Scott wasn't able to resist joining Emma for long. He jerked himself off as she masturbated, torturing her with the sight of his cock growing and dripping precum right in front of her, but soon he needed to be inside her. She knew it too, opening her legs wide, smiling wildly as he threw himself on top of her.
She was delighted to find that just because he'd punished, didn't mean their wildly inventive sex games were now locked into him being the dom, her the submissive. With the power of the Phoenix, it was almost impossible for that to be the case. While their physical bodies made comparatively clumsy joinings, their joined minds were an entirely different story.
As a boy, Scott had been able to play half a dozen Chess game simultaneously. Fucking Emma was much the same. While he felt her cunt clenched around him, almost as background noise, a soothing massage, in their minds they were fucking in several different Kama Sutra positions. In one reality, Scott was allowing Emma to take a turn dominating him—in another, he was punishing her even more roughly. Still another was a fantasy: Emma was the White Queen still and Cyclops, having bested the Hellfire Club in combat, was now assaulting her right in front of them. Emma took particular joy in having quite a few 'unwilling' orgasms right in front of her former colleagues and (usually) lovers. It was possible, with their increase to Omega power levels, that she was actually transmitting this scenario into the mind of the actual Sebastian Shaw.
Still, Emma kept one eye on the real world, crawling along at a seismic pace to her enhanced mind. There was an old-fashioned, meat and potatoes
dirtiness
to physical sex that she couldn't deny or replicate. She let the sensations massage her frenzied mind, caress her fantasies, heat up her climaxes.
She held back from the so-called real thing. She didn't want to come yet—let even her god-like intellect be overwhelmed by the physical and be blanked out from her psychic bond with Scott for an eternal moment. She wanted to make their sex last and last and last until she couldn't stand it anymore. Then, she wouldn't stand it anymore: it would be the most intense orgasm in the world. Possibly the galaxy. She would have to share some memories with the Shi'ar, next time they visited.
With surgical skill and masterful deftness that even her omnipotent lover wasn't capable of, she arranged for all her many wet dream to climax at the same time, in concert with the actual sensation of Scott Summers coming inside her. Even he couldn't strategize that well. Coming into unlimited cosmic power already possessing telepathic experience was quite the thing. She was surprised Jean hadn't managed it so well.
It happened. Emma relaxed, more than anything else. After all that pleasure, actually having it be over for the moment was downright soothing. From her mind palace, she listened to her own orgasmic screams like they were Beethoven. She was squirting, too. Wasn't that something. And Scott was talking. Maybe in his head. Maybe in real life. The difference didn't matter anymore. And someone was talking to him. Maybe it was her.
"Wasn't that nice, Slim?" a redheaded woman said—which threesome had that been, Emma wondered? Maybe they could look her up in real life. She looked cute. And very much a bottom.
Hmm. Emma was milking the last of Scott's hot cum from him with her slender hand. Had she thought to do that? Or was the redhead doing it? No. She would not interrupt her own mental bath with irritating little questions like that. Much more fun to just lie back, relax, and sneak a peek at the part of Scott's brain lit up with that last gulping ejaculation.
"Oh, yes," Scott sighed, with a calm that Emma appreciated with heartfelt sincerity. She loved letting him vent. And being what he vented into.
"Amazing how much fun a nice hot cunt can be," the redhead opined, rising majestically to her full height beside the recumbent Scott, the nearly swooning Emma. "Even when it isn't mine."
Damn right, sister,
Emma thought to herself. She was not at all sure where she was any more, but felt gloriously relieved, all through her body.
"Let's just stay here," Scott said. "This is perfect. Everything's fine... I fixed everything. I just have to keep going from here—I can do anything with Emma at my side. And you... you..."
"Maybe you're right," the redhead said, and cast her gaze over Emma, who obligingly preened. "And it is tempting. But we have work to do. The Phoenix, Scott. That's more important than you, than me—even mutantkind."
"Nothing's more important than you, Jean." But Scott looked at her. "Except... there are things..."
Jean, Jean... who that was, Emma hadn't the foggiest. Some other friend of Scott's? Maybe a former X-Men? There was no way she could keep track of all of them... X-Factor and Excalibur and X-Force, aliens and robots and sometimes Namor... well, she didn't care. She wouldn't have cared if Scott brought in Beast and all his Avengers buddies to watch why Emma had gotten with such a square (hint: because his dick made him a rectangle and he knew what to do with it). She was so horny, they could all take a crack at her when Scott was finished. If he ever was.
"Don't worry," the redheaded Jean said, swatting Emma smartly on the ass. Bint. "You're still be here. In a manner of speaking. You're just be somewhere else too. Just like you're in the White Hot Room with me."
"Can I say goodbye, at least?"
"I'll do it for you, since I'm you. You always were shit at goodbyes, my love."
She kissed Emma soundly on the lips. Her mouth tasted of Scott.
Emma really hoped he hadn't come in her mouth too recently. She would hate to think that when he'd come inside
her,
she had missed out on one solitary drop of cum.
"Hurry back," Emma yawned, pressing her cheek against the floor. "And bring the redhead with you." She waved her hand dismissively, her mind already casting out to find some happy memory of herself in the universal subconscious—always so flattering to find out what people really thought of you when what they really thought of you was good. "You don't have to bother with her clothes, though."
***
Scott jerked awake, well-rested, but with none of the sluggishness of sleep. He felt instantaneously cool and alert, like his consciousness had been deposited back into his sleeping form even more firmly than usual. Another trip through time or space, he wondered? Jean had talked about his personal timeline—he could be anywhere, any
when.
Feeling wonderfully collected and composed—almost rejoicing in the simple strength of his awoken body—he swung his legs out of the bunk he was in and deposited them on the floor.
Immediately, he staggered. The floor was rolling, tipping, trying to send him careening from one wall of this cabin to the other. For a second, Scott worried he had been dropped into one of Arcade's Murder-World, but then he realized it was far simpler: he was on a boat and whatever the clarity his Phoenix Force afforded him, he still didn't have his sea legs.
Rallying against the discontented vertigo of his new circumstances, Scott gave himself a quick check while he grew used to being at sea. His cheeks were relatively clean-shaven—they'd seen a razor in the past twenty-four hours. His condition was possibly even better than it had been in Utopia. It was impossible to really gauge, of course, but he thought he was in his twenties, with a corresponding lack of the war wounds and scar tissue he carried in the present day.
Jean,
he worried dizzyingly, nearly giving in to a vomitous fit of unsteadiness. Facing the real thing, or no, the
old
thing, not yet corrupted or not yet changed, but just simply the girl he'd fallen in love with—it seemed so much more than he could bear.
No: his clothes were looser, less formal than what he'd worn in schoolboy days, and he couldn't recall any real boat trips with Jean, at least not ones that had been overnight. The jeans, the denim jacket over an A-shirt, the sturdy workboots and frayed knit cap lying within easy reach—he was a working man, back in the brisk sea air of the Gulf. The trawler Arcadia, hailing from Shark Bay.
The information relieved some pressure within him, made the bile lower in his gullet. Gripping the knit cap but not putting it on yet, Scott proceeded out of the cabin, on the stairs onto the deck. As he'd expected, there was Lee Forrester at the wheel, hard at work.
She was lovely—the tawny blonde hair cut short to stay out of the way of her gorgeous face, features stark and weather-strong, from hearty Norwegian stock. Lithe body well-muscled under her crisply functional clothes, her fashion slightly masculine, but he'd seen it, knew everything to be soft and warm and inviting. But that had come later. Too late. They'd never really had time for it to progress, develop. Everything had gotten crazy and the simplicity—the loving simplicity of this time in his life that stuck solidly with Scott—was gone before he'd ever really appreciated it.
Scott headed back down into the cabin, sitting on the bed, wanting to further center himself. He could still feel the anxious twang of sex with Emma, his loins sweetly exhausted, lips burning with her heated usage of them, her touch fervent on his back, nails prying at his lats...
"Stop living in the past," Jean told him. She was lying under the covers, sweetly nude, her crimson hair glowing across the pillow like the embers of a dying fire. "Well, the future..."
"What am I doing here if not living?" Scott asked her.
"You know the answer to that." Jean sat up, reaching a hand out to drop in his lap. Her fingers settled, thrillingly warm, over his thigh. "I'm your past, and you can take me with you, I can walk alongside you a way, but I can't be your everything."
"And Emma can?"
"Perhaps." Jean had a Cheshire cat smile that could put the White Queen to shame. "But she's not here. And I'm not here.
You're
here."
"With Lee," Scott said. Not needing a psychic link to follow her train of thought. "I remember this... Lee had just gotten the Arcadia tuned up and she wanted to take it for a shakedown cruise, outside the fishing lanes. And she didn't want to pay full wages without taking in any fish, so it was just the two of us—"
"My!" Jean arched an eyebrow. "That's very professional."
"It was," Scott said. "We didn't do anything."
"You thought about it. So did she."
"At the time," Scott stressed, "she wasn't really sending any signals."
Scott heard a splash. Getting up, he went to the porthole and pushed open the foggy glass. The sea outside was crisp and green as a bottle of beer at the end of a long day, the clear blue sky painted with wisps of clouds, the waves calm, the horizon bare of ships. He saw Lee's lithe arms, legs knifing through the gentle waves, her bare back propelled quickly through the water, subtle muscle showing in full effect.
"Anchor aweigh, first mate!" Lee reported to him with a jokey salute. "Come on in! The water's fine!"
