Come Here And I'll Show You (Patreon)

Mary Jane didn’t know if she believed in love, but she certainly didn’t believe in sex as something other than heat and friction and the wonderful oblivion she got in exchange for letting a man have her body. Then click, the door closed and Peter swept her up in his arms and already it was different, something new, something theirs.

Get a grip, girl, she told herself. Okay, it’s Peter, it’s Spider-Man, and you’ve wanted this forever, but he’s still just a guy!

She also didn’t listen to herself. Peter was kissing her, his arms around her, and then he actually picked her up and Mary Jane went willingly, wrapping her legs around his waist and squeezing, feeling his firm muscles thrum with barely restrained power. He held her up easily, yet with infinite care, his hands pressed safely against her back.

“Mmmm—you’re in a good mood,” Mary Jane observed.

“You noticed,” Peter cooed back to her, carrying her deeper into his apartment. “I feel like I’ve just gotten a load off my shoulders.”

“And replaced it with little old me?”

“Pretty lady, you don’t know how right you are.”

Peter carried her down onto the couch, needing to be on top of her, to cover her with his body. Mary Jane landed on the TV remote. It flicked the television on, blaring out an unarousing spiel from C-SPAN. Geez, Parker, you really are a nerd.

Still lying on top of her, Peter slapped his hand after the remote—first spilling it onto the floor, then trying to corral it. He managed to switch the TV to a dead channel, static gleaming out into the dark room, a gentle hum coming from the speakers.

Peter tried to find the power button, but Mary Jane grabbed his hand and redirected it to her face, making him caress her cheek before she sucked on his finger. The blue-gray glow from the static kept their faces lit, Mary Jane able to see Peter half in stark light, half in shadow. She found her smile mirroring his.

“I think your good mood’s contagious,” Mary Jane quipped.

“I’ll try to spread the joy.”

Then they were kissing more, touching more, Mary Jane’s abbreviated crop top doing little to keep Peter’s hands off her flesh. He pressed her down into the couch and Mary Jane didn’t want to go anywhere. She wrapped her arms as well as her legs around his lithe body, feeling the soft fleece of his corduroy jacket, the coolness of the denim shirt he wore under it, and the hardened muscle underneath that, burning feverishly hot and thundering with his charging blood.

More than arousal, Mary Jane felt a surge of victory. She’d told Peter she was going to fight for him—now he was hers. Every kiss, every caress said it was so. There was an almost gleeful sense of possession; she could forget her kneejerk antipathy to being his in the rush of having him.

And yet, at the same time, she felt a spike of guilt. She knew he was Spider-Man. And even if she didn’t know, couldn’t tell, whether this was a bad idea or not, it seemed to be made up of as much bad idea as good idea. Mary Jane didn’t know if he was the One, if she wanted someone who was the One—didn’t know if she could truly accept him, man and Spider-Man, into her life.

But she’d fought for a long time against meeting him at all, then against being with him, until that scared voice in her head was one more thing telling her what she couldn’t have, wasn’t worthy of. Well, to hell with it! At least for tonight, it was what she wanted and Mary Jane Watson got what she wanted.

She pulled at his jacket, wanting less between their bodies, much less.

***

Peter rose up to his knees, letting Mary Jane help him out of his jacket, then he was back on top of her, his hand landing on her pert breast, testing the softness and heft that her skimpy top made so obvious. Mary Jane did nothing to discourage him—she arched her back, pressing the gentle hill of flesh into his palm, excitingly warm to the touch. He felt her stiff nipple through her softly clinging cashmere. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She hardly needed one.

His heart beat faster. His arousal was pressing agonizingly against her leg and he shifted over to ease the discomfort. Any further thought of alleviating the space issue in his pants was quickly forgotten when he brushed his thumb over her alert nipple, feeling it twist under the pad of his finger, then spring back resiliently. He engulfed all the flesh of her breast in his hand, massaging it, fascinated by the amazing warmth and pliancy it offered.

They’d gotten pretty far before—him touching her, her touching him, but despite Mary Jane’s reputation, it’d never gone further than sensations like this one. Only this felt realer somehow, more pressing, more immediate. Peter had a need driving him that he couldn’t identify. Was it that he’d finally let go of Gwen—literally turned his back on her in the most definite way imaginable? Or was it simply Mary Jane?

Because right now he felt addicted to her, needing more and more of her to sate himself. And Mary Jane felt infinite, an endless amount of love offered to him. Some part of Peter was skeptical—still so many things between them, so much unsaid—but there was a kind of clarity too, making all that seem piddling, unimportant, next to the reality that Mary Jane represented.

Christ, how could there be enough of her for this need?

He felt her hand, hot on his thigh but so impossibly soft he could feel it right through his slacks. Her fingers drew softly up his leg, headed for his crotch, becoming one fingernail scratching across the taut fabric that held his erection. The tickling vibration dove right to the core of him. There was a pang of arousal, warm and liquid, on the edge of his member.

The static kept fritzing away, unwatched. Peter vaguely wondered what more to do. Should he take off more of his clothes? More of hers? He’d seen his share of sex scenes, the odd porno, but nothing came to mind to help him navigate the border territory between kissing Mary Jane—he’d actually once found that daunting, now it seemed like the easiest thing in the world—to get to where he wanted to be.

It occurred to him that Mary Jane had more experience than him. He didn’t resent her for that, but he wondered if he should let her take charge or was he still supposed to know what to do? It wasn’t a complicated operation. He’d been to sex ed. It just all felt so large, so immediate—easy to steer around anything when it wasn’t right in his windshield. Then again, Mary Jane was hardly the type to go along with something she didn’t want. He’d just have to try to feel her out, keep doing what made her feel good, and hope the rest came naturally. After all—

Shit. Shit. Now was the time he’d think of condoms. This seemed like a horrible time to bring it up, but as sure as he was of what he wanted with Mary Jane, he wasn’t ‘diapers and baby formula’ sure. “I, uh… I have some, you know… some rubber things… I keep them in the medicine cabinet.” That suddenly seemed like a terrible place to keep them.

Mary Jane just smiled at him. “You really think I’m not on the Pill, tiger?”

“Then you’re not worried about…?”

Mary Jane turned her head to the side, tucking her chin in to kiss the hand he had fondling her breast. “I’m not if you’re not. I know I’m not exactly pure as the driven snow…”

“Hey. I don’t care about that.”

Mary Jane gave him a tiny smile, sincere. “I know you don’t.” She brushed her lips against his. “Most guys would be feeding me a line right now.”

“Oh… uh… I don’t have anything prepared…”

“That’s okay. I kinda like the quiet. And I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

Quiet, Peter thought viciously. Yeah, right. His thoughts were going so fast and so loud that he felt like he was drowning in them, caught in traffic like the dumb schmucks he usually swung over on a web. He kept monotonously caressing Mary Jane’s breast. He couldn’t figure out how to get his hand inside her top. It buttoned up the back and not only was Mary Jane on her back, but he was on top of her. He would have to let go of her, pull away from her to get her top undone, much less get it off, and he didn’t think he could bear to stop touching her even that long.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” Mary Jane tittered all of a sudden. “Okay. There. Now we’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

“I’m really glad we’re doing this too,” Peter replied. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to step on your moment.”

“It’s okay.” Mary Jane grinned. “I’m glad that you’re glad.”

“I’m glad you’re glad about me being glad.”

“I’m…” Mary Jane shook her head, giggling more. “I’m just very glad in general.”

“I’m gleeful and enchanted.”

“I want you.” Mary Jane’s grin froze on her face. “Jesus, Peter, I want you so much—“

He felt her tugging down his zipper and his heart had never pounded so hard, he’d never felt closer to death than right now. He’d die if he made a wrong move, did anything to ruin this, so he froze, all except his cock, which surged through the open gap, trying to explode through his briefs.

Mary Jane delicately handled it, opening up the fly of his boxers, letting his rigid shaft slide out into the open air, dewy with sticky warmth. MJ touched it and Peter felt like apologizing for how slimy it was, but Mary Jane didn’t recoil. She wrapped her small fingers around him and spread the slippery precum all up and down his shaft. Her fingers skated perfectly over his overheated manhood.

Still he stupidly molded her breast in his hands, not knowing what to do next even when Mary Jane was obviously willing. Feeling awkward, rigid, he reached down her body and touched Mary Jane’s thigh. She pushed it firmly up against his, opening her legs wide around his body. Peter moved his fingers up to touch her taut belly—the skin warm and smooth and soft—the waistband of her jeans bulged as he slid his hand underneath it.

He was waiting for Mary Jane to stop him, but she didn’t. She kept letting his hand go further and further into her pants, closer and closer to her groin. She even thrust her hips a little, presenting her womanhood for his exploration.

Peter couldn’t even believe it. He was feeling her belly button, the incredibly soft skin underneath it. It felt as ghostly white as it must look, that untanned skin always hidden under bras and panties—now only his.

He could feel a temperature all Mary Jane’s own, hotter than the rest of her, more humid. Peter wondered if Mary Jane was feeling his temperature too, pumping her hand steadily on his cock. She knew just how to touch him—it felt infinitely better than what Peter did by himself. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t come already, it felt so good. And what if he did come? He’d get it all over her hand. He wanted to warn Mary Jane, stop her, but obviously he couldn’t. Not when it felt like that.

He touched soft, curly hair with the tips of his fingers. Pressing through it, he found Mary Jane’s flesh unbelievably warm and soft and wet. There were no panties to stand in his way and Peter wondered, with a shock, if Mary Jane had planned this. Been ready for it. How many times had she seen him and wanted this, how many times had she silently pleaded for him to make a move? He wouldn’t let her down anymore. He’d give her what she wanted with interest.

Shyly, Peter explored what was offered, touching the little kinks of red hair he could only assume were the same blood-red as her wet hair at the pool. Her skin didn’t reject him. It stayed soft and warm and welcoming. He felt something indescribable—glossy and wet in a way that could never be mistaken for sweat—and now his hand froze too. He couldn’t believe what he was feeling…

“Peter,” Mary Jane moaned softly. Her hand tightened convulsively on his erection, squeezing him as if she were working the reins of a horse, urging him on. Peter let out a breathy exhale, hitched almost into hysteria, at the thought.

If she was in charge, it was with far more subtlety than he’d ever given her credit for. And if he was in charge… well, he didn’t feel in charge. All he could think was that they were pushing each other, cooling one another’s anxieties so they could both get closer and closer…

He couldn’t ever imagine doing this with Gwen. But with Mary Jane, it was more than a fantasy, far more than some tawdry daydream. It seemed too good to be true, too real to be impossible. And he was so full of love for Mary Jane—not need, because even his hunger for her paled next to how much he wanted to please her—that he had to stop and kiss her before it went on another second.

The TV kept spewing static, like it knew it couldn’t compare with the sight of her.