:Devil in a Red Dress, Reflected:
A/N: Gwen Stacy goes crazier. I actually own the dress in question, so I'm quite aware of its powers! Now with an extended sex scene. PP/GS. Still "Devil in a New Dress".
We're completely naked. We're lying on the couch, hearts pounding, heat pooling. I grin with contentment and get myself ready for another round.
Currently, it's Peter Parker, New York's friendly neighborhood Spiderman and (rather unbelievably) my boyfriend, that's making love to—no, fucking—me right now. He's biting his lip, lanky and muscled frame leaning over me, not to mention got that heated stare in his eyes letting me know he's gearing up to bend me over a table.
Oh, God, if you're out there—thank you.
It started off pretty innocuously too. I'd spent all day tearing apart my closet. My room looked like a war zone, every article of clothing I own had been ripped out of my dresser and tossed onto the floor. It wasn't like me to be this disorganized, but I just had no idea what to fucking wear.
I'd tried the classy cardigan-and-a-skirt combo. Too conservative.
Jeans and Converse. Too casual.
Miniskirt and tube-top. Too slutty.
Overalls. Just no.
Just when I thought I had pretty much gone through every possible outfit combination (yes, including the pants-as-a-shirt look), I had a moment of inspiration. I'd bought this red dress a couple months ago at a closeout sale. It fit me like a glove then, but I'd never really had any occasion to wear it. Between working and trying to play the superhero's girlfriend role, there wasn't exactly much time to play dress-up. I'd stuffed it somewhere at the very back of my dresser, so after a few moments of wrestling with the hanger, I finally managed to pry it out.
After struggling a tiny bit with the zipper, I managed to pull it on. The dress was just the perfect hint of risqué: just tight enough to cradle my curves, a slit going up the side, and the ideal length to be able to not flash anyone while walking. Oh, and a neckline that Venus herself would have designed. Damn Stacy, you look good, I told myself as I turned in front of the mirror.
I'd hand-picked my lingerie for the night as well. It was our anniversary, and I was determined to give him a little something special. We'd had sex a few times—it has always been passionate and sweet, but tonight I wasn't looking to be made love to. No, tonight I wanted to see the animalistic side of Peter I suspected was lurking just below his shy surface. I'd often fantasized about seeing him completely lose control, so perhaps a bit of black lace couldn't hurt the cause.
Finally, a pair of fuck-me heels completed the look. Black, six inches and certain to bring almost any man to his knees—or at least, that was what the slightly overzealous saleslady had said. But you know what, fuck it, if I'm going to go out in transparent black lingerie and a dress that would make Coco Austin jealous, then I was going to wear the shoes to go with it, damn it. Peter better appreciate this.
I tugged a trench coat on for good measure and made my way to his place. He'd told me he wanted to do a romantic night in. I'll admit, the thought kind of scared me a little—I was halfway convinced he'd burn the house down. That's my fucking boyfriend: he can engineer a web shooter from scratch, but he can't make toast without a fire brigade arriving.
Finally, I arrive at his doorstep. From here alone, I can smell something delicious cooking. Admittedly, though, my mind really isn't on food at the moment—I can think of a few better things we could use his dining room table for…
The door opens and there he is. It takes all my willpower not to jump on him. He's a suit, for Christ's sake, hair messed up and carrying a bouquet the size of my entire body. He looks so goddamn good I kind of want him to be dinner instead.
Then, I notice the look he's giving me: complete and utter astonishment. He manages to choke out a greeting, then stutters his way through telling me I look great.
So maybe this dress is working in my favor. I smirk at him. He's still clutching the flowers to his chest as if they're his first-born child.
"Peter," I laugh, gesturing to them, "are those for me?"
"What?" He asks, still clearly distracted.
Earth to Peter. Come in, Peter. Full eyebrow raise on my part. "The flowers."
"What?" he asks again. Maybe this dress was too much? I mean, maybe he hates it or something… "Uh, yeah."
My boyfriend, the poet. Still, the flowers are absolutely breathtaking and I can't help but smile stupidly at the gesture. "These are beautiful. Thank you," I say, and mean it.
I give him a little thank-you kiss, and catch a whiff of his unmistakable scent: cologne, detergent, a bit of sweat and salt. Clean and dirty at the same time. Makes me want to drop down onto my knees even more…
He beams at me at me—"Yeah, it's no problem; let's go?"—grabs me by the waist and hurries me down the hallway, hand curled possessively over me. The smell of mushrooms and chicken, certainly not an unpleasant scent, wafts through the room. Huh. So he didn't set anything on fire. Interesting.
"Wow, smells great…bug boy can cook?" I tease him, because I'm still honestly kind of astonished. But he seems to be in such a rush that he's barely paying attention.
He fakes offense. "Everyone has their secrets."
The dining table is set. God, he must have spent hours putting this all together. He barely spends a second to admire it before running back into the kitchen like a bat out of hell. What is even up with him? I can hear him banging around in the kitchen. Is there something on my face? Were the heels too much? Is my mascara running? What is wrong with me?
In the midst of my freakout, he peeks back into the room. "Sorry about that, I had to check on the chicken."
Of course. I feel like slapping myself. He's not running to get away from you, he just doesn't want to set something on fire. I look at him understandingly. "Peter…I can't believe you went through all this trouble for me."
He's got his sleeves pushed up, a hint of collarbone showing under his shirt, and I literally just want to rip him out of that damn suit. I keep my composure, although it takes almost all of my self-control, as he responds. "Oh, um, Gwen, honestly – it's no big deal, not at all. I mean, it's our anniversary, and you're so worth it."
He's still gaping at me though. My mind begins cycling again—maybe I do look horrible. I look at him uncertainly. "Is something wrong?"
He stammers, visibly panicked. "What? Um, no, nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?"
I decide to be honest. "You've been staring at me from the minute I walked in the door."
The panic in his eyes increases. Oh hell no. This is not going as planned. Jesus Christ. "I just want everything to be perfect."
Against my better judgment, I melt a little bit. I mean, how can you not? I stand up, walking towards him as he scoops me up into his arms and kisses me on the forehead. I lean a bit closer, about to show him just how much I appreciate his attempts…
As I'm about to, he pulls away and hastily explains that the chicken is done. Jesus, again? I must actually be repulsive or something… A bit annoyed, I take my seat once more. What does a girl have to do to get some damn affection around here?
Peter brings the plates back out, taking care to set one in front of me. Taking a seat, he asks how work has been going, although he zones out almost the minute I begin talking. At this point, I'm starting to get a little annoyed. What the fuck is he even on? He's pretty much attacking his food, and barely giving me any sort of indication he's actually listening to me.
I stop talking. After a few moments, he glances up.
"Peter, have you listened to a single word I've said?" I say, exasperated.
He looks visibly panicked. "Um…"
It takes all my energy not to yell. "What the hell is up with you? You've been completely off all evening." I'm glaring at him, my arms are crossed and if he doesn't give me a damn good reason why he's acting like this, I might just explode.
Immediately, he starts talking at a million miles a minute. "Look, Gwen, I'm so sorry… I just, I don't know, I mean, like, I just got completely wrapped up in my thoughts and, well, I mean, you know, thinking about how badly I want to rip that dress off you and fuck you senseless and I mean, shit."
Oh. Oh. It takes me a little bit to soak in that information.
Peter Parker, my innocent, virtuous, heroic boyfriend, wants to rip my clothes off and fuck me into a coma.
I have to ask again, just to confirm that I'm not hallucinating and that this isn't all just a cruel trick. "Is that what you've been thinking about doing? Fucking me senseless?"
There's a blush spreading up from his neck, and I want to see just how far down it goes… especially as he says, "I mean, you look… fucking irresistible. I mean, you always look great, but today, I just, I mean, Christ, Gwen."
I'm trying to hold back the biggest grin. Biting my lip and standing up, I approach him slowly, confidence in my step. "Is that really what you think?"
I dip my hip to the side, giving him my best bedroom eyes. I watch as his eyes rake over my curves, pupils dilating slightly.
"Yes," he responds, his voice certain.
I place my hand on his chest and whisper in his ear, just the way I know will drive him crazy: "So fuck me senseless." I watch as he has a sharp intake of breath, bites his lip, and grabs me around the waist. I wrap my legs around him, breathing hard already. I fucking need him to do this. I need him to take me.
"I am going to destroy you, Gwen Stacy," he growls, and the heat immediately begins to pool in my stomach. Holy shit. He bites my lip and sucks it closer into the warmth of his mouth, my tongue battling with his for supremacy, throwing me down on his dining table. His hands are all over me, feeling at every available bit of me. It dawns on me that he's searching for the zipper.
"How do you get this damn thing off?" he asks, exasperated, as he finally stumbles upon the zipper. He's not being the least bit gentle, and I'm loving every second of it, drawing the dress down to my waist.
I knew the black lingerie was a great idea. He's looking at me with a ferocity I've never seen before, a kind of raw hunger I know only I can satisfy. He rolls my breast in his palm, pressing them together and bringing his fingers along the underside of my bra.
"Well, this certainly won't do," he says, before literally ripping it off me. He flicks my nipple just a bit, and I moan. He does it again to the other one, eliciting the same response.
"More…" I hear myself beg.
"Hell yes, baby," he says, and lowers his mouth to the peaks of my tits. Fuck.
"Come on, Gwen, moan for me," he orders, a request I can't help but acquiesce to. The suction of it is just delicious, especially as he bites lightly enough to let me feel the friction. He's rolling the other one between his fingers and it feels so amazingly naughty. I cry out as he drags his tongue across my nipples, blowing cold air onto them and letting them grow even more prominent.
Seemingly satisfied with his exploration of my breasts, he lays hot, open-mouthed kisses down my abdomen, pulling the dress down with it. He swirls his tongue around in my navel, and I pretty much collapse. I didn't even know he had it in him, and he's got me like silly putty in his hand. I'm craving him at this point, needing another fix every second he pulls away.
Finally, he pulls the dress completely off as my panties are revealed. He's got a slight smirk on his face now, and I begin to fear for my sanity. He slides his hand under the strap of my thong, toying with it a little, and skims the rest of his fingers across the inside of my upper thighs—so close to where I need him to touch me, but not quite there, and it's driving me fucking insane. I don't even think I can formulate words at this point, and he's not even inside me yet.
"Now, what am I going to do with these?" He gives me that insolent little smile.
That insufferable bastard.
I manage to get out a single word: "Off."
He cocks his head to the side and looks up at me audaciously. "I'm sorry, I can't understand you. What exactly do you want?"
Fuck, he is going to be the death of me. "Take my panties off. Go down on me," I plead with him, needing it so badly.
"So demanding," he taunts me, finally sliding the scrap of lace down. "Thankfully for you, I'm feeling like granting that request."
He traces his fingers up my slit, feeling how goddamn soaked I am already, sliding a thumb across my dreadfully neglected clit. "Fuck, you're wet." He slides a single finger into me, and then replaces his thumb with his tongue, sending shivers up my spine.
I can't hold back a cry—"Peter!"—and gyrate my hips close to him, craving more of his ministrations.
He grins and commands, "Sing for me, Gwen," before diving his tongue even further inside me, lapping at every bit of me he can get to. Rhythmically, he's rubbing circles around my clit, tightening the coils in my stomach. I'm over-sensitized already, a blush spreading from my neck down, as he quickens the pace. His fingers are curling upwards inside of me, hitting that spot that I've been needing him to touch, and everything tightens inside me and I realize that, holy shit, I'm close.
"Peter, I'm going to come!" Half a warning, half a threat to kill him if he even thinks of stopping. He understands the urgency, though, and orders me to do it, and I just, I can't hold back, my world crumbles so deliciously as I explode, squeezing his head in between my thighs, refusing to let him go.
Jesus motherfucking Christ, I want him. I can't even hide the pure lust I feel for him right now—I may have just had the best orgasm of my life, but I am nowhere near done. He is far too clothed for what I've got planned for him, and I'm basically just ripping his shirt off at this point. Somewhere in the back of my head, I register his toned physique and scruffy hair, but honestly, I'm just working my way down.
I bite my lip in concentration when I finally reach his boxers. Plaid, cute. But again, far too concealing. I wrap my hand around his length and god damn, he's hard. I run my thumb over the head, already slick with anticipation, and watch his muscles tense.
This is fucking awesome. I drop down to my knees as he braces himself against the table. I start from the base, running my tongue in languid, upward strokes, lazily lapping at him. His reaction spurs me forward—"Gwen!"—and I feel confident enough to test my gag reflex's capacity, taking in his entire length. I work my mouth on him, letting him brush the back of my throat, over and over again. I can feel him shaking slightly, his eyes rolled up in pure pleasure. The feeling is indescribable—knowing I'm the one who's able to make him feel so good. It's so dirty, and so sinful, and so, so good.
"Gwen, stop," he says, huskily. I look up at him (a little difficult, since he's so damn tall) and his eyes are wild with desire. He pulls me up to my feet, whirls me around, and bends me over. I've never seen him take control like this, and I'm dripping. His innocent, sweet, loving demeanor's been cast aside, and now it's just something primitive in both of us stirring, ready and waiting.
He thrusts one finger in, groans, and then pulls his finger out and shoves himself in. It's not sweet, it's not gentle, it's not romantic, but holy fucking hell is it hot. I stretch to accommodate him as he stills in me, momentarily, and then he slams himself back in.
"Shit, you're tight," he says, but I barely hear him, too overcome with the unimaginably wicked feeling of being completely filled. I can feel my body being continuously slammed against the dinner table, but his hands on my hips feel so right and I find myself meeting his thrusts, frantic and vigorous as they are. I cry out his name.
He pauses—I nearly beg for him to keep going—and he turns me around so I'm facing him. He pushes my legs open, and I feel myself grow even more aroused as he does so, as if that's even possible. He pushes himself back in, and I'm captivated by his cock inside me, coming out glistening with every movement. He places a thumb over my clit and my legs clench, unable to process this overwhelmingly delicious sensation.
"Keep them open," he orders darkly, his eyes fixated on the junction of our bodies, one hand working furiously on my helpless, quivering self, the other traveling up to grab my tits and flick at my nipples.
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. That's too good. "You're mine, Gwen. All mine," he tells me, thrusting himself deeper in with every word.
I grind myself down on his cock—"Yes, yours"—aching for more contact, knowing I'll be bruised in the morning. I am his, and he's mine, and I need for him to keep fucking me, we're both so close.
I'm involuntarily clenching down on him, and he commands me to say his name, an order I oblige without a second thought as I feel myself hurriedly approaching the end.
"Peter," I moan out, this time loud enough so that I'm sure the neighbors can hear us. Damn it, though, I don't care. I want everyone to know I belong to him.
"Louder!" he grunts, fucking me with ridiculous speed and urgency now, nearly hitting my cervix with every damn time, my clit throbbing and I know I'm going to orgasm.
"Peter!" I fucking scream, and come hard, as I feel him empty himself inside me in spurts, spasming around him, uncontainable.
He pulls out of me, and we're panting, trying to catch our breath. That was quite possibly the best damn experience I've ever had. I can't help but smile.
"I think I'm going to wear that dress a lot more often from now on," I tease.
He chuckles. "Don't you even think about it."
But I'm already planning the next time.