Chapter 10: Webbed and Helpless
The air in the new chamber was thick and sweet, cloying like spilled perfume over something rotten. Becca’s nose twitched, her cat ears flattening against her skull as she paused at the entrance. “Ugh, smells like grandma’s closet and bad decisions,” she muttered to herself, her tail giving an irritated flick. But the path forward was here, through this forest of slowly dripping amber columns and shadowy, vine-strewn altars.
She darted in, a blur of motion, her instincts screaming at her to keep moving. The sticky warmth of the place was already clinging to her skin.
Three shapes dropped from the cavern ceiling in perfect silence, suspended on glistening threads.
“Shit!” Becca hissed, her body already reacting. She somersaulted forward as the first Webber landed where she’d been standing, its four prehensile tentacles splaying out with a wet slap. The second scuttled to her left, its bulbous, translucent abdomen pulsing. She didn’t hesitate—pivoting on her heel, she drove a boot hard into that swollen sac. It gave way with a sickly squelch, and the creature recoiled with a chittering squeal.
The victory was instantly stolen. The third had landed directly on her back.
Its tentacles were like cold, living rope, wrapping around her torso with shocking speed. One pinned her left arm to her side in a rubbery, unbreakable grip. She could feel a strange, tacky residue seeping from its limbs, hardening rapidly on contact with the air. “Get off, you eight-legged asshole!” she snarled, twisting, her free right hand clawing for the knife at her belt.
She got the blade out, driving it backward into the thing’s midsection. Dark fluid welled around the steel and the creature shuddered, its grip loosening for a fraction of a second. That was all she needed. She shoved it off, stumbling forward.
But the first one, the one she’d dodged, was ready. It launched itself from the ground, not at her body, but at the wall beside her. Its tentacles slapped against the stone, and with a whip-crack motion, it flung a strand of that same elastic resin. It caught her right wrist, yanking it violently and pinning it flat against the rough rock with a sticky, unyielding bond. “Oh, come on!” Becca yelled, tugging futilely. It held.
The wounded Webber she’d stabbed was slow, but the third recovered quickly. Together, they descended on her.
It was a horrifically efficient process. They skittered over her struggling form, their tentacles moving in a blur, weaving bands of translucent latex-like resin around her legs, her torso, her trapped arms. The material smelled chemically sweet, binding to itself and to her clothes with terrifying strength. She kicked, but her legs were swiftly cocooned together from thigh to ankle. The more she struggled, the tighter the bindings seemed to cinch.
“Fucking hell, this is so rude!” Becca grunted, her breath coming in quick pants. The resin tightened across her chest, molding to her breasts, pinning her completely. Within seconds, she was immobilized, arms stuck to the wall above her head, body wrapped in a glossy, constricting shell from her neck down to her mid-calves. Only her head, the tops of her shoulders, and her feet remained free. She hung there, helpless, a fly in a very specialized web.
The Webber she’d kicked in the abdomen was dead, oozing its last on the floor. The one she’d stabbed was moving slowly, badly wounded. But the third, the architect of her bonds, was very much alive. It climbed down her immobilized body with proprietary ease, its tentacles tracing the lines of its handiwork.
Then she felt it. A low, insistent vibration began to hum from within her, accompanied by a sudden, slick warmth deep in her ass. Her cursed buttplug, dormant until now, had activated. The arousal from the fight, the panic, the sheer physical indignity of it all had triggered the damn thing. A flush of heat spread through her groin, her cunt responding traitorously to the sudden, buzzing fullness in her rear. “Not now, you piece of shit,” she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut.
The Webber seemed to sense the change in her physiology. It positioned itself between her splayed, resin-covered thighs, its small midsection pressing against her mound. From a slit beneath its body, an ovipositor extended—a slick, tapered tube of mottled grey flesh, ridged and throbbing.
From a slit beneath its body, an ovipositor extended—a slick, tapered tube of mottled grey flesh, ridged and throbbing. It probed blindly against the resin covering her sex, the material somehow parting for it like a lover’s lips, granting access to the soaked heat beneath. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Becca warned, her voice trembling as the thing’s cool tip found her slit and pressed insistently against her clenched entrance.
Her body betrayed her completely. The cursed plug in her ass vibrated fiercely, echoing through her pelvis and forcing a wet gasp from her mouth. Her cunt, already embarrassingly aroused from the struggle and the bindings, yielded. The ovipositor slid into her with one smooth, relentless push, a stretch that burned and filled her in a single deep stroke. “Oh, god,” she whimpered, the sound partly protest, partly shocking relief as it bottomed out inside her, its ridges rubbing brutally against every sensitive inch.
It began to fuck her in earnest, pulling back until just the tip remained before spearing back into her depths with a wet, squelching sound. Each thrust was a mechanical piston, a biological function with no rhythm or tenderness, just deep, penetrating shoves that pushed the air from her lungs. The Webber’s tentacles gripped her resin-wrapped hips for leverage, the sound of its body slapping against her thighs a vulgar metronome in the humming chamber. Becca threw her head back, cat ears flat, a string of profanity dissolving into choked moans as the thing hit her cervix with every deep drive.
She could feel a pressure building at the base of the invading shaft, a thickening as it pistoned in and out. The knot was forming, a bulbous swell that now bumped against her stretched vulva with every retreat, promising an even deeper, more final penetration. “It’s getting bigger, fuck, it’s—” Her warning turned into a sharp cry as the Webber gave a final, powerful thrust and the swollen knot forced its way past her entrance with a tearing, stretching pop.
It lodged deep inside, an anchor, locking the creature to her. The shaft beyond the knot pulsed violently, and a new, alien sensation bloomed in her core. Something warm and gelatinous began pumping into her. Not fluid, but solid, soft masses. Eggs. They traveled up the ovipositor in a slow, rhythmic procession, each one a distinct, slithering pressure as it passed the knot and was deposited into the cradle of her womb. Her stomach, already tight from the intrusion, began to subtly distend.
“Holy shit, you’re full of them,” a familiar voice said, low and strained.
Silva stood at the chamber’s edge, her red skin gleaming in the amber light. Her eyes were fixed on the spectacle, her own womb tattoo glowing a persistent, hungry crimson. She watched the Webber’s abdomen pulse with each egg transferred, watched Becca’s tight belly begin to round. She walked over, her steps slow, and placed a warm hand on the firming curve of Becca’s stomach, rubbing it almost reverently.
“A little help?!” Becca managed to grunt, her body shuddering as another clutch of eggs slid home. “Get this damn thing off me!”
“The knot’s seated,” Silva said, her voice oddly thick as she felt the life taking root under her palm. “It’s locked in you. And look at it.” The Webber’s movements were becoming sluggish, its tentacles losing their grip. “It’s dying. Nothing to do but let it finish.”
The egg transfer continued, a slow, inexorable filling. Becca could feel each deposit as a heavy, settling warmth. Her belly was visibly swelling now, a taut dome under the translucent resin. The Webber gave one final, weak pulse and then went utterly still, its weight hanging from her locked sex. The ovipositor remained rigid, the knot stubbornly lodged inside her, a grotesque leash connecting her to the corpse.
Silva’s knife, sharp and practical, sawed through the resin bonds at Becca’s wrists and then worked down her body. The latex-like material split and peeled away, but the dead Webber, anchored firmly inside her, remained. Becca stumbled forward a step as her legs were freed, the dead weight of the creature pulling painfully at her groin. It dangled between her thighs like a horrific, bloated pendant, its tentacles brushing the floor.
“Well,” Becca panted, looking down at the obscene connection and her own rounded stomach. “This is a new kind of annoying.” She gave an experimental tug, but the knot held fast, a deep, unyielding fullness. “Guess we’re walking together for a bit, ugly.”
Silva watched her, the glow of her tattoo slowly fading, replaced by a sharp, focused light in her slit-pupiled eyes. “Can you move?”
“Yeah,” Becca said, taking another cautious step, wincing at the strange inner weight. “Just feels… really full. And I’ve got a dead date.” She looked toward the next dark passage leading out of the chamber. “You coming? Or you wanna stand there rubbing your own stomach all day?”
Silva’s hand jerked away from her lower belly, where it had unconsciously drifted. She had just given birth and was oddly missing the fullness of her unorthodox children. She fell in beside Becca, their footsteps and the soft scrape of the Webber’s corpse the only sounds as they left the sweet, dripping chamber behind.