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Nora’s novella-in-progress

Opening Sentence (Round 1)

Every unhappy family is indeed unhappy in its own way, but the truth is that it is no different for the happy ones.

Opening paragraph about interactions over the Web – 300 words (Round 2)

“Humph!” thought Catherine, reading over the opening of her short story. “What exactly do I mean by this? That all happy families are happy in their own way or unhappy in their own way?” Hers was a happy family, she had no doubt about that. But then what had impelled her to open this way? What was it that was gnawing at her? “Don’t be preposterous, Catherine!” she chuckled to herself. “Nothing is wrong… nothing at all!” Perhaps to prove the point more to herself than to Arthur, she interrupted her writing to express her ardent love for him in an email. She opened Yahoo mail only to find that Arthur was still logged in. Just as she was about to click the logout button her eyes strayed to the single unread message in his inbox: From SexySeleme1744 – Subject Cum check out my barely legal XXX photos!! Catherine deleted the smutty spam in disgust. The image of her dear husband stroking his manhood over obscene images of teenagers in unspeakable positions of degradation flooded through her, jarring her to the core. She picked herself up from her cherry oak desk and glided across the lusciously carpeted floor to the glorious Palladian window overlooking her teagarden. The soothing light of the full moon flooded over her, calming her pattering heart, while also revealing in breathtaking outline her long sinuous thighs, flaring hips, and generous bosom. She knew she could give Arthur far more pleasure than any of those shameless hussies who pranced about indecently over the Internet for everyone to see. The sanctified obligations of marriage did not exclude sensuality and amorous adventure. She shifted her weight to one leg and confidently ran her hand over the arc of her mature outthrust hip. Tonight she would show Arthur just how exciting marriage could be.

Incorporate the death of a dog – 400 words (Round 3):

The neighbor’s dogs’ barking alerted her that Alfred had arrived. “Messengers of pleasure,” she smiled to herself, lazily extending a long bare leg across the bed.

But when Arthur burst into the bedroom, Catherine knew by his furrowed brow that something dreadful had happened. His hair, which normally cascaded silkily down his tanned forehead, was tousled and oily with sweat. It was rare to see Arthur out of sorts, but when it did happen, he was most desirable.

Arthur plunked down on the bed, clutching his head, still oblivious to the warm, feline, half-clad body draped across the perfumed sheets.

“I ran over a dog as I was leaving the bank,” Arthur suddenly cried out, his back still to Catherine. “I flattened the poor pooch!”

“Oh, Arthur!” Catherine cried. “How terrible!” It truly was, but the only thing to be done was to console the living. That much she could do for her husband. She crawled over towards him on the bed on all fours, her ripe fruits swinging below her, and pressed herself against his back.

All of a sudden, Arthur became aware of his wife’s hotly alive body. Her breasts pancaked against him like partially-filled hot water bottles. The squishy tips of her creamy melons soon hardened through the negligee, piercing him with rubbery insistence. His body reacted in kind. As he stiffened, she slipped a leg around him and ever so slowly began gyrating her pelvis against his swelling scepter.

“But Catherine—” Arthur gasped.

“Shhh,” Catherine said, touching her fingers to his lips. “Words later. If you need to say anything, speak it in the language of love.”

Arthur groaned and gave himself over to his rising desire. He slid his hand up under her negligee and squeezed the outthrust mounds of her ample rump. Unable to resist, he then reached around and wedged the palm of his fingers between her hungry amazonian thighs, which yawned open to accept the welcome intrusion.

With heavy-lidded eyes, Catherine squirmed against his serviceable hand. She let out a moan of pleasure as his rigid fingers found their moist target. Panting heavily, she surrendered to the flaming throes of matrimonial ecstasy.

As the waves of pleasure wracked her frame, she buried her face in his swarthy chest. She drew a deep breath to fill herself with his musky animal scent… and instead smelled the perfume of another woman.

Weave an element of Fyor’s story into your passage – 450 words (Round 4)

Catherine recoiled in shock, dismounting from the bunched glistening fingers of his probing hand. “Who is she?” she demanded, breathing raggedly, her inflamed mound aching from its aborted fulfillment.

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Arthur cried, unable to tear his gaze from the pair of quivering orbs jutting forth arrogantly towards him.

“The perfume!” Catherine screamed, suddenly lunging at him, wildly swinging her fists at his swarthy chest. “That’s not my perfume!”

Arthur shielded his face with his forearms. “Catherine… darling would you just… for God’s sake!” But Catherine’s wildcat frenzy was implacable. Arthur grunted as he took a fist to the shoulder and another to his steely abdomen. “You must believe me,” he cried. “I haven’t been with another woman!”

“Why you deceitful scoundrel!” Catherine swung and clipped Arthur across his rugged square jaw.

One would not know it by the soft sensuality of Catherine’s lush Junoesque body, but she could pack a punch. Having endured enough, Arthur grabbed each of her wrists in mid-air. Catherine squirmed helplessly in his grip. She’d forgotten just how strong and manly he was.

“If you’d just let me explain!” Arthur hissed. “Remember the 1987 Judge Hearth killing? Well, his niece, Auggie, is one of my patients. Her husband recently left her in a most deplorable manner. She needed a hug. That was all.”

“A hug?” Catherine flashed her smoldering eyes at him and clenched her sullen lips. “And how long did this ‘hug’ last? You impostor of a husband!”

Arthur’s nether parts began to throb like his forehead. As he looked down into the heaving crevasse of her mounds, a wild unmanageable desire consumed him.  Unable to withstand it anymore, he flipped her around and threw her down violently upon the bed.

“Arthur…” she gasped.

He yanked her negligee up to her lower back and slapped the luscious round hillocks of her rump, as if to claim and subdue them with the red handprint. Then he crammed a satin pillow under her luxuriously rounded hips. This raised her ripe hind, which only further emphasized its dramatic proportions and revealed her secret valley with its tangle of black forest.

“No, Arthur,” she whimpered. “Don’t do it.”

As he thrust himself into her, an animal moan came from deep inside Catherine. He reined her hair back, pulling her tormented face up. She bared her teeth with humiliated pleasure as he drove himself in to the hilt.

“You want to know the truth?” Arthur whispered into her ear as his loins slapped percussively against her, the flesh rippling in gorgeous waves across her milky rump. “I’ll tell you the truth…”

Fourth Fiction Challenge 5Incorporate this image into your next passage – 500 words (Round 5)

“I lied to you,” Arthur hissed, his punishing hand slapping the widely-spaced piñatas of her breasts. “I lied to you about Auggie,” he repeated, emphasizing the revelation with a particularly violent thrust of his engorged manhood that drove Catherine face down into her goose-feather duvet. The right side of her face buried into the quilt’s lush folds, muffling her shocked cries.

“I never hugged her at all,” he went on, his muscular torso jackhammering away behind the steep downhill of her lower back. “You want to know what I did to her? Do you?” Arthur demanded, punctuating his question with a muscular open-palmed slap upon her abused rump.

With teeth clamped together and lips curled back in a delirium of agony, Catherine could not respond in words. Instead, she helplessly nodded her head. Arthur hooked his massive hands around her hipbone and began pitilessly yanking her pelvis back into his probing proboscis. With each stab his powerful buttocks flexed into two firm orbs of tightened muscle.

“I’ll tell you,” he said breathily, his voice deepening as he climbed towards his crowning moment. The sweat streamed off his angular face and coursed through the swarthy jungle of his Tarzan chest, dripping onto Catherine’s snowy lumbar. In an unexpected gesture of tenderness amidst that heady aggression, Arthur released her hips to massage his body’s natural oils into her feverish flesh, spreading a glistening coat over Catherine’s rippling bubble-spheres.

“I didn’t do anything to Auggie,” he said, hoarsely, breathing hard behind her as he sandwiched her midsection between his powerful palms. “I don’t touch my patients.”

Arthur’s voice was steadily growing more distant as Catherine soared towards previously unimaginable summits of ecstasy. At the cusp of extreme pain and ultimate pleasure, she could decipher only the slightest thread of Arthur’s remarks: “What I need to tell you… what I’ve been meaning to tell you for months now is that…”

A rushing sound filled Catherine’s consciousness as she abandoned herself to his savage conquest. Her moans, previously a bodily call-and-response with his lunges, had now fused into a single caterwaul that issued forth from her like the deep-throated, midnight mating wail of a street cat. With a groan of exhaled air, Arthur convulsed deep inside her, grunting primally in the ebb of his pulsating injections. He collapsed flat upon her back, the two of them shuddering in the seismic aftermath.

Catherine returned to consciousness to find Arthur planting kisses all over her neck. “I love you,” he murmured, dragging the tip of his tongue up through the tiny erect hairs of her tingling back. “I knew you’d understand… I love you ever so madly…”

Arthur shifted his weight to the side. “No,” Catherine murmured. “Not yet. Stay inside a little longer.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur whispered.  He reached to his bedside drawer and returned with a photo, which he held before Catherine’s half-lidded eyes.

“Who’s this?” she asked, staring at the purposeful, ruggedly handsome young man in the photograph.

“What do you mean? This is he. The man I just told you about,” Arthur replied, snuggling against her and wiggling his hips. “Richard. My lover.”

Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage – 500 words (Round 6)

Catherine felt her blood start to boil as the meaning of those words crashed upon her purring semi-consciousness. She shoved Arthur off her ravaged body and bolted up, her prodigious breasts spilling about.

“Wait a long minute. What did you say? The man in that photo? Your lover?!”

Arthur leapt up as nimbly as a panther, wincing as his half-swollen salivating maleness swung out and slapped against his defined Adonis-like pubic bone. He clutched Catherine by her velvety shoulders. “But darling, I told you! When I asked if you understood you cried out, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’”

“Fool!” Catherine cried, tearing herself from his grip. “Are you nothing but a perfectly sculpted torso? I wasn’t in my right senses!” Catherine began weeping into her hands, her oversized breasts bouncing rhythmically with the sobs. “I never expected it would come to such an obscene end! Oh, Arthur! What indecent desire drove you into… oh I can’t bear saying it… into the muscular arms of another man?

“You must listen, it’s more complicated…”

Catherine was suddenly overwhelmed by the image of another man mounted behind her husband, plunging forth with barbaric cries into the forbidden depths of his tanned rock-hard buttocks. “If that is what you wanted, Arthur, you should have told me. There are things we could have done…”

Arthur suddenly cried out. “Oh, blast it all! It’s you I fantasized about, Catherine. You whom I imagined in my place, being mauled by Richard…”

Catherine stared in shock at her husband. “Is this what it will take, Arthur? Must I offer up my body to another man to preserve our marriage? Is my only unjust choice to have my lady business mistreated and violated by a stranger?”

“No,” Arthur said hoarsely, his python languidly rousing from its slumber. “Not your lady business.”

Catherine turned scarlett with outrage. “You mean… but that’s over the line, Arthur!” Her widespread rump, silhouetted in the moonlit window, clenched up briefly in physiological self-defense.

“That line was crossed long ago, Catherine. I was a coward not to have told you. Will you try it? For our marriage. I’ll watch by your side, angel. Maybe I’ll even join in.”

Catherine gazed at the moon with a heavy, betrayed heart. She extended her left hand. “Show me again this man who is to steal my brown-eyed virginity.” Arthur brought the photo. She imagined the mask of merciless subjugation Richard would wear while he muscled his way into her uncharted territories, oblivious to her whimpered protestations.

“He is a most remarkable individual,” Arthur rushed to assure her. “His grandfather was a White Russian, a top general in the White Army that resisted the Reds in the 1920s, so he comes from top stock.”

Catherine sighed in resignation. “If this is what it takes, so be it. Ask him to join us for dinner at his earliest convenience. And do make haste, Arthur. Our marriage is at stake.”

The next evening at 5pm on the dot, the doorbell rang.

Incorporate the White House – (taken from Fido’s story) – 600 words – Round 7

Catherine was rarely ever lost for words but when she opened the door she found herself practically gasping for air.

“Richard Gaynmedovich,” the tall, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed guest intoned, sweeping his arm decadently into a gentleman’s bow. Catherine extended her arm for a handshake but he plunged to one knee and planted a slow moist kiss upon her perfumed dainty hand while staring up at her with dangerously intense eyes. He possessed the exotic features of a light-skinned Russian prince but spoke like an English gentleman from a Somerset Maugham tale.

“Arthur!” cried Richard, emerging from the library. “Marvelous to see you, old chap.” They exchanged a vigorous man-to-man handshake. “Shall we have a quick snort while Catherine sets the table?”

“Go on then,” Catherine cooed, shooing them along. “Out of my way.”

There had not even been a wink or eyebrow toss between the two men. Catching up on their latest news over brandy snifters, they seemed as relaxed and chummy as country club intimates. However, she could not shake the thought of their hard naked bodies mounted in the primal four-legged animal position, grunting and bucking and flexing in outrageous acts of violent penetration among heedlessly flung blazers and trousers. Disturbed at her rising pulse, she hastily pushed the unsettling imagery from her mind.

Catherine brought out mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed oysters, sausage links, baby green salad, corn on the cob and applesauce. She then called the men over, seating each at a table head and placing herself squarely in the middle.

“Splendid with the seating scheme,” whispered Arthur coarsely into her ear. “Maybe later we can squeeze the seats closer, if you catch my drift…”

Arthur!” she blushed, taken aback at his indiscretion. Speaking loudly and feigning annoyance, she said, “Of course I haven’t forgotten the buns in the oven!” She dashed to the kitchen and scurried back with a basket of warm buns luxuriously swathed in white cloth. “One more dish!” she chirped, scampering off again.

She returned bearing a roasted suckling pig on a silver platter. The men gasped. Steam issued up from its browned glistening back in aromatic wafts. Richard’s nostrils flared out as Catherine leaned towards him, bringing the suckling to him for closer inspection. The quivering gorge of her squeezed bulging mounds were inches from his face. Glancing down, she could see he had begun to stiffen.

“How was your day, Richard,” asked Catherine, taking her seat.

“Pleasant enough, thank you. Went for a morning swim, read my newspapers, tweaked my memoir. The usual.”

“Tell her about Obama,” Arthur said, filling their wineglasses with a 1997 Mascarello Barolo.

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot. The president called me this morning. He was in a devil of a state over this dreadful Nobel Peace Prize hubbub.” Richard laughed. “He alleged he didn’t deserve it, but I’m sure the old dog was pleased!”

“The president!” Catherine gasped in awe. Arthur only associated with men of influence but she sometimes forgot just how eminent his acquaintances ran.

“Nothing to get worked up over. I’ve known Barry for decades. Why, he’s practically an adopted son. I won’t bore you with the details…” Richard brought a forkful of pork loin to his mouth and closed his eyes as he began to chew, moaning with contentment. “I must say, Catherine, this is the most tender, moist, delectable loinflesh I’ve ever tasted.” He opened his eyes and leaned forward, exchanging a long gaze with her. His eyes briefly dropped to her bosom as his wriggling toes found her calf.

“I shan’t even try to imagine what’s for dessert.”

Incorporate a Walmart greeter or shopper (given by Seldom Seen), Write about humans would evolve with the collapse of religion (given by Joaquim), and Incorporate satanic music (given by George Barbayiannis)  – 600 words  – Round 8

“Richard was born in the U.S.S.R. the year before Stalin came to power,” said Arthur, his nostrils twitching over the glistening sausage links on his fork.

Nora gasped as Richard’s upward-traveling toes found her inner thigh. She eyed his broad, upright, muscular form. “Why, you look not a day older than 50!”

“Sixty-nine, my dear, and not a year younger,” Richard said, cocking a roguish eyebrow and slurping down an oyster as his toes circled upward under her dress towards her lotus.

“You can’t imagine the life this chap has led,” said Arthur, bringing the sausage to his mouth. “I daresay, had Richard been born in these United States he’d be president right now.” Catherine’s nipples snapped to attention as stiffly as #2 pencil eraser tips as she gazed helplessly at Richard, hypnotized by the slow, side-to-side, equine chewing of his powerful outthrust jaw.

Arthur smacked his greasy lips and picked up a steaming cob of corn. “Tell Catherine about your novels.” His trembling nostrils explored the buttery cob before his teeth crunched ecstatically into it, spurting juices over Catherine’s startled face.

“Arthur, please! Where are your table manners!” cried Catherine, wiping the creamy fluids from her face with her embroidered napkin.

Oblivious to Catherine’s reprimands, Arthur groaned with closed eyes while moving the cob noisily across his mouth. “Richard, do tell,” he urged, spitting flecks of corn. “Your latest manuscript.”

Richard chuckled while peeling off his sock below the table. “Your husband thinks too highly of my hobbies.” Catherine shuddered as the cool flesh of his toes touched her bare thigh and began sliding upwards. “I’m on the final chapter of my apocalyptic saga about humanity’s fate in the absence of religion. Needless to say, the conclusion is catastrophic.”

“Bloody brilliant is what it is,” snorted Arthur, dropping the husk onto his plate. “Bloody Nobel-worthy if you ask me. If Obama gets a Nobel for merely saying he’ll bring world peace, why shouldn’t Richard get it for his near-complete masterpiece?”

“No!” Catherine gasped loudly as Richard’s squirming nethermost digit burrowed beneath her undergarments and, like through a trap door to momentary nirvana, abruptly slid up to the knuckle into her moist chamber.

“Take no offence, Richard,” Arthur chuckled. “Catherine plays by the rules. I daresay they need her on the Nobel committee.”

Catherine grasped the table with both hands and bowed her head, whispering desperately. Richard began rhythmically moving his foot back and forth beneath the table.

“Why, look what you’ve done to my poor wife!” said Arthur. “All this talk about godlessness has got her praying!”

A vehicle screeched to a halt outdoors. “What in the devil?” cried Richard, disengaging his industrious foot. He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and proceeded to the window.

A truck with license plate SELSEEN had parked outside, blaring rock and roll music from the external speakers. A man in blood-stained camouflaged pants emerged, holding a Miller light, and began urinating upon the front tire. His pimply progeny hung out the back window, chattering like monkeys. “We aint never going to no WalMart again if you keep it up!” he bawled at them. “Once a day at WalMart is the rule,” he bellowed, guzzling the beer as he shook his filthy member dry.

Without the slightest concern for his own welfare, Richard strode to the door.

“Richard!” cried Catherine.

Arthur stayed her with a raised hand. “Richard is a world class boxer.”

Richard approached the uncouth man. “I advise you to immediately lower that satanic music and take leave.”

“Who in the f**k do you think you are?” the brute growled.

1) Incorporate a hoax; 2) Incorporate a revelation ; 3) Incorporate the number four; 4) Incorporate Stephen Colbert – 444 words (Round 9)

“Sheerly out of civility I shall repeat myself once more. Promptly depart from these premises.”

“Are you f*****g kidding me?”

Richard calmly removed his bowtie and shirt. He folded them in a neat stack on the lawn and raised his fists. Bronze muscles rippled beneath his ironed undershirt. “I gave ample warning, lad.”

The barbarian charged, hollering primitively, but Richard maintained his poise and coolly let fly a jab to his face. The brute grunted, surprised, and went down. He stood, rubbing his stubbly jaw, and charged again. Richard flattened him.

Catherine watched transfixed, her squirming thighs tightly pressed. When the truck screeched off and Richard entered, gleaming with sweat, she rushed to him.

“Richard!” she cried, clutching his brawny arm. “Are you injured?”

“Injured!” Arthur harumphed. “Richard is unbeatable in intellectual or physical confrontations. Last week Stephen Colbert, who isn’t exactly any old dimwit, had him on as a guest. Richard left the poor fellow gasping for mercy by the interview’s end.”

“Richard, you’re absolutely drenched!” Catherine peeled his undershirt off his gleaming torso and began wiping the sweat from his hard, contoured chest with a cloth napkin. Richard was breathing heavily but confidently, like a prizefighter about to claim his title.

Arthur walked up and patted Richard. “Marvelous show!” Arthur’s hand lingered on his glistening back. “Why one shoe, old chap?”

“Just my way to keep foot fungus at bay. But let’s keep that strictly under-the-table.”

Catherine’s temperature was rising, and not just from Richard’s stiff projecting nipples. Her husband was now openly caressing Richard’s back. What audacity!

“Come with me,” she said, herding Richard away. “I’m positive you’d welcome a shower.”

Richard grasped her shoulders, staring deeply into her eyes. “If my scent isn’t too disagreeable, I’ll remain unshowered.”

“Perhaps it’s time for dessert,” Arthur whispered behind her. His hands began massaging her back.

“I most heartily concur,” Richard said. Catherine closed her eyes. Her head sought Richard’s chiseled chest while her outflaring hips pressed back into her husband’s loins. Arthur’s hands closed unexpectedly upon her colossal rump while Richard’s dropped to her aching breasts. She exhaled slowly as the four hands engaged her.

Arthur suddenly leaned forward and drew one hand away. There was the sound of unzipping and rustling clothes.

She opened her eyes dreamily and looked down. Jutting forth from Richard’s fly on her husband’s palm, as if presented on a golden platter, was the longest, thickest, straightest, most unblemished manhood she’d ever seen.

“It’s not possible…” Catherine murmured.

“Tug on it,” Arthur whispered in her ear.

Catherine wrapped her delicate fingers around the flawless organ and yanked lightly. She gasped. This most certainly was not a hoax.


Nora’s Farewell Statement

By now it is most obvious that contestants who take risks in their writing get voted off prematurely. The latest poll result demonstrates this all too clearly.

I find it curious that despite receiving overwhelmingly positive comments I was roundly rejected. Perhaps it’s retrospective thinking, but I suspect the results would have been different had we continued with elimination voting as tradition demands. No offense to the other contestants, but it appears that the readers, despite loudly proclaiming their alleged devotion to the rules of grammar, prefer the novelty of giving a charity vote to someone who doesn’t even know what a comma is.

It is indulgent to speak too much of myself right now, especially in light of the horrific tragedy at Fort Hood. Our thoughts should be with the grieving families. I would, however, like to say one last thing about my story.

As I was not given the chance to complete my novella, the bawdy and graphic scenes I depicted may have given readers the impression I condone a “swinger” lifestyle. My intention was the complete opposite. I intended in my next entry to illustrate how corrosive this behavior can be. The “eroticism” of the earlier scenes had been exaggerated to grotesque effect precisely to hypnotize readers into a state of base arousal. The next post would have shattered these vulgar fantasies. Marriage is a sanctified union between a man and a woman. One man and one woman. Unfortunately I was deprived of the opportunity to take a moral stance.

Like JD, I too wish the host didn’t feel the need to tame down my challenge that the others kill off their main character. This competition was never about fairness. However, though he was unable to keep his word, I recognize there are pressures on the host that the rest of us may not appreciate. Everything aside, thank you, Constantine, for inviting me to take part, and thank you to the readers who offered positive feedback along the way.

Good luck to the rest of you. May the best writer [sic] win.