Chapter 9: Magic's Embrace
The silence after Natasha’s climax was profound, broken only by her ragged breathing and the soft whisper of Wanda’s fingers against wet skin. From the doorway, Yelena watched, a statue carved from want and shame. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She should leave. Every cell in her body screamed to turn, to flee back to the cold spare room and bury this vision in the dark.
But her feet were rooted to the floorboards.
Wanda did not look up. Her attention was on Natasha’s spent form, her expression one of deep, satisfied possession. She withdrew her glistening fingers slowly, bringing them to her own lips. She sucked them clean, her eyes closing in a slow, deliberate show of savoring. A low, approving hum vibrated in her throat. “You taste like heaven, my love.”
Natasha whimpered, a broken, blissful sound. Her body was limp, boneless, but a fresh tremor went through her as Wanda’s praise washed over her. “Mommy…”
“Shhh,” Wanda murmured. She didn’t glance toward the door. Her movements were liquid, intentional, as she shifted her body down the bed. She settled between Natasha’s thighs, which fell open in perfect, eager surrender. “I’m not done with you.”
Natasha’s head lolled to the side, her profile etched in the lamplight. Her eyes were half-lidded, staring at nothing, seeing only the pleasure-pain haze Wanda painted for her. She did not look at the doorway. She gave no sign she knew her sister was there, a witness to her utter unraveling.
Then, Wanda’s hands came up, palms facing Natasha’s body. From her fingertips, threads of crimson light—tendrils of raw, chaotic magic—unspooled into the air. They were sinuous, alive with a faint, crystalline hum. They drifted downward, not with violence, but with a terrifying, tender purpose.
Natasha watched them come, her breath hitching. Not in fear, but in anticipation.
The first tendril, warm and pulsing with latent energy, wrapped around her left wrist. It coiled snugly, a bracelet of living light, and gently pulled her arm up and over her head, pinning it to the wrought-iron headboard. A second tendril did the same to her right wrist. Two more wove around her ankles, spreading her legs wider, securing them to the footboard. The magic adjusted its hold, not tight enough to hurt, but implacable. Unbreakable.
Natasha was bound, spread-eagled and utterly exposed. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips. “Yes…”
Wanda said nothing. She simply watched her work, her expression serene, powerful. A final, thinner tendril slipped around Natasha’s throat, not choking, just a collar of light, a claiming. Only then did Wanda lower her head.
Her mouth was on Natasha in an instant. There was no tentative teasing. Wanda’s tongue, hot and wet and ruthless, licked a broad, flat stripe through Natasha’s dripping folds. Natasha cried out, a sharp, choked sound of pure sensation. Her back arched off the bed, but the magic held her firm, allowing only the frantic, helpless twitching of her restrained body.
“Fuck,” Yelena breathed the word into the silent hallway, her own hand flying to her mouth to stifle it. Her skin was on fire.
Wanda ate Natasha like a woman starving. Her tongue plunged inside, fucking her with deep, steady strokes before swirling up to circle her clit with devastating precision. She alternated—rough suction on the sensitive bundle of nerves, then lapping at her entrance, drinking her in. The sounds were obscene: wet, sloppy, lewd smacks and slurps, punctuated by Natasha’s continuous, escalating moans.
“Oh god… Mommy, please… right there… don’t stop…” Natasha babbled, her words dissolving into incoherent sobs. Her hips strained against the magical bonds, trying to grind against Wanda’s face, but the hold was absolute. She was completely at Wanda’s mercy, a puppet strung up by scarlet light.
Wanda’s hands gripped Natasha’s thighs, holding her open even wider. She sucked Natasha’s clit hard into her mouth, humming against it, and Natasha screamed. It was a raw, shattered sound that echoed off the bedroom walls. Her body convulsed, held taut by the tendrils, orgasm ripped from her with violent force. Juice spilled over Wanda’s chin.
Wanda didn’t let up. She rode Natasha through the climax, her tongue never ceasing its relentless rhythm. As the waves began to subside, she pulled back just enough to speak, her voice a dark, filthy whisper against Natasha’s ravaged flesh. “Again. You don’t get to stop until I say.”
“I can’t… it’s too much…” Natasha wept, her body trembling violently.
“You can. You will.” Wanda’s tongue speared inside her again, deep and searching. One of her hands left Natasha’s thigh, her fingers finding Natasha’s clit, rubbing tight, furious circles. “Come for me. Be a good girl and come on my face.”
The command, the degradation, the overwhelming sensation—it was too much. Natasha’s breath hitched, a silent, open-mouthed gasp, and then she was coming again, a brutal, seizing orgasm that left her screaming into the room, a broken stream of pleas and affirmations. “Yes! Mommy! I’m yours! Fuck!”
Yelena’s own breath came in shallow pants. She was pinned not by magic, but by a voyeuristic lust so deep it felt like an illness. Her hand, still over her mouth, slid down. Her fingers crept under the waistband of her sweatpants, over the damp silk of her panties. She was soaked. Her own touch was a shock, a guilty mimicry of the worship happening on the bed.
On the bed, Wanda finally lifted her head. Her chin glistened. She looked down at Natasha, who was sobbing through the aftershocks, completely wrecked. Wanda’s face was a mask of divine, cruel satisfaction. She leaned in, licking a slow, clean stripe up Natasha’s center, collecting the proof of her victory.
“My perfect girl,” Wanda whispered, her voice hoarse. She kissed Natasha’s inner thigh, a strangely tender gesture amid the devastation. “My perfect, filthy girl.”
.
Yelena had no idea they wanted her to see
They both knew.
And they wanted her to see.