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The Senator by Wilma 1/2
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The Senator
by Wilma
wherein David and I humiliate his wife.
Part 1 of 2
"David, I don't believe what I'm hearing. Why me?"
"Judi likes you. I like you. We've been fantasizing you since
you started working at the lounge."
I was flattered, of course, and completely flabbergasted by it
all. I was a 22-year-old cocktail waitress. David and Judi were
regular customers who always sat in my section and left big tips.
David was an executive in an aircraft manufacturing company, and
Judi was state attorney general, for crying out loud, often in the
news for her activist approach and the governor's pick to fill the
seat left vacant by the death of one of our senators.
Waitresses get to know the rich and the famous, it's true, but
the relationship generally stops at the door. Not always, but
generally. Alright, I had been to bed with David a couple of times,
okay? But that was nothing serious, and it was just straight sex
with no kink at all -- uh, sucking cock and getting your pussy
licked isn't considered kinky is it?
But this. This was a real shocker. We were parked on a hill
overlooking the city. I had unzipped him because I had that need in
my throat I sometimes get. There's a certain matchless moment I
love in a blow job, that magic moment when my throat opens
miraculously and there's this sloppy little popping sound as a man's
erect organ clears my throat for me and slides down like an organic
roto-rooter.
I suppose I could get it from a length of kielbasa sausage,
which is how I learned to deep throat in the first place with the
help of a girlfriend. But a disembodied organ leaves the rest to
fantasy and an empty, incomplete feeling that keeps me disturbed and
needy afterwards. I like to feel a man -- or a woman, for that
matter -- his legs, his chest, his hands on me, guiding me,
participating with me in his pleasure. When I want a man, nothing
else will do.
And sausages don't come, a feature of real sex no fantasy can
replace. I love the taste of it and its consistency, the way it
feels in my mouth, whether it's girlfuck or manstuff. I literally
salivate at the very idea of sucking genital goo into my mouth and
swallowing it right out of the pit of my partner's sex organ. But
the idea without the reality makes me psychotic eventually and
susceptible to risky ventures.
The erect male organ is a phenomenal sight duplicated nowhere
and for which there is no adequate substitute. There are times when
I could worship a naked man with a hard-on, veritably pray to his
phallus, sing arias to it, but there has to be a man connected to it
or it just isn't the same. And a man spurts, you know, and that's
nothing short of amazing. It is an uplifting and fulfilling thought
that I can actually activate a man's nervous system without even
touching him. Just because I'm a sexy woman, I can stimulate a
man's autonomic nervous system and change the chemistry of his body.
I am amazing. Ok, it's not a unique talent, just an amazing one.
Trouble is, I've never been able to do that for very long
without altering my own chemistry just as radically and turning
myself into a drooling animal whose pussy needs can reach a point of
swamping out all cortical supervision. I had tried the erotic
dancer line of work at a local establishment, for example, but when
I sold a couch dance to a man, the man often had to be thrown out
for losing control. The manager caught on after a week or so that
the hapless customers were not at fault.
Where was I? Oh yes: I had unzipped David, and he had stopped
me. He wanted to talk, for crissakes. Seems his attractive wife,
the attorney general, the Senator-Elect, had a nasty little secret.
heh-heh. The Honorable Judith Anne Bradbury languished for want of
having her dignity stripped from her by a commoner, a sexy girl of
lower class, a demimondaine who would demean her without conscience
and reduce her to the odious fool she needed to be for sexual
release.
"If she doesn't get it once or twice a year, she can't
function," David told me. "We've tried everything we know: the best
psychiatrists, fantasy, my raping her, bringing her soiled panties
or shoes I buy from prostitutes. You name it and we've tried it.
Now she's got this fixation on you. I even brought her a whore a
couple of weeks ago, and that did seem to help. But once she fixates
on a particular woman, she could be worthless for a year unless she
gets that particular woman. She needs you at this critical
juncture, or her career is over." That's politician for "I've got a
hard-on so tight a cat couldn't scratch it."
"How'd she get fixated on me? I've never teased her or
anything. I didn't even know she liked girls. Must be my waitress
outfit. It shows off my legs and my cleavage."
"Your eyes, Wilma."
"My eyes?! She wants my eyes instead of my legs?"
"She wants all of you. It's just that your eyes look like
Karen Black's eyes. You know, the actress? Judi goes mushy gooey
every time a Karen Black movie comes on."
First time I ever turned anybody on because of my lazy eye.
Sheesh, go figure obsessives.
"Your wife's a national figure. Why doesn't she go for Karen
Black herself?"
"Miss Black is an equal."
I hadda ask. Oh, well.
It was my patriotic duty to do what I could for a soon-to-be
member of the United States Senate, so I zipped David's pants back
up and patted him on the bulge and agreed to go home with him, there
to apply my healing art to his poor wife.
David called his wife on the car phone: "She'll do it. We're
on our way. What? She's wearing a plain white dress, no-quarter
heels that show lots of foot, paints her toenails blood red, bare
legs, has her pretty blond hair down -- and she's sitting here
listening with a big happy smile on her face."
The Senator-Elect was in her library when we arrived. All
lawyers have libraries in their homes. It's an ABA requirement I
think. She was working at her desk when we entered. She peered
over her glasses at us. She looked like she had just come from
chairing an important committee meeting. David moved off to one
side, leaving me standing in the middle of the room wondering if the
most powerful woman in the state was really in on this scene.
She removed her glasses and retrieved something from a bottom
drawer while her eyes surveyed me. I held my ground and just looked
at her. She stood up and came around the big desk, maintaining eye
contact all the way. I readied myself to punch her goddamn lights
out if it turned out David had tricked me into being a victim for a
sadistic lamia. While that was more my element than playing Dom, I
didn't like being tricked.
[[ Cont. in Part 2 of 2 of The Senator, by Wilma ]]
___ Blue Wave/QWK v2.12
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@@@ x @@@ Being a woman is what I like most about me.
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wilma@stage.com
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