POWER PLAY (original publication in Oysters & Chocolate, 2014)
By Stella Grae I specialize in powerful men, and the trick to satisfying powerful men is to make them feel powerful while satiating that intrinsic human need we all have to be tended to—physically, emotionally, and quite possibly even spiritually. I am not a hooker or a fame-digging whore, but I have been an advisor, a confessor, and a friend. I participate in meaningful, discreet relationships; I am a woman who knows what she likes, and I go after what I want. I’m the best damn political reporter Washington, D.C. has seen since the days of Woodward and Bernstein. For nearly six months I have been trying to scurry up an interview with freshly minted Senator Duncan Menton for my employer--Political Style—the newest politically savvy magazine to hit the Hill since John F. Kennedy Jr.’s now-defunct George. Senator Menton’s new wife has great taste, not just in interior decorating, but in young staffers, as well. She abruptly left him after only a year in Washington, citing the old standby— irreconcilable differences, exacerbated by work demands—but newsroom scuttlebutt reveal the Mrs. has always been weak to her wandering eye. In her former private life, it was easy to hide, and to even indulge, but a high profile United States senator simply cannot tolerate having a cuckolded label attached to him. The Mrs. violated one of the cardinal rules of loving a powerful man: At the very least, always give the powerful man the illusion of power. I pull out all the stops to snag the interview: I unmercifully accost Senator Menton’s bulldog secretary at the Macy’s counter and unprofessionally threaten a still-in-the-closet Hill staffer (I followed his mother and grandmother to church; we became friendly acquaintances). Soon, a former high school and college classmate (with whom I shared a boyfriend—she got sloppy seconds; I was done with him, but, being the patent narcissist she is, she still sees it as a successful boyfriend thievery) who anchors the weekend news at Fox rewards me with his personal assistant’s phone number. And soon, a call drops from the bulldog secretary, and finally, a meeting is arranged at the Hay-Adams hotel. Its period suites will be the perfect backdrop for this Constitutional purist. For this first, soon-to-be-divorced senatorial exclusive, Political Style actually lets loose some of the money in its slush fund and I hire celebrity photographer Dannie Browne. As smart as she is sexy, Dannie not only promises great photos, but photos that will make the senator a decadent alpha male—and remarkably human; a rare quality in Washington politicians. Since the suite will be available for occupancy after the interview and photo shoot, I pack my bag and decide I should treat myself to a job (almost) well done. Excited about engaging the new senator in discussions concerning his progress in changing Washington policy, I venture out on a limb and buy a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon. It is a surefire ice breaker for two Kentucky natives—the senator and me—and there’s nothing like a good shot of bourbon to cure what ails you—homesickness and a good case of the jitters. Dannie bounces in at nearly one o’clock, as unconcerned about the shoot as she is of the time; we had agreed on 12:30. She is tall and thin, the muscles in her forearms sharply honed. She must be a tennis player, I surmise, as her long tan legs brilliantly erupt from under her red denim mini skirt. Her brunette hair hangs over her shoulder in a messy braid and following her photography equipment is her perfume—vanilla and Ivory soap and salty ocean air. “Hi, you must be Jade.” She lunges into my personal space and grabs my hand, giving it a healthy tug. “I’m Dannie Browne—one “I” and two “Es.” “You’re also running a little late,” I quip. “It’s nice to meet you, and I am, indeed, Jade, like the color green,” I volley back, meeting her smug smile millimeter for millimeter. “Don’t worry,” she assures me, patting my shoulder, “I haven’t screwed up one of these—yet.” Her athletic frame is almost boyish, only slightly rounded in all the right places, but decidedly feminine in a white unbuttoned-to-there man’s oxford dress shirt. She kneels in my line of sight, splaying her legs and I sneak a peek at her highlighter yellow underwear. She is one of those women who is sexy as hell without trying, without even being aware of it. Her orange-tipped nails grab my attention and I amuse myself with the strength in her delicate hands as they assemble the lighting boxes, tripod, stands, and umbrella. At precisely two o’clock, I spy a black three-car fleet round toward the portico. My heart races and my palms become moist. I yell, “Get ready! He’s here! The senator is on his way up,” and slosh down the last swallow of a shot of Woodford. From the bull’s-eye of a Secret Service detail, Senator Duncan Menton emerges and is swiftly escorted into the front entrance of the hotel. A sober knock on the suite door startles me, and I soon make way for the hoard of agents securing the room for the senator’s arrival—windows secured and shades pulled, telephone handsets taken apart and examined, bathrooms scavenged, mini bar opened and its contents carefully scrutinized. If there is a nook and cranny that is overlooked, I’d be shocked. Then, a tall (and taller than I had expected) sandy blonde man in a cobalt blue suit walks in, his crisp, white blue pin striped shirt slightly open at the top. I notice a red neck tie sticking out of his pocket; he looks sexy, undone, but still quite dapper if not a tad bit bureaucratic. I tell myself, remember to take deep breaths. “You must be Jade—Jade Reynolds.” He extends his hand and shakes mine—firm and professional yet he remembers how to be gentle with a woman. “Hello, Senator Menton. Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview. It’s great to meet you and I’m really looking forward to speaking with you this afternoon.” Underneath his furrowed brow, his eyes dance playfully, dripping down my legs, holding his mouth from a full blown smile, but I can tell this is going to be an interview where I must tread carefully—a crucial balance between professional and personal questions. While the senator is tying up loose ends with his detail, my thoughts center on the interview; I decide the icebreaker is in order, so I pour two bourbons—heavy on the ice with a generous splash of seltzer. As I saunter his way, his security detail scatters as leaves in the wind and he and I are face to face. I match his boyish grin. “Well, what’s this?” He quizzes, taking the glass from me and giving it a good sniff. I giggle. “It’s my somewhat awkward attempt to make you comfortable. I hope it doesn’t offend, but I thought a little Kentucky bourbon would calm the nerves—probably mine more than yours. I’m a Kentucky native, too, you know.” He reticently swallows a sip and purses his lips together, probably wondering whether he should, but the hopeful smile and wink betray him. He surrenders to another drink. “All interviews should begin so auspiciously.” Closing his eyes he inhales deeply, slowly releasing his breath. I hold up my glass for a toast. “Well, then, here’s to auspicious beginnings, and to the best cure I know for homesickness.” “Oh, my dear Miss Reynolds, I will absolutely drink to that. We’re certainly not in Kentucky anymore, are we?” “No, sir, I’m afraid we are not.” He passes me a sideways glance, pointing to my ring finger. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask. Is it Miss or Missus?” “You guessed correctly, it’s miss.” “Where’s home in Kentucky?” “Hawesville—right on the Ohio River.” “Oh yeah, I know exactly where that is. I had some great barbeque there, many times in fact. It’s a nice little city. I bet you do miss it.” His voice dwindles and I speculate that he is reminiscing about the better times he had with his wife. He swirls the ice in his glass and nods. “Good—very good.” Finishing off his drink, he perches against the entry hall sideboard, watching Dannie put the final touches on the lighting and photo props. Silently, he studies her as she snaps test shot after test shot; his breathing is unintentionally heavy. Without taking his eyes from her he asks, “So, what do you have planned for me? Photos first, then interview?” Keeping my eyes fixed on him watching Dannie, he unexpectedly rolls his face closer to mine. Lowering my eyes, I am conscious of his smell, and of his chest hair peeking out of the top of his dress shirt. I anchor my arms behind me, perching on the table; I open my personal space to him, and answer, “We can do whatever you like. I thought if we did the photos first, then we’d be left in peace for the interview. It might be more conducive to speaking openly.” He moves closer yet again and scans my body. I blush red hot and a fever breaks out all over my body with a sudden mist of sweat collecting in the small of my back and between my breasts. “That sounds like a great idea, Jade.” I’m not certain whether it’s the booze or the swanky hotel suite, or perhaps even his need to rebound, but I sense a chemistry brewing between us. I slide around behind him, calling back, “I shall return—just need to check on the photog.” “Dannie? Are you ready for our boy?” my voice cascades through the layers of Frette Italian linens draped about the settee. From the open French doors of the balcony, my eye catches the White House and the Washington Monument. “It’s an awesome view, isn’t it? I think maybe the best in town,” she offers, sidling up to me, close enough that our arms touch; she is a good five or six inches taller than me. Brushing a stray strand of my hair back in place, she apologizes. “Sorry—occupational hazard.” Her hazel eyes passionately drill me with one simple question: Are you interested? The proverbial lump swells in my throat and I awkwardly bat my eyelashes at her, repeating, “Are you ready for the senator?” “Send in the victim,” she volleys back with her best deadpan. The senator isn’t so natural in front of the camera. He poses awkwardly, often balking at Dannie’s suggestions, and generally seems ill at ease with himself, which is too bad because he is an incredibly attractive man, and so much more so than on the occasions I have seen him in various debates and interviews. I consider that perhaps I am making him self conscious, so I leave to hang out in the kitchen, pouring over my notes, making sure I have all of his political positions straight in my mind. Suddenly, I sense a presence behind me, someone sputtering heavily between his lips. “I hate this shit! I’m terrible at it. Could I please have another one of these to get through the rest of this?” Senator Menton shakes the ice in his nearly empty glass. “Why certainly, but now I don’t want you to get hammered. Remember, you promised me an interview,” I playfully wag my finger at him. He grabs it. “I don’t have any other plans besides the interview. No place to be, no one to meet, no obligations, just an empty well decorated house waiting for me. So, we can take all night if you like.” He releases my finger, wrapping it around his hand in one fluid motion. He surely hears me gulp nervously. Thirty minutes later, we are alone. The conversation shuffles along slowly, even awkwardly sometimes, especially when I ask about his wife. His succinct answer warns me that he is not in a mood, or a place, to elaborate, so I continue on about the new healthcare legislation, income tax cuts and tax code overhaul legislation, and about his recent experiences serving as a junior senator on the Hill. Instead of a brash, slimy professional politician, I discover a man with tremendous aptitude for changing our country—for the better—and a moral man, but still, a man. He stops and stares at me for several minutes at the end of the interview. By my count, he’s downed three drinks; I am nursing my second. “That was a solid interview, Ms. Reynolds. I feel really confident leaving my ideas and words in your hands. But,” he slightly slurs his words, “I simply must ask: Are you registered Republican, Democrat, or something else?” “Something else…like Communist or Socialist?” I tease, flipping my hair back. “I am registered as an Independent, and plan to keep it that way.” He rubs his chin and grins. “Good for you, good for you. A smart woman—it’s the Thinking Man’s party, you know.” “Senator, I don’t normally do this, but, would you like to order room service and hang out for a while, maybe discuss some abstract political philosophy?” I snicker, collapsing back, relaxed, in my chair, but he reaches over, grabbing me, and kisses my lips—soft, desperate, wet, breathy, punctuated by a quiet moan of pleasure. “Senator, room service is overrated. I think I like your dinner plans better.” “Jade, please call me Duncan. I want to hear you say it,” he whispers in my ear, tracing its lobe with his tongue. “Duncan, I need you inside of me, please.” He scoops me up in his arms effortlessly and uncontrived. Gently placing me on the bed, he slides over beside me, cupping my face in his hands and leaning his body into mine. He is an excellent kisser—the right amount of slow, wet lip smacking and intense eye fucking. He traces my features with his finger, barely grazing my flesh; my skin swells with goose bumps and I hear the catch in my breath. I close my eyes, succumbing to his kissing and breathing, which are becoming more uncontrollable, more instinct-driven. With his tongue and mine lashing together, I reach down and trace the outline of his hardness with the tips of my fingers. Kicking my heels off, Duncan follows suit and helps me with my dress, gently pulling it down off of my shoulders, kissing every place that his hands touch, leaving a wet trail of anticipation. As my tongue languidly strokes his neck, I feel for his shirt buttons; I begin at the top and he starts at the bottom. I press my bare chest against his and he presses into me as he gathers my panties between his hands and slowly works them down my thighs. He meditates on my naked body, then down at his pants, smiling. His beautiful light blue eyes ringed with deep blue trap me in a visual half Nelson from which I have no intention of escaping. He flips to his back and I climb on top of him while he fondles my breasts, rolling my nipples between his lips. “Is this a trick belt?” Embarrassed and feeling like such a rooky, I’m surprised at the answer. “I bet I can get it.” A voice, feminine and husky, interjects a confident solution. Dannie shimmies off her skirt and saunters to me, running her hands through her loose brunette waves with the most predictable smile painted on her lips. Pulling me to her, she snarls her hands around my rib cage, then to the small of my back; I wrap my fingers around her shoulders and peel her shirt off. As we exchange feather-soft kisses, she shifts her hips to shuffle me out of my spot, effortlessly unbuckling his belt and pulling off his pants and underwear. Dannie grins. “You must be as upright as they say—a tighty-whitey guy.” “His cock is beautiful!” I moan, my mound throbbing in anticipation. The senator’s eyes dart between the two of us and he remains as motionless as a trapped, wounded animal. “Did you ladies plan this? Is this some dirty political ploy to ruin me? Because if it is, it just might work; I’m afraid I’m in a rather compromising position.” “Duncan, I promise, I never could have imagined this happening. I’m just as surprised as you are, but we’re here, and we’re all consenting adults….” “And it’s D.C.—welcome to the power play, senator. I’ve amassed a fortune of dirty secrets in my line of work, but you’ll have to fuck them out of me,” Dannie teases, hovering over his cock and dry humping it. “Mmmm! Look Jade!” Dannie turns over her shoulder and whispers to me, “Doesn’t that look yummy? A nice, full round cock, enough to fill up a girl without being obnoxious. Why don’t you come over here and let us watch you make friends?” Dannie escorts me by the elbow to Duncan, giving my ass a smart slap. Kissing his chest, I continue my descent until I am skimming the head of his cock with my tongue. Grabbing his cock in my hand, I spank it against the soft pillow in the middle of my tongue, letting him uncontrollably thrust inside my mouth. But, he abruptly stops. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I don’t expect you to do something that makes you feel uncomfortable.” “Do you not want me to do it?” “No, I do. It’s just that…my wife—ex-wife—wife—didn’t do it. She said it was a demeaning act for women, but I suspect she just didn’t want to do it to me.” “Well, Duncan, I very much want to do it to you.” While Dannie holds back my buttery locks to admire my work, I continue to lick the tip of Duncan’s cock and playfully kiss it, letting enough spit run out of my mouth so that it hangs and glistens in the dusky last streams of sunlight coming into the room. His hands knead the bedspread and his legs are outstretched tight; he moans and Dannie and I moan in time with him. She pushes on my head, shoving his cock deeper and deeper into my throat. I watch Dannie touch herself, her fingers plunging in and out of her sloppy wet hole. She gently nudges me from my spot and noisily slurps up his shaft in one breath. It’s a no frills blow job—lots of deep throating, jerking, and ball handling. “Oh, stop, stop, stop! I’m going to come!” he yells. Giggling, Dannie adds, “Not yet! I get to go first, but we’ll let you come in our mouths if you want. Would you like that senator?” I dip my finger into Dannie’s hot, sweet wetness and lick it, offering it to her when I’ve had enough, and shaking my head in agreement so that Duncan knows I am game. He doesn’t say anything. In one swift, strong motion, he pulls me under him and splays my legs with his. I reach down and lead him into me, feeling his cock spread me apart. Within only seven or eight pumps, the windup begins and I pull my legs closer to my chest. He is a perfect fit. My fingers dig into the flesh of his ass and I open my mouth to gasp for air, breathing more deeply with each stroke. Dannie’s tongue finds mine and we kiss until she dangles her mound over my face. I extend my tongue to taste her. Her pungent sweetness pushes me to the edge of pleasure and sanity. She backs away, giving herself enough space so that she can finger her perfect little flower while watching us. “Oh fuck, I’m going to explode! Oh, make me come hard! Don’t stop!” I scream. “You like this?” He whispers in my ear and teases me, slowing down his strokes until I push my knee into his ass, trying to make him go faster. He speeds up and holds my head up to watch me when I come, never taking his eyes from mine, and I let him fixate on me completely absorbed and enjoying him—moaning, blushing, sweating. A bomb explodes inside of me, rocking me with a hundred thousand volts of lightening that percolate through me. He slows to kiss me, moving from my mouth to behind my ear, licking a spot that literally sends shivers down both arms. “Duncan,” Dannie whispers, latched onto his back, “please make me come. That looked so good. Pleeaase?” She moves her mouth up to his ear and sticks her tongue in it. He turns to copy her, an unexpected moan launching out of his mouth, and drags her under him, pumping hard and fast into her, his whole body tense and vibrating. They both moan in splendid agreement at the first few tight strokes. Their wet sloppy sounds inspire me to bulldoze my clit with one finger and to tease the rim of my ass with the other. I watch as Dannie’s long, tan legs wrap around his back and she yells without concern for who might be able to hear her. “That’s my girl! Yeah, you like coming for me, don’t you?” His breath comes in raspy waves. I kiss Duncan and feel Dannie’s gaze settling on me, then her tugging at my arm. “Oh, I’m feeling a little left out!” I purr. While Duncan pounds her, I cradle Dannie’s face in my hands and kiss her. I slide my thumb across her lips, her mouth accepting it, sucking it while I watch the hot sex begin to unfold inside of her again. I grab her wrists and pin them above her head, tying them off with Duncan’s red necktie as he drills her. I give her a command, “You better hurry up and come, Dannie! It’s almost my turn again. Come on, baby, come for me! Come princess!” Duncan flips to his back and motions for me to climb on top, which I do and he wrings my tits between his hands while I ride him—cowgirl style. I measure each stroke slowly, keeping him out as far as possible without popping out and then pushing down hard on him. Watching him go in and out of me, I lick my fingers and put them between us—a tactile turn-on—his hard cock grinding in and out of my wet softness. Dannie crawls to us on her hands and knees, her long, loose hair hiding one side of her face. As I bounce up and down on Duncan, Dannie kneads his balls while gently tickling my pink ruffles with her tongue until the craving completely intoxicates my body. Dannie and I greedily dive our fingers into my sweet, salty satisfaction, feeding each other. Reaching for his fingers, I wrap them up in ours, licking them, and offering him a taste; he intently cleans all twenty of our digits. “Do you remember what I asked you a few minutes ago?” Dannie quizzes him. A confused look plasters his face, but he is silent. I continue, “If you want, you can come in our mouths. It would be so good to taste you when you come.” We carefully watch his face as he strokes himself. When he motions to us, Dannie and I put our mouths as close to the tip of his cock as possible, and giving it two short expert strokes via Dannie’s hand, a hot salty explosion rims our lips and mouths, his obvious pleasure filling our ears—a profanity laced praise train. He rests his hands on our heads and gently pulls us to him as we show him the come in our mouths, swallowing it and licking our lips—me licking Dannie’s and Dannie licking mine—from one corner to the other, indulging in every last pleasure that echoes like a volcano throughout our bodies. “Jade, I don’t remember anyone ever fucking me like that!” He holds his hands to his head, replaying the whole episode in his mind. “Senator, stay in Washington long enough and I guarantee you will.”
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STELLA GRAEAuthor of the novel Just Call Me Confidence from The Wild Rose Press. Archives
June 2023
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