The Black Room: Door Two

by Jasinda Wilder

  The darkness wants to pull me down. It desires me. Seeks me. Hunts me.

  There is something alive in the darkness of unseeing.

  My eyes flick open, and I sit up and touch the floor with my feet. I scan the pools of light and blackness in between.

  Eventually, when the languidness has faded, I rise off the cot.

  Six doors.

  The second door has disappeared and my memory, fuzzy and hazy and vague, tells me little. I focus, think, strain to remember.

  I remember very little.

  Only him.

  Wishing I could be his. Knowing I’m not.

  Nearly kissing him. A tease, an almost-kiss.

  I remember a different version of him. But there is confusion, even there. Despite the rushing chaotic bliss of lust, acquiescing to the hunger within, even then…

  Questions without form, without substance. Just the knowledge of them, the idea of them.

  Questions unanswered.

  Unasked, even.

  I focus on remembering—

  The first door…

  The boxer. Big. Rough. Dominant. Possessive. Virile and primal. The ropes. His violent refusal to kiss me. It doesn’t come rushing back; instead it flits and meanders through my mind, out of sequence. The way he fucked me, there at the end. As if it was the last time he’d ever see me, hold me, touch me, fuck me.

  The second door…

  It only just happened, but it feels like a thousand years ago. The memory is slippery and hard to grasp. Two men—the blond man and him, light versus dark, lean and lithe versus broad and massive. A flurrying glut of sensation. Revelling in debauchery. Slipping and sliding down into delicious, all-consuming sin, two men fucking me into delirium. Then her, the scarlet goddess, her mouth on my core, the hunger for her burning inside me, secret at first but then wild and undeniable. Then just him, just us, being filled, taken. A connection, deep and dark and fraught, and so briefly felt.

  I scan the room and the remaining doors. I skip over the cutting pain of the green door and the revulsion I feel regarding the silver door.

  Number three, then.

  My legs move, my feet carry me across the empty space. I halt in front of the door. Black, with the large, silver numeral 3 at the center. Lower down, on the right side of the door, a handle. Trembling, I reach out my hand and touch the handle. It’s glass knob. Delicate. I wrap tentative fingers around the faceted glass, and the knob rattles under my touch.

  Twist.

  Push.

  The door creaks and squeals on protesting hinges.

  ****

  Darkness. Heat. Humidity. The scent of bodies. Soap. Oils. Perfume. The heat of the room allows the scents to comingle, almost becoming cloying.

  I can see nothing.

  Something presses against me on one side: a body. Soft, warm. The flesh gives in a way only a woman’s flesh does. Then I feel other women, jostling and bumping in front of me. To my left, to my right. All around.

  The sound of breathing.

  Hoarse, fearful breaths.

  A whimper.

  And then sudden light, brilliant and blinding. A pair of doors opens, and the windows are uncovered.

  A man’s voice, rough, slurred, and accented. “C’mon, c’mon, girlies! Step on out here, now! Don’t be shy, ya’ll. Step out, step out.”

  There is motion as those around me begin to shuffle forward unwillingly, bumping into each other, holding onto whatever is near for balance; a hand grabs my shoulder, another my arm, someone pushes at my spine, small hands, trembling fingers.

  “Now ya’ll make a line, right here. Right here. Stand still, now. No fidgeting, no talking.”

  I blink in the blinding light. I squint, closing one eye. The sun is glaring through a window, beaming directly at me, flaring across my vision. I can see only silhouetted shapes and forms. A hand clutching a cane. A hat, broad-brimmed, low-crowned. The swirl of a coattail. A boot. Spurs jingling. I smell sweat, now. Leather. Dust. There’s a hint of swirling cold, as if a door had just been shut, and the cold still lingers.

  I’m shuffling forward with the others, my feet bare on the smooth wooden flooring. A hand grabs my arm, roughly jerking me to one side and then stopping me in a precise spot, squeezing my arm. Stay put, that squeeze said. He strides away, a shotgun tucked under one arm.

  I’m still blinking, but I can see a bit more clearly now as my eyes begin to adjust. A line of men stand abreast, opposite, with a bank of windows behind them. They’re all dressed warmly. Thick wool coats swirling around leather boots. Snow clings to the soles and heels of the boots. Cravats are tied under necks. Gold chains arc across chests and disappear into watch pockets. I see fine leather gloves, someone clutching a crystal-topped walking stick, another a riding crop, a third a lever-action rifle.

  I count seven men, ranging in age from white-haired and weathered to barely old enough to shave, most in between somewhere, but the quality of each man’s dress speaks of wealth. Their demeanor and posture shout power, dominance, utter surety of their place in life. Every pair of eyes gleams arrogantly.

  To my left and my right are women, and we are also standing in a line abreast. The women, unlike the men, are all of an age: young, nubile, beautiful, none over twenty-five. There are twenty of us, and I stand directly in the middle. We are each of us clad identically in a thin cotton robe. Not even a robe, really, so much as a knee-length bolt of thin, rough-spun cotton with holes for the arms, tied closed with a length of rope. It obscures our bodies, yet does little to cover us, or to keep us warm.

  Fear hammers at my heart. No one is speaking, but the silence is fiercely thick with anticipation. Ripe with the fear felt by the women beside me. Lust burns in the eyes of the men. Boots scuff as weight shifts, hands in gloves curl into fists and release, or are tucked into trouser pockets. We women only shiver and tremble.

  Boot heels click sharply on the wood floor, calling everyone to attention. A man enters the room from my left, striding with focus and arrogance between the lines of men and women. A woman follows behind him. She stops just inside the door and stands, waiting. The man has a burlap sack in his hands, which clacks and clatters, swinging back and forth as he swiftly strides across the room. He stops at the far end of the line, then reaches into the sack. He withdraws a small square of slate and shoves it into the hands of the first woman in line, then reaches into his trouser pocket and comes up with a chunk of chalk. He scrapes a single vertical number 1 on the slate. Then he steps to the side, reaches into the sack for another piece of slate and hands it to the next woman. He repeats the process, this time scratching out a 2 with a quick flick of his wrist. And so on down the line. I am number ten.

  When he reaches the end of the line, he tosses the sack aside, shoves the chalk back into his pocket and brushes his hands together.

  He is tall, immensely tall, six foot six, perhaps, but thin and wiry. Elegant. Expensively dressed in a three-piece suit, a gold pocket watch peeks out of his waistcoat pocket, a brown derby hat on his head. He wears a graying brown beard trimmed in the Van Dyke style, the ends waxed and twisted into points. His eyes are cold, hard, and emotionless. Diamond blue and diamond sharp. Calculating.

  He stands at the leftmost end of the line, between the men and the women. He withdraws his pocket watch, flips it open, consults it, and replaces it.

  “Let us begin.” His voice is cultured, smooth. “You have all put in your thousand just to be here. The first to put in another five hundred gets first pick.”

  “Here.” The oldest man, white haired, white goatee, craggy features, weathered skin. “Five hundred.” He withdraws a stack of bills from an inner pocket and extends it to the man in charge.

  It’s clearly pre-counted and accepted as such, for it is not recounted. It is pocketed immediately.

  “Very well.” A hand sweeps to gesture at us women. “Take your pick, sir, and place your offer.”

  The older man steps forward, crystal-topped walking stick thum
ping. He’s on the far right of the line of men, second from the end. His step is spry, strong, and quick, despite his obvious age; the walking stick is affectation. A foot away from the woman at that end, number one, he stops. He eyes her up and down. Blinks once, as if in dismissal, then moves to the next; another dismissal. He walks past the third woman without pause; the same silent disregard. At the fourth woman, he stops and nods to himself. He reaches a large, gnarled hand for her robe tie. He pauses with the end of the rope in his fingers, then glances at the man in charge, as if for permission.

  He receives a nod and then, with a single sharp tug, the rope is untied and her robe falls open, baring her naked body. His eyes narrow, flitting up and down, perusing her carefully. He drops the end of the rope, takes the slate from her, then steps back one pace.

  I cannot look away. I dare not speak. I can only watch in numb, disbelieving horror.

  The white-haired man crooks his finger. “Step forward.”

  The girl hesitates, and then steps forward. Her arms hang at her sides, her hands clenched into fists. White-knuckled.

  She has long straight black hair, hanging down to mid-spine, and as she stands, waiting, I can see her hair shaking. She’s clearly terrified.

  He flicks his finger again. “Off with that. Lemme see you, girl.”

  She ducks her head, and her shoulders lift as she breathes in deeply. She lifts her chin, vying for courage then shrugs away the rough cotton, and it billows to pool on the floor at her feet. She is thin. Narrow hips. Strong, though. High, round buttocks. Long legs.

  He twirls his index finger at her. “Turn.”

  She pivots in a slow circle. Small breasts, tips upturned. Pale, pale skin. Her ribs show, but not from malnutrition, due rather to her lithe, svelte frame. As she pauses facing us, her eyes scan ours, left to right. A tear trickles down her cheek.

  “Back around,” comes the gruff order.

  She crosses her hands in front of her groin, and the man steps forward. He grabs her wrists and shoves them aside effortlessly. He reaches, curls his fingers between her thighs, roughly shoving them inside her, right here in front of everyone. She cringes, whimpering.

  Click-click. The sound is unmistakable, loud in the silence—a gun being cocked.

  “No touching until you have made your payment, if you please, sir. And you, girl—I believe you were informed of the rules before you were brought in.” His gaze rakes to include all of us.

  “I shall repeat the instructions, so there can be no misunderstandings. You will not speak. You will not move. That means no covering up. No cowering. Do as you’re told immediately. The buyers are not allowed to touch you until they have bought you, but if they do, you will allow it until such time as I see fit to stop them. Is that clear?”

  He glares at us, and a few girls mutter responses: yes; yes, sir.

  He cuts his glare to each of us in turn. “I did not hear all of you. Do you understand the rules?” he bellows.

  There’s a louder chorus of agreement. I feel apart, separate, numb, disoriented, but I do not speak. Immediately, that unnerving diamond gaze fixes on me. He steps toward me, sharp quick steps. He lifts his hand in which is concealed a small revolver. He touches the barrel to the underside of my chin; the mouth is a cold round o digging into the soft flesh just back of my jawbone.

  “I didn’t hear you, darling,” he says in that low voice, razor sharp, the term of endearment becomes an epithet, a threat. “Do…you…understand?”

  I wobble, gasp. “Yes—yes, sir.” The hammer is cocked, and I can see bullets in the chamber.

  He steps away, turns, gestures with his empty hand at the woman still standing at the door: she’s dressed in a voluminous gown of jade silk, the bodice cut indecently low, propping up a broad expanse of cleavage. Her skirts bell out from her waist and trail behind her. Her blond hair is pulled back from her temples and over her scalp and is fastened at her crown; the rest is loose, falling around her bare shoulders. Her eyes are as blue and hard and calculating as the man running this sale of human flesh. Despite the difference in their hair color, her eyes mark her as his sister.

  “If anyone sees fit to break these rules, you shall be sent to my sister here. She runs a brothel, as you should know. And the clientele at that establishment—well, let us merely say they are not quite as…savory…as the men standing before you. I shall leave the details your imaginations. Suffice to say silence and cooperation is, by far, the better option of the two choices left to you.”

  He holsters the gun beneath his left breast then gestures at the white-haired buyer. “My apologies for the distraction. Have you decided, sir?”

  The man nods, stroking his white beard. “I have. Two thousand for the shy little thing here.” He holds up the slate. “Two thousand for Number 4.”

  A quick nod, the Van Dyke beard twitches. “Accepted and agreed.”

  A bundle of cash is counted by one, handed over, and then re-counted by the other.

  The girl, bought and sold, kneels shakily to retrieve her robe. That gnarled hand grabs her by the arm and lifts her to her feet. “Oh, you won’t be needing that.” The leer in his voice is unmistakable and it makes my flesh crawl.

  “But…” her voice is quiet, achingly delicate, tremulous. “It’s—it’s cold outside.”

  He doffs his coat and drapes it over her thin shoulders. “Wouldn’t want you to be cold, now, would we?” He pinches her nipple, twists it viciously, until she whimpers in pain and tries to curl away. “That wouldn’t do at all.” Then he tugs the edges of the coat closed and buttons it up.

  It’s comically big on her. Hanging well past her ankles, trailing on the floor. The sleeves sag several inches past her fingertips.

  He prods her into motion and guides her to the doorway leading outside. She picks her way on bare feet across the threshold onto hard-packed snow. The door closes behind them, sending a gust of icy air into the room.

  My nipples pebble in reaction to the sudden blast of cold, nearly poking through the thin muslin.

  Opposite me, in the middle of the line, a pair of eyes drifts down and fixes on my visibly prominent nipples. Brown eyes. Hard, not quite cold, but…blank, perhaps. Studiously so, maybe. Familiar eyes, in some strange way. Black hair swept back beneath a black, wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat. Full beard cropped close to his jaw.

  His eyes slide back up to find mine.

  I cannot look away. I don’t dare.

  Around me, one after another, the women are sold. Purchased, then hustled outside. Some leave completely naked, some with their robes on, others covered in a cloak or coat. All weep piteously, but quietly, as they’re sent with their new masters. Their owners.

  There is one man left—the man with the brown eyes.

  Myself and a few other women remain and the seller moves to stand beside me.

  “Quite a prize, this one,” offers the man in charge. “Minimum bid is two thousand. If you cannot or will not meet that, then I’m afraid you, my boy, are out of luck. Entry fee is non-refundable, you’ll remember.”

  The man looks at me and his fingers twitch. The rope knot flies apart. A sweep of his hand, and the robe drifts to my feet, baring me completely. My knees shake. My nipples throb and ache. I desperately wish to cover my core, to cower, to hide. But I do not. I stand, shoulders back, shaking, fists clenched at my sides, my eyes on the man who, I am positive, is about to purchase me.

  Opposite me, brown eyes rake down my body. Slowly, taking time.

  Beside me, a hand grips my shoulder and forces me to turn in a slow circle. “I chose this one myself. The high bid, I freely admit, is meant to deter you. If I don’t get my price, I might claim her for myself.”

  His voice in my ear is a low murmur, boiling with lewd promise and provocative threat. He inhales deeply, and his palm slides across my hip, daringly close to my core. “Lots of curve to this one. Imagine the delights to be found in all this—” he cups my breast, and I cannot suppress a shudder of revulsi
on— “sweet, lush, firm flesh. Imagine the fun you could…”

  “Six thousand.” The offer comes brusque, rough, and harsh.

  “Six? But sir, I —”

  Brown eyes flash dangerously; his hand brushes his coat aside and hovers over a gun butt. Threat is woven through that deep voice, deadly and unmistakeable. “Six thousand. Now get your hands off.” A thick stack of cash flies to thump at the seller’s feet.

  The seller bends, retrieves the cash, straightens; he doesn’t stop to count it. “Very well, very well.” A moment of taut silence. “Do you wish—?”

  “What I wish is for you to leave us. Now.” This is a command, snapped in a voice that brooks no disobedience.

  The seller, the guard, the madam, and the remaining women all leave, and now I’m alone.

  With him.

  Sold like so much meat.

  Possessively, his eyes roam my body, rake over my form. He takes in my breasts, my slit, my hips. He moves toward me, boots clomping noisily, spurs jingling, coat tail billowing behind him. He circles to stand behind me.

  “You belong to me, now.” He speaks with authority. He’s close, smelling of wood smoke and leather and wool. His voice is a deep, rasping grumble, rough, rocky, but his speech is articulate and educated. “Do you understand?”

  I shake, tremble, and manage to nod. I clear my throat, find my voice. “Yes. Yes, I—I understand.”

  “Good. Then there won’t be any trouble.” His boots thunk noisily as he crosses the wooden floor and kneels to retrieve a pile of neatly folded clothing near the far wall, beneath the bank of windows. He walks back to me and hands me the pile. “Get dressed. We have far to ride, and it’s not getting any warmer.”

  I dress quickly. Flannel underwear. Wool stockings. A thin, fine wool slip, tight against my skin, the hem reaching my knees. Another underdress, this one looser and longer, made from thicker, coarser wool. This is followed by blue-gray calico dress, ankle length, snug at the bust and hips, blossoming into voluminous skirts from my waist. There is a thick wool coat with a deep hood. Warm, fur-lined boots, a little too big. Thick mittens.