He had stumbled upon her dragline, and, little aware of the power of pheromones, found himself coyly entreated to follow it until he espied her in the distance, busily emitting a silken web from her abdominal spinneret. He began to strum the thread, and she declined even to turn and face him, instead violently shaking the web to ward him off. But he had one purpose, borne of an instinct stronger than survival, and he plunged across the quivering web toward her. He could feel that he was handling the awkwardness of his progress masterfully, and that she was becoming receptive owing to his obvious skill. He primed his pedipalps with sperm, ready to place it on a little bit of web so that she would only be waiting a second or two. He tenderly levered open the scape on her priapic outgrowth to ease open her genital aperture and grant himself access to her copulatory ducts. His issue flowed eagerly unto her seminal receptacles, there to remain while she fattened her body on flies and aphids over the following months. His task completed most satisfactorily for them both, it made more sense for him to be used as meat, and she towered over him for a moment before chomping down hard and consuming his whole cephalothorax in one bite.
She had made him cum, he informed her. “Well, no,” she interjected. “That’s not quite true.” And it wasn’t. In a sense, she had got him ready, but only by being so beautiful. That had made him hard. It had not made him cum. For that, the rapid, shuffling motion of his hand, clasped as it was around his pole, had been required. After some seconds of that, yes, the gunksome serving had been drawn forth from his prostate and, via the well-directed penile hose, hurled onto her face, where there still sat a snail-trail-like remnant, and a tell-tale crispening of part of her fringe.
As he resigned himself to his fate and stood there urinating and defecating into his trousers, the crowd of people around him who had so forcefully protested just moments before that they ‘couldn’t move further down the carriage’ suddenly discovered that they could, in fact, move a lot further down the carriage, and they did, at least until someone at the other end also loudly fouled herself, after which those caught in the crossturd just had to try not to breathe much and pretended harder than ever to be really interested in reading the Metro.
As if one big spunky hunk wasn’t enough, she’d landed herself two, and now here she lay, slobbering all over one of their poles while the other one absolutely ransacked her already poorly-composed flangeinal opening.
“Do you want stuffing?” he asked with a wink. She got his meaning, and she began to reply suggestively that she did, but no sooner had her lips and vocal chords moved just enough for her affirmative to be discernible than his thick wand of schlongmeat was free and plunging toward her oral cavity.
She was getting it good and hard, and he was enjoying giving it. As his effort whirled through the air toward her face and she batted it back with all her might, they both reflected on how much better their lives had been since they bought their new Swingball.
“It’s not like you to be miserable,” said Rebecca. And it wasn’t. Hetty was usually the heart and soul of any gathering. But usually she wasn’t on a gangbang comedown. On an average day she wasn’t harrowed by the fresh memories of eight masked giants standing in a closed circle around her, wanking as close to her face as possible, and making sure the cum did ruin her hair. She sipped her Pimms and tried to smile.
He wanted to touch base ; she wanted to take it offline. He had picked all the low-hanging fruit ; she was still obsessed with blue-sky thinking. Eventually they agreed to run it up the flagpole and see who saluted, but by the time it was halfway up he had donged off a load of gooey spaff all over her norks and she had papped one out and then fallen over, rolling around in it and weirding him out with a sinister grin.