The Black Widow Rises

Excerpt

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.

Be aware that there is no way I’m swinging for this fucker, or any man for that matter. The average vengeful bitch 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 fuck 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 fuck like my husband upon if ever it took my fancy. The boots aren’t just for empowerment and increasing one’s sexual 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 masturbated 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 cock reaching out towards her, swollen rigid with desire, as hard as iron. He has a fine cock 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 pussy 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 fucked 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.

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 sex 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 fuck 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 fuck 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 tits aren’t even a handful for him but the nipples 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 fucking cheat, so pleased is he with the sight of his cock 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 fuck her as someone unseen brings me off. Spank her, for fuck’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 cock up her shit-hole with nothing but spit to ease the entry. Get her phone and take pictures of her backside full of your fat cock 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 nipples. 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 cock 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 fuck, 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 cock. He starts to gasp and grunt and I know he is ready. Just as he is about to unleash he gasps out that he “fucking 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 fucks 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.