Author's note: This was originally written as a safety story for the 2019 Cruel January SizeRiot contest. Something I could submit if I wasn't able to finish "Queen of of His Lies".
Widow's Doll
copyright 2019 Taedis
Paula Grimaldi sat at the head of the table doing everything she could to keep from getting wet.
She wasn't a low woman. Unlike some people she'd been brought up right, not dragged. Only sometimes, when the situation warranted, would she ever think an innocent word in such a vulgar context. She certainly never said it aloud. Not even when there was a Mr. Grimaldi sharing her bed.
Mark passed the serving bowl along, but his attention was fixed on Susan instead of the peas or his hostess. Their conversation had jumped from poetry to history to music in that way young people did when they were trying to seem deeper, more profound than their time on this Earth justified.
Mrs. Grimaldi didn't mind. They were young and cute and had been flirting like this every night since Susan moved in a week ago. Classes would be starting tomorrow and it was obvious neither wanted to start their Junior year alone.
Mrs. Grimaldi didn't mind. She knew Susan was a good girl. She suspected Mark was a nice man. It wouldn't be natural to pay more attention to an old landlady almost twice their age. And while Mark swooned on every word dropping from Susan's painted lips neither noticed Mrs. G. squirming in her seat.
Mr. Grimaldi had joked about baseball statistics whenever she rebuffed him before their marriage. She let her mind tumble through numbers as she picked at her meatloaf, but landed in the game she'd enjoyed earlier. Killebrew stretched almost off the base trying to field a grounder hit to the left side. His lithe young frame, barely older than the children she was feeding, stretched like a ballet dancer across the diamond. His legs taut against his tight uniform. Tight all the way up to his hips and the curves of his hard …
“Sorry to be a bother, but I could use Susan's help in the kitchen.” Mrs. G. needed to get up before she got herself in trouble. “You don't mind if I borrow her, do you, Mark?”
Both were too polite to object.
-----
“I'm so glad you let me talk you into staying with me this year.” Mrs. G. took the pie out of the oven. “I feel much more comfortable sharing my house with you than any of the boys the college sent me. Especially after what happened with … you know.”
“I know.”
Mrs. G. could hear the regret in the younger woman's voice. The yearning for something Susan had brushed close to once a very long time ago. Something she never had, but wanted more than anything else before. Something Mrs. G. had more than brushed.
“Still. I have to thank the college for sending Mark my way.” Mrs. G. put the pie down. “Not that I was going to let him stay. I'd promised the room to you. What kind of world would we live in if people didn't keep their word?
“But he seemed like such a nice boy. Such a lonely boy. No family. No friends. So far from home. I hope you don't mind I've had him around for dinner so often. Mr. Cheselniak's a nice man. Probably a good landlord. But his idea of cooking is tearing the foil off a tv dinner.”
“I don't mind.”
Susan stared at the door as if she could stare through it to the young man beyond. She blushed and Mrs. G. knew what Susan wasn't telling her.
“You like him, don't you?” Mrs. G. leaned in conspiratorially close.
“Am I that obvious?” Susan grew redder.
Mrs. Grimaldi grinned mysteriously at her young border. She had an answer on the tip of her brain, but the thing she had been waiting for all evening erased it with its arrival. Only then, when she felt a faint brine mist on her pearl did she let the weight of the night fall on her. Only then did she let the floodgates between her legs open.
“Why don't you serve the pie while I powder my nose, dear.”
-----
Mrs. Grimaldi turned the water on as soon as she locked the bathroom. The lovebirds downstairs were too focused on each other to give her a second thought, but she couldn't take the chance either heard anything inconvenient coming from the toilet.
She put the lid down before bunching prim layers of skirt and petticoat up to her waist. She unhitched her garters and pulled her underwear to her knees before placing her almost bare bottom on the closed lid.
She supposed she should feel guilty about wearing the sanitary belt when she wasn't on her period. The pads cost money. It wasn't like she could put it back in the box until some time next week when she'd probably start bleeding again. Even if it wasn't disgusting it was too late for that.
It couldn't be helped. She needed something to hold things in place down there. Something comfortable for both of them. Something that would smother his screams while letting him hear what was going on in the world above him.
Mrs. Grimaldi spread her legs and unsnapped the top of the belt. She pulled the heavy pad down and away from her until she saw him pressed against the damp hair surrounding her yearning opening.
His cheek rested on her hooded pearl. She didn't need to look at his face to know he'd been crying; she felt those first tears in the kitchen talking to Susan. That's why she had to stay dry; to feel his tears wash over her womanhood. To know she was drowning them out with every gush of ladylike lust that poured out of her, over him, staining the cotton pad.
The pad and her crotch played tug of war with Greg's tiny naked body.
The pad won.
Mrs. Grimaldi wrapped her hand in a thick layer of toilet paper before picking Greg out of the pad. She flipped the short glass on the counter upside down and placed him on top of its glass roof.
She watched her former border shield his face from the the eight suns arrayed around the bathroom mirror. How long had she kept him down there? Eight hours? Ten? All the while trying not to think about the human life she had resting between her legs; the young man with a bright shiny future before him reduced to being a widow's fantasy and marital toy.
“Did you cry because Susan's moved on?”
Greg lifted his head to the sound of her voice and nodded.
“You shouldn't be sad. She's got Mark in her life now. And you have me.”
Whatever Greg said didn't matter. He was angry, hurt, and scared. All of which only added to Mrs. Grimaldi's pleasure. She liked the way he puffed out his chest when he bluffed a strength they both knew he lacked. She put her hand around the glass, twisting it around until he spun slowly like a music box ballerina. He kept trying to face her, but she kept spinning him away.
“There's no way Susan would want you now. Not like this. You're don't have a man's power, only his shape. That's the Webster's definition of a doll. Susan's a grown up girl. She doesn't play with dolls anymore.”
Shoulders as broad as the tip of her pinky finger gleamed in the bare bulb light and the dampness of her arousal. Her eyes travelled the perfect “T” they formed all the way down to his bare ass.
Mrs. Grimaldi put him back in her pad when he tried to run. She liked it when he fought back.
-----
“I'm going downstairs to listen to the game.” Mrs. G. wore the same mysterious smile she'd had since the kitchen. “Don't worry about talking too loud or playing music if you want. I can't hear a thing you do when I'm down there.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Susan may have been a nice girl, but even nice girls knew an opportunity when they heard it.
“I don't expect I'll come up those stairs until at least 10 o'clock.”
“Enjoy the game, Mrs. G.” There wasn't any mystery behind Mark's smile.
“I don't expect to find you here, young man.” Mrs. G.'s tone was firm, but she was still smiling. “This is a respectable house and I won't have the gossip mill saying otherwise.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
-----
“Do you remember the last time we came down to the basement, Greg?”
Mrs. G. took a seat on the padded rocker under the vent that led directly to Susan's room.
“It was last year, wasn't it? When it was still your room we were eavesdropping on. When I gave Susan some time alone with your things after you left school and dumped her in that note.”
Mrs. Grimaldi smiled when she felt Greg's first punch land on her clitoris. It must have taken a Herculean effort to pull his arm back to strike her. He was pressed so tight between her wall of flesh and the taut cotton pad. Rage fueled his strength; exploded against her sensitive flesh.
It almost tickled.
“I know I was the one who wrote the note, Greg, but it's for the best. If she really loved you she'd have recognized your handwriting. Either you didn't write her enough love letters or she didn't pay them much attention.”
Mrs. G. couldn't hear Greg's scream, but she could feel it vibrate against her sensitive flesh. She could feel her first orgasm welling up inside her.
“Did you cry too? Back then? With her? I couldn't tell at the time. I think you remember why.”
Susan and Mark's giggles echoed down the ductwork followed by the sounds of straining bedsprings. Mrs. G. rocked in time with the gently rocking springs two floors above.
“Do you remember when that was your bed, Greg? I do. I'd come down here to listen to the radio and I'd hear you moaning in it by yourself. Even after all those months dating Susan she still didn't want to join you.
“How long has she known Mark? Has it even been a week?”
The next punch sent sparks skittering from Mrs. G.'s crotch to her nipples. She allowed herself the first of many small orgasms that night. She'd save the best for later when she was alone in her own bed with the lights out and her clothes puddled on the floor and her widow's doll buried deep in her.
“I normally wouldn't be so lax about leaving an unmarried couple unchaperoned in my home, but they make such a cute couple. I've got a feeling Mark will make an honest woman of her.”
Mrs. G. barely felt the third punch over the final tremors of her orgasm.
“Do you think they'll get married here or St Louis where her family is?”
Susan's moan echoed down the duct.
“Either way I'm sure I'll be invited. I can talk my way into anything. I won't tell anyone, but you'll be there, tucked between my legs. I'll keep you there from the moment I leave the house to the last dance at the reception. I don't care if I have to go through a dozen pads.”
Mrs. Grimaldi felt a pressure against her throbbing womanhood. Something more constant than a punch. She knew Greg well enough to know he'd given up. Hurt his fists against her throbbing sex; his feelings in every moan that escaped Susan's throat. He was sobbing into her now. Crying at his weakness. His impotence.
“Maybe I'll be a matron of honor. Getting the bride ready. Hearing all the filthy advice girls give each other on their big day. Talking about the man she's going to satisfy. Knowing it will never be you. Could never be you.
“Knowing that the woman you love shares another man's honeymoon bed while you share a pair of panties with me.”
Greg's tears washed away in Mrs. G.'s flood.
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