The Observer 1

Thanks to the Costermonger, Hale1 and Findegil for their editing assistance.

The living room walls were the first to see. Perhaps the entry had some inkling but the drama would take place in other venues. The two people were seated drinking wine, a woman and a man. The woman belonged here; the man did not. There was a man who belonged here. This was not he. This man was larger, rougher, coarser. His voice was low and full of a conjuror's web of seduction, the spell spun out in the living room's silent watchfulness.

The woman looked demure, concealing her duplicity behind a show of modesty. Their conversation was full of innuendo, played skillfully by both parties. It was vaguely humorous, reminiscent of the conversation of high school romantics, conducted furtively around the corner where the teachers could not observe, or like an 18th century farce, in which sly wit and jaded sophistication laugh together as they plunge their rapiers into the breast of innocent honesty and true love.

Their first kiss was tentative, brief and not fully engaged; the next was a full on tongue wrestling match. He pulled her into his embrace as the fireplace mantel frowned on the clandestine scene. The wind blew outside, a sudden gust and the house groaned, old timbers, long settled, shifting as the upstairs floor creaked uneasily.

The two lovers' eyes shot upward. "Is someone home?" he asked.

"N... no," was her timorous reply. "John is in France; you know that. The kids are staying with his parents this weekend. This old place just creaks sometimes. I'd swear the house was haunted if I believed in such things."

He shrugged. "It's a beautiful old place. How did you come by it?"

"John inherited it from his Great Aunt," she said. "It's worth millions. The grounds are spectacular and it's been updated recently. Forget about that. You were telling me something."

He pulled her back into his embrace and whispered in her ear. His words were too low to hear, even in the stillness of the house. All was quiet, the air pregnant with tension. The fire in the fireplace crackled as it consumed its appointed fuel, a spark spitting into the screen from time to time.

The woman giggled and they kissed again. The blind Cupid on the last baluster stared in disapproving silence as the man eased the zipper of her dress down. His usually cherubic face seemed to frown menacingly in the firelight. His big hands slid inside, caressing her satin skin. It became obvious that she was not wearing a bra as the pretty little dress she was wearing, a dress that her husband had bought for her birthday, but she had never worn, slid to her waist. Her exposed breasts were spectacular, not so much in size as shape, firmness and placement, High on her chest; they appeared larger as they thrust forward. Her nipples were pink and small, surrounded by coral shaded areolae, slightly puffy and incredibly beautiful. His hand slid around to caress one firm mound.

The fire intruded. A small pocket of oil, long trapped in the wood, popped, a small explosion, causing the guilty couple to start. It was quickly forgotten as his thumb caressed one little peak, bringing a moan to her lips. The eyes of the elk head mounted over the fireplace glinted malevolently at the interloper. He paused in his relentless seduction for a moment as if he felt their stare, then quickly refocused on his prize.

He had been working at this conquest for months; the fruits of his labor were before his eyes, the gorgeous young wife of his boss, John Hayward, at last, naked to the waist before him. He was going to fuck her on her husband's bed tonight. The slights, the ignored brilliance of his work, the passing over for promotions, would at last be repaid by the surrendered body of this beautiful wife.

He pressed into their kiss, slowly reclining her back until her head was on the cushion and she was supine beneath him. The antique sofa springs protested at the burden, but the couple was unheeding, the man's lips tracing a line of fire down the white column of the beautiful young wife's neck, bringing a shiver to her slight form as the sensations swept over her.

His lips nibbled at her delicate skin, bringing her to a rising sense of excitement as the moist caresses moved down, circling her erect nipple, teasing, never quite touching the object of their mutual desire.

She gave a little moan of frustration, her fingers tangling in his hair to bring the teasing lips to the little pink bullet. She gasped as his lips closed around the sensitive nub, the sound not unnoticed by the listening walls, their solidity apparently unperturbed by the activities of the couple now writhing on the sofa.

Her lover laved her breasts, giving them his complete attention. The mind of the young wife, now consumed by the sensations she was experiencing, could barely contain her excitement. The consuming fire left her heaving breasts and trailed sparks down over the arch of her chest and onto the flat plane of her belly, pausing to thrust a dagger of delight into her tiny navel. It tickled that delightful declivity for a moment before proceeding downward to meet the material of her dress, now bunched at her waist.

Fingers tugged and she lifted her hips, allowing the dress to be slid downward, exposing the yellow lace of a pair of very tiny panties. The dress was discarded and the lips tugged at the panties, causing lithe thighs to spread and hips to tilt, gaining the contact she craved.

The wind gusted again; the stairs creaked in protest at the scene being played out in the living room. The protest went unnoticed by the pair writhing in passion on the sofa. Clever fingers slid inside the lace, pulling it aside as the beauties within were exposed for the first time to hungry eyes. Kisses rained upon smooth silky skin and the moans of the young wife became more audible. The sounds of passion rose. Skillful advances were made, the lips and tongue caressed the moist folds, slipping up to find the erect nub of her clitoris, peeking from its hood, her arousal evident in her flushed condition and her slickness.

His skillful play drew her close to the brink, the precipice of pleasure before her, but he wanted more. "Let's get more comfortable. Where's your bedroom," he whispered.

"Upstairs," she moaned.

He swept her slender body into his strong arms and the walls shuddered at another gust. He bore her easily toward the stair; she, thrilling in the strength of the arms that held her so easily; he, exulting in anticipation of his imminent triumph.

The stairs creaked in protest as he trod them under his bare feet. His ankle twisted slightly on a wrinkle in the ancient runner; it pulled as he righted himself and continued to ascend the darkening staircase. Above him, on the thirteenth step, the ancient walnut, dried and warped from the passing of the years gave a bit and one of the old carpet tacks, freed from its confines, twisted loose, exposing its bitterly sharp point.

The man bore his prize upward as the house held its breath in anticipation. Another gust of wind drew a symphony of creaks and groans from the ancient timbers. The man's bare foot came down on the thirteenth step and he gave a cry as the lance of pain came shooting up from the penetration of his heel by the gleeful tack.

He tottered, trying to regain his balance while the symphony of creaking wood rose in a crescendo, then tumbled backward down the stairs with a hoarse cry, his burden still clutched in his arm, scarcely aware of her looming peril.

He hit on his back, his head thumping down onto the edge of a step as darkness claimed him. She gave a cry of her own as they slid together toward their fate, their slide turning into a tumble, flesh and bone yielding to the skeletal hardness of the aged wood.

He came to a halt at the foot of the stair, the awkward angle of his head attesting to the lack of any hope for his survival, while his erstwhile partner brought up with a sickening crack against the final baluster, breaking her arm and several ribs while splintering that venerable column. She opened pain-filled eyes to watch in horror as the statue of Cupid toppled from the broken baluster.

The tip of Cupid's arrow, with the full weight of the marble statue behind it, pierced her left breast, just above that exquisite nipple, plunging through to pin her to the floor. Her body convulsed and her mouth opened. A single red bubble slowly rose to her lips, hung for a moment, then popped. Her body relaxed and her sightless eyes gazed at the high tin ceiling above her.

The wind sighed in the eaves, the fire crackled and slowly died, its heartbeat stilled by the consumption of its fuel until only glowing coals remained. The house was still, waiting; soon the owner, the master, would return. Vengeance incarnate, it slumbered, its task complete.