The campaign hall is quickly emptying, and no one is going toward the elevators except the campaign staff, who’ve been staying at the Biltmore Arms since earlier in the week. I ride up alone, dabbing a mist of body spray onto my throat just before the bell dings on the penthouse suite.
The hall is alive with activity, and I make energetic faces and tight embraces with the rest of the governor elect’s staff, from his burly security staff to his overbearing campaign manager -- my former boss! -- to well-heeled well-wishers and hangers on.
At last I tap on his door. Three quick rats, our secret signal. I hear his good-natured bellow and walk in, sneaking a quick peek at the hallway behind me. Still locked in passionate embraces, no one thinks twice about the mousy little personal assistant knocking on her boss’s door.
“Mr. Governor, sir,” I call out, just in case any of them are listening. “You wanted me to take some notes on tomorrow’s press release?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, tie undone and hanging on either side of his stiff white dress shirt. “Please, come in.”
I bolt the door the minute it shuts behind me, and he smiles, still on his cell phone.
“Yes, Governor Peterson, I think that statement reads just fine. All set for tomorrow’s press conference? I’ll see you there and, sir, thanks for running a damn clean campaign.”
He ends the call and switches off the phone, tossing it with a clatter onto a bureau covered with three more just like it.
“Congratulations, sir,” I purr, still hovering by the door. I want this night to last, and if he touches me now, it will be all over.
“Why thank you,” he oozes southern charm, pointing to the chilled ice bucket on the coffee table. “I’m glad I didn’t jinx myself when I ordered this earlier.”
I note the two room service glasses and push my rectangular reading glasses, his favorite, up my nose. “For me?”
His eyes, at last, are sincere. “Who else?”
We stand, a room apart. He is so tall and handsome, and now…the governor! I. Am about. To fuck. The governor! I inch toward him, my body alert and alive as he reaches for the champagne bottle.
The cork pops, spraying foam onto his white shirt. I am near him now, close enough to reach for his buttons with a trembling hand. “Here,” I say, “you’re all wet.”
“Not yet,” he whispers, pulling me close. His hands are between my legs, gently testing the temperature of my tight black panties. “But we will be.”
“Promises, promises,” I croak, voice tight with desire as I push him away. “But I am quite thirsty and I know we have a lot of…work…to do tonight.”
We sit down across from each other in the suite’s sitting room as he pours us both heaping glasses of the fizzling bubbly. “Yes, quite right,” he chuckles, sitting back in his chair and admiring my new getup. “I see you’ve come dressed for the occasion.”
I drop my oversize bag to the floor, kicking it away and making a frown. “Now that the campaign’s over,” I sigh, “I hope I’ll never have to wear khaki and blue cotton again.”
I take a sip of the bubbly, too big, and sneeze.
“Bless you,” he says. “Well, you might want to save it for next year’s re-election campaign. You might need it.”
I groan, tossing back more of the champagne as he undoes another button. “God, I hope not! I mean, not that you don’t get re-elected but that I never have to wear…” He’s chuckling, sitting back, his long legs splayed out, his narrow waist begging to quiver beneath my maroon fingernails. “Well, you know what I mean.”
He drains his glass and refills both of ours. “That’s what I like about you, Sara Perkins, you always say just what you mean.”
I nod and sit back as well. My whole body is tense, skin on fire, the material of my maroon skirt rasping across my thighs. He watches me, not moving except to sip from his glass. He swallows even when he’s not drinking, and I notice the outline of his thickening shaft in his gray slacks.
He’s enjoying this, too.The anticipation, the calm before the storm.
“It’s hot in here, don’t you think?’
“God yes,” he cracks, knowing where I’m going. “You must be on fire.”
“Maybe, sir…do you mind terribly if I take this sweater off?” He nods energetically. “I mean, it won’t interfere with our…work?”
“I’m good with it,” he says in a clip, shifting down in his chair as if he was sitting at a strip club.
“I’ll just take these off,” I say, reaching for my glasses, but he stops me with a gasp. “No,” he says, eyes growing heavy with desire. “Leave them on, Ms. Perkins.”
My thighs quiver. “As you wish, governor.”
I reach down around my waist and pull the sweater up, slowly, until it’s covering my face. I peel the fabric off slowly, enjoying its crispness as it slides across my skin. I fling it onto the edge of the blue couch I’m sitting on, smiling as he ogles me appreciatively.
“I love your tits,” he says, filling my glass. I reach for it too eagerly, feeling slightly tipsy already and enjoying it after the long campaign slog.
I take a sip and replace the glass, using some of the champagne foam from the side to lubricate my finger. “I kind of like them, too,” I say, reaching inside my bra and slathering my already taut nipple with the cold, fizzing liquid.
“That looks refreshing,” he says dryly and, when I look back, his crisp white shirt is unbuttoned and lies on either side of his hairless chest and narrow waist.
“It is,” I say, unclasping my bra and tossing it aside, nipples erect and eager for more. I tease them, and him, bringing the champagne glass to my throat and drizzling it, lightly, onto each breast. The sudden cold is both shocking and exhilarating, as is the blossom of heat and moistness between my legs as they spread reflexively.
I moan, teasing myself, glasses and skirt still on as I hear his belt unbuckle. The sound is intoxicating as I watch him unzip his pants, stiff cock thick against his black boxer briefs. “Don’t stop on my account, Ms. Perkins.” his voice is husky and thick, but playful.
I turn my skirt around, unzipping it and sliding it off to expose my thong panties, richly damp and cloying. The skirt hits the floor the same time the governor’s pants do. He still has his shirt on, tie dangling as he nods at me. “What next, Ms. Perkins?”
“Well, things seem to be going so well, governor…” My finger slides beneath the soft, satiny material of my panties, treading down the soft patch of pubic hair I keep trimmed, but not shaved. My fingertips thread lightly through the silky, wet hair until one touches the ripe, pink bud of my clit, wet and throbbing as a gush of electricity floods my thighs, my ass, my stomach.
I gasp and bite my lip, eyelids fluttering open to find his pants around his ankles, thick cock in his hand, glistening from precum as he strokes himself in time to my performance.
“Why governor,” I gasp, gently sliding my moist fingers from my panties. “You shouldn’t have to do that yourself.”
He smiles, resting both hands on his bare hips, pale from the campaign trail, thin from his daily morning jog. “I… could use some help.” His prick stands at attention as I stand and trod slowly across the floor, sinking to my knees in front of him.
“I see that,” I croak, peppering his towering shaft with light kisses as I gingerly take his balls in one hand. With the other, I toy with his fluttering stomach as he breathes in short, raspy breaths, my lips circling his glistening tip as his musky, salty taste fills my tongue.
He grunts and groans in satisfaction as my fingers play more vigorously with his balls.
“I was wondering, for my press conference tomorrow...” he gasps as I take in the heft of him, then slide it back out, my free hand replacing my tongue as I stroke him into a trembling, glistening lather.
“Yes, governor,” I say, doing my best Marilyn Monroe imitation.
“Well, would you mind terribly repeating after me so I know what I might sound like?”
&
nbsp; I wink, kissing the tip of his throbbing shaft. “I’ll try my best, sir.”
He is nearly breathless as he says, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
I swallow his shaft as much as I dare, gurgling around his thick cock, “Goodth morningth, ladiesh and gentsh…”
He moans as I stroke him some more. “I appreciate you being here today…”
“Such big words,” I say before sliding my lips around his glistening cock. “I appressshiate yoush beingsh heresh todaysh…”
I watch his taut belly quiver with delight as I rise from my knees, dragging my erect nipples across his chest as we come face to face. “I think it’s time for something a little more hands on, don’t you sir?”
His throat is flushed, his breath still coming in short clips. “If you insist, Ms. Perkins.”
I reach for his tie, still hanging loosely around his neck on either side of his open shirt. It comes off easily as I tie his wrists behind his back. He looks uncertain until I lean down and whisper in his ear. “We can’t have you doing all the work now that you’re governor, sir.”
He smiles, and I kiss him, hard and fast, only to put one hand on his shoulder as I slide my panties off with the other. He watches me, eyes wide as I slide onto his belly, so firm beneath my throbbing clit I nearly come from the pressure of skin on skin.
I slide into his lap, thick cock on the small of my back as I pepper his bare chest with small kisses, grinding myself on his pelvis as we both begin to breathe heavier. I’m so wet now I can hear myself, sliding across his skin, slick, moist sounds as I lift up, his cock instantly sliding across my ass to flatten against his waist, inching past his belly button as I slide down on it, my clit fat and wet as I slide it up and down, from stem to shaft, the sensation bringing me to the edge of a glorious climax.
I increase my rhythm, gliding faster, greedier, not caring about the sounds or the way he bucks against me, ready for more. So am I. I move one hand from where I’ve been pressing against his sweaty chest, reaching for him, grabbing his wet cock and sliding on top of it as it fills me. I’m so wet I slide down the length of him, gasping as he gasps, bucking with my first climax, biting my tongue as I keep going--going, until my ass is flush with his thighs and I slide back up, teasingly, tauntingly, until I can feel him threatening to slip out, and I slide back down.
I look into his eyes as he grins. “Say it,” he gasps as I grind down and up again, slower each time.
I know what he wants, but it’s fun to hear him rasp, twitching under my pussy, in my control. “Say what, governor?” My own voice is hoarse and tight, breathless as I grind against him, coming once more and squealing until I need my hand against his chest to hold me up.
“Say. My. Name.” He gasps, close to coming himself, voice small and eyes half-lidded.
I grind him now, pumping against him, beyond climax although they continue to come, eyes closed, screaming his name as I ride him: “Oh Governor Carter! Governor Carter! Governor--”
He grunts and bucks, filling me, gushing inside of me, pounding me once, twice more as I come again, losing count now, collapsing on top of him as he pumps until he can take no more, and he slides from me, limp and wet and messy.
I slide off of him, exhausted but able to untie his hands as he reaches for me, pulling me close. We are both breathing heavy, covered in sweat and our own juices, skin pink and red from grinding against one another.
He notices me chuckling. “What’s so funny?”
I raise up on one elbow to look at his heaving chest, his tousled brown hair. “You have this conservative image, but I can’t imagine how many more women would vote for you if they knew what you could do to a woman with your hands tied behind your back.”
He rolls over to gaze at me, smiling that crooked smile. “Just wait until you see what I can do with my hands free and your hands tied.”
God help me, I’m already wet just thinking about it…
Waxing Critical
by Molly Roberts
That’s not art. Fair enough it was an original idea, but where was the delivery? In theory anyone could’ve done it. I watched them clambering over each other to support his claims, as though he was the new messiah or something—it got too much when someone mistakenly referred to him as the head of the committee.
“I’m sorry but I have to stop you there—Tim isn’t the head of the committee,” I said, “but whilst I’m already speaking, let me take this opportunity to share my view on the topic of Tim’s performance art. My main concern is about how it is in danger of negating the years of hard work, which some of us have invested into the rendering of fine art. I don’t think we should attach too much importance to such throw-away forms, as they’re no doubt little more than passing phases of post modernism.”
“Thanks for joining us Audrey,” Tim said, with that insolent look on his face—sometimes I wonder if someone’s planted him here for some kind of prank. “I take your point, but I feel that the real worth of my art, which sets it apart from would-be imitators, is the degree of creativity and originality required in the conception of the idea itself, as well as in the mindfulness with which I execute and capture the final realization of the concept.”
“Yes Tim, but a trained monkey could pass—”
“Audrey, if you’d please just let me finish—thank you.” He grinned at the rest of the group. “Whilst I understand, that maybe a monkey could achieve something that may resemble some of my finished outcomes; I have to say that the areas where the monkey’s idea would lack sophistication, in terms of conception and execution, would be the areas that would reveal the art as the creation of an imposter.”
The way that the rest of the group nodded their heads at each other, disrupted my thoughts with anger. “As much as I’d like to indulge you in these matters Tim, I don’t quite have time, as I have a painting to finish after lunch—a one that requires a considerable amount of deliberation and expertise.”
“That’s perfectly fine Audrey. As always, your comments are especially valued, but I’d hate to think that we were holding you back from more important matters.”
I felt myself blush with embarrassment, or fury, as I watched him go on to dismiss the rest of the group for dinner, as if he was their headmaster.
“Audrey that was something else—you could’ve cut the tension with a knife!” Jodie said, appearing at my shoulder.
“Yes, well I don’t like the way things are going here—I think someone has to take a stand.”
“Everybody thinks Tim’s really cool—it’s good to give the place a youthful injection isn’t it? And besides, we think he likes you,” Jodie said, lifting her hand to her mouth.
“Really? I mean—come on Jodie, don’t be silly—what would I want to do with a little boy like that?”
Jodie looked like she’d seen a ghost behind me. I felt hands on my shoulders, shooting coldness through my spine.
“And who would that little boy be?”
I looked up and it was Tim, beaming that big white smile at me.
“I-I don’t think it’s any of your business frankly,” I said, gathering my position. “And you need to learn some manners, instead of creeping around behind ladies like that.”
He moved around to my side, and I could feel him pressing against my arm. “I’m sorry Audrey; I didn’t mean to frighten you—”
“Oh don’t flatter yourself Tim.” I became aware of him readjusting himself, squashing into my arm, but I didn’t want to move—that would be like giving in. “I don’t know what your motives are for trying to wind me up, but I want you to know that I won’t be falling for it.” I was distracted by the movement on my arm, and I looked down in confusion. It was his penis, creeping up against my blouse. I felt a shot of what felt like sickness—maybe excitement. I remembered to finish what I’d started: “So just… be careful who you pick a fight with…”
He squeezed my shoulder and I looked up again; his face was serious. “I didn’t mean to upset y
ou Audrey.” His cock was fully erect now; I could make out the head, emerging over my shoulder. “Good afternoon ladies.”
I took a deep breath and watched him move away with confident ease, gesturing towards the girls on the next table. It took a while for what had just happened to sink in. Was he trying to humiliate me?
“I told you he liked you,” Jodie whispered, “he’s hot—you should go for it!”
“Don’t be silly,” I told her, “he’s using his charm to try and pull the wool over our eyes—what, with all his silly performance art, it’s like The Emperor’s New Clothes or something!”
Jodie looked around like a little mouse. “Stef was in late last night; she walked past his studio and looked in—said he had a TV on, playing pornographic films. She looked closer and saw that it was Tim, in the film!”
Sensual Erotica (Vol. 1): 26 Erotic Stories Page 22