Welcome to

The city was quiet for once. No sirens, no explosions, no panicked police scanner chatter about men in animal costumes. It was a rare, gift-wrapped evening of peace. In our apartment, the only sounds were the distant hum of traffic and the soft, rhythmic shluck-shluck-shluck of my hips meeting MJ’s incredible clay form.

She was in her base state—the seven-foot-tall, smooth, powerfully built clay monster that was my wife. I was thrusting into her, my hands gripping the massive, yielding curves of her hips. Her cool, malleable body embraced every inch of me, molding itself perfectly to my movements. I leaned forward, groaning, and captured her malleable mouth in a deep kiss, my fingers kneading the soft, enormous swell of her clay breasts.

“Peter… yes…” she hummed, her voice a resonant vibration I felt in my bones.

That was all it took. With a choked gasp, I climaxed, pouring myself into her with a shudder that left me weak-kneed and breathless. I collapsed onto her, my face buried in the smooth plane of her chest, listening to the low, contented hum that echoed within her.

We lay tangled together for a long, sweet moment. Then she spoke, her voice playful.

“You know,” she murmured, her big clay hand stroking my back. “You could… play with it. If you wanted.”

I lifted my head. “Play with what?”

“My body,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She gestured with a blunt finger at her own clay form. “It’s clay. It’s for playing with. Sculpting.”

I blinked. “MJ, I’m a photographer and a superhero, not Michelangelo. I’m too old to play with clay.”

She laughed, a sound like stones tumbling in a gentle stream. She leaned down and kissed me, a soft, persuasive press. “Give it a try, tiger. You might like it. Just… be gentle. It’s still me.”

Hesitantly, I sat up. She lay back on our rumpled sheets, a magnificent, featureless sculpture waiting for a sculptor. I reached out and poked her stomach. My finger sank in about half an inch. The clay was cool, firm yet yielding, like very stiff pastry dough.

“See?” she said. “Go on.”

I pushed a little harder, dragging my finger. A groove formed, then smoothed out behind my touch as if her body had a memory, returning to its base shape. It was fascinating. I used both hands, pressing into her side, pushing the clay inward. It moved, but slowly, resisting then flowing. I grabbed a handful of clay from her thigh and pulled. It stretched, like warm taffy, before snapping back with a soft plorp.

“Oh!” she giggled—a real, human giggle that sounded bizarre coming from her current form. “That tickles! Don’t pull too hard, it’s weird!”

Encouraged by her laughter, I grew bolder. I placed my palms on her hips and pushed inward, narrowing her waist. The clay complied, flowing upward and downward. I smoothed my hands over her torso, envisioning a different shape. I pushed at the monumental mass of her chest, willing it to redistribute.

It was like working with the world’s most responsive, living Play-Doh. Slowly, under my tentative, amateur touch, her form began to change. The towering, broad-shouldered figure softened. She grew smaller, more slender. The overwhelming, blob-like proportions streamlined into something elegant, almost elfin. A smooth, clean, feminine clay figure about my own height lay on the bed. She was like a mannequin, perfectly proportioned but blank—no face, no hair, no defining features except two subtle indentations where eyes might be and a simple slit for a mouth.

“Okay,” I said, breathing heavily from concentration. “Okay, look.”

I helped her sit up and guided her to the full-length mirror on the closet door. She stood before it, her new form sleek and simple.

She was silent for a long moment, tilting her smooth head. “I look… like a ghost,” she said, her voice echoing softly from her simple mouth-slit. “Or a really advanced sex doll prototype.” She turned to me. “You took away my boobs, Parker. That’s a federal offense.”

“I was going for… aerodynamic,” I offered weakly.

She snorted, a puff of air from her slit. Then she turned her blank face back to the mirror, striking a pose. “It’s… not bad. It’s clean. A blank canvas.” She ran her smooth hands over her sleek hips. “I can work with this.”

I stepped behind her, wrapping my arms around her slender clay waist. I kissed the smooth space where her shoulder met her neck. “I kind of like it,” I murmured, my hands sliding down to grope her newly sculpted, perfectly round clay butt. It was firm, yet delightfully squeezable. “Very chic.”She pressed back against me, a low hum of pleasure building in her. “Then let’s test the structural integrity, sculptor.”

We fell back onto the bed. This new form was lighter, easier to maneuver. As I entered her, the sensation was different—tighter, more focused. I moved slowly, watching her blank, smooth face. An idea, ridiculous and thrilling, popped into my head.

What if…

As I thrust, I focused. I moved my hands from her hips to her torso. I imagined fullness, soft weight, spectacular curves. I pushed the clay with my mind and my fingers, guiding it.

And it responded.

Her chest began to swell. Not back to her previous monumental size, but into something huge, round, and impossibly perky—a perfect, exaggerated M-cup that defied gravity. Her waist nipped in further, and her hips flared out, crafting a cartoonish, impossibly thick hourglass figure. Finally, I cupped her smooth face. I pictured someone: friendly, pretty, approachable. A woman you might see organizing a suburban book club. The clay flowed under my touch. A nose formed, then lips, a strong jaw. Kind eyes the color of hazel blinked open. A sensible, chin-length bob of honey-brown hair sprouted from her scalp.

I was now making love to a beautiful, buxom, middle-aged woman who hadn’t existed a minute ago.

MJ—or the woman she now appeared to be—let out a gasp. Her new eyes, my creation, looked down at her own body, then at me. She lifted a hand—now with fine lines and painted nails—and touched her own face in wonder.

“Peter…” she breathed, and her voice was different. Softer, slightly higher, with a faint, unplaceable accent. “You… you made me.”

“Do you like it?” I asked, still moving within her, mesmerized by my own handiwork.

She turned her head, catching sight of herself in the dresser mirror across the room. She stared. The woman in the reflection stared back, a stranger with MJ’s essence behind the eyes.

“It’s… not me,” she whispered. “But it’s good. It’s really, really good.” She looked back at me, a dazzling, grateful smile on her new face. “Now, it's my turn to refine the details.”

As I continued to thrust, she closed her eyes. Her new form began to refine itself from the inside out. The uniform terracotta color of her clay skin lightened, taking on a peachy, human hue. Freckles appeared across her nose and shoulders. The texture changed from smooth clay to the faint pore-and-crease of real skin. She was becoming fully, flawlessly human.

Then her expression shifted. The wonder in her eyes melted into a different kind of recognition—possessive, delighted, a little smug. She wrapped her new, fleshy legs around me, her grip strong.

“Oh, there you are, you devil,” she purred, her voice now a distinct, crisp, suburban clip. She patted my cheek. “Trying to wear your poor Karen out, are you? At your age? The ambition!” She threw her head back and laughed, a bright, ha-ha-ha sound. “Well, don’t you stop on my account, young man! In fact…”

Her hands gripped my shoulders, her nails—perfectly manicured in a pale pink—digging in just a little. “Go harder. Don’t make me ask twice. I’ve got a PTA meeting to mentally prepare for tomorrow, and you’re my stress relief.”

Karen. She’d fully embraced the persona. The MILF stereotype was now in the driver’s seat, and she was delightedly running me over.

Driven by her commands and the surreal thrill of it all, I obeyed. I thrust into Karen rapidly, deeply. She met me thrust for thrust, urging me on with a stream of affectionate, bossy chatter.

“That’s it! Yes! Show your wife what you’ve got! Don’t you dare think about quitting before I’m done!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Karen,” I grunted, playing along, lost in the performance.

With a final, shouted “YES!”, Karen climaxed, her back arching dramatically. The sight and sensation tipped me over the edge immediately after. I came with a groan, collapsing onto her, this beautiful, fictional woman my wife had become.

For a few seconds, we just breathed. Then, I felt the body beneath me soften and begin to flow. The peach skin darkened back to clay. The generous curves softened and expanded. The bobbed hair retracted into a smooth scalp. Karen melted away, and my seven-foot-tall, smooth, beloved ClayMJ rematerialized beneath me.

I rolled off, staring at the ceiling, a stupid grin on my face. “That,” I panted, “was the weirdest and most fun I’ve ever had.”

MJ turned her smooth face toward me. She was humming, a deep, contented sound. “Told you you’d like it.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “You’re a natural. A little derivative with the ‘Karen’ archetype, but the technical execution was impressive.”

I laughed and leaned over, kissing her cool, smooth mouth. “You’re an amazing muse.”

She kissed me back, then pulled away, her featureless face somehow radiating excitement. “So… can we do it again? Right now? I want to see what else you can imagine. Maybe… maybe something with fantasy, supernatural, sci-fi? Or some specific characters? Can we try those out?”

I looked at my wife—my brilliant, adaptable, endlessly surprising clay wife—and felt a surge of love and sheer, unadulterated fun.

“Thought you never ask. Your wish,” I said, my hands already moving toward her pliable form, “is my command.”

I grinned, my fingers already sinking into the cool, pliable surface of her clay hip. "Alright, my turn to pitch. How about... something from another realm?"

I focused, pushing and pulling at the clay. I widened her shoulders, sculpted thick, powerful cords of muscle along her arms and thighs. I gave her pronounced, tusked lower canines and pointed ears. And for the chest—I went all out. I shaped two enormous, gravity-defying orbs, so huge they were almost comical, perfect O-cups for my Orcish warrior. Finally, I gave her a wild mane of clay, braiding thick strands into fierce dreadlocks.

I stepped back. Before us stood a towering, muscular orc woman, green-tinged clay skin pulled taut over impressive anatomy, her new face a mask of fierce, alien beauty.

MJ—now Orc-MJ—lumbered to the mirror. She tilted her head, flexed a massive bicep, and jiggled her chest, which wobbled with a weighty, mesmerizing motion.

"Huh," her voice came out as a low, gravelly growl. "Was expecting She-Hulk. But this... this has presence." She turned, a savage grin spreading on her tusked mouth. "I feel strong. I feel like I could crush a man's skull between my thighs." Her eyes, now a glowing amber, locked onto me with predatory glee. "Maybe I will."

Her posture shifted. She hunched slightly, her expression morphing from curiosity to malicious delight. She snatched up a discarded pillow and ripped it in half with a satisfying thwump, feathers exploding everywhere. "Puny human male!" she roared, her personality fully embracing the villainous orc archetype. "You dare shape Grishna? You will be my pet! My plaything!"

She lunged for me with a roar.

I caught her wrists, Spider-strength meeting orc-clay power. We wrestled, a playful, grunting struggle that knocked over a lamp. I managed to spin her around and pin her face-down on the bed, her muscular back to my chest.

"I like my pets house-trained," I grunted in her ear, then kissed the side of her green-tinted neck.

She snarled, bucking against me, but the snarl melted into a shuddering moan as my free hand slipped between her thick, powerful thighs. My fingers found her center, and even in this fantastical form, she was warm and yielding. I stroked her, and her defiant growls dissolved into breathless, guttural whimpers.

"Puny human... has... clever fingers," she gasped, her body going slack.

I took advantage, shifting us. I moved to kneel before her, my hands cupping the incredible, overwhelming weight of her O-cup breasts. I took one thick, clay nipple into my mouth, sucking and kneading the impossibly soft, cool flesh. She cried out, her hands tangling in my hair, not to push me away, but to hold me closer.

"Now," I murmured, positioning myself. "Let's see how strong you really are."

I thrust into her. Orc-MJ let out a roar that shook the windows, her back arching. Her massive arms wrapped around me, pulling me into a crushing, passionate embrace as I moved. She was all fierce, untamed energy meeting my own relentless rhythm. I buried my face in the valley between her monumental breasts, the world narrowing to the scent of earth and the sound of her ragged, moaning breaths.

In the heat of it, her form began to change again. She was guiding it this time. The green clay lightened to a rich, dark brown. The tusks receded, the pointed ears rounded. The muscular orc form smoothed into the powerful, curvaceous body of a human woman with deep umber skin. She kept the magnificent O-cup breasts and added a truly prodigious, round booty that filled my hands perfectly. Her face was now that of a stunning warrior queen, her braids intricate and adorned with golden clay rings. Her mind shifted with the new body; the villainous gleam in her eyes was replaced by the proud, challenging glare of a noble champion.

"You have proven your strength, mate," she declared, her voice now a sonorous, regal alto. "Now prove your endurance!" She matched my thrusts with powerful rolls of her hips, a warrior battling in the most intimate of contests.

An even wilder idea struck me. As we moved together, I let my hands roam over her new form, not just groping, but sculpting once more. I softened the sharp angles of the warrior queen. I added gentle lines around her new eyes, let her strong stomach soften just a little. I lowered her clay, giving her a slight, dignified stoop to her shoulders. The magnificent breasts remained, but now they hung with the full, heavy, sagging weight of great age and experience. The warrior's braids transformed into a wild, wiry cascade of silver and white.

Beneath me, the warrior queen gasped as she felt the change. Her regal expression melted into one of shock, then profound, ancient wisdom. Her body was now that of an elder tribe chief, her skin a map of wrinkles etched in clay, her eyes clouded with millennia of memory but burning with undimmed spirit.

"Ahh," she sighed, the voice now a crackling, wise whisper. She reached up a gnarled hand to touch my face. "The young buck seeks the wisdom of the mountain. The oldest earth quakes for him still."

It was surreal, profoundly intimate, and unbelievably hot. Making love to this ancient, sagacious being who gazed at me with such depth of knowledge and affection was overwhelming. Our pace slowed, becoming a deep, resonant, grinding rhythm that felt less like sex and more like a primal ritual.

The elder chief cried out, a sound like a cliff shearing away, her body shuddering around me. That sent me tumbling over the edge right after her. As we climaxed together, the clay body in my arms dissolved completely.

The weight, the texture, everything changed in an instant. I was now holding my wife—the original, human Mary Jane Watson. Naked, warm, freckled, and panting, her fiery red hair sticking to her damp forehead. She blinked up at me, her green eyes clear and full of a love that had just traveled through three impossible personas.

She didn't say a word. She just surged up, capturing my lips in a hungry, desperate kiss that tasted of sweat, clay, and pure, unadulterated her. I kissed her back with equal fervor, my hands roaming over the familiar, human curves I knew and loved best.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, she was grinning like a maniac.

"Okay," she panted, resting her forehead against mine. "Orc, warrior queen, and tribal elder all in one session. You, Peter Parker, have a seriously epic imagination."

"I have an epic muse," I replied, kissing the tip of her nose. "You… you just go with everything. It’s incredible."

"It's fun," she corrected, snuggling into my chest. "It's the most fun I've ever had. And you… you love every version of me. Even the saggy O-cup elder chief."

"Especially the saggy O-cup elder chief," I whispered. "She was wise. Knew all the best moves."

MJ laughed, the sound bright and clear in our quiet apartment. The feathers from the destroyed pillow still drifted gently in the air around us, like snow in a bizarre, wonderful fantasyland we had created together.

-----

The commute from the Daily Bugle was its own special kind of villain. J. Jonah Jameson’s spittle had practically dried on my glasses, and my ears were still ringing from his rant about “web-headed menaces” and “responsible journalism.” All I wanted was my couch, my wife, and maybe some cold pizza.

I shoved the key into the lock of our apartment, pushed the door open, and froze.

There, in the middle of our living room, standing on a makeshift plywood plinth, was a statue.

It was a female figure, life-sized and carved from what looked like smooth, white marble. It was tastefully nude, one arm crossed over its chest in a classical pose, the other hanging at its side. The craftsmanship was… weirdly good. The curve of the hip, the slope of the shoulder—it was eerily familiar.

I dropped my bag and scratched my head. “What in the…?”

Then it hit me. Dick. Dick Grayson. My best bud, former Boy Wonder, current Nightwing. He and Bruce had been over for a totally-not-a-mission “social call” last week. Bruce had been eyeing our bare walls with that particular billionaire-disapproval look. This had to be their doing. A housewarming gift from Gotham’s finest. Weird, but kinda sweet.

“I always love to have my best friend, Dick,” I said aloud, shaking my head with a fond smile.

A faint, almost spectral voice seemed to whisper from the air vents, “What about me?!”

I spun around. “Johnny? Johnny Storm? Is that you? How are you even in my walls?” I waited. No answer. Just the hum of the fridge. I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Look, this is my story. No interrupting. No fourth-wall-breaking guest appearances. It’s in the union rules. Now shoo.”

I turned my attention back to the statue. It really was impressive. I walked closer, circling it. The detail was incredible. I reached out, my fingers hesitating for a second before brushing against the cool, smooth “marble” of its shoulder.

The statue shivered.

Just a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor. Like a ripple on a still pond.

I jerked my hand back. “Okay… that’s not normal for marble.”

Cautiously, I reached out again. This time, I ran my palm slowly down the statue’s arm. The surface was unbelievably smooth, but… not quite stone. It had a slight give. A warmth.

And as I rubbed my thumb over the inside of its elbow, the statue shook. A full-body shudder that was absolutely, definitely not geological.

I leaned in, peering at the statue’s face. Its expression was serene, stoic… but the corners of its mouth were twitching. Twitching upward. Into a smile it was desperately trying to suppress.

A slow, wide grin spread across my own face. “Oh, MJ,” I whispered. “You brilliant, sneaky woman.”

This wasn’t a gift from Bruce. This was her. My wife, practicing her craft, waiting to surprise me. And trying her absolute hardest not to break character.

Well, two could play at that game.

I adopted my best art critic persona. “Hmm, yes. A striking piece. Modern, yet timeless.” I let my hand drift from her arm to the “marble” curve of her hip, then around to the small of her back. I squeezed gently. The statue jiggled. A soft, muffled squeak escaped it.

“But the proportions,” I mused, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur as I stepped in front of her. My hands came up to cup the statue’s modest, classically sculpted breasts. “A bit… conservative for my taste. Let’s see if we can’t bring out the artist’s true vision.”

I focused, pressing and kneading the cool, pliable material. Under my touch, the smooth marble texture remained, but the form began to change. The breasts swelled, growing larger, rounder, heavier. They filled my hands, then overflowed them, becoming truly monumental, comic-book glorious orbs of smooth white stone. The statue—MJ—let out a shaky, held breath.

“Better,” I said. “But the silhouette lacks dynamism.” My hands slid down her sides, pushing the “marble” inward to carve a dramatically cinched waist. Then I grabbed two handfuls of her backside, pulling and shaping until she had a set of wide, perfect, shelf-like hips and a gloriously plump, round rear. The statue was now a parody of a classical figure—a pin-up carved by a god with a sense of humor.

MJ was trembling violently now, little puffs of air escaping her nose. Her eyes, still fixed in a serene stare, were sparkling with barely-contained laughter and something else… arousal.

I stepped back, admiring my work. “The face, however, is still too composed. A statue this audacious should be… overcome.” I leaned in and pressed my lips to her cold, stone mouth.

That did it. She gasped, the stone illusion cracking. Her lips softened under mine, warming from marble to malleable clay. The rigid pose collapsed as her arms flew up to wrap around my neck, and she kissed me back hungrily, her body melting from static sculpture into the warm, responsive clay-woman I loved.

“You… you ruin… everything…” she gasped between kisses, but she was laughing, her whole body rippling with delight.

“I’m just a patron of the arts,” I mumbled against her mouth, my hands groping the enormous, perfectly shaped breasts I’d just given her. “Supporting the artist.”

“Well patronize me already,” she demanded, her voice thick with want.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom. We sank right there onto the rug beside her plywood plinth. Making love to her in this form—this smooth, white, impossibly curvy statue-come-to-life—was surreal and intensely erotic. Every thrust made her magnificent new assets sway and tremble. She clung to me, her clay body cool against my skin, her moans echoing in the quiet apartment.

Afterward, we lay in a heap, tangled together with pieces of white “marble” flaking off her and melting back into her standard clay color. She nuzzled my chest.

“I was trying to be still,” she murmured. “I was going to be the world’s greatest living statue. A masterpiece of discipline.”

“You were a masterpiece,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Especially when you giggled.”

She swatted my arm. “I did not giggle. That was a… a tectonic shift. Very subtle.”

“Right. My mistake, oh ancient one.”

We lay there in contented silence, the last bits of her statue persona dissolving until she was just my MJ again. Another quiet evening, another impossible, wonderful adventure, right in our own living room.

TO BE CONTINUE...