Black Widow

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic


Me and a coworker challenged each other to write a short story off of one sentence. The sentence was "I was either going out for ice cream or to commit a heinous crime. I would decide in the car."
Ok, two sentences but you get the idea. This is what I came up with.



Beware: there are graphic, erotic and violent themes.



Story is unfinished.

Submitted: November 28, 2017

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Submitted: November 28, 2017

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I was either going out for ice cream or to commit a heinous crime. I would decide in the car. I felt that at this point in my life I only knew two things: seduction and murder. Generally the two coincided, and I was very good at both. I left no room for error and made sure to enjoy every moment of it. So, in those regards, I was flawless.

The men are always very handsome and generally well-endowed and experienced in bed. I love orgasmic pleasure just as much as any other promiscuous girl. But that wasn’t exactly where I enjoyed it the most. It was the hunt that was the real thrill, the act of catching my prey and beginning my ritual. That’s where the ice cream comes in, or any other scenario that would find me innocently out for the evening.

I need a platform and I need my desired prey to be in the appropriate hunting grounds. So what’s better than a single, beautiful woman kissing her ice cream ever so innocently on the boardwalk of a lovely coastal town? Or in a classic street side setting of bustling Times Square? Well, if she perks herself up right and plays her character well, then nothing. By the way, this isn’t me deciding this. This is the reaction I get from all sorts of men who come my way; men who very often have no business talking to me with that ring around their finger.

Those men were some of my favorites and among the easiest. The look on their faces, the smiles that wrap around their jaws (and shortly thereafter, mine), and the laughter that emits from them as they talk to the forbidden girl of their dreams… all of these things almost make me fall in love. I do fall in love, but with what happens next.

I had no remorse for killing these men. Most of the time they weren't very smart. They just knew how to talk to women. But I was no woman. I was an evil, sadistic bitch. For most of my life I have been this way. I was raised as an orphan until I was 10 when a family took me in to live a happy life as a cute little girl with a perfect teenage life ahead of her. I was doing well in school, being a very bright and innocent girl, her adopted mother and father poised to set her up with a great private education and expensive colleges.

My mother, however, had other plans. She fell prey to a con; a long con. His name was Dante. I remember because that was the name my parents kept using during that time; when my mother told my dad about him, when they argued about him, and when my dad came home to murder my mom. Dante knew exactly who to target. Dante wasn’t his real name, I realized later in my life. It was an alias he used to disguise himself. He set forth a perfect plan for my mother to take my father’s money so that the two can double it and run off together. But that wasn't the con-man's real plan. He ended up taking all the money and leaving my family in tatters. When my father found out, he was so enraged he killed my mother and turned the gun on himself. He did this all in front of me as I watched from the top of the stairs in our home. It haunted me for years until I decided I wouldn't let it anymore. I turned that fear into something else: vengeance.

I conned men into a situation that they couldn't disagree with, a situation too good to pass up. That situation, simply, was me. It was magical how well it worked even if it is simple chemistry. Now, I didn't get as much money as some of these types of con men or women get. Those types were in it for the money. I just enjoy the thrill of the hunt itself. I couldn't help it. The power was so intense and the high so pungent that I had no desire to stop. I never felt remorse either. In a way it was like I was getting back at Dante.

I always dreamed I would find Dante and that he would try to seduce me into a one of his cons. I even fantasized about the whole encounter; I would be able to seduce him even more so – he would be taken aback by how good I was and that he could find some sort of comfort in me and a reason to turn from his wicked ways. I imagined it all in my head perfectly, almost like I was predicting it to take place. I was nowhere near my hometown where my mother and father died and Dante, as all other smart con men, knew to move from town to town. I was slowly tracking some larger cons I would see in the news. I had a good feeling I could at least be on Dante’s trail. However, it’s a very difficult task tracking someone you know nothing about. I played it by ear, if I were to ever find him.

On this particular Manhattan day in my gorgeous hotel penthouse, I lie in bed alone, naked beneath my silk robe. I caressed my soft skin, ever so slightly passing over sensitive areas: my erect nipple poking through the silk, my naval, and my smooth mound. I thought about the kill from last night. A sweet young man; tall and thin, his short brown hair atop his pretty face. I remember holding him by his hair and pulling him into my pussy, grinding on his tongue and lips. I also remember holding him by the hair of his now decapitated head.

I began running my two forefingers between the folds of my labia and across the hood of my clitoris. Moisture began to form and I borrowed some of it to rub across my swelling knob. I continued to think about the night of indulgences; this poor young man’s fate, but also his rather extended member... his large cock... his missing cock. Where did I put it? I forgot.

I tried to use some of the dialogue from that eventful night to help achieve climax:

"I've never been tied up before," he would say.

I smiled to myself, my eyes closed lightly.

"Damn, baby. The cuffs are a little tight." It was more of a turn on that he hadn’t done this before.

I moved my fingers faster and glided my tongue across my lips.

“At least my cock is enjoying it, right?” That’s when I sensed slight panic in his tone.

I plunged a finger into my pussy. Then a second one.

"What are you doing with a knife, baby? That's a little too far, don't you think?"

My breathing quickened, as did his at that time. I paired the sound of his frantic breathing with the slick surface sounds of my hands on my wet cunt. My fingers rapidly dashing in and out of me, my palm rubbing my clitoris at the same time. My methods for orgasm were well polished.

"My mom and dad were killed too," My memory suddenly replayed.

Wait, what? What did he say? I ignored the random memory that invaded the fantasy.

"Use the precum to rub the tip ever so slightly," he tried to give me orders!? I was amused but frankly a little turned on. This was of course before the knife.

I slowly pressed the edge of my long heel onto his erect penis, pressing it into his abdomen.

"Ooh that's nice too." He enjoyed that for the moment.

I pressed harder and harder, smothering it back and forth across his pearl-colored cum. I pictured the cringe on his face. I removed the two fingers and flicked my clit much faster now. My other hand found my pink nipple.

"I loved them. It wasn't fair that I had to lose them at such a young age."

What the fuck!? STOP!

"What the fuck!? STOP!" He burst out as my stiletto now pressed deep into his penis' flesh.

I frustratingly swished and flicked my pussy faster and faster. My eyelids tightened. My teeth wide and gritting.

"I didn't get enough memories with them." His sad, soulful spirit continued to raid my fantasy.

I didn't realize I retained memories of this particular dialogue. If I remember correctly I had tried to ignore this and move the conversation forward! I began losing the fantasy. I exhaled deeply with a huge sigh, frustrated with myself.

"All I want to do right now is embrace you and fuck the pain away." He had said earlier, before we had begun. I do remember this part and that it turned me the fuck on in a sort of way that I hadn't felt in a long time... maybe ever before.

We had done our foreplay but I never let him penetrate me. I let the image of him lying helpless on the bed sit stagnant in my mind. He was sprawled out 100% naked, handcuffed to the headboard, feet bound to the bottom posts. His handsome chiseled abs and pecs gleamed from the perfect lighting. He had trace amounts of body hair all in the right places. And his cock stuck out into the air angled slightly towards him. It was a magnificent view and I froze it in my memory. I writhed in my bed at that sight, my pussy was on fire.


In the memory, my black widow instincts took over and I performed my ritual. Usually I do fuck them. But there was something about this guy I was just too sentimental about. His gloomy history just resonated with me. I couldn’t help but move on with the kill before I started losing sight of the objective. And at that point, with him tied up and bleeding, it would have been wise to kill him anyway.

The screams in the past have been rather loud, and since I was in a hotel I figured I should gag him before I dismembered him. I did the hard parts first. The hard parts for him, that is. It left me lathered in his blood. Eventually, I removed his other head. The one that had once smiled back at me. The one that looked at me desperately. But now it looked at me sweetly, his soft hazel eyes peered into my haunted soul.

“I thought maybe there could be something between us.” The head said as blood drained from its neck. “I’m glad you opened up to me about your past too.”

Wait, I did? I don’t remember saying that when we talked.

Again, I was battling something that was almost from a nightmare, whatever those were. I remember him trying to plead to me from beneath the gag I put into his mouth; his begging eyes turned into fury once I realized I wasn’t going to have mercy. His body pumping up and down almost like he was fucking someone on top of him, except he was fighting for his life. I brought the hot knife closer and closer to him. His eyes turned to anguish. I grabbed his cock in my left hand and…

I had partially regained governance over my fantasy and achieved orgasm, but not with the same satisfaction I usually get. I struggled, I was too exhausted, and I felt like I had to just get it over with. I felt shame. I felt almost like I shouldn't have done what I did; killing that man, a man that I sympathized with. I’ve never really felt this before. It was strange to try and cope with it.

Yes, I climaxed, but only barely. I laid in my giant bed with my robe strewn about, barely underneath me. My entire naked body sprawled out from a fit of dizzying, sexual frustration. My eyes beamed at the heavenly-white architecture across the roof and the corners of the walls. I contemplated life. What had I done the night before? Business as usual, I thought. But that masturbation session was not usual. I realized that I actually felt something for that young man. In fact, I related to him. He lived a sad life, a life that at some point during my thoughts of murdering him, as I just nodded and watched his lips move, I invested some sort of conscious thought into. I chose a terrible time to replay those thoughts.

I struggled to remove myself from my bed with the dry sweat on my back and in my smelly robe. Eventually, I did and took a very long shower, contemplative thoughts haunting me. Did I try to play with myself again? No, I just didn’t have it in me.

I tried to picture the rest of my day: I was either going out for ice cream or to commit a heinous crime. I would decide in the car.

Today I played the part of beautiful redhead, Charlotte. She was my favorite to play. I was a natural red, a ginger as they're called. My slightly pale face, rosy freckles and hazel-green eyes were great tools to catch me a good one. It actually felt less like playing a part and just me being me.

"My dad and I would play catch in the yard..."

The things he said continued to flash into my thoughts. I tried to ignore them and think about the rest of my day and to start: my hunting grounds.

New York: where you can look like you just woke up from an extremely regretful night, hungover beyond belief with gum in your hair, eyeliner running down your cheeks, your broken heels slung around your neck, and some random dude's jacket covering your bruised shoulders, and you would still be catcalled. I didn't waste my time on those fuckers though. I did want to murder those pigs too but it just wasn't worth it. They weren't as fun.

"I miss my mom’s cooking."

"Shut the fuck up!" I blurted out in the elevator down to the lobby. The old woman beside me gave a disgusted look and scuttled out of the elevator as it opened even though it was just the 3rd floor... A man got on in the elevator in her place. He was rather handsome too, I noticed, doing a double take. He was tall and fit too. Cleft chin, Adams apple. The usual heartthrob qualities.

"Not fair," I whispered to myself.

"I'm sorry?" The man leaned over.

"Oh, heh, nothing." I sputtered, bashfully. Bashful? Why the fuck was I being bashful!? Ugh. What was happening? I exited the elevator before he could say anything else. I nearly ran out of the elevator, weaving through other guests and their luggage. The young man behind the front desk attempted a formal farewell but I was too quick. The doorman opened one of the large, polished gold doors by its ivory and wooden handle just before I ran headfirst into it. I probably would have too had he not been watching the glass.
“Take care now, miss.” The African-American gentleman said warmly. I avoided the eye contact but still managed to mutter some sort of thank you.

The wind, catching me off guard, suddenly blasted me sideways. I spun 180 degrees from the momentum now facing the doorman. I struggled to pull the auburn strands of hair out of my face. But when I did, the doorman was there peering at me with a relaxed smile.

“You alrigh’ there, miss? Tha’ wind caugh’ you off guard huh?” He said with a chuckle. He smiled at me with perfect white teeth. “May I?” He said, his big hands coming in to fix the collar on my trench coat. He was an older man, at least twice my age, large but strong.
“Oh, thank you.” I said, composing myself.
“Anytime, miss. Everything alrigh’? What’s the matter?”
“Oh…” I began. There was no way in hell I was about to share with him exactly what was wrong. “I just was needing to get out into some fresh air and clear my head.”
“Well, there’s no shortage of that out ‘ere. Plus, you can replace whatever’s goin’ in there with all the nonsense goin’ on out ‘ere in the city.” He said, pointing to my forehead.
“You must see a lot of nonsense?” I said, succumbing to conversation.
“Oh I see all sorts o’ crazy out ‘ere. It done enough to my head tha’ I can’t help but enjoy it. Every so often I get to give little pieces of advice to beautiful women like yo’self.”
“Oh? And what sort of advice do you have for me in particular?” I said, smiling, twisting on my heel and crossing one foot behind the other.
“Well, I just barely met you. Roger, by the way.” He said, fastening one hand around his name badge and extending the other to me. I took it and shook it lightly as did he. His left hand then went to tip his hat to me.
“Charlotte.” I said, surprising myself that I gave him my real name.
“Charlotte. Beautiful name, how fitting.” He smiled, and continued. “But I would have to say this: don’t go lookin’ trouble out in the world. Trouble’ll come to you. It’s up to you whether you prepared for it or not. And it’ll bite hard if ya deserve it.”
I was taken aback by this for a moment but saw how fitting it actually was. I didn’t think anything or anyone could bite me. After all, I am the black widow. I do the biting.
“Thanks, Roger,” I said with a smile and swayed my hips for a moment. “I think I needed that.”
“You take care now, Miss Charlotte.”

I turned back to the street and looked for a vacant cab and flagged one down immediately; also a skill of mine. “Union Square Park, please.” I was just barely too far to walk there in the fresh air but I kept the window down. It was slightly chilly but I still needed a sense of clarity. This is where I decide whether I get ice cream or commit another heinous crime. This is when I decide if I go looking for trouble or wait to see if it finds me. Thinking about it, it’s been too long since I had an ice cream that I could actually sit and enjoy. On this Spring day, I doubted there would be too much trouble waiting for me like there would be on a hotter Summer day. After this morning, I could use a day of normalcy for once. I hated to think that though. I’ve always thought I was “normal” even committing the crimes that I do. I know it’s normal for me to feel this way and to desire revenge for what my father did, for what Dante did.


© Copyright 2018 ParanoidAndroid. All rights reserved.

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