Widowmaker

Widowmaker: The Intro

                Body language. Everything from the tilt of the head to the sway in a walk to the way eyes search the room tells a story. A small smile while looking up through eyelashes suggests flirtation. Rigidness in the shoulders or tension in the jaw shows disinterest or uncomfortableness. The type of laugh at a joke can tell whether it has truly created interest or if the listener is just being polite.

I use my body language now, as I always do. I am aware of how the dim light from the fireplace casts shadows across my curves as I pour two drinks. I am aware of how I turn my head so he can catch the perfect angles. I make a point not to look at him, letting him look at me instead. I don't need to study him to know his appearance and his personality. I have seen it plenty of times before. He is handsome in his late middle age, only small traces of gray seeping into his hairline and the manicured frame around his mouth. He keeps his beard short to showcase his strong jawline. Heavy brows rest over cold gray eyes that age hasn't dared to touch yet. I wonder how many women he's captured in their pale depths. It must be more than a few, because he was comfortable enough to catch me in them as soon as I stepped into the room. He is not perfect, however. His skin is pale, giving away that he toils in an office as his main source of income and is free only when the sun has gone down to do recreational activities like gambling and frequenting brothels.

I carry the glasses to the fireside chairs, handing one to him and taking a sip of my own. I need to clear my mind. I have a habit of dissecting their lives. I tell myself it is because I must know their inner thoughts, their inner dreams, in order to do my job to the best of my ability. But the truth is, my line of work gets lonely. Feeling like I have some sort of connection to them is easier than being completely removed.

There is a chair across from him, but I remain standing. He's drinking in my form beneath the silky dress. I turn so he can admire the long slit that comes up to my waist, still pretending not to notice him noticing. I rub the back of my neck, a gentle touch, tantalizing to someone who wants to do the same to me. "Get over here," he growls in a false deep voice. He's trying to impress me.

I finally give him my full attention with a wicked smile and an interested tilt of my head. "Excuse me? You may be in charge outside of this room, but right now I'm the one calling the shots."

I inch forward all the same, letting him have a small taste of what he really wants. He leans back in his chair, arms on the rests and legs open. His body language is screaming that he wants me to sit on his lap. He wants to run his hands over the curves that have been torturing him. But he doesn't get up, doesn't reach out. He likes being teased. "I'm not used to women talking to me like that," he admits.

"Am I not here because I'm not like other women? Drink your wine."

He obeys like an overeager dog. "The longer you taunt me, the harder I'm going to fuck you."

Bold. I shrug my shoulders playfully, fully aware that one of the straps falls, letting the firelight play over my collarbone. "I'll be the judge of that when I'm good and ready. But we're not there yet. Tell me about your day."

I set my glass on the table and move closer to him. My hand brushes his knee curiously, gently. "What's there to tell?" His voice is strained now. I can tell from the lump in his trousers that his mind is definitely not on the events of his day. "I worked, signed some contracts, made more money than most people in this city make in a month."

His eyes are on my hand, which is running up his leg, pausing at his thigh. "A titan of business," I whisper. "What else?"

I slide the leg with the open slit over his own, moving my hand to rest firmly on his shoulder. "I, uh, I came home. Had dinner..." He trails off. His hand touches my knee, my thigh. He's hesitant, waiting for me to stop him. Like a good boy.

With my left hand, I run my fingers along the edge of the slit, pulling it to the side just enough to get my other leg up without showing between them. I'm in full control of where his eyes and hands go now. I remove the glass from his other hand and set it on the table next to my own. "What did you have?" My voice is even quieter now. Subconsciously, he knows that means he's getting closer to his prize.

"Pheasant. No, ham. Fried greens of some sort. I don't know, my wife makes the menu. Men don't handle home matters."

"Of course not, they're too busy working hard to pay for that food, and the chef that makes it." I adjust my weight, lowering slowly onto his lap. My breasts are inches from his face now. He snakes his right hand, the one not on my leg, around my waist and pulls me closer. I allow him, the strap of my dress falling even farther to expose a breast. His hand moves from my leg to brush it gently. His skin is cool and dry. Goosebumps prickle the skin around my nipple.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs as he moves forward to kiss the softness of my chest. My right hand comes to wrap around his head, digging into his full head of hair. I hate it when they're bald. It makes my job so much harder. I push his face into my chest and he moans.

With my left hand, I reach for myankle and pull out the stiletto blade, no thicker than a needle and less than afoot long. "That's it," I whisper to the face buried in my bosom. The hand onmy breast squeezes greedily while the other explores further down, finding thewarmth between my legs. I lean into him, ensuring he experiences nothing exceptmy presence. I moan softly as his fingers run over the folds hiding under mydress. In the same moment, I slide the stiletto deep into his right ear canal,burying it to the handle. He struggles beneath me, but any cries are muffled asI hold his head close to me despite his struggling. I'm stronger than I lookand continue to pin him as I twist the blade. Finally, he goes limp and I pullthe stiletto from his ear. I slide from his lap and use the hem of my dress towipe my weapon and the dribble of blood that runs from his ear. Next, I dumpthe glass of wine I'd been drinking into the fire and slip it back into my bag.I do a quick sweep of the room to ensure there is no evidence of my presencebefore pulling on pants, tucking my dress into the hem. I replace my heeledslippers with sturdy boots and, slinging my bag over my shoulder, I exit thewindow and slip away into the night.