The Black Widow Rises by Willow Sears
Anoushka wants to be the kinkiest dominatrix there ever was. What could be more irresistible than a curvy vamp who wishes to make up for the wasted years and have all her BDSM dreams come true – now that her husband is gone? Raven-haired, luscious, and with a wardrobe full of the most fabulous fetish wear imaginable, she’ll do anything, with men or women alike, to feed her kinky cravings. She’s one hell of a woman – except for one serious downside. She’s made herself a widow, and her need to sate her hunger for unnatural lust has just begun.
Into her deadly web they all must go: super-arrogant Samson and super-rich Lionel, drawn by the allure of her sexy stilettos; Madam Destiny, the high-class whore who teaches her all the dirty tricks; Castor and Pollux, the pop stars who take their conquests to bed together. None can resist her pull. Only Detective Stark, who’s investigating the wave of deaths and disappearances in the area, will not capitulate to her allure. He wants her, that’s for sure, but still he resists. As the attraction between the two grows, Anoushka starts to falter, with her instinct to dominate becoming clouded by deeper needs. She knows that only a submissive lover will stay with her forever, so she cannot give in to him. He must give in to her. She’s sure she can defeat him and make him a the one would never think to betray her. However, there’s steel him, more darkness, than even she dared to hope...
Includes heavy bondage, whipping, torture devices, shackles and more!
|# of Pages||264|
|Artist Credit||Cover Art © Bruno Passigatti - Shutterstock.com|
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 bitch ain’t a contributing factor. Yeah, well, that’s what he thinks. He likes to play such music loud. He is going to fuck 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 fuck-monger had left it lying around and there it was buzzing away like an insistent sex 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.
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.