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 , Jerking Off , Casual Nudity , Anal
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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 stabilizing 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."
The next thing T'Challa knew, Storm was on all fours, her pussy dripping with another man's cum, and Alex's massive thirteen-inch cock standing at attention, its size and virility undeniable. The big black booty of a goddess was offered up right there. Heart-shaped, not too thicc, but toned as fuck. The type that begged for a squish or a slap.
Alex did both and Storm cooed.
T'Challa couldn't tear his eyes away. His jaw tightened as he stared at Alex's length, a mix of envy and frustration burning in his chest. He had never felt so inadequate. "How is he still hard…?"
That was the millionaire dollar question and it was clear the king would not be getting the answer to it. He was the eighth-smartest man on Earth too. He should have figured something out. But he couldn't.
Her black booty was on full display, high and inviting. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes smoldering. "Don't hold back," she commanded.
Alex didn't need telling twice. He gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh as he lined himself up. The first thrust was deliberate, slow but seven inches deep, and Storm gasped, her head dropping forward as she felt him stretch her to her limit. "Fuuuck, you're already deeper than T'Challa!" Her toes curled, her nails digging into the bed sheets.
So he went deeper.
"Fuck," she hissed. "You're… God, Alex… you're…"
But she didn't finish the sentence because Alex pulled out slightly before slamming back into her, this time harder, faster. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the room. He was fully inside and since he was inside—
CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—!
Began a steady rhythm that made T'Challa clench his fists. He wanted to intervene, to step in and reclaim what was once his, but every time he took a step forward, Storm's moans stopped him cold.
She was loud. Unapologetically so. Her cries of pleasure filled the space, each one a reminder of how much she was enjoying this. How much Alex was giving her something T'Challa never could.
"Harder!" she demanded, her voice breaking as Alex obeyed. Each clap sent shockwaves through her body, her legs shaking uncontrollably as pleasure consumed her. "Ngghhh~! YESSS! THAT'S IT! FUUUCK!"
Her orgasm hit without warning, crashing over her like a tidal wave. She screamed, her body convulsing as she clung to the bed for dear life. Alex didn't stop, didn't slow down. If anything, he pushed her further, driving her toward another peak.
"CUMMING AGAAIIIIN!"
Again and again and again.
In a way T'Challa wouldn't and couldn't.
CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—!
"GONNA CUUUUMM, YOU HUMAN STUUUD~!"
And she did. Her second orgasm came quickly, more intense than the first. Her thighs trembled, her entire body quaking as she rode the wave of ecstasy. "ALEX!" she cried out, his name a prayer on her lips.
That was when he saw it. The ahegao—the rolled back eyes and the lolled out tongue. That stupid, cock-addicted, cum-hungry look. Her eyes and her very body had surrendered.
But she wasn't done. Not even close.
As the intensity of her orgasm subsided, Storm turned her head to look back at him, her expression wild, almost feral. "You're not my equal," she panted. "You're my superior."
Yes, she wanted the white man to know.
Oh, and T'Challa? Honestly, she forgot about him. This wasn't about him, this was about Alex. About getting dicked down.
CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—!
Getting fucked doggy-style, legs shaking and tongue hanging out like a dog, Storm loved it. Because for the first time—
"I'M NOT A QUEEN! I'M A WHORE! YOUR WHORE! YOUR BLACK SLUT! YOUR SLUUUUT~!"
His thrusts became deeper, more precise, each one hitting a spot inside her that made her see stars. Storm's moans grew louder, more desperate. She lost count of how many times she came, her mind blank except for the sensation of Alex filling her completely.
T'Challa watched, his jealousy boiling over. He couldn't look away, couldn't escape the sight of Storm being pleasured by a man who was everything he wasn't. Every cry, every moan, every shudder of her body was a knife to his pride. And yet, he stayed rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but watch.
Finally, with a groan that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, Alex buried himself inside her one last time. His release was powerful, overwhelming, and Storm felt it as he spilled himself deep within her. But seeing her so weak and destroyed, Alex decided to pull out and cum all over her black booty.
Well worth it.
Especially since T'Challa got to watch and see the difference between them again.
Even the first rope that flew over her ass ended up coating her. The wild part was even though he came a fraction of this, T'Challa probably would have tapped out after one round. But Alex? This random white boy?
Still hard.
While the Mutant Goddess collapsed onto the bed, her body spent, her limbs weak and trembling.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. Then, Storm managed to turn her head, her eyes locking onto Alex's. "Unbelievable," she whispered, her voice filled with awe. "You're… you're something else."
Alex smiled kindly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You told me to teach you a thing or two," he teased. "Guess I delivered."
Storm laughed weakly, her body still tingling from the aftershocks of pleasure. "More than delivered," she murmured.
Alex looked up at T'Challa and scratched the back of his head. With his hips, he tapped out the last of his cum on the African Queen's ass and said, "H-hey, um, maybe in an hour, it can be your time? We should try and make this fair, right?"
"...sure."
***
Thirty minutes.
Imagine being an African king. Imagine marrying the strongest black woman on the planet. Imagine garnering the respect of everyone for your own achievement as well as your wife's.
Only for some white man to steal it all away.
He was fucking her anus. He was utterly pounding away at it.
CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—!
"NGHHHH~! YESSSS~! YOU'RE STRETCHING ME OUT, YOU WHITE STUUD! KEEP STRETCHING ME OUT! DO IT! I LOVVEEE IT!"
"IT FEELS LIKE YOU'RE FUCKING ME PUSSY! FUUUUCK!"
"Cumming!"
There it was. He fucking creampied her anal hole too. Nothing was left sacred with these. Anything and everything T'Challa did to Storm, Alex did it.
'And ten times better too,' he admitted bitterly as he watched his cock slip from her hole, stretched and creaming with his baby batter. Fucking hell, the amount of so ludicrous that it would have taken twenty Wakandan men to do it.
Probably more.
"Phew. Wanna go again?"
And unlike Wakandans, the white man's balls did not empty. He slapped Storm's left ass cheek and asked for more. With a sound between a moan and a laugh, she accepted. Alex's cock throbbed and he smiled.
T'Challa was just standing there. What the hell else could he do?
"Just what the hell is his sack made of…?"
***
Remember the one hour mark? Well, guess what. Alex forgot about it. The thing was—he didn't do it on purpose. Storm was the one who kept begging him to keep fucking her. To relieve her of her stress.
Two hours passed.
Two hours of fucking, creampieing, and Alex finally taking a break.
The white, featureless expanse of the room felt more surreal than ever as Alex trudged back from the king-sized bed, his bare feet padding softly on the pristine floor. His expression was one of mild exhaustion and general bewilderment, his disheveled hair and flushed face telling the story of his "round thirty" with Storm.
T'Challa stood with cock erect and arms crossed, his regal composure barely concealing the simmering envy burning within him. As Alex approached, his ten-inch flaccid schlong swung lazily with each step, slapping against his thigh with a loud, rhythmic thwap!
T'Challa's eye twitched.
The white man was bigger than him flaccid while he was completely hard.
'Bast, why have you forsaken me?' he thought bitterly. He wished he could re-wear his plastic armour again to better conceal what was, by all accounts, a humbling six-inch predicament. And because of the Heart-shaped herb, going soft was difficult unless he was drained of a load.
"Oh, hey, is there…?"
A seat? Yes. It appeared just now. Not just a single seat but three stools. They just…randomly appeared. T'Challa blinked.
Alex didn't think much of it, shrugging and plopping himself on the chair. He let out a long sigh. "Man, she's somethin' else," he muttered, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head.
T'Challa pursed his lips, his gaze flickering downward for the briefest of moments before snapping back up. "You seem… quite comfortable, Alex," he said.
"Eh, I mean, it's not like I'm used to this," Alex replied, waving a hand vaguely toward the room and the situation at large. "But you gotta roll with the punches, right?"
'Roll with the punches,' T'Challa repeated in his head, barely suppressing a scoff. 'You are "rolling" with my ex-wife, and somehow you remain blissfully unaware of the insult this represents.'
"Oh, um, by the way…thanks for trusting me. I'm just some guy so I know it might be a bit suspicious for you two."
"I am the eighth smartest man in the world. I know by now that you are merely…a white boy."
Fucking hell. Just a white boy.
As the two sat in awkward silence, a faint hum filled the air. Both men turned their heads as a refrigerator materialized out of thin air, accompanied by a dining table, four chairs, and a small kitchenette complete with a stove and sink.
Alex blinked. "Uh… did that just…?"
"Yes," T'Challa replied, already on his feet. "First the stools, now this." He strode toward the refrigerator, his toned body moving with an athletic grace that would have been more impressive if not for his visible agitation. His cock went flaccid, instinctively knowing it was time to go down.
Alex followed behind, his dong swaying with each step like a pendulum.
Thwap! Thwap!
T'Challa clenched his fists. 'Why does it have to thwap? Is he doing this on purpose?'
They reached the refrigerator, and T'Challa pulled open the door, revealing a fully stocked array of food and beverages: fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, juices, and even bottles of wine. The sight was almost comically normal, given the bizarre circumstances.
"Huh," Alex said, trying to tip-toe over T'Challa's shoulder and failing. He ended up hanging by his side. "I was kinda expecting… I dunno, alien food or somethin'."
"This is no coincidence." T'Challa closed the refrigerator and turned his attention to the kitchenette, examining it with sharp, methodical movements. "This room—this space—it is not natural. It is a construct, created and maintained by an external force. The dimensions are specific as are the stools and the refrigeration here."
Alex nodded slowly, trying to keep up. "Uh-huh. So, like… magic?"
T'Challa's lips tightened, but he gave a curt nod. "Yes. Magic of a highly advanced and potent nature. Whoever is responsible for this has the power to nullify Ororo's weather manipulation and render Vibranium—a material considered indestructible—into mere plastic."
"Yeesh," Alex said, crossing his arms. "That's pretty intense."
"You have no idea," T'Challa muttered. He ran a hand along the countertop, his mind racing. "The level of precision required to construct this environment… It is not merely a feat of power, but one of intellect. Whoever did this is no ordinary being."
Alex scratched his head. "So any suspects?"
T'Challa hesitated, his brow furrowing. "There are several possibilities. It could be a mutant with reality-warping abilities, such as Wanda Maximoff, though this is… not her usual style. Not to mention by now I can identify Chaos Magic constructs with my own eyes. This…is not that."
"So…how about the gods? Like Odin?"
"The gods of old do not do this. Bast, Odin, Zeus, they are above the petty affairs of mankind. If not gods then, then maybe a cosmic entity—someone like The Beyonder, who has been known to trap individuals in elaborate games for his own amusement."
"So we're either dealing with a witch or an alien god. Awesome."
T'Challa shot him a glance, raising an eyebrow. "Do you find this amusing, Alex?"
Alex shrugged. "I mean, it's not not funny. Don't get me wrong, I'd rather be back in New Orleans right now eating a po' boy, but… this is so out there, it's kinda hilarious. Like, come on, man. Me? Competing with you? That's nuts."
T'Challa sighed, rubbing his temples. "Your humility is… commendable, I suppose."
"Thanks," Alex said, genuinely. "And, uh, for what it's worth, I think you're handling this whole thing pretty well. If I were in your shoes—uh, not that you're wearing any—I'd probably be losing it."
'You have no idea,' T'Challa thought grimly, glancing once again at Alex's infuriatingly oversized schlong. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus.
"Regardless of the absurdity of this situation, we cannot afford to underestimate whoever is responsible. They have forced us into compliance by eliminating our ability to escape."
"Right," Alex said, leaning against the counter. "So, what do we do? Just keep… y'know, playing the game until they let us go?"
"It would appear so," T'Challa said, though his tone was reluctant. Because, well, that meant…
Another look at that big ass cock. 'Fucking white boys.'
Alex nodded again, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water. From the bed, a groan echoed through the room. Both men turned to see Storm stretching languidly, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight.
Alex cleared his throat, setting the bottle down. "Uh… looks like she's ready for round three."
T'Challa's jaw tightened. "Indeed."
"Do you mind if I keep going? I really want to use her tits."
"...sure."
Yep, he just gave permission for the white man to fuck his ex-wife. His people would be ashamed if they saw him now.
***
Five hours.
Five.
Fucking.
Hours.
By the end of it, Storm was on the bed, both holes filled to the brim by so much cum that any other man would have thought every man in Wakanada ran a train on her. But no, it was just one. Just one white man.
Alex.
Drip, drip, drip.
T'Challa tried not to wince from the sound of cum pouring out of her womb. The Intergalactic African King sat on a stool, a towel draped over his lap to preserve the last shred of his dignity. Five hours into this absurd "competition," and he could feel his spirit hanging by a thread. Across from him, Alex lounged casually on a plush chair, completely nude, sipping on a glass of water.
The man's ten-inch flaccid schlong—an unholy combination of size, weight, and motion—draped lazily across his thigh like it had no business being there. It swung slightly every time Alex moved, like some sort of smug pendulum.
'Bast,' T'Challa thought, his jaw tightening as he pretended to focus on his own water. 'Why must you test me so? What did I do to deserve sharing this room with… this man?'
Alex noticed T'Challa's glance and gave him a friendly smile. "Sorry about this. I know I said soon but I just can't get enough of Storm. I get why you married her, haha."
"...yes."
'The Black Panther,' T'Challa echoed in his mind. 'King of Wakanda. Leader of the most technologically advanced nation in the world. And yet here I sit, bested by a man who microwaves frozen lasagna for dinner.'
He adjusted the towel on his lap, doing his best to avoid looking down. It was bad enough that Alex's "assets" were there, mocking him with their sheer enormity. The contrast was… unfortunate, to say the least. While Alex lounged without a care in the world, T'Challa knew what lay beneath his towel: a flaccid two-inch reminder of how unfair life could be.
'It is not about size,' T'Challa reminded himself, though even in his own head, the words sounded hollow. 'It is about skill, confidence, presence. I am a king. A warrior. A—'
"Hey, um, T'Challa," Alex interrupted, leaning forward slightly. "You good? You've been kinda quiet."
T'Challa looked up, startled out of his spiraling thoughts. "I am fine," he said evenly, though his voice was perhaps a touch too curt. "This situation is… highly irregular, is all."
Alex chuckled, running a hand through his messy brown hair. "Tell me about it. I mean, don't get me wrong, Storm is amazing. But, uh, competing for her in a weird white room? This ain't exactly Mardi Gras, you know?"
T'Challa studied Alex for a moment. He was, by all accounts, an average man. Pale skin, slightly lanky frame, no remarkable musculature to speak of. Yet there was something disarmingly normal about him.
"What do you do, Alex?" T'Challa asked, surprising himself with the question.
"Me?" Alex blinked, then shrugged. "Not much, to be honest. Dropped outta college a while back. Been working odd jobs ever since. Pizza delivery, some construction here and there, even worked at a bookstore for a bit. Nothing fancy."
"And yet, you find yourself here. Competing with royalty."
Seriously, why you?
Alex laughed, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, life's weird like that. I mean, don't get me wrong, Your Majesty—uh, can I call you T'Challa?"
T'Challa raised a hand. "Sure."
"Thanks," Alex said, grinning. "Anyway, T'Challa, you gotta admit, this whole thing is kinda hilarious. I'm just some dude from New Orleans, and now I'm, uh…" He gestured vaguely toward the king-sized bed, where Storm lay sprawled out, groaning softly in what could only be described as post-coital bliss. "...fucking a king's ex-wife. Sorry, no offense."
T'Challa pursed his lips, his grip on his glass tightening. 'Bast give me strength. I will not kill this man. It is beneath me.'
But as much as T'Challa hated to admit it, there was something endearing about Alex's honesty. The man wasn't trying to gloat; he genuinely seemed baffled by the situation.
"Tell me," T'Challa said slowly, "have you been in a relationship before? Do you have someone at home waiting for you?"
Alex blushed, scratching his cheek. "S-sort of? The situation is…complicated, haha. Girlfriend or wife isn't the best word, you know?"
'Friends with benefits.'
Eighth smartest man in the world, people.
Another groan came from the bed, drawing both men's attention. Storm shifted, her silver hair fanning out like a halo as she stretched languidly. "Alex," she called, her voice dripping with authority and desire. "Come back. I'm not finished with you."
Alex turned back to T'Challa, his expression awkward. "Uh, I know we said two hours until it's your turn, but, uh…" He gestured toward Storm. "Looks like she wants more from me, so…"
T'Challa closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. 'This is my life now. I, T'Challa, King of Wakanda, am reduced to telling another man to… smash my ex-wife.'
"Good luck," he said stiffly, his voice strained but composed.
"Thanks, man," Alex said, giving him a thumbs-up. "You're a real one."
As Alex walked back to the bed, his "assets" swaying like they had their own gravitational pull, T'Challa took another sip of his water, staring straight ahead.
'This is the strangest humiliation I have ever endured,' he thought. 'And yet, somehow… I do not hate him.'
He sighed, setting his glass down. "Fifty hours," he muttered. "Bast help me."
***
Eight. Hours. Later.
The room was still, save for the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets. Eight hours had passed since Storm had first straddled Alex, her dark skin glistening with sweat as she took control. Now, however, the dynamic had shifted entirely. Storm lay on her back, her legs spread wide. Alex's hands gripped her hips, positioning himself above her. His cock, thick and throbbing, hovered just inches from her entrance, teasing her.
"You ready for more?" Alex murmured, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down her spine.
Storm nodded, her breath hitching as she arched her back, her nipples hardening as they brushed against his chest. "Give it to me," she demanded.
With a swift motion, Alex thrust into her, his length stretching her in ways that made her gasp. Oh god, she thought, her mind going blank as pleasure surged through her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks as she clung to him for dear life. He's so deep… She could feel every inch of him inside her, filling her completely, and it was all she could do to keep from screaming.
T'Challa sat in the corner of the room, his eyes fixed on the pair. He hadn't moved in hours, his hands clenched tightly around the arms of the chair he occupied. The sight before him was both maddening and intoxicating. Storm, the woman he once called his wife, writhing beneath another man, lost in ecstasy. And Alex, this normal white man, dominating her with ease, his massive cock driving her wild again and again. T'Challa's jaw tightened as he watched, his pride burning like hot coals in his chest.
"Make me cuuuum~! CUM~!"
His own black cock throbbed. It seemed so feeble compared to the white monster that pistoned in and out of Storm. Honestly, he didn't even want to try fucking her anymore. It was over.
Both her holes were stretched to the point that he would never be able to fuck her again. Guaranteed. If he tried slipping in his dick, it would feel like a cavern.
Every moan that escaped Storm's lips was like a dagger to his heart. She sounded unhinged, completely consumed by the pleasure Alex was giving her. T'Challa tried to look away, to block out the sounds, but it was impossible. Her cries were too loud, too raw, too real.
"Fuck, Alex—yes!" Storm cried out, her voice breaking as he pounded into her. Her thighs trembled around his waist. She clawed at his back, her nails leaving angry red marks as she pulled him closer, desperate for more. "YES! Yesssshh! Ngghhh~! Gah~! Gssshkkkk~!"
Alex grinned down at her, his movements never faltering. "That's it," he coaxed. "Keep cumming. We have hours to go!"
Storm's head fell back against the pillows, her eyes rolling shut as she surrendered to the waves of pleasure crashing over her. She didn't care about T'Challa watching them. Hell, she barely remembered he was even there. All that mattered was the way Alex was making her feel—like she was being pushed to her absolute limit and beyond. Every thrust sent jolts of electricity through her, igniting every nerve ending in her body.
T'Challa's fists clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to intervene. But what could he do? Storm had made her choice clear. She wanted Alex. And Alex, with his thirteen-inch cock and endless stamina, was giving her exactly what she craved. T'Challa felt a bitter taste rise in his mouth as he reached down and grabbed his cock with trembling fingers. He couldn't help himself. The sight of Storm, so thoroughly claimed by another man, was too much to bear.
As his hand wrapped around his own length, he let out a low groan—a mix of frustration and reluctant arousal. He hated himself for this, for letting his jealousy drive him to such depths. But he couldn't stop. Not when every moan, every cry from Storm only fueled the fire burning inside him.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…!"
King T'Challa jerked off. Black Panther masturbated.
On the bed, Alex adjusted his angle slightly, hitting a spot that made Storm scream. Her entire body went rigid, her back arching off the mattress as she came harder than ever before. Her walls clenched around him, milking his cock as if trying to wring every drop of pleasure from him. Alex groaned, his pace faltering for just a moment before he regained control, driving into her with renewed intensity.
"You're incredible," Alex breathed, his voice filled with awe as he watched her unravel beneath him. "I've never seen anyone take me like this."
Storm opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with so much lust that it could make a man nut. "And I've never felt anything like you," she replied, her voice shaky but sincere. "You're… unbelievable."
Her words struck T'Challa like a physical blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds and the images, but it was no use. He knew he would never forget this moment, the moment he realized he had truly lost her.
Alex leaned down, capturing Storm's lips in a hungry kiss as he continued to thrust into her. Their bodies moved together in perfect sync, each movement pushing them closer to the edge. Storm wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him deeper, faster. She didn't want this to end. She wanted to stay lost in the haze of pleasure forever.
But eventually, the tension became too much. Alex's thrusts grew erratic, his breathing ragged as he neared his peak. Storm could feel it too, the pressure building inside her until it threatened to consume her entirely.
"Alex—" she gasped, her voice breaking as another orgasm began to build. "Don't stop—"
He didn't. With one final, powerful thrust, Alex buried himself inside her, his release flooding her as he groaned her name. Storm cried out, her body convulsing as she came undone yet again, her orgasm blending seamlessly with his.
For a moment, they stayed like that, locked together in the aftermath of their passion. Then, slowly, Alex pulled out, collapsing beside her on the bed. Storm turned to face him, a contented smile playing on her lips as she traced lazy circles on his chest.
"You're my equal," she whispered, her voice filled with something akin to reverence.
T'Challa's hand stilled, his heart sinking and his balls emptying themselves. Spurt, spurt, spuuurt! He splattered his precious baby batter all over the floor. In Wakanda, the Dora Milaje would have licked the floor for his cum.
But not here.
He looked down at himself, disgusted by his own actions. This was the lowest he'd ever been, reduced to nothing more than a spectator in his own humiliation.
***
Twelve hours.
The Black Panther came to an epiphany: white men were just built different. Well, maybe not all white men. He didn't mean to make a general statement.
But when it came to comparing this white man to every black man in the galaxy…
"Unh~! YES! YESSSS! BIG COOOCK!"
A black boy ain't built to handle that. A few bounces in with him slipping out he was gonna be moaning like a bitch telling the Mutant Goddess to slow down cause he was getting close. A white dude—the white dude, Alex—was gonna sit there til she couldn't bounce no more and thrust until she couldn't walk.
CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—! CLAP—!
The proud black woman was riding him—and failing to faze him in the slightest. Legs spread, arms behind him, smiling, he let Storm do her thing and utterly exhaust herself. She couldn't keep up. She just couldn't.
And T'Challa? Every other Wakandan or black man? They were not matching the strokes this white boys was doing. They had to keep it slow so they didn't get overwhelmed and cum early. T'Challa was just thinking to himself, "Get the fuck out loser and let the white man bang her brain out!!"
Spurt, spurt, spuuurt!
Ah, fuck. Post-nut clarity hit him hard and he realized just how ridiculous he sounded in his head.
Maybe.
"MAKING ME CUM AGAIIIIN!"
He panted. His black dick went limp. He was reaching his masturbation limits. Alex was not. His white cock grew harder.
Sigh.
Honestly, after seeing his ex-wife get screwed this badly, T'Challa just took it for what it was. A jerk-off session. A time to get some relief.
'As long as he doesn't mating press her.'
That was Ororo's favourite position and the first one he did in order to consummate their marriage. As long as Alex didn't fuck her in a mating press, he was going to jerk off to this like porn.
If he did, then Storm would be well and completely conquered by the white man.
"If Bast or any African god is listening to me….please don't let that happen."
The Black Panther made that solemn prayer with the full spirit of the Black Panther.