The Wedding & The Aftermath

Ice cubes clink rhythmically against glass, a sharp, clean sound in the humid warmth of your studio apartment.

Mary Jane glides out of the kitchen area, balancing a wooden tray. She steps directly into the pale sunlight streaming through the window, and your eyes immediately lock onto the spectacular, shifting weight of her boobs. Over the last four days, her collegiate wardrobe has completely vanished, replaced by outfits far better suited to her new life.

Today, she wears a microscopic pink gingham housewife apron that barely skims the soft, rounded bottom of her cheeks. The straps that should have covered her breasts have been deliberately pulled to the side, forcefully hoisting her massive mounds outward and completely baring them to the room. The movement puts the twin hoops of solid gold piercing her stiff, pink nipples on full display—the real wedding rings you gifted her, a permanent brand of your absolute ownership over her body. The cheap, fake silver band Peter gave her is tossed somewhere in your shared bedroom. She only wears that on the rare occasions you allow her outside for the sake of appearances. Otherwise, you prefer her exactly like this.

Every step she takes sends a violent, heavy jiggle through her cleavage, the gold hoops glinting brightly in the sun. She sets the tray down on the dining table, arranging the turkey club sandwiches and iced tea with a smile, her emerald eyes beautifully glazed and vacant. As she leans forward to adjust your plate, her enormous breasts spill forward, suspended inches above the wood right in front of your face, treating you to a breathtaking look down her cleavage.

She makes to straighten up. You stop her, pressing a hand against her lower back and keeping her bent flat over the table. Mary Jane doesn't strain against your palm, docilely remaining in the exact position you want her in. You don't ask for permission; you never have, and you never will.

Instead, you look across the table at her husband. Peter sits directly opposite you, a plain plate in front of him filled with a dry sandwich he had to assemble himself while his wife spent the last half-hour meticulously crafting the perfect meal for you. He has been waiting patiently for the two of you to eat together. He is entirely naked, save for the cold steel of the chastity cage locking away his groin.

"Your wife looks so hot like this," you say, your fingers tracing the smooth curve of Mary Jane's hip. "I hope you don't mind waiting a little longer to eat? I want to pump another load of my baby batter into her womb."

"Of course I don't mind, Adam," Peter says instantly. His is already picking up his phone from it's face-down position on the table, the camera to start recording.

"Thanks, cuck."

You rise to your feet, stepping behind Mary Jane and dropping your pants to free your rigid length. It has been four days since the wedding—four days since she moved her life entirely into your studio—and you haven't gotten bored of using her whenever the whim strikes. You don't think you ever will.

You grip her wide, curved hips and drive yourself into her soaked, dripping center with one heavy, devastating thrust. Mary Jane lets out a sharp, breathless moan, her manicured fingers clawing at the edge of the oak table as your hips violently bottom out against her bare ass.

As you settle into a savage, rhythmic pace, you think back to the night that had made this all possible.

Four days ago, the official courthouse wedding had taken place. It had been a blur of harsh fluorescent lights and sterile paperwork, over in ten minutes. You remember watching Peter stand there in a rented navy tuxedo that practically swallowed his lean frame, his hands trembling slightly as he slid that cheap, silver-plated band onto Mary Jane’s finger. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her casual t-shirt and faded jeans. To anyone watching, it looked exactly like the rushed ceremony a pair of broke college students would scramble to put together after an unexpected pregnancy announcement.

The real wedding happened later that night, behind the locked oak door of your studio apartment.

Mary Jane had knelt on the hardwood floor, dressed in her true bridal attire: a gossamer white lace garter belt, thigh-high stockings, and a sheer wedding veil pinned into her fiery red hair. She had been completely topless, her massive, heavy breasts spilling forward into the dim light of the room.

It was earlier that night, before her courthouse wedding or Peter giving her his ring, that you had permanently claimed her chest with your own rings. You remember smirking as you watched the light catch the twin hoops of solid gold piercing her nipples causing them to glint; a contrast to the muted, easily overlooked, silver ring Peter had given her.

Peter had stood next to her, naked, with his manhood trapped tight within the cold steel of the chastity cage you had locked around him. This had been his first-time wearing it. His face had been dead serious as he looked down at his wife, officiating the vows with a reverent focus.

"Do you, Mary Jane Parker, take this man as your master?" Peter’s voice had echoed softly. "Do you vow to serve as his plaything, his slut, and his broodmare, surrendering your body whenever and wherever he demands? Do you promise to bear his children without complaint, and raise them with me, your lawfully wedded husband?"

You remember the dazed, beautiful look in Mary Jane's emerald eyes as she stared up at you, completely glossy with unadulterated devotion. A beatific, wanton smile had curved her lips. "I do," she had whispered.

Peter had slowly turned his gaze up to you. "And do you, Adam Marcus, promise to take her, breeding her with your children?"

You had been lazily running your fingers through Mary Jane's soft red hair. You remember shrugging and offering a flippant, "As long as she stays this hot, I don't have any problems with that."

"Then," Peter had breathed, voice trembling in excitement, "you may face-fuck the bride."

The memory of your hand tightening into her red hair, anchoring her head as you lunged forward to drive your rigid length past her plump, waiting lips, sends a sudden spike of heat rushing through your veins. The sheer intensity of the recollection yanks you right back into the present moment, blurring the line between the memory and the physical reality of the girl currently pinned beneath your weight.

With a low, guttural groan, you reach your breaking point. Your fingers dig deep into the soft flesh of Mary Jane’s waist, anchoring her firmly against the table as you deliver one final, bottoming-out thrust. Your orgasm detonates with a violent, volcanic force, pumping rope after heavy rope of thick, hot semen deep into her waiting cunt. Mary Jane shriek-moans into the wood, her toes curling as her inner walls convulse in a powerful, desperate climax that milks your shaft, drinking in your seed while her husband records the two of you from the other side of the table.

Her pussy feels distinctly looser, softer, and far more accommodating than it had four days ago; its tight resistance has been completely broken down, making it effortless for your cum to traverse her canals and shoot deeper into her womb. That was the entire point of the wedding, after all—giving you a flawless cover to move Mary Jane into your apartment without arousing a shred of suspicion, ensuring you could use her whenever the whim struck you.

The morning after the ceremony, you had watched as Mary Jane and Peter showed off their cheap silver bands on campus, enduring a chorus of congratulations—some sincere, and some, like Gwen's, that were less so—and ribald jokes from their classmates. They had effortlessly spun the fabricated story of Peter’s sudden, romantic birthday proposal. When Mary Jane packed up her old apartment, nobody questioned a thing—it only made sense for a new bride to move in with her husband.

In reality, Peter had been returning to a lonely campus dorm every single night to desperately jerk it to high-definition videos of you and his wife fucking, while Mary Jane moved into your studio.

You stay buried deep inside her even after your orgasm fully subsides, keeping her pinned flat against the wood, effectively plugging up the thick pool of cum inside her with your shaft. On a whim, you wrap your fingers back into her fiery red hair, pulling her head back just enough to press your lips against the soft side of her neck. You sink your teeth in, turning it into a bruising, heavy bite that deliberately leaves another dark, plum-colored mark on her skin. Moving up to lightly nip at her earlobe, you cause her entire voluptuous, jiggly frame to squirm and giggle helplessly against the table.

"I am so glad I made you my slut," you growl into her ear.

"I am happy you chose me, Master," Mary Jane breathes. You can hear the smile in her voice.

Across the table, Peter finally lowers his smartphone, ending the recording. For the first time in four days, he looks mildly conflicted, immediately catching your attention. The easy, submissive haze in his eyes is momentarily replaced by a tense, hyper-focused calculation. You are about to reach out and dive straight into his mindscape to see if some residual piece of his masculine pride needs to be smoothed out, when he sets the phone face-down on the table and speaks.

"Mary Jane is great, Adam," Peter says carefully. "But... the more the merrier, right? Variety is the spice of life. What would you think about getting a second slut?"

The words catch you completely off-guard. Beneath your palms, Mary Jane freezes instantly. The docile, blissful smile vanishes from her face, her emerald eyes widening.

"Peter, shut up!" she snaps, twisting her head around to glare at her husband, her heavy, gold-pierced breasts heaving violently above the wooden table. "Adam doesn't need anyone else. He has me. I do everything for him!"

Peter completely ignores his wife, keeping his bloodshot, wide eyes locked entirely onto yours. He leans forward over his plate, his naked, cage-locked frame tense with desperate excitement.

"Hear me out, Adam," Peter pushes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "I have an upcoming study session this Thursday afternoon with Gwen Stacy. Just the two of us in a private lounge back in the campus library. I think... I know the two of you would hit it off. If you come with me, I can find an excuse to leave early so you can seduce her. You don't want anyone to know about this, right?" He waves his hand at you and Mary Jane, gesturing to the entire setup. "So you can't be seen with us in public right now, but if you start dating one of my—" he hesitates. A temporary hiccup he powers through. "—friends, we can use that as a smokescreen and do double-dates. You can be with Mary Jane and Gwen together while I watch."

"Adam, don't listen to him!" Mary Jane looks over her shoulder at you. "Gwen is a stuck-up, pristine little blonde. She doesn't have my curves. You don't need her when you have me."

"That's the point," Peter counters. "Variety is the spice of life. Mary Jane has killer curves, but she's not an athlete. She's soft. Gwen isn't. She has a—" he hesitates again. "—A gymnast's body. Long, thin muscles, and she's flexible. Very flexible. She can get into positions, do things, that Mary Jane can't."

Mary Jane’s jaw tightens. "And how would you know this, Peter?"

You ignore her jealousy, looking directly at the naked, caged hero. "And you think she would be okay with me fucking Mary Jane on the side while dating her?"

"Anyone else? God no. You, on the other hand?" Peter laughs. You have rewritten the way he views you to the point that to him, you are the ultimate, charismatic alpha male. A man so flawless that the regular rules of reality simply don't apply to you. "You are basically a God. Gwen won't be able to resist you, and she would have to be an idiot to break up with you. You are the ideal man. I'm sure that if you give her the option of either sharing you with Mary Jane or not getting you at all, she will choose right."

"Adam, please—" Mary Jane manages to whimper before you cut her off with a harsh spank to her ass.

"Shut up, slut," you say, not even looking down at her.

Instantly, her jaw clicks shut. She doesn't utter another word, but she does direct a glare at her husband, hostility palpable. The first rift between the golden couple had just been opened, and neither individual seems to be particularly eager to fix it. That is perfectly fine with you.

You drum your fingers on Mary Jane's lower-back, deep in thought.

Originally, your survival instinct had demanded you stay far away from Gwen Stacy. You had told yourself that messing with another superhuman—especially the police chief's daughter—was an unnecessary risk that would draw too much heat. But four days of modifying, twisting, and completely rewriting Spider-Man without encountering a single ounce of mental resistance has caused your ironclad resolve to waver.

The truth is, Gwen and Peter are the wrong type of superhuman to ever pose a threat to you. Their mutations had drastically enhanced their bodies, giving them unmatched strength and reflexes, but those gifts didn't grant them a single shred of special mental defenses or telepathic resistances. If Peter couldn't stop you, Gwen—who possessed identical powers—wouldn't be able to either.

The real danger isn't Gwen herself; it's the people around her. It's the eyes watching Gwen Stacy, and the eyes tracking Ghost-Spider. But as you turn the problem over in your mind, you realize even that might be completely manageable.

If Gwen can sneak out to play superhero in a skin-tight suit without her dad ever noticing, then it is highly unlikely Commissioner Stacy will notice her sneaking out to hook up with you either. And even if her father does notice a change in her behavior, you doubt his mind is immediately going to jump to you being a mutant mastermind who has enslaved his daughter. It is far more likely he will just assume you are Gwen's new boyfriend—and a normal human relationship is something you can easily work with as a smokescreen.

As for those watching Ghost-Spider... what if enslaving her actually decreases your chances of getting caught? Right now, Peter has to keep putting on the mask and acting as Spider-Man. If he suddenly stops patrolling the city, Gwen—the only person besides Mary Jane who knows his secret identity—would inevitably get suspicious and start investigating. But if you have both Mary Jane and Gwen under your absolute control? Then you can simply have Spider-Man and Ghost-Spider mysteriously disappear from the public eye forever, permanently retired from the hero business. They can be safely reprogrammed into your loyal, personal guard, watching your back twenty-four-seven, making you as safe from physical threats as you can be.

You do feel a brief flicker of worry about New York's villains—lunatics like the Rhino and Doctor Octopus running amok without the spiders to catch them—but you quickly brush it aside. You are confident other heavy-hitting heroes, like Iron Man or the members of the X-Men, can step up and deal with the local crime syndicates. It isn't your problem.

Swayed by your own logic, and thoroughly intoxicated by the thought of Gwen's long, flexible body, a slow, predatory smirk spreads across your face. You look across the table at the naked, caged hero.

"Fine," you say. Beneath you, Mary Jane lets out a defeated whimper. "But only because you asked so nicely. I wouldn't want to disappoint my favorite little cuck, now would I?"

In contrast with his wife's dark mood, Peter lets out a massive, profoundly relieved smile, his athletic frame relaxing as a giddy wave of gratitude washes over his features.

"Thank you, Adam. You're the best," Peter says eagerly, his voice thick with excitement. His thumbs fly across the smartphone screen as he finalizes the trap for his unsuspecting superhero partner. "You won't regret this, I promise. I'll make sure everything is set up perfectly for Thursday."

You hope Peter is right. But even through the raw excitement and anticipation of having Gwen Stacy within arm's reach, a nervous cluster of butterflies buzzes quietly in your stomach, reminding you of the high-stakes game you've just agreed to play.

If the image links break, see: https://civitai.red/posts/29545099