Spyder's Web

Note to Readers

This book was first published in June 2009 under the same name. In the spring of 2012, I got the rights back and decided to re-publish the story for those who enjoy my darker works. If you love the television show Dexter and enjoy kinky M/F romances with a touch of the supernatural, then I think you’ll like this story. Enjoy!

Chapter One

Every time I fuck, somebody dies.

I know what you’re thinking: this woman’s crazy. I assure you, I’m not. It doesn’t matter the time, place, or position. The end result is always the same. All of my attempts to gain fulfillment leave me greatly disappointed and my partner, well, dead.

Why does this happen? I wish I knew. There is something inside of me, a sickness perhaps. It lays dormant most of the time, but when it awakens, my life becomes a living hell.

I’ve tried to abstain, but it doesn’t last long. You see, abstinence calls forth the madness. Not the benign dementia that sometimes comes with old age, but the bad kind. The voices in my head control my thoughts and actions, and I’m reduced to nothing more than an animal in heat. Only fucking will keep the insanity at bay. I fight it, of course, but the need always wins. Always.

I don’t want to be like this, believe me. I’ve searched the world a hundred times over trying to find a cure. Besides some vague rumors about mates and protectors, I’ve found nothing. In my darkest moments, it seems like I’m destined to be alone with my secret pain. I’ll fight the sickness until I’m weak with exhaustion, then I’ll fuck and people will die. Then more will die, and I will become sick with grief.

I know it’s only a matter of time before I’m caught. When that happens, I’ll probably receive the electric chair, or some other God-awful form of execution.

Until that day, I search for a cure.

If the rumors are true, then there’s one person out there who can help me. I just have to find him. He’s my mate, the one destined to be my partner and protector. He alone can ease my desire without consequence. With him, I can put my condition behind me and live a normal life. Romantic, right?

I used to believe the rumors because they had given me hope. Now, after years of searching, I’m beginning to think that the rumors were false. There is no destined mate, no protector. There is just me, the sickness, and my despair.

I arrived in New York a few short weeks ago, looking to start fresh. I was still shaking off the events of the last city and looking to put the whole horrid ordeal behind me.

I was careless and the cops discovered a couple of bodies. They logged each case into their computer and assigned it a number to match the tagged body I had caressed the night before. Inevitably, my name became attached to these cases with the notation friend of a friend or girl down the hall. When enough files were generated, people took notice. The cops began to trail me, so I ran. I left town in the middle of the night and headed to New York City, the place that never sleeps. I knew that I could blend in with the other sex-starved inhabitants. Perhaps I’d even find my mate.

I was in the city mere hours before that damn cop found me.

He must have come from that other city, the one where there’s still an ongoing investigation. There’s no other explanation. I haven’t had sex here, so no one has died. I take a deep breath and steady my nerves. It doesn’t matter where this guy is from, or why he’s following me. What matters is that I lose him before the sickness strikes again.

I approach the sex club and refuse to feel sorry for myself. Finding my mate here was a pipe dream. There are too many people and asking questions will only heighten the interest of the cop on my tail. I just need to fuck so I can get through this moon cycle. Then I’ll move on to another city and try again.

I fix my gaze on the large neon sign above the entrance. A theater mask glows bright pink next to the word MASQUERADE. You’ve probably heard of the place. It’s one of those sex clubs reminiscent of Studio 54 in its prime. Taboo yet irresistible at the same time. Here, you’re required to come in costume. I like the idea of pretending to be somebody I’m not. I become bolder and take risks. With an unknown identity the consequences of my actions virtually disappear, and anything becomes possible.

I haven’t been out clubbing since the cop started to tail me. I tried to lose him on my way here, but he managed to find me again. Even now he sits across the street in that unmarked Crown Vic he likes to drive. He’s watching me in his trademark white T-shirt and leather jacket. A trail of smoke climbs up from his cigarette to the full moon behind him. Part of me wants to turn around and go home. I know the temptation of this place will bring my suffering to a whole new level, but the music calls. I long for the dark corners of the dance floor, where a steady beat and the smell of sex rule. For a while I want to leave the curse at the door and pretend I’m just like any other woman looking for a good lay on a Saturday night.

My purse shifts from one shoulder to the other as I make my way down the sidewalk. The cop’s eyes follow me from the driver’s seat of that ridiculous car. You’d think he’d at least get sick of his job, but no. He’s always there, watching me. Night after night he follows me around town, those green eyes piercing the dark air between us. Every night I see his parked car from my bedroom window and those large green eyes haunt my sleep. It’s enough to drive a poor woman mad.

As if my lack of sex this month couldn’t accomplish that on its own. Since I’ve had the cop on my trail, I haven’t exactly been free to have sexual encounters, not without going to jail. Now, with the moon at its peak, the curse roars within me. I’ve tried settling for a vibrator the past couple of days in hopes the cop would give up and go away. He didn’t, of course, and the vibrator only served to increase my need.

I’ve gone so long without sex that the madness hovers at the edges of my mind. It’s why I’m risking everything to go to the Masquerade tonight. When I fuck, only one person dies. When I abstain, the madness settles in, and what would have been just one fuck becomes an endless spree.

If only that cop in the Crown Vic over there could see it from my perspective. I’m doing humanity a service by going out tonight. It’s my civic duty to come to this club and find a target. I limit my sex partners, my targets, to the erotic underworld where the risks are a fact of life. Nobody wants to see innocent people killed, do they?

The bouncer nods to me and opens the door. I glance one last time across the street and step inside. Surely Mr. Honorable Cop wouldn’t follow me in here.

Would he?

The click of my heels on the steps is absorbed into the usual Saturday night music and chatter of the club. I pause at the bottom of the stairs. The normal weekend crowd is present, plus a few more. People pack the place, which is unusual for eleven o’clock. Normally it takes another two hours for a club to start hopping. I like the crowd, though—more people bring more opportunities.

Tonight I chose a favorite costume in my closet, a sexy little angel. I love the way the white silk and lace rub against my skin as I walk. The short white mini accentuates my best feature—gorgeously long legs. They’re bare, of course. Stockings get hot and constricting. Besides, why would I hide my best asset under fishnet?

I survey the club as I make my way over to the bar. The costumes here range from the innocuous to the obscene. Some are dancing, some are talking, but most are fucking in various stages of undress on the outskirts of the room. I watch the faces of ecstasy as they climb their individual mountains of pleasure. Jealousy sinks into my heart. I wish I could be like them. Their greatest concern is whether they’ll be able to capture that elusive orgasm. My greatest concern was that the wrong person was going to end up dead.

Earlier tonight I sprinkled gold glitter on my pale skin to accentuate the gold flecks in my eyes. I can feel myself shimmer in the low light. The halo and wings on my body are not too big, but not too small, either. The costume is perfectly suited for someone who wants to portray the image of innocence and virtue. I find most men like to believe they’re fucking a virgin, even though your tongue can do things that would make most innocents blush.

Although he’s hidden from sight, I feel the cop’s bright green gaze slide over my body. The man is either sexually curious or crazy obsessive about his job. With my luck, it’s the latter.

Damn it, where is he?

I choose a spot at the bar and cross my legs. I’m pleased that I can see the whole room at this angle. My body begins to thrum with the beat to the music. From here, I can look out over the room and weigh my options. I can also search for the source of my frustration without being obvious.

The bartender comes over to take my order. I have been here so often in the past couple of weeks that words aren’t necessary. She takes out the margarita glass and begins to fix my drink. I prefer whiskey on the rocks, but I find it is rather intimidating for my targets. They expect their women to buy fruity, girly drinks. It’s easier to accommodate their fantasies than to defend why you can drink them under the table any night of the week.

I make small talk with the bartender as she pours the tequila—Gran Centenario, of course. The other brands are undrinkable. Neither one of us is interested in conversation beyond the usual pleasantries. She places the margarita on the bar and leaves to find another thirsty soul.

I scan the room and catch a couple sitting a few seats down from me. He’s wearing a fireman’s uniform, though I doubt that’s his true occupation. The jacket and hat engulf his puny form. The only skin visible in the dim light is his cock, sticking out from his pants.

In places like these, you identify the men not by their faces, but the size of their cocks. I recognize this cock as one of the regulars. I’ve seen him fuck others before, but I’ve never been interested. He’s not my type. Good thing for him.

His partner doesn’t seem to mind his puny size. The girl hunches over his hips in an absurd pink bunny suit. Her large ears move back and forth between his legs, and she sucks his cock like it’s a straw in her favorite milkshake. She moves in and out with the familiar rhythm, causing the man to moan with delight. He grasps her head and nudges her farther down his shaft.

That’s it baby, jut like that. He rolls his head back and closes his eyes in ecstasy.

Jealousy cuts through me like a razor as my own need intensifies. They’ll most likely orgasm tonight, something I’ve never done, myself. Fucking for me has one purpose—to quiet the voices and clear my head. I become human again, if only for a little while. It’s never about pleasure, or worse—love.

I uncross my legs and take a sip of the margarita. The sticky-sweet liquid mixes with the salt on the rim and leaves my mouth dry. Watching the fireman and the bunny makes me feel damp and needy. Deep inside my abdomen, the curse awakens and marches through my veins like an army going to battle. It demands my obedience.

You want it, baby. Now go after it. Make us both writhe in ecstasy.

My thighs become damp and my pussy aches. I fight the voice with another sip of my drink.

Come on baby. I’m hungry...

Another surge of desire consumes my body. The air heats and beads of sweat form at my temples. If I could only lose that darn