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Ghost rider. Chapter 37. The Sexologist
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 01:08:45 +0000 UTCThe portal flared in midair, carving a blood-red pentagram into the sky.
John stepped out of the fiery maw, holding Illyana’s hand—and found himself in a familiar weed-scented camp, where half-naked bodies writhed lazily to the sound of bongos and squealing flutes.
[Huh. I aimed for the school’s backyard, but ended up here. Looks like Charles updated the wards since my last visit.]
Of course they couldn’t ignore a portal opening right in the middle of the street.
The crowd buzzed like a disturbed beehive.
“He’s a mutant!” roared a naked man, pointing at John.
And then chaos erupted:
“Spit in my sandwich!”
“Bless my baby!”
“Give me your underwear!”
John squeezed his eyes shut—fandoms were scarier than Hell.
He yanked the girl close and slapped a hand over her eyes.
“Don’t look. These perverts will mess up your mind faster than demons.”
“Too late,” Illyana muttered. “But thanks.”
[Heh. Girl’s on my wavelength.]
“Back off!” Rider snarled, punching the nearest hippie in the nose and conjuring a wall of flame. “Stay away if you value your souls!”
The threat had... an unexpected effect.
The morons scattered to their tents, grabbing food to cook over the “mutant” fire.
[Whatever. At least they’re leaving me alone.]
John pressed the buzzer at the gate—one minute later, it swung open.
A peaceful stroll through the majestic garden to the school? Not happening.
The ground trembled like a comet was landing.
From behind the trees, a steel giant burst forth, gleaming in the sunlight.
“PIOTR!” Illyana shouted.
The girl bolted and flew into her brother’s arms. He caught her and spun her around like she was five again.
The garden filled with laughter warm enough to melt even John’s cynical heart.
[Yeah. That was worth going through Hell for.]
“Mister Blaze,” said Piotr, still holding his sister, “I don’t know how to thank you...”
“We’ll settle it later,” John smirked. “I never forget a debt.”
“Understood,” the Russian nodded. “Where was my sister? Who took her? What happened?”
“Illyana will tell you,” John winked at the girl. “If she wants to.”
The demonologist and his future apprentice exchanged a knowing glance.
“I couldn’t help but notice the school’s now surrounded by anti-teleportation wards,” Rider said, eyeing the magical shimmer cloaking the sky. “Charles finally hired a real mage to protect the kids?”
“The director was shocked when an uninvited sorcerer broke in last week,” Piotr said. “Your friend set up the security system at his request.”
“What friend?” John frowned.
[Far as I know, I don’t have friends. Just temporary allies and people who owe me.]
“The one who came with you,” the big man said uncertainly. “Wore a red suit. I think his name was Daimon.”
[That weasel! Used my name to hawk his junk to the mutants—and didn’t even cut me in!]
“Daimon… my friend… did he say where he was going?”
“Said something about New York…”
“That’s all I need.” John turned. “Time to visit an old ‘friend.’”
“Wait!” Piotr ran after him. “I’ll open the gate.”
“No need,” John smirked.
Ghost Rider leapt five meters into the air, flipping over the wall. Without touching the ground, he opened a portal midair—and vanished.
///
John stood before a grand building that rose like a cathedral for sinners—gothic towers, windows shaped like dagger slits. The Hellfire Club’s New York chapter.
A bouncer stood at the entrance, dressed in a tailcoat, top hat, and holding a cane—like he’d stepped out of the Victorian era.
“Your style is impeccable,” the man said with a bow.
“I know,” John adjusted his tie with a grin.
“Please present your membership card,” the bouncer said primly. “And remove your mask, sir.”
Rider clenched his fist, ready to knock the guy out with a single blow—just like Cain taught him—but suddenly the door swung open.
Out walked a striking blonde in a white cloak, barely managing to contain two generous assets. The cloak hung by a delicate string—one tug away from falling off entirely.
[Whoa. The local girls give the witches a run for their money.]
“Miss Frost,” the bouncer said, expression unchanged. “I was just asking the gentleman for his credentials.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Miss Frost said, eyes fixed on John from beneath thick lashes. “He’s new. I’m eager to give him a personal tour.”
[This just keeps getting better and better.]
John passed the bouncer, inhaling a dense cocktail of thousand-dollar lotion and cigar smoke—the air was as heavy as the lungs of an old millionaire who hadn’t tasted fresh air in decades.
At tables made of black oak polished to a mirror shine, old men with waxy faces lazily reached for their glasses. Senators, oligarchs, heirs of ancient bloodlines—discussing politics like it was the trade of souls.
[Everyone claws their way into this Club like immortality’s being handed out in brandy decanters. But in truth? Just a bunch of ruins dreaming of past glory. Even biker bars are livelier.]
“Not the best time for a visit,” Miss Frost said, climbing the stairs to the second floor. “There was a party last night. Only businessmen showed up today. I think you understand, Mister…?”
“Jonathan Blaze.”
[Screw anonymity. I’m awesome, and I might as well use it.]
“Emma Frost,” she said, offering her hand with elegant grace.
“Pleasure’s mine. No offense,” he pointed to his mask, “but let’s skip the kissing part.”
“This place loves masks and whips,” she said with a sly glance at the chain wrapped around his waist. “Mr. Blaze, you’ll fit right in.”
They entered a spacious office with shuttered windows. John took the armchair. Emma… sat on the desk, crossing her legs. A picture-perfect shot—straight out of Playboy.
“Miss Frost, are you trying to seduce me?” John leaned back like he was at an interrogation—with she-devil herself in lace panties asking the questions.
“I’m just inspecting the merchandise before the auction,” she said coolly, voice like ice on bare skin. “Let’s talk about you, Mr. Blaze. You radiate a fascinating aura—and your mind is wrapped in one of the strongest psychic shields I’ve ever encountered.”
[Thanks, Zarathos. Just like with Cain and Jane, partial transformation makes our minds impenetrable to any telepath.]
“Mr. Blaze, I assume you’re a sorcerer. And a powerful one. I’ve felt nothing like your aura—not even from Doctor Strange or his colleague, Doctor Voodoo,” Emma said, eyes like glaciers studying him. “You’re not a Club member, yet you tried to walk right in. Why?”
“And who are you to ask me that?”
“I run this branch. Senators eat from my hand. One phone call, and you’re an international terrorist. Or, one call the other way—and you’re on the untouchables list,” she said, gaze cold enough to freeze a soul.
“I’m a simple guy. Blue-collar. Don’t have those connections,” John spread his arms. “But I can do this.”
A flame ignited on his finger. It grew, second by second…
“One snap—and I burn this building down. With your soul in it. Long before you reach for the phone.”
The room grew hot.
“You could—but you won’t,” Emma said, watching the fire grow without a flicker of fear. “Aggression without motive is amateur work. And you don’t strike me as a fool, John. You’re a businessman. And you want to know what I can offer.”
“And what’s that?”
“First, tell me why you’re here.”
“An answer for an answer? Fair enough.” The flame on his finger vanished. “I’m here to meet a friend.”
“That’s it?” she arched a perfect brow.
“That’s it. We’ll talk business. Magic politics. Then get to work.”
"Don’t have any plans for the Club? Maybe you'd like a membership card?"
John smirked. "What is this, a shopping mall? Like one of those promos where girls in silly costumes try to rope everyone in."
"The Hellfire Club is an exclusive society for the best of the best," she said, her gaze sharpening. "We don’t accept just anyone. Only the exceptional."
"And what exactly did I do to earn the honor of dining with the elite?"
[Barely holding back a laugh. All those noble bloodlines, medals, and money mean nothing in the world of magic. Even a first-year magic school student looks at the president like he’s dirt.]
"Mr. Blaze, no need to undervalue yourself," Emma switched to a more businesslike tone. "You’re a valuable asset—one that could bring mutual profit."
"Go on," John said, steepling his fingers.
"Your friend, Mr. Hellstrom..."
"I never said his name."
"It wasn’t hard to guess. Only one guest here has a scar shaped like a pictogram," she leaned in slightly. "Mr. Hellstrom once got drunk and loudly complained that he was now forced to attend my Club."
[Heh. No sane mage invites a maybe-agent of Dormammu to a party.]
"Mr. Hellstrom blamed a man in a black suit with a flaming skull for his situation," she said, locking eyes with John, a flicker of flame in his own. "A rather vivid description."
"I’m sure Daimon had worse things to say about me," Rider smirked.
"There was something about being a witch’s son and a fondness for goats, but that’s beside the point," Emma crossed her legs with elegant ease. "The truth is, mages rarely show up here—but when they do, they’re like you. One meeting, never again. They already have their little covens and rituals. Mr. Hellstrom became our first regular."
"I see where this is going," John said with a grin beneath the mask. "This is that ‘bring a friend, get a bonus’ thing. Honestly? Not a hard ask. Crash a few magical parties, carve out a corner here just for sorcerers. Call in a few old debts to get the first spellcasters through the door. After that? Snowball effect."
"Now that’s a businessman talking," she smiled. "I knew you’d understand, Mr. Blaze."
"Yeah, but here’s the thing—I’m not interested." He spread his arms. "You’ve got nothing I want. I don’t care about profit shares. And I sure as hell don’t need some useless membership card."
[Bait cast. Waiting on the bite...]
"We’ll work something out," her heel slid lightly against his inner thigh. "Believe me—I’m very invested in this partnership."
[Unexpected reaction... but not unwelcome.]
///
Emma collapsed onto her back, sinking into the bearskin rug like it was a bar stool after twelve rounds in the ring. The flickering orange firelight painted predator-shaped shadows across her skin, mirroring her satisfied smile. Her breath was ragged, her chest rising and falling.
"It’s been a long time since I had such an extended... performance."
"Don’t get too comfortable," John said, hands behind his head. "We’re going again in a minute."
The usually composed face of the White Queen cracked slightly. She stared at the rising flagpole in disbelief.
"Fifth time in an hour? Are you a mutant or something?"
"Nope. I’m not the pinnacle of evolution," he grinned. "Just a magician."
"Well, I’m not. I need a bit more recovery time," she said, resting her head on his shoulder and tracing his abs with a finger. "Have you thought about how I might pay for your help?"
"I appreciate smart conversation. If you’d said we’re even now because of sex, I’d already be out the door."
"Trust me, I only pay people who deliver results," she murmured. "Sex is... an emotional advance. Like champagne before the contract signing."
"So I guess a moonlit walk is off the table?"
"You haven’t earned it," Emma said, dragging a clawed nail across his stomach, leaving a pale line. "So, what’s your decision?"
"It’s not like you gave me a lot of time to think," he replied, wiping her lipstick off his mask.
Emma took his finger into her mouth.
"That’s exactly what I’m talking about," John murmured, stroking her hair to make her stop. "Overall, I think your offer has potential. If we set up a decent protection system, we could bring in a couple of portals, maybe some magical merchants from all over the world. Everything in one place. Convenient."
[I even know a few dark elves who’d love to expand their clientele.]
"And in return?" she breathed.
"Haven’t decided yet," John admitted honestly. "But I like the idea. I’ll take on the development. I’ll be back in about a month with a proper plan—and we’ll talk rewards then."
"That’s already better than nothing," she purred. "Shall we shake on it?"
"I was hoping you’d shake something else," he said, raising his brows.
"Not now," Emma pinched his side. "Half the time I was behind you, and you never once looked at my face—like you were picturing someone else in my place..."
"Oh, come on," John grimaced. "I thought I could at least escape this sad post-sex talk in a brothel."
"First of all, this is not a brothel," Emma straddled him, leaning down so her hair tickled his chest. "Second, you didn’t pay me, so I get to ask questions. Let’s start simple: who is she?"
"Why do you even want to know?" John tried to keep eye contact, but his gaze kept slipping downward. "What’s it to you?"
"As a woman, it bothers me when someone’s thinking about another during sex," her fingers traced along his ribs. "Besides, I have a degree in psychology. Think of this as free therapy—‘the after’ session. I might forgive that kind of attitude, but other women probably won’t."
[Therapy from a lover? Why not.]
"There’s this... colleague of mine."
"Is she blonde?"
"Does that even matter?"
"No, but it would explain why you kept grabbing my hair," Emma ran a hand through her own light hair. "Does this colleague have a name? You can make one up if you want—I don’t care. Just easier for the conversation."
"Her name’s Jane."
[No point hiding it. Emma knows my name—if she wanted, she could easily find out who I run with.]
"So, you were imagining a blonde named Jane in my place," Emma smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "That explains a lot. What’s she like? Describe her in a few words."
"Loyal. Kind. Reliable."
"And how does that show?"
"Jane... she kind of glows from the inside. She sees the good in everyone. No, I’m not saying she’s a pushover who turns the other cheek all the time—far from it. When she sees injustice, she clenches her fists. And believe me, she hits hard. Her kindness is in how she tries to guide people, teach them, give them a second chance."
"That actually reminds me a bit of someone I know," Emma said, looking away. "You’ve probably heard of him—Charles Xavier, headmaster of the X-School."
"Pfft, I’ve got Chucky in my debt. Just ran a high-level op for him recently," John smirked. "Actually, Jane was the one who patched things up between him and his brother."
"So that’s why Juggernaut got off the mutant blacklist? Wow." She bit her lip. "So, what’s it like—being around Jane? Must be a lot of pressure, being next to someone so... righteous, flawless, perfect."
"That’s a pretty fair observation. Probably the same way Iron Man feels standing next to Captain America. No matter how cool you are, you always know he’s the one who’d take the bullet for you," he said, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "But over time, I realized Jane never tries to push her views or tell me how I should live. She just does—leads by example. She doesn’t try to crush my will or command me. And that’s... pretty damn great."
"So, you're comfortable around Jane?" Her hips pressed against him with lazy authority.
"Honestly, yeah. She's reliable, always listens. And she’d never stab me in the back. With her, I feel... at peace. Like I’m a kid again—everything’s simple, no danger, just warmth and comfort."
The fire in the hearth had nearly gone out. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and the floral cream on her skin. The bearskin beneath them was damp.
"I think I’m starting to get it," Emma murmured, thoughtfully twisting a lock of hair. "So why don’t you make a move on her? Afraid she’ll turn you down?"
"Nope. I know for a fact she likes me."
"I don’t get it. You like her. She likes you. So what’s the holdup?" Emma leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. "You don’t strike me as the shy high school boy type. What, is there something wrong with Jane’s looks? Big ears? Maybe a wart on her nose?"
"Nope. Jane’s got a divine body."
Emma gave him a mocking look.
"Yeah, I know how that sounds coming from me," John sighed. "I’m not exactly objective. But we’ve got a mutual friend who rated Jane a solid ten out of ten."
"And what would you rate me?" Emma asked playfully, pushing her chest forward.
[Damn, that’s hot. But gotta stay classy.]
"You know I’d be biased again, right?"
"You could at least try," she pouted.
[And that’s what I get for playing it modest. I haven’t even started on how Jane’s got bigger boobs and longer legs...]
"Interesting..."
"What?"
"I just find it curious how guys like you sleep with girls like me... and then fall for girls like her."
"Well, I wouldn’t say I’m in love—too early for that. But yeah, I definitely like Jane."
"Then what’s the problem, Johnny? She likes you—make the first move."
"How do I even explain this..." He paused for a moment. "With you, I can talk about anything. Like right now—I’m opening up about my feelings, because, honestly? I don’t care. If you cry and storm off, I’ll forget by morning. No offense."
"None taken. Trust between therapist and patient is essential," Emma said with a knowing smile. "So what’s different with Jane?"
"It’s just... more complicated," John exhaled. "Right now, it’s simple—we’re friends. We argue a lot, but it’s never led to anything serious. If we start dating, the stakes get way higher. And I know myself—I’ll screw it up eventually."
"You’ve never had a serious relationship. Just quick flings with girls whose names you don’t even remember."
There was no judgment in her voice—only gentle sympathy. And that pissed him off. Sympathy from a woman you’d just fucked was the last thing he wanted.
"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" John scowled.
"No need to yell at me," Emma tightened her grip on his hips with her thighs. "Telling the truth is kind of my job."
"And how much did you learn about me in an hour?" His voice dripped with venom.
"More than you think. Because we’re alike," she said with a smile that held no joy. "I’ve had a lot of lovers, but I never saw any of them twice. Getting attached is just asking to get stabbed in the back. You get that, don’t you?"
"More than you know." He looked away. "Corporate managers and witches are cut from the same cloth—swearing eternal love just to dig out your secrets and betray you the moment you drop your guard."
"That’s why we strike first," Emma continued. "Being clever and strong—that’s great. But..." She leaned in closer and whispered in his ear,
"I’m tired of being alone."
Her voice trembled. Just a little. Like she’d said too much but couldn’t take it back now.
"If I ever met a man who was kind and loyal—and really loved me—I’d never let him go."
For a few seconds, they just stared at each other.
"You think I should... risk my friendship with Jane?"
"That’s adorable," Emma whispered. "Every girl dreams of a guy like that—rough and reckless with the world, but soft and tender just for her. Just tell Jane about your fears, and she’ll become the most devoted wife you could imagine."
"Wife?" John repeated hoarsely. "I wasn’t thinking that far ahead..."
"You should. A loving, loyal wife can make you forget all your flings. Besides..." Emma bit her lip. "Good girls take their marital duties very seriously. After the wedding, bring Jane to me. I’ll strap one on and train her well."
The flagpole pressed against her ass.
"Mind showing my friend exactly what kind of training you have in mind? You know, a live demo..."
"Consider it a parting gift," Emma whispered, brushing her lips against his stomach.
When her tongue slipped lower, he clenched the bearskin and shut his eyes tight.
[Oh my god, I’m already thinking about buying an engagement ring.]
