The Black Widow

Posted by Barbanne on May 01, 2001 at 00:29:24:

By Barbanne.

The hot, dry desert wind wind rattled the window panes in their frames. The night was dark and overcast, blotting out the moon. In the distance a coyote howled.
Barbara had finally gotten off to sleep in her small room in the lonely saloon, perched on the edge of the wastelands. The rough, scratchy cotton sheets had not helped, rubbing on her bare skin when she had climbed into the bed, nude and tired from a day in the saddle.
In her sleep she rolled onto her back and began snoring softly.
The dreams came.
She was a kid, only eleven years old and she was lying face down in the dirt, dress filthy and torn (what would Mum say) where she had ended up after the other kids had knocked her down. They all pushed her around all the time, because she was not very big and her dreamy detachment set her apart from the other more physical kids.
She was crying. Tears of frustration and anger and humiliation. She hated for the other kids to see her cry, they only laughed, and so she knuckled her eyes dry, smearing dust in with the tears and leaving muddy streaks on her face.
She felt hands on her shoulders. Someone helping her up. A kindly voice.
"Don't cry Barbara. It'll be alright. I won't let them touch you again."
It was Shelby. He was a few years older than her and in the upper classes. She idolised him the way little kids often did for those more mature. She let him help her up and sniffed away her tears. He put his arm around her shoulders and the others backed away. He walked with her his arm comforting her so that she felt safe...................
Mists of sleep and then more dreaming.
Her breast rose and fell slowly as she slept and her mouth emitted small, bubbly, almost musical snores.
She was older. A grown young woman.
The two kids had been sent to bed, tucked in, sung to and now they were sleeping as only the very young and innocent do. She was in the kitchen. Aromatic cooking smells came from the wood fired stove. She had on a gingham frock that buttoned down the front like a coat. She was barefoot and under the dress she was naked.
No undies.
She felt good. Happy. Content.
She heard him ride up and then stabling his horse.
Her husband. The sherriff. Shelby, her childhood sweetheart.
The front door latch lifted and he came in. "Hi sweetheart."
"Hello handsome, come here." She said.
He came to her and she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. He squeezed her with his deliciously strong grip and she hugged him back. She let him go, reluctantly and he sat down.
"What a day."
"Let me get you a drink and you can tell me all about it."
She poured out a stiff whisky with just a little branch water, the way she knew he liked it. She brought it over and set it down next to him. She kissed him again, lightly, on the lips and said "Dinner's going to be a half hour yet." She stepped back and slowly undid the buttons of her dress, all the way down the front.
He sipped his drink, his eyes fixed on her.
She let the dress fall to the floor and came to him. She unbuttoned his shirt and slipped her arms inside. She stroked his upper body, rubbing her palms over his skin and scratching lightly and Oh so gently with her finger nails. She took his shirt off and encircling him with her arms, she pressed her bare breasts against his bare chest, rocking them back and forth. She unbuckled his belt and undid the zip of his pants, slipped her hands inside under his shorts and found his erection.
"Happy to see me, are you?" She stroked his penis, rubbing it with her fingers. She lowered her mouth, lips apart, to his member and kissed it lightly on the tip, licked him with her wetly moist pink tongue.
"MMmmmmmmmmmmm........." he groaned.
She took his ass in her little hands and pushed it towards her swallowing the tip of his cock in her mouth. He grunted and gasping, stood from the chair, drink forgotten and gathered her naked body in his strong embrace and carried her the few feet into the bedroom. "Don't wake the kids.' she whispered.
"Kids can fend for themselves." he said.
He laid her on her back on the bed. She watched him through dreamy eyes as he shucked off his pants and then climbed onto the bed and onto her, his erection slipping into her hairy, pink lipped sheath. He raised himself over her and admired her wantonness as he pumped and pumped until he pumped his sperm deep inside her. They both cried out at the time of climax.
The cry woke Barbara. She herself had cried out at the vividness of the dream. She was wet between her legs.
A dream, of course it had been a dream.
Yes, she had been that little girl and yes, Shelby had been her idol. But she had never married, never had kids, never found the happiness with the one man she had loved from childhood. It just didn't work that way.
She had been a bit wild, met up with the wrong people. Things had gone wrong, gone from bad to worse. Things had gotten out of control. And now, well now she was the Black Widow, the most feared bandit around these parts. Bank robber, killer, she was a wanted woman. Her name had come from her black clothing and for the fact that she had never had a man for any length of time, and because she had made a lot of her sisters widows, when her guns had cut down lawmen and fellow outlaws alike.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. The rough bed clothes felt itchy and uncomfortable on her bare skin. She thought about yesterday.
Yesterday, how could it have happened.
The bank in Gravestone had seemed like an easy target. She had burst in mid morning when all of the big deposits had been made. The place was fairly full, eight customers waiting to conduct business. She had quickly rounded them up, herded them to one end, bailed up the tellers and the money was being deposited in her saddlebags.
Then she had noticed a movement at the other end of the bank. Reflexively she had spun around and fired. The bullet had found it's target, thudding into Debbie's breast. Debbie, unarmed, a woman coming from the office at the rear.
Gravestone was sherriff Shelby's town and she had heard that Debbie was his woman. She had rushed to the side of the stricken woman, waving her pistol at the others to keep them at bay. In anguish she had touched the other woman, lifted her and tried to help. But it was useless. The bullet had done it's work. Debbie's breast was bloody and her eyes closed and her breath stopped and she was dead.
Through tears Barbara had laid her down, carefully, lovingly, reverently.
She had grabbed the saddle bags and fled the bank coming here to this lonely place. But there would be no place to hide. They would come after her wherever she went. Shelby would come for her.
"Shelby, oh Shelby." she spoke the words through bitter tears. She turned on her side and buried her face in the pillow. She cried and cried, sobs racking her body as she gave way to a torrent of despair.
Dawn came stealing in through the dusty window.
She got up. Still nude, she washed using the jug and basin in the room. She put on her panties, brief satiny, skin toned, hi cut panties that revealed most of her buttocks. She pulled on her skirt and zipped it. It was black leather, the bottom fifty millimetres cut into a fringe. It only reached to mid thigh. She pulled on her boots, black leather, well worn, they fit like gloves and reached half way up her shapely calves. Bra-less, she pulled on her vest, sleeveless, black leather, held together with four Mexican silver buttons, it stopped fifty millimetres short of the waistband of her skirt, revealing the bare skin of her tummy. She knotted a black bandana around her throat as a kneckerchief. She buckled her gun belt on. It hung low and lethal on her hips. The bullet pouches were full and the well used, well oiled Colt, hung down from the belt on her right side. She tied the bottom of her holster to her bare leg with a rawhide thong. She put on her black hat.
She was the Black Widow.
No running.
No life of fear.
Let it be decided today.
She was going back to Gravestone, to face the town, to face the posse.
To face the sherriff.
"Oh Shelby we should have been lovers, I would have been yours, could have been yours, my body yours, my life yours. Me yours."
She went down and saddled her black horse and swinging her leg over set off at a steady canter for Gravestone.
Mid morning in Gravestone and Shelby was getting the posse together when word came that the Black Widow was coming to town. This, he knew was his fight. His problem. His vengeance.
He sent the posse home and went to his office to wait.
The black clad woman rode into sight.
She stopped at the end of the street. Dismounted and started walking purposefully down the length of the hot, dry, dusty street. Powdery dust puffed out from beneath her boots.
Shelby stood on the stoop outside his office, watching her.
He loosened his gun in it's holster and walked out into the middle of the street. She kept coming.
He stood facing her. She stopped twenty metres away.
"I suppose there's nothing I can say?" Her voice was soft and low.
She sighed.
"Draw when you're ready, Widow Woman."
She looked at him intently. Her eyes mirrored inexpressible sadness. Her shoulders slumped.
They went for their guns simultaneously.
Barbara's legendary speed had her gun in her hand and clearing leather faster than the eye could see. Shelby had his gun in hand. Barbara was faster.
The scent of cooking and the cries of children unborn flashed through her mind.
For a split second she paused.
Both guns roared.
Barbara's bullet kicked up dust between them. Shelby's bullet pounded into Barbara's tum. She grunted and her gun fell from her nerveless fingers. Her hands clasped at her tummy. Blood spurted out between her fingers and she dropped to her knees. Her hat had come off and her hair blew in the wind. She looked at Shelby with longing and lust and desperation. Her eyes rolled up and she fell onto her side in the dust.
Shelby walked toward the figure lying curled in the summer dust of the wide lonely street. This was the Black Widow, feared outlaw, desperado and the ruthless killer of Debbie. How small and pathetic she looked lying there in the foetal position, dusty and dirty and unmoving. When he reached her and looked down on her he saw slight movement. She was not dead. He stooped down and rolled her onto her back.
Her eyelids fluttered and she groaned. She was clutching a bloody wound in her stomach. Her hands were covered in blood and more of it, bright red, arterial, pumped out and through her fingers. It had run down, under her skirt band and had saturated her panties.
He unbuttoned the silver buttons of her vest and opened it, spread it aside. He could see movement as her breast rose and fell. He felt for her heart beat, found it, thready, not strong. As he felt it, he felt also the silky smoothness of her rounded breast, the small hard nub of her nipple. He untied her kneckerchief and used it to try to staunch the flow of blood. He looked at her face for the first time. Her hat was lying in the street some distance away and her wild frizzy hair framed her face. She was very pale and her lips were tinged with blue. A thin stream of blood trickled down her cheek from her mouth.
It did not look good.
He looked into her eyes. Recognition stirred. They were so sad.
Her eyelids fluttered again.
He got a hand under her shoulders and lifted her until she was half sitting. She leaned into him, too weak to support herself. "Barbara, it is you? Oh Barbara how, why?"
"Shelby." her voice was very soft and her eyes remained closed.
"Shelby, I didn't mean to kill her..................................Debbie.........I.........."
"Oh Barbara, why this way?"
She opened her eyes and turned her face to look up at him. He could see pain and suffering etched there. "If only..............................................?" She whispered.
Then even more softly, "Shelby?"
"Oh Barbara what? What can I do?"
He had to lean close to hear her, saw her lips moving trying to make words. Her eyes were closed again.
"Kiss me."
Still holding her against him, he took her face, now white and ghostly and turned it toward him. Leaning down he kissed her on the mouth, on her bluish, bloodless lips. He felt her respond, pressing her mouth against his and then she went limp and fell in against his chest like a little girl going to sleep. He knew she was dead.
He laid her back in the dust.
He knew what he must do.
People had started to come out onto the street, standing on stoops, in doorways, watching him. He took Barbara's booted feet in his hands and dragged her body toward the undertaker's parlour, across the wide empty street. She left a track through the powdery dust. Bloody mud marked where she had fallen. Her vest rucked up under her armpits, leaving her upper body naked. Her skirt rolled itself inside out, up around her hips exposing her bloodstained panties and the twin globes of her buttocks. He dragged her on, across the dusty street. More people came out now, emboldened by the knowledge that the feared bandit was dead. Stopping outside the undertakers parlour, he dropped her feet.
He went and stood on the stoop. The town must have it's catharsis. And she was dead now, poor little bitch.
Barbara lay sprawled out in the dirt. Her arms were stretched above her head where they had ended when he was dragging her. Her legs were apart, her clothes remained hoicked up where they had gathered. She was nearly naked, her panties covered in blood, a gory mess showing on her tummy where the bullet that had ended it all for her had hit home. Her lips were quite blue now and her face was pale and unnaturally white.
The townspeople came out and walked toward her. They gathered around her still form, looking down. Some of the women gasped and averted their eyes. "Good riddance." a voice said. A man kicked her in the ribs, another spat on her, the yellowish gob splattering on her chest.
"Get away from her." It was the undertaker's youngish middle aged wife. She came down the steps. Stooping in the dusty street, she tenderly pulled Barbara's skirt down, concealing her panties, then she pulled the vest down and pulled the two sides across, hiding Barbara's bare chest.
"Allow the poor child some decency." she said.
She went back inside. The crowd, somewhat shamed started to drift away. A photographer from the Gravestone Express had set up his cumbersome gear and powder flashed as he took photos of the corpse of the Black Widow. Photos that would travel down the wires to other towns to be greedily devoured by insatiably curious eyes.
The undertaker, tall, spare, balding came out and tapped Shelby on the shoulder.
"Help me get her inside."
Shelby nodded and they went down and he took Barbara under the armpits, while the undertaker took her feet. They lifted her up, limply sagging in their grasp, and together they carried her inside and set her down on a long narrow wooden table in the back of the premises. The table had a polished timber planked top, sloped to a central runnel which drained to the rear. Barbara's feet were toward the drain. The undertakers wife, Kate was her name, was there wearing a leather apron.
"You can help me." She said to Shelby. "Let's get her undressed."
Kate lifted Barbara and started taking off her vest, easing it off her arms and sliding it out from under her body. Shelby unbuckled her gun belt and removed it and then he tugged her boots off, first one foot and then the other. They were soft leather tight fitting boots and by the time he had them off, Kate was stripping the short fringed skirt off of the dead girl's hips and down her legs and off all together. Kate started filling a bucket with warm soapy water. "Take off those ruined panties.' She told Shelby. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of Barbara's panties, they were soaked in her blood and they WERE ruined. He peeled them down over her hips, exposing her bush and her sweet slit, and then he pulled them down her legs and off.
Barbara now lay nude and messy on the polished surface of the wooden table. Kate came over with the bucket full of sudsy water and a cloth. She slopped water over Barbara's bloodied tummy and started washing the gore off with the cloth. She spent time washing away the dust and the dried blood. The bleeding had stopped when Barbara died and after a while it came clean. The bullet hole had ragged bruised bluish edges and looked as deadly as it was. Kate moved on cleaning Barbara's dirty body of it's filth. Washing away the blood on her face and the muck elsewhere. A continuous stream of bloodstained, dirty water ran down the central runnel and out the drain at her feet into an empty bucket Kate had placed there.
Shelby watched as gently and lovingly Kate cleaned Barbara up. Finally the dead girl lay there naked washed and smelling slightly soapy. Kate towelled her skin vigorously until she was dry.
"Now, help me get her onto the bed." She told Shelby.
He took the naked corpse of his onetime schoolmate by the shoulders and Kate took her bare feet and together they carried her into a room next door and laid her on a made bed.
"Now, use her as I know you want to." Kate spoke quietly, "It's all the poor girl has to give you now and she would want you to take her many times this night."
She left.
Shelby looked down at Barbara's naked body. In repose she looked again like the young schoolgirl he had known all those years ago. The wound had been cleaned up and was just a powder blackened pucker in the soft flesh of her tummy. Her eyes were closed and her arms were crossed over her breasts. Her legs were stretched out in front of her. Her hair framed her face on the pillow.
Slowly he undressed and then lay on the bed beside her. He put an arm under her shoulders and lifted her toward him. Limply her arms fell to her sides and her head hung backward as he raised her face to his lips. Her mouth was open and he crushed it with his, hugging her to him as he kissed and fondled her poor dead body. He lay her back on the bed and kissed her forehead, her eyes, her nose and then her full lips. he moved down to her neck and shoulders and then spent an eternity kissing and suckling her nipples and breasts. He moved his head down kissing her tummy, licking her navel, kissing the wound with which his bullet had ended her young life. He kissed her groin, rubbed his face in the luxuriance of her bush, tongued her cleft, her clit, ever so gently sliding his tongue over the crepe like skin of her vaginal lips. He caressed her inner thighs and moved down her legs to her feet. She smelled of soap and her skin smelled of woman. He fondled her feet and sucked her toes.
By now he was hugely erect, this dead girl's body turning him on enormously. He crouched over her, rocking and taking her twinned ass in his hands, pulled her sheath onto his cock. He lay forward on her and started rhythmically pumping into her body. Limply, floppily, she wobbled with the movement of his lovemaking. He pumped faster and faster, his excitement growing unchecked. His balls filled with cum and as he rose to a tingling peak of eroticism, he exploded his load into her sweet, dead slit.
He lay with her.
He fondled her.
His need grew again.
He turned her on her face, loving the view of her ass.
All night long he used her again and again. In the morning Kate came back and helped him clean up Barbara's body once more. Together they dressed her in a gingham frock and lay her in her velvet lined coffin. She looked beautiful lying there dead.
Poor dead Black Widow.
Poor dead little girl Barbara.