You were a problem child
Been grounded your whole life
So now you running wild
Playing with them good girls
No that ain't your style…
Felicia paused, letting the distant music wash over her. Music. Music and police sirens. Police sirens and…
'Hey beautiful!'
'Not now Parker. I'm on a stakeout.' She knew him well enough that she didn't have to peel back his mask to see the hurt on his face.
'What!? No, I didn't mean tha- I mean I wouldn't want to...'
Damn. She really hated him sometimes. Not the Spider - Peter Parker. Peter Parker with his intense vulnerability and father issues. Or uncle issues.
'Felicia...' Was he still talking?
'Please.' She put a finger to his lips. 'Just be Spiderman.' She pressed close to him until she felt something swelling against her. 'Maybe then I'll have time for that.'
He hated her to sometimes.
A three weeks later.
She was lying there. Her costume torn, one of her beautiful tits exposed to the world. Blood trickled down her face - the vulture had really beaten her up.
Snap.
Peter Parker, photographer, took another picture. To certain pathetic fanboys these pictures could be worth thousands. But he didn't need them. No, now her had the real thing.
Snap.
He stretched out a hand and stroked her exposed tit. She groaned. Slut.
24 hours later.
She woke up in a warehouse, aching and bruised. I thick metal collar weighed down her head, a short chain attached her to a wall. It was so short that she could only kneel at best.
'Hey Pussycat.'
'P...Peter?' Her voice, weak at first, then stronger. 'What the fuck Peter! Let me out of here!'
He walked over to her and pulled down his jeans.
'Peter...'
'Suck it you skank.' She gasped horrified. Peter had never spoken to her - never spoken to anyone - like that. She looked up from her humiliating crouching position.
'Come on you whore. You're always rearing to go when I'm Spiderman.'
Slowly a tear trickled down her cheek.
'Peter... Oh please no Peter...'
And then she began to suck.
To be continued...