A dry martini stirs between her slender fingers as she reminisces on last night’s meal. A soft blonde with bigger tits than her own, brainless and far too easy to lure in. A single kiss and she was under her spell, taken out back and gutted like a fish for a fresh heart. She takes a tiny sip and sits back in the corner of a rustic bar, one she would lay her trap in for her next meal. It was simple, done many times to the point it was boring to her and she needed something to spice things up. She once tried a brunet, but she only lasted an hour before falling under her spell. Left in the street corner in a thick plastic bag, needing only her soft blue eyes for the ritual. Another one was a ginger who spoke too much about her brother, so she let her go only to come back later to snack on taking her perfect white teeth. In total there had been six meals who only made her hunger grow for a challenge. She needed someone who would be able to complete the ritual, all that was left was a good host to take in the rest of the other meals’ precious parts.
By the time her martini was almost empty, a raven flew in. With soft cheeks sunken into the lips, pursed and plump with a little color. Innocent eyes looked like cold amber hiding something inside. She seemed to be new to the city, clueless to the hunger inside the bar. Men linger against the bar’s countertop, groaning as she glides past barely making a sound. As quiet as she was, the poor little raven had stirred the air and snared inside the widow’s net. Setting the martini against the table, her emerald eyes caught the amber drawing it near. With a voice like honey thick with lust, she spoke out to the young girl towering over the other men who lower their heads. They knew all too well what was going to happen next. Sitting the raven-haired woman down, the widow spun her web of lies, ordering a few drinks to loosen her up. She flattered her and made up a life that never existed. This part was too easy, sprinkling the little emotion she had touching at this raven’s little heart. She began to spill it all out, she was sweet, but for the widow it wasn’t enough. She didn’t need those gentle words, just the body that she inhabited. For an old witch to hunger for a new life, she began to slip up. Losing herself in the conversation, drink after drink listening and falling deeper into the raven wanting the night to never end. Until her meal thanked her and left the bar unharmed, she was dazed by the story the little raven had made. Snapping back into reality the laughter of the men in the bar made her burn red with rage, her easy meal had slipped out of her grasp. However, it was more than the meal she wanted, but to get to know the soft-haired raven, aching to hear her stories. Begging to catch her again, the witch fell in love with a meal.