Chapter 361- The Slickness within Her

The kiss sounded like drowning.

Wet, soft, continuous. The slurp of two mouths working against each other in the candlelit dark, the suction of his lips pulling at her tongue, the quiet click of saliva breaking and reconnecting. The sound filled the small room the way water fills a glass, rising from the bottom up, overtaking the silence until there was nothing else.

"Mmph... ah..." Her breath hitched, the damp friction of his lips massaging hers into a swollen, aching pout.

She was crying.

The tears came without her permission. They ran from her dark eyes down her pale cheeks, catching the candlelight, dropping from her jaw onto his coat. She didn't know when she had been moved. One moment they were sitting on the floor, his thumb circling her palm, his mouth on hers. The next moment her back was against the wall, the cold concrete pressing between her shoulder blades, the spider legs splayed on either side of her body like eight fingers gripping the stone.

His left hand held both of hers.

Above her head. Pressed against the wall. Her fingers intertwined with his, her wrists pinned, her arms stretched upward. The grip was casual, one-handed, the effortless control of a man whose kinetic energy made the concept of physical resistance irrelevant.

"Nnngh..." She gasped into his mouth, a pathetic little whimper leaking past his teeth.

Her right leg, the first of her spider legs, was the one bearing her weight. The others were braced against the wall and the floor, the silver hairs scraping against concrete, the tips white from pressure. Her human body was suspended between his grip and her own legs, her small chest heaving, her tight black top riding up to expose the pale skin of her stomach—and the hard, dark nubs of her nipples pressing right through the thin fabric.

He was sucking her tongue.

Not kissing. Sucking. His lips closed around her tongue, his cheeks hollowing, the pull drawing her tongue deeper into his mouth. He swirled his own tongue around it, tasting her, the pressure rhythmic and warm. He released, kissed her lips, then sucked her tongue again. The cycle was hypnotic, each pull making her body twitch, each release making her lean forward for more.

She tried to push.

Her hands strained against his grip. The effort was pointless. His single hand held both of hers as if they were made of paper. She pulled, twisted, tried to slide her fingers free. Nothing moved. His fingers didn't tighten. They didn't need to. The hold was already absolute.

She tried to speak.

"MMPH"

The sound came out muffled, swallowed by his mouth. She pulled her face back, half an inch, gasping, a wet string of saliva stretching between their lips before snapping.

"Wait..."

He kissed her again, cutting off her breath with a greedy slurp.

"Please—"

His tongue entered her mouth, silencing her into a messy, breathless whimper.

The Touch

She was confused. The confusion ran deeper than the kiss, deeper than the wall against her back, deeper than her pinned hands. The confusion was about his other hand. His left hand held hers. His mouth was on hers. Where was his right hand?

The realization arrived late.

Delayed. Like a message traveling through water. She felt it before she understood it. A warmth on her spider body. Not on her human torso. Not on her arms or her neck or her face. On the spider body. The part of her that no one touched. The part of her that even she touched only with shame, only in darkness, only when the dogs were sleeping and the room was silent and her own fingers were strangers.

His right hand was on her spider abdomen.

"No. No no no."

She trembled, a sharp hitch shaking her chest. The words came out broken, whispered against his lips, her dark eyes wide and streaming. She tried to pull away, her spider legs scraping against the wall, her human body arching.

He didn't remove his hand.

His palm pressed flat against the silver fur of her spider body. The warmth of his skin traveled through the fine hairs, into the tissue beneath, into the body that she had spent her entire life hiding. The body that was the reason she was here. The body that had made her a villain without a crime.

The memories came.

They arrived in fragments, sharp and old, cutting through the present like glass through cloth.

The orphanage. She was seven. Her spider body had just begun to develop, the legs growing from her lower back, the abdomen forming behind her human waist. The other children had powers too. A boy who could make his skin stone. A girl who breathed frost. A child with volcanic hands whose fingers dripped with heat.

They had powers. She had a body.

They saw her in the shower room. The spider legs, the abdomen, the segments. The pink fold between the lowest segments that the matron had told her was "where babies come from, even for your kind."

They ran.

Not away. They ran and then turned and looked. And the looking was worse than the running. The boy with volcanic hands had pointed. His fingers leaving scorch marks on the wall as he gestured at her body. The girl with frost breath had whispered to the others. The whisper spreading, the word forming, the word that would follow her for twenty years.

Monster.

They called her monster. They roared it at her, low and mocking, the sound mimicking the growls of the creatures in the storybooks. They touched her spider body with sticks. Poked at the segments. Laughed when the legs curled inward. Touched the fold, the pink flesh, with a wooden spoon and then threw the spoon away, wiping their hands on their clothes.

She had been seven.

She had learned that day that her body was vulgar. That the spider part was not a power but a deformity. That the fold between her segments was not anatomy but obscenity. That no one would ever touch it with anything other than a stick.

His finger moved.

Down. Through the silver fur. Over the segments. The pad of his finger tracing the contour of her spider body the way a hand traces a curve it finds beautiful. Not poking. Not prodding. Not testing. Tracing. Feeling. Learning.

He reached the fold.

"No..."

His finger pressed against the pink flesh. The lips, swollen from hours of pheromone saturation, parted around his fingertip. The heat was immediate. The slick, clear fluid coating his skin in a thin, warm film.

He pushed.

One finger. Inside. The first human finger that had ever entered her body. The tight, wet, hot channel of her spider pussy gripping his finger with the desperate, rhythmic clench of anatomy that had never been penetrated. The walls were ribbed, the texture different from human women, the ridges running in concentric rings that tightened around his knuckle as he pushed deeper.

"Ah—haah... FREE IT"

She screamed the word. Not a protest. A plea. Her dark eyes wide, her tears falling, her spider legs trembling so hard the tips left scratches on the concrete. Her human hands gripped his one hand above her head, her nails digging into his fingers.

He pulled his finger back. Slowly.

The withdrawal dragged the wet sound from her body, the slick coating his finger, the ridges of her channel gripping and releasing in reluctant succession.

He held his finger up.