He doesn’t pull out, this time. He fucks through the orgasm, jetting hot gouts of cum into me in thick wet waves that fill me to the brim and squirt out with each next thrust to drip down my thighs, and still he fucks, still he comes.
He continues to fuck me until his cock goes soft inside me, and I’m quivering, shaking, gasping for lungfuls of oxygen, aching all over, the insides of my thighs wet and sticky with his cum, which still drips out of me.
He releases my hair, and I collapse forward.
He does nothing to help me.
I feel nothing, then, but the throb of my pussy and the cold cement against my cheek, my breasts, my hips, and the hot sticky drip of his cum oozing out of my cunt.
I fight the dizziness, the darkness, and it takes a supreme effort to avoid being sucked under. I fight it so hard, fight desperately, wretchedly, as if to succumb to this darkness means death, means nothingness; I’m more afraid of the nothingness than I am of death itself.
Then I see him and I feel his arms scooping me up. His eyes on mine, sad and regretful; yet these words do not capture the depth of what I see in his eyes—I’m not sure there are words for what I see.
“You can’t stay,” he says.
He sets me on my feet in front of the doorway.
Standing behind me he whispers in my ear. “You have to go, now.”
Without a backward glance, I step toward the door and I twist the doorknob.
There is no in between, no waiting, no putting it off. My feet obey some unheard command.
I step through the doorway and his hands fall away, his heat diminishes, his presence cools and becomes cold and then…
There is nothing…
…nothing.
…nothing.
* *
Silence.
Perfect, utter silence.
A drowning quiet.
I hear myself breathing; the first sensation.
I ache all over; the second sensation.
I open my eyes; the third sensation.
Once again I’m in the room of black doors.
The white cot is under me. To my left sits the small square black table and on it the thick white candle, flickering, casting a dim light. Rivulets of melted wax drip down the sides of the candle to pool and harden on the silver candlestick.
I look around and see seven pools of orange-yellow light. Seven doors. Five black, one green, one silver.
It hurts to see at the green door; simply looking at it cuts my heart and soul and mind into bleeding ribbons.
I don’t know why, and I don’t know what it means.
I have no thoughts, no memories, and no ideas about that door, only an abiding sense of agony.
So I let my eyes slide away from the faded, chipped, old green door with its brass knob.
My gaze travels to the silver door but it doesn’t cause pain, only…revulsion. There is something wrong. That door is wrong.
As I consider that thought, something else strikes me.
Seven pools of light?
I count—and yes, there are only seven doors now.
Not eight.
The first door I passed through is gone and only a blank wall stands where the door used to be. No sconce, no frame. Nothing but an empty wall.
I’m on my feet and suddenly standing before the spot where that door used to be, though I don’t remember walking toward it. I touch the wall, finding it cool, smooth, and slightly pebbled.
Where is that door, the door that leads to him?
Where did he go?
What has just happened?
I slide my palm along the cool wall, and my feet carry me fifty paces to door number two. My heart thunders in my chest, beating rabbit-fast, so hard it almost hurts. My palms sweat. This isn’t quite fear, though. Anticipation? Nervousness? I don’t know.
But my thoughts are banished.
The candle is forgotten.
Also forgotten is the cot, the six remaining doors, and the missing door.
He, the boxer, is…not forgotten, but tucked away in a quiet corner of my hazy mind.
It’s hard to think, here in this space. Nothing makes sense. I have no grasp on time. How long have I been standing here in front of the door marked 2? Forever, possibly. Or as brief a time as a single heartbeat. I really don’t know.
What came before this room? I don’t know.
Why does not knowing not bother me?
I don’t know that either.
I know nothing except one thing: I’m about to twist this sleek black modern doorknob and step over a new threshold.
That’s the only thing I know. The only thing I need to know.
I have to open this door. I have to go through. I don’t know why, but I am compelled. I must.
My hand rises.
My sweaty, trembling palm meets cool metal. My heartbeat pulses so fast I can barely breathe.
I turn the knob.
I push the door open, and it swings inward on silent hinges.
Light bathes me.
Heat warms me.
I step through.
Unafraid.
EAGER FOR MORE?
STEP INTO
THE BLACK ROOM: DOOR 2
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Copyright © 2016 by Jasinda Wilder and Jade London. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
THE BLACK ROOM: DOOR 1
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
&
Jasinda Wilder
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The Black Room: Door One Page 5
