Chapter 3
What Struggles in the Spider's Web
June
Riven has made it clear he knows exactly what I want. Even if I’m not even sure myself.
But before I can protest or agree or do anything rational, he moves. One razor-sharp claw extends, and I freeze, certain this is where my evening takes a hard turn toward dismemberment.
Instead, he delicately traces the seam of my cargo pants from hip to knee.
The tough canvas parts like tissue paper with the softest whisper of tearing fabric. Cool evening air hits my exposed skin, and I gasp at the sudden contrast. He’s cut through the outer layer with surgical precision, leaving me bare from mid-thigh down on one side.
“Those were my favorite work pants,” I say in an attempt to focus on something—anything—besides how the gentle brush of his claw against my skin sent electricity through my veins.
“I’ll compensate you appropriately,” he replies, already moving to repeat the process on my other leg. Another precise cut, another whisper of parting fabric.
Then, with two more deft cuts on either side of my waistband, my pants fall away in shredded pieces, leaving me exposed in ways I never have before.
The web’s design becomes suddenly, mortifyingly clear: I’m displayed with my legs parted, arms spread wide, every vulnerable inch on perfect display for his alien gaze.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the reverence in his voice makes my breath hitch. “You respond so perfectly to restraint.”
His massive form settles between my spread legs, and I realize with a gasp what he intends to do next. The silk holds me perfectly in place as he studies me with those six yellow eyes, his alien face unreadable.
“Wait,” I say, my heart hammering hard. “I don’t… I’ve never…”
“Never been properly worshipped?” His low voice rumbles, vibrating through the silk and into my bones. “How unfortunate. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Human males are notoriously inadequate at such things.”
Before I can process his casual insult to my entire species, one razor-sharp claw hooks delicately under the elastic of my cotton underwear. The fabric parts with barely a whisper, and seconds later I’m completely exposed to the mountain air and his hungry gaze.
“Much better,” he murmurs with obvious satisfaction. “Though your undergarments are deplorably utilitarian. We’ll need to address that in future deliveries.”
“Future deliveries?” I ask, my voice breathy with anticipation. “Are you planning to make this a regular thing?”
“If you so please.” His hands then slide up my thighs with surprising gentleness, and every coherent thought abandons me.
His fingers are long and elegant despite the chitinous plating.
They map the sensitive skin of my inner thighs with scientific precision, as if he’s cataloging every response for later reference.
When his thumbs brush against my already wet pussy, I arch against the web’s restraint with a strangled gasp.
“Your arousal response is remarkably efficient,” he observes, and I can hear the wonder in his voice. “Are human females always so… responsive to proper handling?”
“I don’t know,” I manage. “I’ve never been handled like this before—”
The words dissolve into incoherent moaning as his thumbs begin tracing slow circles, spreading my wetness with methodical thoroughness.
The clinical precision of his touch should be off-putting, but instead it’s driving me absolutely insane, like he’s conducting some kind of erotic scientific experiment and I’m the willing test subject.
“Excellent lubrication production,” he murmurs approvingly. “And such lovely sounds.”
Then he leans forward, and I get my first close look at his alien mouth. His mandibles—those sharp, predatory features I’d been so terrified of—are graceful and precise. As I watch in fascination, they begin to move independently, flexing and adjusting with what looks like excitement.
“What are you going to do with those?” I begin to ask, but then his tongue makes contact with my clit and every question I’ve ever had evaporates.
His tongue is long, dexterous, impossibly clever as it explores me. He starts with broad strokes, learning my taste, before his mandibles join the assault and I completely lose my mind.
They move independently. One traces delicate patterns around my clit while another provides the most exquisite pressure against my entrance. The sensation is unlike anything I could have imagined, precise and overwhelming and absolutely mind-blowing.
“Oh fuck, Riven,” I gasp, throwing my head back as the sensation overwhelms me. “That’s—I never knew it could feel like this.”
“Language, June,” he chides without lifting his head, his voice muffled against my heated flesh. “Though I appreciate the enthusiasm.”
Then, without warning, his mandibles begin to vibrate.
The sensation is so unexpected, so perfectly targeted, that I scream. Actual screaming, the kind that probably scares wildlife for miles around. It’s like having a dozen vibrators all working in perfect coordination, each one focused on a different nerve ending.
“There we are,” he says with obvious satisfaction, the vibration unceasing. “I was wondering when you’d stop trying to maintain that professional composure.”
I want to say something clever in response, but one of his mandibles has found a perfect spot and is doing something that makes speech impossible. All I can do is arch against the web’s restraint and make sounds I didn’t know I was capable of producing.
“Such a responsive little thing,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to study my face. “Look at you, spread so perfectly in my web, taking everything I give you. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
I’ve never been told that before, and the realization makes my throat tighten, but before I can respond, he’s back to his methodical destruction of my sanity.
One mandible slides lower, teasing at my entrance with delicate pressure, while another maintains that maddening vibration against my clit.
“Please,” I whisper as I strain my hips against the silk, needing more contact.
“Please what?” he asks, lifting his head to fix me with that predatory stare. “Use your words, June. I want to hear you ask for what you need.”
The demand should embarrass me, but I’m too far gone for shame. “Please don’t stop. Please… more. I need you to keep going. I’m so close…”
“Much better,” he says with obvious approval. “Honesty is so refreshing.”
Then he redoubles his efforts, and I’m flying apart.
The climax builds from somewhere deep in my core, spreading outward like wildfire until every muscle in my body locks tight. The vibration from his mandibles intensifies just as his tongue finds the perfect rhythm, and suddenly I’m screaming again as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
It seems to go on forever, each pulse stronger than the last. Through it all, the web holds me perfectly, every tremor and convulsion transmitted through the silk. I feel completely claimed, thoroughly possessed in ways that go far beyond the physical.
When the aftershocks finally fade, I’m left gasping and boneless, supported entirely by his careful restraints. My entire body feels like it’s been disassembled and put back together again, every nerve ending still singing with residual pleasure.
Riven pulls back slowly, studying my face with an almost scientific fascination as he licks his mandibles clean of my wetness. “Remarkable,” he murmurs. “You came apart so beautifully for me.”
He then snips away the restraints with startling efficiency, catching me in his arms before gently setting me down. He keeps his hands on my waist as I stumble forward on legs made of jelly.
“Stability should return in a few minutes,” he informs me. “You may experience residual sensitivity for several hours.”
“That was… Just wow,” I say breathlessly, glancing down at the tattered remains of my pants with a mixture of regret and arousal.
“Ah, yes. Your garments.” Riven follows my gaze, a low chittering sound rumbling from his chest. “A regrettable but necessary casualty. Wait one moment.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s already gathering the tattered pieces of my cargo pants from the ground. Then, his eight legs begin to work in a dizzying ballet.
Fine strands of silk emerge from the spinnerets at his wrists, and his legs act as the world’s most efficient needles.
Soon the silk thread fuses the torn canvas back together, the seams so perfect they’re invisible.
In less than a minute, he’s holding up my pants, completely whole and looking brand new.
“That’s crazy,” I say, unable to look away from his handiwork. “I had no idea you could do that.”
“Basic textile repair,” he says casually. He then nudges the sad, discarded scrap of my cotton underwear with the tip of one leg, before making a sound of quiet disgust. “These, however, are unacceptable.”
“They’re practical,” I protest weakly, though even I can admit they’re not exactly sexy.
He ignores me completely, instead spinning another web of silk in his hands, this one a delicate, pearlescent white so fine it’s almost translucent. In seconds, he has crafted a pair of seamless, elegant panties. He holds them out to me, his expression unreadable.
“You will wear these,” he states.
It’s a command.
I’m so shocked I just stare at him. My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. He wants me to wear underwear he just made for me? The sheer audacity of it is staggering.
But then I look at the garment he’s holding. The silk seems to glow in the porch light, incredibly soft and delicate. A traitorous thrill, sharp and hot, shoots through me at the thought of his command, of him dressing me.
“They’re beautiful,” I admit, reaching for them with something like reverence.
My hands shake as I take them from him. The silk is impossibly light, softer than anything I’ve ever felt. It feels like touching a cloud. Wordlessly, feeling his six eyes on me the entire time, I slip them on.