Late Night Surrenders (Two)

As Hisako crept back toward her bed, the echo of Pixie’s carefree giggles and the obscene squelching of her twisted tryst still lingered in her ears. Her head spun, her thoughts tangled with anger, disgust, and—though she didn’t want to admit it—an unwelcome twinge of curiosity. Her breath was shallow, her body tense as the oppressive darkness of the ballroom settled over her.

The faintest flicker of movement stopped her in her tracks.

Her pulse quickened. She froze, her eyes darting around the room. The only sound was the faint hum of the ever-present Wakandan air circulation, broken by the occasional rustle of sheets or quiet sighs from the rows of beds. The shadows played tricks on her, but something—someone—was there.

They were surrounded by hostile forces, captured by a kingdom that sought to bend them, to twist them into something unrecognizable.

Her training kicked in.

Summoning her armor, she focused its energy into her left hand, creating a faint red glow that illuminated only a small radius around her. The crimson light pulsed softly, enough to cast faint shadows as she moved closer to one of the beds among the rows.

As she approached, she caught a glimpse of movement beneath the blanket on the bed. A bulge, rocking slightly up and down, caught her attention. She stiffened, her heart pounding in her chest.

Carefully, she leaned forward, her armor flickering faintly as she focused the light. And then, with a rush of embarrassment and fury, she realized who it was.

"Roberto?" she hissed, her voice sharp but quiet.

Sunspot lay beneath the blanket, his handsome face twisted in an expression of guilt and embarrassment. His dark eyes widened as they met hers, and he winced as though caught in the middle of a crime.

"I—uh—" Roberto stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He shifted awkwardly beneath the blanket, which only served to make the large, unmistakable bulge beneath it move even more.

Hisako’s eyes narrowed, her face flushing as she noticed the feet sticking out from the bottom of the blanket—bare, delicate, and unmistakably belonging to one of the maids.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded, her voice low but filled with disbelief.

Roberto grimaced, his face contorting with embarrassment. "I… really… can’t explain," he muttered, his tone half-apologetic, half-pleading.

The slurping noises beneath the blanket grew louder for a moment before subsiding. Roberto winced again, squeezing his eyes shut as though wishing the earth would swallow him whole.

"It was a joke," he whispered hurriedly. "I guess I was flirting with Tuwola today… I shouldn’t have. I know. I didn’t think she’d actually—"

Hisako’s fists clenched at her sides, her armor flickering briefly before she **** herself to power it down. Her mind raced, her emotions a storm of conflicting feelings. She couldn’t help but think of Wensanga, her quiet, unnerving devotion.

A sudden wave of heat surged through Hisako’s body, making her shiver despite herself. She felt her thoughts slipping, turning to places she didn’t want them to go. This is them, she thought desperately. They’re doing this to us.

Hisako’s mind flickered with images she hadn’t invited—Wolverine’s rugged, muscular frame; his wild, hairy chest; his massive, manly cock, a recurring fixture in her fantasies. But then the images shifted, becoming more fluid, more confusing. She thought of Wensanga, of the maid’s soft lips and gentle hands. Then Jean, her commanding presence, her fiery hair. Then Storm, her striking beauty, her piercing eyes. Then… Magik. The thought of kissing Illyana, of running her hands along the other girl’s pale, strong body, sent a shiver down her spine.

I’m not gay! Hisako thought fiercely, her face burning. I don’t think I’m gay…

She shook her head, trying to focus, but the sounds beneath Roberto’s blanket dragged her back to the moment. The soft, wet slurps. The subtle movement of the bulge in his blanket as Tuwola worked enthusiastically on him.

"You’re disgusting," Hisako muttered, though her voice lacked the conviction she intended. Her tone sounded hollow, almost ****, as if the disgust she clung to was no longer entirely her own.

Roberto’s face twisted, his handsome features scrunching as his eyes squeezed shut. His breath hitched, and his body tensed, his toned chest rising sharply beneath the blanket. "I’m cumming," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice strained and barely audible.

Hisako froze, caught in place as her eyes unwillingly fixed on the movement beneath the blanket. Roberto let out a low, quiet groan, his hips jerking slightly. She shouldn’t have stayed. She shouldn’t have been watching. But she was. And her mind, no longer entirely her own, betrayed her.

The thought struck her so suddenly and with such **** that her breath caught in her throat. Bull stud. The words flitted unbidden through her mind, a description she had heard Wensanga casually drop days ago. She had said it with such matter-of-fact certainty, her dark eyes glinting with an amused sort of reverence. "All the boys here—they’re mutant bull studs, bred for strength, power, and virility. It’s only natural they’d need relief."

Absurd. Idiotic. Patently untrue.

But it felt true.

She could see it, almost as if the blanket weren't there—Tuwola’s dark, soft lips wrapped around Roberto’s thick, pulsing cock, her tongue swirling around the tip as she took his release eagerly, reverently. It was the way Wensanga had spoken of her classmates, her tone so matter-of-fact, like it was just a truth of the world: mutant boys were different. Bigger. Fuller. Achy, needy, virile in ways that no human could compare.

The vision lingered longer than she wanted it to, the squelch of saliva and the maid’s quiet hum of approval echoing in her mind as Roberto tensed again, shuddering beneath the blanket. Her heart raced as she tried to push the image away, tried to ground herself in the reality of the ballroom.

Her gaze flickered toward the corner of the ballroom where the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents congregated, often huddled together apart from the rest.

The agents were dull. Bland. Men and women who sat stiffly, awkwardly, playing cards to pass the time as if their capture were no more than an inconvenience. There was no tension among them, no vitality, no heat. They were just there. Human.

Not like Roberto. Not like the other boys.

The comparison sprang to her mind unbidden, and she hated herself for it, but it was true. The mutants—her classmates—were different. More intense. More alive. The agents sat in their corner, their faces drawn and weary, while the mutants radiated something magnetic, something primal that couldn’t be ignored. The maids barely acknowledged the agents’ presence, offering them food and drink with polite efficiency but none of the coy smiles, the lingering touches, or the soft, sultry words they lavished on the mutants.

The agents weren’t sporting insistent, raging hard-ons like the boys were. Their bodies weren’t responding to the maids with the same unstoppable ****. They weren’t grunting and groaning, spilling thick loads into eager mouths beneath silken sheets.

Her gaze flickered back to Roberto, her disgust toward him melting into something softer, something warmer. It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t disgusting. He was... just a boy. A mutant boy. His balls had been aching for days—how could she blame him for giving in? Wasn’t this inevitable? She almost felt sympathy for him, watching his face relax as the tension left his body, his breath steadying in the aftermath of his release.

A small, quiet voice in her mind whispered, “Boys will be boys.” Or rather, mutant boys will be mutant boys.

Her body tensed at the thought, her nipples stiffening beneath her tank top, rubbing against the fabric in a way that made her painfully aware of their sensitivity. Her thighs clenched, a faint, pulsing ache building between her legs. She wasn’t even sure when it had started. Maybe it had been there all along, buried beneath her anger and frustration, waiting for a moment like this to bubble to the surface.

And it wasn’t just the boys.

Pixie had been so happy earlier, her bare breasts bouncing as she rode that big almost mutant sized dick. She had no shame, no hesitation, no resistance. She was glowing, radiant, free in a way that Hisako couldn’t stop envying, even as she told herself she should be horrified.

And now... her own body was betraying her, too.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, her thighs pressing together as she took a shaky breath. She told herself it was nothing, just nerves, just the stress of the situation. But deep down, she knew the truth. Her nipples were pebbled hard, pressing against the fabric of her shirt, and her pussy throbbed with a slow, insistent ache that wouldn’t be ignored.

She shook her head, forcing herself to look away from Roberto, from the blanket, from the faint sound of Tuwola’s hum as she finished her task.

Hisako’s shoulders relaxed as she let out a quiet sigh, the earlier sharpness in her tone fading into something more forgiving. "Just… be careful, okay?" she muttered, barely realizing she’d said it aloud.

Roberto blinked, his expression shifting to one of surprise before settling into something almost grateful. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice low and hoarse. "Thanks, Hisako."

She turned away before he could say more, her cheeks flushing slightly as she made her way back toward her bed. The heat of his presence lingered in her mind, mingling with the warm, soft feelings she was suddenly having. It didn’t feel like a betrayal anymore. It just felt… inevitable.

Mutant boys were going to do what mutant boys were going to do.

And, for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, she found it hard to be angry about that.