The Avengers: Clint's Little Girl

"We can't leave her like this," Laura said, the rare woman who thought nothing of her man laying a beautiful woman down on her bed and helping her out of her slippers.

"Can you get refunds on the tickets?"

"No, but surely you don't want to go while she's—"

"Of course not," Clint said. "You go, you're the one who wanted to see it, I'll stay here and keep an eye on her."

"You can both go," Natasha said, straightening herself on the bed. "I'm fine. I just overextended myself a little, I'll nap, it'll be fine."

"Uh-huh," Clint said, reaching for the covers to draw them over her. Natasha felt her heart go from double-time to triple as he tucked her in. "I'm sure she's fine. I'm sure she is. But do you want me to go with you?"

"I don't even know if I'm going." Laura put the back of her hand on Natasha's forehead—those two younger siblings Natasha had read about had been good prep for being a mom. "She's not running a fever, but I don't want to leave her alone. She's supposed to be in the hospital, right? They'd have nurses on duty..."

"I don't want to ruin your date," Natasha protested. "Go. Laura, go. You too, Clint."

"I—" Clint sat down on the bed beside her. "Would've probably fallen asleep there anyway. It's a long play and I'm old, I get tired. I'll stay here."

He looked to Laura for confirmation. She nodded tersely. "I'll see if I can find a scalper to buy a ticket off me real quick."

"That's good thinking, hon."

***

Clint was a sharp guy. He didn't let on, so quiet was he, so rowdy when other people could be serious, but you didn't get into SHIELD on good luck and perfect attendance. So it was a testimony to how worried he'd been over Nat that he didn't tumble to what she'd done until Laura was long out the door.

He came into the room, registering that she'd undressed, her clothes at the foot of the bed, the sheets tangled into her body from her knees to her neck, her hair further obscuring her face, but it didn't slow down his indignation, tempered as it was with laconic irony.

"I appreciate you trying to get me out of some boring play," he said, "but I don't like being dishonest with Laura."

"What was dishonest?" Natasha asked, still driving her face into the pillow in a pretense of sleep, her toes working lazily against the mattress, corded muscles in her calves stirring like piano strings being tuned. "I wanted you to stay with me, not go with her. I said so. It was alright with Laura. It's alright with you."

"You didn't exactly say that, did you?"

"I'm indirect. Bet you and Laura felt really good about yourselves, getting to take care of me—"

"Do not sass me, Nat. You're in my home."

Natasha bit her lower lip, hiding her face a little, suddenly embarrassed. Hurt. "So why didn't you say something? You must've known something was off."

"Didn't want to embarrass you in front of Laura."

"You wanted to stay with me, just like I wanted you to stay."

"Play's not getting good reviews. But I did want to go with Laura."

"You want to stay with me too."

"I spend plenty of time with you, Nat. But you're not my pet, okay, I'm not obliged to take you on walks."

"What am I to you, then?"

"Jesus." Clint rubbed the back of his neck. "You're my partner, Nat."

"Nothing else."

"We're not having this conversation."

"It's not a conversation. It's facts. What I want. What you want."

"What Laura wants," Clint needled her.

Natasha pulled the bedsheet up her legs. "Laura isn't here."

"Goddamnit, Nat... goddamnit, you're making me have to tell her this."

"Look at me, Clint," Natasha said, drawing the sheet over her thighs. It whispered over her flesh like he was touching them already. Like she needed to be touched. Just one good contact between his flesh and hers would make everything simple, would tell her what she was to him and he was to her and what she was. "

She wondered if he missed Laura. She did. She hated that feminine absence more than anything else, but she was the Black Widow and she ate what she loved.

The sheet touched her pubic hair. The red curls tingled with the fleeting contact, the cessation of the touch, the sudden ionic shift from being covered to open air. The same oxygen ran between them, but now Clint's eyes were on them and that made all the difference. He was gazing at her womanhood, the femininity of her fleshy hips, and she had never felt more like a woman than under his eyes. She could tell he was getting excited. His eyes darkened and the bulge in his fly could not be hidden.

"You can look at me," Natasha said, not trying to seduce, but the words came out honeyed because they were her words to him and she could not speak any other way. "See me. I'm here. I'm here."

She reached down to her cunt, spread open the petals of the flower, let him see the first steps of the journey inside her. His member twitched as he watched her stir her sex, open it to him. He unzipped his fly, his eyes fixed on her engorged clit, the dunes of the desert bedding that could only be her breasts raising through the satin.

Her hand was buried in her groin as if trying to hide it, her legs spread wide and her fingers showing him how much she could take. She wantonly pushed a finger inside herself, stroked, rocking her body into the contact and out of it, fucking herself to show him how he could do it.

She'd never shown herself to Clint like this, never displayed herself to any man in this way. This wasn't a performance. This was how she touched herself. This was how she responded to him. And the sight drove him wild. She could see the look in his eyes and it made her flush with pleasure. He was looking. She was being seen.

His briefs were out of the way now, his hard manhood pulsating out in the air like some weapon he'd drawn to defend himself. She smiled and it was hysterical at best. "Jerk off for me," she muttered.

"What?" Clint asked, his hand near his cock, but not touching it. Afraid it would go off.

"Don't come, but jerk off for me. Play with your prick. Show me... show me it gets to you too."

"Natasha, I can't." The lust in her eyes was irresistible. "This is wrong." He fisted his shaft and his hand shook like he was trying to hold it still. "This is..."

"Please, Clint. Please. You said you would take care of me."

Almost unconsciously, his hand did a slow pump along the flesh.

They touched themselves like they were touching each other, their cheeks flushed and their breath rasping with excitement.

The blush on Natasha's face deepened as she read his wishes off his expression, complied with them. She licked her lips slowly, flashed her reddened pussy to inspire him.

"Finger yourself," Clint said gruffly. "Spread your wet lips and show me how it makes you feel, watching me beat off."

A timid moment struck Natasha—so absurd, she'd done so much more, so much worse—the feeling soon passed. She edged a fingertip along the folds of her gates, feeling how slippery and slick her inner flesh, wondering how it would feel to Clint. Would he like it? Would it be as moist as Laura, as tight? She felt electrical jolts of pleasure beneath her searching finger; Clint was stroking himself faster and harder. Natasha plunged a single stiffened finger inside of herself. She wanted to feel what he felt.

He moved closer to her, closer, and Natasha needed so much that she was almost unsure what she wanted, what she needed. He could reject her, he could embrace her, but she needed to know the source of this comfort she felt bolstering inside her. None of the threat, none of the dread she had felt with other lovers, male and female, expecting a knife in the back, a hand around her throat. She was feeling more and more certain, more trust, more faith, as her convictions fell away. She knew nothing. Only that he wanted this. He wanted her.

She sunk into her pillow, her hair, her mattress, grinding her shoulders into them, hiding under the blanket which rolled over her descending form. Clint took hold of it with his free hand and stripped it down her body, exposing her breasts, full, white, heaving, and she grabbed his arm with her free one. It sent a charge of rightness through her; she wanted to touch him, that was part of it, that was some of what she needed. She could feel the muscles throb under his skin; his hand was fisted in the sheet, the knuckles white, everything tense, everything corded. His other hand was flying on his prick, a subvocal groan in his throat for the pleasure he felt.

He was accepting her, embracing her, and that clinched it, she couldn't pretend she didn't care. She wanted his approval, she wanted to be accepted. If he had pushed her away, the rejection would've broken her; she knew simply by the soaring feeling she felt now. He wanted to look at her. She wanted to be seen.

A sultriness touched her voice as she spoke, soft, almost whimpering. Her hand switching to his other arm, cinching his vulnerable wrist, holding his hand still on his cock. "That's fun to watch," she said, her eyes riveted on the swollen cockhead, the veiny shaft. "But I think it should be my job."

It was what he wanted to hear, it was what she wanted to say, or at least what she knew to say to get what she wanted, but it didn't compare to his eyes on her, his skin on hers. It was almost like she didn't want him as a lover, didn't want to seduce him like any other mark...

And his eyes glimmered as they met hers, a slightly sad smirk on his lips. He had a way of looking like that. Sad and happy at the same time. Maybe that was why she liked him so much. For looking like she felt.

"Help yourself," he said, his voice rich with irony.

She didn't want to unpack it, didn't want nuances or complexities. She wanted him. She'd settle for his cock.

Natasha bent down and sucked his manhood into her mouth, warm and moist, hoping he would like it, knowing he would like it, her deep throat and her full lips, they were made for sucking cock. She swirled her tongue rapidly over his crown. She wanted him to like her; it at least felt good to know that much. She swished the tip of her tongue down the underside of his member.

He would like it and she would make him tell her how much, how he loved it, how he loved her, how she was his girl and so good and so his, his good girl, his good girl that he loved and fucked and accepted, that was what she was and what she wanted to be. That was what felt so good about him, that he loved her, and she wanted to make him love her more, she wanted to drown in his love, burn in it, die from it however it killed her.

Natasha could barely resist the urge to keep him in her mouth, nestle the pleasure he got from her deep in her throat, as close to her heart as she could get it, but she knew how to please him and make him love her, she would do whatever it took. She pulled her lips off his tip, some of his precum splashing on her chin like hot rain, and she could suddenly smell his balls, musky and overpowering. She stuck out her tongue as she lowered her face down under his manhood, extending it to its furthest to clean the sweat from him, going from almost past his tight, pulsating scrotum to where it formed a juncture with the base of his shaft.

She could down twelve shots of vodka, but the smell and taste of Clint's balls was getting her far more intoxicated. Her excitement increased with every flick of her tongue against his hairy sensitivity, every subtle groan he let out to reward her efforts. She kept fingering herself, and it felt so much better with his balls in her mouth, his cock gently leaking into her hair. His balls were swollen and heavy, squirming against her slurping, probing tongue.

"Kiss 'em, Nat," Clint said. He wasn't jerking off, he was reaching down into her hair and combing it with his fingers, smoothing it down against her cheeks as they bulged with his flesh, and it felt so good to have him touching her again.

Touching him couldn't compare; he needed to be the one to do it, he needed to be showing his love for her, not hers for him. Natasha could feel her own love so heavily, there was no denying it, it was blinding light inside her. She kissed each ball soulfully, and his cock throbbed wildly against her face, and she felt its precum drip down the glans.

He was about to shoot off, she knew the signs, but no, no, not yet! She deserved more for being so good! Clint must've thought the same thing, known better than to waste his load in her fiery red hair, because he took a deep breath and forced himself to step back from the bedside. When she saw his cock in full, the foreskin had pulled back almost entirely from the head. It was so ready for her. It loved her so much.

"Батя, I need your cock. Please can I have your cock?" She licked her lips slowly, tasted the salty traces of his sweat on them. She gazed longingly at his manhood, even if it was her own saliva that glistened on it, not that delicious musk. "I'll be so good for your cock..."

Her legs were spread wide. The sheet was belted around her waist; she could not spare a moment to push it aside. Her stiff fingers were inside her sex, what she was doing was right, she was doing what he wanted, that was why it felt so much better than anything else ever could.

Clint could not deny her any longer; he loved her so much and she was such a good girl for him. She could see how his balls ached; his very flesh needed to give her succor. He put his hand under her head, catching her chin, and led her up until she was on the level of his cock. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed his cockhead and her eyes almost glazed over as she inhaled the scent of his precum.

Her head swam. She thought for a moment she might pass out. Throbbing, uncut, it was too potent for her. She didn't know if she even deserved it. She stuck her tongue out and, cat-like, jiggled the tip of her tongue at his dripping collar. His pre-cum tasted saltier than his sweat; it was good and she swallowed it. She reached up to feel Clint's cock, squeezing it with her fingertips to test its hardness. It was so thick that her fingers only just met around it.

"Stroke it," Clint gasped, giving an order for his good girl to obey.

Natasha squeezed his cock and stroked it, making the foreskin curl over the flared edges of the knob she'd tasted. Another strand of pre-cum oozed out and dripped on her tits. There was so much of it. She could only imagine how much cum there was. Such a big reward for being good...

Holding the shaft tightly, she rubbed the cockhead all over her face. Her own spit and the beginnings of his seed smeared on her cheeks and nose. She pulled her hand from her groin, moving it over Clint's, massaging her own juices into Clint's cock. Then, she looked up at Clint expectantly.

"Touch yourself some more," he told her. "Enjoy it. You deserve to."

She returned to fingering herself, and licked the head of his cock for every stroke she gave. He was watching every flick of her pink tongue at his cock—the tip of it probing his urethra with girlish mischief—her green eyes gazing up at him—her adoring smile that parted to admit his cockhead. He granted it to her, pushing it past her lips, and he forced it in deeper. Natasha let her throat rein, his massive erection sliding down her gullet. She wanted every inch of it, even if she choked to death on it.

"Good girl," Clint growled. "That's it... take it just a little at a time... a little more and... a little more... good girl... good girl..."

He braced his hands on top of her head and gently made love to her mouth, sliding his cock in and out of her lips, in and out of her throat. Her smile was stretched far around his enormously thick shaft, his cockhead sliding in her throat like a bobbing Adam's apple. Her face turned red as she swallowed more. There was so much to take. So much of his love she could have...

"You're such a good cocksucker, Nat." He was groaning and just the sound of that, that almost pained utterance of masculine distress, filled her with glee. She was so good, so good, so good...

Her nose rubbed in his pubic hair. His balls hung against her chin. She'd swallowed the whole thing for him. When she looked up at him, she saw disbelief. Pleased disbelief.

Natasha jerked her head and purred as she sucked. She could hardly breathe, but she didn't care. The taste of Clint's cock, the feel of it filling her mouth and throat, made her wild. She touched her pussy relentlessly, like Clint would, giving herself the endless pleasure her Батя had allowed her.

Each smack of her lips, each pulse of his cock in her mouth, was another spark of ecstasy for her fingers to find. The harder and faster she sucked, the more ecstasy she felt. Her pussy clutched at her ramming fingers. Her toes curled into the mattress. She wanted to come and she wanted Clint to come with her.

His hands were on her cheeks, so tight, and he was forcing her to look at him. "Here it comes, baby—get ready for it—want you to come with me, girl, don't wanna leave off with you—you're gonna come when I do, Nat, come for me, come, come!"

Her Батя was gasping, working his cock in and out of her throat, tossing his head from side to side as the pleasure saturated him. Each flick of her tongue at the underside of his cockhead added to his ecstasy. He, like her, wanted the pleasure to go on forever, to never stop, but he couldn't hold it. He needed to show her what a good girl she was, once and for all. His balls contracted and his cum was on the way, Natasha's reward, to sit inside her belly and warm her all day with his love.

Natasha felt the love surge through his cock. She braced herself as the first spurt gushed into her throat. She gagged on it—there was so much of his love, such a reward for her, and another spurt filled her mouth before she could swallow. Clint was moaning, groaning, ramming his cock in and out.

"Drink it, girlie, suck it out! You wanted it, so take it all! That's a good girl, yeahhh, that's how grateful a good girl is..."

Natasha gagged, but she managed to swallow her reward without losing any of it. It ran down her throat in thick, honeyed wads and the taste of it made her hungry for more. She sucked to the rhythm of Clint's spasming body, sending ecstasy through his shaft with her electric lips, her obedient tongue.

Clint's orgasm had barely even begun when Natasha's followed. Her eyes rolled back. Her hips bucked. Her pussy tightened at her sliding fingers, anointing her smooth young thighs with liquid satisfaction. Her nipples quivered, her toes curled, and she saw stars.

Clint stroked Natasha's soft red hair. As his ejaculation trailed off and his cock grew limp, Natasha kept suckling on it, cradling herself to it like a beloved childhood toy, to keep feeling Clint's callused fingers passing through her hair. The sex was good, but what after was even better. He didn't need her anymore, had gotten his pleasure from her, but he still loved her. She was still his good little girl.

***

Clint told Laura everything as soon as she got back. She took it well. Better than he did telling her, watching her face change, first with shock, then a slow numbness, finally a nodding and bewildered curiosity. He guessed that was the only way she could process it. Wanting to figure out how it had happened instead of what happened next.

"I need to be alone," she said. It was bad enough when she was angry. What was worse was when she was just hurt.

"Alright," he said. Not the time to press. Maybe never the time to press.

"Clint?" Laura called as he left the room. He braced himself for some invective, some rage, but there was nothing in her to moor it. She was that lost in this. "Maybe really alone?"

He got his coat and left the apartment.

***

She drank next. She'd always heard that could make a bad situation worse, but she didn't know how this could be worse. Clint a cheater, but she couldn't blame him because it was Nat. And she couldn't blame Nat because Nat was Nat. And she couldn't blame herself because then... then she'd go crazy.