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'I Was Yours But Only For a Night' a Short Story by Angela Lancaster

As a reader of many genres, I wrote this story with romance and suspense in mind.


They had warned me about girls like you, but I didn’t believe it. Not at first.

From the very beginning, you made me feel special like I was the only one. I was important. That there were no others. I knew this to be a lie, but I didn’t care. I had you all to myself, even though it was for such a short time.

I watched you enter the room, eyes alive, scanning us all, to find one to catch your interest. You teased, as you reached out, touching, ever so gently with long slender hands, a softness on our hard edges, sparking an eternal hope.

I couldn’t believe it, when you stood in front of me, your hazel eyes wide in a breathless surprise.

“I found you.” A simple statement that changed my entire life as you held me in an embrace of longing.


Then you took me to your home, to your cottage by the sea. The drive passed in companionable silence as folk songs played on the radio. Songs of new love and forgotten friends. The sun was setting as you unlock your front door, I still remember the array of colours in the sky; oranges, pinks, and hues of blue.

I heard the ringing of your phone and smiled (delighted), as you rushed to tell your friends I was there.

“I searched for weeks. Weeks.” Your excitement flowed, “Tonight. Yes, it will be tonight.” Your voice dropped to a husky whisper, “I will let you know how it goes.”


You kicked off your shoes as you poured yourself a glass of red wine. As the sun disappeared it shook hands with an early moon. Your long skirt swirled as you danced to light rose-scented candles.

Soften the lighting.

Prepare the mood.

Then once again you reached for me. Held me close, as I felt your fingers caress my spine. Your eyes searched my entire body before opening me with these words.

“Now, tell me your story.”

So I did. I described an orphan boy, born in a forgotten world. Of kings and dragons. Lost loves and grand adventures. I felt so special, so alive! You were truly interested in my lines.

I can still remember your eyes. How they encouraged, eager, and excited for me to continue. They sparkled with mirth at my joy, your full lips curving into a genuine smile. I was surprised at the depth of your compassion when I told of my betrayal at the hands of a brother, those same eyes glistened, bringing out amber flecks as you unconsciously chewed your lower lip, worry on your brow.

I saw the green of jealousy as I mention the beauty of another. Your eyes became death as I described the tantalising taste of sex, lips on breasts, bodies moving in rhythm, heartbeats racing. I saw your face flush as I described the exhilarating climax. I felt the shudder of your contented smile as you shared my passion for your voyeurism.


Still, you encouraged me to continue. I was surprised when you cried when no one believed me, as I could still see the jealousy on your face when I swore I did not kill my lover. You shared my sadness at the loss and questioned who was the killer.

I revealed my plan to redeem myself, you argued that I was foolish. Still, I continued.

I battled wars, within myself and with others. I amassed an army. But I could find no forgiveness, no closure. I leave my friends, my country, my kingdom in search of another.

My story was finished, but not quite so. You looked at me in pure agony and asked,

“How long before I know the answer?” I have no idea.

You embraced me again, held me close, I felt the softness of your cheek. I know you are remembering my story, holding on to it for a few more minutes before letting me go.


Then the real nightmare starts.

You tell me it’s for my own good. I will share the same fate as all the others you have brought home. I will be protected.

We enter a darkened room. With a flick, you turn on a light. It’s not soft and romantic, but harsh, abrasive. As I look around the room I pray that I have a heart and that it would stop.

I want to die.

I beg of you, please open me. Open me again. Once more. Let me be with you one more time. I know it is useless, you cannot hear me. I cannot speak.

You push aside others like me and then cram me into a small space, my spine the only thing showing. I cannot move. You look at me once more, a sad smile on your lips as if you are remembering my words, my story, my life.

I watch as you reach the door, your eyes scanning the room that is protected from the sun. Your library is enormous. As you turn off the light you leave me with these parting words.


“There better be a bloody sequel!”

© 2021 Angela Lancaster

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