The Black Room: Door Eight

by Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  8

  .

  ..

  ...

  ....

  *

  **

  ***

  [ ]

  [ ]

  [ ]

  [ ]

  ****

  +

  ++

  +++

  ++++

  ©

  &

  8

  .

  There is darkness, because there is always darkness. There is only darkness.

  But now…

  I sense I’m not alone.

  Yet I cannot see, cannot feel, cannot breathe or move or shift or walk or cry.

  I simply am.

  But then the black void dissolves, or resolves—and it’s like stepping back from a pointillist painting.

  I’m surrounded by emptiness. Only vaguely do I feel corporeal, in possession of an I, of a body, an awareness.

  There is nothing, only a sense of me, and a need to move forward. Am I moving? I don’t know.

  Slowly, the shadow lightens and gathers form. Not light, not illumination, but an other, something outside the point of awareness that is…

  I.

  I sense movement, like floating in a current on a river, but the river is so warm I feel at one with the water, and the current is so gentle that movement is imperceptible.

  I’m not alone.

  I know this.

  But I see nothing, feel nothing.

  The shape solidifies, and the darkness becomes lighter…silvers.

  The shape becomes four-sided with two long vertical edges and two short horizontal edges. A familiar shape, this rectangle. Memory, awareness—it’s fuzzy, slow, thick, and sludgy and slippery.

  A door.

  It is a door.

  There is more to this notion of a door, but I’ve lost it.

  All I know is…I must go through it.

  Silver. Old, dented, scratched, cheap steel. Plain metallic knob. No features, nothing. Just the door standing alone in the darkness. It calls to me. Beckons me. Pulls me forward.

  I am powerless to resist.

  I’m not me, I’m not anything, just a spark of awareness in a vast shadowland; but that door…beyond it… is more.

  And I have to go through, or this darkness is all there will ever be. And I want more.

  But what do I want, what is it that is more beyond the silver door? I don’t know. But whatever it is, I need it. I need it so bad the need becomes desperation, which is familiar. The desperation becomes something else too, a wild dizzying universe of emotions. The little spark that is

  I

  cannot contain or fathom or express anything but to do what I must:

  go through the door.

  I push gently against the aged metal.

  It opens, silent and smooth.

  I move through, over the threshold—

  ..

  I’m not alone, and this reality is comforting. The darkness is the darkness of deepest night, and the room is bathed in the shadows of beyond midnight. A real darkness, a soothing warmth, a knowledge of myself, of…

  Him.

  I twist, roll, and I find him. Feel him.

  I cannot see him, but I know him as well as I know myself.

  I stretch my hands out and find his flesh. Muscle, hardness. A smattering of hair, the protruding hardness of hipbones. His belly, steely with muscle, his chest like a wall, then his face. I touch his cheek and his chin and his angular jawline, and I know each plane, know him by feel. I don’t need to see him to know this is Conrad.

  “Hi.” His voice is low and deep and slow and happy and sleepy.

  “Hi.” Mine is breathy, giddy.

  “Been missing you.”

  “You have?”

  He laughs. “Babe, of course I have. You’re gone for ten seconds and I miss you. You get up to take a piss and I miss you before you’re back.”

  I laugh with him. “Good thing I pee fast, huh?”

  “Good thing.”

  Sober, now. “How long have I been gone?”

  A long pause. “Too long, sweetheart.” His hands close on me, cup my ass and my shoulder. “Too damn long.”

  “I’m back now, though.”

  “Yeah.” But he doesn’t sound as happy about that as I’d thought.

  “Conrad?”

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “Why don’t you sound happy that I’m back?”

  His hand explores the broad curves of my generous ass, tests the bounce and firmness of it, and then delves down, down, seeking the sensitive flesh between my thighs. “Kiss me, Hannah.”

  I move up his body, feeling his hardness and solidity beneath me, his fingers teasing my slit, his other hand buried in the loose wild mass of my hair. I’m crushed against him, lying fully on top of him, thighs to thighs, hips to hips, belly to belly. His cock is a hard thick ridge wedged between us, and my breasts are flattened, cushioned against his chest. He moans deep in his throat as I move up his body until my mouth finds his chin. I kiss him there, then underneath, and then down the column of his throat. I press my lips behind his ear and he shivers. I run my tongue around the spiral just inside his ear and blow a hot breath. He shudders, his grip tightening on me.

  “Fucking kiss me, Hannah,” he demands, harshly.

  “I am kissing you, Conrad.” I’m teasing him, riling him.

  “Not what I meant, goddammit.”

  He palms my cheek and guides my mouth to his, and his kiss is brutal at first, lips smashing against mine so hard I taste blood, and I welcome the sting as evidence of reality. Then the kiss softens, deepens. Gentles. His tongue probes my lips, parts the seam, steals past my teeth and tangles with my tongue.

  There is no time, then, except the endless, eternal measurement of a kiss, of love exchanged lips to lips, tongue to tongue, mouth to mouth, soul to soul. This is that kind of a kiss, chasm-deep and infinite. I feel him moan, and my hand sneaks behind his head, pulling him closer. His fingers test my cunt, tease the entrance, and I splay my thighs apart and draw my knees up, lift my hips an inch or two—a welcoming, an invitation. He slides a long middle finger into my silken wet heat and draws it out and spreads my desire over my clit. Yes, yes, yes, just like that—I move my hips to tell him how good it feels, silently begging him to keep going, to do that again. And I don’t stop kissing him, just devour the love he’s offering and give it right back.

  It’s not long before his fingers bring me to the shuddering brink of climax, and I’m breathless, unable to kiss him through the waves of orgasm as they crash through me. I can only cling to him and shudder against his mouth and whimper his name and—

  “I need you inside me, Conrad.”

  He bites my lower lip. “Then take me inside you.”

  I reach between us and grasp his erection and guide the head to my slit, taking the opportunity to caress his length as I put him where I need him—inside me. We moan in unison as I slowly, agonizingly, lower myself on him, fill my tight cunt with his massive cock. I’m so tight around him, squeezing and clenching from my orgasm, and he’s so big, throbbing and hard he fills me, stretches me, completes me, he perfects me as he drives deeper and deeper. His hands grasp the heavy globes of my ass, lifts and separates so he can go that much deeper.

  “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Conrad—Conrad!” I whimper, breathless and aching.

  And then we’re moving, our thrusts synchronized, my down stroke meeting his up thrust. My ass slaps loudly against his thighs, bouncing hard and fast off of him, and his cock drives into me and slides out with a sucking wet squelch, and he’s growling and I’m screaming—

  I come, come so hard
dizziness twists me into spiraling disorientation, everything heightening and going dissolute—

  —

  There’s a shift and a movement—

  The darkness is altered, and I feel Conrad beneath me, still. His cock is hard inside me, filling me. His hands caress my ass, soothing, possessive, familiar.

  But there’s something different.

  I need more; dark, dirty thoughts spread through me. I’m desperate with the need for more.

  There’s a movement beside me.

  Hands touch my back, and drift up my spine. They are familiar, gentle hands—they are Charlie’s hands.

  Oh…

  Yes.

  I can’t see; there’s nothing to see. There is only touch. Indulgence in physicality, and giving in to the need, the want, the desire. Whatever has been hidden in the darkest, dirtiest, most sinful and hidden corners of my soul, this darkness brings out and makes real.

  Charlie.

  He’s near me, beside or behind, I don’t know, don’t care. He’s there. His touch is familiar. Soothing and familiar, a touch I’d know anywhere, any time. The way he slides his palm up my spine is just so Charlie. He buries his hand in my hair at the back of my neck, and I feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his breath. His lips touch my shoulder, hesitantly, in that way Charlie has. I reach for him: he’s naked.

  I move my caress to his cock. Long, hard, not quite as thick as the one inside me, but pleasing to touch and hold and stroke all the same. I stroke his length and appreciate the way his breath catches at my touch.

  I slide off Conrad so he’s on my left, push Charlie to his back on my right. And then I have Conrad in my left hand, and my heartbeat is a wild syncopated tattoo behind my ribs. This feels…so fucking good, to have both of these men beside me. I groan in pleasure at the sensation of it, Conrad’s massive cock in my left hand, Charlie’s long, slender shaft in my right. I stroke them both, one then the other, then in union.

  Charlie flexes his hips and sighs as I stroke him. Conrad is silent, but I can feel his pleasure. All that exists in this moment, for me, are these two cocks, each perfect in its own way, each familiar yet so different. There’s so much pleasure in the touch.

  But it’s not enough.

  MORE.

  I lean over to my left and take Conrad into my mouth, tasting my essence on his shaft. I slide my fist slowly along Charlie’s hard length, and swallow around Conrad. I back away, releasing him from my lips with a loud pop. I sweep my hair to one side and find Charlie’s cock with my lips, swirling my tongue around his glans while plunging my fist down Conrad’s shaft. Alternate stroking and deep-throating Conrad and Charlie, until they’re both groaning deep, masculine grunts of arousal.

  “Get on your knees,” I say, and they both obey me.

  I keep my grip on their cocks as they move to their knees side by side, in front of me.

  Giddiness shudders through me. How erotically indulgent is this, to have so much hard male arousal all for me? All mine.

  I stroke their cocks with each hand, Conrad on my left, Charlie the right. God, god, I love the way Conrad’s cock slides through my hand and I love the way Charlie tastes; I keep my mouth around his head, sucking, licking, bobbing shallowly, and stroke Conrad with long fast gliding pumps of my fist. Then I switch, taking Conrad down my throat, and spreading my lubricating saliva along Charlie’s length with my fist.

  Again and again I switch, filling fist and mouth until the men are both grunting and cursing and thrusting helplessly.

  Whose cum do I want first?

  Conrad.

  God, yes. Of course—always; there’s an implicit bias there, but it’s buried deep beneath the rampant raging white current rapids of lust.

  Here and now, there’s only lust, only need, only the wildfire of my libido.

  I feather slow, gentle caresses along Charlie’s throbbing cock and give him a lick and a kiss, a promise, and then turn my attention to Conrad. I keep stroking Charlie, but slowly, intermittently.

  Conrad has my focus now. I plunge my fist down his length, run my tongue around the glans, across the tip, and then mouth the entire head. Down the shaft, until he’s at my throat. I fist him at the root, short fast strokes, and he groans, pumping his hips. I release his cock to grasp his ass and pull him toward me, encouraging him to move, to fuck.

  He obeys.

  I keep a slow gentle pressure on Charlie, keeping him at the edge; I can read him like a book, I know exactly how close he is, and when he gets too close and starts moaning in a certain way, starts flexing his hips, I know it’s time to back off and slow my pace and lighten my touch.

  Conrad is grunting. “Fuck, Hannah. Fuck, I’m gonna—”

  “Mmmmm. Mmmm-hmmm. Mmmm.” I moan in pleasure and that only encourages him.

  I cup his ass and pull at him to increase the strength and speed of his thrusts. He’s fucking my throat and it’s perfect, the way he throbs between my lips and grunts and snarls. Beside me, I can feel Charlie losing the ability to hold off.

  Conrad is done, though. I feel him getting ready to come. He’s thrusting hard and fast, snarling. Throbbing, thickening. More, more. I hum as I take as much of his cock as I can, until my lips reach his base and I’m gagging and glutted on him.

  “Oh fuck—” Conrad grunts.

  And then he comes. I feel the burst down my throat, back away so I can feel his cum fill my mouth. He spurts and my mouth is flooded; I taste his cum and I swallow it all, move away and stroke his length with my hand and feel his cum spray all over my lips, on my extended tongue and on my chin, and I swallow it and keep stroking and he grunts again and thrusts into my fist. Thick warm wetness splashes onto my tits and puddles hot and trickles down the slopes, and then I turn to Charlie.

  I caress his length, slowly at first and then faster and faster, using a light, loose touch. He groans low and soft, and his hips flex. I take him into my mouth, fist his shaft beneath my chin and bob my head to fuck him with my lips. He’d never fuck my throat, not like Conrad. So I fuck him, then. Fuck him with my mouth until he’s spasming and his hips are taut and flexed forward and fluttering, ass tightened.

  I back away, then, and slide my fist up and down his long, hard cock until he comes with a curse. I moan at the feel of his cum splattering on my tits and puddling with Conrad’s and sliding down between them in a hot wet stream. I have to taste him, and I take his next spurt in my mouth and swallow and suck as he comes. Charlie’s cum is tangier, saltier, sharper, thinner, while Conrad’s is a little sweeter and thicker.

  Both men are groaning as they finish their orgasms, my fists on each of them, stroking sticky, slackening cocks, smearing cum down their lengths. I lick my lips and taste the commingled flavors, Conrad’s and Charlie’s. I wipe my face with my palms until the cum is gone, and then I lie on my back and reach for Conrad, find his neck and pull him toward me. Then I gather Charlie to my tits and smother his face between my heavy breasts. There’s a river of cum coating the mounded flesh, sliding down in thick warm rivulets, dribbling, drying in crusty patches. Charlie’s lips close around my nipple and his tongue flicks and his teeth saw gently and he suckles until I gasp and then he switches to the other breast and does the same.

  I guide Conrad’s face between my thighs, letting my knees fall apart and welcome his tongue on my clit, welcome his fingers into my channel. All is pleasure, then. Conrad’s tongue begins slowly, long fat swipes of his tongue up my slit from entrance to clitoris, then back down, and then a fluttering as far into my cunt as his tongue will go, and then another slow lick back up. Fingers in, two of them, curling in and finding my G-spot with that unerring accuracy he has, and his tongue starts a quickening side-to-side flick, which sets my hips into motion.

  And Charlie…oh Charlie. He’s devouring my tits as if he’s been starved of them. Licking, sucking, biting, sliding his tongue along the undersides.

  Sensation overload—

  All I can feel is tongues and lips and teeth
on my erogenous zones, flinging me into climax. It’s immediate. I grip Conrad’s hair and hold him in place and ride his mouth, palm Charlie’s neck and writhe my tits against his mouth.

  Come.

  Scream as loud as I can, let go utterly.

  But they don’t stop. Conrad’s tongue pushes me past the orgasm and into the throes of the next, adding fingers this time, driving into my slit and curling for my G-spot, and now he doesn’t pull them out as he licks my clit, but continues to fuck me with his fingers, and Charlie pinches my nipples, somehow just hard enough to make it hurt so good I gnash my teeth and whimper as my second orgasm rises within me.

  I lose myself in the climax, forget who’s who and who’s where, forget everything but the spastic waves blasting me into paroxysms of bliss.

  “Oh—oh god. Oh god…” I gasp as the orgasm leaves me shuddering, thighs trembling.

  Charlie’s lips stutter up my breastbone and scatter tender kisses along the side of my neck and I can’t fucking help it, can’t help it—

  I turn my face to the side and kiss him—

  —

  Charlie is pressed against my ribs, not quite hovering over me. He’s kissing me breathless in the pitch black. His lips move and his tongue slides on mine and he caresses my breasts, toys with them, flicks my nipples and then teases his way down my ribs and across my belly and finds my cunt. I gasp against his mouth and spread my legs apart for him, take his fingers inside me and he gets me writhing with a few wet strokes into my slit, but I need him, need more than this, more than his fingers.

  I pull him on top me, moaning in anticipation as he kneels between my thighs and grasps my ankles and fits my feet into his armpits, levering my ass off the mattress and spreading my cunt open for him. I reach between my thighs and find his cock, guide him to my slit, moaning again as he nudges in. He hesitates with the head of his cock splitting open my labia.

  And then fucks into me.

  He’s so long, driving in and in and in, the tip scraping against my G-spot as he fills me. His strokes, as he pulls back and fucks, are slow and measured and sinuous, so smooth I lose track of whether he’s driving in or withdrawing, until there’s only the slide of his cock, the wet glide, the glut of fullness and the ache of absence.