As the pale light of dawn pushed back the shadows in the grimy alley, the patrolling officers found a man unconscious. He was spread-eagled against the wall, his head drooping, fastened all around by sticky strands of web. His limp penis and balls lolled out of his open trouser flies for all to see. His slack, emaciated face hinted at the agonies he had endured. Swiftly, battling the tenacious webbing, the fire department cut him free. The ambulance rushed him to General Hospital for resuscitation.
Over the following days and weeks, in the dark places all over town, men were found trapped in spider-like webs. All were dehydrated, apparently by loss of sexual fluids. Their occupations were various: CEO, drug lord, senior bureaucrat, Olympic swimmer, SWAT team captain, cordon bleu chef and more. Although they all eventually recovered, none would speak of their trials. Why not? Was it shame, terror?
Reporters on the police beat picked up the thread, the headlines followed and then, blame. Who could have done this? Terrorists? Spiderman? At first, hoping to trap the perpetrator, the police withheld the key fact: the men were found with their flies open and their genitals pendant, but the rumors were spreading. Opinion pieces ranted that the coming crisis of moral decay must be averted. Christian outrage was growing. In newsrooms, editors shouted, "Get out there and get that story!" Young, naïve reporters put on their best investigative faces and, nervously, ventured forth into the dark.
Peter Parker, of the Daily Bugle, was one such young reporter, apparently ordinary, but with unique advantages: his secret spider powers and his clever brain. His wrist-mounted web projectors squirted sticky, silvery, wet web compound for tens, or even hundreds, of feet. He could penetrate places that the other reporters couldn't, or wouldn't. Leaving the Bugle building at dusk, he stripped off his disguising street clothes, slipped on his mask and disappeared into the darkness.
In a nameless alley, passing under a dimly glowing lamp, his enhanced spider senses tingled. He heard the tiny noise that didn't belong. Faster than the ordinary eye can see, he spun around into combat stance, his body low, arms and legs spread, but too late! Already, fine strands of clinging, glistening fluid enveloped him, slowing his movements, trapping his arms and legs. He faintly sensed a movement in front of him, a shadow. He tried to bring his web projectors to bear, but his arms were already fastened to the wall behind him by a web, incredibly strong. He grimaced behind his mask, applied all of his spider-strength, but his limbs were held fast!
He heard a rich, throaty chuckle. The shadow moved into the dim light, resolving itself from a vague blur into the silhouette of a woman. His body reacted to her curvaceous shape, strong and sleek. His heart pounded and he flushed. More details emerged as she approached: her black form-fitting suit, difficult to focus on, hood thrown back; her blonde hair caught at the nape of her long neck; a small mask over her eyes. Those eyes! Glowing blue coals behind the mask, like living jewels. A pert nose with freckles, full curved lips, firm chin. His gaze was drawn down. Her over-sized tits - high, round and proud - stretched the black fabric of her costume. Her trim waist and flat belly led his eyes down to the subtle mound between her rounded hips, then down her rippling thighs to the length of her beautiful calves and trim feet.
