I noticed her the very first moment I saw her, when she spilled wine on her dress. She hardly even flinched—just marched into the bathroom, emerging with that makeshift tie-dye that was creative, beautiful, and possessed of a spirit of playfulness quite opposite to anything I could have come up with.
Then Alastor knocked her down hard, so hard I thought he’d killed her. Yet she rose again: stubborn, unbroken.
She has me wondering what it would take to break her. To shatter her into so many pieces that she could never put them together again.
The view through the telescope is so clear that I could almost be standing in the room with her.
I watch Mara strip off her clothes, revealing a lean, taut body with small breasts and narrow hips. I’m intrigued to see that she hasn’t removed the piercings from her nipples—the twin silver rings remain in place.
As she hunts for clothes, a cold bead of excitement runs down my spine. I already know she has no clean underwear.
Sure enough, she spots the discarded panties on the floor. My heart stops and I can hardly breathe, riveted in place, eye to the telescope, watching . . .
She picks up the underwear and steps into it.
Blood rushes to my cock so fast that I’m lightheaded.
She’s wearing panties soaked in my cum without knowing it. The most intimate part of me pressed up against the most intimate part of her.
She hesitates, standing still in the center of the room.
She’s feeling the wetness of my cum against her cunt.
My cock is so hard it tents out the front of my trousers.
I love the thought of my cum on her bare flesh. How long does sperm survive? I wonder if those desperate, minuscule swimmers are trying to wriggle inside her right now.
She yanks down the underwear, examining the material.
I watch the panic and confusion on her face, my cock harder than it’s ever been.
She touches my cum. Smells it. Then rips off the underwear and flings it away from her.
My whole body is warm and throbbing. I can’t remember when I last felt this level of excitement. I’ve been so fucking bored lately. Nothing impresses me. Nothing interested me. Until now . . .
Tormenting Mara without even touching her is so stimulating that I can hardly imagine what it would be like to put my hands directly on her flesh . . . to circle them round her throat . . .
Mara shifts her weight back and forth, trying to decide what to do.
She’s wondering if she felt what she thinks she felt.
She doesn’t trust herself.
Finally, she snatches up her purse and exits the room.
I’m already heading down the stairs. She’s not dressed for work—I want to see where she’s going.
A date, I suspect.
At the thought, my pupils contract, my throat tightens, my heart slows. I’m cold and focused.
Who does she date? Who does she fuck?
I want to know.
I exit the townhouse, not bothering to lock the door behind me. I cut across Frederick Street, catching sight of Mara walking ahead in her tight black dress and ankle boots. She doesn’t wear heels often. I like how it hobbles her, slowing her pace.
It’s easy for me to track her, walking along the opposite side of the street like a disconnected shadow. I follow her to a trendy little restaurant a few blocks away, where she meets some scruffy-faced hipster in a too-tight t-shirt.
Unlike Mara and her date, I don’t have a reservation. A hundred-dollar bill pressed into the hostess’s palm solves that problem. I probably could have convinced her just by holding her gaze and letting my fingers trail across her wrist. The hostess giggles and blushes as she leads me to the table I requested, tucked away in a corner with several hanging plants shielding me from Mara’s view if she were to glance this way.
I have no problem attracting women. In fact, it’s too easy. The wealth, the fame, and the looks suck them in before I say a word. There’s no challenge.
I wonder if Mara will fall at my feet as easily as that hostess.
She doesn’t seem particularly enthralled with her date. In fact, she twitches irritably as he rests his arm across the back of her chair.
Her date yammers on about something, oblivious to her expression of boredom. He doesn’t seem to notice how she angles her body away from him, only rarely meeting his eye. When he tries to tidy her hair, she jolts away from him.
I feel a strange sense of satisfaction in her rejection of this buffoon. It would have lessened her in my eyes if she were besotted with someone so . . . pedestrian.
My pleasure evaporates as he reaches under the table to fondle her pussy.
In its place: a sharp spike of fury.