His Indecent Proposition

By: Aphrodite Hunt



“Nice,” he says once she is completely naked but for her shoes. She makes to toe them off, but he says, “No, leave them on. I like you with them.”

He starts to shrug off his dark jacket. It’s made out of the finest homespun wool, she can see. He loosens his grey tie until its noose becomes a wide oval, and slips it off his neck. Her heart skips a beat as he unbuttons his white shirt – one button at a time. His hairless chest peeks between the lapels. It’s well-formed, as she suspects, with pectorals that are bulging, but not too much. Just like her before him, he pulls the hem of his shirt out of his belt.

She can’t take her eyes off him. His abs are washboard hard and the muscle delineation of his arms suggests a man who works out in the gym at least three times a week. He is not bodybuilder bulky and he is lean, with no ounce of spare fat anywhere on his torso.

Is it wrong for her to desire him?

He appears to desire her as well, as evidenced by the mild flaring of his nostrils. He unbuckles his belt – brown leather with a gold ‘G’ Gucci insignia upon it. He is wearing boxers underneath, and the bulge at his crotch is obvious.

Oh so obvious.

A tendril of desire and expectation runs between her legs.

She expects him to take the belt off and drop his pants, but he doesn’t.

“Come here, Susan.”

Like a shivering filly, she goes to him. Her red heels spear the carpet and leave peg-like imprints. When she gets close enough, he grabs her breasts again.

“I like these,” he says, roaming his hands over her rich curves and nipples. He pinches her nipples – not painfully – and watches as they swell and perk up. Her stomach does a flip flop.

“May I kiss you?” she whispers.

This takes him aback.

“You want to kiss me?”

“Yes. I would like that . . . very much.”

“Why?”

Now it’s her turn to be unsettled. She falters. “I-I thought we’re going to make love.”

He smiles benignly. “I don’t make love, Susan Chalmers. I fuck. Hard. Many times a day. And I don’t kiss either. Now turn around.”

She’s trembling. The word ‘fuck’ reverberates in her head. She turns and proffers him the view of her back. She holds her breath as his hands slide down her back and waist, lingering upon the hourglass curve of her hips. She is not a thin or small woman. She trends towards the voluptuous, and she has to really watch what she eats lest she puts on weight.

His hands dip down to the swell of her buttocks. He cups them.

“Have you ever been spanked, Susan?”

A sliver of fear blossoms within her spine and traverses all the way down to her legs.

“No, sir.”

He continues to caress the firm flesh of her buttocks as her anticipation – and terror – escalates. No, she has never been spanked. Never contemplated it. She has never been physically hit in her entire life. She has heard of such sexually-orientated practices, of course, but has always chalked their practitioners to be rock star and celebrity types; not normal everyday people.

But Channing Crawford is far from being your normal everyday person.

He takes huge chunks of her buttock flesh in his palms and squeezes. “You have wonderfully unblemished skin.”

Her heart skips several beats. She’s frightened, and at the same time, she wants him to slide his hand between her legs from the back and finger her pussy, which is once again extremely wet. She wants him to delve into the recesses between her clit and pussy lips again.

Disappointingly, he withdraws his hands. He walks to her front and gestures to a low glass table in the middle of the sofa and armchair arrangement.

“Get on top of that,” he commands. “Get on your hands and knees on all fours.”

Her pulse is hammering at her throat as she climbs onto the table. But it’s glass. Won’t it break? The table seems sturdy enough, and it doesn’t even shift as she concentrates her weight on one part of it.

He’s done this before, she thinks.

She crouches on her palms and knees, her buttocks up in the air. Her shoes jut beyond the table’s edge.

“Spread your legs wider,” he says from behind her. “I want to see that pussy.”

She complies; shifting her knees on the glass surface as far as the edges of the table would allow her. He remains standing behind her as the sun sinks beneath the tops of the buildings and twilight encroaches upon them.

Oh, but she so badly wants to be touched down there. Surely he can see the glistening dewdrops of desire on the mouth of her sex, which is opening and closing like a hungry anemone?

She hears the soft swish of his belt being taken off. She cringes. A little moan escapes her throat.

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