enwebbed

Red, and an infinity of webs. To gaze upon the architecture of Lolth’s domain is to face the truth of drow existence—that there is no escape. Vizaeth stands on a mile-wide bridge of Abyssal arachnid rope, where the slightest misstep will send him plummeting over the edge because a mile here is the width of a heartbeat and as trustworthy as a younger sister. Above, the dark sky roils with oily clouds, heavy with something worse than rain. Their shadows pass over him like shrouds, but they do nothing to conceal him.

There is no hiding here. Not from Her.

A river of black widows surges past his bare feet, followed by a foam of tarantulas of every colour and kind. Jumping spiders, eyes huge, leap between them in stop-start motion, eight-legged punctuation. He stands at the centre of a rippling tide, rings of household weavers and wolf spiders rising into their giant counterparts in ever-increasing circles. Enormous limbs—black, brown, metallic silver—reach up from the void either side of the bridge, bowing it with their weight as they haul vast heads and blind, too-knowing eyes up to observe.

Vizaeth shivers. He’s naked, because there is no defence that lasts in the Demonwebs. He’s hard, because he can feel Her approach. Pressure builds, crushing the air from his lungs so he’s already suffocating when She arrives.

She comes as a drow; skin of obsidian, hair of bone, eyes of blood. The swarm parts for Her, multiplying in Her wake, eggs laid and hatched and grown to adulthood in the blink of an eye. Vizaeth’s mouth is dry as She stands before him, eight eyes trained on him in judgement. He’s not worthy. No-one is. But he is here, and he does love Her, and She knows that.

Lolth brushes his hair back from his face, Her perfect, tender fingers leaving webs on his skin. She kisses his forehead, his cheek, his neck, and when Her fangs sink into the juncture of throat and shoulder, he cries out and tries, foolishly, to put his arms around Her.

Impossible. She’s much too large for that, no longer a drow but Her true form; half spider and the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. With Her venom in his veins, he’s helpless as She spins him into Her web. Thick strands wind around his ankles, wrapping his shin to the knee, while more capture his wrists, pulling them overhead and then out until he’s spread-eagled before Her, elaborate knots binding him to Her endless sky. His cock juts against his belly, aching and swollen, pre-cum smearing his skin.

Lolth reaches out with Her pedipalps, tracing the line of the scar up his stomach, teasing along where it splits beneath his pectorals. Carefully—for he is a special kind of prey—She brings the claws of one foreleg to bear on the old wound, and Vizaeth howls as she carves him open as he once carved himself. The spiders below writhe in an orgy of delight; such sustenance their Queen delivers! Such ambrosia, such sweet rain!

Webs thread through his split skin, pulling him open. Agony follows in their wake, and despite his bonds he has enough freedom to rut into empty air; blasphemous as it is, he wants Her to fuck him. To make something worthy of his vile, unsacred flesh.

“Please,” he begs. Lolth taps his lips with one finger, hushing him. The tip lingers, and he welcomes Her in, whimpering in ecstasy as She lets him take the length of Her forefinger into his throat. Her clawed nail scratches on the way down, filling his mouth with the metallic tang of blood.

Whilst he fellates one divine appendage, Lolth is hard at work. Lines of web are anchored within him and drawn out, each one glistening with beads of dark crimson. She strokes the cavity She’s cut into with Her arachnid claws, their caress sending a deep thrill of pleasure through him. A heavy squelch, the sound and feel of slicing—Lolth withdraws one forelimb and Vizaeth watches, wide-eyed, as She strings his liver onto a strand of web.

The finger in his throat pulses deeper, fucking gashes into his gullet. Grunting moans bubble with blood, choking him as, with neat precision, Lolth cuts out his kidneys, his stomach, his bladder; organ after organ plucked free and placed on the silvery threads until he’s surrounded by his own steaming innards. The long loops of his intestines sway in the hot breeze, twitching. His lungs wheeze and flutter a foot from his left hand.

At last, Lolth withdraws Her finger. Vizaeth sucks in a breath that has nowhere to go, dizzy with pain and holy lust. Her finger, wet with his spit, dances over the masterpiece She’s made, caressing each piece of him as if it’s something infinitely precious. The shivering shudder of orgasm courses through him at Her touch—he feels as if he’s come a dozen times, but She isn’t finished yet.

“Oh, my Vizaeth,” She whispers, as much a prayer as the thousands he’s whispered to Her throughout the long, lonely nights of his life. There’s a sickening crack, then another, and another as Lolth breaks his ribs one by one until the entire cage falls apart. All that’s left inside him is his heart, pounding hungrily. Lolth wraps Her hand around it, and it beats faster; faster still as She squeezes, gently. Vizaeth moans. His cock throbs, slick with overwhelming desire—no abdomen to smear against now, only empty space and traces of viscera.

Lolth bends closer. She kisses his brow again, then his cheek, but doesn’t bite this time. Instead, She fits Her mouth over his and he swallows Her tongue and Her webs and the spiders that flow out of Her throat as She tightens Her grip until his heart bursts in Her fist.

Vizaeth’s eyes fly open, a gasp tearing from his lips as he comes. So much, so messy; it coats his hand, trickling over his knuckles, pale in their iron grip on his still-hard cock. Lolth’s obsidian face stares back at him, blank and unmoving. With shaking fingers, he reaches out and smears a streak of his release across the carved curve of Her lips, then kisses Her clean, following with eight repetitions of a fervent benediction.

Some drow fear the afterlife; hold a secret, silent terror of what will become of them when they cease to be of use alive. Some drow fear it—not Vizaeth.

He knows exactly what’s waiting for him.