Widow

The club was quiet. Distant glasses clinking, soft, late-night music, a serene heaven hidden in an out-of-the-way corner of Malcesine, Italy. And at the center of the calm swirl of life, its owner.

A slim black European suit and a red tie sat apart from the mild goings-on. Sitting back, resplendent, occasionally putting a slender Romeo y Julietta Reserva Real cigar to his lips, the beautiful Riviera studied, or appeared to study, a stack of business documents pertaining to the Castelpagano casino. Business was plenty good.

He wasn't in it for the money any more, he never really was. He was in it for the...finer things. Finer things like what came through the door to his lounge.

Gennario Riviera sat back, gently taking his cigar out of his teeth, and propping one Italian boot on an adjacent chair. He blew out a cloud of expensive smoke with a soft huff.

"Babe," he said, smiling, a thick New Jersey accent already apparent in that one syllable. "To what do I owe the magnificent gift of your presence?"

Tall, curvaceous Tosca stood over him, smiling a little.

"I was in the area," returned her sultry voice.

Riviera gestured for her to sit. She did.

"Always good to see you here in my house," he said. "Always good to see you here in that dress."

"Oh," said Tosca, "this old thing?"

"Babe," repeated Riviera, "you don't dress like that without a motive. You're dressed like you want somethin'. Hell, you're dressed like you're gonna kill somebody."

Indeed, the "dress" didn't go very far below Tosca's hips. It was black and split down the middle, all the way down to her waist, displaying her navel, held together by tiny, jewel-encrusted straps. Barely deserved the term "clothing." Tosca blushed a little. Expertly.

"And do I ever envy whatever poor bastid you're killin'," said Riviera. He allowed himself a good look, which Tosca afforded him. "In fact, in that thing, all you would have to do is ask real nice and I bet he'd die voluntarily."

Tosca giggled. "I bet you're right."

Riviera once shared a profession with Tosca, and survived more than a few encounters with others whose work was to be him. Knowing this, Riviera had been careful to flirt heavily with the lovely miss Tosca, but never to sleep with her. She seemed to understand. The way those two silencers poked out of his sport coat was pretty hot, though.

Riviera nodded. "Yeah." A moment, and then, "who?"

"Hm?" she asked, chin resting on her hand.

"Who's the lucky dead man?"

"Oh," she said, "nobody."

"I bet," said Riviera, setting the cigar on the edge of the large tray. "Listen. You come in here to see me, flashin' all hot like that, which means you're here for a reason, and not the kind I like. Either I am your business tonight, which if it is you're goin' about this the very wrong way, or, you want something, so let's have it, yeah? Total disclosure, please, if you would, my dear."

"There's no playing you, is there, Mr. Riviera?" she said. "He's a vacationing informant from Los Angeles who wouldn't roll over."

"Lucky him. What gives?"

"He's staying here."

"Ah, christ." Riviera cradled his forehead.

"Mr. Riviera," Tosca tried, "I attend your parties, I know your rules. And it is out of that mutual courtesy I even asked permission."

"Don't do that," said Riviera, "listen. This is a legitimate business. You do your thing up there, I want to be totally free of suspicion, you got that? Publicity damage, replacing the carpet, all that, that's also to consider."

"I guess I'll have to owe you," cooed Tosca.

"I guess you will," said Riviera, a little ice in his voice. "And I'll exact it later."

"In trade, Mr. Riviera?"

"You wish. I can get that for free anywhere. With less risk."

"Well, then. You have my gratitude, Mr. Riviera."

"I can't spend gratitude," he said, scrawling something on a watermarked paper, folding it. "Hand this to Morillo at the front. You've got the "murder central" suite on four and 24 hours of me turning the blindest eye you never did see."

"Much obliged," she said, standing and rewarding Riviera with a full view. He dreamily appreciated it from the safety of his side of the table.

"Good luck, babe. See you Saturday."

---

It didn't take long to get his attention. In that dress, she had everyone's attention. With expert cues and signals, she drew him to her across the bar.

Riviera leered darkly from his table on the other side of the large room. Tosca felt his eyes.

Her prey was very attractive in person. Beautiful even. Long hair, partly-unbuttoned white silk shirt, lithe and graceful. So youthful, and full of life.

She'd break him over her knee.

She got him talking, his big, bright eyes fixated on her, animatedly expounding on...something or other. Looking for an "in," she asked what he did for a living.

Her mind had been skipping over the conversation so far, waiting for the right moment, but she suddenly rewound what she heard when his answer came back.

She had heard right. He wrote erotica films.

This was her chance. She immediately zeroed in on this aspect of the conversation. Got him to discuss details, where he got his inspiration, how "involved" he was in the process...more and more intimate, more and more hushed. Until finally, with another expert blush and perfectly executed shyness, she coyly asked if he could perhaps...demonstrate?

His eyes lit up.

---

She'd offered. But he'd insisted on his own lavish room. Could be a trap. She was ready. But when she knocked, it was unlocked, and there he was, in the middle of the room straightening the bed nervously.

Tosca glided inside, gently closing the door behind her. She was no more clothed than she was before.

He crossed the room in two steps and gently put his hands on her sides, softly promising things she'd heard many times before, before putting kisses on her shoulders and neck. He was hers. It was only a matter of time now.

Wait. That wasn't supposed to happen. She hadn't felt him handcuff her wrists...but there they were, shackled together in front of her, while her "victim" carried on trying to seduce her. The kisses had felt kind of nice, nothing to write home about, when had she lapsed?

He was either very skilled, or just that naiv. Either she was at a terrible disadvantage and in incredible danger, or was about to kill someone very interesting. Either way, she needed to go along with it for a little while. So she reluctantly allowed him to hang the chain off of some convenient protrusion from the ceiling.

Her arms held harmlessly above her head, things got out of hand as he slid behind her. She was going to kick him in the groin and fling him against the mantle with both legs, but what he did wasn't a lethal attack. It was, however, an assault.

The dress. It left nothing to the imagination. And it protected nothing. Tosca had been touched by men before. But something different happened this time. His hands were certainly skilled, but not the greatest in her memory. It was something else. She'd never allowed herself to be bound before, never felt helpless under the touch of another. But with just the addition of a pair of handcuffs, a garment that was designed to lure prey suddenly felt incredibly revealing and unproductive. The man behind her reached through her dress, through her layers of deceptions and cover identities, past her defenses, and found her.

His hand slid under her braless breasts, and he carefully dodged her head as it fell back, gasping and holding a quivering breath as his other hand crept up her thigh, pulling up the skirt the half-inch required to reveal everything.

She still squeezed her legs shut, but her body had already given in to feelings she'd never imagined before. One hand didn't crush or wad but gently caressed her breasts, and just the soft underside, supporting an lifting them. The other had begun to insinuate itself into her waist band. Her head was completely resting on his shoulder now, her body draped backwards over his as her legs stopped supporting her, and she could only breathe gasps of shock interspersed with surprised moans, both growing as his fingertips softly teased her shaved mound, and nothing more.

She was out of breath when he stopped, her whole body tingling, quivering and weak. She just watched as he excitedly slid her meager panties down her thighs, calves, and her stiletto heels, which he carefully lifted out for her. Then, her heart raced as he, kneeling in front of her, slowly slid and folded her skirt, inch by inch, up her pelvis, over her hips, and above her bellybutton. She watched herself exposed, vulnerable, obscenely open like that, as if seeing her own body for the first time. Her breath came more and more in rasps.

Her legs had parted slightly by now, and he was behind her again, this time his hand occasionally finding her nipples and giving them a soft tease, while his other fingertips stroked her thighs, hips, belly, and everything but what her body wished they'd find, and soon.

Her suspended body sang like an expertly played harp until her breathy, delirious moaning began to include semi-coherent whispers. She softly intoned as his ministrations continued upon her, manipulating her, but giving her frustratingly little pleasure, until her sighs articulated into breathed words, please, oh, please, quietly begging him in a voice hushed by her uncontrolled passion.

After allowing even this to continue torturously for a small eternity, he released her again, and her head lolled forward once more, her hair now hanging in strands, her skin shining with sweat, her mouth hanging open as she panted hotly, looking at him helplessly. She could feel her thighs coated with a dripping sheen trailing from a quivering need inside her.

Just the feeling of him touching her ankles to part her legs was enough to make her shudder and her eyes roll back. The begging became barely coherent affirmation, oh yes, ohh yes, yes, as he fastened the straps of the spreader bar holding her thighs far apart, then back to begging as he positioned himself between them, letting him feel his breath on her.

He let her reach, then frustratedly thrust and twitch her hips toward him for a while before he reached under her and took hold of her behind and plunged his face into her. Her hair whipped as she threw her head back, arching her whole body and screaming. Pleasure and ecstasy took her over completely and she rode helplessly as he enthusiastically devoured her subdued form. Her cries became more desperate as he brought her to the verge of climax, and held her there until her voice became stressed, and tears began to leak from her eyes.

She sobbed gratefully as he released her bonds and mercifully stripped her. She needed so badly to be naked now. She caught her breath in a paralytic heap as he cuffed her hands again, this time behind her back. Her eyes rolled back as she felt the collar go on. He let her regain herself, then helped her to her feet...the look on her face was savage. She needed that tongue back. Now.

She flipped her tangled, sweat-soaked hair from her face to see him lying on the bed, waiting for her, fully erect, one hand gently holding the long leash affixed to the collar on her neck.

He tugged.

The nude and thoroughly ravaged woman, without even her shoes now, stepped unsteadily but with purpose toward the bed. She stalked herself over to it, climbed aboard using only her legs, and collapsed before it like a last meal; she bathed it with her tongue, up and down and under, kissed it with her whole mouth, took it in, all the way, swallowed it, and rose only with another tug at her leash.

She was desperate to give herself to him now. Her body ached. Needed. Hurt. Again without the use of her helpless arms, she drew herself up, and dragged herself over him.

As men must, he guided it with one hand, but awaited her action. It tickled the gate to her opening, and with as much care as she could muster in her state, she rested enough weight upon it to savor the feeling of clenching herself over the head before giving in to the throbbing in her womb and slid wetly over him.

Her breasts thrust forward by the position of her arms, they bounced with her as she gyrated and ground hungrily into him, moaning unabashedly now, squeezing and pressing it as far inside her as it would go, savoring the pain of its size. Now free to enjoy herself, she indulged in his flesh, hedonistically spreading the dew of her wetness all over her thighs and him, twisting, arching, twitching as her whole body tingled electrically. She now teased herself, taking her time, fully drinking him in and consuming his power as deep inside her as she could pull him, until he finally reached for her, embraced and pinned her to his chest, and took her properly, thrusting into her with his whole body until her final release, which she screamed out as his own filled her with thick warmth...

She lay beside him on top of the covers, exhausted, the handcuffs still dangling off one wrist, the leash scattered across the bed. They rested in silence, besides her panting, him smiling at the ceiling at a fine demonstration of his art, her still somewhat catatonic, until finally he looked over at her, beaming.

"Was it good for you?" he asked smoothly.

She dizzily reached for a wineglass beside the bed, broke the bowl off the stem, and stabbed the jagged shank of crystal through his heart up to the stand.

"Oh, very," she breathed, now alone again.