She came like a genie out of a bottle, almost less a part of the real world than something summoned by Peter's questing mind, his fantasies, his nightmare. It was December, bracing cold in the winter snow, even with the padding he wore underneath his spider-suit. He'd stopped on a rooftop momentarily to soak in the steam coming off a heating unit, rubbing warmth into his arms and legs. And as he didâhis own brisk touch feeling animatedly goodâhe thought of Gwen Stacy, his girlfriend.
It'd been a long time since she'd touched him. When they'd first started dating, he couldn't believe someone so adorable, so pretty and cute, was interested in him. She was an enthusiastic partner, always wanting to hold hands, to hug, to cuddle. After a few dates, they were kissing regularly, and she seemed to respond to whatever innate skill he had, but then things had petered off. When he kissed her just a little more forcefully than usual, she made little moans of discomfort as she broke away, always with a joke like "down boy!" or "get a room!"
Once, as they'd sat together on the bus late at night, he'd watched the curve of her neck, bent over her phoneâthe long strands of her golden hair, the little conch shell of her ear in between some messy locks. He'd leaned over, kissing the side of her face, pulling on her scarf to bring her lips into his range, sucking on her neck -she said "hey!" a couple times, not disinterestedlyâthen he'd pulled her closer and she'd felt the imprint of his dick inside her pants. Instantly, she'd wailed and pulled away. It even caught the bus driver's attention.
Laterâmaybe seeing how Mary Jane Watson was flirting shamelessly with himâGwen had invited Peter over to her house, her parents not home. When he got there, she suggested watching a movieâR-ratedâand while the credits rolled, she kissed him. Took out his prick as the outtakes played and pulled on it. She'd done it nervously, skimming quickly over his manhood with an unsteady grip, only one hand, her other pushing him back when he tried to move closer, to kiss her or fondle her in some way. Peter had leaned back, just trying to enjoy it as she fecklessly masturbated him, but it was hard to even get hard when she clearly regarded the whole thing as messy, maybe even immoral. He'd climaxed almost perfunctorily and then Gwen had excused herself. When she came back, she smelled of soap.
He didn't understand it. On the surface, Gwen was smart, funny, prettyâthere was just this odd streak of Puritanism that ran through an otherwise normal girl, like she thought her blonde hair made her the Madonna. He was beginning to feel desperate. For two months now when she let him kiss her, she was passive and disinterested. He couldn't even masturbate properlyâhe tried to think of her, for propriety's sake, and couldn't even imagine her body as a sexual instrument. She seemed dead-set on putting the 'unattainable' in unattainable ideal.
Peter's mind sped over the familiar debate. Was it cravenly misogynistic to break up with her, just because his sexual urges weren't being met? Could he really find someone he cared about as much as Gwen, who was so effervescent, so pure, so kind-hearted? He didn't know if he could love Mary Jane in the same wayânot when Gwen was his soulmate, his better half, his heartâbut Christ, the way she looked at him, what he wouldn't give for her to follow through. Maybe it'd just be a kiss, but he imagined it being the kind of kiss Gwen would never ever give him. Not chaste, not affectionate, but sexual, dirty,
wrong
.
Then he saw her. A whorl of black and white in the snowstorm, a dark figure running along a rooftop parapet in a surefooted sprint. Peter got just a good enough look at her to realize there wasn't a flurry of extra snow about her head, just a bounce of stark white hair, then she sprung to the neighboring building, caught onto its cornice, and vaulted up onto the rooftop.
Peter figured there were two reasons for someone in a very tight costume to be on a rooftop in New York at night. Either she was a superhero he'd never met beforeâand it was undeniably a she, there was more bouncing going on in her stride than in a McDonald's ball-pitâand she was on her way to an emergency, or she was a supervillain he'd never met before and she was on her way to some wrongdoing.
Either way, he should get after her.
It had nothing to do with the bouncing. Really.
He followed her at a discreet distance. She had zip-lines and some kind of grappling deviceâshe made her way across intersections almost as fast as he did, snowy rooftops marked with the unmistakable impression of a stiletto heel. Peter shadowed her until, weary but exhilarated, she skidded to a stop. He could see the exhale steaming from her mouth in big, mouthy gulps, a silent roar. Her blood hot, her heart racing, she eased off the high. A few dizzy steps, then she sank to her knees with a crunch of snow beneath her. Before, her high-heeled boots had been nearly silent.
Even the barest glimpse of her before had left no doubt she was a woman. A longer, harder look revealed no trace of masculinity or the neuter in her. Her breasts jotted out ponderously, as proud as monuments, shiny black vinyl acting as a prison. Even that armor-like material didn't seem capable of containing her boisterous sexuality. It stopped at the crest of her cleavage, a zipper down her front undone down to the sternum. With the spread of the vinyl, it seemed impossible that her nipples could actually be hidden, but the fur trim of the opening obscured thatâhowever slightly. It matched her platinum blonde hair and a similar trim that fluffed her boots, demanding the question of whether all of her hair was that ironically virginal color.
The rest of her wasn't as spectacular as her breastsâhow could it be?âbut it kept pace nicely. Her pointed, high-heeled boots molded themselves up her long legs, all the way to her thighs, the sturdy leather giving way to her black vinyl leggings just above the knee, making the thin, tight material seem all the more exposed. It caressed her buttocks, her taut stomach, and her well-defined arms, fastening snugly at her neck with its collar of white fur and halo of white hair. Everything it touched, it clung to with possessive, worshipful tightness, the black otherworldly immaculate, reflecting the moonlight like the touch of a caressing hand.
Most of all, the vinyl sheathed her ass. With her back to him, it was what he saw most: the sharply delineated curve and valley were shown off, every inch, by the clinging material. It swathed her cheeks like a second skin, seeming to give them a lifting, constraining pressure that made them powerful and prominent.
The rooftop's neighbor was an office building, dark windows closed for the night. He could see a phantasmagorical vision of her face in the reflection. A black domino maskâa pair of diamondsâclung to the curves of her noble face just as her catsuit did to her body: strong chin, full lips, smooth cheeks. Not the slender, classical look of Mary Jane or the cherubic gracefulness of Gwen. There was a shamelessness to her, a prominence given over to her sexuality that with any other woman would've been a performance. With her, though, it seemed as natural as a cat's slink, its fur.
She examined her reflection, a small smile quirking her soft lips. Her gloved fingers flickered as she raised them to her generous breasts. F-cups, they had to be. Whereas Gwen's were petite and unconstructive, almost polite in how they conformed to the line of her body, and Mary Jane's C-cups were perfectly proportioned to her tall, leggy body, this woman seemed outright over-endowed. But the sheer gratuitousness of her cleavage seemed right for it. It'd be outrageous at a bridal shop or an office party, but her body was built for skintight vinyl or a nude photoshoot, and he couldn't picture her anywhere else.
Her cleverly flexing handsâreminding him of a cat's kneading clawsâstruck as suddenly as a feline with a mouse. Forefinger hooking in the pendulous O-ring of her zipper, dragging it down her lean stomach as she purred excitedly. The wide vee of her catsuit widened further, her breasts forcing the tight confines of the vinyl open, fur trim sprawling to either side as her tits nearly spilled out, rosy red flesh basking in the chill of the open air. Still she unfurled herself, rotating her neck as she watched her own autoerotic display in the windows of the neighboring building. She stopped with the O-ring at her groin, skipping her claw over it but continuing to pull its sharp tip down between the lips of her sex, where it seemed as if the vinyl must pull so tight as to be sheer. Peter couldn't tell. The reflection was too dark and he was too far away.
The woman hissed in pleasure as her hand came back up, flattened, pads of her finger running over her crotch again. With the zipper down, a broad dagger of flesh plunged through the now wrinkled vinyl, its swath exposing the gentle stir of her abs, her pierced belly button, perhaps even the first Persian-white hairs of her pubis if that wasn't just the glint of her zipper teeth in the dim midnight glow. She played her clawed forefinger again in-between the narrowest parting of the zipper, grazing her pelvis with its sharpness, before drawing her finger up so sharply that Peter worried she was cutting herself open.
