The Widowmaker

Chapter 1

Leonard Cain had met a lot of rich widows in his time—women draped in black, their eyes rimmed red, their fingers tight around a glass of something expensive. He expected Eleanor Ashford to be the same. When the door to her estate swung open, however, she was nothing like he had imagined.

She stood framed in the entryway, bathed in the amber glow of the chandelier behind her, soft and splendid, a vision of indulgence in satin and silk. She was a woman who took up space and knew exactly how to wield it.
Her figure was an exaggerated hourglass, full and heavy in all the ways that made a man’s thoughts drift to sin. Wide hips, thick thighs, an ample bosom that strained against the fabric of her dress. It was her belly that really caught the bulk of his attention—rounded, prominent and protruding, pressing outward like a decadent promise beneath the cinch of her waist.

She wasn’t just plump. She was plump with purpose.

Leonard had seen women grow heavier in grief, drowning themselves in chocolate and brandy, but Eleanor didn’t have the look of someone who had eaten herself into despair. She had grown fat deliberately, decadently, like a woman who had everything she wanted and always took more.

Leonard couldn’t help but wonder how she had gotten so fat. Not just in body, but in her presence, in her confidence, in the way she stood before him as if she were the one who would be asking the questions.

She smiled—a slow, knowing smile, lips painted the same deep red as the wine that surely filled her crystal glasses.

The town of Crestwick was the kind of place that looked like it had never changed. The streets were lined with towering oaks, their branches casting long, dappled shadows over cobblestone sidewalks. Stately homes sat behind wrought-iron gates, their manicured lawns sprawling, their facades untouched by time. It was the kind of town where money had roots—old, deep, and tangled. Generations of privilege had flourished here, their legacies built on quiet deals and whispered secrets. Tradition mattered in Crestwick. Appearances mattered even more—yet something had begun to shift beneath the town’s polished veneer.

Wealthy men were mysteriously disappearing without a trace.

Men of power disappeared sometimes—fleeing scandals, dodging debts, running from the lives they built. But this was something else. These men weren’t seen boarding trains in the dead of night or slipping away with secret lovers. They simply vanished, as if the world itself had swallowed them whole.

A businessman left his office one evening and never came home. A philanthropist stepped out for an evening walk and was never seen again. A senator’s car was found abandoned on a lonely stretch of road, the driver’s seat empty. One by one, Crestwick’s most powerful men were slipping away, and while bodies were never found, all men were presumed to be deceased, leaving behind wives who did not seem to grieve for long.

The widows of Crestwick were unlike any Leonard Cain had seen before. In the weeks following their husbands’ funerals, these women did not wither. They did not retreat into mourning, pale and draped in sorrow. Instead, they seemed to flourish. They grew more radiant, more voluptuous, more decadent in their demeanor with each passing week.
Their figures softened, ripened, as if something within them was feeding on more than wealth and inheritance. Their cheeks grew fuller, their skin took on a warm, dewy glow, their bodies swelled in ways that spoke of indulgence rather than grief. They gathered at luncheons and soirées, dressed in gowns that clung to new curves, drinking and laughing, their eyes gleaming with something just beneath the surface.

It wasn’t just that they didn’t appear to be in mourning, it was that they had never seemed to look more alive, and Leonard Cain intended to find out why.

"Mr. Cain," she purred, her voice as rich as the curves she carried. "What an unexpected pleasure."

Leonard adjusted the brim of his hat, offering a practiced smile. "Mrs. Ashford, I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."
She stepped aside with an elegant, fluid motion, gesturing him inside. "Oh, please. Call me Eleanor. ‘Mrs. Ashford’ makes me sound like an old woman, and I assure you, I am anything but."

Leonard crossed the threshold, immediately enveloped in the warmth of the estate. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood, aged paper, and something sweeter—vanilla, honey, maybe even wine. The kind of fragrance that clung to the skin.

"You have a lovely home," he said, taking in the grand staircase, the heavy velvet drapes, the flickering glow of candlelit sconces along the walls. "Not quite what I expected."
Eleanor let out a low, sultry sounding chuckle as she shut the door behind them.

"And what were you expecting, Mr. Cain?"
Leonard smirked. "Something a little more... somber, perhaps. Given the circumstances."

She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning a look of mild distress. "Ah, yes, the poor widows of this town. A tragedy, truly." She didn’t sound particularly heartbroken.

Leonard kept his expression neutral. "That’s actually what brings me here. I’m investigating the recent deaths—your husband’s included. There are some questions that don’t have answers yet."

Eleanor tilted her head slightly, considering him. Then, with a slow smile, she gestured toward an adjoining room. "Well, I do so hate an unfinished story. Let’s get you a drink, Mr. Cain, and we’ll see if I can’t satisfy your curiosity."

Leonard hesitated for just a second before following her deeper into the house. His eyes followed her as she moved toward the bar in the far corner of the room, her gown swaying like liquid satin against her body. Every step sent a ripple through her curves, the soft swell of her belly shifting beneath the fabric, her full, round buttocks bouncing ever so slightly with each graceful stride. She carried herself with a heavy, deliberate sensuality, a woman who didn’t just know she was being watched—she expected it.

She reached for a crystal decanter, her movements unhurried, controlled. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently as she poured, the scent of aged spirits curling into the air. Leonard swallowed hard, trying to shake the sinful thoughts worming their way into his head.

He reminded himself that he was there to do a job, to find out what had happened to all those poor missing men, and not to get caught up in whatever spell this woman was weaving. Eleanor wasn’t making it easy for him to maintain his focus.

The way her body moved, the way she exuded indulgence, power, temptation—it gnawed at the edges of his discipline. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to remember why he was here.

Then Eleanor turned, holding out a glass, her dark eyes gleaming as she smiled. "Whiskey, neat," she murmured. "I had a feeling you were a man who likes to keep things simple."

Leonard hesitated before stepping forward, reaching for the drink. He could feel the warmth of her presence before his fingers even brushed the glass.

"Simple works for me," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Eleanor smirked. "Does it?" She let the word linger between them, thick as the perfume in the air.

Leonard clenched his jaw. He had the sinking feeling that before the night was over, nothing about this would be simple at all.

“Your husband’s disappearance,” he asked, trying hard to maintain his composure, “what can you tell me about it?”

Eleanor handed him the glass and reclined on the fainting couch, her body settling into the cushions like a cat stretching in the sun.

“Disappearance is such a dramatic word,” she mused, sipping her own drink. “You make it sound as if he were stolen away in the night.”

Leonard tapped his pen against his notebook. “Isn’t that exactly what happened?”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Stolen? No, I wouldn’t say that. He left, didn’t he? Men do that sometimes. You know how they are.”

Leonard narrowed his eyes. “Do they?”

Eleanor exhaled a slow, indulgent sigh. “Always chasing something. Power, youth, other women. Or maybe they just grow tired of the life they built.” She traced the rim of her glass with a manicured finger. “Perhaps they wake up one morning and realize they don’t want it anymore.”

Leonard scribbled something down, though his gut told him she was playing with him. “You think your husband left willingly? Without a word?”

Her lips curved. “How else do you explain it?”
He held her gaze. “You tell me. Did he have enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt him?”

She laughed, rich and warm. “Darling, my husband was a businessman. Of course he had enemies, but I doubt they had anything to do with this.”

Leonard watched her closely. Her expression was relaxed, but something about the way she shifted, the way she leaned in just enough for her décolletage to catch his eye, made him certain that she was hiding something.

“You don’t seem too concerned,” he said.
Eleanor ran a hand down the curve of her hip, smoothing the silk against her thigh.

“Should I be? Should I spend my days wringing my hands, hoping he’ll walk through that door?” She let her eyes drift over him, slow and deliberate. “I prefer to focus on the present.”

Leonard kept his grip on his glass, resisting the pull of her gaze. “If I didn’t know any better, Mrs. Ashford, I’d say you were trying to distract me.”

She smiled lazily. “And if I didn’t know any better, Mr. Cain, I’d say you didn’t mind one bit.”

He took a slow sip of the drink she had given him, letting the burn of the alcohol keep him grounded.

This was going to be harder than he thought. Leonard knew he should have left the moment Eleanor leaned forward, her body pressing closer, her warmth heavy in the air between them. For some reason though, he found himself unable to tear himself away.

A trickle of sweat rolled down his spine as she uncrossed her legs slowly, deliberately, shifting her weight until she was no longer lounging but looming, thick and unyielding, her presence too much to ignore.

She set her glass down with a soft clink, the ice shifting, melting. Her hands, smooth and soft, slid along the armrest of his chair, caging him in.

"You're awfully tense, Mr. Cain." Her voice dripped into his ear, rich and teasing, her breath hot against his skin. "Is it the investigation keeping you on edge? Or is it me?"

Looking up at the old grandfather clock in the corner of the darkened parlor, Leonard suddenly became aware that it was much later than he had realized. “What am I doing here?” he thought to himself, his mind working itself into a panicked state. “This is not where I belong. I should be at home right now.”

He swallowed hard as he tried in vain to move from the spot where he’d been placed, but found himself unable to. There she was, practically on top of him, her body thick and heavy, pressing just close enough that he felt the plushness of her full, ripe belly against his chest. The swell of her soft curves settled over him like a soft sheet made of silk and sin.

"I should go," he murmured, though the words felt weak even as they left his lips.

Her fingers trailed along his collar, featherlight, slowly undoing the first button of his shirt. "You could," she purred, "but you won’t."

Leonard’s hand tightened around the armrest, his knuckles going white as he tried to keep himself in check, but Eleanor was too much for him. The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her body, the way her hips pressed into his lap, making it impossible for him to move. She had him trapped, not just physically, but emotionally, psychologically—completely.

"You&apo s;ve been watching me all evening," she whispered, lips grazing the shell of his ear. "Do you like what you see?"

Leonard exhaled sharply, shuddering, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His mind screamed at him to pull away, but his body betrayed him, drawn to the way she enveloped him, the way she commanded his space and filled every inch of it.

Eleanor leaned in, and this time, he didn't stop her.

Her lips crushed against his, hungry, demanding, pulling him into her. Leonard groaned against her mouth, his hands moving instinctively, gripping the softness of her waist, feeling the lush weight of her body bearing down on him.

The world around them blurred, the investigation, the missing men, the warnings in the back of his mind. None of it mattered—not anymore.

Grabbing him by the collar, Eleanor dragged Leonard along, leading him to her boudoir. Once there, she slammed the door behind them and pushed Leonard down onto the bed.

“I know you want me,” she said in a breathy voice, as she began tearing at his clothing. “Don’t try to fight it, Leonard. I want you too!”

“Oh, Eleanor,” Leonard gasped, “we shouldn’t be doing this.”

Just as these words had escaped over his lips, Eleanor removed her soft and elegant dress, letting it drop down to her ankles and all at once, exposing her thick and luscious curves. Her belly was beyond massive, flopping around in front of her as she moved in on Leonard as if he were her helpless prey. Her large and undulating breasts were spilling out over the edges of her form-fitting brassiere, and her wide hips shifted from side to side as she leaned forward and crawled up onto the bed.

Leonard’s erection came poking through his unzipped trousers as he felt Eleanor’s thick and meaty thighs straddling his body, squeezing him tightly as her damp panties brushed its pulsating head. His eyes remained trained on her as she reached around her back and removed her bra, causing her large breasts to come crashing down, slapping against her hefty belly.

“I want you inside of me, Leonard,” she moaned as she ran her hands slowly along the contours of her curvaceous figure. “I want you to fuck me now!”

As if he were completely under her control, Leonard reached forward and violently tore her panties from her body, hastily inserting himself into her warm and moist vagina. She let out a howl that made the windows rattle as Leonard thrust himself deep into her. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her further into him, and her moans grew louder and louder as the base of his shaft rubbed up against her throbbing clitoris.

“Oh, fuck yes!” she cried out as Leonard’s hands wandered back toward her fat ass. He grabbed a fistful of her rich and flabby flesh with one hand, while the other hand slapped her corresponding ass-cheek. Eleanor gasped and panted, her mouth falling wide open as she rode Leonard like bucking bronco at a Texas rodeo for hours, until finally the room went black and Leonard fell into a deep slumber.