Black widow

The widow grieved. Or maybe she didn't. She walked to Mandy's anyway, the widow's body still dressed in black silk that moved against her hips like a promise. The door opened and Mandy took her hand, pressed the ringed finger she no longer wore to her mouth, and led her inside. They didn't speak. They met in the doorway, greedy for each other's mouths, tongues slow and greedy while fingers found fastenings and zippers and lace straps under the black dress. The fabric dropped. Two hard-breasted women pressed together in the entrance hall, skin flushed, nipples stiff against the cooler air. Mandy dropped to her knees, tongue sliding deep between the widow's thighs, fingers spreading her wider, tasting. The widow's knees softened; she came standing up, hips jerking, one hand clamped hard over her mouth so the neighbors wouldn't hear. Mandy kept licking, sucking the swollen clit into her mouth until the widow's thighs quivered and she begged in a whisper that said everything about what she truly wanted instead of tears.