The Black Room: Door One

by Jasinda Wilder

  He moves like lighting, like the wind, like a striking viper. Crouched, always moving. Dancing. Lithe, quick, powerful. His fist strikes faster than my eyes can track, and the bag is sent jerking and swaying, and then three more lightning-fast punches, onetwothree, and then his knee lifts and his leg scythes, and the thwack of his foot impacting the bag is deafening, even over the music. It happened so fast, that kick. So hard. The bag is still dimpled from the impact.

  He seems oblivious to me, so I can’t help but move closer.

  He moves like a predator, each step oily-smooth and balletic and graceful. He breathes out sharply with each punch, each kick. Grunts, snarls. He’s hitting the bag as if he hates it, as if to murder it with each punch, over and over. No mercy, no quarter, no rest. Only vengeful, snarling fury.

  I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but he senses my presence. I see it in the way he tenses his shoulders, a brief, infinitesimal pause between blows.

  He continues his abuse of the heavy bag, which is suspended from the ceiling by a thick iron chain.

  And then, after one last, vicious, uppercut blow of his fist, he turns. A thick mat of dark curls covers the massive breadth of his chest.

  His eyes bore through me, and they are as dark as the rest of him, as dark as the shadows and infinitely more dangerous.

  His eyes fix on me.

  He is a silent predator, and his steps carry him toward me. I am a gazelle caught in the open, and if he catches me, I will be gutted.

  I know this.

  Yet I am powerless to move.

  I tremble as he approaches.

  My heart throbs in my throat. My knees knock together. I want to turn and run, but I’m rooted to this spot, as if I am chained here.

  I can almost hear the tinkle of the iron rings at my wrists. Almost feel the cold metal at my ankle. If I tug, I would feel the chains, the manacles.

  I can only swallow over and over and over as he prowls closer to me.

  He’s inches from me, staring down at me with brown/black shadowy eyes, furious, hungry eyes.

  He smells of sweat, pungent, sour, and male. Unspeaking, unmoving, he merely stands in front of me, blocking out the room, the light, invading my senses. His presence is all consuming. Devouring. His hands remain at his sides. His chest is heaving and it’s feels like he’s consuming all the oxygen in the room. His nose has been broken so many times it’s permanently crooked. His lips are split and scabbed from a recent fight.

  He lifts a hand, slowly, inquisitively, as if giving me time to flinch away; I don’t—I cannot.

  His hands are rough, coarse-looking. Scarred. Callused. His knuckles are split open, bright red blood trickling down his wrists, around the blade of his palm and between his fingers and pooling in the web of his thumb.

  I cannot move away.

  I try to swallow, try to speak, try to breathe, but I can’t. I’m utterly captivated, terrified, struck mute.

  And turned on.

  I’m throbbing all over. Tingling. My core is alight, my thighs clenched together, desire pooling within me, boiling.

  His fingers curl in slow motion and move toward my throat. I could move away. I could step out of reach.

  But I don’t.

  His hand encircles my throat.

  His grip tightens.

  My lips part, and a tiny gasp squeaks out.

  He doesn’t quite cut off my oxygen, and he doesn’t quite hurt me, but he’s close to doing both.

  A hint, a ghost of a smile teases at the corners of his lips. Feral. Primal. Predatory.

  Hungry.

  “Beg.” His voice is a guttural slur. Accented, deep. “Beg.”

  …

  “Please…” I hear myself gasp.

  What am I begging for?

  Mercy?

  A kiss?

  “Please…” I repeat.

  But a man such as this does not know mercy, does not possess the tenderness or the softness for a kiss. He stares down at me that ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

  “Please…what?” He snarls.

  I don’t know. Please what? I don’t know.

  His fist around my throat is unrelenting, pinching off my oxygen. I can’t breathe. I’m going dizzy. I see stars.

  His gaze leaves my eyes and rakes down my body. And now, only now do I suddenly realize I am utterly nude. My own gaze follows his, but I know what he’s seeing. Golden skin. Taut, tan. Large breasts, firm and full, swaying and lifting as I attempt to breathe. Wide dark areolae, the size of silver dollars. Erect nipples, thick and dark, begging for his lips…

  …or teeth.

  Flat belly with a bit of abdominal definition. Not a six-pack, but a stomach that reveals time spent exercising. My core is bare. Shaved clean. Tight. Thick, prominent labia. Moisture gushes as he and I both look at my core. The tip of his tongue slides over his lower lip, as if he can almost taste my essence. I leak, then, thinking of his tongue on my core. Juices slip and drip. I rub my thighs together, because I ache. I need. My thighs are strong, too. Firm, powerful. Muscular.

  Right down to my toes, his gaze flows over my body. My toes are painted a deep, lush crimson, and the same color as the light in this room.

  His empty hand, the one not clutching my throat, lifts now too. The knuckles on this hand are split and bleeding. God, those hands are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before and they are as large and hard and viciously powerful as the rest of him. This hand wraps itself around my hair. Gathering the platinum mass in his fist, he jerks my head backward, tilting my face upwards, baring my throat. I almost expect him to bury his teeth in my throat, like a lion devouring a gazelle. He releases my throat, and I suck in a heady breath. Now that I can breathe, I am nearly hyperventilating. Gasping, panicking, needing. My breasts bounce with each intake of breath.

  He steps closer yet, crushing his body against mine, his chest like a cliff face. My breasts crush flat against him, and the curls on his chest scratch and tickle. I am weak in the knees, trembling. Staring up at him. He is violence coiled, fury and potency and virility sheathed, poised to unleash.

  Hand fisted in my hair, body pressed against mine, he merely stares at me. Into me. Contemplating? Deciding where to bite first? I cannot move my head, so hard is his grip. My hair stings at the roots, my neck aches from the angle. I’m gasping in long, deep, ragged breaths, each one smashing my breasts harder against him. His eyes are cruel, enjoying his power over me. Relishing the ache in my eyes.

  And then he moves.

  He does not kiss me; I knew he wouldn’t. He is not a man who kisses. He claims. He takes what he wants.

  He wedges a hand between our bodies and curls two fingers inside me. No warning, no slow build up. Just thick, callused fingers inside me, drawing a whimper of equal parts pain and pleasure. Pain, because I wasn’t ready, pain because his fingers are large and strong and rough. Pleasure, for the same reasons. Weak in the knees before, now I am made utterly boneless. I sink onto his fingers. Bury them more deeply inside me.

  His cruel, hungry eyes watch mine, gauging my expression.

  “Fuck my fingers,” he commands. “Ride them.”

  He does not move them, does not stroke me to completion, does not curl his fingers inside me, seeking my G-spot. He holds them motionless, maintaining his iron grip on my hair, keeping my head tilted painfully backward.

  I ache.

  Fuck, do I ache.

  I do not understand this. I do not understand myself. He is causing me pain, and I relish it. I find heat from it. I do not know who I am and I can remember nothing of myself beyond this room. Beyond this now. But I know…I know I am not used to such treatment. I am not accustomed to being used so roughly. To having such demands made of me. I am used to kisses and tenderness and love.

  I don’t know how I know that, but I do. It is as true and real and undeniable as the bones beneath my skin.

  But this…

  Him…

  It is something new. Forbidden. Dar
k. Dangerous. I shouldn’t be here. I do not belong to this man. I should not do what he demands.

  I should pull away. Leave this room. Go back out into the larger room with the cot and the doors and the candles. Leave him to his punching bag and heavy metal.

  But I don’t.

  I want his roughness. I want him to use me. I want him to force me to his will.

  I want him to take me.

  He jerks my hair, eliciting a shriek of pain from me.

  “Fuck my fingers.” He repeats his command, and curls his fingers once, just so, perfectly, and a lance of heat and ecstasy rips through me. His thumb presses against my clit, and the lance drives deeper, harder, hotter. “Come on my hand.”

  I gasp, whimper, shiver, unable to move, refusing to comply—let him make me. Dangerous, foolish. He will not spare me his violence because I am a woman.

  He curls his fingers again, rubs the wide pad of his thumb against my clit, sending thrills of pleasure through me. He builds me up. Works me to nonstop whimpers, fucks me with his fingers and his thumb. Fucks me with them until I am writhing, mewling.

  “Please…” I beg. “Please.”

  I want to come. I need to come. I have ached since the moment I entered this room and saw this man. Just the sight of him made me ache.

  Now I ache for a whole other reason. In a whole other way.

  He withdraws his fingers from my core. Releases my hair. Steps back several paces.

  God, no. Please, no. Don’t stop now.

  I can’t make the words come out. I follow him. Naked, trembling, near release, desperate. Confused by my own desperation. By the suddenness of this. By the ferocity of my need.

  He puts his fingers in his mouth, and they glisten with my juices. He takes his time licking them one by one. His trunks are tented and, my god, he’s massive. I can see the outline of his cock clearly imprinted on the stretchy fabric: as thick as my wrist and probably eight inches long, at least. Those trunks are so tight, his cock so big, so thick, so hard I can see the outline of the circumcised head, the broad mushroom shape visible near the waistband. He’s almost spilling out of his trunks, and I can see his cock bending as it continues to lengthen.

  He sees me staring. “You want it?”

  I nod. Pant. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I want it.”

  He teases me as he hooks his thumbs in his waistband and tugs down just enough to bare the tip. “What do you want? Say what you want.”

  “I want your cock.” I don’t recognize my own voice. Bold, but quiet. Strong, feminine, musical.

  “Then come and get it.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

  I take a few steps toward him, my legs shaking and my heart pounding. In spite of my fear, my pussy aches and all I can think of is release. My mouth waters at the sight of him. His physique is powerful, rippled with corded muscle. The scars add to his hard and dominatingly masculine presence. From the thick hair on his chest to a days worth of stubble on his chiseled jaw, from his bloody hands to his massive cock, he is completely hypnotic. He waits and watches, his stance wide, feet splayed, arms crossed, chin lifted, his eyes glittering, missing nothing.

  I’m drawn toward him, and my hands reach out. My fingers curl automatically into the elastic waistband, and I slide the tight black trunks down. Inch by inch. Baring his big, beautiful cock. When the trunks reach his thighs, his penis springs out and sways, freed of its prison. Impatient, he rips the trunks off and stands proudly naked. He resumes his pose, arms crossed, feet spread wide apart. But now his cock stands tall at attention. Fully erect, it is a monster of a thing.

  My core weeps with desire.

  My fingers twitch, eager to grasp and claim his magnificent cock.

  The hunger within me, already roaring, crackling, sparking, is now fanned into a wildfire. My heartbeat matches the frenzied crescendo of the music, which I now realize is still pounding loudly all around. Vicious, violent music.

  I curl my fist around his cock and stroke the length of it. Never taking my gaze from his eyes, I know he likes the way I am caressing him. But he remains motionless. He is so thick my fingers do not meet as I grasp him. Now, even with both hands fisted around his length, stroking him down to the root, there are still several inches of flesh above my fists. I have never, in my life, seen such a huge, beautiful, perfect cock. I am breathing hard. I feel delirious, dizzy, aching, but these feelings only fuel my desire. All I can think of is his cock and my pussy, and I know I will do anything he asks…and more.

  He remains perfectly still and silent, never taking his eyes from me, and I dare not look away.

  I don’t know what to do next, because I want so many different things. But, above all, I want to pleasure him.

  I want to drop to my knees and crack my jaw trying to fit him into my mouth. I want to climb up onto his body and impale myself on him. I want to jerk him off like a girl playing with a dick for the first time. I want to feel him spurt his seed down my throat. Into my pussy. Onto my hands. All over my breasts. Onto my face.

  My god, who am I? Who is this woman who wants these things, desires things that were alien to me until I walked into this room? Something about this man brings out primal needs I have never felt before. It’s as if he is able to expose the wanton whore buried within me.

  He remains standing, unmoving, watching me as I slowly, deliberately glide my hands up and down his erection. His eyes are glittering and dark. His biceps twitch and flex as he reacts to my touch. He takes a deep breath, his chest swelling.

  I step backward and begin to sink to my knees, but he stops me. “No. Not yet,” he says in a deep guttural voice.

  Then, moving like lightning, he grabs me around the waist, lifting me off my feet effortlessly, then swings me around and roughly sets me down, shoves me backward. I slam up against the cinderblock wall, my breath leaving me in a rush. Before I can regain my breath, he’s on top of me. He’s everywhere all at once, huge and hard. He thrusts his hand between my thighs and his fingers curl up into me.

  Pressed against me, his breath is hot on my face. His fingers are thick and hard inside my pussy. He pinches my nipple with his other hand, hard enough that I gasp in pain. But the pain sends heat boiling in my belly, and his fingers are there, inside me, ready to relieve the ache.

  This time he doesn’t need to tell me what to do.

  Mad with need, I grind myself on his fingers, rubbing my tits against his rough hand. I can’t get enough. I gasp in pleasure as his thick digits rock within me.

  But it’s not enough.

  I need clitoral stimulation. I grab his hand, pull it away from my breast and shove his two middle fingers against my aching clit. I press my hand over his and force him to touch me the way I need. Force him to the speed the circling rhythm I need. With his fingers inside me, and his fingers against my clit, I am in a frenzy. I feel his erection between us, nudging my belly. I ride his hand, fuck his fingers, and I grasp his cock with both my hands as he continues the rhythm I’ve set. I’m close, groaning and whimpering with need.

  I grunt, unladylike, wanton, whorish, as my orgasm rifles through me. It’s quick, and violent. He doesn’t relent, but forces me to a second orgasm within seconds. I cling to him through them, stroking his erection with one hand, grasping his shoulder with the other.

  He’s unleashed something within me and all I can comprehend is the unbearable need for more.

  I grind against him, and then I lift my leg and hook my foot around the back of his knee. I’m ready for more, of that there is no question. But what? I don’t know, I just know I need more—

  …of everything.

  I want to climb him like a tree and fit him inside me. I grab hold of his shoulders and lift myself, but he has other ideas. He prises me off him and sets me on my feet. He stares at me with a mixture of hauteur and heat. Then he wraps my hair around his fist and presses his other hand against my shoulder, shoving me to my knees. The concrete floor is
rough underneath me and his hand pulls painfully at my hair. My heart is hammering like a drum, I wait for his command.

  “Open your mouth.” His voice is like thunder in the distance, quiet yet disturbing.

  I open my mouth wide, and stare up at him. On my knees, hands on my thighs, mouth open, eyes unblinking, I wait for his instruction. As I look at him, I am aware of his cock throbbing in front of my face. Thick and dark, a trimmed thatch of black curls at the base. His balls are heavy and taut, the veins clearly visible. A dot of moisture glistens on his tip. I want to lick that droplet away, but I dare not move.

  He thrusts his hips forward, taking his cock in his fist, and then he nudges the broad mushroom head between my lips. His thickness brushes against my teeth. I taste his skin. Taste pre-cum. My jaw aches, stretched wide open. Soft springy flesh sheathes iron hardness as his cock slides against my tongue. He pushes into my mouth ever so slowly. He goes deep, and I don’t think I can take it all.

  But I do.

  I begin to choke and gag, my eyes watering, and then I remember to breathe through my nose. This allows me to open my throat and take more of him. I taste him on my tongue and feel him at the top of my throat. I relax my throat and take him until my nose touches his belly. His fist remains in my hair, gripped mercilessly tight. He holds me there.

  I am almost smothered by him, and I’m completely helpless.

  Trying to remain calm, I breathe slowly through my nose and I feel my heartbeat slow just ever so slightly. Feeling more confident now, I slide my hands up the backs of his massive thighs and grip the steel curve of his ass.

  He pulls me back by my hair, and then adjusts his grip so he’s got it clutched close to my scalp. Pulling me back all the way, he lets me release his cock; the only thing connecting us now is the long string of saliva between my lips and his cock. His chest heaves, and his breath gusts heavily. And then he pushes himself back into my mouth slowly, deliberately, using his hips to guide him. He goes deep once he knows I have opened my throat again and am breathing through my nose.