Chapter 17: Fantasy made real
The steam from the bathroom still clung to their skin as they moved, a procession of three through the dim hallway. Wanda led, her hand firmly wrapped around Yelena’s. Natasha followed, her steps soft on the polished floor, her body humming with a profound, liquid satisfaction.
Wanda pushed open the double doors to her bedroom. The scent of jasmine and aged paper enveloped them, thicker here, a physical presence. The room was a testament to her power, not the chaotic kind, but the kind that curated beauty. Velvet swallowed sound. Gold thread gleamed in the low light from a single ornate lamp.
Wanda stopped just inside, turning to face Natasha. She reached out, her fingers tracing Natasha’s jawline, a proprietary gesture.
“Love spider,” Wanda said, her voice a low caress. “You’re ready to watch me make love to your sister?”
Natasha’s eyes widened. The question, spoken aloud in this sacred space, made it real in a new way. Her breath hitched. She saw the hunger in Wanda’s green eyes, and beneath her own residual bliss, a hotter, sharper need ignited. The possessiveness was there, yes, but so was a fierce, desperate curiosity. To see Wanda, her Wanda, unleash that famed skill on someone else. To watch Yelena, the unflappable one, come completely undone.
“Yes,” Natasha breathed, the word barely audible.
Wanda’s smile was a reward. “Good. We got a nice comfy couch for you to lay on.” She gestured with her chin toward the far wall, where a new, deep-set Chesterfield sofa in oxblood leather sat, positioned perfectly for a view of the colossal bed. “Feel free to please yourself with your hands if you want. Take the couch and get it ready.”
Natasha’s smile was slow, dreamy. She leaned in, capturing Wanda’s lips in a brief, searing kiss that tasted of lavender and promise. As she turned to walk toward the couch, her hips swaying with a languid confidence, Wanda’s hand moved.
It was a sharp, sudden crack of a slap on Natasha’s retreating backside. The sound was startlingly loud in the quiet room.
Natasha jolted, a gasped “Oh!” escaping her. Then a deeper, throatier moan followed as the sting bloomed into a warm, delicious ache. She paused, casting a look over her shoulder. Her expression was pure rapture—eyes glazed, lips parted, a flush spreading down her neck. She looked drunk on it.
Yelena, still standing by Wanda’s side, flinched at the sound. Her gaze darted from Natasha’s blissful face to Wanda’s serene one. A jagged bolt of pure, unadulterated heat shot straight through her. It was so wrong. So electric. She bit her lower lip, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Wanda took Yelena’s hand again, her touch now inexplicably gentle. “Come,” she murmured, and led her toward the bed.
Yelena’s eyes swept the room. The couch. It was huge, plush, undeniable. It had not been there last night when she’d sneaked in, hiding in the shadows of the hallway arch, watching Natasha leg open on the edge of that very bed with Wanda between her legs , whispering Wanda’s . Now Natasha was curling onto it, tucking a velvet pillow under her head, her eyes already fixed on them with a dark, smoldering focus.
Wanda guided Yelena to the foot of the bed. The silk sheets were cool and shockingly smooth under her knees as Wanda pressed down on her shoulders. Yelena sank back, the canopy above her a constellation of embroidered stars. Her body was a live wire, every nerve ending exposed from what she’d seen in the bathroom, from the slap, from the unbearable weight of Natasha’s stare.
Wanda stood over her for a moment, a silhouette of power and curvature. Then she knelt, her movements deliberate, ceremonial. She placed her hands on Yelena’s knees and pushed them apart. Yelena let them fall open, a surrender that felt like freefall.
Wanda bent. Her lips brushed the inside of Yelena’s knee. Then the other. A path of soft, dry kisses began a slow ascent up her trembling thighs. Each press of her mouth was a brand. Yelena’s head pressed back into the silk, her fingers clutching at the sheets. She could hear her own pulse in her ears.
From the couch, Natasha watched with a possessive hunger so intense it stole the air from her lungs. This was the fantasy, the one she’d barely allowed herself to shape in the darkest corners of her mind. To see her fierce, brilliant sister vulnerable. To see her goddess of a lover claiming that vulnerability. It was a gift and a test, and it was unraveling her completely. One hand slid down her own stomach, fingertips skating over damp skin, but she kept her eyes wide open. She wouldn’t miss a second.
Wanda’s mouth reached the junction of Yelena’s thighs. She paused, her warm breath ghosting over slick, exposed skin. Yelena whimpered, a broken, helpless sound.
Then Wanda’s tongue touched her. A single, slow, flat stroke from bottom to top.
Yelena arched off the bed as if struck by lightning, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. Her back bowed, tendons standing out in her neck.
Wanda did it again. Slower. Deeper. A worshipful lick that explored every fold, every secret. Her hands slid under Yelena’s hips, lifting her, holding her in place for this devotional feast. There was no frantic pace, only an agonizing, exquisite thoroughness.
“Блядь,” Yelena gasped, the crude Russian exclamation ripped from her. Her hands flew to Wanda’s hair, not to guide, but to anchor herself to the earth.
Wanda hummed against her, the vibration wringing another shattered moan from Yelena’s chest. Her tongue curled, flicked, probed. She was mapping her, learning what made Yelena’s legs shake, what made her breath sob, what made her chant a stream of incoherent, pleading Russian.
Natasha watched, her own fingers moving in small, frantic circles now, her mouth agape. She saw Yelena, always so sarcastic, so controlled, completely atomized. She saw Wanda, feasting with a serene, focused intensity. A powerful, shuddering climax began to build low in Natasha’s own belly, just from watching. She was panting, her eyes glued to the point where Wanda’s mouth met her sister’s body, to the devastating, slow licks that made Yelena’s entire frame convulse with each pass.
Wanda’s hands tightened on Yelena’s hips. Her pace increased minutely, the tip of her tongue finding a specific, furious rhythm. Yelena’s cries pitched higher, desperate, begging.
“Please… я не могу… I can’t…”
But she could. Wanda was going to make sure of it.