Tell-All: Emma goes first

Emma laid in her hospital bed, completely out of commission. One of her ankles was broken, the foot imprisoned in a cast. The other leg was fractured—it was casted and then held up in a sling. Her left arm was broken; it was in a sling. And her right arm had a broken wrist.

It was incredibly frustrating, mostly for how avoidable it had been. They’d had Juggernaut’s helmet off, she was the telepath on call, so it was up to her to put him down. And right when he was on the verge of stepping on Gambit, too. All told, it was looking like another happy X-Men caper when some drunken idiot had driven his Jaguar into the warzone.

Emma could’ve shifted into diamond as the Jag came right for her, but that would’ve let Juggernaut up. She finished putting him in a comatose state just when the car hit, sending her flying over the hood and leaving her in the all-but-useless state she was in now. And she’d just gotten done with a round of plastic surgery.

Now she was laid up, naked except for a hospital gown, which even she couldn’t be sexy in.

The team had at least been duly appreciative. They’d crooned over her, signed her casts, let her make bitchy jibes without responding in kind. It was so frightfully abhorrent that Emma was sure she didn’t want to get used to it. She’d happily trade all their kudos to go back to being the X-Men’s cunt, so long as it meant her ribs were intact.

Of course, to a telepath, a broken body was no large obstacle. She’d partake of pain meds, allow mutant surgeons to work their magic, trip on the astral plane, and in a few weeks she’d be good as new. But in her present condition, there was to be no sex play. That was intolerable.

Emma could use her telepathy, but that was only good for foreplay. She preferred the tangible yet ephemeral qualities of the physical for lovemaking. Subsuming herself into those wonderful vagaries of heat and instinct and chemistry, becoming concrete intensities at the moment of orgasm, with a man who could both overpower her and overwhelm her. Something that wouldn’t happen on the psychic playfield. Her sex yearned for something real.

What’s worse, the feeling of being restrained was incredibly arousing. Her pussy was twitching and dripping and burning, soaking her gown where it fell between her thighs—it was only her wool blanket that covered her damp crotch and hard nipples. But if it were a few lengths of leather that had her feeling so cramped instead of her own body’s frailty, she’d be in heaven.

She was just about to try for some psychic sex with Jean… which might prove somewhat as challenging as what Scott could do in the physical realm… when the man himself entered her private room. He locked the door behind him.

He looked at her with that stare that she could feel—didn’t need to see the look in his eyes—just needed the tiniest flicker of it from his mind to hers to know that she was prey and it was hunting season. Emma’s breath started to rush before she remembered what an impossibility it was. It sounded all well and good, breaking a hip in sex, but she had no desire to prolong her exposure to hospital food.

“Come to praise me and tell me what a good girl I am? Oh, don’t tempt me now, Scott,” she moaned. “You don’t see me wagging it in front of Daredevil during Lent…”

“You’re down in the dumps,” Scott observed. “The Emma I know would have some way around this as soon as the cast set.”

Emma stuck out her lower lip, gratified by Scott’s recognition of her eroticism, but the fact remained that there was only so much that could be done with her mending body. “I suppose if you wanted to get Betsy in here…”

“No,” Scott headed her off. “You wouldn’t be able to take not being the center of attention.”

“True enough,” Emma sighed. “Then what did you have in mind?”

“Well, I don’t pretend to be the walking Penthouse forum you are…”

Emma shrugged, the gesture made modest both by her condition and what humility she did have.

“But you are still quite the sexpot,” Scott continued. “And even if that’s not much use to you at the moment—it’s very nice for me.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “What are you going to do? Take advantage of me in my hour of distress?”

“Uh-huh,” he said simply. “And you’re going to enjoy it. Because that’s what a whore you are.”

His hands lanced down—caught the lapels of her gown and ripped either way, tearing it open to the jiggling frenzy of her massive bare breasts. Seeing them, Scott’s mind spiked with genuine enjoyment. He savored the sight of her full ripe tits, their creamy skin, their proud heft, the jutting nipples at their tips that showed Emma’s own excitement. The X-Men’s medical staff had done wonders for her; already Emma’s bruises had cleared up, leaving the flesh of her bosom milky and white with pale perfection.

“You like being looked at.”

Scott wasn’t cooing to her—Emma would hate anything so simplistic as that—but he’d found a way to bend his strident voice that made it absolutely filthy as Emma listened to it. Maybe it was just the words he used… words he’d never use in public, nor with anyone else… words made to be whispered into her dirty little ears.

He ran his fingertips up her tiny flat nothing of a stomach—gently, gently, careful not to put any real pressure on her taped ribs—and at the underside of her left breast, the contact finally deepened. He lifted the heft of her massive teat, then let the ponderous amount of flesh sag back down against her torso. The bottom of her tit was humid and sweaty. Emma’s breasts might’ve been tailored to be as perky as a sixteen-year-old Swede’s, but there had to be some weight to go with all that flesh (and, yes, silicone).

“Those fat tits you bought… that you stuff into those tiny little costumes… and that big ass of yours. You’re a psychic, who could sit down anywhere and do your work, and you’re indolent enough for it, but how you love leaning over and letting everyone see just how round those cheeks are. I imagine you wouldn’t even wear underwear, except you love letting people see it’s Gucci. Oh, you’re a whore, Emma, but you’re an expensive whore. Too expensive even to pay for. You get off on people being obsessed with you.”

Emma moaned happily. “You like being obsessed with me, of course. I’m me.”

“You’re fun to play with,” Scott admitted. “And it’s real fun to see what you’re actually slutty enough to get off on. I don’t need to tell you that there aren’t a lot of X-Men who’d enjoy being spanked and slapped and gagged—“

“It depends what they’re gagged on,” Emma told him with bated breath. “You’re a naughty boy, you know that? Everyone thinks you’re so good, but you come up with such naughty things to do to—“

Scott flicked her on the nose. Emma loved it, loved the casual cruelty of it and her own incensed arousal. She would’ve loved it more if he’d out and out slapped her, but she couldn’t have everything. Not until she got out of her hospital bed.

“I know what I am,” Scott said coolly. “Thanks for helping me see that. But it’s much easier to see what you are. And I’m going to do exactly what that perfect body makes every man want to do to it: use it.”

Scott unzipped his jeans—such a damnably unpretentious thing for such a power to wear, it was almost condescending—then he fished his cock out of his briefs and Emma was sure there was nothing patronizing about Scott. What you saw was what you got with him, from his simplicity to his strength. It was a complete paradox, how someone could be so straightforward yet so complicated… how he could have so many plans, yet simply take what he wanted.

Emma’s breath caught in her throat. She knew what his cock looked like, but it’d been a while. The lovemaking of late was hurried due to their other duties—clothes pulled out of the way, things put into their proper receptacles, used promptly. It’d been a while since she’d had time to savor just how long, how thick he was. The head was smooth and quite swollen, the glanshole flaring, dripping glistening precum.

Scott didn’t start jerking off—not then. He stroked himself in the playful fashion that Emma herself might use: the bulk of his attention on her, not his own pleasure. He twisted his hand about his prick, lifted it up, idly toying with it while he heated himself with the sight of her. Her heaving breasts and dimpling stomach and the way her lips parted with arousal. Emma wished he would drop his pants. It would be nice to see his balls too—even nicer to reach out and caress them—but of course, she couldn’t. All she was allowed this time was what Scott did to her.

Her pussy got hotter, almost steaming. She gestured down to it with her eyes, trying to guide Scott’s gaze, but he was watching her face. Seeing the submission play over her expression. Because even without consciously relenting to him, she was his plaything. That was just the way the cards were dealt today. She couldn’t even control herself; her eyes helplessly went to his cock and she felt the first throb of many ripple through her cunt.

Then he stopped. He fucking let her seethe.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to help myself when I saw your naked body? Your tits? Your pussy?” There was mockery in Scott’s humorlessness. It felt good—Emma wanted to beg him to say what a dumb cunt she was to think that. “I could put it away right now and walk away without a second thought.”

“You’re not going to do that.” Emma tried to be firm, but a note of wheedling, of agonized disbelief, entered her voice. On second thought, that saved her. If she’d tried to be forceful with Scott, he might just deprive her. That was the one punishment she couldn’t take.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” Scott said. “Because you’re the hero of the hour and a good fucking girl.”

At that last, Emma’s throbbing sex quickened and she felt a lash of flame across her clit. Like Pavlov’s dog. She tended to be orgasming when Scott poured into her ear how she was a good girl, his good girl. Being called a whore and a bitch and a slut, that was foreplay, what he said when he was working her up. But the two G-words, they made her cunt dry-fire in climax.

Scott reached into his back-pocket with his free hand, coming up with a hanging assortment of linked cables like a Rolex watch—an assemblage both firm and limp. He spread it with his thumb and fingers. It was an inhibitor collar.

If he put that on Emma, she really would be helpless. No psychic powers she could call upon to override Scott’s mind. Of course, she trusted Scott. But her power, her supremacy, it was something that she detested being parted with. They’d only experimented with inhibitors under very limited circumstances.

When Scott insisted on it, as Danger Room training to see to it she didn’t go to pieces if she were depowered.

And a few times in the bedroom, when he’d been exceedingly gentle in his dominance to compensate for her overwhelming powerlessness. It’d made Emma feel like a virgin. She’d come relentlessly.

Even that wasn’t enough to get her to make a habit of the process. Her telepathy was the ultimate safe word, always there for her, a part of her, the rock upon which she’d built so much of her identity.

Scott kept trying to ease her away from it, as she’d tried to push him into greater awareness than his usual monomaniacal focus. Emma didn’t quite appreciate the reversal. But at least it told her that Scott loved her more than he loved the sex. Any other man would probably settle for titfucking her regularly.

“You put the collar on, you’re totally at my mercy,” Scott said. “No panic button. What I say goes. What I want to do with you, I do. Or I leave it off. You look through my eyes. See what I see, feel what I’m feeling. When I come, I come for you in more ways than one. I know you’ll enjoy that. But you’re the White Queen. So you may just enjoy bondage a little bit more.”

Emma knew what he meant. In those few times they’d tried the inhibitor, she’d still had the use of her body. Even tied down, she knew how to pick locks, how to dislocate her shoulder, how to fight. Scott knew just how to train the X-Men for eventualities like that; he wouldn’t skimp on his lady love.

But now, she didn’t have the benefit of being able-bodied. She would never be more vulnerable, more submissive, than she would be with both her body disabled and the inhibitor on. It was a unique opportunity; even the White Queen wouldn’t purposefully break her bones for a bondage scenario.

But she wasn’t the White Queen anymore—not quite. She didn’t need to chase a sexual high. She could hold onto her powered supremacy and delight in the feeling of Scott worshiping her… his own sensation of paying homage to her beauty… without her own fleshy pleasures to distract her. That, too, would be something to savor.

Emma smiled to herself. She’d have time to try both, and even more scenarios, if she wished it. Which meant Scott had succeeded in making her feel much better about the time it would take to recuperate.

But which should she indulge in first?