Black Room: Door 3

by Jade London

  I don’t want to wake up.

  I don’t want to be alone.

  I want him back.

  Any version of him. I just…want him.

  So I find myself on my feet, drifting across the black room. I stop in front of the fourth door. I trace the numeral 4 with my finger and I wonder what version of him I will find behind this door? Who will he be?

  This doorknob is made of solid brass. Polished, elegant. Ornate filigree knot work graces the face of the knob, thin wires of twisted brass curl and knot and overlap in delicate patterns.

  I press my palm to the filigree, and the brass is warm under my hand.

  I twist the knob and the door opens away from me on silent hinges. As I step over the threshold a burst of darkness washes over me, and through me.

  ****

  Light, a blast of sunshine refracting through the glass, temporarily blinds me.

  Through the windows directly in front of me I see the pink-orange of a sunset, the sun beginning to settle beneath the horizon.

  I’m in a long hallway and tall windows line one wall, extending away to my left. I blink against the light, turn in place; see the wall beside me, the door, and the brass knob. There’s another door at the far end of the hallway, a tiny rectangle in the distance, and another nearby, to my right, a few feet away, the door standing open, revealing the top of a set of stairs.

  A woman appears in the open doorway. She’s tall and thin, wiry, with iron-gray hair bound in a bun so severely tight my own scalp aches in sympathy. She’s wearing a black dress with a white apron, sensible black shoes, and she has a rag in one hand.

  “Here you are!” she hisses, shaking the rag at me. “I’ve searched the whole house for you! What on earth are you doing up here? You know very well Master Killian allows no one up here, child. You’ll be sacked if you’re caught, and you’ve only just started.”

  I gape at her, trying to catch up. “I—I’m sorry, ma’am.” The words pop out, unbidden.

  “Sorry won’t keep you your job if Master Killian finds you up here.”

  “I didn’t mean—I mean—”

  She flutters her hands at me. “Just go, girl.”

  At that moment, the door at the far end of the hall swings open, and a huge male body fills the frame, back-lit by the sun. The silhouette is imposing and it’s clear the man is tall with broad shoulders and a trim waist.

  My heart begins to pound, and the woman beside me lets out a curse under her breath, so softly I barely hear it. And then she’s in front of me, shoving the rag into my hand. “Go, child!” she hisses.

  I back up and prepare to turn and flee through the door.

  A deep, powerful male voice cracks through the silence. “Mrs. Cartwright.”

  The woman starts, and then shuffles forward. “Yes, sir, Mister Killian?”

  “I thought I’d made myself clear. No one is allowed in this portion of the house.”

  “I know, sir.” Mrs. Cartwright gestures at me. “The new girl, sir, she got lost. I was just explaining to her—”

  “It should have been explained the moment you hired her.”

  “I know, sir. I’m sorry—it won’t happen again. You have my word.”

  I turn around, and take two small steps toward the door.

  “I didn’t dismiss you, girl.” His voice is hard and cold.

  I halt in place, turn slowly back around, my heart hammering. He snaps his fingers, stabs his index finger at the floor in front of him.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Mrs. Cartwright hisses at me, gesturing at the man standing in the doorway some twenty or thirty feet away. “Go! If he summons you, you go.”

  Summoned, like a dog.

  I move past Mrs. Cartwright, and it takes me many long steps to reach Mister Killian.

  He is enormously tall, towering over me. Dressed in a three-piece suit: slim, tailored, creased navy-blue pinstripe trousers, a matching vest with polished gold buttons, a suit coat over that with a gold chain dangling in a perfect U-shape from pocket to pocket. Pristine white shirt buttoned up to the neck, a narrow red-and-blue striped tie, the knot a precise wedge. An inch and a half of white shirt peeks through at his cuffs, gold cufflinks inset with massive crimson rubies glitter in the light. His black hair is swept back, oiled and gleaming. He is clean-shaven. Glittering brown eyes regard me, missing nothing, gimlet and cold and hard, radiating wealth and power, dominance and arrogance.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met yet,” His voice rumbles so deeply I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

  “This is Hannah Tavistock, sir,” Mrs. Cartwright says from the other end of the hallway. “She came with several letters of reference. She was most recently employed with the Orwells—”

  “I was speaking to her, Mrs. Cartwright.” His eyes flit up, look past me, and he continues with one word. “Dismissed.”

  “Shall I show Miss Tavistock her duties downstairs, sir?”

  “I’ll send her along shortly. You are dismissed, Mrs. Cartwright.” His voice is sharper than razor blades, colder than ice.

  “Yes, sir.” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice is tiny and meek.

  His eyes, brown as polished oak, striated with seams of gold—fix on me. “These are my private quarters, Miss Tavistock, and as such they are strictly off-limits. I manage them myself, and I carry the only key.” He brandishes a thick brass key. “Which raises the question of how you got in here.”

  It’s hard to summon words, to find my voice. “I—I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Were you snooping, Miss Tavistock?”

  “No sir! I would never, I just—”

  “I am not known for my forgiving nature, as you should know.”

  “I’m sorry, Mister Killian. I wasn’t snooping. I got lost—”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Miss Tavistock?” His gaze is utterly unfeeling.

  “No sir, I’m telling the truth, I swear—”

  He steps closer, and now I can smell him, cigar smoke and whiskey and expensive cologne. “You didn’t get lost, Miss Tavistock. These quarters are on the third floor, and occupy one entire wing of the house. It is virtually impossible to get so lost you find your way past several locked doors, and up two flights of stairs.”

  “No, sir, I—”

  He holds up a hand, and I silence myself. He pinches my jaw between thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t get lost, did you?”

  “No…sir…” My heart hammers, my knees shake, my hands tremble.

  “What is it you were looking for?”

  “I—”

  He speaks over me. “Because I don’t think you’ll like what you find if you sneak into my private quarters, Miss Tavistock.”

  His heat is stifling, his presence overwhelming; his eyes pin me in place, his fingers on my chin are like iron. He is refusing to allow me to look away.

  There is a beast in his brown eyes.

  It lurks, prowling behind the veil of indifference and arrogance.

  I try to step away, but I can’t.

  Try to look away, but I can’t.

  He is all pervading, terrifying, consuming.

  I feel like a tiny creature caught in the open, caught by the gaze of a predator.

  His eyes never waver from mine, his grip on my chin remains unbreakable, and I remain frozen; even if he were to allow me to move, I couldn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  His body is hard and huge, blocking out the light, blocking out the world.

  I tremble, wondering what he wants. What he’s going to do.

  His finger and thumb release my chin.

  His body presses against mine, and I’m forced backward. My breasts are crushed against his chest, and my traitorous nipples harden. He feels it, I know he does. He feels them poking into his chest. They’re so sensitive, like this, so hard, pressing against my dress and crushed against his body.

  His scent is intoxicating.

  His body is all consuming.

  He steps
forward again, and I’m pressed up against the window, the glass at my spine. He is in front of me, blocking my escape.

  All of my senses are attuned to him.

  My nipples throb.

  His eyes finally break away from mine and skate down my body. I look where he’s looking, see what he sees.

  I’m wearing a uniform: a black skirt, the hem just above my knees; black lace stockings; a black button-up blouse with the top three buttons undone, baring an indecent amount of cleavage. A cascade of thick honey-blond hair cascades down the front of my left shoulder.

  I suck in a deep breath and my chest expands, the buttons imprisoning my breasts straining.

  I’m not wearing a bra.

  One wrong move, and my breasts would pop free.

  Bare.

  Exposed to his gaze.

  My nipples poke through the thin cotton of my blouse, protruding visibly.

  His eyes rise to meet mine. Hot, burning, the coldness gone, but the arrogance remains. He is totally sure of his power. He returns his gaze to my breasts.

  His fingers lift…

  He pinches my nipple hard, so hard I whimper, cry out, but he doesn’t release me, doesn’t lessen the painful sting of the pinch. Then his other hand lifts and I try to squirm away, but I can’t because the glass is behind me and he’s in front of me and my nipple aches, throbs, stings. I can’t breathe for the ache, and then he latches onto my other nipple, both of them in his grip now. The fiercely painful pinches steal my breath but, oh, oh, oh the hurt, it lances through me, fills me, the ache sinks into me, consumes all of me.

  Oh, the ache.

  I feel the ache everywhere—

  Between my thighs. God, I ache.

  He won’t let go.

  He’s pinching so hard but I don’t dare cry.

  Pinching so hard I feel it in my pussy.

  The pain, the ache…why do I not stop him, why do I not knock his hands away or cry out, why do I only endure it and gasp? Why is that gasp no longer one of protest or pain?

  Why is that gasp so erotic? So breathy, so sultry?

  Moisture pools between my thighs, dampens my panties.

  His nostrils flare, as if he can scent my arousal.

  Still with that powerful, painful pressure on my nipples, he speaks to me. “I’m having a party tonight, Miss Tavistock.”

  “Yes, sir…” I manage.

  He increases the pressure on my nipples, and the ache that spears through me sends dampness trickling down my thigh. I’m so wet from the ache that I’m literally dripping.

  “I want you in attendance.”

  I blink, and try to think past the ache. “Yes, sir.”

  He releases my nipples suddenly, and the absence of the stinging pressure turns my gasp of relief into a moan.

  And then he reaches up with one long, thick index finger and touches my upper lip. He trails it down to my lower lip, tugging open my mouth, then down to my chin. I have ceased breathing.

  He continues his path down the column of my throat, each millimeter of flesh he touches sears and tingles. His finger now rests on my breastbone.

  His gaze goes to mine, demanding I meet his eyes. With those eyes he pins me, pierces me and sees into me.

  He drags his finger down between my breasts to the button, to that one lone defense of any remaining modesty.

  A smirk curls at the corners of his lips, and then vanishes, a shadow of amusement flitting across the rugged, masculine beauty of his features.

  A single sharp tug—

  The button clatters to the floor, and my breasts spill free, bouncing, jiggling, nipples standing hard and erect.

  He traces one wide, dark areola with his fingertip, circling it.

  He pinches my exposed nipple, harder than the last time. So hard I do sob this time, but it’s a confused sound, as rife with eroticism as with pain.

  “You will appear—” he says, pinching my other exposed nipple now, too, and I ache so fiercely between my thighs that I might implode, “—just like this.”

  I can’t speak. I try, but the pain, the ache, the throb, the pressure on my nipples and the pressure between my thighs is too much. Too potent, too fierce.

  He increases the pressure, and my knees buckle. “I expect you to answer, Miss Tavistock.”

  “Y-y-y-yessssss—” I stammer.

  But I can’t complete the phrase, because now he’s alternating pressure, pinching hard, then relaxing, hard, then relaxing, alternating from left nipple to right, so the ache and the relief travels through me, whirling and pounding and pulsing along that sharp hot line connecting my tits and cunt.

  “Yes what, Miss Tavistock?”

  “Yes—yes…” It’s so hard to think with the throbbing, with the wild fiery ache of his fingers pincering my hypersensitive nipples, hard to think with the pulsating heat between my thighs.

  He releases my nipples, and then his thumbs brush them gently, flicking them gingerly. Then he rubs each of them in sync, the broad rough pads of his thumbs rolling against my singing, stinging nipples, soothing and pleasurably stimulating them.

  I can finally breathe, and when I do it’s to cry out, my breathy scream echoing off the glass and the walls as heat sears through me, piercing the bubble of built up pressure, and my knees give out, my legs crumbling, lightning hitting me, wave after wave of something primal slicing through my entire body, seizing me, and he continues rolling his thumbs over my nipples. I need….god, I need—

  What do I need?

  Pressure. Between my thighs. I need it. I need release from this ache.

  “Yes…what, Miss Tavistock?” His voice is barely above a whisper. It’s an intimate murmur. His finger touches my chin, lifting my face.

  I shake my head, all capacity for thought blasted away.

  He presses his lips to my ear. “‘Yes, Mister Killian,’” he whispers. “Say it.”

  I’m sagging, and I realize he’s all that’s keeping me from falling to the floor, his knee is between my legs. I’m sitting on his knee. Oh…god.

  I feel myself grinding against his knee. Seeking release from the ache, from the throb, from the lightning searing through me, lightning that won’t quite allow me to find what I need, to find the release.

  I grind on his knee in harmony with the rolling of his thumb over my nipples, gentle, insistent, precise, teasing each sensation out of me.

  “Yes…” I gasp. “Yes…M-m-mister….”

  Then one of his hands is doing the work of two, dancing from breast to breast, thumbing and flicking each nipple in turn, and his other hand is descending. Finding my knee. My thigh. Tracing upwards. His rolling thumb moves faster, and my hips move harder, grinding my cunt on his knee. I’m shameless, needing the release. Needing it. All he’s done is pinch my nipples and I’m soaring, hovering at the edge, and he won’t let me fall over, won’t let me find release. I need it so bad it hurts, I ache all over, my gut aches, my cunt aches, my nipples, my thighs, everything aches from the need to come…

  And now, yes, god yes, he’s skimming the gusset of my panties, running three fingers over the soaked cotton. Right over the seam of my dripping pussy. He drags a fingertip over my inner thigh where my cunt nears my asshole, and through the slippery wetness leaking out of me.

  “Say it, Miss Tavistock.” He teases the elastic of the leg-hole of my panties, darting under, ever so slightly. “ Say, ‘Yes, Mister Killian.’ Three words, and I’ll give you what you want.”

  He traces the seam of my cunt again, over the cotton, pressing one fingertip in a little, through the fabric. I writhe, grind, needing that touch. Needing it so fucking bad.

  “And you want it, don’t you? You want it so bad.” He whispers this in my ear. “I can feel it. I can smell it. You’re soaked, and I’ve barely touched you, Miss Tavistock.”

  “I—”

  He squeezes my nipple, and I cry out. “Say it, Miss Tavistock.” He teases the other side of my cunt now, edging in under the elastic of the gusset
. “Say it, and I’ll do things you could only imagine. Things you couldn’t even fantasize about.”

  I try. I do, really I do. I work my lips, but the ache is too fierce for thought, and I do want it, god, fuck I want it. He’s teasing me, teasing me closer. He knows exactly where my clit is, but he’s not giving it to me, not touching me there, not letting me grind on his thigh the way I need to to find release.

  “Last chance, Miss Tavistock.”

  His hand emerges from beneath my skirt, and before I can suck in a preparatory breath, he’s pinching my nipples again in that alternating pressure pattern, and instantly I’m teetering on the edge—if only…if only he’d touch me, or let me rub my cunt on his thigh just so—

  But he doesn’t.

  “Too late.” He releases my nipples, yanks his thigh out from between mine, and steps back.

  I sag, nearly falling, but I catch myself.

  My hands go to the edges of my shirt, to cover my bare tits.

  He grabs my wrists. “No covering yourself.” He pulls a large pocket watch from his vest, flips open the gold-chased cover, consults it, and replaces it. “Be in the card room downstairs in five minutes.”

  And then he’s gone, breezing away in a whirl of cologne and masculinity.

  I was seconds from climax, and he’s gone.

  I ache.

  I’m mad with need.

  My nipples pulse, and my cunt sings. My thighs are sticky from my own wetness, and my panties are soaked.

  I gather my strength, force myself to my feet, and move down the hallway, trying to ignore the fact that my tits are exposed.

  I walk out of the hallway and down the narrow staircase. Along a wide hallway that overlooks a staircase in the center of the house. The staircase is circular, mammoth, ascending from the first floor all the way up here to the third.

  I hear voices, male and numerous.

  I make my way down the stairs, trying to move smoothly, slowly, trying to avoid letting my tits bounce, because each bounce, each jiggle make them ache, so full, so heavy are they, so sensitive from Killian’s touch.

  I make my way down to the first floor and follow the familiar voice down another hallway, this one wide with waist-high wainscoting of dark oak, thick velvety carpet underfoot, high ceilings ornately painted to resemble the night sky—stars in gold paint on a navy-blue ground. A pair of ten-foot high French doors, partially open, stand at the end of the hall. I can hear male voices beyond, loud and boisterous.