The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)

by Aphrodite Hunt

  THE GORGEOUS NAKED MAN IN MY STORM SHELTER

  By Aphrodite Hunt

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 by Aphrodite Hunt

  Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

  WORKS BY APHRODITE HUNT

  The ‘Initiation’ series

  Open Your Legs for Me

  Blindfolded and Spread-eagled

  Thighs Wide Apart

  Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy

  The Final Initiation

  The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories

  The ‘Initiation 2’ series

  Open Your Legs for my Family

  ‘The Royal Captive’ series

  Prince Miro’s Capture

  Prince Miro’s Submission

  Prince Miro’s Enslavement

  Prince Miro’s Punishment

  Prince Miro’s Escape

  Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation

  The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series

  I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac

  Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me

  Gang Banged by the Chain Gang

  Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)

  When He’s Inside You

  My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper

  The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)

  Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates

  THE GORGEOUS NAKED MAN IN MY STORM SHELTER

  Prologue

  “I want to see her,” he demands.

  My heart leaps. He’s thinking of me.

  “Maybe if you’re on your best behavior.” The woman lets the barely veiled threat linger. “Now I want you naked. Take off your clothes.”

  Oh God. She wouldn’t. No.

  My nightmares are becoming real.

  I scream his name into the two-way mirror. I rock myself, but my bonds are punishing and secure.

  His desperate eyes pass over me in his side of the mirror and flicks away. They return to her. I realize he can’t see or hear me.

  “Take off your clothes,” she commands. “This is the last time I’m going to say it.”

  Don’t do it, I will him. Please . . . don’t!

  He stares at her for a prolonged, resolute moment, and lets his shoulders droop. Sighing, he peels off his T-shirt. Despair engulfs me.

  I call his name with every shred of voice I have left in me, even though I know it will be in vain. Tears squeeze out of my eyes.

  His magnificent torso gleams in the overhead lights. The planes of his abs are a sight to behold. He reaches for the zipper of his jeans. She watches him with the same abstract fascination as when she viewed me in the gynecological chair a couple of days earlier. He is not wearing any underwear, and so his marvelous cock – which is thankfully not erect – uncurls itself from its resting state.

  He drops his pants, and then bends over to ease his feet out of his shoes. Every part of him is a sculptured dream. Every part of him screams out to be touched, caressed, stroked and worshiped.

  Finally naked, he is the most splendid creature I have ever seen. He is a god.

  No, more than a god. Different. Unusual.

  Unique.

  “Put your hands behind your head. Then turn around. I want to look at you.”

  His movements are burdened and reluctant in every step of the way. He seems to be fighting some struggle within himself. Then he complies, placing both hands at the back of his skull like a prisoner of war. She scrutinizes his body with the curiosity of a scientist.

  I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from screaming when she moves in to touch him.

  1

  Today, my man hate is more pronounced than ever.

  It’s the sixth anniversary (by month) of my divorce from Kenneth, who shall henceforth be referred to as ‘that bastard’. I have decided to officially hate all men across the galaxy.

  I’m woebegone and dishing out an extra scoop of Rocky Road ice-cream onto my favorite bowl, the one with a pretty herb-and-leaf pattern and several chips on it.

  In the past year of my official separation, I’ve experienced more tailspin emotions than a B-grade movie actress. It’s tough enough to live in tornado country, but to do it alone in Tecumseh – population 6400 – as a divorced woman is extremely trying to say the least.

  Kenneth and I moved to the country because we wanted a country life. You know, the works – with dogs, horses, cats and wild animals (like tortoises) roaming our backyard. It didn’t matter if he had to drive two hours to work every day. We had a house in the country at twice the size of what we could have afforded back in the city, and a backyard that is ten acres long. I even quit my job as a paralegal in the law firm from hell to be a fulltime homemaker and country wife.

  Of course, that was when times were better and we were both trying for a baby.

  Three years later, I was the only one who tried. The baby never came. Kenneth’s dental clinic business took a downspin. It became too costly to keep the horses and dogs. I only ever saw a tortoise once in the shrubs at the edge of our property. A tornado took our entire garage off, and we spent a small fortune repairing it. That was before we significantly increased our house insurance premiums to include ‘foul weather’.

  Kenneth took off with his receptionist (kudos for originality, you ‘bastard’) and I’m left all alone with some alimony and a cat named Derek who never comes when he’s called, which means he’s probably gone prowling at the neighbors’.

  At least I’ve got the house, though fat lot of good it does me. It consumes a lot of hellish heating. I’d dearly love to move back to the city, though property prices have taken a dip since and I’d be at the losing end if I attempted to sell the house at current market rates.

  Now I’m half-listening to the radio as the pitter-patter of fierce rain slams against the glass windows. The evening is turning out to be as horrible as my life.

  “ . . . tornado warning in the south-east. Proceed to your storm shelters or safe rooms immediately,” I half-hear the announcer say on the transistor radio I keep on the kitchen cabinet.

  Drats.

  I’m cozy and comfy in my warm kitchen, and the last thing I want to do is retire to my barren and miniscule underground storm shelter outside. That’s right. We have a storm shelter. Kenneth had it built after the tornado-tearing garage incident.

  I jab my spoon into the tub of ice-cream. To go or not to go, that is the question. I stare balefully at the darkening sky through the windows. The clouds are galloping across the horizon and the wind is buffeting my roof tiles in a constant whooooo that I had not earlier registered in my melancholy.

  Do I really want to live anyway? Maybe I should just give in to the fates and the wind and whatever tornado comes my way. Life is significantly overrated, at least for me.

  I sigh.

  Outside, something flaps across my lawn and gets blown away by the furious wind. I think it’s a tarp. I can’t be sure if it came from my rebuilt garage or someone else’s rebuilt garage. The tornados have been more frequent of late, a strange phenomenon that the locals are attributing to El Nino, or La Nina, or the end of the world, whichever comes first.

  A loud spatter on the roof makes me jump. The storm is gathering heat . . . and water. Perhaps it’s best to h
eed the radio warnings and proceed in an orderly manner to my storm shelter, even if I don’t feel like moving a limb beyond my Ben and Jerry’s tub of Rocky Road ice-cream.

  Harnessing the last dregs of my will to survive, I make my way to the lounge. I can’t remember exactly what’s in my storm shelter, but I think I must have put in some bottles of water, some food cans and a can opener, a couple of flashlights with spare batteries and a battery-powered radio. Is there a blanket in there? I can’t remember either, so I dart into my bedroom upstairs to snatch a quilt off my empty bed.

  The temperature has not dipped despite the storm. It is summer. I don a pullover anyway and a transparent raincoat over that. Braving myself, I open the front door to the elements. The wind and rain immediately pelt my naked face with sharp stinging drops the size of golf balls. The hood of my raincoat is whipped from my hair.

  I slam the door shut and run into the storm with my quilt tucked in my arms. I’m sure I have forgotten a dozen and one things I will regret later, but there’s no time to think of anything else but to get out of the rain. The screaming wind sends several other objects rolling in the grass. I’m glad none of them is a flying car.

  Where is Derek? Should I go hunt for him? That damned cat. He can probably look after himself in a storm better than I can anyway. I’m going to assume he’s safe in some snug cat hole with some female kitty.

  The storm shelter is a little distance away from the house, so that if the latter should collapse, it wouldn’t be on top of the shelter’s door. The door itself is raised at an angle from the ground. I dash to it and grasp the large handle. I expect it to be difficult to prize open and up, seeing that I haven’t used it in a while. But to my surprise, the door yields to my touch easily.

  In my haste, I almost tumble down the tiny stairway leading down to the actual shelter. It’s not a huge place – around ten feet by twelve, just enough for a tiny family to be fairly comfortable in for several hours or so. I expect it to be pitch black, and I wasn’t going to shut the door behind me until I had gotten to one of the flashlights on the shelves.

  So imagine my surprise to find the little room lighted up. The spectacle of a naked man huddled against the far wall hits me like a slap in the face.

  I drop the quilt in my arms and scream.

  2

  The man is equally shocked by my presence.

  In the steady yellow corona of a flashlight (my flashlight, I realize, appropriated from the shelves of my own storm shelter), he is mostly in shadow, and so I can’t really make him out. The flashlight’s lamp is pointed away from me and towards me.

  I’m petrified and completely rooted to the spot. My tongue is frozen to the roof of my mouth, and the blood rushing in my ears merges with the angry howl of the wind outside.

  A loud thud above me jerks me out of my trance. I realize that the little room has gotten darker, and that the door of the shelter has been slammed shut by the wind.

  I’m trapped inside with the intruder.

  A bright flower of panic jolts me to my senses and galvanizes my muscles into action.

  I rush up the stairs, two at a time. With all my strength, I yank the door handle and push the damned wooden thing upwards, but it refuses to yield. I shove my entire shoulder against the barrier. I only succeed in lifting it up an inch. In that inch of exterior proffered to me, I can see the entire world gone berserk out there. Leaves tear across the landscape. A huge woody object hurtles with amazing speed towards me and to my dread, I realize it is an uprooted tree.

  I quickly let go of the door. It shuts with a gleeful bang. Out there, a series of crashes and vicious sounding knocks register above the din.

  I’m once again trapped inside with the intruder.

  I’m at the top of the stairs, with my back against the door, and he is holding up the flashlight at the bottom. The flashlight’s white hot glare blinds me and I have to shield my eyes with my raised forearm.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I squeak.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says in a surprisingly deep voice. “Please . . . stay calm.”

  I’m calm, I’m calm, I tell myself. I’m fucking calmer than a glacier in the middle of winter. Inside, I feel like screaming out all the roiling banshees in my stomach. He’s got a different accent, I can’t help noticing. Where is he from? Not from the Midwest, I believe. Canada?

  “Then point that thing away from me, please,” I say in a quavering voice.

  “OK.” He diverts the flashlight’s beam away from my face, and I immediately see green haloes on my retinas.

  I’m debating whether or not to descend the stairs. How much can I trust an intruder in my own house anyway? OK, technically he’s an intruder in my storm shelter. But still –

  “You can come down here,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “What are you doing here?” My voice wears a betraying crack.

  “I came to seek shelter. Is this your home? If so, I’m sorry. I just needed a place to stay.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  He eyes me blankly for a moment. Then he says, “I don’t know. I don’t remember who I am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The last thing I remember is waking up in the woods. I don’t remember who I am or where I came from.”

  “Don’t you have any identity on yourself? Like a social security card or a wallet?”

  He hesitates. “No.”

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  Something about his stance and his helpless story (if it’s true, which I have my doubts) makes me relax my guard a little. Straightening my legs, I make to come down the stairs crablike. I’m aware of how I must look in the glow of the averted flashlight – wet, with my hair plastered on my forehead and around my neck, and all shiny in my Shrinkwrap of a raincoat. Bulky as well, I suppose, with the jumper on top of my long T-shirt.

  Too late, I realize I’m only wearing a pair of shorts.

  He makes no attempt to move aside. As I get closer, I almost stumble upon the steps in shock.

  He’s completely naked.

  My trembling hand reaches for the shelf on the wall where another flashlight sits. It’s a larger one than the one he has appropriated. I turn its full glare on him and he winces.

  I can’t help but stare.

  He is singularly the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.

  His face is as sculptured as a god’s – with his slim, perfect nose that would have been a die-cast for any plastic surgeon’s model, his lush full lips, his large blue-green eyes and his high cheekbones. His features meld together in such a perfect and yet exotic ensemble that I’m led to believe that he is not fully Caucasian. OK, his skin is pale, but that hardly accounts for anything. His short dark hair – shaped in a widow’s peak – falls appealingly across his wide forehead.

  His body . . . hot damn, where do I even begin? He’s a tall man, well over 6’ 2” – with pectorals and abs to die for. Every limb of his is spectacularly muscled at all the right places without appearing bodybuilder bulky. And oh, those six perfectly delineated squares on his stomach – they are washboard hard and amazingly sexy.

  My eyes dip down to his penis.

  It’s huge.

  Even though it’s not erect, it’s sizeable. I would never usually describe a penis as beautiful, but I swear it’s the most beautiful penis I have ever seen. Its head is perfectly shaped and nicely uncircumcised, with a juicy bulbous protrusion ringed by a corona of firm skin. The glans gives off a shining reflection in the flashlight. The shaft wears a proud branched vein that snakes all the way to its root, where a tidy bush of dark hair nestles. The intruder’s balls are firm and nicely tucked behind his rod.

  Intruder or not, an actual spasm of long-forgotten desire runs through my groin. It’s fleeting, but I recognize it for what it is.

  Oh God.

  Unbelievable. I’m actually having the hots for a total stranger who can turn on me in my own storm shelter and rob me at
any time.

  He’s staring at me staring at his cock. He does not seem to be overtly shy. He licks his lower lip and says in a halting tone, “What is a soce . . . societal security card?”

  My cheeks are flaming. I’m staring and he knows I’m staring. I raise my eyes to his face again, which is glorious to behold.

  “Wh-what did you say?”

  He’s uncertain. “What is a social card?” he repeats.

  Is he for real? I’m not sure what they have in Canada or wherever he came from, but I’m sure they have some sort of social security. Then again, he’s an amnesiac and he’s foreign. He’s probably forgotten we have a society and cards to go with it.

  “You don’t remember anything at all about yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Not even any images? Flashes from your childhood?”

  He pauses for a long time as though to search his memories. He finally says, “No.”

  The look on his wonderful features is one of blank confusion.

  I’m beginning to think he may not be so dangerous after all. Still, it pays to be cautious. He can still be pretending to be an amnesiac and be after everything in my paltry wallet. Or something else. Though I can’t imagine why a man who looks the way he does would want that something else from someone like me.

  Slowly, without making any overtly sudden movements, I strip off my wet raincoat. My wet hair sticks in straggly patches to my scalp. I’m aware I must look a fright. My shoes are soaked through. The temperature in the shelter is a lot lower than outside. Maybe it’s all that cold steel surrounding us. I find myself shivering.

  “You should take off your shoes,” the man observes.

  He does not seem to be affected by the cold. I ease off my sneakers, watching him all the way. He has incredibly long eyelashes that frame irises that are startling in their brightness. He has backed away from me quite a bit, though not from alarm (thank goodness). He seems to have let down his guard as well. The room is small, so there’s nowhere for him to go but with his back towards the wall.