His Indecent Proposal (3 page)

“Stay there please, Miss Clair.”
 

The authority in his voice stilled me. I closed my eyes, trying not to shake. I couldn’t do this. I was too naive, too shy.
 

“Show me that you’re able to follow instructions, Amy,” he said in a warning tone.
 

I felt him approach me, and then his finger under the elastic of my thong. I swallowed hard but didn’t dare move. Was he going to ask me to take it off? It seemed too early for nudity shots.
 

“These were a good pick.” He pulled my thong taut, let it go with a snap. My breath hitched as his hands caressed my behind, moving down my thighs. I was pretty sure photographers didn’t touch models that way.
 

Then, out of nowhere, he spanked me.
 

I reared up out of instinct, but he was prepared, pushing me right back down again. He spanked me for a second time and I heard the snap of the shutter. I could only imagine what the pictures must look like, and the thought was humiliating. Still I stayed in the position, my arms shaking, threatening to no longer support me. I couldn’t bear to face him.
 

“Good girl, Amy. You were perfect.”
 

I inhaled sharply as his fingers suddenly dipped between my legs, finding my wetness. Slowly, he began to rub me in small circles. I didn’t stop him. It felt too good and I was lost in the confusion of the moment and the feel of his fingers. The whole situation was wrong and messed up, but all I wanted was for him to continue, to lean down and trail kisses along my naked back…
 

He abruptly stopped and walked away, told me to sit on the bed. His voice was deeper and now. Somehow I managed to stand and lean against it, focusing on a spot on the ground. My heart was in my ears. I was embarrassed and confused and incredibly aroused. It was obvious now what Mr. King wanted me for, and I couldn’t sort my thoughts out fast enough. Somewhere I knew I should be telling him off, but I wasn’t.
 

“Look at the camera, Amy.”
 

The command was issued in a soft voice, but there was something else behind it. Something darker. I barely managed to look up, biting my lip.
 

“You look so shy. I love it.”
 

Snap
.
 

Mr. King put down the camera and approached me slowly. I stayed in my position, afraid to do anything else. It wasn’t until he was standing directly in front of me that I was able to look him in the eye. Even then, I couldn’t stop my legs from shaking.
 

“I think this might work,” he said, smiling down at me approvingly.
 

I looked up at him, my throat dry.
 

“You’re nervous,” he said, smiling down at me. “Do you want to please me?”
 

I nodded.
 

“Why?”
 

“I don’t know,” I whispered.
 

He trailed his fingers along my jaw. “We’ll work on that, too.”
 

Gracefully, he tugged a silk robe off the rack and wrapped it around me. “I’ll give you the tour,” he said and put out his hand.
 

I let Mr. King lead me through the apartment, dressed in only the silk robe, my head in a daze. What had happened in there? Why had I let it happen?
 

Meanwhile, Mr. King seemed blissfully unaware of my internal struggle, or else he was cheerily ignoring it. He seemed different than when we first met; less formal and more carefree. He showed me the many rooms in his home, smiling charmingly the entire time. It was the most amazing suite I had ever seen, even more amazing than in the movies. We started on the main floor, which was composed of the Master bedroom, living room, dining room, and study. Then we returned upstairs, where he showed me the guest bedroom, bathroom and empty room beside the studio. Upstairs was two thirds size of the main floor, leaving eighteen-foot ceilings in the living room and kitchen.
 

 At the guest bedroom, Mr. King stopped and told me to enter. It was a fair sized room with a queen-sized bed with beige duvet. The only other furniture in the room was a dresser and mirror.
 

“I’m willing to pay you $1500 a week, regardless of whether or not you live here, but I would expect you to come when I request.”
 

I spun around to face him, surprised. That was an obscene amount of money, but it was the living comment that shocked me the most. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed so that muscles in his forearms stood out, and watching me intently.
 

“You want me to move in?”
 

“It would be an extra benefit for you,” he said carefully. “And yes, I would prefer it.”
 

“That’s part of the…job?”
 

He smiled and stepped into the room casually. I immediately stepped back.
 

“I think you’re perfect, Amy. Like I said, you’re exactly what I have been looking for. I’m willing to make it worth your while.”
 

I swallowed hard. “I’m not a prostitute.”
 

He looked almost hurt; his grey eyes widened momentarily before he ran a hand through his hair. “I would never think of you as a prostitute. You would be my muse.”
 

I looked down at my hands, wishing I’d grabbed my clothes before following him on the tour.
 

“I would be willing to turn one of the rooms into a studio for your art,” he continued. “That way you would have time for everything.”
 

I felt like I was in a dream. Last night I was jobless and homeless and now a man that barely knew me wanted me to move in and be his muse and…something. Lover maybe. Slut likely. I felt like I was going to cry.
 

“Just say yes and I’ll draft the contract up right now,” he said softly, almost pleadingly. “Whatever you want, Amy.”
 

The longer I stayed silent, the more irritated he seemed to get. Finally, he marched into the room and opened the closet to reveal clean sheets neatly stacked on the shelves.
 

“It’s the weekend, so stay here tonight. I expect your answer by tomorrow morning. Perhaps if you don’t want to move in, it’s not meant to be.”
 

With that, he left the room.
 

***

I sat on the bed, alone and wondering what I should do and whether I should call someone to come get me. Who was this man and what made him think he could treat me this way?
 

When I was sure a few hours had passed, I tip-toed back to the studio and opened it quietly. I had to feel around in the dark for my purse, which I’d left a few feet away from the door. Once I had it, I turned it on and used it as a flashlight to find my clothes. They were sitting in a pile where we’d left them.
 

Once I’d gathered my things, I quickly made my way back to the room Mr. King had given me. There I permitted myself to read the text message I’d noticed when I’d turned on my phone. It was from Sam. She was wondering where I was and how my interview went. She also wanted to know what job I interviewed for as my text had been super vague. I responded that I met up with a friend afterward and that I’d be home soon.
 

Then I quickly changed and snuck out of Mr. King’s apartment, hoping I’d never have to see him again.
 

I let myself sleep in until noon the next day. I felt I deserved it after the disaster that had been my interview with Mr. King. All night I’d tossed and turned, chastising myself for letting him command me around that way, and all for a job. I’d let him spank me. I’d let him touch me without asking me first. I hadn’t even known him! To say I felt ashamed would be an understatement. I burrowed deeper into my covers and didn’t emerge until mid-afternoon.
 

When I finally padded into the living room, Sam was packing her things into boxes.
 

“Hey! So you
did
make it home last night. I was worried about you.”
 

“Sorry,” I said, avoiding her eyes as I made my way into the kitchen. “The interview didn’t go that well, so I ended up meeting Jeremy for some drinks.”
 

“Jeremy?” Sam asked skeptically. “As in the law student hottie that you said you aren’t interested in?”
 

“That’s the one,” I smiled weakly. I really wished I was interested in Jeremy; he was two years behind Luke and a really nice guy. I bet he wouldn’t take half-nude photos of me for some unknown purpose, let alone spank me.
 

I almost dropped the milk I was about to pour into my cereal. What
had
been the purpose of those photos? Mr. King had never told me and I’d never asked. I was stupid. A naive idiot.
 

“Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna be sick. Hungover?”
 

I didn’t respond; instead, I raced back into my room and turned on my phone. Maybe there would be an email from him wondering where I went, and I could demand that he tell me
what the pictures were for. I tapped my foot anxiously as I waited for my email to update. Emails loaded from Mom, Crate & Barrel, more spam… Nothing from Dallon King.
 

Asshole.
 

With shaky fingers, I wrote a response to his original email and sent it before I could chicken out.
 

Mr. King, I know I signed a non-disclosure agreement and thus unable to tell anyone about your “artistic project”, but I demand that you delete the photos of me. I also demand that you not sell them to anyone or any site.

—A.

I stomped back into the kitchen and continued making my cereal. Artistic project my ass! He probably lured a bunch of young women into his luxurious penthouse and took pictures of them spread-eagled or bent over his bed. His artistic project was probably nothing more than a porn website.
 

Tears pricked my eyes and I wiped them away angrily. How could I have been so stupid?
 

Sam walked back into the living room holding some books to pack. When she saw me, she instantly put them down and rushed to comfort me.
 

“Amy, what’s wrong?”
 

“Nothing, I’m okay,” I sniffed. “You know, just stressed out about finding a job and sad that the year has ended and everything.”
 

“It’s okay, you’ll find something,” Sam said and rubbed my back soothingly. “It’s a shitty and long process, but it will work out. It always does.”
 

I smiled weakly through my tears. “I hope so. I’m starting to think maybe I should have applied for law school like you.”
 

Sam made a face. “Why? You hated the Business Law course we took together. There are thousands of other things you can do.”
 

I sighed. It was true; rushing to apply for law wouldn’t be the answer. I had to be patient and wait for my future career to reveal itself.
 

The rest of the day and then Sunday went by without any response from Mr. King. I drove myself crazy checking first every hour, then every half hour, and then every minute until Sam yanked my phone away from me and snapped at me to watch the movie. It was Sunday afternoon and we were spending it in our PJs.
 

“I’ve never seen you so obsessed with your phone before,” she said suspiciously. “Are you sure nothing happened between you and Jeremy? You got home super late last night.”
 

“Nothing,” I sighed. “I just…applied for a job and am waiting for a response.”
 

“Oh?” Sam perked up. “What kind of job?”
 

“Um, sketch teaching assistant,” I said lamely.
 

“That sounds promising! Though, I wouldn’t hold your breath about hearing back on a Sunday.”
 

The conversation felt somewhat morbid—me pretending to want a position when really I
had
been offered a position, it was just beyond what I’d ever imagined. Part of me was dying to tell Sam the truth, but my embarrassment won out. Like my parents, I wanted her to think that I was going to make it. I also wouldn’t be able to explain to her why I hadn’t punched Mr. King the moment he’d put his fingers between my legs. There was no way in hell that Sam would have put up with that.
 

“I think I need a glass of wine,” I said and went to help myself in the kitchen.
 

When Monday afternoon rolled around, and Mr. King still hadn’t responded, I became an emotional wreck. I oscillated from shame and self-pity to anger, until finally the last one stuck—I was seething and ready to rip him a new one. Who did he think he was, not bothering to respond to my email? Did he think he could get away with it? Well, I’d show him that I was not the pushover he’d so obviously labeled me. If necessary, I would embarrass him in front of all his colleagues, out him for being a complete pig.
 

By the afternoon, I’d decided to take matters into my own hands. I took the subway back to his office, seething the entire way. My anger didn’t even fade when I stepped into the lobby. Madeline the receptionist looked surprised to see me again so soon but greeted me warmly.
 

“I have to speak with Mr. King about an urgent matter,” I said in a clipped tone.
 

“Mr. King is very busy today,” Madeline warned me.
 

“It will only take five minutes.”
 

“All right then, I’ll try.” She picked up her phone. “Mr. King, Miss Clair is here. She says she needs to speak with you about an urgent matter.”
 

I bit my lip, waiting for him to tell her to throw me out. Instead, her eyes widened in surprise and she opened a calendar on her computer. “It’s in fifteen minutes. Should I cancel, or tell them you’ll be late?”