His Indecent Desires (Bound and Shacked to the Billionaire Erotic Romance)

by Hunt, Aphrodite

  She says, “Have you found him?”

  “No. He’s disappeared seemingly into thin air.”

  That is ominous.

  She lets the silence between them elapse as she picks at her own food. Then she says, “I need to go back to get my clothes if I’m to stay here any longer.”

  “Of course. Though it’s tempting to let you remain naked.”

  She glances at him to see if he’s teasing, but he maintains a seriously intense expression, although the right side of his mouth twitches.

  When they have finished eating, she starts to clear the dishes.

  “No, leave them,” he says, rising from his chair and coming to her. He clasps her waist. “I need to de-stress.”

  Her heart leaps as she sees the purposeful desire in his eyes. She raises her hands to his shoulders.

  “Let’s go to the dungeon,” he says huskily.

  5

  She admits to being scared. She follows him timidly, her heels digging into the carpet, as he unlocks the iron dungeon door with an old-fashioned key. Here they are, master and slave again. She wonders if he purposefully designed the door this way – to intimidate the submissive before she even steps across the threshold.

  If that is his objective, he has succeeded well. She’s virtually quaking as the door whines open.

  “Don’t worry, Susan. You’ll enjoy this,” he says.

  She isn’t so sure. She wants him inside her badly, she can’t deny that. But this is a whole new experience. She remembers the spanking and how she had cried at that, and her legs wobble as they propel her into the viper’s pit.

  The dungeon is cavernous. Channing closes the door behind them with a clang, and she jumps. She notes that the door on the inside is decked with en electronic panel – a strange modern application that clashes jarringly with the rustic material it’s embedded in.

  It’s a strange chamber, about the size of a large office meeting room. The walls are opaque grey. Various pieces of furniture that resemble medieval torture racks line the perimeter, alongside black cabinets and metal safes.

  She quails.

  His palm is at her back, stroking her gently. “Don’t be afraid. It’s going to be OK. You’ll like it . . . if you let your inhibitions go and free your mind.”

  She remembers the pact she made with him. Her body at his every whim in exchange for her promotion to Vice-President. Much of it has been enjoyable . . . so far . . . but now, at the sight of all this BDSM paraphernalia, she isn’t so sure. Maybe she had made a pact with the devil himself. He’s certainly handsome enough.

  He says, “This doubles up as a panic room. The walls, ceiling and floor are concrete. They are padded with asbestos and other insulated structures.”

  “A panic room?”

  “Yes. To protect its occupants,” he says this in a meaningful tone.

  I could have hidden here last night, she thinks faintly. Oh, the irony of it.

  He goes to a tripod and caresses the wood. It is a triangular structure, almost like an easel. There are leather bonds at the top and at the sides. She can envision herself being bound upon it – wrists at the top and thighs stretched out and tied to the side beams. She recoils from it.

  “Why so frightened?” he asks her, amused.

  It’s this room, she wants to say. It’s too much. She thinks of torture and inquisitions, and all her bravery in the face of adversity (and ambition) flees.

  He reads her mind. “I’m not going all hardcore on you. I’ve spanked you before, and you liked it.”

  She isn’t sure she liked the spanking, only that she liked his cock in her mouth and him fucking her. Yes, that’s what she likes. And being under his total domination. Being desired by him. Being wanted by him. Being loved by him, not that it’s likely to happen.

  “That’s as far as I would go where pain is concerned,” he assures her. “Spanking. A little whipping. Nothing major.”

  Whipping? The blood drains from her brain. She’s afraid of whips. She’s afraid of pain. Oh, oh, oh. She’s confused as to what she’s afraid of.

  He places his hand at her back and shepherds her to a strange contraption on the floor. It has a half-circlet attached to vertical rod, which is in turn attached to an adjustable horizontal bar on the floor. About two feet away from this is a larger half-circlet, designed to accommodate the circumference of a body, also attached to a similar rod and bar. At both ends of either horizontal bar, leather straps trail on the stone floor.

  “I want you to get on this, Susan,” he says.

  Get on this? How? Her apprehension begins to churn.

  “Place your neck here.” He indicates the smaller half-circlet.

  Oh, so that’s what it is for. Feeling ill at ease, she obeys him. He helps her place her slender neck upon the broad base of the half-circlet. The metal is cold. He adjusts the rod so that she can spread her arms out in an inverted ‘V’ to be ensnared by the bonds on the horizontal bar.

  He does the same to her waist, so that it snuggles comfortably into the larger semi-circlet. She is still in her French maid’s outfit. He spreads her thighs out so that they are in the same position as her arms – bound by the leather straps.

  He steps back to admire his handiwork. She can see the very obvious bulge in his pants. He starts to take his clothes off, beginning with his shirt, and then his shoes and socks, and finally his pants. Despite her discomfiture, she can watch him doing this forever – watch his gleaming torso being revealed like a god shedding off his mortal accoutrements.

  His eyes narrow as he gazes at her. After all, her cleavage is more pronounced than ever, and her pussy and buttocks are completely revealed at the back. Somehow, she feels more naked this way than if she were to be fully nude. The semi-circlets are cold upon her skin. The one at her neck presses upwards against her jaw, and she shifts her head to ease the pressure on her chin.

  Once he is completely nude, he goes to one of the mysterious black cabinets and pulls out the top drawer. She spies an array of metallic instruments inside and shudders. What can she do now? She is effectively trapped like a prisoner. She can struggle all she wants to (and she’s not sure she wants to) and no one will hear her in this dungeon/panic room with its forbiddingly thick walls.

  He takes an instrument and comes back to her. His extremely erect cock bounces up and down as he walks – a delectable rod of flesh in itself. She finds herself running her tongue over her lower lip at the sight of it. He stands in front of her, his cock at her eye level, literally pointing at her.

  “Do you know what this is?” He shows her the instrument. It is a short and blunt conical structure which flares to a wide base.

  She shakes her head fearfully.

  He strokes her hair. Tenderly. “It’s not going to hurt. You might even like it.”

  He moves behind her, tethered as she is, and fingers her butt. Her ass cheeks are already parted, and he easily slides in the narrow anal plug into her tight back passage. She gives a cry of surprise. She can feel her sphincter stretching, and it is not uncomfortable . . . merely strange. She puckers her rectal muscles, allowing the foreign presence to assimilate to her nerve endings. Like the clamps she had worn earlier at the office, she will have to get used to it.

  “You know, I can look at you forever,” he says from behind her.

  He moves the anal plug inside her so that it makes a sweep of her perimeter. Her pussy creams at the new sensations. He is right. She actually likes the new sensations the plug invokes.

  He caresses her buttocks and her open pussy from behind, dipping into her hole and smearing her loins with her own juices. She hisses with pleasure, especially as he strokes the bottom half of her clit. Her vagina is tremulous again, starving for his cock. She wants him to take her with the anal plug in her other hole.

  Oh, she wants him so badly!

  She wonders if she can ask him to fuck her. They are after all still in a dom/submissive master-slave relationship at this juncture.

&
nbsp; Please, please fuck me, Channing.

  If he read her mind, he disappointingly chooses to ignore it. He moves away from her pussy and walks to her front. He drags a chair before her and seats himself. Then he creeps with the chair very, very close to her face. His thighs are splayed wide open and his cock is at the level of her mouth.

  She knows what he wants her to do.

  “Suck me,” he says simply.

  He thrusts his penis into her willing, eager mouth. She pulls at it, her cheeks hollowing. His flesh tastes simultaneously of sweetness and saltiness, and she imbibes his manly scent as he shoves himself deeper into her mouth. His girth is so huge that she has difficulty licking his skin while her tongue is being compressed. There’s a dewdrop of pre-cum at his aperture, and it rubs off on her soft palate.

  She takes him in deeper . . . and deeper, until his crown is at the opening of her throat. He begins to slide himself in and out of her mouth in a semblance of fucking. This time, he is rougher. She grazes his tender flesh with her teeth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His breathing grows more ragged as his pumping ascends in speed.

  His hands clasp the sides of her head. He whips his fingers in between the strands of her hair.

  “Close your cheeks around me,” he says in a hoarse voice.

  She tries her best. From his rhythm and increased panting, she can tell that he wants her to finish him . . . and do it quickly. He’s so hard that he feels like the iron rod her head is perched on. Immobilized as she is, she can only be his willing accomplice.

  The half-circlet beneath her chin is warm from her body temperature and slick with her sweat. Her jaw aches from maintaining its position. From his jerking motions, she can tell he’s very close to coming. He is starting to grunt and moan – lovely sounds to her ears.

  He comes – a long hot jet stream of cum. It bursts upon her throat like a shower of sparks. Rich and decadently frothy, like a boiling river of Guinness. She lets it seep into her throat, and every time it threatens to brim, she swallows it. There’s so much of it. An endless tide, it seems. On and on it flows, and just when she thinks there will be no more, out spurts another gush.

  It’s bliss on tap. Drinking from the man she loves.

  He immerses his flesh in the tepid pool as he softens bit by bit. His panting slows. He’s not pulling out yet. He appears to like it in there – a pool of another sort in the cavern of her mouth.

  The anal plug intrudes upon her consciousness.

  He reluctantly extracts his cock. It’s still semi-hard.

  “Thank you,” he says softly.

  This is the third time he has said thank you to her in the last twenty-four hours. Is their relationship shifting? Her heart expands, but she quells down the hope. Never never give yourself a goal too out of reach.

  He rises from the chair and pushes it backward with a graceful shrug of his hips. He’s now technically out of reach.

  “I need to go somewhere,” he says. “I’m going to leave you here for a while.”

  She’s alarmed. Her mouth tastes of his juices. “Like this?”

  “Yes. It’ll make you hornier for me when I come back to fuck you.”

  Oh, so he’s going to fuck her. Her position is not discomfiting. Quite lewd, in fact. And there’s the promise fucking later for the second time that day. She is still a slave to his bondage whim. She has no choice, no say in the matter. The terms of her agreement involve doing whatever he wants, anytime he wants it.

  An agreement she has come to relish.

  Her face must register dismay, however, because he says, “Hey, I’m coming back. I won’t leave you here for more than two hours, tops.”

  Two hours! She feels faint. In this position?

  He leans towards her and strokes her head. His blue eyes are intense. “Bondage can be very fulfilling. Not to mention libido-enhancing.” His voice takes on a slight lilt as he says this, as though he is reminiscing about something.

  She isn’t so sure she would like it. What she is sure of is that being Channing’s submissive is very fulfilling. Being Channing’s lover is very fulfilling. But being Channing’s equal would be the most fulfilling thing of all. Not that it’s going to ever happen.

  She isn’t sure she would like being left here alone. The dungeon is cold and forbidding, and the instruments around her remind her too much of medieval torture.

  She says, her eyes tearing a little, “Please, please come back soon.”

  She wonders if she should add ‘sir’. But they have surely gone beyond that.

  He relents a little. His beautiful features soften. “I will.”

  He dresses slowly, his eyes roaming all over her body. And then he walks to the iron door and opens it.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he tosses to her. “I have to go see someone with a lead on where Hugh is. Then I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  There’s a regretful look on his face.

  “I can’t wait to fuck you,” he adds.

  He abruptly walks out. The door clangs behind him like an unfulfilled promise.

  6

  Alone now, all her senses become more acute. The anal plug becomes more obtrusive, but in her bent position, she is unable to expel it. The drop of sweat tricking down the valley of her breasts feels like a wet ant nestling in between.

  She doesn’t know how long she has been here, but she must have drifted off to a dreamless sleep. She wakes up to unnatural warmth. Her body is beaded with sweat. Sweat drips from her forehead into her eyes, stinging them. Her hair is plastered on her neck.

  What is happening? Has someone suddenly turned up the thermostat?

  The walls seem to have taken on a different texture and color. She isn’t quite sure what it is, but it’s there. Different. As though they are radiating with some sort of microwave.

  Not microwave, she realizes, but heat.

  Heat!

  This is a panic room, she tells herself. It’s the safest place in the house to be in. Besides, the house is patrolled and guarded. Nothing can possibly happen to them in this fortress. Right?

  Except –

  Her premonition returns in a full frontal assault.

  Desert Rose.

  The heat intensifies. Oh my God, she thinks. This house in on fire. I’m surrounded by fire.

  She goes into full panic mode now. How apt for a room named such. She struggles against her bonds, but she is tethered tightly and no amount of jerking will loosen them.

  She screams. Her voice reverberates and ping pongs against the concrete walls. She screams again – an endless scream this time. One that starts in the middle of her voice box and encompasses her entire skull.

  Part of her wonders if this is some sort of new psychological torture visited upon her by the man she loves. What if what she’s seeing is not real? What if everything is some sort of hallucination brought on by a drug he secretly slipped her? Or a substance coating the anal plug?

  Is she in a nightmare?

  No. The heat is too real. Too immense.

  She is certain that outside the dungeon or panic room or whatever he wants to call it, the manor is burning. She doesn’t smell smoke. The door and walls are impregnable to that. But her very skin prickles with terror. She is about to be baked alive.

  Is he trying to kill her?

  No, no. He wouldn’t kill her. It’s the other one. The brother. More than likely, he’s trying to kill all of them.

  Channing has mentioned that this entire room is fortified with insulated concrete. She isn’t sure what that means. Is it fire-resistant? Is she protected? The heat is very real, however. And there’s always the possibility of implosion or the flames seeping through.

  The worst part is the uncertainty. Is or is not the house on fire? Protected or not, it is never good to be trapped inside a house on fire, or under siege, or under attack of any sort.

  She remembers what he said that night.

  The citadel went up in flames. Hugh was trapped inside. I tried to find h
im, but the fire was too horrific, too hellish. We had to run for our lives. So I left him in there . . . and mourned him for dead.

  Oh God. It’s more than uncanny.

  It’s Hugh’s revenge.

  She is going to die and there’s nothing she can do about it.

  She screams again, even though she knows it’s useless. She pictures Channing outside the house, watching in shock as once again, another structure he is affiliated to goes up in flames. Once again, this fire is too horrific, too hellish. There’s nothing anyone can do to beat out the flames.

  So I left her in there . . . and mourned her for dead.

  Is this to be her fate? To be wrapped up in a death match between two brothers that she has no part of except to be an innocent bystander? This is all because of her ambition. If I didn’t want the VP job so badly, none of this would have happened.

  If, if, if.

  But she doesn’t regret knowing Channing, nor does she regret any part of what they shared. She is going to pay for knowing him intimately in the past few days with her life . . . and yet she doesn’t regret any of it. What does that say about her?

  A whining sound tears into the air to her left. She turns, her tears wetting her cheeks and blurring her vision. She almost cannot believe what she is seeing. Channing – blackened with soot and in his torn and charred shirt and pants – crashing open the door. Behind him in the corridor, smoke pours through the air. Tongues of fire leap everywhere.

  He slams the door behind him again. His eyes are wild and frantic. He runs to her.

  “Susan, are you OK?”

  Mewling sounds issue from her throat. She’s sobbing.

  “Oh my God,” he says. She has never heard such distress in his voice before. “I did this to you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  He keeps babbling “I’m sorry” as he undoes her bonds. Her wrists and ankles are chafed and numb. She’s so unsteady that her legs give way. The anal plug slips out and strikes the floor with a sharp ping. He catches her and buoys her up before she collapses.