Black Room: Door 3

by Jade London

  “So good, Hannah…I’ve never felt…oh fuck. Don’t stop…don’t stop.”

  “Mmmmmmmmm.” Stroke, suckle, sink down on him, take him to my throat and back away.

  He’s moving, now. Involuntarily, his hips flex and thrust, and his cupped grip on my head tightens, and I know he’s close again. Closer than ever.

  “I’m gonna come, Hannah. I’m gonna come so hard—”

  “Mmmm-hmmmm?”

  “Oh fuck, fuck yeah. So hard.” He’s struggling to remain still as the orgasm wells up in him, rifles through him, and I feel his cock thicken, feel his balls tighten, his abs go taut, hear his breath catch. “Can you take it, Hannah?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  Oh god, can I take it? I can take it all, every last little bit. I look up at him as he comes. I watch him. His face distorts in rapture, his mouth falls open and his brows lift, and his lips tremble, and his tongue slides around the corner of his mouth. An expression I can read, finally: euphoria.

  “Oh god, Hannah, I’m coming…fuck, oh fuck. You feel like heaven, you feel so perfect, make me feel so good. Oh god…”

  There it is. He thrusts, shoving his cock deeper into my mouth and grunts, and I feel it spurt out of him, taste it on my tongue and I swallow, stroke his length and suck and swallow, bob up and down on him, sink him deep and slide him out. His cum is hot and wet and thick and salty and smoky as I swallow it, gulp after gulp as he comes and comes into my mouth. So much cum, too much. I can’t swallow fast enough, and it leaks out of my mouth, squirting out around his cock and dripping down my chin.

  He pulls out, then, and I take his slick, wet, sticky cock in both hands and stroke him hard and fast until he collapses backward onto the bed, hips lifting up off the mattress, and he spasms helplessly as I ply his length to milk every last drop out of him, lick the beads of cum away as they appear. Finally, then, finally he’s finished, cock slackening, hips sinking to the bed, gasping.

  I fall backward onto my ass as he sits up, chest still heaving. He reaches out a hand, and I take it, letting him pull me up to the bed to sit beside him.

  He stares at me, his expression inscrutable once again. His thumb scrapes across my chin, beneath my lip, wiping away the errant drops of cum, and then his forefinger tugs my mouth open, and I taste his thumb, and his cum, eyes on his, and I swear his cock twitches already as he feels me lick the cum away.

  “Your turn.” His voice is a raspy murmur as he slides off the bed, to his knees, mirroring my position from moments ago.

  He doesn’t dive right in. He toys with me first, nudging my thighs apart. A teasing touch at first, from my knee along the inside of my thigh, skimming across my core, and along the other leg, down my inner thigh to my knee. He feathers a light kiss to my inner thigh, and another, closer. Closer. I sigh as his lips brush over my pussy, and then his tongue smears down my slit, licks my labia, one side and then the other, light tickling teasing touches of his tongue, tracing my opening, licking the shape of my cunt from top to bottom, side to side, before finally flicking his tongue-tip to my hardening clit.

  Now his fingers are there, fingertips grazing the lips of my pussy, tracing around the outside, teasing, teasing, teasing, and his tongue is gliding up the length of my slit, over and over, but not against my clit, not even into my cunt, just licking the seam as he traces it with his fingertips.

  Learning.

  Exploring.

  Tasting.

  And then, simultaneously, his long middle finger probes my entrance and glides into my wetness and warmth, and his tongue stiffens against my clit. I make a whimpering cry, and I feel my cunt squeeze his finger as heat and pressure build like wildfire in the pit of my belly. The spasm is imminent, and he’s only just begun.

  My hands find his hair, so thick, so soft. I bury my fingers into it, tightening them into a knotted grip as he suckles my clit between his teeth. His finger glides in until his knuckles bump against me, and then he withdraws and adds a second finger.

  He curls them inside me, finds a spot that makes my eyes cross, rips a gasp from me, forces my hips into motion, and then—oh shit, shit, shit, his tongue is a mad wild fevered starving thing, flying around my clit suddenly so fast I can’t breathe, my lungs burn and my eyes squeeze shut and I fall back onto the bed and arch my spine, and all this only crushes my cunt harder against his face and his fingers massage that perfect magical spot and his tongue flits and flicks in crazed circles.

  He sits back, hauling me partially off the bed, and my legs wind around his neck and shoulders. I’m shamelessly grinding against his face, now.

  And then it’s too much to take and I can’t even keep my legs tight. I go limp, spine arched to shove my tits toward the ceiling, cunt fused to his mouth, his hands under my ass, supporting my weight, his tongue working madly. And then, seconds from the orgasm peaking and blasting through me, he slides me back onto the bed and shoves my legs apart, and I’m bucking with need, wild with it, growling wordlessly, writhing, desperate for him to lick me, touch me, fuck me, anything, anything to make me come. I hold my legs apart and he slides those two thick fingers back inside me and presses the fingertips of his other hand to my clit in slow circles, sliding his fingers in and out of me and circling my clit in sync, slowly, slowly, until I’m whimpering non-stop, writhing into his skilful touch, crying out as he increases the pace, working me faster and faster.

  I’m so wet, so ready. His fingers squelch in and out of me, wet sucking, slurping sounds echoing in the small cabin as he finger-fucks me, but it’s his touch to my clit that has lightning searing though me, the way he doesn’t press too hard or too light, swiping around the hard throbbing little nub of nerves so perfectly it’s like he just knows how to touch me, how to make me scream.

  And god, fuck, scream I do.

  His relentless touch speeds to frantic fucking and circling, and my hips are gyrating, rolling, bucking, and I’m crying out, sobbing. He withdraws his fingers from inside my cunt, flattens his palm over my belly, and smears his fingertips around my clit hard and fast and perfect, holding me down.

  Everything inside me breaks, then. Explodes. Heat, pressure, and piercing ecstasy plow through me. I scream so loud my throat aches, but it’s not enough to relieve the painful shearing rupture of ecstatic bliss. The pressure of the pleasure is too much, I’m breaking, cracking, thrashing under his touch but held down and even though I’ve come, he doesn’t let up, and the climax continues to build, continues to tear me apart, smashing me into pieces. I’m bucking against his hand, spine bowed off the bed, tits jouncing everywhere, and then—

  And then—

  Whiteness suffuses me.

  White heat.

  A billowing magma-hot climax takes over. It’s too much, too much, too much.

  I feel myself let go, hear his voice— “Look at me, Hannah. Look at me when you come.”

  I wrench my eyes open as I fall apart, as I come with a potency like the heavens breaking open, and I feel a spasm ripple through my cunt, watch a spurt of something wet stream out of me and coat his naked chest, and I come, and I squirt again, and he doesn’t stop as wave after wave after wave of climax hits me, freight-train hard, unending, until I’m weak and ragged and breathless, and finally it ends, finally I collapse to the mattress, gasping hoarsely for breath.

  And that’s when he levers over me, and my gaze trails from his intense brown eyes down his damp chest to his erection, massive, thick, and straining for me.

  I’m utterly spent, unable to even move a hand.

  And he’s nudging my knees aside with his, carving his palm over my hip, across my diaphragm, and cupping my tits. He’s gripping his cock in one fist and touching me everywhere with the other, and now the wide tip of his cock is nudging my slit, and I cannot believe myself, cannot believe that I’m ready for this. I’m not, but I can’t stop it, can’t stop myself from wanting—needing—to feel him inside me.

  It’s different, now.

  “Hannah…” He
breathes my name as he enters me.

  Hypersensitive from climax, the sensation of his cock gliding into my cunt is the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt, I’m so sensitive I feel each ripple of skin as it slides between the lips of my pussy and into my channel, and I can’t help squeezing around him, clenching down as he fills me.

  “Oh fuck, Hannah. Tell me you feel this.”

  “I feel it,” I admit. I don’t want to feel it, much less admit it, but I do.

  I feel him, him, the man, and his soul. Not just his body. A stranger, almost, but I feel him as he enters me. I feel him needing this. Not just the physical, not just the release. If it were just that, he’d have been sated after I sucked him dry. And if it was just physical for me, I wouldn’t be even more in need of him now than I was before he ever touched me. I don’t get it. I don’t understand it. I don’t know where it came from, or how it happened.

  But it did, and I can’t deny it.

  I cup his taut ass and pull him against me. I slide my other hand up his back to curl around the back of his head, pulling his face to mine. He hovers an inch above me, staring down into my eyes, and I swear the veil parts, just a little, and I can almost see into his soul, into his heart. I can see the loneliness like a specter haunting him, see the heartbreak from the story he told me, how he lost his wife. I can see his need for someone…anyone. For a connection, a human connection.

  We move in unison, move together as if we’ve always moved like this, slow and deliberate and languorous and delirious, eyes locked, bodies moving, sweat beading and dripping and trickling, hands moving and exploring.

  I feel him, feel it inside me, something like an orgasm but so much more. So, so much more.

  When it comes, I can’t help the sob that rips through me.

  His cum fills me, I clamp around his pounding thrusting beautiful perfect cock, as I come apart yet again in a way I’ve never felt before, orgasming not just with my body, but with my soul and my heart and my mind—he feels it, too, and I see it in him, see it in the way his face moves, softens, in the way his eyes search mine, the way his palm cradles my cheek and his mouth slams down on mine.

  He kisses me.

  ….

  He kisses me as he comes.

  His tongue tangles with mine, slipping and sliding, searching the cavity of my mouth, tracing the line of my gums, my teeth, ravaging my mouth, fierce and wild and demanding. And as his tongue plunders my mouth, as his lips slant and devour wet and hungry on mine—in unison with all this, he comes.

  He grunts into my mouth, into the kiss. I feel his cum fill me, hot wet jets spasming out of his cock and splashing hard inside my cunt, and still he fucks me, slow pounding thrusts, unhurried, deliberate, hard, rough, primally brutal, and dizzyingly perfect, pushing my own climax to new shattering heights, and he keeps fucking until his cum squirts out around his cock and trickles along my labia and down my inner thighs, so much cum, so impossibly much because he’s still coming, and it’s filled me and is overflowing and dripping down my taint and into my ass.

  And all the while he is kissing me.

  Fucking me and kissing me.

  Groaning against my lips, sucking my tongue into his mouth and groaning as if his entire being is being consumed as he comes inside my cunt, as if he can’t believe what he’s feeling—

  I know I can’t.

  It’s unreal, how this feels. To come, and come, and come, to taste his mouth and his tongue, and swallow his groans and suck down his moans, and clamp my cunt around his cock and feel his cum in me dripping out of me and down my thighs, to feel him, him, all of him, so much of him that it overwhelms me, overflows my soul and mind and heart exactly the way his hot wet thick sticky cum overflows my cunt.

  When he can’t come anymore and neither can I, he finally stops kissing my bruised lips, and his eyes are fraught, open, wild, haunted, hunted, delirious, vulnerable.

  In a split second, like this, with his eyes on mine, his secret inner self is bared to me.

  And then he’s off me and across the cabin, hands braced on the smooth-hewn logs of the wall, his back heaving as he gasps for breath, ass taut as he presses against the wall with all his power, as if he’s trying to push over the wall.

  Every line of his body is tensed. Every hard plane of muscle speaks of turmoil.

  I leave the bed and move softly, carefully across the room to stand behind him. I’m still in denial, I think, still refusing to think about how and why I’m here. It’s easier to pretend that all this can mean something, that we could both move beyond the fact of my situation, the fact that he owns me, that I am stuck here in this tiny cabin in the far rugged wilderness of the mountains until and unless he sees fit to take me somewhere else. I could be stuck here forever, living with him.

  In this moment, I think of none of that.

  I think only of the agonized conflict written on his body.

  Think only of the need to soothe it.

  I press my breasts to his back and smooth my hands up and down his chest. “Conrad. What is it?”

  “I got…lost, there for a while.” He’s speaking barely above a whisper.

  “I didn’t mind.” I’d hope that’d be obvious, that he can read my body well enough to know there’s a lot more to how I felt about what we just did together than “not minding.”

  “Let me ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest.”

  “All right.”

  He doesn’t turn to look at me. He remains as he is, palms braced against the wall, head hanging between his arms. “Why’d you touch me? Why’d you do…all that, with me? I thought you weren’t ready. Thought you didn’t want to. That you’re afraid of me.”

  I stand behind him, run my hands over his back, shoulder to shoulder, from neck to buttocks, in random soothing circles. It’s easier to let the truth out if I’m touching him, somehow. “I did it because I wanted to. I woke up, and I saw you touching yourself, and…I don’t know. I wanted to touch you. I’m not afraid of you anymore. You haven’t given me reason to be.”

  “Not yet. Give me time, though.” He laughs, a bitter sound.

  “What is it, really?”

  He straightens, turns around. “I told you, I got lost.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I haven’t had sex with anyone since my wife died. And that was three years ago. So I had a good bit of pent up…frustration, I guess you could say.” His expression shutters. “I knew where I was, and I knew you were you, but—” He clicks his teeth together to stop the words, to keep them back, keep them inside.

  I remain as close to him as I dare, a hair’s breadth separating our bodies. “Don’t shut down now, Conrad. Tell me.” I force him to look at me. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

  “I knew I was with you, but…I felt her. I don’t know how to put it better than that. I miss her so damn much, and—I just felt her. That was why I had to stop, when you were on top of me.” His eyes search mine as he speaks, and I see a hint of apology in them. “That was how she liked it best. And when it was you, it—was too difficult to keep the past and the present separate. You, and her.”

  “Do I look like her?”

  A shrug. “Not really. You’re tall, curvy, and blonde. She was short, petite, and she had auburn hair. Wasn’t much to her, physically. But she was one of those people who just…filled a room.” He leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Seeing her. “Wasn’t afraid of anything, or anyone. Never afraid to speak her mind, no matter the circumstances. She—she told me it was a mistake to break away from the wagon train. I didn’t listen. And it got her killed. Even as she—as she died, she never blamed me.”

  “I’m sorry, Conrad.”

  He straightens, and his face drains of emotion. “Nothing for you to be sorry for. It’s done and in the past. Only thing to do is move on. Which is what I’m trying to do.”

  “I can’t replace her, Conrad.”

  “I’m not trying to. Noth
ing against you, Hannah, but no one ever could replace her.”

  “Then why am I here? What is it you want from me?”

  “I was desperate, Hannah. Utterly alone for three years, except when I went south to sell my stock. And even then I discovered it’s entirely possible to be alone in a crowd. I couldn’t stand being alone anymore. But I’m not—good. Or safe. My life isn’t safe. I’m not the man I was. I can’t stand cities. Even little towns are too much for me. I need the space, the wide open spaces, and the solitude. Just…not alone. I need one person to share the silence with.”

  I touch his chest with one hand. “I understand.”

  “Do you?” His eyes are sharp, his voice hesitant.

  “As much as I can, yes.”

  “So you’ll stay?”

  “I didn’t realize I had a choice.”

  “I told you, already. I didn’t know how else to find anyone to bring here, to be with me, so I resorted to Thompson. You’re free to go whenever you want, and if you do want to, I’ll take you. Get you somewhere civilized, give you some money to set up a life for yourself. If that’s what you want.”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, instead sidles past me and begins getting dressed.

  When he’s dressed, he shoots me a glance. “Got work to do.”

  And just like that, I’m alone.

  I climb back into the bed, let myself drowse.

  I must have fallen asleep, because I’m jolted awake by the sound of boots on the porch. The door creaks, and snow skirls in through the opening, eddying in the wind. A body darkens the doorway, and my heart skips a beat, thinking it’s Conrad.

  Then he enters, and my blood runs as icy as the air outside.

  It’s Charlie.

  Dressed in furs, which are coated and matted with snow, rendering him all but invisible.

  He has a shotgun in his hands, and his eyes—the only part of him visible—are the palest blue, icy, hard, vicious. Wicked. And as they land on me, sitting up in the bed, naked, blanket across my thighs, nipples pebbling in the sudden blast of cold, his gaze goes wild with lust.