Chapter 16: Wanda pins Natasha against the mirrored wall, her thick magical cock pistoning in and out of Natasha's dripping pussy at a punishing pace, their sweat-slicked bodies sliding together as Natasha claws at the glass, screaming 'Fuck! Fuck! It's so deep! So much better than any pathetic man!'
The scent of their spent bodies still hung in the air, mixed with jasmine and beeswax. Natasha lay curled into Wanda’s side, tracing idle patterns on the witch’s stomach. A profound, humming silence had settled between them, the kind that needed no filling. It was Natasha who finally broke it, her voice quiet with a newfound clarity.
“It never felt like that,” she said, not looking up. “Not once.”
Wanda’s hand, which had been stroking her hair, stilled. “Tell me.”
“It was a transaction. A mechanical release for them. For me, it was… disassembly. They took a woman apart and left the pieces on the bed. Sometimes they’d toss money at the pieces.” Natasha’s words were flat, clinical. “I learned to leave myself somewhere else. Up on the ceiling, watching. I was a dead fish. Plucked. Used. Tossed back.”
Wanda’s body tensed beside her. Not with anger at her, but with a cold, focused fury at the memory Natasha painted. “They never saw you.”
“No.” Natasha finally looked up, her green eyes hard and clear. “They see a category. A hole. A service.”
In a fluid, powerful motion, Wanda shifted, rolling Natasha onto her back and looming over her. Her eyes glowed faintly, crimson bleeding into the brown. “I see you. And I am going to make sure you feel seen until the memory of those empty hands is scrubbed from your skin.”
She didn’t give Natasha time to answer. She grasped her firmly, pulling her up from the tangled sheets and guiding her, naked and pliant, across the room toward the grand, ornate mirrors. The cool glass met Natasha’s back, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from her own skin and Wanda’s body pressing against her front.
“Look,” Wanda growled, her mouth at Natasha’s ear. One hand pinned Natasha’s wrist beside her head against the mirror. The other hand slid between her legs, fingers plunging into the wetness already gathering there. “Watch what it looks like when you are worshipped.”
Natasha’s breath fogged the glass. Her reflection stared back: wide eyes, flushed skin, a body held in a pose of sublime submission. She saw Wanda behind her, all fierce devotion and coiled strength.
She felt the familiar, magical pressure thicken and form at her entrance, a blunt, insistent demand. Wanda didn’t tease. She lined herself up and, with a single, relentless surge of her hips, sheathed fully inside.
The cry that tore from Natasha was one of sheer, overwhelming fullness. The mirror shuddered against her back. Wanda was deep, so deep, the stretch bordering on painful in the most exquisite way. She held there, buried, letting Natasha feel every inch.
“This,” Wanda hissed, her own reflection a mask of intense concentration. “This is for every time you felt nothing.”
She pulled back and slammed home.
The impact was brutal, perfect. Natasha’s head thumped against the glass. Wanda set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a calculated, driving piston that punched the air from Natasha’s lungs and mashed against the deepest, most forgotten parts of her. The mirror rattled with every drive.
“They used a dead fish?” Wanda’s voice was raw, breathless with the force of her movements. “Look at you. You are alive. You are screaming. You are fucking flowering around me. Tell me.”
The pleasure was a crashing tide, eroding the last of Natasha’s defenses. “I felt nothing!” she screamed, her confession echoing in the room, mingling with the wet, slapping sound of their union. “Nothing! They touched a corpse! They fuck a corpse and call it a woman! They make all women feel like dead fish!”
“Never again,” Wanda promised, her thrusts becoming erratic, harder, losing their rhythm to pure need. Her hand snaked around from Natasha’s wrist to grip her throat, not cutting off air, but claiming, anchoring. “You will never be empty again. And you will help me ensure no other woman is.”
She was hitting a spot now that made Natasha see white, her legs trembling violently. The orgasm built not as a wave but as a pending detonation.
“Wanda… I’m gonna…”
“Come,” Wanda commanded, her own release imminent, her magic cock swelling impossibly further inside Natasha’s clutching cunt. “Cover my cock. Soak it. Mark it as yours.”
The permission shattered her. Natasha’s climax erupted, a violent, convulsive storm that gripped Wanda with fierce, rhythmic pulses. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound of liberation, her slick coating Wanda’s length as she was filled in turn with Wanda’s hot, magic release.
They slumped against the mirror, slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, shared gasps. Wanda’s forehead rested against the glass beside Natasha’s head. Their reflected eyes met—dark, sated, full of purpose.
After long moments, Wanda gently withdrew, turning Natasha to face her. She kissed her, slow and deep.
“Part one of the plan is simple,” Wanda said, her voice low and steady. “We make our own company. A different kind. You use your connections. Find the others like you. The ones who are tired of being corpses.”
Natasha, her mind still buzzing, nodded. The practicality was a anchor. “I know women. Good women. Jaded women.”
“We start rumors. A sanctuary. A place where the transaction is different. Where the price is mutual pleasure, and the profit is awakening.” Wanda’s eyes burned with chaotic light. “Then i make love to those sex workers. Properly. As I have loved you. I show them. They spread the word to more women. It’s a virus. A beautiful, healing virus.”
A slow smile spread across Natasha’s face. It felt unfamiliar on her lips, this smile of agency, of shared conspiracy. “A sisterhood.”
“A revolution,” Wanda corrected softly, tracing Natasha’s lower lip. “One orgasm at a time. Starting with yours. Again.”
And she led her back to the waiting bed, the mirrors now holding the silent, gleaming testament of what was to come.