X Men The Summers Drive Pt 02

Betsy Braddock was a sight to behold. Even out of her justly famous costume, in a unadorned gi, she was a vision. Her delicate Asian features had a boldness and vibrancy belying their gentleness, with her blue eyes being especially fierce, somehow reflecting the Occidental psyche that animated them. And she had the height of a supermodel, her body tall and elegant, with robust breasts that swayed and jiggled around the plunging neckline of her gi. Despite its formless shape and simple linen, she filled out the martial arts uniform voluptuously, so unlike the stereotypically lean Asiatic body type that Scott would well understand those who accused her of being silicone-enhanced. It wasn't so much that she defied race as she transcended it, somehow embodying the charms of both her ethnicities in one gorgeous package.

She was both well aware of Scott's appreciation and unafraid to voice it. "Nice of you to come spar with me, Scott. It's always hard to find a partner who doesn't mind getting a proper beating."

"Maybe they don't want to mar that pretty face." Scott smiled at her coyly. "Of course, I'm used to doing what needs to be done."

Betsy's eyes trailed over him, seeing his muscles brusquely outlined in his own gi, and the sizable member that was apparent even in loose pants. Or maybe she was just noting that he was only a brown belt, while she was a sandan black belt.

Of course, a sandan would well know that size could count as much as skill in a fight, and Scott outdid Betsy on both reach and muscle. It would make for an interesting contest—in many respects.

"You're welcome to do what you like to my face," Betsy retorted. "So long as Emma doesn't mind." She reached behind herself to gather her hair in a ponytail, keeping it out of the way during the match. "In fact, I thought you were avoiding me, considering all our past history. Now that you're a taken man again. 'Lead us not into temptation'?"

"That's not really Emma's philosophy," Scott replied. He tightened the strap on his visor to a painful degree. He wouldn't risk it getting knocked aside while he fought her.

"And what's yours?" Betsy asked.

Scott only smiled and made a respectful bow. Betsy did the same. However, when she straightened, she found that Scott was not waiting patiently for her to defend herself. He was coming to her full speed, in lengthy strides that ate up the exercise mat between them. Betsy tried to ready herself, but with lightning quickness, Scott was reaching for her. Only he didn't make an attack. He grasped the folds of her gi and wrenched it open, exposing her bare breasts to his eyes.

Betsy was so shocked that she instinctively reacted with a series of incensed blows, ill-considered in their strategy. Scott batted them aside coolly. Betsy hadn't stopped to adjust her gi and so it stayed open, revealing her breasts' ripe jiggle as she fought. And Scott took them in—she could feel his eyes on them—without it affecting his calm control one bit. He evaded, turned aside, and blocked her flurry of blows, until finally they were locked forearm to forearm, struggling bodily against each other. Betsy had lucked into the leverage, but Scott still had the power.

"That was awfully forward of you," Betsy said, her face burning, and not just with embarrassment. She had dreamed of him making a bold move like that, but it'd been a dream for so long that she had little idea of what to do when faced with him actually doing it.

"I thought you liked forward. You certainly seemed to when you had a new bikini or bath towel to show off every day," Scott said unapologetically, tensing his muscles as he pushed her back a step. Betsy realized that he was holding back to have this face to face with her, and her muddled emotions settled on being pissed off.

With a harsh war cry, she threw him back and drove into him with sharp jabs, staggering him and drawing a pained grunt before he marshalled a block. And still she didn't let up, knocking him back until she had him against the wall, her forearm across his throat.

"It depends on whether I'm giving or receiving," she told him.

"So which is it?" Scott asked her. "Do you want to give or receive?"

Betsy lifted her leg and rubbed her thigh against his crotch, unsurprisingly finding him half-hard. It was enough to make her bite her lip, even as she asked suspiciously "What's gotten into you?"

"You tell me. Read my mind."

Betsy regarded him scrupulously, wary of some trick. She did accept his invitation, but she did it with her psionic defenses fully raised. And still, slipping into Scott's head was as easy as submerging herself into a warm bath. For a man as closed off as Scott, his experience with telepaths let her enter smoothly and gently, a nice easy ride. She immediately followed his chain of thought to what he wanted to show her.

The night before. Emma Frost and her amazing beauty, her seductive nature, and the quasi-domineering nature that made bringing her to heel so very satisfying. Betsy gasped as she relived how Scott had broken Emma and how Emma had wanted to be broken.

Unfortunately for her, investing so much of herself in mental defenses had literally taken her mind off the fight. While Betsy was shocked silent by the thought of Scott and Emma's sex life, Scott threw her off him, only to wrap her in his arms. He kissed her hard and hungrily.

Betsy's fingers dug into Scott's back as she realized that Scott's keen analytical mind hadn't mistook Emma's reactions. In his memory, he had seen her climax repeatedly, virtually overdose on the pleasure he gave her, and there was no exaggeration there. Betsy felt the same pleasure as Scott kissed her, touched her.

After their tongues had learned enough of each other, Scott lifted his hand to one of Betsy's full breasts. He closed his fingers around its wonderful curvature, fingertips describing how it differed from Emma's. While Emma's breasts were pert and firm, Betsy's were soft and pliant, changing shape in his hand as he squeezed it, flowing into his grip and spreading under his fingers.

"You shagged her," Betsy moaned, lost in Scott's memories of

taking

Emma, a woman Betsy never would've thought would be brought to heel so easily. Scott's lips caressed her neck, offering pointed reminders that she only knew Emma's pleasure secondhand, that she could experience Scott's lovemaking for herself if only she gave in. "You... you bred her. Bloody hell... you're going to fuck her every night until she's finally... pregnant. She came again and again. Like a whore.

Because

you treated her like a whore."

Scott's arms cinched around her waist, his hands slipping under her gi. One clutched the sweetly round hills of her ass, squeezing, massaging, circling, even patting as if in ownership, with Betsy sighing heavily as the pleasures of his touch sank into her unawakened flesh, revealing it as tender and sensitive under his fingers.

The other hand went even lower, caressing the back of her thighs, sending shudders down all of Betsy's long legs. She wanted to jump up and wrap her legs around Scott's waist, force her breasts to his mouth, experience all the satisfaction she had seen Emma enjoy.

"Don't think you can treat me like that, mate..." Betsy muttered, barely conscious with the cacophony of pleasure exploding in her senses. She could smell Scott's musk—her hands flowed over his face, feeling his chiseled features, the grainy shadow of his stubble. "Like your little... bitch..."

He smelled her hair and she was in his head, she could feel him enjoying its mango scent, feel him enjoying

her,

relishing her as no one had in what felt like forever. This, this was what'd she'd wanted when she'd first pursued him. All the hidden passions, all the kinky desires, all the dedication and duty and studiousness, but applied to her. She wanted to be his mission.

She gasped like some lovesick little girl as he kissed her neck again. "Scott, I love... love this... wanted this, for so long... thought I'd never get it." She breathed in his scent as she kissed him back, pressing her body against his, her flesh against his itchy gi. She wanted it out of the way, wanted to be skin to skin with him. Let him be shared with Emma, let him be doing this to mate with her like some wild animal in heat—she was an X-Man, her entire life was bloody well complicated, why should this be any different? All she knew was that she was happy. She'd known how compatible they would be for so long, and now finally it was like the universe had been convinced too.

"Then you're okay with it?" Scott asked her, drawing her slightly out of the lust that was tingling through her body and tightening her cunt. "Breeding? And not being the only one?"

Betsy smiled. "We'll see if you still want Emma after you've had me. And as for breeding..." She looked down again, seeing that he was either fully hard or close to it, his erection distending the crotch of his gi like a tent being put up. Emma, that poor, poor,

lucky

girl. No wonder she'd put aside her superiority complex for that. "Try it."

She doubted it would work—even Scott's potency couldn't compare to her birth control regiment. But if she liked the effort, she'd do the same as Emma and drop her pills. And then, well—try, try again.

Scott moved to kiss her again, but Betsy stopped him, laying her finger over his lips. "One thing, love. If you're not just going to shag me—if you're going to bloody

breed

me—I think I'd best make sure you really have what it takes to be a daddy."

"Do averted futures count? I could provide a few references that way."

"Not that kind of daddy," Betsy said.

In a flash, she'd put Scott through a hip toss, slamming him down on the mat and following through by straddling his head. With one hand she grasped his hair, the other fist she raised for a killing blow. And all the while, Scott's nostrils were awash with the scent of her aroused cunt, situated just a few inches away from his face.

"How about it, Scott?" Betsy asked as she knelt over him. "Do you have the good sense to surrender now? Or the balls to keep fighting me? Because you're not going to get this bint without one or the other."

Scott only smiled up at Betsy. "You hit hard, Betts. But I think we can both agree that breaking my visor would be a bad move."

Scott could see her brow furrow in concentration as she realized the tactical misstep she'd made, but he didn't give her time to think her way out of the checkmate she'd backed herself into. His left hand came up in a dazzling slap, landing squarely on Betsy's ass. She was shocked, scandalized, the English Rose totally unused to being treated so vulgarly, and she instinctively turned to her left to see who had dared lay a finger on her.

Scott's right hand jammed against Betsy's hip and shoved her off of him, rolling over her so that he was on top, belly to back. He wrenched her gi jacket back and down, so that her arms were pinned to her sides by it, then he twisted the material of the jacket to tighten its grip on Betsy. He was now straddling the small of her back, her jutting ass behind him, her strong back laid out before his groin, mostly bared, teasing him with a succulent look at the sides of her breasts. Even having seen the whole picture moments ago, it was still a huge temptation.

With one hand holding her makeshift straitjacket in place, Scott reached down with the other and traced his finger over the curve of Betsy's breast, hearing her suck in air as she registered the touch. The flesh was as pert and perfect as it looked, and warm and sensitive as well. In the heat of battle, with her adrenaline raging, Betsy wasn't used to being touched so intimately.

She let out a very dry British laugh. "You're good, Scott. You're very good. In a straight fight, I'd bugger you, but you don't let me have a straight fight, do you?"

"Not much incentive for it," Scott pointed out, equally dry.

Reaching behind himself, he grabbed Betsy's loose pants by the waistband and lowered them down her sweet ass. He had a good idea of just how sweet it was from how the well-rounded cheeks bloomed out around her thong, but he wouldn't be in this position—literally topping Psylocke—if he were all that vulnerable to temptation.

Instead, he watched Betsy's face, her cheek pressed down to the mat, straining, flushed, as if she were trying to get out of a submission hold. Only Scott couldn't feel her trying to escape. And as her waistband cleared the pert curvature of her swelling buttocks, he saw her close her eyes in rapture. A throb went through Scott's erection. That was the real prize. Seeing the stoic, closed-off warrior realize she was being stripped naked, that there was nothing she could do about it—and that she liked it.

Then Betsy sucked in breath, as if remembering where she was. Maybe reading his mind had given it away. "Of course, you can't hold me down forever. The moment I get up, what's to stop me from ending you?"

"Maybe you'll think of something better to do," Scott intoned, running his forefinger between Betsy's asscheeks, touching down just shy of her cunt and swiping upward until his fingertip buzzed over her anus. Betsy gasped, either thinking he was going to sodomize her—or disappointed that he hadn't.

"You're a telepath, Betsy. You must know what men think of you when you walk around, dressed the way you do. They see your big tits, your fat ass, and they get ideas. Do you enjoy knowing they can't act on any of those dirty, nasty thoughts? Or are you hoping one of them will?"

Betsy took a deep breath, sensing Scott's intent just before he struck—his hand chopping down on her bare ass with a sharp, swift slap. "Ooh!" she shrieked, feeling the blow reverberate through the weighty heft of her buttocks, making them jiggle with the same enticing flow as when she walked around in her high-heeled boots with her thong cutting between her asscheeks. Scott wondered if it felt as good for her to feel her ass shake around as it was to watch it.

He slapped her on the other cheek, the pain flowing into the virgin flesh and thrumming as well in the lightly reddened skin of her other buttock. Betsy opened her lips, her teeth gnashing, absorbing the pain and more, the sensation of being on display and used and controlled. She had to be thinking about how one of only two things that kept her from battering down even his formidable psi-defenses were the rules of this twisted game they were playing. And Betsy was honorable, but no fool.

The other thing, though, was the possibility that she enjoyed this. Enjoyed every rippling, painful smack that went through her ass as Scott held her down and spanked her.

He brought his hand down again, whistling through the air, but this time stopped his palm right before it impacted Betsy's trembling buttocks. And he heard her groan.

"You're a smart girl, Betsy. You know you've been bad." His hand hovered closer to her. Closer. Barely shy of touching her. He knew she could feel it all the same. In a lot of ways, the closeness of his hand was more potent than his actual touch. "Trying to seduce me. Throwing yourself at me." He lowered his voice and his hand, bringing it down to her exposed cunt, but not touching, never touching. Just letting her know that he could, while she listened to his soft, cool voice. "Maybe even thinking about me. While you touch yourself. One big loop. You show off your tits—your ass—I think about them, think about you, think about

fucking."

His fingers inched closer. Bare millimeters separated the tips of his callused fingers from the moisture of her pussy. He could feel her trembling. He could feel her warmth. "You read my thoughts. What I want to do to you. How I'd fuck you. And you think about it while you fuck yourself." He curled his fingers into a fist. All but his pinky. That he laid against her cunt.

Betsy moaned.

"Does that sound naughty to you, Betsy?" Scott asked. "Something that deserves to be punished?"

Betsy was on the verge of orgasm. Her pussy dripping wet. Sucking at even the tiniest part of his finger. Getting off on just feeling the edge of his fingernail on her tender cunt. She drooled. "Bastard... can't just fuck me... have to... have to be the big man..."

Scott dipped his pinky inside her. She clenched around it. And she tried to hold back her moan, but she couldn't. She was too close, too hot—too naughty.

"You know what I like about you, Betsy? You're a dirty English slut in an innocent Asian body. So while you may love cock, your tight little cunt doesn't know what to do with it."

Her cunt spasmed around her finger. If she wasn't coming outright, she was so close to it that there was no real difference. She was gagging for it. Needing it. Needing it too much to even fight. Tears were in her eyes, sweat dotting her forehead. He whispered to her: "Even Emma didn't drool before I put it in her."

"Big man," Betsy said angrily, though Scott imagined there wasn't a man in the world who couldn't see the lust she was trying to hide. As he dragged his pinky out of her, leaving her stranded on the verge of orgasm, she keened and whimpered like she was being tortured—all from being denied the touch of one little finger.

"Do you feel like a big man!?" Betsy demanded as soon as she recovered. Scott smiled evenly; she didn't mean it. She was just frustrated with herself for getting so worked up, so easily. After years of being in control, both of herself and of any man who came near her, now she was at the bottom of the food chain. And, even more frustratingly, enjoying it. "Fine.

Fine.

You can get me wet. Lots of men have!"

Scott let out a wry chuckle. "Lots of men?"

Betsy colored and, for the first time, struggled against the jacket holding her arms to her sides. She nearly slipped free; Scott had to grab it with both hands. Then she was well and truly trapped. And she panted, aroused by that.

"Just because you can turn me on," Betsy insisted shrilly, "doesn't mean you can satisfy me. So go on, Scott. Fuck me. Make me come.

Have a go if you think you're hard enough!"

Scott was ready for her challenge. He ripped the jacket down her arms to her wrists, where he tied it into a firm knot, sparing a wan grin as he did so. They always called him a boy scout...

With Betsy securely bound, he rolled her over onto her back. She was naked from the waist up, the top of her gi now wrapped around her wrists, while her pants were down around her thighs, in the back at least. In front, they still partially covered her crotch, allowing him to see only a shock of purple hair at her pubis. Scott didn't worry about that now. He straddled her chest, holding her down with his weight, and ripped open his pants at the seam.

"This hard enough?" he asked her.

Betsy stared with wide-eyed shock at the massive erection that whipped out of Scott's town pants. It was twice the size of any other cock she had seen, long and thick, with fat blue veins running up and down its stolid length. His purple cockhead looked as wide around as a billiard ball.

Scott did not look smug as he knelt over Betsy, skinning back his foreskin, showing her all of his knob, its tip glossy with precum. Betsy was unable to speak, barely able to think, as if she were hypnotized by the mammoth prick Scott had challenged her with. But Scott's mouth did turn upwards at the ends, in calm, collected acceptance of his victory. It was the tight-lipped smile he would wear at the end of a battle—the reassurance that his plan had been carried out successfully.

However she might have resented how Scott had chipped away at her defenses and stripped away her supremacy, Betsy was utterly unable to resist his trump card. Scott could almost hear his own words echoing in Betsy's head.

You're a dirty English slut in an innocent Asian body. So while you may love cock, your tight little cunt doesn't know what to do with it.