My Beautiful Nightmare

My night has been dull, like most, until a striking figure enters my frame, dark and mysterious, the epitome of class, with his chiseled features and charming air. I follow him with my eyes as he works the room. My heartbeat quickens when he nears. At last the lady of the house leads him right to me and introduces us, as if I've willed it.

"Mariano De Mora, meet Farah Fortier, the loveliest lady at my soirée," Chloe, the perfect hostess, presents us to one another with an exaggerated sweep of her arm.

"You're too kind, Chloe," I offer Mariano my hand.

"Even an introduction like that," he pauses to take me in, "does no justice to your beauty, Farah," he articulates my name with a faint Spanish accent and brushes the back of my hand with his full lips. A chemical charge shoots through my body.

"You're making me blush," I bite my lip.

"Mariano is sole heir of Encrucijada, a worldwide Import Export fortune, ambassador of all things fine, and eligible," Chloe makes her motives transparent. "I leave you in his capable hands," she floats back to her party, pleased with her work.

Mariano aims his intense gaze directly at me. "You've had those gorgeous eyes on me all night."

My cheeks burn. I'm buzzed off a martini. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not," he touches my arm just barely. "I've been mesmerized by you—glowing like an angel in this dark corner," the hint of Spanish accentuates his saccharine lines and works for him. I'm hooked.

Usually dressed in black, this evening I dressed in an ivory lace jumper, painted my lips a deep red, blushed my cheekbones and lined my violet eyes dramatically. I twisted up my long, black hair, allowing a lock to dangle in rebellion of the flawless image I'd worked to create. Maybe I'd had a premonition about the night to come. Glancing in the mirror one last time before leaving my flat, I felt fiercely feminine on the outside, empty and alone on the inside—bored by my shallow, picture-perfect, merry-go-round existence.

Now, standing close to Mariano, my insides heat up.

"We'll have to make a point of seeing more of each other," he kisses my cheek abruptly. "You'll excuse me?"

"Yes, of course, to both," my spirit plummets as he disappears into the crowd. It's time for me to duck out of this party.

I walk hard a few blocks, practically running, breathing the crisp night air deeply. An early autumn chill cuts through my light wrap, but it's purifying and I like the way it feels. My pounding heart relaxes and my breathing returns back to normal. I'm winding down from a shock to my system. But I already sense it. Mariano De Mora's existence has stabbed into my psyche and I am left without choice. I need to call a car. I need to get home. I need to take a hot bath and slip between my sheets.

The next day Chloe calls me to inquire about my thoughts on Mariano. That's where my beautiful nightmare begins.

****

Mariano "courts" me in his controlling, warped way, for one year. During this courtship, we never spend time alone together. He makes sure we attend the same gatherings, but holds me at arm's distance. He remains covertly on the peripheral; keeps a close eye on my social life; but never asks me out. I know he's gathering Intel. He reads my body's language. He's clearly a master and I'm sure my body tells him all he wants to know. I suppose we have little need for conversation at this stage of our game, anyhow. I know how to play when I have to, so I don't pursue Mariano. Instead I anticipate his presence at every engagement. When he doesn't show, I'm distraught. When he does, I fly into an internal frenzy. I fantasize about him constantly.

Every damn night, in the privacy of my exquisitely lonely bedroom, my dark and twisted imagination runs wild. In my most animated fantasy, I sit at one end of an elegant dinner table of drab socialites, engaged in mindless conversation about some unimportant matter. Mariano sits at the opposite end of endless mahogany, conversing on some equally boring topic. I excuse myself and stand. I catch Mariano's gaze beneath the dimly shimmering chandelier. I make my way toward the powder room. His stare burns my ass as I walk. I enter the ladies room and close the door without locking it. I face the vanity with my back to the door. I wait for him. Anticipation rises from between my legs, to my gut, to my chest, to my throat. I can hardly breathe.

I tremble as Mariano enters the room and locks the door. Without a word he approaches me, pins me to the vanity, bends me over with the weight of his body. I moan, terrified and yearning. He claws at my dress. He finds his way to my sheer panties and pulls them taut so they cut into my flesh and make me wetter. He rips my panties aside, exposes my pussy and coaxes my legs apart. He spreads my cheeks so I'm wide open to him. With hungry fingers he roughs up my pussy, until my pulse pounds like a heartbeat in his hand. I watch his handsome face turn savage in the mirror. It thrills me. He releases his swollen cock from his pants and stabs into me from behind. He splits me open in one swift movement. I let out a heated cry, sensitive to his thrust as I climax. My pussy contracts around his shaft. He drills into me—grabs a handful of my hair—sends a sensual shock through my convulsing body. He moans as he releases inside me. I relish the taboo sensation of his cum filling me up. When he's finished, Mariano discards me without a glance. He returns to the dinner party. I freshen up.

I've fantasized the fuck out of Mariano for a solid year when an invitation arrives on my doorstep, with a red rose and a note—a car will pick me up at eight. Is this guy for real?

I oblige without question. I dress in sleek, ivory satin. I still hold a fading image of my unscathed self—the way I was before he invaded my psyche. Tonight I'm going to pay homage to that image one last time, dressed in ivory.

To Be Continued ...