Curvy for Him: The Psychic and the Senator (Curvy for Him Series Book 9)

by Annabelle Winters

  . . . in love just like I am?

  I roar like a madman at the crazy thought that this is love, and I pull her hair and then slide three fingers into her cunt from below. She comes all over my fucking hand, her wetness gushing out of her slit with such force I blink in shock.

  But the scent of her sex draws me down, and I lick my lips and just drink from her like a crazed animal, lapping at her pussy from behind as she moans and thrashes, her nails tearing at the seat cover as the limousine cruises through the city, the future President and First Lady doing the indescribable behind tinted windows.

  I swallow her juice and rise up behind her, feeling the power of my army flow through my hard, naked body as I grip my throbbing cock and rub my oozing cockhead down along her rear crack and positioning it between her legs, at the mouth of her slit. She turns her head halfway, and I can see from the way her brown eyes are shining that she’s overcome by whatever spirits she’s let into her body.

  Her lips spread as she breaks into a trembling grin, and the moment I see her nod I drive my cock into her cunt, ramming it deep and hard, just barely controlling the violent surge that almost had me choke her to death a moment ago.

  I howl like a beast as my balls tighten and my shaft fills her canal tight, stretching the inner walls of her vagina like I’m claiming new territory in her, staking my claim, conquering her with my cock. I still feel the violence at the edges of my lust, and I grit my teeth as I dig my fingers into her soft ass and start to pound like a man possessed.

  Isa is trembling and yelping as I fuck her with a wildness that scares me, but I can’t stop. Somehow I know she can take me, that she’s chosen to take me, that she knows the only way to control what’s happening here is to open herself up to whatever spirits have been clawing at her own psychic walls, trying to break through the doors of her soul, enter her body just like I’m entering her.

  “Oh, fuck, Isa,” I groan as I pull back and see my thick cock dripping with her juices. My shaft looks thicker than my fucking arm, and my eyes almost bug out when I see how stretched her vagina is as I drive back into her. “I’m going to explode in you, Isa. Fill you deep until you overflow all over my balls. And then I’m going to fill you again. Claim you again.”

  I don’t even know what I’m saying, I’m so far gone. I swear the entire limousine is shaking with how hard I’m pounding her, and my mouth hangs open as I look down at the way my hips are slamming against her ass as I drive into her with everything I have.

  My balls are already dripping wet from the mixture of my pre-cum and Isa’s wetness, and I reach forward and fist her hair as I feel my climax building in the distance like an army on horseback ready to blaze down the hill and destroy everything in their path.

  I can’t see a thing anymore, and in the blindness of my ecstasy I’m suddenly coming, my seed blasting up from my heavy balls, exploding out of my cockhead with the force of a cannon. Isa screams as I fill her from behind, and if I weren’t holding her by the hair I swear she’d have been hurled forward into the car door with the force of my orgasm!

  “Oh, fuck!” I roar, slamming into her again and unloading so deep I wonder if she can taste my semen in her throat. The climax rages through me as I spurt more seed into her than seems possible. I’m coming longer and harder than I have in my entire fucking life, and I can feel Isa coming with me, feel her pussy clenching around my cock even as she screams in pain and ecstasy, as all the spirits scream and howl, as sex and violence merge into one and then split again, going back and forth with every throb and pulse of our combined climaxes.

  I take her hard and deep, again and again until I’m drained and dry. Then I collapse on top of her, smashing her flat on the broad car seat, my cock still deep inside her like it’s never gonna come out, my armies vanquished by her submission, the forces of sex and violence clashing in a frenzied, desperate explosion of light, of life, of . . . love?

  “I love you,” I mutter, burying my face in her hair as we pant together, sweat together, lie together like lovers, groan together like enemies who’ve each struck the other with a fatal blow. “I love you, and this is us, Isa. This is us, and we’re going to lead this country together. We’re going to use what we bring out in each other to change the fucking world. To rule the fucking world.”

  10

  ISA

  I nod blindly as I listen to him whisper behind me, his voice muffled because his face is buried in my hair. I’m still coming, my body humming and buzzing as the multiple climaxes that rocked me wind their way through my system even as I feel the Senator’s semen wind its way through my valley like a river heading back to the source.

  “We’re going to use this,” he’s whispering to me as I feel his thick cock still inside me, still spreading my cunt in a way I’ve never been spread, still oozing with his seed that I somehow know is going to take root in me. “Use it to rule the fucking world.”

  The words sound crazy, obsessive, delusional even. But I’m nodding like it makes complete sense, smiling as I feel his warm weight press me against the cool black leather of the seat. I can feel the long, sleek limousine cruise through the streets of my hometown, and I swear I see the events of my life passing by like store windows or billboards, like everything’s been leading up to this, leading up to him, leading up to us.

  Us, I think as I close my eyes and hear the whispers of those spirits that I let into me. A chill goes through me as I wonder what “us” means right now. Is it just me and him? Or is it more than just the two of us? What does it mean for two people with psychic abilities to open up to each other and also to the spirits of sex and violence?

  And what does it mean if those two people become leaders of the free world?

  Does the world remain free?

  More importantly, do those two people remain free?

  11

  ONE YEAR LATER

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  ISA

  “We’ll never be free, Irving,” I say to the President of the United States as I watch our twin girls Irene and Ilsa suckle on my breasts like hungry little pixies. We’re in our bedroom in the West Wing, at the end of another chaotic week in our first year as President and First Lady of the United States.

  The past year has been a whirlwind—so much so that it still feels like a dream, sometimes a nightmare. After that crazed coupling in Irving’s limousine, we were inseparable, together in a way that bordered on obsession. He took me again before we got to his hotel, this time facing me, looking deep into my eyes with a steady, unwavering focus in his green eyes that was almost hypnotic, his powerful hips driving that beast of a cock into me like a weapon, staking his claim in me once again with his thick seed.

  Then he took me in the hotel elevator after hitting the STOP button and pushing me up against the steel walls.

  An hour later we stood against the floor-to-ceiling window of his darkened Presidential Suite at the hotel, and I remember staring down over the lights of my hometown as Irving fucked me in the ass and made me come in a way that I knew was opening something new and dark inside me. Indeed, I knew even back then that what we were doing was dangerous, that Irving still wasn’t prepared to open himself up so fully to that other world, that even with my training and experience I was entering uncharted territory, foreign lands, unmapped, wild seas of the Spirit World and whatever lurks within.

  But I didn’t stop it. I went along with it. I flowed with the current as if I tried to fight it I’d drown.

  And then it was too late to turn back, because within a month I was pregnant, and that was it. It was all over the media: The future President and his curvy baby-mama! Is he gonna marry her? Put a ring on it? Of course he is!

  “Of course,” I’d said when Irving asked me. Or rather told me we were to be married. It wasn’t a question. He didn’t go down on a knee. He just looked at me and said we needed to be married before the election.

  And I’d shrugged and said, “Of course.” It
was clear and obvious, almost businesslike, even though our bond was tighter than ever, our obsession deeper than ever, our hunger and lust depraved in a way that had me salivating for his cock when I saw him take the stage and speak to the masses.

  I’d scan the faces of the women in the crowd, smiling in a sickeningly self-satisfied way when I saw how they hungered for him too. But he was mine and I was his, and even though a part of me knew I was indulging myself in lower emotions, in my own ego, in a narrow possessiveness, I still let myself do it, let myself fall deeper and deeper under the influence of those spirits I’d let past the threshold of my soul.

  “Freedom is a fucking curse, Isa,” Irving says now, standing with his back to me. He’s broader, bigger, and more chiseled than ever, cutting an imposing figure to the point where he really looks like some kind of Greek God when he takes to stages all over the world and gives his fiery speeches. He turns, his strong jawline tight and hard, those green eyes cold and narrow. “Yes, freedom is a curse in the end. To most people freedom is fucking terrifying. You think these people out there truly want to be free? Do they even know what freedom is? If you ask the average guy on the street what he needs to be free, what’s he gonna say?”

  “OK, that’s not what I’m talking about!” I say, tightening my own jaw and then wincing as Baby Irene bites on my nipple as she suckles.

  But Irving is off to the races, and soon he’s pacing this century-old bedroom in the nation’s capital, shaking his head and grinning as he continues this rant I’ve heard a hundred times by now. “He’s gonna say he wants more money and then he’ll be free. But that’s fucking bullshit. What’s he gonna do with more money? Sit on his ass and watch TV? Is that freedom? No! That’s putting yourself in another sort of prison! The prison of an undisciplined, chaotic, unstructured life, Isa! And how do we instill discipline into people from an early age? Show people the power of routine, of structure, of organizing your life?”

  “OK, there are other ways to do that besides sending every man, woman, and child off to war!” I snap in exasperation. “And I don’t want to have this conversation again, Irving! I wanted to have a conversation about us! About what we allowed to happen a year ago, about where it’s leading us, where it’s leading the country, maybe the entire world!”

  “If you’re that unhappy with how things turned out maybe you should’ve let me kill you a year ago,” Irving grunts, folding his arms over his bare chest and glancing down at me like Zeus looking down from Mount Olympus.

  “I never said I was unhappy!” I snap back at him, my body tensing up as Irene pulls her mouth away from my breast and lets out a sputtering cough, splattering my own milk all over my bare chest.

  Irving blinks as he stares down at my exposed nipple, big and red, sticky with my cream. I can see his cock move in his silk pajamas, and I sit up on the bed and shake my head firmly as he slowly walks towards me, that look in his eye as he licks his lips and grins wide.

  “OK, this is why we haven’t been able to finish a single conversation about us over the past year,” I say, still shaking my head. “You can’t just avoid every serious personal discussion by . . . by . . . Irving, no! No!”

  “I’m the President of the United States and your goddamn husband,” Irving whispers, leaning down over the bed and gently but firmly pulling his babies away from my oozing breasts. He kisses each child on the forehead, and I almost melt in that moment, my resolve almost breaking when I remember that Irving’s been warm and gentle with our children in a way that he hasn’t even been with me lately.

  And when was the last time Irving was warm and gentle with me, I wonder as I watch him cradle his twin daughters and leave the room. I know he’s taking them across the hallway and he’s going to hand them over to our nanny and tell her to bathe them and put them to bed.

  Then he’s going to thunder in here and put me to bed.

  I gasp as I feel myself awaken in anticipation of his touch, his dominance, his force. But I grit my teeth and tell myself that it has to stop, that I started this and I need to pull it back under control before it gets too far out of hand. I know what I did a year ago was the right thing to do—maybe the only thing to do. But something’s spinning out of control. Something’s gotta give.

  “I still believe we’re meant to be together,” I whisper to myself as I hear Irving’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. “I still believe we’re in love, that we were in love the moment we had that shared vision of each other, that this is fate and destiny and forever. But sometimes the path to forever is winding and long. Sometimes the path is twisted and dark. And sometimes . . . ” I gulp as a thought enters my head—a thought so insane I almost choke. “Sometimes the path ends. Sometimes you need to start over. Burn it all down and rebuild from the scorched earth, claim what’s real from the ashes of the unreal.”

  “You talking to the spirits again, little Fortune-Teller,” say Irving as he steps into the room and closes the heavy oak door behind him. His silk pajamas are peaked obscenely, and in a moment he’s going to be suckling my breasts, fingering my cunt, pushing his thumb into my asshole as he prepares to take me wherever he wants, however many times he needs.

  “I’m talking to us, Irving,” I say, pulling back against the headboard of our sturdy bed that has been tested in ways I don’t think it has in our nation’s history. I draw my knees close and hug myself, swallowing hard as I try to fight back the arousal that’s been running rampant ever since I opened myself up to it a year ago. “Listen, Irving. I love you. I love you, and nothing can ever, ever change that. I’m so grateful we found each other, but I’m terrified that we lost ourselves in the bargain. We’re living out the fantasies and obsessions of other souls along with our own, and if we keep allowing it to happen, we’ll never be able to separate our true selves from these spirits that haunt us. They’ll become part of us forever. And then we’ll be lost. Truly lost.”

  Irving exhales hard and rolls his eyes. He’s been doing this more and more, which tells me he’s closing himself off from the reality that I see looming before us like a shadow. “Oh, please, Isa. The economy is booming. The nation loves us. They love seeing us on TV, seeing you with our twin girls. I don’t understand why you’re unhappy. Is this postpartum or some shit? I can get you a therapist. We’ll have to keep it quiet, of course.”

  My eyes go wide and I just stare at Irving. “Postpartum? Seriously? Are you even listening to yourself?”

  “Are you even listening to yourself?” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow as he stands at the foot of the bed and glares at me. “I’m trying to run the fucking country, and the last thing I need in my own bedroom is . . . is whatever the fuck this is. And what is this, anyway? You want a fucking divorce, is that it? I got one ex-wife already. Sure. What the hell. Let’s up the count! The drama will probably only help my approval ratings! Everyone loves drama, right? Let the show roll on!”

  I want to laugh in disbelief, maybe burst into tears and throw shit around the room. But instead I just smile, a cold stillness flowing through me as I try to convince myself that maybe I was wrong a year ago, maybe I was fucking wrong about everything!

  “Maybe I should have let you kill me a year ago, you monster,” I whisper up at him, my eyes narrowing as I see his green eyes glow with anger. “Maybe I should tell the media about how you attacked me in the backseat of your limo before the election, almost choked me to death before you held me down and fucked me. Let’s see how your approval ratings do after that, Mister President.”

  “Is that a threat, Mrs. First Lady?” Irving whispers, slowly circling around the large bed as I hug my knees and do my best to meet his hard gaze. “Do you know it’s a federal crime to threaten the President?”

  “You’re a federal crime,” I say to him, not sure what the hell I even mean. And then suddenly doubt of a different kind floods me from the inside, and I wonder if I’m being selfish, if I’m acting like a spoiled brat, if I’m just pissed off that I don’t get enough of my hus
band’s time and attention, if maybe this is some manifestation of postpartum along with the stress that’s come with the crazy events of the past year. After all, a year ago I was a goddamn half-broke psychic in Middle America, and now I’m the First Lady of the United Fucking States, with twin baby girls that I’d die for!

  And before I know it, before I can stop it, before I can control it, I’m bawling like a child, just howling like a lost puppy, not sure why, not sure if I can stop, not sure about anything anymore.

  12

  IRVING

  I’m not sure what’s triggering all this, but without another thought I take Isa into my arms, pull her into my bare chest as she sobs like someone just fucking died. I bury my face in her hair, and suddenly I’m crying too, sobbing as I pull my wife, my woman, my forever into me, pull her so tight against me it’s like I want to take her inside me, become one with her.

  We shudder and shake together in the privacy of the West Wing as the black of night falls like a shroud over the most powerful plot of land in the world. But here it’s just the two of us. It’s not the President and the First Lady right now. It’s just a man and a woman. A husband and a wife. Two lovers gripping each other with a desperation, a yearning, a fucking burning.

  “I love you so damned much, Isa,” I say through my hulking sobs. I don’t think I’ve ever fucking cried, and I almost laugh out loud when I realize something’s happening here, this outburst that seems to make no sense suddenly makes complete sense, this flood of emotion is exactly what we needed. “I don’t know why I’m crying like my newborn babies wailing for Mama’s boobies, but I know I fucking love you. You saved me a year ago, Isa. You balanced me out, made me understand who I was, what I am, what I was born to be.” I draw back and look at her as the realization floods me with light that almost blinds my dumb, self-centered ass. “But I didn’t take the time to do the same for you. To help you come to terms with what you are, what you were born to be.” I shake my head and smile as I wipe the tears from her round cheeks. “This isn’t about spirits and psychics and all that shit, Isa. Hell, I understand enough about that now to know that these spirits can’t truly control us, can’t truly change our essence. I also understand that we’ll always be living in the company of spirits. That’s who we are, isn’t it? Haven’t you spent your whole life in the company of spirits?”