7 - Stacy, seductive selector and single mother

Stacy put down the phone, frustrated. Surely, if she didn’t have the kids to factor in, she could pull the man she so desperately needed. This one had been so promising, too: he had not instantly ghosted her when she told him she was a single mother, and had seemed like the type to treat another man’s children well. He had a hot voice that she had loved roleplaying with over the phone. Then she had made the mistake of linking him the court case to prove her innocence in the divorce. He had not agreed with the jury, and that was the end of that.

And now, as she always did when she was frustrated and alone yet again, she went to the barn, where despite everything, she had kept her first husband’s woodcraft projects. It had been his favorite place, built by his own hands, and she had taken it from him. She had once seen it as an act of conquest. In a way she still did. His old land was hers, and he lived in a tiny, sparse apartment that she could make tinier and sparser if she so desired by citing inflation and inadequate payment to the judge and selling it with a few tears for the jury. She felt no guilt for it. As her first husband himself had said, it was a woman’s role to select the worthiest man and drive him to greatness. He had not been sufficient … but she had never found anyone quite like him.

She opened the doors to find the lights on and the smell of wood tainted by something else.

Stacy’s first husband had been a masterful woodworker. She had wanted to destroy his life’s work out of a petty sense of vengeance, but with a lit match in hand, she had found herself unable to destroy what he had made. Especially the centerpiece: the replica guillotine, on which she had spent dozens of lonely nights engrossed in lurid fantasy.

The guillotine’s blade was all the way down. Stacy could not recall ever hearing it. Heart suddenly racing, she approached the contraption.

The headless female body which lay there was functionally naked, large, soft breasts exposed beneath a pulled-up shirt and bikini top. Her panties and shorts were bunched up around one ankle, and otherwise her pure, beautiful white skin was completely exposed, slick with sweat and slimy with juices, especially down her perfect thighs. The body on the guillotine was a perfect image of Stacy in her late-teens. She dreaded looking in the basket because she knew what she would find.

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