Make Lemonade

You lifted the cane again. “Next question.”

The rule didn’t wait for her to like it. Her locked stance broke at the waist, not because she chose it, but because you wanted a better view. Captain Marvel growled as she found herself bending forward in a fashion that showed off her new glorious ass, red sash taut over the fresh plump of it, suit stretched tight enough to shine.

“Wonderful,” you noted, tapping her ass with the cane and enjoying how soft it was. “One of your signature moves is where you use that soft juicy ass to suffocate criminals and apprehend them?”

“No,” she snarled at the pavement. “I hit people. I fly. I put them down with my hands. I don’t— that’s not a move. That’s not me.”

Her mind went to work against her anyway.

She remembered the alley. A man under her. Her ass dropped onto his face like a hold, not a joke, his muffled shout dying against the soft new weight of her. She remembered slapping another one into a wall with her hip and keeping him there with her backside until he stopped kicking. She remembered the twitch under her and the ugly little spark of enjoyment that came with it. Public, too. A bump in a crowd that wasn’t an accident. A tease. A takedown. Her ass wasn’t just a sex symbol. It was a weapon she used, and used well.

“That’s not—” she tried again.

The moan got there first.

It tore out of her like it had been sitting in her throat the whole time, low and wet, cracking on the way up. Not a hero sound. Not a fight sound. The kind of sound a woman makes when something hits the exact place she didn’t want touched and her body answers anyway. It rolled through the bend of her, shook in her chest, caught on her teeth, and still came out filthy.

“Yes,” Carol said, bent over and shaking, the moan still riding the words. “Yes. I use it. I sit on them. I pin their faces. I bump them in public if I want them on the ground. I like it when they twitch. I like that they can’t do anything about it. I like that it’s mine.”

That last part wasn’t on your question. You hadn’t asked if she liked it. She’d gone further than you intended, feeding you the enjoyment, the public use, the pride in it, like her mouth had decided the denial was a waste of time.

“It’s an erotic part of you, isn’t it?”

Her “no” never made it past her teeth. What came out was a moan, wet and unwilling, while she stayed bent in the street with the red sash cutting a line across the new swell of her ass.

You almost slapped it. Your hand landed instead.

The suit was still thick, still built to take a punch, but what sat under it now had nothing to do with a soldier’s cut. Full. Heavy. The kind of ass that made the sash look like it had been waiting for a reason to exist, pulled tight through the crease, dipping into the split, then riding up over a pair of cheeks that were round enough to fill a hand and still spill past it. Soft over the muscle, not fat-soft, not gym-hard. Warm through the fabric. When you took a handful the meat gave, then pushed back, packed and perfect, like it had been grown for exactly this.

The whole locked shape of her tried to answer from the hips. Nothing moved. The sound did. It broke out of her every time your fingers sank in, low, wrecked, caught on her tongue, like the moan had found the place her body wasn’t allowed to go.

“Thing is,” you said, working that handful, thumb dragging the seam until the sash shifted, “what they don’t know is the arousal isn’t a weakness. It makes you more powerful.”

“It does.” She heard it leave her mouth and still couldn’t pull it back. “I love it.”

The proof ran through her before she could take it back. Heat climbed her spine like a fuse. Gold light bled under the suit at her hips, then up her back, then across the bare swell of her chest where the star used to sit. Her muscles jumped against the freeze, packed and live, like they wanted to tear the hold in half. She still couldn’t move. She could still get stronger. Every squeeze of your hand put more of it in her. The air around her hips went tight. Photons pricked along the sash. Her moan came out brighter for it, wrecked and pleased, like the power and the grope were the same thing.

A whimper followed the words, leftover heat with nowhere to go. Your palm stayed on her. Slow. Greedy. Making the suit wrinkle over the plump of her. Another pulse went through that ass into her core and the glow flared harder, turning the handful in your grip hot, heavy, and dangerous.

“That you do. But you especially love it when I do it.”

“Yes—” The rest came out of her like it had been waiting behind her teeth, voice shaking with lust and that rising charge. “Especially you. This ass is meant for you. Keep your hand on it. Rub that filthy cock against it. Use the sash. Use the suit. Grind until I can’t think. I pinned men with it and I still want you using it like a toy. Don’t ask. Don’t stop. Just take it. I get stronger every time you do.”

“But,” you stretch the word, “I know something better.”

You say it low, almost pleasant, and drop your trousers. Your cock comes up hard and unapologetic, and you set it against the seam where her clit would be under the suit. The fabric is still thick. It doesn’t matter. You drag the head there, slow, and Captain Marvel makes a sound that isn’t a snarl anymore. It breaks in her throat, wet, startled, filthy. Her locked hips try to chase it. They can’t. The moan does it for them.

“Your pussy is just for me,” you state, teasing her entrance through the suit, not in yet, just riding that soaked line until the cloth sticks.

“Yes,” she moans, and tries to shove back onto you. The freeze eats the movement. All she gets is her soaked suit kissing the head of your cock harder, clinging, a dark wet spot spreading over her cunt while a ruined sound punches out of her and turns into words.

“It’s yours,” Carol says, dripping through the fabric, “it’s been yours, don’t tease it, don’t rub around it like I’m going to last.” You drag over her clit anyway and her voice breaks on it, then keeps going, messy and urgent. “Split the suit. Take it. I don’t want a hero’s cunt anymore. I want it used. I want it known. I want you in me so deep I stop pretending I was ever going to walk away from this. If you keep dragging it over my clit I’m going to come on the outside of you and I don’t want that. I want it inside. I want it sloppy. Please.”

You keep the head of your cock there, lazy, cruel with how little you give her.

“It has waited for me all your life, like you have.”

“It has.” The words pile out wrecked. Her cunt flexes around nothing. “I flew. I fought. I cut my hair and put on the star and told myself I was done being looked at.” You slide over her again and the history in her mouth doesn’t match the mess she’s making of you. “The whole time this pussy was waiting for you to find it. I was waiting. I hated men and I still grew this body for one of them. For you. I’ve been empty my whole life and I didn’t know that was the reason.”

You smile against the back of her neck.

“Once I shove my dick inside you, you will become who you were already meant to be. My loyal, loving enforcer. You can still be yourself, but your desires, priorities, values will adjust to serving me.”

“Yes,” Carol moans, and her cunt clenches around nothing.

“I’ll be your enforcer. I’ll still be Carol. I’ll still fly, I’ll still hit.” You nudge her entrance through the soaked suit and her voice goes sloppy. “But every call will be for you. I’ll lock people down because you want them locked down. I’ll love you. I’ll serve you. I’ll come when you tell me to and I’ll come harder when you don’t. My values can move. Let them. I want it permanent. I want to remember I used to hate this and still beg you not to give it back.”

“And when I climax in you,” you say, lining up, “let’s just say that power boost will make all these small ones from your ass look minuscule.”

You shove forward.

The suit opens on the push, a wet split over her lower lips, and you sink into Captain Marvel in one thick stroke. She is hot, tight, soaked, the new hips giving your hands somewhere to hold while the freeze keeps the rest of her still and her cunt takes all the movement she isn’t allowed. The moan that leaves her is ugly with how good it is, dragged out of a woman who can punch through a ship and can’t do anything about a cock opening her in the middle of her own afterfight.

You bottom out. She clenches like she means to keep you. Gold light kicks under her skin, brighter than the handfuls on her ass, running down her belly into the place you’re buried.

“Fill it,” she gasps around you. “Come in it. Make the little boosts look like nothing.”

Then the shove finishes what the words started.

Carol is still Carol. The flyer, the hitter, the woman who makes the call in a fight, none of that leaves her. It just slides, slow and filthy, while she’s clenched around you and can’t do anything but take the cock rewriting the order of her. A moan leaks out as desire tips toward you and stays there, another as serving you moves to the front of her like a hand on the back of her neck. She loves you for it. Not later. Now. Frozen on your dick she wants to be your enforcer, loyal and loving, still herself and pointed at you, wants to lock people down because you want them locked down, wants to come when you tell her to and come harder when you don’t. She can remember hating this. That only makes the moan worse, because she can already hear herself begging you never to give the old order back.

You ease the freeze out of her hips. Not her fists. Not her flight. Just the bend of her, the slam of her.

Carol finds the slack and uses all of it.

She throws that new ass back onto you with a force that would have folded a normal man in half. The first hit of her cheeks against your hips is heavy, wet, perfect, the sash slapping between you as she takes you to the root and growls through her teeth like she’s been waiting to do this since you lined up. The second slam is harder. Photons spark along her spine. Her cunt grips down the length of you, greedy, and she does it again, and again, using the muscle and the weight you put on her like a weapon pointed the other way.

“Fuck—” she moans, already setting a rhythm that isn’t human. “Don’t freeze that. Don’t you dare freeze that.”

She rocks and slams, doggy and brutal, the plump of her ass colliding with your hips loud enough to echo. Each drive shoves you deeper than the last. You have to plant your feet. You have to hold the sash or she will knock you off her. She is enthusiastic in a way the lecture never was: head down, back arched, that soldier waist cutting in above hips that now have something to throw, fucking herself onto you like the loyalty speech was just the warm-up.

Gold light flares every time she bottoms you out. Stronger. Brighter. The handfuls on her ass were sparks. This is the current. Her moan breaks into something raw and pleased every time your cock punches that deep spot and her cheeks clap against you.

“Yes,” Carol pants, slamming back again, incredible might in it, suit wrinkled up her hips, dripping down both of you. “Like that. Use it. Let me move. I’ll fuck it. I’ll take it. I’ll make you come in me if you won’t do it fast enough.”

She slams back again, harder, and you feel the build start in your gut.

You take the sash in both hands and meet her. Not gentle. You drive into that wet, greedy cunt every time her ass collides with your hips, thick strokes that make the gold under her skin flare and die and flare again. Carol moans like she’s being paid in it, head down, short hair damp, that new plump ass clapping against you with enough force to rattle your teeth. The freeze is gone from her hips and she uses the slack like a gift, fucking herself onto you, milking you, trying to pull the climax out of you before you decide to give it.

“That’s it,” you growl against her spine. “Take it. You wanted the boost. Earn it.”

“Give it to me,” she pants, slamming back, photons sparking down her thighs. “Come in me. Do it. I can feel it. Don’t you hold it. Don’t you waste it outside. Put it in my womb. Fill it. Make the little ones look like nothing.”

You last through three more of those brutal hits, four, and on the fifth her cunt clamps down the whole length of you and you go over, burying yourself to the root as you spend. Thick ropes of semen punch into her, hot and heavy, flooding her womb in pulses she can feel, and Carol moans like the first one hurts in the best way, the second making her shake, the third having her push back to keep you sealed inside so none of it escapes. You keep coming and she keeps taking it, each rope kicking another wash of gold through her belly, brighter than the handfuls on her ass, brighter than the slams, a current pouring into the place you’re buried.

Her power evolves on it.

The glow doesn’t just flare this time. It changes while you’re still pumping her full, heat turning dense, photons tightening under her skin like a dial that had always been set too low finally getting wrenched. Carol moans raw through it, wrecked, her cunt fluttering around your cock and drinking every pulse as the strength lands in her bones and her hips and the womb you’re flooding.

Then the rest of her follows the cum.

The short pixie gives first. Blonde spills down her back in a sudden heavy rush, warm and thick, growing past her shoulders, past your hands, a long golden fall that keeps coming until it’s pouring over the slap of her ass and dragging across your thighs while you’re still buried in her. Soft. Living. Too much of it. The kind of hair the old soldier cut had been starving her of.

Her skin warms under you, going gold. When she throws a look back over her shoulder her eyes aren’t the old blue anymore. Amber. Sharp. Hungry. That red mouth is wet from moaning, parted around your name or a curse or both, and the sight of it over all that hair makes the cock in her kick.

The red-and-blue suit dies on her like it’s ashamed. Black swallows the star. A cropped high-collar jacket forms over her shoulders, gold piping, gold star-buttons down one lapel, a keyhole cut so deep those heavy tits sit pushed up and bare between the maroon and black. Deep red panels run her outer hips and thighs, gold vinework crawling the seams, a heart buckle kissing the waist you’re holding. Gloves seal her hands. What’s left is an enforcer in black and crimson and gold, packed tight with the chest and ass you wanted, hair everywhere, Captain Marvel gone into something built to serve you and take a load and hit what you point her at.

“Yes,” she gasps, clenched, stuffed, shaking through the change and the load together. “I feel it. I feel you in my womb. It’s bigger. I’m bigger. Don’t pull out. Keep coming. Make it stick.”