Widow Woman

Staying On For Good

And so it continued, a week or two. They would eat together, do the daily chores that needed done, and at night, make long, passionate love in the dark of her bedroom while the moon waned. She grew sweeter and if possible, more and more beautiful to him.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder" she would always chide when he complimented her. It got to where he could hardly stand to walk out the door after breakfast, she was so beautiful, so attractive. He would linger, holding her, kissing her cheeks, her neck, almost unable to let her go.

Finally she would shoo him away, with laughter and mock threats, and he would reluctantly go. He worked hard and fast as he could, to get back to her presence, her arms, her food at the noon meal.

Hungry as a horse, he would wolf down the meal and then kiss her, stroke her hair and hold her for as long as she would allow.

"Hired man!" she would finally say in mock severity "Hired man, you have work to do!" He would reluctantly go, again working as fast and hard as he could, all the time longing for the bell that signaled time again with his woman. The passion in the bedroom likewise became more wild as the moon waned At first, she would just tease him, make him wait for her to say yes. Then, she would require him to play "Simon Says" or demand he say please before doing anything. She began to tie his wrists together, then his feet. She then tied him to the bed posts, and made him beg for release.

And always he went along with it. The lovemaking afterward became more and more passionate— longer, harder, faster, and more satisfying in the end.

And every morning she would cook for him, respond to his caresses and finally shoo him off to work Every day he would work his heart out and rush to the door at the sound of the bell

Then it was the evening of the new moon. The window was open, the breeze moved gentlly across his nakedness. Bound hand and foot, he could barely move. She had teased him almost to a frenzy and she was about to release him when he mentioned how the moonlight made her even more beautiful than the sun. "If that were even possible!" he said.

"It's so long a time since I heard such talk!" she said And after a pause she added, "Weeks!" What she said didn't register with him at first When it did, he tried to sit up But the ropes held him down.

"'Weeks'?" He laughed "What in the world do you mean!? You hear it daily. Nightly!"

"I meant, from someone other than you" There was no smile in her voice.

He lay there, stunned.

"You aren't the first hired hand," she said matter-of-factly.

Something about her tone of voice made him suddenly very angry. It felt as if all his love and passion for her had suddenly been made a mock of.

He became confused, like that first time he had impulsively kissed her. "What in the world are you talking about? I love you! I adore you!"

"I know," she said simply "Just like all the others do."

He felt shame now, and anger surpassed his fear, filling his mind with more confusion.

"WHAT do you MEAN?!"

She climbed up on him, herself naked, straddling his chest. Something about her was different. Her body glistened in the moonlight. It sparkled as if covered with fine, silvery hair. Her hands clung to the skin on his muscular shoulders. They clung, gently piercing his skin, but not enough to draw blood.

She squatted, placing her buttocks on his chest. He felt something more, something pressing on his ribs, over his heart The pressure mounted and he began to shout.

"Stop it! What are you doing to me, woman! Stop! For the love of God, stop!"

He felt something pierce his skin, just a prick. And as if by magic, everything suddenly seemed right. He stopped shouting and relaxed as she let go her clinging hands and began to dismount.

"You'll be fine," she said, as she untied the ropes and placed his muscular, paralyzed arms gently by his side.

"You'll be just fine. Nice and juicy!" she said as she grasped a wisp of silk from behind her and began to wrap him in it. "Just like all the other hired men" The silk thread seemed to have no end, getting longer every time she made a turn around him. He couldn't move his head to see, but she seemed to have an extra pair of hands to help her lift and wrap his immobilized body. In minutes, he looked like a cocoon, almost as silvery in the moonlight as she. Only his eyes remained uncovered.

With a strength she never had before, she picked him up, and carried him, through the curtained door into the kitchen, through the parlor, and to a door on the back wall of the parlor. The room behind the parlor—he had never seen the room, never been in it before. It was dimly lit, smelled a little musty. The floor was bare but clean. The walls were plank, where they could be seen. Obscuring the planks, naked men in cocoons, like the one he was now encased in, were propped up almost all the way around the room.

She propped him up on the outside wall, near the window, next to a sturdy red-headed man. Vaguely now, he recognized him as one of the railroad workers who had quit before he had. His own eyes were wild with fear, yet it was all he could do to keep them open.

"There," she cooed "Right next to your friend. I'm having him for Thanksgiving dinner."

As an afterthought she added, "I might just save you for Christmas—you were so delicious!" She patted him on the cheek, turned, and on all six legs, moved swiftly and silently out