Silence In The Cellar

Chapter One-2

Nestled in Bella’s v****a, Daniel grabs her hips while she rides his c**k. She lifts herself above him on the strength of her arms, so her round breasts droop as small but plentiful offerings for his mouth to taste. When he buries his teeth into the tiny brown n*****s, her cunt muscles tighten on his prick and they both begin to spasm.

“Ahhhhhhhh, Daniel ….”

Ah, Bella, he thinks though he can’t speak. No words, not now, his mouth is too occupied with her skin. There’s a delicate layer of perspiration looking like glistening satin in the light of the flickering hurricane glass. She smells of tea roses, and he remembers how once he watched her masturbate with roses pricking her skin, petals fondling the small tuft of hair between her crotch. She took several blossoms and pressed their fragrance into her breasts. Pinching her n*****s with those petals, the aroma would seep into her skin. Nothing smelled quite so lovely. Now, he drinks the brew of her taste, smells the aroma, and a heady lust joins his more animal and artless passion, building to the end. She cries, whimpers really, mewing nonsense sounds. She’s about to climax. He feels it in the way she squeezes down on his d**k. He knows her well: the moods, the body waves, the beginning, middle and end of her orgasm. Almost there, he speeds the process, forcing them to a brisk finish.

The exhilaration makes them frenzied.

She’s crying in sharp panting breaths, as he groans his exclamation, “Gawwd, yesss.”

Bella’s on her own to climax while he’s engaged in spewing his seed in her grabbing cunt. She hangs on to his d**k like she’ll never let go, her belly burning with heat. Finally, dropping to his chest, her ass bobs softly as the orgasm pulses through her clenching groin. For a time, Daniel’s c**k remains erect, throbbing in her v****a loosely until it finally dwindles.

Pulling off of him, she drops away, breathing in exhausted sighs.

“Ah! This night is damn hot,” she’s the first to speak.

“And you were horny,” he said.

“And you weren’t?” she jokes sarcastically. Turning toward him, she runs her fingers through his hair. Hers looks like a massive dark cloud billowing in a tangle about her shoulders, framing the deep olive complexion of a face rich as the primal earth, with dark brown Slavic eyes the color of a shadowy cave at sunset, beckoning.

“So, we both were,” he states. “You have any cigarettes?”

“I quit the last time you were here,” she says. “Or did you forget?”

“Maybe I hoped you had a relapse.”

“How mean of you!” she pats his face like she’s slapping him, and pulls up on the bed.

He looks on her awed. By the light off the water and sky beaming through the window, he sees what he loves. Bella bends with unbroken grace like the smooth trunk of a young tree. And her eyes not so much twinkle as glow, not so much spark as shimmer like a clear pond of cool water.

“So, how about a story?” he asks.

“So soon? Couldn’t you ask how I am? Or tell me where you’ve been? You know I count on you to bring me news from the outside world.”

“You always sound like you want away from this place, but no one could pry you loose.”

“I know,” she teases.

“Well, since you’re interested, I’m just fine. I’m done with baseball for the season. Had a good six weeks in “A” ball in the South Atlantic League, but they let me go last week and it’s too late to find another team. Besides, I’m getting tired of this rat-race.”

“Rat-race? Daniel! You know, you don’t have to do anything. How can anything be a rat race for you? Baseball is supposed to be your great pleasure.”

“Maybe I’m beginning to question why I’ve been doing this at all.”

“Then it’s time to stop. You get tired of something, you move on to something else.”

“And do you get tired of the inn?”

“Of course.”

“And you think about leaving?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then why don’t you move on to something else?”

“Because I have the inn to run.”

“As though someone else couldn’t run it for you.”

“Someone else couldn’t,” she’s indignant.

“Not Zoë?”

Bella laughs. A lilting breezy laugh. “No, not Zoë,” she shakes her unruly hair. “Zoë would be a disaster.”

“But who cares? This old inn has fallen into ruin and risen from its decline a dozen times. You don’t have to let it own you.” She looks at him doubtfully. “How about it? Just you and I blow out of here, take to the road, no plans, no destination. f**k where we like. Live like libertine fools. What do you say?”

“We already do live like libertine fools.”

“But not together,” he points out.

Daniel’s made this offer every time he’s visited in the past five years, as if he thinks one year, he might get lucky and she’ll take him up on it. Leaving their wealth behind they could pursue something of more substance—together.

“And what about your next book?” she asks.

“Who says there’s going to be a next one? I’m living on fat royalties, and I don’t need much. So, what do you say?”

“I say you’re crazy to keep asking me, Mr. Bogart, because you know I won’t leave.”

He shrugs. “You could always change your mind.”

“And you could settle down in the suburbs, marry some sweet little f**k and have three kids and a mortgage.”

She knows he’ll turn up his nose at the thought, then she kisses that nose when he does, and sits up, legs crossed next to him looking like an Indian princess.

“Well,” he sighs resigned to his assigned fate, “I guess we have that figured out. How about something to whet my appetite for later?”

She thinks a moment.

“And how about some ice cream first.”

“Ice cream? Here?”

“We put in a small refrigerator,” she points to the side of the room.

“Sure.”

Bella jumps from the bed, and rifles though cabinets for dishes and spoons. Then raiding her freshly stocked freezer, she scoops up two bowls of gooey chocolate fudge with ribbons of peanut butter swirled inside.

Returning to the bed, he’s sitting upright against the headboard waiting for his dish. But instead of letting him have it, she starts out feeding him like a baby, getting a little creamy brown on his lips so she can lick it off with her tongue. As the ice cream starts to melt, she settles back, resting against a pillow propped at the end of the footboard. She has that look in her dark eyes that reminds him of the dozen other times she’s told tales on herself. While he waits for her to finish her ice cream, he sits up and leans against his pillow to finish his.

The painter was the subject of her story. A young man ten years younger than Bella’s thirty-three. She hired him as her permanent house painter. Both inside and out, the inn needed constant attention to maintains its summery white New England appearance. In the spring and summer months, the inn’s great expanses of clapboard exterior would be the workman’s primary focus, though Bella hired the young man in the fall after it was too cold to work outside. Still, there were ten guest rooms that needed redecorating and the downstairs dining room was looking a little smudged around the woodwork. If he finished that, there were the long corridors that seemed to constantly need touching up—usually just fingerprints and a little soot, especially in the smoking section of the hotel.

For several weeks, the young man worked industriously at everything Bella assigned him. Ray Langley was short, with a stocky build, and not an ounce of flab. He wore white tee shirts and painter’s pants, his shirt tucked so tightly his muscles and the tiny n*****s at his pecs showed from underneath. His shirtsleeves hardly covered the thick bulging brawn of his arms. He’d spent the summer getting tan, painting the outside of beach cottages along the lake, but then driven indoors like everyone else once fall set in, that tan was likely to fade. He had a slightly surly manner, eyes that tended to strip Bella naked, and occasionally the aspect of a real asshole—so Bella told Daniel with a shy little smile on her face. She would bring him lunch, an unusual thing for the concierge of the inn to be doing when Ray could have easily brought his lunch in a pail like the other workman on the property. But with so few other opportunities to enjoy s*x in this particular season of her life, something more than an employer/employee relationship looked promising with this adroit example of masculine energy.

“Why do you come here every day to feed me?” he finally asked after a week of Bella climbing the stairs to the third floor guest wing. That section of the inn, having been stripped of its furnishings, was now one white empty room after another—some the color of crisp clouds, others still dingy and grey. The painter moved from room to room. In the third from the left down the long corridor, he sat against one stair of his open tripod ladder while he munched his sandwich. Bella strolled around the room as though seriously inspecting his work. Occasionally, she looked out the window to the long stretch of grass that ended at the lakeshore.

She turned, not too surprised by the painter’s question. She’d thought up answers a few dozen times, only to have him simply accept the meal without comment, though now he almost took her by surprise. She answered effortlessly, “it’s a welcome break in my day to come here where no one can reach me—except you of course.” She was wearing a clinging knit that hugged her breasts, fanny and flanks like gossamer, and then regulation high heels—regulation because they were formal, appropriate for owning an elegant inn, but not too high to appear inviting the attention of her male guests. That would be tacky, since she figured that most of her clientele were wives dragging their husbands along for romantic retreats. Unfortunately, it would be hard for Bella not to attract. Her svelte shape greeted customers with a sensuous ease as though she was offering invitations to an afternoon between her thighs. This was natural to her, and thankfully, her female guests found her as alluring as the men—though likely for different reasons.

“You’re a horny woman, aren’t you?” the painter asked.

She was only momentarily startled, answering his question with a simple, “yes.”

“And you have some time?”

“I could.” She was curious. With the vague mention of s*x, her groin throbbed more painfully than pleasurably. She supposed that this was what these unorthodox lunches implied—the truth glaringly obvious.

The painter moved away from the ladder, still eating his lunch, popping potato chips in his mouth so she could hear the crunch.

“Let me see you at the ladder,” he said.

Bella heard the question but didn’t immediately reply. Yet, her curiosity was piqued enough to slowly amble toward the ladder that rose to the ceiling at odd angles to the right angle symmetry of the room.

“Lean against it,” he said.

She fell into it with her back, thinking how the wood supported her well.

“No, belly first,” he said. “And hang on high.”

Her heart beat a little faster hearing his thoughts spoken aloud. But she followed the order as though he was commanding her and she was obliged to obey. A game, perhaps. She could feel her desire for s*x on the tip of her tongue, and on the lips of the throbbing crevice between her thighs. As she relaxed into the stairs, she clung to a rung above her head as though she was holding on for dear life.

“Don’t let go,” he said as though he wanted her bound.

The words made her clutch more tightly, her long, freshly painted red nails in danger of chipping as they sunk into the ladder’s aging wood.

She felt him at her ass, a hand pressed to a cheek fondling. Inching the dress up her legs with that hand, the other soon slipped underneath, going for the waistband of her lace panties. As the painter dropped to his knees, she gasped realizing what he would do. Lifting the skirt, he tucked the fabric in front of her anchoring it in place. A swipe at her almost negligible underwear, her bottom was bare.

“Your feet wide, Mrs. Fauré.”

As his hands fondled her legs, she opened them wide, pressing her feet to the rails on either side. His face moved into her ass, where he opened the crack and began probing her with his tongue at her anus, then deeper to the c******s. Her labored breathing and fear increased. Would someone suddenly walk in the door and see her being eaten? It seemed like a serious concern at first, though it faded in importance as the pleasing tongue dipped and toyed with the whole of her snatch. His hot breath seemed to burn the skin, but she moved into him to have more.