Chapter 7: The First Taste
Natasha’s brain short-circuited. The question hung in the jasmine-scented air, a raw and filthy promise. Her mouth, her lips, her tongue. There. Where she was still pulsing and throbbing from Wanda’s fingers. The concept was so alien, so profoundly taboo, that for a second, disgust coiled hot in her gut.
“You can’t,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “That’s… that’s disgusting.”
Wanda’s smile was a slow, dangerous curve. “Is it?” Her breath fanned over Natasha’s wet flesh, making her shiver violently. “Your body is telling a different story. It’s begging for it.”
And it was. Despite the shock, despite the years of conditioning that screamed this was wrong, Natasha’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary lift off the bed, seeking that heat. Her cunt, swollen and dripping, ached with a new kind of emptiness.
“Let me show you,” Wanda murmured, and it wasn’t a request.
She didn’t dive in. She began with a soft, closed-mouth kiss on the inside of Natasha’s thigh, high up, near the junction. It was tender, almost chaste. Then another, lower. Each kiss was a brand, a claim. Natasha’s breath hitched, her protest dying in her throat as she watched the crown of Wanda’s dark head move lower, into the territory no one had ever worshipped, only used.
Wanda’s tongue touched her first. A broad, slow, flat stroke from her entrance all the way up to her clit.
Natasha’s scream was muffled by her own fist, which she shoved into her mouth. The sensation was obscenely intimate, wet and hot and focused with laser precision. It wasn’t a penis pounding into her. It wasn’t fingers. It was a soft, muscular, living part of another person, lavishing attention on the most secret part of her.
“Fuck,” Natasha sobbed around her knuckles.
Wanda hummed against her, the vibration traveling straight into Natasha’s core, and did it again. And again. Lapping at her, tasting her, drinking her down like she was the finest nectar. The initial disgust evaporated, burned away by a tidal wave of pleasure so profound it felt religious. Natasha’s hands flew from her mouth to Wanda’s hair, not to push her away, but to fist in the dark strands, holding her there.
“I call this oral sex,” Wanda said, pulling back just enough to speak, her chin gleaming with Natasha’s fluids. “Using my mouth. On your perfect cunt.”
The words were so crude, so specific. Oral sex. A term that had never existed. Using my mouth on your pussy. Natasha’s mind reeled. She, Natasha Romanoff, who had thought she knew every transaction, every grinding permutation of the act, was lying spread-eagle while a beautiful woman she’d never met until tonight invented a whole new way to fuck right on top of her.
Wanda’s tongue delved inside her, fucking into her with short, penetrating thrusts. It was softer than fingers, more sinuous, exploring every fold. Then she sealed her lips over Natasha’s clit and sucked.
Natasha saw white. Her back arched violently, her heels digging into the mattress. “Wanda! Oh, god, don’t stop, please don’t stop!” she babbled, the words tearing from her without permission.
Wanda didn’t stop. She settled into a rhythm, a savage, devoted rhythm. Her tongue lashed Natasha’s clit while her fingers, slick with spit and shared wetness, found their way back inside, curling up. The dual assault was catastrophic. Natasha was nothing but a vessel for sensation, overfilled, bursting. The candlelight blurred into streaking gold. Her own cries echoed back at her from the mirrors—the sounds of a woman utterly shattered and remade.
This wasn’t a job. This wasn’t a client. This was a woman, her soulmate Wanda claimed, who had ordered her under a man’s name to get her into this room. To do this. To use magic and revelation and the genius of her own body to show Natasha what her body was for.
The orgasm didn’t crest; it exploded. It detonated from the point where Wanda’s mouth worked her, a supernova of feeling that locked Natasha’s muscles and stole the air from her lungs. She gushed over Wanda’s face, a hot, helpless flood, her cunt convulsing around the fingers buried deep within her. She shook, uncontrolled, waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain.
Slowly, gently, Wanda withdrew. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving Natasha’s wrecked form. She looked utterly composed, utterly powerful, her love a tangible, dominating force in the room. She crawled up the bed, her body settling alongside Natasha’s, and gathered her into her arms. Natasha went willingly, boneless, nuzzling into the crook of Wanda’s neck, breathing in her scent of sweat and magic and jasmine.
“You see?” Wanda whispered into her hair, her hand stroking soothing circles on Natasha’s back. “It’s about seeing. It’s about wanting every part. It’s about pleasure that gives, instead of just takes.”
Natasha could only nod, tears she hadn’t even felt leaking from her eyes. She was ruined for anything else. She knew it. Every other touch would now feel like a clumsy imitation.
“You invented that,” Natasha mumbled against her skin, the awe finally breaking through the haze. “Fingering. Oral sex. You just… thought of it.”
“The truth was always there,” Wanda said, her voice low and fervent. “In the design of our bodies. In the way we fit. Men were just too selfish, too rushed, to ever look. And women were too afraid to demand to be seen.” She kissed Natasha’s forehead. “I’m not afraid. And I see you, Natasha. Every beautiful, hungry, resilient inch of you.”
Natasha believed her. The skepticism that had armored her for a decade lay in shreds on the velvet duvet. She tilted her head up, finding Wanda’s lips in a soft, searching kiss. She could taste herself on Wanda’s mouth, a salty, musky tang that should have repulsed her but instead felt like a claim, a binding.
“What are you?” Natasha breathed when the kiss broke.
Wanda’s eyes glowed, not with magic, but with conviction. “The beginning.”