Wife In Bondage 2

“I can't stop thinking about your big, hard cock. I long for it all the time,” my wife said.

Strange as it may seem, especially given that she was perched on the edge of the bed, clad in a deliciously naughty nightie, her lithe legs crossed, I was far from delighted to hear her words.

The reason for this lack of enthusiasm was due to the phone she held pushed up against her ear, and the knowledge that she was speaking to him .

To be sure, she was looking suitably furtive and embarrassed, but this, I fancied, was down to the fact that talking dirty had never come naturally to her. Even as her eyes shone, they still looked guilty, something that I imagined had as much to do with uttering such words as to the fact that she was uttering them to someone other than her husband, in her husband's presence, perhaps more so.

“Of course I do,” she said in a half whisper, looking away as she caught me looking at her. There was a pause as she listened, and a second pause as she gathered herself to say what she knew the man wanted to hear. “Of course I want you to fuck me.” The conversation continued, with silences in place of the man's voice. “Your big hard cock of course... you know I am... wet... I'm wet... my pussy's wet from longing... for your big hard cock.”

As the conversation went on, my wife became ever more flushed, until finally she said, lowering her voice as if there was any chance of me not hearing, “Anything... yes, I'll do anything you want me to... I know I promised... I promise... anything...”

Then her face turned to puzzlement, “Of course...”

She looked more puzzled still. “Yes... Yes... I'll do that... yes... yes... yes... I understand... whatever you say...”

Then she looked both guilty and delighted as she said, “I want to feel your big hard cock in me so bad...” To my astonishment, she then handed me the phone.

Up to now there had been no contact at all between myself and the man on the other end of the line. I'd heard his voice, of course, slightly menacing, slightly creepy as he molested my wife while I watched at the other end of an internet connection. Now, though, he sounded surprisingly ordinary.

What he said was, however, far from ordinary, “Your wife has just agreed not to let you touch her until after our rendezvous tomorrow.”

My first feeling was one of anger. Who was this man who had just come into my life, our life, and turned things upside down? In life I'm not one to let other people boss me around, and instinctively, holding my anger in check, I said, “What makes you think I agree to that?”

“Here are your instructions,” the man continued, undaunted.

“Instructions?”

“Listen carefully. I don't like repeating myself.”

A torrent of abuse was on the verge of erupting from my lips, but then I caught my wife frowning at me, shaking her head vigorously, putting one finger up to her lips, by all means at her disposal, making me refrain from voicing the choice expletives begging to be uttered.

And the truth of it is that of all the people I have ever met, the only one I have never been able to say no to, to deny anything, is my wife. So I bit my tongue, feeling aghast and extremely apprehensive when the man hung up, having told me what he expected of me.

“What the fuck was that?” I said.

“Please, darling,” my wife pleaded, cocking her head to one side. “I thought you were as keen on this as I am.”

I didn't know what to say. I still wasn't sure quite how I'd been dragged into this. Things had just happened. I wasn't used to things just happening, and I wasn't at all sure I liked it.

“Do you really want this to go further?” I asked at length.

“Yes,” my wife said, averting her eyes as if she couldn't quite face my reproachful gaze. “Besides, I promised. You heard me.”

“Promises can be broken,” I said.

My wife looked at me, the kind of look that is meant to project comfort. “I love you,” she said. “You know that, don't you?”

I attempted a smile. “Of course,” I said. And it was because I loved her that I couldn't deny her.

Later, when I was busy not touching my wife, I typed the man's mobile number into the computer, but naturally it wasn't listed. A pay-as-you-go set-up as likely as not.

When I finally went to bed, lying next to the wife I had been forbidden from touching by a complete stranger (and I was still pretty pissed off about that), I found it hard to fall asleep. I remained unable to understand how we'd gone from my wife writing some racy stories on a website to both of us being bossed around by a man whose name none of us knew.

“You don't even know his name,” I'd said to my wife earlier.

"He says to call him Mr. Black,” she said. “I don't need to know any more.”

My wife was not normally so trusting, and the whole affair struck me as so foolhardy. I was becoming more and more convinced that she'd become acquainted with this 'Mr. Black' earlier, some other way, that the stories on the website had been a way of bringing the man into the picture, or out into the open.

But this was a suspicion I was not prepared to suggest aloud, hardly even to suggest to myself. In spite of it all, my wife remained the one person I could never deny. And some things, though a very few, are not worth knowing.

And so at three o'clock the next afternoon my wife appeared, dressed like an apparition in white. This was not a color she usually favored, and it was obvious to me that Mr. Black had requested it. Black and white? What did he think this was? A game of draughts, or chess?

Still, it was most certainly a game to him, that much was clear.

The white button-front dress my wife was wearing made her look strangely demure under the circumstances. Her legs were wrapped in white nylon, and she had white trainers on her feet. “How do I look?” she asked.

“I'm sure Mr. Black will be aching to ravish you,” I said, knowing full well how I sounded.

“Oh darling,” my wife sighed, “You know it's you that I love.”

Strangely, given the circumstances, I did. Even so we drove in silence. It was just as well my wife had visited the place before, because I would have missed the turning entirely; there was a right-hand turn on the crown of a hill, leading onto a dirt track through trees. It was all very eerie and unsettling; sinister even. I glanced at my wife, surely she must feel the same thing? As if to add to my misgivings, I sensed that she was too wrapped up in her own expectations to care.

Suddenly the track opened out onto a large house, right there, in the middle of nowhere. This was very odd and disturbing to me. “Are you quite sure about this?” I said, as I pulled up in front and applied the handbrake.

“I've been here before, remember,” my wife said. I did, only too well. “There's nothing strange about a man living out of the way.” Though normally quite cautious, my wife was, I felt, sometimes too inclined to want to believe the best of people.

“Tell me now that you really, really want this,” I said.

And because I could never deny my wife anything, we were soon walking up to the house. The instructions were to walk round the house. It was quite overgrown on this side of the building, but we managed to pick our way along the narrow path. When we came to a cellar door, looking in bad need of some paint, but with a stout padlock, my wife said, “Maybe that's where Mr. Black keeps the remains of his ex-wives.”

“Don't even joke about it!” I said, hearing my voice ascend to a quite inappropriate pitch.

Round the back of the house, things were in slightly better order. I found the appropriate door easily enough, the one Mr. Black had specified, because a camera on a tripod was pointing straight at it. I would have identified it anyway, from the four restraints fixed to the door.

My wife came to a halt, and I could see from the look she was giving me that she wasn't necessarily privy to the instructions Mr. Black had given me. “Face the camera, darling,” I said. “Let Mr. Black get a good look of you.”

I knew that I sounded sardonic, but I couldn't help myself. Mr Black's voice was ringing in my head: “You will make your wife face the camera, and you will stand behind her when you remove her dress for me.”

“Are you sure you want this?” I asked again as I slowly undid the top button on the dress; I whispered in my wife's ear so as not to let the sound transmit to Mr. Black.

“You know I want it,” my wife said, much too loudly. Knowing that the man could hear her, and see me gradually reveal her body to him, only made the humiliation of undoing her dress and sliding it off her shoulders that much greater.

With the dress removed, it became clear that my wife was wearing white stockings and suspenders underneath, a white lace bra and white lace knickers. I'd never seen the outfit before, so I imagined that she must have bought it specifically on Mr. Black's express instructions, an insight hardly designed to improve my mood.

Feeling slightly sick, I got my wife to back up to the door. Having seen and grasped the significance of the restraints herself, she spread her legs accordingly. I kneeled and closed the metal round my wife's ankles.

Not for the first time I found cause to ask myself what the hell I was doing. My wife moved her arms to the side voluntarily, making it easy for me to fix them into place so that she stood there unable to move, her frame clad only in skimpy lingerie, shackled to the door in preparation. I felt as if I'd somehow made her a sacrificial victim. Whatever happened now, she would be at the mercy of Mr. Black.

“Thank you, darling,” my wife said softly. Her dancing eyes told me it was time for me to leave. I picked up the dress I'd removed and made my way back to the car with it, making a point of choosing the other side of the house to the one we'd arrived by, just to work out the lay of the land.

Was Mr. Black indoors, watching on a screen, or had he viewed the spectacle from some convenient hiding place? There were enough of them; bushes, trees, shrubs, weeds, none of them particularly kept. It didn't pay to wonder, and in any case my ordeal was far from over yet. I got in the car and drove, parking up just before the dirt track met the main road.

To my amazement I discovered that there was very good mobile coverage here. Who would have credited it? The occasional car buzzed past on the road as the link was established; the link to the camera standing on the lawn behind Mr. Black's house. It was obviously that camera, since I immediately saw my wife as I had left her, arms and legs secured to the back door, lace bra, lace panties, white stockings and suspenders; a far from innocent innocent, she hung out for another man's perverse pleasure.

For a short while I just sat there looking at my wife, then I saw her smile. I knew before the man appeared at the edge of the frame that he was on his way. I could only see the back of him, but he was dressed from head to toe in black. When he reached my wife, he kept himself to one side of her, which I fancied was for my benefit. “Christine,” he said, as if they were old friends. “You look wonderful. Like a bride to the slaughter.”

I felt a chill run down my spine, but my wife wore the most beatific smile imaginable. “Tell me, Christine, how are you feeling?”

“Happy.”

“And why are you feeling happy, Christine?”

“Because I'm here, Mr. Black, sir, at your mercy.”

I could hear the smile in the man's voice. “You don't have to call me sir, Christine. I'm not big on titles. But I'm happy to have you here. At my mercy.”

There was a pause, while my wife looked at the man. I looked too, hating the way her eyes expressed such joy, such eagerness.

“So, Christine,” Mr. Black continued. “Have you obeyed my demand?”

“Yes, Mr. Black. My husband has not touched me since we spoke yesterday.”

“Good.” So far the man had not touched my wife, but now a gloved finger was drawn across her neck and throat. She gave a deep sigh, her body twitching, making no attempt to conceal her eagerness.

“Tell me, Christine. If you had any say in the matter, what is the one thing you would like most to happen today?”

Without a moment's hesitation my wife said, “I'd like for you to fuck me.”

“And last night, when your husband wasn't allowed to touch you... Did you want him to fuck you?”

“Yes, I did.” As my wife said it, her eyes flitted briefly towards the camera. I felt briefly that I should kill the connection, that I wouldn't be able to bear this, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

The gloved fingers began to slide slowly downwards. “It seems to me, Christine,” the man said slowly, “that you're very fond of being fucked.”

“Yes, Mr. Black.”

The man's voice, changed, sounding rougher round the edges. “Like having your tight little cunt stretched wide by a big cock, do you, Christine?”

“Yes, Mr. Black.”

“Say it, Christine, say it all.”

At last I caught an inkling of embarrassment in my wife. “Yes, I like having my tight pussy stretched out by a big cock,” she said in a quieter voice than hitherto.

Suddenly the man's black, gloved hand was on my wife's bra, squeezing her right breast. She started. “Use the other word,” Mr. Black commanded.

Which word he meant wasn't hard to decipher. My wife still wasn't comfortable with it, but I could she that she was making an effort. “I like having my cunt stretched out by a big cock,” she said.

A new squeeze of her breast made her gasp out loud. “Your tight cunt,” Mr. Black corrected.

“I like having my tight cunt stretched out by a big cock,” my wife said immediately.

“That's better,” Mr. Black said, his hand sliding down over my wife's stomach. “Now tell me, Christine, how is your cunt feeling?”

My wife took a deep breath. “My cunt is longing for attention,” she said.

“Anything else?”

My wife swallowed hard. “My cunt is very wet,” she said.

“Excellent,” Mr. Black said. Then suddenly his hand shot back up, squeezing my wife's other breast hard. “Except it's not really your cunt, is it?”

“No, Mr. Black!” my wife exclaimed.

“Who does it belong to?”

“My cunt belongs to you, Mr. Black,” my wife blurted out. Then I couldn't believe my ears, finding it impossible to decide if my wife had rehearsed the words, or if they really did flow out of spontaneously. “My cunt exists to satisfy your desires, Mr. Black, sir. My cunt is yours to do with as you please, or not do with, should you so command. Nothing may touch or enter my cunt unless you agree to it, Mr. Black.”

I was staggered by this. Even more so when Mr. Black said: “You understand that this includes your husband?” I was even more staggered when my wife nodded. “Look into the camera and tell him,” Mr. Black said sternly.

My wife was looking straight at me through the screen when she said: “Darling, from now on you may only touch or fuck my...” Here she faltered. “...my cunt if Mr. Black allows it.”

'What the fuck was this?' I thought. I was on the verge of starting the engine and driving back to the house, but something held me back.

Mr. Black was stroking my wife's cheek with his black gloved finger. “Very good, Christine,” he said. There was a pause, then he continued. “I spy some swelling under that nice bra of yours. What's all that about?”

Now my wife seemed more at ease, more relaxed. “I'm so turned on,” she said.

"I suppose that means you want me to fuck you,” Mr. Black said.

“Only if it pleases you to do so,” my wife replied, causing the man to give a satisfied chuckle. A gloved fingertip was suddenly teasing the front of my wife's bra, first one cup, then the other. The camera was just that little bit too far away for me to see clearly, but I didn't have to see to realize that my wife's perky nipples were bulging beneath the white lace.

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't,” Mr. Black said slowly. “Please me to fuck you, I mean.”

My wife didn't respond, but I could tell she was on tenterhooks, her body had an air about it of finding so much teasing unbearable, of being in dire need of finding a release for the sexual tension. “If I may say so, Christine, you seem almost obsessed with being fucked.”

My wife blinked. Mr. Black continued remorselessly. “Are you, Christine? Are you obsessed with being fucked?”

“ I-I-I...” she stuttered. I caught the slightly shocked look on her face when Mr. Black suddenly withdrew, moving back so far that he vanished from the frame.

But he was still there, his voice ringing out loud and clear. Obviously the microphone, wherever it was, was state of the art. “Come now, Christine, tell me, are you obsessed with being fucked?”

My wife glanced at the camera as if the knowledge I was watching made her more unsure of herself. “I like being fucked,” she said finally, her voice a hoarse croak.

“That's not what I asked,” Mr. Black said, now back to being stern.

“I-I-I...” my wife stuttered again.

Mr. Black's hand emerged from the right, his black fingers now caressing my wife's hips, moving, teasing the hem of the white lace panties. “Let me try another question,” the man said. “Do you want my cock?”

This time my wife didn't hesitate, saying far more than she had to. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I've longed to feel your cock again, Mr. Black. Yes, of course I want your cock! Please may I have it!”

A faintly sadistic laugh emerged from Mr. Black. He re-entered the frame, stopping to one side of my wife so that I could still see her. I saw him in profile, a throbbing erection going before him, sheathed like last time in black rubber. “I'm sure you can move your hand enough to touch it,” he said.

This was no doubt the case. My wife's wrists may be held firmly in place, but there was nothing to stop her wriggling her hand. Still it was with some difficulty that she adjusted her fingers to reach out. Mr. Black shifted position, just enough for my wife's fingers to be able to clutch hold of his pervert's pride.

“Or perhaps you're just obsessed with cock in a general sense,” Mr. Black mused. “Are you obsessed with cock, Christine?”

My wife suddenly resembled a blushing bride. “I'm obsessed with your cock,” she said, her fingers flexing, kneading Mr. Black's sheathed rod.

This actually sounded spontaneous and I felt my chest tighten.

Mr. Black chuckled. “You don't say,” he said. “So if I made you kneel before me...?”

The question hung there. My wife's eyes flitted towards the camera, then averted themselves just in time. “I'd gladly kneel before you, Mr. Black. I'd gladly use my mouth, my lips, my tongue to satisfy you, sir.”

A gloved finger slid over my wife's lips. “You certainly have a way with words, Christine. But there are some you avoid.”

My wife obviously knew what he meant, but she asked anyway. “What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, I think you know,” Mr. Black said, taking a step back so that the contact between them was broken. “Let me put it this way. If I don't hear something more interesting from you, Christine, I might just go away and leave you here.”

“ No!” my wife exclaimed. “Please don't leave me here, Mr. Black, sir! If I have to I will learn to worship your cock! Make me kneel before you! Command me to take... to sl... to suck on your big cock, Mr. Black sir.”

The man stepped forward again, one hand suddenly sliding over the outside of my wife's panties, the finger of the other once again tracing her lips. I could see how my wife's breathing increased, her fingers once again seeking out Mr. Black's erection.

“I do so like it when you beg for things, Christine," Mr. Black said.

“Then please, Mr. Black,” Christine gasped, “Use me! Use my body however it pleases you, I beg of you.”

Mr. Black chuckled. “Detail, Christine,” he said. “Detail. You put so much detail into those stories you write, but when I get you alone, you're very vague.”

“Sir,” my wife gasped. “You know my fantasies. You know how I yearn to have no say in what happens to me.”

“Go on,” Mr. Black said, his finger massaging the outside of my wife's panties.

“You know how I yearn to be forcibly undressed, held down, my legs forcibly spread.”

“Keep going...”

My wife was clearly getting into her stride now, for her usual reluctance was far from the surface. She gasped when Mr. Black's finger began moving against the fabric of her panties right where her most sensitive point was. “You have read my stories about being held down, a large cock forcing its way into me...”

“Yes, I have, Christine.” His finger rubbed a little harder. My wife's fingers closed around the man's cock. “I enjoy them. I can see it before me now. Two men, that would be enough, wouldn't it...?”

My wife nodded. My heart was thumping. I'd read the stories too, but always taken them as fantasy. This was becoming a bit to close for comfort.

“One to hold you down, the other to drive his big hard cock into you.” As he emphasized the word 'cock', Mr. Black suddenly pulled my wife's knickers to one side. Again, I could see her gasp, her eyes betraying nerves as well as a lascivious yearning.

“What does it say about you, Christine, that you want that so bad?”

My wife blinked. “I don't know,” she breathed. Then she gave a shriek. Mr. Black's gloved fingers, two of them, had suddenly shot up inside my wife.

“Do you not, Christine?” he asked. His fingers worked harshly inside her. “Did you not write the word yourself?”

I knew immediately which word he was referring to. My wife would never use it in real life, but in fiction she could write anything. I was aghast when that was all the prompting she needed to say. “Yes, Mr. Black... I am a slut. I'm a slut for writing those things. I'm a slut for letting you treat me like this. I'm a slut for wanting your big cock inside me, for wanting you to fuck me all the time.” There was a pause while she moaned out loud. “Please, please, fuck me, Mr. Black!”

The man didn't move, other than the fingers that were clearly bringing forth a torrent of juice. I could easily hear my wife's excitement, and Mr. Black wasn't one to let something like that go unnoticed.

“Listen to you, Christine,” he said. “Listen to your horny, juicy cunt!”

“Yes!” my wife cried. “I'm so wet! I'm wet all the time longing for your big cock, Mr. Black!”

Mr. Black didn't let the pace slacken for an instant. I could see his hand working intensely, his fingers digging ever more ruthlessly inside my wife. “I might be able to arrange it, you know?”

“What?” my wife gasped.

“For your fantasy to come true.”

“What?” my wife repeated. Elsewhere it sounded as if her pussy was sucking on Mr. Black's fingers, slurping loudly.

“Do you really not understand, Christine? Somewhere dark, somewhere scary. Overwhelmed, held down, taken – your legs spread, a big cock penetrating you, ravishing your cunt, pushing into you, fucking you, using you.”

“Oh!” my wife squealed. “Oh!”

Uh-oh, I thought. I didn't like where this was going at all. Was this man really planning to arrange for my wife's stories to come true? My wife, as I have pointed out, wrote pretty racy stuff, all of it about some form of reluctance.

“I don't think I've complimented you on your latest story,” Mr. Black said, his fingers still working, my wife's body heaving, shifting, her limbs tugging helplessly against the restraints. It was very arousing. I was very taken by the description of those men taking turns fucking you.”

“Ooowwww, oooooh!” my wife exclaimed, screwing her eyes shut. Her pussy was virtually being excavated by the man's gloved fingers, and he only seemed to treat it harsher and harsher.

“Is that what you want deep down, Christine?”

“I don't know!” My wife's voice sounded strained.

“It's something a slut would like,” Mr. Black said. “What are you Christine?”

“I'm a slut,” my wife gasped.

I felt myself go cold. Did my wife really not understand where this was going? Or perhaps she did and just didn't care. Perhaps she did and had wanted it all along.

“Say it again!” Mr. Black commanded. “Keep saying it.”

“I'm a slut!” my wife breathed. “I'm a slut!”

My mind wandered. I feared that Mr. Black may indeed have other men on the premises, that he was getting her nicely warmed up for a depraved orgy. Suddenly I became aware of my wife's body tearing at the restraints as if she was trying to bring down the door. “Oooooooow!” she squealed. “Ooooooooow!”

I stared in complete incomprehension as liquid gushed from her pussy, splattering the paving beneath her. I had never seen anything like it in real life, certainly not from my wife, whose eyes were closed as her head moved from side to side, the terrific wailing continuing.

Even more humiliating than watching this man give my wife a screaming, liquid orgasm, was my own arousal. In spite of everything I was as hard as a rock watching my wife in the throes of her climax.

Mr. Black withdrew his fingers, leaving my wife hanging there, seemingly unable to use her legs properly. As her body fell limp in the aftermath, he wiped his hand over my wife's stockings, then moved in the direction of the camera.

Up until now I hadn't seen him from the front, and his face was invisible to me thanks to the mask I recognized from last time. Even so, there was something sinister about him. He disappeared behind the camera, which suddenly started to move, closing in on my wife. Shortly her, post-orgasmic visage filled the screen.

“Tell him,” Mr. Black rasped. “Tell your husband what you are.”

My wife blinked. I thought she might look furtive, guilty, ashamed. As bold as brass she said, “I'm a slut.”

“Yes you are,” the man said. “And what do you want now?”

Again my wife blinked, her tongue extending briefly to lick a way a bead of moisture on her lip. “I want your cock,” she said. Seeing her on the screen, it was as if she was saying it to me, but of course she wasn't.

“Whose cock do you want?” the man persisted.

“I want your cock, Mr. Black,” my wife breathed. Then the screen went blank.

I lived through a terrible couple of minutes before I came to my senses. My first thought was that there were more men on the premises, ready to take turns with my wife. I was half way to starting the engine and roaring up to the house, but the strangest thing held me back; it was the thought that my wife would never forgive me.

That was when it began to dawn on me that my frenzied mind was feeding me nonsense. Whatever Mr. Black had said, I knew, though how I cannot say, that he was operating alone. Still, having to sit there and wait, not knowing how long it would be before I saw my wife again, not knowing what Mr. Black was doing to her, was torture.

As it happens, it took 20 minutes, then my wife suddenly appeared, walking swiftly down the dirt track in just the bra, panties, stockings and trainers. I got out to meet her, heart thudding, thinking that this madness must end.

My wife stopped a few yards from me, and something made me hold still. She looked at me, looking for all the world like a naughty schoolgirl. She held her hand up to her mouth, and suddenly she was drooling liquid into the palm of her hand; white liquid, a little too thick to be merely saliva. A second later she had slurped it back up. I could see her swallow; she swallowed Mr. Black's sperm.

“Christine...” I began, thinking to tell her that this thing had to stop.

My wife, however, put a finger up to her lips, silencing me. “Fuck me!” she said. “Mr. Black was very pleased with the way you followed his instructions. He says you may fuck me.”

“What?” I said, thinking that the shocks never ended. “Who does he think he is? Anyway, haven't you had enough?”

My wife was moving past me, bending over the boot of the car. “Fuck me!” she said again. Oddly she sounded desperate for it. “Mr. Black wouldn't fuck me. He won't, not until next time. It's his way of making sure I return. Now fuck me, darling. Make the most of it, for you mustn't touch me for a week after today.”

Somehow her words galvanized me into action. I stepped up behind and yanked her panties to one side. “Oh yes, darling!” my wife cried, elated. Then she cried out with surprise as I gave her bottom a hard slap.

Cars passed at irregular intervals. I didn't care. I continued spanking my wife, my hand landing with loud slaps that reverberated through the trees. Birds screeched, and my wife yelped. As her buttocks grew redder, I could feel my cock throbbing, aching.

“Make the most of it,” my wife had said. I didn't. When I finally pulled my willing manhood out and laid into my wife, I don't think the fucking lasted for more than two minutes. All I could see before me was my wife standing there, liquid pouring out of her; all I could hear was her voice entreating Mr. Black to fuck her.

Then suddenly my seed was dripping from her as she stood bent over the car, seemingly unable to bring herself to face me. A sharp snap brought me back to my senses. I turned. There was a woman, half concealed between two bushes. She was wearing a long, flowing black dress, and a camera was trained on myself and my wife.

When I turned, she was already lowering the camera. Her face appeared to have a muddy complexion, or so I thought. She gave every appearance of a bedraggled soul, tousled hair untidily winding itself round her face. She looked, for all the world, like a crone, a witch.

I blinked once, and like an apparition she was gone.