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

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

“
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
heed 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.