Spreading the Web

The private study lounge on the third floor of Midtown University’s library is narrow, boxed in by frosted glass walls that blur the passing students into gray ghosts. Inside, it smells of old carpet and floor wax. Gwen Stacy doesn’t sit in any of the four mismatched chairs. She’s perched on the edge of the oak table, one leg crossed over the other, balancing a thick organic chemistry textbook on her thigh.

Her straight, blonde hair is pulled back by a thin black headband. She’s wearing a fitted white crew-neck sweater tucked into high-waisted dark jeans that hug the long, lean length of her legs. The knit fabric shapes smoothly over the firm slope of her chest and curves tightly into her waist. She looks up the moment the door clicks open, her piercing blue eyes fixing on Peter first.

"Hey, Pete," she says. Her voice is light, but it carries a flat, heavy edge of fatigue. Faint dark circles smudge the skin beneath her lower lashes. Then her gaze slides to you. One blonde eyebrow lifts a fraction of an inch. "And... you brought company."

"Gwen, this is Adam Marcus," Peter says, stepping aside. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, his hands twitching near his pockets. "He's in my advanced physics section. Brilliant guy. I figured he could help us knock out the problem sets."

"Hey," you say, keeping your posture loose, your tone easy.

Gwen’s eyes sweep down your frame and back up—quick, clinical, assessing. She gives you a polite, practiced smile that stops short of her eyes. "Hey, Adam. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

Peter drops his backpack onto a chair, pats his pockets theatrically, and snaps his fingers. "Crap—I left my water bottle in the car. I'll be right back." He’s already backing out the door, giving you a sharp, barely visible nod. "You guys get started. I'll only be a minute."

The door clicks shut.

Through the frosted glass, Peter’s silhouette shrinks down the corridor and vanishes around the corner. You know he isn’t coming back. Gwen doesn't. She turns back to you to make polite conversation while passing the time, uncrossing her legs, and setting the heavy textbook on the table. "So," she says, tilting her head. "Advanced physics, huh? What's—"

You don’t let her finish the sentence before activating your power.

Thump.

Her mind hits yours like a high-speed collision. It’s the same blistering, superhuman processing speed you found inside Peter—synapses firing in dense, electric cascades that make baseline human thoughts look like molasses. But you’re used to the speed now. You’ve practiced on Spider-Man's brain long enough to ride the current without drowning.

You sink into the torrent and start begin your work.

You grab the deepest roots first: her genuine warmth for Peter, the years of shared trauma, the slow-burn romantic tension. You rip them out. In the empty spaces, you inject a cold, crystalline contempt. Gratitude turns into irritation. Every memory of Peter looking at her in her skin-tight spandex is retrofitted with a sharp, visceral disgust—making his silent admiration feel entirely creepy and uninvited.

You make her decide to tolerate him only because he’s a useful shield. Every memory of him saving her turns into a memory of her manipulating a simp to take a bullet for her.

By the time you reshape her core, a natural sense of cruel amusement bubbles up from her subconscious. She remembers how easily he fell for her smiles, how pathetically grateful he was for crumbs, never even realizing she was pulling his strings. She notes, with a mental sneer, that she didn't have to hug him to get him to risk his life for her on a dozen occasions.

Once you reduce Peter to a pathetic tool, you build your a monument to yourself in her mind.

You plant the first seed months ago: a glimpse of your profile across the campus quad in the autumn sun, making her chest tighten. You weave dozens of these phantom moments—passing her in the hall, sitting three rows back in a lecture hall, the sound of your laugh. You make sure you never initiate. In every fake memory, you are detached, polite, and completely out of reach. She remembers you smiling at her exactly once, a memory she now replays obsessively every night in the dark.

You lace those sleepless nights with heavy, vivid fantasies of you. You rewrite her private moments until your face is the only one she sees. You make her so consumed by the obsession that she begins using her spider-powers to stalk you through the city, learning your routines, trying to figure out exactly what kind of girl you want so she can become your fantasy, much like you are hers.

Then, you let her find your 'secret.'

You give her the vivid memory of hiding in the shadows of a secluded corridor, watching you meet Peter and Mary Jane. She remembers the sickening spike of jealousy as you slung an arm around the redhead’s waist, pulling her flush against you for a deep, bruising kiss while Peter just stood there, smiling like a dog getting his belly rubbed.

She remembers cornering Peter that night in their warehouse hideout. Under her pressure, he cracked instantly—stammering, pathetic, confessing everything. The cuckold arrangement. The cage. The videos. Gwen’s rewritten mind processes the memory with zero surprise that Peter is a cuck, but with a white-hot, furious envy that you chose Mary Jane over her.

Why her? the memory echoes. Why that soft, ordinary girl? I'm Ghost-Spider. I could break her in half.

While she is stewing in jealousy and anger, Peter confesses he is in love with her. Before Gwen can react with disgust and tell Peter just how pathetic and repulsive she finds him, Peter continues that he wants to watch you fuck her almost as much as he wants to see you breed Mary Jane.

With Gwen stunned in to silence, Peter carries on, admitting that he noticed her stalking you. He knows she wants you too.

He offers a trade: he’ll set it up, but he wants the tapes to jerk off to. Gwen remembers the flash of disgust, but she accepts anyway. She’d accept any humiliation in exchange for the privilege of being your whore. She only has one condition: Peter couldn’t be there the first time. She is—you note with some surprise—a virgin, and she wanted her first time to be private.

Peter agreed, but only if you took the photos and videos to hand over later.

You finish the layout, smoothing the edges until the fake timeline locks perfectly into the present. Her current exhaustion isn’t from a superhero patrol; it’s from weeks of agonizing over this meeting. Peter hadn't left to get his water bottle. He had escorted you in, and then left to give the two of you privacy, as per his deal with Gwen.

Changes made, you pull back.

Snap.

Time rushes back into the room. Gwen’s blue eyes lock onto yours with absolute, burning clarity. The dark circles under her eyes are still there, but the fatigue has turned into pure, desperate hunger.

Without a word, she slides off the table, dropping straight onto her knees on the thin carpet right in front of you. Her hands reach out, trembling slightly, fingers going straight for your belt.

You catch her wrist. "Not here. I booked a room."

Gwen’s breath hitches. Her eyes widen, a sharp hit of validation rushing through her features. To her, the room means you wanted her enough to prepare. She stands up, her long legs straightening with fluid, athletic grace, and grabs her backpack.

"Where?" she asks, and there's a raw edge to the word. Hunger. Need.

"The Gramercy Motel. Twelve minutes by foot."

"Okay," she says quickly, tucking a stray blonde strand behind her ear. "Yes. Let's go."

She's already moving toward the door, then catches herself—stops, turns back to face you. Her jaw tightens with visible effort as she forces herself to slow down, to not appear too eager. She doesn't want to seem desperate, like she's as much of a simp as Peter, even though every fiber of her rewritten being is screaming at her to throw herself at you.

"Adam," she says, her voice steadying. "I want you to know something. I'm not Mary Jane. I'm not going to share you forever. Today is about showing you exactly what you've been missing."

You look her up and down—starting from the sharp line of her jaw, down the white knit of her sweater, over the tight cinch of her waist, and down the long, denim-wrapped curve of her thighs. You take your time, letting her feel the weight of your stare.

"Show me then," you say. "Let me see your tits."

The flush on her cheeks deepens to scarlet. Her fingers hook into the hem of her white crew-neck sweater, her knuckles going bone-white as her chest heaves with short, shallow breaths. She doesn't look away from you. Holding your gaze, she pulls the fabric up and over her head, exposing a simple pale-blue bra underneath.

Her abs flex with the movement—taut, lean, and sharply defined from years of acrobatic combat.

She pauses for a single beat, her breathing ragged, then reaches behind her back. A sharp click, and the bra drops to the floor.

Her breasts are small, firm teardrops that sit high and tight against her ribs. In the cool library air, her delicate, pale-pink nipples bud and stiffen immediately.

Her skin is flawless, porcelain-smoot. She stands there trembling, flashing her tits as her blue eyes burn into yours, desperate for your approval.

You let your eyes trail over her bare skin, slow and clinical. Then, you let out a single, dismissive exhale through your nose.

"That's it?"

Gwen flinches as if struck. The color drains from her face.

"Mary Jane’s tits are bigger than your head," you say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. "She fills my hands and then some. And she wouldn't be shaking like a leaf. You..." You give her bare chest a casual, disappointed wave of your hand. "I hope the rest of you is less disappointing, Stacy."

The insult hits her like a physical blow. The words land like a physical blow. Her jaw drops slightly, her piercing blue eyes flooding with humiliation, but not anger. Her rewritten mind doesn't process the insult as cruelty. It processes it as a challenge. A test she is failing.

"Adam, I—" her voice cracks, desperate to explain, to fix it.

You don't let her finish. You step in close, palm her shoulder, and spin her around to face the door. Her blonde hair whips across her bare shoulder blades. Before she can even react, you bring your open palm down hard across her ass.

SMACK.

She has taken full-force punches from the Rhino and gotten back up, so the physical sting is nothing to her enhanced physiology. Yet she gasps, her spine arching violently as a heavy shudder ripples up her naked back. Lust and arousal, not pain.

"Move," you command, snatching her discarded bra off the floor and stuffing it into your bag. A reward for Peter to jerk off into, as thanks for his help enslaving another girl he loved. "We're leaving."

Gwen’s cheeks burn a furious crimson. Her lips are parted, her pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the blue of her eyes. She doesn't argue. She doesn't say a word. She yanks her white sweater back down over her chest with trembling hands, her long legs suddenly clumsy and unstable beneath her.

You push open the frosted glass door and place a firm hand on her lower back. Without any hesitation, you begin walking your new bitch to the motel so you can steal the virginity she had once dreamed of giving to Peter.

---

The room at the Gramercy Motel smells of cheap tobacco and cheaper bourbon.

A single, scuffed leather suitcase sits in the center of the sagging mattress. You flick the brass latches. They open with a sharp, metallic snap, and the lid falls back against the bed with a soft thump.

Gwen stands three feet behind you, her bare feet sinking into the thin, stained carpet. She kicked off her sneakers the moment the door locked. The room’s single window is completely sealed by a heavy blackout curtain, trapping the two of you in the low, amber glow of a single bedside lamp.

You reach into the suitcase and lift the outfit by its thin, black strap, letting it dangle in the dim light.

The custom-ordered slavekini is a deep midnight blue trimmed in glossy black leather. The top consists of two triangular metal cups connected by a delicate chain harness designed to loop around the neck and cross the back. The bottom is a sheer, high-slit loincloth attached to a low-slung belt of interlocking gold links. Matching gold arm cuffs and a thin blue and gold collar rest at the bottom of the case, alongside a hair ornament to replace her headband.

"Peter picked this out for you," you say, tossing the metal and leather onto the mattress. "He was very specific. Said he'd been fantasizing about seeing you in it for months."

A heavy flush crawls up her neck, staining her porcelain skin. She steps closer, her fingertips tracing the cold metal cups, testing the weight. "Figures," she says, her voice tight. "Of course the spineless cuck would want to see me wearing a degrading costume."

She looks up, her blue eyes searching yours. "Do you want to see me wear this?"

You shrug, noncommittal. "It might be hot. Put it on and we'll see."

"Then I'll do it for you," she says. "Not him."

Her fingers hook into the hem of her white sweater. She pulls it up and over her head, letting it drop to the floor. Her breasts are already painfully stiff, her nipples flushed pink against her skin in the cool room air. Holding your gaze, she reaches down, hooking her thumbs into her waistband and peeling the dark jeans down the long, toned length of her legs with a dancer’s fluid grace.

Underneath, she wears simple black boyshorts. She hesitates for a single heartbeat—then strips those too.

Naked, Gwen Stacy is a study in lethal, athletic beauty. Every line of her body is lean, carved, and coiled with hidden power. Her waist tapers sharply above the subtle flare of her hips. The muscles of her abdomen flex with every breath—defined like cables beneath silk from years of acrobatic combat. Between her thighs, a neat strip of pale blonde hair catches the amber light.

She picks up the outfit. She steps into the loincloth first, fastening the gold belt low on her hips. The sheer fabric pools between her legs, doing nothing to conceal her. Next comes the top—she clasps the chain behind her neck, settling the midnight-blue cups over her breasts. They are deliberately undersized, pressing into the soft flesh and forcing a deep, spilling cleavage.

Finally, she takes the collar. With steady, trembling hands, she fastens the thin black leather around her own throat, flush against her hammering pulse.

She turns to face you fully, arms at her sides, her chin lifted in a desperate imitation of defiance.

"Well?" Her voice is a rough whisper. "What do you think?"

"You'd make a decent sex slave," you say flatly. "Decent. Not great. Right now, I'm willing to keep you around for two things." You hold up one finger. "One: cleaning my cock after I'm done fucking Mary Jane." You raise a second finger. "Two: eating her out after I pump her full. Licking my cum out of her pussy like a good little slut."

You sit back on the edge of the bed, spreading your knees wide. "If you want to be more than that to me, you are going to have to prove yourself."

She takes the hint. Her knees hit the thin carpet right between your feet. The sheer loincloth pools around her thighs, and the midnight-blue metal cups catch the lamplight as her chest heaves.

"Hands behind your back," you command.

Her wrists cross at the small of her spine without a second thought. The posture forces her shoulders back, throwing her breasts forward against the inadequate metal cups. She looks up through pale lashes, her lips parted.

You unzip slowly. Deliberately. The metallic track grinds open in the quiet room. When you free yourself, already thick and heavy, Gwen's pupils blow wide. Her tongue darts across her lower lip—an involuntary, hungry reflex.

"Have you ever sucked a cock before?"

She shakes her head, a tight, sharp motion. Her cheeks burn a furious scarlet. "No. Never. I wanted—" She swallows hard. "I wanted you to be the first everything."

You reach forward, wrapping your fingers into the silk of her blonde hair, and pull her face closer until her lips hover a centimeter from the swollen head of your shaft. Her hot, unsteady breath ghosts across your skin.

"Then you better hope you're a fast learner. If I feel any teeth, I'm not going to be happy."

Gwen's jaw drops open. Wide. Eager. Desperate to get this right.

The first contact is electric. Her soft, wet lips close tentatively around the tip, her tongue pressing flat against the underside with clumsy, unpracticed pressure. She takes you shallow at first, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. You feel the velvet heat of her mouth, the slight scrape of teeth that she immediately corrects by pulling her lips tighter.

"If you want to compete with Mary Jane, you are going to have to deep-throat me," you say, setting an unrealistic bar for a virgin.

Gwen tries anyways, pushing forward an inch. Her throat constricts—a gag reflex that her enhanced physiology suppresses with startling speed. Her blue eyes water, but she never breaks eye contact. She pulls back, gasps once, then drives forward again with more force, swallowing you halfway. The wet, slick sound of her effort fills the small room.

"Mary Jane uses your tongue more," you say. "Try swirling it."

She obeys instantly. Her tongue curls and strokes along the underside of your shaft as she bobs—sloppy, untrained, but devastatingly enthusiastic. Saliva builds at the corners of her stretched lips, a thin strand breaking free and dripping onto the chain between her collar and her top.

Her hands remain locked behind her back, the muscles of her arms flexing with the strain of keeping them there while her upper body rocks forward and back. Her breasts shift inside the metal cups with each thrust of her head. She’s learning at superhuman speed—adjusting her angle, suction, and rhythm based on your every twitch.

She might actually be able to compete with Mary Jane with a few days of practice, at this rate. An unbelievable achievement for a virgin. Hiding how impressed you are, you urge her to go faster.

Gwen moans around your length—a vibrating, desperate sound that shoots straight up your spine. Her pace doubles. The obscene, wet rhythm of her mouth working your length fills the room, punctuated by sharp nasal inhales every time she pulls back to breathe. Tears streak down both cheeks, smearing through the faint dark circles beneath her eyes, but she doesn't stop.

You tighten your grip in her hair and hold her still, buried deep enough to make her throat spasm. Her blue eyes go wide, streaming tears—and beneath the physical distress, there is nothing but raw, blazing gratitude that you are using her.

While she continues, you reach into your back pocket and pull out your phone. You thumb open the camera app, toggle it to video, and tap record.

The red dot blinks to life in the corner of the screen.

You angle the lens downward, framing the shot. The viewfinder captures everything: the thin black collar cinched around her pale throat, the gold chain harness crossing her bare collarbones, the midnight-blue cups shifting with each forward lunge of her head. Her tear-streaked cheeks hollow with suction, her stretched lips glistening with a mess of saliva coating her chin.

"Look at the camera, Gwen."

Her wet, bloodshot eyes snap upward, locking directly into the lens. She doesn't slow down. If anything, she pushes harder, forcing another inch past her limit. A thick, gurgling sound escapes around your shaft.

"Say your name," you command, pulling her back by the hair just far enough for her lips to pop free. A heavy rope of saliva bridges from her swollen lower lip to the slick head of your cock. She gasps, her chest heaving rapidly.

"G-Gwen Stacy," she pants, her voice raw and wrecked. Her eyes stay glued to the red recording light.

"And what are you doing right now, Gwen Stacy?"

She swallows hard, her fingers white-knuckled behind her back. "Sucking your cock," she whispers. "I'm sucking Adam Marcus's cock. And I love it."

"Good girl." You guide her mouth back down, and she swallows you eagerly, moaning around your length. The phone captures the wet, rhythmic sound of her worship. You pan the camera slowly, capturing her athletic, nearly-naked body wrapped in the degrading costume, her spine arched, her toned shoulders flexing. The sheer loincloth has ridden up, pooling uselessly around her hips and exposing the tight curve of her ass.

"This is for Peter," you tell her conversationally, watching her throat bulge with each deep stroke. "He set this whole thing up. The least I can do is send him the highlight reel."

Gwen makes a muffled sound around your cock—half moan, half derisive laugh. She pulls back just enough to speak, her lips brushing your shaft. "Tell that pathetic cuck—" she licks a long, slow stripe from base to tip, her eyes blazing into the camera, "—he's welcome."

"Why are you so sure he's going to be grateful?" You grab her by the collar. "He's been watching me fuck his wife for months now. I don't think he'll be able to get off on something this tame. If you want him to be thankful, we'll have to do a little more."

Your fingers hook beneath the leather band and haul her upward. She rises fluidly, her superhuman balance keeping her steady despite her trembling legs. One firm shove between her shoulder blades sends her tumbling forward onto the sagging mattress. She lands on her stomach, the midnight-blue loincloth riding up past her hips, exposing the tight, pale globes of her ass and the glistening pink slit between her thighs.

"On your back," you command. "I want to see your face."

Gwen rolls over immediately, her blonde hair fanning across the stained motel pillowcase. The metal cups have shifted, one breast spilling completely free—small, firm, the nipple flushed deep pink. Her chest heaves. Her legs press together instinctively, knees drawn up, a last vestige of modesty her rewritten mind can't quite override yet.

You set the phone on the nightstand, propping it at an angle that captures the full length of the bed. The red recording light blinks steadily. Then you climb over her, planting one knee between her thighs and pressing them apart with slow, inexorable force.

"Adam—" her hands find your shoulders, gripping hard enough that you feel the terrifying, restrained power coiled in her fingers. She could crush your collarbone without trying. Instead, her nails dig in with desperate, human need. "I've never—please be—"

"I know," you say. You don't tell her you'll be gentle. You won't be.

You reach down between her spread thighs. She's soaking—absolutely drenched, her arousal coating her inner thighs in a slick, translucent sheen. Your fingers slide through the wet heat, parting her swollen folds, and she bucks against your hand with a choked sob. You line yourself up, the broad head of your cock pressing against her virgin entrance. She is impossibly tight—the muscle tension of a superhuman body that has never been penetrated.

"Look at the camera, Gwen."

Her head turns. Those piercing blue eyes lock onto the blinking red dot.

You thrust forward.

The resistance gives way in one sharp, splitting motion. Gwen's entire body seizes beneath you, her spine arching violently off the mattress, her mouth dropping open in a silent scream. Her inner walls clamp around you with crushing, superhuman tightness—wet, scalding, gripping your shaft so hard that stars burst behind your eyes.

"Oh—oh God—" The sound finally tears free from her throat, raw and ragged. Her fingernails rake down your back hard enough to leave raised welts through your shirt. Her enhanced body adapts with terrifying speed—the initial resistance melting within seconds as her muscles recalibrate, the crushing tightness easing just enough to allow you to pull back and drive forward again.

The second thrust buries you to the hilt. Her pelvis rocks upward to meet you, instinct overriding inexperience. Her mouth hangs open, panting, her blue eyes unfocused and rolling back as the sensation overwhelms her enhanced nervous system.

"Look at the camera," you growl against her ear, your hips finding a slow, punishing rhythm. "Tell Peter what's happening to you right now."

Gwen turns her head toward the phone, tears streaming freely, her expression a shattered mosaic of pain, pleasure, and absolute surrender.

"Peter—" she chokes out between thrusts, her voice cracking on each syllable as your hips slam forward. "He's—inside me. Adam is—ah—f-fucking me. He took it. He took my virginity and it feels—" A guttural moan interrupts her, her back arching as you hit something deep that makes her entire frame convulse. "—incredible. It feels so fucking good. You'll n-never have me like this. Never."

You settle into a devastating rhythm. Each stroke is a full withdrawal—pulling back until only the swollen head remains caught between her slick, gripping walls—followed by a single, brutal drive forward that bottoms out against her cervix. The impact rocks her entire frame up the mattress, her blonde hair sliding across the pillow, her fingers twisting into the cheap sheets until her knuckles go bone-white.

Gwen's mouth falls open on the third stroke. On the fourth, a broken keen escapes her throat. By the fifth, her enhanced body has fully adapted—the residual sting of her torn virginity completely erased by her healing factor, replaced by a hypersensitivity that makes every ridge and vein of your cock register like a brand against her inner walls.

And yet she's not looking at you; she's still looking at the camera with a glare that is almost malicious. "He's—" she gasps as you pull back with agonizing slowness, her walls clinging to your shaft, resisting the withdrawal. "...so thick. I can feel every inch of him sliding out. My whole body is—pulling him back in. Like I'm begging him not to leave."

You reward her with the next thrust. Hard. Deep. Her eyes slam shut and her hips jerk upward to meet you.

"He's so deep, Peter," she continues, her voice cracking on your next withdrawal. You hold yourself at her entrance, just the tip inside, making her wait. Her thighs tremble violently against your hips. "You can never make me feel this full," she chokes out. "Completely full. Like there's no space left. Like he's rearranging me. My whole body is—wrapped around him. Squeezing. I can feel my heartbeat against his cock."

You slam forward. She screams—a raw, animal sound that bounces off the thin motel walls.

"And right there—" her voice shatters into a desperate whine, her abs flexing hard beneath her pale skin as her hips grind up into yours. "—there's a spot. Deep inside. Every time he hits it, my vision goes white. Like electricity shooting up my spine. I've never—nothing has ever—"

Another slow, merciless withdrawal. You watch her face contort—the agony of emptiness written across every feature. Her fingers release the sheets and grab your forearms instead, her grip terrifyingly strong, trembling with the effort of not pulling you back inside by force.

"I'm so happy you're a cuck," she says to the camera. "I'm sure Mary Jane is too. I'm glad you're not forcing a girl to settle for your pathetic excuse of a cock—"

You drive forward again, cutting off her words, replacing them with a guttural, shuddering moan that her enhanced vocal cords amplify into something almost musical in its desperation.

Her legs wrap around your waist, crossing at the ankles, her heels digging into the small of your back. The position tilts her pelvis, changing the angle, and on your next slow, grinding thrust she convulses—her entire superhuman frame seizing beneath you as a sudden, violent orgasm rips through her without warning.

Her walls clamp down with crushing force. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, her back arched so high only her shoulders and heels touch the mattress. The wet, rhythmic contractions pulse around your shaft like a heartbeat—squeezing, releasing, squeezing—and the sensation is so intense you have to stop moving entirely, gritting your teeth, fighting your own release.

Gwen collapses back onto the bed, gasping, her chest heaving, tears streaming freely. Her blue eyes find the camera again—dazed, destroyed, radiant.

"I just came," she whispers to the lens, her voice wrecked and wondering. "He made me cum on his cock. My first time and he made me—"

Her words are cut off as you pull out completely and flip her over.

It's effortless. Her body is boneless, post-orgasmic, and she rotates onto her stomach with the pliant grace of a ragdoll. You grab a fistful of blonde hair at the base of her skull and haul her up onto her hands and knees. The sheer loincloth falls uselessly to one side, pooling against the sheets. The gold belt sits crooked on her narrow hips. From this angle, you can see the lean, sculpted muscles of her back flexing beneath porcelain skin—her shoulder blades sharp as wings, her spine a perfect valley leading down to the tight, pale curve of her ass.

You reposition the phone, propping it against the headboard, angled to capture her face and the arch of her body in profile. The red dot blinks. You kneel behind her, one hand pressing down between her shoulder blades, forcing her chest lower until her cheek grazes the pillow and her back curves into a deep, obscene arch that presents her dripping cunt at the perfect height.

You spank her ass.

SMACK.

"Bad girl, cumming without my permission. Mary Jane wouldn't do that. You don't cum again unless I give you permission," you tell her flatly. "Understood?"

Gwen nods frantically, her blonde hair spilling across the stained pillowcase. "Yes—yes, I understand."

You test her obedience immediately by lining up and driving back inside her in one savage stroke.

The angle is devastating. From behind, you sink impossibly deep—deeper than before—and Gwen's entire frame lurches forward with a strangled, animal cry. Her fingers claw into the sheets, bunching the fabric into white-knuckle fists. Her enhanced walls grip you differently in this position, tighter along the top, creating a slick, ridged friction against the underside of your shaft that sends electric heat flooding up through your abdomen.

You set a brutal, measured pace. Each thrust drives her face into the pillow, her small breasts—one still caught in the metal cup, the other swinging free—rocking forward with every impact. The wet, percussive slap of your hips against her ass fills the motel room in a steady, metronomic rhythm.

"Adam—" she gasps after the sixth stroke, her voice muffled by the pillow. She turns her head toward the camera, blue eyes wild, her mouth hanging open. "I'm already—it's building again—so fast—"

Her hips push back against you involuntarily, meeting your next thrust with a shuddering collision that makes her spine seize. Her thighs are shaking—visibly, violently—the coiled superhuman muscle quivering beneath her skin like she's fighting against her own body.

"Please—" The word rips from her throat, aimed directly at the blinking red light. "Please can I cum? I need to cum on your cock again. I can't hold it. You're so deep and I can't—I can't stop it—please—"

You don't grant permission. Instead, you increase your pace—shorter, sharper strokes that hammer against the deepest point inside her. Gwen's begging dissolves into incoherent, sobbing fragments.

"Please please please—Adam—I'll do anything—let me—I need—"

Her walls are fluttering around you, clenching in rapid, involuntary spasms. She's right on the edge, her enhanced body screaming toward release, every muscle locked rigid, held back only by the fear of disappointing you.

"Adam—please—I asked—I begged—" Her words dissolve into a choked, hitching sob as you bottom out and hold, grinding your hips in a slow, devastating circle that keeps constant, maddening pressure against her front wall. Her pussy flutters and clenches around you in frantic, involuntary spasms—her body screaming for the orgasm you won't let her have.

"Not yet," you say flatly. "If you cum before I give you permission, I won't fuck you again."

You pull almost completely out. She wails. You wait three full seconds—watching her ass push backward, desperately chasing you—then slam back in with a single, punishing stroke. Her face buries into the pillow, muffling a scream. You repeat the pattern. Out. Wait. Watch her writhe. Slam.

Each time, you feel her edge closer. Each time, her walls clamp tighter, her moans pitch higher, her legs shake harder. And each time, you pull away just before she crests, leaving her suspended in an agonizing, white-hot limbo.

"Tell the camera what you'll do in exchange for me letting you cum," you command after the fifth denial. Your hand presses her face sideways, forcing her to look at the blinking red light. Her blue eyes are destroyed—swollen, streaming, bloodshot, utterly vacant of anything except animal need.

"Anything," she rasps. Her voice is barely human. "I'll be your slave. Forever. I'll lick Mary Jane clean. I'll wear whatever you want. I'll quit—I'll quit everything—just for you. I'll give up my whole life. Please. Please. I can't—I can't take it anymore—I'm going to die—"

Her hips buck backward into you involuntarily. You feel it—the absolute razor's edge. One more stroke and her body will override her mind entirely, permission or not.

You lean forward, pressing your chest against her arched back, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. Your hand wraps around the front of her collar, pulling the leather taut against her throat.

"Cum."

The single word detonates her.

Gwen's orgasm hits with seismic, full-body violence. Her spine snaps into an impossible arch, her superhuman muscles locking so hard the cheap motel bedframe groans beneath the force. A raw, shattered scream rips from her throat—not a moan, not a cry, but something primal and annihilating that fills every corner of the room. Her walls crush around you in rhythmic, milking contractions so powerful that your vision whites at the edges—each pulse dragging you deeper, gripping you with force no human woman could generate.

Her thighs clamp shut against your hips. Her fingers shred through the fitted sheet entirely, nails puncturing the mattress pad beneath. The orgasm doesn't crest and fall—it sustains, rolling through her enhanced nervous system in wave after compounding wave, each contraction harder than the last, her body caught in a feedback loop that her superhuman physiology amplifies rather than dampens.

Twenty seconds. Thirty. Her screams dissolve into breathless, hitching sobs. Tears soak the pillow beneath her cheek. Her entire frame trembles with fine, uncontrollable vibrations—aftershocks rippling through muscle that could bench-press a sedan.

Finally—slowly—the contractions ease. Her body goes completely limp beneath you, collapsing flat against the mattress. Her breathing comes in shallow, ragged gases. Her blue eyes stare at nothing, pupils blown so wide they're nearly black.

"Thank you," she whispers. The words are barely audible. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..."

You, on the other hand, have not cum yet, but you feel the pressure building—a white-hot coil tightening at the base of your spine, fed by the relentless, milking aftershocks still rippling through Gwen's superhuman walls.

Unlike with Mary Jane, impregnating Gwen will draw attention you don't want. Not the least of which will be from her police commissioner dad.

So you pull out. The withdrawal draws a long, wet sound from her swollen cunt, followed by a broken whimper as her hips instinctively push backward, chasing the fullness.

You clamber on to her until you are straddling her torso, your rigid cock jutting forward inches from her face. She looks down her body at it, blue eyes half-lidded, swollen from crying, but they look at your cock with worshipful focus. Her lips part—swollen, bitten raw—more than ready to accept another round of face-fucking.

You have something else in mind, gripping yourself at the base, stroking once—twice—the slick heat of her arousal still coating your shaft providing frictionless, devastating momentum. The phone on the headboard captures everything: the angle of her jaw, the thin collar, the desperate devotion burning in those ruined blue eyes.

"Open your mouth," you grunt. "Tongue out."

Her tongue extends—pink, wet, trembling. She holds it flat, waiting.

The orgasm tears through you with a guttural groan. The first thick, white rope fires directly across her left cheek, catching the bridge of her nose and streaking diagonally toward her temple. The second lands heavy on her extended tongue, pooling in the center before overflowing past her lower lip. The third and fourth paint her chin and throat, splattering against the black leather of the collar, the white cum catching in the stitching and pooling in the hollow of her clavicle.

Gwen doesn't flinch. Doesn't close her eyes. She holds perfectly still as you mark her—each hot impact making her breath hitch, her pupils dilating wider, her thighs pressing together beneath you. A final, weaker pulse lands directly on the chain connecting her collar to the metal cups of the slavekini, the white streak draping across the links like obscene jewelry.

You milk the last drops onto her parted lips, dragging the slick head of your cock across her lower lip, smearing the remnants into her skin. She closes her mouth, swallows what landed on her tongue with a visible gulp, then looks up at you through the mess—mascara-free tears still drying on her cheeks, your cum streaked across her face and throat like war paint.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her voice is barely a rasp. She reaches up with one trembling hand, running her fingertip through the thick streak on her cheek, lifting it to the camera's lens to show the consistency before sliding it between her lips and sucking it clean with a soft pop. "Is this—did I do good?"

The question comes out small. Hopeful. Desperate for validation.

You look down at her—Ghost-Spider, New York's costumed heroine, lying beneath you in a slave costume with your cum dripping down her collar—and feel the familiar, intoxicating surge of dark triumph settle into your bones like warm liquor.

"You tell me," you say, and activate your power one more time.

If the image links break, see: https://civitai.red/posts/29593374