Black Room: Door 7

by Jade London

  He opens his mouth, but I shake my head. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. Just let me touch you.”

  “Okay.”

  I just stare for a few moments, because god, he’s so beautiful, so perfect. But I can’t just stare. I need to touch. I reach out, trace a single fingertip down the underside of his cock, from tip to balls. He shudders, letting out a growling breath.

  “You’re killing me,” he murmurs.

  “Sorry. I just…”

  “The good kind of killing me,” he clarifies. “Do whatever you want. But you keep doing that, I’m not gonna be able to help making a mess.”

  I grin, because that was kind of what I had in mind. But I don’t say that. I just return my finger’s journey back up from root to tip, and then as I trace over the very top, I close my fist around him and plunge it down.

  He groans long and low, throwing his head back, and then jerks it back forward to watch me.

  I slide my fist up, feeling my heart hammering in my chest. I’m touching him. A total stranger. I have my hand around his cock, and it feels dirty and naughty and delicious and perfect all at once.

  I know this is wrong, that two wrongs don’t make a right, but I don’t care. Not right now. All I care about right this moment is this man’s dick in my fist. How hard it is, how long it is, how thick it is. My fist doesn’t close around him, my middle finger and thumb don’t quite connect; my hand is small and pale and his cock is huge and dark. His thighs are tensed and hard as rock, his stomach pulled inward, his fists gripping the sides of the rowboat so hard the wood creaks under his powerful grip.

  I’ve stroked his length twice, and he’s losing control; I’m giddy at the knowledge that I’m making him feel that way, that my touch, my hand on his cock is enough to eradicate his self-control. I glance up at his face and meet his eyes. His brows are drawn, his forehead furrowed, jaw clenched tight, lips curled and parted in a snarl.

  I add my other hand, now. Slowly, I caress his length from top to bottom and back up, rubbing my thumb over the slit at the top, twisting my fist around the head and then plunging back down. And now, on the next journey of my hands from glans to root, his hips twitch. Flex. A soft groan leaves his throat.

  “Goddamn,” he moans. “I can’t hold out much longer.”

  “I don’t want you to hold out,” I hear myself say.

  “You want me to come all over your hands?” His eyes meet mine as he asks this.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  Fuck, I want that. I remember having the tiniest droplet of Charlie’s cum on my hand and feeing a tiny, illicit thrill at the sight of it. Now, my entire existence is hinged on this man’s orgasm. I need more than anything to watch him come, to watch him lose control, let go, to spray his cum everywhere…on me and on my hands. I remember touching my tongue to Charlie’s cum, tasting it, and feeling a similar bolt of excitement. But now, in the moonlight of a stolen moment with a nameless stranger, caressing his massive, beautiful cock, I want to taste more, taste his cum. I dare to want things in this impossible fantasy made real that I’ve never even dreamed of, never dared want with Charlie.

  I cup the weight of his balls in my palm, massage them, and feel their softness in my hand. Stroke his length slowly, unhurriedly, exulting down to the very pit of my soul in the way he feels in my hands.

  “I’m—shit, shit—I’m gonna come.” He thrusts his hips, powering his cock through my hand.

  “Hold still,” I say. “Let me do it all.”

  He leans backward against the back edge of the rowboat, head lolling over the side, stretching out, flexing every muscle as I continue caressing his cock. His whole body is rigid, hips levered off the boat.

  “I’m there, Jesus, I’m coming.” He snarls, wordlessly. “Fuck, that feels incredible.”

  My fist is on the upward journey, nearing the head, and that’s when he comes. It’s a fountain of cum, jetting straight up into the air and drenching my knuckles and my wrist. I need more, need to feel more of him, need to make him feel more. I want to give him more pleasure, make him come even harder.

  It’s…instinctual. Automatic. Desire bypassing my brain, pushing straight through my body to force me into action.

  I gather my hair to one side and bend over him. I part my lips and feel the head of his cock on my lower lip, then my tongue, and then I have his shaft in my mouth. Taste his skin, taste something muskier, tangier, saltier. He groans, twitches, and I feel him shift his weight.

  “Your mouth feels fucking perfect.”

  I hum in response, and he groans and his hips flex forward. His cock fills more of my mouth, the head nudging at my throat, and then I feel something wet and hot hit the back of my throat and I swallow it. I take more of him, and then I have to open my throat and breathe through my nose, but this feels right, it feels amazing, it’s perfect because it’s him, and his cock is so perfect it deserves this, he deserves to feel me take his cock this deep for how hard he made me come. I feel him spurt again, and I’m still taking more of him, choking on the thick presence in my throat. I back away until just the head of him is in my mouth and I kiss it, suck it, fuck it with my mouth. He leaks cum. I taste it on my tongue. Lick it away without removing him from my mouth, stroke him at the root as I suck and fondle the head with my lips, flutter my tongue against the soft springy roundness of the tip.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck—” he growls.

  Finally, he’s done coming, and I feel him softening in my hands and mouth, and I let him pop free.

  I still taste his cum on my tongue, and I lick my lips. Lifting my right hand, I admire the cum coating my skin, the way it drips and slides from knuckle to knuckle, over my wrist. He stares at me as I lift my hand to my mouth and lick at the dribbling pool of cum. It’s thick and viscous, salty, pungent, but not overpowering. I meet his gaze and don’t look away as I lick away every last drop of his cum.

  “Fucking hell, that’s…” he shakes his head. “Who are you?”

  Dawn is pinking the gray on the horizon. I have to go, have wash the evidence of him away and pretend to sleep.

  His cock, now mostly slackened and still impressive, has a droplet of cum at the tip.

  I lick it away, and then climb back onto the dock. “My name is Hannah,” I say.

  I stand up, conscious of his eyes on my body, scouring my naked curves. I let him look, revel in the fierce, fiery gleam of lust I see in his gaze. His eyes are on my breasts, my hips, my pussy—then up to my face, memorizing my features.

  “Hannah,” he repeats. “I’m Conrad.”

  I grab my phone, walk back along the dock, self-consciously letting my hips sway a little extra, because his eyes are on my ass. I make it to the end of the dock when I hear his voice, pitched low.

  “Hannah.”

  I stop, glance back at him over my shoulder. “What?”

  “When will I get more of you?”

  “Tomorrow night,” I say, knowing I’m unable to resist, unable to even want to resist. “The island. Midnight.”

  “Perfect.” He lets out a breath, and I wait, knowing he’s going to say something else. “If you meet me at the island tomorrow night, or tonight or whatever you want to call it, you have to know I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. I swear to you, you’ll never forget the way my cock feels inside your cunt, and you’ll never want anyone else.”

  “That’s the problem,” I say, “I already don’t.”

  I walk away, then, because if I don’t, I’ll fuck him right here on the dock, and Charlie is an early riser.

  I go into the house, avoiding the creaky floorboard in the kitchen. I close the bathroom door behind me and turn on the faucet in the sink. With hot water that’s a little too hot, and a bar of soap, I scrub my pussy and wash my hands and my face. I dry off, slip on my bathrobe and sneak into bed.

  “What’re you doing, Hannah?” Charlie slurs, half-asleep.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I whisper. “T
ook a walk outside.”

  “Naked? In the middle of the night?”

  “We don’t have any neighbors,” I say, “so why not? The air feels nice.”

  Charlie goes quiet again, and I hear him snoring.

  I tingle everywhere. My heart is drumming in my chest.

  I have no hope of sleeping, not now. Not ever again. I have him on my mind, now. Conrad.

  Memory of his cum on my skin, his cock in my mouth. His lips against my cunt, his fingers inside me, his tongue tasting.

  More.

  Fuck, I want more.

  I want things I don’t know the name of, fantasies I don’t have images for.

  I pretend to sleep until I hear Charlie wake up, take a shower, fix coffee and breakfast. When I hear his car start and hear him leave, I fling away the covers and stare at my hand, as if I can still see Conrad’s cum.

  I pull up porn on my phone, watch with renewed interest as women take face-loads of cum with eager, open mouths, watch as they deep-throat impossibly huge cocks and watch what they do and how they do it, and I watch how they go on their hands and knees to take it from behind, how they straddle the men to ride them facing their feet, asses bouncing. It’s still obviously fake and patently ridiculous, but now, with Conrad in my mind, I picture myself doing those things with him. Taking him from behind. Sucking him until he’s about to come, and then letting him shoot his cum on my face and on my tits—the thought should disgust me, but it doesn’t…what does that say about me? I don’t know, don’t care. All I know, all I care about, is that I want that. I want him, and I want everything with him. Everything.

  I touch my pussy and make myself come as sunlight pours through the bedroom window, and I cry Conrad’s name as I come, picturing his fingers, his mouth, his cock—

  +

  The island; the gazebo. Moonlight bathes the lake silver, only the occasional ripple marring the mirror surface.

  Our quilt is spread out on the floor of the gazebo. Four large white candles burn brightly at each corner; beside each candle is a slender fluted vase containing a single perfect crimson rose. To one side, a small Bluetooth speaker sits on the bench of the gazebo, emitting soft solo cello music, slow, languid, and expressive.

  I’m standing just outside the gazebo, staring, tears in my eyes. Conrad stands on the center of the quilt, surrounded by the candles and the roses and the silver moonlight. He is more beautiful than everything else around him, capturing my attention, setting my heart to thundering. Faded blue jeans, no shirt, no shoes. Bare chest rippling with muscle, taut and toned and blocky, bare feet. Wild thick black hair, loose and damp and curling against his neck and around his ears and dangling in perfect strands across his eyes. Hands at his sides, watching me.

  “You deserve romance,” he says, as I step up onto the gazebo and onto the quilt and into his arms.

  He kisses each of my cheeks, kissing away the tears. Then his lips move to capture the corners of my mouth, one, and then the other.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  His tongue tangles with mine, slips between my lips and scours my teeth and steals my breath, and something sears between us that should be termed a kiss but is simply too much to be contained by such a flimsy thing as language.

  It is elemental. Spiritual. Deeper than souls, beyond lips and tongues, more than romance or sex. It is…fusion.

  Union.

  We’ve fucked too many times to count, in nearly every way there is to fuck. But this? I shudder, twist in his arms, clutch at his shoulder blades, gasp against his lips.

  I never thought of sex as anything other than sex, or fucking. There are a dozen words or terms for it, each cruder and baser than the last, and sex has always been those things. Something you do, a physical act, necessary, inevitable, pleasurable. But with Conrad, it was always…more than all that. Not emotionally, not at first. It was fucking, but fucking as it should be. Fucking done right. Every moment with Conrad has taught me how limp and weak and empty every sex act I’ve ever had before was, because each moment with Conrad is intense and fiery and wild and unpredictable and exponentially more powerful than I ever understood anything could be.

  I gave into this thing with Conrad because I needed to feel wanted, and he gave that to me. I needed to feel…well, I’ll just stop there. I needed to feel. And good god, does he make me feel.

  Too much, I think.

  That’s why I’m always so afraid with him, because what I feel with him and for him…is overwhelming. So much so that I don’t know how to contain it, or how to express it, except by fucking him as intensely as I can, as much as I can. And that’s what we do. He feels the same way—I know, because I can feel it in the way he touches me, the way he can’t help but to kiss me, despite his own rule that we wouldn’t kiss until I could be his in every way. But he can’t help it. He’s as overwhelmed as I am by this thing, by the enormity of it, by the all-pervading power and intensity of it.

  The connection between us consumes us completely.

  And yet, for all that, until this very moment…I couldn’t grasp what it was, what it meant or how deeply it was rooted into the soil of my very existence.

  It is love.

  Not comfort, not attraction, not reliance, or co-dependency, or even need. No, love is all of those things, but it is far more than the sum of its parts.

  Words are useless and empty.

  Love…

  Is.

  It just is.

  It makes itself known, makes itself understood, and it cannot be denied. Cannot be refuted, or mistaken.

  And when it arrives with the concussive impact of a meteor slamming into soft loamy soil, you will very swiftly realize that anything before it was the light patter of rain, the feather light touch of a gentle breeze.

  True, deep, real, furious love is a hurricane.

  Conrad kisses me, and I know then that I am his. Utterly, irrevocably his.

  .

  .

  .

  I’m on the quilt, on my back. He is above me. I am naked, bare for his touch. His hands roam my every curve, sliding possessively and wonderfully over my flesh. He cups my cheeks and kisses me breathless, and traces the line of my bicep and the tender angle of the inside of my elbow and down the underside of my forearm. Lips touch my cheek and the corner of my lips, and his fingers dance along my diaphragm and toy with my nipples and caress the weight of my breasts. He tickles and traipses his touch down my ribcage and over my belly, dipping his kisses into my navel and over the hard knobs of my hipbones and into the hollow where thigh meets core. He elicits a muted whimper from me as he touches his tongue to my slit and tastes the weeping dampness of my desire and continues the exploration of my body. My thighs, my shins. Kisses behind my knee and along my calf. The arches of my feet.

  Where he is not kissing, his hands touch and caress.

  His mouth and his tongue, and his fingers and palms elucidate what his terse nature cannot reveal.

  I am too full of fire to remain still. I reach for him, grasping his nape and demand his mouth on mine, biting his lower lip until he growls and lick his lips as I grind against him. Crush myself to him. Revel in the hardness of his body, the iron of his muscles and the softness of his skin. Touch him. Smoothing my hands down his back, I roam the bubble of his ass, the thick trunks of his thighs. The mountains of his shoulders and the silky, inky thatch of his hair. I run my fingers over the stubble on his cheeks, not quite a beard. Between us, his cock. Erect, a steel rod begging for me, for my hands, for my mouth, for my cunt.

  There is no guiding him into me, no fumbling for entrances. I curl my legs around him, cradle his waist with the V of my thighs and cling to him with my feet and clutch at his spine and his biceps and his hair with my clawing fingers. I breathe his name onto the breeze. Tilting my hips, I writhe against him, and that’s all it takes.

  He shifts, and I tilt, and we are one.

 
; He slides into me in a slow hot glide, stretching me apart and filling me to glutted ecstasy. I whisper in his ear, but I am too crazed with the fullness of him to even know what I’m saying.

  “Hannah—Jesus Christ, Hannah.” His growl in my ear is the rough primal snarl of a creature barely evolved.

  Our candlelight is the blaze of the entire universe, the sun in four parts. His body above mine anchors me to this place, into this reality, and that’s all I want. This moment, forever.

  Hannah—Jesus Christ, Hannah.

  I hear it and I hear it and I hear it, that gutted grunt of awe.

  He moves in me, burly arms beside my face blocking everything out, his heart thundering against my breast, sweat sliding slick against my flesh and merging with mine, his heartbeat and his sweat both mingling with mine. I cannot breathe, don’t, can’t, no need, no breath but his mouth on mine, not quite kissing anymore but sharing oxygen, teeth against teeth, lips quivering.

  He moves in me, and I squeeze around him, begging him to stay inside me like this forever. Beyond sunrise, beyond sunset, beyond the turning of the world from spring to fall to winter to summer. Stay here. Fill me. Hold me. Kiss me.

  Fuck me breathless.

  Love me to overflowing.

  I’ve been empty all my life and now I’m full. I’m more than full, I’m bursting with you, taking you inside me, taking your cock into my cunt and your tongue into my mouth and your heart into my heart and your soul into my soul—did I say that? Think it? Feel it? Hear it? Was that from him or from me? I don’t know, don’t care, because it’s raw truth put into words.

  “Yours,” and this isn’t even a whisper, perhaps he didn’t even truly speak it out loud but I heard it all the same.

  Yours

  Yours

  And it echoes back—

  “Mine,”

  Mine

  Mine

  Hannah—Jesus Christ, Hannah.

  We move together, endlessly. Limbs sliding and tangling. Hands palm to palm, fingers twined. My breasts are crushed against his chest, nipples scraping against his chest hair. His thighs press against my hips, pushing, moving. He groans, and I kiss that sound away.