The Woman With Snakes in Her Hair

The Trap

It's still a mystery to me as to why they feel the need, why they feel compelled to do what they do. I think it's because they think I can't see them. They assume my blindness means I'm ignorant to their actions. There's no point in doing something you know is bad if you know you're going to get caught. Or maybe it's the other way around. Perhaps it's the thrill of getting caught, that dangerous line they choose to cross, that entices them to do what they do. Or it could simply be because they are men that they assume their actions will go unpunished. They assume we'll just sit back and take it, enjoy it even, thank them when they are finished with us. 

It's become a common occurrence, almost an expectation every time I walk out the door. The whistles, the howls, the lingering stares... the not-so-subtle attempts to follow me home. I don't know when it will happen. Sometimes I'm prepared for it, other times I'm not. But I stand my ground nonetheless. You have to let the bastards know you won't take it, that you won't go down without a fight. You have to teach them a lesson. Sometimes the more stubborn ones require a blunt approach. Whatever works best. In most cases, they have to learn the hard way. 

...

Not even five minutes into sitting down and I already feel his knee against mine, a gentle brush of his pant leg against my bare skin. He then rests his hand against his knee, drumming his fingers in fake contemplation. I say fake because I know there's no real thought behind what he's about to do at all. This is merely a routine. Pure instinct. Another adrenaline rush. Primal to the core. 

He starts off with his pinky, testing the waters, lightly jabbing me with his half-chewed nail. When I don't immediately flinch, he takes it as a sign... an invitation to continue onward. The rest of his fingers follow closely behind, his hand now resting on my knee. He then, very slowly but deliberate with every movement, moves his hand upward, lifting my skirt as he slithers his way underneath, pausing mid-thigh. I hear a sharp intake of breath, the excitement caught in his lungs, the anticipation kickstarting his heart. A noticeable bulge begins to grow in the center of his crotch and I have to swallow to keep myself from gagging.

It's best to make them feel like they're in control. That's what I've learned over the centuries. Make them feel like that have all the power. You  have to draw them in, lure them in like flies with something sweet, something tempting, something irresistible. Just when they reach that tipping point, when they've made themselves vulnerable and are on the cusp of surrendering to their desires, when they've all but abandoned themselves completely to the moment and are about to take the plunge into passion's deepest waters... that's when you go in for the kill, drowning them in a sea of rage and fury. 

Poor Icarus... how did the sun's rays feel on your lips? Did they burn?

"I suggest...." I hiss, "... if you want to keep your hand, that you remove it from my thigh."

"Oh shit..." the fool mutters, "Sorry... heh... guess it must have wandered away from me."

"I'm sure it did." I huff, shifting my gaze toward him. 

I tilt my head, peering over my glasses to take a closer look at the specimen. Scrawny thing. A backwards baseball cap sitting slightly askew on his head, peach fuzz dangling from his crooked jaw. Traveling downward, I take in the sight of a stained grey tank-top, jarring red boxers, and heavily distressed jeans struggling to desperately cling to the fraying belt haphazardly tied around his thighs. The poor thing between his legs has now fallen limp. When I look back up at him, his eyes avoid mine. 

I toy with the idea of turning him but my stop is fast approaching and such a sight would be hard to explain, especially at this early hour. Instead I flick my wrist, my cane assembling itself in mid-air as I stand up, balancing myself as the train settles into the station. Seizing hold of the railing, I thrust my cane downward, making contact with the fool's foot, striking dead center.

A howl of pain erupts from him, a delightful sound. I can't help but smile.

"Bitch!" he cries, a whimper escaping his trembling lips before the train doors close behind me.

I laugh.

Oh darling, you have no idea.