Part 2: The Family Reunion
It was almost too easy. Yelena stalked through the pitch-black corridor, the taste of Moroccan dust under her tongue, the throb of adrenaline in her skull, her Glock’s weight like a heartbeat in her palm. The first guard came from the left: she put a round through his forehead before he could open his mouth, his body folding in a neat origami of death against the plaster.
She shouldered the next door open, splintering wood and sheetrock, and heard the whimper of surprise before the second man even reached for his radio. She dropped low, caught him behind the knee with a snap-shot, and as he tumbled forward, she met him with the knife—upward, under the chin, into the base of the skull. He never even got a word out.
At the end of the hall, a single bulb glowed over a heavy steel door, the kind she’d seen a thousand times in her childhood, holding secrets and suffering behind them. The air stank of sweat and bleach. She kicked it open, side-stepped, gun raised. A third man—a dense, pale hulk in a stained tracksuit—stood before her, holding a red-hot poker to the bare belly of her father.
Alexei was in his element, wrists rope-bound to a pipe overhead, feet barely touching the concrete, face as serene as a sleeping bear’s. His chest was pink and blistered, a towel the only dignity slung low around his hips. He was humming a song—poorly—as if the pain was a mild inconvenience, a hangnail or a mosquito bite.
The hulk made the mistake of turning. She fired, the round catching him dead center in the temple. He went down hard, the poker clattering onto the tiles. Yelena strode over, booted the body aside, and picked up the glowing rod, its tip white-hot. The heat radiated against her knuckles, promising oblivion.
Alexei grinned, teeth bloodied. “Dushka! I knew my little snow leopard would come. You are a little late, but—”
She jammed the poker an inch from his skin, so close the hairs on his stomach curled. “Shut up, traitor.”
He blanched, the bravado flickering for a heartbeat. “Yelena, is this necessary—”
Yelena jabbed the poker even closer. “You think I don’t know what you did? Maybe this will jog memory?”
Alexei’s eyes darted to the glowing tip, then to his daughter’s eyes, and for once he looked almost worried. “What are you talking about, Yelena? I am innocent man!”
She ran the iron along his abdomen, hovering, the heat making the air shimmer. “You fucked Kate.”
He recoiled as much as his restraints allowed, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Nyet! I would never—she is your… she is so young! I am not animal!”
Yelena pressed the poker until a bead of sweat rolled down his belly and hissed into steam. “Tell truth or I make your little guardian extra crispy.”
Alexei’s chest heaved. “We did not fuck! Maybe… there was misunderstanding—”
She touched the poker to his side, right above the hip bone. The skin blanched, then bubbled. Alexei howled, a ragged, childlike scream. “OKAY OKAY! FINE! Maybe she gave handjob! Maybe! But it was sad American handjob, very clinical, no passion! I was vulnerable!”
Yelena’s hand trembled on the poker. “You disgust me. All this time, I think maybe you have changed, but you are same horny Soviet pig.”
Alexei dropped his head, tears and sweat dripping to the floor. “I am sorry, little one. I am worst father in world. You want to burn me? Burn me. I deserve.”
She cocked her head, studying the damage, the raw pink welt already blistering. She raised the poker again, ready to brand him for good. “You son of—”
Kate burst through the doorway. “Yelena! Stop!” She lunged, grabbing the poker and wrenching it from Yelena’s grip. It clanged to the floor, filling the cell with the stench of scorched flesh.
The motion yanked the towel from Alexei’s hips. It fell with a sodden slap, revealing his massive cock that even limp hung like a thick snake between his legs.
Kate froze, then a smirk came to her face. “Well, hello...”
Yelena’s lip curled in disgust.
Alexei looked panicked, twisting to shield himself, but the ropes made modesty impossible. “Please, cover me! Daughter, please, you cannot see this! This is not for you…”
Yelena snorted in derision and bent down to get the towel, when all of a sudden an idea occurred to her.
Alexei squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, Yelena. Put towel back. Is not right. I am your father.”
Kate, eyes still fixed at crotch-level, mumbled, “That’s not even human. Is that a side effect of Red Guardian serum?”
Yelena snorted. “Is only thing serum made bigger. The brain it made smaller.”
Yelena took a step closer, arms crossed, eyes locked on the thing swinging between his legs. "This is truly pathetic, Alexei. You are more naked mole rat than Red Guardian." She bent, so close the heat of his body radiated up into her face, until her nose hovered just above the semi-hard length.
Alexei tried to twist from her gaze but his bulk only made him wobble. “Is not for you to see. Put towel…” His voice was a whine now, and it delighted her.
So she leaned closer, lips only a breath away from the blushing, half-limp cock, and blew a slow stream of air across the tip.
Alexei vibrated with mortification, and Yelena grinned. “In my country,” she mocked, “we teach men not to wave dick at family. Is that not right, Papa?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if darkness would make her disappear. “It was mistake. Kate Bishop, she is confusing, she—”
“Confusing? She confuse your dick to get hard?” Yelena bent and, for emphasis, flicked the tip of his cock with a fingernail. It twitched, involuntary, and Alexei let out a strangled moan.
From the doorway, Kate’s voice: “Wow, you guys really do family therapy differently.”
Yelena ignored her, circling Alexei, catlike. “So you did nothing with Kate Bishop,” she said, voice sweet as poison.
“Nothing! Just hand thing, is nothing!” The words tumbled out in a panicked staccato.
“Just hand thing,” she repeated, snorting. “So if I do hand thing, you feel nothing, yes?”
Before Alexei could protest, Yelena wrapped her fist around his cock. It was like gripping an oiled bat, heavy and obscene. She squeezed, just enough to see his face contort, then began to stroke. Slow at first, then with the brisk indifference of a janitor washing a floor. Alexei thrashed, the pipes above him creaking with his misery.
“Oh god,” he groaned, trying to angle away, but his hips betrayed him, bucking once, twice, in a pitiful attempt to seek pleasure or escape.
Yelena smiled with all the warmth of a glacier. “You like this? Or is still nothing?”
He tried to choke it down, but the Red Guardian serum was a traitor to its host. His cock thickened, rising to full, monstrous attention. Yelena could feel the pulse in it, the animal life of the thing.
She squeezed hard near the base and he yelped, louder this time, and Yelena could feel the muscles of his thighs tighten, the toes curling against bare concrete.
"You want to come, Papa?" she growled, stroking him now with a vengeance. "You want to spray all over your daughter’s face like you did on Kate?"
"Yelena, please," Alexei begged, turning his face to the stained wall, knuckles white on the pipe above. "This is torture. Worse than anything in gulag."
"Good," she said, her voice cold. "You will remember this next time you think with dick instead of brain."
She then stood in front of Alexei, still in her full black leather catsuit. She began to peel it off, slow and deliberate, making sure he saw each inch of her skin as it was revealed. Shoulders, breasts, stomach, hips—she let the suit puddle at her ankles, then stepped out and stood naked before her father.
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She caught Kate’s eyes glancing over, hungry and awestruck, and something vengeful and hot glimmered inside her. She turned back to Alexei, who was staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars.
"Look at me, papa," Yelena commanded, voice hard as steel. He squeezed his eyes shut. She reached out, twisted his cock until he gasped and jerked, and then he had no choice but to look down at her. His pupils dilated, a deep animal shame flickering in his gaze.
Alexei groaned, and the cock only throbbed harder, the head leaking precome in a thick, obscene bead. “Yelena, is not right,” he whispered, but the words were lost under the hammer of his heartbeat.
“Is not right?” Yelena mocked, stroking up the shaft with her gloved fingers, making him flinch. “You think I care about ‘right’? All my life, I wait for you to be good man. But you are just another weak animal.” She spat on the cock, then began to stroke it hard and fast, milking it like she’d milked the life from so many men before him.
Kate, standing back behind her, made a tiny, involuntary moan. Yelena didn’t look, but she could hear the slick sound of Kate’s hand working between her legs, the wet gasp of breath. Good. Let her watch. Let her learn who Alexei really was.
The cock was huge and angry now, the veins like cables, the swollen head glistening and twitching. Alexei’s face twisted in agony, but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop watching his own daughter strip him of every last shred of decency.
Yelena dropped to her knees, the concrete biting into her skin, and ran her tongue up the underside of the shaft. It tasted of salt and old sweat, of shame and iron. She sucked the head, teasing with her teeth.
Then she took the cock in her mouth, jaw straining as she forced him deeper, deeper, until her nose was buried in the musk of his balls and her lips stretched wide around the girth.
She pushed down, feeling the impossible girth stretching her throat, a bloom of pain that sharpened into something feral and hungry. She gagged, coughed, then forced herself even further, lips bruising against the base, the heat of him throbbing against her tongue. Yelena swallowed, again and again, determined to wring every last ounce of shame from him.
Then she dragged her mouth off with a sucking pop and spat a gob down the shaft. "You’re so sensitive, papa," she said, stroking him faster, watching his cock leak in fat, viscous strings. "Maybe I do you a favor. Put you out of misery."
Alexei made a strangled, animal sound, hips jerking despite himself, and the pipe above creaked under his shifting mass. His whole body trembled now, sweat pouring down his face and chest, mixing with the stink of his humiliation. He was nothing, just a slab of meat and regret and the memory of his own failures.
Yelena grinned at the humiliation. She shot a glance over her shoulder—Kate was naked now, hand between her legs, her fingers glistening where they pumped in and out, knuckles going white. Kate’s eyes were huge, fixed on Yelena’s mouth.
Yelena didn’t hesitate. She yanked the rubbery mass upright, angled it toward her face, and choked herself on it, daring herself to take it deeper, to scrape her tonsils on the angry head. The taste was bitter and alive with salt. She bobbed her head, mouth flooding with spit, then let the cock snap free so she could drag her tongue up the shaft and swirl it around the glans, lapping up every drop of Alexei's shame.
She caught Kate’s stare, and the heat of it sent a wild pulse through Yelena’s chest.
“Come here, Kate Bishop,” Yelena said, voice thick and wild. “You want to see what you missed?”
Kate dropped to her knees beside Yelena, all shyness burned away, and together they worshipped the monstrous cock. Their tongues met at the tip, curled around each other, and for a moment Yelena forgot about the man above them and focused entirely on the taste of Kate. Kate leaned into her, eyes half-closed, lips parted. The two of them sucked and licked, trading the cock between their mouths, until the salt and brine of Alexei’s skin mixed with the sweet tang of Kate’s breath.
Yelena caught Kate’s face in her hand, smeared her with spit, and kissed her hard, open-mouthed, teeth clacking. She felt Kate’s tongue slide against hers, felt the hungry tremor in Kate’s body as Yelena took charge, grinding against her thigh. They broke the kiss only to lap at the cock again, their lips trading places, their spit pooling at the base.
Above them, Alexei’s breathing turned ragged and desperate. His hips bucked, his face twisted into a mask of agony and awe, and it took everything he had not to ejaculate all over their faces.
Yelena licked the spit from her lips and shot Alexei a look that was all teeth. "You want to see American passion, Papa?" she said, her accent sharp as a slap. Then she grabbed Kate by the nape and kissed her, hard and deep, their tongues tangling, spit and salt shared between them. Kate melted into it, hands on Yelena’s bare hips, and for a second the sticky air was just the wet sound of their mouths.
Yelena broke away, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned to Alexei, who hung slack in his bonds, sweat pouring, the cock a flag of surrender. "You like to watch, yes? You always watch," she taunted. "So now you will watch this."
She stalked over to a battered office chair in the corner, rolled it so it faced the spectacle, and sat, legs spread. "Finish him," she ordered, voice flat and cold. "Make him come. I want to see him suffer."
Kate hesitated—just a flicker—but the charge in Yelena’s voice was a shackle, tight and hot. She crawled to Alexei, eyes flicking up to find his, then dropped her mouth over the cock. She went slow at first, letting the head nudge the back of her throat, and Alexei let out a sound that was almost a sob. Kate’s hair spilled over her shoulders, brown and shiny, a veil between him and the world.
Yelena watched, one hand cupping her own breast, thumb flicking at the nipple, eyes never leaving the scene. "How does it feel, Papa?" she called. "To have Kate Bishop fuck you off while your own daughter watches?"
Alexei whimpered, a fat, wet noise, and his hips rolled with a desperate, shameful rhythm. Kate took him deeper, cheeks puffed around the shaft, her hands bracing on his battered thighs for leverage. She gagged once, then again, spit flooding down her chin. She refused to pull off, even as her eyes watered, even as her nose pressed into the sweaty hair at his base.
Yelena watched, every nerve lit up like a grid of detonators. She let her hand creep between her own legs, fingers slippery with the need that boiled in her belly. She rolled her clit between two fingers, staring at Kate, at Alexei, at the carnival of depravity she’d orchestrated.
Kate bobbed her head faster, the sounds raw and obscene. Alexei’s breath came ragged, his whole frame shuddering, the pipe above him groaning under the strain. The cock swelled in Kate’s mouth, angry and purple, and then it popped out of her mouth and just unloaded a massive spray of cum all over her face.
As he came, the Red Guardian’s body locked, trembling, the muscles in his shoulders and arms knotting beneath the battered flesh. A streak of white-hot pressure seemed to run the entire length of his body, and with a strangled grunt he jerked so violently that the rusted pipe above him gave an agonized shriek. For a split second, it held, and then the steel bracket in the wall surrendered. Pipe, rope, and Alexei all crashed down in a heap.
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Kate tumbled backwards, ass over elbow, coughing and blinking tears from her eyes. Alexei hit the floor like a sack of bricks, rolling over to spit dust and blood and whatever dignity he had left onto the concrete. Yelena, already halfway out of her chair, landed in a crouch, Glock raised, like she expected assassins to pour from the ceiling.
For a moment, everything was still. Kate blinked away the cum in her eyes.
Then Alexei heaved himself upright with the dignity of a walrus, dust settling in his chest hair, and fixed Yelena with a look that managed to be both paternal and deeply wounded. “Yelena,” he said, voice grave, “this is not how families behave.”
She stared back, unsmiling, arms folded, letting him taste his own words in the air.
Alexei drew himself up, pipe still clutched in his bound hands, and stumbled to his feet, towering over both girls. “Is no respect, what you do. You shame your papa in front of American girlfriend. Is not how I raise you.”
Yelena’s mouth twitched, but she held the line. She could feel Kate’s eyes darting between them, bright and nervous.
“You want respect?” Yelena said, stepping closer, so close her breath fogged the sweat on his chest. “Maybe you earn it.” She stared at him, unblinking, the heat of her body pressed against the shame of his.
Alexei glared, but his cock, traitorous as ever, began to stir again, swelling between his thighs. He looked down and then away, a blush rising under his beard.
Alexei tried to angle his hips away, but it only made the thing wedge itself higher, the shaft running a hot line up the seam of her pussy. She could feel it, every twitch and throb, the way it seemed to search for her, to beg for entry even as he tried to look away.
Kate wiped the cum off her face. “Is this, like, a Russian thing?” she asked, but the question was mostly to herself.
She should have been disgusted. Instead, she felt her own body betray her: a slick, electric pulse between her legs, a tightening in her belly, the taste of iron behind her teeth. She rocked her hips forward, just a little, letting the head of his cock slide along her lips, and the sensation sent a bolt up her spine.
Alexei made a strangled noise, eyes wide and pleading, but Yelena ignored it. She ground herself along the length of him, slow and deliberate, feeling the wetness spread as her cunt responded to the friction. Each pass smeared more of her arousal along his shaft, until the whole thing gleamed with a mixture of their fluids.
From the corner, Kate let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Damn, Yelena. You’re really going for the trauma-bonding speedrun, huh?”
Yelena didn’t answer. She could feel her own pulse in her ears, in the aching throb between her legs. She wanted to punish him, to make him feel every ounce of shame and need that lived inside her.
Without warning, she hooked her leg around Alexei’s, twisted her hips, and sent him sprawling to the floor. The crash echoed through the concrete cell, dust puffing up around them. She followed him down, straddling his hips, pinning him with the weight of her body.
She rocked forward, letting the head catch against her pussy, then back, smearing herself along the length, each movement sending a jolt through her that made her teeth clench. "Okay, Papa," she panted, voice thick and shredded. "We make up now."
She hovered the tip at her entrance, teasing herself, letting the anticipation build until every muscle in her body felt like it would snap. She looked down at him, the shame and desire warring on his face, and for a moment she almost felt sorry.
Then she slammed her hips down, impaling herself on the cock, taking it in one savage stroke. The thing stretched her open, splitting her in half, and for a second all she could do was squeeze her eyes shut, jaw clenched against the pain-pleasure rush that roared up her spine. It was too big, too much, but she forced herself downward until her ass pressed to the root, every inch of him buried inside.
Alexei’s head snapped back, a guttural howl ripping from his throat. He tried to buck, but Yelena slammed her palms into his chest, pinning him to the floor.
“Stay,” she snarled, and started to ride him, slow at first, then faster, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the filthy tile.
The world blurred to the rhythm of Yelena’s own pulse; she bounced hard on Alexei, teeth clenched, every inch of her stretched taut around the impossible cock. Each time she bottomed out, her ass smacked his hips with a sound like a wet slapshot, and it sent a stinging jolt up her spine. Her legs ached, but she ground through it, pounding down with the force of every bad memory and old resentment and the fresh, electric spite of the moment.
Alexei’s face twisted in a mask of agony, sweat and tears running down into his beard. He tried to say something but it came out as a broken, animal syllable. His hands, still bound to the pipe, twitched helplessly above his head. Yelena bore down harder, bracing herself on his chest, her nails digging red crescents into his skin, watching the way his face collapsed with each stroke.
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She felt herself getting close, the heat building in her belly, the world narrowing to the friction and the sound of flesh and the slippery, obscene fullness of her. The pain blurred into pleasure, then pleasure into a kind of white-hot hunger. She spat in his face, just to see the shock and miserable adoration in his eyes, and kept riding, faster, harder, until the wet slap of her cunt on his cock echoed like gunshots.
She could hear Kate panting in the corner. Yelena didn’t look, but she could feel the weight of Kate’s stare on her back, the heat of it, and it made her go even harder. She wanted to show Kate what she was made of, wanted to show Alexei what he deserved.
Alexei started to buck under her, hips jerking in time with her thrusts. The cock swelled inside her, the head hitting something deep and electric. She felt herself coming apart, the first wave of climax rolling through her, making her see stars. She screamed, unaware of it, and collapsed forward, scraping her nipples down his chest. The cock kept pounding mercilessly inside her as she rode out the aftershocks, each pulse making her whole body shake.
She felt Alexei’s cock twitch, the telltale tightening of his thighs, the desperate, whimpering sound in his throat. Yelena braced for it, slamming herself down one final time, and was rewarded with a torrent of hot, thick cum. It hit so deep she felt it paint her insides, so much of it that it forced its way out around the base, leaking down her thighs onto the grimy floor. She stayed there, impaled and shuddering, until she was sure he was empty and spent.
Yelena pulled off with a squelching noise, legs quaking, and stood over Alexei’s ruined body. The cock, still half-hard and glistening with their combined fluids, lolled against his thigh. His face was slack, eyes unfocused, mouth working uselessly for words.
She spat on him again, wiped her chin with the back of her hand, and staggered to her feet. Her knees buckled, but she forced herself upright, glaring down at the mess she’d made. She felt lighter, cleansed somehow.
Just then, a low whistle cut through the air.
In a heartbeat, Yelena snatched up the Glock from the floor. Kate jerked upright, scrambling to cover her tits and grab her bow off the floor, her hair still slicked to her forehead with sweat and cum.
Even Alexei, flat on his back and still leaking, managed a kind of lazy, embarrassed roll toward the sound, hands uselessly tangled in rope and pipe.
The voice that followed was velvet-wrapped steel, the English so perfectly American it made Yelena’s heart lurch and freeze. “Come back from the dead and I see the family reunion’s already in full swing. Honestly not sure if this is a new low or just Tuesday in the Belova household...”
Natasha.
She stood framed in the doorway, one hip cocked, arms folded, the faintest curl of a smirk on her lips. Her red hair was chopped short and she wore a battered black jacket and jeans.
The world went silent, as if the room itself had forgotten how to breathe.
Yelena’s mouth opened, empty of words. Kate’s bow clattered to the floor.
Natasha’s eyes flicked from Yelena, naked and wild-eyed, to Alexei’s ruined bulk, then to Kate, who was now frantically trying to wipe jizz off her cheek with her sleeve. “I see you’ve made friends,” Natasha said, and the quirk of her mouth was pure Romanoff: the smile that said she’d already figured out every angle, every secret, every shame.
Alexei scrambled to his knees, yanking the pipe along with him. “Natashka!” he bellowed, tears instantly streaming down his cheeks. “You are alive! My precious snowdrop!” He tried to throw his arms wide, but the pipe made it more of a flailing, walrus-like gesture.
“Natasha?” Yelena said, the word foreign and dangerous in her mouth. Natasha fucking Romanoff, standing here after all this time, after Budapest, after the Red Room and the fall and the supposed funeral. Here, now, in Morocco, just in time to watch her sister ride their father like a Cossack.
Natasha strode into the room, boots crunching on the broken glass and old blood. She stopped in front of Kate, who still hadn’t moved, and offered her a hand up. Kate took it, eyes never leaving Natasha’s face, and let herself be hauled to her feet.
“Bishop,” Natasha said, nodding. “You look like shit.”
Kate, cheeks still streaked with Red Guardian spunk, managed a lopsided grin. “You should see the other guy.”
Natasha looked at Alexei, then the dripping cock still flagging between his legs. “Good point,” she said, her face saying everything as she tossed him a towel.
Yelena wanted to say something—wanted to scream or cry or laugh or throw up—but her mouth wouldn’t work.
Natasha was here. Alive. Real.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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