Indecent...Proposal

by Jane O'Reilly

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘Everything,’ I tell him. ‘I want everything.’ All of this beautiful, angry man. I want him exposed, laid bare for me. ‘When we went to that work party, I saw the way the women looked at you,’ I tell him, as my hands find the waistband of his jeans and get to work. ‘I wanted to scream at them to stop it, that you were more than some piece of meat, that you were amazing and none of them knew it.’ I tug his jeans open, work them down over his hips as he strips me free of my T-shirt and jeans. His hands find my breasts straightaway, of course they do.

  ‘Then you know what it’s like.’

  I bite down on the side of his neck as I take him in hand. He’s hard for me, gloriously hard. ‘I hated it. I hated all of them. I wanted to take you home and fuck some sense into you.’

  His hands come to the sides of my thighs and lift me, and then he’s in me, all the way in, buried balls deep inside my pussy. We stay like that for a long, long moment, both breathing hard, as I look into his pale blue eyes and understand that finally, finally, I have fallen in love with someone who loves me back.

  ‘As I recall, you did,’ he says. He starts to move then, hard, unforgiving thrusts that push me back into the wall and make my breasts bounce, jolting that beautiful sensitivity into them. ‘That’s when I knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘That I’d met someone I could share my fantasies with.’

  My nipples are dark and hard, and he clearly sees the invitation, because he lowers his head and sucks one deep into his mouth. He uses his tongue, his teeth, fucking me fast and hard until I’m screaming out my pleasure. His pleasure. ‘I’m coming,’ I tell him. ‘Oh, god, I’m coming. Fuck me. Please fuck me, Scott.’

  He rides me right to the very edge of climax and then he stops, holding me tight, pinned to the wall by his cock, his hands, the sheer force of his will. ‘On one condition,’ he says, his chest heaving as he fights for air.

  ‘Anything,’ I say. ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘I will fuck you any way you want,’ he says. ‘Whatever your fantasy is, Amber, I will make it happen for you. But you have to promise me that you will never, ever walk out on me like that again. I don’t think I could stand it.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I tell him, and I mean it. ‘Now keep your promise.’

  ‘What promise was that?’

  ‘Something to do with fucking me any way I want.’

  His mouth curves into a smile, a wicked, lethal smile. He rocks his hips gently, then again. I whimper. ‘Please.’

  ‘Louder,’ he says. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Please, Scott.’ Oh, he’s cruel when he wants to be. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Marry me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You want it, you’re going to have to work for it. Marry me.’

  The words echo round in my head, loud, almost deafening in their intensity, as my body clamours desperately for the release that only he can give me. ‘Arrogant bastard,’ I whisper. He has me, now. There is only one answer I can give, and he knows it.

  ‘Say it.’ He rocks his hips again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Louder, please.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Then he does fuck me. There is nothing polite about it. He fucks me until I’m shaking. Then he makes me come, and by the time he does I’m so angry with him for making me wait that I almost don’t want to. But there is nothing I can do to hold back the rush of sensation that comes through me, as he rides out my orgasm and then rides out his own.

  I know then that this is what I want. Scott Smithson, in love with me, fucking me. And I will do whatever it takes to make it happen.

  Epilogue

  I know coming at the wedding is a bad idea, but when Scott takes my hand and pulls me away from our places at the top table, I can’t resist. The day has been perfect. Ellie has finished with the photographs and is snuggled up with Tom on a table in the corner, and I can’t help thinking how good the two of them look together. Lucas is on the other side of the room, being chatted up by one of the bridesmaids. The food is amazing, the string quartet sound beautiful, and the band of platinum on my finger feels like it has always been there. I invited Paul and Victoria, but they declined. He’s regional manager now, and apparently there’s a girl in the Welwyn office who is very obliging.

  Scott takes me into a side room off the reception and lifts the heavy skirts of my white silk dress and buries his face in my cunt. He’d insisted on the dress. I’d laughed. A white wedding dress for a woman like me? But then he’d told me all the filthy fantasies he had about fucking me wearing a white silk dress, the type with the tight corseted bodice and big skirt. I went out and bought one the very next day, and then teased him for months with pictures of white trouser suits.

  He is my fantasy now, the one I didn’t know I was harbouring, and as his tongue works over my slippery, swollen pussy, I wonder why I missed him for so long. Why I couldn’t see what was right there in front of me.

  And then he is in front of me, my skirts pinned up around my waist as he opens the front of his trousers and frees his cock. He drives the thick length into me, delicious and all consuming. I wrap my arms around his neck and bite down on his mouth. Fuck, he tempts me, this man, with his body and his mouth and his eyes and his ability to provoke me with nothing more than a look.

  ‘Mine,’ he says, as he comes into me, thrusting deep. ‘Mine,’ as he uses the power of that beautiful body to undo me. ‘Mine,’ as he looks into my eyes and I see the truth of it.

  And I’m not going to argue with that.

  If you enjoyed the second in Jane O’Reilly’s Indecent… trilogy – look out for Indecent Desire, coming March 18th from Carina UK.

  Read on for a sneak preview…

  Chapter One

  I don’t remember when I first saw the man who lives in the flat opposite mine, primarily because I refused to allow myself to notice him. I mean, I noticed him. He’s young and pretty, exactly the sort of man I have no right to have any interest in, being thirty-four and divorced and a regular wearer of Spanx. So I kept him in my peripheral vision, forcing myself not to notice when he left his flat, or when he occasionally walked along the street in front of me. But I remember the first time I saw him perform.

  And by perform, I mean sit in front of his bedroom window and, you know, touch himself. It’s become a regular thing now. Every evening, I sneak into my bedroom at 8.55 p.m. At 9 p.m. his bedroom light goes on and the performance begins. When he didn’t appear last Saturday night it worried me so much that I almost called the police. The only thing that stopped me was wondering what I would say: Sorry officer, but the young man who lives across the street seems to have disappeared. How long has he been missing? Only this evening. Yes, I know that’s not very long, but he has a regular masturbation routine. You can set your watch by it.

  But he’s not absent tonight; in fact he’s very much present, sat on a chair in front of his window. We’re three floors up, so no one down on the street can see him. I don’t know if anyone but me can see him. I have my lights turned off, so he can’t see me, but I know that he knows I am watching.

  I know because I have been slipping notes into his letterbox on a daily basis and he has been following my instructions to a tee. Sometimes I ask him to wear a T-shirt, sometimes his boxers. Sometimes I request fully clothed. Tonight however, he’s naked, and I can see all those acres of tanned, beautiful skin. Lean and tight and gorgeous. He looks to be in his early twenties, which makes him ten years younger than me. A very horny ten years younger. A shudder runs through me as he strokes a hand over his erect penis and closes his eyes, as if he has been waiting all day to do this, as if he needs to do it.

  The first time I saw him like this, I had just got back from work and had gone into my bedroom to get changed, and there he was. Standing near his window, chatting on the phone, jeans dropped to his knees as he played with his cock. I had never seen a man behave so carelessly, with such
a total lack of inhibition. Certainly my ex-husband had never been so blatantly rude. And it was rude, even though he was doing exactly what he was entitled to do in the privacy of his bedroom.

  So I watched as he stroked himself and laughed on the phone and came in quick, shuddering spurts, and then wiped himself and the floor with a towel. And there was a moment, a hot, shocking moment when he glanced in my direction and I thought he saw me.

  I ducked to the floor, my head in my hands, and crouched there for what felt like forever, my heart racing, my breath coming in short, fast pants. Caught in the act, the dirty voyeur perving on her younger neighbour. What on earth did I think I was doing?

  But when the shock died away and I remembered how to breathe, I couldn’t deny that it was the most exciting sexual act I’d ever participated in, even though I hadn’t really participated. And so I started waiting for him on a regular basis, night after night, hoping for a repeat performance. But it didn’t happen. Until one day, in a moment of madness, I slipped an anonymous note through the letterbox of his building addressed to the man on the top floor and asked him to stand by the window at nine that evening and jerk himself off.

  And he had.

  If I thought I’d been excited the first time I’d seen him, it was nothing compared to that night. It was a bit ridiculous, really. I’m thirty-four. I have a pension plan and my own flat and until six months ago I had a husband. I wasn’t some naive teenager who had never seen an erection before.

  But if I’m honest, it wasn’t just the sight of his cock that excited me, although I can’t deny that Mother Nature has been kind to him in that department. It wasn’t watching his body shake through his orgasm, though that definitely added something to proceedings.

  It was the fact that he did as he was told.

  So here I am, sitting on the edge of my bed, wearing the sensible black trousers and pressed white blouse that are an essential part of my job as a receptionist at an accountancy firm in town, waiting for him to start, waiting to see if today is the day that I crossed the line and asked for too much.

  I think of him as mine, though he’s not mine. He will never be mine. The fact that we’ve never met aside, he’s too young. And because as my ex-husband told me right before he left, no sane man could possibly tolerate a control freak like me.

  I grip the edge of the bed, my palms sweaty against the ironed cotton, and fight the urge to lean forwards, to get on my knees in front of the window so that I can get a better look at him. He’s so young, so beautiful, with that flop of dark hair over his forehead and fat-free body. Every time I watch him, I tell myself it is the last. That I won’t surrender to this again. And every night, I find myself twisting the sheets as I think up increasingly demanding scenarios for him to play out for me in front of the window. There seems to be no limit to my imagination.

  Tonight I have him stripped bare, every inch of skin uncovered apart from the base of his prick, around which is coiled a purple silk tie. His face moves into a grimace as he takes his cock in a tight grip and fucks into his hand, twisting his wrist as he reaches the end of his shaft. I know exactly how this is going to play out. He’s touching his balls now, tucking his fingers under them, exactly as my note told him to do. Play with your cock until you’re desperate to spill all that lovely, thick semen. Then pull the tie tight around your swollen prick, tight enough to hurt.

  I hold my breath, waiting, waiting, my breasts swollen and hot inside my bra, a sharp ache between my thighs. But I never do anything about it, because that would be wrong. That would mean acknowledging how much this excites me, and I should not be excited by it. And I have this terrible fear that if I touch myself, if I surrender to the feelings this creates in me, I will jinx it somehow. That it will end, that I will be found out. I don’t think I could handle the shame if that happened.

  So I sit and I watch, and the shame threatens to swamp me but I can’t look away. And on the opposite side of the street, the beautiful man who I like to watch stands up from his chair. He moves closer to the window, closer, until he can place one hand flat against the glass. His hand is still working, faster now, his balls jerking as he fucks himself with a tight fist. The end of his cock is dark and swollen, and I can see him bracing himself. He’s close, I think to myself. His mouth moves, forming words I can’t hear, but in my imagination they’re dirty, and that turns me on even more.

  He stares directly at my window as I hide in the darkness and watch him, my beautiful angel, as he takes that hand away from the window and pulls the tie tight, so tight that it makes me press a hand to my throat in shock. His face twists. You went too far, I think to myself. Far too far.

  I cannot breathe, cannot think, totally in his spell as he pauses, that tie knotted so tight round the base of his cock, keeping him hard. And then he angles his hips forwards, gives the end of his shaft a quick tug, and the whole world stands still as he stripes the window with streak after streak of thick, white come. He stands there, chest heaving, for what feels like forever as the evidence of his pleasure slides down the glass, his gaze fixed firmly on my window. Then his mouth curves into a smile, and he wipes a hand over his face, and those dimples that appear in his cheeks make me weak, and I know that I didn’t go nearly far enough.

  Chapter Two

  The scene is still playing out in my mind as I make my way into work the next morning. I like to arrive twenty minutes earlier than everyone else, so I can drink coffee and peruse the stationery cupboard and generally enjoy the space and the new carpet smell. I like to be prepared when the rest of the staff walk in. Being late is my worst nightmare.

  But this morning I’m wired, unable to settle, and the coffee only makes me feel worse. I didn’t sleep well and none of my usual remedies worked. All I could think about was the man on the other side of the road. I wondered what he thinks when he reads my little notes, who he thinks is sending them, why he follows them.

  When I’d done with those thoughts, when I’d chased them round in circles for hours and got nowhere, I started to think about what I could do to push him further. What I could make him do next. I have so many ideas, so many shocking, filthy ideas. Just when I think I’ve reached my limit, my brain conjures up some new scenario. Take the one that I wrote on the note I slipped through his letterbox this morning, which told him to film tonight’s session and upload it onto the internet.

  The problem with all this is that it leaves me incredibly aroused, which isn’t a good state to be in at work. I cannot think straight with this hot, furious urge, my whole body so tense that I feel like I might explode if anyone comes near me. I check the clock that hangs on the wall behind my desk. I’ve got twenty minutes before anyone else arrives. It’s enough. I lock my handbag in my bottom drawer, and then I quietly slip away to the loo. The stalls are empty, the whole place filled with the lingering scent of lemon cleaner, and it’s probably the most disgusting place in the world for what I am about to do, but I have to. I can’t stand it any longer. I lock myself in a cubicle, take a deep breath. One last chance to talk myself down from this. But I can’t, I can’t.

  Time is of the essence now. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve worked so hard to build up my reputation here, sensible Meredith, reliable Meredith, Meredith who can handle anything we throw at her. Meredith, who masturbates in the toilets because she’s too desperate to wait and too uptight to do it at home. Maybe my ex-husband was right. Maybe there is something wrong with me.

  There’s definitely something wrong with me, I think, as I shove a hand deep into my bra and pinch my nipple tightly between finger and thumb. The relief I feel is palpable, though it fades into insignificance compared with what I feel when I push a hand into my underwear and stroke myself through the lace. I dig my feet into the floor and finger myself in earnest. My clit is swollen and when I slide my fingers into my slit, I find plenty of slippery wetness. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take my time over this, to savour it, but my ex always said that I took too long. He also s
aid that I wanted it too much, that it wasn’t normal for a woman to want it that much, which is why I try so hard to resist.

  But I’ve been failing more and more, recently. Oh, my intentions are good. But I don’t seem to be able to hold onto them, not when I’ve spent all night dreaming of the man across the road, when the ache is so severe that I can hardly function.

  Focus, Meredith. Focus. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and think only about the ache between my thighs, about how much better I will feel when that ache is gone. I rub myself harder, even though it makes my wrist ache. I bite into my bottom lip as I feel my clit swell, as I think about the man over the road and the show he puts on for me. I wonder what he would do if he knew that he’s becoming an addiction I don’t know how to control.

  But I must control it. I’m thirty-four and I want a husband and a baby and I am not going to get either this way. But oh, that beautiful hard stomach and that cut of muscle right above his hip bones, and that gorgeous thick cock. I bite down on my lip harder as I feel the rush of orgasm move through me, the explosive way my muscles contract and release, wave after wave of it, almost as if my body is no longer under my control and I am just a passenger along for the ride.

  I wait for it to subside, but I don’t wait too long. A courtesy flush and I slip out of the cubicle and then wash my hands, trying to wash away the remnants of my dirty behaviour. The soap is creamy and smells of roses and it makes my hands feel dry, but at least they’re clean. My face is a bigger problem, though. The flush in my cheeks is fading and thanks to a generous application of hairspray my hair is still intact, but there’s nothing make-up can do for shame, and I’ve got a thick layer of it all over me. I rip my gaze away from the mirror and head back to my desk. There’s no point standing there looking at my guilty face. I can’t stare it away.