The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter

84 Pages·2012·0.42 MB·English

by  Hunt Aphrodite

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 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.
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