Felicia was sick of being sick. She decided whatever bullshit psychosomatic bullshit was holding her back, she was fucking it and going out. It wasn't the first time she'd lost Parker; so what? Love 'em and leave 'em. Why should it be so different just because this was a long-term thing? If it were a guy and she'd intended to keep them strapped on for a week or two, would she be so broken up if she only got one date with him and then
poof?
No! She'd keep the home fires burning with MJ, but other than that, she'd continue being awesome, and when Peter got back,
maybe
she'd take him up again. Depended on how upkeep was looking on that tight little ass of his.
She stripped and put on her costume, surprised at how much her breasts ached as she transferred them from her bra to the build-in support of her catsuit. They seemed larger, more sensitive, the nipples darker and the blue veins that ran through them painted a deeper shade. Maybe in the absence of Peter's 'massages', they were putting on a protest. Or maybe Mary Jane's steady attention had made them grow. If Felicia had known as a girl that some lesbian foreplay would make her breasts bigger—well, she'd have done exactly the same thing she had done. It certainly seemed to have worked the first time around.
Still, zipping her suit up over them would be torture. Instead, she left her catsuit unzipped to the navel, further than even she liked to go and especially inappropriate when she was, for all intents and purposes, a married woman. But it relieved the pressure on her girls, and she did like the overall look it gave her in the mirror. She looked like some pornographic version of herself, and she was already pretty softcore, but it wasn't like it was her fault her boobs were fermenting revolution.
She stepped out into the night air, the darkness embracing her, reducing everything but her fur trim and hair to a shadow, leaving that a moonish glow. She fired out her cat-claw and took a swing and was assaulted by dizzying vertigo, turning her landing into a gawkish, stumbling,
undignified
affair. She regained her footing, but winded,
exhausted,
her body drained of energy and oxygen.
A sudden nervous wreck—what was
wrong
with her?—Felicia sunk to her knees and huddled behind a pyramid skylight, trying to regain her breath. Even the air was odd, foreign—she could smell the garbage wafting up from the latest strike, a big pile of black bags mountained up on the curb. Ten stories down. How the fuck were the people inside the building able to stand it?
"Sister? Sister?"
Felicia groaned inwardly. Ana alighted nearby, looking shockingly well-composed in comparison to how queasy Felicia felt. The woman had improved her costume, making it tighter and skimpier and sexier, as if she could tempt Peter into coming back just to see her in it.
"I thought you were sleeping under a bridge in Central Park," she moaned, laying down flat on the rooftop. Very comfortable. Much less spinning.
"No. In zoo."
"That figures."
"What are you doing out here, like this, in your condition?"
Felicia snorted.
Condition.
"I always look this good. I know, it's shocking I would risk a face like mine, but that's just how much I care."
Ana looked resolutely confused. Felicia was getting fed up with her 'what is this thing you call—love' act. "Not your face. Your womb. Peter's seed has taken root inside you."
Felicia jerked her shoulders off the roof, unexpectedly raking her nipples over the interior of her suit. It stung like hell,
Christ,
they were oversensitive. "What? Shut up. It has not!"
"You are aglow."
"I am not! This is how I always look! I'm a very healthy person! I drink smoothies!"
"Does Mary Jane Watson know?"
"Do not tell her anything!" Felicia's vehemence was undercut by a yawn.
Ana smiled guilelessly. "I think you will have a very strong child. A boy-child."
"Great. Peter could use less women in his life," Felicia said, staring pointedly at Ana.
Then she held her head as another wave of dizziness hit her. It was like, confronted by the reality of her condition, it was violently asserting itself on her, leaving no doubt as to its authenticity. Typical Hardy, Felicia mused. She would still get a pee-test and a doctor and then another doctor, because she'd gotten around and she damn sure wanted to know if this was a baby and not a Skrull infiltrating her uterus or something, but after that... after she
knew...
Ana sat down beside her, supporting Felicia's head as she ushered her down to a comfortable, stable position on her shoulder. It was nice. Felicia thought Ana would be great at holding the baby too, if part of baby-proofing the apartment didn't turn out to be getting rid of the semi-psychotic paying rent...
Shit, did this all mean that they were going to have to move to the suburbs?
"I can't believe Peter got me pregnant!" Felicia moaned. "Do you know how often he's finished inside Mary Jane?" Ana shook her head. "A lot! Me, he treated like a paint-by-numbers picture! One where all the colors were white! Goddamn, he'd better have learned to be more careful where he shoots that webbing!"
***
Anya's backpack hit the ground as she stared anxiously at Peter's cock.
What if he lost his hard-on?
she worried. She couldn't bear that, not today, not after she'd just sat back and
watched
as he'd fucked Beetle to the finish. Her pussy was throbbing hard beneath her panties, desperate for cock, any cock, she wouldn't settle for Beetle tongue-fucking her or Spider fingering her, she needed cock, just needed it, as soon as she could get it!
"
Ay papi,
look at my body," she whispered passionately, curling her tongue excessively around the Spanish dirty talk. "Stay horny for me,
papi,
stay nice and hard while you watch me take off my clothes. It's all yours,
papi,
you just have to keep that cock up and you can have my tits—"
She was peeling her T-shirt over her head. She wore no bra, nor did she need one. Her body was lanky and lithe, with that slender sleekness continuing in her small, perky breasts. Despite that, her girlish figure turned Peter on, coming on the heels of her rampantly demonstrated obscenity. She struck him almost like a toy, a sexy little sorority girl toy, with her frizzy copper-red hair and big fluttery eyes that seemed almost as large as the goggles now adorning her forehead.
"Do you want to suck my tits,
papi
?" Anya cupped one bronzed globe, fanning her fingers across a fat nipple, its pinkness surprisingly cute, almost cartoonish. "Look how big the nipple is. I bet you've never sucked a nip this big. All of your lips will fit around it and you'll suck it with all you got and I'll just love it!"
She gave a little bounce—very excited, very girlish—and Peter let out a small groan at the result. Anya could see fresh blood coursing into his cock as he ogled her cherry-capped tits, still rocking from her burst of enthusiasm. But he was holding back, thinking, and Janice was just as impatient with that as Anya was.
"Suck it, you idiot!" she demanded, working her hips as far as the webbing would let them go, the resistance making her remaining clothes grate against her skin, making her shiver with sensation.
Peter stepped forward, cupping Anya's body beneath the breast—his hand, not large, still encompassed the side of her slender torso and held up her breast between thumb and forefinger. He dropped his mouth to the big nipple, sucking hard, and Anya felt the pleasure of it shooting straight down to her throbbing cunt.
"
Ay papi! Damelo duro!"
she gasped. Her thin, tight pants felt thinner and tighter than ever as she humped their crotch against Peter. "Take off my clothes! Strip me bare! Throw me down and fuck me,
fuck me!"
Peter did her one better, throwing her next to Janice on the wall—Anya's reflexes automatically had her splaying her hands and feet backwards to catch herself on the vertical surface and hang on. Then Peter was on top of her, kissing her in one big sloppy tonguing from her breasts to the taper of her wasp waist, ripping her pants down her legs, while his mouth ran over the sun-kissed tan that covered the adorable
boop
of her hips, the thin but powerful thighs, the well-formed calves, the ankles, every inch of her lovely body...
He hadn't taken her boots off and was unable to pull her pants off them, so he just left them around her ankles as he tore her panties clean off. She was naked, but erotically
not
naked, gauntlets and hairband and tangled clothes making it still evident that she had stripped down for sex, such was her desperation to be fulfilled.
Janice moaned, seeing Anya's exposed, swathed body, and Anya smiled at her as she opened her legs. "Yeah
papi
, fuck me just like her, treat me like you treated her, use me like a whore, fuck me, fuck me, put your prick in deep—"
Peter was barely listening, stripping off his shirt, his pants, all but his mask. It left him in much the same state as Anya—his boots and gloves and half-worn mask showing that this was not lovemaking, no midnight rendevouz, but a quickie, a fuck, a public and unanticipated answering of sudden desires.
His body was lean and muscular—Anya didn't compare him to her Peter, but give or take some tattoos, Anya thought him much as attractive, though she was almost too busy to notice—staring so intently at his jutting cock. It might've just been her lust talking, but
that
seemed bigger. The one way to know for sure, of course, was to measure it against the sample she'd had before and would again.
