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Syntilla wasn’t like any symbiote I’d fought before. For one, she wasn’t a he. She was a she—a towering, muscular woman whose inky-black form rippled with raw, predatory power. She’d escaped from some AIM lab, and she was tearing up the financial district looking for a “worthy mate.” Apparently, my spider-pattern made me the lucky winner.

“Just give me a hug, web-head!” she roared, her voice a dual-layered growl as she backhanded a taxi into a spin.

“My wife handles the hugs!” I quipped, firing a web-net that she shredded with a flick of her wrist. She was fast. Strong. And she had a strategy.

She feinted left, then shot a tendril of living goo that wrapped around my ankle. She yanked, and I slammed into the pavement. Before I could get up, she was on me, her immense weight pinning me down. Her symbiote face split into a wide, white-eyed grin.

“Now that you belong to us,” she purred, one massive hand pinning my wrists above my head, “prepare to be… snu snu.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

She didn’t explain. She just leaned down and kissed me.

And not a peck. A deep, invasive, all-consuming kiss. A tendril of her symbiote form extended like a tongue, pushing past my lips, down my throat. It was shocking, overwhelming, and weirdly… not unpleasant? At the same time, another tendril snaked down my body, found its way into my suit, and wrapped around my cock.

I groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure, confused ecstasy. Her grip was expert, stroking me with a perfect, rhythmic pressure. Between the deep kiss and the expert handiwork, my resistance crumbled. I came hard, shuddering beneath her, my climax swallowed by her consuming form.

“Good boy,” she cooed, releasing my mouth. The tendril retreated, and she shifted her weight. In a fluid motion, she sheathed me inside her. The symbiote flesh was cool at first, then warming, pulsating, molding itself perfectly to me.

“Unnh… I can’t… believe this feels good…” I grunted, my hips bucking involuntarily.

“It’s supposed to,” Syntilla laughed, beginning to ride me with powerful, rolling thrusts that made the asphalt crack beneath us. My hands were free now, and I grabbed onto her, my fingers sinking into the muscle-like symbiote flesh of her hips. I moved my hands up to grope the huge, firm breasts that swayed above me, then, overwhelmed, I buried my face between them, nuzzling and kissing as she rode me faster.

We moved together in a bizarre, public, incredibly hot rhythm. With a final, shared cry that echoed off the skyscrapers, we climaxed. The symbiote form around me quivered and pulsed.

She collapsed on top of me, her weight suddenly less crushing, more comforting. She nuzzled my neck. “Congratulations, web-head. You’re officially our hubby.”

Then she kissed me, soft and deep. And during that kiss, the inky blackness receded. The muscles softened. The towering symbiote form melted away, leaving my Mary Jane, in a skintight black bodysuit, lying on top of me in the middle of the street.

She broke the kiss, her human eyes sparkling with mischief. “So? What did you think of the role?”

I lay there for a second, catching my breath. Then I grinned. “Turned out, you did quite fantastic and spectacular, MJ. But I don’t like the ‘snu snu’ thing. You made a reference from Futurama. ‘Death by Snu Snu.’ Plus,” I added, sitting up and pulling her into my lap, “this is way better than porno.”

She beamed, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Thank you, tiger. I just need a partner for these roles. And I have to thank Bruce Wayne. He dropped off this portable simulation device last week. Says it’s for ‘ tactical intimacy training’ or something. It projects a hard-light environment, makes everything feel real.” She gestured around us at the detailed, empty street. Then her smile turned into a playful scowl. “And don’t do or mention porn again. I only want to do this for you.” She punctuated the statement with a light, sharp slap to my chest.

“Message received, ma’am,” I laughed, rubbing the spot.

I found the small, bat-shaped device on my utility belt and pressed the button. The financial district shimmered and dissolved like a mirage. We were back in our living room, standing on the rug, me in my full Spider-suit, MJ in her black bodysuit.

“So,” I said, pulling my mask off. “What role’s next?”

Her answer was to snatch the device from my hand. Her fingers danced over the interface. “How about something with… more heart?”

The room shimmered again. The clean, modern lines of our apartment warped and melted, replaced by grimy brick walls, steam rising from a sewer grate, and the distant wail of a police siren. We were in a Gotham-esque alley.

And MJ was changing. Her form shifted, her skin darkening to a rich, deep brown. Her curves amplified dramatically—her chest swelled into enormous, heavy breasts, and her hips and rear expanded into a truly prodigious, round shelf. She was now a Black woman with stunning African features.

Then she refined the look. A skimpy, sheer pink dress appeared over her form, barely containing her assets. A faux-fur coat materialized on her shoulders. Thigh-high black vinyl boots clicked on the pavement. Her hair became long, straight, and vibrant pink, falling over one eye, which was adorned with colorful, dramatic makeup.

But the biggest change was in her demeanor. She put a hand on her hip, her posture becoming loose and defiant. Her expression shifted to one of weary, street-smart sass.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice now a melodic, ghetto-toned cadence. “If it ain’t da Spider. Come to save a workin’ girl from da bad men?” She was playing a hooker—the classic “hooker with a heart of gold” trope.

I quickly pulled my mask back on. Showtime.

“Just doing my job, ma’am,” I said, lowering my voice to my Spider-man tenor. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s dangerous.”

“Ain’t nothin’ more dangerous than an empty purse, sugar,” she sighed, stepping closer. The scent of cheap perfume and something sweeter filled the air. “But since you saved little ol’ me… maybe I can repay you. Give you a lil’ pleasure for tonight. No charge. Consider it a… public service discount.”

Spider-Man shook his head. “I don’t need that. I just want to help. Everyone deserves to be safe. And loved. That’s all.”

Her sassy mask slipped for a second, revealing a flash of genuine MJ tenderness beneath the role. Then the character slid back into place, softer now. “Love, huh? That’s a high price on dis street.” She reached out and touched my chest. “But for you… I might could afford it.”

She leaned in and kissed me. It started as the character’s kiss—performative, skilled. But it deepened, becoming MJ’s kiss, full of love and playful passion. I kissed her back, my hands finding her waist, then sliding up to cup the incredible, soft weight of her breasts through the flimsy dress.

We sank against the grimy brick wall of the simulated alley. I lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around my waist. I thrust into her, the sheer dress providing no barrier. She cried out, her fingers clutching at my back, her pink hair brushing my shoulders.

“That’s it, Spider… oh, yes…!” she moaned, her character and her true self blending into one.

I made love to her there, in the fake alley, under the fake neon glow. I thrust, cuddled her close, kissed the sweat from her neck, and groped her magnificent, role-play body. It was passionate, tender, and incredibly hot—a perfect performance for an audience of two.

When we finished, clinging to each other and breathing heavily, she nuzzled my masked cheek.

“Best review I ever got,” she whispered, her voice her own again.

I just held her tighter, knowing the simulation could end, but this—us—was the most real thing in any universe.

Before the grimy alley could even fade, MJ’s finger—adorned with a long, pink press-on nail—stabbed the button on the bat-shaped device.

The world dissolved into a swirl of light and sensation. The scent of cheap perfume and wet asphalt was replaced by the smell of old stone, rushes on the floor, and beeswax candles. The rough brick wall against my back became cold, carved stone.

We were in a bedchamber. A medieval bedchamber. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes hung on the walls, a large, canopied bed dominated the room, and a fire crackled in a grand fireplace.

And MJ was changing again. In my arms, her form aged. Smooth skin gained the gentle, dignified lines of time. Her lush, youthful body softened, settling into the fuller, richer shape of a woman in her later years. Her hair lengthened and turned a stunning, silvery-white, cascading over her shoulders. Her features refined into those of a queen—wise, weary, and beautiful. And her chest… it blossomed into two immense, heavy, majestic Q-cup breasts that strained against the velvet of her royal gown.

Her eyes, now a pale, knowing blue, fluttered open. They found mine, and a tremor went through her. A hand, adorned with simple but grand rings, came up to touch my cheek.

“By the gods…” she whispered, her voice a rasp of age and emotion. “After all these years… you’ve come back to me.” Tears welled in her eyes as she threw her arms around me, pulling me into a desperate, crushing hug. The scent of lavender and old parchment clung to her.

I was still Spider-Man, suit and all, in a medieval castle. Right. Go with it. I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the softness of her aged body, the immense, warm weight of her breasts against my chest. The character clicked—the immortal warrior returned to his mortal love.

“I am sorry,” I said, my voice low, adopting a timeless, weary cadence. “I could not come back to you. Not as you needed. The years… they do not touch me. I am cursed to watch the world turn, while you…” I pulled back, looking into her lined, lovely face. “You lived. You married. You had children. Grandchildren.”

She nodded, a single tear tracing a path through the powder on her cheek. “A king. A good man. He is gone now. The children are grown, with castles of their own. I have been a queen, a mother, a grandmother… but in here,” she placed a hand over her heart, “I have always been the girl who waited for you in the apple orchard. And now I am so old. You must be disgusted.”

I took her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away her tears. “Never,” I said, and I meant it with every fiber of my being, both in and out of the role. “Time has written your story on your face, my queen. It is a story of strength, and love, and life. You are more beautiful to me now than the girl in the orchard ever was.”

She let out a wet, disbelieving laugh. “You do not need to say such things to spare an old woman’s feelings. I am in my sixties.”

“And I am centuries old,” I replied. “Your beauty is a flame that time cannot extinguish, only deepen.” To prove it, I leaned in and kissed her.

She gasped against my lips, a sound of shock and profound relief. Then she kissed me back with a passion that belied her years, her hands tangling in my hair. My own hands slid down from her face, over the rich velvet of her gown, to cup the incredible, soft, aged weight of her Q-cup breasts. She moaned into the kiss, her body pressing against mine.

We stumbled toward the great bed. She helped me out of my web-shooters and the top of my suit with trembling, eager hands. “I have waited a lifetime for this,” she breathed, her royal demeanor melting into pure, needy woman.

“I have waited longer,” I whispered back, laying her down upon the furs.

Our coupling was slow at first, tender, a reunion measured in heartbeats and whispered apologies and assurances. But soon, the pent-up longing of decades—real and imagined—took over. I thrust into her rapidly, my body covering hers, my face buried in the silver cascade of her hair. She moaned, a low, continuous sound of release and joy, her legs locking around my back, her royal gown rucked up around her waist.

When we climaxed, it was with a shared cry that felt like it echoed through the centuries held within those stone walls. She clung to me, sobbing quietly, her aged body shuddering with aftershocks.

Before we could even catch our breath, the world shimmered again.

The cold stone vanished, replaced by warm, humid air and the gentle lap of water. We were in a massive, infinity-edge pool overlooking a glittering city at night. Moonlight danced on the chlorinated water.

And MJ was changing once more in my arms. The queen’s aged form melted and reshaped. The silver hair darkened to a rich, chocolate brown, swept up in a chic, messy bun. Her skin took on a warm, Latina glow. The lines of wisdom smoothed into the confident, attractive features of a woman in her prime—a vibrant, middle-aged MILF. Her monumental Q-cups shrank slightly, but only to become still-ample, perfect L-cups that spilled magnificently over the top of a tiny, black bikini. She was now a vision of wealthy, sensual leisure.

She was still wrapped around me, and I was still inside her. She gasped, her new, dark eyes flying open. They sparkled with mischief and unabashed desire. A dazzling smile spread across her full lips.

“Dios mío,” she purred, her accent a smooth, melodic Spanish. “And I thought my husband had stamina. You are not finished yet, are you, papi? This rich señora is not done with you.” She rolled her hips, reminding me of our intimate connection.

I grinned, shifting my grip on her in the buoyant water. My Spider-stamina was, thankfully, a very real thing. “For a beautiful woman from Mexico? I have all the energy in the world.”

“Good,” she whispered, and then she was moving, riding me with a slow, rolling rhythm that made the water swirl around us. I gripped her hips, then let my hands slide up to palm her incredible breasts, freeing them from the bikini top. I leaned forward, capturing one taut nipple in my mouth, suckling as she cried out, her head falling back.

We moved together in the warm water, a tangle of limbs and pleasure. I thrust up into her, matching her rhythm, our kisses tasting of chlorine and passion. She whispered filthy, encouraging things in Spanish in my ear, her nails scraping lightly down my back. It was less about longing and more about celebrating pure, hedonistic joy.

Our second climax hit us like a wave, washing over us in the moonlit pool. We clung to each other, floating, breathless and sated.

Gently, I reached for the device, which was somehow still attached to my wrist. I pressed the button.

The mansion, the pool, the city lights—all vanished. We were back in our living room, standing on the rug, dripping wet and panting. MJ’s luxurious MILF form softened and shrank, the bikini melting away. In moments, she was just my Mary Jane again—naked, flushed, and grinning from ear to ear.

She didn’t say a word. She just launched herself at me, kissing me with a passion that contained the queen’s lifetime of longing, the MILF’s playful lust, and, underneath it all, her own boundless, wonderful love.

“I love you,” she breathed between kisses, her own voice again, sweet and smoky. “I love doing this with you. I love being anyone with you.”

I held her close, my heart full to bursting. “As long as you always come back to being you,” I murmured into her hair. “That’s my favorite role of all.”

She pulled back, her green eyes shining. “Always, tiger. Always.”

The puddle of chlorinated water around our feet was already beginning to dry. Another quiet night in, another universe of adventure explored. And the only audience that mattered was each other.

------

The next day, the city had the audacity to demand Spider-Man’s attention for standard, boring stuff. A bridge evacuation, a chemical spill, the Lizard rampaging through a pet store (again). By the time I peeled off the suit in our closet, I was ready for nothing more complicated than a microwave dinner and a nap.

I shuffled out into the living room and was immediately engulfed.

Two massive, smooth, clay arms wrapped around me, lifting me clear off the floor in a hug that squeezed the last bits of superhero tension right out of me. I was pressed against a soft, cool, terracotta wall of affection.

“Long day, tiger?” MJ’s voice hummed, resonant and sweet, directly into my ear.

“The longest,” I mumbled into her shoulder. “Missed you.”

She set me down, her smooth face tilting. “Ready for a shorter one? I’ve been… workshopping.”

On the coffee table, the bat-shaped simulation device sat gleaming. I nodded, a slow smile spreading. “Always ready for your show.”

With a delighted hum, she picked up the device. Her thick clay thumb pressed the button.

Our living room dissolved, not into a specific location, but into what looked like an empty, infinite black stage. Pinpoints of light twinkled like distant stars. It was a void, a blank slate awaiting a performance.

And MJ was the performer.

She stood in the center of the stark space. Her blob-monster form rippled. It streamlined, sleeked down. A tight, sequined corset materialized around her torso, and a top hat formed on her head. She became a sexy magician’s assistant, complete with fishnets and a sly wink. She flicked a wrist, and a puff of clay-dust sparkles erupted.

Before the dust settled, she changed again. The magician outfit melted into feathers and rhinestones. She was a Vegas showgirl, all long legs and dazzling smiles, executing a high kick that made her clay feathers quiver.

Another shift. The feathers smoothed into an exquisite silk kimono of deep blue, artfully fallen open to reveal the creamy, generous curve of her cleavage and one smooth shoulder. Her hair piled into an elaborate black wig adorned with pearls. A Japanese Geisha, her painted lips offering a silent, promising smile.

The kimono then transformed into animal skins and leather straps. Her skin darkened, her muscles definition becoming more pronounced. She was a warrior of a fictional African tribe, an Amazonian huntress, with a spear in hand and a fierce, proud glare. The skimpy outfit left little to the imagination.

Then, the skins fell away entirely. Her form became more rugged, her posture more hunched. Her features coarsened, her brow ridge thickening. She was a Neolithic woman, utterly naked, her body strong and primal, a raw vision of ancient survival and fertility. She let out a guttural, playful growl.

Peter Parker, photographer, scientist, superhero, stood in the starry void and watched his wife cycle through the fantasies of a thousand ages and cultures. It was breathtaking. It was hilarious. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

I couldn’t stay an audience member. I strode toward her just as she shifted from the Neanderthal back to the Geisha. My hands found her hips, sinking into the soft silk and softer clay beneath.

“The show’s over,” I whispered, and kissed the white-painted neck of the Geisha.

She gasped, and as I kissed her, she began to change in my arms. The silk hardened into cool, polished marble. She was a living Grecian statue, her form classic and perfect, frozen in a moment of ecstasy as my lips traveled down her stony shoulder. I pushed her gently onto her back on the unseen floor of the void. As I entered her, the marble was cool and unyielding at first, then warmed and softened at my touch, becoming pliant clay once more.

She wrapped her stony-then-clay legs around me, kissing me back with lips that shifted from stone to flesh to smooth clay. In the midst of a deep thrust, her form aged gracefully—the statue became an elegant, knowing middle-aged woman with a cascade of silver-clay hair, who looked up at me with decades of love in her newly-formed eyes.

We moved together in that starry nowhere, a tangle of changing forms and unchanging passion. When our climax finally broke over us, it was as a unified, shuddering wave. And in its wake, all the refined forms melted away.

We lay together in the quiet dark, and she was, once again, my seven-foot-tall, smooth, beautifully monstrous ClayMJ. Her massive, soft breasts rose and fell against my cheek as we caught our breath.

“Wow,” I finally managed.

“It’s just… practice,” she hummed, but I could hear the pride in her tone. Then it softened with a hint of frustration. “It does suck, you know. That I can’t just… snap back. To me. The real me. It takes a few hours of concentrated focus to rebuild all the details—the pores, the specific shade of my hair, the exact pattern of freckles. It’s exhausting.”

I lifted my head and looked at her smooth, featureless face. I leaned up and kissed her clay lips, a firm, slow promise. “I love you,” I said, the words simple and absolute in the vast dark. “No matter what you look like. Blob monster, showgirl, queen, or a sentient pile of goo. You’re my wife.”

Her smooth surface seemed to glow from within. She made a small, happy sound. Then, with a soft shhhlorp, she began to shrink. The monumental form receded, the broad shoulders narrowed, the massive curves streamlined. In moments, she was her blank, feminine clay figure—the sleek, featureless mannequin version, with just the indentations for eyes and a slit for a mouth.

“Even,” her voice echoed softly, mischievously, from the simple mouth, “if I look like this?”

“Especially if you look like that,” I said, pulling her slender, blank form to me. “It’s very minimalist. Very modern art.” I kissed her again, and her smooth arms wrapped around my neck.

With a giggle, she reached a slender clay arm out, fumbling for the device. She pressed the button.

The starry void vanished, replaced by the opulent warmth of a luxurious bedroom. Plush red carpets, dark mahogany furniture, a roaring fire, and a colossal four-poster bed with silk sheets.

We landed in a heap in the center of that bed, never breaking our kiss. Our bodies found their rhythm again easily, a slow, deep, loving reconnection. With every thrust, we whispered it against each other’s skin, between hungry kisses, into the silent, fancy air.

“I love you.”

"I love you too, tiger."

TO BE CONTINUED...