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Deceit

By: jjsharshaw



My god, she was beautiful, he thought. 

She had become a narcotic to him over the past few months of their relationship. He could do anything with her, to her, any time he wanted. She knew what he wanted even when he wasn't sure. But this night he didn't know whether she was an angel from God or the Devil himself. Tonight that fear nagged him. 

He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, felt the nicotine rush and settled back into his chair. 

"You only smoke when you're stressed. Do you need to come back to bed?"

"No. I'm okay. I'm starting to like these Turkish cigarettes and for some reason it seems appropriate to smoke them when I'm with you."

"The pasha in his seraglio?"

"Yeah, something like that. Only my harem's a bit small - just you. I'll have to work on it."

There was silence between them. It felt awkward.

"May I come to you? Let me use my mouth for you?" she asked tentatively rather than seductively. There was concern in her voice. 

"No. Stay in bed - not that you can get out of bed without my help," he said quietly and with affection. "I'll come to bed in a little while. Go back to sleep."

He took a blue folder out of his brief case and left the bedroom for the kitchen. 

He made himself a sandwich, poured a Coke and then sat down at the breakfast bar, the blue folder at his elbow. He had just about decided that he had the Devil himself handcuffed to his bed upstairs and that it was time to end the relationship. 

But how to end something like this was the problem. He knew things would be complicated when he took his new position but he hadn't planned on this.

It wasn't just a matter of telling the Devil, "No thanks, but thanks for all the fun times." The Devil may have to be killed and how do you kill the Devil? He remembered the classic movie, The Usual Suspects. The question was posed, "How do you shoot the Devil in the back? What if you miss? "

This was no ordinary affair. Ordinary was not a word to be used about anything that had happened in the last 10 months. 

He was not an anonymous entrepreneur in some big city. He did not have his lover in some townhouse in a gated community. He was the President of the United States of America. He was sitting across the street from the White House in Blair House, a ravishingly beautiful woman handcuffed to his bed - both of them having enjoyed several hours of some very rough sex. 

It was May. He'd been in office just under 5 months. He had started his run for the White House a year ago and against all odds he won by a landslide, an unprecedented landslide. 

Peter Montrose was not a handsome man. He was not good at speaking in sound bites. He had no charisma. He wasn't a Reagan or a Clinton or a Miller or even his predecessor, Thomas Carstairs. He was a common citizen who looked common and spoke plainly. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The President opened the blue folder. There were three pieces of paper in the folder and except for the picture with a name on its back on one of the pieces of paper he couldn't read a thing. The writing was in Hebrew. The picture was of the woman in his bed. 

Her name was Cynthia Green, B.S., Political Science, University of Kansas; J.D., Harvard; M.S., International Political Science, The Sorbonne. 36 years old. Never married. She was a lawyer in a Jefferson City, Missouri law firm specializing in international law until she joined the campaign. Now she was Deputy White House Counsel and had been his mistress since before he took office. 

A Secret Service agent that had recently come on the President's protective detail noticed her in the Oval Office one day and it set off an alarm bell. Ten days later the agent, through a personal contact with the Ukrainian GRU, received the intelligence file on Cynthia Green and quietly gave it to the President. 

The President took the folder to a young rabbi he had become acquainted with in the District for translation; he wanted to avoid official channels. The translation boiled down to this: Cynthia Green was a deep cover agent and an assassin for the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence Service. And he was sleeping with her - or rather her with him for some unseen purpose. 

Break off the relationship in a conventional manner and maybe the tabloid shows suddenly know everything about their relatively unconventional sexual relationship. (The President found it perversely ironic that after the Gay Rights Movement victories of 2013 the electorate could elect a Gay/Lesbian (Richard Miller and Ellen Becker) ticket with the Social Democrats but had reservations about candidates who were into more esoteric sexual practices.) 

Kill her and maybe her masters retaliate. Keep things as they were and he may find himself dead some night, at the hand of a foreign power. 

The President made a phone call. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The President, then candidate, suffered a personal disaster in late September before the election. It was the disaster and how the public perceived his handling of it that likely contributed to his landslide victory. 

The disaster was a natural gas explosion at his home in Kansas City that took his wife and three sons. But the explosion wasn't an accident. It was an assassination meant to drive Peter Montrose from the campaign. Better that he dropped from the campaign, it was reasoned by the conspirators, than run a dirty campaign against the "common man." 

Three weeks before the election a CIA case officer named Mitchell Cahill came to Montrose and confessed he was the one who rigged the explosion. And then Cahill presented hours of audio, video and computer data proving that the conspirators were at the highest levels of government: President Thomas Carstairs, Vice President and presidential candidate Winston Miles, several White House staff members and four senior FBI and CIA officials. 

Cahill was ready to fall on his sword. He had no idea he was being ordered to kill the candidate's family. Mitchell Cahill had done many things in the service of his country; killing a political opponent's family was not one of them. 

Instead, to Cahill's stunned amazement, Montrose asked Cahill to disappear with his evidence. If Montrose won the election he would ask Cahill to come forward and Montrose would deal with the conspirators. If he lost the campaign, he lost. Montrose did not want to win or lose based on the exposed treachery of the other candidate, the Vice President. 

The final weeks of the campaign were waged on the "high ground". The American people got to see the "common man" candidate looking "presidential." They liked what he was saying. They liked what he proposed. They liked the people he had gathered to his camp and who would be a part of the new administration. 

On Election Day the common man candidate rode an unprecedented landslide to victory. And on a cold, dreary Saturday, six weeks after taking office, the President dealt directly with the major conspirators. 

The conspirators did not refute, nor even attempt to offer a defense of the evidence that Cahill had given to the President. 

In the Oval Office, with a Supreme Court Justice presiding, the former President and first lady, the former Vice President, and four former White House staff members, pleaded guilty to five counts each of first degree murder for the ordering and planning of the assassination of the President's family. 

The President promptly signed a pardon agreement and ordered the record of the proceedings sealed and given the highest level of secrecy available for federal documents. It would be 2160 before historians knew what happened surrounding Peter Montrose's election and first 100 days in office.

The FBI Director met with an accident and was given a state funeral. 

The other intelligence and justice officials who were identified as being political met with similar fates over the next three months. 

The President took a few days off, never leaving the White House but holed up in the Residence. His Press Secretary told the media that the President had the East Asian Flu and had been ordered to bed. The President's personal physician, Navy Capt. Ronald Nelson, confirmed the diagnosis and treatment of fluids and bed rest.

The truth was that the President was sick in his soul over the deaths of his family and knowing who was responsible. But rather than parade the conspirators before the public he felt he needed to make the matter as if it never happened. And he had.

Green had helped him get through the nights following what he called, "The Rat Cleaning."

~~~~~~~~~~

Green was now on her knees in the middle of the bed. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back, her face and chest pressed to the mattress and her ass in the air. Her back and buttocks bore the red welts of a whipping with a riding crop. The President was thrusting viscously into her; she screamed each time he thrust. It felt as if he was trying to drive himself deep into her belly. 

Abruptly, the President pulled out, rolled her onto her back and remounted her roughly. 

Immediately he took her by the throat as he started to thrust again. The chokehold on her carotid arteries was tighter than their usual play and it was starting to hurt. 

"Uncle," she rasped. It was their safe word. 

The President did not stop.

She looked into his face: his eyes were cold and dead. Sweat trickled from his forehead and down his face and onto her. 

"Uncle...please..." Her voice was barely a whisper and her eyes were wide with fear. She sensed something was very wrong as her consciousness started to slip away.

"Unc..."

She lost consciousness, the President loosed his grip on her throat but kept on thrusting until he grunted and filled her. 

The President got off the bed, toweled off and put on his robe. He sat in the chair next to the bed and waited for her to wake up.

Presently her body stirred and she coughed then moaned. She managed to awkwardly sit up and she looked through her tangled hair that covered her face for the President. 

"Peter? Peter...what's wrong?" Her voice was quiet and pleading. 

"Get up and come and kneel in front of me." His voice was cold and distant. She was frightened. 

"It would be easier to do without my hands being cuffed behind my back." She tried to lighten the atmosphere. He didn't respond. 

Slowly, awkwardly, she obeyed. As she dropped to her knees, the President reached down, caressed her face and pushed her hair away from her eyes. For a fraction of a second she perceived him soften. He whispered, "I'm sorry."

Just then there was a knock at the bedroom door. Green took stock of her position and how she looked, hair disheveled, body covered with sweat, whip marks on her back and now sperm starting to trickle down her inner thighs and onto the carpet. 

"Shouldn't I, you know, uh, hide?" She looked at the President. He did not look at her. Quietly he said, "Enter."

Green gasped then gave a short scream when she saw the visitor.

"I'm assuming I don't need to make introductions." 

The visitor stood in front of the President and beside Green. He said nothing. Green looked at the President, pleading in her face and voice. Her voice was small like that of a frightened little girl, "Peter?" 

"Get control of yourself Cynthia. Answer my questions when I asked them and you may live to see the dawn."

Live to see the dawn? Oh, my God! "Yes...I mean no, you don't need to make introductions." 

"Tell me where you know this man from."

"I met him in Berlin about 5 years ago. I was with a lover then. My lover and Mr. Cahill were friends. Please Peter...dear god, are you going to have me killed?"

The President was slow to respond. He looked at her then at Cahill. "And why would you ask such a thing?"

She looked at Cahill. "Because according to my lover then, this man is one of the best assassins the U.S. has on its payroll."

"I didn't know Yuri kept tabs on me that well," Cahill said mirthlessly. 

The President turned to Cahill. "Is that true?" 

"Yes. Before I got promoted to Case Officer I was a contract wet work specialist." Cahill looked down at Green, "But, according to Yuri, you weren't bad yourself. You specialized in the close work - drugging diplomatic agents then putting bags on their heads until they suffocated."

"Ohhhhhhhh, nooooooo...," she felt like she was about to come undone, "please, it's true, I worked for Mossad. Yuri, my lover, he was a deputy in operations and he ran me in the field. He got a promotion and I left the agency. He released me. I haven't worked in the community since."

"My sources say otherwise. There are people who would have me believe you were a plant shortly after my family's assassination."

She hung her head, feeling lost and then she looked up at the President with some resolve, "NO, Peter! I came to your campaign because I believed in you. And you spent quite a bit of time in Jefferson City; it was inevitable that we met. But...I...yes, I got a call from Mossad after the explosion and they reactivated me. But they simply wanted inside information if things ever got critical. 

"I've only reported twice. I think it's more of a way to keep my skills in shape than anything else. It's no big deal. I don't even think the reports are going to Tel Aviv."

Cahill interrupted, "Why would you think they aren't going to Tel Aviv?"

"Yuri called me a month ago. He wanted to run me - for fun he said. He knew I was in the White House. I told him that Central already had me on line. He got very strange at that point, said his goodbyes and told me to be careful. Yuri runs Central. If he didn't know I was active then someone else is running me. I don't know whom. I've never met the control officer."

Cahill mumbled "shit" under his breath and looked at the President, "You realize what this means Mr. President?"

The President covered his face with his hands, exhaled loudly. "Yeah Mitch, I realize. We're dealing with a hidden enemy."

Green looked between the two men and became frantic, certain that she was going to be killed by Cahill, certain that the President would order it. "Please! Please.... Oh God, Peter, you know> I would never harm you!... Peter... Peter, I love you..." and she began to cry softly.

The President was stunned by Green's admissions of spying even though he had her intelligence file. He felt betrayed, used. What could a woman as beautiful as Cynthia want with a plain, average guy like himself except power? He thought. 

"SHUT UP!" The President suddenly backhanded Green so hard she fell over. She curled into a fetal position on the carpet and began to sob. "Let me think, damnit!" The President shouted.

The President ran his hands through his hair and then covered his face to think. Now, not only was he concerned by who might be controlling Green but also he felt guilty about how he was acting toward his lover. He had never struck her, or any other woman in anger. 

"Mr. President..."

The President held up a hand, "A minute Mitch."

Cahill stood silently. 

Minutes passed. Green's sobbing lessened though she still lay curled on the floor, still terrified of what might happen. Neither man paid her any attention. 

The President slowly stood up and cinched up the belt of his robe. "Mitch, see what you can find; quickly and discretely. Use the newsgroups to keep in touch."

"Shouldn't you bring in the Marines for security?"

"Oh, I'd love to bring in Colonel McKenzie and his Force Recon boys. But any sudden changes are likely to tip off whoever is watching. No. For now nothing changes."

Cahill pointed at Green. "What about her?"

"Mitch, listen very carefully: Cynthia's my problem. Hands off. If I end up dead then I expect you'll know what to do but until then, if that time ever comes, Cynthia's innocent. Is that crystalline clear?"

Cahill frowned, "Peter, for Christ's sake she's been trained by the best, she's done good work for them and now she's here, under control and we don't know by whom or why...come on..."

"Mitch."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Cahill left the bedroom and the President bent down to Green. Her body was trembling. He touched her face. "Cynthia, can you hear me? Cynthia?"

She startled at his touch and then slowly Green turned her eyes toward the President; they were filled with absolute terror.

"Come on, Cynthia, let's sit up." The President gently lifted her into a sitting position on the floor and went to the nightstand to get the handcuff key. He took the handcuffs off and then knelt to massage her wrists and shoulders. 

"Got some feeling back?"

Green nodded. The President got her robe and covered her shoulders with it. "Let's see if you can stand." He put his hands under her arms and helped her stand.

"I...I want to go home. Now. Please." Green whispered, fear still in her voice.

The President lifted her face by the chin and then spoke gently, "Cynthia, no. You're in no shape to go home. You're safe here; you have my word. Mitch is gone and if you want, you can sleep in another bedroom with a female Secret Service agent to stay with you. I want to make sure you're okay. That's all." 

Green looked down again. "Peter, my back hurts really bad," she said softly.

"Okay, come on back to bed." The President slowly guided her back to bed. "Have a seat. I'll be right back."

The President went to the bathroom and brought back a tumbler of water and a prescription bottle. He knelt in front of her. "My script for Valium. Open the bottle and take two out. Give one to me, watch me take it and then take the other one and let's settle down in bed. I'll make your back feel better, okay?"

Green didn't speak. She simply opened the bottle, slid two yellow tablets into her palm, gave one to the President and held out the water glass. He took his and then hesitantly she took the other pill. 

As she swung her legs into bed she quietly said, "The easiest way I've found to assassinate someone you're sleeping with is a benzodiazapene in their Scotch. When the person's asleep then I put a bag over their head until they stop breathing. Looks like natural causes and they rarely check for the old benzodiazapenes in the post mortem drug screens."

"I know. Saw it in a movie a long time ago. You planning on bagging me?"

"No."

"Good, I'm not planning on doing you either."

Green lay on her side in the bed; the President lay behind her, gently dabbing camphor on her whip welts with a cotton ball. 

"Cynthia, it's going to be okay," he whispered gently to her, smoothing her hair, caressing her shoulders.

For a long while Green didn't speak, then, "How can you trust me, Peter? How can you stand to be in the same room with me?" she whispered in a trembling voice.

"I can trust you because I chose to," was all he said.

After a long silence he snuggled against her shoulder and quietly said, "And, if my trust is misplaced then Mitchell will see that there is retribution. 

"Life goes on, eh? 

"As to how I can stand to be in the same room with you - you obviously haven't looked in a mirror lately."

Green half giggled and half sobbed with relief as if the President's declaration of trust and admiration of her beauty was unexpectedly flattering. 

"Pancakes in the morning?" she whispered. 

"Lots of syrup, please," he said as he kissed her shoulder.

The President buried his face in her hair and gently wrapped her in a hug, his hands cupping her breasts. He held her tightly until he felt her body relax and her breathing slow indicating she was asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

Marilyn Lang was Assistant to the Appointments Secretary. Her office was 20 feet away from the outer warrens of the Oval Office. She was one of only a handful of people to know the President's schedule, minute by minute. And who the President was with at any given time. 


Deceit



She had spent four years near that same office working in the first Thomas Carstairs' administration. When he won re- election she was retained but moved to the Vice President's staff. During eight years in the White House she was an invisible staffer. 

When it came time to hire staff for the Montrose administration, the Carstairs' political operatives were sent packing but those non-political staff professionals who wanted to keep on working were welcomed. Lang found herself back in the West Wing. Invisible.

But in the last administration she was not entirely invisible. She spent the last three years of the term as the Vice President's lover. At least, that was how she saw herself. But to the Vice President, his cronies and even to his wife, Lang was "nothing more than my li'l whore." She never knew. 

Lang had wanted to see the Vice President succeed to the Presidency and felt sure he would. Not only did she love him but also she idolized him as a great, compassionate "man of the people." Of course, as his lover, she would be by his side and in his bed while he was President. She would also be a part of a great mission to help America and humanity itself. 

Then came the rise of Peter Montrose that brought the eventual fall of her idol. The last six months of the campaign the Vice President had discarded her and she had cooled on him. When Peter Montrose won office and needed experienced staff, she saw the opportunity revived to be a part of a "great mission to help America and humanity itself." 

And all was fine in Lang's world until her old obsession re-surfaced. 

The now former Vice President, like all the high-ranking White House officials involved in the conspiracy against Peter Montrose, got word of Mitchell Cahill's evidence and the President's plan to deal with the conspirators two weeks before their day in the Oval Office. So did the former Vice President's wife. 

In a quirk of morality and ethics, it didn't bother the Vice President's blue blood wife that he was having sex with Marilyn Lang. She never liked sex that much anyway so she was relieved that someone actually wanted to be "pawed and drooled on" by her husband. But planning murder, actually, getting caught planning murder, was an unforgivable sin. She threatened divorce.

The night after Katherine Miles raged at her husband, Winston Miles showed up late at the door of Lang's Georgetown apartment. 

"Winston?"

"Marilyn, can I come in? Please."

"Of course." 

Lang hurried to open the locks and chains. Winston Miles nearly fell in the door. The smell of bourbon was strong in the air.

"Winston, are you drunk?"

"Hmmmm," Miles placed his arm around his former lover, "just a wee bit.

"Did I wake you, Lynn?"

"Well...uh..."

"Let's go to your room."

The former Vice President lurched toward Lang's bedroom pulling her with him. When they got near the bed Winston flung Lang's small body onto the bed and proceeded to strip.

"Winston! Jesus! What do you think you're doing?!" 

He still had his boxers and his socks on but his erection was prominently poking through the fly of the boxers. "I'm going to fuck my li'l whore. In my 20 years of public service, you are the best whore I've ever had. I'd give you a medal if I could. Instead, I can only give you this," Miles smiled lewdly and wagged his erection at her and then pulled his boxer shorts off. 

"Winston! No! No! How can you call me a whore?!"

"Cause honey, that's all you ever were to me. That's your forte in life, I think. That's all you'll ever be."

Lang was stunned beyond words and deeply hurt. 

Drunk or not, the former Vice President covered the distance between where he was and the bed with amazing speed. He pushed her down on her back, pushed her thighs open with his legs and pulled the spaghetti straps of her night gown slip off her slim shoulders to get at her breasts before she knew what was happening.

His erection was rubbing against her belly as he pushed her higher on the bed and tried to kiss her face and neck. Finally Lang got enough control of the situation to catch his face in her hands, "Winston, baby, I don't have my diaphragm in and I think I'm very fertile right now! Please, baby, let me get it in or let me suck you off! Come in my mouth...please!"

"Tempting as the offer is, my sweet little whore, I want that delectable cunt. Now! You can suck me later. So," he added cheerfully and in his mind, reassuringly, "fuck your diaphragm baby! I'll take care of you."

He pulled her head savagely back by the hair and as she grimaced and gave a short scream at the pain he penetrated her. 

She was dry so the first penetration was not very deep and painful but as she lay passively beneath him, resigned that he was going to take her, he kept thrusting until she was warm and slick. When he slid fully inside her she gasped at the sensation and hugged him to her body. 

"Don't come in me baby, please." she pleaded in his ear - but the pleading was less now that he was "back" for her; all his comments about her being a whore attributed to his drunkenness. He didn't mean those mean things. She was the woman who sustained him in his high office, not that patrician bitch to whom he was married. He really loved her or he wouldn't have come to her, to her bed, her body, if he didn't. 

He pressed her hard onto her back with his body and took her mouth with his in a sloppy wet kiss, tasting of bourbon and cigarettes, "Don't worry, baby, I'll take care of you," he whispered.

Several more thrusts, several more gropes of her small breasts and wet kisses later and Winston Miles grunted and stiffened. At first Lang, remembering old times, took the grunt with pride: she had made him come. But then she remembered he was forcing her and she was without protection. Suddenly thoughts of love were crowded out by the indignity of her position and the possibility of becoming pregnant.

"Winston! No!" She pushed him off her. He lost his balance and fell backwards onto the floor - laughing.

"God damn! But that was some good, baby!" He was red faced and breathing hard. Suddenly he made a face like he was in pain and groaned. 

In a flash Lang was off the bed, she let her slip fall to the floor from around her waist and she went to him, kneeling beside him. "Winston! Winston! What's wrong? Are you in pain?"

"Ah, sweet little Lynn," he said slowly as he ran his hand behind her head and interlaced his fingers in her hair, "just Mr. Willy is in pain." He pushed her head down to his semi-erect cock. "Why don't you make him feel better?"

Lang fell into his lap. She did not resist him and she took his cock gently with her mouth. Once she had him hard he carried her back to the bed where he could fuck her face like he wanted. 

Winston Miles was not so drunk that he couldn't come again and after twenty minutes of thrusting in and out of her mouth, sometimes causing her to gag and choke, he erupted into her mouth, his sperm frothy and bitter tasting. 

He held her by the hair and forced her to take most of the load in her mouth until it ran out the corners of her mouth and then, the last weak spurt or two was aimed at her face. He released her, letting her cough and gasp for breath as he went toward his pile of clothes on the floor and began to dress. 

"You're leaving?" Lang stammered between coughs. 

"Yeah, Katherine will be missing me. Do you need anything darlin'?"

He had his pants on by this time and before Lang could respond he took two $100 bills from his wallet and tossed then on the bed beside her. "Oh, here's another. Just for the tip. You're a damned good fuck."

Lang picked up the bills and looked incredulously at them. 

"Maybe we'll do dinner next week? Would you like that, baby?"

"Uh...sure. Winston, I...I love you..."

"And I love you too my li'l whore. Three hundred dollars worth tonight," he laughed cruelly and still quite drunkenly. "I'll let myself out." 

And he was gone. 

Lang curled into a ball on the bed and wept bitterly. She felt violated and for the first time in her life she felt cheap. She felt like a cheap whore.

Winston never did call her for dinner. He never came back. 

In the following weeks she thought often of exposing him, of accusing him of rape. She wanted vengeance. And at night, sometimes while she was at work, she would fantasize and masturbate about Peter Montrose falling in love with her. At least with the President he was single and there was hope for marriage despite the fact that she knew he was sleeping with Cynthia Green. Ms. Green wouldn't be a problem though, she thought reassuringly.

But weeks later, the day CNCBS broke the news of Winston Miles killing his wife and committing suicide, Lang felt sick to her stomach. She didn't make it to the washroom down the hall from her office before she threw up. 

At first she chalked her sudden sickness as shock over his death. Her colleagues knew she had been on Miles' staff so they understood and sympathized. Green felt cared for. But her attitude toward the current President changed abruptly when the early pregnancy test she took a few days later indicated she was carrying Winston Miles' child.

It was Montrose's fault that such a great man, the man who loved her, the man who depended on her strength, fell. Montrose would have to pay. The nature of her fantasies changed abruptly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Green was walking from the Oval Office to the White House Mess for lunch when here PDA beeped. It was a text message from her control. 

She was ordered to a meet that evening. The coordinates decoded to a suite in the old Watergate Hotel.

It had been close to 70 years since the Watergate Complex became infamous and set the stage for the downfall of President Richard M. Nixon. Now, it had lost its infamy and glory. Senators and House members no longer lived in the complex. It was occupied primarily now by Capitol Hill staffers and Third World diplomatic personnel and the occasional mid-level mega-corporation managerial type. 

The hotel particularly had suffered the ravages of age. Green had been in seedier places but not many. She remembered one, the Ramallah Intercontinental, where Madagascar Hissing cockroaches ran along the headboard as she bagged a Sumerian diplomatic courier. 

She was here to finally meet her control, the person in spy parlance who supervises or controls an agent. As she knocked on the door of one of the suites she was ready for anything - except the person who answered the door. 

"Come in."

"You're my control?" Green blurted out.

The woman, dressed only in a short, silk kimono, laughed, "Surprised?"

"Yes."

"Well, come in and I'll explain."

Green followed the woman into the suite. 

"Have a seat." 

The woman sat in an overstuffed chair; Green took a seat on the sofa across from her. As the woman sat down, she opened her robe exposing her naked body. 

"You like, Cynthia?"

Green was staring at the woman's body and at the same time frantically trying to figure out what was going on. 

"Uh...well, uh, yeah. It's nice. I like your breasts. But, uh, are you pregnant?"

"You still don't recognize me, do you?" the woman laughed. 

"Well, uh, you're Marilyn from Appointments."

"No...Think back. The summer my lover Yuri gave you to me and I was your mistress."

"Misha? Green asked, surprised. 

"Yes! I've changed quite a bit but I think you can still fall in love with me like when we were at the Red Sea."

Still fall in love with her? Yuri was Marilyn's lover? My god, she was delusional! Green thought. 

"And, of course, if not right away, maybe a little training with my whip and a little hard fucking will bring you around."

Green resisted the temptation to ask what planet Lang was on at the moment and played along. What in Hell did Marilyn/Misha like to be called when they were sex playing?

Green suddenly slipped into a submissive posture and demeanor, "Of course, Mistress Sheba."

Marilyn/Misha laughed, pleased that Green seemed to be coming around and that she had remembered the name she made Green use when she was with her. 

"Be a good little bitch and come to bed with me. Pleasure me."

"Yes, Mistress Sheba, I would like that. But what about Central's mission?"

Green stood up, dropped her kimono to the floor and started for the bedroom. "Come on little bitch. We'll go over the mission after you have pleasured me."

"Yes, Mistress Sheba."

Green stood by the bed. Green was facing her, waiting for the smaller woman to make the first move or give a command. Lang reached up to Green and began unbuttoning Green's blouse. As Lang exposed Green's skin she slowly and appreciatively caressed it, like she was petting a pet. 

Green involuntarily shivered as Lang ran her fingertips lightly across Green's collarbones and down across the sensitive skin of her chest above her breasts. Lang quickly unhooked Green's bra and ran her palms over Green's nipples and the fullness of her breasts and then down across Green's belly. 

"Turn around, little bitch," Lang half-whispered. 

Green complied and Lang reached up and pulled Green's blouse off her shoulders, taking her bra with it too. Green's back was a roadmap of whip welts that brought Green an exquisite sense of pain and pleasure as Lang slowly caressed and inspected them. 

"He whips you."

Lang ran her fingertips around Green's waist as Lang came around to once again face Green. "I won't let him whip me. He begs for it but I won't let him," Lang said with pride.

Won't let who whip you? Green's mind screamed. 

Lang took one of Green's hands and placed it on the slight swell of her pregnant belly, "He gave me a child; this is his. I asked him for it. The President can't resist my desires."

Green ran her fingertips over Lang's belly and up to one of Lang's breasts. "Mistress Sheba, the President did this?" Green asked in a tone of awe.

Lang pulled back from Green's touch and crawled into bed leaving Green standing beside the bed in just her skirt and shoes. She smiled smugly at Green. 

"The President fucks you in Blair House and you give yourself to him like the cheap whore you always have been. But he loves me. I allow him his indiscretions with you because he is so needy and he has this base need to feel like he's powerful. But in our bed in the Residence he worships me. He knows who holds the power."

Green stared wide-eyed in amazement, a look that Lang interpreted as a look of awed admiration. But the look was far from admiration. If it weren't for the fact that Green needed to know what was going on in this spy game Lang was playing and the fact that Lang appeared so sincere, so sincerely insane, Green would have laughed out loud. 

When Green and the President were not at Blair House she shared his bed in the Residence. Cheap whore I always have been? This was laughable Green thought. Green, Yuri - Green's lover - and Marilyn, then living in a kibbutz and going by the name of Misha, spent a grand total of 10 days at a resort on the Red Sea. During which time she gave herself to Lang simply to please Yuri. 

"Now, finish stripping my little bitch," Lang spread her legs lewdly, "and come please me." "Yes, Mistress Sheba." Green looked at the floor and slowly kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her skirt and pulled off her panties. She stood naked, eyes down, for Lang to inspect her. 

Lang's tone was nastily superior, "So, it's true. The President said he forced you to debase yourself and shave your pussy. I didn't believe him. I will not shave for him. Now come."

Green felt her face burn with anger. The President forced me? Debase myself? Jesus Christ! She had just about had enough of this clearly unbalanced woman but she had to play this out. She slowly and sensually slid on her belly onto the bed and between Lang's legs. As her face neared Lang's sex, Lang reached down and took Green by the hair and pulled her the remaining inches to her sex. 

It did not take long for Green to make Lang come. Green slid up and laid her face on Lang's belly, panting. "Mistress Sheba...may I...may I make love to your body?"

"Mmmmm, certainly, little bitch." Lang was luxuriating in the feeling of her orgasm, idly running the tips of her fingers along her lower lip. 

Slowly Green slid her body up and over Lang's, taking time to kiss and caress Lang's slightly swollen belly, her breasts, and her throat. Green was even with Lang's face now. Green kissed Lang's lips slowly and tenderly. Their tongues met briefly and Lang sucked at Green's tongue then licked her own moisture from Green's lips. 

The languor of their lovemaking was suddenly broken. Lang's eyes flew open.

"Oh! Oh! Oh my god! What have...?" She felt a pinprick in her neck and then her body felt very strange as if she had touched an electrical wire. 

Lang's body convulsed and twitched and she tried to pull away from Green's embrace but Green held her tightly. "No. No. Shhh, Marilyn, it's okay," Green whispered in Lang's ear, "The strange feeling will pass in a minute. I'm holding you, it's okay." Green lightly kissed Lang's face and whispered calming words. She smoothed Lang's hair. "Don't be afraid."

Soon the twitching gave way to fine trembling and then, with a sigh, Green felt Lang's body sag in her arms and completely relax. 

Green shifted her body so that she was cradling Lang's body in her arms and against her body. 

"Marilyn, can you hear me?"

"Yes." Lang's response was a whisper and slightly slurred.

"Marilyn, tell me what my mission is."

Lang opened her eyes and tried to look around. There was a dull look of panic in them. 

"Marilyn, lover, it's okay. You're safe in my arms, okay?"

"I'm afraid. Please...please don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you. Don't be afraid. Tell me my mission."

"You are to kill the President Saturday night so that he is not found until Sunday morning. When you have done this, contact me and I will give you a safe house to go to."

"Central wants me to kill the President?" 

"Yes."

"But you love him."

"I must follow my orders from Central."

Mind control? Green wondered.

"Why do they want him dead?"

"I don't know. I just follow my orders from my control."

"Who is your control?" 

"I...I don't know. We've never met. I use the standard contact protocol."

Shit! Green thought. Someone was using Lang and she was quite confident it wasn't Mossad Central. She needed to find out who it was. While Green was thinking through scenarios Lang's mouth sagged open and a little drool ran onto Green's breast. 

Green looked down at Lang. Lang's eyes were not closed but they were glassy; the neurotoxin Green had given her put Lang into a deep state of sleep and it would be hours before she could wake her. 

"Shit!"

Green eased Lang out of her arms, got out of bed and covered Lang with the comforter then collected her clothes. She sat on the end of the bed to dress and had just slipped her panties on when she heard a noise in the sitting room. Quickly she grabbed her pistol from her bag and went to the door of the bedroom, opening it slowly.

"Christ, you are good." 

Mitchell Cahill sat on the sofa, a drink in one hand and his silenced pistol in the other.

Her body shielded by the doorframe, Green looked at Cahill and coolly said, "I've been wondering when you were going to turn up. Are we going to shoot it out now or are we on the same team?"

Cahill took a sip of his drink, laid his pistol on the sofa and leisurely reached for and lit a cigarette as if he were pondering the question Green had posed and was formulating an answer. "Hmmmm. Same team, I think. That okay with you?"




Deceit



"Just a minute." Green ducked back into the bedroom, slipped on and hooked her bra then gathered her skirt, blouse and shoes and went to join Cahill in the sitting room. "Same team's okay with me. I know my motivations for helping the President. What are yours? I mean, what I never figured out is how the President ended with a hard case like you as his private spy master."

Cahill smiled slightly, "He never told you?"

"No. He refuses to talk about you whenever I raise the subject."

"Really?

"You knew I supplied the taps and video surveillance that cooked those fucks who killed his family?"

"Yeah."

"Did you know I rigged the explosion?"

Green's eyes widened. "No. Jesus. So, you're doing penance?"

Cahill snorted, took a drag on his cigarette and blew it out, "In a manner of speaking. I've finally found someone I can believe in, someone who isn't as jaded as the rest of us poor rat bastards. Rather than burn out and suicide, working for him has kind of redeemed me. Sounds weird, I know."

Green was just finishing buttoning her blouse, "No. I completely understand."

"And your motives? Do you really love him? Or do you just love the power?"

Green looked down and hesitated before she answered. "At first it was the power. He had a certain innocence and he needed me. But he's gotten wiser and I do love him. When I'm with him I don't have to worry about anything. I don't worry about motives or schemes or anything. I can just abandon myself with him."

"Interesting. Well, as much as I'd like to sit and chat, we need to see if we can find anything on her control. This smells like both you and her are being set up for the assassination. You know, a lover's triangle gone horribly awry or some sort of shit like that."

"Yeah. I was beginning to get that vibe. She's got her portable terminal over here."

The two went over to Lang's computer terminal. Cahill sat down at the data entry control.

"Email. Show last 10 days."

"Acknowledged." The terminal responded in the synthesized voice of Winston Miles.

"Oh that is fucking bizarre," Green commented.

"Type," Cahill commanded the terminal.

"All emails encrypted."

"Specify encryption algorithm."

"This information is password protected."

Green immediately started looking around for a password. Cahill crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

"Tea Party 9875 Rabbit Hole"

"Password accepted. Encryption algorithm is DH 927, Variant C."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Green startled at Cahill's exclamation.

"What?"

"Encryption algorithm DH 927, Variant C is used exclusively by the National Security Council.

"Decrypt all. Password Tomahawk d2946 February."

"Access denied."

Cahill seemed nonplussed and simply sat, rubbing his chin.

"Cahill, what the hell are you doing? No matter whose encryption this is there's still going to be a unique pass phrase. We will never be able to decrypt it in time."

Cahill smiled, a gleam in his eyes, "Wait. Decrypt all. Password Boom Boom Boom."

"Access granted."

Green was amazed as the first email opened. "How...?"

"Somebody has to watch the watchers. There's several backdoors into NSC encryption. Most upper level managers and controllers know the first backdoor, the Tomahawk password, and they change it. Almost no one knows there are two more.

"Now, what's this?"

They both leaned toward the monitor and read the first email. It was less than 48 hours old. 

"Package must be delivered Saturday night. Report on delivery."

"The 'package' must be the President," Green said, still scanning the email. 

Cahill swore softly and rubbed his face with his hands. 

"What?"

"It's signed the Red Queen."

"Do you know the Red Queen, Mitchell?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Well?" 

"I need to talk to the President."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Mr. President," Dr. Anabeth Nichols, National Security Advisor, was clearly surprised to see the President in her office. 

"Working late, Anabeth?"

"Uh, yes. Just trying to catch up on paperwork. 

"I'm surprised to see you this late on a Saturday. I thought you'd be over at Blair House."

"Mmmm. I have some business to take care of before I head over tonight. Mind if I sit down? I'd like to have a little chat with you."

"Please." 

The President sat down in one of the desk chairs. "So, Anabeth, what do you know about the 5412 Working Group and Annette Masterson?"

Without missing a beat Nichols said, "I know Annette Masterson by reputation but I've never heard of the 5412 Working Group. Why?"

"That's your story and you're sticking to it?"

"Yes," she replied in a slightly indignant tone.

The President shrugged and opened his cigarette case, "It's just curious to me that allegedly the best National Security Advisor since Henry Kissinger, Condoleeza Rice and Paul Hutchinson can not quote me intimate details about a global industrialist and a secret organization that has a direct impact on the national security interests of the U.S. Unless, of course, it's not that you don't know it's just that you can't tell me.

"And it's also curious that for only knowing Annette Masterson "by reputation" that you spent 6 weeks last summer with her in Papaette. The pictures are very arousing. Your elegant body, your hair and skin tone goes very nicely between Mrs. Masterson's thighs. Masterson has some interesting sexual proclivities. 

"And your secret numbered Havana accounts show regular and large deposits from All Seas Trading Group, Ltd., the name of the front company for the 5412 Working Group.

"So, you still want to stick with that story?"

Nichols swallowed hard. The President lit a cigarette.

"And, by the way," the President closed his lighter, "interesting code name you have, the Red Queen."

Nichols looked at her desk and slowly shuffled some papers. She didn't look up. She spoke slowly, "What do you want me to say?"

"Well," the President blew a cloud of smoke into the air, "at the risk of being cliched, the truth would be refreshing."

"They'll kill me."

"Again, at the risk of being cliched, your immediate worry is what I'll do to you, not them." 

"Okay," she looked slowly at the President, "what do you want to know?"

The President smiled cruelly. "I already know you were only the messenger, the device to move along the assassination of my family. That was Masterson and the 5412 boys. I'm guessing you didn't figure Cahill would develop a conscience and it wasn't in the game plan to have me effectively neutralize the conspirators. Masterson, I'm guessing, probably wanted leverage against Carstairs and Miles. 

"What I haven't been able to figure out is why you - not Masterson and the boys - wanted to kill me - tonight."

Nichols looked back down at her desk and idly played with her pen. "Yeah, Cahill was quite the surprise, as was your response. Hell, Annette and 'the boys,' as you call them, were stunned you were elected. You," she looked straight at the President, coolly, calmly, "well, I wanted to kill you simply because I could."

"Is that it? Because you could?" Montrose asked equally calmly. 

"Well, I didn't think we could leverage you. I knew that the Vice President would be easy to leverage. With you out of the way, 5412 has someone they can control and my stock in the group rises accordingly. I even thought your assassination might get me a seat on the executive action committee."

"Makes sense. But what made you think Cynthia would do me?"

"I thought I could seduce her and as my lover, she would kill for her mistress. I was making some progress. Her and I hooked up several times after the election. But I got sloppy, didn't do my homework. I didn't realize she had worked for Mossad; that she was a switch and not a true sub or that she was falling in love with you.

"When did you find out about her romantic feelings?"

"Our last hook up she asked me while we were cuddling if I would like to join you and her in a long term threesome. I knew right then you had her heart - I didn't know for a while whether the feelings were mutual.

"Anyway, I had to adjust my plans. I have a team ready to pay you two a late night call."

"Gutsy, Anabeth."

"Thanks. You and Cynthia will be found dead in bed and Marilyn Lang, the jealous, insane, spurned woman, in a kinky love triangle will be found dead at the safe house.

"If the veneer of the love triangle doesn't hold up then the fallback is the espionage angle and that will occupy the public for quite sometime, not to mention tearing the hell out of diplomatic relations with Tel Aviv."

"I'm impressed. But you need to quit talking in the future tense about my demise. Marilyn Lang is enjoying some intensive psychotherapy at my seaside villa at Cabo San Lucas. And Cynthia boarded a military transport at Andrews last night headed for Malaga. Annette Masterson is vacationing on the Costa del Sol. Cynthia should be seeing her soon."

The President looked at his watch. "And, I should be getting a call anytime now telling me your team is neutralized. You know Lt. Col. Phillip McKenzie, USMC and his Force Recon Team Charlie, I believe."

"My turn to be impressed, Peter. I didn't know you had a villa in Cabo."

"Just bought it." The President tossed a data key on Nichols' desk. She picked it up and gasped as she read it.

"Quite a bank account you had in Havana. I also picked up a nice little ranch near Santiago and a small hotel in Havana." 

The President stood and placed seven other data keys on Nichols' desk.

"The first three are Masterson's personal secret accounts, the next two you should recognize as 5412 operating accounts and the last two are your other accounts in Havana."

Nichols held them all in her hand, her eyes wide.

"That's about nine and a half billion, give or take. I can build a helluva presidential library and still have change."

The President walked around her desk. He stood beside her chair. As she looked up at him he took her chin gently in his hand and tilted her head back. He kissed her slowly, deeply, intimately. She reciprocated, enjoying the President's boldness. 

When he broke the kiss she slumped back in her chair, still looking up at him, smiling. 

"Stand up," he commanded. She complied.

"Betrayal, like a deep kiss, is very intimate, very personal. Wouldn't you agree doctor?"

"Yes," it was barely a whisper. Her cool veneer was beginning to crack. Her eyes scanned the President's face for a clue as to what would happen next. 

The President smiled at her then placed his hands along the neckline of Dr. Nichols' lavender silk blouse and violently ripped downward, sending pearl buttons flying across the room. She stifled a surprised scream.

"You know why I'm doing this, Anabeth?"

She looked at him, stunned. "No."

"Because I can. How's that make you feel?"

Nichols quickly found her cool again. She pressed her body into his, teasingly, seductively. "If I thought you'd carry through I'd feel violated. But you're too principled. You won't..."

Violently the President broke the front clasp of her bra and roughly ran his hands over her A-cup size breasts. He was thumbing the nipples, rubbing them with varying degrees of pressure between his thumbs and index fingers watching them stiffen. "Too principled, eh? What makes you think that?"

She smiled and hummed her pleasure, "Hmmm, pull my nipples harder, Mr. President. I like it that way," she drew in a deep breath as he pulled harder. "Anyway...oh, God, that's nice...With what you had on Carstairs and company you could have killed them. Instead you - and this really blows my mind - chose to show them mercy. You won't kill me or rape me but whatever your plan, I think I'm enjoying it. Cynthia said you were good in bed."

The President laughed quietly, turning his attention to the belt of her silk suit pants. "Hmmmm. Your intel wasn't as complete as I thought. You think it was just an actuarial coincidence that the Director of the FBI, two deputy directors and the CIA's Deputy Director for Covert Operations all met with heart attacks, car accidents or freak accidents all within 12 weeks of each other?"

The President unbuckled her belt and opened the clasp to her pants. He ran his hand across the flat of her belly as her pants slid off her hips and formed a silken puddle around her shoes. He was admiring the lace of her panties and the curve of her hips so he didn't notice the sudden look of concern on her face. 

He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply again. This time she resisted but he forced his tongue past her lips and then sucked her tongue out. She moaned, smiled slightly against his mouth as he took her mouth. Yes, she was enjoying this, she thought - until she felt the pinprick in her neck. 

She jerked from the President's embrace and starred at him. He was smiling. He held up his palm to show her the tiny needle between his fingers. 

Her fingertips went to her throat where he had pricked her and she fell back against her desk, sitting on the edge still starring at the President. Presently her body began to jerk and she fell backwards onto her desk, her body convulsing. Her eyes were wide in terror. 

"The seizures will be over in a minute Anabeth. Try to relax. It'll go easier," he said. 

Soon her body was still, completely limp. Her eyes were still open, the terror replaced by a glassy dullness. She tried to speak, found she could and whispered, Wha...what'd you do to me?"

"Just a little harmless neurotoxin, at least in the dose I gave you." He reached down and pulled her pants from around her ankles and then effortlessly spread her thighs and stood back to admire the sight. 

"You'll fall asleep in a bit. I'm told you'll wake with a hell of a headache. Sorry about that. But before that...," he let his intentions hang in the air. 

"I wish I had a picture of this. You're very beautiful this way. But I had the surveillance system turned off - even your own private, secondary system."

The President drew a small, curved, double-edged knife from his belt. "As much as I admire your lingerie, I think you'll look better without your panties." He slid the flat of the blade across the inside of her thigh, over the silk covering her sex and then down the inside of her other thigh. 

Despite herself the caress of the blade felt good. She moaned quietly and felt her sex get heavier and wetter. Slowly she felt the blade slide inside the leg band and then heard the slow cutting of the fabric. She felt air on her mons and then Montrose's fingertips caressing her.

"Your slickness betrays you Anabeth."

"You won't. Principles, remember?" she managed to husk back. 

He stood back again and looked at her. The tall, slender, elegant blonde was stretched over her desk on her back. She wore a pearl choker necklace. Her lavender blouse and her bra were torn open and framing her breasts and upper belly, her long, lean legs spread, and her feet dangling above the floor. 

"Maybe," the President half whispered.

She felt her eyes become heavy and her conscious begin to ebb. 

Oh God, NO! her mind screamed. She wanted to stay conscious, to have some control.

Suddenly the President was between her thighs. Slowly, almost idly, he pulled her blouse off her shoulders, moved a wisp of hair from her eyes and straightened her pearls.

His cock slid slowly up between her swollen sex lips and onto the flat of her belly. His hands were on her breasts, nipples in his fingers. She moaned involuntarily. 

"Anabeth, can you hear me?"

She struggled to focus on her face. He bent his head and sucked a nipple then looked her in the face again. 

"Ye...yes, I can hear you."

"When you wake up you will get dressed in what clothes are still in your office and come directly to Blair House. Your life may depend on it. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She felt his lips on her throat and struggled against the toxin to arch throat and back for him. His cock slid back and nestled between her lips just starting to penetrate her.

Her fear and anger melted away and she thought, Yeah, that's it Peter take me, fuck me and then I'll have you, you prick. She moaned again as she felt him enter her and then there was blackness.

~~~~~~~~~~

Nichols awoke with a blinding headache, still on her back on her desk. Slowly she struggled to sit up. She was completely nude except for her necklace and her Italian shoes. 

Her thighs were sticky slick from his cum in varying degrees of dryness and she noticed dried sperm in the tuft of her sex hair. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. 

She gingerly got off her desk and fell into her chair, her face in her hands. "Fucking Bastard! She hoarsely whispered to herself. Sentimental fool. I'll use him and then kill him when I don't need him any longer, she thought.

She started to look around for her clothes and then she yelped in surprise, an arm going over her breasts for cover. 

"Evening, ma'am. Lt. Col. McKenzie, Force Recon Team Charlie. I believe you know my top boss, Chief of Naval Operations Richard Harper."

"Good evening Dr. Nichols. The President asked that we see you over to Blair House."

If looks could indeed kill, the men, sitting in the sitting area of her office, drinks in their hands, would be dead. Nichols squinted murderously at them.

She brushed her hair back from her face, her tone was calm and measured at first, almost subdued, "Would you gentlemen," then she unleashed the fury that was building inside her, "get the FUCK out of my office!"

Admiral Harper stood up slowly, "I'm very sorry, Anabeth," his tone almost fatherly, "I know the entire story from Carstairs and Miles to right now. 

"You will accompany Col. McKenzie and me to Blair House as soon as you are dressed. If you resist or make a scene in anyway Col. McKenzie will put a bullet in your head - no matter where we happen to be standing.

"And believe me Anabeth, I didn't spend 15 years in the CIA as a case officer and not learn how to cover up a cold blooded murder in public. 

"The President is offering you a chance. Death is only an option if you force his hand - though knowing what I know now, I have to tell you, despite our long friendship and my respect for your work, you're someone I'd kill in a heartbeat. I have no idea why he is keeping you alive but I never question my commander's orders."

Nichols was stunned speechless. She starred at the two men who appeared so casual and relaxed. This was a nightmare! Just some twisted nightmare!

"Anabeth, please get dressed."

The Admiral's voice shocked her out of her stupor, "Richard...Richard, I have money! I have enough to pay off Col. McKenzie's entire team! I can make you all rich men. Help me! Please!"

"Anabeth, no, you don't have money. The President seized it all, including your emergency cache in Cartagena. He's got over half the accounts of the 5412 Group and almost all of Masterson's accounts. Now please..."

She starred for a moment longer then slowly started to get out of her chair.

In a quiet voice she asked, "Would you mind waiting outside, please?"

The Admiral stood transfixed and Lt. Col. McKenzie simply starred at her. "I'm sorry Anabeth. We're not to leave you alone until we present you to the President."

"But Richard, I have to pee," she pleaded. 

Lt. Col. McKenzie pulled the slide back on his pistol, chambering a round, and Anabeth startled. The Admiral frowned at the sound of McKenzie's pistol and made a motion with his hand to the Colonel to lower his weapon. "Anabeth. Please. I don't want this to get out of hand."

She starred between them, eyes wide, for what seemed like an eternity to her and then awkwardly got up and reached for her blouse and pants on the floor near her desk. She quickly turned her back on the men and pulled on the clothes.




Deceit



~~~~~~~~~~

At approximately 3:30 AM, local time, on an outside terrace of a villa outside the Spanish provincial capital of Malaga, Cynthia Green lay on her left side on a lounger. 

The night air was warm and humid. Green was sweating profusely, her breasts and belly arched outward, her cunt and ass pulled back and her right thigh held tightly up and pulled back over the hip of the large, beautiful Brazilian transsexual who was thrusting violently and noisily into her ass. 

She looked quickly to the woman sitting in a lounger across from her. The woman looked to be in her 60's, her body heavy but still attractive, and naked. She too was sweating and, as she watched the couple, she was masturbating. She had an intense look of concentration on her face. Her attention seemed to be focused on Green's sweat slick breasts and belly and the beautiful contortions of Green's face as the transsexual fucked her.

With a grunt Green's partner came inside her and then he reached around her belly to frig Green's clit. Green took her time to come, her eyes locked with the woman's the entire time. When her partner felt Green's body tense and then sag from her orgasm he pulled out and roughly pushed her onto her belly. 

The woman applauded. "That was very exciting you two! Bravo! Bravo!"

The transsexual smiled. "Thank you, mistress. She's an excellent fuck and she sucks good too." He picked up a towel and a bottle of water and casually sauntered inside the villa. 

Green slowly sat up. She ran her fingers through her hair and wiped the sweat from her face with her palms. She smiled a smile at the woman meant to convey both absolute submission and burning lust.

The woman, Annette Masterson, reached out and roughly handled Green's breast, pulling her nipple then forcefully slapping Green's full breast. "Time to take care of me," she said in a matronly tone.

"I'd love to. Could we have a drink first though?"

"Certainly dear. There's some cold sangria on the bar."

"Hmmmm, could we have scotch? I like the taste on my lover's lips and tongue."

Masterson was wildly aroused and she could not wait to use Green. She just hoped she didn't use her so roughly she killed her - but then the idea of fucking her or torturing her to death sent a thrill through her body too. 

"Interesting, my dear. Scotch it is then. Why don't you fix the drinks and we'll go to my bed. I like mine neat with a little water."

Masterson was admiring the whip marks on Green's back as Green slowly and seductively walked to the terrace bar. Masterson was imagining the brunette stretched out in her bed, Green's hands handcuffed to the eyehook in the wall above the headboard. In between lashes with her whip she would reach out and caress the sweat slick skin of her new toy. "Mmm, don't towel off. I want to enjoy you exactly as you are, including that load of spunk in your ass."

Green smiled a coy smile, almost imperceptibly wiggled her hips and reached for the Glennfiddich bottle on the bar. Green smiled inwardly, Commander Ivanova Stylichkov, Russian Confederation GRU, the Beirut Marriott, the summer of 2026. She liked Glennfiddich too, she thought. 

Green sat on the side of the bed and with her submissive/desirous smile prominent on her face held Annette Masterson's glass to Masterson's lips. Masterson wrapped her hands around Green's, looked her in the eyes and tilted the lowball glass up, taking a big gulp of the liquor. 

"I may have to figure out how to keep you around. Any chance of me getting you away from the President?" Masterson said as she caressed Green's face and received a slow, gentle probing kiss on the lips from Green. 

Green sort of giggled, smiled with more desire, "Hmmmm. We'll have to see. By the way, the President of the United States sends his compliments."

Masterson froze inwardly. Something was not right. But as Green's lips sucked one of Masterson's large nipples and her fingers caressed Masterson's inner thigh inching toward her blood heavy sex, Masterson put her hands in Green's hair and forgot her sudden concern.

An hour later Green was picked up at the villa by a U.S. consular car and taken to a Spanish military airfield where she boarded an Air Force jet for Washington.

Before reaching the airfield Green made a call. "The trash is in the bag," was all she said to the party on the other end. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The President's face was expressionless as he closed his cell phone and let it drop to the floor.

Nichols stood indignantly and alone in front of the President in his bedroom at Blair House. She was holding her blouse together so tightly that her knuckles were white. She released her blouse with one hand very quickly and nervously looped some hair behind her ear. The hand went back to holding her blouse closed and she looked at her shoes. 

Suddenly and without warning her passport and the data keys to her biggest secret account in Cuba and her emergency cache in Columbia landed at her feet. She slowly looked up at the President. 

Montrose sat in his robe in a chair in the middle of the bedroom. His face was passive but he was fighting to control the anger and hate for the woman who had betrayed him, who was the instrument used to facilitate the assassination of his family and who had plotted to kill him simply for as a personal political power play. Plus there was his huge self-loathing for what he was doing and what he had done - conflicting with his spiritual values that swirled inside as he looked at his National Security Adviser. 

His voice was deathly quiet, "You can pick up your passport and your two bank accounts and run like hell. As long as I never see you ever again or find out you're plotting against me, or anyone I know, you'll live. 

"Or," he hesitated as if wrestling with offering her the other option, "You can give me back your passport and one of the bank accounts and be my mistress - actually, think of it as being a slave; a sex slave. Betray me again and well...

"The choice is yours."

Nichols looked stunned. In a world of pragmatic power politics she had no concept of mercy, meekness or compassion. She had expected torture, maybe more rape and then to be killed. 

"Uh, excuse me, Pe-ter - I'm sorry," she cringed at her familiarity, "Uh, Mr. President, one of us, I think, is insane and, uh, well, I don't think it's me. Are you offering to let me go?" Her face was a mask of confusion. 

"Anabeth, my word is my word. It's an old fashioned concept, I know. You have your two choices, your only two choices to get out of this room alive. Chose. Quickly."

"But, for God's sake, why?!" she screamed at him in fury, "I don't understand! I need to understand! I HAVE to understand why you're offering me this!! Please!"

The President smiled sadly, cryptically, "I can't give you a reason right now. I chose the options. That's all you need to know now. That's all I know." he said softly.

She looked around the room and then down at her shoes again. He could barely hear her cry but he saw her shoulders shudder as she stepped out of her shoes, let her blouse fall open and let her pants fall to the floor. She picked up the passport and the data keys.

She looked at him, tears streaking her face and then slowly walked to him and knelt beside his chair. She held the passport and both her data keys to her secret accounts out in front of her body in open hands. He took them all without speaking. She hesitated. The President gave no indication as to what to do next. She slid her now empty hands around his chest and laid her head against his chest. He put his arm around her shoulders.

She had just abandoned everything to this man. She felt such relief, even peaceful, and she had absolutely no earthly idea why. Her desire to kill him for what he did to her in her office melted away and again she had no idea why. She just knew how she felt.

The President closed his eyes, luxuriating in the feel of her silken hair on his chest. She had given up everything and simultaneously had tilted the scales of power back in her favor - though he would not tell her. It would be a lesson she would someday learn.

Later, as they lay in bed, Anabeth Nichols' head was snuggled into his arm, her body pressed against his. She was sleeping peacefully. 

The President's eyes stared up at the ceiling, a weary expression on his face. He was quietly whispering to himself, over and over: 

Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and mind and love your neighbor as yourself.

Mitchell Cahill was sitting in the security room of the bedroom for the President's safety since Nichols' arrival. The President's whispers were loud and clear over the speaker in the room. 

Cahill blew out a cloud of smoke, took a sip of his half cold coffee and shook his head. He was remembering all the treachery and carnage that had led to this point. Now he was watching and listening to the President whisper in his bed. It seemed to Cahill the President was wrestling with himself or maybe God. Wrestling between the visceral emotions of power and revenge and the transcendent emotions of mercy, grace and forgiveness. 

Whatever was going on in the President's mind Cahill thought the President seemed to be seeking some sort of peace and testing God at the same time with Anabeth Nichols alive and in his bed. He shook his head again. 

Cahill was not a religious man but as he watched and listened to the President whisper Scripture over and over, Cahill whispered to himself something his mother made him memorize from the Bible. It was a part of Psalm 63, a Psalm of David, the King: 

On my bed I remember you;
I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help, 
I sing in the shadow of your wings.
My soul clings to you;
Your right hand upholds me.
They who seek my life will be destroyed; 
they will go down to the depths of the earth. 
They will be given over to the sword
and become food for jackals. 
But the King will rejoice in God; 
all who swear by God's name will praise Him, 
While the mouths of liars will be silenced.

Cahill starred through the two-way mirror at the President and at the dangerous woman lying like a trusted lover in his bed. Cahill didn't understand. But understanding wasn't in the job description. 

"God save the King and perdition to all his enemies," Cahill said aloud and lit another cigarette.

~~~~~~~~~~

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Scripture from the New International Version of the Bible



Deceit



He had packed a bag before leaving for the pharmaceutical plant out near Christiana Mall that morning. He had a fairly easy commute for Wilmington, Delaware. Whereas most faced heavy traffic coming into the center city, he, with his long-suffering wife, two nonresponsive daughters in college, one lazy dog, and two selfish cats, lived in the exclusive Wawaset community on the western edge of the city. This meant he drove against traffic to get to the plant. His corporate offices were downtown in a high-rise building on North Washington Street, but he had avoided going there for days.

A larger pharmaceutical corporation, Delmarva Pharmaceuticals, had been maneuvering for months to swallow the company that had been in his family for decades, and he just was no longer up to the wrangles his lawyers were putting him through to stem that takeover—at least for today and maybe tomorrow, as well.

Earl Hastings didn't know why he'd packed a bag while his wife was out for her bridge night the evening before and put it in the trunk of his Lexus RC F coup before Muriel had gotten home. Nor could he explain why he'd taken the checking account book and credit cards for the accounts no one else knew about out of the secret compartment in the desk in his study and put them in the glove compartment of the Lexus.

The pressures at the office were more than duplicated at home. His wife was bugging him about the plans for the far-too-ostentatious country home being built for them west of the city in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. He was having second and third thoughts about leaving the Wawaset house he grew up in but that his wife professed to hate. His daughters were competing with each other on who was going to flunk out of their ultra-expensive university first and not tell their parents in time to save them as well as who was going to get pregnant by a swimming coach first, and even the family dog had become incontinent. It was Muriel's dog, or he'd have a care about that.

He just knew he wanted options. If he couldn't have an hour's rest from the lawyers and company strategizers at his office out at the plant, he had an option.

Sometime before lunch that day, Earl Hasting walked out of his office at the plant, got into his Lexus coup, and started driving south. Three days later, after uncomfortable nights in cheap hotels en route, he drove into Charleston, South Carolina, and to a real estate office. By 6:00 p.m. that evening he had signed an immediate occupancy contract for a fully furnished three-story, three-bedroom, two-car garage townhouse in Simonton Mews in the center of Charleston, three blocks south of the King Street main drag.

He had no intention of staying six months. He didn't even know if he would be staying the week. All he knew for sure was that he had to get out of Wilmington and away from everything there, including his family. He didn't even consider a hotel. He wanted to disappear into the wall, to have a garage where he could hide his fancy coup, and he wanted to do foolish things. Renting a house for six months was a foolish thing.

There were other foolish things he'd always dreamed about doing, though—including ones he'd actually done before the staid life heading up a pharmaceuticals company, marrying and raising a family, and attending a church he didn't believe in every Sunday grabbed and emasculated him.

Until day two, when he took a walk around the neighborhood, he didn't even know why he had driven straight to Charleston from Wilmington, or why he had settled on a house in this neighborhood. Walking four blocks south from his house, though, he started seeing buildings he recognized, buildings that calmed him and that had fond memories for him. This is where he'd gone to graduate school—at the College of Pharmacy of the Medical University of South Carolina. This was where he had lived life—for two years—as he wanted to without all of the pretense and sacrifice that went with being destined to take over his family's business.

And why he'd leaped at the Simonton Mews house? It was because four blocks in the opposite direction, north, was the Ann Street district. This was where he met Sandy while he'd been in graduate school. It had been the happiest year of Earl's life. But it was a year he had had to bury and never speak of.

Once Earl had realized why he'd come to Charleston to hide out, it took him two more days to work up the courage to walk over to Ann Street in the evening. Nothing was there that had been there when he'd been a student, but the street was still where one went for what he'd gone for back then. The clubs there now were Club Pantheon and Dudley's. They were just a few doors away from each other. Earl could tell as he walked down the street that he was in the right place. Groups of young men were standing out on the sidewalks, conversing with each other, checking passersby out, smoking their cigarettes and joints, and, some, posing for possibilities when cars cruising down the street slowed down or paused.

Earl was gratified that he still received inviting looks, no doubt, now that he was in his late forties, helped out by the obviously expensive clothing he wore—and how well he wore them. But he had kept the rugged good looks he'd had in his twenties, and he'd kept his trim, but well-muscled physique as well. He'd actively played sports and attended the gym often enough to keep in shape. He was very competitive in both golf and tennis.

He went into Club Pantheon. The music was loud, as was the decibel level of conversation, both blending so that neither was decipherable. And the room was smoky. But the crowd was comforting for Earl. He could move around, become accustomed to a scene he once had indulged in, and call up those sensations that had made him feel electrified and so on edge "back then."

He wondered what had happened to Sandy. He didn't expect to find him here anymore, but he had an image of the young men—still as young now as he was then—in his mind, and he kept looking into the face of every young man he encountered while roaming around the crowded room, where everywhere seemed to be either dance floor or conversation pit or proposition auction, depending on what suited the men interacting at the moment.

He had moved around the room twice before he saw him. Reddish-blond hair, maybe in his mid-twenties, more beautiful than handsome, smiling prettily for an older man who had just handed him a drink where he was perched on a barstool and had leaned in to him. The spitting image of Sandy.

A dark-haired youth, not much more than twenty—small of stature, olive skinned—had been following behind Earl on his second circuit of the room. He caught up with Earl at the moment.

"Hello. I haven't seen you in here before. Are you with anyone?"

Earl focused on the young man. He was quite good looking and a bit saucy. Earl felt himself go harder—he'd already worked up a half-hard just because of the musky odor of men in heat in hunting in the room. This lad would do—if the man pressing in on the younger man with the reddish-blond hair, who Earl was already thinking of as Sandy, was staking a claim in that department. Earl glanced back at the bar, where the deal between those two men seemed to have been set. With a sigh, he refocused on the dark-haired young man who had approached him.

"I'm new to town," Earl answered.

The dark-haired young man touched the sleeve of Earl's silk shirt, gave him a come-hither look, and asked in a throaty voice, "Buy a boy a drink? There are great possibilities if you do—and if you're interested."

While they were drinking their scotches—Earl had asked for a good brand so the young man would know he was well-heeled, if Tony, as that was what he'd said his name was, hadn't gathered that already before he had approached Earl—the older man asked if there were other gay-friendly establishments around.

"There's Dudley's up the street," Tony said. "It's not as lively as here, though. And not as much variety. A younger crowd, with more than a smattering of straights. I find it so much more copasetic and stimulating here."

Earl could tell that Tony was using sophisticated words—or trying to—and was striking Bette Davis poses because he was trying to make Earl. There wouldn't be any surprise or indignation or beating around the bush. Earl wanted to tell him he was trying too hard. But then Earl didn't want to start all over with someone else—not unless the red-headed guy became available.

"I meant I wondered if there were any places with rooms for short-term rent in the neighborhood."

"Is that what you're interested in, sugar?"

Tony had suddenly acquired a southern accent. Earl wanted him to shut up and just get on with it. The longer they talked, the less attractive Tony was. But the longer Earl was here the more needy he was.

"Is there a short-term fuck hotel nearby, and what do you charge?"

There was such a hotel, a bit startled Tony said, and for $100 he gave and received a blow job and let Earl furiously fuck him doggy style on a lumpy mattress with a rocking and squeaky brass bed frame.

After it was over, with Tony genuinely marveling at the size of Earl and his obvious need, Earl realized that this was exactly what he'd left Wilmington for—what he had needed to decompress from the tension and pressure both at work and at home. A week running of this, he decided, and he'd been renewed and ready to face the corporate challenge again. He already was beginning to formulate new strategies in his mind to staving off the grab for his company.

He'd go to Ann Street each night for a week, but he wouldn't take anyone to the Simonton Mews house, and he'd fuck a different young man each night. He'd only repeat if he saw the young he increasingly identified as Sandy in his mind again and could hook up with him. Than after a week, he'd go home to Wilmington, turn his back for a second time on this lifestyle choice, and give his enemies hell. He'd be invincible.

Earl paid for a room at the fleabag in advance for an hour and half a night for the next week. And he returned to Club Pantheon each night. He continually was on the lookout for Sandy, and he thought from time to time that he'd gotten a glimpse of the young man. But he never got close enough to him to proposition him.

He, in turn, was propositioned at every turn. Word had gotten out that there was a crazy mid-aged sugar daddy with a fat wallet and an equally fat cock who could fuck like a wild man. Each night for the next four nights, he took a different young man to the fleabag hotel and fucked the stuffing out of him. Each night Earl got less inhibited and more forceful with his sex drive. And each succeeding night he drew more attention from the young men at Club Pantheon.

The fifth night, a Friday night, he was approached by Clifford. Clifford Evans wasn't like any of the young men Earl had gone with. He was nearly Earl's own age. And, if anything, he was more expensively and elegantly dressed than Earl was. He approached Earl with confidence and the other men buzzing around Earl backed off as if Clifford was visiting royalty.

It was Clifford who bought the scotches, not Earl—and it was better quality scotch than Earl had ordered.

And it was Clifford who asked what Earl's stud fee would be. Bemused and caught off guard by this entirely different encounter and half thinking this was a joke, Earl named a high price. Clifford accepted it without a blink of his eye. There would be no fleabag hotel room with a creaking bed, though.

Earl fucked Clifford in the back of his limousine as it was driven out into the countryside beyond Charleston. Earl had never been with a mature man before, and he found the greater experience of a man of Clifford's age and sophistication to be exhilarating.

They fucked twice as the limousine glided through the countryside. Between fuckings, while they both smoked cigarettes and regained their breath and erections, Clifford complemented Earl on not only his sexual prowess but also his conditioning. When Earl told him that he played tennis regularly, Clifford said that he did too, and he invited Earl to play a couple of sets with him at his country club the next afternoon.

"I know of a couple of luscious young men who will be there who will be happy to play doubles, if you like. And you can take your pick of them to fuck afterward."

Intrigued, Earl accepted the invitation, and gave his Simonton Mews address for a limousine pickup the next day.

* * * *

Earl's first surprise when Clifford's limousine delivered him to the entrance of the Charleston Country Club was that Clifford wasn't a full member. Earl saw when he checked in as Clifford's guest that Clifford was a temporary member. Earl assumed that membership in this club would cost a pretty penny, but he had also assumed that Clifford was a permanent local resident. He had intimated that to Earl, and he certainly knew his way around the city and adjacent countryside—or at least his chauffeur did.

So, Earl thought, Clifford was also here from somewhere else. Of course Earl hadn't given Clifford any reason to think he was hiding out in Charleston from anywhere else. Maybe we both are, Earl thought.

The second surprise came when Clifford guided Earl through the club's bar and out onto the patio overlooking the golf course's 18th hole, with its umbrella-covered patio tables and gaggle of bored rich bitch housewives in golf togs or skimpy tennis dresses. There were two young men sitting at the table Earl was guided to—both young men were known to Earl in differing shades of "known." Tony, the first young man Earl had met at Club Pantheon and bedded at a fleabag hotel nearby was there. But also sitting there on the club's terrace was "Sandy," the young man who had dredged up Earl's misbegotten graduate school days in his mind and who had been elusive on Earl's visits to Club Pantheon.

Clifford brought Earl to a temporary halt when he first caught sight of the young men—and before they saw the two older men had arrived—laid a hand on Earl's forearm and whispered in his ear. "Afterward, you can have either one—either in my limousine or as a takeaway. I've paid for both. Do you know which one you fancy the best?"

Of course Earl did. "The one with the reddish-blond hair."

"Ah, Andy then."

Earl nearly snorted. Andy was so close to Sandy that it must be the devil who was setting this up for him. Earl took a hard look at Clifford, but he was smiling blandly and Earl saw no evidence of horns at his temples.

"In that case, you will partner in tennis with Tony—so that Andy will be across the net from you for you to ogle at your heart's content. If making you inattentive will be an advantage for me in the play, your contemplation of the play afterward will more than compensate, I presume."

Watching Andy across the net was, indeed, distracting for Earl, not the least because when the four men were sitting on the patio, becoming acquainted, Andy made no bones about knowing what came afterward—or showed any displeasure at the prospect. Earl was an expert tennis player, though, and he and Tony won handily anyway.

The men played shirtless, and Earl wouldn't have thrown any of the other three out of bed.

In the men's room afterward, when Clifford asked Earl where he wanted to fuck Andy and Earl asked that Clifford's chauffeur drive Andy and him back to the Simonton Mews house—having completely forgotten all intentions of keeping his home in Charleston separate from his sexual activities—Earl asked Clifford why he was doing this for him.

"It's so hard to find good tennis competition," he said, at first, and then when he saw that it had been a serious question, he said, "You have made me happy, and will, I hope, continue to make me happy. I have seen you ogling those two young men at Club Pantheon. I can afford to cover the happiness of us both."

Earl was too besotted with the prospect of fucking Andy at this point that he didn't pursue the issue further. Clifford had never asked how much Earl was worth—but surely he could see from what Earl wore, the money he had dropped at Club Pantheon before Clifford had entered the scene, and by where he lived that Earl most also be well heeled himself. Clifford made Earl feel like a prostitute—but Earl was still trying to think of reasons why that should bother him. Maybe feeling cheap and used was what he needed.

Such was Earl's exhilaration at having Andy—the symbol of his long-lost lover, Sandy—in his grasp that the two did make it to a proper place for fucking the first time. Just inside the door to the Simonton Mews house, Earl drew the smaller, younger man to him into a close embrace, and they kissed deeply. Andy was fully yielding to Earl and even reached between them and rubbed Earl's crotch to inflame the man further.

Pulling away from the kiss, Earl murmured, "We'll get out of these sweaty tennis clothes and shower first. Upstairs."

"Yes," Andy answered, but he pulled Earl for another kiss, and when he turned to mount the stairs, he wiggled his buttocks as he climbed. It was his buttocks that got mounted right then and there, as Earl rose up the staircase behind Andy, bent him over so that he was standing, spreading his legs on one stair, his cheek was firmly pushed into the carpeted tread five stairs farther up, and he reached up the stairs and clawed at the carpeting on the tread. Earl crouched over him, pulled his tennis shorts down his thighs, pushed a thick, erect phallus around the butt strap of the jock strap, and forced himself inside the younger man.

Andy made all of the sounds of taking a thick cock in a tight channel—and wanting to do so—that inflamed Earl to continue with the assault. Earl thrust again and again, each time managing more depth, each time triggering a call of "Yes, fuck me, hard," from the young man trapped underneath him.

The fuck was frenzied and had not taken time for the niceties of a condom. Neither man mentioned that subsequently, though, and after that first animalistic assault, their sex became more regularized and followed a pattern of showering thoroughly, after which Andy sucked Earl's cock until Earl was worked up to do the same for Andy. This was followed by the ritual of Andy crowning Earl's cock in affirmation and acceptance of what was to come, and then a brief wrestling match on the bed or floor or sofa or table for control, with Earl asserting himself, and then fucking the stuffing out of Andy—in every position they could imagine.

Earl was so besotted with Andy that he fucked him for three days straight, with just brief toilet, meal, and sleep breaks, without either leaving the Simonton Mews house. It wasn't until the morning of the fourth day, over breakfast at the table in the bow window overlooking the treed green space that ran between the fronts of the house in the mews, that they began to get acquainted on a personal level.

Andy was sitting there, just in a robe, sitting sideways to the table, a bare foot propped up on the rung of the chair beside his and sipping on his coffee, reddish-blond hair ruffled, and looking slightly sleepy. The robe was open to show a shapely calf and thigh and the bulb of his cock peeking out over the curve of his thigh. At no time before this did he remind Earl of Sandy more than this—a Sandy who had not aged; a Sandy who accepted Earl's cock even though time hadn't stood still for Earl, a Sandy who knew just how to pose when he wanted to be fucked by Earl.

The young man spoke of being a student—in music—at the College of Charleston, the campus of which started just three blocks to the east, toward the tip of the historical district projecting into where the Ashley and Cooper rivers merged, separated by the Atlantic Ocean only by Charleston Harbor.

Earl slowly ran a hand up the line of Andy's leg until, reaching the cock head, cupping the young man's dick and pressing a thumb into the piss slit of the bulb. Andy sighed and moved his calf over Earl's knee to give Earl all the access he wanted.




Deceitful Wife



Kathy worked in the same office as Billie. He is a systems analyst for HI-Tech COMPUTERS and Kathy's job was, he was not sure, flirting mostly. Her typing and filing were lousy but nobody seemed to mind because every guy in the office was trying to get a date with her including her boss. Kathy had long honey blond hair that came part way down her back, a saucy smile and a sexy wiggle when she walked.

She mostly ignored Billie but it seamed like every day she went out to lunch with a different guy in the office. While all the guys were falling over each other to get a date with her, Kathy could get away with anything. She could come in late or leave early and nobody said anything.

Billie thought she was the most beautiful girl he knew, but not being one of the jocks he did not have the courage to ask her out to lunch. Gradually she seemed to settle on Frank, one of his co-workers as her boyfriend. Of all the people in the office, Billie disliked him the most. He was a braggart and a bad mannered lout. Several Monday mornings, Kathy was usually late Mondays; he would come in bragging about what a fantastic fuck Kathy was.

Then they had a fight, Billie didn't know what it was about, but they were not speaking to each other. That Wednesday to his complete surprise and utter amazement she asked him to take her out to lunch. With a pounding heart Billie said yes, he would love to. Over lunch she said, "I know you like me because I have seen the way your cow eyes look at me and I'm tired of guys like Frank that only want to fuck me. I want to go with a guy that likes me for more than my pussy."

Billie told her that he respected her as a person and that he thought friendship and compatibility were more important than sex.

"Good," she said, "pick me up at 8 o'clock on Friday and we will go out."

So they started dating, and Billie was in love with her after that first date. She was so sexy he ached for her, and hoped for something more than a kiss after a date, but that's all he got. Things were going so well that after several months he asked her to marry him and was thrilled when she said yes.

After accepting his proposal she said, "Let's go back to my apartment and we will celebrate." Billie thought he was finally going to get to make love to her. Back at her place she said, "I don't want to fuck you because that should be something special for you to look forward to when we are married, but that doesn't mean we can't have sex. I am going to teach you how to suck me and if you do a good job I'll jerk you off."

She stripped, lay back on the couch, spread her legs and pulled his head to her pussy. Her juices flooded his tongue twice so he knew he had pleased her. "That's not too bad for a first attempt but I'm sure with more practice you will get better. OK, time for your reward. Take off your pants and shorts and come stand in front of me."

Billie did as she asked and he was standing nude in front of her with an aching hard on. "Oh, you have a really big one," she cooed as she started jerking him. Her hand felt so much better than his that in less than a minute he was shooting his cum on her floor. "Ooh, you shoot so much; now be a good boy and clean up."

Every Friday night, their date night, they would end up back at her place and Billie would suck her off. She got him to jerk himself instead of her doing it because she said it turned her on to see him jerking himself off.

She was making all the wedding arrangements and she wanted Frank to be Billie's best man. "But I thought you were mad at him and I don't like him."

"I was but we made up and I have gone out with him on occasion." Billie thought he had a smirk on his face a few times when he shook Billie's hand saying how lucky he was to be marrying a hot chick like Kathy. Billie never did like Frank and he liked him even less when he found out Frank had been out with his fiancée.

They married and had a two week honeymoon in Jamaica. Billie was soo looking forward to their first night together. He was a virgin and Kathy knew that; she used to always tell him, "Good boys wait until they are married before they get to put it in."

That night in the hotel, they had a good dinner, champagne in their room and he sucked her a little bit just to keep her in the mood. Then she did a little strip tease taking off her silk pajamas and lying flat on her back said, "Come and fuck me lover boy." He kissed her a couple times but mainly he just wanted to have sex so he started to push himself into her.

Suddenly she pushed him off her saying, "Get off me, you are hurting me."

"Why, what did I do wrong?"

"Your cock is too big for my pussy. You have a horse cock and I am not letting a horse fuck me."

"But what can I do to make it better?"

"You can suck my pussy to get me off."

"But I want to make love to you."

"Well, there might be a way for you to do that. I think if I was loosened and lubricated by some other guy fucking me, I would be able to take your cock in my tight pussy."

"No, I won't let you have sex with somebody else."

"Then you had better get used to jerking yourself off."

"But you are my wife; you are supposed to be faithful to me."

"And I will be as long as you please me with your tongue."

"I want to make love to you the way any normal husband does, with my penis."

"Like I said, there is a way you can do that. I like the way Frank fucks me so I'll let you fuck me after Frank has shot his load in my pussy."

"Nooo, there has to be some other way."

"Yes, you can continue to suck my pussy to get me off, but if you ever want to fuck me it will have to be after I've been fucked by Frank or somebody else."

For the rest of their 2 week honeymoon Billie tried everything he could think of to get her to change her mind. Every morning he gave her a full body massage and then sucked her pussy. Every night he would kiss and lick her ass and suck her off again. During the day she would tease him by looking at a guy and saying, "I'd like to fuck him, I bet he doesn't have a horse cock like you. Then, during the afternoon in our hotel room she would make me strip naked, stand in front of her and jerk myself off for her amusement.

During the second week her teasing got worse. She would tell Billie that she was on her honeymoon and she wanted to get fucked. She told him she was going down to the bar to pick up a stud and not to expect her back until morning. Then she would enjoy his begging and pleading asking her not to go and that he would do anything she wanted, if she would stay faithful to him. She made him paint her fingernails and toenails like he was her maid, and trim her pussy hair just to torment him.

Billie asked her to please let him try again. He said he would lubricate himself well and be gentle if she would just let him try. He was so horny from watching her go around their hotel room half naked, and it was so frustrating to lie beside her at night and not be allowed to do anything more than kiss her. She drove him mad with desire by pushing her pussy against him and whispering in his ear that he could be fucking her if he let her go out and fuck somebody else first. 

She started flirting with the hotel security guard. She said he had a nice cock that would stretch her real good for him. She wanted Billie to tell him he could fuck his wife and then get lost for a couple hours so that they could have some privacy. Her teasing and denial were driving him crazy and one night while she was slowly jerking his cock and telling him how good he would feel if he got his cock in her hot wet pussy, he agreed to let her go out with her security guard.

Billie expected her to do it and then come right back to him and let him do her. She had other ideas; she said it turned black guys on if they thought they had bigger cocks than white guys so Billie had to tell him he could not satisfy his wife because his cock was too small. She said he would gain the benefit because the security guard would cum more as a result and she would be all hot and wet and stretched for him when it was over. So it was decided that on the guards day off Billie was to invite him to dinner with them. During the course of the dinner she would flirt with him, and Billie would reluctantly tell him of his shortcomings, then leave them alone while he went back to their hotel room to wait for her.

Billie had gone along with her idea but after leaving them he returned to the hotel room totally depressed. He waited for her until 10pm and she still had not returned. He spotted the magnum of champagne he had ordered and they had barely touched. He started drinking and he must have passed out because he woke up in the morning on the floor, and Kathy sound asleep in the bed.

Billie woke her up to find out what happened. "Oh honey, it was great. He fucked me and when I got back I was full of his cum and my juice and my pussy was all stretched out for you by his cock. When I got in I tried to wake you up, I really did but you were too drunk, so I just went to bed. We still have one more night before we return home. Do you want me to call him up and make another date with him so that you can get to fuck me once on your honeymoon? Totally depressed Billie said no.

After 2 weeks of sexual frustration on his honeymoon they returned home. The honeymoon was over but the teasing was not. She would rub his cock through his pants until he was close to cuming and then quit. In bed he could feel her wet pussy against his leg and she would whisper, "I want to get fucked soo bad. Don't you want to fuck me?" Just to torment him a little more she bought a fake plastic cock and made Billie watch while she brought herself off. "Poor baby, you could be fucking me instead of this dildo. All you have to do is let Frank fuck me first." 

Eventually Billie had to give in to her. She made him invite Frank to dinner with them at an expensive restaurant. She had a big smile on her face as Billie stuttered and stammered asking him to fuck his wife so that he could get his turn when they were through.

Kathy was amused when Frank said he would provided Billie called him Mister Frank. Kathy told Billie that if he wore a well lubricated condom that after her pussy had been stretched and full of cum from fucking Frank, then we would do it with him. So it was agreed that she and Frank would start dating once a week while Billie stayed at home waiting for her. After her first date she came home all smiles. "I had a real good time tonight and now it's your turn to have a good time," she said pulling a condom out of her purse.

They both stripped naked and she put on a sexy short nightie that barely covered her pussy. "Come here Billie and I'll put it on for you." It felt wonderful when she was putting it on him and slowly stroking his cock. "Does that feel good Billie? Do you want to fuck my pussy now?" The feel of her soft hand on his cock and her sexy words were too much for Billie and he shot his load in the condom. "Billie, what are you doing? I thought you wanted to fuck me. My pussy is all hot and juicy expecting a big cock. If you can't fuck me you will have to use your tongue again to get me off." He spent most of the next hour sucking her off. It was disgusting for him because he knew she had been with Frank.

She dated Frank every Friday, so during the week Billie had to use his tongue and lips to give her sexual satisfaction.

The following week, before she went out with Frank, Billie told her he would put the condom on himself tonight. Again when she got home she was in a good mood as she opened her purse and flipped him a condom. This time she lay naked on the bed with a sexy smile on her face.

"Why do I have to wear a condom when Frank has already lubricated you with his cum?"

"Your horse cock is still too big for my tight little pussy unless you wear a condom completely greased up with royal petroleum jelly. Put your condom on and bring me the jelly and I will massage it into your cock for you."

"No I'll do it," as he put the condom on himself. "I don't want to cum before I even get it in."

"Actually I feel a little tired after fucking Frank so let's wait until next week."

"No, I waited all week for this and I let you fuck Frank just so I could get a turn."

"I'm just teasing you. Really, you have no sense of humor. Come and fuck me and find out why Frank has such a good time with me."

Billie carefully lowered himself on top of her and slowly eased his cock into her. That was incredible; her pussy felt like hot tight wet velvet. He got his cock all the way in and her pussy seemed to squeeze and massage it. He tried to make it last longer but the feeling was too intense and he shot his cum into the condom almost immediately.

Kathy had a slight smirk on her face as she asked, "Did you like that Billie? Did you enjoy your first fuck?"

"That was totally awesome. I never felt anything so good. I just wish I could have made it last a little longer. I love you so much Kathy."

"Now I want you to give me a massage and concentrate on my ass. A few kisses on it would be a good way to show your love for me."

Billie massaged her for a least a half hour and he could feel himself getting stiff again. He started to rub his cock against her sexy ass just a little.

"No you don't. Your cock is way too big for my asshole but your tongue is just right, so get busy."

For the next 3 weeks it was wonderful; He got to fuck her every Friday night even though her teasing almost made him cum before he could even get it in. For her, Billie had to lick her pussy and tongue her ass whenever she wanted, under the threat that if he did not please her that way she would cut him off.

One night she came home all smiles. Frank was taking a week's holiday in Jamaica and he wanted her to go with him.

"Are you crazy, do you think I would even consider letting you go on a holiday with an ex boyfriend? What's the matter, is fucking my wife once a week not enough for him?"

"As usual you are twisting everything out of shape. He does not want to go to Jamaica on his own and you can't fuck me anyway if he is not here so what is your problem?"

"Remember, that's where we spent our honeymoon?"

"Is that what this is all about? You don't want me fucking Frank because I wouldn't let you fuck me on our honeymoon?"

"That's exactly right."

"OK I'll tell him when we go out this Friday but I know he will be pissed."

That Friday Billie was all ready to make love to his wife when she walked in. Even though she had told him not to jerk off because it was disrespectful to her, he did it Thursday night. He thought now he could last longer and get to enjoy his wife more. As usual she teased him. She stripped off all her clothes and fingered her pussy right in front of him. "I am soo horny Billie. Do you want to stuff me full with your great big cock and shoot your cum deep inside me?"

Billie was so turned on he was worried he might again cum to soon. She looked so sexy lying nude on their bed with her legs spread and massaging both of her breasts. He needed to do it fast before he lost his load but she stopped him just before he got it in.

"I can't let you do it hon. Frank was so annoyed you would not let me go with him he didn't fuck me tonight. I had to suck him off instead. You know the rules, unless Frank fucks me first, you don't get any."

"That's blackmail. Tell him no and you can find somebody else to fuck you."

"What do you think I am a slut? Do you think I am a whore that would fuck just anyone? I like Frank and I like fucking him better than you so if you ever expect to get my pussy again you had better hope Frank keeps screwing me. If you are going to be this stubborn maybe I should just fuck Frank, because I like his nice cock way better than your horse cock."

"OK, you win, I give up. You can go with Frank."

"Thank you sweetie, now I am going to suck your cock for you. See, if you are good to me I can be good to you. Frank just loves it when I suck his cock, so I am sure you will too even though you have to wear a condom."

She grabbed his cock and put the end in her mouth. Billie thought that felt really good. He wouldn't say she sucked him because she only had the end in her mouth and she jerked him off with her hand, still it was an incredible feeling.

Billie had to pay for it all and drive them to the airport. Kathy told him she would call him every day.

They left Wednesday morning and the following night she called. "The hotel you picked for us is great; the honeymoon suite you had to pay extra for is worth every penny you paid. We get champagne and chocolates sent to our room every day. Frank is living out his fantasy of being here with his new bride. I admit I am getting caught up in his fantasy too. I hug and kiss hum in public and tell him I love him. Other guests ask us how long we have been married and a couple guys have told Frank how lucky he is to have a sexy wife like me. I gotta go now, Frank is demanding his conjugal rights again and as a good wife I have to do what he wants. Call you tomorrow."

Friday night's call. "We spent most of the day at the resort beach. It's an "au natural" beach. Frank wore trunks but he made me go nude. When we sat at the bar he would make me flirt with the guys and he would get a kick out of watching them get a hard-on. After dinner he taught me how to deep throat him and he just loves it. He starts by holding my head tight against him and he fucks my mouth. When he is getting close he shoves his cock down my throat. I start to gag but my gag reflex squeezes the head of his cock giving him extra thrills and he shoots his cum right into my stomach. He says it feels wonderful as my throat massages his cock. I told him that if he enjoyed it so much you would probably like it too but he said that had to remain something only he and I would do."

And that was how the rest of the week went, every night a phone call and a new humiliation. Saturday she was mad at him because he traded her for the hotel clerk's sexy black girlfriend. He said he always wanted to try black pussy.

Sunday she told hum, "Frank spent some of the money you gave me to get a massage from the hotel masseuse. She said she would show me how to please my husband. She had me massage his back, legs and feet. I finished up massaging his ass and then kissing his ass. Then she had him turn over and she massaged hot oil on his chest, stomach and legs and then finished by sucking him off. He told me to watch her so I could learn. Is that any way to treat your wife?"

.Monday she said, "Frank wanted to buy a thick gold chain to hang around his neck but I didn't have enough money left so he let the jewelry store guy have me for an hour to make up the difference. I had to do whatever he wanted." 

Tuesday was their last night in Jamaica. "Frank is a really bad boy. Do you know what he had me doing? Our taxi driver took us to a club he said the tourists did not know about. He said it was really hot and that we would have a good time. One half of the club had a stage where girls stripped naked while doing a sexy dance. They also did private couch dances for customers in a VIP room. The other half of the club had tables and chairs set up for the guys to play poker. Frank wanted to play poker so I was standing behind him watching him play when the club manager came over and asked me if I would like to be one of his strippers. He said it would be a lot more fun than watching a boring card game and I could make some good money stage dancing and a lot more if I entertained in the VIP room. Frank said go ahead and I admit, I was getting bored.

It was kind of fun. I would strip down to my panties and then dance around the edge of the stage and let the guys touch me and they would throw dollar bills on the stage for me. If a guy threw a 5 dollar bill you would sit on his lap and let him play a little bit."




Deceitful Wife



"What do you mean, play?"

"You know, feel you up a little. Often a guy would pay you another 5 or 10 dollars just to keep you there a little longer. Then you would return to the stage and dance some more. When it was break time I got a rum and coke at the bar, drinks are free for the dancers, and I went to see how Frank was doing. He was down over 300 dollars. He wanted to know how much money I had. I had almost 200 dollars so he said give him that and if I worked the VIP room I could probably make a lot more. I could see he was feeling low having lost that much money so I said I would."

"What is the VIP room?"

"Well, there is a lounge and bar and a guy pays you to go into a little room with him. The only furniture is a little sofa but you can turn on music and entertain him"

"What do you mean? Do you fuck him?"

"Are you calling me a whore?"

"No Kathy, I'm sorry. It's just that I miss you so much."

"When the evening was over, Frank was amazed at how much money I had. He said he knew a club at home that I could work in. He said if you agreed, he would split the profits with you.

Frank and I have been talking and when we get home we feel some changes will be necessary. I'm afraid it means less sex for you but I am sure you will enjoy it more when you get it, because you won't get it very often."