Instant Widow Curse

She was a piece of enticing middle-aged ass with voluminous hair, wearing a blouse, short skirt, and mules. I mean, she was literally a piece of ass – thick and firm buttocks were her main asset that focused gazes.

The phone rang in the pocket of Stefania Dekart's skirt just as she stood among the crowd in the shopping mall's food court, with a tray of ordered food barely picked up, looking for a free table. She had an unhealthy habit of always answering immediately in the first moment, regardless of how inconvenient or inappropriate. They once almost fired her for it...

She answered with her right hand, struggling to hold the tray with her left.

"Mrs. Dekart, your husband is dead."

The voice said more, but that's the only thing she registered from the conversation. How, where, why, what she should do now – she didn't catch any of it, the news of her husband's sudden death stuck in her heart and mind like a lump, cutting off the rest of the stream of consciousness. She didn't answer anything, disconnected absentmindedly. She stood. She felt nausea and weakness in her knees.

She let the tray with food fall from her hands. The food splashed ugly on the floor, the drink spilled.

At the same moment, her bladder gave way. She poured abundant urine directly into her panties and under her skirt.

Some tall man, seeing the falling tray, rushed to help her. He knelt, put the wasted food back on the tray, and as he got up to take the tray to the trash, his eyes met her crotch. A large wet spot was visible through the white short skirt, growing with each moment, and a yellow stream was flowing down her leg.

"Oh no, let's quickly go to the bathroom!" he exclaimed, forgetting about the tray he left on the floor.

He put his arm around Stefania Dekart and led her hurriedly towards the toilets, covering the view of her pissed crotch with his body. The woman let herself be led. In this moment of shock, only her husband's death was pounding in her head, and to the outside world she was like a puppet, unable to move on her own. Tears flowed mechanically and rhythmically down her face, frozen in a grimace of suffering. Even the fact that she had pissed herself in a crowd, that she was being led by a random man to the bathroom, reached her as if from behind a screen.

She didn't even register that the man led her to the men's bathroom instead of the women's. The room was empty.

He pushed her into a stall, entered himself and locked the door. She still didn't understand what was happening.

"My husband is dead..." she moaned, intensifying her sob.

"Yeah? Good, bitch, that means you're free now."

Wham!

He slapped her hard in the face with a swing, then threw her on the toilet.

"My husband is deeeead!" she roared, crying now completely uncontrollably, spasmodically.

"Shut your mouth, whore, I'll fuck you better than your husband!"

Wham! Wham! Wham!

He slapped her from right to left and from left to right, until redness.

"Noooo!" she howled, waving her legs chaotically, until the mules fell off her feet themselves.

He took a pocket knife from his pocket and cut the wet and urine-smelling skirt, and dropped the useless scraps on the floor. The small lace panties were all pissed. He cut them too. He grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped Stefania's pissed pussy and entire crotch.

Stefania's phone fell out of the pocket of the cut skirt, and the attacker swung his leg and smashed it completely with his shoe.

"My hus..."

He shoved a large wad of paper, wet from her own urine, into her mouth, and positioned it deep, so it blocked her throat.

He feverishly took off his belt, unbuttoned his pants, lowered his underwear, pressed Stefania to the toilet, straddling, at the same time with a strong movement of his hands spread her legs apart and held them that way, then thrust into her pussy with a veiny, red penis.

He penetrated her deeply and painfully, and her thick ass beat rhythmically against the toilet lid, bouncing from the shocks her pussy was experiencing.

He struggled with her blouse with his hands, until it gave way.

Rrrrrrip!

He tore the bra of the same white lace.

"Well now, widow's peaches. Peaches - widows. I'll take a bite."

He sank his teeth into her right breast until blood, and then treated the left the same way. At the same time, he immobilized her arms with his hands, pressing her wrists to the wall of the stall. He still did not cease the thorough penetration.

"I hope your husband is looking down from above, watching you lend me your pussy in a toilet!"

This insult amplified his orgasm, and as he finished saying the last word, he came abundantly into her pussy.

"Aaaaaahhhh! Good widow. Did your husband also fuck you in the back hole?"

Since Stefania had meanwhile managed to almost spit the toilet paper out of her mouth, he shoved it back as deep as possible into her throat, thwarting all her work. He moved her body from the toilet for a moment, opened the lid. With dominant force, he pushed her head straight into the toilet opening, and held with an iron grip on her neck, not allowing her to free herself. He positioned her ass frontally, then unceremoniously fucked her in the ass with a raging dick with pulsating purple veins.

He fulfilled himself in this rape, both psychologically and physically. He himself could not determine which pleasure was greater – the physical, the release of tension and arousal built up in his member, or the psychological, taking by force and deceit a defenseless and ruined woman.

"I bet your chaste husband didn't use this hole! But you have me, widow-whore. I don't pass up either ass or pussy."

He experienced a second orgasm. This time he took his penis out of the hole for the occasion and sprayed her buttocks with sperm.

"You didn't drown, widow? It would be a shame if you withered right after your husband," he called out cheerfully, loosening his grip on her neck and watching as she abruptly emerged with her wet head to the surface.

He grabbed her body again and set her in a new position, pressing her head to the right wall of the stall.

Suddenly he cut her superficially on the skin of her back with a knife. She screamed in pain.

"If you're not obedient, I can cut deeper! So listen to what I say, you're to stick your whole body flat to the wall and stick out your ass."

The fear of pain and the threat introduced the prospect of death into her mind. The panic fear sobered her a bit, and putting aside the overwhelming awareness of her husband's death, she performed the command as faithfully as possible, genuinely fearing that the rapist might otherwise kill her.

"Very humble widow. Now I'll whip your ass with the belt, and you're not to change position."

Whack!

The leather strap slapped against the thick buttocks, making them resonate and jump.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Slowly the ass reddened.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

She fainted from pain and despair and slid down the wall on bent knees.

The man lovingly took in his arms his beautiful ruined puppet and gave her one last surprise, which she would discover after regaining consciousness. He meticulously cut all her voluminous hair with a knife, leaving the skull completely bald. He threw the strands of hair and scraps of clothes into the toilet and flushed. He sat her for a photo on the open toilet with legs spread as wide as possible, and snapped a picture.

The mules remained. He took them in his hand. After every dirty whore, a souvenir comes in handy.

Hairless and unconscious, she reminded him of a mannequin, like the many standing in clothing stores in this gallery.

He went out, took a stack of small sticky notes and a pen from his pocket (they always came in handy), stuck a note to the stall door and wrote in block letters:

"UNDER RENOVATION
DO NOT ENTER"

He walked calmly through the gallery, clutching a pair of cute mules in his left hand.