The Black Widow Rises

Chapter One-3

He has her on her side now, doing her slowly from the back, her bound legs ensuring her rear is stuck out at him. He is doing porn faces. She can’t see but he is grimacing, scrunching his too-large but somehow attractive nose, tensing that strong jaw of his, trying to look like a s*x god. Every now and then he glances over his shoulder to get a quick view of his muscular buttocks looking all manly as they tense against her. If he took more time and looked more closely at the mirror at the far end he would see me reflected in it, my expression one of hatred, rage and burning helpless desire all in one. That’s quite a face!

He puts his middle finger up to his mouth and makes it wet with tongue and lips. It is vulgar, but thrilling because of it. You never get your middle finger all spit-wet except for dirty business. His hand goes down behind her and she draws in breath sharply. I know the finger has gone in her behind, maybe all the way up. He has never done this to me. Why the f**k has he never done this to me? Does he think me too proper for such filth, not crude enough for such things? Does he really know so little about me? He leans over her, teeth gritted as he looks down on that pretty, gently moaning, eyes-closed face. I know he is wiggling that finger inside her. He takes it out so that he can grip her and pump her harder. He could order her to suck that same finger as he slapped home. Why the f**k does he not understand that she is in no position to refuse him anything? Why can’t he grasp that she might want him to command her to do whatever his dirty mind can conjure up, that the helpless subjugation makes everything a turn-on?

He manhandles her onto her front and then brings her up so that her skinny knees are digging into the mattress. He has his hands under her ankles to help support her and grips them as he slides back inside her sopping puss. She squeals her joy again, her head coming back. I see her profile in reflection now, the sexy arch of her back, no hint of any paunch at her belly, just smooth young flawless skin. She is so gorgeous, which is why I know I will think of her again some nights. The little t**s aren’t even a handful for him but the n*****s are so pointed and sweet, so delicate yet hard. Her backside is so meatless it hides nothing, but that soft cunny will be stuck out at him between those thin thighs, all rude and inviting, so irresistibly smooth.

He starts to slap against her as his pace increases, going in for the kill. He is sneering, this f*****g cheat, so pleased is he with the sight of his c**k stuffing her young body. He will still be smirking when I end him, and that thought gives me an urgent twinge between my legs, enough to finally have me dragging up my skirt to get a gloved hand down inside my knickers. The feel of the leather on me there is alien and slightly rough, but it is good for that, like someone else is doing it, like I am being made to watch him f**k her as someone unseen brings me off. Spank her, for f**k’s sake. She has no ass but spank her anyway, just because you can. Make it sting so much it hurtles her towards a humiliating, screaming climax. Put your thumb up her rude butt. Put your c**k up her s**t-hole with nothing but spit to ease the entry. Get her phone and take pictures of her backside full of your fat c**k and then force her to pick a girlfriend to send the pictures to.

He pulls her hair. That is the most I will get from him. It is sexy to see and it makes her gasp and takes her closer to a finish but I wanted more. He should make her talk dirty, however embarrassed she is to do this. He should reach around and pinch her n*****s. He should pull out now that her wails signal the swiftly approaching onrush of her climax. He should leave her empty, her hips jerking and thrusting in a desperate effort to regain his c**k to clench upon. He should leave her on the brink and take himself away from it so that he can do this again, over and over, driving her delirious with unquenched need, until finally giving her a release to die for.

He is just going to keep at it, keep on pumping until he comes, taking her with him and getting it over and done with. Such power over her and yet it will come to this tame, predictable end. However deep my fingers are inside me from the sight of their f**k, I hate him for this shallowness, for not even bothering to have her any differently than he would have me, despite the ties that hold her at his mercy. He really is an unspeakably selfish, pointless bastard, despite that lovely c**k. He starts to gasp and grunt and I know he is ready. Just as he is about to unleash he gasps out that he “f*****g loves” her. It is a lie. The words jolt and burn inside and send me away towards the roof again, but I know he can’t mean them because he tells me the same thing every time he comes.

I go back up the ladder and creep across the roof. The risky part is in looking down at him, my face looming at the skylight for anyone peering upward to spot. He is face down, head on his arm. I have seen this many times: his post-spurt, leave-me-be pose. She is flexing her wrists having been untied and then sees to the tape binding her legs. There is no ceremony. It is unpeeled and left on the floor by the side of the bed, and then she rises and checks that her knees still work before heading off to the en suite. It’s going to be one of those hit-and-run f***s and that suits me just fine. She doesn’t even shower. She is a few minutes in the bathroom and then comes back out and dresses, picking up the discarded tape and stuffing it in her handbag. I think this is less as a memento and more out of mistrust that he will remember to hide the evidence properly.

They don’t kiss. She waves over her shoulder but he barely lifts his head. That is him all over: above everyone; too self-important to be anything other than selfish. For all the love I’ve had for him I can also loathe his arrogance – and that was before I found out about his cheating ways. Right now it stops. I don’t have to see that sneer or hear that loud bragging self-righteousness any more. It’s a thin line between love and hate, and it has been crossed. He is right there as I want him. I would have preferred him face up but it won’t stop me. The golden bowling ball, of which he is so proud, is there waiting, heavy enough to be dropped through the glass and straight down onto him. He won’t even have time to move. I feel cold delight within me. My puss is still itching and insistent. My smile is set. The sound of her car engine fades into the distance. I take the ball and get on my haunches to hold it over the skylight and take aim. This is it. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can go wrong. It is a brilliant crime. I am going to rid myself of that bastard once and for all, and enjoy doing it into the bargain. And then, just at this very last instance, I have a change of heart.

Not really! I have a decided un-change of heart and let loose the bowling ball. The crash is colossal but although I see him jerk at the shock of it the golden orb has already plummeted to its target. It strikes him before any of the falling shards do, landing with a horrible thud and almost stopping dead in the crater it must have made in his shoulder blade. I watch the rain of glass spatter all around, larger pieces slicing into softness or shattering into thousands of fragments to litter the floor like crystals. The ball does its own slow death, lolling about a bit upon him before inching to the edge and falling with another thud.

There is no shrieking, jerking response to the shard shower that has left him like a gore-oozing pin cushion. This suggests the first impact did the trick. The goose is not needed but I dragged it up here for good reason. First, I need to make sure it goes through the hole it is supposed to have made, which it certainly will. Second, I want it to land as if it fell naturally, perhaps picking up a few fragments as it does so, to add to the realism. I have a strong urge to get down there and see him up close, but one needs to attend to the finer details first, so I send the goose on one last flight. It strikes exactly where the bowling ball did and then rolls to the side upon the mattress, all of which is just perfect. The impact doesn’t see him move.

I collect the bags used to transport my murder weapons and head back down. The adrenaline-fuelled excitement is almost burning me up but still I enter the bedroom slowly, as if not wanting to hurry the treat. I go closer to the bed, scrunching the first few fragments underfoot, my heart quickening still. The deliciously shining, silken blood spills from him all over, some mere trickles, some faster gushes. The shards sticking from him sparkle in the flooding sunlight. There is one particularly nasty one like a six-inch dagger blade protruding from the back of his neck. This might have done for him on its own without help from the ball and the goose. Fortunately, his exposed backside remains unharmed. I wanted to remember it this way.

I carefully cross to the robe and change back into the clothes I arrived in. The holdall used to carry the goose needs to go back to the garage. The carry-case for the bowling ball should, by rights, go into the little cupboard by his side of the bed where I took it from. However, the glass fragments there are particularly numerous and it would be stupid to go treading through all that. I’m still deciding what to do with the case when I hear the hiss of breath from behind me. I turn to see him blinking slowly, his mouth opening and closing like a slow-motion goldfish trying to find some oxygen. I stuff the boots and bag I’m clutching into the robe and slide the door shut.

If his eyes can focus, he will see me triumphant before him. That actually sends another hot rush through me. He won’t be able to fathom what is going on other than that he is in dire peril, clinging on to life. Perhaps he is thanking his lucky stars that I have unexpectedly returned to drag him back from imminent death. The power to save him rests with me. He would never recall that there were two impacts. Put the bowling ball back on its shelf as I plan to do and it would seem like the freak accident it was made to look like. I could call an ambulance and he might live, with me as his saviour. The indignity of almost dying from stray goose strike could be our little secret.

I cross to the far side of the bed where he cannot now see me. All he will know is I am his only hope. I step in close, lightly stroking one cheek of that smooth and treacherous ass. I lean right over to look upon him and hear that weak wheeze of breath. My husband: the man I gave myself to for life – well, his life, at least. Fortunately, I still have the gloves on. They will have to be thrown in the trash now but others can be bought. I reach down and feel at my palm the thin, flat upper edge of the shard sticking from his neck.