Chapter 13: The breakfast 3
The silence in the living room was a fragile thing, held together by the weight of the letters in Yelena’s hands. She looked up at Natasha in the doorway, the ghost of a shared childhood and a thousand unsaid things passing between them. Then Wanda appeared behind Natasha, a calm, knowing presence. She didn’t speak. She simply let the sash of her silk robe go.
The robe whispered open and slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet on the hardwood floor.
Yelena’s breath caught. She’d seen Wanda in tactical gear, in casual wear, in a towel. This was different. This was deliberate. The morning light from the window gilded her skin, catching the gentle curve of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts, the confident, unapologetic line of her body. She was entirely bare, and the power of that simplicity was dizzying. Natasha didn’t turn. She just watched Yelena watch, a small, possessive smile on her lips.
Wanda stepped over the silk puddle, moving with a quiet grace that felt centuries old. She stopped in front of Yelena, her green eyes soft but unwavering. She reached down and took Yelena’s hand, her skin impossibly warm. Then she turned, offering her other hand to Natasha, who took it without hesitation, lacing their fingers together.
Wordlessly, Wanda led them. Out of the living room, down the short hall, past closed doors, to the master suite at the end. The door was already ajar. She pushed it open.
The room was bathed in a soft, diffused light. It smelled like them—like Natasha’s citrus shampoo and Wanda’s unique scent of ozone and vanilla. The bed was large, a landscape of rumpled linen. Wanda guided them inside and let their hands go. She turned to face Yelena, her gaze sweeping over her from head to toe, taking in the rigid posture, the white-knuckled grip on the letters, the frantic pulse visible in her throat.
“You’re so stressed, my beautiful hunter,” Wanda murmured, her voice a low, soothing melody. “My Yelena. All those knots from always moving, always working. Let me undress you. And give you a loving bath.”
Yelena blinked. A bath? The non-sequitur was so utterly disarming it broke through her spiraling anxiety. Her mind, which had been braced for an immediate, chaotic collision of bodies, stuttered to a halt. “A bath?”
She looked past Wanda to Natasha, seeking an anchor. Natasha’s eyes had widened, then her cheeks flushed a deep, immediate pink. She pressed her thighs together, a quick, telling motion. “You’re giving Lena one of the sponge baths,” she breathed, her voice husky.
Wanda smiled, a secret, knowing curve of her lips. “The ones you beg for.”
“That’s… fuck, that’s hot.” Natasha shivered, her gaze dropping to the floor before flicking back to Yelena, full of warning and excitement. “Yelena, be careful. My first Mommy Wanda bath? I was dripping just getting dried off. Wanda knows how to care.”
The emphasis on the last word held layers of meaning. Care meant attention. It meant focus. It meant being utterly known.
Before Yelena could formulate a protest, Wanda’s hands were on her. Not groping, not demanding. Efficient. Gentle. She unzipped Yelena’s hoodie, pushed it off her shoulders. The t-shirt followed, lifted over her head. Yelena stood rigid, her arms obediently raising as if on a command line. Her cargo pants were unbuttoned, unzipped, and helped down her legs. She stepped out of them, now standing in only her plain black bra and underwear in the center of their bedroom, feeling more exposed than if she were completely naked.
Wanda’s hands went to the clasp of her bra. It fell away. Then her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her underwear. As she drew them down, a cool draft hit Yelena’s skin, and she squeezed her eyes shut, a wave of sheer humiliation crashing over her.
The underwear was soaked through. A dark, unmistakable patch of arousal marred the black cotton.
A soft, delighted hum came from Wanda. “Oh,” she cooed, dropping the garment and tracing a single, feather-light finger up the inside of Yelena’s thigh. Yelena jolted. “Did my baby girl get all lovely and sticky just from our little talk? From the letters?”
The wording—my baby girl—unlocked something deep in Yelena’s spine. A electric shock of pure, unadulterated want. Her hips bucked forward involuntarily, a sharp, needy thrust into the empty air.
The sharp crack of Wanda’s hand connecting with the swell of her ass was a thunderclap in the quiet room. The pain was bright, clean, and startling. It wasn’t a harsh punishment; it was a punctuation mark.
“You are such a naughty baby girl,” Wanda said, her tone shifting, still loving but now edged with firm authority. “All worked up and messy. You get a nice, relaxing bath for being naughty. Naughty baby girls need to clean up first. They earn it. A good day work time you get love you bath”
Yelena gasped, the sting radiating through her, mixing confusingly with the throbbing need between her legs. She was mortified. She was on fire. She looked at Natasha, desperate for guidance.
Natasha was leaning against the doorframe, one hand buried in her own hair, biting her lower lip. Her eyes were black with desire, watching every micro-expression on Yelena’s face. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Go with it. Trust her.
Wanda took Yelena’s hand again, her grip firm. “Come on, darling. Bathroom. Let’s get you started.”
She led a stunned, naked Yelena into the expansive en-suite. The tub was a deep, soaking tub. But Wanda didn’t turn the taps. Instead, she guided Yelena to stand on the plush mat in the center of the room. “Stay.”
She walked to the large, walk-in shower and turned only the cold water on, letting it run. She fetched a clean, soft washcloth from a stack and let it soak under the stream. The air began to fill with the sound of falling water and a faint, cold mist.
Wanda wrung out the cloth. It dripped onto the tile. She approached Yelena, who trembled, part cold, part anticipation.
“This,” Wanda said, holding up the cloth, “is for naughty girls who can’t control themselves. To cool them down. To remind them of patience.”
The first touch of the damp, cool linen to Yelena’s sternum made her suck in a sharp breath. Wanda began to wipe her down with methodical, clinical strokes. Across her collarbones, over her shoulders, down her arms. The contrast was brutal: the chill of the cloth, the heat of Wanda’s gaze, the searing memory of the spank. The cloth passed over her breasts, and her nipples tightened into painful points, aching for a different kind of touch.
Wanda moved lower, kneeling in front of her. She wiped down Yelena’s stomach, the muscles there quivering. Then, without ceremony, she gently parted her legs.
Yelena made a small, choked sound.
“Shhh,” Wanda soothed, but her actions were merciless. The cold, rough cloth swiped over her swollen folds, once, twice, a blunt, impersonal cleaning. It was the least sexual touch imaginable, and yet it was the most intensely intimate thing Yelena had ever experienced. Her knees threatened to buckle. Her whole world narrowed to that cold sensation and the heat of shame in her cheeks.
Wanda finished, stood, and tossed the cloth into a hamper. She looked at Yelena, whose entire body was shuddering, goosebumps covering her skin.
“There,” Wanda said, her voice warming again. She cupped Yelena’s face. “All clean. Now, my sweet, stressed Yelena… would you like me to draw your bath?”
Yelena could only nod, tears of overwhelm and release prickling at the corners of her eyes. She had never felt so utterly possessed, so seen, so carefully undone. And she had never wanted anything more than to earn whatever came next.