Momir and the Widow

Safe. He was going to make it. Or so he thought, until a sharp bend in the road brought him unannounced into the presence of the very monster he was fleeing. She stood resolutely in the path of his horse, one hand lifted to shield her eyes from the dim sunlight filtering through the canopy. His blood ran cold and he reined his horse up short. She squinted against the muted light to glare at him, and spoke in her alien tongue. Uncertain, he watched her for a moment. Her expression was clearly angry, but she made no move to attack him. Bleakly, he reined his horse around, and started back the way he came. 'she won't let me leave', he thought. Looking over his shoulder, he saw her following him. At the edge of the forest she was gone, between one glance and the next. But he didn't think for a moment that he was free.
The sun was descending in the sky when he passed again through the city gates. His spirits felt like ash, dry and crumbling. He felt certain that wherever he went, she would find him when darkness came. He had no money, and he reluctantly turned his stolen horse towards the docks. He stopped at the stables where his remaining horses were kept and inquired about his abandoned belongings. With a good deal of grudging, and some horse bartering to boot, his trinkets and traveling gear were returned, mostly soaked in cold, sticky horse blood. Disgusted, he nevertheless took his pack. Leaving the stolen horse loose in the street he walked on foot to the loft he had rented for the week.

Climbing the ladder to the room, he was numbly surprised to see the lumpy straw mattress gone, replaced with a mess of expensive-looking pillows and blankets, some in sets, others alone, strewn about like a veritable nest. It seemed that his designated executioner still had designs on him. Though this was not the best news he could have heard, it elevated his spirits some to see that she apparently was not ready to eat him and have done with it. He knelt, suddenly feeling his tiredness, and began to dig through his pack. The jewelry could be cleaned, but his wool blanket dripped with cold blood. He tossed it into the emptiness of the interior of the warehouse, and listened to it slap on the dirt floor a story below. It sounded like a corpse. He tried to clear his mind as he sorted through his spare clothing, separating saturated from unstained, finding precious few of the latter. After a time his exhaustion became too much, and he lay down in the mess of blankets, and promptly fell asleep. He woke to late afternoon sunlight slanting in low, casting long shadows and coloring everything a deep yellow. Sitting up with a start, feeling wakeful but grimy, he looked down and realized his hands were caked with dry blood, as was the blanket where he lay. He swore, and climbed to his feet. Taking an only partially-ruined shirt, he made the trip to the closest cistern where he washed his hands and arms. He took some time to assess his situation with a more rested mind, and decided that he had better liquidate his cart and his extra horses. If he did manage to escape, it wouldn't be with a three-horse team and a load of silverware rattling behind. He realized also that he was ravenously hungry, and decided to seek food while he was out. He sold most anything that couldn't be carried conveniently on a saddle, keeping one horse as well, just in case, and bought dinner while he was out.

Back in his loft, shortly after sundown, he was sitting on a pillow watching the corner where the widow had appeared last night, thinking about what he would do if he was held here for very long, when a soft touch on his shoulder made him jump. There she was, crouched beside him, silent as a snake. She gave that too-wide smile, and he swore she batted her eyelashes at him. Leaning in close, she kissed his shoulder gently, then his cheek. He was lifting his arm to snake around her when pain shot through his face, and he cried out in surprise. She pulled back, grinning, with blood on her lips, and he saw her swallow. He touched his jaw line tenderly, and felt a clean divot sliced out of his cheek, surgical in precision. He looked at her, shocked and disturbed, and raised his hand to strike her, but he stopped when she closed her eyes and turned her cheek to him, showing the dark bruise left by his fist the night before. He forced himself to lower his had, determined he was not going to play to this creature's strange passions for violence. Blood rolled freely down his neck, and began to soak into his shirt.
He cursed and pulled his shirt off, taking extra care not to touch his throbbing jaw, and tore a strip loose, fitting it carefully to his face as a makeshift bandage. After several painful experiments, he decided he needed medical help, and started to rise. The widow's insistent grip that closed on his wrist and pulled him back stopped him, and he turned to find her looking at him, demure and lusty. In spite of himself his pulse began to rush, as unbidden memories of the night before came to mind.

She looked over her shoulder and reached for something, then presented him with her find: a black leather collar sized for a slender human neck attached to a short iron chain and a tether. She smirked coyly and shifted, laying slowly across his lap, back down. Her eyes closed and her head tipped back, her arms stretched out above her head, and her knees spread slightly. She lay still and silent, her torso rising and falling slowly as she breathed, and waited for him to explore the sleek form presented before him.
Momir was captivated, her clear offering both disturbing and thrilling. His pain forgotten, he wasted no time in fitting the collar snugly about her neck. When he was done her eyes opened, and one hand slid slowly down to stroke her skin. She sighed softly and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to do something, anything, to her. He cautiously wrapped the tether on her collar about his wrist, then ran his hands over her body. She was warm, warmer than he, and she curled up a little when his fingers played over her sensitive areas. Once more his fingers found her slit, hot and moist, and he felt himself start to stiffen as she gave a soft little gasp. She languished in his lap for some time, squirming slowly, before suddenly rising to kneel before him. She looked up at him quickly before bending towards his chest. Quickly he lifted a hand to catch her by the throat and she gagged and coughed, then looked up again and giving him a soft smile. One of her hands gently stroked his, and she leaned slowly into his grip, pushing his hand towards him. Reluctantly he allowed her to place her mouth to his skin again, and this time she merely gave him a soft kiss on the sternum before moving to slowly lap up the blood running down his chest.

Momir held still, waiting for a sign that the Widow was about to bite him again. None came, just the feeling of her tongue sliding over his skin, and the occasional kiss. He exhaled suddenly, not aware he'd been holding his breath, and ran his other hand down her spine. The feel of her firm ass under his hand sparked an uncharacteristic idea in his mind. It felt appropriate for the situation. His fingers probed deeper, and the widow stiffened reflexively, and he felt her gasp sharply as he thrust his finger slowly into her anus. She pulled away from his hand suddenly, then slowly relaxed and pushed back against his probing. She resumed her licking, and he probed deeper into her forbidden regions, unsure quite what he was doing, but satisfied at her reaction.
She worked her way slowly up his body as he worked his way deeper into hers. Her hands gently clasped either side of his head as she ran her tongue maddeningly up the side of his neck, making his pulse hammer, and he heard her breath, heavy and hot. When she reached the blood's source, she pulled away suddenly and lay back in the pile of bedding she had collected here. Her neck craned and she looked him in the eyes as her thighs spread and knees pulled up. One hand spread her pussy wide, inviting him to look, touch, enter. Her back arched and tensed rhythmically as she waited for him to come to her.

He ran his eyes slowly up her body, his hands working thoughtlessly to free himself from his pants. Cloth yielded exposing willing flesh, and he fell over her, no hesitation in his mind this time. He gripped the chain on her collar and pulled her close for a firm kiss as he thrust into her. Claws grazed his back until they found the ruts they had cut the night before, and dug in hard as he plunged his cock into her hungry flesh. Momir arched his back in pain and looked down at her with anger, saw the desire in her eyes and raised his hand, knowing she wanted the blow. She cried out as he struck her, and her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him deeper inside. He knocked her hands away and she reached again to embrace him, clasping his shoulders this time, drawing no blood. She moaned her delicate, high-pitched moans, and he groaned his hoarse, unrefined grunts of passion, and they pleased each other and themselves until they were each satisfied, and cries turned to gasps and panting.

Momir lay atop his monstrous lover for long minutes, silent, til she stirred restlessly. He rolled off her reluctantly, and she instantly straddled him and ground her hips against his, rubbing her wet lips along the underside of his limp penis. He groaned, realizing she wanted more, and fell silent to compose himself. He could do this. He had to, who knows what she would do if she wasn't satisfied. He swallowed, and sat up to watch her play herself along his shaft. She smirked at him, watching his eyes, and made a show of it, stroking herself and moaning softly as she worked him back into performing shape. Thankfully, she was tempting enough to inspire his focus. He was almost disappointed when she decided he'd had enough, and climbed off him. He turned to see her kneeling, facing the wall, looking over her shoulder at him. Her hands reached down, ran slowly over her ass, and with tantalizing slowness she spread herself for him. She cocked her head coyly and mewled softly, and he looked down and realized what she wanted. Ordinarily, such things did not appeal to Momir, a staunch conservative by comparison to this perverse city's population, but the voice of adventure inside him spoke up, saying 'try it. what is there to lose? she's nothing but a monster anyways.'

He moved into place behind her, brushed aside her tail, and took hold of her swaying hips. She felt his shaft brush her ass and she lifted a hand to brace herself against the wall. He closed his eyes and leaned into her, pushing himself inside. His member was slick with her excretions, but he hadn't considered that she was dry here, and he felt it as she cried out, long and loud, in protest. He heard her mutter something under a heavy breath, he thought she might be swearing. He quickly moved to pull himself out, to find a way to address this problem, but she pushed back against him, unwilling to let him go. He opened his eyes, and she was looking at him over her shoulder, eyes smoldering and wild with lust. 'Brilliant Rao,' he thought, 'what kind of twisted creature can she be to want it like this?'.

She pushed against him impatiently, panting. He closed his eyes again and pushed again, thrusting his cock deeper into her ass. She cried out again. Her claws dug deep furrows into the wooden walls as she pushed back against him. He forced his concerns out of his mind, and soon things were easy. The widow's cries came, voicing suffering and lust, but her enthusiasm never flagged and Momir found himself as lost in her as ever. He pressed against her flexing back, hands sliding around to grope her breasts, and pressed his uninjured cheek against her black hair. He held her tightly to him while he fucked her, and she only cried for more. He lost track of time, returning to mindfulness only after he had peaked and released his passion inside her. His embrace slackened, and he slowly slid down to sit on his ankles. He realized then that she had not climaxed, and looked up to see her looking back with a clear expression of frustration and irritation. Without so much as a word (not that he would understand it anyway) she deftly divested herself of the collar, climbed to her feet, and walked rather stiffly into the shadows in the far corner. The darkness deepened for a moment, engulfed her, and just like that she was gone. Momir sat, dumbfounded, unsure what to do now. His jaw, previously forgotten, began to throb again. He thought of a doctor, and looked around for a clean shirt to wear. Just as he found one, a soft thump in the far corner of the room drew his attention. He caught the tail end of a vanishing silhouette in the shadow, and a moment later noticed a roll of bandages and a small clay jar of what looked like it might be some kind of salve. He sighed softly, and set about tenderly bandaging his bite wound.

Morning broke and woke Momir. His face hurt, and he was thirsty. He thought over the previous night as he drank from the cistern, and as he relieved himself against the warehouse wall in the adjacent alley. The widow was clearly irritated with him. He had failed to satisfy her. He felt a surge of indignant outrage, the desire to protest that she had been asking too much, but he forced himself to remember that this was not the issue at hand. He wished there was somewhere he could hide for a few days, until she forgot her anger. He assumed that this method worked on savage cannibalistic women as well as the normal kind, since he had little else to go on. He looked up at the Zayir palace and shuddered, thinking of the cruel and unnatural things that were rumored to happen there. Then he thought of what he'd been up to the last two nights, and his face flushed self-consciously. He hadn't exactly been acting as a paragon of moral purity lately either. At least he didn't go seeking his partner... He was thinking about the palace underworld, famous from sea to sea as the most opulent den of sin and pleasure in all of Oerth, when he suddenly realized his answer. It was thought that the Widows could not go to the underworld. Murder there was strictly and explicitly forbidden, for any reason, as a measure to encourage the patronage of various unnamed noble personages with enemies to fear. The management professed to have a necromancer on site at all times for the sole purpose of performing resurrections should an assassin manage to slip through the multiple layers of security staff and watch-wizards.

The underworld was hard to find, but easy to reach. Doors marked with signs plain to anyone with the right knowledge were littered through every part of the city. Momir did not have the right knowledge, and he was forced to tip a local to point one out to him. Inside, a surprisingly short tunnel made a straight shot to the first level. The design of the underworld was said to be modeled loosely on the Nine Hells: a series of seven concentric rings, each one smaller in diameter and lower than the previous one. The first layer was devoted to city-run sleeping houses, moneychangers who sold the specially-minted tokens that the underworld used as currency (Momir went to a money-changer to turn his bag of enchanted curios into a more useful currency), and the galleries where soft-core sex shows were put on for new visitors and those with delicate stomachs.

He spent untold hours wandering the miles of concourse of the top three levels. Mostly he stuck to the first layer, where he felt relatively comfortable, and even shelled out the minor admittance fee to see some of the shows. To pass the time, he told himself. They were mostly straight-forward, easy to stomach, and undeniably arousing. They failed to truly entertain him though. He was preoccupied, and they didn't seem very real. After boredom had settled in and he had argued with himself for a good long time, he finally mustered the courage to descend lower. On the second level he walked the dens, a winding path discreetly sheltered by a variety of exotic foliage so that visibility was short and the whole affair felt rather secretive and private, a titillating treasure hunt for your fantasy. Around each corner, small but well-appointed parlors held prostitutes of a staggering array of sizes, colors, configurations, attitudes, and specialties. For the right fee, your mistress of choice would unlock her gate and allow you inside for whatever pleasantries had been negotiated.
On the far side of the second layer lay the coliseums, arenas of various sizes and shapes that ran hourly shows, typically involving or culminating in some sex act of varying amounts of violence and consensuality being performed on one or more female participants. Momir avoided this area after seeing one show, during which he was solicited by masked vendors hawking rental slaves to service you while you watched the activities. Blood-sports and rape were thoroughly outside the realm of fantasies with which he was comfortable.

The third floor was collectively called the market, and contained numerous galleries selling pleasure slaves (willing or not, as your preference called for), time with exotic and improbable creatures (centaur and wemic, a blinded medusa, dark elves, and other even less-human things), and bizarre magical services.
Momir had quickly bypassed the flesh markets, uneasy at the sight of so many desperate slaves begging to be freed, and was browsing the magic district for the sheer oddity of some of the things being offered (extra limbs? gender invention?) when he was approached by two robed figures. Clothed from neck to toes in a concealing gown, white as pearls, and wearing cloth headdresses and non-distinct masks, these figures perfectly matched myriad others he had observed today threading through the crowd. Impossible to count, but he might estimate over a hundred. They moved with the purpose and efficiency of butlers, were silent as mice, and were generally courteous. He presumed them to be messengers or servants of the establishment. The two before him bowed in unison, and each extended a hand to beckon him to follow. Curious, he fell into step behind them as they turned and started away. They had a curious way of seeming to float, rather than walk. Before long, several other robed servants joined their procession, and he started to grow nervous as they gradually formed a silent retinue around him, walking with purpose towards the grand staircase that stretched from the third floor down into the pit, all the way to the seventh.

At the head of the staircase they ushered him through a fee checkpoint without paying, and as they descended he got a glimpse of the fourth layer (far less populated, customers bathed in large communal baths or lounged on broad flat stone expanses, alone or in small groups, socializing with each other, some copulating at the poolside in plain view). They passed another check point, this one involving actual locked gates and armed guards, into what appeared to be staff territory, housing and workshops circling the ring in rows. Below that lay the sixth layer, a small ring containing myriad small workshops and vendor stalls where craftsmen created and repaired decorations and uniforms, and mages worked commissioned alterations on prostitutes from the dens, altering skin tone, reshaping hands, adding breasts, and stranger things. Here the entourage left the stairs and diverted into the jumble of the sixth layer. Momir was unable to resist casting a curious glance down the stairway into the seventh layer. A stone arch showed nothing beyond except shadows and fire. He ventured to ask "What lies below?" One of his escort turned to look at him briefly, then turned away before answering in a plain-sounding woman's voice "That is the Emperor's private layer. Access by invitation only. No one invited has ever returned, but they are all happy to go."