The Black Room: Door One

by Jasinda Wilder

  The ropes disappear overhead in a pulley system. There are several of them and their loose ends are knotted together. He has only to pull one or another and I will lift or lower according to his desires.

  “What do you want to watch me do?” His voice in my ear, a bass murmur.

  “Everything. Touch me. Fuck me. Come for me.”

  “Come where?”

  “Anywhere,” I gasp.

  Gasp, because his fingers have found my clit. I watch, and it’s beautiful. Erotic. A dance of light touches. A flick, a scrape, a circling. Pinching. Sliding into me, drawing out, his fingers coated in my wetness. He smears my essence over me, and I’m already so drenched that each motion of his fingers on me squelches noisily. I cannot stop watching.

  “Watch yourself come,” he says.

  And I do.

  I come beautifully. My cheeks flush pink. My body arches, writhes. My big breasts bounce and jounce and sway. My thighs try to close and they strain against his ropes. My mouth hangs open, my brows draw down. My hair, long fine thick platinum tresses hanging to mid-spine, gleam and shimmer in the red light. My pale skin reddens, and sweat appears on the Cupid’s bow of my upper lip and on my delicate temples. Sweat rolls down between my breasts as they sway side to side with my arching, writhing movements.

  Then he circles in front of me and adjusts a rope so my front half lowers down, forward this time instead of backward, so facing I’m belly-down. My hair drapes over my shoulders and around my face in a blond curtain.

  I turn my head to see us in profile. Him, dark, swarthy, all hardness and angles, like a magnificent statue carved from marble. Me, softness, curves, pale golden skin. Breasts hanging, now. He cups them in his hands, and I catch my breath at the feel and the sight of his rough hands on my sensitive skin. They engulf even my large breasts.

  I watch, in profile, as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the crown against my lips. I watch my tongue flick out, and lick him. For a moment I turn to look in a different direction and I see his ass, his back, his shoulders blotting out everything. I return my attention to the profile view and I see his cock, my mouth.

  Yes, god, yes.

  I watch, enraptured, as he feeds his shaft between my lips. I watch as it vanishes into the warm wet sanctuary of my mouth. I see his body tense from the pleasure and his jaw tighten and flex. His brow is furrowed, his stomach a hard plane, his buttocks flexing as he pushes in.

  A thrust.

  A second.

  I watch each one and I can see my face clearly, the focus, the desire completely evident. I like this. I shouldn’t, but I do. It feels as if what I’m doing is forbidden. Wrong, somehow.

  But it is so right.

  He doesn’t fuck my mouth for long.

  He steps away and moves around behind me.

  I watch in the mirrors as he positions himself, his palms cupping my ass. His arm moves, his hand lifts, and I tense in the second before impact. SMACK! His palm strikes my left buttock. Hard, so hard. I cry out from the pain, the sting lingers. Almost immediately, his other hand lifts, descends, and cracks across my right buttock, and now both sting painfully.

  I have no time to catch my breath before the next blow, which is just as hard. The impact makes me jolt forward, swinging, my breasts swaying pendulously. I gasp, gagging on my cries, but the sting is delicious. Especially now, especially when he slides his cock into me and spanks me again as he thrusts. The burn of being stretched accompanies the sting of his spankings. The lines blur, pain and pleasure combine, becoming something else. My ass is reddened. I watch the way my buttocks ripple with each blow of his hand, each slam of his cock. The way my breasts sway and then jounce as he fucks into me.

  God, he’s not even touching my clit, and I’m ready to come again.

  Another spank, another ramming thrust, and I’m on the edge.

  One more, and I’m over it. Heat blooms inside me. My muscles contract, everything going white with exquisite blossoming painful pleasure, his unending thrusts driving the orgasm higher and higher. And then I feel him moving harder yet. Less controlled.

  My eyes open and I watch him in profile. I watch him pull out, inches of cock pulling out, glistening. And then his ass flexes, his hips piston, and I’m filled again.

  “Don’t—don’t stop this time,” I gasp.

  He doesn’t answer. He just keeps fucking. And I keep watching.

  No more spanking, just his hands on my hips, pulling me into him.

  I’m watching us, feeling something massive well up inside me. Yet another orgasm, but different from the others. Stronger. Deeper. Sharper.

  I’m full of anticipation. I’m waiting for him to come and I want to feel him come. But he has unreal stamina. He can hold it off indefinitely, I think. He continues to pound into me, pushing me to multiple orgasms, until I’m weak and dizzy from them.

  When the next wave crashes over me, I lose myself to it, knowing it will break me, somehow.

  And it does.

  The orgasm crescendos through me like a tsunami, slamming through me so powerfully I cannot help but scream at the top of my lungs, ripped apart by an agony of ecstasy.

  It drowns me.

  I feel faint and I succumb to the feeling. I feel it wash over me, pulling me under, pulling me down into a place of security and relaxation.

  *

  When I waken, I’m no longer bound, no longer suspended. I blink, momentarily disoriented. A low crimson light bathes the entire room, including the cinderblock wall behind me. Looking up, there is only darkness shrouding the thick iron rafters over my head.

  I’m on the floor, in a corner of the room, resting in a nest of blankets and pillows. It’s not a real bed, but somehow it is more comfortable than that. Warm. Infused with a distinctly masculine smell.

  I sense him.

  And there he is, prowling toward me, naked, arms swinging easily at his sides, his gait that of a predator stalking prey. His cock is still rock hard so I surmise I must not have been out for long. He lowers himself to the nest of blankets and levers himself over me, nudging my thighs apart with his knees. Possessive, familiar, demanding.

  “I don’t come while you’re in the ropes,” he says as his eyes search mine.

  “No? Why not?” I’m curious about his response.

  “The ropes are foreplay.” He plants a fist in a pillow beside my head, then reaches between us, finding me wet and waiting. “The ropes are for fun. For you. This…”

  He curls his fingers against me, drawing a gasp from me.

  “This, sweetness… it’s all for me.”

  I shiver, because the promise in his voice is ripe, potent.

  Unbound and no longer blindfolded, I am free to touch him. To drag my palms over his shoulder. Down his back. Cup his ass, feeling the hardness. I hook my leg around the back of his knee and bury my fingers in his hair.

  He glides into me, slowly. And this time, somehow…this time it is different. It feels different. The position, maybe? I don’t know. The way he does it, the way he fucks into me. It’s not for me, this time. Not to tease me, not to fuck me, not to push me toward orgasm. It’s for him. Slow and deliberate, as if he’s memorizing each sensation.

  I breathe in his masculine scent and slide my hands all over him, wherever I can reach. Throat, neck, shoulders. Chest, back. Hips. Buttocks. I move with him, slow sinuous lifts of my hips against his lazy thrusting.

  Gradually, the tempo increases. Increment by increment, his motions become more needy. More desperate. Less precise, less controlled. His eyes never leave mine. A world of hidden emotion whirls behind those dark eyes. His brow is furrowed, the bridge pinched, carving a sharp line between his eyebrows. His jaw is tensed. I know nothing of him, nothing of what he’s feeling. Just that he’s here and his feelings are here, and both are more than I could ever fathom. Complexities in layer upon layer.

  I feel him beginning to breathe more heavily, feel him fighting for control, fighting to hold back, and I want to ki
ss him. I want to bite his lip and suck his tongue into my mouth.

  I know, somehow I just know I cannot, should not do that. I fight the urge by raking my fingernails down his back, pushing up into his manic, frenzied thrusts. I clutch his ass and pull him harder against me, murmuring and whimpering and crying out, partly because I cannot help myself, and partly to encourage him.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” I breathe. “Harder, god, please, harder.”

  He doesn’t give it to me harder. He slows. Gentles. Eyes on mine, never once wavering. That gaze is impossible to hold for long, the intensity impossible to match. But yet I must not look away; I know this, too. So I don’t.

  I hold his gaze and the intensity increases exponentially with each and every second that passes.

  He moves, pumps, thrusts, wild and furious once more. Fists beside my ears, burly biceps blocking out everything.

  I know what he’s about to do when his movements falter and slow. When he trembles. Pulls out.

  I curl my fingers around his length. Keep my eyes on his. Stroke him. Slow. Soft. Delicate. He shakes above me. His breath shudders between his pursed lips. His eyelids begin to flutter, but his gaze does not leave mine. I wrap both hands around him; twist them around his thickness as I stroke him from tip to root, as slowly as I can.

  He thrusts into my hands, wanting it faster, but liking it slow.

  A grunt.

  Yes, god yes.

  Soft, slow glides of my palms and fingers down his thick, wet, throbbing cock. Wet noises of skin smearing essence on skin. His back arches, bows outward. He pistons into my touch, grunting raggedly.

  “Fuck—” he groans, a drawn out syllable. “Fuuuuuuuck….”

  I turn my eyes downward now, greedily. I cup my palm around the crown and squeeze, rubbing his tip with my thumb. Twisting my hand around the broad, wide head, my other hand pumping him slowly near the root.

  Hand over hand. Twists of my palms. Fluttering, quick movements of my hand around the head. I watch the fat mushroom sprout above my fist, wet with pre-cum. I watch inches of hard shaft grow as I squeeze hard and plunge my fist down to the root. He’s groaning, gasping, shaking. Not moving at all. Trembling. Holding back. Making me force it out of him.

  Somehow, I just know how he likes it. I instinctively know how to touch him and I know what drives him crazy, what teases and tortures him. And I do all of it. As I continue to give him what he needs, I marvel at the feel of him. Marvel at the control required to hold out for so long. Minutes pass as I toy with him, touching and stroking and pumping his beautiful cock, as much for my own enjoyment as his own. The feel of him in my hands, the pleasure of touching him, the beauty of him as he struggles against the need to come, these things are all I know. I know nothing but this. This is all there is.

  All there ever was. All there will be.

  When I know, intuitively, that he’s riding the razor edge, I cease the toying and the teasing, cease the slight touches and the fluttering strokes, the gentle glide of fist over fist. I begin a rhythm. Slow, purposeful. Hard, the way he likes it best.

  I lay on my back in the nest of blankets with him levered above me, trembling with exertion. Sweat on his brow. Tension in every line of his body.

  I stroke his gorgeous cock the way he likes it until he’s thrusting with me, into my hand, grunting, groaning, cursing under his breath.

  He pushes into my fist and holds there, spine arched in, shoulders bowed, head ducked, and his face resting between my breasts, hips flexed.

  I watch him explode. The first spurt of seed gushes out of him as from a cannon, a thick white jet splashing hot on my belly. Now I stroke him hard and fast. He curses, shouts, and comes. Another jet, harder than the last, shooting up onto my chest in a warm wet line between my breasts. Again he ejaculates, this time in a thick pool just above my pussy. An endless river of cum pours out of him, coating me.

  After what seems an eternity of orgasm, he finally finishes and holds himself trembling above me, sweating, gasping for breath, eyes fixed on me, as ever. As if to break our gazes would be a mortal sin.

  And then, abruptly, he rises. Stalks away, hand passing through his hair as if angry.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” The words are quiet, spoken so softly I barely hear them. But they are razor sharp in the silence.

  “Why not?”

  He doesn’t turn to look at me. Just stands facing away, catching his breath, naked, a carving of raw masculine beauty and power. “You just shouldn’t. You don’t belong in a place like this.”

  I stand up. His words cut me to the quick. I like it here. I like him. I know him, but I do not know him. It’s a confusing thought, but I can’t shake sense out of it and can’t shake the truth of it. I both know him and I don’t. How can that be? What does it mean? What is this place? Why don’t I belong here?

  I move slowly, cautiously, up behind him. I skim my hands around his ribs and down to his stomach, and then brush my breasts against his back. He sucks in a deep breath.

  “Don’t.” He spits out the word.

  “Why not? What’s the matter?”

  “You have to go. You can’t stay here.”

  “But I don’t want to go.” I hate the childish, petulant tone in my voice.

  A hesitation. “But you have to.” He grabs my wrists in his hands and pushes them away from his body. “It’s time.”

  Physically, he is so much more powerful than I am, but somehow I get the impression that removing my hands from his body takes all the emotional and psychological strength he can muster.

  I do not resist him.

  I release him and take a few steps past him, toward the dark doorway that will take me back to the beginning, to the black door room.

  More than anything I want to stay here, with him, in this room. I don’t want to go, yet I know there’s no point in arguing.

  I turn in place, and he’s still standing there, watching me. He’s still breathing hard, but not from sexual exertion. This is…the breathlessness of self-restraint.

  He’s erect again, somehow. Fucking hard as a goddamn rock. A thick silken iron shaft, long and thick.

  “Once more…please?” I sound breathy. I sound desperate.

  God, that cock. I want it. I fucking want it, I want him one more time.

  I step toward him, feeling bold, feeling decisive; I don’t stop until I’m wrapped around him. My arms tangle around his neck and I lift myself up, hooking my legs around his waist. With bated breath I nudge his cock against my entrance. He furrows his brow again, clearly waging some internal war, and then I feel his hands on my waist, lifting me, attempting to move me off him.

  But for once I am too quick for him and I sink down and impale his hot hard shaft inside me, all the way, so deep, so perfect. Oh, the beautiful ache, the sweet burn. He growls, an animal snarl. I do all the work, now. I writhe on him, grind on him and ride him like the wild mustang he is. His hands grip my ass and assist my motions, almost begrudgingly. The angle has him so deep, but the way we’re positioned sends his shaft sliding against my clit, giving me delicious friction against the hypersensitive bundle of nerves. Immediately, I feel the boil in my belly, the throb in my bones, the bliss as I near orgasm. I’m panting, gasping. Whimpering. It’s building quickly and bashing through me so hard it almost hurts.

  And now it breaks, an atomic bomb of a climax, ripping a scream from me as I lift up as high as I can and sink down as hard as I can, his hands helping me, lifting me then slamming me down.

  My mind goes completely blank and I don’t have any thoughts or intentions or desires but experiencing this one last orgasm.

  Without thinking about it, I kiss him. Hard.

  I slam my lips across his mouth; thrust my tongue between his teeth, taste blood on his lips as the crashing kiss splits them open.

  A moment, then, of kissing. A breath-long kiss as I come so hard I weep.

  He rips me away with a curse and a vicious sna
rl. There’s no time to react. He moves with that viper-fast speed, seizing me, throwing me to the ground so hard my knees sing with pain. My palms scrape on the cement, and my lips throb from the kiss.

  “I’m sorry,” I breathe, “I—”

  He’s behind me, on his knees, grabbing my hair in a vise-like grip, tugging my head back sharply. He stabs his cock into my pussy, a rough hard thrust that sears my breath away. Words dissolve on my tongue. Protests die. I’m on my hands and knees, ass in the air, and he’s fucking me so hard I’m rocked forward with each thrust, so hard my tits hurt from the jouncing sway.

  I know two things: I’ve never been fucked so hard in my life, and he’s punishing me for the kiss.

  But the trick’s on him, because I realize a third thing: I’ve never enjoyed a fucking so much.

  I can’t remember anything but this room, anyone but him, any fuck but his.

  I don’t come again.

  But I’m not meant to.

  It doesn’t last long.

  And it’s not meant to.

  My hands and knees scrape painfully on the cement floor. His grip on my hair borders on agonizing.

  But I don’t feel that.

  All I feel is his thrusting. His fucking.

  There is no control. No technique. No holding back. No tenderness. This is raw and primal. He’s taking my body and using it with no thought or consideration for anything. Flesh slaps against flesh, his hips ram against my ass. Each violent thrust fills me to the brim, stretches me wide with a sharp burning ache, squelching wetly. I can’t even catch my breath long enough to scream, or even gasp. All I can do is suck in desperate panting breaths as he pulls back for a fraction of a second and then my breath is forced out of me at the brutal impact of his cock.

  Impossibly, he becomes even wilder, fucks even harder as he nears his climax.

  None of the usual terms apply, then. Hard; rough; fucking; climax; orgasm….none of those words express the violent, animal way he uses my body.

  It’s not something to enjoy. It’s something to experience.