In this challenege, I could only use the personal pronoun twice – yet still tell the story from the first person perspective.

I knew that look.  Georgetta Jones stood amid the tinsel and twinkle lights.  She ran her fingers through perfectly tousled hair, gaze fixed on Henry Alcott under thick lashes.  His new wife had disappeared in a huff – probably off to the washroom to freshen up after their little spat – and the shark, smelling fresh blood, swam in to do what she does best: take advantage of a weak moment.  Like the unsuspecting surfer, poor Henry had yet to realize the trouble that was sauntering toward him.

Everyone knew Henry and his wife were very much in love.  The story of him sweeping her off her feet…or wait, was it falling down at her feet?  …Either way, the rumor was they were soul mates, and their romance made all the young, unmarried women sigh.  All except Lady G, who didn’t believe in love.  She couldn’t.  She believed in seduction, infatuation, desire… but something had taught her long ago that love was a lie.  A lie she tried to expose whenever she could.  Poor Henry, his was exactly the sort of challenge Lady G lived for.

She was a pro.  She knew how to parade her charms; tonight, she had squeezed herself into purple sequined number – yes, a “number” – there’s no way that slip of fabric could really be called a dress.  Two slits drove up either leg, dividing the fabric so if she shifted just the right way, it revealed a spectacular view of the smooth, bronze skin hiding underneath.  Obviously, Lady G was aware of this.  As soon as she reached him she assumed the position: weight on one foot, hip jutting out to the side.  In addition to exposing more of those luscious legs, her posture increased the radius of curvature between her hips, waist, and bust, further accentuating the already dramatic shape of her body.  Yes, Lady G knew what she was doing.

She always chose purple when she was on the prowl.  You might expect a seductress to favor red, the color of fire and passion, proven by science (and advertising) to get the most notice.  But Lady G liked to believe she was more subtle, choosing instead to wrap herself in the color of mystery and purpose.  Hah… mysterious purpose…like nobody knew what she was up to.  Well, maybe Poor Henry didn’t, though no one could blame him.  It was difficult to think straight when she did that little trick – tracing her middle digit from her wine-colored lips, down her chin, to settle in a soft stroking motion along her collarbone.  His eyes locked onto her finger, which was threatening to trail lower, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.  Yep…he had fallen for it. 

Tonight was about casting out the bait and planting the seeds.  “Look at me” she says with her body.  “I’m so much better than that boring, nagging, wife of yours.”  She’ll lean in and whisper quiet flirtations like, “Oh, it’s too bad you’re taken” and “You’re quite a catch, she’s very lucky.”  They are such small things, you don’t expect it, but they sink in and fester.  At each little quarrel with your wife, they come back, gaining strength until you can’t help but think “What if I had met her first?” 

It is then, when you’re at your weakest, she strikes.  First, you’re blinded by intense pleasure.  But it’s over in minutes, and as you open your eyes, you see her silver stilettos step over you, battered and bloody and helpless, as she moves on to her next victim.

Oh, Henry, don’t you see?  Last year, it was me.