The Black Widow Rises

Chapter One-2

It was wide open for him. I’d seen to that. After witnessing his secret rendezvous, the thoughts had come in a wonderful rush of clarity. He was just too relaxed with her for it to be something he hadn’t done before. And not just with her either. He was just too slick in falsely denouncing her for it not to be second nature. He had cheated on me before, that was obvious. Perhaps many times, maybe as long as we had been married, because he thought he deserved such things. Well, I knew what I thought he deserved, so when the fortuitous goose came a-visiting, the plan to beat all fail-safe plans seamlessly sprang to mind.

Last night I put my plan into action, having covered the preparation and gone over it countless times in my head. I told him I had arranged an impromptu spa day with Pippa – not at the one just down the road but at the more salubrious, way more expensive one in the next town, meaning I would be well out of the way for the day. Once he cobbled some hasty tale together about not going into the office this morning, having instead to attend a last-minute golf day with a client, I knew he had taken the bait.

Be aware that there is no way I’m swinging for this fucker, or any man for that matter. The average vengeful b***h would have just hidden at home and sunk a shovel into his head, but you’ve got to be shrewder than that. One must always assume you will get a real-life Detective Colombo turn up to investigate, rather than some dim local yokel who, even if he found your victim nailed to the front door and you there with your gun barrels merrily smoking, would still have no mind to record it as anything other than Death by Misadventure. You have to run through the deed as the clever detective would, looking for signs that might give you away, looking for a way to eradicate all mistakes. It’s no good rushing ahead to the good bit and overlooking the glaring gaffe that’s going to see you spend the next thirty years behind bars. If there is one thing my cheating husband does not deserve, it is to earn me even a single second of incarceration.

I chose that particular spa for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it does valet parking, so that your car is secure in a gated enclosure and brought out only when you hand over the little ticket they give you. So, what good is all that? Well, you get seen by the uniformed lackey and can thus be identified as the unforgettable MILF who handed over the keys early in the day and didn’t get them back until much later, during which a certain heinous crime was committed. Secondly, the spa is conveniently situated right next to a rural railway station which connects to a town some fifteen minutes’ drive from my home, here in lil ol’ England. I’m not one to take public transport, but for the sake of the perfect plan I am willing to make an exception.

So, drive up there early and alone and present one’s car. Hand over your keys and smile at the valet, even giving him a saucy compliment despite the fact that he has a face like a pug’s rump, just so that he remembers you. Book in at reception, telling them you don’t need a tour because you are familiar with their facilities. Get the keys to one’s private changing room. Leave your cell phone in there – I’m thinking GPS traces here, and I hope you are taking notes. Then slip straight back out the entrance again, without being seen. No one will know that you haven’t been there all the time. Suffer the walk to the station, tottering on high heels for five minutes. Wearing very large sunglasses, board the iron horse, buying the ticket with cash. Sit where people don’t see you – at this time of the day, going in this direction, seats should be plentiful. Alight at your destination.

Now the tricky bit: getting back home unseen. Remember that the Range Rover Evoque, the one usually used for running about in and running over the lowly, is locked up miles away in a spa car park. Fortunately, you also have an agile if seldom used SLK for those sunny day jaunts, which can be parked in the road next to the station the previous day, before getting a cab nearly all the way home, but walking the last few minutes, just so the cab driver doesn’t know your address. Once off the train on the morning of the deed, pick up the waiting SLK and drive it home, parking in the road behind your house and going in through the back, where there is no CCTV on your gated entry and where hubby won’t spot your car. It means a bit more walking and scrabbling, and someone will have to pay for this.

Ensure you are in the house before they arrive. No one other than the desperate housewife/mailman combination choose to f**k much before lunchtime unless they have woken up together. He will doubtless want to squeeze in at least nine holes before he meets up with her. Change into the tight leather skirt and bodice that you bought for that Halloween party you never went to because he was ‘busy with a client’ – although in retrospect was probably shagging some hussy in the office – the same outfit that he has never once since requested you wear in the bedroom for dirty action, and has thus stayed on its hanger behind those sliding mirrored doors he loves to look at himself in; a hidden if constant sign that his attention has not been on you for some time. Well, I’m wearing it now, and the pleasure is going to be all mine.

Next, pull on the elbow-length gloves bought at the same time, to ensure fingerprints aren’t left in places a lady like me would never go – up ladders, for instance. Finally, zip on your sexiest boots, the ones with heels long and sharp enough to impale a f**k like my husband upon if ever it took my fancy. The boots aren’t just for empowerment and increasing one’s s****l fervour before the deed. They are practical too, for once. Broken glass equals fragments which could get onto soles of shoes, and remain as evidence. Thus the less actual shoe there is touching the floor, the better. I am clearly a genius at this – I think I’ve missed my calling!

Now for one final detail, having covered all the major ones: make sure you have picked a day when the domestic only comes in of an afternoon, to pick up his suits for dry cleaning. She can be the one with the joy of discovering the body and alerting the authorities. I will be elsewhere, having a much needed, alibi-ensuring massage after humping a weighty bowling ball trophy in its special golden zipped carry-case, not to mention several pounds of frozen goose, up a ladder and onto the roof. Lucky I am no weakling. With the tools of despatch ready in place it is just about waiting and picking one’s moment.

In theory it could be a two birds with one stone scenario but not even I’m kinky enough to kill a girl I m*********d over again last night. No, it’s all about him. He is the cheat; the conniving, arrogant cunt of a lie-spouter. Here I am feeling as sensual, as imaginatively experimental, as mentally sexy and strong as I have ever been in my life and he is only after girls half my age. It’s the utter conceit of the male species that boils my blood. Do the same to them and they would explode the world with their shattered macho ego. Their devastated pride would never recover from such a thing, so you simply don’t do it, even though you know you have only one life to lead and much that you yearn for could remain unknown. But they, they will forget you with impunity. And it does mean something, whatever they claim after. It means enough for them to put their mind solely to concocting plans and lies so that they can do their sneaky thing without being rumbled. If they only put as much mental effort into the one they are supposed to be thinking about they might end up in sexy situations too exciting to ever have them looking elsewhere.

Anyway, she turned up in her own car – a racy drop-top in red for a racy girl – and that made it perfect. It meant she could leave afterwards without him, and that was a bacon-saver for her. He came back first. I heard him humming away to himself, happy about what was to about to happen, though not half as happy as I was. I sat quietly in the attic room, knowing that he didn’t know I was there or what plans I had for him, which was rather sexy in itself. It’s all part of the mental stimulation and the more there is of that and the more intricate, the better. I should really have stayed where I was but I needed to see them. Don’t worry, going back downstairs was not going to be the one crucial flaw in an otherwise watertight plan. I’m not so stupid or undisciplined for that. Being discovered would not have condemned me. It would just have meant babbling excuses and apologies I had no ear for. It would have meant unvented animosity, a divorce and merely half of everything. But I deserve it ALL for what he has done to me without a care in the world. I deserve my justice.

So I crept down. Our house is a new-build and the carpets upstairs plush, so no floorboards creaked and my heels could not be heard. The door was open wide, no need for secrecy, no chance for a feeling of added security in a room so full of glass. I saw them in the giant mirrored doors of the sliding robe. It was meant as a way to reflect and bounce light to all corners of the suite, but I know he simply wanted to see our dirty business in it. Once I thought it was just me he wished this rude view of, but even Narcissus himself would go some to enjoy the sight of his own reflection as much as my husband does when on the job. Well, today will be the last time ever he gets the thrill of seeing himself.

I got the shock and shiver, the delight and dismay, of seeing her all trussed up and tied. I got to see his straining c**k reaching out towards her, swollen rigid with desire, as hard as iron. He has a fine c**k and he knows it. Only once was there any hint of a failure to get hard and after that I suspect he turned to certain blue diamonds to ensure it never happened again to such a paragon of maleness as him. Funny, gemstones always get me feeling horny too. My breath caught as his erection was presented to her helpless, open body. Here was that golden moment. He should have made her wait; made her agony of wanting build and build. He could have slapped her wet p***y with it, stroked it up and down her swelling lips until she was begging for it, wiped it all over her body and face. He could have put it to her other hole, made her shudder with sweeping alarm mixed with dirty desire. He could have denied her it altogether. Think how aching, how desperate and divine a torture that would have been. It would have had her wailing and quaking.

Instead, without even considering the erotic potential of holding all psychological power, with barely a pause at all, he drove it all the way up her in one go. It was a slide so sublime she could barely make any noise at all. I got to hear the slap of his swinging balls against her wetness. He f****d her teasingly, I’ll give him that. He ground against her and kept his pace slow when she was dying for depth and speed. Then he gave it to her in short spurts: a flurry of clapping, rapid thrusts almost too much for her. She couldn’t stop it. There was no way to wrap her legs around and constrict his movements, no way hands could grasp him and hold him in tight. She just had to wail and hope the bliss didn’t have her passing out.