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Ache. Everything… hazy. Swimming. Feels like floating… feels like ichor, in his blood. Feels like his form won't obey him…

Can't move. Not just from that sluggish feeling, but… arms, bound in place… not chains. Not a memory? Soft… soft, but stronger even then those accursed chains.

Eyes blink open slowly, one and then a second and a third… He's in the woods. He was in camp, eating. He can still taste faint traces of the stew he was offered. The flavor's gone rancid against his teeth, like… like he's been sleeping, but for days… He spits into the grass- no, mouth doesn't move enough. It just… dribbles down his chin, onto the silk.

...Silk?

Eyes open wider. Yes, spider's silk. Shamura?…

Trees all around. No path in sight, little as his head can turn. No telling where he's even been taken… Why would they have taken him…?

Something moves. His ears swivel to the sound, his head turns far as it can, but the figure approaches from behind. Lips pull back in a snarl, a growl rumbling in his chest.

The figure snickers. “Feisty snack. I like the ones that have fight in them still…"

Not Shamura. Of course not. They'd settled their differences. They wouldn't do this to him.

A hand traces up his side, through the web he's bound to. He tries to pull away, and fails.

“Who are you?"

“None of your concern, Old Blood. I can smell the Lamb on you. That… hunter-smell. But it's faint… You're not a hunter anymore, Old Blood. Something's different… You are... weaker, now." The figure's hands trace up his sides as they speak, lifting up that tattered tunic. His struggling doesn't stop.

“Strong enough to send you to the Hereafter, you pathetic parasite. Release me!"

The figure laughs again, so close behind him. “Bound again… I do know that smell. The One Who Waits… Almost funny, watching you squirm. Watching you fight to avoid the inevitable… As so many have before… Do you know how many squirming crawling pleading things I've sent to you, my lord?"

Those memories are long since faded. Before his capture, before that millennium of waiting, he'd know this killer by its numbers. He'd already know its face, its name. But in that time… and since his defeat at the hands of that damned Lamb, his senses had dulled… A new death was merely a fleeting moment, to him, not the feast of pain and fear it once was.

“Some hundreds, my lord. Some unknowable number of helpless, weak, delicious critters… Used by something stronger. Is that not the way of the world, He That Waits Beneath?"

Something sharp presses into his back. For a moment, he freezes… But the blade doesn't pierce him. It merely slides through his tunic, cleaving the ratty thing cleanly… letting the fabric drop to the floor. His torso now bare, now so clearly exposed to the cold air… Those hands hold under his arms, as a face leans closer to his neck. “Is that not the way of the world? The strong devour the weak… Death comes for us all, in time. Even… to you…"

More hands, grabbing at his hips… This shocks him, more than anything; such an obscene touch, especially for a former god. “Unhand me, filthy thing, the Lamb will-"

Another hand, over his mouth, leaving silk in its wake. Binding his lips shut before he can react…

“No one is coming for you, Old Blood. No one could. I saw you, by the trees… I smelled you so clearly, such a delectable treat. Something a hunter like me could never taste again…"

The former god knows this feeling. This cold feeling in his chest, this rapid thumping of his heart, this burn in his muscles where they strain against his binds. He knows it only as a bystander, but he knows it well. He's going to die here. Alone in the woods with this beast, this “hunter". If this thing is a hunter, that makes him…

He pulls harder. Silk strains and stretches just a little. Not enough to free him.

The hands at his waist dig in, claws drawing blood, red streaks through black fur… “Oh no. You will not be pulling away, Old Blood. You will be holding still, and I will be taking my prize. Like any hunter should. Accept your end, End Of All Things."

The feline cries out into his binds, teeth unable to find purchase on the webbing sealing his lips. Something is prodding against his back… and he has a guess as to what. The hands under his arms shift to his shoulders, the hands at his hips still holding on by those fresh wounds… as the spider crudely crams his fat, tapered cock into the former god.

Black tears stream down his face, stark against white silk. He tries so desperately to pull away as those hands keep pulling him back, as that thick taper presses into his guts. Those grunts against his neck feel hot, sickly, animalistic as the spider uses him. That dark purple, matted fur is coarse against his back, filthy as it is with bones and scattered fur from former meals…

This is no end for the god of Death. Beaten and usurped by a sacrificial lamb, forced to serve them… then grabbed, used for this depraved thing's enjoyment, only to… what? Be devoured?…

The frame Narinder was bound to creaks with each thrust, threatening to come apart. Not nearly so strong as the web it contained, not able to withstand that feral mating… It finally shatters, and they both fall hard. Narinder onto his front, Helob onto and into him…

Hands shift. Now, one of them has him by the scruff, roughly pulling him back. “Hahh… Better position, I thinks. Letsss me enjoy you better~" The beast huffs against his neck. “Letsss me… get a better taste~"

The god tries again to pull away, as he feels those looming fangs… as they set against his throat, and begin to sink into skin. It aches, at first, not nearly so painful as those claws before, as they sink deeper, and the spider's jaws clamp around his neck.

This is how he was caught. From behind, those fangs catching him before he even noticed, his awareness fading… That isn't what happens this time. Not fading into black… not even numbness… But that sluggish, slow feeling, his limbs no longer responding. Left to feel as his ass is used, feel every throb and thrust of that short, fat taper, every breath hot against his neck, every faint pulse of venom from those fangs…

It feels like hours. Sweaty, painful, aching hours, unable to move, slowly bleeding into the grass… before the spider pulls away one more time, slams his hips into the feline again, floods his guts with cum… and finally pulls his fangs away.

“Yesss… I liked that muchly. Oh, what a shame to takes you away…"

He's too delirious to move. Everything swims… He can barely understand the sadistic bastard. The spider takes only a moment, to catch his breath. It takes nothing for him to lift the shaking, limp lump that he's left of the cat into the air…

“...But I can't just let you go. You taste… so good…"

Those jaws open so impossibly wide, right in front of his face. And he's forced to simply watch it approach… Feel that sickly hot breath waft over him, feel that tongue under his chin… His muzzle slides easily into that eagerly grabby gullet, tongue sliding up his cheek to catch an inky tear…

A swallow pulls his head almost completely into that tight gullet. This creature is so much stronger than him, and it wastes no time crushing him down its neck, except to grope one sharp hand at his ass again… Its head tilts back, tossing him into the air like a piece of meat in order to keep swallowing.

With all the nasty thing talks of the sound of crunching bones, Narinder really thought his suffering would end between its teeth. But it seems to want his feeble struggles, as well… He hisses into that silken gag as he feels its tongue prodding at the wounds at his waist. Tasting his blood, savoring it eagerly…

Another swallow stuffs his hindquarters down its gullet. Another series of short, heavy gulps pulls his paws in as well… And he feels it stop again. Just his toes, peeking out the back of its throat… It holds there, a hand rubbing at its neck, two more pressing against its fat middle… and closes its mouth. Fully sealing him inside, but not swallowing again, for a moment…

Through the haze of venom, and breathlessness, Narinder curses this creature. Curses him in a dozen long-dead tongues, for playing with its meal and not just tearing his throat out… Still bound, curled up in its disgusting, hot belly, insulated by all that matted fur… Simply waiting to die.

He's almost startled out of it by that final swallow, sending the last of him down, down into the dark…

The spider almost moans, once it has wind back in its lungs. “Mmh… By the Old Faith, my lord… You really are a prize… I am so very lucky to have grabbed you before something else! That taste… Maybe I should try to capture that sweet little lamb…"

He can feel it stand, slowly. Not as if it didn't have the strength to get to its feet, with him hanging from its front… More like it was savoring the sloshing movement of its prey. Two hands still hefting that bulged belly up, two others pressing down on it.

The air's so thin… He can only imagine this is… what dying always feels like. Hungering, oppressive darkness… It's so ironic. Brought low by some greedy predator, not even… not even a fight.

One of the hands under him isn't supporting him anymore. It takes him a moment to realize the sadistic predator is pleasuring itself, under him. Furiously stroking its cock to the feeling of his body curled up inside of it, to the weight of a hot and heavy meal…

He kicks out against the stomach wall as much as he can. It barely does anything, in his weakened state… But he can tell it's making his predator even more aroused.

“Yesss… fight, kick, struggle! My meals never do, meek and feeble as they are!"

He can't even muster a snarl. How long has he been gone already? Did the Lamb even notice?

Helob gets back onto his knees, heavy gut resting on the ground in front of him. That firm taper pressed into Narinder's form… Gripping his belly like he had the cat's shoulders, he begins to hump into that curled, shaking form… and Narinder begins to properly sob. Not scream. He was still too weak to scream… Not enough air to scream…

The poor cat's already fading in and out of consciousness, to that sick rhythm. That sloshing, rough, wet slapping against his form… He doesn't know how many times the spider got off against him before he was done. More than once. He only caught some of what the monster said, as his world tipped into a new direction. Standing again, maybe?… His vision's a blur…

“Settle there, Old Blood. Fade away like food should~"

---

He doesn't fade.

A day passes. In and out, back and forth, swaying and sloshing, hands kneading and squeezing at him. Words, not ones he understands. Not enough air…

The spider catches someone else. Binds them up as he has hundreds of others, drags them to the clearing, offers them to any who seek a meal… The lamb questions him. He lies.

Narinder doesn't fade.

Something shifts inside the spider. The cat slips deeper… new place. Tighter, squeezing more around him, less sloshy…

Swaying left, swaying right… deeper still…

Another day passes. His feet finally slip out of the belly he's grown accustomed to, fully trapping him in those winding, clenching, kneading tunnels… The spider comments on this odd feeling. That's all he can catch of it.

Swaying right, swaying left… The lower he gets, the more he feels each swing, every step as the merchant goes about his sick business. Swaying right, swaying left…

Another day. The tunnels that are the Old Blood's world are almost… comforting, now. Soft. He forgets the feeling of grass… After that millennium locked away in the Hereafter, he does finally fade, into a sort of stasis…

“How did…? I have never had a morsel survive my belly. I did thinks you were strangely solid…"

Another day. Maybe? How many has it been?… Those fleshy, dark tunnels are still tight around him. He doesn't remember the last time he moved. His arms are pinned so hard to his sides, he almost feels numb. Breath shallow, mostly from exhaustion… He almost blesses his now-mortal eyes, unable to see anything as he's slowly pumped through this predator's abdomen…

Swaying… up? Down? What…

Another day. Night. Whatever. Another foot of digestive tract. Another couple of bends. That's the closest Narinder has to any indication of his… what, progress? Do these torturous guts even end? Is this his fate, chained inside the bowels of a higher being than him…?

The flesh is a little less tight around his form, now. He doesn't know what that means. He can move a little more. Well, he could. His eyes might be glued shut… Why would he move? What would that earn him? Not freedom.

The slick, organic sounds of peristalsis are all he remembers now. No song, no voice, not even his own. The sound of flesh grabbing at fur, sliding him forward. Forward is the only direction he knows. Backward into that hellish belly… Forward into… more?…

Another squeeze. Another inch. Swaying… sliding… another… another slip into unconsciousness...

---

The spider catches someone else. Binds them up. Sells them. Shudders, as something inside of him… shifts. That weight in his belly is… different. He feels a fire in his loins… A very strange feeling, deep inside his guts. He was beginning to wonder what would happen when that firm bulge he couldn't keep from kneading and rubbing at would finally reach the end… It wasn't a new feeling. Many hundreds of tasty little critters had met their end inside his belly, their pretty little bones always felt so good pumping through him, until he… released them. Clean, empty bones… Never has he felt something still solid, that deep… Surely, this morsel wasn't alive. Maybe he'd just eat it again… Maybe it wasn't done?

Well he couldn't push it out in this clearing. Something else might take advantage of his position, might steal his morsel, or decide he looked like prey…

So off into the woods he went, as… distracting as that feeling in his bowels was. If this morsel was still alive, he might have to use it again once he'd pulled it out of him. Maybe try that angry little mouth…

That slick sliding sound is almost loud enough for him to hear. The feeling of a heavy weight pressing on the inside of his bowels properly sends him stumbling slightly into a tree. Panting, knees shaking, he kneels in the grass…

The light's nearly blinding to the three-eyed feline. Even through his eyelids, stuck closed from fatigue and digestive slime, it feels like he's being stabbed in the eyes… And the air is so cold on his face… He doesn't even process this freedom. Too weak…

The spider moans, unashamed. He's out in the dark of the woods, and he's going to enjoy every second of this new experience. Tempted as he is to clench around this barely-conscious weight hanging from his ass, pull it back in, enjoy that pressure against his prostate…

It takes him minutes to relax enough to let the feline go a little more. Hole clenching in a tight rhythm, two of his hands spreading his ass to try to stretch a little more… One hand firmly wrapped around his cock, stroking like mad. It takes him minutes more to reach those tucked-in shoulders… Especially as that building pressure in his loins brings him to climax, and his ass closes tight around his meal, pulling it back in… Threatening to actually pull it back in all the way…

But he resists. And so very slowly, Narinder slides out of him… Every foot or so, the spider loses himself to lust… dragging the cat back up into his ass, to be so slowly squeezed out again… After so many days with a meal stretching his guts, Helob is finally starting to notice that empty feeling left inside of him. With his ass closed around the cat's waist, he pauses, humping into his hand like he had into the cat himself… Cumming again, staining the grass even more, cumming until it began to ache…

Shaking, twitching, still clenching around the feline… He stops resisting.

Inch by inch… His meal slides back in… He cums again, firing blanks… Hole stretched around unconscious shoulders. Clenching more and more… Again, humping into the air, each thrust pulling another inch of the cat back into those confines…

Narinder's arms had been free for a moment. Now, they're pulled up over his head, as his face disappears up spider ass… in his near comatose state, he can't even feel the shame of this position.

Desperate whimpers fill the air. A hunter, reduced to nothing but lust, fucking the air as wrists and then fingers disappear between his cheeks again, a bulge being pulled back up into those twisting bowels… it takes him nearly an hour just to stop humping, riding that feeling of pulling such a large form into himself again…

Deep breaths, fur coated in seed… Heart beating loud enough to beat in his ears.

He wants to say something to his meal. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out… Still caught up in that overwhelming feeling…

Laying in the grass, one shaky hand rubbing at that bulge as it slips back up his midriff, as the sun sets, and the sky grows dark…

“...Heh… Heheh… I cannot…"

He slowly sits up, letting loose a soft, hissing breath as he feels that pressure in his lower belly again. “...Cannot… keep you in there. As much as I wants to… Would never… be able to hunt again, hehehe…"

Slowly, again, back onto his knees… Ass in the air, again. And so, so very slowly… fingers appear, inch by inch… This time, one shaky hand grabs them firmly, to keep them from slipping deeper again… He tries to pull, pull the meal free by hand, but that thought doesn't even last a second, the feeling too intense. His insides ache with lust, and as fun as it has been to give into it… He needs to have this morsel out of him. To sleep, to eat, anything…

So he doesn't pull. Very slowly, he bears down internally, slowly forcing the now very much unconscious cat out of himself. Inch by agonizingly blissful inch… weeping from pleasure, from the almost pain those continuous orgasms bring…

No one could know how long it takes to pull the cat free. But curled up in the grass, emaciated, unconscious, barely even breathing… tail still winding up the spider's guts, Narinder lays. Alive, barely.

Helob doesn't even try to pull that tail free. He doesn't have the energy, having lost himself again to the feeling of something so large sliding out of him… He can feel his guts grabbing at the appendage, trying to pull it back in… so much hungrier, greedier than he is. But like that, he lays, closing his eyes as well… sleeping off this newest wave of pleasure… He'll bind the soggy, sickly thing in the morning, hang it up for sale… Something so delicious is something he must share. At the very least, something he must return to its owner… Maybe the Lamb could learn such a sinful ritual for themself, experience this rapturous feeling~

---

When he finally wakes again from this glorious afterglow nap, the sun is just coming up. He stretches comfortably in the grass, with a happy little chitter… before remembering what he needs to do. Looking down over his belly (so much flatter than he remembers…), he can see Narinder's form… His entire tail has been pulled up back into the spider's guts. No longer so overstimulated, he easily pulls it free again as he gets to his feet. Still brings a shudder through his frame…

“Alright, my wonderful morsel… It is time to take you back. I'll have to charge a pretty penny for you…" He mutters, nudging the cat with his foot. No response… but this morsel is still breathing, somehow… Good. Warm meat sells better.

And so, he sets about wrapping the feline's black, matted fur in white silk, binding him as tight as any other meal he's sold off… Up over one shoulder, and off through the trees to that clearing. Well, with a slight detour to the river, perhaps. He's still covered in fluids… You have to be a little presentable. Hands scrubbing through matted purple fur, washing dried cum and hints of old blood and ichor away into the water, off into nothing… as if it never happened.

And that's what he'll tell the Lamb. He found this morsel sick and rescued it, for the Lamb! That should earn some favor.

Hefting the heavy weight over his shoulder again, humming a tune under his breath, off towards that camp again…

---

The Lamb almost yells, when they see who Helob has on sale today. There's not a thought in their mind as their wallet comes forward, counting coins. The spider has some speech prepared, and they don't hear any of it. Coin changes hands, binds are pulled away… and tears fill their eyes.

Claw marks at his hips, crusted with black blood, and other sickly fluids… definitely infected. And he looks so skeletal, like he hasn't eaten in a week… He's been missing for a week!

Not another thought about what happened. He needs help. That breathing is so faint...

They took him straight to the medical tent, ignoring questions. Their heart is still pounding in their ears… They came so close to losing him. A small setback, for the literal New God of Death, but still a risk they did not want to take. Who knew how his soul would respond to the Hereafter? Who knew if it were really as easy to pull him from it as it was any other follower?

The crown is sent off out of the tent, to get someone on fashioning new robes for him. With practiced ease, they set to work on his wounds. Deep claw marks, at his hips… Definitely infected. Not even scabbed over, just… oozing something that looked like Ichor. They could see his ribs stretching his skin even more than usual… The crown floats off to get someone on cooking a meal, as well.

They don't want to peer into his mind. They'd… agreed not to, with him. Some sense of respect for the way things were, before. But they wanted so badly to know what had been done to him…

Bandages, for his wounds. They'd need more silk soon. Herbs, for his infection. A surplus of flowers, no worries there. Food, before he starved. They'd not let him succumb after fighting so hard to save him. And then bed rest, for however long it took. Thinking of tasks, and not of why they were necessary. Good distractions.

It took almost another week to have him back in action. Tending carefully to his wounds, spoon-feeding him soup to help with his illness, slowly helping him regain his energy. They're almost concerned with how… quietly, he takes it. None of his usual sass…

All they care about is that he's alive. He's safe. That's all that matters.