Spider-Girl: Auld Lang Syne (Patreon)

After her morning shower, Mary Jane Watson-Parker stood in front of the bathroom’s full-length mirror. Yesterday, she’d read a magazine article about the top five things all women hated about their bodies. Mary Jane didn’t feel that way about any of her physique. And it wasn’t some delusional self-love, either. Mary Jane was, proudly, a bit conceited. At her age, and with her body, she thought she’d earned it.

After all, Peter liked her body even more than she did. The more he liked it, the more he touched it. And the more he touched her body, the more Mary Jane liked it.

She looked at herself with a purr of well-deserved admiration. She looked half her age, like May would in a few years. Her breasts stood proud and firm, her thighs toned and shapely, minus a few scars from hostage situations gone by. At least they weren’t stretch marks.

Mary Jane turned sideways and studied how her ass jutted out from her rounded hips. She had a great ass. It was probably her best feature, thick, full, and curvaceous. Peter loved all of her—even her personality—but he was always laying hands on her ass. Caressing it or slapping it or giving it a squeeze. Mary Jane smiled dreamily. From the way she liked it, you’d think she was hitting his hands with her ass.

She opened her legs and ran her hand over her sex. It was only wet from the shower, but that could change in a hurry. Mary Jane exchanged a smile with the mirror. She wondered, with all the goodies she had on display, if Peter ever fantasized about Felicia when he was with her. Mary Jane took a justifiable pride in her body, but she also knew that men had a habit of thinking about that green, green grass on the other side of the fence. If he were with the Cat, he’d probably be thinking about a certain redhead while in flagrante delicto.

She didn’t care if he did with her. Sometimes, when Peter was going down on her, she thought about Felicia. Mary Jane stared at her reflection as she cupped her breasts, imagining they were Felicia’s hands instead of her own. She pinched and twisted her nipples, bringing her lust up to a damp simmer.

To think, she and Felicia had once been rivals. But once it’d become clear that Peter and her weren’t going anywhere… and Mayday being born had made that abundantly clear… the two of them had settled into a sort of friendliness. And it eventually grew into something more—though only on Peter’s birthday. And their anniversaries, after Mary Jane admitted she enjoyed the three-ways as much as anyone else in the three.

Giving her reflection another look instead of looking inward, she thought about the irony. Way back then, she’d been projecting as much as this mirror. Afraid that people would think she loved Spider-Man, not Peter, and putting that on Felicia like a curse.

Well, Peter was Spider-Man. Felicia loved him too, in her own way. A way that was satisfied even when it was only expressed a few times a year. Until it wasn’t, and Felicia had married Flash Thompson.

At first, it was an open relationship—Felicia teased about their threesomes becoming all-out wife swaps, though Mary Jane couldn’t go that far. She simply didn’t want Flash in that way; the contradiction of being fully uninhibited, but to do something she didn’t really want to do, soured it for her. Which Felicia had accepted with only the usual light teasing. “Alright, Red—more man for me.”

Then Felicity had come along, and May was getting old enough to notice the sleeping arrangements, and slowly they’d all drifted apart… Felicia to her own life, Mary Jane and Peter’s to theirs. It was a shame, in a way. And probably for the best, in another.

What was supposed to happen: Felicia moved in with them, babysat May when they went out for the evening, slept with them when they stayed in? Not nice, normal, retiredSpider-Man and his wife, the Mother of the Year.

Still, the thought of Felicia after all this time put a certain zest into Mary Jane. When you came right down to it, as tempting as Felicia was, Peter didn’t need her, didn’t miss her. Mary Jane was all he needed: she was going to act like it. She licked her lips, watching her tongue slide around them. If Peter were here, such a spectacle would surely send him to the moon in terms of arousal.

Mary Jane put on a gauzy yellow teddy that technically covered her up, but was far too lacy to leave anything to the imagination. The only other thing she wore was black pumps, accentuating her already long, slender legs to turn them into deadly weapons. The sheer fabric showcased her voluptuous body as much as it became a part of the spectacle, like the petals on a rosebud, while the black high heels gave Mary Jane a slatternly air that she quite liked after so many years of marriage. She might be Peter’s, but she was also Peter’s slut.

Peter was already awake when she came into the bedroom, but he got a lot more awake for her. She smiled brightly at him.

“Good morning, tiger,” she breathed, putting a little Marilyn Monroe into the casual greeting. She leaned over the bed and kissed him tenderly. “How’s it hanging?”

Peter reached out to her swaying breasts, giving them a feel that jostled them around inside her teddy. “Hang is about all it can do, even for you. You put me through my paces last night.”

“I believe you’ll rise to the occasion again,” Mary Jane said firmly. “Coffee’s brewing and I drew you a bath. I thought a hot soak would be better for you than a shower. You and your old, tired muscles…”

“If you make me prove how young I am again, I’m not getting any older,” Peter warned her.

“But what a way to go,” she grinned. “And I’d look good as a widow.”

“Then who’d help you ride herd on Mayday?” he challenged.

“You’ve got me there,” Mary Jane said wryly. “But then, I did get you last night, so it evens out.”

She turned and walked away, deliberately exaggerating the swing of her ass. Before she left, she stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. “Can you tell my asshole got fucked last night?”