Spider + Cat + Redhead: Interlude (Patreon)

Doc Samson sat in his office, the overall effect of it somehow making him look incongruous to it. A turtleneck and sports jacket were thick enough to conceal the rippling of his muscles with every breath, though they couldn’t disguise the inverted triangle of his brawny torso, ramping up from narrow hips into broad shoulders, like a football player who didn’t need pads.

But that was mollified by the tall wing chair he sat in, though it was equally excessive. The back was like a towering redwood tree behind him, allowing his seven feet of height to actually lean back for a prolonged session. The perspective diminished his threateningly bulky appearance. And his mane of green hair was gathered up in a ponytail behind him. Half-glasses adorned his eyes, breaking up the lines of a face like the end of a steel girder, with a prominent chin and a boxer’s nose: handsome, but severe, the visage of an eighties action star.

But with careful feng shui, the room he’d designed turned him from a mountain of a man into a figure of benevolence. Nonthreatening, even comforting, the biggest thing about him the outsized voice that projected boldly even at a conversational level. He’d heard it compared to listening to Arnold Schwarzenegger do your taxes.

“The way I see it, there are only two paths for you to take,” he said solemnly, that booming voice slightly reduced by distance as it traveled the length of the room to where his patient lay on a couch under the window. “You can continue to search for a solution to your problem or you can learn to live with it. I won’t tell you what to do, but I’d strongly suggest you consider both your options…”

“No!” The woman on his couch clenched up with anger, her hair standing on end. She calmed, smoothing down her hair, and took a deep shaking breath that had her breasts rising high beneath her top. “No,” she said more calmly. “I’ve lived with it for months now. Years. I can’t anymore. I deserve to be happy, to be loved, to enjoy myself just like anyone else.” She chuckled humorlessly. “Even more… how many other people saved the world from Galactus?”

“Well, me,” Samson said gently.

Her bright eyes almost glowed as they blazed fierce determination at him. “I’ll do anything—anything—to be cured. Understand?”

Samson nodded, outwardly cool and collected. Inside, however, his own animal instincts were running hot in his blood. Gamma radiation tended to let the adrenaline flow more freely. He worked harder to tamp it down. It wasn’t easy, when his patient looked the way she did, dressed the way she did.

Was the way she was.

Tigra’s dark red hair framed a soft, glowing face, her eyes bright, but lined darkly with the natural markings of her fur. That was her in a nutshell, a study in contrast. Sharp teeth under full, sensuous lips. And just studying the contours of that lush mouth could make you forget the teeth. When her tongue nipped out—licking an errant tuft of fur into place—it had all the promise of a wild blowjob. Samson tried not to squirm in his seat.

It didn’t help that she was wearing next to nothing: the simple bikini she wore to avoid irritating her fur. Soft and downy, her coat was comparatively light, just enough to give her an orange coloring, interspersed with dark stripes. Her top and bottom resembled just two more stripes, tight and skimpy, covering proud, luscious tits and fully rounded hips, leaving long silken legs bare. He watched as she nervously crossed them, to the left and to the right, her bare feet tracing abstractly across his carpet.

“I’m afraid there simply is no magic bullet for your problem,” Samson said. He forced himself to see her as a patient, nothing more. “That’s actually harder to accept for people in our profession—always expecting Reed Richards to be able to invent something or Dr. Strange to cast some spell. But what you really need is time to heal.”

“I’ve had time! I’ve been healing! So why can’t I come? You’ve seen the guys I’ve dated, the girls I’ve… befriended. Hell, you wouldn’t believe some of the toys I’ve tried out. Nothing works! Nothing!”

“It’s a complicated issue,” Samson said in his most gentle tone. “You’ve already been to a dozen psychiatrists, any number of specialists…”

“And none of them even knew what was wrong with me!”

“There could be a variety of factors—“

“I at least want to know!” Tigra pleaded. Her fingers shook, and she flexed her claws just to give them something to do.

Samson sighed. His hands nestled together on his lap. “Well, we’ve spoken extensively about the Hood and Jigsaw’s assault on you, compounded by the video of it being released. You say you still have nightmares about it... there’s an element of post-traumatic stress disorder, mild as it may be after all the work you’ve already put in to conquering your demons. As the most recent psychic trauma in your life, I’d say that’s a likely factor.”

“But you said a variety. What else could it be?”

“Then there’s your feline qualities. You’ve mentioned animalistic instincts… going into heat, or experiencing a kind of blood-lust. I have to believe that compounds the issue. Your trauma fosters a fear of intimacy, an anxiety that prevents you from enjoying sex. Your feline side demands sexual gratification, which makes you more desperate to achieve orgasm, which in turn makes it even harder for you to relax and dispel your anxiety. The harder you try to climax, the more unlikely it is.”

“Then how am I going to get off?” Tigra hissed. “I can’t just… stop myself from trying to come! Can you help me? Can you?”

“I can try,” he promised her, trying his best to sound professional and genteel and not at all like he wanted to rip that scant top off her heaving tits…

Her eyes bored into his, on fire. “Now? Just this once? All I want is one time. If it happens just once, I could at least die happy.”

She licked her lips.

Samson hesitated, feeling his face flush. It would be an incredible violation of his ethics. A possible malpractice suit. The end of his career, even.

Then again, he could probably still get work as a Defender, if it came to that.

His cock leapt in his pants. He’d never Hulked out like his infamous green counterpart, but getting a hard-on definitely gave him an idea of what the transformation entailed. Besides, how could he refuse a patient in distress?

Samson drew out his smartphone, pressing the app that controlled his room’s functions. With the push of a button, the blinds descended and the door locked. He watched Tigra stand, stretching, her claws out already as he selected the intercom app. She slipped off her bra and a creamy pair of breasts sprang forth, dusky nipples fat with desire.

“Louise,” he said to his secretary. “I’ll be another half hour. The next patient can either cancel or wait.”

“Okay, boss,” his phone replied. Samson was careful to make sure the line was dead before he set the phone aside.

He began stripping himself, his dowdy clothes giving way to taut, muscle-stretched skin and firm flesh. She wouldn’t want just a quickie. He had a duty of care.

Tigra slipped off her panties. Naturally, she wasn’t shaved. Her inner thighs were satiny smooth, moist with her eagerness. When Samson lowered his pants, she made a low groan of impatience. His prick was making her pant. Well, she ought to know a good one when she saw it, Samson thought dryly. She’d seen enough of them in their months of treatment, ever since Hank Pym had reunited with his wife, Tigra telling him of all her frustrated dates, all the positions, the games, the fantasies, everything she’d tried just to have a good fuck.

It wasn’t quite a motto of the psychiatric community, but if there was one thing Samson had learned from his superhero activity, it was this. Sometimes, if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.

***

How could she explain it to him? It all probably seemed so simple to Doc Samson. Just don’t have sex. Enjoy chocolate instead. Or video games. Or flying a kite. Why bother with fucking?

How could she explain the horrible frustration building up in her sex even now, the furiously hot desire for orgasm, the desperate need for release that got worse every time she tried. Because while she could be aroused, madly aroused to frenzied heights of lust and need, she couldn’t come. She hadn’t had a climax in a year now. The tension was boiling up, threatening her sanity with every second. She’d tried men by the boatload, remembering them only by their pricks: long and lean, short and stubby, and the simply enormous. She no longer distinguished between the gentle and the rough, the tantric staying power and the minute-men. None of them could make her come.

The effect was always the same, even when she fingered herself, vibed herself, sat on a washing machine. She got deliciously excited, but nothing more. The hunger was never satisfied, the void never filled. And the more inflamed her lust was, the more she agonized afterward. Because she could always tell how great the furious build-up of desire would’ve been if it had only paid off…

Every time she was on the verge of release, every single time her lust caught fire and seemed ready to explode, it stopped all at once. The passage she was going down closed with irrevocable finality.

And every time, she had hoped that it wouldn’t.

And in the moments just before she was denied, she’d always believed that it wouldn’t.

But maybe this time… maybe if she just tried hard enough… maybe if he just tried hard enough…

Opening her mouth, Tigra lowered herself to the good doctor’s manhood like it was a saucer of cream. He’d be hard enough. She’d make him hard enough…

***

“Oh, forget it!” Rogue cried in a bout of Southern belledom, leaving the waiting room in such a huff she was liable to walk through a wall if she didn’t watch where she was going. She’d arrived five minutes early for her appointment and he’d kept her waiting twenty. Men! “If he can’t make time to see me, I can think of plenty of people who would! A bottle of bourbon’s worth more than a head-shrinker anyway!”

***

Tigra had taken up blowjobs only as a prelude to coitus, but she’d learned to love it over the years, to crave boiling cum spurting down her gulping throat.

Not today, though. Even though she knew that with his gamma-irradiated piping, Samson could probably come four or five times for her, she didn’t want a single drop to go to waste. She wanted him fucking her with everything he had. And now that he was hard, and well-lubricated, she was ready to take it.

Still jerking his cock, Tigra laid back on the couch, drawing up her knees to expose the pink of her cunt. “Alright,” she whispered, her eyes blazing in the darkened room, curtains drawn, lights dimmed. “Fuck me now. Fuck me as long and as hard as you can. Fuck me until I’m crying for mercy, but for God’s sake, fuck me!”

Samson paused. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer doggy style?”

Tigra dug her claws into his couch. He deserved to pay for the reupholstery. “You can joke after you give me what I need!”

Remembering she was in agony, he hurried on top of her, feeling those firm breasts against his chest, holding his giant cockhead to her soaked labia, giving her a moment to back out. Instead, he heard whimpers of passion curling her lips.

“Oh, this feels like it might be the one!” Tigra gasped. “This could be it! I’d be so damn grateful if this was it, I’d do anything if this was it! Suck and fuck you for the rest of your life if you can just make me come right now!”

The moment he plunged into her juicy cunt, Samson knew she was going to be the greatest fuck of his life. He’d tried so hard not to think of her gorgeous body, but now he couldn’t even open his eyes to look at it, so consumed was he by the feel of her hot, tight pussy. It sucked and squirmed and pulled obscenely on his manhood, currents of power throbbing in the walls of her pussy, gripping his dick every bit as hard as her hands and mouth had. Jesus, the woman was born to fuck!

Moaning, Tigra sank her claws into his back, the pain shocking for a moment, then easy to dismiss in the face of that slippery velvet tightness he was fucking. She kissed him torridly, fangs drawing blood from his lips, her hot tongue tasting it as it slithered into his mouth.

Tigra loved this—the pleasurable, dreamy sensation of foreplay giving way to fulfillment, the start of it rippling up her sex and deep into her body, spreading tingles to every inch of her furry flesh. If only it could stay this way…

But it always got better and better, leading to something, and then it never got there. That was almost worse than nothing at all. Having something, knowing how good it could be, and then nothing.

She listened as Samson continued to diagnose her: “Oh shit, Tigra, that pussy is so good! It’s—mmm—yes, yes, work it, honey!”

Feverish, furious, Tigra didn’t need any encouragement. She’d already locked her legs around his waist, tail around one leg, and she moved her ass in wide circles, giving his rock-hard cock a chance at every inch of her pussy. God, she loved to fuck. If she didn’t, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But she knew exactly what she was missing, dammit. And she couldn’t even count how many times she’d swung her hips and clasped her cunt on a new prick, praying that this was the one, the salvation that would return her life to normalcy. That would make her a whole, happy woman once more. She didn’t just want it, she needed it!

“Can’t believe it!” Samson gasped as the wild thrill of her shot up his cock, sucking harder than he could’ve ever imagined. “So tight!”

He had to hang on. He hadn’t dreamed a fuck like this existed, a pussy like this, a woman like this. She rubbed her fluffy tits deliriously against his chest as she thrashed in perfect rhythm to his strokes, nipping at his strong jaw now with tiny frenzied snaps of her fangs, raking her claws over his hard buttocks to spur him on.

And that was the problem: Samson didn’t want to be aroused. He was doing all he could to keep from coming. He sincerely wanted to help Tigra. The pleasure was a bonus, and nothing more. If he made her come this once, it’d be like unlocking a door. She could forget her tension, the weight of expectation, and simply enjoy herself. Every orgasm after that would come easily, so to speak. And Tigra would be left profoundly grateful. Probably want an encore performance. Like any experiment, they’d have to repeat it and repeat it and repeat it…

If he didn’t come first.

“Love it, love your hot cock!” Tigra moaned passionately, her juicy cunt going into a wanton spasm on his prick. “Oh God, it’s good! So gooooooood! Every hot inch, Samson, every single… NNNNGH!”

His hopes soaring, Samson fucked her with savage thrusts, turning her into the frantic, clawing animal that she had always been. Not long now. He just had to stay the course. She moved her ass in furious lunges, lifting even his bulk off the couch as she fucked him, purrs deep in her throat somehow making it all the more passionate. She thrashed and jerked and sucked fiercely with her cunt.

And to his horror, Samson realized he was going to come. He clenched his teeth, trying to do the same for the tight knot of orgasm in his loins, cursing his own eagerness. Too late! But Tigra felt his prick swelling to a flaming excess in her shuddering pussy, and she darted her hand down to grip the base of his cock. She squeezed so hard Samson thought he would faint. But it worked, his orgasm beaten back down.

Perspiration covered Samson’s body in a sheen as Tigra writhed her drenched cunt on his manhood, moaning deliriously. She fucked him with a desperate speed, needing her orgasm even more now that it was in sight, now that she was learning once more how good it could feel. She raised her legs, toes curling in the air, her hips jerking in a frenzy against his.

“Love to fuck!” Tigra groaned in his ear. “Love to fuck you!”

Her cunt sent vibrant ripples of excitement shooting through his loins, both of their naked bodies soaked in sweat now, her frantic mouth biting him everywhere, her nails ripping into his indestructible skin until he thought she might draw blood. And in spite of her squeezing thumb and forefinger on his cock, Samson felt his load boiling up inside him again.

Distraction, he thought. He recommended it time and time again to patients who complained of premature ejaculation. Do arithmetic, think of balancing their checkbook, go over their grocery list, anything. Even the worst piece of ass they’d ever had, if it would distract from the one whipping eagerly on their rod.

And, trying to ignore the silken flesh beneath him, the passionate vigor of her lovemaking, Samson tried to think of the worst fuck he’d ever had. Certainly not She-Hulk, so grateful to find someone else with gamma powers, someone she wasn’t related to or, literally, an Abomination. She’d been even more of a wildcat than Tigra, wanting to do nothing but fuck and fuck and fuck, day and night, whenever they had a minute. She’d booked sessions with him, biweekly sessions (not the only thing bi about her), just so she could get him alone for an hour. Or two. It was in large part why he’d soundproofed his office—and why the dentistry practice next door had folded.

Then Bruce had really gone out of control, prompting the Illuminati to exile him, and Samson had supported their decision… the sudden rift had left him high and dry with Jen, sex-starved enough that now he was fucking a patient, and here he’d always thought himself so cerebral. He’d enjoyed being Jen’s fuckbuddy so much… and even if it’d ended the ‘relationship,’ the night she’d found out? After she punched him into another state? The hatesex had been…

“Can’t… can’t hold it back anymore! Gonna come! Gonna shoot!”

“No!” Tigra cried, shaking her head in panic. But he’d already begun spurting, bursting in great gushes of hot jism. While it flooded her silken slit, Tigra yowled in frustration. He wasn’t the one.

Maybe no one was.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Samson gasped, pulling out of her in a flood of cum. Normally, he’d be able to go another round, but she’d drained him much more than usual. Her pussy was just too hot and tight for him to endure.

“That’s alright,” Tigra assured him, her ripe, naked flesh still jerking and twitching. “It’s a story I’ve heard before.”

Samson was about to say that he was sure he could try again shortly—but he’d fucked up his own schedule enough. He had a whole office full of people with their own frustrations, all in need of help. Though surely, none of them would be as satisfying to treat as Tigra had been.

He climbed off her and wiped his limpness with Kleenex, handing her some to dab at his flood. By now, she was trembling with anger over her own dissatisfaction. He said soothing things to her while they dressed, but he doubted she was listening. Just as well. She must have heard it all countless times before, and now she seemed more frustrated than ever. He couldn’t blame her.

After fucking what amounted to the Gray Hulk, who else was there to turn to? Who had both the skill to please her and the endurance, the stamina, the sheer persistence to beat her frigidness into submission?

He started to prescribe her some tranquilizers, but she shook her head firmly. “Still gotta save the world, Doc. Even if I can’t get off, someone should be able to…”

After all, she still remembered a healthy sex life. Not as healthy as She-Hulk’s, maybe, but she’d spent plenty of nights with a lucky partner, coming in great boiling gushes, stroking each other’s bodies to feel the glow of deep contentment in them afterward. Then one night, she went to bed with someone she liked, got feverishly aroused, but at the moment she usually enjoyed a climax, it was like a door had slammed shut in her face. Her lover had tried again and again, but it hadn’t helped. He’d eaten her out for a whole hour, but only made things worse. She couldn’t even remember him now…

She’d tried other men. And each time, the frustrated tension of her denied climax became deeper, more agonizing, until she seethed with tortured need every minute of every day. She’d went to psychiatrists. Take medication, been hypnotized, even tried the X-Men’s telepaths. There was nothing any of them could do. She was a Gordian knot of superhuman physiology, mental complications, maybe even magic. A nymphomaniac who picked up anyone, man, woman, mutant, alien, robot, just so long as there was a faint possibility they could make her come. Because she was a time bomb of desire, a fuse burning lower and lower and lower, and every day Tigra felt more certain that today would be the day she exploded. Nothing could save her except the release she needed so badly.

Dressed again, Tigra sat back down, not even able to enjoy the sight of Samson’s muscular frame, his cock hefty even flaccid, as he gathered up his clothes. She could still feel his cum cooling inside her. She remembered the pleasure she’d used to take in it—fingering herself, taking a dainty snitch of the residue…

But without being able to come, what was the point?

Dressed, though only to his A-shirt and slacks, Samson went to his desk. He found it slightly risible, feeling the carpet under his bare feet. It hadn’t felt right, putting his dress shoes back on—under the circumstances. But now he was left barefoot while playing doctor.

It was a huge desk, the excess again working to foreshorten his mammoth proportions, and in the abstract, the big slab of trimmed oak looked more suited to a successful CEO than a modest psychiatric practice run as a sidebar to a fruitful Avengers career. But it did have quite a few drawers, and considering the overall mental health of the superhero community, that came in handy.

Samson didn’t believe in computer records, not with such sensitive information as his particular clientele. All his notes were on trees as dead as the one that had gone into his desk, written in a shorthand that he dared any supervillain to penetrate—if they managed to get through the door. There was a reason he rented office space at the Baxter Building.

He’d left Tigra’s file out, having reviewed it shortly before their appointment, and he paged through it once more to find his stopping point, pen in hand. Unconventional as the treatment had been, he thought he’d gained some insight into Tigra’s particular problem.

“You say you’ve tried everything, right?”

Wearily, Tigra nodded. Samson leaned back in his swivel chair. Comfortable though it might be, his bulk dwarfed it. Samson reminded himself to pick up a new one, better suited to the otherwise harmonious scale of his office.

“Well, yours is a desperate case. It might take drastic measures. Have you considered… a more social approach?”

Tigra leaned forward, her exciting breathing starting an interesting jiggle in her supple breasts. “I’ll try anything!”

“It occurs to me that—forgive me I verge on the crude—one reliable approach for treating trauma is a support system. Friends and family.”

“I’m not fucking my family!”

“No, no, of course not. But it does put you at ease, being together with someone who you’ve befriended, yes?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Well, it’s possible that having such a comfort—being soothed in such a way—would make it easier for you to get the result you’re trying for.”

“I’ve tried it with friends, Samson. I’ve got more fuckbuddies than you have abs.”

“I’m not talking about that. I mean having sex with someone, with a friend present to act as… well, I don’t know. Just good company, I guess.”

“You guess?” Tigra smiled—a good sign. “You don’t get out much, do you Doc?” Then her face turned dark, as if a storm were passing over. “What if it doesn’t work, though?”

“Something will, Tigra. A woman like you can’t go unhappy for too long.”

“But I have,” she said bitterly, standing up. There was someone, she thought. An old friend she’d bonded over because of a quintessentially feline nature. She didn’t think they’d spoken in years, but she’d had a great time back then. Dancing, drinking—and they’d practically had a threesome already. Maybe she’d gotten married by now. That would be nice… just being able to swoop in, rock their marital world, and get out.

Hell, if Felicia Hardy could get her off, Tigra would marry her herself.

***

Tigra closed the door behind her, tail whisking out of the way just as it shut, and Samson could only think what a goddamned shame it was. A gorgeous, passionate woman like Tigra couldn’t even have what millions of less giving lovers took for granted. He scanned the pages of his notes again, wanting another recommendation in case she came back empty-handed—so to speak.

After a moment, though, he stuffed the notes in his briefcase. He would take them home that night and pore over them for a new clue. In the meantime, he had another patient…

Or not, as Louise told him his next appointment had left, unwilling to wait. A pity, he thought. Though a layman might think that Rogue gaining enough control over her powers to be able to touch others would solve all her problems, he knew it had opened up a whole new realm of issues with intimacy that would have to be navigated and resolved. She was tangible now, it was true, but also vulnerable in a way, exposed. Like any virgin, she couldn’t just jump into a sexual relationship and expect to know what to do.

“Maybe I should run a dating service,” Samson said to himself, opening up his laptop to cue up a game of Solitaire while he waited for his next appointment. After a hand, he saw a tooth lying on the couch. One of the decorations on Tigra’s thong. It must’ve come off, its fastening severed by one of Tigra’s claws as she dressed or undressed. Certainly, if it had come off during their lovemaking, its brothers and sisters would be all over the floor. In fact, if they hadn’t taken off their clothes, Tigra would’ve cut his suit to ribbons. It would be even worse than if his clothing had been ripped off.

Samson felt his cock leap eagerly in his pants. He knew he’d been capable of more. Turning to his Rolodex, Samson started going through the numbers.

Maybe it was about time he patched things up with She-Hulk.