Author's Notes:
'A Dark Heart' is my entry for Literotica's Hallowe'en Story Contest 2017.
It was given a little polishing on 2024.01.12 for publishing on Amazon and refreshing on Literotica.
All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.
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A Dark Heart
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"What the fuck is wrong with me?" Nate asked himself.
That was a loaded question. Personally, he could think of a number of things. But what was most pertinent in his current situation was his inability to find a woman who wasn't poison for his soul.
His breakup with Meghan a little over two weeks ago was just the latest tortuous ending in his string of doomed relationships.
Each one had begun with optimism and ended in emotional pain and vicious drama.
He didn't get it. None of his previous girlfriends seemed to match a
type
. He'd tried to prevent himself from falling into a pattern of dating the same kind of girl as he'd seen that self-destructive behavior in his friends.
Some of the ladies he'd tried to have a relationship with had been outgoing, while others were shy. He'd dated sporty women, couch potatoes, hell-raising women, and once a devout believer. While they'd all presented different personality types initially, he always discovered their demonic side by the end. He was seriously beginning to think the transformation of these women was due to something he was doing. Maybe they
were
all wonderful women, and he somehow drove them to commit mean and hurtful acts against him after a time. But exactly
how
he was doing it was a complete fucking mystery to him!
His buddies were no help. He'd asked them to protect him from dating poorly, and the last several girlfriends had gotten their seal of approval. Then, they all expressed their surprise when those relationships went sour as each one did. One of his
friends
had actually slept with three of his girlfriends while he was dating them. Another
friend
suggested that, being a black man, Nate should stick with his own kind. Needless to say, neither of those guys remained his friends.
Nate wasn't a bad guy. He was often called a really nice guy. All his previous girlfriends had remarked upon this fact... at the beginning. Some had actually noted it as the reason they decided to sleep around. In one case, her excuse had been that he was so much of a nice guy he needed to be punished. He seriously couldn't follow that logic, but maybe that meant he
was
too nice?
Nate wasn't ugly. He was actually a handsome man. The consistent female attention he received, plus the number of girlfriends he'd had, proved that he was at least attractive enough to get a date. He stood five-foot-eleven and was reasonably fit. He had muscles where they needed to be, and he didn't have fat where it was least welcome. He was reasonably well endowed and skilled, if not terribly adventurous when it came to sex. The one thing his ex-girlfriends had universally agreed upon was that he was
good in bed
. At least five exes had returned for
booty calls
during times when he was available, and they were in a dry spell. The fact that he didn't turn them away for those brief interludes was probably a black mark on him.
He was smart, articulate, and personable. He could tell a joke or two and had enough charm to initiate relationships, but something inevitably went wrong, and every relationship imploded badly.
So he'd made himself a vow. He was taking a hiatus from dating to give his heart time to heal and himself time to reflect upon the mistakes he'd made. While he had an active social life, he began avoiding going out with his buddies to clubs or any venue where there was a greater than even chance of meeting women who were looking for a relationship, even just an overnight one.
He'd managed to avoid these dating situations for a little over two weeks. He'd even turned down
booty calls
from two of his exes this past week. He was rather proud of that, though his buddies thought he was nuts as the ladies in question were hot... if unbalanced.
For all his moral fortitude, he'd been feeling a little run down. During their last pub night, one of his more envious friends remarked that this was the first
dry spell
he'd ever seen Nate go through, even if it was self-inflicted, and maybe he was experiencing withdrawal. That had caused a lot of laughter in the group. For Nate, he just worried that it might be true. Perhaps he
was
a sex addict.
When he wasn't failing in relationships, he worked as a copywriter at an ad agency and really enjoyed his job. It let him be creative and paid him reasonably well because he was actually good at it. Outside work, he was an avid cyclist and played in an amateur baseball league.
Being late October, the weather turned crappy, and having refused each and every invitation to a slew of Hallowe'en parties, or hookup parties as he saw them, he chose this particular holiday to fall back on another favorite pastime of his, mooching around in one of New York City's many art galleries. He could spend hours walking from room to room, drinking in the paintings and sculptures, feeding his own creative juices. He found these peaceful sojourns helped focus his spirit and inspire his writing.
This time, he would be walking the floors with his best and only
female
friend. He'd known Jo Hart for a long time. They'd originally met during their first year in college. He thought she was witty, and she was impressed when he traded banter with her but didn't try to hit on her. They discovered they shared the same sense of humor, and a friendship was born. After graduation, she'd helped him get his job at the company that hired her. They even managed to be assigned to the same team.
She was the one woman he'd managed to maintain a healthy relationship with. She was blond, petite but curvy, and very pretty with a sunny disposition.
She typically drew appreciative looks from other art gallery viewers but always seemed unaware of their attention. One thing that might have helped make Jo the perfect female companion for Nate was that she was gay. She felt no sexual attraction to him, and he cherished her friendship. She was in a long-term relationship with a lovely brunette named Bev, and Nate was envious of that.
When she joined Nate on his gallery tours, she'd bring a sketchpad and practice her art. She was a gifted artist. Combined with his writing talent, they were a fantastic team at work.
Today, the gallery he'd chosen was celebrating Hallowe'en with a special exhibit of sculptures created by a new artist from England. Her work had been playfully advertised as a good match for the holiday. Nate was interested in seeing what all the fuss in the papers was about, as the artist was generating quite a lot of buzz in the art community. He'd seen a picture of one of her pieces and found it intriguing. The flat nature of the newspaper photo couldn't do her art justice, so he'd bought tickets to the exhibit to see them in person.
Jo wasn't a big fan of sculpture, but her girlfriend was on a business trip, and Nate paid for the ticket, so she tagged along. She'd mentioned to him that she'd heard the artist was quite reclusive and might be making an appearance.
After they arrived at the gallery and checked their coats, Nate and Jo presented their tickets and were directed to the entrance of the presentation gallery, where they showed their tickets again and went inside.
As they walked between the pieces, Nate examined them from all sides. The theme seemed to be pain and horror. It
was
perfect for a Hallowe'en exhibition! The medium was small steel plates roughly cut by a plasma torch and welded into semi-abstract double-sized human forms, all of which appeared to be screaming in agony due to horrific injuries.
Jo looked at Nate with raised eyebrows. Nate grinned at her.
"Not exactly a lighthearted, whimsical collection, but it suits the holiday!" Nate said, and all Jo could do was shake her head.
She spotted something far less... gruesome to look at and wandered off as Nate continued to walk amongst the monuments to suffering. He was passing by one and slowed to study it casually as he did. A male figure seemingly pulling his own heart from his chest. The heart wasn't red but painted the darkest black. He stopped dead as his eyes slowly widened. He was struck by a feeling of affinity with the sculpture. He couldn't look away as he felt he was looking at... himself.
"Ah! You feel it, don't you!"
Nate twitched from his paralysis and turned to look up slightly into stunningly pale grey eyes. They were all he could see at first as they seemed to bore into his soul. Then, the rest of the woman's features came into focus. Her large eyes dominated her face, but she had a slim nose above lips that were just a little thin but emphasized with black lipstick. The dark color made her white teeth gleam as she smiled broadly at him. Her eyes were roaming his body, so he took that as an invitation to check her out as well. Jet black, straight hair cascaded down over her shoulders and reached her waist, a lot of silky hair! With her height, she had a slim build and small breasts, clearly defined by the tight black halterneck top she wore. He could clearly see the impression of her nipple rings... and the chain between them. Her taut stomach was exposed with jewelry piercing her belly button. Skin-tight black leather pants hugged her long, slim legs and ended in her pointed black leather boots. Her skin was palest pink, made all the lighter by her choice of color palette. Black and dark grey eye shadow and lipstick would have presented an almost Goth appearance if it wasn't for the contemporary styling of her clothing.
He couldn't gauge her age at all. She had smooth, young-looking skin but carried an air of maturity. It was baffling.
She reached out a slim hand, black polish on her relatively short nails. Somehow, he'd been expecting talons, though she did wear several sharp-looking silver rings on her long fingers. He automatically took the hand in his, careful of the rings.
"It's a pleasure to meet people who truly connect with my art." Her British accent was wonderful, hinting at private boarding schools and aristocratic society. Again, he was perplexed by the sensation of age conflicting with her youthful appearance and energy.
"Oh!" he exclaimed gently, just now realizing who she was.
"Yes, I am she. The one with the tortured visions. Maker of all of this exquisite pain. Marquise Oletha Thanemark. If you wish, you may call me 'O', as you already have!" she said with a delighted grin.
Nate was struggling to keep up with her energy. "Nate. Nathan Walker." Something she'd said sunk in. "Exquisite pain?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
