His Indecent Proposition

by Aphrodite Hunt

  She licks her lips nervously. “And would those . . . requests . . . be sexual in nature, sir?”

  He waits a beat before answering, “Yes, for most part.”

  A deep, complex emotion courses through her – strangely filled with equal parts fear, desire and conflict.

  He adds, “I should warn you that there will be pain along with pleasure. You will be possibly be subjected to practices foreign to your nature. I would require your absolute compliance. Once you have agreed, refusal of any of the requests is not an option.”

  She breathes sharply. Her heart is beating very fast against the curvature of her ribs.

  Refusal not an option? Just what does he have in store for her? She thinks of this volatile, dangerous man moving like a thief in Iraqi desert night, and she suddenly has an idea of what he can and will do.

  Her hands begin to tremble at the thought.

  She manages to say, “I would like to think about it, sir.”

  “Needless to say, I trust I’ll have your discretion over the matter.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “I’ll expect your answer first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She nods. She feels as though all the energy has been drained out of her.

  “That will be all, Susan Chalmers.”

  She knows she is being dismissed. She gets up. The back of her panties are soaked through with her pooled sweat.

  As she exits the CEO’s office, she can feel his eyes burning a hole in her back.

  2

  Susan goes back to her room, sits down and stares at her monitor without being able to register a single word onscreen. The meeting plays over and over again in her mind.

  You will do my every bidding . . . my every command.

  I should warn you that there will be pain along with pleasure. You will be possibly be subjected to practices foreign to your nature.

  Once you have agreed, refusal of any of the requests is not an option.

  Every word is like a hammer, a blow in the cavern of her skull.

  She has never been more petrified in her life. Her palms are slick with sweat as she grips the edge of her desk. She can’t even talk about this with anybody . . . well, not if she valued her job.

  She hears voices outside her door and looks up. Leonard Drake is showing a trio of visitors she does not recognize around the office. As they stop to admire a framed sales chart of the best year the company ever had, he takes the opportunity to poke his head in.

  “Ah, you’re back. So how did the meeting go?” He’s cordial, almost chatty. Very unlike his usual demeanor.

  “It went well, thank you for asking,” she says smoothly.

  He grins. “Well, I’d better be getting back to showing our guests the boardroom. This is the Buchanan acquisitions team. Can’t stress enough the importance of getting their account.”

  He leaves, the Buchanan team in tow.

  She’s flummoxed.

  So fast?

  The way the Buchanan acquisition team is chatting to Leonard – amiably, laughing as though they are old friends – is nothing short of appalling. The implications are obvious. She can already see the glistening ink on the contract sheets where they will sign, effectively adding half a billion dollars to the company’s revenue and Leonard’s spreadsheet. She can also see the Human Resource statement slip calculating Leonard’s commission on this.

  And she can clearly visualize ‘LEONARD DRAKE, VICE-PRESIDENT’ in gold letters on the door of the new, much larger office he will occupy, all the way up in the floor just below the CEO’s room.

  She stares out of the door at their retreating backs, her mind turning cartwheels.

  A short musical tone from her docked laptop alerts her. Incoming email. She checks her Inbox. It’s bradthornbird@yahoo.com .

  Frowning, she clicks it open.

  It says: “Hi babe, can’t make it for dinner tonite. Somethin came up.”

  Her mouth flattens. Brad is always doing this – cancelling at the last minute and leaving her in a lurch to make plans of her own.

  She looks at her palms. Her flesh is indented with her fingernails. Her head feels as though it’s been laundered in some super spin cycle of a washing machine.

  You already know what you’re going to do.

  So do it.

  3

  For the second time that day, she walks into the CEO’s office. Ms. Radcliff is standing up behind her desk and reaching for her purse.

  “Susan,” she says in surprise. “It’s lunchtime. Aren’t you going out?”

  “I just have something to say to Mr. Crawford. It’s regarding a suggestion he made this morning,” Susan says. The blood rushes in her ears and makes all sorts of turbine-like noises. She can hardly hear herself speak.

  “Of course. Just let me buzz Mr. Crawford. He’s not used to sudden interruptions.”

  “Tell him it’s urgent.”

  Ms. Radcliffe puts down her purse and punches a button on her phone. “Mr. Crawford? Susan Chalmers here to see you. She says it’s urgent. Yes, twice in one day, it must be important.” She laughs.

  Susan watches this exchange. She envies the seemingly comfortable camaraderie between Ms. Radcliffe and her boss. If only it were this easy –

  Ms. Radcliffe puts down the phone and smiles. “You can go right in.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t keep him too long. He doesn’t usually take lunch, but it’s also his private hour, and so I wouldn’t want to take too much out of it if I were you.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  OK, here goes. Susan steels herself, bites her lower lip and pushes through the double doors. It’s amazing how much this man affects her. No man should have the right to affect me this much.

  She’s immediately assaulted by those electric blue eyes in that wonderfully sculpted face. She almost takes a step back in terror. At the same time, she can’t take her eyes off him. She’s like a prey which must soon be devoured by a predator . . . and this will be of her own choosing.

  “Twice in a day, Susan,” he says, not getting up from behind his desk. “I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me.”

  Again, she feels the power radiating out of him. Her stomach goes queasy again and her feet wobble in her high heels. If he were ugly and old, she could at least attempt to marginalize what she is about to do. But he’s young, extremely handsome and fascinatingly powerful in every sense of the word. Omnipresent is the term she ascribes to him. He sucks all the air out of the room, and she’s breathless as a result.

  Before she can lose her nerve, she says in a rush, “Yes.”

  “Yes to what?”

  “Yes to your proposition, sir. I w-want the job and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” A warm flush traverses down her body as she says this.

  He regards her for a long, long time, and she’s beginning to think that perhaps she had heard him wrong previously . . . and he has no idea what she’s talking about. In fact, this entire morning might have been a dream brought on by too much stress.

  I think I’m losing it.

  Then his eyes crinkle in amusement. He says, “I’m glad to hear of it, Susan Chalmers. I admire ambition when it comes to ascending the corporate ladder. Reminds me of myself when I was younger.”

  I thought you were in the military, she wanted to say, but she isn’t certain. There are so many things she isn’t certain about when it comes to Channing Crawford.

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” he says. “You have the right body proportions . . . everything I like in the female form. Take off your clothes.”

  She thinks she didn’t hear right.

  “Wh-what?”

  “I said take off your clothes. I would like to see the merchandise before I trade in a VP post for it.”

  Merchandise. So that’s what he thinks of her. Dread pools in the pit of her stomach.

  “You mean right here?”

  “No, I mean in the street.” He leans
back. “Of course I mean right here. You can lock the door if you feel more comfortable.”

  Again, the fleeting thought – so fast? – crosses her churning mind. She hesitates only for a moment, and then she turns to wrench the double lock in the door so that it slides back home. Click. No escape now.

  She turns to him again.

  It’ll be OK. He finds me beautiful.

  I can do this.

  She begins to unbutton her blouse from top to bottom. He stares at her – a frank appraising gaze that simultaneously unnerves and excites her. Oh yes, she is excited as well because he is a very, very attractive man. And he wants me. He wants me enough to see me naked. Her buttons are gold, and she undoes them carefully, her fingers almost slipping because of accumulated sweat.

  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.