His Indecent Demands (Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire) (3 page)

It’s a traffic light in a crowded intersection.

Uh oh.

The Porsche stops behind a Ford, and a sedan rolls to a halt on their right side where she is seated. Normally, she doesn’t even glance at the drivers and passengers in cars around her, but she is petrified now. She darts a look at Channing.

He grins back.

“What are you anxious about?”

“I-I . . . ”

She has no words. What is she anxious about? That the driver in the car beside theirs would see her tits? Right now, the teenage boy in the baseball cap put on backwards is chewing something and staring straight ahead while talking to someone beside him. She should keep still and not attract his attention.

Channing says, “Even if he sees you, what do you think he’s going to do about it? And what do you care what he thinks?”

Why should she care? She has never thought about it that way. She has been conditioned to think and behave in a certain way, and what Channing has asked her to do violates everything she has ever known. Every fiber of her body is now unbearably straining
not
to move –
not
to seize the dropped bodice of her dress and cover herself up modestly.

“You have beautiful tits,” he says. “I would be proud of them if I were you. Back when I first noticed you, I think it was at some sort of town hall meeting. You were seated upfront with Dan. I was thinking, ‘She’s got a nice rack there. Too bad she’s all covered up’.”

She listens to all this with building amazement. Channing Crawford actually
noticed
her back then? Incredible. She was just a face among a thousand faces. And he still
noticed
her?

The lights thankfully turn green. The teenage boy steps on the gas and revs ahead. Relief washes through her.

Channing steps on his own gas pedal and they zoom off, her bare breasts still jutting protuberantly.

He says, “If you really must know, I was visualizing you naked even then.”

A lump bolts to her throat. Her cheeks are flushed.

“How do you feel about that?” he asks, his voice taking on a different timbre.

How does she feel about him finding her sexually desirable? What a question! How would anyone feel about an extremely handsome, eligible and rich bachelor desiring her?

His hand snakes out again to grope her left breast. He encircles her nipple and plumps the tip of it out. She dare not meet his eyes. She knows what she will see – those two blue orbs penetrating into her very soul.

She finally musters the courage to reply, “That’s very flattering to know, sir.”

“And unexpected?”

“Yes.”

“Why would it be unexpected? Because you’re not confident of yourself as a woman?”

This conversation is taking a turn for the surreal. She frowns. It’s as though she is on a shrink’s purple couch and he’s trying to get her to psychoanalyze herself.

“I am confident of myself as a woman.”

“Are you really? You’re confident of yourself as an employee – as a corporate executive. You’re confident of yourself professionally. In college, you were probably proud of your academic achievements, but you have always lacked conviction in your own physical attributes.”

Her jaw falls agape.

How does he know so much about me?

For these are things she has never really explored on the surface although she knows deep down inside that they are true.
Bone
knowledge, she calls it.
You don’t talk about things like these . . . except to a shrink.

“I’ve always been told that I’m pretty,” she says lamely, “but not beautiful.”

They are heading into a woodland path now. Trees with heavy intertwining foliage flank the road, forming a canopy. She glimpses patches of sky in between.

“Beauty is subjective. You women have always been more captivated by the symmetry and splendor of facial features. As a man, I’m more intrigued by the entire female form.”

“You mean the body?”

Her throat goes ever so dry at the thought of him being captivated by her body. Indeed, his every action seems to suggest so.

He appraises her again with that frank cobalt blue stare, flicking his eyes from her face to her breasts. “You have a great body. You should wear it proudly.”

She does not say anything. His words are burning and tumbling in her brain, branding deep into her consciousness.

He doesn’t talk much, she thinks, but whatever he says hits hard.

They come out of the woodlands into sprawling and undulating meadowland, pockmarked by sparser trees. The palate here is green and gold and red – a fascinating vista of early autumn colors. She’s uplifted despite her situation and her skin tingles with excitement. There isn’t another soul about.

“Where are we?” she asks. She has never been to this part of the country before.

“This place is called Hayden’s Glen.”

She has never heard of it.

He drives them down a path, deeper and deeper into the gorgeous meadow. Despite the relative peace of her surroundings, the apprehension in the pit of her stomach grows and grows.

What is he going to do to me?

Does she have anything to fear from him? No, she decides. He is a CEO and he will never really harm her voluntarily. Still, she feels powerless, completely subjected to his whims and fancies. Completely at his mercy.

It’s frightening and yet exhilarating.

A lone tree stands out in the middle of the vivid landscape. Even as they drive towards it, rolling over soft bumps and tufts of golden, swaying grass, her gaze is drawn to it. Its branches are hoary and broad. Its bark is relatively slender. Its roots sprawl in a profusion of tangles across the ground, possibly more extensive than the tree itself.

He stops the car.

“Come,” he says simply.

She gets out, her dress slipping off. She raises her eyes questioningly to him, and he nods. “Take off your clothes, Susan.”

“All of it?”

“Leave your garters, stockings and shoes on. I like them.”

Ah yes, he likes her heels. And he likes the way her pubic bush is framed by the black garters. She likes the fact that he likes it – that she can turn him on with something as simple as lingerie.

“Go to the tree,” he motions.

He reaches for something in the back of his car.

She lets her dress fall to the ground and steps out of it. The air is crisp and fresh, and it carries the scent of sweet flowers. The soft breeze lifts her copper tresses, and she shivers slightly as she discards her brassiere. She trudges carefully towards the tree, the stubs of her heels digging uncomfortably into the soil. Vivid images of naked nymphs and earth goddesses entwined with wood swarm her mind.

She turns to face him. He comes to her with a rope in his hands. Her stomach does a flip.

“Put your back against the tree and your arms behind it,” he orders.

She presses her back against the bark. The rough, uneven wood digs into her flesh as he goes behind the tree. He seizes her helpless, groping hands and winds the rope around her wrists – one, two, three turns. The rope becomes taut, but not tight enough to cut off her circulation.

“Wriggle your fingers,” he says.

She does so.

“You feel them?”

She nods.

“Good.” He comes to the front again and sizes her up. She can see the flaring of his nostrils as he takes in a deep breath.

He begins to unbutton his shirt. He has left his jacket in the car. She will never tire of watching him to do this – of watching the gleaming skin of his smooth chest being revealed in the ‘V’ of his lapels.

A wave of desire sweeps through the area between her legs.

He peels off his shirt, and his torso is hard and well-muscled in the waning light. Her breath stops in her throat. He’s beautiful. Marvelously, achingly beautiful. She longs to hold him, to run her hands across that broad chest – to finger his dark, erect nipples and skim her palms down his magnificently sculptured abdomen. But she can’t, of course. Her arms are tethered behind the tree.

He undoes his belt, and a sudden frisson of fear trickles through her spine. She is still afraid of being beaten.

“Don’t worry,” he says, eyeing her face. “I’m not going to spank or whip you today . . . though I might . . . tomorrow.”

Her stomach clenches.

He shucks off his pants and boxers, shoes and socks. His cock is ready and wood hard. Her pussy contracts, envisioning his cock inside her.

He comes up to her. She gazes fearfully at his granite still features. She can smell his musky aftershave and feel the heat radiating from his body. Her mouth is very dry. Her muscles are all tense . . . anticipating.

He bends down and seizes both her thighs with his strong hands. He presses her against the tree as he hitches her knees up and splays her thighs wide open. Her feet dangle from his grasp, the nose of her shoes pointing downward. The tip of his extremely erect cock nudges her pussy, sending a shock wave coursing through her clit and groin.

“Ohhhh,” she moans. She wants him so badly.

He doesn’t ask for permission. Without letting her go, he positions his cock – without his hands – at her pussy hole. Grunting, he thrusts himself suddenly into her. She’s already very wet, and as he spears his rod deep inside her, a hoarse cry escapes from her throat.

He fills her – oh so wonderfully. His girth expands her orifice. Every part of her is stretched maximally. His cock head pushes against her cervix, lifting it.

She closes her eyes in the utter bliss of it.

He begins his frenetic rutting. Using the tree as leverage, he grinds his hips against hers. His rhythm is measured at first, and then it rapidly picks up speed. As does his breathing, which ascends into a rhythmic panting.

She whimpers and trashes her head against the tree. Her hair whiplashes against her shoulders and falls around his shoulders like a spray. His chest is compressed against her breasts. Her nipples are squeezed between their two heaving bodies.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she keeps crying. His face is beside hers, and she can smell his sweat. She wonders if he would let her kiss him.

He slams and slams himself into her, as though he’s trying to pound her into the very bark. It’s extremely rough sex, and her buttocks are being grinded repeatedly into the wood. She can feel her soft skin begin to chafe. She can’t help crying out with each thrust, each grind, each undulation of his energized hips.

His cock whacks against her G-spot even as his pubis pistons against the tender nub of her clit. She ascends dizzyingly, buoyed by the peaks of sharp sensations that keep cresting her higher and higher . . . and higher. Her head spins with a kaleidoscope of everything that is melded together into sound, sight, taste and smell.

“Ohhhhhhh!” she screams into the foliage above her. She screams into the reddening sky. She screams and screams as her fingers claw against the bark, against one another, against anything she can get her nails into.

His warm sperm jettisons into her – a flow of molten liquid that is oh-so-satisfying. She can feel it swarm into every crevice, every hidden valley, and just as soon as it gushes in, it trickles out – its fortunes prey to gravity.

For a fleeting moment, she wonders what it would be like to have a child with this man. It would be so easy. Just stop taking the pill and let his sperm do the trick.

But of course, that would be deceitful. He trusts her – his future VP. He trusts that she is keeping herself unfertilized with the pill.

He puts her legs down carefully, and her heels sink into the ground, stumbling over the uneven roots. Her thighs ache from where he has grasped her and from the sheer act of being kept wide apart for so long.

He leans into her, resting his forehead against the bark. His breath comes out in short pants. His slightly stubbled cheek brushes against hers. She’s panting as well. Her sweat is being rapidly evaporated by the cool breeze that blows in from the meadow. Her racing pulse is slowly trending downward, and she can feel her heart drumming down into a steadier beat against her ribs.

She turns her face to his and kisses him lightly on the cheek. It’s more of an unconscious act than a conscious one. It’s something she would do to a lover post-sex – nuzzle against him with sweet kisses.

He freezes.

Too late, she realizes what she has done.

“No,” he murmurs, and draws away.

Their eyes lock. Mesmerizing blue against soft brown.

She whispers, “Why won’t you let me kiss you?”

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and moves away – his now semi-turgid cock pulling out of her wet, wet pussy. Her inner thighs are streaked with their combined juices. The expression on his face is the very same one she has glimpsed yesterday – one of vulnerability and soft, bruised confusion.

The Adam’s apple on his throat moves.

“Let’s go,” he says abruptly.

“I would like to, but you’ll have to untie me first,” she reminds him.