Penny Parker: Spider Reborn

In the shadowed underbelly of New York City, where neon lights flickered like dying stars against the grimy skyline, Peter Parker—better known as Spider-Man—swung through the night on threads of web. He was in hot pursuit of Doctor Octopus, the mad scientist whose mechanical tentacles clawed at the air like hungry serpents. Doc Ock had just raided a high-tech lab in Midtown, stealing experimental chemicals that could rewrite reality itself. Peter couldn’t let that slide.

“Give it up, Ock! Those tentacles won’t save you from a web-slinging beatdown!” Peter quipped, voice echoing off alley walls as he flipped mid-air, dodging a swinging arm that smashed a dumpster with a metallic crunch.

Doc Ock laughed, a deep, mechanical rumble. “Foolish arachnid! You’ll regret interfering!” With a flick of one tentacle, he hurled a canister toward Peter. It burst open mid-flight, releasing a thick, shimmering gas that enveloped Spider-Man like a toxic embrace.

Peter coughed, spider-sense tingling too late. The gas burned his lungs, seeped into his skin, and then… everything shifted. His body convulsed as he hit the ground, muscles twisting, bones reshaping in a wave of agony that blurred his vision. He felt his frame slimming, curves forming where there had been none—hips widening, waist narrowing, chest swelling into soft, full breasts that strained against his suit. His face softened, features refining into something feminine, delicate yet strong. Long, dark hair cascaded from under his mask, and between his legs, a profound emptiness replaced what had been there before.

By the time the haze cleared, Doc Ock was gone, his laughter fading into the distance. Peter—now she—pushed herself up on shaky arms, staring down at her new form. The Spider-Man suit, designed for a male body, now clung like a second skin, accentuating every curve: the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, the generous bust that heaved with each panicked breath. “What… what the hell?” she whispered, her voice higher, smoother, laced with a sultry timbre that made her own ears flinch.

She stumbled into a nearby abandoned warehouse, ripping off the mask to stare at her reflection in a shattered window. Wide, expressive hazel eyes stared back—still Peter’s eyes—but framed by long lashes, softer cheeks, fuller lips. A stranger wearing his face. “This can’t be real. Ock… what did you do to me?” Panic surged, hot and choking. She tried the word out loud, testing: “Petra?” It landed wrong—too pretty, too delicate, like putting on someone else’s skin. She shook her head hard. “No. Not that. Never that.” She was still Peter. She had to be.

Aunt May was away on her three-month world cruise, thank God. The thought of her walking in the door to… this… made bile rise in her throat.

Venturing out, she webbed toward her apartment in Queens, sticking to shadows. But the city had other plans. Perched on a rooftop to catch her breath, a familiar voice called out.

“Hey, web-head! You look… different tonight.” Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, landed beside her with a fiery whoosh. His eyes widened, lingering on the way the suit hugged new curves. “Whoa, Spidey? Is that you? Or did you get a serious upgrade?”

She tensed, spider-sense buzzing—not from danger, but from the heat in his gaze. “Johnny, it’s me—Peter. Ock hit me with some gas. Long story. Just… back off, okay?”

But Johnny stepped closer, inhaling deeply. “Peter? Damn, you smell… incredible. Like vanilla and something spicy.” His hand brushed her arm, sending a jolt through her—a mix of revulsion and an unwelcome spark that pooled low in her belly.

“No! I mean, thanks, but I got this.” She webbed his feet to the roof and swung away, heart pounding. What was that? It wasn’t just Johnny; she felt it too, a growing ache, like her body was no longer hers.

The troubles didn’t stop. In civilian clothes—baggy jeans and a hoodie that did little to hide her figure—she tried to blend in at a corner deli. The guy behind the counter, usually gruff, turned charming. “On the house, beautiful. Anything else I can get you? Maybe my number?”

She muttered thanks and bolted. On the street, heads turned. A group of college guys whistled; one approached boldly. “Hey, gorgeous, you look like you could use some company.” His eyes glazed, pupils dilating as he got closer.

“Back off!” she snapped, dodging with superhuman grace. Inside, the heat intensified, a flush creeping up her neck, thighs clenching involuntarily. She felt desired, powerful, but also exposed—like prey.

By nightfall, as Spidergirl (the name stuck for now, bitter on her tongue), she patrolled again, stopping a mugging in Central Park. The victim, a buff jogger, wouldn’t let go. “My hero… or should I say heroine? Let me thank you properly.” He leaned in, lips parted. She webbed him to a tree and fled.

Exhausted, she collapsed in her apartment, stripping off the suit. In the mirror: smooth skin, full lips, breasts heavy and sensitive. Experimentally, she cupped one—electric thrill shot straight to her core. The heat built, insistent. “This is bad,” she whispered, fingers trailing lower despite herself, brushing soft folds. A soft moan escaped—her first as a woman—and shame flooded her. She yanked her hand away, cheeks burning. Slow down, Peter. Figure this out.

Tomorrow she’d hit the streets as both Spidergirl and… whoever she was now in civilian life. But with heroes like Wolverine or Tony Stark possibly crossing her path, fending off advances would be a full-time job. And that inner fire? It was only getting hotter.

She curled on the bed, hugging her knees, trying to ignore the low throb between her legs. Sleep didn’t come easy.