SSSS Chapter 21 (Patreon)

Betsy Braddock looked at the wall clock for the third time in ten minutes. Eleven-thirty—half an hour more. The library was just about empty, but she knew better than to suggest they close ahead of schedule. Jean would never allow for anything to happen in her library if it wasn’t according to the rules and regulations. She sighed quietly, but Jean heard it like she was listening for the almost inaudible note of dissatisfaction.

“Well, aren’t we in a hurry to leave,” Jean observed. “What’s wrong? Can’t you enjoy yourself in a place of learning?”

Betsy made a face at Jean. Jean shook her head and turned back to the book she was reading. Betsy sneered at her a moment longer, then turned away, unwilling to bear even the sight of her.

Frigid cunt, she thought. No wonder she liked it here so much. She’d never had anything better. Not like Betsy’d had. She’d had oh, so much better…

The shopkeeper’s bell—one of the few sources of noise Jean allowed in the library—rang. Betsy turned to see who it was and smiled to herself.

Scott Summers. Now this was more like it.

“Hello, I’m looking for the special collection room,” he said to Jean as he made the last few steps to the front desk. “Would you mind telling me where it is?”

Jean began to, but Betsy cut in line: “I’ll show you,” she said, leveling the counter out of the way so that she could step out from behind the desk and show herself off to Scott in full.

Seeing her, he had no objections to following her around, and Jean didn’t get a chance to object.

Jean did have ample time to rue what had happened, watching Betsy sway her hips inside her pencil skirt as she led Scott away. The redhead tamped down her irritation; but why did Betsy have to be so obvious? Couldn’t she be the least bit subtle about what she wanted?

As Scott followed his guide to the stairs, Jean could see he was following Betsy’s softly rolling ass as much as anything else. What a slut!

Jean went back to her book, wondering why Betsy got to her so… thoroughly. The thought kept leaping in front of the page Jean was reading until she finally slammed the book shut. What time was it? Almost twelve. Where was Betsy?

Jean looked around the library and realized that she was alone. And it wasn’t such a big library that Betsy would need all this time to show Scott where he was going.

Calm down, Jean urged herself. Maybe Betsy had stopped to get a soda from the vending machine. Or to use the bathroom. Maybe the little whore had gotten so hot having Scott trailing after her that she was off somewhere touching herself; she’d done practically everything else on the job already.

Jean set her teeth together. She’d give Betsy another couple minutes. Then she’d go after her. And heaven help Betsy if Jean didn’t like what she found.

The next few minutes passed uneventfully, save for Jean’s growing apprehension. She told herself she didn’t fear a confrontation—that she’d relish the chance to catch Betsy red-handed and put her in her place—but her nerves said otherwise. That, as much as Betsy’s irresponsibility, added to her irritation.

Finally, Jean walked out from behind the desk and went to the stairs herself. The special collection room was on the second floor. This was Betsy’s last chance—she had better meet Jean on the steps.

She didn’t.

On the second floor, Jean’s stride hurried. She rushed to the special collection room, now eager to catch Betsy in the act, and threw the door open. What she saw shocked her.

There were no books in the room. No shelves. Nothing that even remotely reminded her of the academic, literate world outside. Instead, there was a lavishly decorated leisure room—thick red shag carpeting with dozens of brightly colored pillows scattered about. They would’ve been the only furniture in the room if it weren’t for the large bed located in the middle of the room. Jean suddenly noticed that, though there were some pillows randomly placed here and there on the floor, like a child’s carelessly discarded toys, most of them were lined up in a circle around the bed, like seats would face a stage.

Betsy was on the bed.

Jean would’ve said she didn’t recognize her, but there was no mistaking the woman. She was a supermodel even in the modest office clothes Jean prescribed as a dress code. Without it, she was a goddess. She wore an odd, exotic set of lingerie: blue stockings and opera gloves, oddly segregated so that the garment came to a halt, showed a length of bare skin, then there was another band of the same material circling her arm or leg. Around her waist, she wore a red sash.

Otherwise, she was naked, her long lean body on full display—what little clothes she did wear didn’t hide her flesh so much as accentuate all she showed off. Putting an emphasis on her long, slender limbs accompanying her toned, taut physique. Not to mention those high, firm breasts and the juicy ass that rounded out her hips. Her fulsome curves seemed almost artificial, contrasted to her lithe, lissome body, but Jean could just tell they were real. That fat ass, those big tits, they were all Betsy. She was simply made for sex, from her statuesque height to her voluptuous curvature. There was nothing else to it.

Betsy was such an oasis, she turned everything else into sight into a desert, but Jean eventually realized there were others there. Sitting on the pillows that provided them a comfortable resting place. Rogue. Emma. Ororo. Monet. Jubilee. Paige. Jean felt like demanding to know what the students were doing there—even if they were eighteen, it was entirely out of order for them to be seeing a member of the X-Men like this.

But then she looked at Betsy, with that hatefully supple seduction of a body, and the thought slipped away. She couldn’t even quite recall what an X-Man was—surely, there was nothing manly and especially not transgender about Betsy—so it couldn’t be too important.

Jean thought again how angry she was with Betsy. Shirking her duties. Being a dirty slut instead of a good girl like her. Why should Betsy get to have all the fun while she did all the work? She’d have to discipline Betsy. That way, she would never pull this kind of stunt again. Discipline her good and hard… it would be as much a treat in reward for Jean’s own hard work as it would be an inducement for Betsy to behave herself.

It was then she noticed the shapes—the looming, dangling shapes—over Betsy. At first Jean thought they were some kind of pipes, ducts, parts of the air conditioning system hanging down through a broken ceiling tile. Then she saw how they were moving. They were tentacles.

Long, thick, suggestive tentacles, metallic, robotic, collars ringing undeniably phallic heads. At those bulging, bullet-shaped tips, the collars held pinching claws that could sweep forward to manipulate whatever was before the end of the tentacle, or withdraw to clear the way for what Jean could only think of as rutting. Bondage and deliverance, all in one.

“Sit with us, Jean,” Ororo called to her. “Betsy has far too much of a taste for cocks, as you well know. So we’re going to give her all she can handle.”

“Yeah,” Rogue agreed. “Jus’ like when my momma caught me smokin’ ‘nd made me finish the whole pack in one go! After that, I never so much as laid eyes on a cig, and that’s the truth!”

“Let’s make her regret ever laying eyes on Scott,” Monet added.

“Let’s make her regret ever being born!” Jubilee cried.

Jean bit her lip. It seemed wrong—vindictive—but was it any worse than what Betsy had done, being such a slut, and with Scott as well? No. This was simply Betsy getting her just desserts.

She sat down on an unoccupied pillow. The tentacles writhed and coiled together more actively, like her joining the circle of spectators have given them a fresh jolt of power. Jean sucked in her cheeks and dragged them between her teeth, thinking of how she’d like them to be that enthusiastic in doing what they did to Betsy. In that Asian body of hers… surely, she knew what it made people think when she went into the Danger Room and those tentacles—not nearly so phallic—swarmed all over her.

Now, Jean felt like subjecting Betsy to the same fantasy she no doubt wanted people to harbor for her.

“What do I do?” she asked.

Emma smiled at her. “Why, darling, just think about what you’d like to see done to her. Dream about it. Fantasize about it. Then, my dear Jean… let it happen.”

***

Mojo rubbed his greasy hands together gleefully, watching the various feeds trail out of the women and into his broadcasts. All around him, the control room seemed suspended in tension, all his technicians waiting to see what happened, but that was all secondary to Mojo. He knew it would work. He didn’t care about the sex. He already knew this was ratings gold and while it was a little bit of an anticlimax to see his genius confirmed, the ratings coming pouring in, going UP-UP-UP, he still let himself bask in his own excessive success and successful excess.

His cameras were recording everything, transmitting it in all its 8K awesomeness directly to all the biggest and best entertainment centers in town, but that was just kid stuff. On eight other channels, he had the inner monologues of the X-Women accompanying the broadcast. Their innermost thoughts and fantasies and desires, ‘sploding out live right alongside the usual sex and violence. And if his adoring audience wanted to see that stuff too—get the complete experience—they would just have to shell out extra for another TV! And another! And another! He loved it!

Not to mention what a boon this would be to his streaming service once he added the whole season. He’d throw in a few bursts of static and random bits where everyone talked in Spanish into the live broadcast, just so no one could get the complete show unless they went back and watched it all again on streaming. It was brilliant, brilliant!

“I don’t get it,” Spiral said, four of her six arms crossed. “If they’re both librarians, why are there tentacles all of a sudden? Who are Emma and Rogue and the rest supposed to be? And where’d Scott go?”

Mojo waved her off. “Who cares? Spin-off! We’ll explain it in the novelization and comic book tie-in! Remember, these rubes don’t care about plot, they just want sex and tits and ass and fucking! Now shut up! Who would want to listen to some people blather on when there’s an orgy to watch?”

***

A tentacle slammed into the back of Betsy’s head, knocking her flat on her stomach. The breath flew from her lungs and spots fluttered in front of her eyes.

“That’s what you get,” Jean muttered vindictively, not that she’d be settling for physical violence. Unus the fucking Untouchable could’ve done that to Betsy. After how the bitch had stabbed her in the back, Jean wanted to have much more fun with her than just beating her up.

Before even Betsy’s incredible reflexes could recover, the tentacle wrapped around her neck, used its grip to jerk her head roughly to the side, and then shoved its fat, stiff tip into her mouth. Betsy choked and sputtered, but the watching women only laughed and cheered as her throat was fucked.

“Lemme help you out there, Jean,” Rogue drawled. “Long as she’s been wearing that single thread of fabric up between those 72-ounce buttcheeks, I’ve been wanting to do this one way or another!”

The tentacle her mind guided slapped between Betsy’s firm, thick buttocks, its girth forcing them wide apart. Its tip slid down, slithering like a snake between her cheeks, then pushing into her anus. Betsy cried out when her soft ass was penetrated, but the tentacle stuffing her mouth turned any protests into a gurgle.

Everywhere Betsy looked there were more tentacles waiting to fuck her. Not even waiting, but preparing, fondling, working themselves up into an autoerotic frenzy. They rubbed against her slender, silken arms and long, toned legs. One tendril wrapped itself around her long satiny hair, coiling in an endless spiral—Betsy knew it was using her hair to jerk off.

But there were even more, grinding their damp, voluptuous heat over her face, between her legs, between her breasts. It felt like every single inch of her squirming body was being caressed and pawed and fetishized—she was in the middle of an orgy of snakes, venting the excess of their lust as they prepared to violate her, each in turn. They would all have their way with her, with whatever hole they could find, whatever degradation they could inflict on her… and Betsy would be lying if she pretended that raw, wild sexuality wasn’t getting to her.

Was she still screaming or had she stopped? If she was screaming, was it in pain, pleasure, fright, or merely to vent her own pent-up need for release? She couldn’t tell at all, not when her lips could only blubber uselessly around the thrusting tentacle that had already made its way down her throat.

Even if she could summon up the wherewithal to suck it, give it the blowjob that might satisfy its lust, Betsy could tell it wasn’t interested in the finer points of fellatio. No, it wanted to own her throat, and it did—first dominating her by shoving its bludgeoning heft through her wide-open lips, then claiming her by spurting a huge load of cum for her to choke on.

There was no mistaking it. Despite the mechanical nature of the tentacles, that was life, raw life, in the seed it shot into her—the sheer abundance that it fed her. Some of it washed out of her nose to run over her lips, but Betsy swallowed most of it. She couldn’t believe it, but she loved the taste of cum so much that she enjoyed the experience. Even Scott hadn’t come hard enough to sate her like this. She hadn’t made him come hard enough. But this tentacle, whatever it was—it appreciated her efforts. Or at least, it appreciated having her for a glorified cum-rag.

The tentacle using her hair to jerk off came. Betsy rubbed her head against its jerking length, helping it soak her hair in salty cum. The thought that her dark, silky hair had excited a man—or whatever this thing was—to orgasm sent a shudder through Betsy, tingling strongly in her loins, a quake that went on and on as her anus clamped down on the tentacle that was sodomizing her.

“Oh shit!” Rogue gasped, breathless, Betsy hearing a tremor in her voice that went with the tentacle quivering in her ass. Then it spurted round after round of seed into her bowels. “Yeah, shake that hot little ass while it gets fucked, you dirty bitch! Fuck, I ain’t never seen anyone ever be as sleazy as you! You’re just a tramp! Just a cum-hungry little tramp gettin’ y’self fucked, is all!”

Betsy shuddered to think how deeply she’d been degraded, first in deed, now vocally, as Rogue said what surely all of the teammates she had respected and admired were thinking. But despite her humiliation, the warm tentacles kept up their sensual slither all over her body, bathing themselves in the sweat and cum that covered her skin, rubbing that… liquid shame into both their own girthy heft and her bare flesh.

Betsy kept undulating with debauched perversion as she received their usage. It seemed like all she was good for, but it also seemed like these tentacles had never enjoyed a slut more than they had her.