by Alex Elliott
“That was some kiss,” he grunts. “Guess we got carried away.”
I’m stunned as I pivot toward him. He bends forward, kisses my mouth one last time. A sweet kiss, a lingering plant of his lips against mine, and then he releases me. “Shall I walk you back to your friends?”
No more hands on me. No more lips. Only a few paltry words.
“My friends...” This isn’t how I envisioned our conversation—we shouldn’t be talking—we should be half-naked. Clearly this is an ending and I don’t understand.
He steps back, raking a set of long fingers through his hair, and gazes down at me with that same unrelenting stare that first grabbed me. “You didn’t come alone. Did you?”
Almost...so it seems. I shake my head, my cheeks heat from embarrassment. Was I too crazy? Too easy? Not enough? “I’m fine. I’ll probably go to the restroom.” I gesture across the club toward the stairs.
“This was...incredible,” he says in a voice that’s low and deep, but even with the music rebounding off the walls, I feel each rough syllable resonating in my body. He doesn’t offer more and the ensuing awkward silence is louder than the techno song in play.
“You’re leaving then.” The words are out of my mouth before I can censor the comment as ‘not cool—don’t say.’
“I am. Just stopped in for a drink. Friend’s birthday. This place is too dangerous.” He lets his gaze slide down my body, then he looks back at my face. “Much too dangerous to make a mistake.”
A mistake? My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel like he’s tossed ice water in my face. I return to the land of autopilot—devolving to how I am around my family. “It’s been fun, but I better get going too.” If I don’t leave, I’ll say something incredibly stupid. I look up and into his eyes—predator like and heavy-lidded—then turn on my heel and away from his arresting face, away from his unrelenting gaze. Away from the hottest mistake of my pastel-colored life.
* * *
I Found My Heaven...and My Hell
Bennett Stone
WHAT THE...? I do a double take. Who is that girl?
Out on the dance floor, I spot her, and it’s as if I can’t look away. I eat her up, inch by incredible mind-blistering, dick hardening inch. What’s not to like? Not a damn thing—except that she’s not my usual dish—she’s a shade of innocence someone like me should never touch.
Blond hair, long legs, hips swaying. Her nipples dart the sheer shiny material, stretching over her incredible tits. She’s braless, free of being encumbered, and has got the type of tits I could suck and slide my dick between for hours. Some quality about that girl screams a secret verse that only my cock seems to hear. That fucker is harder than granite, getting harder the more I stare.
Shit. This captivation has got to stop.
Shifting my gaze, I feign interest in the conversation between Noah, Jax, and Ethan, my congressional associates from the Capitol—they’re engaged in another argument on foreign policy after the war, but for the hundredth time, I find myself gazing at a woman who dances as if she’s in a dream. Mine.
“Ben,” Jax says. “You in for a shot?”
I return my focus to our table. “To wish your sorry ass happy birthday, hell yeah!”
The server smiles and places a bottle of bourbon and shot glasses on the table. We all do a shot and then another, and I glance back at the dance floor just as the girl opens her incredible eyes and our gazes connect. My heartbeat races—it’s an adrenaline rush to my senses. I lift my drink and study her. Every last thing about the girl reaches inside me and demands that I get hold of her. Soon!
I’m sitting here with the Honorable Jackson Carter. Aka Speaker of the House.
Jax, the man in command at the Clubhouse or the other ‘House,’ a private club far removed from the Capitol.
Aka...the guy who’ll give me a rash of shit for getting a hard-on for a sliver of innocence we both know is nothing more than a prick tease to men like us who command and control the women we fuck. He along with the other guys at this table...we’re all hardcore Doms. Together with years under our collective belts, we maintain control in every aspect of our lives. Our public image and our dungeons never intersect. Ever. We’re brutal, stone-cold control freaks, so much that three years ago we put our rules in writing when we opened our own elite club, and that includes no meeting chicks in random places. Prescribed private online sub hookups or at the House. That’s it.
But tonight I’m not thinking with my head. Well, not the one above my shoulders. Watching this young woman, I quickly assess what I can do and how fast. There’s a private hallway off the dance floor that is used to access the club owner’s secret dungeon onsite. I know the owner; he’s the representative of the 14th District, and wants to be the newest House member when we open our semi-annual acceptance of a few select applications. One member will be admitted. This is our surprise visit to check out his place of business, and he’s not allowed to be onsite. He left twenty minutes after we arrived. When we spoke earlier, he divulged that’s where he houses his dirty little secret. A locked room that he uses and invited us to watch him in action this coming weekend.
Not my thing, but now I’m wondering if I can get the keys. I know I can’t. It’s against our House rules, which means I’ve got to either stop this fantasy of what I’m devising, or keep this insane idea of tasting that girl under wraps. I imagine spreading her legs, binding her ankles, and having my complete way with her for one night. The things I’d like to do to her—fill my head. I haven’t felt this keyed up in fucking forever.
Nothing might come of this, I remind myself. The girl could be here with a boyfriend or husband, but why is she dancing like that... alone? Doesn’t look like the kind of girl that’s tied down, but fuck she needs to be.
My muscles constrict. Decision made. My hunger to make contact with her overrides my common sense. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe the level of intoxication running rampant in my veins from watching the blond bombshell. “I’m heading out,” I say, downing my drink.
“What the fuck, Ben?” Noah replies. “You just got here!”
“Jax has other plans tonight. Don’t you?” I query my friend, knowing full well he’s contracted two subs and he’s got a private jet on standby to take him back to D.C. Back to our club for the night.
“Let the pussy go,” Jax follows up. “He’s got to get his beauty sleep. Can’t have the prettiest of the senators with dark circles under his eyes.”
“Actually, I’m going to go find a girl and fuck her up against a wall if you three pricks don’t mind.”
They all laugh, believing I’m pulling their chains.
“Better than your self-imposed celibacy!” Jax snorts, eyeing me critically. He doesn’t say anything else—no one does. What can they say? I got royally fucked, and now, I’m taking a break—trying to figure out my future. I had a sub who nearly threw me under the bus and why I’m on a hiatus from offering up my services at our club.
“Are we good?” I ask, looking between them. I still take part in the running of our club and tonight is the first time in a long time that I feel the itch to do more than paperwork.
Ethan leans back and looks around, looks toward the dance floor, and suddenly I feel a twinge knife my chest. I don’t want his eyes or anyone’s eyes on that girl. He squints but doesn’t do more than lift a brow as he swings his attention back to me. “Yeah. This place is happening. No doubt, it’s classy. So, do we accept Congressman Lowe or not?”
Jax nods as does Noah. I stall as if I’m on the proverbial fence. “I’d like to scope out what’s happening at the bar. Listen in on what’s being said. Ask a few questions. Lowe’s got to agree no more action in his onsite dungeon. If he shuts that door, and there’s nothing being talked about, I’ve got no problems with him.”
“Good fucking idea,” Noah says. He was a D.A. before becoming a senator. Cynical as shit and what a ballbuster.
“Enjoy.” I stand and loosen my tie, then rea
ch into my pocket and remove a pair of tickets. “Happy Birthday, cocksucker.”
Jax has a thing for jazz. Good jazz, and he smiles. “Fuck you, boy,” he says, his voice brimming with a Texas twang, and I laugh.
“Later,” I say in parting.
In D.C. we’re the face of Congress. Three others are missing tonight. No biggie. Together, we’re classified as the ‘poster boys.’ A photographer captured and posted a series of us online during a joint session that turned into a Whitehouse PR blitz that caught fire. From magazine covers to rallies, we’re featured around the nation in a campaign to reinvigorate or popularize politics. PR bullshit gone wild!
Tagged as the gang of seven—the other one. We don’t crawl up anyone’s ass. We’re too busy covering our own. We’re the ones you elect and with any luck, you never contact. Yeah, screw any idea that we want to hear from you if you think that writing a check gives you power. Shut up but pay up is my unwritten motto. Not everyone’s. There’s only one type of contact we appreciate and it’s silent; contributions with no strings. Make a deposit. Send a check. Hell, cash works.
And sure, there are those constituents who really care. Voters who aren’t interested in owning our souls and trying to turn us into political marionettes.
Those people, step right up. I, like my other esteemed congressmen seated here, have plenty of staffers and interns to deal with voters—their questions, calls, emails. And the ton of letters that arrive each and every day. For one moment—one night I’m putting aside that political B.S.
Walking away from the table, I see the girl move to the side of the dance floor. Fuck me flying! Is she leaving...? I lengthen my strides comparable to how I’m lengthening in my trousers. When I reach her, I say the first thing I noticed—not what I’m actually thinking, “You’re quite a dancer.”
The material of her dress stretches over her chest, molding tightly to her tits, and I imagine sucking each erect nipple into my mouth as I fist her hair, and after I’ve thoroughly spanked her ass. God, to stain her cheeks with a paddle or a cane... On that thought, my cock turns to forged steel inside my pants.
She thanks me, her eyes—fuck I’ve never seen eyes that crystal color, and it’s my turn to say something. Do something. Come up with a plan that goes beyond trading stares. I’ve got to move us away from the line of sight from the table, and when she agrees to come talk to me, I can’t resist but touch her. Tug her. And the feel of her satin smooth skin has my nerve endings relaying a message that she’s too young...too innocent for what I hunger for. Too perfect and that’s the problem.
“Who the heck are you?” she asks me.
Moment of truth. I’m going with honesty. “Your worst nightmare.”
When she promises I’m not, I wonder what’s she been through. No one this pristine should be touched by darkness. I should step away and leave her be, but fuck I can’t. Not if my insane life depended on it.
I move us into the hall and I lay out the edge of what I want. A tiny morsel. A kiss. She agrees and I tell myself to go slow, but hell when our lips touch, I thrust my tongue all the way inside her mouth, threading my fingers in her silky mane, and pull—yank her hair. The exquisite feeling of owning her mouth has me ravenous for more. Holy hell, I’m ready to unzip my pants and have her ride me in this hall. In fucking public.
I command her, “Open for me. All the way.”
In reality the door within my Dom self has burst off its hinges and I’ve got to have her. In sixty seconds, I crave her like a drug, worse like the answer to a curse. One I possess and she’s the one who will break it apart. Break me apart! I know sampling this girl is as dangerous as it will be satisfying. I haven’t traced the edge of something this sharp...something this eviscerating...NEVER.
“Please,” she begs me in a siren’s voice that reverberates in my brain. Her tone, the softness she offers I hunger to devour.
“You can’t imagine the things we could do,” I murmur against her ear. “The way you’d feel if you gave yourself to me.”
I’m out of my head. Insane to possess this girl and when she gives me a snappy answer, I turn her around, prepared to show her how she can expect to be treated when she disobeys me. Lifting her dress, I stare at her perfect ass. And I do mean perfect. Firm, round, and I separate her cheeks, imagining how I’d feel with my hard-on thrusting into her.
“How old are you?” I ask and she tells me old enough with her fresh mouth. Between gritted teeth, I remind her that’s no answer.
I close my eyes, seeking the strength not to cave and fuck her up against this wall when every cell in my body demands that I take her.
Own her.
Bite her.
Mark her.
Make certain she understands how good, how extreme, how complete what I offer can be...if she submits to my every desire. In truth, she’ll own me in how much I hunger to possess her.
Well fuuuuck! Again, she contradicts me and again, I’m closer to the point of no return. Her fresh remarks are pure friction, leveraging my libido against my self-control. I lean over, cupping her ass, pumping my cock between her cheeks, and ignore my need to make sure she’s legal age. If she’s nineteen or twenty, this won’t work. Over and over I slide up against her ass, skimming my fingers down between her cheeks, and stopping short of touching her pussy.
If I do, there’s no stopping me. I’m so close to freeing my rod and slamming into her.
Fuck, I don’t even have a condom handy!
Without knowing if she’s legal age, one slip...one fall, and there goes my political career. With the Veep offering me a spot on her campaign ticket, I can’t risk a scandal. And being in this hall is career crushing enough. I lower this woman’s dress and step back...both figuratively and literally. I admit she and I would make a pair and as I do, I see how fucked up this is if I take her in public. So many shades beyond scandal—if she realizes who I am, she’d ruin me with the truth. I can walk away now, and what could she say? We shared a kiss. That’s not exactly headline news.
I’m harder than titanium and carnal instinct imbues me with an unshakable sense of how good it would be to bury my cock inside her over and over. Raking my fingers through my hair, I nod as the tendons knot in my neck and shoulders. “Guess we got carried away,” I say...or some line of total bullshit.
She looks up at me with the face of an angel and I’m slipping...fast. I need this girl. Why? I don’t fucking have a clue!
If I don’t say something incredibly asinine, I’m going to back her up, into the corner, and that’s it. I’ll fuck her until she screams and comes all over my cock.
I admit this is a career MISTAKE. I say the word aloud, and inwardly curse myself. She’s upset—probably hurt, and I want to reach out, smooth away what she feels. Get her naked, feed my hunger, and then take care of her. Hold her until the first rays of dawn burst apart the darkness in my soul, reflected in the sky and then do it all again. Over. Over. And Over.
Instead, I watch her turn on her lovely heel, and walk way. Best mistake I ever let go of I keep repeating, not that it’s helpful. I’m not a complete prick...just the unnamed running mate for the position as Vice President of the United States.
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Acknowledgements
This story would not be possible without the tremendous amount of support from an extraordinary amo
unt of people.
I’m grateful to my family for their unrelenting contribution and help in bouncing back ideas and putting up with my oddball writing hours. To each and every person who read this story in the beginning on fanfic, and voted a ‘hell yeah’ for twisted, dark romance...it’s here! I cherish the smacks, and those who came out at times with ‘staunch shouty’ capital letter messages, to do it! Definitely, I needed the kicks, and, dammit you gave ‘em. From my heart and imagination to yours, thank you!!
To my amazing proofer, Marlene Engle—thank you so very much. Girl, you rocked this story sideways, and I appreciate you more than you might know! Catch Marlene at Book Mama’s Blog. She’s wonderful.
Thank you to River Rock Graphics for the cover and formatting of this book.
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©Jonathan Vasata/Dollar Photo Club
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About the Author
I’m not new to writing, but I am new to writing dark political erotica that crisscrosses genres. I go by the name of Alex Elliott. What can I say? I’m a born dreamer. Twister of the truth. Business owner in the field of engineering. I’ve worked in D.C.—hell yeah! What’s important to me? Family foremost. Friends. And the next horizon.
Thanks for reading this story. It’s been one helluva journey in writing and researching. Did this kind of romance resonate with you? There’s more to come. If you have an opinion, let me know. Thanks, if you post a review—the crazier, more off-the-wall the better!
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