Work Text:
Oh hi there, nice of you to join me at this exact moment in space and time. Wade W Wilson at your service, not literally, of course, I’m definitely busy with another customer right now as you can clearly see. You can’t? Let me paint you a beautiful picture. The landscape currently on view is the plush rolling hills and muscular plains of a naked Peter Parker. No happy little trees required, this is my no. 1 all- time favourite scenery.
My favourite kind of scene, too, as the part-time ‘regular’ human, night-time spidery mutated crime-fighter is face down, (all willing and expectant, I might add) on one side of my bed, while a breakfast tray of toys and tools is laid out on the other. There’s no rush, no emergency phone calls or deadlines and hopefully there’s no Spidey-sense tingles. Those are not the kind of tingles I’m aiming for.
The rules are, Petey-pie gets to look at what’s been picked out tonight, and veto anything he doesn’t want on him or in him. I’ve been playing this game whenever we get the chance lately, and he’s not said no to anything from the Cave of Wonders (long Tupperware storage box) under my bed. Pretty sure he’s getting off on not knowing what I’ll pick up first. If there’s anything he doesn’t know the use of, he’s not asked for clarification. He gets a count of ten to memorise what’s on the tray before the blindfold goes on, just like in the old pre-digital era kids’ party game. Except I don’t care if he guesses right or not, that’s not the objective. The objective is to make Peter Parker come, duh.
Right now, I’m mostly just messing with him. He’s had his look at the menu, and if he spotted the new toy, he didn’t remark on it, ‘cos it looks pretty basic. No remote control, no tube and inflation bulb, nothing like that. Because today, what we’ve gathered here to witness is the ruining of Peter by completely low-tech methods. Where was I? Oh yeah, fooling around with my fingers and his asshole. I’m shifting and pressing and stroking without any obvious goal, just getting that always-tight pink pucker to relax a little. Praise be to healing factors, I don’t even know how much it would take to make that spectacular hole sloppy and gaping without it just cinching itself back in again like magic. Little guy was clearly made for me.
Just to clarify for anyone who is concerned with safety, there’s a shit-ton of lube involved. Probably too much. More than Webs here would ever allow if this was his bedroom, but I own a washer and a dryer and don’t care how much it costs to run them whenever I like, while poverty-stricken Pete here has to drag the one set of bedding he owns to the laundromat, where he blushes like a schoolgirl and gets told they don’t do quilts and he has to get that dry-cleaned. Or burned. I shouldn’t laugh, but that shit never gets old. Shouldn’t laugh with fingers up his butt, either, it makes him nervous. Huh, maybe that’s his thing too.
He could move in with me, anytime, any place. I have at least some kind of apartment in a dozen or so states and a log cabin in an undisclosed Canadian location, yet here he is, still living in a shoebox apartment in Queens. Not tonight, though. Tonight he has a memory foam topped mattress and soft sheets I can replace, adequate heating to be totally comfortable nude, and a proper blindfold which he cannot peek around. He’s keeping nice and still, like I told him, without any kind of restraint, because that shit is annoying to keep replacing, even if I can afford it. Only so many times a guy can have chunks of drywall ripped from the walls or stucco from the ceiling, even if the chains you ordered from Wakanda still hold. Super-strength is fucking awesome.
Anyway, he’s moaning gently, by which I mean he’s complaining that I’m not really starting yet, so I shoot out one fairly lube-free hand to grab my latest purchase. As stated, it’s quite innocent-looking, well, as innocent as a black silicone butt-plug can be, with no apparent bells and whistles. Peter shuts up immediately as I start nudging it into his ass, first the tapered point, then enjoying the view as he stretches to accommodate the widest point, then hungrily sucks it in to the narrow base. Yes, yes, the base is flared and can’t slip inside, what kinda amateur do you think I am? Happy now? Great. Peter makes a curious sound. No, not squelching, there was definitely squelching with all this lube about, but I mean he sounds curious. I’ve just slid a plug into him that seems unremarkably average in all respects, and I’m not telling him he can move, or picking anything else up from the tray. He doesn’t know what’s coming next. Which is why I make the first blow a light, playful swat, by super-standards. His ass jiggles. Something else jiggles too.
“Hey-“
The indignant cry of the slapee to the slapper cuts off in surprise. I giggle.
“Is that a vibrating plug?”
“Nope.”
“It felt… funny just then.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?”
I sometimes wish my giggle didn’t sound so deranged, but there’s a reason for that.
“Funny peculiar, when you just slapped my ass for chrissakes! When was that on the table?”
“You mean, on the toy tray.”
“Yeah that!”
If he was that annoyed, he’d be sitting up and yanking off his blindfold, or growling his safeword. He is not doing any of those things. He hasn’t moved other than to turn his head slightly.
“Both my hands were on the toy tray. I was holding it with them when I put it down for you to look at.”
I say it slowly and smugly for full irritating effect.
“You know what? Fine. Whatever. But I’ll remember that for next time.”
“It’s just my hand, Petey…”
“OK just stop when I say stop.”
He never says stop.
“I’ll give you no more than twenty.”
I can hear him mumbling something about being able to take more, but I don’t have super-hearing so I can’t be certain and anyway I’m not listening.
SMACK
Don’t expect a blow-by-blow account of this scene, with sound-effect bubbles in a variety of shapes and colours filling the air. I’m strong. My hands are large. Larger, even, that Peter’s succulent cheeks, one of which is blushing like a ripe peach now. Peter, stoic, super-powered Peter, gasps.
Oooooo, everything’s going wobbly! Your screen is all blurred and shimmery, there’s spooky music, it’s time for a flashback!
Whaddaya mean, no, Wade, not now, things were just getting interesting? Bunch of degenerate ingrates! Where’s your grasp of the concept of delayed gratification?
Fine. Fuck it. Google “spanking butt-plug.” I dare ya. Maybe not at work, unless you work at the dildo factory, and if so, thank you for your service, or at school, because you should be in the Teen and Up Audiences, get the hell out of Explicit or I’m coming over there right now to unplug your router and put parental controls on your cellphone!
Have some other reason for not looking it up right this second, OK, it looks like a regular butt-plug, but it’s got a hollow chamber in the head end, and a weighted ball inside that chamber that rattles around when jostled. Simple and battery free. Don’t know why I didn’t buy one earlier, but (and here’s your edited down flash back) I was browsing the evil megacorp website that delivers things like Jello in bulk quantities and horrifyingly off-brand fleece-lined jeggings, when this little guy caught my eye, and I thought, “hey, I know who would like that! My genetically-enhanced spider-pal with all his senses turned up to eleven, which is not a Stranger Things reference.” All of that. It’s not that the Webhead has a hair trigger, because we worked on that (but who calls that working?) it’s more than certain things which most people find pleasant are REALLY GOOD for him. Or totally overwhelming. Both are good. Let’s see which this is?
SMACK
I lied, motherfuckers, here’s another sound effect bubble, this time, to the other cheek, and I just know that the heavy marble inside the plug inside the naked guy is doing the wall of death in a way that hopefully has his brain and prostate all kinds of confused and horny. I follow up with a lot more spanking, alternating butt-cheeks for that all-over rosy glow. Peter’s only noises are strangled and kinda breathy, an odd combination, especially when my hands are nowhere near his throat. None of them sound like “please stop, Mr Pool, I hate this!” Good.
I’d describe the whole thing in more detail, but you know what, somebody else just did it better, go read their smut, I’m busy. I try to concentrate on counting but it’s so hard when my baby boy is making those sounds that make me so hard. He’s definitely caught on to the jiggly ball action, and, if anything, he’s kinda bouncing up to meet me. It’s almost like he wants to be spanked! Who knew? Well, me, for one, but it’s fun to pretend he’s only just discovered how slutty he is.
By the time he’s panting, flushed and sweaty, and I’ve definitely doled out at least twenty, I roll him onto his side and kiss him, pushing the blindfold up and off his face in a way that reminds me of the first time we took his mask off together. It really helps to see his eyes. They look a little glazed at first, but then he regains the power of coherent speech.
“‘S’weighted,” he mumbles. “Moves like those…hippy ball things.”
“You got it, Science Guy!” I have no idea what he means, but he looks like he needs praise before he floats away on a fluffy cloud of endorphins. “You win… cuddles on the couch? Cartoons and hot chocolate?” I started early with the cuddles, so I suddenly get the point when he jabs me in the crotch with it. Peter is still hard enough to punch a Spidey-cockhead-sized hole through a plate glass window. As am I, to be honest, Deadpool edition.
“OMG did I forget the whole aim of the game?”
It’s true that I rarely care whether I come or not during these precious uninterrupted evenings, but the only rule of Spidey Fuck Club is that Spidey does. Call it a point of professional pride. Call it my core principal. Call me a very specialised people pleaser. I have failed at my own game.
“I don’t know what happened, I just lost the plot I guess. I will accept any punishment, even the spatula.”
Something glittered in those freshly-revealed big brown eyes, like he was having an evil plan of some kind. Before I get the chance to argue, or put on my cheerleader costume, he’s got me tipped onto my back and up into a position only usually reserved for cheerful fitness instructors doing weird upside-down air-cycling.
“Careful, now, I’m not as young as I used to be!” I gabble out in mock-alarm as my spine makes an ominous creaking sound and the noble hero-type drizzled me with lube like he’s filling a water bottle. Maybe that’s all I am now. Fantastic!
With practically no preemptive fingering, he’s prying my buttocks apart and using his crazy agility to plough into me with that diamond-hard dick he’s currently sporting, hard enough to nearly shake me out of my (advanced level) position on the not-firm-enough mattress. I do my best to brace my aged back with my arms, and against the pelvis of the Amazing Fuck Spider. The angle is crazy, and I can’t take too much of this, even with a healing factor. Luckily, the butt-plug must be rattling around like a pinball in a machine, because despite the way my neck is bent at an almost unnatural angle, I can tell from his facial gymnastics that he isn’t going to take much longer. I’m such a love-struck fool that even his sex faces are cute.
Then, just like that, he shifts a little, and everything passes through irritating without a gas-station stop and slides into park in Orgasm City. I’m coming, he’s coming, there’s lube and spooge everywhere, and mine is hitting me unerringly in the face. When I deem it safe to open my eyes and survey the carnage, I lick as much as I can reach off my lips and chin with my notoriously long tongue. OK, I’m no Venom, but what I lack in length I make up for in skill. Peter looks on approvingly, as he disengages himself from his perch and helps lower me back to a comfortable position. He kneels, but he still winces a little when his heels touch his butt-cheeks. I giggle again.
He gently withdraws my little rubbery co-conspirator, holds it up to examine it, and gives it a little shake. Out here in the open air, you can actually hear it rattle. Just about. To Spidey it’s probably as loud as the boulder chasing Indiana Jones. Super-senses. So cool. He rolls it in a tissue and puts it back on the tray. Cleaning toys is my job, and I’m always employee of the month.
“Thanks to this little… stunt, that’s how we’ll be fucking until my ass-cheeks heal. Whenever that may be!”
He’s trying to look angry, but I know he’s lying, and his healing factor is already dealing with the bruising. My boy is nothing if not dramatic.
“Sure! Whatever you say, Spidey-cakes!”
He lies down on his front beside me, and we kiss, lazily and slow, nothing but tender now. For a moment I wonder why he tastes of my come, and then I remember.
Even when I lose this game, I win. I’ll play as long as he lets me.