Silence In The Cellar

Chapter One-3

He slapped one ass cheek for moving too wildly, and so smothering his attempts to accomplish his task. As she began to orgasm, he was under her enough to have her c******s in his teeth, taunting her with the threat of tearing the thing off if she jerked too wildly. She clung white-knuckle bound to the ladder and kept her poise despite the force of the physical impact. For a time her clit was in his mouth, two of his fingers in her cunt, another two from his other hand pressing into her asshole, jarring her entire behind. Both his hands were wet from the slick liquid seeping from her p***y. She was losing her hold on reality, time spinning, eyes closing out the white of the room around her, now content with the dark behind her eyelids. She whimpered as she came in the middle of all that stimulation, nothing but sensation swimming inside. Her cries were muted as she remembered her place, high in the attic of an inn that was hardly soundproof.

Before she could revive herself, the painter pushed her to her knees at his feet, turned her toward him, Bella’s mouth accepting an engorged p***s, with her head guided by his thick paint-stained fingers. She sucked the organ, slipping in and out of her mouth while playing with the heavy weight of testicles dangling beneath. A regular rhythmic f*****g of her face ended in a seedy climax spewed lavishly over her cheeks, drizzling down to the collar of her dress. There was satisfaction etched in the painter’s grateful but passive expression.

“Ah, Mrs. Fauré, you’re going to make my job a lot more interesting,” he commented as he put his limp d**k back inside his pants. “Or perhaps I should call you Bella?”

“Yes, that would be fine,” she was still drifting.

“I’ll take you in the ass tomorrow,” he said. “Have it greased when you come for lunch.” Still passively on her knees, she accepted the command as if he was a god and she his humble servant. Then, as he returned to the other side of the room, he ate what was left of the sandwich and the chips, took a swig of coffee from the cup of lukewarm mocha she’d brought, then suggested, “you’d better clean up a little, ma’am.”

Yes, she had to agree, and Bella left the room, moving hurriedly toward her apartment on the first floor, happy that no one saw her looking so disheveled.

The unexpected affair with her painter could be accomplished in complete privacy. That was her reasoning. It seemed safer than her perilous relations with guests of the inn. There, she risked embarrassing exposure should she have an affair with the husband or lover of a valued female guest. The results could get messy. That had only happened once, but the incident scared her off. She was certain that the painter had no attachments, and if he had, they would be of no significance to her. This affair was solely satisfying for the hot ache that often burned inside her groin.

The day after their first encounter, Bella found herself primping mid-morning in expectation of her affair in the attic. But it wasn’t until just before noon, with lunch in hand, that she ducked into her apartment, into the bathroom, to follow her lover’s instructions. Staring into her brown eyes for some time, she noted the way they looked back at her, lids heavy as she thought of Ray Langley’s c**k moving inside the most unused of her body’s tight spaces. It had been some time, so long ago, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had breached her backdoor. Apparently, she missed the exceptional sensations, the way her painter’s declaration was arousing her. Reaching inside her medicine cabinet, she pulled out a jar of greasy cold cream. Her fingers trembled as she turned the lid. Dipping them inside the jar, she swathed two liberally in the thick white. Bending over, she was poised to see her ass in the mirror and the shadowy crack between her pale brown cheeks. Parting one side with a hand, she pressed the cream to her anus, slathering the gooey substance around the deep furrow, a finger gliding inside the hole. By herself, she might get off to the invasion, but she wanted the painter there, the fullness of him forcing her to open beyond what she thought she could endure. For good measure, she plunged her fingers in the jar a second time and coated her interiors with the soothing balm. Would it dissolve by the time he entered her? Would this be enough? Unsure of the answer, but sure of her need to go through with an anal f**k, she washed her hands, then dropped the jar into the pocket of her skirt—it was a little bulky, but at least it was out of sight. Readjusting her panties and skirt, Bella took another long look in the mirror, at her mood of resignation and excitement, then she darted toward the door, feeling the substance in her anal crack ooze as though she was dripping a man’s come out of her back entrance.

Finding the box with Ray’s lunch on her writing table, she grabbed it quickly and made her way to the third floor guest room, where there was nothing but a ladder, a chair, a workman’s sawhorse, and Ray Langley.

“Hi!”

“Oh, and you brought me lunch,” he said. Taking the box from her hand he tossed it on the seat of the chair, making it clear he wasn’t yet interested in its contents. “Your ass first, Bella.”

“It’s ready,” she was practically whispering on her way to the ladder, but the painter reached out for her hand and pulled her back with him toward the sawhorse.

“You’ll be more comfortable here” His image of their f**k was obviously fixed, as she was shortly over one end of the trestle. The rough end hitting her at the crotch allowed her to rest bent over, with the 2X4 bisecting her breasts. She was bare from the waist down with her skirt flung over her behind, and feeling more vulnerable than the day before, poised so precariously on the bar. When he had her reach back with her hands and part her crack for him there was a tear coming to her eyes, a sense of fright and fear of him, a worry of going too deeply too fast. She held her breath anxiously, yet the energy of her s****l arousal was too great to end the rendezvous with her ass and Ray’s erection. He already had the firm thing in his hand stroking it lovingly as she looked back.

“You greased yourself well,” he offered with a tidy smirk. “Such a delectable slut you are.”

Could she stand his mockery? Or did that mockery strike a needful cord, a little dark music she heard in a place she where she sang her secret songs. His hold on her was reminiscent of another lover, though she could hardly call that one a lover at all.

With Ray’s fingers seeking an easy entry into her ass, Bella absorbed the stunning shock of their insertion, letting the sensation stoke her inner fire. Unlike the day before when his face was at her ass, the painter worked her flesh with no soul, no purpose, but his pleasure. If she was to derive something for herself, it wasn’t his concern. That fact hardly disturbed her, being that she was, by her own admission, a woman of some ungodly, tainted tastes in s****l enjoyment. She would remember this day for some time.

At the moment of penetration, she felt the painter’s thighs against her own. Then, as he pressed his erection into the greased pathway, she let go her ass cheeks and reached forward to balance herself on the trestle, gripping it tightly to keep from slipping to either side. Her attacker clutched her cheeks as he moved inch by inch inside the channel. The act was almost kind. For a time, his hand stroked her skin kindly, though there were no kind comments accompanying the gesture—it was in his attitude where she felt the kinder side of Ray Langley appear. However, despite this new wrinkle in his frank personality, once he realized how willing Bella was to give, he intended to take from her all that he wanted without much thought to her pleasure.

As soon as his erection was deeply nestled within her, the painter began to move in jarring movements that built like the crescendo of a symphony, like Beethoven played inside her ass. Fast, violent, then instantly tender with a pianissimo so delicate Bella could catch up to his zeal and replenish her arousal with sweeping waves of feeling. Their guttural voices lurched to the rhythms of the c**k that beat inside her.

“Gawd, ah, yess, yes,” she panted, the words hardly musical. She felt as though she was free falling into herself, and small, like a tiny speck of dust. She urged him on, bucking hard into his groin, as a sudden splash of heat and energy washed through her at his moment of release.

The throbbing finish was earthy, coarse, and a bit vile as he slapped her ass cheeks, enough to make them hot. But when he was done, his d**k remained burrowed high inside her behind, while a finger or two meandered artfully toward her clit beneath. It took some time to restore the orgasmic swell in her—time because the sensation was so hugely different in her ass than it was in the forward domain of her typical s****l response. When he didn’t have her at the edge as quickly as he planned, Ray Langley withdrew his c**k, pulled her to her feet and enclosed her in his arms, as his one hand continued to play with her needy snatch.

The end came softly, in small shudders, not as ripping as the day before, or as completely satiating. But that was hardly necessary. There was a satiation of her spirit, unspoken but real. It pointed to more than she could ever have with this sexy rake of a lover. She would feel the peace of it without Ray Langley understanding what he gave her. The man was just an instrument for her to use—as much as he used her.

The affair lasted the winter. With the exception of a few rare moments of intimate conversation, f*****g hotly was their sole aim. Once they spent the night in bed together—an evening when they got drunk in an attic room, and finally crashed in one of the guest suites, pretending they were visitors at the nearly empty inn. A raw, cold night with a blowing wind, the wine was for keeping warm against a chill. They kept the suite securely locked to prevent the entry of an unwelcome maid; and swilling three bottles of wine, disclosed the truth about everything they could think of—except for those things no one would ever know about Bella Fauré. Though it probably didn’t matter what they confessed, since neither one could remember anything about the night when they finally woke sober near noon the following day. Then, they dressed in an uneasy silence. Perhaps that night ended the free-love reckless nature of their affair, something changed, and they were more guarded with each other in their pursuit of s****l pleasure.

By the end of March, they were screwing no more than once a week.

It didn’t surprise Bella when the first week of April, she found that the painter had run off with one of her housemaids—a little blonde waif with great t**s and a schoolgirl grin. Lucky for Ray, the maid had turned eighteen over the winter, or he might have had her father following close at his heels. Bella was relieved that he was gone. The chances she took with her precious livelihood and her sense of control bordered on negligent.

As Bella finishes her long monologue, Daniel dabbles with her labia: pulling, squeezing, pinching, massaging—the sensation of it all on a subliminal level. She’s hardly felt what was happening to her s****l arousal. Is it the story or his playfulness that turns her on? she wonders when she becomes aware of the biting edge of desire. But her concerns are only momentary as she finds Daniel’s naked body a necessary conclusion to the drama with the painter—which in itself didn’t seem to have a satisfactory end.