Spider-Maria - 2

Okay, someone convinced me to keep going with this haha 😄

The elevator, obediently counting the floors down to the first, slowly but with merciless calm slid its iron doors open. Right away, Maria saw a couple — a guy and a girl — both buried in their phones, and it seemed they wouldn’t have even noticed the elevator arriving if not for the sound signal.

They raised their heads at the same time, and their eyes widened in perfect sync, as if on command.

— Whoa, — the guy breathed out, clearly impressed by Maria’s curves tightly wrapped in the suit, but immediately got an elbow jab from his girlfriend. — Hey, I was just...

— Don’t you dare! — the girl hissed, snapping her gaze up at Maria stepping out of the elevator, looking at her as if Maria were some kind of walking violation of public decency. — Shameful!

Maria was already stepping out, letting them in, when that hissing “shameful” froze in her ears. She didn’t understand the word, but the tone was absolutely clear — contempt, reproach, almost disgust. As if she wasn’t a superhero but some street chick dressed in a ridiculously revealing outfit.

She stopped abruptly. Her butt tightened under the thin fabric of the suit along with all the muscles in her stomach and thighs. She turned around.

— ¿Qué dijiste? (What did you say?) — Maria asked in a low, almost icy voice and immediately added, pointing a finger at her own chest: — ¿A mí? (To me?)

The girl didn’t even acknowledge her — not because she didn’t hear, but because she deliberately chose not to. She lifted her chin dramatically, tilting her head back, and took her boyfriend by the arm as she stepped into the elevator.

— ¿Estoy hablando contigo, pendeja? (I’m talking to you, dumbass?) — Maria shot out with all her fury, but the elevator doors at that moment closed with a metallic thud.

— ¡Maldita sea! (Damn it!) — Maria exhaled, stomping her foot and instantly regretting it: the vibration shot up her legs, making her wide, soft thighs give a noticeable bounce under the suit. The tight fabric stretched across her tits and she immediately felt that short, almost ticklish touch — but too sharp to ignore — the flick of the suit’s fabric against her nipple.

Her breath caught.

— Ay, Dios… — she breathed through her teeth, barely audible, feeling her voice break from the sharpness of the unexpected sensation.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, but as soon as air filled her lungs, her breasts rose again under the suit, and the thin elastic fabric slid once more across the hypersensitive skin.

Maria bit her lip.

‘Cálmate… cálmate…’ (Calm down… calm down…) she tried to order herself, and it would’ve worked — if the moment she opened her eyes she hadn’t seen that.

First, the guy at the reception desk. He pretended to be reading something on the computer screen, but his eyes kept darting back to Maria. Quick, brief, like he was embarrassed by what he was doing, but unable to stop. His gaze latched onto her thighs, her waist, her tits pulled tight by the suit, then slid down again to her bare feet.

Then the second stare — from a woman in a strict business suit waiting for the elevator. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. She stared with an open, sharp judgment. With a squint that said: ‘What is this supposed to be?’

Her suit, which had seemed like nothing more than a practical working uniform for Spider-Woman, suddenly became something different under those looks. It became too tight. Too revealing. It became… transparent.

Maria immediately felt heat rising up her neck, flooding her cheeks. Not from shame — from something far more dangerous and unfamiliar. From the sudden, almost painful awareness that all these stares felt physical on her skin. Like touches. Like dozens of fingers sliding at once along her thighs, the inner side of her leg, the tight fabric between her legs.

She instinctively pressed her thighs together — and regretted it instantly. The thin layer of her suit between her legs stretched, pressing right into her clit with such accuracy it felt like someone had deliberately tailored the fabric around her new anatomy. A short, electric shock shot upward, making her knees tremble.

‘No… no, no, no… ¿qué mierda me pasa?’ (No… no, no, no… what the fuck is happening to me?) — rushed through her head as she frantically tried to cover herself with her hands. One palm landed on her breast, the other darted downward, to her crotch — which, apparently, only drew even more unwanted eyes and, as a result, triggered a new wave of fantasies.

And maybe everything would’ve turned into some kind of teenage sex fantasy if not for that voice. Too familiar to her, but carrying a sharp irritation and shades she’d never heard in it before:

— María, ¿qué carajos haces aquí abajo? (Maria, what the hell are you doing down here?)

A man of about forty-five was quickly approaching her, dressed in an expensive, perfectly tailored suit that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. He had dark hair with a touch of gray, cut short, and smart, perceptive eyes in which angry sparks were flickering now. He looked successful, commanding — and painfully familiar. And the resemblance wasn’t just a coincidence.

‘¿No puede ser…’ (This can’t be…) — rushed through her head when she took in his face. The skin around the eyes, the forehead lines, that certain way his lips pressed into a displeased line…

She knew that face. She had seen it hundreds of times. Only usually behind thick-lensed glasses and framed by four grotesque metal arms.

Doctor Octopus. Oliver Octavius.

‘Is it him? Is he the one who did this to me?...’ — Maria thought desperately, staring at the approaching man and trying to form at least some kind of plan in her head.

— ¡María! — he barked when he was already very close, with the same voice Peter Parker had heard a thousand times right before another metal claw tried to crush his ribs. — ¿Por qué te fuiste de la sesión? ¿Sabes cuánto cuesta cada minuto de retraso? (Maria! Why did you walk out of the shoot? Do you even understand how much every minute of delay costs?)

He stopped half a meter from her, towering over her, and Maria suddenly realized just how much taller he was now. In her old body she had been roughly the same height as Octavius, but now… now the top of her head barely reached his chin.

She opened her mouth to throw out something sharp, heroic, in Peter Parker’s style:

— Tú… tú eres… ¡Octavius! ¡Sé lo que hiciste! (You… you’re… Octavius! I know what you did!)

But it didn’t sound threatening at all. It came out too high and even petulant.

The man — Oliver, or whatever his name was — blinked slowly, then tilted his head slightly, like someone trying to decide whether he’d just heard utter nonsense.

— ¿Perdón? (What?) — he asked, taking Maria by the elbow — and the touch sent a real shockwave through her body. Oliver’s fingers closed around Maria’s thin arm, her heart started pounding fast, her lashes fluttered, and a hot wave rolled down her spine, nothing like fear or anger. It was… pleasant. Too pleasant.

‘I… I don’t understand…’ Maria tried to gather her thoughts and feelings, but it wasn’t working. Her nipples were already standing as hard little points under the suit, her heart hammered in her temples, in her breasts, in her stomach, vibrating through her new body in waves she couldn’t control at all.

— María, mírame — he said more quietly now, almost intimately, leaning a little closer. — Estás temblando. ¿Qué te pasa hoy? (Maria, look at me. You’re shaking. What’s wrong with you today?)

The voice was the same. The same tone with which Octavius once hissed into Peter’s face: “You don’t understand, Parker, what kind of power you’re playing with.” Only now there was no madness in it. Only irritation… and something else. Care? Possession? Desire?

Maria raised her eyes — and saw in his expression something she absolutely did not expect to see: genuine concern. There was no threat in him, though he towered over her — only a firm, almost fatherly worry that spread a warm pulse inside her body.

It confused her more than any metallic tentacle that had ever tried to crush her.

— Mi amor… — he added softly, with a slight smile, and at that word everything inside Maria tightened and at the same time melted into a warm puddle low in her belly. — Bueno, en serio, me asustaste cuando huiste así del rodaje... (really, you scared me when you ran off the set like that...)

Maria swallowed. Her throat was dry, her tongue stuck to her palate, and low in her abdomen pulsed a familiar—but completely uncontrollable now—weight: hot, wet, demanding. What… what kind of reality was this?