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Madame Spinne, they say. We love you.

Her newest client follows her instructions to come to an address. A huge, rundown apartment on a dead-end street. It's seemingly vacant and dark except for a pale blue light at the top room.

She's spoken of only in fetishist online circles. A queen. A legend. There's no highest bidders for the pleasure of Madame Spinne's company. Or so it's rumored. Professional contacts, resumes, money bribes, threats to expose her business — it means nothing to her. She chooses her playdates on whim.

The back-entryway, unlocked for him, leads to a network of dungeon rooms. All of them sweltering-hot and tropical from the whirring glow of heat-lamps attached to the walls and ceiling. Far too warm for August summer. Perspiration trickles against his neck and under his armpits. Black and white, expensive furniture and spreaders bars and cushioned pillows and stools against a backdrop of maroon — and in the center of everything, Madame Spinne waits.

He waits too, having already signed her contract. She's thin and albino, wearing a pile of blue furs patterned in black spots and white ridges.

Madame Spinne's eyes all-black. A pair of eye-contacts likely.

What leaves her pale, thin lips is a reedy, high voice, giving simple instructions for him to remove his clothes. To kneel himself face-down onto the floor. Despite the burning intensity of the heat-lamps, Madame Spinne never sweats or undresses. She merely discards her fur-coat, remaining in her long-sleeve black pleather bodysuit with a front, diamond-shaped opening, laced up. The curves of her pale, voluptuous breasts exposed. Fishnets. Stilettos made of the same black pleather.

Her client lets out a helpless, euphoric moan, feeling Madame Spinne's silvery finger-spikes tracing and tapping over his buttocks. Her heel digs into his lower back to hold him still.

There's separate, lightweight chains to the flogger she carries, striking him, reddening his chest and shoulders. Eight. Eight of the quick, flaming stings melding into throbbing soreness. And even more countless bruises. He's punished for declaring, "Madame Spinne, I love you," and bows his head at her disapproving, ethereal look, willingly stuffing a black ball-gag into his own mouth.

Obedience comes with rewards. Madame Spinne seats herself onto a white cushioned stool, gazing with her black, black eyes, urging the dog-leash forward. Her client doesn't rise from his kneeling position, crawling over, nuzzling her calves and pretending to lick them with the rounded surface of the ball-gag.

She orders him to undress her, but not remove his gag or spiked, metallic dog-collar.

He nods, eager to see all of her bare, translucent skin, panting heavily. The fishnets and bodysuit strip off. Madame Spinne cozies herself in her oversized, blue fur-coat, preening, opening her rail-skinny legs. Her pale fingers touching over her wet, pink entrance.

Eight. Eight fingers, and certainly it must be a birth defect, but what does it matter — Madame Spinne  —

Madame Spinne's client jerks into a stand, drunkenly, forgetting himself, and grabs her hips. He lines himself up and urges his penis to fuck her, thrusting erratically, attempting to sink in past her vaginal folds. Instead of recoiling, she laughs, arching her neck and head backwards.

Her mouth opens wide, wider and wider to impossible limits.

A gigantic, bright blue stinger pokes out of the elongated, drooling maw, and pierces her client's skull hard enough to splinter it.

Somehow, it doesn't kill him.

He wakes, dragged away, going unconscious. Her client wakes once more, recognizing that he is suspended high up.

It's no longer a dungeon. A naked, pregnant woman cries and shrieks for help across from him, trying to get his attention. Her arms bound above her to the point of cutting off circulation. Sticky, pearly-white webbing — it keeps the woman and him in place, up high, high.

A monstrously large spider scurries over, clicking in anger.

Blood floods out, spraying as she rips off one of the woman's legs, gobbling the flesh off the bone. The shrieking intensifies.

Her client stares, dazed and unmoving, as the woman's heavily pregnant belly visibly strains, pulsating. Waiting to birth Madame Spinne's children greedily feasting on the meat of an unborn human infant. Her skin dents upward, near bursting, until it gives and those child limb-sized spider legs flail out of stinking, pinkish-red gore, working themselves free.

The paralyzing agent, clogging and blackening his veins, keeps his horror at bay. Tendons shred noisily, and his organs and intestines spill colorfully, glistening, deliciously onto the web.

Madame Spinne…

I am yours…

*