by j.
The Widow Dominates Her Prey
The wind was beginning to pick up, sending little fingers of cold through the half-open window and whispering down the chimney. Odrun the widow got up from the chair where she’d been sitting all afternoon and closed the window. She thought about lighting the gas log in the fireplace, just to keep out the chill that was trying to creep into the room through the chimney, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength.
The widow slumped back down into the easy chair where she had been since lunch, or what had passed for lunch. She couldn’t even seem to find the energy to fix herself a decent meal in the last few months. Odrun was only 26, but being twice-widowed had seemed to pile three times that many years onto her slender frame.
She was alone in the big house. That was the way she preferred it now, cut off from the few friends she had, numb to their kind but clumsy efforts to break through her wall of silence. Alone is best, she thought. Alone is a way to avoid even more loneliness, the loneliness that comes only after you have had something and lost it.
The widow sat there for another hour, lost in her thoughts — or lost, rather, in an absence of any coherent thinking, in a formless mental haze. Then the wind died suddenly, and she heard something at her door. She had been so withdrawn into herself that she thought at first that she had imagined it, but then she heard it again. Someone was trying the handle on her front door.
She got up and walked out of the living room into the small front hallway. She stopped at the door, but no there was no sound. She waited for a few moments.
“Hello,” she said loudly. “Is someone there?”
No one answered. The widow stood there for a minute or two longer, and then she felt a cold breeze on her back from the rear of her home, a cold breeze that you might feel if someone had left open the kitchen door. She turned around. A man was standing in the hall from the kitchen.
He was very tall, at least six and a half feet or more, but not particularly bulky. Despite his slender build, his height and the slight stoop as his large head leaned toward her made an imposing and menacing presence. He didn’t speak, but he began to walk slowly toward her.
“What do you want?” the widow asked. “If you don’t have any business here, I want you out of my house!”
He remained silent, coming down the hall until he was a few feet away, and then he stood there looking down at her. Suddenly, he reached out, grabbed the label of her robe and ripped it open, spinning her around at the same time so that the robe came off her shoulder and exposed one side of her body. Odrun had been bathing before she sat down in the living room, and she was nude under the robe. She cried out, but in anger more than in fear.
The man had spun her until her back was toward him, and now he pulled both sides of the robe down off her shoulders, pinning her arms. Turning her back around and holding her trapped arms with one large hand, he began exploring her naked body with the other. He squeezed her breasts and pulled roughly on her nipples before moving his hand down to the hairless triangle between her legs. His fingers probed into her, withdrew and wiped their wetness away on her belly.
She struggled as he dragged her into the living room and toward the couch, but the robe kept her from moving her short arms. He reached under his coat, pulled out what appeared to be a long rope of leather and wrapped it tightly around her upper body. Her long, kicking legs were still free, but he slapped her hard on the side of her head and pushed her over the arm of the couch facedown.. Stunned, she lay there looking back over her shoulder at the tall figure standing over her.
He was unzipping the fly of his trousers and pulling out his stiffening member. It was longer than any she had seen before, almost purple in its dark hardness and already dripping semen. A few drops fell on the backs of her naked legs, and they seemed to burn and sizzle. She tried to rise, but he pushed her back down on the couch and entered her, pushing hard into her opening with no preliminaries. She thrashed in an effort to dislodge him, but his giant organ seemed to have extruded bristles that held it in place.
Despite her anger, the center of her being was responding to the rough treatment. Liquid flowed out of her, drenching them both. He plunged deeper and deeper into her, and she began to buck under him in response. They were both grunting in pleasure when the climax came with a heat that seemed to sear her insides.
The Widow lay there for five minutes or more, recovering her senses, and then she looked down at one of the man’s hands, lying on the couch beside her. Long, retractable claws were emerging from the ends of his fingers, sharp and gleaming as a surgeon’s knife. She looked back over her shoulder, back into the double rows of long pointed teeth in his open, grinning mouth. He rose into a standing position, looming over her again.
She rolled off the arm of the couch onto its cushions and sat staring up at him. Another one of them, she thought. They never learn. Her long, triple-jointed legs unfolded. Now the widow towered over him. The huge double set of teeth sprang from her dripping jaws.
And, with one giant gulp, she bit off her lover’s head.