Summary: T'Challa and Storm were married once upon a time, even in Marvel Rivals. What if they alongside a normal white man were trapped in a room that forced Storm to choose between her ex-husband and this normal white man. By choose, the room instructed her to choose based on who fucked better. The Black Panther smiled and thought it would a simple challenge to outfuck a simple white boy.
Oh, how wrong he was.
Themes: Cuckold, Missionary, Bigger Cock, Doggy-style (Patreon), Jerking Off (Patreon), Casual Nudity (Patreon), Anal (Patreon)
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Alex blinked. One moment, he was in his modest apartment, microwaving leftover lasagna; the next, he was standing in a pristine, white room with no discernible walls, just an eerie void of light stretching in every direction. The only notable feature was an enormous bed.
'Oh, great. Either I fell asleep and I'm dreaming, or more Marvel Rivals shenanigans,' he thought.
Then he noticed he wasn't alone—and was proven correct in his assumption.
To his left stood a woman of ethereal beauty. Her skin was the color of rich cocoa, her striking silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her sharp cheekbones and glowing amber eyes gave her an almost otherworldly presence. She wore a form-fitting white bodysuit accented with golden jewelry, and a cape billowed behind her despite the absence of any wind.
She turned toward him. Oh, wow. This was different from any other woman he had met. This was a divine woman. A goddess.
'Y-yep, that's Storm,' Alex realized, his breath catching. 'Definitely Storm. The X-Men goddess, queen, and weather lady…'
To his right was an equally striking figure, though for very different reasons. His frame was tall and muscular, his black armor with cold accents clung to his body like a second skin, but even that couldn't hide the chiseled muscles beneath. How was that possible?
The nerdy side of him kicked in—this was Black Panther and he was wearing fucking Vibranium. A metal that was valued more than all of New Orleans.
Black Panther's intense brown eyes scanned the room with a calm calculation that screamed, "I can kill you with my bare hands, but I'd prefer not to waste the energy."
'B-Black Panther and Storm. T-this is a step up.' Alex swallowed. 'Why am I in a room with royalty? Did I do something illegal? Should I bow? What do you even call them? Your Majesty?'
Storm spoke first, her voice as smooth and commanding as thunder rolling across the white plains. "What is this place?"
"I do not know," T'Challa responded—and oh, man, he even had a cool voice! A baritone voice that was utterly composed and badass. "One moment, I was in the Hall of Djaia, listening for ancient voices. The next, I am here."
"So did your gods send us here," Storm asked, narrowing her fierce eyes. At this point, the two had stepped toward each other with poor Alex in between.
"The gods have been quiet. I do not think so."
"You think so or know so?"
Uh…was this a marital spout? 'Cuz last time he checked, Storm and T'Challa were married. Was that still a thing in Marvel Rivals canon? Seemed so from their glares and growing voices.
Alex cleared his throat, finally finding the courage to speak. "Uh, hi. I think I might be here by mistake. I was just heating up lasagna."
Both superheroes turned their heads toward him simultaneously, their stares piercing.
"Who are you?" the King of Wakanda demanded.
"Uh… Alex?" he replied, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm, uh, from New Orleans."
The king narrowed his eyes. He didn't know. Of course he didn't, in Marvel Rivals, he was running the Intergalactic Empire of Wakanda, not just a single nation.
"He's an American," Storm told him. She cocked her head. "Not a mutant either."
"Oh, no. Definitely not a superhero, if that's what you're thinking."
Before either could respond, a door materialized out of thin air, glowing faintly.
Storm glanced at the door and raised an arm as if to summon a storm and blast through here, but nothing happened. Her brow furrowed. "My powers… they are not working."
"Let me try." T'Challa went on all fours like a sprinter and then lunged at the door. Alex flinched. Damn he was fast! Faster than the football stars at his high school! As impressive as he was and as much as the impact reverberated through the room, the door didn't budge.
"Um, any other ideas?"
Bam! Bam! Bam! T'Challa let out three strong strikes. The door neither dented nor budged. "Huh…? My Vibranium armour..." He stared at his feet and the Vibranium that was supposed to be protecting him. It was peeling off. "How is this…? It's plastic…?"
Storm smirked and put a hand to her hip. "Ha, looks like you've been stripped your abilities as well."
"No," T'Challa replied sharply. "I still feel the power of the Heart-shaped Herb. Only my Vibranium and connection to the Ancestral Plane is…"
Suddenly, a bright glow appeared above the door. T'Challa walked back and Storm raised her arms, battle-ready. Slowly, the glow unfolded itself into a swirling golden script:
"FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS, AND YOU MAY LEAVE. FAIL, AND YOU WILL REMAIN HERE INDEFINITELY."
Storm's arms did not lower, her lips tightening into a line. "What kind of game is this?"
"Who is this!?" T'Challa barked. "Why are you keeping us here!? Where are we!? Answer me!"
His echo was not as loud as Alex thought it would be. This white room was definitely boxed in. Alex walked until he found a barrier. Definitely twice as big as his own room. The king-sized bed fit very nicely here.
"THIS IS A CHALLENGE. YOU CANNOT LEAVE THIS ROOM UNTIL THE CHALLENGE IS FINISHED. "
The king clicked his tongue. "What nonsense is this…?"
"Oh, I've seen this before," Alex said, brightening up. "It's like one of those weird dating game shows where they trap people in a house and make them compete for affection or something."
Both heroes turned toward him again, their gazes now tinged with suspicion.
"And how," T'Challa began, his voice dangerously calm, "would you know about such a thing?"
"Oh, sorry, Your Highness," Alex said, raising his hands defensively. "I didn't mean I've been in one! I just watch TV, okay? I'm as confused as you are."
"Hrm."
The door's glowing script shifted, now displaying detailed text:
"I THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING. WELCOME, ORORO MUNROE, T'CHALLA, AND ALEX! HERE IS YOUR CHALLENGE: T'CHALLA AND ALEX MUST COMPETE FOR STORM'S AFFECTIONS IN BED. YOU HAVE 50 HOURS. STORM WILL DECIDE THE WINNER, AND THE VICTOR WILL LEAVE THIS ROOM WITH HER. THE LOSER WILL REMAIN FOR THE NEXT CHALLENGE."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then:
"What?!" T'Challa roared, his calm demeanor cracking as he glared at the door. "This is absurd! I am the King of Wakanda, not a contestant in some… some… debased spectacle!"
Alex blinked twice. He glanced at Storm, expecting…well, he didn't know what to expect from the goddess but it probably wasn't amusement.
That's right, Storm was smirking. A hand on her hip, she proudly declared, "I believe it's perfectly fitting. I am a goddess, after all. Why shouldn't men compete for my favor?"
"Ororo," T'Challa growled.
Her smirk widened. "What's the matter, T'Challa? Afraid of a little competition? Or is it because you know you can't compare to a skinny white boy?"
'Oh, God, why is she bringing me into this?'
"What is your name again, young man?"
"A-Alex."
"Alex! A wonderful name, hm?"
T'Challa's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. "Do not test me, Ororo."
"Why not?" she teased and casually stepped toward Alex. She went behind him and laced her arms around his neck, breathing down his face. Her outfit being so tight made it so that her breasts pressed his back. Storm had an awesome rack—definitely D-cups. Those mounds alone made Alex's brain short-circuit.
Like a good boy, he kept quiet and let the woman do her thing. In Marvel Rivals lore, Storm was the regent of Sol and the protector of Arakko. A protector for Mutants on Earth and beyond, an Omega-class mutant that was capable of stablizing the chronal energy generated by the Timestream Entanglement that Doctor Doom created. Storm's namesake was there for a reason: whether it was a storm of rain or of space-time, she could control it.
Storm tilted her head, almost kissing his cheek, looking at Alex as if she were appraising a new piece of jewelry. "Hmm… I've always liked white men. There is something intriguing about them."
Alex's face turned crimson.
T'Challa's nostrils flared, and he stepped forward, his regal composure cracking. "Fine," he said. "If this is the only way to leave, then I will participate."
With a swift motion, he reached up and pulled off the top of his armor, revealing a chest that looked like it had been sculpted by the gods themselves. His broad shoulders, rippling muscles, and impossibly defined abs gleamed under the room's strange light.
Alex stared. Talk about fucking shredded. The herb probably wasn't even responsible for it, this was all T'Challa and the training he had been given since birth. Six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of trained muscle.
Sigh.
Storm scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "Nothing I haven't seen before, T'Challa."
T'Challa shot her a glare, then turned his gaze toward Alex, his expression full of disdain. "You should leave now. Spare yourself the humiliation. This is between me and my former wife."
"Key on the former," said Storm. She released herself from Alex and sauntered up to T'Challa. She poked his six pack, unfazed. "He's joining us, T'Challa, whether you like it or not. Something has trapped us here and this something stated very clearly you two must compete. So compete. At the same time."
Alex swallowed hard. "I'll do my best, guys."
Guys. Because he couldn't really come up with another way to address literal royalty. Alex glanced at the glowing door text again, dread pooling in his stomach. 'Fifty hours. What have I gotten myself into?'
"Last chance, friend," warned the king, a hand on his belt. "My body has been tempered since birth and further amplified by the Heart-shaped fruit. Unless you are Captain America or Spider-Man, you will be…"
He let those words hang. He was not arrogant, although perhaps in some way he was, but simply competitive and protective over his former wife. He was a king of an intergalactic empire, he did not share.
Alex swallowed hard, his hands hovering uncertainly near his belt. "I mean… if it's the only way out…"
Storm clapped her hands together. "Enough. Wipe out your cocks, men. I want to see them."
With a heavy sigh, T'Challa set his jaw. "Let us do this then, Alex of New Orleans." He unclasped the golden panther emblem at his waist, letting the lower half of his suit fall away.
Alex fumbled with his jeans, his fingers trembling slightly as he undid the button and zipper. He hesitated for a moment, glancing up at T'Challa, who was already standing bare from the waist down. The contrast was immediate and striking. T'Challa's physique was sculpted to perfection—his thighs powerful, his abs defined—but what lay between his legs was…
Oh.
He looked down. He suppressed an expression between utter shock, laughter, and guilt.
"Oh, um…"
Alex soothed every strip of his soul to not be judgemental and minded his own business. He was a dude, T'Challa was a dude, no need to get vindictive about it. Although in the back of his mind…
Underwhelming.
Alex, suddenly confident and a tinge awkward, pursed his lips and slid his pants and boxers down to his ankles. Even soft, he was big. His cock hung heavily, thick and long, swaying slightly.
Storm was smiling, looking at T'Challa's handsome body and then…
"Oh. Oh, my."
T'Challa himself paled—and he was as black as a man could get. That second of heartbreak, of utter fear and defeat, crossed the king's eyes. He who had ruled a galaxy was defeated in the way he could not win.
What lay between Alex's legs was a ten inch monster cock. A beast that could not be matched. The sheer size of it made T'Challa's seem laughably small by comparison.
Although, quite frankly, even if he was average it wouldn't have mattered. T'Challa's flaccid cock rested modestly against his groin, no larger than a thumb, its size almost comically disproportionate to the rest of his imposing frame.
Storm let out a low whistle, her eyes flicking between the two men. One man big, one man small. One cock tiny, one cock hung. "Well, this is… unexpected."
She casually scooped up T'Challa's flaccid cock and balls. She snorted when she let go of it and watched it flap back. She was in between the two facing males. Storm, a goddess, judging the King of Wakanda and deeming him inferior to the ordinary white man on the other hand. Alex, the man whose cock could only be described as horse-like.
When she directed her attention to him, she turned—because she had. One hand wouldn't scoop up this monster schlong. No way. She had to first put a hand behind his hefty nutsack, cooing as she did so. "Mm, so heavy and virile. Impressive. Even among mutantkind, we do not have men as hung as you."
"T-thank you, ma'am."
Then her hand went behind his cock. She cooed again. So heavy, so big, and such a strong contrast to her own skin tone. Storm decided she liked it.
"A big, fat white cock from America and…" A mocking glance at T'Challa. "Wakanda's family jewels. We have a winner, it seems."
T'Challa's nostrils flared, his pride clearly stung. "Size means nothing," he said sharply.
Ororo tilted her head, her smirk deepening. "Is that what they teach you in Wakanda? Because where I'm from, size matters quite a bit."
The white civilian put his hands behind him, waiting. As rising to the challenge, the African king crossed his arms.
Huge flaccid cock versus acorn dick.
White cock versus black cock.
Alex won—and he won badly.
"Now, become fully erect. Let the final judgment begin."
T'Challa's expression darkened, but he didn't argue. He closed his eyes briefly, centering himself, and within moments, his cock began to stiffen. When it reached its full length, it was… respectable. Six inches, perfectly average, but utterly unremarkable compared to his otherwise flawless physique.
'He can get hard without jerking himself? Then again…' Alex eyed Storm's hourglass figure. D-cup breasts and a lithe frame…
Yeah, okay, he was getting hard too.
He ended up jerking his dick anyway. Storm wore the biggest smile on her face when the white cock seemed to swell impossibly larger. T'Challa had never looked so much like a stone before. He was fucking flabbergasted. The king, the conqueror of a whole galaxy, was shocked not by Galactus or Dr. Doom but by this hung white man from the middle of nowhere America. When his cock reached completion, it stood proudly at thirteen inches, thick and veiny. It was undeniable, he was over double T'Challa's size. The difference between the two was staggering, almost comical.
They were a foot and a half apart. Because of Alex's lengthy white pipe, he practically hovered over T'Challa's dick, angled in a humiliatingly dominant direction.
Ororo let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Well, well. Looks like the King of Wakanda has been surpassed by a white man. Who would have thought?"
T'Challa's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening. He did not say a word, however.
Ororo examined T'Challa, placing a hand on his six-inch black cock. Truly, in another room, it would have impressed. "Oh, but it's fascinating, isn't it? The mighty T'Challa, ruler of one of the most advanced nations on Earth, brought low by something as simple as size."
He glared at her. "Do not mock me, Ororo."
She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I'm not mocking. Just stating the obvious. After all, we were married once. I know firsthand how… adequate you are."
Her hand pulled away and she went to Alex's size. A hand over the giant beige-coloured cock. With a simple touch, the angry tip reddened a shade. It was throbbing, angry, as if threatening T'Challa to stand down.
Thirteen inches versus six inches.
T'Challa almost considered it. Especially with Storm's cocky smirk and her hand soothing the beastly cock. In girth, in length, he wasn't even half of Alex.
Suddenly, rejecting his fate, he jerked himself off. Trying to get bigger, throb harder, the desperate little things a man did to deny his average size.
There was a beat of silence as Ororo stared at her masturbating ex-husband, her eyebrows raising slightly. "Hmm," she murmured. Her hand did not break away from Alex. Instead, she leaned forward with her other hand and tapped the tip of T'Challa's dick. On cue, a wad of white dripped out. "Pre-cum already? Not quite what I expected from Wakanda's mighty king." Her fingers wrapped around his shaft, small and soft, giving him a few experimental strokes.
Such a difference in grip and size.
T'Challa stiffened, his cheeks flushing with humiliation as he felt himself throb harder under her touch. But even then, his length was modest—barely over six inches—and Ororo couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Oh, T'Challa," she sighed, her voice laced with pity. "You always were more about the throne than the scepter, weren't you?"
His fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing, his dignity barely holding together as she continued to stroke him. "Don't worry, You make up for it in other ways, I suppose." The teasing tone in her voice only deepened his shame.
After a few more strokes, Ororo released him and stroked the other cock in her hand. Alex straightened up. "King T'Challa, you've had your turn. Now…" She fully turned her attention to Alex. "Let's see what you've got, big guy."
Alex gulped. Unlike T'Challa, he didn't have the same regal composure or years of training to fall back on. He was just a normal guy, caught in an absurd situation. But despite his nervousness, Storm was smoking hot. White hair, dark skin, a fine set of hips and breasts, charming lips that were born to suck dick, and a kind of disposition that was both confident and submissive.
His thirteen-inch length towered over T'Challa's modest six inches, the difference impossible to ignore. "This," Storm said, slowly dropping to her knees, "is a king's weapon."
T'Challa's jaw clenched as he stared at the massive appendage. He had always prided himself on his strength, his skill, his leadership—but standing next to Alex, he felt like less of a man.
Ororo didn't miss the look on his face, and she couldn't resist rubbing it in. That smirk. That damn smirk. For Alex, it was the hottest thing in the world.
His face burned with fury and shame, but before he could respond, Ororo turned her attention back to Alex. Officially, the black woman was facing his cock and turning her back on T'Challa. What a cock it was. White or not, it was huge and if any man before her had been swinging this, she would have taken him as her consort immediately.
Her fingers began stroking him slowly. "Mmm," Storm purred, her eyes locked on his. Blue eyes and white hair, she was like no other woman in the world. She was indescribable. An alien beauty. "You're quite the specimen, aren't you?"
Alex bit his lip, trying to suppress a groan as her two hands worked him. The feeling was incredible—her grip was soft yet strong, and every stroke was glorious. He could feel himself getting harder, thicker, and he knew she noticed because her grip tightened slightly.
Her tongue darted out, trailing a slow, teasing line along the underside of his cockhead, and Alex couldn't hold back a gasp.
It was electric.
"Fuck," he breathed. Ororo chuckled softly, her breath hot against his glans, before taking the tip of his cock into her mouth. Huuuge! His cock was fucking huge and Ororo Munroe loved it! Her lips wrapped around him, warm and wet, and he almost lost it right then and there.
'This woman! Her mouth! Tiiiight!'
She knew she was tight. She knew she was a goddess.
Four inches, five inches—
T'Challa's breath hitched. Six inches of cock was gobbled up like nothing. She had done this to his cock but to do it against Alex, a man of such girth…
Just how much a devoted slut was his former wife? His queen? Wakanda's Queen?
She began to bob her head slowly, taking more of him with each pass, Alex's mind went blank. All he could focus on was the sensation of her mouth on him, the way her tongue swirled around his tip, the way her hand gripped the base of his shaft, stroking in perfect rhythm with her movements.
T'Challa watched in stunned silence, his humiliation deepening with every slurp and moan. He had always believed himself superior in every way—strength, intelligence, charisma—but here, in this twisted competition, he was completely outmatched. He could only spit out pathetic amounts of pre-cum and pray it would be his turn soon.
"Mmmpppphh~! Ngghhh~!"
Those fucking sounds. Lewd, desperate, and eager to please—all from trying to deepthroat his cock. God, it was like music and T'Challa couldn't deny how it was to watch this goddess choke on white dick. Hitting the double-digits, she was struggling.
Ororo pulled back two inches. Her hands weren't stopping—
Schlap! Schlap! Schlap!
Her hands were working that cock! A handjob and a blowjob! Truly divine! Her throat bulged and she dove in again, taking him deeper this time, her throat working to accommodate his massive length.
Alex's vision blurred, his hips bucking slightly as he struggled to maintain control. "S-Storm," he groaned. "You're going to—"
Fuck, fuck, fuuuck! So tiiiight! Like a damn velvet blanket!
Ororo's lips stretched impossibly wide as she took Alex deeper, her throat working in ways that defied logic. The sounds were obscene—wet, guttural, and unapologetically lewd. Her hands gripped Alex's hips, anchoring herself as she pushed further, inch by inch, until her nose pressed against the base of his shaft.
All thirteen inches—gone in her throat.
A great accomplishment.
If only it was T'Challa's cock she had done it for. Otherwise, he would have let all of Wakanda know of this moment.
She stayed there for a moment, her eyes fluttering shut as she adjusted to the sheer size of him.
Alex threw his head back, his voice cracking as he let out a guttural moan. "Fuck… Ororo…" His fingers dared to tangle in her silky white hair instinctively, though he didn't dare push her. This was royalty and he was too overwhelmed, too lost in the sensation of her throat constricting around him, hot and tight and perfect.
T'Challa stood frozen, his jaw slack as he watched the spectacle unfold. His own arousal was undeniable—a traitorous twitch from his cock—but it was drowned out by the gnawing humiliation clawing at his chest. How could this be happening? He was the king of Wakanda, a warrior unparalleled, yet here he stood, reduced to a mere spectator as Storm lavished attention on… him.
Ororo pulled back with a wet pop, gasping for air as saliva dripped down her chin. "Haahhh…nnghhhh…" She looked up at Alex, her lips swollen and glistening, her eyes dark with lust. "You're huge. I've never taken anything like you before." Her hand stroked him lazily, teasingly, as if savoring the feel of him.
Alex shuddered, his thighs trembling under her touch. "You're gonna make me lose it," he warned. But Ororo only smirked, clearly enjoying the power she had over him.
She turned her gaze to T'Challa then, her expression shifting to one of amused pity. "Poor T'Challa," she cooed, her voice dripping with mockery. "Standing there all alone while I worship this." She gave Alex's cock a deliberate stroke, emphasizing every word. "It's almost sad, isn't it? The great Black Panther, outmatched by a regular man."
T'Challa's fists clenched at his sides, his pride warring with his frustration. "This is absurd," he snapped, though his voice lacked the usual authority. "You demean yourself, Ororo. And for what? To humiliate me?"
Ororo laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Alex's spine. "Oh, T'Challa," she said, shaking her head. "This isn't about you. It's about him." She nodded toward Alex, her admiration obvious. "Can't you see why I'm so enthralled? Look at him. Really look at him."
Her words hung heavy in the air, forcing T'Challa to confront the glaring truth. His eyes flicked downward, taking in the sight of Alex's erection—thick, veiny, and impossibly long. It was a weapon of its own, a symbol of dominance that T'Challa couldn't hope to match.
Ororo leaned forward again, her tongue darting out to trace the underside of Alex's shaft. "Watch closely, T'Challa," she murmured, her breath hot against Alex's skin. "This is what real power looks like."
With that, she swallowed him whole once more, her throat convulsing around him as she worked her magic. Alex bit back a curse, his hips jerking involuntarily as waves of pleasure crashed over him. He was close—so close—and Ororo knew it. Her pace quickened, her head bobbing frantically as she drove him toward the edge. The room was filled with the sound of her gagging breaths and Alex's ragged moans, a symphony of desire that left T'Challa feeling utterly inadequate.
"Ororo… I can't…" Alex choked out, his grip tightening in her hair. But she didn't stop. If anything, she doubled down, taking him even deeper, milking every last drop from him until—
"Ah—!" Alex came with a cry, his body arching as he spilled into Ororo's waiting throat. Spurt, spurt, spuuuurt! Gulp, gulp, gulp! She swallowed eagerly, her eyes locking with Alex's as she did so. It was a statement: You belong to me. Show me what you can do.
He showed—and she couldn't handle it. "Gsshkkk!" His cock burst from her lips and several strands of his cock struck her outfit. She gasped and sat there on her knees, unable to do anything except let this white man taint her.
Spurt, spuurt, spuuurt!
The last vestiges of his cum sprayed on her shoulders and face. What did Storm do? She went forward and sucked off the last of his load.
When she finally pulled away, her lips were still wrapped around the tip of Alex's cock, savoring every last drop. She released him with a soft pop, licking her lips as she leaned back on her heels. "Mmm," she hummed, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Delicious."
Alex stumbled back onto the bed, his legs failing to hold him up as he tried to catch his breath. "That was… incredible," he gasped.
Ororo smiled, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she turned to T'Challa. "Your move, my king," she said, her tone mocking. "Think you can top that?"
T'Challa's face burned with humiliation, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wanted to lash out, to reclaim some semblance of dignity, but he knew there was no winning this battle. Not when the odds were so clearly stacked against him.
Alex's balls were fucking huge! And that load…those arcs of cum he sprayed on Storm…
He let out more cum in that one orgasm than T'Challa did his whole marriage with her.
Fucking white boys…
He forced himself to meet her gaze, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "You've made your point, Ororo," he said quietly. "But this changes nothing. I am still—"
"Still what?" she interrupted, her laughter cutting through his words like a knife. "Still the king? Still the alpha male? Face it, T'Challa. In here, size matters. And you're just not… enough."
The words stung more than they should have, piercing the armor of pride he'd spent years building. He opened his mouth to respond, to defend himself, but no words came. What could he say? How could he argue with the evidence staring him right in the face?
Ororo stood then, brushing herself off as if she hadn't just shattered his ego with a single act. "Well," she said, stretching languidly, as though about to strip, "that was fun. But I think we're done here. Unless…" She glanced at Alex, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You're up for round two?"
His throbbing thirteen inch cock did not go down. T'Challa was the one gulping this time. Just how the fuck…? His balls…? Were they not empty yet? But…
How?
Suddenly, his ex-wife was naked and on the bed, straddling the white man, her ebony ass cheeks sandwiching his foot-long cock. T'Challa stood there with his six incher. Then he saw what every married divorced man would consider their worst nightmare.
Their ex-wife getting fucked by a bigger, better cock. Their ex-wife moving on to something better.
The room was impossibly white, sterile, and silent, save for the heavy breaths echoing off the walls. Storm's thighs quivered as she straddled Alex, her dark skin glistening with sweat under the harsh light. Her silver-white hair clung to her forehead, wild and untamed, just like the storm brewing in her eyes. Alex lay beneath her, his hands gripping her hips, his body taut with anticipation.
Big balls, big cock, and now big confidence.
Storm's lips curled into a sly smile as she leaned down, her breath hot against Alex's ear. "You think you can handle me, boy?" she purred, her voice a low rumble that sent shivers down his spine. Before he could respond, she rose her toned booty teasing the tip of his dick. She was black and he was white and the contrast was erotic. Slowly, her cunty sank onto the mushroom head so slowly that it made his vision blur. His thirteen-inch cock stretched her in ways she hadn't felt in years, and a gasp escaped her lips before she could stifle it.
Down, down, down, she went…
"Fuuuuck! You're already deeper than T'Challa!"
Wince.
Yet there were more inches to go. More and more and more until—
Slam!
"Haaahhh~! You damn human, you almost made me cum." Storm's booty did a touchdown. She was settled. She was ontop of him, gripping his dick with strength that only an Omega-level mutant could. Her strength and reflexes were superhuman and so was her cunt.
"Jesus Christ," Alex groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. His hands tightened on her hips, urging her to move, but Storm wasn't about to let him take control—not yet. She lifted herself up, teasing him with the barest hint of friction before slamming back down, her muscles clenching around him like a vice.
T'Challa's grunt of frustration was drowned out by Storm's moan, loud and unabashed. "Is that all you've got, little man?" she taunted Alex, though her voice wavered slightly as another wave of pleasure crashed through her. "Ngghhhh~!"
Oh, she orgasmed. But as a goddess, she did everything in her power to hide that. Her eyes rolled back and she let out a small gasp. Even in the midst of all that, she rocked her hips, grinding against him in a way that made his toes curl and his breath hitch.
Alex's response was wordless, a primal groan that seemed to come from deep within his chest. He bucked his hips sharply, meeting her downward thrust with one of his own, and the impact was enough to make Storm cry out.
No, no, no! She was losing control!
Her hands flew to his chest, trying to steady herself. "Fuck!" she gasped. "You're… bigger than I expected."
Alex smirked, his eyes dark with desire. "You said you were going to teach me a thing or two," he reminded her. "But I think you're the one who's learning."
Storm's laugh was shaky, cut short by another sharp thrust that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through her veins. "Ngghhh~! W-wait! Alex! Y-you…! You caaan't!" Her booty moved instinctively, riding him with a rhythm that grew more frantic with each passing second. Her breasts bounced with every movement, and Alex couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of her—glorious, powerful, and utterly undone by him.
Her breasts jiggled. Her eyes rolled back.
Oh no. She was losing. The goddess was losing herself to the white man.
T'Challa took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "Ororo," he began, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. But Storm didn't even glance his way. Instead, she threw her head back, a scream tearing from her throat as her first orgasm hit her like a tidal wave. Her muscles clamped down on Alex, milking him for every drop of pleasure he could give.
"Yoouuuu! Alex! Y-you made me cuuuummm~!"
"What's wrong? Never happened before?" he said politely and with a soft smile. Storm gasped.
"N-never! Never this fast! Never this early! It took T'Challa a whole year until he made me cum!"
"W-what—?"
CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—!
She was supposed to be riding him, but suddenly, it was all Alex. Alex was dominating. Alex was doing which T'Challa wished he was doing. He was doing that T'Challa did not know he failed in doing.
He failed to make his ex-wife orgasm once.
Alex was filling in the gaps.
"Cummiing! Cummiiiing! You've already made me cum more than T'Challa EVER HAS!"
"That's it," Alex said, his hands sliding up to grip dat ass. He squeezed the firm ebony flesh, guiding her movements as he thrust harder, deeper. "Let go. Cum more. Show me more!"
Storm's reply was lost in another cry of ecstasy as her body betrayed her, succumbing to another orgasm almost immediately. Her nails raked down Alex's chest, leaving angry red marks in their wake. She was losing control, and she knew it—but for once, she didn't care. The pleasure was too intense, too overwhelming to resist.
"Yes, yes, yes, yessss! YES! I'M RIDING THE WINDS! I'M RIDING A BIG, FAT COCK! I'M RIDING A REAL COCK!"
T'Challa tried again, stepping closer to the bed. "Ororo, this is—" But his words were cut off by Storm's guttural moan as Alex flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper as he drove into her.
Ten thrusts in four seconds.
What. The Fuck.
SCHLAP—! SCHLAP—! SCHLAP—! SCHLAP—! SCHLAP—! SCHLAP—! SCHLAP—!
Sopping wet cunt juices falling. Gasps and names popping out like it was nothing. T'Challa had never Storm, much less a woman, ever seem like this during sex. Just who the fuck was this? His attitude, his eyes, Alex was just a normal man. So how—?
"Ororo—"
"Shut up, T'Challa!" Storm snapped between gasps, her gaze finally flicking to her ex-husband. Her head was thrown back, snow-white hair spilled over like milk. "Can't you—nnnngh! S-see I'm busy!? I'm fucking buuuusy!"
Her eyes rolled back.
She orgasmed for the twentieth time. T'Challa couldn't believe it. Seeing was believing, however. So many people, mainly Wakandans, loved to disrespect Americans. "Those scrawny white boys" as the warriors T'Challa surrounded himself with often proclaimed. 'Maybe you gotta see them fuck your girl at a speed that'd have you nutting after a few strokes. Maybe then you'll learn where you stand.'
Because this was not what he was taught. The Wakandan people were wrong. The white man could hold his own just fine.
Alex's hands slid up to cup her breasts. "Are you okay? Do you want me to go slower?" he asked, leaning down to capture her nipple between his teeth.
"As if! D-don't hold back, you white stud! Fuck me, fuck me, and just fuck me!" Storm arched against him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. T'Challa looked away, his face a mask of impotent rage, but neither of them cared.
Alex's thrusts grew faster, more erratic, each one sending shockwaves through Storm's body. She could feel another orgasm building, hotter and more intense than the last. "Oh God," she panted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm going to—!"
Her sentence ended in a scream as she came again, legs wrapped the white man and convulsing around him. Alex gritted his teeth, fighting to hold on just a little longer. He wanted to savor this moment, to burn it into his memory forever. But when Storm's nails dug into his back, drawing blood, he couldn't hold back any longer.
"Cumming!"
"Do it!"
He slammed into her one final time, spilling himself deep inside her. Storm gasped, her body arching off the bed as she felt him fill her. For a moment, they stayed like that, locked together in a haze of pleasure and exhaustion.
When Alex stared into her eyes, Storm couldn't help but stare back. "Unbelievable," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "You're… you're my equal."
Legs still locked, he pumped her with some leftovers of his cum. They smiled.
Then they kissed.
T'Challa's cock dripped with envious droplets of pre-cum.
Storm's breath was still heavy, her chest rising and falling in uneven waves when the kiss broke. Her dark skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, the aftermath of their passion painting her like a masterpiece. But even now, as she caught her breath, there was a hunger in her eyes—a need that hadn't been fully sated. Her arms laced around his head, her gaze sharp, almost predatory.
"You think we're done?"
Alex smiled like a good boy. "I hope not."
Storm's lips curved into a wicked smile. "Good. Because I want you to take me from behind."