Coaxed

Erotic short. An adventurer helps a drider through his rut by taking his clutch of many, many eggs.

4.6k, rated E, giant M spider/trans M half-elf. Amaethon is a half-elf who combines sex work with adventuring to create wonderful monsterfuckery — I think I might do more with him because this was great fun.

This erotica is deeply weird, and I’m delighted to introduce it: featuring oviposition and inflation, cervical penetration, huge size difference, huge belly bulging, body horror (including threats of bursting/popping), banter between a predator and prey, overstimulation, venom/drugs, suspension bondage.

Amaethon goes into this fully consenting, but the situation is inherently dangerous and has some consent issues, which is part of what he finds so hot. Don’t we all?

---

It’s three day’s travel on foot from town up to the drider’s den, which is somewhere in the mountains. It’s a singular drider that lives alone, according to the people in town, and that means he’s separate to the nearest drider colony, who must be a few hundred miles to the west, in the sprawling forest that spans those valleys.

When he’d come through and looked at the quest board outside of the inn, there’d been a few jobs he was equipped to help with — an inn had had a giant rat problem in their basement that he’d taken care of, and after culling back the colony and selling the pelts to the apothecary, he’d taken up the note about the drider.

Every five years, he enters a sort of rut, and apparently the last time he’d entered into it he’d wreaked destruction on the nearest settlements, burning huts and houses down and raping several locals to bulging, eggs rounding out their stomachs and their cunts.

“You want him becalmed,” Amaethon had said to the village elder who’d put the notice on the board. “I can make it happen.”

“We want him dead,” said the old woman, her lip curled.

“I will kill him if I can,” lied Amaethon, having no such intention. “But no matter what, I will ensure his rut does not bring him out from his den.”

“You’re a poison-maker, I suppose,” she said, looking at him consideringly, her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. “You look to be a stealthy one.”

“I can be very stealthy,” he’d agreed, and smiled. “What reward will you give me, for ensuring his rut does not occur?”

“500 for his head,” she said. “350 simply to stopper his lust. You won’t go alone?”

“I will,” he’d told her, and put the cloth the notice was written on in his pocket.

The innkeeper had been confused, if not horrified, when he’d asked that she would board his horse, Caws, in her stable whilst he tended to the drider. She’d asked if Amaethon didn’t expect to come back, which he most certainly did, but he didn’t know how many days he’d be encumbered, so to speak, and he didn’t want Caws to be left to wander the mountains alone in the meantime.

They’d drawn him a map to the drider’s den — from what Amaethon had heard, various village people had attempted to descend upon him for, eager to take his head, and had lost their lives for their trouble, had fallen into ravines or down into crevasses. Only one or two had actually managed to reach the drider’s den proper, and these, Amaethon had been informed, had never returned.

He smiles when he sees the cavern that had been described to him, and he’s careful about stepping inside, dipping his head down so as not to catch himself on overhanging pieces of web, moving further into the cavern.

It’s lit by hanging crystals instead of lantern fire, and he’s aware of the ringing, unnatural silence within, interrupted only by the taps of his feet against the stone floor.

It’s extraordinarily clean and tidy — there’s webbing all about the edges, crossing over the passageway in different layers he has to carefully pick his way through, but there are no scattered corpses or bones.

It’s only when he enters into the central cavern, where a great many tunnels feed into the cone-shaped room, that he sees the huge central web that spans the whole of the room, a few parcels neatly wrapped in webbing and hanging from the ceiling high up.

“Hello!” he calls out, and his voice echoes in the cavern, no doubt falling down each of the tunnels, the separate passageways, and he waits, listens carefully for the quiet click-click-click of the drider’s feet on the stone.

He swallows when he comes out from a hole in the stone closer by than he was expecting, stumbling back — he’s huge, his great abdomen and his eight huge legs large enough to easily dwarf a horse or a cow, so it’s no wonder that the parcels hanging from the ceiling are easily sized in line with such animals as well as smaller ones like goats. The man-shaped part of his body sprouts from his abdomen, and he’s got a rounded belly, hairy tits, strong shoulders, big arms.

He’s staring down at Amaethon with his many eyes focused on him, his gaze hungry, and Amaethon swallows as he looks at his slick lips, his sharp, sharp teeth shimmering with —

Saliva?

Venom?

“I don’t know your name,” says Amaethon. “The village sent me.”

“Did they indeed?” asks the drider, and his voice is resonant and fills the chamber, chittering and layered as it comes from his throat, and he takes a step forward.

Amaethon reaches up for the brooch holding his cloak closed and pulls it free: the cloak slips from his shoulders and drops to the floor with his knapsack, leaving him entirely naked except for his boots, and the drider stops in his tracks, staring down at him.

If his gaze was hungry before, it’s ravenous now, roving over the rounded edges of his small tits, over his flat belly, down to his cunt which is already wet, his cock sticking out from the light dusting of white hair around it.

“Your rut is coming,” says Amaethon. “If you’re not on the verge, it’s here already.”

“Those… people,” says the drider, and the underside of his face opens outward, showing separate mandibles that move and shift in place of a fused lower jaw: it’s like he’s tasting the air, and Amaethon realises he’s holding his breath, “they sent you to me?”

“I came on their behalf,” says Amaethon. “You can fuck me, lay your eggs in me. I can take them.”

“Not all of them.”

“All of them,” says Amaethon, and the drider’s many eyes blink out of sync with one another, the blink rippling across his eight eyes like a wave. He looks sceptically down at Amaethon, at his slim form, the flatness of his stomach. “I stretch, sir. I’m trained for this.”

The drider actually scoffs, his mandibles jumping as he does so. “Trained?” he repeats, raising thick eyebrows, and he reaches out with a lower one of his four arms, catching Amaethon by the hair and pulling him closer.

“Trained,” Amaethon repeats, “and my skin is treated, too.”

“You would burst with all my clutch in you.”

“I won’t,” says Amaethon, and gasps as the drider reaches under his arms, lifting him up higher and tossing him physically across the cavern. He cries out, moving to struggle in the air, but he lands in the middle of the central web, the stickiness of fibres clinging to his skin. He tries to rise, but with the webbing underneath him, he can’t move, stuck on his back as the drider follows another thread and uses it as a bridge to come onto the web proper. He’s throwing out webs from the base of his abdomen and throwing them with his arms as though using a lasso, making a sort of platform, or — or harness at the correct height for him.

Sprawled out underneath him, angled in such a way that he’s looking at him from beneath, Amaethon can see a sheath opening, and although his ovipositor isn’t fully extended, he can see its tip, thick even though its tapered at its end.

“Call me Thorn,” says the drider.

“Thorn,” repeats Amaethon, and he tries to move both of his arms, but succeeds only in tugging one of them free, managing to reach between his legs and touch his cock, dancing over the tip of it before he presses his fingers lower and sinks them inside himself, shuddering as he rocks his hips down onto them.

“This past rut I divided this clutch amongst nine men and women.”

“I’m worth nine men and women, then,” says Amaethon, and the drider laughs, braiding and twisting webbing between his hands, building up the little sex swing speedily, two strips of webbing formed with a gap in between them. “Aren’t you excited?”

“There’s certainly a convenience to it,” says Thorn, and steps across to him, and fuck, it’s not as if Amaethon had expected a long, drawn-out conversation beforehand, but it’s exciting that it should be happening so instantaneously, so fucking immediately. “If you burst, that’s a meal before I go out.”

“You won’t need to go out, and I won’t burst,” says Amaethon, but even he doubts it for a second as Thorn’s ovipositor slides fully out of its sheath, extending outward. It’s fucking huge, very thick at its base, and there’s a sort of green fluid sliding down the length of its shaft, glistening and thick. “Do you excrete an aphrodisiac?”

“Do you?” retorts Thorn, and cuts around him with rapid movements of taloned fingers, dragging him up and tossing him over the harness he’s just thrown together: it bands across Amaethon’s tits and his hips, leaving his belly free in between, and Amaethon comes to a sudden understanding that makes his head spin.

He’s left Amaethon’s belly free, so that when it does bulge, it can bulge unencumbered.

“Have you ever put your whole clutch in an elf or a human before?” asks Amaethon.

“Not one that survived,” says Thorn, and then laughs. “That made your cunt clench, boy.”

“Well, this line of work,” Amaethon says, aware that the words come out almost in a babble, “you get to be a little odd.”

Thorn’s taloned hands are very gentle as he lays two of them on each of Amaethon’s arse cheeks, pushing his thighs apart; a third hand rests between his shoulders and pushes him down so that his whole back half tilts upwards. Perfectly suspended in the air like this, the supports across his breast and hips, Amaethon feels strangely weightless, and he lets out a little noise as one of Thorn’s thumb tips comes to tug at the side of his outer lips, pulling him apart so he can look inside.

“Very pink,” remarks the drider, stroking a featherlight touch down one of his inner lips, where the tissue is thin and already growing wet, and Amaethon’s breath hitches at the tease of it, not quite a full sensation. “And glistening. This prospect excites you.”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Amaethon says, but his words twist into a moan as Thorn moves to tug and play with his cock instead, just experimentally pushing it from side to side, then pushing it a bit harder as if to watch it wobble. Amaethon is clenching on air, feeling just a little bit empty, a little hungry for it, and he knows he won’t be hungry for long.

“You’ve taken eggs before?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Amaethon groans as Thorn presses at the opening of his cunt with two fingers — he’s bent them so that he’s not pressing in with his talons, but is just nudging at his hole with two knuckles instead, pushing them slowly in and just stroking agonisingly around the edge of the hole, tugging gently on the muscle and flesh there and making Amaethon squirm. “Not — not a drider’s eggs, but I’ve taken different, fuck, different merpeople’s, a mimic, tentacle beasts, that sort of, fuck, that sort of thing.”

“These creatures, they were as large as I am?”

“N… No, uh, some of the tentacle beasts were close.”

“Hmm,” hums Thorn, and fuck, but there’s something about it, about the fact that he’s treating Amaethon like a fucking exhibit, like he’s a scientific experiment, something new, something curious. “And the village is rewarding you for this?”

“They wanted me to kill you,” groans Amaethon. “Villages always say “Oh, there’s something here, kill it,” but I’ve often found that, mmm, yes, like that, that there are alternate methods available.”

“I see,” says Thorn, and he laughs a chittering, overlapping laugh, his mandibles clicking. With his fourth hand, he’s rubbing wetly around Amaethon’s arsehole, and the nudging at both his arse and cunt at the same time is making his brain throb in time with his cunt. “You’re a monster’s whore, then.”

“Yeah, something — something like that,” Amaethon gasps out. “I actually, when I left home, I went into the city and fell into regular whoring, and I kept having these fucking adventurers pass through that were just, they were idiots, you know? Most of them only, fuck fuck, only get through all the shit they do through luck and kind gods. I figured I could do just as well as most of them could, and gain more coin in the process. It just seemed natural to combine the two.”

Thorn pops a third knuckle into his cunt and slides forward — his fingers are so much longer than a human’s, his hands easily twice if not three times the breadth of Amaethon’s own, and his fingers are a little cooler to the touch than a human’s or an elf’s might be, the flesh not quite as yielding.

“Natural?” Thorn repeats, and then laughs again, softly. “You’re a curious creature. If you can take my clutch, what’s to prompt me to get rid of you, hm? Why wouldn’t I keep you as my pet, and use you at my leisure?”

Amaethon clenches down around his fingers, gasping — it’s not easy to get a great deal of leverage in this position, suspended as he is, but he can rock his hips just a little bit down onto Thorn’s knuckles. When he tries, Thorn makes a sound of what must be approval, because he responds by pushing down a bit more on his shoulders, tilting Thorn back further and letting Thorn’s bent fingers sink deeper inside him.

“I suppose you could do that,” he chokes out. “But you don’t even know that I can take you, yet. Don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket.”

“I thought that was precisely what I was doing,” retorts Thorn, and Amaethon laughs breathlessly, his cheeks burning hot, his heart pounding. His skin feels oversensitised in the cool, damp air of the cavern, his cunt throbbing — he lets out a sound of loss as Thorn withdraws his knuckles from Amaethon’s cunt and his arse at once, but the sound cuts short when he feels the drider’s body move behind him. “There there,” Thorn whispers softly. “I’d tell you this wouldn’t hurt, but I expect it will.”

There’s no small amount of relish in his voice, and Amaethon wonders how many people he’s fucked with this ovipositor, how many people he’s left bulging and moaning for the pain, but also the sheer pleasure of it, because he knows that drider eggs come out slick with a substance intended to drug whoever takes them. Just the touch of the ovipositor against the opening of his cunt makes him shudder, the first tickling prods of it making the flesh feel like lightning is flashing across it, but perhaps that’s just anticipation.

“It goes against my instinct to let an egg sac burst,” Thorn muses, and the words sink into Amaethon like butter sinks into warm bread, making him squirm despite himself, a moan falling out of his mouth, his cock jumping. It’s the way he does it, not at all deliberate, the words as casual as anything, referring to a living, breathing man as nothing more than an egg sac, and that’s exactly what he’s to be, isn’t it?

He’s been a partner and a playmate, been a lover and a mate, and he’s been a fucktoy and a slave — he’s even been a receptacle, been a fleshlite, been a cumdump, but an egg sac? That’s new.

“Yeah?” Amaethon manages to ask, doing his best to sound halfway intelligent, as though the regular nudge and slide of Thorn’s slick ovipositor around his cunt lips isn’t putting him on the brink of madness.

“Quite,” Thorn says. “The instinct is to pull out once it feels as though the vessel — the body’s stomach, its guts, its womb — is due to burst with the weight of eggs and nourishing fluid alike. If you burst, after all, the eggs are wasted and fall to the floor, unprotected by your flesh, unwarmed by your body’s heat, the fluid in which they’re meant to rest dripping out of the wrenching tear, too.”

“Can I ask — can I ask what’s maybe a stupid question?”

“It can’t be stupider than any question I’ve heard before.”

“Isn’t it a waste anyway?”

“Hm?”

“Well, you’re — You’re a single male. Alone. You carry eggs, and you carry the, the nourishing fluid, but don’t you need a female for the, you know, erm, to fertilise them?”

“Oh,” says Thorn, and he sounds pleasantly surprised, his two upper hands stroking up Amaethon’s back as if in reward. “You’re quite right, of course. The eggs I will fill you with will be sterile, no matter my thoughtless instinct — it won’t matter at all if I burst you.”

“That wasn’t my point.”

“I thought perhaps it wasn’t.”

He means to say something else, he doesn’t know exactly, maybe to ask why exactly Thorn chooses to live alone away from any drider colony, what it feels like, if he lays eggs outside of his rut, if it hurts not to: he doesn’t end up saying anything, because Thorn’s ovipositor is sinking into him, stretching him wide, and all that comes out of Amaethon is an incoherent scream.

Thorn groans above him, the groan chittering and multi-layered, and he shifts the ovipositor back and forth, not thrusting for the sake of sensation, it seems to Amaethon, but just to allow him to sink in deeper and deeper, bit by bit.

There’s a radiating heat coming out from his cunt at the aphrodisiac slick all over the thing, and Amaethon feels floaty and wonderful and just slightly high, the friction inside him so fucking wonderful he can scarcely bear it, only wishes that he could reach for his cock instead of having his arms stuck to the webbing he’s suspended in.

He’s had his cervix penetrated before, feels the strange opening within him as the ovipositor slides further in, and then —

He lets out a yell as it fucking opens outward, and it’s not like he can feel the specifics, exactly, but he knows that there’s a big shift inside him, and when Thorn then moves to pull back, the ovipositor catches. Amaethon can visualise it even if he can’t actually feel it, can’t actually see it, knows the thing has bloomed outward and locked itself at the opening of his cervix, knows from the strange feeling of warmth within him that it’s spraying out more of that slick aphrodisiac.

Thorn’s eggs let down, and Amaethon feels the first one bulge out the opening of his cunt as it travels up the ovipositor, only a little smaller than his fist — after the first there’s an immediate second, a third, a fourth, and he chokes when he feels them all crammed into his pussy at once, then feels a kind of pop inside him, a sudden release, a shift.

That’s one egg in his womb, a little free weight —

A second.

A third.

They’re being pumped at speed into him, and he can’t help but squirm and yelp and struggle in his place, one after the next dropping down — he can feel the weird pull and tug deep within him, where even if Amaethon wasn’t suspended from the webbing, he wouldn’t be able to pull free, because Thorn is locked inside him.

“H — how long?” he manages to ask, and he doesn’t know how many there are in him, can’t count, can’t focus. Twelve? Fifteen?

He tips his head forward and immediately lurches, because as he looks, he sees a new bulge in his belly, an egg dropping down into him, a lump under the surface of the flesh. He can feel the eggs packed tight in him, can feel them pushed against each other, and he wonders what they look like, what colour they are — as they slide through his cunt, dragging at his walls, they feel textured, pitted and dimpled all over, but slick as anything.

“As long as it takes,” says Thorn, and pushes his arse cheeks apart. Amaethon thinks at first that the pressure against his arse is his knuckles again, but it’s just a bit smoother, not as hard as his fingers —

It prods against his hole, pushes on the muscle, then sinks inside, a kind of tentacle that’s half as thick as the ovipositor, and Amaethon yells and arches his back as it pumps liquid into him.

He thinks at first that it must be more of the lubricant, warm and wet as it slides into his arse, sinking deeper into him, but it doesn’t come with the same burst of heat, the same sudden feeling of being a bit more high. More liquid comes into him, thick and filling him, and he whimpers as it sinks right into him, further, deeper.

He’s distracted by the sensations side by side, the eggs pumping into his cunt and the thick, heavy liquid pumping into his arse — his belly already feels increasingly stuffed full, egg after egg popping into him and crammed tight against the others, his belly hanging down, even before he realises that the pumping into his arse isn’t stopping, a great deal of it being pumped into his fucking guts.

The drugged lubricant must be having more of an effect on him than he’d thought, because his head is spinning, and he gets concentrated on trying to grind his cock against something, even though he’s in the wrong position, even though he can’t —

And then suddenly he looks down and his belly is massive, a great pregnant swell, and he’s aware of the feeling of strain, the skin stretched and his body feeling weighted down by it, and at the same time, his guts are cramping. He lets out a whine, louder than the noises he’s been making involuntarily, and Thorne laughs at him, pats his arse and making him jump and shudder.

“How much more?”

“You said you wouldn’t burst,” says Thorn, and Amaethon moans at the answer hidden in that, which is: a lot.

Thorn leans over him, two of his hands coming down to squeeze and press on the taut flesh of his swollen belly, rubbing over the texture of all the eggs crammed in him, so that he isn’t even smooth to the touch.

“My — cock — ”

“Your cock?” repeats Thorn, his voice warm and quiet, and as three of his hands keep sliding back and forth over his flesh, over his tits, making them wobble and jump, over his growing belly, the other shoves it up slightly and two fingers touch against his cock.

The singular touch puts him in touch with all the throbbing heat gathered in his cunt, the orgasm that’s been gathering in his body, all at once: he comes with a shout, his whole body shuddering, his cunt clenching and fluttering around the thick pierce of Thorn’s ovipositor, and above him, Thorn laughs.

“You really are very easy, aren’t you?” he asks softly, blowing air over the back of his neck, and then Amaethon feels a prick of teeth —

And he’s soaring through the air.

This is a new, more potent venom, his skin electrified like he’s been struck directly by lightning, and it feels like his orgasm continues on for an age, for the whole of an epoch, for centuries: wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him, his head spinning, his cock jumping and twitching, his cunt so full.

When he slowly comes down, his head is limply hanging forward, and he opens his eyes to stare down at his belly, so large now he can barely fucking conceive of it, comprehend it. It’s twice as big as the rest of him and it aches, huge and heavy enough that it’s stretching down to touch the web underneath.

Thorn’s ovipositor is slowly retracting, and Amaethon shudders in relief.

“Good boy,” he says quietly, and Amaethon’s eyes flutter at the playful touch of his fingers over his raw, open cunt. “You really do stretch, don’t you? Your skin’s been treated, you were saying?”

“So I can stretch,” says Amaethon blearily.

“Mm, so I feel,” says Thorn, and then the ovipositor prods against him again, at his arse instead, and Amaethon whines —

But it’s not as though he can escape at this point, is it? He’s so gravid with eggs he couldn’t even get to his feet, couldn’t even reach the floor to crawl, even were he not suspended in the air, heavier than he’s ever been.

The first egg pops into his arse, sliding through the thick fluid that Thorn’s already pumped into his cuts, and then that same tentacle comes to push into his cunt again, sliding deeper inside and pumping out that same fluid —

The nutritional stuff, he supposes, and it’s warm, but oh, fuck, it’s odd, it’s strange, feeling it pump into his womb over the eggs, feeling the weird warmth of it deeper in him, feel it pump so fast.

If he stares down at the base of his swollen belly, he can actually see the surface of his flesh filling out, seeing his stretched taut skin, marked over and over with stretchmarks and his own veins, pulled so thin he’s surprised it’s not transparent, as liquid glugs and sloshes into him.

“How long do I have to hold them?” asks Amaethon, swallowing. He aches to piss, and at the same time he feels so full, feels so packed, like the whole of his existence has just been reduced to this, to the eggs inside him, to being a sac for them. His cock is aching, and he wants to come again.

“Even sterile, they’ll absorb the nutritional fluid,” says Thorn. “I could keep pumping it into you for a week or two — by the end of that, each of those eggs would be the size of a watermelon — they’d grow bigger, with a growing babe within, of course.”

Amaethon’s stomach, although he doesn’t know that he’d be able to find it with his insides full of eggs and fluid, gives a horrified lurch. He doesn’t know how many eggs are inside him, hundreds, probably, but they’re still the size of his fist — if they were six or seven times the size of that?

He should burst, made that big — if he didn’t, he thinks the pure sensation would kill him, or drive him mad, even before it came to laying the things.

“Are you going to hold me for a week or two?”

“No, I don’t expect so,” muses Thorn. “I’d like to use this cunt again, some day. Can’t do that if I reduce you to a gaping hole, can I? I need some tightness left to clutch at me.”

Amaethon lets out a whimpered noise — Thorn takes this as a prompt to touch his cock again, and begins to rock him in his place, the movement making his stomach stretch and wobble, the eggs within him jostling, the fluid sloshing and splashing inside him.

“You’ll come twice more before I let you lay these,” says Thorn.

“Ah,” chokes out Amaethon, and Thorn begins to laugh again.

— –

Five days later, Amaethon arrives back into the village sprawled on the back of a donkey, still fuckdrunk and dizzy, feeling oddly empty in a way he never has before, although his body doesn’t show all it’s accepted, all it’s eagerly invited in, in the course of the week previous.

He giggles as he takes his payment, and says, “I’ve made a note in my diary. I shall return when his rut is due again.”

“What did you do?” asks the village elder, looking at him fascinatedly, not without an edge of distant horror. “You drank with him? You — what, coaxed his rut from him?”

“Yes,” says Amaethon. “Coaxed it — yes, exactly.”

Far be it from him to explain precisely how.