Chapter 15: The First Man
Sandi lay on the narrow bed, the faded cotton coverlet cool against her bare skin. The room was quiet, still holding the scent of dried lavender from a sachet tucked somewhere in a drawer decades ago. She had showered in the small, tiled bathroom, washing away the salt and sweat of the night, and now her skin was clean, her auburn hair damp at the roots. Between her legs, she was smooth and bare, a deliberate act of preparation that made her feel both vulnerable and powerful.
The door opened.
Nikolas entered, carrying her small suitcase. He set it down by the dresser, his dark eyes finding her immediately, a hunter’s gaze that didn’t wander but fixed on its target. He wore his usual dark trousers and a linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
“How did it go?” Sandi asked, her voice softer than she intended.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he began to undress, his movements deliberate and slow. He unbuttoned the shirt, shrugged it off, revealing the lean, ropy muscles of his torso, the dusting of dark hair across his chest. His hands went to his belt, the buckle clicking open in the silent room. He pushed his trousers and shorts down in one motion, stepping out of them. His cock was already stiffening, rising from its thatch of dark curls, thick and impatient.
“He agreed,” Nikolas said, finally answering her. His voice was a low rumble. “On one condition.”
Sandi watched him, her breath catching. “What condition?”
“That I let him fuck you blindfolded. So you don’t know it’s him.”
A slow, deep smile spread across Sandi’s face. The thought sent a bolt of pure, illicit heat straight to her core. Caleb collaborating with Nikolas, orchestrating this, handing her over yet remaining a participant. It was the ultimate permission, the final lock turning. “I like that,” she whispered.
Nikolas approached the bed, his naked body a silhouette against the shuttered light. “I told him I’d have to let others fuck you like that, too. So you genuinely won’t know. It has to be real.”
She swallowed, the reality of it settling over her like a weightless blanket. “I don’t want to know,” she said, the truth of it crystal clear in her mind. “I want to surrender myself to cock. To an amorphous, all-encompassing masculinity. No names. No faces. Just… that.”
He placed a knee on the mattress, the old springs groaning softly. “He said you’d have his blessing if you wanted to stay here forever.” Nikolas’s hand came to rest on her ankle, his thumb stroking the bone. “Said you’ve been such a good woman to him. Wife. Mother of his children.”
Tears, sudden and hot, pricked the corners of Sandi’s eyes. It wasn’t sadness. It was a profound, dizzying absolution.
He moved up her body, his hands sliding to her inner thighs. He pushed them apart, spreading her wide open to the cool air and his hungry gaze. “You want this?”
She could only nod, her throat too tight for speech.
He lowered his head.
His mouth was hot and devastatingly soft against her bare cunt. He didn’t dive in, but tasted her slowly, licking a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit. She jolted, a gasp ripped from her. His tongue parted her lips, delving into her wetness, lapping at her like she was something precious and succulent. He hummed against her, the vibration shooting through her nerves.
“Oh, god,” she choked out, her hands fisting in the coverlet.
He focused on her clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue. The pressure was perfect, expert, building a coiling tension in her belly with terrifying speed. He added a finger, then two, pushing them deep inside her, curling them to stroke a spot that made her back arch off the bed. She was writhing, mindless, chasing the sensation, her hips bucking against his face.
“Please… Nikolas, please…”
He withdrew his mouth and fingers, leaving her empty and throbbing. He rose above her, kneeling between her splayed legs. The broad, purple head of his cock pressed against her soaked entrance. He watched her face as he pushed forward.
The invasion was breathtaking—a long, smooth, stretching stroke that filled her completely. She cried out, her walls clenching around the sudden, exquisite thickness of him. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, letting her adjust, his own breath coming in ragged gusts.
Then he moved.
His rhythm was steady, relentless, deep. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a solid, impacting reunion. His balls slapped against her ass with a wet, rhythmic sound. He braced one hand by her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. His breath was hot on her neck, smelling of coffee and the sea.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunted, the words raw and guttural. “So fucking wet for me. Taking my cock so perfectly.”
She was lost in it, in the purely animalistic mechanics of it. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, his guttural curses. Her own noises were shameless, loud moans that echoed in the small room. The coil in her belly wound tighter, tighter, fed by every brutal, perfect thrust.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice a broken thing.
“Come on my cock,” he commanded, fucking her harder, faster. “Squeeze that pretty cunt and come.”
It shattered her. The orgasm erupted from her core, a blinding, pulsing wave that convulsed through her entire body. Her channel clenched and fluttered around his driving length, milking him, and with a roar that was almost anguish, he followed her over. His hips stuttered, his thrusts turning shallow and frantic as he pumped his release deep into her, hot and endless, painting her insides with his spend.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor. They lay like that for long minutes, both slick with sweat, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs.
Eventually, he rolled off. Sandi felt the loss of him—the loss of his heat, his weight, the softening cock slipping from her body. She heard him move around the room, the sound of fabric rustling.
She didn’t open her eyes until she felt his hands on her head.
He was tying the blindfold. The same silk scarf. Caleb’s scarf. The one from the harbour. The material was soft, familiar, as it sealed away the world. It was her only tether to her husband now, the only thing she’d be wearing, so far as Caleb would know, between now and when she had to leave. The only way they would interact for the next eight days would be like this—in darkness, with him as just one voice, one set of hands, one cock among a great many.
The knot was secure. The world vanished into a profound, velvet black.
She heard Nikolas’s footsteps recede, the door open, then close.
Silence.
She was alone. And she was owned. And for the first time in twenty years, Sandi felt utterly, completely free.
And for the first time in twenty years, Sandi felt utterly, completely free.
The silence in the lavender-scented room was a physical presence, thick and expectant. She floated in the blindfolded dark, her body humming, her cunt still pulsing around the warm, wet emptiness Nikolas had left inside her. Time lost its edges.
The door opened.
It wasn’t the soft click of Nikolas returning. This was the sound of the old wood scraping against the stone floor, pushed with purposeful force. A draft of hotter, dustier air washed over her. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, moved across the room. They stopped beside the bed.
She heard the rustle of fabric, a belt unbuckling, the drop of heavy trousers. The man said nothing. The mattress dipped under a new, greater weight. Calloused hands, rough and dry like sacking, grabbed her hips. They flipped her onto her stomach with a single, efficient motion. Her face pressed into the pillow that smelled of Nikolas, of her own hair, of sex.
Those hands pulled her up onto her knees, her ass in the air. He positioned himself behind her. Something thick, blunt, and already slick with its own moisture prodded at her swollen entrance. It was a different thickness, a different angle.
He entered her without preamble.
A raw, tearing gasp was punched from her lungs. He was thicker than Nikolas, stretching her brutally, a burning, delicious invasion. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He just began to fuck her, a hard, piston-like rhythm that slammed the bed frame against the whitewashed wall with each drive. His grunts were low, animalistic, devoid of language.
She buried her scream in the pillow, her fingers clawing at the covers. It was a pure, blunt taking. His pace was relentless, a punishing metronome that erased thought. One of his rough hands slid around her waist, groping her stomach, then rose to her breast. He pinched her nipple, hard, twisting it.
A sharp, bright pain lanced through the pleasure, merging with it perfectly.
“You like being used, don’t you?” The voice was a rasp, unused, filtered through a thick beard she could imagine but not see.
She couldn’t form words. A guttural moan was her only answer, a sound of absolute assent. Her consciousness did a strange, floating trick. It seemed to drift up, through the sun-warmed tiles of the roof, into the brilliant blue sky.
From there, she could see it all. The blinding sun baking the white village walls. Swifts diving between the houses. The distant, glittering sea, its waves slapping lazily against fishing boat hulls in the harbour. Women in the market below, weighing fish, arguing over the price of peaches, utterly unaware of the bed rocking violently above them. The shrieks of children on their morning break, chasing a ball in the dusty playground.
All that normal, daylit life continued, while in this little room, she was nothing but a fucking-hole, being filled by a stranger.
The thought made her cunt clench viciously around him. He snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, jagged. His other hand dug into the flesh of her hip, holding her in place as a final, deep plunge.
He came with a choked, ragged groan. She felt the hot, internal pulse of his release, another load pumping into her already-full channel. He held himself there, shuddering, for three long seconds.
Then he pulled out.
The sudden emptiness was profound. A wet, leaking vacancy. She heard him stand, the sound of him pulling on his clothes, the buckle of his belt. The footsteps crossed the floor. The door scraped open, then shut.
Silence again, deeper now.
Sandi collapsed onto her side, her body a map of aches and delicious bruises. Fluid, a mixture of two men now, leaked from her onto the sheet. The blindfold was damp with her sweat and tears she hadn’t known she’d cried. She didn’t move. She listened to the distant children, the birds, her own ragged breath.
She lay there, dripping, waiting for the next.
Hoping there’d be one.
Soon.