Politics Is a Dirty Business

My ass is still sore from the spankings, every little movement reminds me of the exquisite torture, but I manage to sit through a dinner with the kids with only minimal squirming, and call it an early night. In the morning my constituents start in again at 7:00 am.

"Hello, I'm your elected representative and I need your help." That's how I usually start my stump speech when I'm campaigning. But my platform is much harder to articulate with a ball-gag in my mouth, clamps on my nipples, and my hands and ankles shackled to this padded bench. After the cum has dried on my thighs and I've thoroughly washed his cock with my tongue, he releases me in time to shower and get home to pick-up dinner for my family.

"I'm trapped," saying it out loud doesn't make it any easier, maybe another Jack Daniels will. My name is Susan, I'm 34 years old and the Controller of a Grade-Three city in the heart of the bible-belt. That would be the equivalent of a small-town mayor. I was elected a few years back with luke-warm party support to lead a new wave of back-to-basics governing. I am not above acknowledging to myself that my tits got me the job.

I started working as a teenage waitress in a chain restaurant where the girls wear high heels and low tops. I pack a set of 36Cs that still ride high and firm, and my 5'11" frame still looks good in stilettos, but now only for a private audience. For twenty years I wore my bottle-blonde hair in long waves to the small of my back, but have since let most of the original brown return. And I once did a topless photo shoot with my silky locks obscuring the spry pink nipples of my full chest. My long fingers cuddled my heavy boobs in the picture so not much was revealed, however there are more slutty pictures somewhere out there.

My job now calls for me to dress slightly more conservatively, but to allow my figure some breathing room. A lot of short skirts, or long ones slit up the side. Tight or flimsy tops with a modest heel. My sun-streaked light-brown hair is cut to lay gently on my shoulders. At public functions, I soon realized that my role is to put "a pretty face" on my Party's lawyers and advisors. I follow a tight script and defer to them in most policy matters. A more cut-throat gang of vultures and vipers could only be found in D.C. We have a mutual loathing need of each other.

I have been married for twelve years to a slick, lazy user whom I try to only be in the same room with, on holidays and photo-ops. The marriage is no longer happy or fulfilling and hasn't been in awhile. My two young children are on the verge of becoming spoiled brats. It has never entered my mind to have an affair or to take a lover. I used to have respect for the moral conventions, besides my career now was my number one priority.

In the past couple of years the only time I felt like a woman, was when I was with "the Viking." His name was Sven, and he was my personal assistant, appointment secretary, Starbuck's runner, and he would even rub my tired, sore feet after a long day in four-inch pumps. Though that could inspire some very erotic daydreams.

As you may have guessed, I'm no lawyer or business-school grad. I was once on our small community school board and my calendar picture was in every firehouse and Vet's Club in the county. So when some snake-oil salesman from the Party proposed the ludicrous idea that I run for office; season tickets for my husband, a shopping spree for me, and a magnum of French Champagne sealed the deal. Smile away, Boobs out!

The straight Party ticket sailed through the November elections and we were swept into office. A few of the boys thanked me for letting them ride my coattails (or whatever.) Once installed behind my grand oak desk, it became obvious that I would need administrative help. Or as the boys called it, a "veterinarian." They whispered loud enough for me to get the message, that "their pussy had to be kept clean."

So we went through a series of lawyers, English professors, P.R. guys, and other assorted "handlers." I was prepped, poked and prodded by image consultants and speech writers who treated me like a child. Finally, I found Sven. We met by accident at the market. He was 6'3" with long white-blonde hair and the clearest, brightest blue eyes I ever saw. His cheeks and jawbone were chiseled, and his shoulders and pectoral muscles nicely filled-out the designer suits the Party arranged for him to wear to public appearances.

On weekends, I would sometimes catch him after his morning run or hot from a workout. His silky golden hair sits in a tight ponytail and there is a stubble of strawberry-blonde facial hair. His long legs are vined with taut muscle and exposed veins. And his arms are firm from resistance training.

I am often taken by the musky aroma of controlled masculinity and caged virility. I picture him as the cover-model of those tawdry romance novels that you read one-handed. More than once, I felt the moist heat from my loins when near him, and was forced to discreetly press my hand firmly against my straining, lonely vagina. When left alone in the office, I always used the protection of the big desk to strum my fingers inside my cotton panties when thinking of him "in that way." Then I would skitter off to the private bathroom to finish. I learned to keep several changes of undies over the course of time.

Sven protected me from the few ignorant reporters who delighted in quoting my less-polished statements and he had connections in the newsrooms of the city. He also soothed and "seduced" the ladies in the crowds who thought I was only elected because their husbands fantasized about fucking me. And since I was "technically" the boss, Sven acted as my gatekeeper and enforcer when the real movers and shakers in the group tried to undermine me. They all wanted my job, and each one of them did want to fuck me.

The Viking would occasionally remark how sexy I looked when issuing orders to my staff. He mentioned that it must be a sensual thrill to have such power over people. He said it seemed that I got a rush from being in control of things. Actually, I was frightened to the point of embarrassment that someone might call my bluff. It appeared that I was an in-control despot but really I was just a scared little girl. I mentioned something like that to him once, that was my first mistake.

Sven was not a "company man," his loyalty was to me. When we were getting to know each other, he mentioned his rather sketchy background in television news, and that it was difficult to find work. He admitted to some sort of scandalous behavior involving women, photos and threats at the old job, but was able to avoid punishment by way of "knowing his way around." We worked out an arrangement where he would smooth my way and I would put him on the City Payroll. Though there were many late night dinners and some smoldering secrets shared, it was strictly hands-off.

If you then ask, how does it happen that when we step into the executive elevator and ride the express up to my eleventh-floor suite, I'm on my knees with his dick in my mouth by the fourth floor? And before the doors are manually released, I'm struggling to swallow a gallon of cum and to reapply my make-up for our appearance infront of the ubiquitous security cameras sweeping the area?

Well that little nightmare started about six months ago when the Viking strode into my office, poured himself a tumbler of whiskey, propped his big feet on my desk and said, " We have an unusual situation brewing." He then tossed a sealed envelope into my lap.

It seems that about two years ago my financial auditor mentioned that my personal account was "a fucking mess." I didn't know that was an industry term. But I did understand that my deadbeat husband had given up all pretext of working, and was now flagrantly banging some whorey waitress twice a week in a four-star hotel. He had come to the astute realization that he had me over a barrel, I could appear to the public as a sympathetic divorcee, but in our neck of the woods it would be career suicide.

After being shown some incriminating security photos and dubious room charges, it was determined that the political fall-out was much worse than the adultery. My feelings in the matter were secondary. Boardroom meetings with the Higher-ups decided the issue. I reluctantly swallowed my pride and asked the Viking for his help. It turns out that he was the perfect man for the job. Nothing got in the tabloids and there were no complaints. No amount of corruption was beneath Sven. He was a real hustler. Sven managed to arrange many conferences and banquets at the facility, and finagled a "no-work" City job for the manager's daughter.

Also around this time, my oldest child had talked me into riding lessons, (so ofcourse) she needed a horse. And then all the livery and travel that an Olympic Equestrian would need. A savvy stable owner donated the horse. The boarding, training, feeding and veterinary bills were another shocking story. But again, how would it look if the City Controller couldn't pay for her daughter's hobby. I asked Sven if he could do anything. The City opened a riding school for kids and the owner was especially appreciative.

And my back-stabbing subordinates took every liberty to place me in a bad light to the voters. I was soon reduced to offering tax-breaks and sweetheart deals to every third business. I was forced to do some arm-twisting, begging for campaign contributions from some wealthy donors, in the form of "untraceable" cash left behind the counter of a local dry cleaners. Sven would pick-up my cleaning in exchange for guaranteeing all of the city's laundry service to this merchant. I then worked a semi-shady deal where all of the city vehicles were maintained by a certain local body shop. In return for a generous commission, I awarded them a three-year contract. The shit was getting deep.

In a few short months I had so much quid-pro-quo dancing through the ledger books, that I needed to "grease" the City CPA, too. And during that period, I was morphing into a full-throated beeyatch. It started from scared desperation, but turned into an apparently ruthless power. I ordered the staff around and demanded things be done at an unsustainable schedule. I was throwing my weight around like a big fish in a small pond. I heard all of the snide remarks, "bitch," "uppity," "cunt..." My outer shell looked tough but it was all a house of cards, I wasn't very politically savvy, but I knew my comeuppance was in the air. But the feeling of authority, no matter how shallow, was sexy. It made my nipples hard.

They say that "There is honor among thieves." That's bullshit! Thankfully, Sven was able to get a handle on things. I soon made him the highest-salaried executive assistant in the town's history. With his disarming good looks and his suave manner of both charming and threatening folks, he had pretty much swept the untidy dealings under the rug. He had also used his background with hidden microphones and tiny cameras to gain leverage on everybody. That's why I liked having him around. When he sealed the deal, it remained closed. That's what brought his shit-eating grin into my office that day.

I gingerly approached the envelope on my lap as if it were a coiled snake. I could feel the beads of hot sweat forming on my forehead and could sense it in my underarms and at the small of my back. My eyes darted quickly to Sven's piercing blue orbs and the disconcerting look of a fang-toothed smile on his smug face. He had never given me any reason to mistrust him. Infact, he was privy to all of my secrets, but recently I had become suspicious of everybody. And his sudden change of demeanor plus this ominous unmarked envelope had me shivering.

When I moved to question him, he only touched a finger to his soft lips and those cool blue eyes shifted back and forth. He was casually sipping his drink and crunching down hard on the ice as our eyes met for a second time. Then he simply nodded his head to me, prompting me to open the package, as I watched him pour himself another drink from my crystal decanter. I noticed pointedly that there was no second glass. My trembling fingers fumbled with the string and clasp seal of the folder and two seemingly harmless CDs spilled forth. They were marked "A" and "B," and I knew enough from televised cop shows, that they were about to inject unneeded drama into my life. My faithful associate was just placing his empty goblet of whiskey on a small stack of official documents when he off-handedly mentioned, " You may want to peek at those, but not in view of these prying eyes." I could see him scan the room as he pointed to all the cameras, ostensibly for my protection. He rose from one of the red leather wingbacks at the front of my desk. He rather deliberately adjusted the knot of his curious-looking leather tie, and then ceremoniously straightened the pleat of his trousers, taking pains to ensure comfort and a smooth line to his bulging crotch.

He was an extremely sexy man and I had some very sultry thoughts concerning him. It was often difficult to keep my hands to myself, and my lonely bed only brought me more steamy, lurid images. But this rather obvious sexual preening caught me off-guard.

Were my suddenly raw emotions just reading too much into this? Was I only feeling paranoid and jumping at every movement? The Viking merely gave me a wink and a wave, then a slanderous sneer as he turned toward the door. Why did watching his firm ass-cheeks in those tight chinos send such a cold sweat down my cleavage and effect a startling shiver down my spine? I was quivering and yet my nipples were hard as diamonds and poking obscenely at my silk blouse. He surely noticed. If I weren't so frightened, I would have definitely rubbed-off a quick one, my mind and body were working against each other.

For the next half hour, I diligently shuffled through some papers, though loose pages slipped from my shaking fingers. And while answering just one phone call, my speech trembled and stuttered to such a degree that I made a feeble excuse, and then called it a day. Trying to avoid looking obvious or scared on the cameras, I studiously placed a file on top of the two discs, then swept everything into my briefcase. In a further nod to paranoia I fed the empty envelope into the shredder. With a full glass of rye to sustain me, I shakily strode the gauntlet of prying eyes through the corridors of City Hall. Obeying every traffic signal, I managed to make it home, chug another drink and collapse into my easy chair in the den. I was shaking at the thought that a DUI stop might have involved a search of my bag, and whatever incriminating evidence these damn tapes might hold.

I tried everything to ignore those discs. But it was as if they had a voice of their own calling to me. If your socks are on fire, you can ignore the flame, but you will still get burned. So I slipped on rubber gloves (I thought I was being smart,) and touching only the edges, haltingly placed the first CD in the player.

There were no credits, no music and no humor. Just a video and audio recording of merchants and citizens handing over envelopes stuffed with cash and each one of them complained loudly that "the shakedown" had to end. And every single one of them mentioned "yours truly" with some disheartening epithets. God Bless Democracy.

My trusty bottle was half empty and my blazer and heels had been tossed on the floor. My hair was frazzled from where I had yanked at it. And had I bothered to have looked in a mirror, my make-up would have matched "the Sad Clown" in the circus.

After watching the damn thing two more times and staring into the faces of my wrathful public, it finally dawned on me that this was no accident. These people were prodded to their anger and indignation, then taped in the best light and sound by the master. That's when I remembered the second disc.

Here was the Oscar winner. Somehow my good buddy Sven had manipulated tapes of our conversations, account ledgers and bank statements. It appeared that I sent him out to do my dirty work and then paid him for his silence and kept a secret box stuffed with illicit cash, dates and times. There were clear, time-stamped pictures of us drinking toasts while counting envelopes of cash. Most of it must have been done with a body-double, and parts were close-ups, but filmed with bogus surroundings. And I guess he gave kick-backs or in some way threatened the merchants to incriminate me.

I could possibly argue some bullshit entrapment, but my career and marriage would be ruined. I had been warned once before, that the Party is bigger than me. They would line up to hang me.

The best part of his masterpiece was at the end. He was sitting in my tall, Judges chair, his stocking feet atop my carved oak desk, swilling my aged bourbon and holding a cardboard sign that simply read, "Call Me!" That's when I threw my glass at the wall.

I was shaking when I pushed the button on my phone. His ring tone was the musical notes from "Final Jeopardy." At the sound of his voice I screamed into the mic, "You fuckin' blackmailing son of a bitch. What the hell do you ..." Then I heard the recorded laughter asking me to wait for the beep. I shrieked once more, "pick-up the damn phone, you dirty piece of shit." ...Dial tone...

I paced the room, poured another glass of courage and attempted to revive my appearance in the mirror. I recall once, a remark of his, describing an interview process where he always looked calm and cool, while his subject looked rattled and guilty. He calmly announced, "When you've got the upper hand, you can wait 'em out. They know they're caught. They either surrender easily or make things worse by attempting to run and lie for all to see." He would always add one more little gem when he saw prominent characters caught in their own webs. "When you are up to your ears in dirt, stop fucking digging!" It occurred to me now, I may be up to my neck, already.

My phone buzzed to alert me a text was coming in: "CALM DOWN, CLEAN-UP, COME OVER-NOW!" I felt like a mouse in a trap with a heavy, spring-loaded bar about to come crashing down on my stretched-out neck. I immediately called back screaming and swearing. But all I got for my anger was more bawdy laughter and a general sinking feeling.

I slinked into the shower. My hope was to instantly sober-up and to gradually calm down. Then I tried to determine just how much dirt he had on me and what exactly he wanted from me. He must know my funds were a mess. My political pull was marginal. And besides with his good looks, and obvious talents for "playing the game" he could be a natural without any help from me.

As I was dressing I thought about Sven. Sitting on the edge of the bed, only a towel wrapped around my warm, wet flesh, I had the strangest compulsion to play with my myself. My hand slowly stole between my thighs, the hungry fingers eager to tease my pink clit. My other hand was already at play squeezing my heavy breast. I could feel the firm nub in my grip as my other hand slid back and forth in my warm vagina. Then it hit me that this insane passion was being influenced by the monster who was trying to ruin me. I was not going to masturbate to this fiend, and I surely did not want to show-up at his door, reeking of sex. I even put away the cute dress I considered wearing.

My sorry excuse for a husband was in the living room as I moved swiftly to the front door. I didn't want him to smell the aroma of sex either. I thought for a brief second about asking him for help, but before I could speak, he tallied a list of bills I needed to cover for him and the kids. The only person I could ever really count on for support, was now just a haunting laugh on a machine, summoning me to some dark showdown.