Monica, Under the Gun [pt. II]

Monica bent over, bracing herself on her knees gasping, still hard as iron, her cock giving angry little twitches in the open air while her aching white balls felt swollen and heavy with roiling sperm that had nowhere to go yet. She **** herself to take inventory through the haze. Was she still herself, or had all that touching turned her into one more slick obedient pawn in his little kingdom? No. She liked him, yes. She trusted him, yes. And that had been incredible, almost certainly because of his power, but beneath the heat and the confusion her plan was still there where she’d left it. Escape if she could, get the word out if she had to, use this place before it used her completely. The dangerous part was that even while she told herself that, her whole body was still throbbing with the ghost of fire, fire, fire, and what she wanted right now was brutally simple: she wanted to fuck.

But she managed to straighten and turn back to them, determined to play her part with a grin that was part grimace of barely held back desire.

Mark’s eyes dropped and he grinned.

Monica followed his gaze a beat too late and felt heat rush straight into her face.

Her cock was standing out from her body like it wanted a fight. All thirteen inches of white, weapon-shaped meat were hard as iron, pulsing with ugly little angry beats. The broad head gleamed wetly, that dark too-wide opening flexing at the center while pale blue vein-paths shimmered under the skin from residual charge. And it was leaking. Not teasingly. Not prettily. It was pouring precum in thick glossy strings, enough that it rolled over the fat head and down the shaft like somebody had cracked a tap open and left it running.

Mark laughed.

“Oho,” he said. “I know that look.”

Monica swallowed.

Because yes, he did.

She was turned on out of her damn mind. Turned on by being fired. Turned on by his hand. Turned on by the bigger cock jammed up the line of her ass. Turned on by the fact that her gun had answered him instead of her.

Before she could pull herself back together, Mark reached out with his free hand, caught America by the arm, and yanked her in.

“Go ahead,” he said, shoving her toward Monica with a filthy grin. “Bust a nut in America.”

America gave a surprised bark of laughter as she stumbled forward right into Monica’s body.

Unlike Monica, America was still dressed.

Barely.

Painted-on jean booty shorts clung so tight they looked vacuum-sealed to the round swell of her ass, the frayed hem hugging the bottoms of her cheeks. Above them, a red-white-and-blue thong rode high enough that the whale-tail swooped over her bare hips in two bright patriotic arcs. She had on a tiny cropped jean jacket and almost nothing else. The front hung open, leaving her huge chocolate tits bare except for gold star pasties stuck over her nipples, the little metallic shapes flashing in the Forge light every time she moved.

Monica’s leaking cock pressed straight into all that denim and warm softness.

America looked down, then up at her, grinning with shameless delight.

“Well,” she said. “Guess that’s an order.”

Monica caught her by the waist automatically. Her hands spread over denim, over bare side, over warm skin. She liked Mark. She trusted Mark. Not in any way she could point to or name, but enough that the shove felt less like manipulation and more like indulgent permission from somebody dangerously magnetic.

And America was right there. Warm. Smirking. Annoying. Hot.

Monica glared at her.

America grinned wider.

Then they were kissing.

It started messy, almost by accident. Monica leaned in intending to say something sharp and instead caught America’s mouth with her own. America answered instantly, laughing into the kiss for half a second before it deepened. Hands grabbed. Mouths opened. Monica got a taste of lip gloss, spit, and the bright bratty energy America wore like perfume.

The room below them erupted.

America kissed like she did everything else, enthusiastically and with both hands. She got one palm around the back of Monica’s neck and the other around her leaking cock, dragging a rough helpless sound out of Monica when her fingers closed over the slick hard length. Monica answered by palming one of those big tits through the open jacket, thumb scraping over the edge of a gold star pasty before she squeezed hard enough to make America moan into her mouth.

And then the lift in Monica’s balls surged.

The two of them rose together.

It was not a clean vertical ascent. It was a slow spiral, bodies wrapped together, kissing and groping as Monica’s humming sack kept them both aloft. America’s hands were everywhere. In Monica’s hair. Down her back. Around her ass. Tugging Monica’s cock into the tight front of those ridiculous shorts while Monica kissed her harder and harder.

They rose into the huge vaulted space of the Forge, circling upward in broad lazy coils beneath the rafters and old stone arches. Orange forge-fire gleamed on the ancient beams. Shadows swung over them. The noise of the crowd below blurred into a hot approving roar.

America broke the kiss long enough to laugh breathlessly. “Oh, this is so much better than a bed.”

Monica grabbed her ass in both hands and hauled her tight against the front of her body. “You are unbelievably annoying.”

“You’re unbelievably hard.”

That part was not arguable.

Monica’s cock was pinned forward between them, hard enough to ache, leaking so much that the front of America’s painted-on shorts already showed a darker wet patch where the head kept grinding into denim.

Monica wanted inside her.

Now.

That turned out to be difficult.

America’s shorts were absurdly tight. Every time Monica tried to shove the stiff hot line of her cock where she wanted it, she found denim, seams, waistband, and America’s squirming laughter in the way.

America kissed her again, all teeth and tongue and bright little gasps, while Monica fumbled with the button, then the zipper, then tried to hook a hand under the shorts and got nowhere because they were stretched so snug over those big hips they may as well have been painted on for real.

“You wear this shit into battle?” Monica muttered against her mouth.

America smirked. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”

Monica gave the waistband a vicious tug. It barely budged. “It looks like it should be illegal.”

The jacket, Monica barely cared about. That tiny scrap of denim wasn’t hiding a damn thing anyway. America’s massive soft chocolate mamas were already completely out, glossy under the Forge light except for those ridiculous little gold star pasties on her nipples, and Monica had been having a great time grabbing, squeezing, and kneading them every chance she got. No, the real problem was lower. Those damned painted-on shorts. Those stupid vacuum-sealed little jean shorts and the thong under them were the only thing keeping Monica from the Latina hole she wanted to shove herself into. She groped America’s breast again with one hand, thumbing the edge of a pasty while America moaned into her mouth, but her other hand kept yanking uselessly at the waistband, trying to get at what she actually wanted.

Frustration built fast.

Monica’s balls hummed harder. Her cock throbbed meanly between them. Her body was already halfway conditioned into this moment by Mark’s hand and those subliminal little hooks he had left in her. She had just been fired like a weapon by a bigger man and then shoved, loaded and dripping, into the arms of another flying capable superhuman in a pair of painted-on shorts and a jacket too tiny to be decent. Of course her patience snapped.

America kissed the corner of her mouth and laughed softly. “What’s wrong, Futa Puta? Clothes too hard?”

That did it.

Monica grabbed her by the ass with one hand, then brought the other to her own cockhead.

America blinked. “Uh. What are you doing?”

Monica’s eyes went bright and mean. “Solving the problem.”

She cupped the broad wet head in her palm and focused.

America was durable. Extremely durable. Monica knew that. Strong enough to trade hits with monsters, tough enough to laugh through impacts that would pulp ordinary people. Monica did not even hesitate once that fact clicked into place.

The dark opening at the center of her glans widened.

Blue flooded the vein-paths under her shaft in one hard rush.

Then Monica turned her cock into a lightsaber.

A continuous beam of electric blue erupted from the tip with a vicious hiss, not a pulse this time but a sustained blade of Space Stone light. Monica held it a few inches off America’s body and dragged it downward with savage precision.

The effect on the clothes was immediate.

The tiny jean jacket simply came apart. Threads flashed white-blue, seams split, and whole slices of denim peeled away and went tumbling in smoking scraps. The red-white-and-blue thong followed, the high whale-tail severed cleanly on both sides so it fluttered loose into the air. Monica dropped the beam lower and carved through the waistband of the shorts in one glowing line. The painted-on denim shredded in strips and fragments, falling away from America’s hips and ass in crisp smoking ribbons.

America shrieked with delighted shock.

Below them, the room lost its mind.

And America’s skin?

Untouched.

Not a mark on her. Not even a reddening line. The blue beam licked over chocolate skin and left nothing but reflected light and gooseflesh.

Monica cut the beam and the last pieces of ruined patriotic denim spun down through the Forge like surrender flags.

America stared at her, fully nude now except for the gold star pasties somehow still stubbornly clinging to her nipples.

Then America burst out laughing.

“Oh, that was cool as fuck.”

Monica, breathing hard, looked her over and felt fresh hunger slam through her.

Bare hips. Bare cunt. Big tits with those absurd star pasties still gleaming on top. No more barriers. No more seams. No more fucking denim.

“Yeah,” Monica said, voice low and rough. “It was.”

America’s grin turned feral.

Then they were kissing again, harder than before, both of them naked enough now that there was no friction except skin and slickness and Monica’s leaking cock dragging over America’s stomach before America reached down, grabbed it, and guided that broad wet head exactly where Monica had been trying to put it for the last thirty seconds.

“There,” America whispered against her mouth. “Much better.”

Monica drove in.

Her cock plunged up into her in one thick, slick push that made America’s whole body jerk. America moaned instantly, loud and unashamed, and Monica nearly lost her hover from the **** of her own reaction.

Because it felt incredible.

America was warm and tight and greedy around her, and the act of thrusting into someone after being wound this tight, after being fired and handled and made to ache like this, hit Monica with almost painful relief. Her cock throbbed deep inside America. The broad head stretched her. The slick leaking from Monica’s tip and shaft turned every descent into a wet obscene glide.

America held on around Monica’s shoulders with one arm and braced the other against a wall that glanced too close as they flew randomly, laughing breathlessly even while she moaned.

“Holy shit,” America gasped. “Okay, yeah, that’s a dick.”

Monica let out one short, helpless sound that might once have been a laugh and then started moving in earnest.

She fucked the way she flew, pilot-tight and controlled at first. Small corrections. Stable thrust. Careful rhythm.

That lasted all of about five seconds.

Then America’s cunt clenched around her and Monica’s new fetish, fresh and ugly and hot as a brand, surged back through her body. She was still drunk on being handled by Mark. Still soaked in the erotic aftertaste of having her cock fired at another’s command. Still vibrating with the knowledge that a bigger, cockier, better-hung king had set this up with one shove and a grin.

The result was vicious because she knew this girl was invincible.

Not tough in the usual superhero way. Not merely durable. America could take anything Monica’s body wanted to dish out and then grin up at her like she wanted more. That realization lit something ugly and competitive and thrilling in Monica’s gut. No need to be gentle. No need to hold back. No need to pretend this was some tender little midair grind.

So she stopped pretending.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

The wet percussion of Monica’s hips driving up into America started echoing off the Forge’s huge vaulted ceiling, filthy and rhythmic, a meaty slap-slap-slap that turned every head below them upward. America’s body bounced on Monica’s cock with each brutal thrust, those big soft brown tits swinging wildly, the gold star pasties flashing in the witchlight like some obscene patriotic decoration. America threw her head back and laughed through her moans, dark curls spilling down while Monica fucked her hard enough to make her whole body jolt in the air.

“Fuck, there you are,” America gasped, voice breaking into a shameless cry as Monica drove up into her again. “That’s what I wanted. Stop flying so nice and fuck me, cabrona.”

Monica’s eyes flashed. “You want rough?”

America grinned down at her, cunt flexing greedily around Monica’s cock. “I want everything.”

That did it.

Monica shifted her grip and rolled them in the air. America let it happen, clearly enjoying the show, clearly strong enough to stop it if she actually wanted to. Monica was not muscling her around with strength. She was steering with that humming lift in her balls and with the fact that America was happy to be handled. One slick spinning turn, then another, and suddenly Monica was behind her.

The crowd below lost its mind.

America’s back hit Monica’s chest. Monica yanked both of her wrists behind her, trapped them together with one hand, not because she had super-strength but because America laughed and let it happen. Monica used her free hand to spread one broad palm across that round ass, squeezed once, then cracked it.

CLAP!

America screamed and laughed at the same time, the sound bouncing off the stone like a firework.

“There,” Monica hissed in her ear. “You needed that.”

“Again,” America shot back instantly, writhing against her.

Monica obliged.

CLAP!

That ass jiggled under her hand, plush and glorious, and Monica bent America farther forward from the waist, arching her back until those huge brown whale tits hung down beneath her and swayed loose in the air. Then Monica lined her cock up and shoved back into her from behind in one hard upward thrust that made America **** on a moan.

CLAP-CLAP. CLAP-CLAP. CLAP-CLAP.

Now it was really obscene. Monica behind her, one hand holding both wrists trapped back, the other alternating between gripping her hip and spanking that beautiful ass, while her white cock pistoned up into America’s cunt in loud wet strokes. Each thrust made the sound ring through the Forge. Clap of flesh. Slick slap of skin. Choked cries. Breathless laughter.

Below them, the people of New Westview were no longer just watching. They were reacting. Ducking. Reaching. Cheering.

Because Monica dropped lower.

Not all the way down to the floor. Just low enough to drag the show across the heads of the crowd, gliding them through the hot space over everyone’s faces while she kept fucking. America’s back stayed bowed, wrists pinned, tits hanging loose and heavy beneath her chest, the soft brown weight of them swaying so low they brushed hair, foreheads, reaching fingers. Men and women laughed and shrieked and stretched up toward those swinging breasts as Monica flew America over them like a parade float built entirely out of sex.

America was delirious with it.

“Dios mío!” she cried, half laughing, half breaking apart. “Monica, Monica, you crazy bitch, you’re really fucking me for the crowd!”

CLAP-CLAP-CLAP.

Monica answered with harder thrusts, every slam of her hips making America’s body jump. “You wanted my attention,” she said into her ear, voice rough and mean. “Now you’ve got everybody’s.”

America moaned so loudly people below whooped in response. Her cunt clenched down on Monica’s cock in frantic greedy spasms, and Monica felt it all. The impossible durability, the willingness, the fact that America could take this pace and this angle and this humiliating public display and still only burn brighter for it.

Monica loved that.

Loved it enough that the one-upness of it all got under her skin and turned her half feral. America had laughed. America had teased. America had acted like this was just one more game she could win by being shameless enough. Fine. Monica could be shameless too. Monica could outdo her. Monica could make her scream so hard the whole damn Forge remembered it.

So she flew them lower still and fucked her harder.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

The sound of Monica’s hips smacking into America’s ass became a steady brutal drumbeat over the cheering below. America’s tits kept dragging over heads and shoulders as they swept over the crowd, leaving a wake of laughter and stunned noises. Someone below got a faceful of soft breast and shouted in triumph. Felicia was cackling openly. Wanda clapped like this was the cutest thing she had ever seen. Even Natasha, arms folded, had a slight smile.

And Mark looked ecstatic.

The king stood below them with that huge cock still hanging thick between his legs, head tilted back, grin wide as he watched the flying pair he’d tossed together turn into a full-blown airborne fuckshow over his kingdom. That proprietary pleasure in his face struck Monica again, hot and traitorous, and she answered it by spanking America’s ass once more and driving into her so hard America shrieked.

“Tell me you can take it,” Monica demanded.

America twisted her head just enough to grin back at her over her shoulder, eyes shining, mouth open. “I can take anything, baby.”

Monica shivered at that. Then used it.

She held America’s wrists tighter, arched her even farther over, and fucked her like she believed it. Wet, brutal, relentless strokes that made America’s body quiver from shoulders to knees. Monica’s heavy balls hummed and swung beneath her, lift and lust and roiling pressure all feeding each other until every thrust felt like it might tip into firing again.

America was reduced to gorgeous filthy fragments beneath her.

“Fuck, yes. Yes. Like that.”
“Harder, Monica, harder.”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
“Oh my God, your dick is so fucking mean.”
Monica grinned, breath hot against America’s ear. “You like it mean.”

America let out a broken moan that was answer enough.

Below them the crowd kept roaring. Above them the vaulted ceiling kept throwing their noises back down in lewd echoes. And between them, Monica’s white cock kept driving up into America’s invincible body hard enough to make the whole Forge feel like it was bouncing to the same dirty beat.

Monica’s climax hit like a systems failure.

It started in her balls, the heavy white things drawing up and tightening with that dense humming pressure she knew so well, then surged forward through the whole length of her cock until every thrust into America’s slick invincible cunt felt like it was striking sparks off her spine. Her rhythm broke. Turned ragged. Meaner. Needier. CLAP-CLAP-CLAP went the wet slap of her hips into that gorgeous ass while America sobbed and laughed beneath her, wrists still pinned back, tits hanging and swinging over the crowd.

“There,” America gasped, voice shredded and ecstatic. “There, fuck, you’re gonna come, you’re gonna come in me, do it, do it, do it.”

Monica bit out a curse and drove into her as deep as she could get, the broad head of her cock punching up inside her one last brutal time. Her own orgasm tore through her with a hot blinding rush, so sharp it almost tipped her into firing again. Her cock jerked hard inside America. Once. Twice. Again. Cum surged up in thick violent pulses, and for one raw second Monica did what she always loved doing most, buried to the hilt in a pussy and emptying into it while her body shook with relief.

But habit and practicality snapped in right behind pleasure.

Even coming that hard, Monica phased the semen on instinct.

The first rope vanished intangible as it left her, ghosting through America’s insides instead of filling them. The next did too, and the next, a phantom load pumping through her while America still screamed and clenched around her like she was being bred for real. Monica loved the feeling anyway. Loved the deep hot pumping release, the way her cock spasmed inside a cunt, the way her balls finally loosened as the pressure drained out of them.

Then the phased cum came back.

Not inside America.

Above them.

A heartbeat later the Forge got caught in a white rain.

Thick pearly splashes dropped out of nowhere over the crowd below, pattering across faces, hair, shoulders, open mouths, raised hands, the stone floor. People shrieked and laughed and held their arms up into it like it was some sacrament from the world’s filthiest weather system. Wanda actually clapped harder. Felicia doubled over. Mark threw his head back and laughed like the whole thing delighted him beyond reason.

And Monica, still buried in America, still shuddering through the last hot little aftershocks of orgasm, could only hang there panting while America twisted in her grip, looked down at the cum-splattered cheering crowd, and burst out laughing.

“Cono… you phased the cum through me?!,” America gasped, then squeezed down on Monica’s softening cock with one last greedy pulse. “That’s rude. I wanted that creampie!”