The Black Room: Door Four Read online

  I’m shaken out of my daze by a hand on my thigh.

  The man kneeling in front of me this time is huge. An inch or taller than Killian even, nearing six-five easily, probably more. Broad as a barn, so massively muscled that the sleeves of his suit coat are bulged and stretched. Shoulders like mountain ranges. Brown hair cropped close, stubble thick enough to almost be a beard. Brown eyes, puppy dog eyes. Playful, glittering with lascivious mischief.

  “Hands off, if you please,” Killian says, “except to tie the binding.”

  The hand leaves my thigh and trails down to my ankle. He draws my leg aside, opening me, and then ties the braided strip of gauze around my ankle.

  His eyes flit over me, from my face to my breasts, to the hint of my pussy visible now that one leg is pulled aside.

  “Think I’ll borrow from the last guy’s playbook,” he says.

  “One minute,” Killian announces, as he flips the timer.

  The man leans closer to me and wedges his huge body between my legs, then he noses aside the second strap of my dress. No games, with this man. No hesitancy. He nudges my dress off my shoulder, and now it pools around my waist, leaving me bare from the waist up. He makes a sound low in his throat. “You are fuckin’ gorgeous, honey.”

  My mouth works, and I clutch the arms of the chair. “Thank you,” I manage.

  Anything else I might have said is lost as he flicks his tongue against my nipple. A quick flick, and his tongue stiffened. I gasp, and he chuckles. “Gonna have to up my game so I can win another round.” He licks the other nipple, and then alternates swiftly. My grip on the armrests tightens until the leather squeaks and my fingers ache, because this man’s tongue is nimble, quick, talented. “I want those extra minutes. I think I could make you come all over my face.”

  “I—” I can’t help arching my spine to thrust my tits against his face. “I think—oh—I think you could, too.”

  A minute has never felt so long, nor gone by so fast all at once. He laps at my tits, suckles my nipples. Bites them, not quite hard enough that it hurts in a bad way, but just enough that it spreads those deep, delicious pangs of heat through me. He nuzzles the undersides, kissing them there, all over the roundness underneath, and then the sides, only to return his attention to my nipples, always right at that moment when I began to want the stimulation again.

  “Time.”

  Immediately the man backs away, licking his lips, then wipes his palm across his face. He flashes me a quick grin. “Till next time, sweetheart,” he says with a wink.

  And oh god, oh god, my tits ache. Throb. My nipples are wet and hard and tingling.

  I find myself daydreaming now about that giant of a man, how huge his cock must be. So big it might actually hurt to get him all the way inside my pussy. It would be a good kind of hurt, though. That burn when he stretches me apart…? I wiggle my hips, stifling a moan. That burn would be so sweet, so deep, and when he finally filled me all the way, I’d be so split apart I wouldn’t be able to breathe, wouldn’t be able to move, could only straddle him and let him fuck me slowly, until I’d gotten used to his size, and then I’d be stretched around him and taking him and the angle if I was riding him would be just right, so perfect that I’d come in seconds—

  God, a third round done already?

  Must be, because there’s another man in front of me. He’s medium height, average build, but god, he’s the most blindingly, perfectly beautiful man I’ve ever seen. So gorgeous it seems impossible. Blond hair swept back, except for a few loose tendrils framing one side of his face. He’s got chiseled features and piercing green eyes.

  He wastes no time. His grip on my ankle is rough and brusque as he ties my other ankle to the chair leg. And now, god, now I’m spread wide open. The chair legs are so far apart that I’m split open, my hips thrust forward by the angle of the seat bottom. It is an erotic position, meant to display my cunt in all its wet glory. I feel the eyes of nine men and one woman raking over me, watching droplets of desire dripping out of my cunt.

  And the green eyes belonging to the man in front of me, ooohhh…he likes what he sees.

  He kneels between my wide-stretched thighs, and presses his lips to my inner thigh, near my knee. He showers me with a series of kisses, his tongue flicking as his lips suck, moving upward, moving closer. Another kiss, suckling a little harder this time. A touch, a kiss, a suck, inch by inch he moves up my thigh. He’s taking his time nearing my pussy. I stifle my moans and resist the urge to thrust my hips at him. The kissing, his lips on my tits, the air on my bare cunt, all the eyes watching this display, watching this man kiss closer and closer to my pussy…it’s making me crazy, and I feel something burgeoning inside me, not an orgasm, but something else. I’m liking this display. I’m reveling in my power, knowing an audience is watching everything, missing nothing.

  These men all saw me come last night, watched me come so hard I squirted all over someone’s shoes. They know what to expect tonight and I don’t want to disappoint anyone, least of all myself.

  I open my eyes and find the man from last night, whose shoes I made a mess of, standing right there in front of me, wearing the same shoes. I can see from here that he hasn’t cleaned them; dried spots are still splattered across the glossy black finish.

  The kisses being planted along my inner thigh are not really kisses anymore. They’re too fierce, too harsh, and too rough for that. This last one, so close now that the stubble on his cheek brushes the lips of my pussy…this last touch of his lips to my flesh is sharp, stinging, and as he moves his mouth, I see he’s left a hickey, a brownish-red blotch on my flesh. I hear Killian call the thirty-second mark, and instead of using that mouth on my clit, he moves to the other leg, the velvet, tender flesh of my inner thigh, and he latches on again, sucking hard. It hurts, and I cry out as his mouth leaves my flesh with a loud smack. Another love bite, a match for the first.

  He stands up, smirks down at me. “Don’t need the last ten seconds. I think I’ve left my mark.”

  Oh…my god. I’m dizzy. He saunters back to his chair with an arrogant swagger.

  I have one free hand left, and I bring my fingers to the love bites on my thighs, one then the other, rubbing gently, soothing.

  But god, and shit—that touch to my thigh, my fingers…so soft, so warm, and I’m so—worked up, maddened from the relentless, fruitless stimulation, the teasing, and I’ll only have this hand free for so long…

  And my clit is throbbing…

  I tease myself, and instead of touching my clit I slide my middle finger inside my cunt, working it slowly in and out. I do this with my eyes open, watching my audience, looking at each pair of eyes. I watch them in turn as they watch me finger myself. I feel an intense thrill rocket through me, rather than the bite of shame I’d have expected, a sharp hot wild zing that makes each sensation as I finger-fuck myself that much hotter, that much more potent.

  They are all torn—do they play the cards in their hands or do they watch me? All of them are helpless, watching me glide my finger in and out of my tight wet pussy. One of the men sets his cards down and commits to watching. Then the others follow until no one is even pretending to be thinking about cards.

  How could they be?

  My cunt is soaked and dripping. My fingers squelch in and out of my slit, and juices spill out of me as my fingers—two of them now, middle and ring—fuck in and out hard and fast, and then I stop, pull them out, drag them through the wetness and smear it on my clit, those two fingers moving in slow circles now, slow, slow, bringing me back down a little, away from the edge. When the heat builds again to a deafening, blinding, all-consuming roar, I let myself go a little faster, pressing my fingers flat against my clit, up and down, pausing to slide them inside my channel at random intervals.

  I’m watching my audience, gauging their reactions…enjoying their obvious arousal and discomfort.

  One of the men shifts his weight, adjusting his cock behind his pants.

  Another
clears his throat, and takes a slug of whiskey.

  I hear myself moan, now, a high breathy whine. And then a whimper. Another whimper, which turns into a drawn-out groan.

  My eyes rake over the card players and settle on the woman. She’s sitting perpendicular to me, twisted in her chair to watch. She leans back, and then she slides lower, her ass against the edge of the chair. Her eyes are hooded, but she’s watching me carefully. Her hand steals under the table, and perhaps I’m the only one watching her, or able to see, or maybe she doesn’t care. She nudges aside the front panel of her dress, baring her pussy. Bald, tight, plump pink lips, a prominent clit.

  She touches two fingers to her clit, her eyes fixed on mine, lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes hooded, brows lowered, spine thrust forward. She doesn’t play around, doesn’t draw it out. She fingers her clit hard and fast, obviously so turned on it’s not going to take her long. So I watch her, and she watches me, and we both bring ourselves to the edge. I moan loudly, which covers her quiet exhalation. No one is looking at her, no one is paying attention to her, and she loves it, the not-quite danger of masturbating while sitting at a table with nine horny men.

  I can’t fight off the climax any longer. All I can do is buck my hips against my fingers and cry out loud and watch as the woman comes at the same time as me, back arching so sharply she nearly slides off the chair as her climax blasts through her, wrenching her upright and then back down, thighs clamping around her own hand, and I’m mirroring her movements, thrashing against the bonds. The fact that I can’t move the way I want to frustrates me but also, somehow, makes me come even harder.

  I’m screaming in short sharp gasps, coming and coming—

  “Royal flush,” Killian barks, and tosses his cards down. “I believe that wins me the hand.”

  And then he’s stalking up to the dais, eyes hard and hot, his expression angry. His slacks are tented at the zipper. He ties the remaining gauze around my wrist in a series of abrupt gestures.

  “That wasn’t part of the game, Miss Tavistock,” he grumbles at me.

  “It wasn’t excluded, either,” I say, gasping from the aftershocks of my orgasm, staring up at his irked features.

  He isn’t angry, I realize, but so wild with lust and need that he’s barely containing it, restraining it.

  “Since I make the rules,” he murmurs to me, although I can tell the other players can hear him, “I’m going to forfeit my one minute in favor of something else.”

  He reaches into his suit coat pocket and produces two long pieces of scarlet silk. He passes the silk around my thigh, high up, as close to my hip as he can get it, and then ties one end to the framework of the chair supporting the seat bottom and the chair legs. He pulls at the silk wrapped around my thigh, tugging it taut, spreading open my pussy even more, binding me more tightly to the chair. He repeats the same process on my other thigh.

  And now I’m spread open, wet cunt splayed apart, my slit on display, and a hint of my asshole as well. I can’t move my hips at all. Not an inch.

  Killian makes an announcement to the assembled players, “You may now touch Miss Tavistock with your hands, but I want to see who can make her come. And, friends, if you do make her come, she will reward you…handsomely.”

  Desire pounds inside me, pulses through my veins in place of blood.

  I don’t think showing appreciation will be a problem.

  God, no.

  I want to be touched.

  And…I want to touch.

  All those zippers, burgeoning with cocks. Each one different, each one begging to be licked, sucked, appreciated—

  I drift mentally once more as the cards are distributed and they play another hand. They drink more whiskey and endeavor to keep their expressions blank. I tune them out, and try to imagine which of these men will win my appreciation first. And how he’ll win it, and how I’ll show my thanks. The big guy, maybe? That tongue of his was nimble and talented, and those thick, strong fingers…oh my, the things he could do to me. His cock would be so enormous…it’d barely fit in my mouth. I’d have to stretch my jaw wide, and it’d be a struggle just to fit him past my lips.

  A chorus of male groans shakes me from my thoughts, and I tear my gaze away from the huge man of whom I was daydreaming. The woman is approaching me, a sultry sway to her hips, a smile on her lips that reminds me of nothing so much as the expression on a cat’s face in the seconds before it pounces on a helpless, unsuspecting mouse.

  She ascends the dais, stopping to stand in front of me. She steps out of her shoes, and sinks to her knees before me. She glances back at Killian. “The time?”

  Killian flips the hourglass and sets it on the table with a thump. “Two minutes.”

  His gaze is hot on me, a smirk on his lips, as if he knows what’s about to happen.

  Her fingertips trail up from my knees to my core, light tickling, arousing touches. Again, she drags her fingers along my thighs from knee to labia, and then a third time. Then her index finger traces my seam from top to bottom. I gasp, then, when she does that, and she grins at me. Sliding her index finger down my seam once more, she presses a little more firmly so her fingertip just barely penetrates me. This time, though, when she reaches the apex of her downstroke, she rotates her wrist and drags her finger back up, sliding a little deeper in. Then down again, and deeper. Mere seconds have passed, and I’m throbbing, tingling, heat building, need pounding low in my belly. And now, god, she adds her middle finger and pushes those two digits into my cunt, slides them out, then in, and out, and in, and then—

  She rotates her wrist again so her palm is face up. She curls her fingers in a come-here motion, striking my G-spot perfectly, and I shudder all over.

  My thighs tremble, and I’m straining against the bonds, wanting to thrust, silently begging her to pay attention to my clit, to touch me where I need it most.

  But she knows, oh, she knows.

  Another curling stroke to the delightful, delicious little spot high inside me, just behind my clit, and then she leans forward and touches her lips to my labia. She licks the outside of my cunt, one side and then the other, still teasing. How many seconds left? Thirty? Fifteen?

  I’m gasping at each slow swipe of her hot wet tongue, my hips trying to thrust, trying to grind against her face, because the throb, the need is overwhelming. The teasing has me groaning, whimpering, needing just one single flick of her tongue against my hard, begging clit—

  “Thirty seconds, Arelia.”

  A hot huff of air, the woman—Arelia—is laughing. Then another breath, this one slower, deliberate, and the heat on my saliva-wet pussy is nearly too much and nowhere near enough.

  “No more—” I gasp.

  Another of those silent laughs, a brief blast of hot breath. “You want to come?” Her question is for me alone.

  “Fuck yes. Please.”

  “You’ll be repaying the favor in kind, you know.”

  “I know…I know.”

  “Very well, then.” She prods my clit with her tongue, a teasing touch. Then a lick, a slow pressing of her tongue flat against my hard clit. “Come for me, Miss Tavistock—now.”

  As soon as the final word drops from her lips, she sucks my clit between her teeth and then stiffens her tongue and lashes me wildly, and I devolve into screaming and thrashing against the bonds as I’m slammed with a flurry of blinding waves of climax, and she doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow, just swirls her tongue around my clit hard and fast and wild until the force of my orgasm has me sobbing, gasping for breath, nearly ready to beg her to stop.

  She doesn’t quit until I go limp in the restraints. Then she stands, turns, and winks at the men. “That, gentlemen, is how it’s done.”

  “Miss Tavistock?” Killian ignores Arelia’s comment. “Are you ready? Arelia has earned a reward, I do believe.”

  I can barely breathe, barely form words, but I manage a nod, and Arelia’s smile is predatory. She glances over her shoulder at t
he table of men. “Gentlemen? Can you please tip Miss Tavistock’s chair onto its back?”

  Two of the men, the giant and the one who gave me hickeys, climb onto the dais, grasp the chair to which I am bound, and tilt it backward. The sense of vertigo is dizzying as I’m tipped over, and then I’m on my back, bound to the chair at ankles, thighs, and wrists, utterly helpless.

  Amelia circles the chair, steps over me with a foot on either side of my face. I’m staring up her dress at her pussy, and then she’s lowering herself to a crouch, gathering the skirts of her dress up around her hips, and baring herself from the waist down. She’s a breath away from me, now, her pussy millimeters from my lips. I lift my head, swipe my tongue against her folds. She lets out a breath, grips the chair for balance, and slides a hand between her thighs, using two fingers to spread her pussy apart, exposing her clit for me. I lick at it, swirl it, suck it between my lips. I stiffen my tongue and push it into her channel, and then swipe at her clit once more. She gasps again, a breathy sound, and then I feel her hand abandon her pussy and delve to mine. Then she shifts, leans forward, and now I’m feeling her tongue as I’m giving her mine, and the sensation is all-consuming, devouring, making it impossible to concentrate on her while she’s licking at me. She reminds me by rolling her hips, grinding her cunt against my lips, and I go back to swirling her clit with my tongue while she does the same.

  I hear footsteps shuffle nearby, and realize the men have clustered around us to watch.

  I’m moaning against Arelia’s pussy, nearing climax now, and she’s writhing on top of me, whimpering, a sultry, erotic sound, the high-pitched shrieks of a woman in the throes of climax, and that sound only turns me on even more.