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“What?”

Ororo looked down the length of his body. The sheets covered him like a second skin, letting her see exactly how muscular he was. With one of his legs lifted in traction, the sheet obscured his midsection. But she thought she could see a shadow within that hanging sheet.

“Do you engage in masturbation?” she asked again. “It’s a simple question. I refuse to believe you’re not familiar with the concept.”

“Yes, yeah, occasionally,” Bill said distantly. “Is that important?”

“Just that it must be hard for you, not being able to while you heal up. Do you think men need to masturbate more if they have big cocks? That masturbation would feel better if there was a larger cock to masturbate?”

“I… don’t know,” Bill said, confused, but embarrassed nonetheless.

“I’m a virgin,” Ororo said. “So obviously I don’t have a lot of experience when it comes to… them. But yours looks… giant. Is it?”

And without giving him a chance to answer, honestly or not, she pulled the sheet off of him. Her gaze roved down his muscular, hairy chest, lower, to his… shit, what a cock. It was a battering ram, angled over his dark pubic hair, at least a foot long and still somewhat soft.

“That’s really something,” she said, moving forward in a daze.

“Is… is something the matter?” Bill asked.

Ororo was riveted to his cock. It was huge, blue veins throbbing faintly all over it. She wanted to touch it, to hold it, to devour it in her mouth and in her wet cunt.

“Is my leg alright?” Bill asked, sounding slightly desperate, like he’d convinced himself there must be some injury to justify Ororo’s interest. She just smirked at him.

“Yes. All three of them.” She licked her lips.

Then she went to the door and bolted it from inside, turning the indicator over the knob to indicate that the patient was indisposed: receiving medication or using the bathroom. And this man was most definitely going to be indisposed for a while, Ororo decided. She was tired of Betsy having all the fun.

“What are you doing, Nurse?” Bill asked, still exposed and starting to feel self-conscious about it, though God only knew he had nothing to feel self-conscious about.

“I noticed how big and swollen your balls have gotten. Almost too big for even that cock. Maybe I should do something before they get too big to fit into your pants. That’d be horrible, wouldn’t it?” She undid the top button of her nurse’s uniform. “Not being able to fit into your clothes?”

She opened up her dress, revealing her full, proud breasts, bunched together tightly inside her bra--her long, lean stomach--and her scant white panties on her womanly hips, which had only gotten wetter at the sight of his cock.

***

“That’s good! Good, good, good!” Mojo enthused, before turning his head slightly to the left to focus on another monitor. “No! Wrong! Wrong! What is this with the Parker kid? Why is he in some faggy red and blue tights? No one wants to see him actually fighting crime! It’s enough that he’s a celebrity! In fact, let’s can all the working class stuff, it’s a bummer. Did you see the apartment he had on Earth? Way too small. But the wife being a model, that we can use—except for the marriage part, that ages him. Scratch that. I want him young, I want him rich, I want him famous! In fact, lose the superhero thing! Let’s make him a pop star!”

“Can he sing?” one of Mojo’s underlings asked.

“WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOU?” Mojo roared at him.

***

Peter Parker abruptly forgot what he was doing, like he’d just walked into a room and forgotten why he’d entered it, but he hadn’t moved. At least, he didn’t think so. He looked around. This looked like his penthouse apartment, nothing seemed out of place or particularly demanding of his attention. He’d long since grown used to all the luxury his singing career had brought him. Except that there was an off-center magazine on the coffee table. He walked to it, picking it up to return it to its pile—he knew it was anal of him—but catching a glimpse of the cover, he couldn’t recall buying it.

It was one of those sleazy tabloids, not even trying to be tasteful or glossy, named Celebrity Mud. There was even a little cartoon of a pig in a mud puddle in the corner. And right there on the front was a picture of himself with Emma Frost. PETER PARKER: BAD BOY LIKES BADDER GIRL!

Bad boy? Peter sat down on the couch, picking up the magazine and flipping through it to the cover story: Peter Parker Likes Anal.

Gay rumors already? He thought. Why am I not surprised?

Dear readers: if you’re anything like my bitch-ass, you thought Peter Parker was the sweet, caring guy he likes to present himself as. Yeah, uh-huh, NO WAY. Our inside sources all agree that no matter what his singing voice, he’s no angel!

Peter actually found himself scoffing in disbelief. The usual bullshit, he thought. But look, I’m reading it.

“Peter’s always a nice guy in public,” a close friend told us, but only after we PROMISED we wouldn’t give away his name. “It’s like he wants people to think he’s a virgin or something. But the minute he sees a cute girl, he’s only thinking of one thing. How to get his dick in her ass.”

So I’m the only guy who fantasizes about anal sex? Peter thought. I must be the only guy who fantasizes about anal sex. But they made it sound like he was some snob who turned his nose up at every orifice except the anus. And in terms of his nose, the exact opposite was true.

“Oh yeah, he’s a fucking fiend for doing anal,” one of the singing star’s many conquests told us—unlike him, WE bought her dinner. “I had a roommate who went out with him too. He did us both, one after the other, and we both could tell, because first I couldn’t sit down, then she couldn’t.”

“Why not just say I had a threesome while you’re at it?” Peter asked. “I should be so lucky.”

But those were just flings. An ex-girlfriend told us how to stay on Peter’s good side, it takes a lot more than just bending over! “He has lubricant with him at all times. At all times. He would fuck me up the ass whenever he could talk me into it, at parties, in the bathroom, in cars. He said if I didn’t want to get pregnant, I shouldn’t complain. And I spent most of my relationship with anal beads in. He only took them out to put his dick in.”

“Jesus Christ!” Peter cursed aloud. “What the hell am I, James Bond? I couldn’t get a girl acting that way in a million years!”

It’s Peter’s love of stretching out thick assholes on his big fat cock—“Well, at least they got that part right,” Peter said—that may have led him to his most perverted relationship yet!

“Peter’s a total sleaze,” one of his management team told us off the record, whatever that is. “It’s no wonder that he would start a relationship with Emma Frost. Whatever obscene itch he gets, she’s up for it.”

“Emma Frost? The supervillain?” Peter actually laughed, slapping the magazine against the coffee table. “Yeah, maybe if she weren’t a psychopath!”

It would be nice, though. She was a looker. But, shaking his head over the craziness of it, he turned the page to see just how ridiculous this pack of lies would get.

Peter and Emma have been seen at multiple events lately, from the Movado & InStyle Holiday Celebration in NYC to GUESS New Year’s Glam in LA, and that’s just on the coasts! “They may not arrive together, but they definitely leave together… and sometimes, they don’t even wait that long!” a friend of Emma’s told us. “There’s a reason Emma’s had so many wardrobe malfunctions since they were introduced at the Golden Globes.”

And Golden Globes are just why Peter’s so into her, with the totally just good friends just happening to go on trips to Ibiza, Hawaii, Malibu, and Bondi Beach. They may be too savvy to soak up the sun together, but when it’s a friend’s private yacht they’re on—well, we’d say they go topless, but we wouldn’t want to imply they’re wearing bottoms either. Maybe if you’re good this year, Santa’s elves will see about scrounging up some exclusive photos.

“That would just be illegal,” Peter said. He did seem to recall meeting Emma a few times—and she did have great tits—but fucking her in the ass? He would love to, but no, no, hadn’t happened. Maybe he’d had a dream about it… but it wasn’t like he was obsessed with sodomizing the woman, or anyone for that matter.

Although… now that he thought about it, he could remember the thong she wore on Bondi Beach. They hadn’t talked, but then, it hadn’t been talking he wanted to do with her. And yeah, when she’d slipped into his hotel room that night, they hadn’t talked at all.

Nah, that was just a dream he’d had.

Sources say the two met on a photoshoot for Vogue, and now that we dangle some Lakers tickets around, the photographer remembers a little more flashing going on than you’d expect! “There was definite chemistry there. While we were doing set-ups, they were laughing and looking at each other’s phones like a couple of kids, then we’d call them over to be photographed and they were all business. But with them not being able to talk, it just got more intense. They would look at each other and you could just tell they weren’t thinking of all that American conversation bullshit, they were thinking about flesh, they were thinking about bare skin!”

Yeah, okay, Rudolfo, keep it in your pants.

God, that was a laugh. The pictorial had been for a wildlife foundation Emma had joined as a favor to one of her friends. It was all very low-key. She’d worn cardigans and rolled up jeans and florals, which you didn’t really picture Emma in, despite how much sense it made. He’d worn a roll neck sweater and slacks. Hardly the sexual charge you’d want from the second coming of Basic Instinct.

But there had been something there. Looking at Emma, in her sensibly gentle clothes, not vamping for once, but just being still in herself, ballet flats instead of high heels. He’d just wanted to have hot cocoa with her, a picnic, luxuriate in her softness. Nature at its most majestic, personified in her. And people interpreted that as sex, and she was beautiful, and he wouldn’t say no, but he wasn’t stripping off her panties with his teeth or anything. Where the hell did people get their ideas?

And what’s with that Instagram post of them having Chinese that was posted a few weeks back? Emma put that up, while Peter tweeted that he couldn’t talk because a ‘special someone’ was expecting him. Someone call Sherlock—we need the World’s Greatest Detective on this!

So they’d hung out and had lunch. Big deal. It was crazy what people read into things. If he got knighted by the Queen, people would start calling him her rentboy. All that’d happened was that they’d had a few drinks, eaten a little sushi, and yeah, Emma had snuggled up beside him on the couch—this time wearing a tied-off blouse and jean cutoffs that were more typical of her attire.

Not that they were any higher fashion than what she’d worn during the photoshoot, or trying to be any sexier than that, but with her body, anything she put on that didn’t outright deny her sexuality became an affirmation of it. All the white aesthetic had obscured it, made her seem as prim and proper as a woman with that body could, but you let her long legs out, exposed her taut belly, showed a little cleavage, and her sex appeal took over. She became all curves, because however much curving she showed, you wanted to see the rest.

The very next weekend, Peter took a private jet to Cabo. It was supposedly just him and two pilots on the plane, but no one can seem to account for where Emma was that entire weekend. Sounds like a parole violation—but I guess the po-po can’t be cruel enough to stop her from getting that dick!

“He stayed in the most private suite in the hotel,” a certain maid told us. “Separate from the other guests, entered only by a small path. He wanted to be very discreet and had everything delivered to his room and taken care of by a personal butler. But I definitely think he had someone in there with him.”

Shit, they made it sound like wall-to-wall sex! He’d just wanted to get away for a while. And Emma was good company… nice to hang around her without the paps around, without any bullshit, and just talk. He’d actually almost been embarrassed when she’d walked around naked, but he’d known she wasn’t the modest sort, and after all, it was just them. Just the two of them, such good friends, and she didn’t mind if he looked, she didn’t mind at all.