CHAPTER 219: WOULDN’T STOP

The nest was nothing but heat and noise now, the air thick enough to taste, every surface slick with their lust. The rotation had stopped being orderly hours ago — now it was a tangle of limbs and bodies pressing in, their swollen mounds brushing him from every direction. Whoever could get on him, got on him. Whoever couldn’t, clung to him, grinding their fattened folds against his thighs, his hips, even his chest, smearing him with wet heat.

One mounted him from the front, her thighs spread so wide her trembling knees barely held her up. She didn’t even ease into it — she slammed herself down, the sheer squish of her engorged lips parting around him echoing like someone had wrung out a soaked rag. Her clit brushed against his skin every drop, and she let out a sharp hiss each time, hips snapping forward like her body was trying to wring him dry in a single stroke. Her hands clutched at his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent marks, her breath hitting his face in hot bursts.

Behind her, another crawled between his spread legs, pressing her own mound up against the base of his cock, grinding the swollen flesh there like she wanted to fuse herself to him. Her lips were puffed out far enough they brushed the other one’s bouncing ass with every upward thrust. They cursed at each other, not to stop, not to slow down, voices sharp and cracked from hours of use.

The heat was maddening — his shaft and thighs coated in layers of their slick, each fresh rider adding more until it dripped steadily to the floor. Every thrust into them was an obscene, sucking plunge followed by the wet slap of swollen flesh clapping down over him. Their folds spread around him like soft, overripe fruit, clinging with desperate friction and loosening just enough at the apex of each stroke to make the next one feel new again.

They took him in every way they could. Some squatted low, bouncing in jagged, uneven bursts until their thighs gave out. Others leaned forward, grinding in deep circles so his cock mashed against the swollen rim of their womb, muttering filth about how it hurt and felt good at the same time. A few turned around, bracing on his knees while they impaled themselves backward, letting him see how stretched and puffy their pussies had become, the lips swelling outward until they looked painfully engorged.

The smell in the air was overpowering — not just musk, but the faintly metallic tang of friction-raw flesh. Sweat ran in rivulets down their backs, dripping onto his stomach, mixing with the hot slick already coating him. Each time one collapsed, panting, another shoved her aside, clambering over the nest floor on all fours, swollen mound swinging beneath her until she could sink down on him with a shuddering groan.

At one point, three of them fought for him at once — one riding him proper, bouncing frantically, another bent between his legs licking at the base of his shaft and the first one’s folds as they clapped together, and a third straddling his chest, swollen lips grinding across his ribs, dripping down his sides. The sounds were constant: the slap of flesh, the wet grind of folds parting and closing, the occasional hoarse, filthy word spat between clenched teeth.

Their desperation only worsened the longer it went. They were beyond caring about pace or rhythm now — it was all jerking, spasming thrusts, hips slamming down so hard their folds flattened and bulged out around him, smearing slick up their bellies. Their pussies looked wrecked, swollen to the point of looking unnatural, lips fat and glossy, clits poking out and throbbing visibly with each heartbeat. Some of them held themselves open just to show him how ruined they were, grinning like it was something to be proud of before climbing onto him again.

And still, they didn’t stop. Even when they were trembling from exhaustion, they’d cling to him and rock weakly, swollen flesh squelching with each tiny motion. The ones waiting rubbed themselves raw just to keep the ache bearable, eyes locked on his cock like they were starving for it. The nest floor was a shallow, shimmering pool now, every shift of bodies making faint ripples in the slick coating everything.

By the time the next one mounted him, sinking down slow to savor the thick stretch, the air felt electric — as if every sound, every slap, every obscene squish was bouncing back from the stone walls and building into something that couldn’t break until they’d all had their fill. But none of them looked ready to stop, and his body was still trapped under their collective, feral hunger.

The spider-women’s hunger had no end. Their swollen bodies clung to him like a living web, each one desperate to be the next, to feel the heat of him splitting them apart again. The one currently mounted on him had her hands braced on his chest, nails digging in, hips dropping and lifting in erratic bursts. Her folds were so engorged they sealed tight around him each time she sat down, forcing out slick in fat, glistening beads that slid down his shaft to meet the wet heat of the others crowding below.

Another crouched between his spread thighs, swollen lips pressed up against his base, grinding herself hard into him while she licked the place where their bodies met. Every suck of her tongue made the one riding him jerk, clenching tighter, muttering curses under her breath like she hated how good it felt. Behind them, a third pressed her face between the rider’s ass cheeks, flicking her tongue over stretched, raw flesh, drinking down the slick that escaped between bounces.

The room’s air was thick and heavy, tasting of musk and heat. The stone beneath them was coated in a shimmering layer of fluid, every shift of his hips making small ripples through it. The sound of their flesh meeting his was a constant, obscene rhythm — wet, sticky claps that echoed back from the walls, layered with the panting and low, broken voices of the nest. They muttered to each other between moans, talking about how swollen they were, how their lips ached but needed more, how their wombs throbbed like they’d been beaten from the inside. Some bragged about how much slick they could squeeze out onto him, others hissed at each other to stop hogging him and give someone else a turn.

When the rider’s thighs gave out, she slid forward with a shudder, collapsing onto his chest and letting another take her place without a pause. The new one didn’t bother with slow — she slammed herself down in one violent motion, her swollen lips spreading obscenely wide before sealing around him with a loud, sucking pop. Her breath came in ragged bursts, each downward slam sending fresh squirts of heat down to splash over the one grinding below.

They moved in shifts, but not the kind meant for rest — every one of them who left his cock stayed close, pressing their swollen mounds against him somewhere, smearing slick across his skin, thighs, and stomach. Some leaned over to lick at the ones riding him, mouths and tongues glossy with another’s heat, while others stroked themselves furiously, keeping their own ache raw until they could climb back on. The slick was everywhere now — coating his hips, pooling under him, running in thin streams down the curves of the women’s spider abdomens to drip onto the nest floor.

He was surrounded — pinned by the weight of them, the smell of them, the heat radiating from their flushed bodies. Every inch of him was touched, rubbed, sucked, or squeezed by someone’s hands, mouth, or swollen folds. They didn’t care about rhythm anymore; their thrusts were frenzied, greedy, each one trying to pull his release for themselves alone, moaning openly about wanting it inside, wanting their wombs filled, promising to squeeze him dry.

One leaned down, her hair sticking to her sweat-slick face, and whispered about how stretched open she was from him, how she could feel her own pulse inside. Another, waiting behind her, pressed two fingers into herself and hissed about how sore she already was, how her lips felt like they’d been beaten with a club, but that she’d take him again the second she could. The ones listening laughed low, breathless laughs, and told her it’d be worth the pain when she could barely walk afterward.

The slapping got louder the longer it went — swollen flesh meeting swollen flesh, the heavy clap of their puffed lips hitting his hips and each other. The sound bounced back from the stone walls in sharp, wet echoes, mixing with the sucking noises each time one lifted off just far enough for air to break the seal before dropping back down hard. Their bodies shook from the force of it, thighs trembling, spidery limbs gripping the ground to steady themselves for the next brutal slam.

Time blurred in the heat and movement. There was no end, no signal that they’d be finished soon — just the endless cycle of mounting, grinding, bouncing, and collapsing, each of them taking from him in turn, each leaving their slick mark before another replaced them. Their swollen, glossy lips looked nearly fake now, so puffy and engorged they glistened under the low light, pulsing faintly with each beat of their hearts. But instead of slowing them, it seemed to drive them harder, as if the soreness itself was part of what kept them hungry.

And through it all, the nest didn’t quiet. The wet sounds, the low voices, the filthy talk about their ruined pussies and aching wombs filled the space, wrapping around him like the web they lived in. They weren’t going to stop — not until every last one had wrung him for everything he had, and maybe not even then.