Well, kids, it’s time for the final installment of the “Lust” entries for the 7 Deadly Sins Series. This round has had some shizzle with sizzle…don’t you think? You’re going to love these entries, as well.
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First, I’ll include my non-contest submission:
“I won’t forgive you next time” I’d said, hot tears stinging my eyes. “I can’t.”
“There won’t be a next time” he’d reassured me, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I was stupid.” He lifted my chin, searching my face, then pulled me close. “I’m so sorry. I promise you. It will not happen again” he’d whispered into my neck.
That had been a year ago – a stressful year punctuated with health issues, job changes, and a now empty nest. For the sake of our daughter, her senior year of high school, her promising tennis career, and because I was terrified of starting over again at my age – I forgave him. But I did not, and could not, forget.
I retrieved my car from the long-term lot and headed in the direction of home. It had been a long week of meetings, presentations, conference calls, networking, glad-handing and schmoozing. I just wanted to take a long, hot shower and lie down in my own bed. I’d finished a day early, and I needed rest.
I caught a glimpse of a familiar looking red sports car leaving very our very secluded driveway. My stomach clenched. My hands gripped the steering wheel. “It couldn’t be” I told myself. “She wouldn’t dare come to our home.” I let myself quietly in the front door, my hands shaking.
His cell phone was on the counter, vibrating madly. I checked it as I headed for the bedroom. Four voice mail messages, three from me – and a text message – not from me. “Miss you already.”
“Did you forget something, Shelly?” my husband called out from the bedroom. I picked up speed down the hallway, footsteps pounding. My heart was thudding and my palms sweating.
“Shelly?” he called out the name of our daughter’s tennis coach. “Is that you? Did you forget something – or did you come back for more?” His voice was playful. “That Viagra’s worn off, but I’ve got plenty more.”
I stopped outside the bedroom door. He was lying on his side in a provocative pose, sheet draped over his pelvis. On the nightstand stood a champagne bottle, two flutes – one stained with lipstick, and a prescription bottle.
“That’s good to know” I said coolly from the doorway.
“Oh, my God” he gasped when he saw my face. “I didn’t know you were home.”
He grabbed the sheet and shot up from the bed. “I…I can explain.” The color drained from his face. Sweat droplets appeared on his forehead.
“I seriously doubt that” I said, holding up his cell phone. “Shelly misses you already – the poor thing”.
“You certainly are that.”
“It’s just….I…um. Oh, God. Honey, please,” his eyes pleaded. His color had turned ashen. He clutched his chest, the sweat began pouring down his face. He swayed side to side.
“Please? Please what?” I yelled. “Please pretend you didn’t just have your mistress in my bed? Pretend you haven’t broken not only your marriage vows but your promise to me? Please, what?” I shoved his chest with the cell phone.
He stumbled backward and plopped unceremoniously onto the bed, rubbing his left arm. His color had not improved – it matched the tousled gray at his temples. “It’s my heart…call an ambulance. Please. Oh, God. I’m begging you.” He reached toward the nightstand where he kept a bottle of aspirin. I pushed the drawer shut with my knee.
He pitched forward to the floor, gasping and clutching his chest. His face contorted in agony.
“It’s time to think about my heart.”
I pocketed his cell phone, locked the front door, and drove away.
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From MJ at mjmonaghan.com :
If Prohibition was the law of the land, then the speakeasy was the law’s biggest ball-buster.
It was 1925 at Manhattan’s “Jack and Charlie’s 21.” Most everyone just called it “21” since it was located at 21 West 52nd Street.
The four dames sauntered into that gin joint like they owned the damn place. All dolled up in “shorts”: short hair, short skirts, and short on virtues – typical flappers.
Every head turned in the place as they made their way down the steps and into the main room in the bar: From gangsters, and feds on the take – who were giving them the up-and-down – to back-biting women who wished they could throttle the broads (not that they weren’t still giving them the once-over, too, by examining their shoes, dresses, and hairstyles).
Men wanted them – in the biblical way – and women wanted to be them, in spite of hating what they did, and who they were.
No one could deny they were lookers; all from different places. How they became roommates, was anyone’s guess, other than the fact they were young ladies who liked to dance, drink, and carouse:
Meg, was from the Midwest, and because of her long gams was nicknamed Meg-O-Lamb.
Carla was from the tip of the Northeast, somewhere in Maine. It was hard to believe, but even New Yawkuz poked fun at her accent.
Sadie was the tough, no-nonsense leader of the pack. Her nickname on the street was “Sadie-did” – because anytime something bad happened and the question came up about who done it, the response was always “Sadie did.” But no one called her that to her face. They wouldn’t dare. She was tough as nails.
It was rumored that Sadie was from the Midwest, also, but she never talked about it. Something too painful had happened “back there.”
Lastly, there was Jewels. From the time she was a little girl she dreamed of living across the Hudson River from Jersey. Now she was doing it, and in style. Her typical winter outer wear consisted of her trademark, full-length chipmunk fur coat.
On the surface this passel of women was like any other, excepting for the looks and fashion. The quartet seemed kind and caring, but deep down if you tailed them, you’d find the four running interference for bootleggers.
The four were the kind of girls you were glad your sister wasn’t.
Primarily they worked for Dave Moffett. Everyone in Manhattan called him “Diamond Dave” because of the giant, diamond-encrusted pinkie ring he always wore.
Diamond Dave was tied into all manner of criminal activity, but made most of his money on hooch. He hid his rum-running by working for the local rag covering the city beat. Cops knew him, but steered clear since he had them all in his pocket.
He had a weakness, though: He was a big womanizer and couldn’t keep his hands off the dames.
That night was like any night. The four girls were there for fun, and to collect their money from Dave. They would always meet in a secluded back room. First Dave would discreetly walk back, and then a few minutes later Meg, Carla, Jewels, and Sadie would make their way to meet him.
As Diamond waited for them, his mind wandered, and he couldn’t get Meg out of his mind. She had flashed him her left leg through the slit in her short skirt that was more like a belt. He always liked her, but now he WANTED to have her; possess her; to make her his.
The door to the private room opened and the four flappers strode in. Diamond Dave was burning like an ember as his eyes fixed on Meg.
“You got the sawbucks?” Jewels asked.
“Yeah; sure thing, girls,” Dave said as he pulled a wad of $10 bills out of his pocket with his right hand.
“Hey, Meg, why don’t you come over this way for a minute?”
Meg moved toward him, and Dave’s fat hand latched on to her left breast. What happened next was a blur.
Instinctively, Meg reached for something to break Diamond Dave’s grip from her body. She fumbled and felt an object behind her, and picked it up and struck him in the head. Blood ran down Dave’s head at the same time his body dropped to the floor with a “thud.”
Meg quickly threw down the weapon – an 18” tall, Empire State Building promotional statuette for the soon-to-be-built skyscraper.
The other three shook Meg so they could get their story straight before the coppers got there.
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And from Jules at gojulesgo.com:
7 Deadly Scenes: Lust
“No! You have to do it like this!”
His laughter is infectious. He grabs the cell phone from my hands and shakes it, showing me how to rearrange the apps on the screen. I grab the phone back and give it an exaggerated wave.
The final weeks in August are dead at the office.
“Is this why these things need protection?” I ask, holding up the phone to reveal its plastic case. “Safe sexting?”
His fit starts anew, and he collapses in his seat, wiping tears away with a single hand.
I can’t take my eyes off his hands.
“You better hold on tight, spider monkey!”
I throw my head back and laugh. My favorite line in the movie. It’s not supposed to be funny, but it gets me every time.
We’re really pushing the ‘hardly working’ part of the old saying, but Friday afternoon before Labor Day seemed like the perfect time to watch a video projected from my lap top onto the largest screen in the office.
I stop laughing abruptly when I realize his eyes are on me.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious. His gaze is soft, brown and loving.
“Nothing,” he smiles, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“And that is why they invented therapy.”
I chuckle, delighted by his secret-sharing.
“…So?” he adds, eyebrows raised.
“So?” I echo, butterflies in my stomach.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I laugh again, relieved, frustrated. I take a sip of my beer, staring at the forest green walls of our favorite after work haunt.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, and my smile fades as I force myself to meet his gaze.
“You love your husband?”
My hand halts on the car door handle.
“Yes,” I reply quietly, not because it’s the right thing to say, but because it’s the truth.
“Okay,” he says, and walks away, my sudden sobs filling the hot summer air.
“We should go,” he whispers.
“Or what?” I whisper back, still only a breath away.
I never should have agreed to stop at his place before the meeting.
I reach out a shaking hand and touch his wavy brown hair. It’s thick and soft. Far softer than it should be.
I bet his lips are, too. These thoughts come unbidden. I am used to them now.
“We’re late,” he says. His eyes darken and I drop my hand. We’re not late.
Though I have no right to be, I’m hurt.
“He’d kill us both,” he breathes, his eyes softening.
“No,” I smile ruefully. “Just me.”
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
He looks helpless, standing in my doorway. He knows my husband is gone for the weekend, on his annual fishing trip.
Something deep inside me explodes.
“Yes you do,” I say, surprised by the raspy wanting in my voice.
He doesn’t respond. At least not in words.
“I found this.”
I blanch, seeing my phone in my husband’s large hand.
In his other hand rests something equally shiny and silver.
“Didn’t I always tell you what I’d do to you?” He takes a step towards me.
I open my eyes and clutch my heart, breathless. It was only a dream.