The web was no longer a prison; it was a living, pulsing organism that breathed with him. Each thread seemed to vibrate like a heartbeat, warm against his slick, feverish skin. He could barely tell where the silk ended and his body began. His arms were bound so tight they'd gone numb, his legs pinned wide, and his cock—gods, his cock—throbbed like it had been claimed by something far greater than himself. Every thrust, every ripple of slick folds grinding down on him was a worship so perverse it felt like blasphemy.