The Black Room: Door Four
Page 6
And then, just as I’m starting to come, he stops.
He grabs my wrists and pulls them away from my clit. “You won’t come until I tell you to.”
He pulls out of me entirely, and then sets me on my feet. He stands behind me and twists me to face him. Again, he picks me up by my waist and sets me on the table and lays me back. He pushes my thighs apart and tucks my feet into his armpits, and then effortlessly slides into me. I watch everyone—upside down, from my perspective—as he fills me while standing up, watch the men whose eyes are on my tits as they bounce with every stroke of Killian’s driving cock. He’s fucking me harder now, lifting up so his cock is tilted away from his body, stretching himself, each thrust angled down, and god—ohhhhh god, oh fuck, this angle, it’s so good, the way his cock glides stiff and thick through me, tip grinding against my G-spot, pushing bursts of rapture through me, and I can tell he loves it just as much because he’s not quite able to measure his thrusts anymore, can’t contain his power anymore. He’s fucking in earnest, now, driving into me, balls slapping against my ass as he pounds in, hard, making my tits bounce.
Oh, so good.
I meet each set of eyes as I’m being fucked on the card table, and being watched only makes it hotter, makes me wilder. I bite my lip and groan, writhe to meet Killian’s thrusts, and watch the men watch me. And Arelia, the woman has gone wild herself now, thrashing on her chair as if she’s the one being fucked, moaning, and I can see hands moving beneath the table, fists stroking cocks as if they can’t help it anymore.
The giant is directly to my left, impossibly huge cock stiff in his fist, and I can’t look away as he slides his big fist up and down his length, and I remember the taste of him, the feel of him, and Killian is stroking my clit with his fingers and fucking me in that hard, pounding rhythm designed to drive me out of my mind, and the huge man to my left is groaning, eyes on my tits—
He comes, spurting a mess into his palm, and I watch as he oozes cum onto his hand.
God, oh god—
Killian pulls out of me as I’m on the verge of coming, leaving me momentarily empty, aching, trembling and weak and desperate for the orgasm he keeps denying me, and unable to stand up for the waves wrenching through me, the precursor to climax. He sets me on my feet, hands on my hips, bends me forward over the table, tits smashed against the smooth, cool surface, arms outstretched, my face contorting as the climax continues to build within me, and then my expression twists even more as Killian spreads my thighs apart and guides his cock into me, nudging the head between my throbbing, tingling lips. He flexes there, flutters, teasing, tiny little thrusts just enough to glide the head in and out of me. Then each tiny trust becomes more, and he fills me more, hands gripping my ass cheeks and spreading me open, cupping and clutching, kneading and caressing. And then, without warning, Killian fucks deep, hard.
I scream, loud, piercing, because that hard rough thrust is exactly how I want it, how I need it, and now he’s finally giving it to me. I writhe helplessly on the table, toes scrabbling and curling just above the floor, his hands big enough to grip my ass and hold me up, his cock so thick, so long, and so hard that I’m impaled and kept aloft by it, unable to touch the floor for purchase. Killian is in complete control. I can’t touch myself, even though I try.
I twist on the table, trying to reach my clit, looking back at Killian. His necktie is undone, still draped over his neck, his only remaining piece of clothing. He whips it off, pins my wrists in one hand, wraps the cool silk around my wrists, binding them behind my back, all without missing a stroke. There are groans and grunts, and I scan the men briefly, watching their fists fly, dirty voyeurs all, finding such erotic pleasure in watching me get fucked.
And god, what a fucking.
Hard thrusts, hips slapping loudly against my ass, pounding deep, smashing into me, filling me, stretching me, crashing wave after wave of pleasure through me, but still not enough to make me come. Not hard enough, not fast enough, not rough enough.
But now I’m tied up again, helpless again, hands bound behind my back, and his hands return now to my ass cheeks, no longer caressing them with possessive affection, but with rough appreciation. With need.
His palm circles one taut, quivering, bouncing globe, and then he smacks me, a hard, powerful spank, and I cry out, a whimper of equal parts pleasure and pain and anticipation. And then he spanks my other cheek, hard enough to rock me forward, the smack coming in sync with his thrust, which is rough and unfettered now. No more games, no more teasing.
He spanks me and fucks me, a thrust and a smack, one side and then the other. My ass stings, burns, but the sting and the burn are so beautiful, spreading through me, filling me, touching every nerve ending and making my whole body more sensitive, and he’s unrelenting. I’m in heaven, drowning willingly in a sea of ecstasy, screaming, whimpering, crying, sobbing, writhing back into his thrusts and tilting my hips to meet his spanks and watching my audience lose all semblance of composure and loving their eyes on me, loving that they can’t get enough of watching me, watching Killian take me, use me, fuck me.
The burning tingling heat of his spanking and the pounding perfection of his thrusts and my helplessness, and all the eyes watching me and the sounds of fists on cocks and Arelia’s fingers squelching wet in and out of her tight, pretty pussy—it’s all too much. Too much.
I can’t touch my clit, but I don’t need to, god, oh god oh god, I can’t take anymore, because this climax is an earthquake building up inside me, denied for what feels like forever, not just a clitoral orgasm now, or even a G-spot orgasm…it’s everything.
I can’t keep my eyes open, can’t breathe, can’t think, because it’s building, building, building, it’s everything inside me, impossible, volcanic, tectonic pressure pushing at every wall, spasming through every nerve, erasing and eradicating everything.
And then something warm and wet touches my clit, and a sobbing scream breaks through me. Arelia—god, oh fuck, she’s on her knees on the floor beneath me, licking my clit, and I can see her cupping Killian’s taut heavy balls and massaging his taint, and he’s grunting, gasping, gagging on his growls as she manipulates him to new heights as he pounds away inside me.
Oh god, fuck, oh shit—it’s billowing and breaking and going nova and I’m going to shatter, going to just utterly snap into a million pieces—
But he’s not done with me, hasn’t told me to come, and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, not until I hear him tell me to.
I hear him spit, feel wetness smeared on my asshole, feel him wiggle a finger inside me, and now—now it’s entirely too much, the tongue on my clit, the eyes on me, the erotic sight of Arelia beneath me, her small delicate palm cradling Killian’s huge heavy balls, her finger massaging his taint to make his orgasm all the more powerful, and Killian himself, god, the man is a machine, a primitive, primeval rutting beast, fucking me with every ounce of his power, hard beautiful perfect cock slamming in and out of my aching cunt—
It breaks, then.
“Come for me,” he growls. No qualifier, not “Miss Tavistock” or even “Hannah”, just that order, snarled between grunted half-breaths. “Come like you’ve never come before.”
And I do…
God, it’s as if the whole universe cracked and shattered inside me. It’s an orgasm so powerful I can’t even scream, so potent my lips fly open as if to utter curses and encouragement, but I have no breath for words or screams, no sound comes out, my lips just quiver, tremble, eyes wide, my body thrashing, convulsing, spasming.
It’s not pleasure, it’s not pain, it’s both and neither, the two sensations mingled and merged; it’s…
It’s the essence of the universe, the meaning of human sexuality itself distilled into a single moment, a singularity of ecstasy and agony and perfection and screams and bliss, all of this inside me.
I lose myself in that moment.
I become the moment.
I own it. It is mine, and mine alone.
I succumb.
….
I wake suddenly, completely, my face against his warm hard chest, his hands combing through my hair.
I look around: we’re in his room, on his bed.
He skates his palm down my bare waist, over my naked hip, along my thigh. Just touching.
I tilt my face to look up at his. He gives me that subtle hint of a not-quite smile, just a sly curve of the corners of his mouth. “You’re awake now.” His voice rumbles under my ear.
“Yes,” is all I say.
His eyes search me, and I’d have to be blind to miss the mask of sadness in them. His gaze flicks up, to the doorway across the room. To the knob, ornate polished brass with exquisite, delicate filigree knot work on the face. Then back to me.
“Time for you to go, Miss Tavistock.” He says, his voice heavy and slow.
I nod against his chest, because it’s the only possible response.
He stands up, carries me across the room. Sets me on my feet in front of the door.
We are both naked, still.
He spins me in place so I’m facing him. Fingers brush errant golden locks away from my face; a rough palm cups my cheek. He smiles then, a real, full smile, blinding in its beauty.
He touches me, not sexually, but as if to memorize the feel of my body under his hands. Everywhere, arms, waist, hips, breasts, shoulders, thighs, calves, ass, my back, up to my face, then he buries his hands in my hair.
This moment, it is strange, unreal, disorienting. This is not Master Killian. This is…
Someone else. I don’t know whom.
As soon as I begin to grasp the shape of him, the hint of tenderness beneath the voyeur and the exhibitionist, the dominating alpha male—he steps back, tilts his chin up, and the ghost of that man is gone.
“You have to go now.” His gaze flicks over my shoulder, toward the door.
I take a step backward, unable to tear my eyes away from him. He’s so beautiful, so male, so powerful.
I press my back up against the door and fumble for the knob. It feels warm under my palm.
A twist. A push.
As I step backward over the threshold, into complete darkness, I never look away from Killian.
Some part of me screams, raging against the pull of what lies beyond that door, against the inexorability. I don’t want to go. I want to stay. I want to unearth that fragment of a different man. I want more of that, more of him. The tender, and the alpha. Either, or both. God, please, both. I don’t want to go. Don’t want to go. I fight it, but my feet carry me regardless of my desires. It’s like falling, toppling from a great height into an abyss. I can flail and scream and hate it, but I cannot stop it. I fall into the darkness, but I do not look away from him.
My last vision of him is his hard, huge muscular body, his dark hair and molten brown eyes, and his cock, rigid and perfect, begging me to return, to touch, kiss, lick, caress, suck, love—
But I can’t, I can’t go back now, I’m through the doorway, into the darkness now and it swallows me whole, pulling me down, down, down into the timeless tidal dark of nowhere, of nothing, of everything, of silence and peace…
…of naught.
*
Silence.
Perfect, utter silence.
A drowning quiet.
Him, him—Killian.
His name is branded onto my mind. His body, his beauty. That hint of the man beneath the hard mask, the ghost of a man who could be, a lover buried deep beneath the alpha. Him—the first sensation.
Hating this darkness, hating this silence, hating this solitude; the second sensation.
There is no sense of waking up, no borderland between being awake and being asleep, no drifting or floating. There is just…blackness, darkness, nothingness, and then—I’m here, in this black room, the doors, the pools of flickering, guttering, dancing, orange-yellow light. The doors. Five remain. Four have disappeared.
My body works on its own, bringing me to my feet, carrying me across the open space to the fifth door. It is identical to the others, black and plain with a thick silver numeral 5 in the center, reflecting and refracting the light of the torch.
I am sure in the knowledge that I must open this door, I must step through it, I must seek him, seek the man on the other side, whoever he is, whatever version of him it is. I must find him, Killian, beyond that door: the third sensation.
The doorknob on this fifth door is utterly unlike the others. It isn’t a knob, even. It isn’t on the right side of the door, but a little lower than midway down the middle of the door. Nor is it a lever, or a knob, not glass or brass or plain metal. It is a mammoth, life-like lion’s head, jaws open and snarling, caught in mid-roar, lip curling, curving teeth bared. In the lion’s jaws is a gold ring nearly the size of my own head and as thick as my wrist. It is loose in the lion’s mouth, stopped from being pulled free by the snarling beast’s huge front incisors.
Unlike the other doors, this one does not open inward when pushed open—this time I must pull on that ring.
I wrap both hands around the cold gleaming gold of the ring and pull with all my might. The door is supremely heavy, it feels huge and stubborn. I lean back, pulling, straining, and finally it gives, sliding open on silent hinges.
**
Beyond is a courtyard bathed in silver moonlight, a hint of the star-washed night sky. A fountain gurgles in the center of the space, the water spouting a dozen feet in the air and falling in a perfect umbrella of glass-smooth water. In the far distance, a forest of columns forms pools of shadow. There is an archway in the middle of the columns and, beyond that, is the bulk of a tall, crenelated tower dotted with small rectangles of warm yellow light—windows, lit from within. Cobblestones lie underfoot.
All is silent but for the splashing of the fountain.
My feet are bare on the cobblestones; they’re cold, sending a dull ache up through to my lower back. The wind begins to skirl, long cool gusts tugging at the fabric of my dress, pulling it taut against my thighs, plucking at my hair. I look down and examine my attire: I’m wearing an elegant, lovely silver gown, the hem sweeping along the cobblestones, trailing behind me, and belling at the hips and nipping in to hug my waist. The bodice is stiff but well made, cupping and lifting my breasts into an expanse of pale décolletage. The dress is breathtakingly exquisite, crafted from the finest, softest silver chiffon, so thin, so finely woven as to be nearly sheer, but it is not. It’s an airy, floating fairy tale gown, one made for whirling across a ballroom floor in the graceful steps of a waltz.
I take a step toward the fountain, leaving the door behind me. I hear it close with a soft thump, and lock behind me. The door is set in a wall of dark, polished marble, the black wood lacquered to a gleam, another gold lion’s head in the center, the ring still swinging.
As I step out into the courtyard I stop as I emerge into the brilliant silver glow of a full moon and the scintillating spray of twinkling stars. The ethereal scene is equalled only by the impressive scale of what I am seeing; everything is massive.
Above and behind me is another tower, made from man-high blocks of limestone, soaring a hundred or more feet into the air. All I’m able to see from this vantage point is a wall that is long and high and, except for narrow arrow slits, unbroken. I crane my neck and look up, and see the underside of a balcony, the hint of an ornate railing, the glow of candlelight.
Facing the fountain now, I’m close enough to touch the water. To my left is the hulk of a building extending out of sight. It is topped with a series of short towers with crenelated arched bridges connecting them, balconies here and there, some darkened, some glowing with light.
To my right is another wall. Some fifty feet high, made from the same mammoth limestone blocks and crenelated at the top, with short, steep stairways leading down to the ground at regular interva
ls, the wall extending away from me out of sight, beyond the forest of columns and beyond the archway, meeting the farthest, tallest tower in the extreme distance. From here, that tower looks to be a toy but the distance, along with the height of the wall, tells me that tower is enormous.
I extend my hand under the spray of water, and my fingers are wetted as the glassy water falls through my fingers; the water is cool, but not cold. I step across the cobblestones toward the archway and as I near the columns, I realize that the archway is in fact a tunnel, leading underneath the wall itself, which separates the courtyard from whatever lies beyond it. Torches light the interior of the arched tunnel, but to either side, in that forest of thin, fluted columns, all is silent, and still, and shadowed.
As I take in the impressive scene before me, stretching in all directions, I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a fairy tale.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I am certain I see something move in those shadows. My heart begins to hammer in my chest, spurring me to hurry through the tunnel.
Heart in my throat, nerves singing now, the tunnel leads me out under the night sky once more, the wall to my right and the soaring, hulking weight of the structure to my left. Before me is a long narrow, shallow stairway dwindling away into a vanishing point. The building—a castle, I suppose it’s properly called—continues forward on my left, a massive, a sky-blotting mountain growing only larger as the stairs descend toward the central tower. I descend the stairs, and the castle rises on my left becoming a mammoth wall, and on my right the wall angles away into the distance, with a steep hillside plunging away from the wall and toward the stair, the face of the hill dotted with trees and flowers and meandering lines of sculpted shrubs and manicured grass.
I descend the stairs, and look around me. Tiny shapes move slowly along the wall to my right,. They are spaced far apart, but within shouting distance, each one near a staircase. Something silver glitters on each shape—they are guards, I realize, armed and armored. But they are too far away for me to see any details.