The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  Despite knowing virginity is a social construct placed on women by the patriarchy, it still feels deeply personal and profound. It meant something to me and to have allowed myself to be deflowered by such a violent criminal seems not only unwise, but excessively reckless.

  And I am neither of those things.

  Usually.

  Tears are pouring down my face as I rock myself on the cold tiles of my kitchen floor in an attempt to self-soothe. The enormity of what I have just done has finally hit me, and with it came a fresh fount of conflicting emotions.

  But it was so good. Yet at the same time, what we did was also so incredibly wrong— socially, professionally, and ethically. Morally, too, depending on whom one asks.

  Once again, I find myself strangely flustered, unable to organize my thoughts.

  My brain—formerly a cleanly compartmentalized space, a paradigm of organization, and clear, concise thinking machine—now feels like the jumbled mess of my patient’s. Not only that, but I also seem wholly incapable of logical, reasoned discourse.

  Even with myself.

  I am all emotion. My ego and superego have fled.

  Because despite the fact that he lies to me at every turn about everything; despite not knowing a single thing about him, outside of what’s found in his file, half of which I think is false anyway; despite the fact that he’s violent, conniving, manipulative, arrogant, narcissistic, and remorseless…

  And despite ethics and reason and rational thinking…

  I want him.

  Jaxon

  The next day, I’m enjoying a nice lie-down in my bunk, reading a newspaper. The other guys bring me anything I need, and I’ve allowed that old dog to resume his business under the stairwell.

  Why not? I’m a nice guy. People need their drugs.

  I’m wondering if any news can interest me when I see Bear wandering by.

  “Hey there, old buddy! What you doing down here in the tough guys room?” I throw down the newspaper and move to the door.

  “I just wanted to show my gratitude.” Bear is trying to smile wide, but his throat is still bruised, and he winces with each word and expression. He leans in, speaking quietly.

  “I know you’re rich. I know you do good by your people. I’m real sorry I said something wrong, so I just wanted to made up for it.”

  He presents me with a bottle of aged country brandy and an exquisitely worked crystal glass. He beams proudly, even though it must hurt around the bruises on his face.

  “From my own private stock. The brandy was my granddaddy’s.”

  I take a close look at the bottle. Aged brandy, a good century old.

  “Thank you.” I look back at Bear. “Really. I appreciate this. Even with my resources, things like this are difficult to find. Especially in a hellhole like this.” I give him a big grin.

  “Like I said, Mr. Covington, sir, just want to show my appreciation. If at any time you see fit to come through on the promises you made, I’ll be mighty happy about it. Now I better run along before they miss me upstairs.”

  I wave my hand dismissively, still looking at the label on the brandy. I have a look at the nicely cut glass in the light. Benny shows up a few seconds later as I’m looking at the glass.

  “How’s it hangin’, Benny?” I say absentmindedly.

  “Good, boss. Everyone’s behaving themselves. You know we aren’t meant to have glass down here?”

  “I think its fine, Benny. Hey! You!” I call out to a nearby guard. He looks over his shoulder at me. “Do you see any glass in here, pal?”

  “No, sir, I do not. You continue going on about your business there, Mr. Covington.”

  “See, Benny? There’s no glass anywhere here.”

  Benny grins. “If you say so, boss. I got to let you know, I’m going on a parole hearing soon. Your lawyers will most likely get me out. Is that still the plan or…”

  I sit down, pouring a drink of the beautiful brandy carefully. I put the bottle down and take a sip.

  “Ah, you know what, Benny, that’s fine. I don’t think I need any more help in here at the moment. You got plenty of funds? My accountant fixed you up?”

  Benny beams at me, skinny weasel face and greasy dark hair pulled into a ponytail, drawn by the force of his expression.

  “Yes, sir. I got my old lady all fixed up, thanks to you. I’m gonna get out and take some time for myself. Have a bit of a blow-out with some whores and all. Maybe even treat my cousins.”

  “Excellent, Benny, excellent. What were you working before you came in?”

  “I was running territory downtown. It’s a dangerous spot, sir. We get picked up regular by cops and beaten by rival gangs.”

  I sip the brandy carefully, savoring it.

  “Maybe I’ll put you on one of my new projects. Let me think about it. You got some cousins who can run downtown?”

  “Yes, sir!” Benny’s smile gets even bigger, “Thank you, sir!”

  “No problem, Benny. Run along now.”

  I sip the drink quietly for a few moments when I notice Lummox about to go downstairs.

  “Hey! You there! Guard! Get him.” I point at Lummox who’s trying to slink away.

  Fat fucker. Does he really think he can blend in?

  The nearest guard brings him over, one hand on his stick.

  “Lummox. I haven’t had a smoke yet today. What the fuck you doing? Didn’t you promise me those cigars your mom brought you?”

  Lummox looks sadly at the floor. “She paid a lotta money for them, mister. I only get four to a pack.”

  “Hand it over, Lummox, now.”

  He looks at me forlornly, and all I have to do is snap my fingers and the guard pulls out his baton. Lummox pulls the small box out of his pocket.

  “Thank you, Lummox. You’re dismissed.”

  “Okay, sir.”

  “Oh, and find Old Dog while you’re at it. I want to see that fucker. He owes me ten percent. Find out if anyone’s got biscuits or candy. I’m hungry.”

  Lummox strides out, shoulders slumped. I stick a cigar between my teeth, lighting it with a match.

  I call out as Lummox lumbers away. “And somebody find the fucking chessboard! I need something to do.”

  I lie back on my saggy mattress, smoking the cigar with long, appreciative draws. I sip the aged brandy. Really, I have everything I need.

  I wish I could just be floating on a cloud about how it went with Alison yesterday. My cock throbs just thinking about it.

  And this is only the beginning. Wait until she gets hungry for it and knows what to expect—not just from me, but from her own body. I bet she’ll claw at me like a wild cat.

  Ruling the prison is nice. I get to do what I want. No one messes with me.

  But it is ridiculously boring. These people—supposedly the most savage and unlawful bunch of sorry asses around here—have been pitifully easy to dominate. I expected some violence, some resistance.

  Maybe I’ll start a war or something. Get everyone throwing chairs around. I’d like that.

  Trouble is, they would all make a pile of noise, do a few exciting, violent things, then sit down and whine about it.

  It’s boring.

  Alison’s not boring.

  Even as her body opened like a flower in the sun, she struggled. She fought against herself. She didn’t want to…but she did want to…and finally, her hot pussy won. It beat her mind.

  No. I did. I inflamed her so much, she became a thing of passion and desire.

  I’m all tantalized, thinking this through. Will she be easier next time? Or harder?

  Now that she knows what to expect, will she put up barriers? Maybe she’ll think of her own body as a traitor and work to control it.

  I remember the sweet lips of her pussy. The taste. The way she gasped in surprise as my cock went deep into her.

  That innocent, sweet, shocked look after I forced my cock down her throat. I’m going to come down that throat, someday soon. Those sweet lips
are going to eat everything I can give, and she’s going to love it and beg for more.

  I can’t wait to see how she responds to me next time we see each other.

  If she will be soft like a lover. Hard like a doctor. Confused, caught between the two.

  I can’t even begin to guess, and that’s what I love. I can’t possibly predict it.

  The one thing I do know is that I’m right about us being connected. That kind of opening doesn’t just happen in a matter of minutes.

  I feel the satisfied smile creeping over my face. She’s been thinking of me. She’s been wanting me.

  That out-of-body connection I can feel is real, and she feels it, too.

  So I can be fairly certain that even if she reacts coldly or tries to resist me, that it’s not her true desire.

  Her true desire is to give herself to me. To let go, like she just did.

  Is her body on fire right now? Replaying the soft kisses on her pussy, the driving hardness of my cock? Is she laying in bed at night, hot body aching, whispering my name?

  I can’t help it. I laugh out loud as I clamp the end of the cigar between my teeth.

  I notice a shadow in the door.

  “Old Dog!” I call out. “Sorry, fella. I was off in my own little world. You got my ten percent?”

  He nods, not speaking, and comes in. On the floor next to my bunk, he drops a small pile of contraband goods. Some smokes. Candy. Some booze.

  A guard walks past and looks in on the way past. I give him a salute; he returns it with a nod. They don’t give a fuck what I’m doing.

  Lummox trundles through the door. He has the chess board.

  “Hey there, Old Dog. You want to play chess with me? Lummox here just doesn’t have the brain power.”

  Old Dog shakes his head.

  I sit up. Putting my new glass down carefully. “What?”

  Old Dog looks up and scowls. “Sorry, Mister Covington. Of course I’ll play chess with you.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  Alison

  Despite my half-hysterical breakdown last night, I arrive to work on time—if a little harried.

  I forgot my usual rolling briefcase and found myself having to haul everything in myself. So now, I’m left trying to balance multiple case files (I do have other cases to work, though none are quite as pressing), my purse, thermos, water bottle, and breakfast—all while trying to unlock and open my office door.

  I can feel the accordion folders slipping, and I’ve just resigned myself to the inevitability of having to pick them all up, when two large hands slip in and pluck them from their precarious position.

  “Here you go, Dr. Hughes. Let me help you with that.”

  My hair has fallen like a sheet along the side of my face as I bend to unlock my door, so my vision is partially obscured. However, as the lock clicks open, I raise my head to find myself staring up at the guard Jaxon tried to choke to death yesterday. I blink, momentarily stunned, then smile.

  “Thank you so much,” I say. “Larry, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s right Dr. Hughes, Larry Krenshaw.” He sticks out his hand and smiles carefully. I notice his lip looks split and tender.

  I somewhat awkwardly shift my paraphernalia around and shake his hand, before directing him where to set down the file folders.

  “Coffee didn’t leave a stain, I hope?” he asks, hovering at the door.

  “What?” I ask, trying to get everything put away and situated. Then what he means clicks.

  “Oh! No, no, it didn’t stain. Thank you for your concern.” I finally take a good look at him and notice he’s fidgeting and shifting from one foot to the next. Like he needs to talk.

  I feel myself frown slightly.

  “Well, I’ll see you around, doc.” He turns to go.

  “Wait!” I yell. He stops-mid stride. “Mr. Krenshaw.”

  “Larry,” he corrects me with a smile.

  I return it. “Larry,” I say gently. “I’d really love to discuss the events of the other day with you, if you don’t mind. Let me just get settled here and—”

  “That won’t be necessary Doc,” he says, his eyes widening in what looks like panic. “Nothing to discuss.”

  Curious.

  “Mr. Krenshaw…”

  “Larry,” he mumbles automatically.

  I start again. “Larry, would it put you at ease to know that you would have doctor-patient confidentiality? I swore an oath never to disclose what is discussed in my sessions. We don’t have to talk about what happened the other day; we can discuss whatever you like. But you look like you have something on your mind, and I’d like to help.”

  As I talk, I can see the panic dissipate. Though he still looks a bit uncomfortable, he agrees to come back in two hours, when he has a break. I nod and say that I’ll see him then.

  I spend the next two hours going over other patients’ files. I decided last night, after a hot bath and my second bowl of ice cream, that I needed a bit of distance. So, regardless of the deadline, I swore to spend the day detoxing from Jaxon by reading other case files and performing other necessary, but somewhat neglected tasks.

  If I want to continue to treat Jaxon (and I’ve really been given no other choice), then I have to compartmentalize my feelings for him and whatever our relationship might be. To do that, I need distance, hence the necessity of the “detox.”

  I’m just finishing up an email when I hear a soft rap on my door.

  “Come in,” I say without looking up.

  “Is now a good time, Dr. Hughes?”

  “Yes, of course Mr. Kren—er, Larry. Now is perfect. Please come in and have a seat. I’ll be with you shortly. Help yourself to some coffee.” I wave him to one of the empty chairs in the small sitting area I use for sessions.

  After quickly finishing up what I’m doing, I head over and sit directly across from him, setting my notepad and pen to the side. I notice he looks uncomfortable again, like the prison uniform is too tight. He can’t seem to sit still.

  He picks up his coffee cup, takes a sip, puts it down, picks it up again, fidgets with it, and on and on and on. I take a breath and slip on my doctor face—bland, unassuming smile, inquisitive, but not probing eyes. I struggle with the empathy often necessary in these sessions but approximate it very well.

  “Now Larry, is there anything you’d like to discuss?”

  He glances around the room before settling on a point somewhere over my left shoulder.

  “Will you…” He pauses, seemingly unsure what to say. Though I remain quiet, I notice him occasionally reach up and stroke his throat.

  Nervous soothing? Or a reminder?

  Then his words tumble out in a rush. “Will you just…will you just let Mr. Covington know that I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to upset him. I didn’t mean to make him angry.

  “I know it was my fault. It was all my fault, and I’d just feel terrible if something were to happen to him because of it. He’s promised to do good by me, and I know he will. I just…I just…”

  At this point, he breaks down and begins to sob into his hands.

  I calmly hand him the box of tissues, a sympathetic expression on my face. But inside, I am horrified. What has Jaxon done to this man?

  He takes a deep breath in an attempt to get himself under control. “Just tell him again how sorry I am for causing that mess the other day.” He squeezes his eyes shut and continues trying calm down.

  Ever so gently, I lean forward and place my hand lightly on his arm.

  He jumps.

  I frown at this but continue in my soothing therapist voice. “Larry, look at me. Look at me, Larry.” He finally opens his eyes and looks at me. “You did nothing wrong. Mr. Covin—Jaxon Covington is a very sick man, and I’m doing my best to help him.

  “His actions were in the wrong the other day. Not yours. I need you to know that, Larry. You don’t owe Jaxon Covington a thing. If anything, he owes you for allowing me to handle the dispute and not reportin
g it.”

  At this, he huffs a sad, rueful laugh. “It wouldn’t matter if I did. Every person here is in his pocket.” Then his face twists. “Even you.”

  I sit back, a bit stunned. Then, as if he realizes he’s just said something he shouldn’t have, his face again grows panicked.

  “I’m sorry, doc! Oh, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean that at all. Please don’t say anything to Mr. Covington.” His eyes are rolling around in his head like a panicked horse.

  I lean forward again and touch his arm in an attempt to soothe him, but I swear I just make it worse. He jumps at my touch.

  “Th-th-thank you for the coffee,” he stammers out. “But I need to be getting back. My break’s been too long.”

  “Of course,” I say softly. “My apologies for keeping you. Everything you’ve told me will remain just between us.”

  He nods gratefully, and then he’s gone.

  As the door clicks shut, I’m unable to move from my seat. I can feel myself have a bit of cognitive dissonance, because I’m fairly certain this is the chair Jaxon and I fucked in.

  The thought arouses me but also sends a cold shiver of dread down my spine. My stomach churns in disgust.

  I thought we’d made progress. I actually thought Jaxon was capable of reform. But after listening to the abused guard apologize for triggering Jaxon and recoiling in fear at the mere thought of upsetting him, I’m no longer sure.

  In fact, I can be sure of only one thing: I will remain his doctor because I have no other choice.

  But everything else between Jaxon Covington and me is through. No matter what this thing is between us. No matter how much I may think I love him.

  I won’t be an idle party to his corruption.

  I cannot be a Bonnie to his Clyde.

  Jaxon

  Old Dog sits across from me, sitting on an overturned bucket. Chairs are hard to get up the stairs. I’m sitting on my bunk, chess board between us on an old milk crate.

  We’ve been playing for a few hours now. Not many pieces left on the board. I quite like playing with Old Dog. He’s shrewd. Not really that smart, but he definitely got a gift for planning ahead.

  “What did you do before you hit the joint, Old Dog?” I ask softly, ready to move my knight.