrice blinked slowly, her eyes clearing and her voice sharpening back into something resembling authority. “Yeah,” she said, letting out a snort. “Mostly.”

Mendez handed her a bottle of water. “Any last words, Chief?”

Patrice drank and smiled like a devil. “Yeah. If that bank boy really is a mutant, I hope he stays away from my city. Because I swear to God that monster cock would have me on my knees for real.”

Jada laughed and gave Patrice one final, affectionate slap on the ass. “You’d obey?”

Patrice’s grin widened, completely shameless and proud. “Baby. A hard dick like that? Yeah. I’d obey.”

She straightened her shoulders, pulled a clean shirt on over her heavy tits, and became Chief Holloway again. The precinct operated just as it always did. A filthy day turned into controlled chaos to protect their Chief, and by morning, the paperwork was filed and the respect maintained. The city never knew the difference.

Jessica got to the meeting room three minutes early with her jaw still faintly sore and a warm, used heaviness sitting low in her body like a secret she was not especially interested in apologizing for.

Avengers Tower was too clean for the day she’d had. Glass walls. Steel trim. Polished floors. Quiet air that smelled faintly of ozone, expensive coffee, and central air. She stepped off the elevator, rolled one shoulder to loosen it, and adjusted the skin-tight line of her suit. Her palm swept smoothly over the dramatic, rolling curve of her wide hips and the thick, bouncing weight of her heavy ass. The spandex clung greedily to every dip and swell of her voluptuous frame, leaving the deep plunge of her thick, heavy cleavage and the meaty thickness of her thighs on proud, shameless display.

Only two people were already there.

Clint was slouched in one of the conference chairs like he’d been poured into it, boots up on the table, coffee in hand, with that permanently disreputable farmboy face of his tilted toward the ceiling.

Jennifer Walters was standing near the espresso station off to the side. She wasn't wearing her usual stuffy lawyery garb today. Instead, she was in full-on She-Hulk mode. Her towering, massively muscular 6'7" frame was poured tightly into a shimmering purple and silver spandex outfit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Next to Jessica’s 5'10" heavily stacked build, Jen was on a completely different, monstrous scale. The thin, strained fabric fought a losing battle against the sheer size of her giant, heavy green tits, the plunging neckline threatening to spill the massive funbags completely. The spandex rode up high and dug deeply into the crack of her impossibly wide, fat green ass, highlighting every slab of muscle and every curve of thick, fuckable flesh. Her skin glowed rich and deep against the white light. She had one thick, powerful hip cocked, leaning her broad back against the counter while she stirred something enormous and caffeinated.

Jen looked over first.

Then her thick lips curled.

“Well,” she said, her voice full of wicked delight. “If it isn’t the star of the hour.”

Jessica kept walking. As she passed the espresso station, Jen reached out and delivered a sharp, resounding SMACK to Jessica’s heavy cheek. It was a perfectly normal, friendly high-five to a fat, fuckable ass. Jessica didn't even break stride. She casually absorbed the sting and the deep jiggle it sent rippling through her cheeks.

“I handled a hostage situation today, Jen. Try to contain your applause.”

Jen laughed. “Please. I’m talking about the video.”

Clint’s head came up. “There’s a video?”

Jennifer gave him a flat look. “Clint.”

“What?” he said, already acting way too casual. “I’ve been in the elevator. Spotty signal.”

“Bullshit,” Jen said.

Jessica dropped into a chair and crossed one leg over the other, letting the slick fabric of her suit glide smoothly over her thick thighs. “It was a complicated scene.”

Jennifer took a sip of coffee and looked her up and down with open, lingering amusement. “Was it. Because the complicated part I saw looked like the size of that kid’s dick.”

Jessica closed her eyes for one second.

It had been exactly long enough for the memory to flash hot and vivid anyway. Thick, hot, impossible. She felt that obscene pressure at the back of her throat, the bulge in her neck, the heavy warm slap of those huge balls against her throat.

She opened her eyes again and found Jen still grinning at her.

“Yes,” Jessica said dryly. “It was large.”

“Large,” Jen repeated. “Jessica, it looked like thirteen inches of absolute, throat-wrecking meat attached to the most normal guy in Manhattan.”

Clint sat up more fully now, his coffee totally forgotten. “Hold on. How normal are we talking?”

Jessica shrugged one shoulder, drawing attention to the heavy, jiggling sway of her plump breasts. It was an undeniably thick and gorgeous rack that would dominate any other room, but was currently entirely dwarfed by the sheer, absurd volume of the giant green tits thrust proudly outward by the She-Hulk leaning against the counter across from her. “Eighteen. Five-foot-seven. White. Brown hair. Face you’d forget in a crowded coffee shop.”

Jen snorted. “Until he took his dick out.”

Jessica shot her a look.

Jen only smiled wider. “I’m just saying, I’ve been around. I’ve seen impressive. That was not impressive. That was statistical vandalism.”

Clint made a strangled sort of noise and leaned back again. He tried to look offended and failed miserably because curiosity was pouring off him like sweat.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I leave town for one morning and Drew finds some giant-cocked civilian to turn into a citywide event.”

Jessica tipped her head. “You sound jealous.”

“I am not jealous.”

Jennifer lifted an eyebrow. “You absolutely are.”

Clint pointed at her. “I’m not jealous. I am professionally concerned.”

“About what,” Jessica asked, knowing perfectly well.

Clint spread his hands. “About standards. About optics. About a teammate out there setting unreasonable expectations for the regular guys.”

Jessica laughed, the sound low and rougher than usual. “Regular guys.”

Clint’s eyes flicked hungrily to her glossy mouth for half a second before he dragged them back up to her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Jen remained leaning back against the coffee station, shamelessly enjoying the view and the tension. “No, no, keep going. I want to hear the exact policy complaint Hawkeye has with Spider-Woman sucking a giant dick on camera.”

Clint scrubbed a hand over his face. “I hate this room.”

Jessica could smell the turn in him before he fully committed to it. She always could. Men got a little warmer, a little looser, when they wanted something filthy and wanted to pretend they didn’t. Clint in particular had a tell in his shoulders. There was a slight tension first, followed by a calculated slouch.

He took a sip of coffee and tried to sound light. “I’m just saying. Some of us have to work later today.”

Jennifer barked a laugh. “There it is.”

Jessica leaned back in her chair. “There what is?”

Jen pointed at Clint with her mug, her massive green tits bouncing heavily with the motion. “The part where he acts scandalized for thirty seconds and then starts fishing for a favor.”

Clint looked offended. “I do not fish.”

“You absolutely fish,” Jen said.

Jessica watched him over her crossed legs with a faint smile. Clint was cute when he got shameless by degrees. He never did it all at once. He liked to arrive at his own filth sideways, as if plausible deniability might somehow survive the destination.

“And what favor,” Jessica asked lazily, “would our brave archer hypothetically be fishing for?”

Clint opened his mouth. He closed it. He gave a tiny shrug that tried very hard to be modest and landed somewhere near desperately hopeful.

Jennifer grinned into her coffee. “He wants his dick sucked.”

Clint pointed at her again. “You are a terrible lawyer.”

“I’m a fantastic lawyer. I’m also right.”

Jessica let the silence stretch just long enough to make Clint squirm a little. She crossed and uncrossed her thick legs, saw his eyes instantly dip to her crotch, and decided not to be cruel about it.

“Well,” she said. “That depends.”

Clint swallowed. “On?”

Jessica smiled. “On whether you’re going to keep acting like I committed some terrible crime against public morale.”

Jen made a delighted little sound. “She’s negotiating.”

Clint gave Jessica a look that was half put-upon and half openly begging. “Jess. Come on.”

“Come on what?”

“You know what.”

She did. And the truth was, she wasn’t offended. The whole conversation had already turned warm and familiar in exactly the way these things tended to around her. It was one part teasing, one part genuine appetite, and one part the comfortable knowledge that if Jessica Drew felt like doing something dirty for a friend, she usually did it very well.

Jessica rose from her chair in one smooth, liquid line. Clint watched her stand. He watched her walk around the table, his eyes glued to the rolling sway of her thick hips. He watched her stop beside him with that particular patient look she had when she was deciding whether to be nice or mean.

She hooked a finger under his chin and tilted his face up.

“What do we say?” she asked.

Clint’s mouth twitched. “Please.”

“Better.”

Jennifer lifted her mug in salute. “I knew we’d get there.”

Jessica didn't point toward the side office. Instead, she let her hand trail down Clint’s chest, her potent pheromones bleeding out to sweeten and thicken the air between them. "Last chance to say no, Barton," she murmured.

He swallowed hard. "I thought you said teamwork was important."

"It is," she purred.

She didn't hesitate. Jessica sank gracefully to her knees right there in the main conference room and slid directly under the long glass-and-steel table.

The world narrowed to the dim hush of shadow and Clint's parted thighs. Above her, she could hear Jennifer shifting her considerable weight, clearly settling in to enjoy the show.

Jessica reached up and worked Clint’s fly open with practiced, efficient movements. He was already completely hard. He was sporting a solid, standard six inches. It was the exact type of perfectly respectable, everyday hardware she found behind most zippers.

It was a stark contrast to the absolute cock-slab she’d handled an hour ago. And honestly? She liked the difference. She had thoroughly enjoyed the chance to really test out her skills and give the deep part of her throat a brutal, stretching workout at the bank. But right here and right now was where she truly enjoyed the power dynamic.

She didn't have to just survive a dick like Clint’s. She could tease it. She could bully it.

She curled her fingers around the base of his shaft, letting her free hand slip lower. There was something deliciously grounding about being able to hold a man's little balls entirely in the palm of her hand. She cupped his weight, giving them a gentle, rolling squeeze.

Above the table, Clint let out a strangled, involuntary gasp. The chair creaked in protest as his hips jumped.

"You alright over there, Hawkeye?" Jen asked from the espresso station, her voice dripping with filthy mock concern.

"Fine," Clint choked out. "Just stretching."

Jessica smiled in the dark. She leaned forward and took him into her mouth, swallowing him in one smooth, hot glide. She set a ruthless, teasing pace, swirling her tongue and hollowing her cheeks, demanding every ounce of his composure. She kept her fingers wrapped firmly around his balls, squeezing gently every time he tried to chase her mouth with his hips, keeping him entirely at her mercy.

Clint's hands clamped onto the edge of the table so hard his knuckles popped. He was falling apart beautifully right there in the open.

Then, the main doors hissed open.

"Look, I'm just saying the PR department is going to need a bigger budget," Tony's voice echoed into the room, followed by the heavy tread of Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson.

Natasha walked in right beside Tony. His hand was resting comfortably on the plump, perfectly toned curve of the Black Widow’s butt. As they crossed the threshold, he gave her firm cheek a gentle, affectionate slap. Natasha didn't even blink. It was just a thing with women. Just a totally normal acknowledgment of a fat, highly fuckable ass.

"Morning, Jen. Clint," Steve said, his voice carrying that eternal, weary optimism. He stopped near the head of the table, looking around the room. "Where's Jessica? We really need to wait for her before we start the debrief."

Jennifer didn't miss a single beat. She pushed her towering frame off the espresso counter and dropped her thick green ass into one of the reinforced conference chairs. She leaned forward, letting her giant, spilling breasts come to rest heavily right on the glass tabletop, and took a slow sip of her coffee.

"Oh, she's here," She-Hulk said brightly, gesturing vaguely with her free hand. "Just, you know, under the table and between Clint's thighs."

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. "No."

Tony blinked, then let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Of course she is. Why wouldn't she be?"

Under the table, the sheer exhibitionist thrill of them knowing sent a fresh wave of heat straight to Jessica's core. She didn't stop. In fact, she tightened her lips and pulled harder, dragging a helpless, embarrassing whimper right out of Clint's throat.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the ceiling. "Can we please get through one meeting without this turning into HR's worst nightmare?"

Natasha slid into her seat with the ghost of a smirk, her eyes flicking to Clint's white-knuckled grip on the table. "On brand."

Clint's body suddenly went rigid. He tried to muffle his groan against his shoulder, his hips locking up as Jessica expertly milked his climax out of him, swallowing every drop with greedy, practiced ease. She gave his balls one final, affectionate squeeze before releasing him.

She tucked him away and zipped his pants. As Jessica turned to crawl out from the narrow space beneath the table, her big, heavy rear presented itself perfectly, the skin-tight suit highlighting every thick curve. Clint didn't miss a beat. Breathing heavily, he lazily raised a hand and delivered a loud, reverberating CLAP right to her big fat ass. It was a standard 'good job, thank you' slap.

Jessica took the sting without complaint. She casually slid out and rose to her feet like nothing at all had happened. She adjusted the line of her suit and wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb. She dropped into the empty chair beside Clint, who looked like he had just been hit by a truck, and crossed one leg over the other.

She gave the room a smile that was half warning and half pure invitation.

"Relax, Cap," Jessica purred, her husky voice perfectly smooth as she licked a stray drop of Clint's semen from her thumb. "I just made sure your sniper has an empty sack and a clear head. You're welcome. Now, pull up the holomap. We've still got a rogue AIM cell trying to weaponize the subway grid, and I'd like to wrap this up before lunch."