Chapter 3: Strawberry Seduction
The silence after Natasha’s climax was a warm, living thing. Wanda held her, feeling the rapid flutter of Natasha’s heartbeat against her own chest gradually slow. She traced idle patterns on the damp skin of Natasha’s shoulder, her own need a persistent, throbbing ache between her legs, willingly deferred.
Natasha’s breath, which had been shallow and fast, evened out. She turned her head, burying her face deeper into the crook of Wanda’s neck. “I want everything,” she murmured, her voice raspy and raw.
Wanda’s hand stilled. “Tell me.”
“I want you to do those special white tablecloth dinners you make for me,” Natasha whispered, the words flowing into the quiet dark. “For us. Yelena, you, and me. The three of us. Candles, the good wine, you laughing at something stupid I said.” She tilted her head up, her eyes searching Wanda’s in the dim light. “You and Yelena laughing and giggling with me as you take both our hands. And you, so lovely, guide us to the bedroom.”
A shiver, not of cold but of pure, undiluted desire, ran through Wanda. She saw it. The domesticity of it, the profound normalcy laced with the taboo. A family dinner, twisted and perfect.
“I want you to constantly remind sestra that I’m watching,” Natasha continued, her voice gaining a feverish intensity. Her hand slid down Wanda’s torso, fingers splaying possessively over her hip. “While you touch her. While you taste her. A whisper in her ear. ‘Natasha is seeing this. She loves seeing you fall apart for me.’”
Wanda captured Natasha’s wandering hand, bringing it to her mouth and kissing each knuckle. Her own pulse hammered at the base of her throat.
“Some women,” Natasha breathed, her eyes locked on Wanda’s lips against her skin, “will only get the physical. But those two? They would get everything. Your kind heart. Your loving smile. You’re sweet patience… oh, god, Mommy.” The title was a gasp, a reverent curse. “You’re beautiful. I want to pick flowers with Yelena and Melina for you. Bring them to you, armfuls of them, and have you… have you make love to us.”
The image was devastating. The sweetness of the gesture—the flowers, the inclusion of Melina, the matriarch of their broken, fabricated family—colliding with the raw carnality of the request. It wasn’t just about fucking. It was about offering their gathered affection, their twisted loyalty, as a gift for Wanda to consume.
Wanda couldn’t hold back any longer. The leash she’d kept on her own desire snapped.
With a growl that vibrated through both of them, she rolled, pinning Natasha beneath her again. This time, there was no gentle grind. She hooked Natasha’s knees over her shoulders, spreading her wide open to the cool, sterile air of the room. Natasha’s cunt was glistening, swollen, her earlier orgasm evident in the slick mess coating her inner thighs.
“You want to give me flowers?” Wanda said, her voice dark and thick. “This is the only bouquet I want. This pretty, wet, hungry pussy. And Yelena’s. Laid out for me. My garden.”
Before Natasha could gasp a reply, Wanda lowered her head.
Her tongue was a flat, broad stroke from Natasha’s perineum to her clit, a claiming, deliberate lick that gathered every drop of her essence. Natasha’s back arched off the bed, a wordless cry tearing from her throat. The sensitivity was exquisite, bordering on painful, a direct line from Wanda’s mouth to her soul.
Wanda didn’t tease. She feasted. Her tongue delved deep into Natasha’s core, fucking her with ruthless, perfect strokes. She used her lips to suck and pull at Natasha’s labia, her nose nudging her clit. Then she focused there, on that hard, desperate nub, circling it with pinpoint precision before sealing her mouth over it and sucking, hard.
“Fuck! Mommy, please!” Natasha’s hands scrabbled at the taut sheets, fisting the crisp cotton. Her thighs trembled around Wanda’s head, trying to close, to pull her in deeper, but Wanda held her open, immovable.
Wanda pulled back, her chin slick. “You want me to remind her you’re watching?” she panted, her own breath hot against Natasha’s throbbing flesh. “I’ll remind you first. Watch this. Watch what I do to the cunt that belongs to me.”
She drove two fingers inside Natasha without warning, a sharp, deep invasion that stole Natasha’s breath. They were soaked from her mouth, sliding easily into the clutching, tight heat. She curled them, finding that ridged spot inside with an assassin’s unerring accuracy.
Natasha shattered. A second orgasm, brutal and fast, racked her body. It was less a wave and more a detonation, a convulsive series of spasms that clenched around Wanda’s fingers like a vice. She screamed, the sound raw and unhinged, echoing off the too-white walls.
Wanda worked her through it, her fingers pumping relentlessly, her other hand pressing down on Natasha’s lower belly, amplifying every tremor. “Good girl,” she crooned, a filthy mantra. “My perfect girl. Coming apart just from my mouth. Imagine what I’ll do to her. Imagine her watching you like this first.”
As Natasha’s cries subsided into sobbing breaths, Wanda withdrew her fingers. She crawled up Natasha’s body, kissing a wet, possessive trail up her sternum, between her breasts, along her collarbone, until she could claim her mouth. Natasha could taste herself on Wanda’s tongue, salty and sharp and intimate.
“My turn,” Wanda whispered against her lips.
In a fluid motion, she shifted again, straddling Natasha’s face. She positioned herself over Natasha’s mouth, her soaked, swollen folds hovering just above Natasha’s parted lips. The scent of her own arousal, mixed with Natasha’s, was overwhelming.
“You don’t get to just lie there and take, my love,” Wanda said, her voice a ragged command. “You want to give me everything? Give me this. Make me come on your tongue while you think about watching me do the same to your sestra.”
Natasha’s answer was a desperate, hungry lunge upward. Her mouth found Wanda’s heat, and she attacked with a fervor that bordered on violence. Her tongue speared inside, lapping at the rich, heady wetness. She sucked Wanda’s clit into her mouth, applying a rhythmic, pulsing pressure she knew Wanda loved.
Wanda gasped, her head falling back, a curtain of brown hair cascading down her back. She braced her hands on the headboard, rolling her hips, fucking Natasha’s face with slow, deep thrusts. “Yes… just like that. God, your mouth… fuck…”
She let the fantasy fuel her, picturing the scene Natasha had painted. Yelena, wide-eyed and trying to hide her nerves. Natasha, watching from a chair, her hands clenched. Her own hands, guiding Yelena’s head between her legs. The juxtaposition of the tender and the crude.
“You’d be so wet for it, wouldn’t you?” Wanda moaned, her hips losing their rhythm, turning frantic. “Sitting there, dripping, while I teach her how to please me. While I tell her to be gentle, like you are. Or to be rough, like you are.”
Natasha’s response was a guttural hum of approval against her clit, the vibration sending electric shocks up Wanda’s spine.
Wanda’s orgasm built, a coiling, insistent pressure in her core. She grabbed fistfuls of her own hair, pulling, her breath coming in sharp pants. “I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice tight.
Natasha doubled her efforts, her tongue a flickering, relentless flame.
With a broken cry that was part scream, part sob, Wanda came. Her body bowed, taut as a wire, as pleasure erupted through her in scorching waves. Her cunt pulsed against Natasha’s tongue, a hot, rhythmic flood of release. She rode it out, grinding herself down onto Natasha’s face until the sensation became too much, and she collapsed to the side, spent and trembling.
They lay in a tangled, sweaty heap, the only sound their labored breathing and the distant creak of the safe house settling. The sterile room now smelled profoundly of sex and salt and skin.
Natasha turned, curling into Wanda’s side, her head on Wanda’s chest. She placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss over Wanda’s pounding heart.
Wanda wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. She kissed the crown of Natasha’s head.
No words were needed. The night, thick and young and heavy with promise, stretched out before them. The fantasy was no longer just whispered words; it was a blueprint, hanging in the air between them, fragrant as flowers and hot as blood. They were not done. They had only just begun to explore the edges of the everything they wanted.