A Spider by Any Other Name

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!”

You put away your phone. Fine by you. Your phone is almost dead, anyway. Those ride-sharing apps always take forever to load.

You feel just as comfortable out here as you did inside the club. In fact, it might be a bit more comfortable - inside it was hot and muggy. The cool spring air - polluted as it may be by concrete, chemicals, and the endless fumes of automobiles - is refreshing on your face. An evening breeze rustles trees along the road. A few of the other patrons go back inside.

“I looked up that phrase,” she says. You smile and tilt your head to listen. The way she speaks is sexy. The way she moves is confident. Even if she wasn’t wearing that dress, her self-assured style is mesmerizing. The dress certainly drew you in, though, until you were close enough that you could hear her voice over the din of the club. She made eye contact with you, smiled, and you approached.

None of the warning signs went up. She didn’t mention a boyfriend. She was only on her phone for a few seconds. No form of “no” or “not interested” verbal or nonverbal. Her friends? They were busy. After a few drinks and some dancing, she wanted to step outside for some air - and was happy for company.

“The gift horse thing.”

“Oh!” You nod. You must have been staring.

“Horse’s teeth change, so I guess back in the day you’d look at their mouth to see how old or how good they were.”

“Oh yeah. That tracks.”

“So it’d be kind of disrespectful to do that when someone’s giving you a horse.” You stare for a few more seconds. What the hell do you say to continue the conversation!?

“I guess it doesn’t really apply here, when I’m ordering a taxi and offering you a ride.” She laughs awkwardly.

You hit it off while waiting. You make small talk; her name is Nancy. “Like the comic character,” she says. You direct it into things of a more private nature. Like her dress, for instance.

The black bodice is the kinkiest and most eye-catching thing. It supports her generous chest and ample, full curves. A sheer knee-length gothic dress conceals skintight hosiery and heavy black leather boots. A pair of short gloves are the only things on her arms aside from the copious tattoos that you can’t quite make out in the glow of the streetlights. Shoulder-length brown hair pours over her breast, obscuring one eye but not a haughty smile.

You comment on her outfit. She’s happy to discuss it. Nancy was eager to try out the spider-themed hosiery. It’s not like she can wear it any other day.

When your ride arrives, she steps in first, followed by you joining her in the back seat. The driver’s pretty quiet.

“Hey, I’m really sorry - I’ve gotta text my friends. So on the ride I might be kinda quiet.”

“That’s fine,” you say with a smile. “Same here.”

Nancy plays with her phone for the next ten minutes. Yours doesn’t last that long, running dry sooner. You’re left to sit in the back of the cab. The driver is playing a podcast that sounds familiar but is too low to properly hear. Nancy’s scent is intoxicating. Her fragrance inspires kinky thoughts and queer scenarios in your head. You don’t even realize that you’re at her apartment when the car stops.

“Do you keep this up year-round?”

Her playroom displays most of its gear very proudly on the walls. Hoods, helmets, masks in one section; gags in another; tools for restraint in a third. Another wall is filled with toys of every description, with many you recognize and a few that you don’t, with the rest of the wall being mirrored.

The other two walls feature hooks, D-rings, a chair that you’re not one hundred percent sure how you sit in. The last wall - next to the door - features a curious net. Knotted rope makes a mesh into a tasteful geometric pattern.

You don’t have to be a genius to know that it’s a massive spider web. Anyone could tell, even if they were hooded up or heavily hobbled.

“Well yeah,” she says. “You never know when company comes over. Have to be ready for someone to get ensnared.”

“Like me?” you say with a grin.

“Like you. If you want it.”

She strokes the soft rope. “That’s what it’s here for, after all. A web’s no good unless there’s someone stuck in it. You wouldn’t let me go hungry, would you?” Nancy grins, baring her teeth. It’s so cheesy you almost smirk at the idea. Your growing urges get the better of you. You’ll happily play out being the fly in her web. You exchange words and instructions.

Nancy has your strip first. She locks your wrists in thick, heavy leather straps. They’re cool at first but the padding soon warms to your arms. Each wrist is fastened to the rope by metal rings.

Two more straps go around your ankles. You’re nude, vulnerable, and unabashedly aroused. The setup actually allows you a good deal of freedom to squirm - you can run your arms up and down along the web, and your legs too. You just can’t get free.

You do test the ropes, of course. They’re sturdy, and the rope shakes. You lean forward, stretching your arms and legs before pulling yourself back. You can feel your body and chest straining against her little web. You pull your wrists and feel ropes dig into your back and arms.

Dressed and prepared, she enters the room with all the confidence she had at the club, now blended with an intimidating, predatory attitude. And a new suit. You squirm, grinding your body against the ropes reflexively as you see her.

Nancy wears a skintight latex catsuit. The shining suit runs from top to toe, with her feet and hands obscured by long calf-length boots and elbow-length gloves. It’s been finely polished, and in the dim light of her playroom is easily the most radiant thing in the room. She has one hand on her hip, the other behind her back. A leather harness breaks up the otherwise-seamless form. Your eyes are drawn to her tits, her waist, her legs - all the parts that she wants you to see and wants you to worship.

Her body fully-figured, and as a result her proportions and curves are generous. You spend a few seconds - seemingly an hour - tracing your eye from her scintillating boots up her leg, to the dominant pose of her hands and finally to her breasts. You try to make eye contact, but her hood makes that a bit difficult.

It’s half costume, half fetish wear - and all intimidating. The hood covers her nose and the top of her head, leaving a wicked grin visible. However, rather than simply eyelets for her to see, there are eight lenses patterned on her mask - two white reflective lenses for her eyes, and six more to intimidate.

She walks up to you. You can’t make eye contact, but it feels like she’s piercing your flesh with that intense glare and earnest grin.

“What do you think spiders do with their prey?” she asks.

You swallow, unable to contain your excitement.

“They web them up.”

“That’s correct. And who are you?”

You shift in the ropes. “I’m your prey.”

“And I am Aunt Nancy, your owner and your keeper.”

“Not mistress? Not-”

She puts a finger to your lips, then cups her gloved hand over your mouth. Nancy leans in so close that you can feel her breath on your neck.

“Aunt Nancy.”

You nod and she retreats. She moves away slow enough that you realize she pressed her whole body against yours. That glorious form, coated in latex and warm with anticipation. You want it again, and your body naturally gravitates back towards her. She’s not having it. You realize there’s a collar around your neck, and it’s been stuck to the web.

The spider releases your left leg first. From behind her back she produces a long roll of silk medical tape. It’s wide, stiff, compressive, tight. It feels soft but unyielding against your skin. She starts at your feet and goes to your leg, then doing it to your other leg - stopping just below your manhood.

“Don’t squirm,” she says. “You can’t break from my web, even if you did.”

She’s intoxicating.

‘Aunt Nancy’ presses her body against yours. You let out an involuntary moan. She bites your neck - hard. You grunt. It’s painful , but sublimely pleasurable to feel her tongue lapping against your erogenous zones.

You feel almost drunk. She wraps your legs together in more layers of bandaged silk, then in a thin layer of shrinkwrap. It’s tight, so very tight as she layers it on.

Your domina takes down one arm, then the other, wrapping them against your chest in a tight self hug. The wide bandages go on tight but have a little pull. That freedom shrinks as she layers on a healthy heaving of shrink-wrap. Just for her own pleasure, she puts on another thin layer of shiny clingfilm. You can already feel the heat of the room warming it, tightening it - and that’s before she gets out the dryer to shrink it down.

You’re packed so tight. She shoves you back again, weaving your body between ropes. You squirm - a hapless cocoon in a spider’s web. A trickle of drool from your mouth as you moan, desperate for more.

The spider’s lips move to a grin. She shoves a wad into your mouth and tapes over that. The thick padding muffles your groans as she leans down to your manhood.

Lips over your waiting, eager flesh. Her tongue runs up and down. Tight, gloved fingers moving farther down, gripping at your waist and thighs. The only unwrapped parts of your body are hers - but then again, the many layers of wrappings mean that those parts belong to her as well. You’re her possession - her victim, cocooned and wrapped and packed and moaning. Drunk on power, poisoned by her allure, brought nearer and nearer to climax while still denied. You buck and grunt, trying but unable to stay still. The ropes strain as you wriggle.

Mummified squirms and gagged grunts, and the occasional moan from your captor. She’s smiling when you can see her - the mask doesn’t really let you make eye contact. It feels like she’s staring right at you. Waiting for you. Edging you. Letting you get closer and closer.

In your cocoon, you’re starting to get warm. The drunk feeling is taking over, and for a moment you feel light-headed before you manage to catch your breath. It’s the closest that someone could be to release without getting there.

She reaches down, teasing lower. You can see yourself for a brief moment - webbed, wrapped, packed, sealed, and heavily mummified in multiple layers. A purple imprint of lipstick on your neck from where she bit into you. You can’t hold back, and you release. She drains you dry, milking everything from you as you experience a climactic resolution that leaves you gasping for breath. The lusty release energizes her. She seems recharged. Grinning as she cleans the both of you.

Time flies. She takes you to the couch, still wrapped, panting, sweating - and still aroused.

Nancy sits near you as you coo. “You know, black widow spiders eat their mates - unless, of course, they’re fast enough to escape their webs or so small they’re not worth the attention.”

You chuckle, smiling behind your gag. She runs gloved fingers through your hair. “And you’re certainly not the second one.”

Nancy unlocked the door to the basement, punching in the eight-digit code with practiced ease. She took a minute to stretch all her limbs, flexing her appendages and removing her mask.

Three men moaned, squirming in their heavy silk-spun cocoons as she entered. Each of them was heavily gagged and completely mummified in spidersilk, stuck in the massive web that spanned her entire basement. They had lipstick marks along their necks and elsewhere - places where she’d given them sweet, venom-laden kisses.

One hung from the ceiling and two more from the wall. A woman she’d nabbed squirmed in her vacuum-tight webbing in a corner - Aunt Nancy still hadn’t decided what to do with her.

The others, of course, had been a source of pleasure, sustenance, and immense entertainment. Her venom had left them pliant, sweet, and submissive. All of them were hers on command  - aroused and ready for her when she saw fit. Tight webs left them all pure, white, and completely anonymous.

She scratched at the chin of one of her cocoons. He moaned and squirmed. Nancy grinned, revealing her fangs and talking aloud as she ran her hands over their webbed bodies.

“Hmmm… I wonder how many more I have room for…”