Chapter 3: The Morning After
Dawn arrived like a thief, slipping through the curtains in golden ribbons that painted stripes across the obsidian floor. Peter surfaced from sleep in fragments—first the awareness of silk sheets beneath him, then the unfamiliar weight of a body beside his, then the warmth that surrounded him like a second skin.
He was still processing the last one when he felt it.
A tongue, flat and hot, tracing the length of his cock from base to tip. Peter's hips bucked involuntarily, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as his eyes flew open. The ceiling swam into focus, obsidian and silver, and beneath that—
Betsy's head moved between his thighs with a languid, possessive grace. Her violet eyes were already on him, watching him wake, watching him realize what she was doing. She smiled around him, and the sensation of that curve pressing against his shaft made him shudder.
"Morning, little spider," she murmured, her breath ghosting over his slick skin. "Did you sleep well?"
"I—" Peter's voice cracked. He tried again. "What are you—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips, and he tasted himself on her skin. "I told you I had plans. This is plan number one."
She lowered her mouth to him again, and Peter's thoughts scattered like startled birds. Her tongue was a weapon—clever and wicked and devastating—and she wielded it with the same precision she brought to everything else. She traced the ridge of his head, circled the sensitive spot just beneath, then took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate him.
The psychic pressure came next.
It was subtle at first, a warmth that bloomed in his chest and spread outward. Then it intensified, and Peter gasped as every nerve ending in his body seemed to focus on the point where her mouth met his flesh. The pleasure sharpened, multiplied, until he was gripping the sheets with white-knuckled hands, his knuckles straining against the skin.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Betsy, that's—that's not fair—"
She hummed around him, and the vibration nearly undid him. She pulled back slowly, letting him slide from her mouth with a wet, obscene sound, and looked up at him with those violet eyes.
"Who said anything about fair?" She wrapped her hand around his base, stroking him with a lazy rhythm. "I'm not interested in playing fair with you, Peter. I'm interested in playing for keeps."
Her mouth descended again, and this time she took him entirely, her nose brushing against his abdomen. Peter's hands flew to her head, not to push her away, but to hold on. He was drowning in sensation, in the wet heat of her throat, in the psychic echo of her satisfaction, in the knowledge that she was doing this because she wanted to, because he was hers.
She sucked him hard as she withdrew, then licked the length of him like he was something delicious. The crop marks from last night were still tender, a dull ache that throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and every touch reminded him of what had happened. Of what he'd promised.
"I'm yours," he heard himself say. The words came out gravelly, desperate. "I'm yours, Betsy, I—please—"
"Please what?" She paused, her lips hovering at the tip of him. "Please let you come? Please let you finish?"
"Yes. God, yes."
She smiled, slow and cruel. "I don't think you're ready yet."
She released him entirely, and Peter whimpered at the loss of contact. She rose from the bed, her body moving with a fluid grace that made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Her robe—black silk, tied loosely at her waist—swayed as she walked to the window, the city sprawling beyond like an empire she owned.
"Come here," she said, not turning.
Peter's legs were unsteady as he rose. Every step toward her seemed to take forever, yet not long enough. He stopped a breath behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, close enough to see the city reflected in her eyes.
"Look at them," she said, nodding toward the skyline. "So many people. So many lives." Her hand found his hip, pulling him against her from behind. He felt her heat through the silk, felt his own arousal pressing against the small of her back. "They have no idea what's happening in this room. No idea who I have here—the famous Spider-Man, brought to his knees by a woman in her own bed."
"Betsy—"
"Shh." She turned in his arms, her eyes searching his face. "I'm not finished with you yet. You promised me something last night, little spider. Something I intend to collect."
Peter's throat tightened. "What do you want?"
"I want you to serve me. Not just here, in this bed. I want you to come when I call. I want you to put my needs before anyone else's. I want you to be mine, completely and utterly, with no hesitation and no regret." She tilted her head, a predatory smile curving her lips. "I want you to say it. Say you'll serve me forever."
The words lodged in his throat like stones. He should say no. He should call this what it was—madness, a trap, a betrayal of everything he stood for. He'd spent his whole life fighting for others, for the greater good, for responsibility. This was the opposite of that. This was selfishness and surrender and everything he'd been taught to reject.
But standing here, with her pressed against him, with the memory of last night burning in his blood and the promise of what she could give him—
"Yes," he said, and the word felt like a key turning in a lock. "Yes, I'll serve you. I'll serve you forever."
She kissed him then, hard and hungry, her tongue claiming his mouth even as her hand found his cock and stroked him with firm, deliberate strokes. He moaned into her mouth, his hips bucking into her grip, already so close to the edge.
"Get on your knees," she murmured against his lips.
He obeyed without hesitation, dropping to the floor before her. She looked down at him, this powerful, beautiful woman, with his cock aching and his mouth watering at the thought of what she might do next.
"Good boy." She untied her robe, letting it fall open. "Now prove it."
Peter leaned forward, pressing his mouth to her cunt before she could give him any further instruction. He'd never done this before—not like this, not with so much at stake—but instinct took over, and he licked her like she was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking.
Her hand tangled in his hair, not guiding—just holding. Claiming.
"That's it," she breathed. "Just like that. Fuck, yes."
Her taste was heady, complex—salt and honey and something uniquely her. He pushed deeper, lapping at her clit with desperate strokes, driven by the way her thighs trembled around his head. The psychic feedback loop was back, amplifying every sensation, and Peter felt her pleasure coiling in his own gut, building toward something explosive.
"Don't stop," she commanded. "Don't you fucking stop until I come."
He doubled his efforts, his tongue and lips working in a rhythm that was part instinct, part prayer. Her hips began to move against him, grinding against his face, and her hand tightened in his hair, holding him in place as she rode out her orgasm.
She came with a sharp cry, her body going rigid, her thighs clamping around his skull. Peter drank her release like a man dying of thirst, feeling her pleasure wash through him through their psychic connection.
When she finally loosened her grip, she pulled him upward, kissing him again—tasting herself on his tongue, making him swallow her essence. Then she spun him around, pressing him against the window, her hand wrapping around his straining cock.
"You've earned this," she said, stroking him slowly. "But you're going to come the way I want you to. In my mouth, looking at me."
She sank to her knees before him, and Peter's breath caught at the sight. This powerful woman, kneeling at his feet, her hand around his cock, her eyes locked on his. She opened her mouth and took him inside, and Peter nearly collapsed from the shock of it.
Her tongue was a velvet vice, her throat a silken trap. She swallowed him to the root, held him there, then pulled back with a suction that made his eyes roll back in his head. She did it again, and again, and Peter felt himself losing all sense of time and space.
"Betsy," he gasped. "Betsy, I'm going to—I can't—"
She looked up at him, her eyes burning with a hunger that was both desire and ownership. She didn't pull away. She took him deeper, her throat opening to accept him, and the psychic feedback surged until he was drowning in it.
"Come," she said, the word vibrating around him even as it slipped into his mind. "Come for me, little spider. Show me how grateful you are."
Peter shattered.
He came with a cry that was almost a sob, his release pouring into her mouth in wave after wave. She swallowed every drop, her throat working around him as she milked him dry, looking up at him the entire time with those violet eyes that saw straight through him.
When it was over, she released him gently, pressing a kiss to his thigh before rising to her feet. Peter slid down the window, his legs giving out, and sat on the floor, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
Betsy crouched before him, her hand cupping his jaw.
"Welcome to your new life," she said, her voice soft but unwavering. "You're mine now, Peter Parker. And I intend to keep you."
Peter looked at her—this beautiful, dangerous woman who had claimed him body and soul—and felt something crack open in his chest. Not resistance. Not fear.
Gratitude.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers.
"Yes," he said. "I'm yours. Forever."
And in the golden light of dawn, surrounded by a city that would never know what had happened here, Peter Parker surrendered himself completely to the one woman who had ever truly seen him.
Betsy Braddock.
His mistress.
His home.