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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 Vi

Are soulmates forever?

"Your Gong-gong and I celebrated our golden anniversary last year," Paw-paw said one day while I was visiting her at the nursing home. "I think it's time we did something adventurous!"

I smiled. It had been a long while since my seventy year old grandmother lit up like a toddler at the park on Easter Sunday.

I arched an eyebrow, wondering if my grandmother and I were thinking the same thing. "What exactly were you planning on doing?" I asked, pouring the second cup of tea. "Bungee jumping? Skydiving? Or maybe just getting into the back of Dad's car?" She was absolutely terrified of speed.

"Oh," she said, nonchalantly, "I don't know..." her voice trailed off. "Maybe we'll get a divorce!"

I coughed, tea escaping through my nostrils.

"Oh," she exclaimed, hurriedly offering a rescue napkin. "Are you alright, dear?"

"Yes," I replied, "just tea in my..." I circled my face with an index finger. "Nose."

My place was all over the head. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to tell her about my grandfather. I didn't want to bring up everything that she'd spent all these years trying to get over. Maybe I should just pretend she didn't say anything, I thought.

"Fifty years," she finally said after refilling my cup. "I think it's long enough for two people to know they're ready to do something else. Don't you?"

I smiled and sipped my tea. "I don’t know Paw-paw, I haven’t been married as long as you have.” I watched her closely, seeing if there was any tells on her face—anything that would give away her real intentions—but there were none.

“Getting married to your grandfather was wonderful, don’t get me wrong. But after the first thirty years…” she paused as though trying to remember something important.

Paw-paw?” I said after a few moments of silence between us.

“Oh, sorry.” She recomposed herself. “Where was I? Oh yes, I remember. After this many years, it gets a bit much you know?” She then lowered her voice, “Besides, your Gong-gong hasn't really been around these last few years, always off on his own, on some adventure. One time he was gone for months on end!”

I bit my lip. I could feel my stomach in knots.

“So,” she said with a firm voice. “I decided that I needed a change.”

“But Paw-paw,” I said, setting my cup down on the table and shifted in my chair.

“No,” she had had a palm up, facing me. “I’ve made up my mind. And I’ll tell you why.” She looked directly at me. “I’ve met someone.”

My lips were pursed, and my fists were clenched. I wanted to burst out, tell her everything about Gong-gong, but I saw the glimmer in her eyes as she continued talking with expressive hand gestures and I held my mouth firmly shut.

“...he brought me flowers the other day,” she said. “It was just the loveliest bunch of ruby red roses I had seen in awhile. Of course I told him I was taken.” She held up her ring finger.

“What’s his name again?” I said when I realized her lips had stopped moving.

“Kenneth,” she replied. “Ken for short. He’s actually quite the gentleman.”

She radiated warmth, her skin reflecting the morning sunshine, lips curling spontaneously like a young woman in love. I haven’t seen her like this since my daughter Karen was born. This was my grandmother, my Paw-paw, the one that had disappeared that fateful night, the night our worlds came crashing down on us. It took us what seemed like forever to get past the tragedy, but Paw-paw was sadly not the same woman. Imagine having your soul sucked right out, against your will, ripped from your flesh and bones. Then, whatever was left, the empty husk of a body, shucked, discarded, forced to endure an existence in between nowhere. Simply floating away, withering, diminishing. Everything would seem bland, all colour from the world drained, taste buds paralysed, and kittens would just be miniature cats.

In essence, I lost both grandparents that day. But watching her then… was this a better outcome?

“Your tea’s getting cold, dear.”

“Oh,” I jolted myself back. “Sorry,” I said.

“You know,” she said, “it would be really nice if you’d supported me.”

The smile hadn’t left her face. I lugged my chair closer, then filled my fingers into her hand. What about Gong-gong? I wanted to say, but the words evaporated at the tip of my tongue.

“I do,” I finally said. “I want you to be happy Paw-paw, and if this makes you happy, then I’m on your side.” But.

“Thank you, dear.” She squeezed my hand. “It means a lot.”

I reciprocated the smile. “So, when do I get to meet him?”

“Funny you should mention that,” she said. “Ken’s visiting me today.”

“He is?” I said. “When?”

“Oh…” her voice trailed off as she peered at her wrist. “Right about now.”

Part of me was excited. I wanted to know more about this man. Was he good-looking, has he aged well? Was he jovial? Would he smell thick with aftershave? Was he passionate about organ donation like Gong-gong? I turned around to look. My eyebrows furrowed when I saw him walking toward us. It couldn’t be right. That couldn’t be him. He was young enough to be my brother! No, the man that I saw had to be…

“Ken!” Paw-paw chirped. “How lovely to see you!” Still, I was in disbelief. My eyes were playing tricks, even when he leaned in for a kiss on the cheek, and stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. I knew I was staring, my mouth was wide open. She looked at me, then back at him, and said: “I’d like to introduce my granddaughter, Cora.”

“Hi…” my voice was weak. “Hello,” I tried again, this time extending my hand to shake his.

“Hello, Cora. I’ve heard so much about you,” he said. “I won’t say how I know where you got your good looks.”

“Surely you know that line doesn’t work anymore,” I blurted, then cringed inwardly. It was as though my filter had gone missing.

Paw-paw’s expression dampened a little, but she quickly recomposed. She was about to say something, but Kenneth piped up. “And I won’t say how I know who you got your fire from!”

“Perceptive,” I said. “For a twenty year old.”

“I’m actually closer to thirty.” He smiled cheekily, seemingly unfazed at the apparent hostility.

We spent the next half hour chatting. I threw all sorts of curly questions at him, it was a mix bag of obvious in-your-face and subtle ones. From politics, to global warming, to Donald Trump, and finally to same-sex marriage. There was a brief moment when I saw him shift uneasily. When Paw-paw excused herself to use the facilities, I decided to act.

“What’s your story, mate?” I asked, looking him directly in the eyes. “I’ll have you know that my grandmother isn’t a gold mine.”

He stared at me for a few seconds. Not a twitch in his body. Then, suddenly, he erupted into laughter.

“You…” he said after several moments. “You really think I’m after her money?”

“Explain yourself then,” I said and folded my arms.

He started unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Explaining,” he replied.

I started to feel uncomfortable, but held my tongue when I finally understood what he was trying to convey. On his chest, from just below his clavicle to the top of his diaphragm, was a deep scar. “I had a heart transplant,” he said. “Five years ago. The 23rd of November.” He emphasised the date, as if it was significant to me.

I observed him from afar. The cogs in my brain spinning furiously. Why was that date so familiar? I should know it. Oh my God!, The light bulb came on. That’s the date of the accident! I searched his face. There was only kindness and love. My eyes welled up as he nodded.

“How?” I said softly, my knuckles removing the excess moisture from my cheeks. “How did you and grandmother—”

“That’s a long story in itself,” he interjected. He gazed past me in the direction of the main building, then re-buttoned his shirt. “But suffice to say, I’m not a gold digger. Look, I’ve thought about telling her the truth, but I know that would break her heart all over again. It’s my decision."

He looked at me and said, "I will never hurt her. I promise.” His intense grey eyes spoke volumes.

I took the time to churn everything over several times. Weighing the pros along with the cons. The current situation was untenable. Someone would slip up eventually. I’ve been in similar situations before. It was impossible to maintain a lie without telling even more lies. Perhaps not for my grandmother in her current state of mind, but it would be living a lie, especially for Ken. How could we ask this of him? This was crazy!

Paw-paw came back not long after. She sat down next to him, and he poured her more tea. They started chatting, like best friends from lifetimes ago. It must be the air, the fresh scent of flowers, or the crispness, or even the singing of the Silvereyes; but I understood why she was drawn to him, why she fell for him. My Gong-gong had a heart of gold, and this same heart now resided within him, beating strongly for both of them.

“You’re a good man, Ken.” I said to him when it was time to depart.

He smiled back, nodding, one arm around her shoulder. Maybe she’ll find out, maybe she won’t. My grandfather had managed to find a way to be with my grandmother even through death. Who was I to tear them apart again?

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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 Vi
Are soulmates forever?
"Your Gong-gong and I celebrated our golden anniversary last year," Paw-paw said one day while I was visiting her at the nursing home. "I think it's time we did something adventurous!"

I smiled. It had been a long while since my seventy year old grandmother lit up like a toddler at the park on Easter Sunday.

I arched an eyebrow, wondering if my grandmother and I were thinking the same thing. "What exactly were you planning on doing?" I asked, pouring the second cup of tea. "Bungee jumping? Skydiving? Or maybe just getting into the back of Dad's car?" She was absolutely terrified of speed.

"Oh," she said, nonchalantly, "I don't know..." her voice trailed off. "Maybe we'll get a divorce!"

I coughed, tea escaping through my nostrils.

"Oh," she exclaimed, hurriedly offering a rescue napkin. "Are you alright, dear?"

"Yes," I replied, "just tea in my..." I circled my face with an index finger. "Nose."
My place was all over the head. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to tell her about my grandfather. I didn't want to bring up everything that she'd spent all these years trying to get over. Maybe I should just pretend she didn't say anything, I thought.

"Fifty years," she finally said after refilling my cup. "I think it's long enough for two people to know they're ready to do something else. Don't you?"

I smiled and sipped my tea. "I don’t know Paw-paw, I haven’t been married as long as you have.” I watched her closely, seeing if there was any tells on her face—anything that would give away her real intentions—but there were none.

“Getting married to your grandfather was wonderful, don’t get me wrong. But after the first thirty years…” she paused as though trying to remember something important.

Paw-paw?” I said after a few moments of silence between us.

“Oh, sorry.” She recomposed herself. “Where was I? Oh yes, I remember. After this many years, it gets a bit much you know?” She then lowered her voice, “Besides, your Gong-gong hasn't really been around these last few years, always off on his own, on some adventure. One time he was gone for months on end!”

I bit my lip. I could feel my stomach in knots.

“So,” she said with a firm voice. “I decided that I needed a change.”

“But Paw-paw,” I said, setting my cup down on the table and shifted in my chair.

“No,” she had had a palm up, facing me. “I’ve made up my mind. And I’ll tell you why.” She looked directly at me. “I’ve met someone.”

My lips were pursed, and my fists were clenched. I wanted to burst out, tell her everything about Gong-gong, but I saw the glimmer in her eyes as she continued talking with expressive hand gestures and I held my mouth firmly shut.

“...he brought me flowers the other day,” she said. “It was just the loveliest bunch of ruby red roses I had seen in awhile. Of course I told him I was taken.” She held up her ring finger.

“What’s his name again?” I said when I realized her lips had stopped moving.

“Kenneth,” she replied. “Ken for short. He’s actually quite the gentleman.”

She radiated warmth, her skin reflecting the morning sunshine, lips curling spontaneously like a young woman in love. I haven’t seen her like this since my daughter Karen was born. This was my grandmother, my Paw-paw, the one that had disappeared that fateful night, the night our worlds came crashing down on us. It took us what seemed like forever to get past the tragedy, but Paw-paw was sadly not the same woman. Imagine having your soul sucked right out, against your will, ripped from your flesh and bones. Then, whatever was left, the empty husk of a body, shucked, discarded, forced to endure an existence in between nowhere. Simply floating away, withering, diminishing. Everything would seem bland, all colour from the world drained, taste buds paralysed, and kittens would just be miniature cats.

In essence, I lost both grandparents that day. But watching her then… was this a better outcome?

“Your tea’s getting cold, dear.”

“Oh,” I jolted myself back. “Sorry,” I said.

“You know,” she said, “it would be really nice if you’d supported me.”

The smile hadn’t left her face. I lugged my chair closer, then filled my fingers into her hand. What about Gong-gong? I wanted to say, but the words evaporated at the tip of my tongue.

“I do,” I finally said. “I want you to be happy Paw-paw, and if this makes you happy, then I’m on your side.” But.

“Thank you, dear.” She squeezed my hand. “It means a lot.”

I reciprocated the smile. “So, when do I get to meet him?”

“Funny you should mention that,” she said. “Ken’s visiting me today.”

“He is?” I said. “When?”

“Oh…” her voice trailed off as she peered at her wrist. “Right about now.”

Part of me was excited. I wanted to know more about this man. Was he good-looking, has he aged well? Was he jovial? Would he smell thick with aftershave? Was he passionate about organ donation like Gong-gong? I turned around to look. My eyebrows furrowed when I saw him walking toward us. It couldn’t be right. That couldn’t be him. He was young enough to be my brother! No, the man that I saw had to be…

“Ken!” Paw-paw chirped. “How lovely to see you!” Still, I was in disbelief. My eyes were playing tricks, even when he leaned in for a kiss on the cheek, and stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. I knew I was staring, my mouth was wide open. She looked at me, then back at him, and said: “I’d like to introduce my granddaughter, Cora.”

“Hi…” my voice was weak. “Hello,” I tried again, this time extending my hand to shake his.

“Hello, Cora. I’ve heard so much about you,” he said. “I won’t say how I know where you got your good looks.”

“Surely you know that line doesn’t work anymore,” I blurted, then cringed inwardly. It was as though my filter had gone missing.

Paw-paw’s expression dampened a little, but she quickly recomposed. She was about to say something, but Kenneth piped up. “And I won’t say how I know who you got your fire from!”

“Perceptive,” I said. “For a twenty year old.”

“I’m actually closer to thirty.” He smiled cheekily, seemingly unfazed at the apparent hostility.

We spent the next half hour chatting. I threw all sorts of curly questions at him, it was a mix bag of obvious in-your-face and subtle ones. From politics, to global warming, to Donald Trump, and finally to same-sex marriage. There was a brief moment when I saw him shift uneasily. When Paw-paw excused herself to use the facilities, I decided to act.

“What’s your story, mate?” I asked, looking him directly in the eyes. “I’ll have you know that my grandmother isn’t a gold mine.”

He stared at me for a few seconds. Not a twitch in his body. Then, suddenly, he erupted into laughter.

“You…” he said after several moments. “You really think I’m after her money?”

“Explain yourself then,” I said and folded my arms.

He started unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Explaining,” he replied.

I started to feel uncomfortable, but held my tongue when I finally understood what he was trying to convey. On his chest, from just below his clavicle to the top of his diaphragm, was a deep scar. “I had a heart transplant,” he said. “Five years ago. The 23rd of November.” He emphasised the date, as if it was significant to me.

I observed him from afar. The cogs in my brain spinning furiously. Why was that date so familiar? I should know it. Oh my God!, The light bulb came on. That’s the date of the accident! I searched his face. There was only kindness and love. My eyes welled up as he nodded.

“How?” I said softly, my knuckles removing the excess moisture from my cheeks. “How did you and grandmother—”

“That’s a long story in itself,” he interjected. He gazed past me in the direction of the main building, then re-buttoned his shirt. “But suffice to say, I’m not a gold digger. Look, I’ve thought about telling her the truth, but I know that would break her heart all over again. It’s my decision."

He looked at me and said, "I will never hurt her. I promise.” His intense grey eyes spoke volumes.

I took the time to churn everything over several times. Weighing the pros along with the cons. The current situation was untenable. Someone would slip up eventually. I’ve been in similar situations before. It was impossible to maintain a lie without telling even more lies. Perhaps not for my grandmother in her current state of mind, but it would be living a lie, especially for Ken. How could we ask this of him? This was crazy!

Paw-paw came back not long after. She sat down next to him, and he poured her more tea. They started chatting, like best friends from lifetimes ago. It must be the air, the fresh scent of flowers, or the crispness, or even the singing of the Silvereyes; but I understood why she was drawn to him, why she fell for him. My Gong-gong had a heart of gold, and this same heart now resided within him, beating strongly for both of them.

“You’re a good man, Ken.” I said to him when it was time to depart.

He smiled back, nodding, one arm around her shoulder. Maybe she’ll find out, maybe she won’t. My grandfather had managed to find a way to be with my grandmother even through death. Who was I to tear them apart again?
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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 madbeyond

Bitch

When I died, I was reborn a dog

I went to live in the home of Martha,

whom as a man I had loved

(In the interest of cutting to the chase

I’ll spare you the boring preamble

suffice it to say I had lived a charmed life

excepting for despair

and unrequited yearning

and generally being disgusted

at how I look in clothes)

Who doesn’t love a puppy?

Who wouldn’t take a puppy to her bed?

Martha was tits-up-in-the-ditch in love

I nestled in her cleavage

while she watched Game of Thrones

When she got home from work

and dates

she let me hump her leg

(sometimes bad-self shoes and all)

She posted me on Pinterest

As if I were her world

So, reader.

You can see how disconcerting was

my sudden and total

disinterest in Martha

And my sheer contentment in

gnawing on a bone

or chewing an abandoned shoe

(bad-ass or mom-clog)

She

(My Martha)

was incidental to

this dog-thing I’d become,

(my Martha, whom once I’d lived to love)

Soon enough I was

indulging in the new pursuits

that gave me … joy

I was happy chasing rabbits in the field

happy chasing sticks into the sea

happy, inexplicably happy, just to shit and pee

happy drinking from the toilet bowl

a practice it had not occurred to me to ponder

in my pre-dog musings of the hereafter

I was happy with my muzzle

on the hole of some poor bitch in heat

whom I’d roll, blissfully, tongue hanging out

I was happy merely sleeping

dreaming doggie dreams of running

freely, flying after pigeons and Frisbees

I was happy barking madly at the moon

At passersby, the fat raccoons,

the neighbor’s cat, the fog –

Poor Martha (in the meantime) married a slob

who often brought stray females home

when she went off to work

Infidel, I liked him more than her –

Because he threw me chunks of meat

(we canines live to eat)

And didn’t mind my shedding

or the way I ripped my bedding

or my – infrequent, not at all my fault – accidents

(Martha cleaned them up)

I admit, he replaced her in my heart

It was he – the cheating bastard – who made my tale wag

I admit I was in heaven,

this, my disloyal heaven,

my dirty lowdown new life as a dog

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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 madbeyond
Bitch
When I died, I was reborn a dog
I went to live in the home of Martha,
whom as a man I had loved

(In the interest of cutting to the chase
I’ll spare you the boring preamble
suffice it to say I had lived a charmed life

excepting for despair
and unrequited yearning
and generally being disgusted
at how I look in clothes)

Who doesn’t love a puppy?
Who wouldn’t take a puppy to her bed?

Martha was tits-up-in-the-ditch in love
I nestled in her cleavage
while she watched Game of Thrones

When she got home from work
and dates
she let me hump her leg
(sometimes bad-self shoes and all)

She posted me on Pinterest
As if I were her world

So, reader.
You can see how disconcerting was
my sudden and total
disinterest in Martha

And my sheer contentment in
gnawing on a bone
or chewing an abandoned shoe
(bad-ass or mom-clog)

She
(My Martha)
was incidental to
this dog-thing I’d become,
(my Martha, whom once I’d lived to love)

Soon enough I was
indulging in the new pursuits
that gave me … joy

I was happy chasing rabbits in the field
happy chasing sticks into the sea
happy, inexplicably happy, just to shit and pee

happy drinking from the toilet bowl
a practice it had not occurred to me to ponder
in my pre-dog musings of the hereafter

I was happy with my muzzle
on the hole of some poor bitch in heat
whom I’d roll, blissfully, tongue hanging out

I was happy merely sleeping
dreaming doggie dreams of running
freely, flying after pigeons and Frisbees

I was happy barking madly at the moon
At passersby, the fat raccoons,
the neighbor’s cat, the fog –

Poor Martha (in the meantime) married a slob
who often brought stray females home
when she went off to work

Infidel, I liked him more than her –
Because he threw me chunks of meat
(we canines live to eat)

And didn’t mind my shedding
or the way I ripped my bedding
or my – infrequent, not at all my fault – accidents

(Martha cleaned them up)
I admit, he replaced her in my heart
It was he – the cheating bastard – who made my tale wag

I admit I was in heaven,
this, my disloyal heaven,
my dirty lowdown new life as a dog














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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 ...




#romance  #poetry  #prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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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 Sansari

Laced with sin.

Laced with sin he planted a kiss gently on my lips leeching on as his venom bled through me exiting the scions of another’s touch. Renewed in his taste my body submitted to the desire of him wallowing in his depths as the ideas of righteousness fluttered out the windowsill joining the sinking moon closing out the eyes of the world as we married into sin. He continued down to my neck coloring in lilac stains as his hands slipped down to my back to unhook my bra, working his way back to cup my breasts as he began to suck on my nipples tiring out my moans leaving sweet sighs of defeat. Simultaneously he gently fingered me in a rhythmic motion continuing to watch me as my body struggled against his violent delights succumbing me to his tunes as I finally drew out the last moan. Momentarily ringing a silent tune before he began again.

Stark in my stare I held his place as I defied all stature of virtue and unbuckled his belt leading him inside me in beg of no mercy. Pulling my hair back he took fierce strides as he thrust in and out of me stealing my breath leaving me gasping for air. Perfecting our motions as time checked itself out and the sunrise sneaked in through the blinds. Laying our lust to rest as we lay intertwined in satin sheets. Laying my head on his chest I watched him draw smoke from his cigarette easing it back into the atmosphere in perfect circles. I traced his face following the faultless sculpt of his face making my way down gently to his eyes closing them shut as I continued down the edge of his nose to his dry lips watching as the light perfectly killed the shadows of the night revealing all the pieces that made up his beautiful face. I continued down his lips and watched the light bounce off my ring. Within seconds the guilt of my deed slipped in and the spell collapsed washing out the reality of ifs with the reality of is. Watching him fall asleep I kissed his forehead and tightened the hold on my ring, walking away from the man I loved and back to the marriage that was impending. 

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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 Sansari
Laced with sin.
Laced with sin he planted a kiss gently on my lips leeching on as his venom bled through me exiting the scions of another’s touch. Renewed in his taste my body submitted to the desire of him wallowing in his depths as the ideas of righteousness fluttered out the windowsill joining the sinking moon closing out the eyes of the world as we married into sin. He continued down to my neck coloring in lilac stains as his hands slipped down to my back to unhook my bra, working his way back to cup my breasts as he began to suck on my nipples tiring out my moans leaving sweet sighs of defeat. Simultaneously he gently fingered me in a rhythmic motion continuing to watch me as my body struggled against his violent delights succumbing me to his tunes as I finally drew out the last moan. Momentarily ringing a silent tune before he began again.

Stark in my stare I held his place as I defied all stature of virtue and unbuckled his belt leading him inside me in beg of no mercy. Pulling my hair back he took fierce strides as he thrust in and out of me stealing my breath leaving me gasping for air. Perfecting our motions as time checked itself out and the sunrise sneaked in through the blinds. Laying our lust to rest as we lay intertwined in satin sheets. Laying my head on his chest I watched him draw smoke from his cigarette easing it back into the atmosphere in perfect circles. I traced his face following the faultless sculpt of his face making my way down gently to his eyes closing them shut as I continued down the edge of his nose to his dry lips watching as the light perfectly killed the shadows of the night revealing all the pieces that made up his beautiful face. I continued down his lips and watched the light bounce off my ring. Within seconds the guilt of my deed slipped in and the spell collapsed washing out the reality of ifs with the reality of is. Watching him fall asleep I kissed his forehead and tightened the hold on my ring, walking away from the man I loved and back to the marriage that was impending. 
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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 rsm915

The Arrangement

“You’re truly going to do it?” Amused that her friend Ellie couldn’t wait until they had completely left the stage to hear the details, Dora pretended deafness and made her way into the shadows offstage while the red velvet curtain swished to a close, muffling the rowdy catcalls and cheers from the male audience in the theater house.

Impatient as always, Ellie yanked her to a stop. “Well, are you?” Inwardly sighing, Dora gave up trying to hold off her friend. “Why, of course! A bawdy photograph is a perfect memento guaranteed to inflame him with thoughts of me while he’s on his blasted honeymoon as well as serving as a little reminder of what he’s missing.” Nonetheless, her brows knitted and her lips pinched together, unhappy and slightly worried about her lover’s recent news, knowing that an inconvenient marriage could put their arrangement at risk. Despite it, she still believed the chances of him throwing her over for a wife were slim since he was the picture of a man entirely obsessed with her charms, and she intended to ensure that he remained that way.

“Dora! But on his honeymoon?” Ellie’s squeak and owlish expression proved how scandalizing the prospect was, but Dora gave her friend an impatient look. “Why act so surprised? You know that women like us must grasp every opportunity. I already know that by agreeing to his father’s demands that he marry a proper lady, however reluctantly, he secures his inheritance. Though I may be farthest from the father’s ideal mate for his son, he's forever seeking my company and lifting my skirts. The fact that he set me up in a lovely nest assures me of his devotion and makes our assignations so much more convenient. Besides, what use would he have with an innocent, someone who would quake in fright like a terrified rabbit at the first sight of a naked man let alone know how to accommodate his penchant for, I daresay, certain habits?”

Ellie, a fellow opera dancer, could not deny the advantages of finding a wealthy, titled protector. In fact, it was every actress’s dream. Gifts of fancy dresses and sparkling jewels, even a grand home with servants; such were the rewards of the demimonde that made stage life worthwhile. One simply had to be beautiful and desirable and she would have her pick of the choicest men. How glorious it would feel, she fantasized and huffed an envious sigh over Dora’s good fortune.

“Well, he’s besotted, if his attendance here every night is any indication,” Ellen went on to grumble. “Why, he hasn’t missed any of your performances since the show opened a month ago!”

“As well as spending every night in my bed,” Dora rejoined, leaning in close to share that delicious tidbit with a self-satisfied smile. “Furthermore, I’ll do whatever needs doing to remain foremost in his favor.” Suddenly, the hardness melted from her face as she confessed her secret on a whisper, “The simple fact is that I need him. My daughter needs him. How else can I send money to my brother and his wife for my child’s upkeep, for heaven knows that tightfisted couple never does anything out of simple kindness, family ties be damned.”

Leaving Ellie sputtering in stunned surprise, Dora made her way to her dressing room where a photographer waited, already contemplating her most enticing poses, determination riding hard on her heels.

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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 rsm915
The Arrangement
“You’re truly going to do it?” Amused that her friend Ellie couldn’t wait until they had completely left the stage to hear the details, Dora pretended deafness and made her way into the shadows offstage while the red velvet curtain swished to a close, muffling the rowdy catcalls and cheers from the male audience in the theater house.

Impatient as always, Ellie yanked her to a stop. “Well, are you?” Inwardly sighing, Dora gave up trying to hold off her friend. “Why, of course! A bawdy photograph is a perfect memento guaranteed to inflame him with thoughts of me while he’s on his blasted honeymoon as well as serving as a little reminder of what he’s missing.” Nonetheless, her brows knitted and her lips pinched together, unhappy and slightly worried about her lover’s recent news, knowing that an inconvenient marriage could put their arrangement at risk. Despite it, she still believed the chances of him throwing her over for a wife were slim since he was the picture of a man entirely obsessed with her charms, and she intended to ensure that he remained that way.

“Dora! But on his honeymoon?” Ellie’s squeak and owlish expression proved how scandalizing the prospect was, but Dora gave her friend an impatient look. “Why act so surprised? You know that women like us must grasp every opportunity. I already know that by agreeing to his father’s demands that he marry a proper lady, however reluctantly, he secures his inheritance. Though I may be farthest from the father’s ideal mate for his son, he's forever seeking my company and lifting my skirts. The fact that he set me up in a lovely nest assures me of his devotion and makes our assignations so much more convenient. Besides, what use would he have with an innocent, someone who would quake in fright like a terrified rabbit at the first sight of a naked man let alone know how to accommodate his penchant for, I daresay, certain habits?”

Ellie, a fellow opera dancer, could not deny the advantages of finding a wealthy, titled protector. In fact, it was every actress’s dream. Gifts of fancy dresses and sparkling jewels, even a grand home with servants; such were the rewards of the demimonde that made stage life worthwhile. One simply had to be beautiful and desirable and she would have her pick of the choicest men. How glorious it would feel, she fantasized and huffed an envious sigh over Dora’s good fortune.

“Well, he’s besotted, if his attendance here every night is any indication,” Ellen went on to grumble. “Why, he hasn’t missed any of your performances since the show opened a month ago!”

“As well as spending every night in my bed,” Dora rejoined, leaning in close to share that delicious tidbit with a self-satisfied smile. “Furthermore, I’ll do whatever needs doing to remain foremost in his favor.” Suddenly, the hardness melted from her face as she confessed her secret on a whisper, “The simple fact is that I need him. My daughter needs him. How else can I send money to my brother and his wife for my child’s upkeep, for heaven knows that tightfisted couple never does anything out of simple kindness, family ties be damned.”

Leaving Ellie sputtering in stunned surprise, Dora made her way to her dressing room where a photographer waited, already contemplating her most enticing poses, determination riding hard on her heels.
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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 YAngeL

He Tasted Like my Self Awakening

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.

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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 YAngeL
He Tasted Like my Self Awakening
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.
#prosechallenge  #CotW  #infidelity  #wheniblewupmylife  #Itslit 
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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 AJAY9979

Ancient History

This is the last straw. I have put up with his foul words, his past abuses, his scandalous flings with beings who are supposed to worship us, but this is the last straw. Even as I sit here crafting my vengeance, he stands out there flirting with some girl who could easily be his granddaughter. But, it is not that. None of this is caused by any of that. It isn't even the children... his children that fill up every inch of our home. Everywhere I look, there is another bastard child sucking up milk, torturing the pets, and getting away with murder.

These things don't surprise me. None of it does. After all, we're a crime to begin with. He lured me with his valiance and vigor and strife despite our blood. He pursued me until I let him fill my chambers. He made me love my chains. Inevitably, we set the tone for our siblings who wed their sister's daughters and brother's fathers. Convinced our love was worth the deformed beings that sleep in out house, we set the tone. Physically, they are immaculate, but within, they are as monstrous as their foes. Within our home, betwixt their sheets, there is an uneraseable stain that permeates our family tree. Like him, they take who they want and teach their victims to bow and be thankful for their plundering. Their marriage beds always smell of someone else, just as their spouses do.

I still remember the first time. Her name was... Oh, I can't remember. It was so long ago, after we escaped our father. In a valiant move, my husband defeated him, and I'd fallen instantly. Our marriage was as swift as the consummation, which indeed consumed me. I awoke free from my father's toxic ways and instead in the warmth of my beloved. My world was complete. A day later, my heart and shoulder were both cold. No sooner had I awaken when he bolted out, claiming work. He returned smelling of her, and I went berserk. he was quick to avoid my blows, and even quicker to retaliate. We were both bruised and panting soon; he was a bloody pulp and I was a sobbing mess. For three hours, not a word between us passed. But we made up in bed (after I paid her a visit of course), and our fate was sealed.

It is not to say I had no blame. I found young suitors to pleasure me and drive him insane. Every blow he delivered, I tried to strike harder. Soon, we were at war. The only place where the playing field was level was within our room. What started as make up sex soon became rage fucking which soon became hate sex which soon became s...

s...

s...

Stop...

I can't stop him; I don't want to stop him when he's mad. We fight and fuck until every inch of us is either black or blue. Scratches trace his spine. Palm prints decorate my face. His thighs. My wrists. His chest. My hips. His throat. We are a tango of death. Together, we shower hail. We quake the earth. We swirl the ocean and churn the air. Everything he does, I have equal part in. But, no one sees that. They just see a strong Herculean man and his woman. His woman who isn't even his.

The funny thing is that there is no pleasure anymore. We're just a machine nowadays. He presses my buttons; I pull his levers. We argue like a clanking machine and choke on our words and spew vileness. Sometimes, our gears realign and we are in holy matrimony. Other times, our gears crash and scrape against each other until we are so tired of our fucking ordeal that we just can't stop. Neither is rewarded with even a smirk. Yet, somehow, even this isn't where I drew my line.

The line came when he ravished a young woman, as he does many a time. I look the other way, punish the woman, scold him only to be connived out of the contract. But this time, the woman was young. She was fifteen and he pillaged her as if she were just a piece of land. I did nothing to help, though this girl cried for someone to help her. My conscience still muddles when the memory enters it, and I find myself questioning my morals. Often, I wonder how all of Olympus somehow doesn't look up and see the bottom of the underworld. We overlook the worst and praise the best. Maybe things would be better if I had just stayed in Cronus' stomach...

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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 AJAY9979
Ancient History
This is the last straw. I have put up with his foul words, his past abuses, his scandalous flings with beings who are supposed to worship us, but this is the last straw. Even as I sit here crafting my vengeance, he stands out there flirting with some girl who could easily be his granddaughter. But, it is not that. None of this is caused by any of that. It isn't even the children... his children that fill up every inch of our home. Everywhere I look, there is another bastard child sucking up milk, torturing the pets, and getting away with murder.
These things don't surprise me. None of it does. After all, we're a crime to begin with. He lured me with his valiance and vigor and strife despite our blood. He pursued me until I let him fill my chambers. He made me love my chains. Inevitably, we set the tone for our siblings who wed their sister's daughters and brother's fathers. Convinced our love was worth the deformed beings that sleep in out house, we set the tone. Physically, they are immaculate, but within, they are as monstrous as their foes. Within our home, betwixt their sheets, there is an uneraseable stain that permeates our family tree. Like him, they take who they want and teach their victims to bow and be thankful for their plundering. Their marriage beds always smell of someone else, just as their spouses do.
I still remember the first time. Her name was... Oh, I can't remember. It was so long ago, after we escaped our father. In a valiant move, my husband defeated him, and I'd fallen instantly. Our marriage was as swift as the consummation, which indeed consumed me. I awoke free from my father's toxic ways and instead in the warmth of my beloved. My world was complete. A day later, my heart and shoulder were both cold. No sooner had I awaken when he bolted out, claiming work. He returned smelling of her, and I went berserk. he was quick to avoid my blows, and even quicker to retaliate. We were both bruised and panting soon; he was a bloody pulp and I was a sobbing mess. For three hours, not a word between us passed. But we made up in bed (after I paid her a visit of course), and our fate was sealed.
It is not to say I had no blame. I found young suitors to pleasure me and drive him insane. Every blow he delivered, I tried to strike harder. Soon, we were at war. The only place where the playing field was level was within our room. What started as make up sex soon became rage fucking which soon became hate sex which soon became s...
s...
s...
Stop...
I can't stop him; I don't want to stop him when he's mad. We fight and fuck until every inch of us is either black or blue. Scratches trace his spine. Palm prints decorate my face. His thighs. My wrists. His chest. My hips. His throat. We are a tango of death. Together, we shower hail. We quake the earth. We swirl the ocean and churn the air. Everything he does, I have equal part in. But, no one sees that. They just see a strong Herculean man and his woman. His woman who isn't even his.
The funny thing is that there is no pleasure anymore. We're just a machine nowadays. He presses my buttons; I pull his levers. We argue like a clanking machine and choke on our words and spew vileness. Sometimes, our gears realign and we are in holy matrimony. Other times, our gears crash and scrape against each other until we are so tired of our fucking ordeal that we just can't stop. Neither is rewarded with even a smirk. Yet, somehow, even this isn't where I drew my line.
The line came when he ravished a young woman, as he does many a time. I look the other way, punish the woman, scold him only to be connived out of the contract. But this time, the woman was young. She was fifteen and he pillaged her as if she were just a piece of land. I did nothing to help, though this girl cried for someone to help her. My conscience still muddles when the memory enters it, and I find myself questioning my morals. Often, I wonder how all of Olympus somehow doesn't look up and see the bottom of the underworld. We overlook the worst and praise the best. Maybe things would be better if I had just stayed in Cronus' stomach...

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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 undecidings

My sincerest apologies...

Waking up to the putrid smell of your sweat soaked body, taking it, as it's the only thing you know anymore. Mouth of rotting sweet nothings. Setting your cold toes on the frigid floor, turning a deep purple, enough to fill the rainbows we used to enjoy. Phased not by the nipping of the frosting air at your bare feet, but more so by the empty cold next to you. Covers thrown back. Tear stains sprinkle the worn out sheets like the powder freckles he had running across warm, pale skin. In. Out. Air in your lungs, the lungs that used to call out his name in nights like this. Now every breath is another reminder of the tormenting. He did it. The sheets. The sheets still retain him, like holding on for dear life. It's your musk, your cinnamon smell, your home scent. Masked. Masked by infidelity. Fading away like the life in love. The dust is starting to pile, the clothes starting to go stale. The water no longer fresh, the hair no longer soft. Draining. 

Fingers roaming into the night, soft kisses on rough lips. Fading away, changing to squeaky door knobs at night, patter of soft footsteps. A dip in the bed late at night, no more soft kisses. 

Forgive me for what I could not provide, come back.

It consumes you, infidelity. A monster with in a monster, off setting the lives of the innocent. It's dark hand cloaking your mind, and in one snatch, you left. 

What was given by her? What could I not administer? Shoulders aching, heart racing, tears falling, screams unleashing, plates crashing and...for what? Silence. She had something I did not. And I give my sincerest apologies for failing you. I've lost the bright in my eyes, the little sparkle in the center of muddy circles. You took that with you, along with my heart. You took it all to give to another. Maybe it was just that, the muddy circles, are hers of the forest? Or the ocean to match? Does she have a whiter smile, a softer laugh? Will you give her the ring? The one you took.

The ring no longer worn. Tarnished. Like the image you left behind. Infidelity. What an exquisite word. Noun. Unfaithfulness; disloyalty. That is your name now. Not Oliver or Jacob or anything else you bother to change it to. You are infidelity. And I have never stopped loving you.

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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 undecidings
My sincerest apologies...
Waking up to the putrid smell of your sweat soaked body, taking it, as it's the only thing you know anymore. Mouth of rotting sweet nothings. Setting your cold toes on the frigid floor, turning a deep purple, enough to fill the rainbows we used to enjoy. Phased not by the nipping of the frosting air at your bare feet, but more so by the empty cold next to you. Covers thrown back. Tear stains sprinkle the worn out sheets like the powder freckles he had running across warm, pale skin. In. Out. Air in your lungs, the lungs that used to call out his name in nights like this. Now every breath is another reminder of the tormenting. He did it. The sheets. The sheets still retain him, like holding on for dear life. It's your musk, your cinnamon smell, your home scent. Masked. Masked by infidelity. Fading away like the life in love. The dust is starting to pile, the clothes starting to go stale. The water no longer fresh, the hair no longer soft. Draining. 

Fingers roaming into the night, soft kisses on rough lips. Fading away, changing to squeaky door knobs at night, patter of soft footsteps. A dip in the bed late at night, no more soft kisses. 

Forgive me for what I could not provide, come back.

It consumes you, infidelity. A monster with in a monster, off setting the lives of the innocent. It's dark hand cloaking your mind, and in one snatch, you left. 

What was given by her? What could I not administer? Shoulders aching, heart racing, tears falling, screams unleashing, plates crashing and...for what? Silence. She had something I did not. And I give my sincerest apologies for failing you. I've lost the bright in my eyes, the little sparkle in the center of muddy circles. You took that with you, along with my heart. You took it all to give to another. Maybe it was just that, the muddy circles, are hers of the forest? Or the ocean to match? Does she have a whiter smile, a softer laugh? Will you give her the ring? The one you took.

The ring no longer worn. Tarnished. Like the image you left behind. Infidelity. What an exquisite word. Noun. Unfaithfulness; disloyalty. That is your name now. Not Oliver or Jacob or anything else you bother to change it to. You are infidelity. And I have never stopped loving you.
#prosechallenge  #Itslit 
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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 jconradguest

Forever A Philanderer

IT FELT ODD TO BRITNEY – no, wrong – kissing a stranger in her foyer. She was a married woman, had taken a vow to remain faithful to her husband till death did they part. But the second kiss, when he pushed his tongue into her mouth… it was like the painting on the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel in Rome, where God is about to touch Adam’s lifeless hand to spark him into being.

Who was it that painted that? she thought through a haze of marijuana and a reawakened passion. Michael Angelo?

This stranger was breathing life into her as surely as Michelangelo had given life to the act of creation, as surely as God had given life to Adam.

A Charles Bronson lookalike if ever there was one.

The way the stranger looked at her, after her t-shirt was gone, took away her breath. No one had ever looked at her like that, not even Jeff. His eyes, along with his comments about her being fat, always left her feeling self-conscious about her body.

But in this stranger’s eyes she saw desire, yes, and also lust. But there was admiration, too. Now his eyes met hers, and they seemed to be asking her permission, if it was okay that he drink in her nakedness. He seemed nearly apologetic that her nakedness filled him with desire, want, and need. All she ever saw in Jeff’s face was horniness and the need to get off. Never ever did he ever think about her pleasure.

Then the stranger’s hands were on her: holding her face as he kissed her yet a third time, softly, sensuously, with passion, not roughly; gently grasping her shoulders to pull her against him – their tongues still wrestling inside her mouth – sliding down her flanks and around to knead her buttocks, gently, with purpose, and more passion.

There’s magic in dem dere hands, she thought, moaning into his mouth, until he bent to take a breast in his mouth, sucking its nipple so tenderly, so lovingly. Not like – what was his name?

Jeff.

He always pawed at her, like an animal, and liked to bite her nipples, often hard enough to draw blood.

The stranger’s fingers now worked the button on her jeans, ever so slowly, as if the simple act of undressing her was itself foreplay to him, a moment to be savored, and she was surprised that she didn’t resist. There was still time for her to say, “No,” even as the zzz sound of her zipper filled her ears and he peeled her jeans down over her hips, stopping a moment to work his warm, moist tongue into her navel; but all she wanted to say was, “Yes” and “yes” and “yes” yet again, screaming her accedence if she had to, to make this moment real.

That was me, she realized, the sound of her gasp in her ears.

With Jeff, whenever he told her he “wanted it,” she always sighed. But it was a sigh of disappointment. Jeff was just too dense to know it.

Or maybe he just didn’t care so long as he got his own rocks off.

Her jeans were now at her feet; she stepped out of them, still in her panties, leaning on the stranger kneeling before her to maintain her balance. His face was level with her mons Venus, his eyes fixed on her pink lace bikini panties, admiring them and what lay concealed inside them, perhaps lost in a fantasy, as she was lost in one of her own, wondering what he might do next, hoping it would be what her husband had never done.

On his knees before her, his hands resting lightly on her hips, he looked as if he was in church, kneeling before the altar that was her body, about to partake of communion, of the bodily fluid that gives life to erections.

He inhaled deeply and glanced up into her eyes again, as if seeking her consent; Britney smiled at him.

Forgoing conversation, he sighed and kissed her sex through the thin fabric of her panties. Whimpering, she threw back her head, her desire growing.

A moment later he hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties and eased them down over her hips, down past her knees, down to her ankles.

After she stepped out of them, he began to kiss and lick the inside of her left thigh, right there in the foyer. With her back against the front door, she heard the footsteps of the mailman on the porch. Her heartbeat quickened and her breathing came in short gasps. “Ohhh,” she groaned. The thought that the mailman might hear her inflamed her passion. She heard the squeak of the mailbox’s metal hinge, the clang of its closure, his departing footsteps.

Then the stranger proceeded to give her right thigh the same treatment, as if he didn’t wish it to feel neglected. His hot, fervid kisses on her inner thighs felt heavenly; as foreplay they were divine. Her husband’s idea of foreplay was telling her to spread her legs and then falling on top of her to have his way with her.

Slowly, gently, he kissed and nibbled his way higher, alternating between both legs, leaving a thin trail of saliva.

She was thoroughly, utterly wet, ready and willing for anything the stranger might do.

Knees trembling, she spread her legs wider, inviting him to… and caught her own scent.

Will he? she wondered when he could go no further, hoping, praying. Her husband never had and professed he never would.

“Yesss,” she breathed as she felt the stranger’s torrid tongue dance across her blooming clit.

“Oh, my god,” she groaned, raising herself up on the balls of her feet.

She thought she’d just died and gone to heaven.

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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 jconradguest
Forever A Philanderer
IT FELT ODD TO BRITNEY – no, wrong – kissing a stranger in her foyer. She was a married woman, had taken a vow to remain faithful to her husband till death did they part. But the second kiss, when he pushed his tongue into her mouth… it was like the painting on the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel in Rome, where God is about to touch Adam’s lifeless hand to spark him into being.

Who was it that painted that? she thought through a haze of marijuana and a reawakened passion. Michael Angelo?

This stranger was breathing life into her as surely as Michelangelo had given life to the act of creation, as surely as God had given life to Adam.

A Charles Bronson lookalike if ever there was one.

The way the stranger looked at her, after her t-shirt was gone, took away her breath. No one had ever looked at her like that, not even Jeff. His eyes, along with his comments about her being fat, always left her feeling self-conscious about her body.

But in this stranger’s eyes she saw desire, yes, and also lust. But there was admiration, too. Now his eyes met hers, and they seemed to be asking her permission, if it was okay that he drink in her nakedness. He seemed nearly apologetic that her nakedness filled him with desire, want, and need. All she ever saw in Jeff’s face was horniness and the need to get off. Never ever did he ever think about her pleasure.

Then the stranger’s hands were on her: holding her face as he kissed her yet a third time, softly, sensuously, with passion, not roughly; gently grasping her shoulders to pull her against him – their tongues still wrestling inside her mouth – sliding down her flanks and around to knead her buttocks, gently, with purpose, and more passion.

There’s magic in dem dere hands, she thought, moaning into his mouth, until he bent to take a breast in his mouth, sucking its nipple so tenderly, so lovingly. Not like – what was his name?

Jeff.

He always pawed at her, like an animal, and liked to bite her nipples, often hard enough to draw blood.

The stranger’s fingers now worked the button on her jeans, ever so slowly, as if the simple act of undressing her was itself foreplay to him, a moment to be savored, and she was surprised that she didn’t resist. There was still time for her to say, “No,” even as the zzz sound of her zipper filled her ears and he peeled her jeans down over her hips, stopping a moment to work his warm, moist tongue into her navel; but all she wanted to say was, “Yes” and “yes” and “yes” yet again, screaming her accedence if she had to, to make this moment real.

That was me, she realized, the sound of her gasp in her ears.

With Jeff, whenever he told her he “wanted it,” she always sighed. But it was a sigh of disappointment. Jeff was just too dense to know it.

Or maybe he just didn’t care so long as he got his own rocks off.

Her jeans were now at her feet; she stepped out of them, still in her panties, leaning on the stranger kneeling before her to maintain her balance. His face was level with her mons Venus, his eyes fixed on her pink lace bikini panties, admiring them and what lay concealed inside them, perhaps lost in a fantasy, as she was lost in one of her own, wondering what he might do next, hoping it would be what her husband had never done.

On his knees before her, his hands resting lightly on her hips, he looked as if he was in church, kneeling before the altar that was her body, about to partake of communion, of the bodily fluid that gives life to erections.

He inhaled deeply and glanced up into her eyes again, as if seeking her consent; Britney smiled at him.

Forgoing conversation, he sighed and kissed her sex through the thin fabric of her panties. Whimpering, she threw back her head, her desire growing.

A moment later he hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties and eased them down over her hips, down past her knees, down to her ankles.

After she stepped out of them, he began to kiss and lick the inside of her left thigh, right there in the foyer. With her back against the front door, she heard the footsteps of the mailman on the porch. Her heartbeat quickened and her breathing came in short gasps. “Ohhh,” she groaned. The thought that the mailman might hear her inflamed her passion. She heard the squeak of the mailbox’s metal hinge, the clang of its closure, his departing footsteps.

Then the stranger proceeded to give her right thigh the same treatment, as if he didn’t wish it to feel neglected. His hot, fervid kisses on her inner thighs felt heavenly; as foreplay they were divine. Her husband’s idea of foreplay was telling her to spread her legs and then falling on top of her to have his way with her.

Slowly, gently, he kissed and nibbled his way higher, alternating between both legs, leaving a thin trail of saliva.

She was thoroughly, utterly wet, ready and willing for anything the stranger might do.

Knees trembling, she spread her legs wider, inviting him to… and caught her own scent.

Will he? she wondered when he could go no further, hoping, praying. Her husband never had and professed he never would.

“Yesss,” she breathed as she felt the stranger’s torrid tongue dance across her blooming clit.

“Oh, my god,” she groaned, raising herself up on the balls of her feet.

She thought she’d just died and gone to heaven.
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Juice
158 reads
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