Black Room: Door 7

by Jade London

  I can’t answer for a while because I’m too upset.

  After a few minutes of tense silence, I state it outright. “I’m not changing my last name, Charlie.”

  “Hannah, come on.”

  I sit up, pressing the flat sheet against my chest. “You can get mad all you want, but I’m not changing my mind. I’ve been telling you this since you asked me to marry you—I told you then and I’m telling you now, I’m not changing my last name. I’m not hyphenating it, either. I’m Hannah Tavistock, and that’s not going to change. And if that’s such a big deal to you, then you shouldn’t have married me.”

  “I thought you’d change your mind.”

  “Well…you thought wrong,” I say. “Listen, please, Charlie, listen to me. I love you…but me not taking your last name isn’t—it’s not about you. It’s about me needing some kind of connection to my past. I’m eighteen years old, and I’ve been on my own since I was nine. I have basically no memories of my family at all, just…vague impressions my parents, that’s it. All I’ve got is their name. Please try to understand. I’ve already lost them, and I just—I have to try to hold on to some part of them. I have to.”

  He’s silent for a long, long time. If it weren’t for the fact that he was staring at the ceiling, blinking now and again, I’d think he had fallen asleep. Eventually he lets out a slow breath. “Okay. All right, babe. I get it.”

  He sounds bitter.

  “Do you?” I ask.

  He glances at me. “As much as I can, yes. I know you said it’s not about me, and it’s not. But it still hurts. I always thought of us getting married and of you becoming Mrs. Hannah Markham.”

  “I married you, Charlie. I have your rings on my finger. We live in a house we picked out together. I’m your wife; that’s important to me. I chose you. Not taking your last name shouldn’t lessen the importance of that. It doesn’t to me, at least. We’ve been together for two years...you’re the only person I’ve ever even kissed, so I hope to god you understand by now that I fucking love you. I’m just...not taking your name.”

  He pulls me against him, and I listen to his heartbeat and I wait for his words, for his comfort, for him to tell me that it doesn’t lessen the importance to him either—I’m waiting for words of affirmation.

  But they never come.

  Tears prick my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.

  Even after he’s snoring—that gently snuffling inhale and sudden puffing exhale—I don’t let the tears fall.

  He loves me, I love him; that’s enough.

  Or...it should be.

  Shouldn’t it?

  (

  “It’s not your place to make that fucking decision.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m her husband.”

  “No, you’re not. You gave that title up a long fucking time ago, asshole.”

  “We’ve had our problems, but I’m still legally her husband. We never agreed on anything, legally or informally. Nothing was finalized. So I’m still her husband. She wouldn’t want this, she wouldn’t want to live like this, if you can even call this living.”

  “You wouldn’t know what she wanted even if she fucking told you—and oh, wait, she DID tell you. You just didn’t care.”

  “Fuck you. I DO care.”

  “Not about her, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Gentlemen, please. This isn’t helping. If you can’t remain civil toward each other, I’ll have security escort you both out, and that’s not in anyone’s best interest. She needs you, both of you. She needs to know you’re here. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but she’s there. She needs support, and love, not the two of you arguing like this.”

  )

  Light, dark; up, down; through, beneath, above, beyond;

  It all twists, tangles, breathes, morphs,

  Chaos, despair, sleep, terror, pain, joy, love

  Darkness

  Existence is filtered through distortion. Memory, fantasy, reality,

  What is true?

  There is light. There is darkness. There is sound, and there is silence. Alternation, variation, replacement, it all twists in on itself, an ouroboros of reality and nightmare and truth and fantasy and darkness and light.

  I—

  I—

  I—

  Sense of self is tricky, disorienting. I am, and I am not. Cold. Thirst. Pain.

  NEED.

  Conrad?

  ****

  He smells like her.

  Why does that still hurt?

  I don’t know why, but it does. I never wanted anything but a simple, happy marriage. To belong to someone. To just…belong.

  I don’t know where it went wrong, where I went wrong, what I did wrong, what I lack as a woman. Was it that I didn’t know what I was doing? That I didn’t know how to fuck? That I never sucked his cock? I would’ve, had he asked me to. Our sex was always one thing, one way, because I thought that’s what it was—how you did it.

  Until I married Charlie, my limited exposure to sex was tainted by surreptitiously watching my foster father watch porn. I saw ugly, grunting, cursing men with absurdly oversized dicks shooting their loads all over women who were obviously pretending to like it. I never wanted that—to look like those women, faking enjoyment in demeaning positions. To me, it was all false expectations, something that could never exist.

  And then there was Charlie, who showed me that life could be different. He was gorgeous and he held my hand and kissed me and charmed me and took me places I’d never been before. He took me away from foster homes and group homes and stints on the street, and he treated me like I was a girl in a romance movie. He touched me like I was a woman and not a broken, lonely, confused girl. His touch put a fire inside me, made me wonder, made me want. Made me curious.

  Somehow just kissing wasn’t enough for me; the drug of sex was in my veins once Charlie’s exploring fingers fired my blood. My bra loosened as the clasps came unhooked under his fingers, and my jeans opened, and I felt things. Hot, deep, incredible things. And he let me indulge my curiosity, touching and exploring. Taking a peek at his cock, then touching him, feeling him. A glorious slide into sex, one molasses slow moment at a time.

  Together.

  Being naked with him for the first time and feeling so grown up, feeling heat in my belly and fire in my veins and a trembling between my legs. Feeling him above me, his hair in his eyes and his gaze intense and his cock at my entrance, and his hesitant query—are you ready? You’re sure?—and then he was inside me and fuck, it hurt at first. But then we were moving together and it felt different—not like I’d imagined—but still good. The heat quavered and expanded and I needed something; I needed more.

  That was the start, and I always edged so close to more with Charlie, but more never came, and I thought it was me, but then the need for more became desperation. I started giving myself more, with my fingers in the dark after Charlie was asleep beside me, a brand new thing for this lonely orphan girl, and the privacy to do things in the dark that I never dared do before.

  When I first gave myself an orgasm, I cried in the darkness, alone, for an hour: I knew then that it wasn’t me. I needed more, and Charlie never gave me more. I wanted that with him, goddammit, and I loved him and knew we deserved to find that together.

  And now, lying beside him as he snores, I can smell another woman’s pussy on his fingers, on his breath, on his skin. He stinks like sex.

  What hurts the most, I think, is that he doesn’t wash her off before coming home to me.

  That feels like complete and utter disregard.

  Makes a lie of every time he ever said, “I love you.”

  Makes a lie of his kiss, his touch, the tenderness in the quiet moments together.

  It makes a lie of fucking everything.

  His hand lays on top of the comforter, over his belly. His ring finger is bare. Curious, I lean close to his hand, and sniff; ring finger, middle finger—they smell of pussy. I sniff his mouth—pussy.

&n
bsp; He eats her out.

  Did he ever do that for me? No. He never did. Not once. That was the only thing in that foster father’s porn movies that looked like something I wanted, a man putting his mouth between my thighs and licking me until I screamed and thrashed.

  But I never asked him to do it, and he never offered, never tried.

  But he eats her out?

  What the fuck?

  I wonder about her quite often.

  I know she has red hair, bottle scarlet locks tumbling down to mid-back. Long legs, big tits. A sharp profile, foreign looking. Maybe a piercing in her lip, or tattoos on her skin. I don’t know. She’s not ordinary, that’s for sure. No blonde hair and blue eyes and confused fumbling in the darkness for the more that never quite materializes.

  She’s exotic, with a sports car and scarlet hair and a pussy that he licks and fingers.

  And I lay here, awake at 3:23a.m., my pussy aching, my core twisting, my heart thundering. He’s never eaten me out.

  What would he do if I woke him up and told him I wanted him to lick my pussy like he does hers?

  I want to feel that.

  Would I wrap my legs around his neck and arch my back and scream? Or would I writhe off the bed and clutch at the sheets and gasp?

  I wonder about her. What is her name? Why her? What is it like for her when they fuck? Is it passionate? Does she claw his back, scream his name? Does she suck his cock? When he eats her out, does he use his fingers too? Does she clutch and grab at his hair and rock her pussy against his face?

  Desperation blazes inside me. I need—fuck, I need. I need to feel something like that.

  My phone is plugged in, resting on the nightstand beside me. I unplug it. Sliding carefully out of bed, I tiptoe from the bedroom, closing the door behind me, careful to let the latch click slowly and quietly.

  Once outside, I go down to the dock. I’m totally naked, but I don’t care. The night is cool, but not cold, and I’m alone.

  I unlock my phone and bring up the browser and type in a single word: porn.

  The results are predictable, and nothing I’m interested in.

  I scroll through the results until I find something. It’s a thumbnail image that captures my attention: a woman on a couch, her head thrown back, mouth open, hair wild. A man kneels on the floor in front of her, his head between her thighs.

  I click play, adjust the volume down as the opening scenes come up. No time is wasted on set up or pretending it’s supposed to be part of a story. The woman is already naked, sitting on the couch, waiting as the man enters the room. He grins at her and falls to his knees in front of her, and she snags him by the back of the head, yanks him forcefully, roughly even, to her pussy. God, that’s hot, the way she just…took what she wanted.

  I want to do that, to jerk a man between my thighs, to shove his face against my pussy like that. He begins licking her, slowly at first, and she watches, mouth open, sighing quietly. And then he slides his fingers inside her and she whimpers—I up the volume a bit, so I can hear the noises she makes. My core aches as I watch. He works his fingers in and out of her slit a few times, and I can hear how wet she is, hear his fingers squelching noisily.

  God, my own pussy is dripping now, imaging that man between my thighs. He’s ugly, but if his face is between my legs, I wouldn’t have to look at him; shame bolts through me at the way my horny thoughts are objectifying him, but I’m too caught up in my own need-fueled fantasy to care.

  The man on my phone screen is sliding his fingers in and out of the woman while licking her clit in ever-quickening circles, and she’s moaning loudly now, spine arched, head thrown back, and her hips are swiveling, bucking. Faster and faster, and the noises she’s making are mewling whimpers of desperation, not faked but cries and sighs of real of pleasure.

  My fingers are between my thighs, rubbing around my clit, and I’m starting to feel the boiling rise inside me. I slip my fingers inside my cunt and fuck myself with two fingers, and then smear my juices on my clit, and then circle again. I lose myself in it, until I don’t need the porn anymore, because I’m caught up in the feeling, caught up in the fantasy of a man with his tongue on my clit instead of my own fingers.

  I hear a splash, but I ignore it; probably a fish.

  I work myself into a frenzy, closer and closer to the edge of climax.

  The next splash is louder, and closer, and there’s a sound of something hard—metal-on-wood—and I open my eyes.

  I see a rowboat gliding toward the dock. The half moon is bright, and the endless bowl of stars even brighter, reflecting on the lake, turning the night silver and luminous. There’s a man in the rowboat. He’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts. He twists to look at me as he pulls the oars once more.

  I’m at the end of the dock, laying on the old, smooth-worn wood, knees drawn up, heels against my ass, fingers on my clit, breath coming in short sharp gasps, an orgasm moments away.

  And then, out of nowhere, at three in the morning, a man in a rowboat appears at my private dock.

  He’s fucking gorgeous. His hair is a wild black mane, breeze-ruffled, loose. Beginnings of a beard. His body is heavy with muscle, a slight gleam of sweat on his skin. His eyes, my god, those eyes. He’s less than three feet away as the boat catches up against the side of the dock—he grabs one of the pillars to stop the boat so he’s directly parallel to me. His eyes are deep, dark brown, almost black, liquid, hard, but they betray him. They flick over me, touch on my breasts, my pussy. His tongue touches his lips, and then vanishes.

  “Keep going,” he murmurs, a hot grin tipping the corner of his mouth.

  Fuck.

  I should go inside, tell my husband a stranger is at our private dock, on our private beach, that I was masturbating and he just appeared. That he wants to watch.

  At the very least, I should I go inside.

  But his voice…I shudder at his voice. It’s so deep, so smooth, humming with power, raw with arousal.

  I don’t move. Not to cover myself, nor to finish my orgasm.

  “I won’t move,” he says. “You were close, so finish it.”

  “While you watch?” I ask, startled that I managed to find my voice.

  “While I watch.”

  “I don’t know you,” I say, sitting up.

  “That’s why it’ll be hot.” He gives me that grin again, a subtle slight tipping up of one corner of his lips. “For both of us.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I get to watch a sinfully fucking gorgeous woman give herself an orgasm, and you—you get a little bit of exhibitionism. Your own little secret. You masturbated, and let a man you’ve never met watch.”

  Sinfully fucking gorgeous?

  “You have to stay in the boat,” I say.

  I’m shocked at myself, that I’m saying this, that I’m even considering this.

  “You have my promise that I will not leave this boat.”

  I close my eyes, slip middle and ring finger between my thighs, slowly and hesitantly. It’s not the same, now. Not even Charlie has even seen me do this. I always felt guilty doing this at all, touching myself without telling Charlie, but it’s the only way I could get an orgasm.

  And now this? A mysterious, gorgeous man? A total stranger?

  Jesus.

  Embarrassment wars with excitement and fear.

  I try to block out the man in the boat, focus on finding the rhythm. Circle, gently, slowly, not quite touching my clitoris directly.

  “Turn this way, so I can see that beautiful cunt.” His words are not a suggestion—they’re an order.

  And they’re erotic as hell. They send heat sizzling through me. I shiver, but my body obeys him. I pivot, stopping when I’m looking at him between the V of my upraised knees. He’s got a full, open view of my pussy, spread open for him to look at. My tits are squashed between my arms as I reach between my thighs with one hand and use my fingers to spread open my pussy lips, flicking the fingertips of the othe
r hand against my clit.

  I close my eyes, but I hear him grunt a negative. “No. Keep your eyes on me.”

  My eyelids whip open of their own accord. He’s tied a rope to the dock, and he’s sitting sideways on the bench, thick arms across his broad, hard chest.

  Oh god, oh god, oh god. What the fucking hell am I doing? Why am I doing this? This is foolish, stupid, and dangerous.

  He’s watching, his jaw clenching and releasing rapidly.

  My heart is beating so hard and so fast it actually hurts, and my skin is tight and tingling. I’m vibrating from head to toe, frightened and aroused and unable to stop myself. Unable to even want to stop. Just the way he’s looking at me, watching me is enough to send heat and need billowing through me, enough to make me feel…shit—like he wants me.

  That is more addictive to me than any drug could ever be.

  I keep my eyes on his as I plunge my two middle fingers inside my pussy, and his eyes flare, his jaw grinds, his bare stomach tightens. I lay down on my back, work those fingers between my labia, in and out, scissoring them to spread the wetness around, and then draw them out and smear my juices over my clit. Back in, then, and the sound of my fingers entering my cunt is noisy, wet…just like that squelch on the porn.

  “Fuck,” the man growls. “So hot.”

  His breathing is quickening. He’s gripping his biceps so hard the skin dimples and whitens under the pressure of his fingers.

  My eyes flicker over his body, his bulging biceps, his huge shoulders, that trim waist, those brick-hard abs. I look down and I realize then that his cock is visibly tenting the fly of his shorts. He’s hard.

  Watching me.

  My fingers fly into motion. Circling, flicking. I find the rhythm easily, the perfect pressure. His eyes never leave mine, nor mine his. The heat and the wetness of desire congeal, meld, burgeon. Need becomes pressure, low and deep in my core, a hot, sharp, taut live wire buzzing and tightening inside me, centered on my hard, throbbing clit.