The Black Room: Door Four

by Jasinda Wilder

  I can’t reach the edge like this, and I think he knows it.

  “Open your eyes, Miss Tavistock.” His voice murmurs in my ear.

  I force my eyes open, and eight men are gathered around, watching intently.

  His lips touch my ear. I feel his words as much as hear them. “Do you want me to let you come?”

  I nod.

  He finds my clit with index finger and thumb, rubs it between the pads, and I cry out wordlessly, arch my back and writhe my hips as he brings me to the shuddering shivering edge of orgasm—

  And then stops.

  “I didn’t hear you, Miss Tavistock.”

  “Y-y-yes—”

  “Yes what?”

  “Please?”

  A single swirl of a finger against my clit. “Remember what I asked you to say upstairs?” I nod again, and he removes his fingers. “A simple nod will not do, Miss Tavistock. Let me hear your voice. Do you remember the phrase I asked you to say upstairs?”

  That touch, a single finger pressed to my clit, but not yet moving. Teasing.

  “Yes, I remember.” I manage the words, because I have a moment to breathe, a second the gather my thoughts.

  “Then say it, and I will let you come.”

  He glides two thick fingers into my cunt. “I’ll stop if I don’t hear the words.”

  And indeed he does stop moving his fingers and thumb, but doesn’t pull them away.

  I swallow hard, wet my lips with my tongue.

  “Do you want me to let you come?” he asks, once more.

  I reach back behind my head and clutch at him with both hands. “Yes, please, Mister Killian.”

  “Very good.” He spears those fingers deeper into my cunt and curls them, somehow unerringly finding my G spot at once and massaging it just so, and I spasm even before his thumb starts moving against my clit. “Now you may come, Miss Tavistock.”

  His thumb works against my clit, rubbing it in slow gentle deliberate circles, and his fingers inside me drive me even wilder, and then when he speaks, when he gives me permission, I fall over the edge.

  The pent-up pressure breaks through me like a tidal wave, bursting in a flood of heat. I’m screaming, writhing on him, I can hear my voice going hoarse from the throaty, breathy screams of orgasm, feel my body thrashing. And when the climax hits me, he adds a third finger inside my cunt and uses I don’t know which and don’t care which fingers of his other hand to swirl with sudden mad wild ferocity against my clit, driving me instantly from mad to utter nymphomaniacal abandon.

  I come so hard it hurts.

  And I keep coming, still or again, I don’t know, his hands working tirelessly and feverishly in me, pushing me from one level to the next, like a reverse version of Russian nesting dolls, each orgasm more potent than the last, until I’m incoherent and spasmed with my spine arched, tits thrust to the ceiling, hips flexed as far as they’ll go, his fingers squelching wet and fast, in and out of my slit, swirling against my clit with the flat of three fingers, and now the orgasm shatters, and me with it.

  My eyes fly open, mouth open and jaw trembling.

  My entire body is a live wire, a conduit of searing aching burning ecstasy bashing through me as if I’ve clutched a power line and thousands of volts are coursing through my body.

  One final wrenching spasm—

  I feel something give way inside me, and a thin powerful stream of something wet spurts from my cunt, splashing on the floor and on the shoes of the man directly in front of me, and it doesn’t stop, because I can’t stop coming, cannot stop the crashing chaotic madness of my climax, can’t stop the squirting of my orgasm.

  My audience is rapt, watching me come. Watching Killian make me beg, make me come, make me squirt.

  Limp now, exhaustion dragging at me, I scan each face. The man directly in front of me has his hands clasped in front of his trousers. He shifts uncomfortably, and I see why: he came in his pants, watching me come.

  I feel an odd sense of pride in that.

  Killian’s hands leave my pussy, slide over my skin to smear my own essence all over my thighs, my belly. He cups my tits, thumbs my nipples, murmuring something in my ear that I am too delirious from exhaustion to even comprehend. Encouragement, perhaps. Or praise. I don’t know, I don’t care.

  Darkness seizes me, and I drown in it.

  ..

  I wake alone, in a strange room, in a huge comfortable bed.

  Naked.

  Sticky from my own juices.

  Aching all over.

  Light bathes me, the pale pink-orange glow of sunrise.

  The sheets are white silk, slippery and cool. An entire wall of windows is on my left, overlooking the grounds of an expansive estate with its manicured lawns, topiary bushes carved into the shapes of lions and griffins, a hedge maze, rolling hills of tall grass waving in the wind. A flock of starlings lifts from the trees to wing across the sky.

  To my right, I see that I am in a massive suite of rooms. There is a sitting area with a grand piano, a long, polished bar stocked with several crystal decanters of various liquors. A clothes closet is visible through an open doorway, and a bathroom through another.

  I hear the scuff of a footstep, and I sit up in the bed.

  “You were magnificent last night, Miss Tavistock,” Killian’s smooth, cultured voice, quiet and powerful, comes to me from across the room.

  I look up, and see him in all his glory. He looks fully rested, and judging by his damp hair I assume he has recently showered. He’s wearing black tailored slacks, a crisp white button-down, unbuttoned and baring a wide swath of his body that could be carved from living, tanned marble. He’s in the process of fastening cufflinks at his wrists, platinum inset with black pearl.

  “I was shameless. I made a mess.”

  He gives me that ghost of a smirk. “I rather thought it was beautiful.” He finishes with one cufflink, and then fastens the other. He glances down at me. “I am hosting another party this evening.”

  “Am I to be the entertainment again?”

  “You will be delivering a different but similar performance, yes.”

  “Another audience to bear witness to my inability to resist you?”

  “Something like that, yes.” He buttons his shirt, steps into his slacks, and shrugs on his suit jacket. “The card room at nine this evening, if you please.”

  He saunters away without a backward glance, stopping briefly to snag a folded tie from a side table and drape it around his neck. There is another folded pile of fabric on that same side table.

  “Wear that,” he commands, tapping the fabric. And now he shoots me an amused look. “And nothing else. “Feel free to have food sent up, have a massage, or just rest. You’ve earned it.”

  And then he’s gone.

  I leave the bed and tip toe naked across the room to the table. I lift the garment he indicated. It’s a dress…sort of. I step into it, pulling it into place.

  It is made of translucent crimson gauze with thin strips that fall over my shoulder, widening to wedges that drape over each breast. I am swathed in fabric, but in no way are my breasts concealed. Tucked in at my waist, the opaque skirt blossoms to hang to my feet, a slit from floor to navel so that when I walk, my core is exposed. There is no back as such, the garment open down to mid-buttock.

  It is a farce of a dress, meant solely to display my curves and nothing more.

  * * *

  Evening arrives, both entirely too soon and not soon enough.

  I feel a sense of excitement, yet I am anxious, and curious.

  At the stroke of nine p.m., I am standing at the closed doors of the card room. I knock twice, gently. Killian opens the doors, a slow, small, appreciative smile curving his lips and lighting his eyes as he sees me standing there.

  Eight men—plus, to my surprise, one woman. Nine players, plus Killian. I scan their faces, seeing the same men as last night, but one is missing. The man who won my stockings is not here—I don’t know his name,
I never bothered to learn it, or anyone else’s. The only names I know are Killian—Mister Killian, as he seems to prefer, and Charlie, the blond man standing front and center, pale blue eyes on me. My panties are in the breast pocket of his suit coat.

  The woman is obviously here to play cards with the men. She is a few inches shorter than I am, or she would be were she not wearing a pair of black heels. Her hair is a vivid, violent, artificial red, falling in long, loose, luxurious waves down past her shoulders. She wears a dress almost as revealing as mine, strapless, cups mounding her breasts into a shelf of cleavage. If she were to breathe too deeply, her nipples would be visible. The dress is black and is molded tight to her stunning curves and it falls to the floor. It is slit up along each thigh form two narrow panels, leaving her legs bare from the hip down, baring an indecent amount of hip, even showing a bit of the crease where her leg meets her hip. When she shifts her weight, the panels slide aside slightly, and it is obvious she isn’t wearing panties, and that she is shaved bare between her legs.

  Her eyes lock onto mine, and though her lips remain still and straight and expressionless, a glint in her eyes speaks of some private smile meant only for me.

  There is a raised dais against the wall, draped in a shade of crimson silk matching my dress. On that stage is a chair. Thick dark wood, wide armrests padded with buttery-soft leather. Braided strips of scarlet gauze are tied to the front legs of the chair and to the armrests.

  My stomach flips and my heart flutters at the sight of the chair.

  “Gentlemen, and lady…Miss Tavistock.” Killian gestures at me, and there are murmurs of greeting, smiles, some hesitant, others eager.

  He then places his hand on the small of my back and guides me to the dais, and the chair.

  It isn’t any kind of normal chair, I realize. The seat bottom, upon which I am to sit, is foreshortened, providing barely enough room for me to perch my buttocks upon. And it is tilted upward.

  “Sit,” Killian commands.

  Legs shaky, stomach flipping, heart skipping, I sit down. And as I do so, I begin to understand the general nature of what will occur tonight.

  The angle of the seat bottom tilts my hips up, so that to remain seated I must lean back against the padded seat back and flex my hips. Add to this the lengths of gauze, which I assume will be tied around my wrists and ankles…

  Trussed up and displayed, wearing a see-through scrap of gauze which leaves my pussy exposed—

  “We are engaged in a poker tournament, gentlemen.” Killian’s voice booms authoritatively, cutting conversation short. “But one like none you’ve ever participated in before, I assure you. We do not play for money, as those of you who were here last night can attest. We play for various…prizes, shall we call them, all concerning the lovely Miss Tavistock, here.” He indicates me. “The winner of each hand will be awarded the opportunity to bind one of Miss Tavistock’s limbs to the chair…plus—”

  A pause, and Killian eyes each man in turn.

  “Plus,” he repeats, “You’ll have one minute on the clock with her, once you’ve tied whichever limb you’ve chosen. The only caveat to your one minute is that you may not touch her with any part of your body except your mouth and tongue.”

  There are murmured exchanges between the men.

  But Killian isn’t finished. “As we will be playing significantly more than four hands this evening…” a glance down at me, to assess, perhaps, “…once all four lengths of gauze have been tied, the prize becomes two minutes, and you will have the use of your hands.”

  I’m stunned at his pronouncement and struggle to keep up, as it is obvious he has something else to add.

  Killian falls silent and watches the players discuss the rules amongst each other.

  “A final note,” Killian announces, cutting through the chatter. “Should you bring Miss Tavistock to climax—” he grins at me, then at the others, “—well, I’m sure Miss Tavistock will find a way to demonstrate her appreciation.”

  Another silence, this one slightly more stunned.

  “Are we agreed?” Killian asks, spreading his hands out, palms up. “Everyone?”

  There is a rowdy chorus of agreement.

  Killian twists to look down at me. “Miss Tavistock? Do you agree to these terms?”

  “I do.” The strength of my own voice shocks me, my agreement even more so. It is as if the words were torn from me, unbidden, as if some deep, dark, curious, naughty part of me overthrew the more rational side in a silent, sudden coup d’état.

  I shouldn’t have agreed, but I did, and I cannot take back my agreement. The padded bottom of the chair is comfortable, even if the position is bizarre. The armrests are soft under my forearms, and the seat back provides support and cushioning. This chair, devised for a rather specific purpose, feels crafted to my dimensions, and it fits my body perfectly.

  For now, I sit with my knees touching, but I know that won’t last long. I’m eager to see how the evening progresses and I admit to a not so small sense of excitement, even if it accompanied by trepidation.

  The men—and the woman—are beginning to take their seats; some are over at the bar pouring drinks, others are chatting quietly in small groups. Tonight, it seems, my job is to sit here and allow them to tie me to a chair, and put their mouths on me.

  I shiver at the thought. I scan the eight men and find none of them unattractive. They are varied in physique, ranging from tall and lithe and sharp-featured—like Charlie—to short and stocky and blunt featured, to classically handsome, to ruggedly attractive, bulky with muscle. All are young, masculine, powerful, self-assured men.

  And her.

  If the men are lions and bulls, she is a panther. Sleek, something beyond beautiful. Beyond sexy. Dripping in allure, bathed in raw sex appeal. And she knows it and she plays to it. She sits at the table and crosses one knee over the other. The motion bares her entire leg and the curve of her ass. As she shifts forward to collect her cards as they are dealt, her breasts all but spill out of her gown. Her long hair covers one eye, and an idle toss of her head twitches it aside, a casually elegant gesture. She doesn’t appear to be wearing makeup, but such is her beauty that to wear makeup would only mar what seems to be near-perfection. No rings or bracelets or baubles, save a necklace—a long platinum chain woven of fine, thin, delicate links. The pendant is a teardrop ruby, bright red, vivid, nearly the same red as my dress, and the silk covering the dais, and her own hair.

  “Let’s get started,” Killian says. “Please take your seats at the table.”

  The first hand goes quickly. The winner is a lean young man, the cuffs of his suit coat shoved up to his elbows. He has reddish-gold hair and plump, expressive lips, a strong jaw. Eager gray eyes. A smile for me, and a hint of nerves.

  He ascends the dais to stand in front of me. He seems about to speak, but then shakes his head, and closes the remaining inches between us. He kneels in front of me, beside my legs, which are still pressed together, closed. Removing the length of gauze tied to my left-hand armrest, he glances at me, at my eyes, and then at my breasts. There is a hint of something like an apology in his gaze, and then he ties the gauze around my left wrist, swiftly, adeptly, with the familiarity of someone well used to tying knots. Someone with his own yacht, perhaps?

  When my wrist is tied, he glances at Killian, who has an hourglass in his hand. He flips it over, and then sets it down. “You have one minute, starting now.”

  The young man in front of me seems unsure. He hesitates then leans toward me, touching his nose to my shoulder. His lips touch my skin, near my throat. A clumsy but sweet kiss. Then his nose brushes against me, cheating perhaps, but no one notices except me. I say nothing, and watch as he kisses my shoulder again, this time using his nose to brush aside the strap of my dress. Clever boy, he is. Another kiss, nudging the strap further toward the round of my shoulder. And though his kisses are clumsy but sweet, my skin still reacts, my body responds, my breath shortens, his lips leaving electri
c stings where they touch. A bit further again, another kiss, and now the strap slides off my shoulder, and the gauze floats away, slowly, ethereally, baring my left breast. He sucks in a sharp breath, a quiet one, so quiet that only I can hear it.

  “Thirty seconds,” Killian announces.

  And now the young man kneeling in front of me spends several of his precious seconds merely looking at me, at the breast he has exposed. And then his tongue extends from between his lips and touches my nipples. It is my turn to suck in a breath, as a flutter of something warm and soft ripples through me at his tender, hesitant touch. Another lick, this time more strongly, more assertively. And then he presses his lips to my breast, breathing out as he does so, bathing my pebbled flesh with his warm breath, and then he’s kissing my tit, moving his lips and tongue as if he were kissing my mouth, and my muscles tighten and I have to suck in another surprised breath at the intensity of sensation he’s able to elicit, simply from one little kiss to my breast.

  “Time,” Killian says.

  The young man backs away at the announcement, leaving my breast wet and glistening where he kissed me.

  A single backward glance at me, and then he’s back in his seat and the men on either side of him are congratulating him, pounding him on the back, slapping his shoulder, shaking his hand.

  I wonder what it would be like to be alone with someone like him, like that young man? So tender, eager, sweet, inquisitive. Different, surely, than someone like Killian. A wholly different experience, I think. Rather than the dominating power and commanding presence, taking what he wants and still somehow giving me what I need in the process, someone like that young man would be…eager to please. Pliable. He would do anything I asked, probably. And oh…god, the things I could ask him to do…

  I daydream as the next hand is played.

  I could tie him up. Take my time with him. Toy with his cock, get him hard and suck him right to the edge, and then stop, and kiss him everywhere else, make him wait. Tease him. I could draw it out for hours, probably, using him like a toy to get me off as many times as I want before letting him come. I could pin him to the bed and ride his face, and he would eat me out so desperately, so eagerly, clumsily perhaps, hesitant with inexperience, but I could show him how I like it. Slow, at first. Lick the outsides, my thighs. Use his lips, kiss me there. A little tongue. Make him bring me to orgasm without using his fingers. Just his mouth.