The Black Widow Rises

Chapter One An End & A Beginning My husband once broke wind in the kitchen with such a protractedly loud, rippling intro and stomach-turning flumping finale, that from afar I thought he must have prised open our large, well-suctioned refrigerator and tipped a massive casserole out onto the marble floor. In my startled disgust I remember thinking: he needs to die. No, really. “Better out than in!” he snidely declared, more mitigation than excuse, but it was just another lie. To see that same naked, butter-wouldn’t-melt backside now you wouldn’t believe it capable of such horror. Studied reflected in the large mirror designed for such things it is undeniably a nice rear; a smooth rear. It is all grab-able soft innocence one second and then driving taut muscle the next. It is waxed and tended and toned. It is a very rich arse, used to sinking daily within the leather sumptuousness of a Maserati’s interior, and the ergonomically designed, swivelling, high-backed comfort that only the very successful financiers at his company are given. The dimples give it a perpetually youthful cheekiness. Surely this backside could do no wrong? And yet here it is now: pump, pump, pumping away, sodden-slap hammering into me even more humiliating, inside-ripping dismay than that wind-breaking incident aroused. He thinks I just have to take it but boy, is he wrong. So, anyway, the other day a frozen goose hit the house. I kid you not. I actually saw it land. I was lying in bed, idly playing around, staring up at the ceiling because that’s what you do if you have a bed positioned specifically for looking up through the snazzy pyramid-shaped skylight above. Then a bulk flashed through my vision and landed with a thump. I simply had to go up for a look, even though I don’t normally do ladders. Not in high heels anyway. But I couldn’t risk falling through the roof and finding myself too broken to crawl to my shoe cupboard to swap safer sneakers for my signature stilettos before the emergency services arrived to scrape me off the floor. Got to look one’s best, especially in such moments. I even put a puff of Love in Black behind each ear in case I died up there and wasn’t found until I’d started to turn a little gamey. The goose wasn’t looking quite so spattered and sorry for itself as it would have done if not frozen. It was reasonably in one piece. I’m no scientist but I’m shrewd enough for a fair deduction and it was this: it was flying along happily until it hit a cold front or got swept upwards in a therm or something, causing it to freeze and plummet. I don’t think it was shot out of the back of some refrigerated truck. Most worrying was its final position in relation to the skylight. I think it might have glanced off the adjacent domed vent, which could easily have deflected it straight through the glass rather than safely across it. A fall one microsecond earlier or a breeze just a fraction stronger could have sent it straight through and down onto me below, wiping me out before I had finished playing with myself. Not good. Friggus interuptus plus certain death, courtesy of plunging stiffened meat. What a thought! And it would have gone through too. The skylight might be made of hugely expensive, thick, heat-reflecting, UV-shielding reactive glass, but touch it in the right place and it just goes. I know this because having spent half a day carefully installing it, one of the clumsier glaziers gave it an accidental tap with the handle of his hammer and it blew, falling in foot-long shards that shattered to smithereens on landing. It meant a new everything: skylight; floor; bedding; mattress. It took them days to clear it all up and made me wonder at the wisdom of moving our bed right underneath it. So, Mr Frozen Goose, landing just half a foot short might have spelled curtains for Yours Truly. “You beaky f**k,” I snarled at the stiff, very dead form, giving it a dig with my spiked heel. “You could have frickin killed me!” It just gave me that same bleary-eyed stare through half-closed icy eyelids. I didn’t know what to do with it. I suppose I could have got handyman Bertrand to remove the carcass – and it probably wouldn’t have been the first lifeless bird that slimy bastard had put in a bin bag. But I couldn’t stop those visions of hurtling wildfowl and falling shards of deadly glass, and so I decided to put it in the freezer, you know, just in case... He thrusts in hard again and I see in reflection the clench of his buttocks. This time he holds himself tight there, slowly gyrating and grinding. He smiles down – well, more of a confident sneer really. A new tune comes on and he reaches for the remote control to turn it up, singing along in a cringe-worthy accent as Jay-Z informs us that, as regards to his almost three-figure problems, the b***h ain’t a contributing factor. Yeah, well, that’s what he thinks. He likes to play such music loud. He is going to f**k to it, using it to drive his rhythm. He thinks it helps show that at age 42 he is still a player and a super-cool young dude. It is a reminder of how quickly he ascended the ladder in comparison to his peers and how much wealth he has accrued in such short time. However, he carefully reminds no one that so much of it is down to his father’s influence and nepotistic generosity. His boastful misplaced self-adoration can make the rage flash white behind my eyes. Despite my revulsion his rump is still a mesmerising sight: all tanned and nicely rounded and the dimples prevalent now he holds himself in tight. Delicate, painted-nail fingers should be on it, stroking it, clasping the flesh and digging in, but her hands are tied. He has never done this with me. He has used my silk stockings to bind her wrists to the chrome-barred headboard but he has never thought to put me in such a position. Maybe he thinks me too strong. I always was more than his equal which is why he married me. I am the real show of all he is. He wants people to see his power and class and so he could never do trophy bimbo or dumb blonde. I am sleekly raven, curvy and smouldering. Think passionate vampiress, with the most porcelain of skin. I follow no one, obviously, but think Morticia Addams if you must, or early-era Nigella. Picture formidable intelligence and cheekbones, plus the darkest brown eyes enhanced with cloudy shadow. Think bright red lippy and a preference for black attire. Think sultry and deadly, and never, ever think ordinary. The big question, indeed the eternal question when it comes to cheating men, is why her when he has me? It sends my head spinning with incredulous ire and mortification. It is the hugest blow, dealt with apparent indifference and frivolity. I’m reasonably sure I could seduce a vast swathe of the male population at the drop of a hat but I choose not to because of promises made and vows taken. So imagine my anger when I saw the stray text. I don’t usually examine my husband’s cell phone but the arrogant f**k-monger had left it lying around and there it was buzzing away like an insistent s*x toy demanding attention. I declined the incoming call, since I don’t care for anything that isn’t for me, but there I saw the message, arrived sometime that morning and so carelessly not deleted. It was a lunch date. The text gave the time and the place so obviously I went along to spy. I wanted to see in the flesh the person who affectionately signed off as ‘Your Little Miss Supple’. She was young; a whole late teenager’s worth younger than me. You’d think this would give him some excuse but I wasn’t seeing it that way. She was pretty, unquestionably, and essentially my opposite: blonde, tanned, and basically a stick – devoid of the T and A he always claimed crucial in a woman. I had seen her before, of that there was no doubt. She was the girlfriend of one of the team of hand-picked, fresh from top college graduates they put under the tutelage of my know-it-all hubby, there at the shindig to mark the end of their induction. That was the same day my husband won the gold bowling ball trophy he remains so ridiculously proud of. He was a golfer for recreation so this was a real victory. Having whupped graduate ass over eighteen holes they challenged him to some ten-pin bowling, something he claimed he hadn’t even played before. He whupped them at that too, winning the ludicrously heavy, full-sized trophy he’d had made, proving what a master he was at anything he put his hand to. He put the ghastly thing on a special shelf in our bedroom he was that proud of it. He hasn’t yet noticed it is missing. “Not my type,” he had lied that night, in reply to my assertion that she was very pretty. He’d even given my backside a secret squeeze to reinforce the point. Well, she was my type. I fantasised about her three days in a row after seeing her that first time, which is how I knew for sure it was this same girl. Now my husband, as is his wont, has taken it upon himself to go one better. She is bound effectively rather than intricately. The stockings are wound around her wrists and tied at the middle of the headboard rail, not at each corner. This will allow her to be turned. Such insightful observations are now almost instinctive for me. I have been lost for hours on some occasions, becoming almost feverish, poring over mainly black and white photos on certain Tumblr sites whilst my husband is absent with other business to attend to. These voyeuristic snapshots of the world of bondage seize my attention. They are magical frozen glimpses of power wielded and power felt. If you absorb them and let your imagination free you can grasp the excitement of possibility that grips all those who do these things for real. I can feel inside me the rushing fire of those captured moments, tender and nasty, often enough to make me gasp. Fortunately, when I saw her in reflection I managed to keep in all sound, although my legs weakened beneath me and the heel of my hand instinctively found itself pressing hard at my crotch. At first I thought her legs to be bound with vinyl straps, but I saw the roll still on the bed and knew that it was bondage tape. This is for those who want to get trussed in a hurry: wide and strong like gaffer tape, but shining like latex. It is adhesive only to itself, to keep tender flesh undamaged. I almost ordered some online once, just to see if it worked as claimed. How ironic that my husband beat me to it. She has some wrapped around each bent leg, wound around mid thigh and shin, to keep the calves pressed tight to the backs of the thighs. It would hurt anyone with creaky knees, but she is Little Miss Supple after all. Perhaps it was the fact that she was tethered that kept me glued there, the shock subduing the rage already within and turning it to belly-burning anticipation. I knew they would be there and naked, but not like this. The mere sight of the shiny black tape had my juices running. It masked the disappointment of missing the run-up to her trussing, and the fact that it was such a toe-tip dip into the boundless promise of the world of restraint. At least this suggested no expertise through practice. It was a barely thought through, merely amateurish dabbling into a kinky sphere he didn’t particularly understand. I would have done a much better job on her. In my fantasies I most certainly did. I was there in time to see his entry. I saw him ready to do as he wished to her, his body all tanned and waxed, his muscles toned from the company gym. He stood naked, proudly posing, gripping his prick which looked fit to burst – as rigid as I had ever seen it – the head of it already shining, a thin thread of clear pre-come already stringing from the tip in his desire. He examined her lecherously but patiently because she was all trussed up with nowhere to go. For some wronged wives this might have been the moment when they overcame their inertia to bowl in spitting fire, or stumble before him wailing in shock and hurt. For me the pulse raced, the blood fizzed, but I stayed as frozen as that dumbass dead goose, compelled to watch. What I was witnessing was the moment of pure glory, the instance where one’s will is about to be exacted over the other, where those with the power can do anything they wish, and those robbed of their freedom just have to close their eyes, open their souls, and take it. I couldn’t believe the sneaky bastard was going to know this supreme moment before me: the one who truly hankers for it.