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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by JamesMByers

Amends ...

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 ...

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by JamesMByers
Amends ...
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 ...




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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by Rumpleskag

But Is It Really Cheating?

     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.

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by Rumpleskag
But Is It Really Cheating?
     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.
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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by sandflea68

Cyber Sex

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!

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by sandflea68
Cyber Sex
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!

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by JessicaJohnson

Deception In The First Degree

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."

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by JessicaJohnson
Deception In The First Degree
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."
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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by Delilah49

Highs and Lows

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.

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by Delilah49
Highs and Lows
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.
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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by MegWaters

Lies of a Certain Nature

     “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?”

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by MegWaters
Lies of a Certain Nature

     “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?”
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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by MilesNowhere

One Night Stand

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 seared her flesh yet the demon defiantly bared her rotting, green teeth at the weary priest.

'Is that the best you got father?' taunted the entity.

Father Timothy refused to be swayed.

'By what name are you known demon?' He demanded.

'I have been known by many names over countless centuries priest' She spat.

'But you may call me.... Cheryl'

'Cheryl....in the name of God the father, leave now the body of his beloved servant. In God's name I cast you back into the fires of hell.'

With that, the room began to shake.

The demon's eyes blazed with blinding yellow light as furniture and oddments cascaded in mid air to finally splinter and break against the floor and walls of the bedroom.

The priest cautiously took a step back toward the window as the bed levitated 4 feet above the floor.

Cheryl, who had been chained to the bedposts, raised her scabbed, pock marked face glaring deep into the eyes of Father Timothy.

'You look worn out priest, maybe you need a bit of fresh air'

She growled in a guttural rasp.

The bed hit him hard.

Glass and wood splintered in all directions as he fell backwards through the third floor window.

A dull thud sounded as Father Timothy's body hit the concrete.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Charles summoned the courage to finally raise his head. He had been slouched next to the bedroom door as the bizarre and horrifying events unfolded.

Father Timothy had been engaged under orders by the Vatican to carry out the exorcism after Charles' wife Heather had been pronounced 'possessed' following an

extensive investigation by the Catholic church.

The priest had travelled halfway across the country to attend and was a seasoned veteran of a dozen prior exorcisms.

Today though, he had met his match with the demon known as Cheryl.

Charles' eyes were slowly starting to focus upon the devastation around him.

The possessed body of his wife of 26 years was strapped to their bed, hyperventilating and grinning maniacally.

It felt as if the demon's yellow irises were burning holes into his flesh.

'Hey Chucky......why don't you come over here and sit with me a spell?'

'But....Heather....I.....' he trembled as he muttered a response.

'Heathers not here anymore Charles. Just little ol' me.

Anyway I'm infinitely more interesting than your frumpy, asshat, twat muppet of a wife.' Cooed Cheryl.

Charles slowly raised himself from the floor and inched towards the beckoning demon as if in a trance.

'Thats my boy' as she patted the bed beside her.

'You wanna know a little secret Charlie horse?'

'Umm......OK' he said.

'Well, nothing gets my juices flowing quite like a good exorcism and right now.......Cheryl has a fire in the hole'

'Umm......OK' he said.

He stared into her pus filled eyes and felt all resistance leave him.

Charles climbed onto the bed and straddled the demon, who now had smoke billowing from her ears.

His cock hardened.....

Reaching under her tattered and stained pastel house dress he felt the pulsating scorch of demon cooch.

The vacuum of her cunt drew him inside.....

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

Charles was completely oblivious to his surroundings. He had lost himself to the will of the demon.

Cheryl controlled his body....yet his mind was still his own and his mind was in a state of exquisite rapture and torturous sensation.

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 with massive force into the horny Succubus.

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

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

Losing consciousness he fell into the deepest sleep of his life.......

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

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

'Whats happening here 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???'

'Err......'

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

'Answer me Charles..... and what in God's name is that green slime 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 beautiful 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'

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by MilesNowhere
One Night Stand
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 seared her flesh yet the demon defiantly bared her rotting, green teeth at the weary priest.

'Is that the best you got father?' taunted the entity.

Father Timothy refused to be swayed.

'By what name are you known demon?' He demanded.

'I have been known by many names over countless centuries priest' She spat.

'But you may call me.... Cheryl'

'Cheryl....in the name of God the father, leave now the body of his beloved servant. In God's name I cast you back into the fires of hell.'

With that, the room began to shake.
The demon's eyes blazed with blinding yellow light as furniture and oddments cascaded in mid air to finally splinter and break against the floor and walls of the bedroom.

The priest cautiously took a step back toward the window as the bed levitated 4 feet above the floor.

Cheryl, who had been chained to the bedposts, raised her scabbed, pock marked face glaring deep into the eyes of Father Timothy.

'You look worn out priest, maybe you need a bit of fresh air'
She growled in a guttural rasp.

The bed hit him hard.
Glass and wood splintered in all directions as he fell backwards through the third floor window.

A dull thud sounded as Father Timothy's body hit the concrete.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Charles summoned the courage to finally raise his head. He had been slouched next to the bedroom door as the bizarre and horrifying events unfolded.

Father Timothy had been engaged under orders by the Vatican to carry out the exorcism after Charles' wife Heather had been pronounced 'possessed' following an
extensive investigation by the Catholic church.

The priest had travelled halfway across the country to attend and was a seasoned veteran of a dozen prior exorcisms.
Today though, he had met his match with the demon known as Cheryl.

Charles' eyes were slowly starting to focus upon the devastation around him.

The possessed body of his wife of 26 years was strapped to their bed, hyperventilating and grinning maniacally.
It felt as if the demon's yellow irises were burning holes into his flesh.

'Hey Chucky......why don't you come over here and sit with me a spell?'

'But....Heather....I.....' he trembled as he muttered a response.

'Heathers not here anymore Charles. Just little ol' me.
Anyway I'm infinitely more interesting than your frumpy, asshat, twat muppet of a wife.' Cooed Cheryl.

Charles slowly raised himself from the floor and inched towards the beckoning demon as if in a trance.

'Thats my boy' as she patted the bed beside her.
'You wanna know a little secret Charlie horse?'

'Umm......OK' he said.

'Well, nothing gets my juices flowing quite like a good exorcism and right now.......Cheryl has a fire in the hole'

'Umm......OK' he said.

He stared into her pus filled eyes and felt all resistance leave him.

Charles climbed onto the bed and straddled the demon, who now had smoke billowing from her ears.

His cock hardened.....

Reaching under her tattered and stained pastel house dress he felt the pulsating scorch of demon cooch.

The vacuum of her cunt drew him inside.....

'Fuck me to hell'
'Fuck me to hell'
'Fuck me to hell'
'Fuck me to hell'

Charles was completely oblivious to his surroundings. He had lost himself to the will of the demon.
Cheryl controlled his body....yet his mind was still his own and his mind was in a state of exquisite rapture and torturous sensation.

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 with massive force into the horny Succubus.

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

Charles was thrown off her immediately, his head hitting the bedpost.
Losing consciousness he fell into the deepest sleep of his life.......

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

'Charles.......Charles.......wake up.'
'Whats happening here 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???'

'Err......'

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

'Answer me Charles..... and what in God's name is that green slime 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 beautiful 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'
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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by MsHannahTweets

The Other Woman

“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.

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by MsHannahTweets
The Other Woman
“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.




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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by ChelleA

Deception Detection (reworked)

The door

whispers

open,

creaking its protest

on hinges

in need of lubrication,

once loud screams hoarse

from begging

for slick liquid relief.

Silent silhouette

sneaks

in,

mouse-quiet,

making sure

to

close

with care.

(Darkness hides a frigid figure,

frozen on the couch

in a tableau

of waiting,

frown in place,

and tired circles

drowning

red rivers

which surround

watery brown iris islands.)

You tiptoe

softly,

only the rhythmic

"tit-a-tat, tit-a-tat"

betraying the quiet retreat.

You reach the steps,

lean down

to take off

power shoes,

brown and business-like,

soles made to fit the art

of trampling others.

In stockinged feet,

you start to ascend,

thinking your angel

will welcome you

as always

before,

lost in luxurious sleep,

oblivious

to the Devil

who sleeps

beside her.

One flick of a switch...

SURPRISE!

Even angels feel the need to investigate

why mortals and demons

like to linger on Earth,

forsaking

the pleasure of what

should be

perfect paradise.

Blessed light floods the stage,

the final act

revealing cherry stains

on collar and sleeves,

ruffled,

rumpled

countenance

guilty,

but satisfaction still showing

in the faint smile

of a fox

who's eaten his fill,

and knows there's more.

Or so he thinks.

(But he's never as sly as his vixen.)

Your mouth

opens,

silken fibs

tumble forth,

rush as cattle

from lips like poisoned pens.

As you make

your pretty speeches,

illumination shuns your eyes,

shadows soak bright,

sopping in fluorescent gravy.

Excuses,

excuses,

well, excuuuuuuse me!

You think your shiny obsidian lies

are dagger enough

to cut

holes

in the Afterlife,

gaining you entrance to eternal bliss,

allowing access

to higher portals of love,

regardless

of the ways you like

to toy

with vices of the flesh.

Good thinking.

The front is heavily guarded.

(But back doors are usually trapped.)

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by ChelleA
Deception Detection (reworked)
The door
whispers
open,
creaking its protest
on hinges
in need of lubrication,
once loud screams hoarse
from begging
for slick liquid relief.

Silent silhouette
sneaks
in,
mouse-quiet,
making sure
to
close
with care.

(Darkness hides a frigid figure,
frozen on the couch
in a tableau
of waiting,
frown in place,
and tired circles
drowning
red rivers
which surround
watery brown iris islands.)

You tiptoe
softly,
only the rhythmic
"tit-a-tat, tit-a-tat"
betraying the quiet retreat.
You reach the steps,
lean down
to take off
power shoes,
brown and business-like,
soles made to fit the art
of trampling others.

In stockinged feet,
you start to ascend,
thinking your angel
will welcome you
as always
before,
lost in luxurious sleep,
oblivious
to the Devil
who sleeps
beside her.

One flick of a switch...

SURPRISE!

Even angels feel the need to investigate
why mortals and demons
like to linger on Earth,
forsaking
the pleasure of what
should be
perfect paradise.

Blessed light floods the stage,
the final act
revealing cherry stains
on collar and sleeves,
ruffled,
rumpled
countenance
guilty,
but satisfaction still showing
in the faint smile
of a fox
who's eaten his fill,
and knows there's more.

Or so he thinks.

(But he's never as sly as his vixen.)

Your mouth
opens,
silken fibs
tumble forth,
rush as cattle
from lips like poisoned pens.
As you make
your pretty speeches,
illumination shuns your eyes,
shadows soak bright,
sopping in fluorescent gravy.

Excuses,
excuses,

well, excuuuuuuse me!

You think your shiny obsidian lies
are dagger enough
to cut
holes
in the Afterlife,
gaining you entrance to eternal bliss,
allowing access
to higher portals of love,
regardless
of the ways you like
to toy
with vices of the flesh.

Good thinking.
The front is heavily guarded.

(But back doors are usually trapped.)


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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by jessandthesea

Adultery

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.

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by jessandthesea
Adultery
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.
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