His Indecent Proposition (3 page)

Her red silk blouse parts to reveal her
brassiere – black, lacy, expensive La Perla. Her blouse is tucked
into the waistband of her skirt. She pulls it out. She unbuttons
the rest of it and peels it off. Her skin is white because she has
not gone on a vacation for a long, long time – not since Christmas,
and you can’t exactly get a tan during Christmas. She has been
working hard, immersing herself in project after project so that
she has no time to work on herself.

She lays the blouse carefully on one of the
chairs facing his desk. She doesn’t think she should drop it onto
the floor like a common stripper. This is, after all, essentially a
job interview.

She reaches for the zipper at the back of
her pencil skirt.

“Come here,” he motions to the side of his
desk. “I want to see you more clearly.”

Yes, of course. He doesn’t want to be
obstructed by the bric-bracs on his desk – the pen holders, the
commemorative plaques, the files, the piles of documents.

She walks nervously to the other side of his
desk, where there is a direct unobstructed line between his chair
and her body. She resumes unzipping her skirt – a demure tartan
piece that shows off her slim hips and emphasizes her long, shapely
legs. She lets the skirt fall onto a crumpled heap at her ankles,
and then steps out of it.

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 what?”

“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.

“You can put on your clothes again, Susan,”
he says, his mouth twitching into a grin.

“Yes, thank you.” Part of her is relieved,
and yet another part wants to remain naked so that he can revel in
her beauty.

“You can put all your clothes back on except
. . . ” he lets it trail “ . . . your underwear.”

“Wh-what?” Once again, he takes her by
surprise.

“This is a condition, Susan. From now until
next Friday, I don’t want you to wear any panties. No pants either.
You are only allowed to wear skirts and dresses. You may wear a
brassiere under your blouse, but that’s about it. Is that
understood?” His voice takes on an edge.

She feels her stomach contract. “Yes,
sir.”

“Good, I like that. Obedience is a
virtue.”

He watches her dress. She puts on all her
clothes again except for her black lacy panties. She leaves it
hanging from the back of the chair.

“You may go now, Susan. Come back here at
six. Ms. Radcliffe would have left by then. I trust you have no
dinner plans.”

She doesn’t anymore. “No.”

“Good. Had you any, I would have asked you
to change them. See you later, Susan Chalmers.”

The sun in the windows has gone behind a
cloud. She turns back to look at him, and her breath catches. He’s
insanely, gloriously beautiful.

The little kernel of need between her naked
legs is actually now looking forward to six o’ clock. She shudders
in anticipation of what he has in store for her.

4

It’s strange not to be wearing any
underwear. It makes her hyperaware – of the moistness between her
legs, of her femininity, of the way her pussy folds rub against one
another.

She’s extremely self-conscious when she
walks through the office. She feels as if everyone is gazing at her
skirt with knowing sidelong glances. Every roll of her buttocks
seems to be accentuated. When she sits, she keeps her thighs
clasped firmly together. Although her skirt is below her knees, she
feels naked.

A draft seems to be perpetually blowing
between her legs.

Worse still, she hasn’t stopped creaming
since noon. Every time she shifts her legs, a trickle flows out
again and she’s mortified. There’s a wet stain on her skirt’s back
lining that is spreading wider as she sits, and she daren’t get
up.

Oh, this is bad, bad, bad.

She longs to reach for a tissue from the box
behind her and wipe the sopping mess that her pussy has become. But
she daren’t for fear that someone passing by might peek through the
blinds.

Oh, what a dilemma!

5

At six p.m. sharp, she’s at Channing
Crawford’s office. True to his word, Ms. Radcliffe’s chair is
empty.

She readies herself by taking a deep breath.
She has brushed her hair so that her copper curls fall softly and
prettily around her shoulders. She has put some makeup on – soft
magenta eyeliner and a touch of eye shadow on her lids, as well as
red lipstick. She realizes she wants to look beautiful for him.
Well, as beautiful as she possibly can, anyway. She wants to please
him – make him desire her.

This is no different from a date, she tells
herself.

She raps the door twice, and then
enters.

He is standing by the windows and looking at
the glorious sunset outside. The red ball of sun has sunk between
two skyscrapers and has touched the surrounding sky with a hazy
crimson tint. He is silhouetted against this amazing view, and he
turns as she approaches him.

“Very punctual,” he remarks. “I like what I
see of you so far, Susan Chalmers.”

She is aware of the implications of that
statement. “Thank you, sir.”

So far, he has not asked her to stop calling
him ‘sir’. It must be his military upbringing, she decides.

“Are you naked beneath your skirt,
Susan?”

“Yes.”

Oh, but he is so beautiful. Prior to today,
she has only seen him from a distance – the closest being from
across a boardroom table.

“Show me,” he says. “Lift up your
skirt.”

It is an unusual request – one that she has
never had before, not even at a doctor’s office. She bends down and
tugs the hem of her skirt up. She raises it high – to above the
level of her hips. His eyes rove down to her revealed pussy.

She’s embarrassed to find herself wet again.
Very wet. In fact, she’s running all over with a sudden deluge of
juices at the thought of him scrutinizing her.

“Very good,” he says. “Did you caress
yourself in your office?”

Caress herself? No. She shakes her head.

“You should. I would like to see you caress
yourself before our week is up. Now take off your clothes.”

With his heated eyes inspecting her every
move, she removes her clothes and lays them neatly on the back of
the chair once again. She wonders what he has done with her
previously discarded panties.

“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.