Silence In The Cellar

Chapter One A sky streaked with shades of grey clouds, intermittent with the bright fire of a yellow/pink setting sun frames the evening. Against that backdrop, the leaves from a dozen trees make a silhouette of delicate black lace, as fireflies light the darkening green grass and rabbits appear from hiding, looking for dinner. He sees her on the porch as the sun drifts behind the trees, in her sundress, in silhouette like the leaves, nakedly haunting, like the slip of a memory… of that other time… of that woman in Chicago when he dipped himself in the mercy between her damp thighs late on an August night like this one. Brooding lazily, Bella lets her head drift to one side, and sighing, leans against the phallic column at the corner of the Inn’s wide porch. She moves gracefully with limbs born on breezes, slender thighs undulating against silk, long straight chestnut hair falling to the swell of her buttocks… two plump melons of flesh dancing on subtleties, on atoms of air. Sharp n*****s poke her silken dress and bob erect, reminding him how he suckled small fleshy t**s like hers the summer he was in the South. A sweet, young, barely legal tart with a smart mouth and even smarter cunt stripped down by a grassy lake, until nude, she lay in front of him and begged him dine on her bushy rat of curls and the shaved place between them. Bella is never that crass, her beauty elusive and indirect, even shrewd. She is a shrewd woman in business, though perhaps not in love. Daniel stares at her, silently creeping toward her porch, thinking of the next tale she’ll tell him. She tells him all her stories, of all the lovers that move through her Inn like snow geese move through empty fields on their way north or south. In summer, her Inn by the lake vibrates with the carnality of a whorehouse in any season. Men stop for no more reason than to sit on her porch and sip lemonade in icy glasses—though some lap the juice from the fountain where men get lost giving women their pleasure. Many, however, don’t get that far, and it has never been clear to Daniel how Bella makes her choices in men. Being horny now, he’s grateful he’s always welcome in her bed, and he thinks fondly of where he’ll spend his night. Her little “V” is trimmed short daily, sides shaved to smooth cream, dark kinky curls fashioned to something modest like she’s expecting you… knowing that eventually you’re going to be there to dine. The sharp scent of wildness bursts from the bush as teasing fingers move over the surface drawing in that pungent femininity. With Bella he remembers being dizzy, while in his fantasies, other p*****s in other cities loom before him all at once and he forgets where he is—with Bella, or the babe in the back of the bus leaving Dallas, who took his c**k in her because there was little else to do on that lonely road to Tucson. The first sight of her after a long haul of cities, he’s ready to climb beside her again, rest his head at the crook of her shoulder, and listen to her hum as she sleeps, believing for a while that he’s home. He writes travelogues and poetry, and treatises on baseball—every summer spending his time scouting the minor leagues for the opportunity to play the game he loves. He’s planning to ghost write Bella’s memoirs—he already has two books worth of X-rated material to draw from. For a while during the winter he’ll be off north, finding his way to the cabin he had built as a sensible retreat, where all the thoughts he’s pulled from the experience of the year can tumble on to paper. He’ll be done with them then. He could do the same with Bella’s stories, but, perhaps afraid that in the telling he’ll lose them like everything else he puts on paper, he remains reluctant to get into the task. He’s allowed them to remain in his mind, fragments locked in his memory and on a few slips of paper. This way he has them all to himself. He imagines another bestseller—his publisher chomping at the bit for more fiction. But as long as the last one foots the bill for his nomadic lifestyle, he imagines he’ll just keep doing research. He’d take Bella with him on his journeys, but he’d get too distracted by her cunt and the aroma of a woman to do anything. Then too, Bella would never leave her Inn. It belongs to her and she to it. Bella doesn’t seem to hear him as he takes each porch step carefully. He’s not so stupid to think she doesn’t realize he’s coming. But this time, he has this queer notion that he can surprise her in the act of being contemplative. He hears music from inside the Inn where guests are still engaged in their vacant conversation. Perhaps she doesn’t hear his footfalls on the creaky porch, or feel the tickling sensation on her arms prick her animal instincts. She hugs them now as though she’s cold, but she could hardly be chilled with the temperature near 80 on this humid summer night. At her back, he pauses only for an instant before his arms go around her languid form. And immediately, she falls back into his chest, her head coming to rest on his shoulder as though she expected him all along, “Ah, Daniel,” she breathes a satisfied sigh. “What’s it been, three months?” “Nearly,” he replies. “You feel so warm, have you been walking?” “From town, yes, I wanted to surprise you. Besides, it’s a beautiful evening to walk. I guess you have a place for me to sleep tonight?” “In the old boat house,” she answers. “There? It’s not even air-conditioned.” “I’ll be there with you.” She turns in his arms so they remain around her waist. Then taking his face in her hands, she gives him a welcoming kiss, opening her mouth in prelude for opening her thighs. She’d offer him more, but there are guests to consider, and propriety rules. “Anywhere you’re with me will work,” he replies, diving with a tongue around her lips, running it teasingly about her mouth, then down her neck. “We have to be careful,” she says. “And why’s that? You have another lover that might see us?” “You know the rules,” she states, kissing him even more passionately as though she wants to forget the rules altogether. But pushing away, she takes each of his hands in hers, and returns them to his side. “Why don’t you scoot on down there.” She fishes her pocket for the key and presses it to his hand. “Did I telegraph my arrival that clearly?” “No, I was just cleaning it out with Zoë this afternoon and hadn’t put this away. You’ll find the changes make it more pleasant.” He couldn’t think of anything more pleasant than spending a night at her mercy. His c**k already twitching might be fully erect by the time he crosses the boathouse threshold. “And how is Zoë?” he asks. “Fine.” she tells him. “Will I get to see her?” He snickers as he speaks of the sweet blond-haired trollop that sometimes shares their bed. “Hummm, maybe. But how about a new story?” “Another juicy one?” If he could see her face clearly, he might have seen a faint blush on her cheek. “Uh, huh, a very unusual one.” “Ah! I can’t wait.” “And if you’re very good, you can have Zoë and me later.” His c**k presses more hungrily into the fabric at his crotch, making a clear bulge she feels briefly with her hand. “Go on, sweetheart, and wait for me. I won’t be long.” “So, you’re bringing Zoë?” “Not yet, I want you all to myself first.” He’s gone, and she slips inside to say goodnight to her other guests. *** As Bella moves toward the old boathouse, her barefeet dancing in the cool wet grass, she darts behind trees, out of sight of the inn that rises as a gracious monolith of elegance and Victorian overstatement. The white clapboard requires endless painting to maintain its stark image of cleanliness and purity. She must be pure as well to keep a well-heeled clientele returning all seasons of the year. It has taken some adroit maneuvering to accommodate her intense s****l requirements and keep a guise of decency about the inn. It is her child, her life, the foundation of who she is. She would be lost without its comforting arms just as the inn would be lost without Bella’s constant nurturing. Always balance, she says to herself, on those nights when her loins go wanting for a lover to soothe her aches. Perhaps that’s why she found Zoë—or more aptly put, Zoë found her. Their affair is much more discreet than any entanglement with a man. Though tonight she won’t go without the promised erection between her legs. She imagines now its fullness, Daniel’s d**k slightly arched, massaging her on those sensitive tiny pillows of flesh inside her v****a that respond to the feel of his firm head battering them gently as he moves within the moist channel. Moist? Hardly, she’s already dripping and sticky. Knowing there is no one to see her now, she lifts the sundress over her head, letting it trail in her hand as she takes the remainder of her journey in the nude, being careful not to run splinters into the soles of her bare feet as she steps onto the aging boardwalk. Beyond the squeaky door, she’s fully aroused, almost quaking as she makes her way to the bed where Daniel Bogart sits pulling off his shoes. It’s been nearly two months since she had the comfort of a man’s powerful thighs and a bold rod to calm her. “I thought you’d be naked by now,” she murmurs to him unhappily, as she presses him back against the new poplin comforter and finishes removing his shoes. “Anxious, are we?” he grins. He’s lit the hurricane lamp to create a mood of romantic adventure. Their flesh will dance in the glowing shadows just as the flame dances inside the glass. She’s at his waist, her hands opening the buckle of his belt, fingers working fast with the button and zipper of his pants. She tugs eagerly to remove the khakis. Uncharacteristic of her explicit sense of order, she opts to act on her primal need; and as though obsessed, she tosses the pants to the floor in a heap, then moves quickly for the c**k encased in Daniel’s briefs. He has a lean torso, powerful shoulders from playing ball, but a little flesh on his bones from beer and hot-dogs. He’s not a twenty year old buck, but a seasoned thirty-four years, with flecks of premature grey in his tawny colored hair. His pale brown eyes are practically closed, drowsy with lust. Daniel lies back groaning softly as his c**k springs free like a birthday present opened to the surprise and satisfaction of the birthday girl. Bella smiles just before her lips cover the small, circumcised head. First running her tongue on the rim, she then dabbles her way along the surface tasting a bit of salty urine. Breathing deeply of his buoyant musk, that dark mystery of masculine earth and heat tickles her nose and inspires a trek deeper into his fragrant groin. She has one hand on the shaft, but ignores it now—except for an occasional jerk. She tongues her way down its girth to the base where his balls jiggle merrily. Burying her face in the sac, she breathes again, the aroma of Daniel stronger still—of sweat and pheromones. She licks the scrotum and then opens wide to take a nut inside her mouth and whirl it about with her tongue—teeth gently grabbing, but only in play. Daniel pants anxiously, hips moving back and forth on the bed as he presses himself into her face. Her second hand moves beneath the balls, fingers flattening in that spot just before she reaches his rear door, where to massage it makes his p***s stiffen urgently, throbbing almost meanly in her hand. He wants her mouth or cunt or her ass, any orifice would work as long as it’s tight and able to milk the brew that’s about to shoot from his rod. She starts with her mouth, giving him the impression she’ll end him there. She lets his c**k slide down her throat until she’s about to choke, but then draws back, squeezing with a powerful sucking force. He’s about to ejaculate when she backs off altogether and pulls up on the bed to straddle his hips. This is Bella’s favorite ploy. She says the greater the buildup, the greater the pleasure, the greater the end—if you want to touch that nowhereland of body and soul, you take yourself to satiation, not mere coming. He’s hardly going to disagree.