Her eyes, like embers blazing hot,

Emancipated me.

The prison of my married rot;

She came to set me free.

An ocean barred and held us bound,

Though miles, they mattered not.

The bonnie lass my heart had found

Secured a sacred spot.

We met in poesy swapping words;

Her husband was a star.

And I was in my cage as birds

Unfit to fly afar.

For many years, we both had stayed

In halls and walls; routine.

Amended edges, tattered; frayed-

A chopping guillotine.

However, life has hidden keys

And she was such a gift.

An open door, a welcome breeze

To give each wing a lift.

Permission bled to passion's plan

And over time, we fell.

The world of woman and of man

Has never heard the tale.

No Romeo and Juliet;

No cross of lover's debt-

My loving never sowed regret;

No worry or no fret.

The secret words of poetry

Exchanged became the way

We shared each other knowingly;

We kissed, caressed by day.

And though our lips would never touch,

The way we pleased the soul

Ensured my love for her as such-

We made each other whole.

Rekindled feelings blooming grand

Exonerated hope.

In written form, she took my hand

And helped me learn to cope.

Confessions never claimed the right-

Ability in rhyme.

Decisions plagued my heart at night-

I longed for us a time

To share the space of wedded bliss.

However, on the screen

Composed of all we had in this-

The way our love was seen.

So many letters we exchanged;

So many wonders sought.

And though at odds we were estranged,

Together love was wrought.

Compelled by something old as earth,

We clamored to the sun.

Repelled by gravity in worth,

To never be undone-

A husband and a wife to those

Who never read the truth.

But she and I, we gladly chose

The sanguine labeled proof-

And as forever she will be

My love that never ends-

What you call infidelity

I choose to call amends ...

     Frank sits in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years, leaning back comfortably against the cushioned headboard. He watches the young red-headed woman dancing seductively for him at the foot of the bed. He devours every inch of her with his hungry eyes, as his hands clutch the sheet beneath him in tortured anticipation.

     She has already removed the black satin dress that she had worn that evening. She is left in nothing but her lacy black underwear that draws attention to, but still conceals her most exciting parts. Her hips sway languidly to the rhythm of the slow jazz pouring from a stereo speaker, then slowly undulate forward to every third or fourth beat. He notices the soft tuft of red hair rubbing against the lace of her panties as her supple hips push the fabric back and forth.

     He feels an involuntary moan come on and then escape his lips. It makes her smile as she raises her hands to tussle her hair about and then lets go, sending a crimson flow cascading down the front of her shoulders to gently lay across the exposed skin of her bulging breasts. She leans herself forward, placing her hands on the bed while licking her lips and looking straight into his eyes. Her bra, which he wasn't even aware had been unclasped falls to the floor. Her breasts now swing freely side to side, with nipples taut as top hats pointing down and yet angling toward him at the same time. This vision causes some stirring in his shorts, but the banner has yet to be fully raised.

     She puts one hand ahead of the other, and then, from behind, her knee has come to join the party. He realizes that she is now slowly crawling toward him on all fours. She is a feline on the hunt for her prey, and the certainty that it is him she hunts for is enough inspiration for a bulge to quickly take shape below before sinking slowly back down. Dammit, he thinks, almost had it that time.

     She has seen what happened, and she gives him a sly pout, but continues her forward prowl nonetheless. Her red hair is now dangling from her shoulders partially obstructing his view of her swaying breasts. Somehow, not being able to see everything at once fills him with a fresh excitement, and the bulge appears again, but unfortunately, doesn't stay around much longer than before. He looks at her, embarrassed by his shortcoming. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm not sure what's going on down there."

     "Don't worry," she whispers back, "I know how to fix it." Her pout has now turned back into a smile as she comes forward and slowly lowers her face into his lap. He can now smell the sweet scent of her hair. It is intoxicating. He looks up at the ceiling as he feels her rustling in his shorts. His member is suddenly exposed, and he feels the cool room temperature on it for a split second before it is plunged into a soft, warm wetness. Euphoric stars explode in his mind. He hears her giggle and he thinks, well that didn't take long.

     She comes back up, breathing heavily now. He knows that she is just as excited as he is. She pulls herself up straddling his lap, as he reaches down to grab her by the ass and pull her as close to him as he possibly can. She begins to wriggle back and forth, grinding his manhood into the sheets beneath them. This is almost more than he can stand. Something has to happen, and it has to happen now.

     Something does happen, but not what he had expected. Suddenly, from the speaker playing the slow jazz, comes the blaring cry of a trumpet. Except, it's not a trumpet. It's more like thunder. No, not thunder, it's someone snoring.

     Frank wakes up in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years. He looks around and, She's gone, is his first panicked thought. It takes him a few moments, but then he looks to his left, and he realizes that she is not gone. She is lying next to him in the same spot that she has slept for the last forty-five years. She has gained more weight than she would ever admit to, and there is now more grey in her hair than red, but it's her. His member, which had been highly inspired by the dream, creeps back into its hiding place. That's okay, he thinks with a smile, you know she'll dance for you again.            He turns to the left wrapping his arm around her, and then falls back to sleep with his face buried in her sweet smelling hair.

She was not being unfaithful, she told herself over and over. She loved her husband and he satisfied her every sexual need except….well, she needed more reassurance, more self-esteem and yes, more foreplay. She felt like he almost took her for granted. She wanted to be told she was the most beautiful woman in the world and that he couldn’t do without her. It was always the same, he rolled over twice a week, and pulled her to him and planted kisses as he reached between her legs and drew her to him. It was almost like he had a sex manual in front of him, following it by rote until she climaxed. Sometimes she faked it when the awkward pawing became too much.

She started experimenting by going online, writing sexy little stories guaranteed to titillate and provoke her audiences. She quickly lost her shyness as she noticed other women doing the same thing on the writing site. Soon, she felt she almost knew the others on the site but felt she needed to go elsewhere. Certainly, she realized that people could be anything they wanted to be on the internet and that their attributes were probably exaggerated.

It was amazingly easy to find another site where interested parties flirted with one another without any intent to carry it any further. Before she knew it, she was fully involved in a cyber affair. At first, they were innocents, just getting to know one another but soon, their conversation became more explicit. They had agreed to just show one another from the neck up but began to discuss all types of foreplay in the most descriptive terms. She could feel the wetness begin as soon as he said “hello” in his husky voice. By the look on his face, he was fully involved as well. Soon, they were moaning and groaning as they touched themselves, using facial expressions and passionate narratives of their activities. After a while, they removed their clothing and lowered the camera.

Without realizing the intensification of their affair, they began to describe the things they wanted to do to one another in graphic detail. When she had built up to a point where she was almost climaxing, she purred her good night, clicked off the computer and crawled into bed with her husband and began the very things that she and her cyber lover had been talking about. Her husband became putty in her hands as he murmured, “Where have you been all my life?”

Realizing that she had the best of both worlds, she stayed with her husband in wild sexual romps but also kept her cyber lover as a spare and as an instigator for her arousing and exciting new sensuality. She wondered to herself offhandedly whether she ought to take another lover but right now, her hands were full. But there would always be another day!

The shoddy streetlight barely pierces the darkness as I stumble down the old sidewalk to the east side of the deserted warehouse.  It is nearly midnight, and I am still searching for the illuminated door. Beneath my shoes, I feel the sidewalk give way to loose gravel as I continue past more boarded up windows and shadowy interiors. As the darkness continues, I wonder if perhaps I am at the wrong rendezvous point. Or if perhaps Carmen came to her senses and abandoned our tryst before it could ever fully begin. And as these thoughts creep in, I feel a disappointment settling itself behind my rib cage as I continue on into the dark.

But, wait! What is that ahead? I feel my heartbeat skip as I quicken my pace, anticipation flooding my veins. A faint yellow glow is seeping behind a cracked door. I brace myself as I approach and inch the door open. As I peer down the corridor, I see a makeshift table with a lantern sitting atop it. And, leaning against the makeshift table, I set eyes on the most exquisite woman I have ever seen. Carmen is all legs in her strappy heels and short, clingy black dress. As I approach, I watch a slow smile splay across her painted red lips as her blond hair tumbles in waves over her bare shoulders. Her lips meet mine with insistence, sparking instant desire as her arms wrap around my neck. She deepens the kiss as she trails one bare leg down my side, my arousal fully evident between us. As her tongue forces its way into my mouth, I feel a slight pinch and a tingle at the side of my neck. I then feel Carmen slowly disengage herself from the kiss and step out of my arms. My confusion at her sudden halt is consuming my mind. Yet, my eyes are having trouble focusing on the smeared red lipstick on her face. As I try to read her expression, I feel my limbs become heavy, and the room begins to spin. Then my whole world goes black.

***12 hours earlier***

"This is such a nice little place. I can't believe we have never been here before. Jenny from my book club mentioned it the other day, saying we should definitely stop in sometime." My wife prattles on as we sit in a booth at Grandma's Cafe on the corner of 5th finishing our lunch. "The food and the coffee have both been excellent," she continues, still sipping from her mug. On a spur of the moment whim, my wife decided we should venture out for lunch. I'm finishing my turkey club and inserting the appropriate "Mhmm's" and "Yes, dear's" to keep the conversation flowing. Yet, I can hardly focus on any words leaving her mouth.

Across the room, Carmen is sitting alone, sipping coffee and flipping through a magazine. It's taking most of my willpower not to stare at her long legs stretched out under the table in those shorts. Our eyes met when my wife and I entered the cafe, and the ghost of a smile that graced Carmen's lips sent my pulse racing. Carmen and I have actually ate at this cafe before. Earlier this month, I met up with Carmen twice for dinner here while my wife believed me to be working late. We have never ventured beyond dinner, a few lingering kisses, and many inappropriate text messages, but I feel we are approaching a new transgression. Last night, Carmen sent me a message with a photo displaying her full cleavage. Attached to the photo was the one word text of "Soon."

My wife has finished her lunch and excuses herself to the restroom. After my wife disappears from sight, I watch Carmen slowly rise from her seat. As she saunters to the door, she swings by my booth with a smile and a wink as she slides a folded napkin across the table. My hungry eyes watch her leave the cafe before I open the napkin and read, "Tonight is the night. Meet me at the old warehouse on Lincoln, east side, at midnight. Look for the illuminated door. Love, C."

***In the warehouse***

My head is groggy and my neck aches. As my senses slowly drift back to me, I realize I am sitting in a upright position. I attempt to move my arms and legs to a more comfortable position only to find I cannot move them. My eyelids are heavy as I force them open to stare down at my hands, which are bound with rope to each side of a chair. I cannot see my ankles, but I think it's safe to assume that they are bound to the legs of the chair. The panic from my restraints forces me into a more wakeful state as I slowly take in my surroundings and attempt to remember what happened. As I gaze around the room, realizing I am in a warehouse, the pieces slowly fall into place. I was meeting Carmen. I was kissing Carmen. Then I passed out? I must have. But I am still in the warehouse, tied up and groggy. Why?? And where is Carmen?

The room I am restrained in is relatively well lit. And now that I remember where I am, I take slower stock of my surroundings. Across the room from me is another chair, empty, with a small black suitcase sitting next to it. A small bit of rope is coiled next to the chair, and next to the rope is an ash tray with several cigarette butts. The smell of cigarettes linger in the air as if one was recently smoked. To my left, I notice a large table with many photographs spread out across it. And in the far corner of the table, I notice long, wavy golden locks of hair, the exact color of Carmen's hair. The exquisite locks are piled at the corner as if they were a wig...

Yet, my eyes are drawn from the wavy locks to the photographs on the table as I glimpse what appears to be my face. My eyes then move slowly from one photograph to the next, realizing I am in each picture. And each photo depicts me locked in a damning embrace with a different woman. I recognize Miranda in one photograph, and Anna in another. They are my more recent affairs. I recognize Heather from a drunken one night stand around a month ago. I continue to peruse the photographs and recognize Amy, Diana, and Rachel from several months ago. And as I continue to scrutinize each photograph, I realize there are many women who's names I cannot remember. Where did all these photos come from? And who has been taking them?

"Well, hello Martin. So glad to finally see you're awake." I jump at the sound of Carmen's voice coming from the doorway to my right. "I was worried you many never wake from the tranquilizer dose I gave you. You went down a lot faster than the usual, but I believe I injected you straight into the jugular. Intravenous rather than intramuscular. It has a faster, yet more deadly effect."

I watch, dumbfounded, as Carmen steps into the room still in her black dress, yet with her feet bare as her heels dangle from one hand. Her smeared red lipstick has been wiped away. And her hair is clipped short and brown. I glace from her face back to the table with the golden locks.

"Ah, yes. Those golden tresses are a wig. Elizabeth told me you had a weak spot for blonds, as many of these photos on display for you would indicate." Carmen saunters into the room and takes a seat in the empty chair across from me, crossing her legs and lighting up a cigarette. "Now, where should we begin?" she asks, as a takes a slow drag from the cigarette.

A whole string of questions and curses fill my head as I sit bound across the room, but very few words make it past my lips. "Why are you doing this? I have done nothing to you! Let me go!"

"Oh, Martin. Don't you know?" Carmen asks, a glint in her eye. "Your wife Elizabeth asked me to do this. And she can be rather convincing. She actually hired me a couple years ago to follow you, confirming her suspicions about your affairs." Carmen lets this revelation sink in as she takes another slow drag from her cigarette before continuing. "After I confirmed her suspicions, I became her regular contact. Every time she believed you might be having a new affair, I got a call. You both have kept me very busy. She paid me extra to frighten away a few of your lovers that she believed you might be getting too serious with. But the straw that finally broke the camel's back, as they say, was your last affair. I believe her name was Miranda, yes?" In the following pause, Carmen takes my silence for confirmation. Miranda was my most recent affair...

"Yes. I thought so," Carmen continues. "Well, Miranda was a member of your wife's book club, and her seeing Miranda every week was the true breaking point. It was then I got a very different call from Elizabeth." A sinister smile stretches across Carmen's lips as her next words roll off her tongue with foreboding, "And here we are!"

As I stare at Carmen, I realize she hasn't divulged whatever my wife has hired her to do. But I think it's safe to assume I will not like it. "I will pay you!" I blurt desperately. "Whatever my wife has promised you, I will double it if you let me go. And no one has to know about this. Nothing has happened here that we can't take back."

"Martin, Martin..." Carmen muses as she finishes her cigarette and leans over to put it out in the ash tray beside her chair. She then rises from her chair, with the black suitcase in hand, and advances to the table with the photos. She sets the black suitcase upon the table as she gathers up the photographs into a neat pile. "This is a rather shady part of town for you to be out in so late at night, Martin. I believe you probably gave Elizabeth some lie about not being able to sleep and needing to take a drive to clear your head."

I watch with building fear as Carmen opens the suitcase and dons a pair of gloves before she again continues. "A lot of bad characters prowl these streets at this hour. And one of these bad characters has been selling some questionable drugs to kids around town. I have been hired to deal with him also."

My dread keeps building as I hear Carmen assembling something behind the opened lid of the suitcase. "I discretely lifted this from our drug dealer for tonight's special occasion," Carmen states matter-of-factly as she flashes a pistol in her right hand, silencer attached. "As it turns out, this gun can be directly linked to our neighborhood drug dealer through ballistics. And I happen to know he will be closing a deal approximately a block over very soon. Such a shame that you had to witness the deal on your evening drive. Your untimely demise will be quite the tragedy. And our sleazy dealer will find himself off the streets and behind bars for murder in the first degree." Carmen moves from behind the table and positions herself directly in front of me, a sly glint reflected in her eyes. "Two birds with one stone," she states, smiling.

"Please, please, please..." I beg. "Don't do this! I'll do anything! Please!" Yet, at my pleading, her smile only broadens.

"HELP! PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP ME!" I scream. "HELP!!!'

"Your screams are useless Martin. No one will hear you here. And even if they did, they would not dare venture into these shady streets at this hour." Even as the words leave her lips, I know this to be true.

"You won't get away with this! You will go to prison!" I yell, tears stinging the corners of my eyes in a mix of rage and terror as I struggle futilely with my bonds.

"Martin, darling, I have been getting away with this for years," Carmen purrs, her words sending shivers down my spine. I watch as she levels the gun at my forehead, terror fully seizing me as my bladder gives way, the acrid smell of urine filling my nostrils.

"Please..." I plead, tears spilling down my cheeks.

"It's nothing personal, Martin," Carmen states, gun in position. "But your wife has quite the impressive life insurance policy on you. And, as it turns out, you are worth more dead than alive."

The first time I got high was outside of a bar called Taproot. A collection of bearded musicians and a wooden dance floor that seemed to attract older men like my date, trying to impress impressionable young women, like I used to be. There were many pairs of us, but somehow I felt elite, sitting next to my brooding companion. We were by far the handsomest, of that I was smugly certain.

It was winter, but the hipster-local-who-cares-cocktails I had consumed kept me warm when we went outside - snowing though it was. A jacket would cover the appeal of my outfit - my trap for his eyes. His eyes never needed much ensnaring, they flittered around recklessly even then.

His Chevrolet truck - with the covered back where he kept the dogs he walked for a living - was open at the driver’s side. I was soon against the door - swooning under whiskey lips and feeling heady from the thrill of being desired. He pulled back - lids heavy, and produced a joint from his flannel breast pocket. I was delighted by every cliché. I fell for his jungle colors, his peacock spread.

I was a novice then, and so his taste for my lips and my lack of knowledge lead to an exchange. He blew the smoke within me - again and again - watched me expel it into the night air. The fiddle that played in the background of our embraces called my attention now - as did the gaze of the door guard. A full figured man - he peered at our exchange,  and I supposed he had watched many couples in this manner - too drunk to notice his leer. Fresh from the country, every detail of this shoddy part of town enthralled me - made me feel like a bold city girl.

My date noticed the fat man’s observation, and pulled me to him again. It was a performance - I couldn’t recognize then that this display was more for the guard’s benefit than mine. It was this night that I went home with him, the night of my surrender - exchange of flesh. A step more severe for me than for him, of that I was aware.

We were woken the next morning by a knock - followed without much pause by an open door - for which his roommate seemed embarrassed. I covered myself, blushing. My lips were swollen from kissing, I felt them with my fingertips as my date cursed his roommate. The roommate, a shy boy - was just short of writhing in his discomfort.

“I’m sorry man, she just came in.”

From behind him, a woman stepped forth, closer to my date’s age than mine. I stared back defiantly from his bed on the floor, though my date began to sputter and collect himself. I’m embarrassed for that stare now. She said nothing, but my boxer-clad companion followed her out the door.

In my naivety I allowed him to embrace me again when he returned, no questions asked or answered. Foolish men thrive on foolish girls.

Foolish girls let foolish men tell them to ignore their intuition, ignore their observations.

I did not stop being a foolish girl until I found myself at his door, peering in at him and a face that didn’t belong to me - who stared back at me with a familiar rosy defiance.

     “The difference is, I lie for a reason.”

     Ali’s words were clear and concise, cutting through the lunch hour chatter of the restaurant like a stainless steel blade.

     Robert looked into her face, void of emotion. Her green eyes used to sparkle when she smiled at him. But now, he studied her as if she was some unknown exotic species discovered for the first time.

     She continued to stare him down, silent and unwavering.

     “What are you talking about? Lies? What lies?”

     Ali’s behavior over the past couple of weeks had been erratic at best. Pleasant conversations took sudden detours into dark places, ending in soliloquies of a brooding nature. Hours later, her jovial attitude made the earlier encounter seem like a fleeting nightmare one couldn’t quite remember upon waking. Robert was aware that hormonal shifts could be more pronounced as women aged, but this was bordering on bipolar.

     “Your entire life is built on lies,” she snapped. “I thought it was a harmless game at first, watching you manipulate others by telling them what they want to hear: your friends, your colleagues, your employees. You lie like you breathe: effortlessly.”

     “Why are you—“

     “Let me finish,” she interrupted. Another pause. “I have been with you for three years. I had so much hope for the future. I fed off your passion; it was a drug to me. But now I see you for who you really are: A con artist, preying on everyone who crosses his path to get what he wants. Including me."

     Every sentence, every word was cold and robotic. The lack of emotion was more disturbing to Robert than the words themselves. He had a thick skin--he had to, given the nature of his business. But dealing with this shell of a person whom he knew intimately was something otherworldly.

     Ali sat perfectly still, unblinking, waiting for Robert to respond. His confusion quickly turned to annoyance as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

     “Look, Ali, I don’t know what’s got your panties in a wad. But I’m tired of your irrational accusations.” Robert pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet.     “This conversation is over.”

     Ali reached into her purse and produced a candy bar-sized item in a pink and white metallic wrapper.

     “Perhaps I wasn’t being clear.” She slid the item across the table, glaring at him the entire time.

     Robert reached down, picked it up and pulled back the already opened wrapper to see what was inside.

     “I wasn’t implying that I’m perfect and you’re not. What I’m saying is, you lie casually. It’s your way of life. I, on the other hand, lie...but for different reasons. Big reasons. Like the one you’re holding in your hand.”

     Ali smirked, showing the first sign of human emotion as the gravity of the situation was realized in Robert’s expression.

     “I lie to Tom all the time,” Ali said. “I tell my husband it’s okay that he’s unemployed, and that I understand he’s looking really hard for a job. I also lie and say it doesn’t bother me that he has a low sperm count, and that we can’t have children. I smile and pretend that it’s all okay, because, what choice do I have?”

     Robert stood like a statue now, white as alabaster.

     “I lie and tell Tom, ‘It’s a miracle! We are finally going to have a child together!’ Well, we are going to have a child together. It’s just not his.”

     Ali slowly stood up, both fists on the table supporting her weight as she leaned into Robert.

     “You have used people your whole life to get what you want. Now it’s my turn to get what I want: The child I could never have, the family I’ve always dreamed of...with a promotion comfortable enough to support the three of us. I’m sure that can be arranged. Right, Senator?”

God the Father compels you.

God the Son compels you.

God the Holy Ghost compels you.

God to all martyrs and the pious compels you.

The blood of Christ compels you......

The Holy water scored her moldering flesh yet the demon defiantly gnashed her rotting, green teeth and fired her eyes at the exhausted priest.

'Is that the best you got father?' she growled in a hollow rasp.

Father Timothy refused to be swayed.

'By what name are you called, demon?'

'I have been known by many names over thousands of years father. From Abraxas to Zaza and countless in between. At the time of the black plague I was called Danag, I was known as Tanic through the crusades and during the holocaust - Bachbakuala Nuksiwae but father, I come to you as Cheryl.’

The priest’s eyes widened as he took a backward step. ’ Cheryl, in the name of God the father and the holy trinity leave now, the body of his beloved servant Heather. In his name I cast you back into the fires of hell.'

The room shook with the violence of the demon’s will.

Demonic eyes blazed with blinding yellow light, illuminating the gloom of the interior as she expelled a guttural howl that caused furniture and oddments to cascade in a ferocious whirlpool. Father Timothy raised both arms to shield his face but maintained his gaze on the grinning entity. After what seemed like an eternity all motion abruptly ceased - the room’s contents hung suspended in mid air as if captured in a stuttered frame of a ghostly snapshot.

The priest had barely caught his breath when at the next moment the air seemed to explode throwing all against the floor and walls of the bedroom, splintering and shattering in a dramatic crescendo.

Father Timothy had been engaged under orders from the Vatican to carry out the exorcism after Heather had been pronounced 'possessed' following a two month investigation by the Catholic church, he had traveled across six states to attend.

The priest was a seasoned veteran of sixteen prior exorcisms, his most infamous case was some 6 years back, that of a mid western socialite named Julia Upton.

Upton was possessed by 34 separate demons which she had summoned, through a Ouija board at a party. The father conducted sixty three separate sessions over a period of ten months and had eliminated all but one of the entities. The demon known as Baal.

Before he could extract the demon, Upton died of starvation. Her family took the church to court but a deal was struck betwen the Church and the family.

Father Timothy was given a year off while the dust settled.

Cheryl’s arms and legs were bound in heavy chains around the bedposts. She raised her crusty, pock marked face and glared deeply into the eyes of Father Timothy.

'You look worn out priest, maybe you need some fresh air' She quipped.

The bed hit him hard in the midriff.

Glass and wood shattered in all directions as he toppled backwards through the third story window.

Father Timothy's body hit the concrete of the driveway with a dull thud.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Charles finally summoned the courage to raise his head. He was slouched between the mahogany wardrobe and the bedroom door as he could barely look at the bizarre and horrifying events as they had unfolded.

The priest had met his match with Cheryl and now with him gone Charles felt overcome with unfettered fear and raw volubility.

His eyes were slowly starting to focus as the settling dust cleared to reveal the devastated landscape of his bedroom, the bedroom he had shared with his wife Heather.

As with the rest of the house, Heather had agonized for months, scrutinizing and selecting the most correct furniture, paint colors, bed linen, scatter cushions, throw rugs etc.

The room had been an aesthetic manifestation of Heather’s preciseness and love of the classical.

There was no warmth in her coordinations or the spareness of her decor. Most of the time Charles had felt guilty for allowing himself to sit or lounge anywhere in the house.

As he surveyed the rubble and remnants left over from the demon’s destruction he almost felt a relief that he hadn’t been the one to cause it.

Charles gazed upon the possessed body of his wife of 26 years, chained to their bed - she was sitting upright, her head cocked to one one side with smoke billowing from matted hair. She was looking quizzically and playfully at the disheveled man, as he gingerly brushed debris from his plaid dressing gown in an self conscious attempt to regain his composure. With a shaking index finger he pushed his black rimmed glasses to the bridge of his nose and wiped a strand of peppered hair from his forehead.

He could barely maintain his gaze as he felt the demon's yellow irises burning holes into his flesh.

'Hey Chucky why don't ya’ll come over here and sit with me a spell darlin’?' She cooed in an exaggerated Georgian accent.

'But....Heather....’

'Heathers not here Charles. Just little ol' Cheryl, besides I'm infinitely more interesting than your frumpy, asshat of a wife.’

He was frozen - melded to the floor but the jello of his flesh was now hers to command. Charles remained frozen as the mass of his body was lifted into the air and thrown brutally against the foot of the bed.

'Thats my boy' as she motioned beside her.

Charles slid involuntarily to the spot.

'You wanna know a little secret Charlie horse?' As she flicked back an oily wisp of smoldering hair.

‘My name isn’t really Cheryl. Do you really imagine that a demon as powerful as I would be known as Cheryl?’ She scoffed.

‘No Charles, that was for comedic value only.’

‘Just a little diversion, a little inside joke between me and the Priest.’

‘You see, in his first posting, Father Timothy had a sexual relationship with a married woman named Cheryl Turner.’

‘The good father ended up having a twinge of conscious well into it and pulled the pin on it. Cheryl killed herself, leaving behind a husband and three children and the priest confessed his sins and moved on.’

‘My only purpose here today was a reconciliation. A balancing of the books if you will.’

‘The death of that priest was my only motivation for inhabiting your ridiculous wife and now my work here is complete.’

‘Having said that, do you want to know something else Charles?’

Charles had barely processed anything the demon had said but upon hearing his name let out a muted ‘ehh’.

'Nothing gets my black juices pumping quite like a good exorcism and right now Cheryl has a hellfire in the hole that only mortal meat can quell'

He looked into the vacuum of her pus filled eyes as all semblance of free will deserted him.

Charles found himself straddling the demon her eyes laughing as her flaking, colorless lips pouted, cooing as she thrust her pelvis into him as he mounted her.

His cock burned hard against her squirming form with pre cum oozing to wet his pajama pants.

Charles gave himself over to his mistress as he lowered himself and laid his head against her breasts, heaving under the dirty pastel house dress. Her heart barely beating yet her body a quivering current of raw power and pulsing nerve endings.

‘Please remove me dress guv’nor’ She spoke in a cockney accent.. ’

Charles dutifully started to unbutton the dress only to be reprimanded.

‘Fookin’ rip it off ya stupid coont!’ Cheryl bellowed like a Welsh miner.

He tore the dress from top to bottom, exposing her grey, dying skin. Her ribs were almost sticking through decaying flesh and her breast like empty sacks falling away from her.

‘Now lick me Charles, I want you to lick me good, I’m a very, very dirty girl.’

He worked from her neck, manufacturing saliva as his tongue was ripped by the coarseness of her dry pores - the metallic taste of her burnt his mouth yet his hunger grew.

Tracing down her collar bone he rested for a moment as he again laid his head against her chest.

With a hand wrapped around each breast, Charles made a beeline down to her belly with his tongue.

He inserted the tip of it into her navel as Cheryl arched and moaned.

‘Your talents were wasted on that frumpy twat muppet Charlie, you certainly know your geography. Now park it downtown boyo’

He traced a line to a matted clump of pubic hair. Parting her lips with his fingers he worked his tongue inside the demon’s cooch flicking and exploring.

The stench and taste of her overcame him. Cheryl was squirting herself into his mouth as Charles gagged and choked on the bile.

As if in empathy Cheryl beckoned him upright. Charles undid the buttons of his pants. His angry erection leapt towards her gaping cunt.

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

He nosed the head of his penis into her wet hole. The heat from her overpowering him, yet he instantaneously thrust deep inside.

Cheryl cackled and spurred him on as he lost even more control.

It was all a blur to him. Visions of animalistic gratification overtook him. Visions of death and squalor controlled his every response. Charles’ body chimed in symphony to the demon’s insatiable will.

The shaft of his penis glistened golden red as his plunged it deeply into the demon’s being.

His pettiness dissolved into her marrow.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of feeding Cheryl's insatiable lust, her tongue oozed from it's grotesque lodgings, slithering the distance between them to bury itself into Charles' watering, gaping mouth.

He exploded his seed with massive force into the beckoning Succubus.

The last thing he remembered was the cackling laughter as she arched her back in thunderous release.

Charles was thrown off her immediately, his head hit the bedpost.

Losing consciousness he fell into the deepest of sleeps.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

'Charles.......Charles.......wake up.'

'Whats happening and why am I chained to the bed?'

'Answer me Charles!'

'Charles!!'

He stirred into semiconsciousness.

'Cheryl..........I........'

'Cheryl???!!!'

'Who's Cheryl you bastard??!!'

'Charles, who is Cheryl???'

'I don’t know’

Charles stared into the confused and angry eyes of his wife as he fought to regain his senses.

'Answer me Charles..... and what in God's name is that green slime doing all over your face?'

With a newfound stillness he spoke.

'I guess we are now left with only two options Heather.'

'Either a divorce or a Ouija board.'

'Are you mad Charles? What are you talking about? Whats going on and what happened to my bedroom?'

'But quite frankly dear, I'm leaning more toward the Ouija.' He grinned.

'Charles I have no idea what you are on about or who this Cheryl person is but.....'

He reached a hand into his shorts. The demon's juice was still moist upon his cock.

Charles took the glistening tip of his forefinger and encircled Heather's mouth with it.

With lips pursed he whispered into her ear 'shhhh'

“Personally, I wear a bunch of perfume so the smell gets on the guys I’m with. That way the other girls know those guys are mine.”

“So it’s like how dogs mark their territory?”

“Ew. I never thought of it that way. This is totally different. My scent is a combination of peach, cherry blossom, and pina colada.”

“So you smell like peaches, cherries, and pineapple? Are you sure the other girls won’t just think the guys ate fruit salad?”

***

In high school I had several female friends who, when cheated on, would blame "the other woman" more than the guys they were dating. It never made any sense to me. You should blame the person who was unfaithful. 

I never understood it in high school, but now I do. It took meeting Layla to make me see how somebody could blame the mistress.

My husband Jeff and I considered ourselves very lucky. After the chaotic jungle that is high school dating, we met each other within our first few weeks of college. Four years later we were married. Neither of us had ever cheated or been cheated on, but only a year into our marriage that all changed.

Layla entered our lives. 

Admittedly, the instant I saw Layla I knew she was the most beautiful person I had ever seen in real life. My husband and I were out at a bar celebrating his birthday with a few of his friends. He had went to the bathroom, and when he returned, Layla was with him. Jeff explained that he stopped at the bar on the way back and, hearing it was his birthday, she bought him a drink. Being she seemed so nice, he invited her to join our group for a bit.

A sensation I hadn't felt in years started boiling inside of me. Jealousy. 

Surprisingly, the boys weren't drooling over her. They played it cool and pretended she wasn't the most breathtaking person they had ever seen. Through polite conversation, I found out that she was a social worker who loved dogs. Could she be any more perfect?

Layla became part of the gang. Jeff and I quickly began to know her better and better and spend more and more time with her. Then came the fated day of the cheating. Can you imagine walking in on your spouse in bed with a beautiful, naked woman wrapped around them?

That's what my poor husband walked in on. Neither of us had ever expected I would fall for Layla, or any woman for that matter. The conversation later that night was crushing. No, it wasn't a one time experiment. I didn't want it to be. I loved her.

So I can see why my husband doesn't blame me and instead blames the other woman. If I hadn't met that particular woman, it's possible we would still be married now. I understand why he blames her. Jeff thinks that she changed me. She didn't though. Layla just helped me discover myself.

I knew that he looked at me, but he was just a kid, only 19 years old when I first met him. I was 32 at the time, married to an older man who was far more interested in discussing sports over a few cold beers than in me, or anything I had to say. At 19 years old, AJ walked with the cocky swagger that jocks tend to develop in high school, but whenever I saw him, he was the epitome of good manners and easy conversation. Still, there were times I felt his eyes move over my body like a lover’s caress. Sometimes, I'd feel the heavy weight of his stare and I'd glance up, my eyes unexpectedly would lock with his, and each time I would squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze.

My husband was best friends with AJ’s dad, he was thrilled that their family had moved back to our boring little town. He'd known AJ since he was born, and liked to boast how he'd even changed his diapers. AJ’s two younger brothers were the same age as my kids, we soon fell into the easy routine where holidays and weekends were spent together. We could be found on summer weekends swimming and barbecuing, fall and winter traveling to nearby towns for youth sports.

Our families were close and spent so much time together that the younger boys began referring to each other as cousins. AJ wasn't around as often, since he was old enough to escape with his own friends. When he was around, he was always the odd one out. He was 8 years older than the oldest kid, he was 13 years my junior, and I was the youngest of the adults. Too old for the kids table, too young for the adults'. And while I found his admiration flattering, it wasn’t anything that I reciprocated, it wasn’t anything I’d ever given consideration to.

Until.

Years had passed. And while it seems like nothing ever changes living in a boring, little town in Nowhere USA, the truth of the matter is that things are changing everyday. People change, children grow older, couples get stuck in ruts, love grows stagnant, babies are born, old people die, new relationships flourish, and marriages fall apart. While nothing ever changes, nothing stays the same either.

My marriage was in serious trouble. Our life had become routine, our sex life was nearly non-existent, and behaviors that didn’t grate my nerves during happier times were becoming more intolerable with every passing day. AJ’s dad was at my house 3 to 4 times a week, drunk in the garage with my husband, who preferred standing around outside to coming in with me and the children. I went to work, I came home, I drove children to school, and practice, and doctor’s visits, and games. I did laundry and cooked and cleaned, I organized carpools, chaperoned field trips, and coordinated halftime snacks with other moms. I did most of it on my own, asking for help from my husband was met with open hostility, or with flat out ridicule that I was unable to handle anything on my own. In hindsight, I can see that I was the one who changed, I’d grown sick and tired of shouldering the responsibility for the entire household while my husband felt like his responsibilities were over once he’d clocked out everyday at work. Add to that the manipulative machinations and emotional abuse of an unhappy drunk, and it's easy to understand how desperately unhappy I'd become.

AJ pulls up in the driveway, he is 23 now. Still a kid in my eyes, although he is a cute one with blonde good looks and a spark in his eyes that promises a fun time or a whole lot of trouble. Probably both. He’s grown a bit bolder over the years and while the flirtatious comments are always playful, I know there’s an element of truth to his words that his teasing tone can’t quite hide.

The music is playing and there’s a slight breeze, just enough to stir the hot night air. It’s summer in the desert, still in the mid 80′s at 10 pm. I’m sitting in a lawn chair in the driveway, long legs stretched out using the bumper of my car as a footrest. My husband and AJ’s dad are in the garage, ignoring me as usual. AJ leans on the hood of my car in front of me and we talk, about what I don’t remember. He’s flirting again, and I like it, I’m flirting back this time. His blue eyes look at me in a way that reminds me I’m still an attractive woman, even if my husband doesn’t notice.

Suddenly, I’m aware that AJ’s shirt is off. Was he wearing a shirt when he walked up? I don’t remember. I’ve seen this boy without a shirt a million times, but right now...I’m actually seeing him. How did my eyes never notice before that he had grown up so nicely? Hmmmmm. His core is lean with tan skin taut over well defined abs. My gaze lingers there, I can’t help but think of my husbands round, pink belly covered with coarse hair turned gray. Did he ever have abs like this boy? Hmmmmm.

AJ’s skin is smooth and hairless, and I notice his hip bones jutting out, the ab muscles taper into a V that disappear beneath his basketball shorts, ending with a noticeable bulge. I look up and my skin flushes, he is grinning cheekily, he knows I was admiring his young frame. “See something you like?” He asks innocently. Sassy mouth.

I reply something unintelligible, and for some reason I reach out and grab one of his hips. Maybe to establish that I'm in charge, maybe to show him that he's not as hot as he thinks, maybe just because I have an urge to grab those hipbones of his that wave to me like an invitation. I dig my fingers and thumb into his skin, it’s warm and smooth. I have an urge to put my mouth there, suddenly I want to trace that V with my tongue, I want to catch his hip bones between my teeth. I’m shocked at the thought, but still my fingers pinch and pull and squeeze thoughtfully. He jumps in surprise at my unexpected touch and glances into the garage. His dad and my husband are still paying no attention to us. He moves a bit closer and now both my hands are grasping his hips, his eyes lock with mine, and an unexpected tension is born as the energy shifts between us. His skin is hot and alive beneath my hands, there is an electric current traveling from my fingertips to his hips, through our bodies and awakening within me a hunger that had gone neglected as my marriage had grown cold.

I let go of him, scared at the direction of my thoughts, relieved to see my husband still oblivious to the storm brewing in the driveway. AJ laughs a bit, but his chuckle is nervous and I can tell that the effect of my touch was startling for him as well.

Later, laying in bed it was AJ’s face I saw when I closed my eyes, remembering the hot, smooth skin of his belly beneath my fingertips. I place the fingers to my lips, as if to taste his skin still there. My body is hungry, I reach out to my husband and run my hand along his spine. His skin is leathery, roughly covered with coarse gray hair...so different from AJ’s smooth, soft skin. He grunts a bit, I press my lips to his neck, offering my body to him. He pushes me off. “I’m tired,” he says as he rolls away from me. I lay back on my side of the bed, empty and unfulfilled. Again.

Weeks pass into months and the relationship with AJ and I has changed. It is charged with electricity, the sexual tension between us builds every time we see each other. There are stolen kisses in the hallway, hands groping urgently in the bathroom. The playful comments he made before have changed into flat out promises of mind blowing sex. I’m stunned at the boldness of his words, yet also intrigued, a little bit terrified, and more turned on than I’ve been in many years. It is an intoxicating blend of emotions, this growing urge within me is getting louder, hungrier and becoming harder to ignore each time I see him. It’s there in plain sight for anyone to see, but no one is looking at us, no one notices the fire burning in my eyes begging to be extinguished.

Until.

My husband and kids are gone for the weekend, I’m home alone. AJ knows this and heads over. My stomach is a roller coaster, my nerves are alive and tingling with anticipation. A choice will be made tonight, one that could change my life forever. As tempted as I am, I'm still torn with the church guilt leftover from my youth, knowing the terrible sin of adultery. Plagued with fear, I don't want to do anything to disrupt the lives of my kids, not to mention myself, I enjoy driving my silver SUV and my 1800 square foot house on the corner. I enjoy the comfort of my life, while I hate the miserable, manipulative sham of my marriage. I know what the right thing to do is, but the right thing is rarely the easy thing. Still, the time has come to decide - will I do what I should, or will I cave to temptation? Would giving in to it finally satisfy this raw, demanding hunger that has been gnawing at me for months?

AJ is here now, standing in front of me. I’m drinking straight whiskey, liquid courage. Words are said, I don’t know what. I know my responses are punctuated by the rapid drum of my racing heart, my skin feels flushed with heat from the alcohol, and that eye contact with AJ feels as intimate as if he were already inside me. I know that AJ’s shirt is made of the thinnest, soft cotton, his hair smells like shampoo, his hands are calloused, rougher than I expected them to be, and his blue eyes seem to get darker as his desire increases.

We are inside the house now, in the master bedroom, on the floor. Months and months of build up have led to this moment. Our mouths are fused together, tongues dancing in and out, their own mating ritual. My hands pull his shirt over his head, I slide my palms over smooth shoulders and chest and push him backward to the ground. My lips blaze a trail from his collarbone down to that V at his hips that’s been driving me insane for so long now. There is not an ounce of fat to be found on AJ, his body is made of hard muscles and tan skin, flawless and unmarred. He could be the poster boy of youthful vitality, he is handsome and toned and beautiful. My tongue traces the lines that delineate his abs, he tastes faintly like salt and strongly like a terrible mistake. So fucking delicious.

My mouth is shameless as it makes its way down to his hips, I get his belt off in seconds and pull his pants part way down. I catch his hip bone between my teeth, he squirms letting me know it tickles. I smile at his discomfort and relish the power of my awakening sexuality. His hands are in my hair and I rub my face across his belly, nuzzling, allowing my lips to brush the smooth expanse, so different from the body I’m used to, and so damn sexy. I could do this for days, it would take hours studying his ribs and abs and hips, mapping them with my fingers and mouth to get my fill.

Suddenly the hands in my hair are grabbing firm, he pulls me up gently, bringing my face to his. Our mouths meet again, this time he’s taking the lead, I sink into the floor as his hands rip off my shirt, then his lips and teeth are on my breasts and my mouth exhales sharply at the unexpected thrill of this new sensation of my nipples in his mouth. Teeth nibbling gently map a similar path down my belly and stop at my waist, his hands pull my jeans and panties off expertly in one swoop. And then, before I can blink, his hands are under my ass, cupping the cheeks, lifting and guiding me close, his face is between my thighs, his warm breath teases, and then we are engaged in the most intimate kiss of all.

I’m gasping for air and helpless to the sensations as his mouth continues to work me, skillfully using his tongue and lips and teeth. I’m more than a little surprised that a boy of his age is handling my body with this confident expertise, not the clumsy, fumbling manner I’d been expecting. My whole body grows tense, and my thighs are vibrating, and he knows what that means, my back arches and his tongue works frantically pushing me over the edge of an orgasm that leaves my knees quivering. Blue eyes meet mine, he slides up my body and our lips meet again in a kiss that promises even more. I can taste myself on his lips and I’m so turned on, and so wet, and any last remnant of doubt is tossed away like his clothes as I rip them off wildly and let them fall where they may.

Back down his belly I slide, this time skin on skin, my nipples hardening from the friction as they slide down his chest. I bite his hip again and thrill at his slight jump. I trace my fingers along that V, that V which has been haunting my dreams and fueling my fantasies for months. Finally, I’m able to taste it, finally I follow that V to its conclusion and I’m pleasantly surprised at his size, larger than I expected, already hard before I’ve even touched him. I tease with my tongue and lips, kissing and nibbling all around his hips and belly, letting the lust take over, taking in his scent and savoring this moment. I smile at the sharp intake of his breath when I grip his shaft with my hand, testing its solidity and weight. Our eyes meet as I lower my head, I open my mouth and take him in. His eyes close and he exhales deeply as my mouth moves up and down his considerable length, and I’m drunk with the power of his desire and my own lack of inhibitions. Working him with my mouth, getting wetter by the second. He tastes faintly of salt and strongly like the end of my marriage.

After a few moments he grabs me by the hair again and pulls me to him. He positions me on my back and slides his hand between my thighs, testing my readiness. Blue eyes darken and he smiles, realizing how wet I am. “Are you ready for me?” He asks cheekily. Sassy mouth.

“Yes!” I tell him and still he teases. He’s rubbing himself all over me, using his hand to guide the head against my lips, teasing my opening, spreading my moisture over us both. “Please,” I say, uncaring at this point, desperate to be filled. My body is beyond hungry, it's starving and has been starved for far too long. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and with lips pressed against his ear I whisper “AJ, please. Fuck me.” And that does it, and with one thrust he’s inside - and he’s so fucking deep, and I cry out with pleasure as I feel myself stretching open to receive him. My legs lock around his waist, my arms are still locked around his neck and it feels so fucking fantastic, so unbelievably, mind numbingly, toes-curling, eyes-rolling-to-the-back-of-the-head, astonishingly, shockingly amazing. Finally, that hunger is being fed, the sexual appetite that had been ignored and denied for years is feeding at last, and it’s ravenous.

Our bodies rock back and forth, my hips rising to meet his every thrust. Our tongues are swirling madly, as breathing becomes more labored, as hearts pound wildly to keep up. The tension is building inside me again, and I am completely at his mercy. He is pumping into me with a knowledgeable proficiency a 23 year old shouldn’t have. He is driving into me with the enthusiasm and energy possessed only by the young and unjaded. My fingers dig into his skin as he takes me over the edge again, and I’m unable to stop myself from crying out and we are coming together. I can feel him empty into me and my legs lock him in place while I squeeze every last drop out of him.

He collapses on my belly, breathing hard. I am stroking his hair, a little shocked at my licentious behavior, more shocked at how satisfied my body feels. Now that I’ve given into temptation, a niggling of guilt pokes at me. I push it down, allowing the thunder of multiple orgasms to drown that unpleasant thought out.

AJ looks up at me then, his blue eyes are sweet and earnest, and I smile. “You’re amazing ” I say and he smiles back. He moves up and pulls me close, we are snuggling and I feel happy, ignoring the fact this is the bed I share with my husband. My lips reach out to his again, one last kiss before falling asleep. He tastes faintly of salt and strongly like the beauty of new beginnings.

The bank of mud and shells, the white bog lilies gently adrift, breathing, a frog,

not a prince, but a nightmare of hiccupping echoes, sobs, its long song from a hollow throat, and a hollower hollow, an empty house, each room where someone used to sleep, and a pond in a cemetery where they would feed the geese, the children sneaking pieces of bread meant for the animals into their little mouths.

What is it like at first, sleeping in her bed with her husband? I can't answer, or I won't. Some wife without a face, someone’s daughter, or someone's mother. In fact, all the faces are faceless, missing details a dream would. I am wading into a bog. He gives me a sunflower, a heavy and tall one that towers over me. I hold its stem in my hand until it slumps over and smacks my head, sending yellow petals drifting to the thick peaty surface. 

The moon disappears behind a cottony cloud. We are in their kitchen now. It's late. He whispers, almost inaudibly, Can you keep a secret? Not a question, but an invitation. My smile is slow and mischievous. Not guilty, not that I know of, not yet. 

A woman is crying in a room lit golden and dim. She is holding her sons while they stare off blankly into the walls. I am alone in an adjacent room, the lights fluorescent and harsh buzzing like drowned out voices, like bees knocked out of their hive.