Serivane was silk that had evanesced beyond the veil that separates the physical and the ephemeral. At least, that was the theory. This Hive we name Ravaging‍-​With‍-​Downpour was built in the caverns behind a grand waterfall at the very rim of the highlands. Serivane ghosted through stone just fine, but running water? The threads always seemed to fray a little bit faster faster.

I walked, quiet and alone save the eternal buzz and presence of my hive. We mingled in song and will, not sight. Not without active inquiry. And were I so watched, I’d have hid how my still‍-​growing gaster swayed with each step. I might have stilled the idle chirruping of figet‍-​stridulation.

My claws and hooves grew louder as I passed from the softer silk and nesting‍-​shell of the inner hive to the sparse outer caves. The roar of water descending by the ton from such grand mountain heights grew louder. My neck’s auricles curled up to spare themselves the noise.

The path I followed passed through a column of falling water. The bridge was covered, but it was wrought of nothing but old sloughed exoderm and salvaged silk ‍— almost conceding that nothing we built could really contend with the titantic might of water.

Sometimes, I felt like a flower. Already, the smallest crack let liquid drip past the bridge‍-​roof ‍— but our shells accomodated our watery abode. Like flower petals, waxed flaps of exoderm fell past my head. A tug on my silk pulled them up, like a bloom closing with the vacant sun. Thank you, O Mother, for this gift.

The delicate tresses of silk upon my head were protected now as I crossed the bridge. Even as I returned to the embrace of a nest‍-​tunnel half‍-​carved into the rock, I did not open my sealed licenest. With each step, the buzz of the hive grew more muffled, fuzzier. The faint physicality of serivane reared its head.

I was present in the hive ‍— to server oneself from the collective would be exscient ‍— but I had retreated, anonymous and obscure.

Onward I drew toward light and air ‍— already not far given the waterfalls ‍— and soon found myself upon a cliff overlooking the falls and the plunging lake below. The mountains folded in here ‍— even a bug daring the outside world had little fear of being spotted ‍— and so upon this ledge I found a retreat from mortal and chrylurk alike.

My gaster swelled as I drew in a breath of fresh air. Exhaling, I remained round and heavy ‍— and with my attention returning, and the touch of the hive light on my mind, nothing distracted me from this persistent sensation. The thought was front and center ‍— I needed, and yet there was nothing for it!

Just after waking up, I’d tried drawing a web with one of my maids ‍— and tore the silk with how my focus vacanted me, my body demanding of me something I could not give. Some would curse, some would blame, But I‍—

(I am a princess of Ravaging‍-​With‍-​Downpour. I am proudly surrogate to a mother most parascixe. I shall bear the burden of her bountiful womb.)

My mandibles squeezed around a maxillary palp. No, this wasn’t enough. I lifted a hand to my face, stroking the length of my proboscis then slipping past it to wrap my mouthparts wetly around my hand. I remembered her tendrils overwhelming mine, her tongue inside me.

My abdomen shuddered. Pulsating, the way it rapidly drew and huffed air. My voice, as much breath as purring stridulation, was unsteady as I spoke a prayer:

“O Mother who weaves in nexus! Thank you for allowing me the privilege to be filled, to bear but a fraction of your lust and inflict it onto others.”

The pressure was almost painful, the throbbing in my hindmost core, (like your ovipositor had never withdrawn. I’m so full of your vermin, mistress, growing and pressing against my walls. My princess palace can hardly bear the weight of a proper Queen’s duties.)

Trembling, I let my legs fail and fall. It was only when my katathorax hit the cold stone, gaster following after, that I realized something very sensitive had made itself present.

Wet at my final segment, slowly engorging and extending, my ovipositor twitched. My antennae worked furiously between my eyes, but I could scent nothing but myself, a royal musk that slid impotently past my yearning. (Did nothing for me, but I remembered how you ordered me to massage your antennae, rubbing pheromone‍-​secreting glands right against your setae. Oh, how you crooned to smell a princess ready for her Queen’s excess!)

I had so many hands to grope myself. One still fingered the inside of my mouth, possessed by a memory of you, but my other hugged and squeezed my anathorax. Rubbing lower, lower, toward the lips of my chrysoma, sexless yet seeming sympathetically wet. A pair of swarmling slugs crawled out, perhaps instructed to clean up the mess down on my gaster, but a hand pushed them right back into their burrows. Not yet.

Ugh! I’d come out here just to clear my head, but this swelling wasn’t going down any time soon. At least I was already alone…

Before my questing hands could reach my chrysoma core, they passed sensitive nubs, those teats that would swell with sanguimel, more concentrated than regurgitated meal. I’d never secreted, never fed a suckling mouth ‍— but I would soon, wouldn’t I?

(Oh, please. Give me a thrall to put your eggs in. I’ll smother them against my core and force your honey down their throat. My Queen, I’ll gladly feed your brood!)

The teats were perfectly positioned, weren’t they? For having a ovipositor stuck between a thrall’s legs while their head was right there beside my core…

Throb. My ovipositor had slowly emerged ‍— but that thought tugged at it mightily, and I felt my own thoughts dragged downward, weighed down by the primal need you’d poisoned me with. Gifted me. Blessed me. I’m thankful for you brood, Mother. Thankful!

My Queen was most scixe ‍— but the thought of filling an exy little thrall with a brood, that was what lifted my princess scepter. I felt a slick droplet run down its soft chitin.

Already on the ground, I rolled onto my side. Without the ground in the way, my gaster could curl so flexibly. With no delay, it doubled back, a U‍-​shape against my katathorax, and suddenly I had a thick, wet rod in between my legs.

Oh, I felt like a flower ‍— my tip was closed shut in this sexless, sunless night of privation. Even as the slick coating left my scepter glimmering.

The lips of my chrysoma opened again, shimmerbugs crawling out, and hovering in the air, they lit my ovipositor by a ethereal glow. Surely just waving this beatific sight in the face of a mortal should hypnotize them. Blushing, begging for permission to touch it, to lick it.

Would they get a chance to beg? Or would I have already thrusted before they spoke a word, desperate to feel the sheer relief of their incubating warmth? (Am I mannered and reserved princess, or just a rutting beast?)

“What have you done to me, Mother?” I whisper. But my thoughts correct themselves: (Forgive me! You have not nothing but bless this princess. I am thankful for the gift, it is an honor to bear your lust ‍— but was I ready, Mother?)

My fingers closed around me. I couldn’t resist. Slime‍-​slick oozing between my fingers. Abdomen pulsing, huffing, I moaned.

I need control of myself. I must have chrylurk’s pride when I infested my thrall.

My hand simply moved and I moaned again.

The pressure was so acute inside me. Your vermin came inside my eager womb as a thick, warm flood. A Queen’s primordial seed oozed into me. Your dutiful surogate now encloses your brood yolk into shell. (Yes, I’m swelling with our eggs!)

‍—Princess? Where did you scuttle off to?

“Ah ‍— ah!”

My moan turned to a yelp of shock. The buzz of the hive found me ‍— muted hum giving way to the attentive probe‍-​pulse of harmony that flowed not through me but to me. Idle serivane wires frayed under the torrent of Ravaging’s waterfalls, but with active need our lice wove more durable strandles.

And my lice answered my queries for me.

‍—Go away! I’m praying!

‍—And fervently too! Queen will be pleased at your devotion. But this one thinks she won’t appreciate your greed.

‍—Greed?

‍—Hoarding the experience to yourself.

‍—Hoarding? I’m sparing the hive! This hurts, and it’s. So embrassing!

‍—Is it not the Queen’s love that burns within you? This one would cherish feeling the Queen with such intensity, such intimacy! Hive deserves to know how lewdly you long for parascixion.

‍—I’m a princess! Reduced to moaning and thrusting and ‍— I can’t even help it. Ugh! Can you imagine a mortal seeing our highest caste like this?

‍—Hive shall never suffer you the barbs of exscient judgment! No, their blood shall team with ovirexia and truth! Their eyes shall dilate, their tongues shall lull in deep thirst ‍— for you, O scixe princess! ‍— and when you moan, so too their singular throat will echo your ardor. Nature herself has ordained it so!

‍—Don’t, ugh, talk about their tongues. I need a tongue on my scape right now! (The trill of my silk might well have been a hive‍-​bound moan.) Here, look at this, if you’re so eager.

I summoned my shimmer bugs again, cast their light to fall just on my pulsing, wet stinger. More lubricating slick had seeped from the pores, and my hand pulled away bound by a whole web of sticky strands.

My scalp buzzed as the image was rendered in harmony.

‍—So fervent! Endowed in the Queen’s own image, oh yes! Your pride makes even this operator swoon. Unsightly that you’ve hidden this prize away from any who could appreciate it.

‍—Is it a prize? (I send.) I say this is a burden!

‍—And you deserve to have it attended to. That is your right as a princess of Ravaging!

I traced a finger down my oviscape, feeling my length curved with bulges and nodules that would frustrate any prey struggling to escape.

‍—Distracting me. I was going somewhere with this. Tell me about the thralls again. (My fingers closed around my length anew, giving a slow stroke.) Did this one say their eyes would dilate for me? They’d moan for me? Do you think I could hypnotize them, waving this? My memerizing princess scepter~

‍—You would enthrall them, my liege!

‍—I would fuck them. (I moaned, jerking my hand down to my base and up again.) Oh, my Queen, I would fuck them all for you.

‍—Good girl, princess. Doesn’t it feel right? You are an extension of our Queen’s loins. The meaning of your life is to accept the royal brood, to let your womb nurture and nourish and swell as you dream wetly of fulfilling your purpose as a surrogate.

‍—Why! (Trilling again, whining into the hive‍-​binding.) Where is my thrall! Where is my exy fuckpet! I want to lay eggs~ I need it!

‍—Tighten your grip, princess. Imagine the thrall impaled on your stinger, quivering and clenching as you claim them.

My hand spasms in its passage up and down my length. Abdomen pulsing, mouthpart biting down enough I crack my shell.

‍—Do you know what a thrall ready for a brood smells like? After the venom’s pumped into them, day after day, after a diet vomited from a chrylurk’s throat, all to to prepare them, reshape them. Ovirexia unraveling their mind, and infusing their blood with new hormones. They sweat, they bleed, and you can smell it. We overwrite their biology until they are hivestock to feed and breed.

Tightening, a pulsing intensity all along my length! But with each wave of arousal and pleasure, it seemed to crawl deep into me. Not just my oviscape, but my whole ovipositor. Then tingling in the channels that Queen had thrust Herself into. Now my womb, so fat with her vermin, it ached. That pressure that had tormented me for days. I felt the pleasure and need soaking deep enough. Oh!

‍—Thralls must be trained. Painful lessons, instilling obedience like silken ropes cutting into their flesh. Hive infests their body and their mind. This is why you should never fear losing control. The Queen channels Her urges through you. You are meant to melt into frenzy at the scent of a empty thrall. Embrace this madlust.

‍—Where! Where is my thrall? Mother, please!

‍—Keep stroking, princess. Prepare your ovipositor for its purpose.

Two hand encircled my length, but they moved at different rhythms, one caressing the base where my cerci undulate sympathetically even as the other squeezed the tip and fingers the closed petals of my slit.

But I had more than two hands. Even as I still tongued at fingers of one hand, others were testing my holes, spreading me open. I couldn’t take my mind off the raw demand of my throbbing ovipositor, each stroke redoubling my need for more stimulation.

Slime coated my princesshood, a dripping mess that audibly squished with each motion. Even as my ovipositor dripped for more, I used that lube to finger myself, scrounging for any pleasure ‍— for all of it!

My eminent oviposition felt like a fire consuming all I threw into it ‍— demending more, but giving what? The petals of my slit remained clenched closed.

I slipped two fingers deeper inside, moaning. Please. All my mind was the roar of the waterfall, noise without meaning.

“Ah!”

(Let me tear into a thrall. Let me fuck them. Let me show them what chrylurk royalty means. O my hungry vermin! We will infest! We will ruin them! And they will thank us for the gift!)

There! Finally! Liquid sluicing through the petals! My clenched ovipositor gushing!

‍—Very good, princess.

My length still throbbed. My abdomen still ached with the pressure of eggs that hadn’t even moved in my womb.

I still needed to fuck.

‍—Help? Did I do it wrong?

I had just jerked my princess scepter until I couldn’t think any more ‍— and I still needed to fuck.

‍—Oh, princess, don’t you know? Your eggs aren’t finished gestating! Why, you won’t lay until the next moon‍-​phase at least. It’s only going to get worse for you.

‍—Mother in nexus, what have you done to me? (I didn’t know if I meant to send that.)

‍—Made you a surrogate! You shall ensure Queen is sated and Hive is growing! How do you feel?

‍—I… I don’t…

‍—Here, repeat after me: Thank you for allowing me the privilege to be filled, to bear but a fraction of your lust and inflict it onto others!

My ovipositor throbbed. My bloated gaster ached. I had to do something about this ‍— oh, vexation, I had to inflict it onto something.

Didn’t that sound satisfying? Nature herself ordained. I was made for this purpose.

‍—Very good, princess (this one sends.) Tomorrow you’ll do this again. With consistent practice and adequate stretching, your first laying will go exuberantly!