The sticky heat in the cavern thickened as the last of the spider-women's laughter faded into breathy moans and hissing chitter. The queen loomed above him, her eight glittering eyes like drops of oil reflecting his helpless form. The web cradled his back in a damp, elastic tension, the threads clinging to his skin like greedy tongues. He could barely move; every shallow breath made the silken bonds tighten and hum with predatory life.
His cock was still hard—obscenely, traitorously hard—veins bulging purple under the glossy coat of mingled juices. The queen lowered herself with languid grace, her huge abdomen swaying like a pendulum of lust. Venom dripped from her fangs, each drop sizzling on the web beneath him with a soft tssss.
"You've filled my daughters," she purred, her voice a deep, echoing thrum that vibrated in his bones. "But the broodmother always takes the final gift."
