Beyond the Door
By Maximilian Cummings
Alex had not mentioned, let alone warned, Wendy about the stockroom when she started work in the shop. There was, after all, no need to go into it, not now the company insisted all stock was placed on display. There was a staffroom in any case, with ‘Staffroom’ clearly marked on the door, there was even a store with ‘Store’ also clearly marked on its door, in neat black Arial script, which was where a few items were kept. The store was not a large room but, even so, big enough for what needed to be put there and with a window to let light in, albeit securely barred against a break in. There was no need to go through the door marked ‘Stockroom,’ also marked in Arial script: although. oddly and intriguingly, in red: no need to enter at all. But Wendy was naturally curious just as she was naturally black. Alex should have warned her, but Alex had not.
It is funny how things play on your mind. Increasingly Wendy found herself wondering about that stockroom. It was irrational. There was no need even to think about it. It was not as if she passed it to get to the staff room, the W.C. or even on the rare occasions she needed to get something from the store. The door was further back and down a bit of a corridor, a corridor with no window, the corridor walls painted white and just with that door labelled ‘Stockroom’ at its end in red. Actually, it was not even at its end as the door was on the left. The end wall was a blank.
It was a few days into the new job before Wendy had even walked down the corridor just to see what the sign on the door said. She had tried the door but it was locked and there was no key in the keyhole. Wendy had shrugged her shoulders and got on with her work. A locked room was of no interest really... not that day.
It was when she found herself repeatedly trying the door that she realised her interest had been piqued. It had been almost subconscious. She asked Miranda about it.
“Oh, Alex says we don’t need to go in there. We don’t use that.”
Miranda seemed completely uninterested in a locked room. It was so much lower on her scale of important things compared to her nails. It was different for Wendy.
It worried her that she found herself wondering about it on the bus and even when going off to sleep at night. Once she found herself waking up in the middle of the night and knew she had been dreaming about what lay beyond the door. Not that she could remember what she had been dreaming about at all, which was a pity considering just how wet she found herself between her legs. She had lain there in her bed blinking in the aftermath of one monumental orgasm. A dream orgasm indeed. That did not lessen her curiosity. What had she been dreaming about?
Finding a key in the lock was a surprise. She saw it from the end of the corridor. It puzzled her. Alex had not been in. Wendy had opened the shop that morning and been closely followed in by Miranda. Alex had not come in that day. Was the key left from the day before? But she did not think it had been there the day before. Certainly, she did not remember seeing it.
It was only meant to be a peek. Wendy knew Miranda was in the shop and could serve customers, it would not hurt if she took just a little look. The key turned, her hand was quickly on the handle, turning it and the door opened. The sight that greeted her was not of a dusty empty room with empty shelves but instead simply a flight of stairs leading downwards. The stockroom seemed to be down in a basement or cellar. Wendy had not realised the shop even had an underground part but there before her were, most definitely, stairs: wooden stairs leading down and a light switch. Wendy clicked the light switch and began her descent. It was exactly 10.15 am because she had looked at her watch knowing she could not be long away from the shop.
It was exactly 10.15 am when she found herself hurrying back up those stairs and standing panting at the top, slamming the door shut and locking it. But locking it against what?
Her chest was heaving, her faced flushed and her breathing rapid. Never, never had she felt quite like that before—except, perhaps, that middle of the night waking. No, it was not fright, not terror, but raw unadulterated sexual excitement. Her knickers were soaked, she could feel that, her nipples as hard as hazelnuts, and as for her clit—it felt on fire.
Wendy shot into the WC and locked the door. It was sometime later she exited. It had not been easy re-establishing either composure or a semblance of order about her body. It had been easiest simply to remove the sodden panties and leave herself naked and still not a little damp under her skirt. Her sex swollen, lubricated and most definitely ready for copulation remained like that the whole morning!
The day passed with some difficulty. It was not that Miranda asked questions or perhaps even noticed the change in Wendy. Wendy had not been absent that long, but her mind was in such a turmoil. Wendy simply had no idea at all how she had got in such a state, how she had found herself walking up rather than down the stairs to the stockroom and how, when no time at all had passed, she had become so sexually aroused—and why?
Things to ponder on the bus home. Things to ponder in the shower and later in bed. Things to ponder as she stood looking at herself in the mirror the next morning. The reflection in the mirror of a naked young woman. Her really black skin shining from both the shower and the coconut butter she used to keep her skin smooth and supple. In the mirror, what she liked to think of as a quite pretty face, with wide flattish nose, strong and ample lips and hazel eyes, looked back at her. Below were her wide, sensible, child bearing hips and her carefully trimmed dark, tightly curled ‘bush’ and, above that, her neat, rounded tummy and generous and womanly breasts with their coal black nipples. She thought herself attractive to men. Would, indeed, have liked to have seen a tall man next to her in the mirror with his hand fondly around her shoulder looking at her with love in his eyes. She smiled to herself. She would like to have seen his penis rise in a ‘fond’ manner as well. How nice that morning, if she had had the time, to fall back into bed and cuddle and copulate with the tall, handsome man. How so nice. She wished she had a nice young man.
It was almost a relief to see the key not in the lock that and the day after. Not that Wendy had any intention of repeating the experience. It had been unnerving and to be avoided: though, it had been quite something to feel so sexually charged. She had not really known she had that in her.
Just as the locked door had kept slipping into her mind at unexpected times and places so did the remembrance of the feeling at the top of the stairs. It did not help to wake in the middle of the night, once again, and feel quite so... womanly. That time her fingers had finished the business—and done it very well.
The trouble was that next time she looked and saw the key in the lock she was tempted. It was a mystery and she did not like mysteries. This time she did not descend the stairs straightway but stood at the top looking down. 10.33 by her watch, then 10.34. One step, two steps, pause, three steps—still 10.34, four steps.
Wendy shot up the stairs and out, slamming the door. It was just as before—including the soaking panties—and it was 10.34 on her watch. In the WC she could not get over how wet she was, her fingers touched, and she found them covered in the clear, slippery liquid of arousal. It was as if she had been engaged in vigorous and pleasurable coitus: not that there was any hint of a manly deposit—of course! It was an incredible feeling of arousal—but one much better to feel at home or somewhere other than at work.
If her experience at the stockroom stairs remained a puzzle, her dreams were becoming clearer. Wendy awoke in the middle of one night, the sheets damp around her, from a particularly erotic dream and this time she remembered everything. It was all so clear in her mind. The men, there had been more than one- not men, as she was used to seeing men—had been using her again and again in her dream. Men who had matched her in sexual charge and arousal: and that meant erections. Erections doing things to her. Men with their ‘things’ hard and strong. Hard and strong, penises looking like tanned leather, craggy and veined with swollen knobs at the ends.
Wendy did not open her eyes but rolled over in bed and onto her knees, her bottom sticking up in the air and her hands most definitely going to her breasts and sex. In her head she continued the dream but now fully awake, remembering the things they had done.
Miranda had been there before her, in the dream, Miranda’s so carefully painted long finger nails drawing back the foreskin of the particular erection placed right in front of Wendy’s face—so ready for her to suck. It had been inches away. Wendy had looked behind her. Was Alex there too in the dream? But no, it was just two Japanese men she did not recognise. Handsome men, attractive men, smiling men. Men with fine, slender Japanese erections—only she could see only one pointing at her: the other was already in... in her bottom.
On the bed, in the drenched sheets, Wendy thrust back with her bottom, almost able to feel the penis there—as if it was nearly real. She felt so full. A feeling she hardly knew—she was, if the truth be told, very inexperienced. There was most certainly a reason for her feeling full in her half dream state. Beneath her was yet another man. A black man, as black as she. Wendy’s big nipples were just lightly brushing his own. A perfect matching. Wendy’s breasts hanging big and, as she moved, there was just that so sexual touching on the man’s hard little erect nipples. Wendy moved a little forward, imagining looking down at her breasts and his nipples as both her left and right nipples brushed against his and she almost felt the touch of the erection before her on her forehead.
But, of course, it was not just the man’s nipples that were erect. They were small, smaller than peas but the same could not be said of the man’s penis. Not small at all. It curved firm and strong up into her vagina. In her dream Wendy had been riding it. Had protested (to no avail) that it was ‘too big’ but nonetheless in it had gone and now she had not only that to contend with but the Japanese gentlemen taking it in turns in her bottom. Two men using her at the same time. Her fingers moved inside the tented bedclothes, imagining it. She was very wet.
In her mind’s eye, she looked back up at the peeled penis waiting before her. A white man’s erection this time, daintily held by Miranda’s painted fingernails—held ready for her. Its pink knob swollen, exposed and ready. A slight movement of Miranda’s green painted finger nails, a roll upwards of mere millimetres of skin and then it was drawn, invitingly, down again.
“Go on, suck. You know you want to.” Miranda’s voice soft, encouraging her.
It was something Wendy had never done. She stared at the thing. The smooth pinkness of the acorn shaped head, the veined and craggy shaft beyond and below it, and further back, a pair of balls hanging. As she looked at it, a drop of clear liquid welled up, growing as it oozed out of the slit at the tip of the penis and then, too big to stay in place, it ran down the bifurcation to the underside of the knob wetting it.
In her bed her tongue licked across her lips. Awake, but yet dreaming, Wendy felt a tremendous desire to suck. A feeling it would be just so nice to feel the thing in her mouth—just as it was so nice to feel the other penes elsewhere in her body. Her mouth opened, her ample lips forming a round shape as if about to consume a banana. In her dream she heard a light slap, a sound of flesh on flesh, most likely Miranda encouraging the man forward with a firm hand to his naked buttocks and the penis made contact with her lips. The silky soft flesh of the man’s penis head pushing at the full, rounded lips and then easing through into her mouth. Wendy sighed and then sucked: or rather imagined the sucking. It was all so real, as if she was caught between dream and reality.
Her orgasm when it came was so strong to be almost painful. She lay whimpering to herself, gently rocking her body. She so needed a man.
Wendy awoke the next morning with the whole dream still fresh and clear in her mind. The sheets still damp: indeed, she was still damp and felt quite drained by the experience. A dream of three men—no, four. She felt both drained and relaxed. A shower, breakfast and then it was the bus to the shop.
She unlocked and then relocked the shop door behind her. It was not yet time to open up. She was early. Wendy wondered if Alex would be coming in to inspect, examine the takings and all the rest of the management job that needed to be done; Wendy also wondered about the stockroom door. Wendy had not meant to, had not intended to even look down the corridor to the door: had intended to avert her eyes. It had been what she had planned. Nonetheless, she did look, and the key was in the lock.
Miranda would not be in for a little while. There was no need to open the shop for another few minutes. Wendy opened the stockroom door once more and looked at the steps leading down. She did not need to go down them; could so easily turn and close and lock the door. She was almost sure that if she stepped more than a few treads down the stairs she would find herself rushing up again: but rushing up feeling just so sexual. She liked the feeling but not really at work. It was a shame the staff room did not have a shower. It would be so useful after her visits to the stockroom, so good to have stood in the hot water and relieved the ‘tension’ engendered by a visit to the stockroom, or at least to the stairs to the stockroom.
There was no shower, so would it not have been so sensible to place a fresh pair of knickers in her handbag that morning just in case she chose to enter the stockroom—if the key was there.
Sensible, but she had not. Of course, there was the other option of leaving her dry, fresh on that morning, knickers at the top of the stairs ready for her return! But if she did that why not leave her jeans at the top as well? Why not? She would have to take them off to remove her knickers and then to put her knickers on again she would have to remove her jeans once more. Unlike other days she had not put a skirt on, which would have made the removal and replacement of knickers so much easier. It had been a conscious effort to dissuade her from turning the key. It had not worked.
Her hand on the brass zip and then down they came. Her jeans around her ankles. There were coat hooks at the top of the stairs screwed into the wall. So convenient for hanging jeans and panties—and blouse and brassiere. What a strange thing to have done. With jeans and then knickers off she had just carried on undressing as she would do at home before bed. It did not feel to her peculiar but rather sort of right. No knickers, no jeans, no nothing. What if Alex, though, had entered the shop and chosen to go to the stockroom and found Wendy naked on the stairs?
Nonetheless it was a naked Wendy stepping downwards towards... towards what? Not even shoes to her feet; a naked Wendy going to find out what the stockroom was all about or simply find herself running back up the stairs feeling just so wonderfully turned on—perhaps even dripping on the stairs. She looked at her wristwatch, 7.39.
One step, two steps… five steps and Wendy was still going.
There was another door at the bottom and then.... the stockroom!
She found a pleasantly furnished windowless room. A chaise longue, leather armchairs, thick carpets, fine china. A veritable den, a hidden private retreat or perhaps boudoir. It was quite unexpected but why was this cosy little secret place there at all? It was not cold down there underground. Far from it, cosy in appearance and furnishing: cosy in warmth.
Books on a table. Wendy picked one up and looked at it. ‘The Lost World’ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Presumably a Sherlock Holmes story. She put it down and picked up another, ‘The Land Time Forgot’ by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Presumably a Tarzan story. She set it down and picked up another, ‘The Time Machine’ by H.G. Wells. She knew of the book but had not read it. She placed it down on the first book, none too carefully. It overbalanced as she did so, overbalanced on the edge of the table but, leaving her hand, it did not fall. Wendy frowned.
Upon the wall an old mahogany cased clock showed its pendulum through a glass window to its front. The pendulum had swung to the right but was unmoving and to Wendy’s left the book she had carelessly placed on the table was still falling to the floor. It came to Wendy, all at once, that in this place time had simply stopped moving. She looked at her wrist watch, it still showed 7.39. The second hand was unmoving. There was no ticking. She was in a room free of the onward march of time. A place where time had simply stopped. There was no time and yet there was all the time in the world—for what?
A sound, and Wendy realised, though she was hardly surprised, she was not alone. It was Alex, the proprietor, who, after all, had every reason to be there. It was not a stranger. It was not some man she did not know startling her, perhaps shocked at her nudity, or perhaps even those men from her dream advancing upon her, penises firmly erect. It was Alex, just Alex.
Alex advanced upon her. Rising from her wide hips a substantial leather dildo held in place with strong leather straps and brass buckles—a penis of tanned leather. Shining, hard and well polished, it clearly meant business as it swayed from side to side with each step. Made of saddle leather and well stitched—it would be firm and strong, a dildo that meant business. Otherwise the woman was quite naked, her big breasts moving as she walked, and her upturned nipples erect. Wendy’s thighs began shaking with anticipation. She could feel the lubrication coming. Even if she recognised none of it—the room, the contents, the leather dildo, it was clear her body did.
Wendy swallowed. So, it had been Alex all the time. Not a man, not men. That explained the absence of semen.
She had not noticed it before, had not noticed the little flecks of yellow in Alex’s green eyes. But now close to, the woman’s face just inches from her own she saw them. Her eyes ceased to blink as she stared into Alex’s eyes.
“Hallo, Wendy, back down here for some more instruction? Can’t keep you away. Good to see you have left your clothes behind this time and are you... wet? Oh, yes, delightfully wet.”
Wendy could feel her sex being cupped. Another woman’s hand holding it and a finger poking between her lips. She could do nothing but submit. Those eyes held her. What did Alex want her to do?
Wonderful sex, wonderful orgiastic, Sapphic sex. The thrusting of the hard leather dildo between her thighs, like the hardest of penis but without the semen. Wendy kneeling and accepting it in her mouth and then going below the dildo into the fragrant wetness of Alex’s sex and finding the strapping to the leather dildo did not in any way obscure the soft folds from her fingers and tongue. Its buckling, strong leather strapping with brass buckles, being to Alex’s thighs and waist. She licked as her hand clasped the dildo, feeling in her hand the stitching to the seams that ran up the hard leather to its curved top.
There was no hurry, the two women were together standing, on the chaise longue, in the armchairs. The sex was prolonged and successful. Wet, feminine sex.
Wendy had no idea, no idea she could even like such a thing, Sapphic sex. far less experience it day after day. It was all clear to her now. Her eyes sought the door to the stairs, seeing the flight beyond—but would she have any idea about it when she reached their top? Was each day a new discovery?
“Wendy, my little, sweet, young, black toy?”
“Yes, Alex? What is it?” Wendy looked into Alex’s green eyes.
“Forget... until next time. Off you go, dear.” The older woman patted her bottom, the dildo at her waist shining with moisture, and as erect as could be, unable to soften like the men of Wendy’s dreams.
Wendy climbed the stairs, her sex so wet and so on fire. Her body naked, but for a wristwatch. The time, 7.39.