Thunder roared. Rain pattered. The Husband placed his key in the lock and rotated it. He opened the door to his home slowly, as if acting slowly would somehow prevent him from being noticed, or prevent his absence from being recognized. This was his caveman brain, his ancient reptilian brain, the part of him that operated on instinct and fight-or-flight. This was the part of him that was adapted to running from predators on the ancient savannah, and it was a part that was about to get a workout.
He’d been gone for three weeks, instead of just one, on a long series of photoshoots. Terrain needed to be cataloged, rock formations and ancient strata needed to be recognized and codified and shared and surveyed. It was his job. But he had a second job. He was a husband, after all; his wife had needs.
Mel, his beloved wife, had passed away months ago in a “lab accident.” Or maybe not. That was what the papers said, what the rumor around town still was, though he hadn’t clarified. How could he? The answer was complicated. His wife wasn’t “gone.” In fact, she was right here. Waiting. Probably watching. One night when he came home he found “her,” glossy, black, rubbery, permanently bonded and transcending humanity. She was a mistform now, and mistforms needed to feed. They wanted carbs and food and water and amino acids and nutrition and most of all, lust and need and sex and energy. And when she didn’t get all those things, they got hungry.
He went in the front door. Click. Click. Lights were out. Maybe cut. The house was all dark and silent. He pulled out his phone, shining the light over the darkened house. He saw her by-products. Felt it. Schlorps. Sticky strands stretched across the hallway, sticking to his clothes but not him. He dropped his phone. It skittered across the hallway, dropping over the wood floor. He was stuck. Sticky white latex adhered to his clothes, tightly, stickily, slightly unpleasantly. He dropped out of his clothes, standing now buck naked in the hall.
The husband looked for his phone. It was gone. As were his bags. And when he turned around, so were his clothes.
A floorboard down the hall creaked. There was a low growl .
"Uhhhh ... Mel? Baby? ..." A flash of distant lightning and he saw her, sleek and glossy, at the far end of the hall, tensed and lithe.
"Hey babe," he said with a little quiver of his lip. Another flash, and she was closer now. He saw the loose tumbled hair, the blank faceless mask, the talon tipped fingers. He saw her tail lashing like a cat about to pounce.
He heard another growl. It was a hungry sound that bypassed all rational thought and went in via the hindbrain. Backwash of headlights from the distant road & he saw her silhouetted, lunging, pouncing. He ran, the primate fleeing across the savannah from the hungry predator.
She was in predator mode. Hair mussed. Claws out.
He was wondering if maybe she was out and about. Was he getting cucked? Was he maybe going to have to watch as she had fun with some other visitor? That might have been fun, but then again that could also have been a ruse. Hubby felt sweat on his forehead, felt wind flowing across him as he saw his wife, lit by lightning, encased in permanent black gloss... and also something fierce. Pouncing.
Mel was a Hunter Mistform, fast, agile & smart. Top tier, they retained much of the original host anyway. Marriage & motherhood had tempered Melanie, given her the inner strength to cling to her core identity & emerge as mostly herself. New look, new body, new senses & abilities but at heart still her. Mistforms were part of a collective networked alien intelligence. Not a hivemind per se, but they were connected and shared experiences.
When one encountered danger nearby, they swarmed to their location & swamped the threat. And so, during Mel's fast while waiting for husband to return, her connection deepened. She experienced bleed; senses and experiences from her other “sisters,” improving her hunting skills to be more effective “feeders”. After all, mistforms consumed not the body but the sexual energy and potency of their prey.
On the flip side, Katya - the lead mistform - and the others were developing affections for their favorite prey, encasing them & whisking them off into the depths of the Mist to make them writhe, twitch and mewl, making mealtimes so much more delicious and satisfying.
He scrambled across the slick wood floor towards the living room, gaining purchase on the thick shag pile carpet, gaining speed... woof right into the sofa that wasn't where it was supposed to be. He tumbled over it back down to the floor, bracing for impact with the coffee table... that also wasn't where it was supposed to be. Rolled into a crouch "huh" and Mel landed on his back, limbs wrapping round, claws raking across chest and belly and she snarled. It was oddly muted, he realized she must have been gagged beneath the near-blank mask, the living latex had control of her.
He lurched, stumbled forward woof into the well-padded armchair that, surprise, also wasn't where it was supposed to be. He rolled, but Mel was gone from his back. Another flicker of light from the oncoming storm, something glistening black between him & the hallway door. Away, run away the ancient monkey brain sang, and away he ran, deeper into the large old house, with the strategically locked doors and windows, with the keys stashed under the fridge where only a slender tentacle could reach them.
It would have been so easy to take him down and have him right there, her darling, beloved prey, so blind in the dark, granted brief glimpses of his fate by the erratic slow-motion strobe of the approaching storm. She, on the other hand, could see perfectly well in the dark. Hell, she could track him from his scent. Right then, a delicious blend of fear and excitement. Perfect seasoning for a delectable meal. But she didn't want easy. She wanted fun. She wanted to hunt. After him again, pushing, not giving him time to collect his thoughts.
"Oh shit… she’s gone FERAL!” Poor husband’s ancient brain didn’t understand. It ran. IT scrambled through darkened rooms and connecting halls, bouncing off soft furnishings, always moving away from the hungry growls that follow. Forebrain understood; his limbic system and senses knew what might happen. He’d seen the Sisters; he’d seen the men turned into pleasured rubber egg-sacs. But forebrain isn't steering this thing. Is offering moral support though.
"I don’t want eggs up my bum. I really, don’t didn't want her eggs up my bum," he whispered. But his libido, whispering back, knew that he really did want them. "Not helping," he thought as he felt the cold tiles underfoot. "The kitchen! Utility room! Back door!" His monkey brain understood, lunged forward, and promptly bounced off the slick webbing stretched across the dark void. "Oh shit," he exclaimed.
Want? Need? All of these things were not things that prey got to decide on. Prey just enjoyed it, or hated it, but it was their fate. Conveniently, his lovely wife could sense what he wanted and needed. And it was a good thing, too. She wanted to hunt. Wanted to watch. Wanted to see him beg and moan.
Wanted to see him throb and need. Wanted to play with him even as the ancient reptilian brain was stuck in "flight" mode, instead of fight. Goodness, what a fun challenge. Extending the time, and the pleasure, every second of lewd bondage increased, every micro moment of need increasing. Letting him scramble and squirm and even try to get out. Maybe even try to beg. Almost better.
A lash of her tail and whipcrack across those gorgeous muscular buttocks as he paused for a moment after bouncing off her web. He stumbled back into the hall like a startled faun. The front door was ahead, rain now lashing against it, wind howling, lightning and thunder near simultaneous, the flash and the crash, the flare of the tree outside. And he was naked, in the dark. To go outside? No way. Up the stairs, the bedroom? No, that was her territory. She could sense, she could taste what her prey did before he knew it himself. A swipe with her claws, a lash of her tail, a grope, a grapple, she guided him to where she wanted him to be. That creak on the bottom step as he climbed, they rigged those steps when the kids got old enough to interrupt mummy & daddy time, set up certain steps to creak so they had warning. Kids were all grown up and flown the nest, but now their mother, who looked younger than her daughters, chased down her prey. That creak? She was right on him.
The bedroom door was ajar, a flash of light highlighting the webbing against the backlit window. A trap! He turned around, almost back to the top of the stairs. His office! Thick solid wood door, solid bolts! He shouldered it aside and raced in, but there was sticky latex webbing waiting to greet him, wrapping, enfolding, trapping. He struggled, mewled, strained, whimpered...
She chuckled and growled behind him, slick rubber claws sliding over his naked form, tail snaking around him, supple body pressing against him, slithering, slick, and hungry. She pressed him down, twisted him around, and wrapped the webbing around him. His arms were pinned, legs pressed together, and he was pushed down, crying out. The slick latex succubus twisted round, straddling him. A flash of lightning illuminated clawed hands sliding over his chest as she lowered herself onto his face, settling, smothering, thighs wrapped around his neck as she sat on his face.
Panicked mewling. Gentle moans. She raised herself just so. Husband gasped for air. She lowered back down, squirting her silk into his gaping mouth & smearing it over his face, grasping him tight with her sleek thighs.
The blissful moment when he’s caught. When she’s going in for the kill. He gets a last scream, a final desperate moan. His mouth goes wide, only to feel it filled. And then the rest of his face. Latex shrinking, toughening, tightening. Skintight , trapping his face in a sensual and silent scream. Not that silent though
What a luxury. And that’s when he realized the wrapping. And also when he realized just how rock hard he was.
Face wrapped. Body being wrapped next. Just enjoying the rubbing, the moaning, the groaning. Letting it simmer for a moment as his prey is mimicked and encased.
Her wet silk suffocated him as she spread more around his head until it was wrapped. Finally, air filtered through as it rapidly dried, constricting so tightly as it does. She takes her time thoroughly wrapping the rest of him, her need so intense it's gone beyond an ache to almost physical pain, fueling her masochistic urges, her symbiote responding with spiky rubber teeth on her nipples and between her legs.
“Nffffg….” Mel made a sound. Hubby was already mewling, and now they made sweet music together. Thick spiked shafts filled her, teasing but not fulfilling, driving her nearly mad with desire. She was now growling into the thick rubber plug filling her mouth, muscles rippling around her spiked tormentors. Mel finished wrapping to the tips of his toes.
A flick of her claws & her prey is separated from the webbing, slung over her shoulder writhing & mewling & she heads for the attic. Mel sighed, the animalistic mistform thoughts occasionally taking a backseat for the wife-thoughts. Though really, they were one in the same.
The attic. They always meant to do something with this space. And now? She had done something VERY very special for it. Layer upon layer upon layer upon layer, it was now fully webbed. She slithered through the openings in each layer, offset and rotated and labyrinthine.
The Lair. Near impossible to get in or out unless you know where you're going. She was easily manhandling her whimpering, writhing, helpless prey. Oh yes.
‘NO NO NO NO NO’ he thought. “LET ME GO, I HAVE TO GET OUT,” shouted the ancient brain. ‘MORE MORE MORE MORE’ screamed his nervous system, his arousal , his throbbing cock, his flexing toes, his arching back. Well, arching as much as prey in her arms could arch.
She readied the core. Spinning more webbing he is joined with her nest, suspended in the middle of the central orb of her web.
Rain battered against the house, lightning arced over and around it. It meant nothing. In the warm slick darkness of her densely layered nest there is only a faint rumble, drowned out by the mewling of her wonderful, delicious husband as she wrapped herself around his suspended, cocooned form, grinding against his trapped erection.
The tip of her tail probes between his cheeks, she snuggles in, holding him tight. Through the fog of lust and need she nuzzles his neck, "the weekend is young my love, I'm going to have you every way I can."
Feeling him between her breasts. Against her body feeling him thrashing. Like a serial killer, a spider, a boa constrictor feeling their victim thrash and lash and moan and groan.
Both of them edged so much that it hurt. So much that he’s wrapped almost for his own safety. She loves him so dearly after all. And she knows he’s a squirmer. That’s why she enjoys the chase. If he’s not begging and squirming and moaning and making the sweetest sounds of marital bliss, is it really the same?
If he’s not filled up and plugged. If he’s not totally encased in wonderful webbing. If he’s not being truly just devoured like prey, then it’s not the same. It doesn’t excuse the same panic, the same lust. The feeling in his head, “oh god it’s happening.”
The sweet feeling of a homely room, of privacy. Turned into something truly beautiful. Turned into something comfortable, in a way, if not for the throbbing cock and the fat plugs in his mouth and rear. Comfortable in a different way. In the way that she moves over him, too. possessively.. Sweetly. Earnestly.
There’s comfort. There’s a contrast, and a practiced way that she curls around him. Nibbling his neck. Fingers walking up and down his lucky body.
One hand on his cock, starting the sweet roughness. Seeing him wiggle his toes. Gripping his chin so she can whisper.
And after, leaning in to hear what hubby has to say.
MRRFGGG HNNGGGHH HMMGHHNG
Impossible to translate. Something that’s either “oh god, why, please” or “I love you honey.” Probably both.
