0 comments/ 9788 views/ 3 favorites Momir and the Widow By: MongolSamurai 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. Momir and the Widow Safe. He was going to make it. Or so he thought, until a sharp bend in the road brought him unannounced into the presence of the very monster he was fleeing. She stood resolutely in the path of his horse, one hand lifted to shield her eyes from the dim sunlight filtering through the canopy. His blood ran cold and he reined his horse up short. She squinted against the muted light to glare at him, and spoke in her alien tongue. Uncertain, he watched her for a moment. Her expression was clearly angry, but she made no move to attack him. Bleakly, he reined his horse around, and started back the way he came. 'she won't let me leave', he thought. Looking over his shoulder, he saw her following him. At the edge of the forest she was gone, between one glance and the next. But he didn't think for a moment that he was free. The sun was descending in the sky when he passed again through the city gates. His spirits felt like ash, dry and crumbling. He felt certain that wherever he went, she would find him when darkness came. He had no money, and he reluctantly turned his stolen horse towards the docks. He stopped at the stables where his remaining horses were kept and inquired about his abandoned belongings. With a good deal of grudging, and some horse bartering to boot, his trinkets and traveling gear were returned, mostly soaked in cold, sticky horse blood. Disgusted, he nevertheless took his pack. Leaving the stolen horse loose in the street he walked on foot to the loft he had rented for the week. Climbing the ladder to the room, he was numbly surprised to see the lumpy straw mattress gone, replaced with a mess of expensive-looking pillows and blankets, some in sets, others alone, strewn about like a veritable nest. It seemed that his designated executioner still had designs on him. Though this was not the best news he could have heard, it elevated his spirits some to see that she apparently was not ready to eat him and have done with it. He knelt, suddenly feeling his tiredness, and began to dig through his pack. The jewelry could be cleaned, but his wool blanket dripped with cold blood. He tossed it into the emptiness of the interior of the warehouse, and listened to it slap on the dirt floor a story below. It sounded like a corpse. He tried to clear his mind as he sorted through his spare clothing, separating saturated from unstained, finding precious few of the latter. After a time his exhaustion became too much, and he lay down in the mess of blankets, and promptly fell asleep. He woke to late afternoon sunlight slanting in low, casting long shadows and coloring everything a deep yellow. Sitting up with a start, feeling wakeful but grimy, he looked down and realized his hands were caked with dry blood, as was the blanket where he lay. He swore, and climbed to his feet. Taking an only partially-ruined shirt, he made the trip to the closest cistern where he washed his hands and arms. He took some time to assess his situation with a more rested mind, and decided that he had better liquidate his cart and his extra horses. If he did manage to escape, it wouldn't be with a three-horse team and a load of silverware rattling behind. He realized also that he was ravenously hungry, and decided to seek food while he was out. He sold most anything that couldn't be carried conveniently on a saddle, keeping one horse as well, just in case, and bought dinner while he was out. Back in his loft, shortly after sundown, he was sitting on a pillow watching the corner where the widow had appeared last night, thinking about what he would do if he was held here for very long, when a soft touch on his shoulder made him jump. There she was, crouched beside him, silent as a snake. She gave that too-wide smile, and he swore she batted her eyelashes at him. Leaning in close, she kissed his shoulder gently, then his cheek. He was lifting his arm to snake around her when pain shot through his face, and he cried out in surprise. She pulled back, grinning, with blood on her lips, and he saw her swallow. He touched his jaw line tenderly, and felt a clean divot sliced out of his cheek, surgical in precision. He looked at her, shocked and disturbed, and raised his hand to strike her, but he stopped when she closed her eyes and turned her cheek to him, showing the dark bruise left by his fist the night before. He forced himself to lower his had, determined he was not going to play to this creature's strange passions for violence. Blood rolled freely down his neck, and began to soak into his shirt. He cursed and pulled his shirt off, taking extra care not to touch his throbbing jaw, and tore a strip loose, fitting it carefully to his face as a makeshift bandage. After several painful experiments, he decided he needed medical help, and started to rise. The widow's insistent grip that closed on his wrist and pulled him back stopped him, and he turned to find her looking at him, demure and lusty. In spite of himself his pulse began to rush, as unbidden memories of the night before came to mind. She looked over her shoulder and reached for something, then presented him with her find: a black leather collar sized for a slender human neck attached to a short iron chain and a tether. She smirked coyly and shifted, laying slowly across his lap, back down. Her eyes closed and her head tipped back, her arms stretched out above her head, and her knees spread slightly. She lay still and silent, her torso rising and falling slowly as she breathed, and waited for him to explore the sleek form presented before him. Momir was captivated, her clear offering both disturbing and thrilling. His pain forgotten, he wasted no time in fitting the collar snugly about her neck. When he was done her eyes opened, and one hand slid slowly down to stroke her skin. She sighed softly and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to do something, anything, to her. He cautiously wrapped the tether on her collar about his wrist, then ran his hands over her body. She was warm, warmer than he, and she curled up a little when his fingers played over her sensitive areas. Once more his fingers found her slit, hot and moist, and he felt himself start to stiffen as she gave a soft little gasp. She languished in his lap for some time, squirming slowly, before suddenly rising to kneel before him. She looked up at him quickly before bending towards his chest. Quickly he lifted a hand to catch her by the throat and she gagged and coughed, then looked up again and giving him a soft smile. One of her hands gently stroked his, and she leaned slowly into his grip, pushing his hand towards him. Reluctantly he allowed her to place her mouth to his skin again, and this time she merely gave him a soft kiss on the sternum before moving to slowly lap up the blood running down his chest. Momir held still, waiting for a sign that the Widow was about to bite him again. None came, just the feeling of her tongue sliding over his skin, and the occasional kiss. He exhaled suddenly, not aware he'd been holding his breath, and ran his other hand down her spine. The feel of her firm ass under his hand sparked an uncharacteristic idea in his mind. It felt appropriate for the situation. His fingers probed deeper, and the widow stiffened reflexively, and he felt her gasp sharply as he thrust his finger slowly into her anus. She pulled away from his hand suddenly, then slowly relaxed and pushed back against his probing. She resumed her licking, and he probed deeper into her forbidden regions, unsure quite what he was doing, but satisfied at her reaction. She worked her way slowly up his body as he worked his way deeper into hers. Her hands gently clasped either side of his head as she ran her tongue maddeningly up the side of his neck, making his pulse hammer, and he heard her breath, heavy and hot. When she reached the blood's source, she pulled away suddenly and lay back in the pile of bedding she had collected here. Her neck craned and she looked him in the eyes as her thighs spread and knees pulled up. One hand spread her pussy wide, inviting him to look, touch, enter. Her back arched and tensed rhythmically as she waited for him to come to her. He ran his eyes slowly up her body, his hands working thoughtlessly to free himself from his pants. Cloth yielded exposing willing flesh, and he fell over her, no hesitation in his mind this time. He gripped the chain on her collar and pulled her close for a firm kiss as he thrust into her. Claws grazed his back until they found the ruts they had cut the night before, and dug in hard as he plunged his cock into her hungry flesh. Momir arched his back in pain and looked down at her with anger, saw the desire in her eyes and raised his hand, knowing she wanted the blow. She cried out as he struck her, and her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him deeper inside. He knocked her hands away and she reached again to embrace him, clasping his shoulders this time, drawing no blood. She moaned her delicate, high-pitched moans, and he groaned his hoarse, unrefined grunts of passion, and they pleased each other and themselves until they were each satisfied, and cries turned to gasps and panting. Momir lay atop his monstrous lover for long minutes, silent, til she stirred restlessly. He rolled off her reluctantly, and she instantly straddled him and ground her hips against his, rubbing her wet lips along the underside of his limp penis. He groaned, realizing she wanted more, and fell silent to compose himself. He could do this. He had to, who knows what she would do if she wasn't satisfied. He swallowed, and sat up to watch her play herself along his shaft. She smirked at him, watching his eyes, and made a show of it, stroking herself and moaning softly as she worked him back into performing shape. Thankfully, she was tempting enough to inspire his focus. He was almost disappointed when she decided he'd had enough, and climbed off him. He turned to see her kneeling, facing the wall, looking over her shoulder at him. Her hands reached down, ran slowly over her ass, and with tantalizing slowness she spread herself for him. She cocked her head coyly and mewled softly, and he looked down and realized what she wanted. Ordinarily, such things did not appeal to Momir, a staunch conservative by comparison to this perverse city's population, but the voice of adventure inside him spoke up, saying 'try it. what is there to lose? she's nothing but a monster anyways.' He moved into place behind her, brushed aside her tail, and took hold of her swaying hips. She felt his shaft brush her ass and she lifted a hand to brace herself against the wall. He closed his eyes and leaned into her, pushing himself inside. His member was slick with her excretions, but he hadn't considered that she was dry here, and he felt it as she cried out, long and loud, in protest. He heard her mutter something under a heavy breath, he thought she might be swearing. He quickly moved to pull himself out, to find a way to address this problem, but she pushed back against him, unwilling to let him go. He opened his eyes, and she was looking at him over her shoulder, eyes smoldering and wild with lust. 'Brilliant Rao,' he thought, 'what kind of twisted creature can she be to want it like this?'. She pushed against him impatiently, panting. He closed his eyes again and pushed again, thrusting his cock deeper into her ass. She cried out again. Her claws dug deep furrows into the wooden walls as she pushed back against him. He forced his concerns out of his mind, and soon things were easy. The widow's cries came, voicing suffering and lust, but her enthusiasm never flagged and Momir found himself as lost in her as ever. He pressed against her flexing back, hands sliding around to grope her breasts, and pressed his uninjured cheek against her black hair. He held her tightly to him while he fucked her, and she only cried for more. He lost track of time, returning to mindfulness only after he had peaked and released his passion inside her. His embrace slackened, and he slowly slid down to sit on his ankles. He realized then that she had not climaxed, and looked up to see her looking back with a clear expression of frustration and irritation. Without so much as a word (not that he would understand it anyway) she deftly divested herself of the collar, climbed to her feet, and walked rather stiffly into the shadows in the far corner. The darkness deepened for a moment, engulfed her, and just like that she was gone. Momir sat, dumbfounded, unsure what to do now. His jaw, previously forgotten, began to throb again. He thought of a doctor, and looked around for a clean shirt to wear. Just as he found one, a soft thump in the far corner of the room drew his attention. He caught the tail end of a vanishing silhouette in the shadow, and a moment later noticed a roll of bandages and a small clay jar of what looked like it might be some kind of salve. He sighed softly, and set about tenderly bandaging his bite wound. Morning broke and woke Momir. His face hurt, and he was thirsty. He thought over the previous night as he drank from the cistern, and as he relieved himself against the warehouse wall in the adjacent alley. The widow was clearly irritated with him. He had failed to satisfy her. He felt a surge of indignant outrage, the desire to protest that she had been asking too much, but he forced himself to remember that this was not the issue at hand. He wished there was somewhere he could hide for a few days, until she forgot her anger. He assumed that this method worked on savage cannibalistic women as well as the normal kind, since he had little else to go on. He looked up at the Zayir palace and shuddered, thinking of the cruel and unnatural things that were rumored to happen there. Then he thought of what he'd been up to the last two nights, and his face flushed self-consciously. He hadn't exactly been acting as a paragon of moral purity lately either. At least he didn't go seeking his partner... He was thinking about the palace underworld, famous from sea to sea as the most opulent den of sin and pleasure in all of Oerth, when he suddenly realized his answer. It was thought that the Widows could not go to the underworld. Murder there was strictly and explicitly forbidden, for any reason, as a measure to encourage the patronage of various unnamed noble personages with enemies to fear. The management professed to have a necromancer on site at all times for the sole purpose of performing resurrections should an assassin manage to slip through the multiple layers of security staff and watch-wizards. The underworld was hard to find, but easy to reach. Doors marked with signs plain to anyone with the right knowledge were littered through every part of the city. Momir did not have the right knowledge, and he was forced to tip a local to point one out to him. Inside, a surprisingly short tunnel made a straight shot to the first level. The design of the underworld was said to be modeled loosely on the Nine Hells: a series of seven concentric rings, each one smaller in diameter and lower than the previous one. The first layer was devoted to city-run sleeping houses, moneychangers who sold the specially-minted tokens that the underworld used as currency (Momir went to a money-changer to turn his bag of enchanted curios into a more useful currency), and the galleries where soft-core sex shows were put on for new visitors and those with delicate stomachs. He spent untold hours wandering the miles of concourse of the top three levels. Mostly he stuck to the first layer, where he felt relatively comfortable, and even shelled out the minor admittance fee to see some of the shows. To pass the time, he told himself. They were mostly straight-forward, easy to stomach, and undeniably arousing. They failed to truly entertain him though. He was preoccupied, and they didn't seem very real. After boredom had settled in and he had argued with himself for a good long time, he finally mustered the courage to descend lower. On the second level he walked the dens, a winding path discreetly sheltered by a variety of exotic foliage so that visibility was short and the whole affair felt rather secretive and private, a titillating treasure hunt for your fantasy. Around each corner, small but well-appointed parlors held prostitutes of a staggering array of sizes, colors, configurations, attitudes, and specialties. For the right fee, your mistress of choice would unlock her gate and allow you inside for whatever pleasantries had been negotiated. On the far side of the second layer lay the coliseums, arenas of various sizes and shapes that ran hourly shows, typically involving or culminating in some sex act of varying amounts of violence and consensuality being performed on one or more female participants. Momir avoided this area after seeing one show, during which he was solicited by masked vendors hawking rental slaves to service you while you watched the activities. Blood-sports and rape were thoroughly outside the realm of fantasies with which he was comfortable. The third floor was collectively called the market, and contained numerous galleries selling pleasure slaves (willing or not, as your preference called for), time with exotic and improbable creatures (centaur and wemic, a blinded medusa, dark elves, and other even less-human things), and bizarre magical services. Momir had quickly bypassed the flesh markets, uneasy at the sight of so many desperate slaves begging to be freed, and was browsing the magic district for the sheer oddity of some of the things being offered (extra limbs? gender invention?) when he was approached by two robed figures. Clothed from neck to toes in a concealing gown, white as pearls, and wearing cloth headdresses and non-distinct masks, these figures perfectly matched myriad others he had observed today threading through the crowd. Impossible to count, but he might estimate over a hundred. They moved with the purpose and efficiency of butlers, were silent as mice, and were generally courteous. He presumed them to be messengers or servants of the establishment. The two before him bowed in unison, and each extended a hand to beckon him to follow. Curious, he fell into step behind them as they turned and started away. They had a curious way of seeming to float, rather than walk. Before long, several other robed servants joined their procession, and he started to grow nervous as they gradually formed a silent retinue around him, walking with purpose towards the grand staircase that stretched from the third floor down into the pit, all the way to the seventh. At the head of the staircase they ushered him through a fee checkpoint without paying, and as they descended he got a glimpse of the fourth layer (far less populated, customers bathed in large communal baths or lounged on broad flat stone expanses, alone or in small groups, socializing with each other, some copulating at the poolside in plain view). They passed another check point, this one involving actual locked gates and armed guards, into what appeared to be staff territory, housing and workshops circling the ring in rows. Below that lay the sixth layer, a small ring containing myriad small workshops and vendor stalls where craftsmen created and repaired decorations and uniforms, and mages worked commissioned alterations on prostitutes from the dens, altering skin tone, reshaping hands, adding breasts, and stranger things. Here the entourage left the stairs and diverted into the jumble of the sixth layer. Momir was unable to resist casting a curious glance down the stairway into the seventh layer. A stone arch showed nothing beyond except shadows and fire. He ventured to ask "What lies below?" One of his escort turned to look at him briefly, then turned away before answering in a plain-sounding woman's voice "That is the Emperor's private layer. Access by invitation only. No one invited has ever returned, but they are all happy to go." Momir and the Widow Momir shuddered, and turned away, glad he had not seen it more closely. The flock of white-robed ushers came to a halt suddenly, and parted before him to reveal a rippling silver plane like a pool of mercury standing vertically in the air. He had never seen such a thing, but he knew that in the palace, magic was as common as stone, and he supposed it served some general purpose. "Your presence has been requested." He suddenly froze, realizing what must have been the cause for his personal escort. His limbs froze, and he felt a soft touch on the back. Another, carefully neutral voice said "Please don't delay, you are expected immediately." He should have run while he had the chance. Not that there was anywhere to run to. He swallowed, and sighed. Nothing for it, time to see what fate had been set for him. He allowed himself to be guided before the silver plane, and was gently pushed through. His vision clouded and blurred, then slowly cleared. He was standing in a nondescript stone-walled room, with one exit immediately before him. Between him and the exit, however, stood the creature that had dominated his dreams and nightmares these past few days. She stared at him, looking extremely suspicious, and said something sharp. He muttered tensely, "I still can't understand your tongue, little man-eater..." She continued to eye him, looking a little uncertain, but didn't show any sign of understanding him. Suddenly she stepped forward and he flinched. She was upon him. Sniffing. She smelled him up and down, front and back. She grabbed his neck and pulled his face down to hers, pulled his jaw open and sniffed his mouth, then shoved a hand down his pants (making him flinch again as he felt her claws graze his belly) and grabbed his cock roughly before pulling back and smelling her hand. He muttered "You could have just asked if I paid for a whore..." It crossed his mind that that may have been exactly what she asked, for all he knew. She nodded to herself and beckoned for him to follow her. Reluctant, he walked in her footsteps as she left the bare room and led him into another, where a similar portal stood. She stepped through, and he reluctantly followed. As his eyes cleared, he took in a lavish stone hall. Constructed largely of the same polished salt-and-pepper marble as the rest of the palace, the middle span of the hall was walled and roofed with the largest sheets of glass Momir had ever seen. Stars were visible in the sky above, and the sister moons Luna and Celene were visible opposite each other to the east and west. A healthy fire crackled in a brazier in each corner of the room, providing ample light. Momir stood at what must be the south end of the room, before him the room stepped down twice to a sitting area lavishly furnished with crimson velvet couches and chairs and black carpet, decorated with plants like those in the dens that lay who knew how far below his feet. At the north end of the room stood a single pair of doors, massive, carved from the same stone as the walls. Set spanning the two doors in silver, jet, and opal was the emperor's seal, larger than life. The throne room. Momir looked at the striped creature next to him, feelings a mixture of apprehension and thrill. What was she up to? She reached out and took his wrist, leading him towards the door. He hesitated, and she dug her claws in until he winced and allowed himself to be led. They crossed the gallery and stopped before the enormous doors. Beside him, the widow reached up and ran her fingers slowly over the division down the center of the seal. Looking at her, he could swear her expression was almost wistful. Her hand fell slowly to her side and they waited, together. Several moments of silence were ended by a whisper as the doors swung effortlessly inward on unseen hinges. Within was a chamber of stark opulence. The granite walls had been carved in relief panels of foliage and polished to a gleam. In places, liquid silver had been poured down the walls and allowed to cool as it ran, before also being polished to a brilliant finish. The floor was a complex diamond mosaic of granite, onyx, and alabaster. Across from the door, on a raised dais with a lush carpet running to it, sat the emperor's throne, such as it was. A smooth concave lens shape, like a seashell, it was constructed of woven lathes of a pale exotic hardwood, padded with layer on layer of white velvet and exotic animal skins, cushioned with pillows, it reminded him more of the nest the widow had put together than a traditional throne. As strange as it was, it was only fitting for the emperor himself. Every stranger had a different story of seeing the nigh-legendary mage walking the streets of his domain, and each one featured a wildly different description of the man himself, but Momir could plainly see the truth before him: Six feet tall, perhaps just over, he wore his black hair plated in a complex braid draped over his shoulder. His skin was as pale as any he had ever seen, possibly perfect if it were not for the angry red sigils carved carefully into his face and arms, runes of arcane power no doubt. The emperor wore neither shirt nor crown, for what need did he have for such formalities in the heart of his own home? His physique was as perfect as one must expect of a man who traded in flesh, both magically and commercially. Doubtless he had access to services easily rivaling those for sale in the pit below. Momir felt his captor release his hand, and turned to see her rushing towards the throne. She reached the stairs and fell into a deferential crouch, head lowered almost to touch the carpeted step before her. He was uncertain how to react. The widow spoke suddenly, in hushed, rapid words that caught the emperor's attention. His reply was curt, abrupt, in the same tongue, together with a sharp shake of the head. The widow looked up, silence reigned for a moment, before continuing. Her tone suggested disappointment, and a hint of wounded pride. She gestured back towards Momir, without looking in his direction, and the emperor turned to look at the man. "Come here, boy." His tone was smooth as silk, but commanding. Momir stepped hastily forward, and stopped at the bottom of the stairs, where he made an awkward bow, then decided perhaps kneeling was the best way to proceed. The emperor looked him over for a minute, then addressed the widow again in her foreign tongue. They conversed for several moments before Momir heard another word he could understand. "What is your name, boy?" "Momir Oridune. A merchant, my... your... imperial majesty" Momir finished awkwardly, and made another bow to compensate. "Just 'lord' is fine. I am not much interested in titles and ceremony. Do you understand your situation, merchant Momir?" Momir blanched, beginning to feel ill. "I have been marked for death, im---my lord. I beseech you, if you would be so indulgent as to hear me out, I can explain my actions. It was never my intention to commit a crime against your state, I was merely trying to offer the charity of food and shelter to a pitiful wretch of a woman... I..." He trailed off, his momentum gone. He looked up quickly to see the emperor looking down on him with a frightening look of amusement. "It seems you do not. Many visitors misunderstand, so it is excusable in your case--A crime committed against my economy does not require the offender to forfeit their life. The forfeit made is freedom. You belong to her now." He pointed casually at the widow. "Generally, my pets see fit to eat their possessions, they are always hungry after all. But you seem to have caught her fancy. Her name is Rabbit, I assume she has not managed to make that clear yet." Momir was without words. That now-familiar feeling of blended relief and horror came over him. He struggled to overcome his fear, afraid he might vomit on the emperor's rug. Eventually, he managed to stammer out a reply. "I... I... belong to... her? Wh-What does she want with me, my lord? Surely there must be a-a-a negotiation we might come to..." The emperor shook his head slowly "I am sorry, merchant Momir. I cannot take her things away from her, she would be deeply frustrated and might behave poorly. She's already quite attached to you. She wants you to serve her as a surrogate of sorts, I suppose. Indulge me while I explain, if you would." "I created her, and her sisters. Molded them from a pack of werewolves caught wandering too near my city. They were an experiment, an attempt to create an ideal diplomatic assassin, a wolf-in-concubine's-clothing, so to speak, but the experiment failed. One of my mistakes was in their training. Each was supposed to love the man I gifted them to, until hunger overcame her and she devoured him whole, but they love only me and refuse to see other men as anything but cattle. Rabbit is the most afflicted of them all, she yearns for me with a single-minded obsession." "Unfortunately for her and her sisters, I have other lovers who interest me more. I thought to cast them off and let them rot in some forgotten wing of my palace like I do with most of my unwanted playthings, but since then I've discovered that they're of use to me as the enforcers of my laws--they're uncorruptable and without pity, you see. Generally they do their job efficiently, without complaint or mistake, but you seem to have reminded her of myself, in some manner." The emperor stopped, and Momir realized he was to provide some input. "Of-of you, my lord? How..?" He shrugged slowly. "I'm sure you would have a better idea of that than I would, I have no knowledge or interest in your mating habits. I surmise that you must have a rather rough hand, though you don't look much like the type, by the bruises on her cheek." Seeing Momir's mind rushing to come up with an explanation, he forestalled the nervous merchant. "It is no point of contention for me, do not worry yourself. Rabbit and her sisters were conditioned to slavery. They thrive on abuse. I think, perhaps, you would do well to make a note of that. But be mindful: Though she may crave servitude, she will not forget that she is, in truth, your master. If you are clever and willing to adjust, I think you may come to find that being her pet is a far better situation than being her dinner. She is a fine lover as you have no doubt discovered, trained by my own hand in the carnal arts. And even though you cannot speak to her, if you pay attention she will let you know when to beat her and when to beg her. She may be a cannibal, and deep intellect was never something I saw fit to bless her with, but she is not unreasonable." Momir had to digest this for a moment. What a strange fate. A death sentence turned slavery masquerading as violent dominance? He looked up carefully, and ventured to ask "And I shall serve her like this for how long, my lord?" The emperor only nodded meaningfully, and Momir murmured uneasily "...forever?" He knew the question was already answered, however. He collected himself, drew a deep breath. "If I may trouble you with another question, my lord... What tongue is it that she speaks? And does she truly not understand my words?" "A dialect of Bariaur, chosen for it's obscurity. Since you bring it up, it is only fair to tell you--She does not speak common, or any other language spoken within a hundred miles, and she never will. Should it happen that she picks up an even passing understanding of any local language, it would be unfortunate, for her usefulness to me would drop significantly. This in turn could have undesirable consequences for you. The entirety of the widows' world is found in their lord and their dinner, and it must remain simple for them to be more useful than troublesome. It may come that over time you pick up some understanding of her language, living as you will in close proximity with her. This is not nearly such a problem for me. However, everything that she will ever need to know about myself, her own history, and the world at large has already been explained to her, so I would politely request that you refrain from educating her in such matters. Now, I'm sure she is eager to show you to your new home, was there anything else I can clarify for you before you go?" Momir nodded to himself, and considered. "Yes my lord. If you would be so kind, could you perhaps ask her if I am to be allowed freedom to leave her--our home, for a walk or to find food, or the like?" The emperor turned to her, and repeated Momir's question in Bariaur. Rabbit's reply was considered and then delivered, and relayed in time. "She says that will be acceptable if you feel the need, but only in the evenings while she is away at work, or in the day while she is sleeping. She expects you not to wake her with your comings and goings, and wishes your presence while she is awake and about the home. And Momir... don't let her catch you smelling like another woman. She's a jealous little vixen." He shifted in his royal nest and gestured dismissively at Rabbit. "I wish you good fortune in your new life, former merchant Momir." --------------------------- Rabbit crouched over a scattering of human remains, picking through the bones for anything juicy she left behind. Still-warm blood steamed off the cold, hard-packed earth of the road. Her stomach let loose a little gurgle, and she sighed contentedly. Feeling stuffed and satisfied, she stood up slowly and wandered off the road, into a broad, open field. She found a patch of tall grass laden with dew, and brushed her hands and face through it to clean off the blood smeared across her skin. Tonight was going to be a very good night. She stood and slipped into the shadow-ways, a mindless task in the dead of night, with no moonlight to speak of. She flickered across the meadow and was back in city walls in moments. She had to walk from the palace door to her chambers, the master had laid terrible, terrible traps for anyone foolish enough to try to invade his domain with magic movement. But she knew the way home well, and the master's clever portals guided her ever so right, as they did each night. Before long she was in the complex reserved special for her sisters and herself, where nothing bothered them. The quiet was good. She walked to the very end of the hall, where her sisters had made her move. Her nest always smelled like food, they said, and they wanted to go in and eat it up. Rabbit wouldn't let them of course, and the Master agreed that she was right to keep her little master to make her happy. Of course the Master wanted her to be happy. So even though Nessus and Ahlissa mocked her mercilessly, she did not back down. Joon and Oerid and Sparrow had had pets of their own, so they understood, even if their pets were gone now. But not Nessus and Ahlissa. They were probably jealous, wishing they had a little man to take care of them the way the Master used to. But they were greedy and always ate the ones they were given, so it was their foolishness alone that made them that way. She was smiling with self-satisfaction when she pushed the door to her room open and slipped inside. Her pet looked up when he felt the draft, and tonight he spared her a little smile. He was growing more cunning, more observant, the longer she kept him. She pushed the door closed behind her this time. That was part of their game, if she didn't close the door, he would smack her, hard, and yell at her in the food-language, and point at the door, and she would cry out and whimper a little, and bite the inside of her cheek to taste the blood. She would slink over and close the door obediently, then she would crawl back to him. If she was feeling wild, she would grovel and kiss his toes and fawn over him, and he would hit her more and make her moan. Then she would turn around and offer him her tender parts to placate him, and he would do those things to her that were so good, until they were both exhausted. But tonight she was not feeling wild, with a belly stuffed with warm meat and the taste of it still on her tongue. So she closed the door and they did not play that game this time. She knelt down in the silk and the furs and all the other things the Master filled his nest with, and marveled as she always did about the sensations they made on her striped skin. She crawled lazily over to the man and stretched out before him, nestled her head on his lap and mewled softly for his attention. He was good about that, touching her just right to make her feel happy and calm, without making her feel wild and feisty. It only took him a few days to figure out quickly if she wanted to play games with him or not. He was smart, like the Master. Not as smart of course, but still smart for a mere man. She felt one of his hands slide softly over her belly, knew he felt the food she had just eaten. He acted a little funny some times, like he didn't want to touch her, when she came back just after hunting, but tonight he was good. His fingers wandered gently all over her body, stroking her thighs, brushing her face and throat, and caressing her breasts, which always made her sigh with pleasure. She squirmed and snuggled a little closer to him. Time passed. Rabbit wasn't sure how much, didn't really care. She was happy now, curled up beside the man. He tried to tell her his name once, but she bit him and glared at him to tell him to be quiet. She didn't want to know. She liked to pretend that he was the Master, when he was doing those things to her from behind, and the Master had no name. So he was just the man to her. The man was good and patient, and he stroked and caressed her like this for a long time, and murmured things over her that she didn't understand. He was learning to speak a little bit of the Master's language, so that he could tell her things, but she didn't like it so much when he used it, he was so clumsy the way he talked. She could tolerate it as long as he didn't do it very often though, and he didn't. Eventually, he started to run his hands gently over her stomach from time, which she always noticed because he didn't seem to like to do that normally, when she was full. It meant he was trying to tell if she was feeling wild yet. It annoyed her a little the first few times, but before long it stopped bothering her. Right about when she started to feel restless and started to think about the man's fingers between her legs, she felt his arms slide around her sleek body and tenderly pick her up. She nuzzled his shoulder appreciatively as he gathered her to him, laying her out against his chest, with his strong, warm embrace curled possessively around her. She mewed again, knowing he was up to something, growing excited. She shifted a little to snuggle closer to his body, and stretched one foot. He watched her. He liked her feet--narrow, with three long toes that squeezed together as if huddling for warmth, and curled down a little bit, with sharp, pointed toenails, like her fingers. Some times he would play with her toes gently, and murmur her name to himself. She wasn't sure why, they didn't seem special to her, but these were the times when she let him make the rules of the game. His hands slid up her chest to her neck, caressing and stroking her, feeling her pulse throb rhythmically under his fingers. She leaned her head back to give him better access, and murmured in his ear, "Ahh. Choke me master, please... Just a little..." She didn't think he understood, but just saying it made her feel good. His hand didn't clamp down on her esophagus, just caressed it, and she gave a little sigh of disappointment. His hands left her, and she reached out to find his hand and tug it back, but they came back to her on their own. She heard the light clink of a steel buckle, and a little thrill ran up her spine. She lifted her neck a little, and he slipped a leather collar around her neck, pulling it a little too tight and hooking a leash to the back of it. She groaned softly, feeling that desperate need just starting to awaken inside her.