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Fifteen More Minutes

By: corky53



This is a true "how-not-to" story and it is not erotic at all. Read at your own warning.

I never had trouble with drugs or booze or any of the evils that most consider the road to ruin. I had a rough divorce where I work too hard to please my X and make the divorce pleasant. That failed. I had found a job I liked (my own business) and she wanted more income and a man with a larger check and faster car. I thought the split was to be for each of us to grow. She decided to be hateful and vicious.

I endured, lost most of my friends who chose to go to her lavish parties. No big deal I thought. I found a new woman in short order. Reflecting back, it was too short of order. We were soon married. My second and her third. I married her for two main reasons. She had 48 DD's and loved to show them off.

It didn't occur to me how much she loved to show them off and how much she was will to do with them. She never took our vows serious. I refused not be a cuckold man. When checks started bouncing and I discovered her large drug stash, a quick divorce was the next step. 

Then, I lost my full-time job due to down sizing and my part-time job was interfering with being a single father. I risked everything, loaded the car with all it could hold, including my 9 year old son and we moved out of state for a new start.

Jobs were plentiful -- at $5 an hour and no benefits! This was Arkansas and Clinton had just left. No one worked for any real money. After a few months of struggling and barely making it, I could no longer continue. I had gotten some help from a local clinic to fight my depression, but it was not working. I made arrangements so my son could stay with a couple who would get him back and forth to school. I placed a hose from the exhaust pipe of the car to the window and took a whole bottle of sleeping pills. I was sitting in a public park.

A jogger noticed me and called the police. (For the record, it now appears that unleaded gas doesn't work as deadly as the other used to -- thankfully.) 

I did a week in a hospital. They were so kind. I was given my meds, got to watch all the television I wanted and all the sleep I wanted. Plus three meals a day. I did see one doctor for three minutes who told me I was well enough to go home if I could find a ride. Medical science is really great!

The first night I was home, I decide to do it right. This time I would do it in my home. Slit my wrist. BUT -- the television was advertising a new show -- The John Larroquette Show. This was right after Night Court went off the air. He was the manager of a bus depot. He was a recovering alcoholic. He kept saying, "If I can make it through tonight without a drink..." 

Well I decided I would wait to kill myself until after I watched that show. It worked and I got several things done. I had everything ready to kill myself at the end of that show. BUT -- 30 minutes later they were going to have another episode of the show. SO - - "I can want to kill myself until after that show is over," I thought.

It worked. That night I told myself I could sleep for a while and if I woke up still feeling as bad as I did then, I would kill myself. Eventually, I worked up to a week at a time. Then a month at a time. I do slip. There have been times when I will say, "I will wait 15 minutes and if I still feel this bad, then I will do it."

I should point out that I have no insurance that covers psych visits and counseling, but if you do -- CALL. I do have a good group of friends who I sometimes call when things get bad. But the one thing about being suicidal is that is if you are really sincere about it, talking to anyone else really doesn't seem to help (at least in my case.) So, if you find yourself thinking about killing yourself, make an agreement to wait -- a day -- a half hour -- a week -- whatever length of time you can. Perhaps, it is as I think, I don't want to die depressed, so I will wait until I am in a good mood. Just wait half a day then reconsider.

This is how-not-to kill yourself and it has worked for me for the last 13 years.

Fifteen More Minutes of Fame



(This is a continuation of Fifteen Minutes of Fame. If you haven't read it, I heartily recommend you do so now, as this story may not make much sense otherwise.)



The phone rang. Not the desk phone, not her official work phone, but her private cell. Only a few people had the number, and they knew not to call, except in actual emergencies. She didn't recognize the incoming caller, but that wasn't surprising; if one of her associates needed to contact her, they used whatever phone was closest, whether or not it belonged to them.

She flipped it open. "Go ahead."

"Ma'am, I just sent you an email with something you need to see." It was Paulsen, one of her senior staff members. No preamble, no wasting time with pleasantries or greetings. She liked that. Time was money, and she had very little of the former to spare. "It's about your children."

Her children. She hated being forced to think about them. Better that they'd both died in infancy. "Is it time-sensitive?"

"Very much so, ma'am. It's supposed to be out in two days, and we're leaning on the network to hold off on airing it, but—"

"I'll deal with it." She ended the call and looked at the phone for a moment, thinking quickly, making a mental list of who to call, and how to handle this, but... First things first. She needed to know exactly what "this" was. It's always more difficult to fight a war when you don't know what you're dealing with.

The text of the email was a copy-pasted transcript, incomplete and poorly edited, of an episode of... but no, surely there had been some mistake. It couldn't actually be from that farce of a confession show. That sick, twisted excuse for entertainment. A joke, perhaps, made in extremely poor taste. If so, someone—probably several someones—were going to get fired for it.

There was a file attached, too. A short video. She opened it.

The image was small, shaky, and low-resolution. A cell phone camera, surely. The clip was less than a minute long. She started it.

By the time the clip had finished, her fists were clenched so tightly that her perfectly manicured nails dug deep into her palms. The gouges in her hand dripped blood across the desk as she reached for the office phone, her hand shaking with barely suppressed rage.

"Diane."

"Yes, Senator Farrington." Prompt and polite, as always. A good hire, that one. Just out of college, still fresh-faced and optimistic. It wouldn't last long. It never did.

"I need to see Roger. Now. Call him, and then get in here." Charity Farrington, Illinois Senator and the self-described last line of defense for conservative family values, looked down at her blood-smeared hand and gritted her teeth. "And bring a wet towel."

Soon, she promised herself. Soon it would be her children's blood on her hands instead of her own. They'd pay for this.

They would pay dearly.

***

"I'm home," Pam sung out, slamming the door behind her. "Why isn't dinner on the table, you miserable fucking excuse for a domestic servant?"

I smiled, hearing the playfulness in her voice. "Eat a dick, sis." I stood up and stretched the kinks out of my back before heading towards the front door. "Work go okay?"

"The usual soul-crushing emptiness. The sort of thing you always feel, but I only get it six or eight hours at a time, which means I'm marginally less pathetic than you are." She pulled off her jacket and lobbed it at the open closet. "So yeah, work was fine." Pam leaned over, apparently aiming for a quick kiss; I had no intention of just brushing lips like that. Eight hours without touching her was way too long for my liking. Instead, as our mouths met, I wrapped one arm around her waist and planted the other on her back, and I made damn sure she wasn't getting away without some tongue.

She didn't seem to mind. Quite the opposite, really. It'd only been a week and a half since we'd taped our television debut, and only a few hours more since we'd started this whole "fucking-each-other" thing, but I'd learned pretty quickly what her little physical quirks and mannerisms meant, and the fingers scraping a path down the back of my neck told me I'd made the right call.

We broke off for air, eventually, and she shoved me away, but without any real force. "Horny little bastard. Let's eat first, assuming you didn't already inhale whatever the fuck was in the fridge."

"Not really hungry." I followed her into the kitchen. "You know, in most of the world, people don't eat dinner at five."

"Yeah, well, in most of the world people don't fuck their siblings, either. Might as rebel against all sorts of things, now that we've started with one."

"Would making a joke about eating out—"

"Yes."

"Forget I said anything, then."

"Done." Pam tossed a couple slices of week-old pizza onto a plate and leaned against the counter. "Anything exciting happen in your shitty existence for a life? And I already know the answer's no."

"Won the lottery."

"Oh yeah? How much?"

"Like ten bucks. Blew it on a bottle of piss-poor gin."

"How you can stomach that shit is beyond me. Makes your breath smell like you brushed your teeth with rubbing alcohol and a pine tree," Her words were barely audible through her half-chewed mouthful. "Save me any?"

"Might be a third of it left, over by the microwave." I watched her grab the bottle and start drinking straight from it. "Hypocrite."

"Don't fucking judge me, you alcoholic piece of shit. Three assholes catcalled me at lunch and my fucking boss keeps leering at me and I'm on the verge of ripping off their off their cocks and making 'em choke to death on their own—"

"No, no, not the drinking part. The fact that you were just talking shit about gin, and now..."

"I finished the vodka this morning. Nothing else around."

So that's where it had gone. "You know, I think both of us might have a drinking problem."

"Yeah, no shit, because once I finish this we'll be out of alcohol."

"That's the oldest fucking joke—"

As it turned out, the cheap gin tasted even worse when mixed with tomato sauce. The fact that I was tasting it secondhand made it a bit better, though.

***

The door handle turned. She did not look up. "You're late, Roger."

"Barely, Senator. I was waiting for your secretary. She seems to have run off somewhere." Roger Stallman, a short, balding, heavyset man with a perpetually bored expression, dropped into the chair opposite hers without being invited. She took the impertinence without blinking. This was not the time to insist on ceremony, and Stallman had been with her since her first campaign. He'd earned the right to be informal. "Heard the news, then?"

"When was it taped?"

"Twelve days ago. Standard turnaround for these things is usually two weeks, so we caught it just in time."

"Not fast enough for my liking, Roger."

He shrugged. "We don't usually monitor these things, Senator. I can honestly say this has never happened before, not for anyone I've worked with, and we're damn lucky we caught it before it actually aired."

"Fine. What can we do?"

"Not much, really. We have to eventually let them air it, or else we'll be the bad guys for shutting down one of the nation's most inexplicably popular shows. The network won't pull the episode or even delay for much longer; they're not too fond of you, Senator, for some of the things you've said about what the media does to families."

"And they're proving my point by doing so."

"Focus, please, Senator. Once we've navigated through this mess you'll have plenty of time to write speeches attacking whatever innocent things you want, but first let's make sure you'll be able to stay in office long enough to do so."

Her nails dug into her palms again, reopening one of the just-closed gashes. "Your concern is noted. Again: what do we do?"

"Prep for damage control, mainly. Run a press conference immediately after the show where you can publicly decry the accusations. Dig up a couple of people who can make statements on how your kids were always insubordinate and rebellious in the face of your impeccable maternal instincts."

"'Impeccable,' Roger?"

"I didn't say they had to be truthful statements. Just statements. We need to build you a safety net. Something that will back up your side of the story. This'll blow over eventually, but we need to make sure you're still standing when it does. My career depends on it as much as yours, I'd bet, and I'm not rich enough to retire right now."

She nodded curtly. "I'll see who we can round up to take my side. Let me know if we can squeeze another day's delay out of the network; the more time we have to prepare, the better."

"Righty-o. I'll get to work on my end. Lots of calls to make." He heaved himself to his feet; she did not rise to see him off, but instead turned back to her computer. He paused with his hand on the door. "Out of curiosity, Senator, how much truth do you think there is to it? Do you really think you screwed them up that badly?"

A lesser man would have run from the expression on her face. "Roger—"

"I mean, you're no paragon of moral purity yourself, you know. If—"

"Get out of my fucking office."

He chuckled as he left, closing the door behind him.

"Diane."

"Mhmmff?"

"No, don't stop. Not until I specifically tell you to. Remind me to dock Mr. Stallman's pay for the next quarter. And your aim is off. Bring your tongue up a little bit higher."

"Mmff, mhmm."

She sighed. It was so hard to find competent help these days.

***

"You know, there's this thing called a bed."

I didn't look up. "Never heard of it."

"It's a great invention. Covered in blankets and shit. More comfortable than the fucking kitchen counter, that's for sure."

"What's wrong with fake granite?" I slid my hands up under her skirt and brushed a knuckle against the front of her panties, feeling her shiver slightly.

"It's cold as balls. If you're gonna do it, just fucking do it and stop trying to tease me, because my ass is freezing out here."

"Hmm." I leaned forward, a hand on each thigh, and kissed the growing wet patch between them, inhaling her scent. "No." Still, I had to admit that she did have a point. My legs were starting to hurt, and I'd only been kneeling on the linoleum for a minute or two. Not that I'd give her the satisfaction of knowing that. This was war, after all.

"Fine. You win. We'll stay here. Satisfied, asshole?"

"Not even close." Pam's panties wouldn't go down very far, as her legs were spread barely far enough to accommodate even me, but they went far enough. I kissed the same spot as before, feeling the slick wetness beneath my lips. "So before I said that we could eat out-"

There was a yank, and I abruptly found myself buried in her crotch, her legs pinning my face in place against her pussy. Her snarled insult faded off into a hissed breath as I started exploring with my tongue, running it in gradually tightening circles. Well, technically they were ovals, but I wasn't particularly concerned with the finer points of geometry.

I took a breath, held it, and went in even deeper, pushing my tongue in between her lips and inside of her as far as it would go. Admittedly, it wasn't very far, but judging from her tightening grip on my neck and back it was working pretty well. My eyes were closed, my senses trained on the bits of Pam I could feel with my mouth and hands, her scent and taste filling my awareness.

"Hey." Her voice was a bit breathless, and there was a playful lilt to it. "You wanna know the worst euphemism I've ever heard for this?"

I shook my head slightly, not willing to stop and answer properly.

"Too bad, because you're hearing it anyway. 'Plundering her cave of wonders.'"

Up until that point, I'd never been able to say that I'd choked on pussy. It wasn't an experience I was keen on repeating; the mixture of laughter and coughing took a few seconds to subside. "Christ on a stick, that's awful. Who would... no, I don't wanna know. I really don't wanna know."

"Actually, some people-"

"I really, REALLY don't wanna know."

"Suit yourself." Pam cleared her throat. "Um. Can you do something else for me?"

I sighed, trying to look sufficiently exasperated. "Anything for you, my radiant goddess."

"Can you pretend to not be a fucking asshole for like two minutes? That's not the request, by the way, but it'd be a pretty nice fucking change for once."

"No."

"Fine. The how 'bout this: talk dirty."

"You mean like Poison? Down the basement, lock the cellar door-" She didn't pull her punch this time. "You bitch. That's gonna bruise."

"I'm trying to be serious here, you prick. Focus. Talk to me. Tell me... I don't know. Say something engaging. You're down there, and there's a disconnect or some shit, and I want you to talk to me."

"Right. I have no idea how to do that, by the way. And I can't really do that and work down here properly at the same time."

"I don't care if you're total shit at it. I still want you to try. And of course you can do both--you've got hands, right? You don't need those to talk. Stop jerking off and start using them."

I cocked an eyebrow. "For your information, I haven't jerked off in at least ten minutes." Resting my chin on the counter, I thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to handle this. "Seems like I'm stalling, doesn't it."

"Look, if you really don't want to-"

"No, no, I'm getting to it." A thought struck me--a plan of attack, so to speak. It made me smile. "Okay. Most of what I know about dirty talk comes from porn, but that doesn't really work for me." I ran a forefinger gently down from her stomach, barely brushing the skin and coming to a halt right above her sex. "Just saying 'oh god I wanna fuck you' or 'your pussy is so hot' is... well, it's fucking stupid, is what it is."

"Are you really-" Her breath hitched as I started to slide my finger in. "Are you really giving a fucking lecture on how to dirty-talk?"

"Both of those things are true, though." I kept on talking, ignoring her words and listening to her breathing. She felt tight even with just one finger inside; slowly, deliberately, I began moving. "You're absolutely fucking beautiful, and having sex with you is basically the best thing in the world. When I'm with you there is literally nothing else I can think about. Just you." I laid my other hand on her lower belly, letting my thumb rest close to her clit--but not directly on it. Not yet. "How're you doing?"

"Not... not bad."

"Oh good." I stretched upward, craning my neck and head towards hers; she leaned down, as I'd hoped for, and kissed me. As our lips touched, I planted my thumb; she jerked back slightly, as sensitive as ever, and then pushed forward harder into the kiss, her tongue meeting mine.

I had to break off first, as my legs didn't really want to cooperate with that position. "I wonder," I said, my thumb now moving rhythmically on her clit. "Do you like the way you taste as much as I do?"

She blushed.

I was so surprised that I actually had to take a second and remind myself where I was and what I was doing. Pam had actually blushed. A full-fledged, red-cheeked, slightly-ducked-head blush. I had never, ever seen that before. Time to seize the moment.

I dove back down, lips encircling her clit, tongue navigating the skin around it as best I could, forefinger curled inside her pussy and stroking her inner walls.

And it was maybe ten seconds later that she grabbed a fistful of my hair, forcing uneven breaths through her teeth, hunched over me in the throes of her orgasm.

When she was finished, I finally let myself fall back into a normal seated position on the floor. My legs would be complaining about this for days. I sure as hell wouldn't be. "You okay?"

Pam nodded, clearly concentrating on getting herself back to normal. "More than okay," she eventually said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Not just for the eating-out. For putting up with my shit."

"I should be the one thanking you for that, I think."

We fell silent, staring at each other in the brightly-lit kitchen.

She smirked. "You've got something on your face."

"Someone's something, more like. And you've got that same something on your thighs." I stood and stretched. "Shower?"

"Sure. You first."

"I, uh, I meant together."

"Pff. Fine."

***

Roger Stallman—and not just 'Roger' when he was working, no matter what his boss said; he was a professional, more or less—was tired of this shit.

It was the same thing, over and over, year after year. Whoever he was working for fucked something up, and they called him to fix it, and they expected him to break the laws of the universe to make everything nice and neat and perfect again. And when the world didn't work out exactly the way they hoped—and the world never worked out like that—he got slapped with a pay cut. Or chewed out in front of some company's board of directors. Or he just got fired.

The Senator'd always been a bitch, even from the start of her first run for office, but she'd only grown more angry and bitter since then. Stallman didn't have much hope that he'd be working for her much longer. A shame, really. She was obscenely rich, and she paid well. Maybe, if he came up with some sort of genius plan, he'd be able to placate her long enough to get him a retirement fund; he wasn't as young as he used to be, and the political game was starting to get stale. He'd been in the industry way too long.

But when he really thought about it, he knew there was no way he could hush this up. Those kids, those maddeningly determined kids, had blown the kneecaps off of the Senator's career, and nothing he could do would fix it.

Unless he went to the kids themselves, of course, and found out what they wanted. But that was probably the stupidest idea he'd had in years. One picture of him with them would sink his career right alongside the Senator's. Hell, they might take the photo themselves and sell it to whichever tabloid offered the most. It's what he would do in their shoes. And if the Senator herself found out, he'd be lucky if he woke up the next morning. There were lots of rumors about how that young idealistic fool of a candidate had actually died before the elections last year; nobody outright accused Farrington of putting a hit on him, of course, but the rumors were there.

He'd have to think of something else. The network wouldn't budge, most of the press was already trying to tear the Senator's policies apart, and there was only so much spin he could pull off on his own. But he couldn't just go talk to her children. He'd be risking more than his job doing that. The very idea was absurd. Completely unprofessional. Insane, even.

Roger was on a plane to Massachusetts within the hour.

***

The doorbell made us both jump. I pushed myself up into a sitting position and muted the TV. "Jesus, it's like eleven thirty."

"Probably a crack whore. Or someone trying to rob you, maybe. They'll just stab you as soon as you open the door." Pam, curled up on the pillows like an oversized cat, smirked up at me. "You should go open the door. Live life dangerously, motherfucker."

"Die in a fire." It rang again. "Okay, fine, I'll get it. Christ."

I jogged to the door and glanced through the window. A short, fat guy, mostly bald, stood there looking bored. No camera, no tape recorder, so he wasn't the press; no knife, and he looked pretty clean, so he wasn't a crack whore or a murderer. Probably. And he looked familiar, somehow, but I couldn't place him.

I unlocked the door and stuck my head out a few inches, wishing I'd thought to put on a shirt. "Um. Can I help you?"

"Hey there, kid. Carl, right?" He held out a hand. "I'm Roger Stallman. I work with the Senator."

Oh fuck. That's how I knew him. He was lurking somewhere in the background at every press conference. He was always there. This was bad. This was really bad. This was...




Fifteen More Minutes of Fame



...wait a second. Was it? Don't panic yet, I chided myself, and I shook his hand. "Um, Mr. Stallman, sorry for being blunt, but why are you here?"

"This isn't a professional visit, so you can call me Roger. I just wanted to talk with you about a couple things, mostly about what's going to happen on TV in two days. And don't worry: your mother doesn't know I'm here."

He'd said the magic words. All right, Carl, time to think fast, because you're not going to get another shot at this. "Sure, come on in." Shit. Pam needed to know first. "Actually can you give us like five minutes? We're, uh, in the middle of hot incestuous fuckin'. You know how it is, being young and hormonal and stuff."

"Look, kid, I'm risking my job coming here—"

"Two minutes, then."

"Can I at least wait inside? It's cold out."

"Fine, fine." I swung the door open and waved him towards the couch. "Uh, you may want to flip the cushions. We don't really get guests except a couple of folks from the tabloids trying to figure out what's up before the story breaks, and we don't generally make their lives any easier."

Stallman—no, I was supposed to call him Roger—looked like he wished he were anywhere else, but nodded dutifully and walked towards the sofa. I bolted for the bedroom and found Pam still curled up, now idly flipping through a book. "If it's a reporter, I hope you told them to fuck—"

I cut her off. "Pam, it's Roger Stallman. Mom's PR guy. Her number two."

Her eyes widened. "Really. What the fuck does he want?"

"Probably trying to get us to apologize or something so she can survive this. Doesn't matter. The point is we can use this. We can get him on our side."

"How?"

"He knows more about Mom than anyone else outside the family. You think he wouldn't hate her, too?"

She sat for a moment, thinking hard. "Okay. How do we do this?"

"I have no idea." I grabbed her hand and dragged her along with me. "Come on, we gotta go talk to him. I told him we were finishing up in bed."

"All right, I'm coming, no need to be a bastard about it."

"I'm many things, but I doubt that's one of 'em."

Roger started to stand as we walked into the room, but I waved him down. "No need for formality. Roger, Pamela. Pam, Roger Stallman." I grabbed a pair of chairs from the tiny dining room and shoved one towards Pam before slumping down in the second.

"So," Pam said.

"So?"

"So why're you here?"

He sighed. "I don't really know. The Senator wants this thing to stay off the airwaves, and I know it's not gonna happen for long, and I'm just trying to figure out how I can keep her in office." He held up a hand. "I know you don't want that. Or maybe you don't care if she stays in office. It doesn't matter. I guess I'm here because... well, I want to know what you want."

"World fucking peace," Pam said, straight-faced. "You think you can buy us off like that? Throw us a house in the hills or whatever and get us to say we're sorry, we didn't mean it?"

"Actually, yeah." Roger shrugged. "Maybe it's just the revenge, and you can get that by doing nothing, and she'll kill you for it. And I mean that. I'll deny saying it forever, but she will literally kill you for this. And if that's not an incentive, maybe money will help. Maybe it won't. But we've all got a price, kid, and I wanna know what yours is so I can get through this with my job, and my skin, in one piece."

"Yeah? And what about you? What's your price?" I had no idea where I was going with this, but, hey, I'd faked my way through all of this up until now, and it'd worked out pretty well so far. "Where'd your loyalty to that abusive piece of shit come from?"

"Well, for starters, she's paying me more than either of you will make in the next couple decades."

Pam actually snorted at that. "Oh for fuck's sake, Roger, you're not doing this job for the money. If you were, you'd be working for the Vatican or some asshole billionaire or some shit like that. How'd the bitch get her claws in you?"

Roger chuckled at that. "Point taken. Started off for the money and the challenge of it. How do you help somebody build an image of being a total nutjob and still keep 'em in power? Eventually I got used to the power. She doesn't confide in anyone, y'know, but I got to know her, and I hated what I saw, but... well, it's like a bad car accident. Awful, yeah, but you can't look away."

"Uh-huh." This all still seemed fishy somehow.

"Quick question, though, before I go on. What's up with your dad? Is he—?"

"No. We don't talk about him."

"I was just curious whether—"

"Roger, stop talking or get out right now, because if you ask a single thing about him I'll kill you. I will literally murder you and no one will ever find your body."

I nodded my approval. "We don't talk about him. Ever."

"Um. Okay." He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Anyway, I do PR for a living. All I do is spin stories and write lies and half-lies about the people I work for. I like to think I'm pretty good at it, but you kids... well, I gotta hand it to you. This was brilliant."

I glanced at Pam. "Look, Roger, if you think this was all some sort of revenge scheme—"

"Of course that's what it was, Carl, and I'd have to be a complete idiot not to see otherwise. I know perfectly well she ruined your childhoods, but kids don't turn to incest just because their mom used to call 'em worthless or hit 'em or whatever. I certainly didn't. You just gotta know that we're gonna have to call you out on it."

"Call us out on what?"

He rolled his eyes. "The fact that you're not actually screwing each other, of course. You put on a good show back there, and I appreciate you staying in character for me, but sooner or later somebody's gonna pin you down on this, and last I checked you haven't handed a sex tape to the tabloids yet."

"Have we?" Pam asked, looking over at me.

"Not unless you've been the one taping it," I said through gritted teeth. "So you're saying nobody believes us."

"Oh, no, plenty of people will believe you're doin' it, kid. Lots of people take that show as gospel. I'm just not one of 'em. And neither's your mom." Roger shrugged. "And even if I don't suggest it, she'll call you out on it as publicly as possible."

"Carl." Pam was glaring at Roger. "Take off your pants."

Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that. "I... what?"

"Take off your fucking pants, right now. If mommy's little helper over here isn't convinced yet, we're going to convince him. And he's going to go back to her and tell her that there's no bluff to call."

"Now look, kid—"

"Shut the fuck up and watch, Roger. Here's your fucking sex tape."

"But—"

"Take them off! NOW!"

"Guess you're getting a show, Roger," I said, trying to fake some confidence. He looked appalled, but he wasn't getting up to leave either. I unzipped my jeans and started sliding them down my legs. "You want them all the way off, or—" A hand jerked my head up and my lips met Pam's; my initial pain and confusion melted as I felt myself starting to get into it. I felt her slide onto my lap; she'd somehow already stripped off her sweats, and her panty-clad groin ground up against the growing bulge in my boxers.

She nipped at my lower lip, almost drawing blood. It worked, though, and I felt my cock give a little leap, like it was a dog and somebody had held up a piece of steak. A terrible analogy, but I was never much good at literary stuff like that. Especially not when Pam had managed to pull my hardening cock out of my shorts and was stroking it, still kissing me as hard as she could.

She was furious. No doubt about it. And she was pissed off enough that she was ready and willing to do this right here and now.

Hell, maybe she got off on this sort of thing. Not my idea of a great time, but, hey, as long as we both enjoyed it, right?

I snaked a hand up her shirt, fumbling for a breast. Finding one, I gave the nipple a light pinch, which earned me a smack on the back of the head, before I started caressing it, feeling her smooth skin radiating heat beneath my palm. She seemed lighter on my lap for a second; I was tempted to open my eyes and break off the kiss, but—

And then she was on top of me, and I was in her, and I was so unprepared for it that I almost lost it right then and there. We'd been fucking for a week, a glorious week, and she'd been on the pill, but this was still the first time we'd done it without a condom. The thought of it, of Pam forcing herself onto my bare cock as hard and deep as she could, was... well, it certainly didn't help with my sense of self-control.

I remembered, dimly, that we were still being watched, but I'd long since stopped giving a shit about Roger. I guess this had started off as proving something to him? I couldn't remember, and I couldn't care less.

She was riding me now, her muscles tensing as she lifted herself up an inch before slamming down and forward, driving myself into her. I tried to help, cupping my free hand around her ass, lifting when she did. Her breasts were bouncing a little under her shirt, moving with her body's momentum. Pam's face was inches from my own, eyes closed, mouth contorted into a still-angry line. I managed to land another kiss on those too-tense lips on her next downstroke, but she was moving erratically, now, and I couldn't find a working rhythm.

I knew I wasn't going to hold out much longer. This was just too much, too many things happening too quickly, and I couldn't process all of it in my head fast enough. She just kept driving herself forward, and I heard the chair legs slamming against the floor, and maybe I should have been worried about us tipping over and breaking something but I was lost in the sensations of it, lost in the feeling of being inside her like this, of being closer than we'd ever been, even if it was just a tiny bit more than before thanks to that missing piece of rubber, and there was just something amazing about skin on skin and the friction between our bodies and—

And—

And I lost it. More than I could handle. My fingers clenched involuntarily, probably leaving marks on her chest and ass, and I buried my head into her neck, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt the orgasm surge through me. Maybe it wasn't quite as productive as the ones from earlier that night, but it was incredible nonetheless. All the more so because I knew I was actually coming directly inside of her.

But Pam hadn't finished yet, and she looked like she wouldn't stop until she did. So she kept riding me, even though my cock was softening and threatening to slip out. She sped up, gritting her teeth, as she approached the edge, and what felt like only a few seconds later she gave one last huge jolt, her lips meeting mine with bruising force.

We held each other like that for a minute, ignoring the growing stain on the chair, ignoring the fact that there was still someone in the room.

"Satisfied?" I managed to say, finally turning to look away from Pam. Talking was sort of difficult for some reason.

"Kid, shut up for a second and let me think." Roger was still sitting on the couch, still staring at us. He looked... I'm not actually sure how he looked. Intense, I guess, is one word for it. Not weirded out, either, which was surprising. "That wasn't just lust. It wasn't just being committed to this revenge thing. That was something more."

"Sounds like you're going to break into song, Roger." Pam's voice was breathless, but as acidic as ever. "You sound like you're writing a Disney screenplay."

"I mean it. Your mom screwed you over, you screw each other, and you screw her over back. Fine, that's all well and good, but that's not what this was. You... I think you two actually care about each other."

Pam's face was blank, and I was sure mine looked pretty similar. "Sure we do. Siblings are like that. We care about each other even when we're trying to kill each other."

"No, that's not good enough, kid. I mean you love each other. Like, you're actually in love." He still hadn't lost that intense look from his face. "If it's true, I need to hear you say it."

I looked at Pam, still flushed from our actions a minute ago. She met my gaze, her expression giving no hint as to what she was thinking. Then she cocked an eyebrow. "Well?"

I thought about it. It didn't take very long. The kisses, the kindness, the general happiness with being near each other, the repartee and casual verbal cruelty we shared... Nah, it was probably all still bullshit, but what the hell. "I love you, Pam." Still, it was funny how saying a few words was so much harder than having sex in front of someone who was only one notch above being a complete stranger had been. "I really do."

And there it was. That elusive smile, the one that looked genuinely happy. "I love you too, Carl."

"Okay!" Roger clapped his hands together. "Enough sentimental claptrap. Let's take her down."

"You sure you're not actually working for Disney? Because if you're making career moves based on the 'power of love' or some shit like—"

"You don't spend thirty years—thirty years!—in politics and come out still thinking the world's a beautiful place, kid. What I wanted was confirmation that this'll last, because after we sink your mom's career I'm gonna help you two write a book. And by that I mean I'm gonna write a book and you two are gonna put your names on it and your mom will never be able to go out in public again. And I'm gonna get twenty five percent of everything that comes from it."

"A book deal? Seriously?"

"Yeah. No, really, I know what I'm doing. This is three-dollar paperback trash. This is the sort of thing that'll go in airport bookstores around the country. It's cheap, tasteless, sensationalized crap. And everybody loves cheap, tasteless, sensationalized crap." Roger pulled out a notebook and started scribbling violently. "I'll fly back to Chicago tonight. Gimme a day to get my end sorted out and make a couple phone calls. The episode hits the day after that; I'll tell the Senator she can go screw herself the morning of, and then I'll come back here and we'll watch the episode. And then the press conference after that. Because that'll be one hell of a show."

I was lost for words, for a second. At least Pam was still being rational. "And how do we know you're not just fucking with us?"

He grinned. "Two reasons. First, this." He tore off the page he'd been writing on and slid it over to her. "Informal contract. I've signed it; you need to, at some point, if you want it remotely legally binding. Basically says I'm not gonna run off, and that I owe you an awful lot of money if I do. And second, this." He tossed a USB thumbdrive on the table next to the paper. "That's proof, photographic and video, that your mom's been screwing her past three secretaries. All women. And an intern, too, but he's not as important. Brought a copy of those just in case you managed to convince me."

Pam and I looked at the paper, and at the drive. It took a second for everything he'd said to sink in. Finally, I found my voice again. "Roger, you... Why are you doing this? Why help us?"

Roger stood up and dusted off his pants. "Easy," he said, still grinning. "Your mom's a hypocrite, and she's a cunt. And I can't stand either of those things."

And with that, he was gone.

"Well," Pam said. "That was... that was interesting."

"A bit." We were silent for another minute. "Should we try and figure out how we're going to make this relationship thing work? Maybe talk about our feelings a little? Or d'you wanna go look at those videos first?"

"Give me five minutes. I'm gonna make some popcorn."

***

"Good afternoon." She stood painfully straight, both hands on her lectern. The room was full of reporters and journalists; some of them had been plaguing her for years. Worthless, all of them; they waited around for someone else to do something, someone to actually accomplish a task, and then they swooped in and tore it apart, feasting on loose ends and honest mistakes, all in the name of what they blatantly called "truth." Disgusting. "I have prepared a brief statement; afterwards, there will be ten minutes for questions."

She looked down at the podium, as if to look at her notes. She had no notes, choosing instead to commit everything to memory, and she was proud of never having simply read a speech in her time as a politician. "After years of love, faithful care, and affection, my own children have betrayed me and brought shame upon their family name. Time and time again, they strayed from the straight and narrow, turning aside from the path God had set before them; time and time again, I forgave them their transgressions. My husband and I did our best to teach them, to raise them justly, and to instill in them the morality and strength of character that was laid down in the Bible.

"Their latest breach of conduct is inexcusable. They have committed a sin far greater than any other, and they have attempted to place blame for their actions on me. They have accused me of being an unfit mother, and of filling their childhoods with misery.

"These claims are hurtful, and they are unequivocally false.

"Any sins they may have committed, any attempts to besmirch the family name and discredit a heritage that stretches back to the Puritans who settled on the shores of this great nation in 1635, are no one's fault but their own.

"I have stood for family values, for the vital importance of tradition, long before I first took office, and I stand by those values and traditions today. I offer no defense for my children's actions, and I join you in condemning their abhorrent behavior. There is no excuse, and there is no forgiveness in my heart. They have abandoned God's covenant, and they will find him far less merciful than I could ever be.

"Ten minutes for questions." Among the immediately upraised hands, she spotted one she recognized. An unapologetically liberal reporter, he had sparred with her in this room for years. Giving him the first question would show her commitment to her stance. "Yes, Santiago."

He stood, a curious smile on his face. "Senator, you've made your stance on what you call 'abnormal sexuality' quite clear in the past. Just for clarification: you view incest as being as severe as homosexuality, sodomy, rape, adultery, and so on?"

Her lip tugged momentarily upwards into a slight sneer. "Yes, of course. Next quest—"

"Because that raises a curious point, Senator." Santiago held up a thumbdrive. "I have, here, incontrovertible proof that you have engaged in multiple extramarital affairs, several of which were with other women." His smile broadened. "One of whom was underage."

The room went silent. She stared at the reporter and wished she were armed. Without a word, she left the lectern, ignoring the sudden flurry of shouted questions aimed at her back.

She found Roger's resignation letter on her desk when she returned to her office. She read through it once and then threw it away.

She'd survive. Oh, she'd make it through this, one way or another. There was no way she was going to let them get away with this. Even if it took her the rest of her life and all of her accumulated wealth, even if she had to do it with her own hands, she'd make them suffer until their dying day.

Somehow.



(A thousand thanks to M2VIIDS--without his editing skills, this story would be an unreadable mess.)