His Indecent PropositionBy: Aphrodite Hunt
She bends down to gather her skirt. She hangs it neatly on the back of the chair next to her blouse. Her heart is beating very rapidly. His eyes rake in her body, focusing on her black brassiere and her matching panties. Her cleavage is pronounced. She has always been proud of her large breasts.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“Thank you, sir.” She does not dare meet his eyes, preferring to fix her gaze on his crotch instead. If he is having an erection, she does not see signs of it.
He waves his hand. “Go on.”
A blush flowers her cheeks. She reaches behind for the clasp of her brassiere. The sun is streaming through the ceiling-to-floor windows, lending a golden glow to her skin. Her brassiere comes off and her breasts spring free. They are large and bouncy and firm. Her nipples are cherry red.
He does not say a word as she digs her thumbs into the sides of her panties and slides them off as well. Her pubic bush is a neat copper triangle between her legs, and she suddenly feels embarrassed – mortified beyond all measure that she is doing this.
Oh, what has she become?
She perches there in her red high heels, aware that red is the striking color of a harlot. Her lipstick is a bright red as well. Her copper hair hangs down her shoulders in curls, not long enough to obscure her breasts.
He breathes sharply, and she rejoices in the sound, because it means she has affected him.
“Look at me, Susan.”
Her heart is pounding hard. She can sense her breasts rising and falling to its furious staccato tap-tap-tapping. She raises her eyes from his fully clothed crotch to his face.
And is blown back by the force of his scorching gaze. She sees the fierce desire in his eyes and the ruthless determination. Her stomach does an uneasy wrench.
“Come here, Susan.” It is a command, not a request.
She treads towards him, the heels of her slippers sinking into the thick carpeting. She can feel his warmth as she approaches – like the radiation off a coal burner.
“Come closer. I want to touch you.”
She sidles up to him as close as she possibly can so that her legs are almost touching his seated knees. Her body trembles at the thought of his nearness. She looks down at his face. Her lips part slightly.
Without a change of expression, his hands grab her breasts. His touch is firm. She gasps as he squeezes both her mounds, lifting them up as though she is a slave for inspection at an ancient marketplace. He tweaks her nipples, sending an erotic current coursing through her chest. Her nipples fill with a rush of blood and her peaks become pointed and erect. Her lungs expand with air. Her entire chest is suffused with warmth.
His right hand trails down her belly and slips between her legs.
“Ohhhh,” she moans.
“Open your legs wider,” he says.
She parts her thighs and feet so that she stands on a broader base. His hand has not left her pussy. Once she has afforded him greater access, he probes her pussy again. His fingers burrow into the clefts between her nether lips and clit on either side, and he compresses her clit like a wedge of lemon. She wasn’t wet before, but she can feel her juices gathering now. The little beads of secretion coalesce and become bigger droplets and even bigger ones until they become sluices – rivers of molten desire.
Her breathing grows more ragged. He senses this and his eyes burn into hers as he increases his merciless rubbing of her most secret valleys. Her sticky juices pour out and trickle over his fingers. He uses her natural lubrication for more leverage, dipping his fingers into her overflowing pot and smearing it all over her throbbing sex.
“Please,” she whispers.
“Please . . . ”
She doesn’t know what she’s going to say. Does she want him to stop? Does she want him to continue? Her mind is clouded with fragments of half thoughts. All she knows is that her entire sensory being is concentrated on that one place where his hand is and her pleasure fountain is bubbling over, frothing at the aperture.
“You’re very wet,” he states.
Two of his fingers plunge into her cream-slicked hole. She gives a little cry of surprise. He doesn’t heed her, choosing to massage the pulps of his now very wet fingers against her velvet walls instead. He makes a clean sweep of her narrow tunnel – an oscillatory movement that sends her head reeling. Then he withdraws his fingers and plunges them in again roughly, startling her.
He fucks her with his fingers this way, and it’s all she can do to maintain her balance. I can’t believe Channing Crawford is doing this to me, she faintly thinks.
He takes out his well-creamed fingers, glistening with her secret juices, and smears them onto her inner thighs.
She breathes sharply. It’s an intimate gesture – one she did not expect from him.