Black Widow

**CW: drug use**

A light, blue-tinged, hot-white, streaks through the room. Jagged, like lightning, splitting the air with a crackle, strobing in my eyes, making even the finest of the fine hairs that cover my body stand to attention.

Where the fuck am I, and how did I get here? Shapes flit around the room so fast I can’t get a bead on them. I can’t focus, can’t tell where one mass ends and another begins. I try to think, try to align my thoughts long enough to make sense of something, anything, but the things in the room won’t let me.

One second, I think I have the beginnings of a memory. A flash of a pill between my fingers, a vague whisper that sounds like I dare you. But before I can take hold of it, piece it together until it becomes something definite, odd, prickly things bump against me and it’s gone. Sometimes fading, sometimes vanishing with a pop. My ears are ringing, my head is spinning, I’m angry, cold, disoriented.

Rusty wetness erupts in my mouth. I probe my lips with my tongue. Flaps of tattered skin, torn by my own teeth in temper. My limbs flail, my hands pound the solid floor beneath me. I have my strength, I have my will, so why the fuck can’t I leave?

A familiar voice starts to call my name. It’s faint and muffled like it’s coming from deep in the earth or reaching me from tens of miles away. The words it’s using are soothing, but they don’t soothe me at all. Nothing will until I regain control.


The word ricochets off the walls, the feminine cackle that delivers it wicked, recognisable, but unplaceable. There’s ridicule in that voice. Petulance, spite and ridicule, but the very sound of it still makes me hard. Someone I’ve fucked, then. Someone my body responds to.

More laughter, more mocking. Forcing me to laugh in return, driving the humourless sound through my fury, around the lump in my throat, out of my bloody mouth. The sounds of hysteria build to a deafening crescendo then cut off in an abrupt bark.

I’m stiller than I’ve ever been. Concentrating, feeling, baulking. Something is touching my toes. Stroking softly near the nail, over it, around the side, pressing into the fleshy pad underneath. It tickles as it works its way between, over the top again, then along the undersides of the rest of my toe joints.

A shiver runs through me when I feel my toes being drawn together. Movement is restricted, I can’t even wriggle them. The same sensation begins on my other foot, the same tickling, winding, compressing. I feel pressure building slowly between my feet. The bones of my ankles are pressing together. Whatever it is that’s touching me is moving up my calves. Unhurriedly winding, constricting my blood flow, skimming my knees.

Am I on a boat? Beneath the incessant strobes, it looks like the room is rocking from side to side. I’m rolling, lying on my left arm, my belly with my nose skimming the floor, my right arm, then my back again. It goes on and on, making me seasick.

Disgust. That’s what I feel when something fine and sticky tangles around my fingers. I try to splay them but whatever is has decided to work faster here. My fingers are pulled together, leaving no gaps, and my hands are quickly pinned to my sides.

My earlier bravado abandons me. Panic replaces it. It pours cold water over the fire of my fury, solidifies the lump in my throat until I start to gag. This new feeling is fear. The power I had to get up and leave has been taken from me. I’m helpless, lying on the floor, breathing hard as my chest tightens, as something winds its way around my neck and begins creeping over my chin. Over my mouth, beneath my nose, blocking my ears, leaving only a small slit across my eyes. Whatever it is, it wants me to see. That makes me certain that I don’t want to see, ever.

Eight points of contact. On my thighs, my belly, my chest, my throat. Supporting a heavy weight that I’m sure belongs to something that is gloating. It’s standing on me, triumphant, lording it over its prey.

A flash of glittering, black eyes almost stops my heart. The ceiling rushes by above me, the floor would be scraping my back if it wasn’t cushioned by whatever it is I’m shrouded in. Suddenly the world is topsy-turvy and I’m dangling by my feet. Swinging in the middle of the room like a pinata.

How wide are my eyes? How wild? In a particularly bright flash of that blue-white light, I see a reflection that makes me want to scream. A grey-white lump suspended in mid-air. Like a hovering ghost, like a fly wrapped in…

A scream breaks free but goes no further than the silken gag covering my mouth. I try to bend, try to swing hard enough and far enough to break the threads that hold me, but they hold fast. Eyes fixed on the two things crouched on the floor, I start to cry. I’m going to die here, I’m sure of it. They will use me and then they will eat me.

The closest one arches its back. Its distended belly strains toward the ceiling, its forehead almost scrapes the floor. Four long, spiky-haired limbs bend, and it comes for me, walking upside down on its hands and feet. The other follows. They vanish from my line of sight, but I can hear them, the tapping of their feet scuttling across the floor and over walls a torment I can barely endure.

A touch on my shoulder, a sharp pinch. Pressure on my chest, another pinch. Then my belly, then my thigh, then…Jesus, please! My groin stings, my cock twitches. Something hairy and tight closes around it and starts to pulse. Pumping slowly, feeding, drawing more come from me than I knew I had to give.

Pleasure wars with revulsion, I try to thrust forward even as I pull back. Eight points of pressure, bleeding me, powerful suction, emptying me. Feminine gasps, moans, and cries mingle with my cries. I start to fade.

Fatigue lends an unnatural heaviness to my body. Endless orgasm weakens me. The strobing lights soften, become warmer, and I’m certain that this is it. When you die, you do see a light. I imagine how I must look to those waiting for me on the other side. Shrivelled, an empty husk, fed upon by the black, hairy creatures that are grunting and groaning still.

Then I see a light bulb. A plaster rose surrounds it and hanging from that there’s a garland of black, paper spiders. My body rocks rhythmically, so I lift my head to see why. And I see Margaret, with her hands on my belly, her toes digging into my thighs, her cunt sucking at my cock. Marcie is lying on the floor beside us, her hand just skimming my shoulder and I can taste her juices on my lips. Her face is stricken with fear, yet a small smile still plays at the corner of her mouth.

She’s been rubbing her cunt on my face. Knowing that is enough, I’ve had enough. My cock spurts inside of Margaret and I wonder how many times that’s happened tonight. How long was I under?

As soon as she comes she jumps off, splattering my come and hers all over my legs and the sheet they’re tangled in, then runs for the bathroom. Just before she disappears through the door she throws something in disgust. It rolls over the floor and comes to a stop a few feet away from my head.

A bottle full of tiny black pills. There’s a wonky white label wrapped around one side. Before anyone else in the room spots it, I snatch it up and head for the bathroom myself. Margaret watches me unscrew the lid. We listen to the pills scatter off the toilet bowl, watch them swirl around then vanish as the water settles.

Daring each other to take the Black Widow fear drug had seemed like such a fun idea for a Halloween party. I shudder, remembering how it felt to be imprisoned in that silky cocoon. “Fun,” I scoff with more discomfort than I care to admit. “I knew we should have just said no.”

Week #215

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