Momir and the Widow

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Misfortune in a strange foreign city redefines a scared man.
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Dusk has come and gone, the night has gotten on. It must be close to midnight. Most of the working class is in bed, most of them sleeping, but here in the city-state of Zayir, the rich are always active. The catacombs and arenas and hidden tunnels beneath the palace are always surging with pleasure-seekers, pulsing like the heart of a living thing. Money changes hands, lust is kindled, then drowned in sin. Lives are created and extinguished, fates are bought and sold. Secrets are stolen, bargains made, promises broken, plans laid. Here, there is truly no rest for the wicked.
Outside the palace, life is colder, more meager. Fear and ambition and hatred are the soul's daily fare. Markets thrive during the day, fed by trade along major highways and a shipping route up and down the river, and magic and mercenaries can be found for barter down every street, but there is always some subtle reminder that none of this would exist but for the need for pretense, some respectable cover story readily available to those who have some reason to come, some sinful hunger to satiate, or desperate offer to make.

Tonight, in a second-story bedroom in the docks district, over a dry-goods warehouse, a merchant sits awake, Momir by name. His legs are crossed, his hands wrapped around the handle of a short sword, white knuckles betraying the fear that grips his heart even more firmly. His eyelids are heavy, but he dares not close them for he knows if he does, he will not see sunrise.
He hates the trips to Zayir. He does not come to visit the underworld below the palace, like many men do. The slave markets and the coliseums where the gladiators fight naked disturb him. The money is here though. Relics and curios flow from here through traders like himself across the face of the civilized, and the import profits here are unparalleled, though the tariffs nearly make up the difference. Regardless, he had never wanted any part of the unsavory laws of this city. He wishes now that he had become more familiar with their workings.
Two days prior he had been approached by a wretched waif, thin and caked with mud, desperation in her eyes as she tried to sell herself to him. Disgust warred with pity, for what wretch in this place was so poor-off that she tried to make a living as an unlicensed prostitute? Doubtless she had some terminal disease that was more trouble to cure than her body was worth. He had shaken off her advances a tad roughly, but was unable to turn her away. In his unthinking compassion he offered her shelter. This morning, he had woken to find her masticated frame sprawled carelessly in the corner of the tiny room beside his. The flesh had been flayed from her bones, and if he had any doubt before, the broad strokes in the pooled blood, like long licks across the floorboards, had banished any doubt. Widows. Momir and his impromptu charity case had been reported for unlicensed flesh trafficking, and were marked for the Widows. They would come for him tonight. He knew they were coming because they wanted him to know, it was known that they liked the taste of fear.

He glanced out the window to find the moons, seeing little Naima high above the horizon, nearly out of sight. The night was wearing on. Soon they would be here. He knew his chances of fighting off a Widow with a sword were slim, and if he survived, his only chance in the morning would be to take a horse at the break of dawn and ride as fast as possible for the Oranama Sea, where the salt water would wash away his trail. He glanced back to the door, but his eye caught something and his gaze flicked back to the darkest corner, far from his candle. There, slinking in the shadow, was a form. His heart thundered in his ears, and his breath caught in his throat. She stepped from the shadow, eyes locked on his chest. He thought briefly that she didn't look so dangerous after all, but his common sense reminded him that only a handful of men had ever escaped a Widow's mark.
She was naked from head to toe and unconcerned, comfortable in her skin. She bore a passing resemblance to a human woman, or perhaps to an elf. Of medium height, her shoulders were slight and her face sharp and angular. Her mouth was unnaturally wide, and her eyes were a crystal blue. Her bare breasts were small, and darker blue stripes like claw scars wrapped around her torso towards her navel should be. Her hips were wide, and swayed as she walked, and her feet held only three toes. Long fingers ended in wickedly pointed fingernails. As a predatory grin spread across her face he saw that her teeth were triangular and serrated, like the shark jaws that jaded sea traders often had mounted in their staterooms.

He gasped suddenly, his body reminding him to breathe, and he scrambled off the bed into the far corner, striking what he imagined to be a passable swordsman's pose, brandishing his blade before him menacingly.
The Widow smirked, and bent over the bed, gathering the blankets at the center and pulling them free. She stepped onto the cot and panic flooded his mind as he realized what her plan was. He froze for a moment, then made a desperate lunge, but she saw him coming and hurled the blanket over him, blinding his eyes and tangling his limbs. He stumbled and caught himself, only to collapse with a cry as wicked claws slashed at the back of his ankle. He collapsed as blood welled instantly in the wound, and his mind was gripped by the imminence of death. A sharp impact knocked his sword free of his grip, and more blows drove him back into the corner, where he felt the blanket pulled roughly away from him. The widow stood over him, grinning as she tossed the blanket, sword inside, into a far corner. He stared up into her clear blue eyes, wide with hunger, and was gripped by the senseless panic-driven frenzy of a cornered animal. His hand lashed out and clamped around her throat, the fingers of his other hand reaching to claw desperately at her face, when he saw her suddenly pause, and go stiff. Her expression changed instantly from one of predatory hunger to one of uncertainty and anticipation.

His mind struggled to the fore, carrying with it a memory of an urban tale he had once heard about the Widows. A last-ditch trick for the desperate. The tale was that they were much like beasts, and like any beast, had two reasons for existence. It was generally accepted that they had been created by the enigmatic emperor of Zayir, molded out of females of any number of exotic and bestial races, depending on who was telling the story. By this legend, they had originally been intended as entertainment for the emperor, not just tools of capital punishment. The tale said that if a man could subdue one through main force, he might convince her he was her mate, not her meal.

Looking into her apprehensive eyes, he realized that she had been fast enough to stop him, but had hesitated at the last moment. Could it really be that this was the manner of his salvation? She shifted uneasily in his grip, one clawed hand coming to rest gently on his wrist. He swallowed quietly, and shifted to sit up. He loosened his grip a little, thinking not to alarm her into a self-defense reaction, but the moment he did, her grip tightened and the hunger started to return to her face. Quickly he clamped down on her neck tightly, and he felt the blood draining from his face. Her muscles went slack. He swallowed again, unsure what to do with the lethal beast he held now at mere arms' reach, apparently tame for the moment but willing to feast on his entrails without a moment's notice.
He sighed inwardly. He knew what the story told him to do next, but he had to collect himself and really let the idea sink in. He looked the Widow up and down. Well, at least her body was right. No surprises there. Except for the tail, which he suddenly noticed she had. Blue for most of it's length, darker near the tip, it ended in a small barb. He made a note to avoid it if at all possible--no doubt it was toxic.

He leaned forward, pushing her back as he did. She opened her mouth slightly, almost as if in a small gasp, and did not resist. Her free hand slid up her body and listlessly groped her breast. He leaned over her now, braced on one arm with the other hand still wrapped tightly around the widow's throat. He could feel her pulse under his fingers, warm and fluttering. She looked up at him, now impassive and expectant, lips still slightly parted, and her legs shifted, hips making one slow grind against the air between them.
Momir mustered his resolve, and shifted to straddle her. He lifted his hand from the wood floor and laid it uncertainly on her breast. He rolled it in a slow circle, stroking her nipple, as her expression changed slowly to frustration and anger. He felt claws dig sharply into the back of his neck, and he quickly changed tactics, grabbing her nipple and cranking it cruelly. Her mouth twitched open several more notches, and the claws turned to a soft hand wrapped around the back of his neck, squeezing excitedly. So she wanted it rough. He licked his lips nervously, and pushed her head to one side with his thumb against her jaw. He bent down and ran his tongue up her neck, nuzzled her jaw briefly, then bit her ear hard. She tensed again as he caressed her, but she seemed to be growing less grouchy about his gentle touch. The hand on his wrist let go, and he felt a hand stroke his penis gently through his pants.

Abruptly he sat up and moved off her. His grip tightened on her neck as he pulled her towards his bed, and she wasted no time in scrambling to a position from which she could follow his lead. She crawled onto the simple cot and knelt before him, back facing. She bent over slowly as he carefully gave her lead to move, and she planted her face and shoulders flat on the straw mat without hesitation, hips in the air, swaying wantonly.
His breath caught as he saw her overt solicitations, and he leaned into her. His free hand pushed her tail away, then slid indulgently over the skin of her back, up to her shoulders then slowly down her spine back to her hips. She rolled her hips against his, and uttered the first sound he'd heard from her, something like a mewl, high-pitched and delicate. His fingers slid further down, exploring the intimate contour of her smooth rump, probing indelicately to find her most tender spots. She gave a barely audible sigh as his fingers found her lips already damp, and plunged slowly inside her.
There was a faint sound of protest when he put a hold to his explorations of the predator's weirdly alluring body, but he ignored her as he struggled with one hand to release the knot holding his pants up, afraid to use the other for anything but keeping a tight grip on the blue-skinned murderer. After what seemed like an eternity, the cloth slid down to his knees. He had an odd moment of relief that this was a monster on the cot before him, one for whom he did not need to appear skillful, or make apologies. He ground his pelvis against the Widow's rear and tried not to think about what he was doing, receiving a lustful counter-thrust for his efforts. He let his hand return to it's probing of her womanhood, such as it was, partially for stimulation and partially to assure himself that there was no horrible, toothy surprise waiting for him within. She urged him onward with more soft mewls of pleasure. In moments he was ready, mentally and physically, for the invitation she was so enthusiastically extending. He withdrew his fingers and plunged his rigid cock inside the cannibal creature, who gasped and arched her back, dragging her knees up the mat, her muscles flexing and pulling him deeper inside her.
Pleasure raced up Momir's spine like electricity and collected at the top of his scalp, which tingled like he was shooting lightning from his crown. God, what a rush! And she felt so damned good inside, like no woman he'd ever been with. He could feel her body rippling all around him, a bundle of myriad tiny muscles, all bunching in rhythm. He wondered if this was the feeling of a woman designed by the twisted, brilliant mind of the Emperor. He had little trouble remembering not to treat her too delicately, his passion drove him half to a frenzy. She reached back blindly and groped around til she found his hand, pulling out to her shoulder. He took her queue and gripped her, pulling her against his body with each wild thrust he made. She reached back to grip his hips encouragingly with one hand, the other snaking under her body to cup his balls, thumb and small finger circling the base of his shaft, caressing him gently as he pounded her hips. Her mouth was open wide, disturbingly so, and she was uttering a ceaseless string of cries and moans, in a perversely soft, high-pitched voice. She moaned and leaned into him as he fought to fill her completely with his cock. The thought crossed his mind just before his climax that even should she turn and eat him as soon as this was over, it was a better way to go than the alternative scenario had been--at least he'd gotten to have his way with her, little good though it would do him. He came violently, shaking and trembling and clutching at her desperately. Her breathing became short and ragged as he squeezed her esophagus reflexively, but she made no complaint until he relaxed, and pulled out of her vagina.
She shuddered softly and opened her eyes, turning to look at him. Before he could react she pulled free of his gasp and moved to her feet, gently gripping his shoulders and pulling her to him as she backed against the wall at the head of the bed. He looked down at her uncomfortably, and she looked back up at him questioningly. She opened her mouth as her back met the wall, and spoke a soft question in an unfamiliar tongue. He realized she had been speaking before, but that he had not recognized the words. Speech was no part of the Widow legends that he had ever heard of. He stayed silent, unable to reply, and she wrapped her arms gently around his chest, pulling his body against hers. Her knees slipped apart and a hand reached down to stroke and caress his soft manhood, stroking it invitingly against her slick pussy. Exhaustion was creeping over him, but he felt the lust in him and knew he was willing to go another round with this dangerous creature, particularly if it meant she was satisfied enough to leave him unharmed.
His shaft stiffened, her wide mouth widened further into a delighted smile, her legs lifted from the floor to wrap around his waist as her cunt engulfed his member again. She cried out in delight as he slammed her back against the wall over and over. Her eyes met his and a strange look of mischief came over her as she bounced sharply in his embrace. With no warning she dipped her head, mouth opening, and he felt pain blossom as her teeth sunk into the skin of his chest. He let out a surprised shout, and lashed out, striking her across the cheek with a fist. She answered with a sharp cry followed by a short whimper, as a trickle of blood welled from a dark bruise over her high cheek bone, and she laid her cheek against his breast, clinging tighter with her claws cutting deep lines in his back, her moans growing louder still. This time she climaxed, shortly before he did. He felt her muscles tighten and spasm electrically. She cried out a single word, so long and loud he was glad he was not in a more populated district. Not that it mattered, he didn't see how he could get in any more trouble than he was in.

When he had come within her finally, they slid down the wall together, neither seeming to have the strength to stand. He sat for a while watching her, waiting with mental tension that his body couldn't match to see what she would do next. After several minutes of inanimate deep breathing, he stirred tentatively, moving to stretch out on the bed. She reacted finally, disentangling herself and stretching out on her side facing him, eyes watching, unblinking. Watching her carefully, sat up and reached out to grab a corner of his blanket, pulling it closer and slowly shaking out the sword before pulling it over himself and laying his head on his pillow. She stared still, motionless. He watched her for another few moments before slowly closing his eyes. A few seconds passed before he felt his pillow shift under some other weight, and heard that soft mewl over his head. He opened his eyes quickly and looked up, to see her looking down at him with a strange expression. On a hunch, he lifted the blanket invitingly with one arm, and she smiled, quickly sliding in next to him. She lay down, head resting on his arm, back to his chest. He slid his arm around her, nestling his wrist between his breasts, which seemed to suit her fine, and sliding his fingers around her throat.

She lay her hand across his arm, and within moments, long slow breathing indicated sleep. For Momir however, peace of mind was not so easy to find. He tried in vain to fathom what fate had in store for him now. Would the widow awake in an hour, sexually sated but ravenous for flesh? Would he be able to escape? What if she followed him? He slept fitfully, awaking each time with a start, dreams of being flayed alive fresh in his mind. He was cold, though his back was damp with sweat. He dared to wrap his other arm around the widow's warm body, pulling her gently closer, and his heart stopped when she stirred. But she only melted closer to him, the soft rhythm of her breathing uninterrupted.

He woke to early dawn light streaming in through the small window. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he clearly had. He quickly gave himself the once-over, and was satisfied to be relatively intact. Breathing a sigh of relief, he scrambled to his feet. He was still tired but he felt surprisingly good, and besides he was not about to take his chances on a second night with a monster.
Packing his belongings as quickly as he could, he hurried down the street to the stables where he had put up his horses. He quickly made one ready with a saddle for riding, and strapped his belongings on. He thought to jump on and ride immediately, but his financial sense brought him to his senses. He had a fresh load of goods just purchased in his cart, mostly charmed jewelry, that he could carry with him and minimize the losses from his trip. He patted his horse nervously, and turned and hurried back to the warehouse.
Packing the majority of his commodity goods was a quick chore, a matter of a minute or two. He sighed softly as he looked at the cart. He'd had it for some years, it was well made, but there was no question now of taking it with him. Oh well, the warehouse owner was lucky today. Hustling back to the stables, he heard a young man scream inside, and his blood chilled a few degrees. Ripe with apprehension he ran inside and stepped in a rapidly growing puddle of steaming blood. He stopped, almost slipped, and dread gripped him. It was coming from one of his stalls. He walked closer, fearing what he would find. He reached out with a shaking hand to open the door. Inside, his horse lay, legs twisted underneath it. It's throat and belly had been torn open. He took a tentative step forward and felt something squish underfoot. Looking, he saw a lump of pulpy red matter. A heart, crushed by a clawed hand. He staggered and grabbed the stall siding, turning to retch, but froze at what he saw.

On the wooden board partition, drawn with finger paintings in fresh blood, in childish scrawl, was the single word "No".

Momir stumbled from the stables, stopping only long enough to vomit in the street before staggering onwards. His mind was a whirl of fear and confusion. What would he do now? She knew where his horses were stabled. She must have been watching him. He stopped at a crossroads, turned and looked down each way. He saw an inn, and made a beeline for it. He snatched a pair of reins from the railing, and scrambled up onto the horse, who nickered uneasily, and pranced sideways. Seating himself in the saddle, Momir dug his heels in and snapped the reins, urging the horse forward at a gallop. He was lucky, the horse did not balk at being ridden by a stranger. He heard a door slam open and shouting behind him, but he paid no mind. People leaped out of his way as he bolted for the gate. His eyes scanned constantly for a narrow face and piercing blue eyes, but no monster leaped at him to eat his eyes out. Once outside the gate he allowed the horse slow to a canter, but he did not stop looking behind him until tree cover closed overhead and a bend hid damned Zayir from his sight.