Chapter 2: The Bimbo Awakening
Felicia’s fingers tightened around the rough, glassy knot. It didn’t just warm; it seared, a pulse of raw, unformed possibility that shot up her arm and exploded behind her eyes. A soundless detonation of pink-white light erupted from her fist, not a beam but a wave, a heavy syrup of magic that washed over Mary Jane in an instant.
The change was immediate, and total.
MJ’s commanding posture, the intelligent set of her shoulders, simply melted. The dish towel slipped from her fingers. The sharp, assessing gleam in her green eyes clouded over, smoothed into a vacant, glassy sheen. Her lips, pressed into a firm line of warning, softened and parted into a slack, plump ‘o’.
“Whoa,” MJ breathed, her voice an octave higher, stripped of its knowing rasp. It was a breathy, girlish sound. She blinked slowly, like a doll. “That was like… sparkles. Pretty sparkles.” Her gaze drifted from Felicia’s hand to her outfit—the tight black leather pants, the harness top. A giggle bubbled out of her. “Your clothes are sooo shiny. Are you a dancer?”
Felicia let out a low, delighted laugh. It worked. Oh, it fucking worked. “Something like that, Red. How do you feel?”
“I feel…” MJ trailed off, tapping a finger against her chin with exaggerated concentration. “I feel really, really good. Like… warm? And empty?” She said it like it was a wonderful discovery, a smile spreading across her face that was all teeth and vacant joy. She looked around the cluttered living room as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s messy in here. We should clean. Or… not?” She giggled again, the sound echoing flatly against the soft jazz.
“Or not,” Felicia purred. The artifact was humming, a live wire in her grip. It wanted to do more. It had appetites. She focused, not on altering, but on summoning. She pulled from the knot the concept of mindless, physical perfection—two forms of pure, obedient muscle, defined by function and nothing else.
The air in the center of the room rippled like heat haze over asphalt. From nothing, with a sound of tearing cloth, they appeared.
Two men. Naked. Perfectly formed.
One was tall, carved from shadow and arrogance, with short dark hair and a jaw that looked like it could cut glass. He stood with an athlete’s ease, his cock already half-hard against his thigh. The other was broader, a powerhouse of sun-kissed muscle and bald intensity, his shoulders a monument of strength. They were blank. No history in their eyes, no purpose beyond the one Felicia was imprinting.
MJ’s breath hitched. A line of drolet trickled from the corner of her smiling mouth. She didn’t ask who they were. She didn’t seem to care. Her clouded eyes locked onto their cocks with a single-minded, hungry fascination. She took a stumbling step forward, her hands fluttering at her sides.
“Oh wow,” she whispered, her voice thick with a dumb, awed lust. “They’re so… big. Can I… can I touch?”
“That’s the idea, sweetheart,” Felicia said, settling onto the arm of the stained leather couch. She crossed her legs, a director in her own private theater. “Go on. They’re for you.”
With a moan that was pure, simple need, MJ sank to her knees on the rug, sending a half-finished LEGO X-Wing skittering under the coffee table. The faded Spider-Man logo on her shirt stretched taut across her breasts as she crawled forward, her jeans tightening over her ass. She went to the dark-haired one first, her delicate hands coming up to frame his hardening length.
“So pretty,” she cooed, her intellect completely dissolved into a puddle of sensory fixation. She leaned in, her nose brushing his shaft, and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. You smell strong.” Without further ceremony, her tongue darted out, a pink kittenish lick from root to tip. She giggled at the taste, at the way his flesh jumped under her mouth.
“Use your mouth, Mary Jane,” Felicia instructed, her own pulse quickening. This was better than any heist. This was creation and corruption, all in one.
MJ obeyed instantly, happily. She opened her mouth wide, struggling at first to take the head past her lips. A string of saliva webbed from her chin to his cock as she worked, hollowing her cheeks, bobbing her head with a clumsy, eager rhythm. Her eyes were rolled back, pure white pleasure. Gagging sounds mixed with her wet, sloppy sucking.
The second man, the bald one, moved behind her. His large hands gripped the waistband of her ripped jeans and yanked them down her thighs in one rough motion, taking her panties with them. The cool air hit her skin, but she didn’t pause, just moaned around the cock in her mouth, pushing her ass back into empty air, an invitation.
He didn’t need another. He spat into his palm, wiped the moisture over his own thick erection, and positioned himself. With one brutal, unceremonious thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.
MJ shrieked, a muffled, gurgling cry around the cock fucking her face. Her body jarred forward, impaled. Tears sprang to her blank eyes. She didn’t fight. Her hips began to twitch, matching his rhythm, meeting each deep, pounding drive as he gripped her hips, his fingers leaving pale imprints on her skin. The sound was obscenely wet, a filthy, rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh, punctuated by her choked, desperate sucks on the other cock.
Felicia watched, mesmerized. The stud in MJ’s mouth fisted his hands in her fiery red hair, controlling her pace, fucking deeper into her throat. MJ’s nose was buried in his dark pubic hair now, her throat bulging with each thrust. She was being used from both ends, a beautiful, mindless toy, and her only responses were wet, animalistic grunts and a steady stream of drool that soaked her chin and chest.
The room stank of sex and magic—sweat, salt, and the ozone crackle of the artifact. The jazz played on, a mocking, smooth counterpoint to the brutal symphony of grunts and slaps.
“Fuck her harder,” Felicia heard herself say, her voice husky. “She’s just a dumb bitch now. She can take it.”
The bald man grunted, driving into MJ with piston-like force. The dark-haired one pulled his slick cock from her ruined mouth with a pop. “Turn her over,” he growled, his voice hollow, a tool speaking.
They manhandled her. MJ went limp, compliant, giggling as she was rolled onto her back on the rug, her shirt shoved up around her neck. Her red hair was a wild halo around her empty, smiling face. The bald one lifted her legs, hooking them over his shoulders, and plunged back into her dripping cunt. The dark-haired one knelt over her face, guiding his cock back between her swollen, willing lips.
The pace became punishing. MJ’s body was a ragdoll between them, jolting with each dual penetration. Her muffled moans were constant, a mantra of mindless acceptance. One of the studs reached down, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, fast circles. Her back arched off the floor, a silent scream around the cock in her mouth, and she came—a violent, shuddering orgasm that made her cunt clamp down and her eyes roll back further.
They didn’t stop. They used her through the convulsions, their own movements growing ragged, frantic.
Felicia was leaning forward now, her own breath short. This was the purest chaos. The apartment, this sanctuary of normalcy and love, was defiled. The coffee table was kicked, sending mugs and comic books crashing to the floor. A framed photo of Peter and MJ at Coney Island wobbled and fell, the glass cracking across their smiling faces.
With a final, guttural roar, the dark-haired stud pulled from MJ’s mouth. Jets of hot, white cum striped her face, painting her cheek, her lips, her forehead. She blinked, licking at the seed on her mouth with a happy, vacant sigh. The bald one followed, slamming deep and emptying himself inside her with a shudder that seemed to rock his entire frame.
For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the soft jazz.
MJ lay there, ruined and gleaming, cum inside her and on her face, a puddle of mindless bliss. She touched the mess on her cheek, brought her fingers to her mouth, and sucked them clean. “Yummy,” she whispered.
Then the window slid open.