X Men Savage Land Scandal Ch 02

Onboard the White Queen's floating ship, Ororo Munroe was trying very hard not to lose her mind.

Ever since she was a little girl, she'd been claustrophobic. Sometimes the only way she could stand a narrow hallway or a crowded elevator was to remember her power. She was Storm, mistress of the elements, and with a thought her lightning could break her free of anyplace, let her take to the wind in the ultimate act of freedom. Even without her gifts, she could run, she could fight.

But the White Queen's sadism denied that comforting thought to her. She was a prisoner in her own body, without anything to distract her from her own skin tightening on her. What memory could be as powerful as the fear she now felt? The metal binding her body had warmed with her heat to insensateness. The only thing she really

felt

was her own bladder, starting to pulse with the desire to urinate. She focused on it, because at least it was a break from the crushing tightness, at least it was something she could control.

"Oh!" Nanny said, with a particularly unpleasant squeal of feedback. She was looking up from tying bows in Beast's hair—one of many activities Emma had programmed into her as if to see whether someone really could be killed with kindness. "Does baby need to piddle? Hold on! Nanny's coming!"

Ororo felt a trace of anxiety, a dripping sweat running down her spine, as the robot approached. It broadened her world enough for the claustrophobia to let up. So at least she was calm as the hateful thing undid her ring connecting the two halves of her uniform, then the one in back, then slid off her bottoms as artlessly as a diaper. Below Storm, the seat of her chair irised open to reveal a quite plain toilet bowl. She could've laughed. Emma really had thought of everything. Knowing her, the vile creature would think nothing of holding them captive for years if it resulted in her getting what she wanted.

"There we are!" Nanny trilled. "Time to go, little one. Just go for Nanny!"

Ororo refused. Even if she needed to, even if she wanted to, she would never capitulate to the White Queen or any of her minions. She'd die giving the least of Emma's men a hangnail, if that was all she could do.

But of course, Emma would not allow that. Seeing her resistance, Nanny simply formed her hand attachment into a bowl and filled it with warm water. Already, Ororo felt herself color with embarrassment. Surely, this wouldn't be done to her—not in front of her closest friends, who looked up to her as deputy leader!

But Emma, and by extension Nanny, was irresistible. Nanny hoisted up Ororo's limp hand by its wrist and dipped it into the water. Ororo fought so hard within her mind that she ended up spewing a vomit of gibberish, but that just served to draw the others' attention. They tried not to watch, Ororo could tell, but they must've heard her as her body gave into Nanny's sick demand.

When she was done, Ororo thought she couldn't have felt more humiliated. She hadn't counted on the White Queen's true ingenuity when it came to getting what she wanted, and breaking those in her way. Nanny released her hand, wiped it dry, then drew one of her many washcloths from the cabinet built into her chest. "Has baby wet herself? Does baby need to be dried? Does baby need to be cleaned?"

You will pay for this, Emma Frost!

Ororo swore, though she knew it wouldn't be for a long, long time.

Nanny's hand shifted again, this time forming the perforated surface of a faucet. Water spewed from it, shooting between Ororo's parted legs into the basin below her. Ororo could only watch as the water chanted to an alternating aerated spray, then a mist spray, then finally a pulsating jet spray. Then Nanny brought the spray up to Ororo's belly, and when it crossed her sex Ororo felt pure heat. Only when it was gone did she start to feel ashamed of herself.

The spray brushed over the muscles of Ororo's abdomen, eradicating any chance of pollution, and moved lower, and lower. The water felt hatefully good on her skin, relaxing and invigorating, but it stopped being relaxing the lower it went. When it reached her pussy, the water slapping against the top of her hood, her clit, and streaming down her labia, she felt the heat again. This time it caught fire, and she squirmed with pleasure, fighting it.

It was easier once the jet spray became too much, stinging a little. But then Nanny moved on, soaking her inner thighs. Ororo tried to remember the feeling of nothing she'd been lamenting earlier. Now she felt everything. Her skin heating up with the desire to be touched in the same way her pussy was, and her face burning up with embarrassment. When the spray moved back to her groin, Ororo clenched her thighs together to stop it, but that just seemed to make the blood rush, hotter and faster, in her crotch. She was on the verge of orgasm, and the more mortified she was by it, the hotter she got.

The rush of water alone, nothing to associate with it, not even a human face... it was easy to forget where it came from. Who it came from. Her hips bucked forward as Ororo decided, on some subconscious level, that she was going to come, damn Emma Frost to hell.

But it was not to be. The spray died down, leaving Ororo with a furnace's worth of heat and nowhere for it to go. She could've cried. To give into this sick game and then to not even be rewarded for it...! This was Frost, it had to be, using her telepathic powers to mess with her mind. Make her wants things she didn't really want. It was all Frost, all Emma Frost...

Nanny took out a soft, fluffy towel with a cheery 'Frost Hotels' logo on it, and gently but thoroughly, she wiped Ororo dry. The contact brought Ororo's arousal flaring back to life, but she was ready for it now. At least, she didn't feel the same mortification.

It's just Frost, it's not you, it's Frost, Frost, Frost...

Then it was over. Nanny was taking the towel away and Ororo could breathe again. Nanny pulled Ororo's bottoms back up and hooked their rings back onto the top half of her costume. The feeling of cotton-lined leather against her cunt was suddenly foreign, pleasurable, and Ororo squeezed her legs together again to prolong it.

"There now. Nice and dry," Nanny reported, her sugary-sweet voice driving Ororo's pleasure even further away. "I must be off, children. I'll be back at lunchtime. And this afternoon, before your naps, I'll read you a nice story."

Ororo could've screamed. She could

feel

how nice her orgasm would've been, feel it dissipating back into the nothingness she'd had before. And with her arms bound, her legs bound, there was nothing she could do to summon it back. She couldn't even ask one of the others to talk dirty to her, she thought with hysterical laughter bubbling under the surface, and they couldn't even dirty-talk!

Wait!

The thought was like a clarion call, bursting through the despair that had threatened to overwhelm Ororo.

My legs! I squeezed my legs together! I could move!

Think, think! How was that possible? The system blocking their powers should've also stopped all conscious muscle control. She should've been no more able to move her legs than she could recite the Declaration of Independence. How?

How?

Ororo tried it again. As she'd feared, her legs barely responded, although they still moved more than they had when she was first imprisoned. As Emma said, she'd been reduced to a six-month-old child.

Ororo's mind whirled. The system would be set up to allow Ororo to continue breathing, her heart pumping, even to urinate—all the bodily functions that everyone, from six months to sixty years, needed to live. But perhaps... perhaps the system didn't account for feelings no six-month-old could possibly have. It wouldn't be set up to block those. Feelings of arousal—of sexual fulfillment.

Or maybe,

Ororo thought with a trace of smugness,

Emma set it up that way thinking the X-Men were all sticks-in-the-mud that couldn't possibly discover this vulnerability.

Well, she was in for a rude awakening. Ororo was far more libertine than she let on. Not in the fetishized, provocative way of Emma Frost and her sex club, but in the way of nature. Perhaps she had some urges she was ashamed of, but there were far more she wasn't.

Focus. Concentrate.

Although she wasn't adverse to her desires, Ororo also kept them on a tight leash, as she did all her feelings lest they affect her powers. It was one thing to trigger a light drizzle because she'd seen a sad movie; it was another to grow so angry that she brought down a lightning storm on innocent people. But now she would have to give her desires free rein.

She tried to think of past love affairs—of Forge, of T'Challa, even of Callisto. It wasn't enough. She needed... fresh stimulation.

First, she focused on Piotr. An obvious choice. He was tall, well-built, square chin, kind eyes. An ideal man, a man built for an American romantic comedy, his Russian accent and occasional (adorable) unease with Western conventions just icing on the cake. Ororo clenched her thighs. And his costume! While he was armored, it showed off all his metal muscles, making him an intimidating juggernaut. But when he was just flesh and bone, it showed at least as much skin as American superheroines' famously skimpy costumes. Taut, tanned skin rippling with muscle. She pictured those big hands holding her down, easily overpowering her feeble twists and turns of pleasure as he thrust into her, overwhelming her, overcoming her.

Ororo dragged her head upward, sitting stock-straight. Yes! Control! But she felt it waver almost immediately. The fantasy was unrealistic. She couldn't imagine Piotr so much as glancing at her backside without her consent. He would be soft and caring and gentle with her, but that wasn't enough to arouse her. She needed something more.

Wolverine. Ororo bit the inside of her cheek, almost in distaste. He was nothing like Piotr—short and crude and, while his lack of hygiene was exaggerated, he did tend to have a musk about him unfettered by cologne or deodorant. But despite his shortcomings, there was an obvious sex appeal. A sense of experience and desire. He'd take what he wanted because he wanted it, not caring that he was giving her what she needed at the same time. Throw her down on the bed, rip her clothes off, turn her over onto her belly and take her from behind. No romantic words, no sweet kisses. Just

him

, his hardness, his want. Ororo snapped her head forward and felt her headpiece shift a few precious inches. Yes!

Her eyes shot to Hank. An exotic choice, reminiscent of the great tigers of her native land. All those sleek muscles painted with blue hair, undeniably strange. And yet, wasn't there always a need for experimentation, novelty? He had the feel about him of a great lover, exuberant, joyful, inventive. Perhaps he'd use both hands and feet to bend her into some strange position, use her as he saw fit while he roared his triumph into the air. He could fuck her against the walls, on the ceiling, upside-down, smelling her arousal and need without her ever having to say a word.

Ororo felt bad, reducing her friend to a sexual animal, even in a fantasy, but it worked. She was able to once again flip her head up and down. Her headpiece fell onto her lap, exactly where she wanted it, without continuing on to the floor. She could see her lockpicks hidden in the tiara. But her control was abandoning her once again. She forced herself onto a new fantasy, turning her eyes to Cyclops.

Forgive me, Jean.

Those who thought of the X-Men's leader as just a dull-as-dishwater Boy Scout didn't know the half of it. Ororo had known multiple telepaths, and all of them had commented on

something

that Scott kept hidden behind his hard-working façade, a darkness that he kept perfectly in check. Ororo was more empathic than most, and that was all she needed to know that Scott had far more kinkiness in him than the ghoulish self-aggrandizing Hellfire Club could conceive of, with their boorish strippers and obligatory whips. There was no saying what he and Jean did behind closed doors, but it was telling that Jean Grey, who could have any man or woman she wanted, was amply satisfied by that one man.

And what a man—that skintight costume, hugging every line of the musculature he exercised obsessively to maintain, one more sign of the discipline he valued above all else. The visor adding an intriguing touch of distance, placing him at a patriarchal remove where he could judge and order and watch. She imagined him forcing her to her knees, working himself out of his costume—and there would be quite something to take out, because even telepaths were shallow. Ordering her to suck, suck hard, telling her exactly what he needed from her and knowing he would get it. Would he come in her mouth? On her face? Her tits, maybe, then ordering her to clean it up, licking his shockingly white seed off her brown flesh...

As if she were doing exactly that, Storm bent her head, stuck out her tongue, and used it to maneuver the lockpick out of the pins that held it in place. Then she clenched it in her teeth.

One more step,

she thought. One more!

Her jaw was weakening, though, her mouth about to drop open no matter how hard she fought it. She just needed a little more time, to keep her heart racing a little longer. She thought desperately. Who else, who else? Kurt, with his tail, his devilish fangs, his charm and endless sensuality? He'd eat her out, finger her, tantalize her with his tail, whispering dirty nothings in her ear—no, that wasn't enough, too sweet, too caring. She needed danger and dirt and darkness. She needed... she needed.

Ororo looked directly across from her, where Jean was sitting.

Jean.

The psychic. The Phoenix. Had she overheard everything Ororo had thought? Every fantasy, every masturbatory detail, every shameful desire?

It was an alluring thought.

There was no denying Jean had been more sexually active since her eponymous rebirth, often dragging Scott away from other activities to disappear into the mansion's dark corners. Her costume was tighter, more flattering, emphasizing her ample curves. And in fights, it always seemed to get torn and tattered in the most interesting places, and Jean always took a great deal of time to repair it with powers she could use in only an instant. And sometimes the way she looked at people—usually Logan, but sometimes others, even Emma for a moment as they'd talked just hours ago—like she was at the window of a candy shop. Imagining the taste. The texture on her tongue.

Ororo imagined Jean—her best friend, her closest friend—as a slut. It fit disturbingly well. Jean would eat her out, but not like Kurt. No, Jean would devour her, hold her down and spread her legs and lick her to her core just for the taste of her. Ororo fixed her jaws and lowered the lockpick to her shackles. She didn't need her eyes for this, just the feel and sound of the tumblers, and so she focused on Jean. Jean, wiggling around in her excitement over Ororo's escape attempt. Thrusting her breasts out, throwing her head back in a paroxysm of lust—Ororo could've sworn she was doing it on purpose. There even seemed to be a smile on Jean's face, visible through her slack expression.

She mustn't use too much pressure, mustn't go too fast... but her arousal was making it hard to concentrate. It was very easy to picture Jean naked, with her costume seeming even tighter and thinner than that of her boyfriend's. Ororo could've sworn she saw Jean's hardened nipples pressing through her suit. But that was impossible. She wore a bra, right?

Ororo felt the first tumbler go. She thought of Jean's fingers raking down her body, clawing her from her breasts to her belly. The second tumbler went. She imagined Jean pulling her hair as she mounted Ororo's face, forcing her needy cunt into Ororo's mouth, her flight power making it easy to grind and wheel against Storm. Third tumbler! What if Jean went harder, faster, never letting up as she ravished Ororo to the very limits of her endurance? Spinning her around to smack her ass, then flipping her back up to bite her nipples, fingering her, licking her, even penetrating her anus. And with Jean's incredible powers, would it be so hard to fashion a strap-on out of molecules, to take Ororo not just in one hole, but in her ass, her mouth, her cunt. To fuck her every which way, all at once, until she passed out, and even then fucking her in her dreams, until finally she'd had her satisfaction, leaving Ororo to wake up in her own cream.

Ororo looked at Jean. Jean winked back.

The last tumbler exploded into sequence and released the lock. Ororo ripped her hand free, tore off the headband holding her captive, and before she could think of anything else, pressed her hand down hard between her legs.

As the rest of the X-Men watched in stunned silence, Ororo had the best orgasm of her young life.

All, that is, except for Jean. She raised an eyebrow.

***

A fair distance away from the unpleasant environment of the X-Men's prison was Emma's personal quarters, which doubled as the ship's bridge. All the cold, sterile metal that suffused the ship was leavened by expensive rugs, decadent leather chairs, a handful of paintings, and a touch of incense. It was more luxurious than most hotels.

Inside was Tessa. Simply Tessa. She had no need of a last name in Emma's employ. She was almost the polar opposite of her mistress; tanned skin instead of pale, dark hair instead of light, a lean and muscular body in contrast to Emma's wasp-waisted figure. Her clothes continued the theme: instead of flattering and worshipping like Emma's clothes, the black literally covered her up, a leather catsuit zipped up to the neck, covering her from her high heels to her dog collar. Her white mink stole, emasculated in comparison to Emma's decadent cape, completed the positioning of her as a thrall of Emma's. The very sight of her was a pointed rejoinder to Jean Grey; darkness subservient to white.

At the moment, Tessa was trying to think of a way to free the X-Men, but it was hard to when she was touching Emma so carefully.

For years, she'd served the Hellfire Club in whatever capacity they chose for her, from valet to bodyguard to chauffeur to 'entertainment'. Catching Emma's eye had finally seen her promoted to right hand of the Inner Circle, their eyes and ears wherever their interests lay. It was a job she was well-prepared for. She'd been doing it for Professor X since before she joined the Club.

After the X-Men had been disabled by a combination of knockout gas and psychic assault, Tessa had been the only one Emma trusted to help her secure the prisoners in her transport without informing the Lord Cardinals. At the time, Tessa's computer mind had been unable to come up with a way to save them without blowing her cover. And keeping Xavier aware of the Hellfire Club's activities was worth some minor discomfort on his students' part. Now they were both trapped--Tessa unable to do more than watch until she came up with a way to give them an escape route without attracting suspicion, and the X-Men in that sick prison Emma had prepared for them.

And the worst part was, Tessa couldn't even concentrate on finding a way to help her erstwhile comrades. Emma had been so wound up from sparring with Emma that she'd demanded a massage. The woman was truly unpleasable--she could be satisfied for a few moments, but that only inspired her to think up new chores for Tessa to do. At least this one was something she could sink her teeth into.

Tessa calculated the appropriateness of that thought. It was satisfying to have a job she could stick with instead of dashing from one oddjob to the next, but she came up with a 92% chance that she'd picked a strange way to express it, even to herself. She refocused on Emma before the woman could notice her distraction.