Martin is draped in spider's silk, across his shoulders, twisting through his arms, falling in his lap. Not binding, not yet, but he knows what it's for, and by now he doesn't even shudder at the thought. Just slips an arm through the still loose strands to touch Annabelle's face on the blown out side, the webs that hold it together so terribly preciously soft under his fingers.
"I've been waiting for something like this the whole time, you know." She does, of course. "I guess it sounds pretty ridiculous of me to say I hoped you wouldn't."
"Everyone's bound, Martin. It's only a matter of knowing what to do with it." Annabelle lifts her arms to show off her own silk binding her arms together at the wrists. strands shoot off towards walls and ceiling, connecting her to the masses of webs surrounding walls and ceiling, and Martin's breath catches. When she leans forward to loop her arms around his neck the threads all quiver in obscure rhythm, and Martin can't tell if they're moving her or she them.
"Well?" Annabelle's smile is hard, beautiful in a way entirely separate from Martin's desire. She takes his hand from her face and drapes her silk across the palm, twines it through his fingers.
Then she presses it down once more by his side, into the layered threads of the cocoon that's started to tighten around him, and Martin's fingers grip instinctively into the silk he holds.
Annabelle wobbles, steadies herself.
"You know how this works," she says. "You've been doing it your whole life. Or haven't you?"
And Martin does. He looks at her with a plea in his eyes, and twitches his fingers, and she moves.
Her arms lift from around his neck, brace against his shoulders as she lifts his body to take him in. She struggles a little, slips off his dick to grind herself against him, but Martin sees the grin she bites back with teeth in her lip, grips his fingers tight to his palms, and at once she's taking him inside.
The webs conduct heat and sensation with an immediacy as shocking as though Martin were fully nude. He feels the hot press of her body against his, her little breasts flattening against his chest. The threads move and separate at her touch, split away to twine around and through her, and Martin realizes again just how fine his control is.
It’s almost instinctual. He twitches a finger, and her arms rise towards the ceiling in full display of the intricacy of her bindings - and they splay across his chest to toy just roughly enough with his nipples - and they reach down to stroke herself where their bodies meet as a smirk of pleasure spreads across her face.
He isn't controlling her anymore, not really. Except that he is, he must be, because she's moving at all amidst the ever thickening strands, and because every move she makes is exactly what he wants and needs, even the teasing pitch perfect. A look, a moan, and she picks up her pace, twisting her hips to bring their bodies more firmly together. He’s done with being teased, now, and he knows by now that she could tease him forever but instead she’s bearing down hard on his dick, as responsive as thought, and he couldn’t keep from coming now even if he wanted to.
He's master of the strings and a fly caught in her web, at once, in one, and what makes him at last collapse into it is that he knows that's exactly what he's meant to feel.
When he finishes, Annabelle's arms and the prison of the webs are like warm blankets holding him in place. If he's going to be eaten, he knows, it's already happened.