Chapter 11: The Art of simulator
The quiet held them for a long while, a cocoon woven from spent energy and whispered truths. Wanda’s fingers combed through Natasha’s damp hair, the gesture infinitely tender. The tears had dried, leaving a strange, clean exhaustion in their wake. But beneath the fatigue, a current of possessive joy thrummed in Wanda’s veins. She had her soulmate back in her arms. Now, she wanted to worship her, to push her into a state of feeling so profound it would obliterate every memory of emptiness Natasha had ever carried.
“Tell me what you need,” Wanda murmured, her lips brushing Natasha’s forehead.
Natasha sighed, a contented sound that ended in a soft laugh. “I don’t know. I have everything.”
“You don’t.” Wanda’s voice dropped, taking on that velvety, commanding texture that made Natasha’s stomach clench. “You need to be wrecked. Properly. You need to be taken so far past your limits you forget there ever were any. You need to feel how much I adore every inch of you until your mind goes blank with it.”
A thrill, sharp and electric, shot down Natasha’s spine. The jaded professional, the woman who had seen every variation of desire, found herself utterly disarmed. She nodded, a tiny, eager motion.
Wanda kissed her, slow and deep, then slipped from the bed. She moved to a heavy oak armoire, its doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. From within, she drew out lengths of silk—deep crimson, like old wine, and black like a midnight sky. She returned to the bed, the fabrics whispering over her skin.
“Give me your wrists,” Wanda said, not a question but a gentle directive.
Natasha offered her hands without hesitation. Wanda’s touch was firm, methodical. She didn’t tie harsh knots; she wound the silk in intricate, secure patterns, creating cuffs that were lush and binding. She guided Natasha onto her back, arranging her at the center of the grand bed. With deliberate care, she attached each silk-bound wrist to the ornate posts of the four-poster, leaving just enough slack for Natasha to move her arms slightly, but not enough to break the hold. The position was one of sublime vulnerability, her body open and displayed.
“Comfortable?” Wanda asked, her eyes scanning Natasha’s form.
“Yes.” Natasha tested the bonds. The silk was smooth, unyielding. A delicious sense of helplessness began to pool low in her belly.
“Good.” Wanda crawled onto the bed, settling between Natasha’s parted thighs. She didn’t touch her, not yet. She simply looked, her gaze a physical caress that traveled from the hollow of Natasha’s throat, over her breasts with their pebbled, sensitive peaks, down the flat plane of her stomach, to the thatch of auburn curls glistening with the evidence of their earlier union. “You are so fucking beautiful like this. All mine. All for me.”
She leaned down then, but not for a kiss. Her mouth went to Natasha’s inner thigh, just above the knee. She bit down, not hard enough to bruise, but with a possessive pressure that made Natasha gasp. Then she began to kiss a slow, torturous path upward. Each kiss was an open-mouthed brand, a wet, hot promise. She lingered in the crease of thigh and hip, her tongue swirling, drawing shivers and whimpers from Natasha, whose hips strained against the silken restraints.
“Wanda… please…”
“Please what, my love?” Wanda murmured against her skin, her breath ghosting over Natasha’s soaked folds.
“Touch me. God, just touch me.”
“I am.” Wanda blew a soft stream of cool air directly onto Natasha’s clit.
The sensation was maddening. Natasha cried out, her back arching off the bed. Wanda smiled, a wicked, loving curve of her lips, and finally lowered her mouth.
It was not the frantic, devouring hunger from before. This was precise, agonizingly slow artistry. Wanda’s tongue traced every fold, parted her, tasted her with lazy, luxurious strokes. She circled Natasha’s clit with the very tip of her tongue, feather-light, again and again, until Natasha was shaking, her breaths coming in ragged sobs.
“I can’t… it’s too much…”
“It’s not nearly enough,” Wanda purred, her voice vibrating against Natasha’s sensitive flesh. She sealed her mouth over Natasha’s clit and sucked, hard.
Natasha came with a shattered scream, her body seizing, the climax crashing through her like a white-hot wave. Wanda rode it out, her tongue gentling, lapping at the pulsing nerves until the tremors subsided into aftershocks.
Before Natasha could even draw a full breath, Wanda’s fingers were there. Two slid inside her with effortless ease, curling upwards, finding that perfect, spongy spot inside. Her thumb took up a relentless rhythm on her clit.
“No, no, wait, I just… I need a second,” Natasha begged, tears pricking her eyes again—this time from sheer sensory overload.
“You don’t,” Wanda whispered, her eyes locked on Natasha’s face, watching every flicker of ecstasy and overwhelm. She began to piston her fingers, deep and steady. “This is overstimulation. This is the point. I’m going to make you come until your brain forgets how to form words. Until all you know is my hands, my mouth, and the pleasure I’m giving you.”
The second orgasm built impossibly fast, a coiling, urgent pressure that Wanda’s skilled fingers stoked without mercy. It tore through Natasha just as violently as the first, a different flavor—deeper, more internal, a clenching, emptying rush that left her gasping like a fish on a line.
Wanda didn’t stop. She crooked her fingers, pressed harder, moved faster. She ducked her head and took Natasha’s clit back into her mouth, sucking and flicking with her tongue in a chaotic, devastating pattern.
“Please, Wanda, I can’t… it’s too sensitive, it hurts…”
“It’s a good hurt,” Wanda breathed, not relenting for a second. “It’s the hurt of feeling everything. Of being truly, completely felt. Give in to it.”
The third peak was a ragged, sobbing thing. Natasha’s body felt like it was breaking apart, fracturing into a million points of light and sensation. There was no clear beginning or end to the pleasure-pain; it was a continuous, wrenching tide. Tears streamed down her temples into her hair. She was babbling, a mix of Russian and English, pleas and curses and Wanda’s name.
Wanda finally slowed, her movements becoming long, languid strokes. She withdrew her fingers, coated in Natasha’s release, and brought them to her own mouth, tasting her deeply. She watched Natasha shudder through the aftermath.
“Why?” Natasha finally managed to choke out, her voice wrecked. “Why… like that?”
Wanda crawled up her body, her weight a comforting anchor. She kissed the tears from Natasha’s cheeks. “Because you deserve to be ruined by love,” she said, her own voice thick with emotion. “You’ve spent a lifetime giving pieces of yourself away in empty transactions. You deserve to have someone give everything to you, with no expectation, no limit. Why would I deny you anything when I can make you come over and over? Feeling you cum nonstop… it’s a privilege. It’s my joy.”
She brushed a damp strand of hair from Natasha’s face. “Do you understand? This isn’t a game. This is me pouring every ounce of love I have for you, across every universe, directly into your body. It’s me saying, ‘Here, take this. It’s all for you.’”
Natasha stared up at her, her vision blurred. The bonds, the searing pleasure, the relentless care—it was a language more profound than any she’d ever known. It was being seen, utterly and completely, in her hunger and her capacity for rapture. Wanda wasn’t just her soulmate. She was her sanctuary, and her deliverance.
“Untie me,” Natasha whispered.
Wanda’s fingers went to the silken knots at once, deftly loosening them. As the last scarf fell away, Natasha’s arms, aching and weak, wrapped around Wanda’s neck, pulling her down.
“Now,” Natasha said against her lips, a new fire in her exhausted eyes. “Let me give some of it back.”