The Black Room: Door Four Page 5

  I can’t control the breathless yelps, now, can’t stop them and don’t try. But I need more. I need—

  My fingers find my clit and start to rub, but he bats my hands away and grabs both my wrists. “Play with your tits,” he growls. “For now, your pussy is mine.”

  I pinch my nipples as hard as I can, eliciting another round of breathy shrieks, and the pressure of the pinches only serves to up the ante of my cresting orgasm.

  I’m struggling against my bonds so hard now that it hurts, but I can’t break them.

  And then, when my climax reaches its cusp, when I’m wild and blind with the vaporizing heat smashing through me, seizing me, pushing me into insanity—

  Charlie savages my clit with his ravenous mouth and he shoves those same two fingers back into my pussy, finds my g-spot, and then everything stops.

  Everything comes part.

  I fly into pieces.

  I’m coming so hard I can’t breathe, so hard I can’t scream, so hard I can’t do anything but ride the tsunami as it roars through me, wracking me, and he fucks me with his fingers all throughout it, driving me wilder and wilder, tongue thrashing my clit, devouring me insatiably, until the orgasm is enough to make me lightheaded and dizzy, enough to steal my breath and leave me panting, sobbing, gripping his head with both hands and riding his face, smashing myself against his frenzied mouth, grinding on him.

  I fall back against the chair, shaking my head as if to deny the power of what I just experienced.

  But Charlie is on his feet, unzipping his slacks, freeing the clasp, baring his cock.

  Oh, it’s a beautiful thing, Charlie’s cock. He’s hardening as I stare at him. Long, thick, with a subtle curve inward toward his belly. His glans is wide and bulbous, and his shaft is ridged with those veins and ripples I love to feel sliding over my lips. He watches me, hands at his sides, now that he’s bared his cock.

  I cup my breasts, lift the heavy, overflowing mounds of flesh and fit his thickening, hardening cock between them, and slide up and down, sheathing him between them, lowering until he breaks up out of the mounded flesh, and then I take him into my mouth, working up as much saliva as I can and letting it spill out of my mouth, onto his cock, onto my tits. He’s fully erect now, the plump soft head exposed as he thrusts up between my tits. With the up-thrust, the underside of his dick slides against my lower lip, and now all I have to do is tilt my face down and open my mouth, and he slides in against my tongue. He growls—god, what a sexy, animalistic, masculine sound—and pumps his hips, fucking my tits slowly. I spit on him again, and now he fucks faster, harder, and I give the tip of his beautiful cock a long wet kiss every time it peeks up between my mounded tits, sucking hard until he withdraws again.

  He takes his time. No hurry. Fucks my tits long and hard and slow, until he starts to falter in his thrusts, and then he backs away. “Use your mouth now.”

  I fuck Charlie with my mouth, the way he seems to like it, slow, purposeful. No tricks, nothing wild. I just sink him into my mouth as slowly as I can, tongue flat against the underside of his cock, over and over again, cupping his balls and fondling them, stroking him at the base with my other hand, pumping him faster as he begins to lose control, but never speeding up the slow bobbing rhythm of my lips sliding around his shaft.

  “Oh fuck—fuck—” he grunts, and pulls out of my mouth. “Take it on your big beautiful tits.”

  I wrap both hands around his thick, throbbing cock and stroke him, slowly, taking several seconds to plunge my fists from tip to root and back up, until he’s flexed and tensed and growling, holding back until the last possible second. He’s wet from my mouth, so my fists slide easily, smoothly up and down his ridged, veined, velvet-and-iron length, and then finally his eyes flutter and he curses under his breath. I point the tip of his cock at the valley between my breasts, still stroking at the same deliberately, agonizingly slow pace. He grunts, and I watch his body spasm, watch the tip of his cock spurt his thick white cum all over my tits, a gush, another, more and more, until my tits are coated in his cum. It drips down between my tits, over my nipples, down my belly.

  When he finishes his orgasm, I take his still-hard length into my mouth and suck the last drops out of him, clean him with my tongue and lips until he pulls free with a grunt.

  And then he’s backing away, leaving me cum-soaked—

  And empty. Aching.

  More orgasms than I can count, and I’m empty. I’ve taken all the cock I can handle, but none of it has left me satisfied, not in the way I need. Not the way I want.

  I need to be fucked properly. I need Killian. I can see it in his eyes, I can see how he’s built this up between us until this moment.

  God, oh god. I need him.

  All the eyes are on me.

  On my untied hands.

  I could throw off the rest of the restraints, and take what I want.

  Instead, I lean back in the chair and watch as the next hand is dealt.

  “Last hand, boys,” Killian says.

  There are murmurs, grumbles from those who never won. I feel bad for them, those poor unlucky bastards.

  The hand progresses, and Killian’s eyes are continually drawn to me.

  So I toy with him.

  Slide my finger in lazy patterns on my tits, dragging my fingertip through the sticky coating of cum, circle my nipples, and smear it all over myself. Toy with my cunt, play with my clit with my other hand.

  Bite my lower lip and send smoldering looks his way. Inviting him.

  Begging him.

  From the moment he brought me nearly to orgasm simply from playing with my nipples, I’ve wanted him.

  He ups the ante at the table, and I play with the knot in the length of gauze binding my thigh. The others call his bet, and I untie it. I flex my thigh closed and open, and then I untie my other thigh. I rub my legs together, both to tease Killian and to try to alleviate the ache between them.

  As they start showing their cards, I untie my ankles.

  Two of the players have folded, leaving eight to show. They go around the circle, showing their hands, and I stand up. I stretch lazily, and then toss off the ridiculous excuse for a dress. I descend the dais completely naked and walk toward the card table. I put a sway to my hips, and a bounce in my step so my tits jiggle for them. They’re all watching me with unadulterated lust on their faces.

  I walk slowly around the table and stop behind one of the men who hasn’t won a single hand. He’s a little older than the others, a touch of gray at his temples. Patrician, aristocratic, inscrutable, classically handsome. A sour note on his face; poor luck, I suppose. He’s already folded, tapping his cards with an impatient fingertip. I tug at the back of his chair, and he slides it backward. I move between him and the table and sink to my knees. I remove his pocket square from his suit jacket pocket and wipe my breasts clean with it, fold it, then place it on his knee.

  “Miss Tavistock.” Killian’s voice snaps out. “What are you doing?”

  “Rewarding the less-than-fortunate,” I reply.

  The men are both silent, so I continue.

  I free the cock of the man in front of me. He’s frowning, as if not quite believing what’s happening. I cup one hand under his balls and massage them, fondle them, and caress his short but thick member. I neither draw it out nor make it fast, but let it take the amount of time he needs to reach climax, using only my hands, gliding one hand over the other down his length, stroking with both at the same time, massaging his balls while pumping his length. I squeeze the head on the apex of an upward glide, and twist on the down stroke.

  He is silent through everything, but his eyes never leave mine, flitting between my face and my tits; his whiskey glass is empty, sitting on the table near his hand, only a golden smear of liquid at the very bottom. When he’s close, he begins to breathe heavily and his hips twitch, and then his breath catches, and I know he’s about to come. I wrap my lips around his head, and stroke his length with both hands and tak
e his cum in my mouth, and when he’s finished, I spit it into his whiskey glass, and then lick the last drop off his tip with my tongue.

  Then I move on to the next unfortunate card player. I treat him to the same reward: a through hand job, then I let him come in my mouth, and then I spit out his cum and lick him clean.

  Five times I do this, in total. Fondle five different and each equally beautiful dicks, take load after load of cum on my tongue. Each man comes differently, tastes different, feels different in my hands. After each one, I give Killian a long, begging look.

  When there’s no one left I haven’t given an orgasm to except Killian, I cross to the bar and grab the mostly-empty bottle of whiskey and pour myself two fingers worth. I take a big slug, rinsing my mouth out.

  They’ve stopped playing, with only Killian’s cards left to go.

  There are eight sated men, some sitting with their cocks still exposed, others with that dazed, breathless expression men get after they’ve had their cock sucked.

  I love that look.

  Killian tosses his hand of cards onto the table. “Straight flush. I believe that’s the winning hand, unless I’m mistaken.”

  No one objects.

  I remain where I am, halfway across the room, drinking my whiskey. Relishing the hot burn down my throat, letting it sear away the aftertaste on my tongue.

  The silence is thick, palpable.

  “My turn, Miss Tavistock,” Killian rumbles.

  I shiver at the ferocity in his voice, the raw lust, and the pure hunger.

  He crooks his finger at me, and I cross the room in a slow sashay, as if I’m in no hurry. I stand in front of him, my tumbler of scotch in hand. He twists in his chair to face me, then grabs me by the wrist and tugs me between his widespread knees. He looks at me first, a long, roving, caressing look. He doesn’t have to use words for me know how beautiful I am to him. His gaze says it. His tented zipper says it. But his hands begin to tell me, too. They caress my legs, my thighs, my ass. He spends a long time there, kneading, smoothing his hands in affectionate, possessive circles over each taut round globe. Then he moves up to my waist, to cup my tits. He thumbs my nipples and pinches them. Oh yes, that again. God, yes, please. He gives me that delicious pressure, that sharp hard pinch and the ache in my belly strengthens as his powerful fingers pincer my swollen, erect nipples. Just when I’m beginning to think I can’t take the pressure any longer, he releases them, and a blast of bliss shoots through me, and this time he doesn’t stop me there, but presses the heel of his palm to my cunt, rolling it over my clit, pressing just hard enough that I shudder and my knees tremble, and the first of what I suspect will be several orgasms shivers through me.

  As soon as I begin to mewl and gyrate, he takes my drink from me and sets it aside. Then he wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me effortlessly onto the table, placing my ass on the edge of the table and laying me back onto the cards and chips. He grabs my thighs and shoves them up and over his shoulders, and then buries his face between my thighs, devouring my cunt with all the ferocity of a starving man. The orgasm I was in the middle of shatters into something else, into something frenetic and primal.

  He is masterful and unrelenting, tongue-lashing me through two more waves of climax, until I’m thrashing and clawing at him and digging into his back with my heels and grinding my cunt against his mouth.

  After he finally allows me to stop coming, he helps me to sit up and then helps me off the table, to my feet.

  “Take out my cock, Miss Tavistock.”

  I kneel in front of him, reach up, open the slide-and-hook clasp of his bespoke slacks, and tug down the zipper. He’s bare beneath, no underwear, just a huge, beautiful, perfect cock springing free, bouncing and swaying as it is released. God, so fucking beautiful.

  Not too long, nor too short. Not too fat, nor too slender. Huge, gorgeous, just long enough that I know from a single glance it will fill me and overflow me, that he’ll be able to fuck me, bury himself in me and fill me until I’m gasping from it, without being too much. Just thick enough that he’ll stretch my pussy open, just thick enough that when he fucks into me, I’ll feel every movement with hypersensitivity.

  So beautiful. I want to worship his cock. Not just make him come, not just bring him to orgasm. Not just reward him for giving me two—or was it three?—orgasms. His cock is perfect, and deserves to be worshipped. There’s a subtle upward curve to it, the kind of curve that means when he fucks me, he’ll hit my G-spot with every stroke.

  He toes off his shoes and steps out of his slacks. I remain on my knees as he shrugs off his blazer. He slides my hands up his body to unbutton his shirt. He doesn’t remove it entirely, leaves it open to bare his torso, his rippling six-pack abs, his broad, hard, wide pectorals. A smattering of dark hair across his chest. His cock, standing straight up, curving back so the tip touches his belly just beneath his navel. Plump, heavy balls tight against his body, begging to be licked, cupped, fondled.

  I reach for his cock, clasping my hands around it, biting my lower lip, anticipating the taste of him, the feel of him in my mouth, the stutter of those lovely veins and ridges over my lips, the velvet-soft head springy on my tongue, the salt musk of his pre-cum—

  He stops me after I’ve stroked his length only twice.

  “No,” is all he says, and lifts me to my feet. “That’s not what I want from you, Miss Tavistock.”

  He sits in his chair, hands clutching the armrests, cock rigid against his belly. Waiting.

  I sip on my whiskey again, making him wait. What else could he possibly want?

  He will have to take me, if he wants me.

  He growls at me, and then grabs me by my hips. He twists me so I’m facing away from him, then wraps his huge hands around my hips and pulls me backward toward him. I’m settled on his thighs, straddling him. He takes my tumbler out of my hand, steals a long sip, returns it to me, and then slides his hands under my thighs, just below my ass. He lifts me.

  Everyone is watching. Nine pairs of eyes, all on me and on Killian. Watching for the moment of penetration.

  I reach down between my legs, touch my clit, a few swift circles to send the heat billowing through me, and then I reach a little further down and find his hard length. I caress his cock, reverse-grip, the circle of fingers and thumb facing downward, and angle him toward my slit, nudging his broad tip against my opening. I have to set down my glass and brace myself with a hand on the table, bite my lip and focus on remembering to breathe as I feel him begin to fill me.

  I look down and watch him slide into me, watch my labia thin out as they’re stretched apart by his thickness. I watch my cunt swallow him, inch by inch.

  When he’s fully penetrated me, I push off the table and lean back against him. He angles backward in his chair, scooting his ass forward, leaning back so now all my weight is on him, so I’m forced to rely on his cock impaling me and on his hold on me. I can’t move, because I have no leverage. He cups behind my knees and pulls my thighs backward so they touch my torso, splitting me apart, baring me, exposing us, so everyone gathered can see where his cock fills me. I cup my breasts, toy with them, pinch my nipples, gasping, waiting.

  And then he thrusts, using only the power of his hips and abs. His cock spears into me, his tip slams against my G-spot and I clamp down around him, throwing my head back to gasp in shock at the sudden onslaught of utter rapture. God, oh god, oh god—it’s perfect. Everything that’s gone before now has only served to make this moment all the more incredible.

  Everyone watches as Killian grinds into me in slow, measured thrusts, watching his cock pull back to appear thick and long and hard and glistening wet from my dripping cunt, and then he flexes his hips and stomach and drives up into me, disappearing inside my pussy, splitting me apart.

  They all watch me use one hand to spread my pussy open and touch two fingers of my other hand to my clit, driving myself wild with my own touch, adding to the ecstasy of being filled…of being so beautiful
ly, perfectly fucked.

  Killian is a master of his body, and a master of mine. He knows exactly how to drive me wild, how to use me, how to make me need him, want him. He knows how to fuck me.

  And he does.

  Slowly.

  Filling me with measured strokes of his perfect cock, gliding in and out of me so smoothly there’s no differentiation between the in-stroke and withdrawal, just a ceaseless smooth wet glorious fucking, until I’m breathless and teetering on the precipice of climax, and god, I need him to fuck me harder, I need him to force the orgasm from me, to fuck me rough and wild until I can’t help but come.

  But he doesn’t.

  He fucks me slow and smooth, until I can’t take it anymore, until I’m feral with the need for more, until I’m wild with desperation to move, to grind on him.

  He doesn’t allow it.

  He clutches my thighs and holds them tight against my body, and when I begin to fight him, he pauses while plunged as deep as he can thrust into me, brings my legs together and bars his forearm behind my knees. I can’t even touch myself like this. All I can do is claw at his forearms and be fucked the way he wants to fuck me.

  Which is slowly.

  In front of nine watching people, each becoming more and more aroused the longer this goes on.

  Arelia is touching herself again, and Charlie is torn between watching Arelia masturbate and watching Killian fuck me.

  Killian holds me in place, flexes his hips to drive into me, plunging deep, god, so deep—

  But I can’t come like this, can’t come without clitoral stimulation, and he knows it.

  This isn’t about me coming anymore.

  Nor about him coming. But he will, hard, and we all know it.

  This is about the fuck.

  He continues his unhurried pace, gradually allowing me to open my thighs until I’m spread far enough apart that I can reach my clit again, and he allows that also, while pulling my thighs farther and farther apart until I can’t spread any further, until he can’t drive any deeper, and now I’m teetering on the edge again, fingers flying around my clit, and I’m gasping, whimpering, rolling my hips to take him deep and slide him out and grinding against my own fingers.