Life makes everybody face choices. Sooner or later, everybody has to decide between two alternatives, and make a value judgment. Some decisions are petty, others serious. But everybody has to make them.
The troubles arise when the choices don't leave one with any good alternative. The lesser of two evils is still an evil. Then, a person has to sacrifice some principles for others.
Such is the case of Daphne Rogers, an ambitious, honest graduate from political science school embarking on the political road at the very top: Washington, D.C.
Daphne has had to compromise her principles from the start of her career, and she has reached a point where she believes she will not have to compromise further. Then, suddenly, she is faced with the opportunity to give her career the biggest boost it has ever had, but she must make the ultimate compromise in order to succeed.
Daphne's decision, her feelings, reactions, and what happens to her should bring to anybody's mind the consequences of making those kinds of choices.
The story may be set in exciting circles, but it's something that could happen to any of us. The moral lesson should stick long after the story is finished.
CHAPTER ONE
Winston Rutledge, United States Senator, sat hunkered over his desk, his tie loose, his head in his hands. His exhaustion was immense; he was an old man, a veteran of three heart attacks, and he tired easily. He had already dissolved one nitrite pill under his tongue. Still, through the waves of weariness that washed over him, his elation lifted him.
The deal had gone as smoothly as the best of them: a contact, a single face-to-face meeting followed by two phone calls, and he was suddenly a millionaire several times over. Now there was no worry about competing for another term, another long, aging six years of back room politics where you survived only if you were strong. And Winston Rutledge knew he was no longer strong.
He ran relatively little risk. Twenty-three years in the Senate as one of the most respected statesmen, with one of the most impressive records; twice he had been sought to run for the presidency, but the weight of the job discouraged him. He had had his ideals, and often fought for them, but he had lived the good life for too long to give it up in favor of long hours and hard work.
And besides, what he had done was not only good for his financial status, it was good for the country. If made public, to be sure, it would be highly unpopular. But what did people know; how could they in their ignorance understand what he understood? In years, when oil began running out, there would be a lot of grateful people, grateful to Winston Rutledge and his little under-the-table deal with one small, insignificant Middle Eastern nation.
Slowly, he relaxed, and enjoyed the rare feeling of a smile playing on his lips. And his joy and relief stimulated another long-idle stirring in him. Deep in his loins, he felt warmth and ache, where there had been nothing for years.
It had been so long, he wasn't sure what to do about it. Certainly, he had heard far more stories than the public about favors secretaries and lobbyists granted their bosses. The way he had heard it, Elizabeth Ray and her little scandal barely scratched the surface of a regular practice of Republicans and Democrats alike.
His head swam with visions as he pushed his comm-linc button, and his secretary answered, "Yes, Senator?"
"Could you step in here, Miss Atkins?" he said.
A moment later, and the door opened. Sondra Atkins," his secretary of the last two years (since old Mr. Rathbone had died), was a tall blonde who wore dresses with long slits up to the thighs, and her breasts rose high and round from her chest. Constantly swollen to the point of near-bursting from the tight clothes she'wore. Suddenly he pained for her, and she saw it immediately in his naive eyes.
"Senator!" she said.
"It's been a long, long time since I've felt like this," he blurted, pleading immediately. "So very long. I.. . I need it."
But she was gone, slamming the door behind her. What had he done?
More important, what was he going to do? His penis, which he had thought forever dormant, was surging with single-minded desire.
Then he remembered. He had heard of a place, a Virginia manor house just outside of D.C. It supposedly provided high-ranking government officials with what he needed. The highest-priced, best-run whorehouse in America, its girls were the cream of the crop, and they serviced only the cream of the crop.
One phone call to another elderly statesman, and he had the address jotted on his official letterhead. Access was his, he was told, by the simple virtue of his face. They had photos of every Congressman, every Senator, every cabinet officer. Anybody whose photo was not in their files required special approval. For special treatment.
He summoned his chauffeur and gave his directions. Judiciously, the chauffeur maintained a passive look, saying only, "Yes, sir."
Rutledge settled back in his plush seat and watched the scenery change from city to rural to country in a matter of three quarters of an hour. He knew he was missing a Senate vote, but it was an unimportant piece of legislation, and the ache in his lap.. .
The limousine finally poked through a clearing, and Rutledge peered over the front seat at the most unique house of ill repute ever established.
It was surrounded by what used to be plantation land, now just uncontrolled, lush, green growth given over to nature. The house itself was from the antebellum period, a thirty-room manor built well before the Civil War, when slaves still provided the cheapest, simplest means to high profits.
The road snaked up to the house, and Rutledge squirmed boyishly in his seat. After they stopped, a servant, an old white man in white tails, opened his door and offered him a hand out, then said, "Follow me."
Rutledge walked behind him, up a set of marble steps and through a ceiling-high set of polished mahogany doors. Once inside, the servant disappeared back to his post, and a distinguished-looking middle-aged woman in an elaborate evening gown took his place. Warmly, a delighted smile highlighting her face, she took his hand. "Senator Rutledge. How nice to have you with us."
Although he had been warned of their familiarity with top-level government men (and a few women), he was nonetheless taken aback. "You know me."
"Come, come, Senator. We pride ourselves on our attention to detail. Surely you've been told that."
"I see what you mean." Rutledge was running the tip of his tongue over his upper lip, his eyes feasting on the woman before him. Thrills choked him as he experienced an erection for the first time in years.
But she only beckoned him to follow her, which he did obediently, his eyes locked on the delicate curves of her swiveling ass. The cling of her dress offered the promise of soft, long, slender legs. His heart pounding, he dared not allow himself think of more. Not yet.
The madam took him into an anteroom, closing the door behind her. "Please, Senator, make yourself comfortable," she said. He settled his bulk into a luxurious leather chair. "My name is Jennifer Diamond, and I welcome you to my house. Can I offer you a drink?"
Rutledge shook his head, and felt the sweat drenching his starched collar.
Jennifer Diamond smiled and pushed a lighted button on the wall. A concealed door in the back of the room clicked open, and an Oriental girl, long black hair cascading down to the cheeks of her slim ass, walked in, wearing only a see-through negligee. She stood inches from Rutledge, and traced a line between her breasts, along her flat belly and finally just touching the top of her pubic triangle. Then she turned, like a model displaying new fashions, and offered a clear view of her ripe, firm butt, then she left, slowly.
She was followed by a blonde goddess, whose pussy, which shown through her silk nightgown, was shaved clean and glistened from some scented liquid she had dabbed there. A black girl with huge tits was next, then a brunette with a tattoo of a limp penis on her shoulder. This one opened her mouth for him and ran her tongue over her glaring-white teeth.
There were others, and then there was only he and Jennifer Diamond, alone.
"That's our line," she said, leaning seductively against a desk. "Which one would you like?"
"Just like that?" he asked.
"Just like that," she said, shrugging and smiling.
Rutledge considered. Each in her own way had made him fill with lust, made him want to shove his reborn hard cock through their delicate curls of pubic hair, and beyond the pink, pliable lips of their pussies. He wanted to fill each of their dark, wet caverns with his newly-generated semen. Faced with Diamond's choice of one-a reasonable offer, after all-who would he pick?
"You," he blurted.
Jennifer Diamond stared at him as though she was certain she had not heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"
"You," he said again. "I choose you."
"I'm afraid I'm not involved in the activities of the rest of the ladies, Senator," she said, firmly but politely. "I am the madam."
But Rutledge had his mind made up. "I'm old," he told her. "Those girls look like . . . like girls. I'd feel I was robbing the cradle. Oh, they're sexy and they stir me, but not like you, Miss Diamond. In you I see passion and experience. In you I see appreciation for the fleetingness of youth, and I see an understanding that allows you to enjoy things and experience things with respect to those years."
Jennifer smiled. "You're quite a speechmaker."
Rutledge grinned back. "Been doing it for a lot of years."
"Well, Senator, you got my vote." She held out her hand, not happy with his age, his wrinkles, his bulk-but she had a job to do. Nobody could leave her house unsatisfied. He took her hand, and its softness and warmth turned his knees to jelly. He let her guide him out of the anteroom and up a flight of curved stairs. It wasn't the wing of the house where the girls entertained their very important guests. She took him through the servant's quarters, and behind them, to her private suite. She led him to her bedroom, done in subdued colors with quiet, unassuming furnishings. A person, two, three, these were the prime focuses of the room.
"Sit down," she told him, and he sat on the edge of her round velvet-covered bed. She reached behind her neck and unsnapped a string of exquisite pearls that decorated her creamy neck.
"I don't usually do this," she said. "It takes money from my girls, and they work hard and deserve it." The pearls were laid on a nightstand, and she stepped out of her shoes, losing two inches of height. She suddenly looked more vulnerable. Rutledge's testicles swelled as his cargo of sperm pushed out a little, anxious to be released through the long-dead, blue-veined, stiff shaft.
Her eyes watched him thoughtfully, and she slowly unzipped the long zipper that ran from her underarm to just below her hip. The gown floated to her ankles, and Rutledge had to catch his breath. She was stunning in a black bra that merely captured the weight of her exquisite bosom; her ripe, round nipples protruded over the top of the flimsy fabric. She wore no panties, and her pubic triangle was sparse, and the curls of the moist hair were tight and trimmed. A black garter belt hugged her hips just above her pussy, supporting stockings with a hint of white in them. Her belly was flat and smooth, and her entire body was without sag or wrinkles. He smelled the scent of musk rising from her ready cunt, and he heard his heart pounding in his ears.
"Do you want me like this," Jennifer asked, "or should I take the rest off?" Her voice had turned husky and throaty, something that happened whenever she became excited. It was a surprise to her. She had fucked so many men as part of her job before she had taken over the reins of the house, and she had sworn she would limit her sexual activities to those she engaged in for personal satisfaction. Yet here was a senator, old and worn, whom she was about to trap between her long, sinewy legs in order to maintain the high reputation of the house. And she felt an itch deep inside her cuntal cavity, a flood of warmth and desire that made the soft, pink lips of her pussy quiver in anticipation. She could feel her lubricants oozing into her vagina, and a bit of the spillover got caught in the curls of her pubic hair. She knew he could smell the aroma, and all she could see of him was the tremendous bulge in the crotch of his pants. She wanted to liberate it, and swallow it in the tight, wet hole between her legs.
Rutledge croaked, "Like that . . . like that." She smiled, a sly, knowing smile, and walked toward him. Her hips swung from side to side, and his eyes rolled back and forth in their sockets as though he was watching a tennis match, zeroed in on the patch, the first he had seen or even contemplated in so many years.
He feverishly tried to ignore the headache the pounding in his ears had created. Suddenly, she was in front of him, standing, her delicious cunt an inch from his sensitive, turned-on nose. He breathed deeply, and his head swam in the intoxicating woman-odor.
"Lick it," she told him.
He looked up at her, at her face beyond the mountainous tits that were suspended above him. She had closed her eyes to narrow slits, and her lips were slightly parted, her face glistening with a fine layer of perspiration. Her hands dangled freely at her sides. Anxious, she had thrust her hips toward him.
His tongue stuck tentatively from his mouth. It flicked hesitantly at air, then the very tip brushed against the lubricated hairs. His taste buds reacted, bursting to life, and he drank the elixir, feeling it glide smoothly and intoxicatingly down his throat. He curled his tongue, and formed a spear that jabbed through the curls of hair and found the soft, pliable lips of her cunt. As his tongue touched her there, he felt her quiver, and her hands came to rest gently on top of his gray-haired scalp. "Ohh, baby," she cooed. He nodded his head so his tongue could slide up and down the length of her wet slit, prying them apart just the slightest bit. It was enough for her juices to flow out, and he swallowed them down like a man dying of thirst.
It all started to flood back to him, the innumerable sexual encounters he had had in his life, how he had satisfied women and they had quenched his burning desire. He remembered how he had gone about it, the different acts, the various techniques. Like riding a bicycle, or swimming, he thought. Once you've done it, you never forget.
Instinctively, he thrust his tongue between her lips and burrowed deep inside her. He heard her gasp and moan a deep, guttural moan, and her grip on his sparse hair tightened. "Do it," she whispered, almost slurring her words beyond recognition. "Come on, do it."
Now his hands had grasped the fleshy cheeks of her ass, pulling her vvaist closer to him. The curl of his tongue found her rock-hard clitoris, and he delighted in the recollection of its feel. Like a small marble, he rolled it in his tongue, sucked on it and pulled at it. Jennifer lost control of her legs, and sunk to the floor, but Rutledge stayed with her, maneuvering to his knees as she settled squirming onto her back. She lifted her knees above her to give his face more access to her aching pussy, and clamped her pillowy soft thighs against his cheeks.
When she came to a shuddering, quaking climax, she actually pulled a small tuft of his thin hair from his scalp, but he hardly noticed. He almost unloosed his own load of semen when he felt her rocking from orgasm, and the rush of liquid escaped her obscenely wide-open pussy and cascaded over his face, drenching him. Her thighs loosened, allowing him to withdraw his head, and he instantly unbuckled his pants and released his throbbing erection.
He looked at his own penis with a large measure of amazement. Like a boy's, he thought. It was stiff and long, mapped with living veins that traced squiggly lines along the meaty shaft. Until now, he had thought of his member as merely a limp piece of flesh, usable only when his bladder was full. Now, he thought with relish, I can use it for what it was meant to be used for.
Jennifer's legs were lewdly splayed, and she panted from the exertion of her climax, unaware that he was about to enter her. He shoved his pants to his knees and hovered over her, his mouth open for her, his tongue lusting for the feel of her own, soft, snake-like tongue.
She opened her eyes in time to see him, his gaping wet mouth inches from her own. She could feel the pulsating cock about to slip between her cuntal walls and fill her, but she knew she couldn't let him do that. Not yet.
She put a hand to her mouth to prevent him from kissing her. "Why, Senator," she said breathlessly. "You've just eaten my pussy."
He looked at her, confused. "Of course I have. And now I'm about to fuck your cunt." He was gasping, and the echoing thud in his brain masked out most other sounds.
She held her hands palms-out to his chest and gently moved him away. "But I like to kiss when a man is inside me. I like all of a man to be wrapped up in me."
"So?" he said, even more confused than before.
"It's just.. . I can't stand the taste of myself. I used to have a boyfriend who like to see me put my finger inside myself, and drench it with my juice, then take it out and lick it."
Rutledge's heart skipped a beat as he pictured the scene in his head.
"I'd always come close to throwing up," she said. "And now, you've got me all over your tongue. Let me get you a glass of water to wash it away."
Disappointed, but still at the peak of excitement, Senator Winston Rutledge agreed. She wriggled out from beneath him and he drank in the sight of her walking to the wet bar, where she filled a glass with tap water and returned it to him.
He kicked his pants free and loosened his tie, then swiftly drank the stuff down. He tasted the thick, heady taste of her cunt wash away, and his mouth returned to its normal state of dryness.
She settled on her knees in front of him. "Now.. . " she said, took his face gently in her soft, caressing hands and pulled it close. Her lips, full and moist, brushed his, then pressed against them. The feel of them warmed him to his usually icy feet. He felt them part, and he opened his own mouth in response, letting her hot, doughy tongue find his, encircle it and play with it.
He almost hit the ceiling when her hand, which he had not been aware of, grabbed his cock. It was ecstasy. Her hands felt entirely feminine as they slid down the length of his shaft and held it in a fist. She pulled her tongue back in her own mouth, kissed him again, and pulled her lips from his. She moved her mouth along his rough face, kissing and licking, until she was at his ear, blowing soft streams of hot breath into it.
"Senator," she hissed, and he moaned as the jet of hot air sent a massive chill along his spine. 'That's some cock you've got, for a man your age. You should be proud." Her hand opened, and traced the soft underside of his penis until it found the swollen testicles. She cupped them in her palm, and tugged gently at them while she breathed exciting words in his ear.
He was hardly aware she was pushing him back, onto the floor. But she was, and when she had him there, she swung a leg over his hip and straddled him. His stiff cock was an arrow, pointing to the slightly-spread pussy just above it.
"I want you," he sputtered.
"And I want you, Senator," she said, settling down on top of him.
He was awake to every shred of sensation, every hint of feeling. His spongy cock head brushed her lips, then, following the same path his tongue had taken, spread the lips apart. With agonizing slowness, she let her cunt swallow his cock a centimeter at a time, and he lifted his head to watch it disappear beyond the now-sopping patch of hair that guarded the entrance he was now violating.
Each inch she took in forced out another gasp or sigh, and she nearly choked when she took him all in, right up to his dangling balls. For an old man, he certainly was huge. She rose up above him, nearly allowing his revitalized cock slip out of her, then jammed it back up inside, hard, falling back on him. Rutledge screamed, and buried his fingernails into the flesh of her hips. She rose again, and he glimpsed at his shimmering shaft, coated in a layer of her tasty lubricant. Then it disappeared again as she fell back onto him, her ass settling on his thighs.
He reached up and took one of her glorious, firm breasts in each hand, and ran his finger over each stiff nipple. It excited him to watch her run her hands through her hair, pulling at it and bunching it up only to release it and let it glide over her face, turning her into a desire-ridden animal. She humped faster, impatient for each thrust for the friction against her clitoris it brought. Then she felt him explode inside her, the hot rush of sticky cum filling her pussy, and the heat of his ejaculation thrilled her, giving her the final boost she needed for her own orgasm. She knew she was probably bruising him with the fitful throes of ecstasy she experienced, but she didn't care. She only wanted her orgasm to keep going on.
It didn't though, and when she found herself gasping down breath, sweaty and spent, she looked down at him. He had gone limp inside her, and he was asleep, breathing slowly and deeply in his childlike slumber.
Quite a lay, she thought as she rose, letting his tiny little cock fall from her. Look how peaceful he is. She smiled.
The black limousine careened back toward Washington. Rutledge had slept longer than he had intended, and there was a key vote he could not miss. "As fast as you can," he ordered the chauffeur.
The chauffeur, upset that Rutledge had been inside with one of the finest fucking ladies in the world while he waited outside with a tempermental Cadillac, gladly floored the car, and flipped the radio on. News. Nothing important, just the usual scandals and wars and deals.
No police bothered with the speeding limo, since it bore the license plates of a U.S. senator, one of 100 elite human beings chosen because of wealth and status to formulate the laws of the nation. The chauffeur screeched to a halt in front of the Senate wing of the Capitol Building-Rutledge had said he had no time to stop at his nearby offices.
The chauffeur leapt from his seat and opened the passenger door in the back. Rutledge, pale and quite stiff, slumped out and spilled onto the street. Later, the chauffeur learned a heart attack had killed him. When he was alone, he had a good, long laugh at that. Old men shouldn't fall in with young whores, he thought. No, indeed.
CHAPTER TWO
Daphne Rogers would have normally found the day to be exhilarating. It was that precious time of year, when the flowers and trees are in full bloom, and the air is crisp but not cold, and the humidity that permeates eastern summers had not yet invaded the Capitol.
But Daphne's mind was not on the weather. She, like all other legislative aides in D.C., was worried. For three months now, information had been leaked from a variety of government offices, and nobody could figure out where the leaks had come from. Political careers were being ruined. Deals that had been painstakingly set up were erased in hours as soon as the news people got hold of the information.
Soe of the leaks were about private, illicit deals, and to be sure, Daphne believed those people had what was coming to them. The press had surmised, for instance, that old Senator Rutledge had had his heart attack when the news of his deal with a Middle East nation had been announced on the radio news. His name had not been tied to the scandal yet, but he had known. And it had been too much for his weary heart.
Daphne felt sorry for Senator Rutledge. She had met him on a number of occasions, and liked him. He was a harmless old man, and reminded her of her grandfather. She had met him, like most high-ranking government people she met, through her boss, Senator Will Roland. He was middle-aged, and considered something of a maverick. He championed lost causes and represented the little guy, like all other politicians claimed to do. He was without a doubt, the most sincere, hardworking, honest politician she had ever met.
It was nice that he never came on to her, as well. Six years of college had prepared her for hard work in the political field, but not for the pawing and groping she had found her first year in D.C., working for an oversexed Congressman.
Roland, unlike the rest of them, was happy at home. His wife was a sensuous redhead who obviously kept him satisfied. So when he leaned close to Daphne, she knew he was reading her work and not breathing in her perfume, or trying to sneak a look down her dress at her swelling cleavage.
Lately, Roland had been distracted. The damned leaks. "It's not that I'm against freedom of information," he ranted to her one day. "But there is such a thing as privacy, and national security. If an old fart like Rutledge gets caught with his pants down, that's his problem. But whoever's behind this has no interest in discriminating. They'll leak private deals and top-secret government plans in the same damned breath."
Daphne had listened with growing horror at the possibilities posed by the leaks. Nobody knew where they came from; nobody even knew what motive led these people to make their leaks. There were no patterns, no clues. And then Roland told her what was really on his mind. For months, he had been sweating out a defense appropriation bill, and now it was about to come to fruition. "But too many people are involved," he fumed. "If just one of them opens his mouth to the wrong person, the whole thing could go up in smoke. There've been too many backroom deals and compromises to make the bill stand up under that kind of scrutiny."
It would be too bad if somebody leaked one of the slightly corrupt actions that had been taken to get party support for the legislation, Roland lamented. The country needed more sophisticated arms. "We've got to stop farting around with this missile and that missile," he said. "The Russians have too big an edge on us. We by God need to get to work on defense that will work, rather than offensive systems we'll never use." Her heart swelled with pride when she heard him talk. So much different from Congressman Waxman, for whom she had worked her first year in D.C.
She recalled it vividly. Fresh out of school and destined to change the world, she had decided not to bother with state or local politics. She had enough money to see her through a few weeks of job-hunting in D.C. If she couldn't turn anything up, she would just go home and start at the ladder's bottom rung. But she had to take a chance. Yes, she was young, but there was so much to do and, in the overall scheme of things, so little time.
One of her professors, a former Congressman, had forwarded her name to Waxman, and her first night in her hotel room he had called.
"Understand you're looking for a job, sugar."
She related her education and her sparse experience, and he chuckled. "Well now," he drawled, "Y'all come on down to my office in the Longworth Building and we'll have us a chat about what you can do for me."
She spent a sleepless night, visions dancing in her head of revised bills and intricate investigations, like the work done by legislative aides who had lectured her class. In the morning, she slipped into her smartest dress and took a cab to the Longworth
Building, where some Congressman kept their offices. She tipped the driver exactly 10 percent of her fare, wanting to keep her expenses to a minimum.
With awe and reverence, she had mounted the Longworth Building steps, and freely submitted to a search of her bag by the bored guard who sat just beyond the doors that led inside. Then she was directed up an elevator and down a long, ancient hall to a polished set of doors featuring a plaque that read: "James T. Waxman". His state and congressional district were underneath his name, and beside the plaque hung the seal of his state.
Waxman's receptionist ushered her into Waxman's office, and closed the door on her way out. Daphne wasn't surprised at Waxman's appearance, since she had seen him a number of times on television. He did appear somewhat shorter than she had imagined, though just as trim and muscular. He smoked a long, brown cigar and clenched it between his teeth as he grinned and rose to pump her hand with his.
"Pleased ta meetcha," he said. "Ol' Bill Watson had some mighty kind things to say about you." Professor Watson had been the teacher who recommended Daphne to Waxman.
She sat in her chair confidently, and crossed her trim legs. She didn't notice that his eyes kept darting down to her exposed knee. Nor did she know his gaze kept trying to see farther up her legs than her dress permitted. She simply smiled and answered his questions.
"When they had been talking for half an hour, he abruptly said: "Well, now, Miss Rogers, I do believe you just might have yourself a job."
She bubbled with happiness, assured now that she had made the right decision in coming to D.C. Then he had hit her with it. "Just one thing you might have to do now and again that doesn't, er, fall in the job description." He winked behind his grin.
Her smile fell, even though she wasn't sure what he was talking about. He stood and pointed to the crotch of his pants. It was swollen with an erection, and she flushed bright red. "You're a right attractive lady, if I do say so myself," Waxman said, and laughed. "You might just find yourself getting along real comfortable in Washington if now and then you was to slide your lips over this here cock for me."
Her hands shook as she reached down for her bag, and her knees shook as she tried to stand. It had been the last thing she was prepared for. Waxman continued, nonplussed. "We all might even ask you to spread your knees once or twice for somebody else. That's the way politics works, darlin."
She started for the door, and he said, "Hey, girl. Ain't no way you're going to get a job around here with no experience. Me? I was just doin' old Bill Watson a favor. But you'll starve before anybody but me would hire a kid fresh out of school for a legislative assistant. Y'all hear me?"
"I'll manage," she croaked, and slammed the door behind her. She had walked back to her hotel room, trying to exercise away the feel of filth that had filled her. That did no good, so she stood for a long time under a hot shower, washing and soaping and washing and rinsing and then soaping and rinsing, over and over again. Exhausted, she fell on to her bed, but could not sleep.
She tried to picture herself sucking Congressman Waxman's southern cock. The image would not conjure. She had sucked only one penis before, her fiancee's back home. She had, in fact, done everything with him, but that was different, she told herself. That was love. And besides, we were going to be married.
The reminiscence warmed her, and made her feel cozy. Sex with him had been joy and happiness, a sensation of security mingled with lusty excitement. She had loved feeling his long, strong penis slip between her legs and stuff itself inside her pussy, and she loved wrapping her legs around his ass when he was inside her, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper. She had never much cared for oral sex, but he enjoyed it and she did it for him, whenever he wanted and sometimes on her own initiative. She always gagged when he came in her mouth, the salty warmth of his sticky cum catching and not going down her throat as it should. But she choked back the noises of her gags, because she did not want to disappoint him.
She didn't mind, with him, having the tight button of her rubbery asshole toyed with, even prodded and entered a little with the red crown of his rigid prick. But she loved his meaty staff inside her cunt; because that made them one, it meant they were in love, and their love was consummated again and again.
Only he hadn't felt as deeply as she thought he had. When she finished her undergraduate studies and he insisted on getting married then and there, she had blanched. Not that she didn't love him; but she had plans. Of course she wanted a family, a husband, a house in the suburbs. But she also wanted to be somebody.
He threatened to break off the engagement if she opted for graduate school. She tested him; he failed.
And now she was here, lonely and near-broke and frightened. She rented a typewriter since she knew nobody from whom to borrow one, and that gouged deeply into her reserves. She typed a resume, discouraged at its brevity, and printing 25 copies cost another few desperately needed dollars.
At first, she thought the resumes were the answer to her problems. She was called for several interviews-all for secretarial work, it turned out. She moved from her hotel to a cheap boarding house. When she had only enough money left for another couple nights, she considered going home, defeated.
But she could not do that. Because he would see her, and claim he had been right all along.
So on the last day of her money, she returned to Congressman Waxman's office.
"Y'all back?" he said when she was ushered into his office. She sat heavily in the same chair, and said nothing.
"Y'all find yourself a job?"
She shook her head. Waxman laughed. "I'll start you at $16,000 a year. That suit you?"
She shook her head out, as though she had heard wrong. "That's a lot of money," she said.
"Don't you worry, sugar," he said, his face red with the delight of victory. "You'll earn it."
"I need some . . . some of the money . . . now."
Waxman grinned a sinister and lascivious grin. "Then you earn some, now."
She took a deep breath and rose. One thought ran through her mind: she needed the money, she needed the job. She shed her light coat and let it fall on the chair, then unbuttoned her dress; it was one she had chosen carefully for this meeting. It fell apart from the center when the last button was plucked, and beneath it she wore nothing.
Waxman drew air in sharply at the sight of her slender hips. Shadows coated her waist, cast by her delicate bone structure, forming pointers that aimed at her silky-soft pubic mound, of a color that caught, diffused and reflected light. The dress hung loosely over the outer perimeters of her pearlike breasts, nipples mounted on the upper half of her firm, fleshy globes, and pointed slightly upward.
She advanced on him, walking around his desk slowly, crossing one leg in front of the other as she moved. When she was in front of him she reached across him, her erect nipple brushing against his face, and pushed the comm-line.
"Yes, Congressman?" a voice said.
"The Congressman wishes you to hold all his calls, and does not want to be disturbed," Daphne said.
She released the comm line, and pushed his chair back to make room for herself, and dropped to her knees. She went through the process of unzipping his pants and fishing for his penis through the maze of underclothing. When she found it, it sprang out at her, and she saw the premature drop of cock juice that had formed over the hole of his prick. It nodded at her, begging for her mouth to engulf it.
She parted her lips and took hold of his shaft base, and guided it between her wide-spread jaws, until she was sure it was deep inside. Then she clamped her lips around it as hard as she could. In response to the feel of her full, wet lips around his sensitive meat, he jerked, and slammed his lap into her face, forcing the cock deep in her throat.
She lifted her head from his lap, then dove back down on it, taking his erection as deep willingly as she had when it was forced on her. Her head came up again, and she strained the muscles in her face to increase the friction between mouth and cock.
She realized she was holding his gorged balls in her hand, and was squeezing them delicately. Suddenly, they contracted in her palm, and in the next instant her mouth was full of hot, salty semen, released from the testicles of the writhing Congressman beneath her.
Later, she was assigned to her desk, and given a week's pay in advance. She studied a few office manuals, and at five o'clock, she rushed home, where she was sure she would spend an hour retching violently. But she didn't. Instead, she lay down and sucked on her finger until it was pruned from the moisture in her mouth, then she dipped it between her itching legs.
After a while, she learned to accept her job without reactions at home, but she lost a lot of sleep over it. Particularly on the days she had to entertain Waxman's guests. There weren't many of them, but one was more than enough.
Her work, though, earned her the attention of Senator Will Roland, who eventually hired her. And she had slept soundly ever since.
Roland had a three o'clock appointment, and Daphne reluctantly left him alone and returned to her desk. A mountain of work awaited her; not the kind of work she had envisioned herself doing in school, but that was a kid's dream. This was the real world, and if the work was not exhilarating, it was at least important.
The issue she was working on today was oil. There was a bill calling for the oil companies to be dissected, split into hundreds of smaller companies. Her job was to research and analyze the proposal, and advise Roland of the facts. One Senator has only 24 hours in a day, and simply cannot be on top of all the issues at once. For that, he needs his legislative staff.
She had been at it for an hour when her phone rang.
She picked it up and, to her surprise, it was Roland, calling from his office not twenty feet away.
"Please come in to my office," he said, "and don't tell anybody I called you." He sounded distressed.
She picked up a pad and pencil and walked into the ladies room in case anybody was watching her. She didn't know what all the secrecy was about, but why take chances? When she finished checking her makeup, she left and went into Roland's sanctum.
"Sit down," he said. She sat. "I'm telling you this because you're the only person in this office I really trust," he told her. "I just got off the phone with Larry Whitlock. He's got trouble."
Larry Whitlock was a junior congressman from the same state as Roland. The Senator had always been impressed with Whitlock, with his sense of style and timing, but mostly with his ability to champion an unpopular cause because he believed in it, and turn it into law.
"Larry comes from a poor family," Roland explained. "I know it sounds like an old story, but his mother's in the hospital, lingering toward death, and his father died a few years back leaving the family penniless and in serious debt."
Daphne put down her notebook. No notes would be required from this session.
"So Larry, about two years back, became a silent partner in a small business. Nothing immoral, just enough extra money to care for his mother and keep the farm up. The business was above-board, but of course, as a legislator, Larry should have divested himself of it. He couldn't afford to, so he conveniently forgot about it altogether."
"Somebody else found out?" she guessed.
"Bingo. And they want $1000 a month to keep it quiet."
"But if what you say is true, he can't afford that kind of huge money."
Roland slammed his fist on the desk. "He can't afford it and wouldn't pay it even if he could. By Holy Christ, what's going on in this city?"
Daphne sat silently. Roland gazed absently out his window, at the garden behind the Senate office building complex. "Something's going on," he said, more to himself than to her. "Somebody's got this whole thing pretty well organized. Who is it, dammit?"
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Daphne offered.
Roland looked at her and smiled. God, but she's beautiful. What I wouldn't give to be able to stroke her velvety cunt and have her latch on to my cock. But he dismissed the thoughts as mere fantasy. Rutledge was more the type of man to carry that all the way. But he was a legislator. He had a duty to perform. And a wife at home.
Daphne had never told him about Congressman Waxman.
"I just needed somebody to talk to," he told her. 'Thanks."
She picked up her pad and left the room, her mind abuzz with conflicting thoughts. If he needed a confidant, he could have spoken with his wife, as he usually does. Why would he tell me all this, and not give me a reason?
She pondered it into the night, while she watched television, while she rubbed cream into her face, while she stared at the dark ceiling from her bed. Why?
He must want me to look into it, she thought. He couldn't ask me officially to do anything, so he couched it in vagueness. That must be it.
Where to start? She knew nothing of investigations, nothing of the intricate web of networks in Washington. All she knew were facts, how to assimilate them, how to twist them, how to use them.
All right then, she told herself. What are the facts? There was Rutledge, who reminded her of Santa Claus when he didn't remind her of her grandfather. Rutledge had made an under-the-table deal and it had got out. He had died, probably when he heard it on the radio. He was an old man.
There was Larry Whitlock, whom she had met only once or twice at parties. A nice guy, family man, whose private holdings were discovered and used for extortion. A political deal and a private matter, both revealed through leaks.
Where were they coming from? Was there even a connection? Deep inside her, she felt there was. Like her boss, she felt some sinister force motivated the whole thing. And she would find out who it was. Or what it was.
Satisfied, she slept.
CHAPTER THREE
It was all set; an unspoken agreement had been reached between she and Roland. "I need a leave of absence; I don't know, a month maybe. I'll still be in the city, though, and I'd like to be able to come in and use my desk whenever I need to."
He looked at her queerly, but agreed. She was fairly sure he knew what she was up to, but not positive. It was probably better that way. If anybody ever asked him about her activities, he could respond in all honesty that he knew nothing.
Now she sat in a coffee shop in downtown D.C, a few remnants of her diet plate breakfast in front of her, a half-sipped cup of coffee cradled in her hands. A notepad was beside her dish, with a few notes scribbled on it, a few incoherent leads. Not much. But, she told herself, it will have to do.
She tried to decide where to start. Rutledge's secretary? Whitlock? She opted for Whitlock. On a separate page she jotted his name, then went back to her office. Nobody asked about her presence there during a leave of absence.
In a confidential phone book she found Whitlock's home number, and dialed it. His wife, a popular D.C. hostess, answered. "No, Miss Rogers, I'm afraid Congressman Whitlock is out of town, back in his state. Is there anything I can help you with?"
Daphne was about to hang up when it occurred to her any information Mrs. Whitlock had was better than none. "I'd like to talk to you, if I could. It's a matter of great urgency."
They set up a time, and Daphne whiled away the hours until she took a cab out to Whitlock's modest digs in Maryland. Mrs. Whitlock answered the door.
Daphne was stunned. She had seen Carolyn Whitlock on television, and a few times at a distance, but never close up. At thirty years of age, she was a bronze goddess, the perfect woman. Her face was slender, accented with full lips and huge brown eyes. Her neck sloped gracefully down to her torso, where milky white breasts strained against her chic terry cloth housedress. The terry cloth hugged her firmly, all the way down to her feet, revealing slender hips and sculptured legs. Funny, Daphne thought, how you're always finding it hard to talk to women more beautiful than yourself. Is it female competitiveness, or buried homosexuality?
It didn't matter; she had more important things to discuss.
Inside, Daphne turned down a drink, but Carolyn Whitlock took one-a large one-for herself. She lit a cigarette. "Now what is this about my husband that's so important?" she said when she was finally settled.
Daphne flipped open her notepad and, without hesitation, relayed all the information she had. "This must remain strictly between you and I, Mrs. Whitlock," she said. "I'm not acting in any sort of official capacity, you understand."
Carolyn Whitlock closed her eyes, and Daphne thought she looked as graceful as she must in sleep. She tilted her head back in thought, and Daphne watched a hidden vein pulse in her creamy smooth throat. She twitched a little in her seat.
"I'm afraid I really can't tell you anything," Carolyn finally said, snapping out of her reverie. "Of course, I knew about my husband's financial arrangements, and he had told me of the extortion threat. Who would do such a thing?"
"He never talked of his private affairs with anybody but you?"
"Me and your boss, Senator Roland. Oh, there was a time when he. . . " She stopped, and a frown crossed her face. "Yes?" Daphne urged.
"My husband is a decent man, Miss Rogers," she said. "It's just that sometimes he.. . well, he likes sexual activities that I just can't bring myself to perform for him. That's all over now, of course, but when he was in the state legislature back home, there was a girl he used to see. He.. . he paid her to do things with him. I guess they talked."
"Has he seen her lately?"
Carolyn laughed, a rich, wholesome laugh that sent chills up Daphne's spine. She loved that laugh. "Heavens, no. That was years ago. Besides, some other men in the capitol used her, too. You could find her, and some of her friends, on the street corner after dark."
Daphne blushed, and tired to hide it. "I see," she whispered.
"My husband is older now, Miss Rogers. He's content with normal sex. There were just some things he liked . . . well, frankly, I've never been a big fan of the penis." Her gaze penetrated deeply behind Daphne's eyes. "Before I married, I much preferred the company of women."
Daphne swallowed. Carolyn said: "Tell me, Miss Rogers. What's a lovely creature like yourself doing this type of filthy work for?"
Daphne froze in her seat. She could not move, not even when Carolyn rose and walked toward the back of the house. She stopped, and crooked a finger at Daphne. "Come with me. I want to show you something."
Daphne felt the blood flowing through her legs again, and she followed the woman, feeling like she was walking on clouds. She found herself in the bedroom, and Carolyn Whitlock had already pulled the terry cloth robe off. Again, Daphne's wits failed her.
"Don't you think I'm beautiful?" Carolyn said. Dumbly, Daphne nodded. "Don't you want me?"
To her amazement, Daphne nodded again. "Well, then. Come here."
Daphne did not move. Carolyn's eyes took no a look of command. "Come here, Miss Rogers."
One step, then two, she lost count of how many steps she took, or how she even managed to take them, before stopping a half-foot from the naked woman. Carolyn spread her legs, and stood before Daphne, her hands on her hips. "Put your hand on my cunt," Carolyn said. Daphne could not move, not even lift a finger.
Carolyn took her hand, and put it between her legs, then slid it up until Daphne's palm held her satiny pussy. With her hand still holding Daphne's, she used her middle finger to push Daphne's middle finger through the moist, slippery crack of her vagina and inside.
Daphne shuddered, but it was not a shudder of revulsion. The finger inside the cunt of the
Congressman's wife felt warm and wet, and a musky odor rose to her nostrils and made her dizzy.
"Kiss me," Carolyn said. Again, Daphne was riveted to her spot, and Carolyn used her other hand to cradle Daphne's neck and pull her close. Daphne offered no resistance. She allowed herself to be maneuvered up against Carolyn's warm, naked body, and she allowed her to plant her firm, full lips against her own. When their mouths were locked, Daphne let out a guttural moan that sent shivers through Carolyn's finger-filled cunt.
Carolyn parted her lips, and Daphne obediently followed suit. Carolyn's tongue, large, full and soft, slipped from between her lips and found Daphne's mouth-serpent, and caressed it. Daphne felt a twitching above her own thighs, and the finger buried deep in Carolyn's tight little hole began to quiver, flicking gently against the firm little clitoris she found there, big enough to be like a miniature penis.'
"Take your clothes off," Carolyn said.
Now Daphne was able to act, motivated by a welling excitement expanding within her. She slipped the zipper down the length of her wool dress, and stepped out of it, then unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall from her shoulders, dropping to the floor behind her.
Carolyn's eyes widened when she saw Daphne's globular breasts, creamy smooth and milky white, spilling over the top of her flimsy brassiere and straining to burst free from it.
"Go on," she said, her voice shortened by her quickened breath. Daphne, inspired by a wickedness inside she had never known before, lifted her finger to her upper lift and breathed deeply the fragrance of Carolyn's sweet cunt juice. Her heart beat sped up, and she stepped out of her pumps and unlatched the silk stockings that coated her long, slender legs. Her nervousness made her undress slowly in order to avoid clumsiness, and the woman before her was impatient, but aroused at her sluggish pace. Unaware that she was doing anything, Carolyn had cupped her pussy with her own hand, and pressed against it hard, trying to contain her excitement.
"I. . . I've never . . . loved a woman before," Daphne said, her voice shaking.
"I have," Carolyn said confidently. "Take your panties off. Oh, for the love of God, take them off."
Daphne hooked her thumbs over the sides of her skimpy panties, and pushed them down over her knees, and let them settle around her ankles. She hadn't known it, but the stimulation she had received from Carolyn had turned her own vagina into a reservoir of female lubricant, and her sparse pussy hair glimmered from the juice that had leaked out. Without provocation from Carolyn, she reached up behind her back and unlatched her brassiere, and flung it forward, her compressed, restrained tits freed.
"My God," Carolyn said. "You're beautiful." It was more than her fiance had ever told her, and the words rang like an orgasm in her ears and flooded her pussy with a flash of heat. Carolyn settled her hands on Daphne's hips and pulled her close again. She had arched her midriff out, and their pussies were the first parts of their bodies to make contact. Carolyn's hands slid around and gripped Daphne's cheeks, and pulled her cunt as hard as she could against her own, and ground her hips lewdly. A bolt of lightning exploded along Daphne's spine, and a fine layer of sweat burst out over her forehead and her lips.
She wrapped her arms around Carolyn's shoulders and kissed her again, hungrily thrusting her tongue deep inside the woman's anxious, awaiting mouth. Her tongue traced a line along her gums, then felt her teeth, and finally settled beneath Carolyn's tongue. But Carolyn wasn't interested in kissing. Her nails dug sharply into Daphne's ass, pulling it toward the floor. Willingly, Daphne sunk to her knees, not letting her hair fringed fissure separate from Carolyn's.
On their knees, though, Carolyn pushed Daphne on her back and crawled between her obscenely splayed legs. Again, her cunt came to rest on Daphne's, and Carolyn buried her head between Daphne's fleshy mounds, her hand pulling and pinching her distended nipples.
Then Carolyn began to move. She swung one leg over each side of Daphne's torso, and settled her sopping cunt on her belly. Daphne felt the warm stickiness of her lubricant rubbing on her stomach, and a hot itch invaded her own little hole. Carolyn shifted upward, and her cunt now ground against her breastplate. Then, to her shock and surprise, Carolyn rose above her and settled her pussy, her sizzling lips held open with two shiny-wet fingers, over her right breast. With her other hand, she guided the huge, erect nipple of Daphne's breast inside her fleshy cleft, then closed her thighs around her tit.
Daphne latched onto her by the ass, and pulled her cheeks apart as she felt her supersensitive nipple make contact with Daphne's cock-like clitoris. Carolyn moaned, and began to jiggle erotically atop the breast she had captured in her vagina. Daphne stroked her other free breast, closing her eyes and allowing herself to be overwhelmed by sensations. Her cuntal walls shivered, and she knew she had to be satisfied. Wanton arousal overtook her, and she shoved Carolyn off her penis-substitute breast.
"What . . . ? " Carolyn moaned, but Daphne had already straddled herself over Carolyn's face, and she shoved her anguish-ridden cunt against Carolyn's mouth.
Immediately Carolyn extended her tongue, navigating through the tight curls of pussy hair, spreading cunt lips and burrowing deep inside Daphne's warm, wet cavern. It had been a long time since anything had been inside her vagina-and a lot longer since anything had been inside that she wanted there. Her eyes screwed shut as Carolyn's tongue curled around her little, rock-hard clitoris, and began sucking on it. She felt a scream rise in her throat, and she tried to contain it, but there was no control. The scream passed her lips, and she opened her eyes to a world filled with haze and color. Every feeling she had was concentrated in her centimeter-thick clitoris and on her cuntal walls, which were massaged by Carolyn's animated lips.
She looked down, and saw Carolyn's knees were bent and her legs spread. Amazed, she watched as the woman's pussy walls expanded and contracted, the lips quivered visibly, the flesh jumped. Grinding her cunt harder against Carolyn's face, almost suffocating her with her flesh, she dove between Carolyn's milk-white thighs and began licking the liquid from between her pink pussy lips.
When the fluid was gone, she pushed her tongue beyond the lips and inside, seeking more juice. She found it, a lot of it, and she drank deeply of it, like mead from a gauntlet. In her quest for the intoxicating liquor, her tongue flicked occasionally against Carolyn's monstrous clitoris, and each touch of the hard button seemed to make it grow. Her own clitoris was being pulled and rotated inside her with the curl of Carolyn's tongue, and rivers of heat rushed through her body until she exploded, gushing waves of female cum juice over Carolyn's face. As she climaxed, she nibbled unaware on Carolyn's clitoris, which was so big now it stuck slightly out of her pussy. It burst inside her mouth, and she felt it go limp, then she dove back to the pussy and drank away all of the orgasmic residues.
"Baby, but you're good," Carolyn said. Daphne crawled off her and looked at her stretching like a contented cat. Her glorious black hair was a mess of tangles, and she shone from the exertion-sweat over her entire body.
Shocking herself, Daphne realized she had not had enough. She knew she wasn't a lesbian, but she needed more of this now. She rolled Carolyn over on her side and lifted her upper leg.
Carolyn laughed. "Haven't you had enough, Miss Rogers?"
Daphne croaked out, "No."
She slid herself between Carolyn's long, tapering legs, until their raw vulvas were jammed against one another. She lay comfortably on the soft, fleshy inside of Carolyn's thigh, and gyrated her cunt madly against the other's. She squirmed, trying to mash their pussies closer together, and she felt Carolyn's amazing clitoris harden again, and penetrate the sore, red lips of her vagina.
She gasped when Carolyn took hold of her foot and began sucking sensuously on her big toe. The pressure from the flat of Carolyn's gaping hole stimulated her own clitoris, and after thrashing about, locked together, for several minutes, they climaxed together.
Daphne lay on the thigh peacefully, spent. Slowly, her senses returned to her, and a huge red blush rose in her face. Suddenly, she was ashamed. Quickly, she slid off Carolyn and began to dress.
"What's your hurry, darling?" Carolyn asked.
"I. . . I've got work to do." She hooked her stocking to her garter, and began pulling the other one over her leg. She cursed silently to herself when she saw a long run streaking down the lower length of it.
Carolyn sat, then rose and shrugged back into her terry cloth housedress. For an instant, the desire cascaded back into Daphne when she saw the terry-cloth hugging her voluptuous figure.
"Come back any time," Carolyn said. "By the way, I'm sorry I wasn't able to help any more." She went into the living room and poured herself a drink.
Daphne stepped into her shoes and walked out, not saying another word to her brief lover, or even looking at her. She was afraid to look at her, afraid of the lust that would course through her. She was Humiliated by that lust.
She parked her car at her apartment and went upstairs for a long shower that did not wash away as much of the experience as she wished it would. Then she left again, taking a cab into the Capitol.
As the Capitol Dome rose in front of her, she began to feel better. She was back in D.C, back in the thick of politics and back at her task-finding out who is responsible for those damaging leaks.
She realized she was ravenously hungry, and had the cabbie take her to the House cafeteria. She preferred eating there instead of the Senate cafeteria, because she liked avoiding nosy aides of other Senators prying into her boss's doings.
She felt the cabby's eyes watching her swiveling ass as she walked away from the cab, and was grateful for the security of the cafeteria, where hundreds of nameless, faceless Congressmen and assistants and secretaries were stopped for a quick, tasteless bite to eat.
She found a secluded table, and sat down with her tray, which held a limp-looking roast beef sandwich and a glass of milk. She wolfed it down, and was about to leave (where? where do I go from here?) when a hulking figure of a man sat next to her.
"So how's tricks, Daph?" the man said. She looked up at his looming bulk, and saw it was Dan Gore, the president's press secretary.
"Hi, Dan," she said.
"I heard you were on a leave of absence. Nothing serious, I hope."
God, but news travels fast in Washington, she thought. Then it occurred to her: if anybody knew anything about leaks in D.C., it would be the press secretary. "Dan, you must be aware of all the secrets that are being made public in the city," she said.
"Hell," he sputtered, his mouth full of chicken salad. "Everybody's aware of it. It's a fuckin scandal is what it is."
"Confidentially, I'll tell you that I'm trying to find out who's behind it."
He eyed her suspiciously. "Roland know that what you're up to?"
She shook her head. "I'm doing it on my own."
"Good luck," Dan said. He brushed back his drooping curls of red hair and wiped a napkin across his rugged, Irish face. "You already seem to know that one person or group is responsible, but they're real pros. Hard to nail down."
"Can you give me any leads?"
He smiled, and shook his head. "Sorry, Daph." And from his smile, she knew he knew something. The only question was, how to get it out of him.
The answer hit her like a rock. Sex. She tried to dismiss the idea, telling herself it was crude and unnecessary. She refused to go fucking every man and woman-in Washington who might have a clue about this affair.
She watched her chew his sandwich, staring off at the crowd of lunchers in the cafeteria, a sly smile on his lips. Sex was what he wanted; it would be.. . easy.
She steeled herself and reached under the table, caressing his cock through his pants. He stopped chewing, and stopped smiling, but his eyes lit up and she felt his penis-proportionally large to his towering body-stiffen. She sipped her milk as she squeezed his thick, meaty shaft under the table, pulling on it and stroking it.
"What do you know?" she whispered. He said nothing, but his mouth worked in the throes of ecstasy. She kept squeezing, his cock so large now that she had no problem grasping its entire shaft through the material. She was amazed that it continued to grow, then suddenly he closed his eyes and sighed, and she felt her hand turn warm and damp. He had come in his pants.
When he opened his eyes, she asked again, 'Tell me what you know."
"Not much," his voice told her in a weak tone. "Honestly. Just that Greg Stafford over at the Trib is looking into it. Has been for some time."
Daphne smiled. She didn't know Gregory Stafford, but she had read his by-line a hundred times in the Washington Tribune. He was considered by some a muckraker, by others a superb investigative reporter. He had uncovered more scandals in D.C. than most entire newspaper staffs uncover in the entire world. He had twice won the Pulitzer Prize, and was one of the journalistic elite. Next stop, she told herself, the Washington Tribune.
She rose, and Dan grasped her hand. "Look what you did," he said, mock pouting. A dark stain had covered his crotch.
"I would suggest you go home and change," she told him.
"How about if you come with me?"
She shook her head. "I've got work to do." 'Tonight, then? Dinner?"
She smiled, entranced at the new power she held over such a powerful man. "I don't think so, Dan."
She left the table, and walked back out into the muggy Washington summer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Daphne had a bad habit: she was constantly drawing comparisons between her ex-fiance and other men she met. Not sexual comparisons-just a first impression sort of analysis; the way a man's initial impact made her feel, versus the way he had made her feel.
So it was in the city room of the Washington Tribune as she followed the pointed finger of a receptionist across the cavernous room to Greg Stafford. He was hunkered over his typewriter, his white sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His ratty tweed coat hung gracelessly over the back of his swivel chair and his narrow black tie had been yanked loose and the top button of his shirt undone. His hair was disheveled, and he wore a frantic look of deep, urgent concentration.
His hair was sandy brown, and his looks were boyishly handsome, down to the dimples that creased his mouth as he frowned. From his seated position, he appeared to be unexercised, but otherwise in very good shape.
She approached his desk and stood for a few minutes in front of him, waiting to be noticed. Finally she cleared her throat, and he looked up.
She was a knockout, he knew by looking at her, but he didn't have time for any of that. "Look, lady," he said, "I'm very busy and I don't need any Avon products."
"My name's Daphne Rogers, Mr. Stafford, and I work for Senator Will Roland."
That caught his interest. He pulled out the chair beside his desk and invited her to sit down. He couldn't help following the sturdy outline of her figure as she sat, his gaze ending at her smooth, sexy knees. "What can I do for you?"
"I think perhaps we can do something for each other. I'm trying to find out who's behind all the leaks that have been going on."
Stafford nearly jerked out of his chair. When he recovered himself, he stood and asked her to follow him.
She walked behind him as he led her to the vacant city editor's office, and closed the door. .
"Isn't that a little heavy for a pretty lady like yourself.' You realize you're probably dealing with some pretty rough customers."
"I figured that much out," she said. "I was hoping we could work together."
"Maybe," Stafford said, calculating the plusses and minuses. "First, tell me what you know. Like, for instance, how did you find out I was working on the story? I've tried to keep that a secret."
She could find no harm in telling him, so she said, 'There's a press secretary out there with loose lips."
"Not usually," Stafford counted. "What did you give him to make him talk?"
Daphne smiled. "I just scratched his back."
Stafford smiled back, and she liked his smile. It was warm and intelligent and honest. "I like you, Daphne," he said. "What else have you got."
"Off the record?" she said.
"Agreed."
She told him about Congressman Whitlock, and his connection with Senator Roland. She told him about Whitlock's business, but left out what she already knew about Rutledge. She figured he already knew more than she about that.
"Whitlock, eh? He's a real goer, you know, very popular in political circles. Maybe we should talk to his wife. She's a regular D.C. socialite, isn't she?"
"I.. . already talked to her," Daphne said, trying not to show her discomfort with the subject. "She doesn't know anything."
"All right, then. Who would want to nail Whitlock, and why?"
Daphne stared at him, confused. "Listen, people don't go around leaking confidential information for recreation," he said. "There's got to be a reason."
"Money," Daphne said. "They told him they'd keep quiet if he paid up."
Stafford drummed his fingers on the city editor's desk. "That's a new twist," he said. "All the other leaks have been done to ruin careers, not make a buck. Maybe it's not related."
"Maybe it is," she said.
He drummed his fingers some more. "All right, Daphne, you're in. I know this guy who's pretty tight with Whitlock and a couple other members of the liberal wing. I think we should go have a chat with him."
Daphne grinned. Now she was getting somewhere.
Stafford, two-time Pulitzer winner, drove a shabby Fiat down the streets of D.C. and out into the woods. After a few minutes, he turned down a bumpy dirt road that wound up to a stately two-story house surrounded by an electronic fence. Stafford pulled up to a two-way speaker, and announced himself. The gate swung open automatically, and the Fiat sputtered up to the front door of the house.
Daphne followed him up the marble steps, and waited with him for the door to open. When it did, she was confronted by a monster of a man, close to seven feet tall and weighing perhaps 300 pounds, all of it rock-hard muscle. He was definitely an Arab.
"Mr. Stafford," the man said, "how nice to see you. Mr. Hassan is unfortunately indisposed at the moment, but he asks you to wait in the drawing room."
Stafford grinned widely for some reason, and led Daphne to a large room with a stone fireplace and walls lined with thousands of books.
"Mr. Hassan lives well," he told her after the hulking servant had closed the door, leaving them alone.
"Apparently. Why are you so happy to be in this room?"
"Come on. I'll show you."
On a far wall, between two lavish, rosewood bookshelves, hung a curtain. "Two-way mirror," Stafford said, pulling the chord on the curtain. "Hassan knows I'm here, and he knows I'll be watching." He laughed. "Hassan likes to be watched. He's a real performer."
Their view through the mirror was crystal-clear. Hassan was the only man in the room, a short, muscular fellow with a rich Arab coloring to his skin-all of it, Daphne could see, because he was naked.
So were the three women that worked on him. He lay on several floor pillows covered in satin, spread out on his side. One of the woman, a black girl with chocolate-colored skin, had Hassan's thick, blood engorged member in her mouth, and Daphne's eyes widened as she saw just how thick it was. She could see it protruding through the girl's cheeks, and her mouth worked with serious concentration on the cock. Another girl, this one a white girl of Amazon proportions, straddled Hassan's face, and Daphne could see his mouth working vigorously on her sopping cunt as she gyrated, stroked her breasts and moaned above him. He was gripping her ass with his chubby fists, and his long index finger had vanished deep inside her puckered anus.
The third girl, Oriental, lay behind him, her tongue wedging up inside Hassan's own asshole.
Daphne turned away. "Wait," Stafford said. "You've got to see the finale. Always the same. Arabs have bizarre sex habits, you know."
"No," Daphne said hoarsely. "I didn't."
After a minute, Hassan suddenly jerked his face away from the pussy on which he had been dining, and pushed the lips away that had been feasting on his cock. He rolled over on his back, pulling his wet, tongue-worked rectum away from the tongue that had been there.
The black girl, who was blessed with monstrously large tits that sagged just a little of their own weight, but still stood firm and erect, lay on her back, although nobody had said a thing.
Hassan straddled her belly, and eased his rigid, veined cock past her breastplate and through the cleavage of her two massive fleshy mounds. She pressed her breasts together, trapping the cock there, and Hassan began the first of many slow, luxurious thrusts that saw his cock-head poke through near her chin, then withdraw slowly back to her breastplate.
Meanwhile, the Oriental girl settled her sopping cunt over the black woman's face, and rested on her knees, her eyes closed and her tongue licking her lips as her pussy was eaten expertly. The white Amazon positioned herself between the black's quivering knees, and went to work on her pussy.
Everything inside Daphne told her to turn her back, but she couldn't. She was enthralled, and deep inside herself, she wished she was the Amazon eating the black girl's beautiful, shiny pussy.
Hassan bellowed suddenly, and a jet of white hot cum burst from his penis-hole, leaving its wake on the huge black breasts and splattering violently against the belly of the Oriental. The black girl shivered, trapping the Amazon's head between her chocolate thighs, and the Oriental, an agonized look of orgasm masking her face, reached in front of her and grabbed the black's tits in the tightest fist she could make; the hugely erect nipples protruded between her taut fingers.
They all fell back limp, and Hassan looked at the mirror and through his exhausted expression, he smiled.
Stafford smiled back. Then the room went dark. A few minutes later Hassan, wearing an expensive silk smoking robe, came into the study through the same doors Daphne and Stafford had passed. His hand was extended in welcome.
"Ah, my dear Gregory, and how are you? And who, may I ask, is this vision of beauty?"
Stafford took Hassan's hand and shook it congenially. "I'm fine, you old goat. And so are you, I see." He jerked his head in the direction of the two-way mirror, which he had recovered with the curtain.
"This is Daphne Rogers, a friend of mine. We're working on a story together."
Daphne started. It hadn't even occurred to her that her assistance in this matter would aid Stafford in his story, and possibly another Pulitzer. She suddenly wondered if she had made the right decision coming to him for help.
"Miss Rogers," Hassan said, grasping her hand in both of his. His palms were moist and warm, and Daphne felt distinctly uncomfortable. "A true pleasure. You would be a most welcome addition to my harem."
Daphne bristled, but Stafford patted her shoulder and whispered, "It's a compliment. Thank the man."
Gutting it up, Daphne said, "I'm honored."
Hassan smiled widely, showing brilliant white teeth marred by many gold caps. "Now, my friends. May I pour you some wine?"
He poured a sparkling, clear white wine from a crystal carafe, and handed out glasses brimming with the fluid. They drank, and Stafford praised Hassan on his excellent taste in liquors. Only when their glasses had been drained and refilled did Hassan ask them about their business.
"This story of yours, Gregory. I imagine I can be of some assistance?"
"I don't know. Right now, though, you're the only lead I have. You do have the uncanny knack of knowing what's going on in this town."
Hassan grinned nastily. "I make it my business." He looked to Daphne. "Perhaps you would like to tour my humble home?"
Daphne started to say no, she was here on work, but Stafford pulled her aside brusquely and whispered to her: "Take a tour. Arabs don't talk business in front of women, and besides, you might find something out that I can't learn in here."
She nodded, even though she believed the wool was being pulled over her eyes. Again, she gritted her teeth and said, "I'd be honored."
Hassan clapped his hands, and the Oriental girl Daphne had seen through the two-way mirror entered the room. "My dear," Hassan said to her. "Miss Rogers would be most interested in a guided tour of our humble residence. Would you be good enough to show her around?"
The Oriental girl bowed deeply, took Daphne's hand and led her out. Daphne strained to hear any words that might pass between Hassan and Stafford, but they remained silent until the thick double doors were closed behind her.
Reluctantly, she followed the girl up a winding staircase, down an ornate hallway. 'This is your first visit here?" the girl asked in perfect but accented English.
"Yes," Daphne said.
"My name is Kim."
Daphne told her her name. "Exactly what is it Mr. Hassan does?" she asked.
"He is a man of business," Kim said coyly. "What is your work?"
Daphne realized the Oriental was playing an inscrutable game, and decided to play along. "I find things out. And you?"
Kim batted her lush eyelashes, and looked at the floor, where her dainty feet padded along the expensive antique carpeting that ran the length of the hallway. "Ever since I was a little girl, I have been trained to satisfy the desires of men. Important men."
"Mr. Hassan is important?"
"You are very clever, Miss Rogers," Kim said. 'This is my master's bedroom." She pushed open a finely-polished rosewood door, to reveal an ornate bedroom done in whorehouse red velvet. Expensive but tacky, Daphne thought.
They wandered about the room, Daphne fingering antique pieces and putting them back where she found them without interest.
"Have you always been with Mr. Hassan?" Daphne asked after they left the room, headed for the sauna.
"No," Kim said, unhappiness filling her delicate, trained voice. She said nothing more.
"Then you worked for some other important man before you fell into Mr. Hassan's employ?"
"No, madam," she said. "I worked for an important man several months ago, but he retired and returned to his native country. Since I had no money, I had to take other employment."
"Where?"
"I am sorry, madam. I am not permitted to speak of it." She pushed the door to the sauna open and they were greeted by a tall, dark Arab whose body rippled from oft-exercised muscles. "This is Rumak, and he is Mr. Hassan's personal masseuse. Perhaps you would be interested in a massage?"
"I don't think so," Daphne said.
"You wouldn't object if I availed myself of Rumak's special services?"
Perturbed, Daphne said, "Of course not."
Kim wore a loose-fitting Oriental robe, and she tugged gently at the sash that held it together. It fell daintily to her ankles, leaving her naked. Daphne had to concentrate to keep from gazing at her ripe, small body. Her experience with Carolyn still fresh in her mind, she felt her mouth go dry, the moisture instead replenishing itself in her tight pussy. She pressed her thighs together.
Kim stretched luxuriously on Rumak's massage table, and the hefty Arab began expertly massaging her shoulders. "He is most excellent at the art of massage. You must give it a try." Kim hesitated, then asked, "Am I not beautiful?"
Daphne was unprepared for the query, but responded instinctively. "Yes. Very beautiful."
"You, also, Miss Rogers, although you remain encumbered by your clothing. Won't you undress?"
She thought about refusing, but remembered her primary objective was information. Still, she was uncomfortable. Kim noticed her looking at Rumak. "Oh, don't worry about him," she said with a flowery laugh. "He is most accustomed to the sight of unclothed women." Daphne looked at Rumak, but he continued to concentrate on Kim, having moved his hands' now to the small of her back, which he chopped at with his raw, powerful hands.
Daphne thought about her boss, about Rutledge and Whitlock, and about Greg Stafford. She had to find out what she could. Shaking slightly from nerves, she shed her clothes.
"Yes," Kim said, her eyes drinking in Daphne's form, her rosy tongue-tip tasting her own lips. "You are indeed more lovely than I thought."
My God, Daphne thought. She's lesbian, just like Carolyn. And then a thought popped into her mind that was new to her. She could use that.
She stepped closer to Kim, close enough for Kim to smell the musk of the fluid that had flooded her itchy cunt. "Where did you work before, Kim?" she asked.
The Oriental's voice had begun to shudder with excitement, but long years of training prevented her from speaking that which she had been forbidden to speak. "I cannot," she said.
Daphne inched closer. The tight silky curls of her pubic hair brushed against the end of Kim's nose. "You can tell me."
Through a gasp, Kim said, "I am sorry."
Daphne's mind raced as she re-evaluated her strategy. She looked up and her eyes widened. Rumak had parted his own robe, and it hung from his shoulders and over his side. Muscles rose from beneath the skin of his smooth, tanned chest. It sloped down to a flat belly, under which lay the largest cock Daphne had ever seen. It jerked and quivered, the thick, brown crown of it pointing upward, over Kim's head, at Daphne. It was mapped with thick veins that pulsated, making the prick like a living being of its own. The shiny surface thickened immensely as the shaft got closer to the thick, impenetrable mound of hair. And beneath that, Daphne watched the two huge testicles swinging free and limp.
"What is it?" Kim had looked up and seen Daphne's expression. She had no time to answer. Rumak roughly spread Kim's legs with his meat-like hands, and holding his cock in his fist, he drove it into Kim's tight, rubbery asshole.
Kim's face contorted with agony, her mouth opened and she gulped down a lungful of air. Her eyes screwed shut, but she held back the scream that was obviously welled up inside her. Daphne watched amazed as Rumak forced the length of his swollen shaft deeper into Kim's violated anus. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes. Then her face calmed, and then a gentle smile could be traced on her lips.
Rumak withdrew his erect penis, and Daphne was amazed again at its size. And this time when the massive masseuse thrust inward, burying the erect member back into Kim, the Oriental girl moaned with pleasure.
Daphne was sure she had heard wrong, but Kim moaned again as Rumak shoved his cock in and out of her, his heavy balls slapping against her lubricated cunt.
Daphne started when she felt Kim's hands on her hips. Kim was holding her, trying to pull her close, her mouth open and her tongue extended in anticipation of contact with Daphne's pussy.
Daphne resisted, but did not pull away. Kim's hands continued to dig into her.
"Where?" Daphne said.
Kim looked up at her, her tongue wagging in desperation to reach her pussy, her eyes filled with confusion. "Where did you work?" Daphne said.
Her pussy hairs continued to brush and caress Kim's nose, and her cunt was so filled with feminine fluids the scent would surely drive the girl insane. And Rumak was now pumping her contracted rectum with the speed and power of a jackhammer, mercilessly pounding into her, his paws covering her ass and squeezing them like dough.
"I.. . ah . . . worked for a whorehouse. Ohhh!" She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her head between her arms and Rumak's sex ripped at her.
"What about it?" Daphne said, keeping her vagina hairs-breadth from Kim's head.
"Exclusive, mmph . . . only government men. Very . . . ah . . very private."
"Where?" Daphne demanded. Kim told her. Daphne thrust her hips forward, and Kim immediately wrapped her hands around her cheeks and began eating her, using long quivers of her lips and deep strokes with her exquisite tongue.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a shiver swept her body, inside and out, and she realized she was near orgasm. Kim's expert lips had trapped her tiny clitoris, and she was rolling it between her lips and flicking at it from inside her mouth with her tongue. Daphne felt her body filling with heat, and with itch, and then she burst, the warmth spilling within and without her, scattering her mind into a million different orgasm-filled places.
The sight of Daphne's orgasm sent shivers of excitement through the stiff spear of Rumak's cock, and his testicles bloated, then drained their sticky cargo through his shaft and into Kim's asshole. It gushed, gallons of it, so it seemed, and spilled out from the spaces between cock and anus. Kim's body contorted in its own climax, but still she did not cry out.
Later, as they lay spent in the sauna, Rumak having disappeared, Kim told Daphne about the whorehouse. The secrecy was simple: if it was ever even hinted at that a whorehouse operated within a short distance from D.C. that catered specifically to government officials of power and influence, it would create the biggest scandal in U.S. history.
"Yeah," Daphne said. "It would make Watergate look like a kid stealing candy from the dime store."
Not to mention Congressman Whitlock, she thought.
Then it clicked. It fell into place like a ball in a cone, spinning around and around until it dropped easily, effortlessly into the hole. Whitlock had a secret he wanted kept secret. But he also had a weakness. Whores. Carolyn Whitlock had told her. Her husband had loved to go whoring.
"Excuse me," Daphne mumbled, and quickly toweled the sweat from her body, and dressed.
"Have I offended you?" Kim said. Daphne looked longingly down at her.
"No," she said, bent and kissed her lightly. Then she ran, recalling the route that had brought her to the sauna. She passed the bedroom, found the stairs and bounded down them. Then she calmed herself, waiting until her breath was steady and slow. Then she opened the double doors to the study.
Hassan and Stafford were sitting, holding empty glasses and chatting. "Ah, Miss Rogers," Hassan said. "You have enjoyed your tour?"
Daphne smiled. "Very much," she said. In more ways than one.
Gregory rose, putting his glass down and taking Hassan's hand. "We were just finishing our talk," he said. "Your timing couldn't have been better." He turned to Hassan. "Thank you, old friend."
"I am only sorry I could not have been of more assistance."
"Next time," Stafford said. They shook hands, and Gregory guided Daphne out into the foyer, and then outside.
"Nothing," he said as soon as they were alone. "I've got something," Daphne said. "You did? What?"
She told him. He remained silent as he started the car, and guided it out of the Arab's expansive property. Once they were out on the road, he said, "It's not much."
Daphne frowned, feeling deflated.
"But it's something," he said. "Now all we've got to do is tie it in to somebody else."
"It's too bad Senator Rutledge is dead," she said.
Then Stafford smiled. "Rutledge. I think I can find out about old Senator Rutledge."
CHAPTER FIVE
Greg marched confidently up the steps of the Senate Office Building where Senator Winston Rutledge had been quartered. Several people who knew him nodded or said good morning, and he acknowledged them in kind. He let himself be searched, then walked along the yellowing hallway to the bank of elevators, pushed the button on the one marked "Senators Only", and waited.
The bell rang and the door slipped open, and Greg stepped in. None of the three senators inside contested his presence; two greeted him, and asked what was new on the Tribune. The car stopped on the third floor, and Greg left, walked past the meeting hall of the Senate Finance Committee, and found the polished oak door that bore the name of the late Senator Rutledge.
Inside, Rutledge's staff was busily packing things, sorting through papers, emptying file cabinets, directing the moving of furniture. Through this maze of confusion Stafford walked, waiting for kneeling people to stand so he could see them.
Finally, he found who he had come for. He recognized her by her ass, as he was certain he could. It was round and firm, hugged tightly by designer jeans.
"Pants in the office?" he said. The girl stood up, all six-foot-two-inches of her, and she smiled.
"Greg!" she said. "Moving day. We're out of business, you know."
"So what are you going to do next?" Greg said.
She shrugged. "I haven't thought that far ahead, to tell the truth. What brings you around?"
Greg found a clear spot on the edge of a desk and sat on it, his arms crossed. "I'm sure you've been hearing about all the leaks in Washington lately."
"Ha," she said, tossing her sculptured face back to laugh. Her long, thin red hair danced with the motion, catching the light and holding it. "Who hasn't?"
"What nobody's heard is that Senator Rutledge may have been somehow involved. Beyond the leakage of his deal with the Arabs, I mean."
That stopped her cold. Sharon Redding had been Rutledge's top legislative aide and close confidant. She had known about the deal with the Arabs, and had advised him against it, but she wasn't aware that there was anything else to know. She looked around, and noticed that although the rest of the office staff remained busy at their tasks, the level of talk had dropped off considerably. They were listening.
"Come with me," she said, and he followed her into Rutledge's private sanctum, which had as yet been untouched by the movers. She closed the door, took him by the shoulders, bent down and kissed him, mashing her full, red lips against his. He reached around her, delighting in the size of her, and put his hands on her waist. He shivered slightly when he thrust his tongue inside her mouth and she responded with a gasp. The kiss lingered, then ended.
"Where have you been?" she asked breathlessly, still holding him.
"Busy," he said. "It's not easy being the watchdog of America. I've missed you."
"I can tell. We'll get together real soon," he said suggestively. "Right now I need some information."
She pouted. "I thought you were the one with information."
"I am, but I need to tie up some loose ends. You can help."
Her pout dissolved into a smile, the slyest Greg had ever seen. "Maybe," she said.
"Seems there's a whorehouse outside Washington, specializes in relaxing the sexual frustrations of congressmen and senators. I need to know if Rutledge was one of their customers."
Sharon continued to smile. "I know the answer."
"Then tell me," Greg said, his patience wearing thin.
"Make me." Before he could stop her, she had torn off her work shirt, revealing her huge, creamy breasts. He couldn't take his eyes off her nipples, and the three-inch crown that surrounded them. The nipples themselves were erect, arched upward a full half-inch from the chocolate-colored circles around them.
"Come on, Greg. It's been so long." She had unzipped her jeans, and behind the glistening zipper he saw her bare, shaved pussy, the color of milk and the texture of velvet, hiding in the shadows. "Fuck me, Greg, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"Here?"
She was gyrating her hips, grinding her ass against the desk she leaned on, and her eyes were closed. "Come on. Here. Now."
Greg didn't believe in much-it was his cynical nature that led him to the newspaper business, but he did believe in the respect due an official of high office, and fucking a legislative aide in a senator's chambers seemed the height of disrespect, particularly when you considered the senator was only a few days dead.
"You're a stone fox, Sharon," Greg said suavely. "Why me?"
She looked at him, and while she looked, her hand snaked down inside her pants, and she began to lubricate herself in anticipation of the cock she knew she would soon have violating her impatient pussy.
"The only girls in D.C. who don't want you are either blind or old. Don't you know that?"
In fact, he didn't. He had been laid plenty, never having much trouble, but he had never assumed he could have any woman he wanted, just like that. And if it was true, he wondered, what about Daphne. Daphne had taken his insides and turned them out, made his cock ache from the thought of her, and yet she hadn't expressed the slightest interest in him. Not even a hint.
"I'm short of time, Sharon. Can't you just tell me."
"Fuck me."
Now he was mad at her, so mad he felt the anger rising beyond his control inside him. He pounced on her from across the room, pulled her jeans down with a muscular yank, and shoved her back on the desk, scattering some papers and shoving a book over the side. It smacked to the floor.
Her legs were splayed lewdly in front of him, her hairless cunt offering a clear view of the moist folds of pink, living skin inside her vagina. He unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out. It was throbbing and stiff with anger and frustration. He held it straight by the base.
Sharon was in some degree of pain from being folded backward over the desk, but the only sensations she cared about were flooding through her sensitive cunt. "Shove it in, Greg. Shove it in, do it now, now."
He obliged her. With one hand he held the slippery lips of her pussy apart, with the other he steered his hungry cock between them, and then he shoved for all he was worth. Sharon arched her back as the meat filled her until she thought she could take no more, then he shoved another inch inward. He stroked her belly as he pulled out and shoved it in again, and she lifted her ass from the desk to meet the thrust. When he pulled out again, she slapped her butt down again, then hoisted it up to meet his next thrust, burning to take in as much cock as she could and more.
But her position was wrong. There was no friction against her stone-hard clitoris. Easily remedied, she thought, reached down with her middle finger and began to rub it, vibrate it against her exposed clit. That was better. She closed her eyes as sweat popped out on her forehead, and she licked her lips as she worked herself in time with Greg's expert fucking.
"Harder," she whispered urgently. "Shove it in harder, damn you."
Hating her, he rammed against her with the power of a shotgun, and banged her harder than he'd ever banged a girl before. His gigantic thrusts pushed her away from him, sliding her along the desktop, and she had to kick off her shoes and plant her feet in the small of his back, then use the flat of her hands against the desktop to hold her firmly against the surface. The outside skin of her cunt was alive and sending electric shocks up her spine to fill her head, the lack of hair there allowing her to feel the tugs and pulls of Greg's meaty shaft.
Her finger felt her clitoris grow larger, and her breath was coming now in short rasps, and then she was coming, her cunt filled with heat and itch and fiery explosion. Greg was still pumping her when she was finished, and she pulled herself away just before he experienced his own orgasm. His jet of hot juice shot out of him, splattering against her belly and breasts, and some of it leaking between them, spotting some papers on Rutledge's desk.
He watched her rub the cum into her skin luxuriously, and said, "You bitch."
"That's what I'm told," she said, smiling. "God, you're a fantastic fuck."
"Sure, that's why you used your hand."
"It helps in some positions. Mostly it was your cock. You know I'm available to you any time you want me. Any time."
"That's fine. Now about Rutledge."
"That old goat? As far as I know he was completely impotent. At least," she smiled, "that's what he told me when I tried to seduce him."
"You are a bitch."
"I'm your bitch, Greg." Then a funny look crossed her face. She bent down to pull up her jeans. "Strange thing, though. Just before he died, he propositioned Sondra Atkins, our secretary. Out of the blue. She said he looked . . . desperate."
"Men get that way, age or no age. Look, is there anything else?"
She was fully dressed now. "Sorry. Maybe next time." She disappeared back outside, leaving the door open.
Greg realized he was fully exposed to Rutledge's office staff, his pants hugging his ankles, his underwear draped over them, his limp, cunt juice-coated cock dangling in all of its glory. He hoisted his pants up and kicked the door closed, then adjusted his clothes, cursing under his breath.
How could he go back to Daphne, who had found out so much, and tell her all he had uncovered was the fact that Rutledge was an impotent old man with a flash of horniness toward the end of his life?
He noticed his cum on some of the papers on Rutledge's desk, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it away. It left stains after he had cleaned up the white, now-cold globules of semen, but he didn't much care. That could be coffee, or just about anything. Then he stopped. On one piece of paper he was cleaning was written a phone number. No name, no other information, just a hastily scrawled seven-digit number.
It didn't mean anything in particular, but hunches were what made Greg a top reporter. He listened at the door to make certain nobody was coming, then picked up Rutledge's phone and dialed the number.
"Senator Cragg's office," the voice on the other side said. He slammed the phone into its cradle. Cragg! Not exactly one of Greg's best sources of information, but
Lord, did Greg know about that old lecher. It had been Crag who had virtually started the Washington trend of sex and politics. He had been caught with two of his office girls in his office. One had been seated on his face, the other had taken his overused cock up her cunt, and the two girls faced each other, kissed and played with each other's tits.
Nothing had come of it, since the person who had walked in on the session had been his party's whip, and had kept things very quiet. But stories got around, and Greg heard all of them.
And on top of everything, Rutledge and Cragg were from different parties, with drastically opposing viewpoints. Why would Rutledge call Cragg?
He wasn't sure, but he had a hunch. He bolted out of Rutledge's office, nearly tripping over a box stuffed with files that hadn't been there before, recovered himself and hurried out.
"Later, lover," Sharon called after him. Maybe, he thought.
Cragg's office was one flight down from Rutledge's-a lucky break, since Greg didn't feel like going out into Washington's wet heat and running to another office building. He caught the senator's elevator, and ran down the hall to Cragg's office, his heart beating with anticipation of cracking this thing wide open. He felt it, he could taste it. He was so damn close.
Many legislators keep their doors wide open, in deference to the old "open door" policy. Fancy trimmings without a lot of honesty or meaning behind it, Greg thought. Cragg was like that. His door was open, for constituents, lobbyists, visitors to the Capitol, anybody who might want to drop in. Greg wanted to drop in.
The receptionist was on the phone, cradling the instrument against her shoulder, using both her hands to paint her long nails. Greg wondered how many times those long nails had raked Senator Cragg's back during coitus.
She looked up and saw him, but made no move to get off the phone, talking to a girlfriend in some other government office.
"Excuse me," Greg said.
She looked at him, annoyed. "One moment, Mr. Stafford," she said distastefully. Newspaper reporters were not well-liked in Cragg's office.
Greg reached over and pushed the button on the phone, cutting her off from her call. "Listen, sweetheart," he said, "I want to see Cragg and I want to see him now."
She smiled cynically at him, "Senator Cragg isn't in . . . to you, that is."
"I think he is. Because if he isn't.. . " He didn't know if he should play his entire hand here, with the receptionist. What the hell, he thought. Go for broke. ". . .if he isn't, his name will be splashed all over the front page of the evening edition, in connection with an elite whorehouse of which I happen to know he is a regular customer."
It worked. Her mouth was open to reply, but no words came out. Her wet nails drummed her desk nervously. Finally, she hung the phone up and went back into Cragg's private office. Good, Greg thought. I'm on first base, safe on a bunt. Now let's see if I can steal home.
She came back out, not saying a word, but she left Cragg's door open and jerked her head in that direction, indicating he could go in. Second base, he thought. No outs in the inning.
Cragg, a short, compact man with a head full of thick, gray hair, stood behind his desk smiling wide, his hand thrust out. "Greg, old boy. How ya been?"
Greg shook the hand, then settled into one of the seats facing the desk. "Fair, Senator," he said. "And yourself?"
They watched each other in silence for a moment. Then Cragg said, "So, you seem to know about some of my, er, extra-curricular activities."
Error! Greg could have leapt up and kicked his heels. He'd advanced to third on Cragg's stupid blunder. He should have kept his mouth shut and let Greg flounder around. He could have denied everything. Greg contained himself. 'That's right. And I just want the answer to one simple, straightforward question, and I guarantee I'll keep it quiet. At least, I'll keep it quiet assuming nobody else finds out and spreads it all over town."
"Fair enough," Cragg said. "Fire away."
Ninety feet from home plate, Greg thought. "Did
Winston Rutledge call you about that place?"
Cragg's face fell. "I don't know what you're talking about, Greg."
"I know Rutledge was impotent, but I also know he made a pass at his secretary the day he died. I know your office number is scrawled on a pad of paper in his office, and I know his car was coming back from that neck of the woods when he died." Now for his ace in the hole. "And I believe I can tie that whorehouse into the leaks we've been getting."
If Cragg's face fell before, it literally collapsed now. He sunk back into his seat. "That place . . . the leaks . . . are you sure?"
"Almost. But I need to know about Rutledge."
Cragg remained quiet.
"I'll keep your name out of it, Cragg. I swear it."
Cragg sighed. "All right. Yes, Rutledge called me. He knew I frequented the place; it's no secret among us members. He only wanted directions. No harm in that, is there? If the old fart's heart couldn't handle the girls over there, that's not my fault."
"Nobody's blaming you," Greg said. But he was thinking, home run! And the inning was still wide open. "Thank you, Senator." He rose to leave.
'"You'll keep your promise? You'll keep my name out of it?"
"I said I would," Greg said, disgusted. Only in Washington would a man of status like Cragg have to ask for a repeat of a man's word. He left the office.
His fifth cup of coffee was cold, and his ashtray brimmed over with cigarette butts and ashes. Daphne sat across from him, running her fingers slowly through her honey hair. He wished she would stop, because it was making him crazy with sexual stirrings. Sharon had sapped him for the moment, but that had been purely physical-shove it in, rub it and wait for the semen to gush out. He wanted Daphne in a more serious way than that. He wanted all of her, for hours, days, weeks. There was no limit to the scenes his imagination provided. Yet she still displayed no interest in him. She was all business.
"So how do we prove it?" she said as the coffee shop waitress refilled her cup. It was the question they had been mulling over since he had met her there two hours earlier. They hadn't found an answer.
Of course, Greg had an answer. His problem was how to approach her with it. Time was wasting. Every day his deadlines slipped by without a story in the file, and his editor was getting antsy.
"Look," he said. "I've got one idea, but it would involve some . . . sacrifice on your part."
"Name it," she said, her ears perking up.
He shrugged, and lit another cigarette. "You could . . . get yourself a job there."
It took a minute to register on Daphne, then the indignation rose to her face. "You're out of your mind!"
"Maybe, but do you have a better idea? You get inside, you could learn the whole operation. It would be better than hidden cameras and microphones."
"Aren't you forgetting something? Like what I would have to do to keep a job in a whorehouse?"
He dragged on his smoke, and looked into his muddy coffee. "So you'd have to spread your legs for a few politicians. National security is the issue here, not your prudish pride."
That hurt her, and she didn't say anything. After a minute, he said, "I'm so sorry. That was uncalled for."
"No," she said, and his heart skipped a beat. "You're right. You and I are the only ones onto them, and I'm the only one between us who can get inside. I'll do it. For a price."
Greg grinned. "See? You sound like a hooker already."
Daphne didn't think that was funny, but she let it go. "I want to share your by-line when the story breaks."
Now it was Greg's turn to be shocked. "Impossible."
Daphne stood up. "Then I suppose I'm on my own. See you around."
"Wait a minute!" Greg blurted, grabbing her by the wrist. "All right, we'll share the by-line." He had no choice. Without her, he had no inside track to the whorehouse, and he needed it desperately. He hadn't shared a by-line since high school, but he was backed into a corner. "As long as my name goes first."
She smiled and shook her head. "You men are all alike-egomaniacal. I don't care whose name goes first. As long as mine is there, in black and white.
Deal?"
He held out his hand, smiling in his defeat. "Deal." They shook.
CHAPTER SIX
Daphne drove the battered Volkswagen Greg had procured for her to the entrance of the whorehouse. Her entire body shook from nerves, but she had made up her mind. She was a woman, and she would use the equipment God had given women to break this case. She would share a by-line with Pulitzer winner Gregory Stafford, and achieve new heights in her career. Her ex-fianc� would be stunned; her family would stop pressuring her to come home; her friends would no longer see her as a starry-eyed idealist.
She took a deep breath as the doorman yanked open her door. "May I help you, ma'am."
"Yeah," she said in an affected voice, chewing hard on the gum Greg had given her. "I want to see the madam."
"Madam? I'm afraid you've made some sort of mistake."
Daphne laughed. "Cut the crap, friend. I know all about this place, and I'm here for a job. I hear the pay's pretty good, all things considered."
The doorman's face remained impassive, set in stone. 'This is a private residence, ma'am. Perhaps you have the wrong address."
"Cut the crap," she said, the words feeling alien on her lips. "What this is, is the biggest, best whorehouse in the East, with politicians a specialty. You know it, Jeeves, and I know it. So let's just knock off the pussyfooting around."
Still the doorman would not give in. "Perhaps I should get the owner."
Daphne leaned back on the dirty VW and crossed her arms across her breasts. "I think that's a fine idea," she said. The doorman watched her for a moment, indecisive, then disappeared inside.
Daphne stopped jawing her wad of gum and let it sit under her tongue, out of the way. Her heart smashed against her ribs, and the sound echoed in her brain. What would her parents say if they knew what she was doing? She could picture it: Hi, mom, guess what? I just got a job as a whore. No, don't get upset, it's with the best whorehouse around. The doorman reappeared, and she resumed her furious gum-chewing. The doorman was followed by an elderly fellow wearing an expensive-looking smoking jacket. He sucked on an unlit meerschaum pipe, held in one hand. The other hand smoothed out a distinguished gray handlebar moustache. Daphne stood. "I understand there's been a bit of a misunderstanding," the gentleman said in a rich, aristocratic tone.
"No misunderstanding, pal. I want a job here, simple as that."
Daphne rolled her eyes. "We're getting nowhere plenty fast," she said, laying the accent on thick. "We all know what goes on here, but we keep playing these goddam games. I guess if nobody'll even give me the courtesy of an interview, I'll just have to tell someone else about this place."
"Someone else?" the gentleman said.
"Like the Washington Tribune. Christ, I'd bet that Greg Stafford would give his left nut to know about you and your little operation." The gentleman looked concerned with her threat, but made no move to invite her inside. "Have it your way," she said, shrugging, then slipped into the driver's seat.
The old gentleman held the door open. "Wait," he said.
She looked up at him.
"All right," he finally sighed. "You obviously have no doubts about our . . . operation, as you put it.
Certainly, we'll give you an interview. Won't you come in?"
She grinned and smacked her gum. "That's more like it."
She followed him inside, and was awed at the lavishness of the place. It was the same type of building that Hassan owned, but their interior decorators must have been worlds apart. Only the finest of antique furniture and the most exquisite of paintings and carpeting graced the house. No plush velvet or cathouse red, as she had anticipated.
"So this is all yours, huh?" she said.
The man laughed. "Good heavens, no. I'm just an employee. I'm here in case somebody shows up who doesn't belong." Suddenly his accent was gone, and he sounded like anybody else. "It's good, steady work for a dowrt-on-his-luck actor. Jason Laraby's the name."
"Candy Semple's mine," Daphne said. It was the name she and Greg had chosen before she had left his office.
"So where we going?" she asked.
"You wanted an interview? You're going to see the head lady." She walked upstairs dogging his footsteps, and then through a tall set of double doors. When she looked behind her, Laraby was gone. Before her, one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen sat behind a Louis XIV desk. She was middle-aged, and had taken no pains to cover it up. Still, she had smooth skin, a firm body, and soft silvery hair.
"Miss Semple," she said, and Daphne wondered suspiciously how she had learned her alias name so quickly. "I'm Jennifer Diamond. Won't you please sit down?"
Daphne settled into a chair and crossed her legs. She wore a short skirt Greg had chosen for her, short enough to display her long, tapering legs, but not so short as to make her look cheap. Like Greg had said, this was a high-class place.
"You're looking for a position." Jennifer's words were more a statement than a question.
Daphne said she was.
"Experience?" Daphne was nervous. Jennifer was a professional, and she was treating this exchange in a purely business manner.
"I ran away from home when I was sixteen. I went to Hollywood, and turned tricks on the street for a while. It wasn't any fun."
Jennifer examined her closely. "Go on."
Daphne struggled through her anxiety to remember the story she and Greg had concocted. "I never wanted to get involved with those Hollywood pimps, so I asked all my tricks if they knew of a house in the area. Most of them were bums or bored husbands, a lot of them picking up some fun for the first time. It took about a month, but I finally found a guy who knew an outcall service. I hooked up with them, then I got traded to a house in Kansas City."
"Traded?"
"Yeah, funny, isn't it? Hookers operate a lot like sports. My main lady saw a girl in K.C. she wanted in her house, and traded me for her. It was in K.C. that I met Kim."
Jennifer's eyes widened. "Kim?"
"Yeah. She left about a month after I got there, but God knows why. It was a prime place. Easy hours, top pay, good food, and a room of your own. I'da never left if the cops hadn't shut it down."
"And Kim told you about us?"
"Sure. She and I were good friends. When we were put out of business, I called her. She said she was working for some Arab in a private harem or something. How about that? Anyway, she said she'd just left a good job, and since she knew I was one of the best, she figured I wouldn't have any trouble getting a job here."
Jennifer considered the story. "I want the phone number of your madam in Hollywood," she said.
Daphne's heart leapt into her throat. But she opened her purse and fished a number out, and handed it to Jennifer. She picked up her princess phone and dialed it. Daphne bit her lower lip, and waited.
Greg Stafford's phone rang, and he waved his arms frantically in an effort to quiet down the city room. After a second, there was silence, and he picked up the phone. "Outcall," he said.
The soft, feminine voice on the other end asked for Miss Cronin, and Greg said, "One moment please." He waved at Lois Payne, one of the paper's reporters, and she picked up his line.
"Cindy Cronin," she said.
"Good afternoon, Miss Cronin," Jennifer said. "I'm calling to check the references of one of your girls. Candy Semple."
"Candy, of course. She was very lucky to get away from Kansas City without landing in jail. May I ask who is calling?"
"I'd rather not mention names, Miss Cronin; our house here is very secret. But it is top-notch."
"I would assume so," Lois said. "Candy was one of our very best. I hated to trade her, but I absolutely had to have a skilled Creole. There's a big demand for Creoles in Los Angeles, but so few are available."
"I understand. Thank you for your time, Miss Cronin."
"Any time. And tell Candy I said hello, would you please?"
She hung up, and Greg, who had been listening on his own line, hung up too. He smiled, walked to Lois' desk and planted a huge kiss on her cheek. "Fantastic," he said.
The city room buzzed once again with its usual noises. "Just one question," Lois said. "That was supposed to be Hollywood. How did you fix it so she'd dial a California area code and get the Trib here in Washington?"
"Cross-channeling, sweetheart. I've got friends at the phone company."
Lois shook her head. "The great Greg Stafford has friends everywhere," she sneered, half-kidding and half-serious.
Jennifer hung her phone up and looked at Daphne with a little more belief, a little more admiration. "You do come highly recommended."
Daphne contained the sigh of relief she felt building up inside her, and merely smiled back with an I-told-you-so look.
"Still, we have to test you."
The confidence Jennifer's phone call to the Trib had instilled in her vanished suddenly, replaced by a cold fear like a fist up inside her vagina squeezing, pulling at her. "What kind of test?"
"To see if you measure up to our high standards," Jennifer said matter-of-factly. "As a working girl, I'm sure you have no objections."
She could think of several, but said only, "Of course not."
Jennifer pushed a button on her desk, and the actor Laraby entered. "Laraby," Jennifer said, "go get Paul, would you please?"
Laraby nodded, and closed the door behind him. "Paul Winter is our resident.. . I guess you'd call him our resident man. He does odd jobs, and occasionally takes care of our guests who have a preference for other men. Oh, and we have a rare visit from a female politician. Paul swings expertly both ways."
Daphne swallowed hard, and tried to make her head stop spinning with this new complication. She managed to force an expression of casualness, and said, "We'll see."
Jennifer lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, then smoked in thought as they waited. In a minute there came a knock on the door, and Jennifer shouted for him to come in.
Daphne's trepidation left her. Paul Winter was tall, blonde and bronzed. He came in shirtless, and Daphne felt a twinge of excitement flash through her. He had no hair on his chest, and his muscles were firm and solid, resembling the surfers she had seen once in California. His work pants, dirty at the knees from gardening or some other labor, hugging his legs, and his ass jutted sharply and roundly out. She wasn't aware of it, but her female juices had already started to squeeze forth from their sources, lubricating the inner walls of her cunt.
"Paul," Jennifer said, "this is Candy Semple. Would you be so good as to take her?"
Daphne whipped her head around. "Right here?"
Jennifer looked tired. "A working girl can perform anywhere."
Daphne smiled, excited now at the prospect of balling this tanned god in front of such a lovely woman as Jennifer. She looked up at Paul and said, "Well?"
Paul grinned, exposing a row of perfect white teeth. He grabbed Daphne by the shoulders and hauled her out of the chair, and shoved her up against the wall.
"Now, now, Paul. Not too rough. She may become house merchandise very shortly."
But Paul wasn't listening. He had shoved her hard against the wall, and smashed his mouth against hers so hard her teeth hurt. She felt his hand crawl under her dress, grab onto her panties and a small clump of her velvety pubic hair, and yank it. The panties ripped clean off, and she stifled a cry as the hairs came out with it. Then his hand was cupping her vulva, and one of his thick, meaty fingers had penetrated her shivering lips and dug deep into her pussy.
She bit hard on her lip as the finger burrowed deep into her, then hit the roof of her sopping vagina. She closed her mouth on his ear and let the tip of her tongue dart in and out, while she breathed hot breath into it. She remembered Jennifer's word, PERFORM, and her hand slipped down between Paul's legs, and as she began whispering to him, she unzipped his pants.
"Baby, I can't wait to latch onto your cock," she whispered throatily, her breath flooding his ear and sending waves of little quakes along his back. "Don't you want to put it between my lips, and feel my tongue underneath it. I have a fantastic tongue." Just then, she grabbed his exposed cock, standing like a flagpole out of his pants, and squeezed for all she was worth. He moaned loudly, and relaxed his grip on her. Score one for me, she thought.
"Baby, fuck me. Fuck me right here against the wall, standing up. Come on, muscle man, fuck me hard, hard!"
Paul put his hands beneath her ass, under her skirt, and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held onto his pulsating erection, pointing it toward her gaping, spread pussy. It occurred to her this was the first man she would have screwed in her quest to find out who was behind the leaks, but it didn't bother her in the least. It would-or might-have bothered her if it had been somebody else, but this was a man she wanted, instinctively, as a woman. His rigid cock head plunged into her, pushing away the folds of sensitive skin and driving deep.
She felt air driven from her as he pumped her, piston-like thrusts slamming into her, his rock-hard cock, swollen to a two-inch diameter pulling at her clitoris. Her nails raked his bare back, and she felt the slow, warm trickle of blood from her scratching. "Oh, just like that, only harder, faster," she whispered, licked inside his ear and bit his earlobe. He responded by increasing the tempo of his thrusts, and she heard him moan as she tightened the grip her legs had on his waist, pulling him even deeper into her. The solid head of his strong prick banged against her cervix, and she chewed on her lip.
The most incredible feeling wasn't from his cock, though. It was his strong, calloused hands holding her up, cupping both of her cheeks and squeezing them like so much bread dough. He held her entire ass in his massive paws, and she whispered, "Put a finger up my ass. C'mon, Paul baby, do it, do it."
She felt him shiver, and in the next instant his finger was burrowing up her rubbery rectum, and the combination of finger and cock almost lifted her out of his hands, suspended by sheer friction from fucking. She thought his finger was amazingly thick, as thick as her ex-fiance's entire cock, and she closed her eyes and pushed against Paul in rhythm with his strokes. He moaned and shivered again, and Daphne opened her eyes.
Jennifer was watching them with intent interest, and her own hand had disappeared under the desk, between her legs. She sweated on her forehead, her eyes were only partly open, and her ample breasts rose and fell in tempo with her raspy, excited breathing.
Paul's finger dug deeper into her asshole, too deep, and Daphne screwed her eyes shut to hold the tears back. His grip tightened on her ass, and she knew he was coming. He began moaning regularly, "Ahhh, ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh.. . " and then he came, smashing her brutally against the wall as he wrung every last possible drop of cum from his bloated dick. Just before he finished, he pulled his finger suddenly from her anus, and the sensation brought her to her own stunning climax. They slumped, still locked together, to the floor.
When Paul had recovered, he withdrew his limp, slimy penis and stood, pulling his pants up. He looked impassively at Jennifer.
"Well?" she said, even though she had induced her own orgasm with her vibrating finger at the mere sight of Daphne's proficient performance.
Paul grinned. "Give her an eight."
"Thank you, Paul," she said, and Paul nodded curtly and left the room. "You should be flattered," she said to Daphne, who sat against the wall, her skirt still hiked up around her waist and her wet, cum-stained pussy lewdly exposed. "Paul has only given one other eight, and only one nine."
"Who got the nine?" Daphne said.
"I did," Jennifer said. "You've got the job."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jennifer, seeming immensely pleased with herself, showed Daphne to her room. It was up a winding staircase and down a long corridor, on either side of which was a long row of doors.
"Will any Johns be up today?" she asked, smacking on a fresh wad of gum.
Jennifer looked at her sharply. "We refer to them as clients here, Candy. You'll find we're the very highest of the upper echelon in our profession. Rule number one is that our clients are treated with the utmost respect; they are dignified men in lofty positions, and they warrant consideration. Anything they want, you give them with a smile. If you don't enjoy it, you'll damn well act as if you do. Understand?"
"Sure, no sweat," Daphne said. "Uhm . . . we never did discuss pay."
"You get room and board, since our girls live here. Plus six hundred dollars a week."
Daphne didn't know which statement to comment on first. Six hundred dollars a week was much more than she had ever earned-ever hoped to earn-in a legitimate job. And if she had to live at the house, how could she communicate with Greg? She weighed them in her mind, and decided to laud the high pay first, in order to avoid any suspicion.
"Yes," Jennifer said, "we pay very well. We feel our girls deserve it. And, considering what we charge our clients, we can easily afford it."
"I guess I'll have to go back to town and.. . check out of my motel," she said, relieved that she escaped her near-slip of the tongue and avoided telling Jennifer that she would move out of her apartment. Girls just in from New Orleans don't have apartments.
"That would be a good idea," Jennifer said. "You can do that tomorrow. You can park your car in the stables behind the estate."
"What about time off?" she asked off-handedly. "Gotta have time to spend all that money."
"Our girls get three days a week, plus any emergency time they need. You may be a hooker, dear, but in this house you're treated like any regular employee. We even give vacations."
That was good. "What days do I get?"
"Weekends are a privilege of girls who have been here a while. You can have Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Does that suit you?"
'That'll be fine," she said, but she thought it would be fantastic. Three entire solid weekdays to do other work on this case, to meet with Greg, to compare notes and exchange information.
Jennifer opened one of the doors in the corridor and ushered Daphne in. The room took her breath away. Lavishly decorated with stunning examples of antique furniture, it was without a doubt the most beautiful room she had ever seen. The centerpiece, of course, was the bed, a massive king-size feather bed with posters and a canopy. Suspended from the canopy above the bed was a full-length mirror; another mirror hung from the wall beside the bed. Both mirrors had drapes surrounding them. "Some of our clients like them, some don't. Keep the curtains drawn," Jennifer said. "If your client wants to use the mirror, uncover them."
Daphne nodded, and followed Jennifer around as she was shown the rest of the room. When she was finished, she said, "You have access to the living room and drawing room downstairs, as well as the library here upstairs, and the kitchen downstairs, which is well-stocked with snacks. Meals are served at 9 a.m., noon and 7 p.m. in the dining room. There's a patio and sundeck, as well as a swimming pool outside. If you like to ride horses and you have no appointments, you're welcome to use the stables. Any questions?"
"Nope," Daphne aid. "Sounds like the ideal arrangement."
"We think it is," Jennifer said. "And, by the way, Candy: please try to clean up your grammar and vocabulary a bit. Our clients do like a sophisticated class of girl."
Daphne smiled, holding back a burst of angry words, and said, "I'll do my best."
"I'm sure you'll work out fine. If you have any questions, you can reach me on the house phone at extension one." Then she turned and left the room.
Daphne lay on the feather bed for a while, enjoying its soft, bouncy feeling. She watched television, took a shower, then walked through the house and grounds, which seemed all but deserted. At seven, she found her way to the dining room, where a dozen girls were congregated for their evening meal. Daphne was stunned by their beauty and grace. She sat beside a black girl, over six feet tall with a massive Afro hairstyle. Her name was Gloria, she said, and Daphne learned during the course of the meal that Gloria spoke three languages, and had a master's degree in civil engineering.
Jennifer was nowhere to be seen. "Jennifer doesn't eat with the working girls," Gloria said. "She and her associates have a private dining room upstairs."
Daphne was also impressed by the meal: filet mignon, cooked vegetables, a fresh avocado salad, three kinds of wine and a mousse for dessert.
Stuffed to the point of bursting, she and Gloria went upstairs. Just as she was about to enter her room, a gentle buzzing sound went off. "What in the world was that?" she asked.
"Cattle call," Gloria said. "Slip into something sexy and meet me out here. I'll show you the ropes."
Daphne went into her room and rummaged through her bureau until she found something she liked. It was a nightie, its hem cutting across just below her pussy. If she raised her arms, the nightgown would lift up over her navel. It was white lace, and sheer, so her alabaster orb-like breasts would be clearly visible through it, yet covered enough to be sensual and mysterious.
She undressed, and while she was naked, she studied herself in the mirror beside the bed. She didn't think she had the assets of the other girls, but she was very attractive, and, if Paul was any judge, she was one hell of a good fuck. The thought turned her cold for an instant, as she recalled her life before undertaking this assignment, and her life before coming to Washington. She forced the remembrances aside, and slipped into the nightie, then stepped into a pair of spiked shoes. Then she surveyed herself again. Something any man would want, she thought.
She put a robe on over the nightie, and stepped into the hall.
Gloria was already there, and the change in her amazed Daphne. She wore a long, black, silk nightgown, translucent only at her huge breasts and bushy cunt. The gown opened just below her pussy and revealed deliciously long, tapering legs. She wore platform shoes that added five inches to her height, and she had painted African-like designs around her eyes. "Some men like my type," she said good-naturedly, "and some like yours. Come on."
Daphne followed Gloria downstairs and along a shadowy corridor into a small waiting room, containing three couches, a television and a few pictures on the walls. The other girls were also there, dressed in a variety of seductive ways. They sat on the couches while the television flickered a silent picture. They chatted idly about this and that. Then a bell rang, and one of the girls stood and left the room through a door on the other side.
"She's on display. You walk into the display room, show the client what you've got, then come back here. He makes his choice, and Jennifer will let us know who it is. Got it?"
"Got it," Daphne said.
The first girl returned, smiling broadly, and the next went out. When the door was closed, the first girl said, "It's Congressman Post." The girls all relaxed suddenly, and their chatter turned happy.
"Phil Post isn't one of our regulars, but he stops in now and then," Gloria said to Daphne. "He's about forty, in good shape, and he's good looking. Most members of Congress are in their late fifties or sixties, and they're fat and balding and have varicose veins. Phil Post is a real treat."
Daphne waited, her pulse accelerated, as the girls left the room one by one, were gone for a minute, then returned. Gloria took her turn, and when she returned, she looked at Daphne and said, "You're on, kid."
Daphne took a breath and stepped from the waiting room into the display room. The door clicked shut behind her.
Phil Post was, indeed, a good-looking man. He sat in his tailor-made three-piece suit, his legs crossed, his deep-blue eyes drinking her in. She walked up to him, did a turn, then stretched her arms above her as though awakening from a luxurious nap. The hem of the nightie rose, and she watched his eyes lock on her exposed pussy.
Then she turned again, and left the room. "God," she said, once she was back with the other girls. "He's a fine specimen, isn't he?"
"One of the very best," one of the girls agreed.
They all chatted together for a while more, then the door opened and Jennifer came in. She pointed first at a short, richly tanned girl with long rolls of flowing brown hair, and then she pointed at Daphne. "Oh, Jesus," Gloria squealed gleefully. "A two-way!"
Daphne looked at Gloria uncomprehendingly, then it dawned on her. Congressman Post wanted both of them.
"You'll use Candy's room," Jennifer said, "give her a chance to break it in."
This was met with a round of laughter, then Jennifer said, "Come on, girls, upstairs."
Daphne and the long-haired girl left together. "My name's Dawn," the girl said. "Ever hook a two-way before?"
"I honestly can't say I have," Daphne replied truthfully. No harm in being honest about that. Then, just to make sure she was covered, she added, "but I'll bet it's fun."
"That depends," Dawn said as they began to mount the stairs. "With Post, it's bound to be a kick. With some of them, it's just passable. And with others, it's a real drag."
"The old ones, with the varicose veins," Daphne said, remembering Gloria's words.
Dawn laughed. "That's them! A real boring evening, those old fogies."
Daphne held her door open for Dawn, who plopped onto the feather bed without comment. She kicked her pumps off, and snuggled into the soft mattress. "You like it here?" she asked.
"I guess you know it's only my first day."
"If you're a working girl, you'll love it here. It's Paradise."
"That's what I'm told."
There was a knock on the door, and Daphne jumped to her feet, her pulse beginning instantly to race. Dawn just swung her long, slender legs over the side of the bed, and waited expectantly.
The door opened, and Jennifer ushered Post inside. "Congressman," she said, "this is Dawn, whom I believe you already know. And this is Candy. She's new with us."
Post nodded at Daphne, his eyes hungry. "We hope you enjoy your stay," Jennifer said, and began backing out of the room.
"I'm sure I will," Post said, and when the door closed, he added, "as usual."
Dawn slithered off the bed and walked toward him, her small, compact ass swiveling back and forth as she moved. When she was in front of him, she raised her arms up around his neck and pulled him down to her, and kissed him. He forced her lips apart with his tongue, and then invaded her warm, moist mouth. Daphne watched his crotch as the bulge there grew larger, and wondered what she should do.
She knew what she wanted to do. Despite the encounters she had had in the last few days, she wanted to bolt, leave the room, the house . . . find her car and go back to Washington, or back home.
No, never! She had to tough it out, and learn what she could so she could report back to Greg. But what to do? Dawn had already rested her hand beneath the fabric of Post's pants, caressing his stiff, blood-engorged member through the material. Their tongues fenced outside their mouths, and Post had grabbed Dawn's ass with both hands.
She could not wait any longer; she could give no clue that would indicate to Dawn or Post that she was not adept at her profession. They could report to Jennifer, and she could pass the word along to whoever she worked for. She could not allow so much as a simple, "Join us?" from Post. She had to jump right in, feet first, and she knew it.
She walked over to Post and Dawn, still locked in their passionate embrace, he clutching her gorgeous asscheeks, she vigorously rubbing his meaty member through his trouser. She told herself: one, two, three, and grabbed Post, breaking the embrace. She whirled him around, grabbed "him by the shoulders and shoved him down to his knees. Her hands wound around his head, each one taking hold of a handful of his hair, and then, closing her eyes, she pulled his face into her hair-fringed fissure.
Post was stunned, and for an instant, he simply kneeled there, his face pressed against her downy curls, the sheer fabric of her nightie between his skin and her velvety pubic hair. Then he realized the position he had been put in, and he began to push his tongue out, tasting the scent her young pussy had expelled onto her nightie, and feeling the soft pubic curls through the material. His nose burrowed between her tender lips, and he inhaled deeply of the aroma that rose from her musky cavern, and his lips quivered, opening and closing the entrance to her cunt, and generating the beginning of a flood of intoxicating female lubricant.
In no time at all, the nightie around her pussy was soaked, saturated with her flowing juices. Her eyes had been closed at first so she would not have to see what she was doing, but now they were shut so she could concentrate on the ecstasy she experienced from the movements of his expert mouth. The hands that had mechanically clenched Post's hair in order to pull him close now squeezed it and bunched it and massaged it as he drank in all of her fluids that he could through the filter of her nightie.
Dawn, meanwhile, had shed her own light layer of clothes, except for her garter belt and stockings, and had knelt behind Post and started unbuttoning his shirt. She had it off, and ran her silky fur-like pussy up and down the length of his spine, lubricating the flesh of his back. When he realized what the wet and warmth was that stroked him, he pushed Daphne away and grabbed Dawn again by the ass, and pulled her over so hard that she topped ass-first to the floor.
By the time she landed, her legs were already obscenely splayed, and her sizzling cleft was open and waiting in front of him. Impatient to quench his agonizing desire, Post dove into the parted cuntal walls, and licked and sucked at her pussy with a feverish intensity. He was on his knees, hunkered over Dawn and trapped between her bent, spread knees. Dawn moaned and whimpered, and pushed his head closer to her.
Daphne's own inflamed cunt ached for more attention from Post, from his hands and mostly from his cock. She kneeled behind him, his butt reared up toward her, and she reached around his waist and unbuckled his belt, holding his throbbing erection through the pants as she maneuvered. When that was done, she found the button and undid that, then by feel, she slid his zipper down. His pants fell loose, and she yanked them down to his knees, and put her hand between his legs to force them apart. Post wasn't sure what she wanted to do, but he cooperated, spreading his legs but remaining on his knees. His tongue had found Dawn's tiny clitoris and was drawing moist, hard circles around it as his lips sucked on her tender, pink flesh, drawing moisture from her pussy into his lustful mouth.
Daphne pulled his underwear down to where his pants rested at his knees, then lay on her back and slithered between his legs, until she saw his rigid stiffness just inches above her face. She couldn't get quite close enough, though, because of Dawn's feet, but Dawn felt her and lifted her legs high into the air, squeezing Post's head between her creamy thighs.
Now Post's cock was in tonguing range, and Daphne felt her serpent's tongue snake from her mouth, searching upward. It made contact with one of Post's sperm-laden testicles, and it tasted of heat and salt. She retracted her tongue and coated it with her saliva, then it darted out again and cradled Post's lust-bloated ball in the delicate curl. She heard Post groan, the sound muffled by the pussy he was eating, but Daphne felt ravenous passion grow inside her. Raging genital heat flooded her, making her spine shiver and quake, and her bowels felt weak. She switched to his other ball, and she watched close-up as the thickness of his cock increased, the shaft growing with each lick and bite she gave his sperm-filled sacs.
Her vulva itched from the liquids that flooded, gushed from her pussy and saturated her sparse pubic hair, then dripped onto the floor. She took most of both his testicles in her mouth and sucked on them, her fist instinctively wrapping around the thick, throbbing erection.
His body was racked suddenly by a tremendous jerk, reaction to a spasm of intense excitement, and his delicious balls were pulled from Daphne's mouth. She sought them again with her wagging tongue, but it came into contact instead with the sensitive underside of his long, stiff penis, and she licked it up to the red, spongy cock-head, then back down to the base near the testicles, using long, lingering, wet strokes. She felt him shiver in response, and wriggled a little further, so she could take his crown in her mouth.
Her lips parted over the head of his vein-lined cock, her fist still closed over the base, and she nibbled on the head and sucked on it. Post shivered in response, and suddenly his hips thrust forward, and the length of his pulsating prick slid along her tongue and down into her throat. She held back a gag, but was amazed at how good it felt, her mouth filled with his stone-hard meat, her jaws open as far as they would go and every sensation locked on the texture and taste of his manliness.
He lifted his hips again, pulling his cock almost entirely from her mouth, leaving her only the tip of his crown to lick and bite, and then he pushed it in again, and she felt his balls bounce off her forehead and tickle her nose.
He's fucking my mouth, she thought, and held his ass as he pounded his cock into her. Each time he withdrew, she sucked on his shaft, and each time he pistoned down her throat, she closed her mouth just enough for her teeth to drag along the flesh of his member. He stiffened even more, she felt, inside her mouth, and she felt the heat his genitals radiated.
Post was concentrating so hard on Daphne and the warm cavity inside her mouth that encased his throbbing cock, his own mouth work on Dawn had been reduced to virtually nothing, and Dawn shoved him away. His cock was pulled from Daphne's mouth, and together they rolled him onto his back, and simultaneously dove down to his penis. Daphne resumed swallowing his shaft, deep-throating it by herself just as much as Post had been while he was humping her face. Dawn concentrated on his swollen, moving testicles, licking and squeezing and biting them.
He shuddered as he climaxed, and his cock filled so much of Daphne's mouth that the jets of hot cum squirted from her lips, cascading like thick white waterfalls over the length of his shaft and splattering across Daphne's breasts, dribbling down her cleavage under her nightie.
She moved to lick the salty semen away, but Dawn was already there, her tongue stroking upward along his coated shaft, and she swallowed the stuff with a sly smile. Daphne licked as much as she could, sucking it out of his pubic hair and off his balls, and then she nearly jumped to the ceiling with ecstatic excitement. Dawn had put her arms around her and was licking Post's ejaculation from her breasts!
Post slid away, and sat on the bed, watching Dawn pull Daphne's nightie away and bury her head between Daphne's firm, doughy breasts. The girl's tongue followed a path along her breastplate, between her two mounds of muscle and flesh, licking away the sperm. Her fingers pinched Daphne's nipples and pulled them, extending them farther than they had ever been stimulated before.
When Dawn finished, she rose and put on her most seductive look for Post. Daphne remained on the floor, her nightie peeled mostly away, her legs dangling lewdly open, soft whimpers escaping her throat. Her hands rested atop her breasts, and her cunt quivered in agony. Through the entire sequence, nobody had touched her hungry pussy.
Dawn eyed Post's limp cock. "Can't you get your friend to stand up for me?" Dawn said.
Post grinned. "You and Candy can come over here and see what you can do."
Daphne hoisted herself up, a Herculean effort, and followed Dawn to the bed. Post had stripped himself of all his clothes, and Dawn bent to his chest and planted her moist, full lips over his nipple and began to nibble.
I'll
Daphne went to the other side and began biting gently the line his spine traced down his back. His nerves sang from the sensation, and Dawn closed her hand around his penis.
It began to grow, and Daphne watched fascinated as her hand seemed to expand as the cock stiffened inside it. Then, like something hatching from an egg, the cock poked out of her hand, stiff and vibrating.
Aware that his penis was ready for action again, Post turned around and grabbed Daphne by the waist, and flung her belly-down onto the bed. Then he moved behind her and, still holding her waist, hoisted her ass up toward him. Her sopping pussy was open and inviting. With one hand he pried her lips farther apart, and deftly poked his restored erection between them.
The nerves of her inflamed pussy sang as she was stabbed with his impaling thickness; she felt a mingling of pleasure and pain, and she remembered Paul's tremendous cock slamming into her, her back being shoved against the wall as he thrust in and out of her with strong, wrenching strokes.
But the pleasure overrode the pain, and she moaned throatily and Congressman Post's cock pumped her from behind, and his swollen balls slapped against her cheeky buttocks.
Dawn settled herself in front of Daphne, leaning against the bed's headboard, and spread her legs for Daphne. Post's long stiff member was rubbing hard against her distended clitoris, making it swell with orgasmic intensity, and she saw Dawn mouth the words, "Eat me," but no sounds fell from her mouth.
Still, Daphne hungrily pushed her mouth against Dawn's smooth, wet cunt, moistened already by a mingling of her own flowing lubricants and Post's saliva. Nothing could have tasted better. Daphne poked her tongue in, easily separating the well-worked walls of Dawn's pussy, and Dawn tightened her vaginal muscles around her tongue.
Post's hands gripped Daphne's quaking buttocks, and a finger flicked gingerly over her puckered anal ring, sending shock waves through her entire body and making her head swim.
The harder Post humped her, the more voraciously she worked on Dawn's delicious pussy, her tongue gliding along the slit of her cunt and then dipping into the honey pot below. Post's cockhead jammed against her cunt-top, hurting her a little, but the pain only intensified the sensual feelings that coursed through her. Her delicate pussy-walls felt his cock stiffen as his thrusts came in shorter, faster jerks. The pinhole in the head of his penis opened and his vicious male sperm spurted forth, filling her cunt and splattering hard against her clitoris, bringing on her own climax. Unaware of what she was doing, she bit down on Dawn's rocky little clit, and it exploded between her teeth, and her mouth filled with Dawn's inebriating juices.
The three of them fell limp. They lay together for a while, touching their hot, sweaty flesh, and giggling from the intimacy of their experience.
Then Post looked at his watch. "Jesus," he said. "I've got to be on the floor in two hours. Holy Christ, where are my clothes?"
Daphne rose and found his clothing and handed it to him, and he practically dove into them. He looked up briefly from his dressing to admire Daphne's shape, though, and he smiled. "You're definitely enough to make a man late," he said.
She curtsied. "Thank you, kind sir," she said, and he laughed.
"Walk me to the door," he said.
Daphne found her nightie and slipped it on, then stepped back into her shoes. "I'm parked out back," he said, and she walked arm-in-arm with him down the stairs, leaving Dawn spent and listless on Daphne's feather bed.
She allowed Post to show her the way to the back, and smiled and walked with a sophisticated, sexy walk, but her mind was elsewhere. First of all, her poor pussy ached from the activity of the day. But more important, she had just balled a Congressman and learned nothing of those leaks. She had so far compromised her morals, and failed at her task.
They walked down a dim hallway, past the servant's quarters, to a small porch enclosed within the great house. Post squeezed Daphne's shoulder, then went outside. A black limousine pulled up to the stoop, and the chauffeur got out and held the back door for the esteemed member of the House of Representatives.
Then the car was gone, and Daphne was alone. The firework sensations she had felt with Post and Dawn were gone, replaced by a feeling of futility and emptiness. Dejected, she walked back down the dim hall, toward the front of the house and the staircase. She wanted only to spend several hours under a hot jet of water, washing away the grime she felt.
She stopped when she heard voices.
The sounds were coming from behind a door in the middle of the hallway, muffled and spoken in low voices. She located the door and pressed her ear to it.
The voices were too soft and distant for her to hear complete sentences. But she heard enough. The words Rutledge, Middle East, sheikh, something-thousand-dollars, and others that implicated the house directly with the leaks made their way through the wooden door to Daphne's ear.
Suddenly she felt renewed, alive again, clean again. She was on to something big, and the most important thing she could think of was getting in touch with Greg Stafford.
But her day off wasn't until Wednesday, and it was only Friday. She daren't use the phones in the house, for they were surely tapped. She didn't know if she could contain herself with the information she had. But she would have to try.
Try! She had four entire days to dig up more, now that she had something. And she had only been here about nine hours. What she could learn in four days.. . !
She hurried back to her room, where she and Dawn took turns in the shower, and then she crawled alone into bed.
But she could not sleep. Not now. Things were coming to a head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Four days went quickly.
Daphne had relatively little to do, since most politicians were caught up in the swirling final days of the Congressional session, and had little time to spend cavorting at their exclusive playhouse. She was visited by clients only three times, and never with another of the girls. All three were older men, who took only minutes to climax, and then she was rid of them. She learned nothing during the first three days.
She spent time with Gloria, talking about their past experiences in business, Daphne winging it from talks she had had with Greg Stafford. But they spoke of other things as well, such as home, old friends, school, other jobs . . . and Daphne, under her assumed name, was able to be candid and honest with her new friend about these things.
She did feel soiled, used, sleazy. She found herself often wishing she had stayed home altogether, never to be involved with Congressmen who only hire you if you fuck them, or others who unwittingly divulge top secret information because they cannot control their lust. Mostly, she wished she had never started using her body as a means of obtaining information. She was a smart girl, with a college degree, and she was humiliated at the way things had turned out. Certainly, now she could never go home.
Unless your by-line appears with Greg's, she told herself. Then, nobody has to know how you learned what you did. All they need to know is that you did.
It did her little good, particularly during those hours she spent with clients, dancing and performing for them, then spreading her legs and taking their half-limp cocks up her worn pussy, letting them stroke her for a few minutes until they spilled a pitiful few drops of milky cum, dressed and left for their old, overweight wives. One of them came in her hand, and was satisfied with that. She felt deathly ill that night, and slept poorly, harassed by dark, frightful dreams.
But she did not quit. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she could leave any time, just tell Jennifer to stuff it and walk out. It wasn't as though Jennifer thought she knew something, that she might bring the police or a Senate investigating committee back with her. As far as Jennifer was concerned, she was just another working girl, trying to make a buck and live a comfortable life.
She stayed, praying that at the next moment she would unravel the entire mystery and thus once and for all establish her credibility in Washington circles. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, days into nights, and nothing happened.
Depression racked her, made worse by the fact that she had to act rather happy and satisfied with her life at the house.
She dreaded the arrival of Tuesday. If she didn't learn something today, she would have to report to Greg with only one bit of information-that there was no doubt the house was connected with the leaks. Which was no news at all, really, since Greg's newshound instincts had already decided that to be a fact. What he wanted was hard, solid evidence.
She worried about Greg in other respects. She had not seen him since they gone over her cover, on Thursday. She was supposed to check in with him on Friday night, but of course that had been impossible.
"If they want you to stay, don't sweat it, but don't call me from one of their phones under any circumstances, you understand? Under any circumstances at all!" he had told her, so she knew he was simply waiting for her contact, and possibly digging into other possibilities, poking up other avenues.
"You got a man?" Gloria asked while they were in the waiting room Tuesday morning. They had both already modeled their assets in the display room for Jennifer and some older-middle-aged Senator, and they were chatting as they waited for the other girls to parade through and for the Senator to make his selection.
She started to say no, but it occurred to her that a girl who made her living by the expert use of her body would most certainly have a regular boyfriend. A woman who spent her life satisfying others must have a man on hand to satisfy her. So she said, "Yes, don't you?"
"A couple," Gloria laughed. "One black and one white. Lady, can they take my mind off my woes. Especially both together. Ever have two men?"
"I've always played it pretty straight," Daphne said.
"Oh, girl, you don't know what you've been missing. No question about it, ain't no feeling like the feeling of two cocks. One up the ol' hole, other in the mouth." She affected her sophisticated air. "My dear, you really must try it."
Daphne was saved from having to answer by the return of the last girl, and then the interminable wait to see who was selected. The client was a Congressman in his late fifties, a quiet man whose name the public never heard. Not terribly good looking but in good shape, strong, virile. Jennifer finally made her entrance and selected Dawn, to Dawn's delight. Daphne had learned in her three days there that Dawn loved to fuck more than anything else in the world. "Isn't it terrific?" Dawn told Daphne at breakfast one morning. "I'm one of the lucky few who really likes what I do for a living."
Dawn skipped out of the room, and the rest of the girls meandered slowly to various places; some to their rooms, others to the study or den.
Gloria suggested they catch some sun outside, and Daphne agreed, and they left the house. The rays of the sun felt like warm, caressing fingers on their naked bodies. They had been soaking it in for nearly an hour when Daphne sensed somebody's presence looming above her.
She opened her eyes, and shielded them from the sun. All she saw was a shapely silhouette, but she knew it was Jennifer. Her heart leapt into her throat. Had she been caught?
"Candy, I'd like to speak with you for a moment? You don't mind, do you, Gloria?"
"Course not," Gloria said. She slipped back into her gown and her high heels clicked against the pavement as she walked back into the house. Jennifer's eyes watched her long, lean figure appreciatively, until she had disappeared inside.
"She's one of our best girls," Jennifer said then. "She's loyal, she works hard and satisfies all the time. She does her bit, and stays loose and cool. That's important here, Candy."
'That's important everywhere," Daphne retorted.
Jennifer seemed impressed with her answer. "Do you like it here?"
"Very much," Daphne said. "I could get very, very comfortable here."
Jennifer looked down, as though there was something on her mind. "You could, Candy. You could have a very good life here among us. Your salary now is only a fraction of what it could be."
"Oh yeah?" Daphne said, affecting her dumb-California girl accent. "How?"
"This city is a city of games, Candy," Jennifer said. Daphne felt her heartbeat accelerate, and she prayed her excitement did not show in her-face. "Everybody plays games here. They play games with taxpayers dollars, and with men's lives. They play games with each other and each other's wives. Everybody thinks in terms of moves and countermoves, and how to come out on top. The bottom line is all that counts. All you have to do is play our game."
"What are the rules?"
"Occasionally one of your clients will be somebody we need to . . . talk to. All you have to do is make sure he drinks something-anything from a glass of water to a cola to a double scotch on the rocks. And you add a little pill."
She had it, by God! Now she just had to play it smooth until she could talk to Greg tomorrow. "Isn't that illegal?" she asked.
"Prostitution isn't?" Jennifer said. "Besides, if it were legal it wouldn't pay as well as it does."
"Is this anti-American, or something?"
"Not at all. I guarantee everybody involved is a loyal American. This is strictly a profit operation, from the house to this . . . activity. Nothing would ever be done to endanger national security."
Daphne looked ashamed. "I'm sorry. I suppose I sound funny, a whore worried about all that patriotic bullshit."
"Not at all," Jennifer said. "You're not the first girl who has asked those questions. Then you'll do it?"
"It pays how much?"
"A thousand a week," Jennifer said.
Daphne's voice caught in her throat. "Good God," she said in something that sounded like a croak. "How can you afford that?"
"We do very well," Jennifer said. "And we invest our profits in legitimate enterprises. Some of it even goes into the stock market."
Daphne laughed. "You're putting me on."
"Our employers believe in making money, any way they can possibly make it. It's a giant cycle. The money from the investments goes into upgrading the house and its operations, the money from the operations goes into the market. They feed on each other, and just grow larger."
"Quite a setup. Is Gloria in on this?"
"Of course," Jennifer said. "All of them are. I find I'm a fair judge of character, and it doesn't take me long to make up my mind about a girl."
"Just out of curiosity, what would have happened if
I hadn't passed your test."
"You'd be looking for a new job." Daphne nodded. "Okay. Count me in."
"I already have," Jennifer said.
"Fantastic!"
Greg hunched forward in his seat in the coffee shop booth. Daphne had taken her car on her day off to an obscure intersection, then took a cab, then changed cabs, then walked six blocks through alleyways that cars could not negotiate to wind up at the prearranged coffee shop. Greg had not told her to do that; when she had realized the depth of the operation, she had decided it was best to be safe. She feared with a deep, honest terror what would happen to her if they found out she was exchanging information with a newspaperman. And she was new enough that they may want to follow her her first time out, just to make sure.
Along the way, she had thought about Gloria. It had disturbed her to know that somebody as friendly and nice as Gloria could be involved in something as vile as that. Was she so alone as she felt? Did so few people care about the country as much as she did, that she wanted to make a mark on Washington politics by being straight and honest and upfront?
"We've got to see it happen," Greg said, bringing her out of her reverie. "You've got to wait until they ask you to do that."
"Wait? You mean you want me to go back?"
"Yeah, of course. You've got to slip a politician a mickey and see them haul him off. Then we wait for something damaging about him to come out. If nothing comes out, we check him over, see if he's made any big withdrawals, see if we can catch him making payoffs. Keep an eye on his behavior. One way or the other, we'll nail them."
"Greg, you don't understand what I have to do while I'm there."
Greg eyed her. "Okay, forget it. I've got the lead I need. I'll just follow up. It'll take me a little longer on my own, but I never liked sharing a by-line anyway."
He had said just the right thing to catch her. "All right," she said. "I'll go. But by God, they'd better get me to knock one out soon. I can't keep living like this."
"I understand." It was then she noticed his eyes, focused on her ample cleavage.
"Don't I get enough of that at my job?" she said cynically.
"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly. "I don't mean anything . . . it's just that you're so goddam sexy."
Daphne looked at her watch. "I'd better go."
"So soon? Can't I take you someplace, maybe buy you a drink?"
"I don't think so. I'll meet you here, same day next week."
"I'll be here. Bring me good news." She returned to the house, after picking up some items from her apartment. Nobody at the house acted as though they suspected her of anything. Jennifer asked why she was back so soon, and she said she had decided to just take the remainder of her time off at the house. "Why?"
"I was in the city, and it just seemed so . . . I don't know, so crowded and awful. My boyfriend is out of town, so I just decided to come back. Any objection?"
"No," Jennifer said, "but I have a question. Who's your boyfriend?"
"Greg," she blurted inadvertently, then added, "Rothman," after her ex-fianc�. "He's a bouncer."
"How tasteful," Jennifer said cynically. "You won't tell him anything at all about our operation. Yes?"
"Of course not," Daphne said.
Jennifer patted her on the cheek and went off to attend to whatever business she had. Daphne sighed, the relief overwhelming her. No, she had not been followed. Good grief, Daph, she told herself. You're getting paranoid.
Gloria found her and they went outside; a servant brought them tall, cool drinks and they lay naked in the sun, that having become their favorite way to pass time. Now, though, Daphne felt a little strange being with Gloria. She was part of it.
Part of what? Was she really aware of what she was doing? Probably not, Daphne realized. She's a hooker, a girl who's had to stoop pretty low to make a dollar, and all of a sudden she's given the opportunity to clean up, four thousand a month-forty-eight grand a year for servicing politicians and occasionally putting one under.
When you're faced with that kind of change, you don't ask why. You just do it.
The bell sounded. "Cattle call," Gloria said, and they rose, leaving their half-finished drinks behind. The servant emerged from his hiding place and scooped the drinks onto a tray and wiped the poolside table clean. The house was always immaculate.
The girls took their turns modeling their luscious bodies for a cabinet secretary, in charge of the defense department. He was tall and muscular and stern, and he appraised each of the girls with a highly critical eye. During Daphne's short walk in the display room, she could see no pleasure in the man's face, made harsh by jagged angles of his crew cut.
Still, even during her brief employment at the house, Daphne had come to appreciate the stronger, younger men over the old, feeble ones. There was something more pleasurable about a good, solid man, doing what a man should be able to do. The old ones, they were a joke. They came to pretend they could still get it up, still hump like in the old days. They came to relive old memories, not create new ones.
Jennifer came back into the waiting room and pointed at Daphne. Good, she thought. If one of those old geezers comes in, I'll be busy with this one.
But selecting her was not all Jennifer had in mind. When the other girls had left (Gloria swatting her playfully on the ass), she maneuvered Daphne into a corner and whispered, 'This gentleman is one of those special cases we discussed earlier."
"I see," Daphne said.
"The pills are in an unmarked pharmacy bottle in the top drawer of the bedside table. Make sure he drinks something with it. It takes about fifteen minutes to work, but I'm certain you can keep him occupied until then."
Daphne smiled. "Of course."
"Good girl," Jennifer said. "When he's out, just wait with him. Somebody will be up for him shortly."
Daphne went into the waiting room and took the Secretary by the hand. The critical look had left him, and now he looked boyish in his anticipation of indulging in Daphne's body. She felt him shiver when she merely took his hand.
"I'm Candy," she said. "I'm so honored to meet you. You're my first Secretary, you know."
"It's my pleasure, Candy," the Secretary said with a shaking in his voice. He's not one for a lot of sex, Daphne thought. It occurred to her that a man like that might come too quickly, and try to leave before the drug had a chance to take effect.
Well, you'll just have to make him last, she thought to herself. She smiled inside. I think I have the experience to do that.
She opened the door to her room, closed it, turned on him and kissed him, a long, fragile kiss that allowed him to taste the flavor of her lips and the delicate seasoning of the tip of her tongue. He quivered from the kiss, and she ran her finger lightly along his spine, and he quivered again.
When she drew her lips from his, she asked, "Can I get you a drink? You feel all wound up, like you need to relax."
"I do need to relax," he said. "That's why I came here."
"Well, you want it to be good, don't you? You're so tense." She rubbed his shoulders, and they did indeed feel like bricks. He winced, and she knew the tightness in his muscles hurt him. He seemed like a nice guy. She hated what she knew she had to do.
"I suppose one wouldn't hurt. Vodka rocks," he said.
Daphne went to the bedside table, on top of which was a selection of fine-quality liquors. She selected a bottle of vodka and poured it into a glass, then opened the top drawer, making sure he wasn't watching, and found the pills. She hastily dropped one in the drink and watched it dissolve almost immediately. She went to the refrigerator-a small bar type-and took some ice to add to the drink, then handed it to him.
"Here's looking at you," he said, trying to be suave. He was actually looking at her; more like leering at her. She tilted her head in a coquettish manner, and lifted her sheer, ankle-length nightgown over her head.
"Why don't you come take me?" she said, when she saw he had drained his drink.
He grinned, and the liquor gave him courage and machismo. He almost leapt at her, running his hands up and down her smooth, soft back, until he held her fleshy cheeks in both hands, and ground his hips against hers. The fabric of his trousers rubbed against her bare pussy, pulling and tugging at the delicate, frenzied lips of her cunt.
Wanton arousal filled him, and she felt herself gaining sexual intensity as well, and she moaned when he poked his finger up her asshole, and brought his thumb up underneath to pry between her anxious pussy lips and inside her dark, wet vagina.
"Ohhh," she moaned in his ear. "Take off your pants, and let me have your cock."
Both fingers came out of her in a hurry, and he fumbled with his pants until he stood before her, naked from the waist down. He still wore his coat, tie, shirt. But his penis was erect, pointing up at her, throbbing and wiggling. She grabbed it and led him to the bed by it, feeling its warmth as his agitated blood coursed through the length of his shaft.
He pushed her backward onto the bed, and straddled her. The tip of his cock toyed with her erect, stiff nipples, and she held her breast upright for him. He held his cock by the base so he could rub it over her beautiful tits, and then he eased it between the two alabaster orbs.
Daphne held her two breasts together with her hands, pressing them tight and squeezing his thick, meaty penis between them. The Secretary began the first of many long, slow strokes, his prick sliding almost out of the grip of her breasts, then between them and up to her throat.
She moaned throatily as he reached behind and dug a finger between her cuntal walls, and began to vibrate it, jerking it hard and expertly against her stiffened clitoris. She kneaded her breasts, changing the amount of pressure against his cock, and his speed increases, his thrusts between her breasts as rapid and uncontrolled as any man's cock in her sweet, hot pussy.
She climaxed before him, his finger jabbing her clitoris until it could contain itself no longer. It burst, and she arched her back in throes of her orgasm, squeezing her breasts together hard against his cock. He came immediately afterward, spurting his sticky white load onto her breasts and her chin, and some of it into her silky blonde hair.
She sat up, exhausted and satisfied, and looked affectionately at the secretary. Cum capped the head of his deflating penis, and he slumbered peacefully, his head on the pillow and his knees tucked up under his chest, in the fetal position.
Daphne used a towel to clean herself and, for his sake, she wiped his cock clean, too. Then she put on a robe and waited for whatever would happen.
A minute later the door opened without a knock, and Paul and another huge, muscular man-black as night-entered. Without a word to Daphne they grabbed him, Paul taking his arms and the black man taking his feet, and they carried him from the room.
"Where you taking him?" Daphne said.
"No questions," the black man said in a deep, thick voice. "You done your job."
"Don't you need his pants?"
The black man looked at her angrily, then bent and grabbed the Secretary's trousers and dumped them unceremoniously on his stomach. Then they were gone, the door closed behind them.
She had her evidence; all she would ever be able to get. And it was a full week before her next day off. She couldn't wait. She had to let Greg know.
But how?
CHAPTER NINE
She sat brooding in the study with Gloria and Dawn and another girl named July. Gloria and Dawn watched television; July sat in an easy chair reading a book from the well-stocked shelves of the room. Daphne tried to think, but nothing would come to her. There seemed to be no way out.
The phone rang, and nobody answered it. The ringing distracted Daphne from her thoughts, and finally she walked across the room and picked it up. "Yes?" she said.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Lester Morgan, and I represent the Capitol Hill Realty Company. Have you given any thought to selling your house?"
Somehow, somebody had gotten through from outside into the study. Suddenly, Daphne had her way out. "Yes, this is she," she said. The other girls looked up to see to whom she was speaking.
"I beg your pardon?" Lester Morgan said. "I'm calling to tell you I think we can make a fine offer for your home. How many bedrooms do you have?"
"Oh, thank you," Daphne said, ignoring the realtor. "I'd been wondering what happened to it."
Lester Morgan gave up, and hung up the phone. A dial tone invaded Daphne's ear, but she kept talking. "Oh, really? Tomorrow morning?" She bit her lip in consternation. "All right, I'll be there today. Yes, I remember. Thank you." She hung up.
"Today?" Gloria said. "Today ain't your day off, girl."
"I know," Daphne said, looking upset. "I'd lost my credit cards and identification back when I was at the hotel. It's been driving me crazy. That was the man in the room next to me. He found it, but he's checking out tomorrow."
"So have him leave it with the desk clerk."
"He said he tried. The desk clerk doesn't want anything to do with it. Something about getting burned before."
Goria shrugged. "Better talk to Jennifer."
Daphne walked to Jennifer's office, where she had been interviewed by the madam and tried out by her servant, Paul. She knocked on the door, and Jennifer beckoned her to enter.
"Yes, Candy. You did a fine job with the Secretary. What can I do for you?"
Daphne told her about her credit cards and ID. "I'd have told him to just mail it all here, but I didn't think you'd want me to give the address out to a stranger," she said.
"Very wise," Jennifer said. "You can go. Just be back by tonight."
"I will," Daphne said. She hurried to her room and dressed, then dashed from the house to her car, and sped toward Washington.
While Daphne drove hurriedly toward the Capitol, Greg sat with his feet on his desk, his arms crossed, a pencil stuffed behind his ear, his brow furrowed.
His editor, Catherine Pearson, watched him from the glass window of her private office, her anger increasing the more she watched him doing nothing. By God, he may be a Pulitzer Prize winner two times over, but I don't care if he's won it a dozen times. He works on my goddam newspaper, he goddam-well works like everybody else.
Unable to take it any more, she rose and went to her door. "Stafford!" she shouted. "Get your ass in here!"
Greg looked up at her from his desk, but did not move for a minute, deliberately. He admired her figure, if not her newspaper abilities. Even though she wore her hair in a severe bun, strained away from her face, she had delicate chiseled features, and a soft, desirable complexion. And her figure was a knockout. Huge, firm breasts strained against the confines of the businesslike clothes she wore, and her wool skirts hugged her long, tapering legs and served only to reveal their sensual shape.
A lot of the men who worked for the Trib wondered aloud amongst themselves if anybody on the paper had ever laid her, but nobody claimed to have been the one. As far as anybody knew, she had never fucked a reporter in her life. She was all business, pure and simple.
"Now, Stafford," she shouted, and Greg slowly eased his legs off his desk and stood up. He knew the eyes of the entire city room were on him, he knew by the decrease in the level of noise as he walked toward her.
When he was inside her office, she slammed the door shut and closed the Venetian blinds, shutting off the view from the rest of the office. If it had been anybody else, Greg knew, the city room would wonder if he was getting laid back there. But because it was Catherine Pearson, nobody thought that. They knew what was going on, exactly. Greg was getting his ass chewed out.
"I haven't seen a story of yours in over two weeks," Catherine said. "Don't you work here any more, or are you just drawing retirement benefits?"
"Living off my laurels," Greg grinned.
"Cut the crap, Stafford. I want to know if you work for the Washington Tribune, or if you've just been taking up space."
"I work here all right," he said, getting serious. "Right now I'm working on a story that'll blow the lid off this town."
"You always work with your feet on your desk?"
"I was thinking. I do a lot of that."
"About what?"
"A lot of things. At my desk I was thinking about the leaks that have been plaguing this city, and who's behind them."
Catherine's eyes lit up. "You're onto something?"
But Greg ignored her. "Right this minute, I'm thinking about you."
Catherine paused. "What about me?"
"About how gorgeous you are, and what I'd like to do with you."
She bristled. "This is a newspaper, Mr. Stafford, and I would thank you to remember that I'm your editor."
"Yes, but you're also a woman. All woman."
"That's enough of that," she said. "Tell me about the leaks."
"Nothing to tell right now," Greg said. "So let's talk about your tits."
"Mr. Stafford!" She was indignant now, but couldn't get over the feeling of being slightly thrilled. None of the men on the Tribune staff had so much as approached her, and she had always liked it that way. But she also knew Greg's reputation, and she told him so. "Everybody knows you get any girl you snap your fingers for. Isn't it a little bold of you to go after your boss?"
Greg started. It was the second time recently he had been told he could have any girl he wanted. Is it really true? It seems to be the general consensus, but I haven't found it to be so. Well, only one way to find out. There were two girls he wanted. One was Catherine, whom he had always taunted with sexual innuendo, just for his own amusement; the other was Daphne.
Here was Catherine in front of him. All these years of talking to her about her tits just to get a rise out of her, maybe it can come to something today, he thought.
"Like this?" he said, and he snapped his fingers.
"That's not funny," she said, rising and heading for the door. He stopped her by grasping her arm and whirling her around to face him.
"I'm not joking," he said in a low, husky voice, pulled her close and kissed her. She resisted at first, trying to push him away, but the longer the kiss lasted, his tongue lingering in the warmth of her mouth, the more her resistance faded and metamorphosed into passion.
He kissed her again, then kissed her throat, and his hand snaked under her breast and held it, molding its fingers to conform to the fleshy, pear-like shape of her tit. He squeezed it and kissed her throat again, and slowly sank to his knees.
"Oh, Greg," she moaned, and her hands bunched up some of his hair and pulled his face close to her body.
She wasn't aware that he was sinking lower, until he was on his knees and he had pushed her wool knee-length skirt up to reveal her delicate lace panties. Single strands of her velvety pubic hair peeked out from the crotch edges of her panties, and his nostrils picked up the scent of her sex. "No," she said, with her eyes closed and her head tipped back. "Don't, Greg, don't."
But he pressed his face against her panties and began to lick and nibble and he felt her knees weaken, spreading her thighs an extra inch apart as she stood there for him.
Her panties turned damp, then moist, then sopping wet from a mingling of Greg's mouth-wetness and Catherine's cunt-lubrication. His tongue pushed the lace up beyond the spread pussy lips and inside the crack of her vagina, and she groaned, almost loud enough to be heard outside the office. "Can't. . . can't do this," she said, but she made no effort to force Greg to stop.
The panty fabric had been pushed by the tip of Greg's tongue against her clitoris, and he pounded his tongue in and out, tasting her liquor-like juices through the material. She almost toppled backward from the millions of lightning bolt sensations charging through her, and Greg put his hands around her cheeky buttocks to hold her up. When he felt her begin to quiver, he pulled his face just an inch away and yanked her panties down, exposing her naked hairy triangle for his mouth. Her hair glistened from moisture, and he used one hand to pry her wet, pink lips apart, the other hand to hold her upright, both her cheeks crushed in his one giant paw.
With the interior of her dark cavern open to him, he thrust his tongue inside, as deep as he could stick it out, and began to curl and uncurl it as he jiggled it around. His hand returned to her ass and spread her cheeks, and his finger found her tight, clean asshole, and the finger, wet from her cunt juices, had no trouble opening her anus and burrowing in. Her grip on his hair was so tight he was sure she was going to tear some of it out, but he did not stop. Her legs were shaking, and her entire body jerked in time with the motion of his tongue. When she came, her thighs pressed hard against his face, almost crushing him, and she shook and moaned and bit her tongue hard to refrain from screaming, which would have certainly brought people rushing into her office from the city room to find out what was wrong.
Her juices gushed onto Greg's waiting face, and he swallowed them as they poured into his open mouth. His tongue remained inside her pussy, despite all the jerking and shaking she did, until she was done. Then he settled her down into the chair in which he had been sitting, and she slouched down in it, her head hanging back and her legs turned to jelly, spread open obscenely. Greg moved back and looked at her cunt, and felt his erection bursting to escape the confines of his clothing.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he said.
Her eyes snapped open. "No. Maybe.. . maybe some other time."
"Oh, no," he said. "You're not going to have me eat you so you can have a fantastic orgasm, and then just leave me unsatisfied and horny. I'm going to fuck you."
There was no question but that Catherine did not want Greg to ball her, but there was equally no question in Greg's mind that he would. She tried to get out of the chair, but he pushed her back in it and held her there, his hand pushing her in against her breasts.
She whimpered, but she did not struggle. Holding her down with one hand, he used the other to unloose his stiff penis, and she looked at it with a combined fear and desire she had never felt. He saw the flesh outside her pussy jump with excitement, ripple with anticipation, even though her eyes only watched with trepidation.
Kneeling, he was at an eye-to-eye level with the sitting editor. He crawled on his knees until he was directly in front of her, and he looked directly in her eyes.
"Take it in your hand," he said.
She shook her head, whimpering and mewing like an abused kitten. "No, please.. . . " she said.
"I said take it in your hand, now."
This time she obeyed, her trembling hand reaching out and wrapping around his thick, hot meatiness. It seemed to have a heart of its own, and it beat in her palm, and she felt the rush of blood streaming through its length. She tightened her grip and moaned.
"You like it, don't you?" he said.
She nodded, and wiped her finger over the head of his cock where a single drop of seminal fluid had bubbled up. Her touch on his spongy cock head sent shivers through him. "Guide it in," he said.
She nodded, and pulled the cock toward her own turgid flesh, where her sizzling pink lips were spread as far as she could spread them by parting her knees above his shoulders from her position seated in the chair.
Through the blood-red crown of his penis he felt the warm wetness of her outer pussy, the rim of her pussy lips, as she settled the cock-head in the crack of her cunt. She gasped at the sensation, and slid her fist farther down the meaty shaft of his cock so she could pull it in deeper.
He advanced toward her on his knees, and his prick slipped another inch inside, and his crown was devoured by her gaping crack. She released his cock and slipped her hands under his dangling, bloated testicles, and squeezed them gently. With the direction of his penis already established, he pushed forward, and her tight little hole swallowed the entire length of his monstrous shaft.
She raised off the chair as she felt the thing go in,. pulling on her pubic hairs and invading the sanctity of her vagina, filling her and arousing a heat and an itch that drove her near mad. She tried to grab him by the shoulders, then by the ass, but he was too far away, and she had to content herself with digging her long, painted nails into the wood armrests of the chair. Her legs rested on his shoulders, and he felt the tingle of her nylons against his skin, and he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it back so he could absorb even more of the sensation.
Her juicy hot cunt surrounding his stiff, throbbing shaft, held it tight against the moist folds of its never-seen skin and rubbed it. His cock, in turn, was stuffed into her, filling her, becoming the center of her consciousness as she wriggled in her chair and he thrust in and out, his hands holding her knees, just above his shoulders.
Once when he withdrew, he did not thrust back in, and she uttered a strangled cry. "Now do you want it?" Greg said.
"Oh, God, yes, please!" she cried. "Put it back in, Greg, oh, Christ, now, now!"
"How bad do you want it?" he said, looking down at his shaft, the crown still tucked neatly away between her lips, red from the friction of Greg's hard-driven fucking. His shaft gleamed and glistened from her wetness, and he ran his finger along it and put it in his mouth, tasting her cuntal flavors.
"Don't play games," she said, kicking a little now against his shoulders, "just do it, baby, just fuck me, please."
He waited another instant, then slammed it back into her, farther than he had gone yet. He felt the flesh of her thighs warming his crotch, and he felt his balls resting gently against the very bottom of her buttocks. She inhaled deeply, suddenly, unexpectedly as he filled her and filled her some more with his erection, and almost forgot to let the air out in a mixed exhalation and groan of ecstasy.
"Come inside me," she said, and a small part of her mind could not believe what she was saying, what she was doing. Yet there was no controlling it. She was overtaken by wanton arousal, his skewering thickness had impaled her and filled her and driven her to agonizing desire; her inflamed pussy could bear no more, and she knew she would climax soon, and she wanted to feel the hot jet of his slippery, sloshing cum. , He pounded her sadistically, using his cock almost like a weapon, and he felt his inner shaft swell with semen ready to burst forth from his blue-veined hardness.
They climaxed at exactly the same moment. He felt it coming and he stuffed his penis as far up her cunt as he could make it go, and let the sticky, hot sperm jet out, filling her. She felt it shoot against her cervix, warming even more the interior of her red-hot cunt, and she also knew she was shaking, trembling, quivering in the spasms of her own orgasm.
Spent, Greg pulled his still-stiff cock from her battered pussy and fell with a plop to the floor, landing smack on his ass. Catherine let her legs gently down, and waited for her breathing to normalize before standing and pulling her panties back up from her ankles, and smoothing her dress out. She stood in front of a wall mirror and smoothed her hair, and made sure she looked presentable. It took a couple of minutes.
Then she looked at Greg, still with his now-limp cock hanging out, sitting on the floor with a thoroughly pleased expression filling his face.
"Get up, Stafford, and make yourself decent," she said.
"What is this?" he asked. "Back to business?"
"We may have had something there, and for all I know we may do it again," she said. "I liked it. No. I loved it. But you're still a reporter on this newspaper and I'm still the editor. And if one word of this gets breathed around the newsroom, you'll be looking for work. Now get up and put your pants on."
He knew she was serious, and did what he was told. Then she sat back down in the same chair she had been seated in while he had been fucking her feverishly.
"Now then," she said. "About those leaks."
"Like I said," Greg said, standing and striding toward the door, feeling weak and exhausted. "When I have something solid, you'll be the first to know."
He pulled the door open and looked into the city room. A few heads turned to see how severe a tongue-lashing he had taken, but mostly work continued as usual. With one noticeable difference. Daphne Rogers was seated in the visitor's chair beside his desk.
"And I may have something very solid very soon," he muttered, and closed Catherine's door behind him. The exhaustion left him, replaced by a vigor and a horniness that made him strong and virile. He had conquered one woman, giving him half the confidence he needed in order to believe all those things that were said about him. And now, just moments later, was the other. What a stroke of luck!
But when he saw her face he knew there would be no way to interest her in sexual activity. The leaks! Of course! She wasn't even supposed to have a day off until next week. She must be on to something!
"Sorry," he mumbled as he fell into his seat, "I was tied up with my editor. Been here long?"
"Just a few minutes," she said.
"How'd you get out?" he asked. She explained her ruse to him, and then told him about the U.S. Secretary of Defense.
"Amazing," he said.
"Is that enough?" she wanted to know. "Is that all you need."
"No. I want you to go back."
"Again?"
"Please," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Just find out what room they take these people to."
"Why?"
"If they're smart as they seem to be, they'll have a fast exit in mind if they get caught. When I bring the FBI out there, I want to be able to lead them immediately and directly to the room where they conduct their interrogations."
She nodded. It made sense.
"The next time they drug somebody-anybody-you get the hell out of there and call me from the first place you can find a phone. Got it?"
She nodded again. "Good girl," he said, and she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked from the city room, happy that this would be her last trip to the whorehouse. More eyes than Greg's followed her out of the room, watching her seductively swiveling ass.
Greg leaned back in his chair, feeling immensely satisfied. He would stick by his phone day and night, until she called.
Things were going just fine.
CHAPTER TEN
Daphne started back up the stairs to her room, but Gloria caught her and pulled her into the study. "So'd you see him?"
"Who?" Daphne said warily.
"Your main man, who else? Don't tell me you really left to go after some damned identification and credit cards?"
"And you don't think I left here for some cock, do you? Isn't there plenty of that right here?" Gloria shook her head. "I just don't believe you," she said coyly. "You had other things on your mind. Ain't a high class hooker in the world don't want better cock than what she's gettin' paid for." She suddenly reached out and pulled Daphne's bag from her shoulder. Daphne dove after it, but Gloria turned around and held it close to her chest, away from her.
"What do you want with that?" she asked.
"Just checkin' to see if you got your ID. back," Gloria said, laughing. She unzipped the bag and pulled Daphne's wallet out, and fended off Daphne's efforts to retrieve her property.
"Calm down, girl, I'll give it back. Just checkin' out your story." It had all been in fun, but the fun ended when Gloria read the driver's license.
Her face fell, the smile eroded from her lips. "Hey," she said.
"What is it?" the voice came from across the room, and they both whirled to see Jennifer standing by the door.
Gloria looked at Daphne, then at her license, then at Jennifer. She made up her mind. "Candy ain't who she's supposed to be," Gloria said, and Daphne felt her bowels turn to ice. "This here license says she's named Daphne Rogers, and there's a card here says she's a legislative aide for Senator Will Roland."
Jennifer's head snapped over to look with horror at Daphne. Then her expression calmed. "Well, well," she said.
Daphne bolted, headed toward the door, but something caught her by the arm. It was Gloria, and the
Amazon black woman pulled her back and locked her arms around Daphne's waist and held her. No matter how she struggled, she could not escape the woman's grip.
Jennifer walked over to her and stood before her, staring contemptuously at her. Then she unleashed a slap that filled the room, and left a dark red spot on her left cheek. "You bitch," Jennifer said. "For this you will pay dearly. Oh, yes you will." She looked up at Gloria. "Don't let her go." And then she left the room.
"God, Gloria, please. Let me leave. I swear, I won't say a word to anybody."
"Sorry, honey," Gloria said venomously. "We got ourselves a real cozy setup here, and ain't nobody gonna put old Gloria back out on the streets. Not even nice white cunt like yourself."
They stood there, Gloria squeezing the life out of Daphne. "I won't run," Daphne said. "Just please loosen up a little. I can't breathe."
"If I guess right, that don't matter much in the long run," Gloria said. "You won't be breathing a lot longer anyway." She thought for a moment. "But you're a nice chick. You been nice to me." She relaxed her grip a little, but Daphne still could not break free if she tried.
After a while, the doors to the study opened and Paul and the large black man followed Jennifer into the room. 'Take her," Jennifer said, and Daphne felt herself being roughly grabbed by each arm and hauled out of Gloria's warm embrace. She put up no struggle, but they dragged her mercilessly up the stairs anyway, not giving her a chance to get on her feet. They took her down the hallway past her own room, down another hall and then into a room she had never seen before; the one Greg had wanted information about, she knew. They threw her in and closed the door, and switched on the light.
It was a stark room, with only three wooden chairs and a mattress on the floor. No pictures adorned the walls, no light came in through a homey window. The two men looked at her with leering, hungry eyes.
"She look good, Mike?" Paul said to the black.
Mike nodded slowly, his eyes drinking her in. "She is good," Paul said. "I've had her once. Think I'd like her again."
"Doesn't matter to her," Mike said. "She's a dead cookie anyway."
They wanted her, she could see, but they did not make a move toward her. Instead, they simply stood, each to one side of the door, their arms crossed over their muscular chests.
Eventually, the door opened and Jennifer entered with a short, stocky man with a harsh face and a brutal moustache. "Daphne, this is Dr. Utzall," she said. "He's in charge of our operation, and now he's in charge of you." Her face showed discouragement and unhappiness. "It's such a shame you weren't what you said you were. You could have been so happy here. God, what a waste."
Then she left the room, leaving her alone with the three men.
Dr. Utzall carried a small black bag, and he opened it and extracted a hypodermic. He said nothing to Daphne, didn't even look at her as he filled the syringe from a clear bottle, then stepped toward her.
But Mike stopped him, putting his hand on Utzall's shoulder. "Before you do that," he said, "we want her." He indicated Paul, and grinned sadistically.
Utzall shrugged, then studied the figure of Daphne, who was cowering in the corner on the mattress. Her heart crashed against her ribs, and the sounds of her pulse echoed like thunder inside her skull.
"Indeed, she is an attractive woman," Utzall said. "Perhaps I should join you."
"You're welcome to," Paul said. Utzall put the syringe down on a small shelf over one of the chairs, and Mike advanced on Daphne. She huddled into the corner, wishing she could evaporate into it. Knowing what they had on their minds, she wished Dr. Utzall would simply stick her in the arm with his hypo, and get the whole thing over with.
Mike reached down and grabbed her wrist, the strength of his grip making her cry out. He yanked her up and smashed her against the wall, and pinned her shoulders there. Paul came over and, while Mike held her like a specimen on a microscope plate, he ripped her clothes off and tossed the shredded material aside. He tore her clothing strip by strip, enjoying the sight of one breast bouncing free, then tearing another allowing the other breast to join the first.
When she was naked, Mike continued to hold her savagely against the wall as Paul begain feeling her, running his big, calloused hands over her body. He put both hands on her feet and ran them up her legs, then forced her thighs apart, spreading her cunt lips open for him.
He took his middle three fingers and stuck them out, and then guided them up inside her pussy. She was scared to death, but the feel of his hand inside her still made her moisten, and she let out an unintentional moan. The moan changed to a scream, though, as he added his little finger and his thumb-in fact, his entire fist was now up inside her tiny, tight little hole.
He began pounding his fist inside her, and she thought her eyes would pop out of her head from the excruciating pain of it. But the pain tapered off into delirious pleasure, and soon her eyes were closed and her ass slapped against the wall in time with his thrusts.
Mike was no longer holding her shoulders; his rugged hands were mauling her breasts, squeezing and pulling them, and he encircled her stiff nipple with his thick lips and bit them hard, and she cried out.
Paul pulled his fist from her bruised cunt, and rubbed his hand over her face, making her smell her own genital scent. It served only to excite her, and that excitement mingled with the fear created by her certain knowledge of impending death. She wrapped her arms around Paul, and her hot breath gushed into his ear, arousing him. She reached down and unzipped his pants, pulling his familiar cock out and urging it toward her own raw, battered pussy.
Paul allowed himself to be guided, and he uttered a sigh when her cunt, spread out a bit larger than normal from his hammering fist, wrapped its warm flesh around his meaty shaft. He impaled her with it, lifting her practically off her feet. To her surprise, though, he turned around, so his own back was against the wall, and her back and her fleshy, firm buttocks were exposed to the room.
She dug her nails into Paul's shoulders, not sure what she was thinking or feeling other than a basic instinct to survive. Paul's blood-gorged member pounded into her, crashing violently against the top of her cuntal cavity, filling her and possessing her. She assumed it was Paul's hands she felt pulling her ass cheeks apart, but it occurred to her suddenly that Paul's hands were around her back. It must have been Mike.
Oh, God, she thought. No, not this, please.
Survive. Anything at all you have to do to survive.
The rubbery button of her asshole felt a poke, and she knew it was Mike's cock. She wished she could see it so she would know what she was faced with, but she could not turn her head. The rocky crown of his black penis spread the anus apart, and then he shoved, and she screamed, but Paul caught the scream with his mouth, plastering his lips over hers and filling her mouth with his hot tongue.
Her rubbery rectum burned as Mike's cock, thick with blood and lust, stuck her and pried her anal lips mercilessly apart. Paul continued jamming his cock in and out of her cunt, and his teeth bit hard into her lips, holding back the scream that was aching to come out.
Mike's cock continued sliding into her tight, never-before-invaded asshole, and tears welled up in her eyes. She felt the head of his cock far up inside her, and she thought the two pricks inside her would meet, they were slamming up her so far.
The three of them, inter-connected, toppled to the floor and lay on their sides, and Daphne felt herself being humped and pounded from both ends. In a minute the pain left her and she began to grind her hips in time with their syncopated thrusts, and a moan rose in her throat. Paul felt it and moved his mouth away, and the grumbling throaty sound exhaled from her, intense with lust and ardor.
She opened her mouth to moan again, but it was fruitless; something blocked her mouth, closing off the avenue of her sounds. She tasted it, and knew it was a cock. She didn't have to look; she knew it was Utzall's, stuffed hard and solid inside her mouth and pumping in time with the one up her sore butthole and the one stroking inside her tired, worn pussy.
Utzall came first, the hot jet of milky, sticky cum flooding her mouth and shooting down her unwilling throat. She gagged it down, and felt the flacid cock extracted from her mouth. Immediately she felt a flood of heat invade her bowels, and she knew that Mike had come. He pulled his stiff, black cock from her anus and rolled away.
Paul rolled her onto her back, and her buttocks sang with discomfort as her so recently fucked rectum made contact with the hard floor. But Paul didn't care; he jackhammered his cock into her, and she clawed at his back, her legs dancing in the air above him as Mike and Dr. Utzall watched, stroking their cocks back to a stiff, erect state.
Finally Daphne came, to her surprise, shuddering and shaking and quivering with the most intense orgasm of her life. She felt her cuntal walls contract, squeezing the cum out of Paul's cock, and he flailed atop her, crushing her against the floor as his penis unloaded its cargo into her pussy. Then he rolled away.
Daphne curled up fetally and whimpered, but she kept one eye partially open, watching. When Utzall reached down to pull his pants up, she knew it was her last chance.
She jumped to her feet and grabbed the hypo off the shelf, opening the unguarded door in the same motion. When Utzall turned, she jammed the needle into his side, then rushed out and closed the door, turning the key from the outside. The hallway was empty, and she darted off seeking sanctuary, her body racked with waves of pain from the abuse she had suffered.
She encountered nobody, and she kept running. She didn't know that Utzall had already sunk to the floor, the syringe protruding from his skin, the life seeping out of him as the poison meant for Daphne coursed through his veins. Nor did she know that Mike and Paul had already knocked the door open, and were hot in pursuit of her.
She suddenly knew, by instinct, where to go, where to hide. She turned a corner and headed for Jennifer's office. Hopefully, Jennifer wasn't there. Nobody would seek her there.
She dashed into the office, without caring that Jennifer might be there after all, without regard to her nakedness, or the bruises that covered her body.
The room was empty, silent. She bolted home the lock inside, and leaned against the wall, giving herself a minute to get her bearings. Her breath returned to normal, and she looked around the room, trying to decide what to do.
Her eyes latched onto the telephone. Dear God, if only she could get an outside line. She picked the receiver up; her ear was greeted with a familiar dial tone.
She punched the Washington Tribune, and waited for someone to answer. Finally the switchboard came on, and breathlessly she asked for the city room. Somebody answered there, and she asked for Greg. Finally, Greg answered.
"Oh, God, Greg," she wept suddenly into the phone upon hearing his voice. "Help me."
"Daphne? What's the matter?"
"They're trying to kill me. They raped me and they're trying to kill me."
"Calm down," she heard him say. "What are you talking about?"
"Greg, they know. They know that I'm not one of them, that.. . they locked me in a room and they were going to inject me with something. I.. . I think I killed him."
"Who?"
"The doctor, Utzall. He's the man behind this whole thing. Oh, Jesus, Greg, please come help me."
"You try to get away, stall them, don't let them find you," Greg shouted, suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. "I'm on my way, with help."
"Please hurry," she said, and hung up.
She sat momentarily with her head in her hands. Then she surveyed the room more carefully. She found a closet, and pulled a robe on over her. That made her feel better.
She put her head in her hands again, and wept. She wept until she fell asleep.
Daphne had been almost right. Nobody thought of looking for her in Jennifer's office. Not until they had searched everywhere else, that is. Her head snapped up, forced out of her reverie, when she heard somebody working the doorknob. Her heart seemed to stop, and her voice froze in her throat.
"Daphne?" It was Jennifer's voice, but she sensed that Paul and Mike were with her, too. "Daphne, we know you're in there, and you might as well come out."
She said nothing. She couldn't.
"Daphne, please don't make me ask the help to break this beautiful old door."
"Go away," she tried to shout. It came out as a hoarse muttering. "I don't want to die."
"You knew the risks when you came here," Jennifer said. "Like I told you earlier, we play the game our way. You knew the rules."
"Please go away," Daphne said.
There was silence for a minute, then she heard a loud thump against the door; Mike or Paul smashing into it. With the next thump she saw it give just a little, and a little more with the next. They were both putting their shoulders to it, and she saw part of the edge of the door as a length of the frame splintered away.
Daphne crouched behind Jennifer's desk, her eyes closed so she would not have to see what was coming. The door gave on the next smash, and Paul and Mike piled in, looking for her. They towered over her as they advanced on her, and like before, each one took an arm and dragged her, more violently this time, out of the room.
She stopped crying. Dignity was what she sought now, above all things. She passed Jennifer, who looked victoriously at her. They whipped her around and began carrying her upstairs.
There came a sudden crash, and they whirled her around again to see what it was. The front door had been kicked open, and three men wearing suits with guns drawn rushed in. They announced themselves with a terse shout: "FBI!"
Greg followed them in. It was the last thing Daphne remembered.
She awakened in a soft bed that she did not know. Greg stood over here, wearing a terry cloth bathrobe and holding a hot cup of coffee.
"What happened?" she asked, feeling very groggy.
"You passed out. Jesus, the cavalry comes to save the day, and you passed out and missed it."
"It's over?"
"The whole gang's in jail. Boy, you wouldn't believe the immensity of the operation. And it was like you said, all for profit."
"Greg?"
"Huh?" he asked, sipping on his coffee.
"Do you . . . care about me?"
He looked at her meaningfully. "Are you kidding? You think I rushed out there for a story? The story would've been there tomorrow. I came after you."
She knew it was true. She was at his apartment so he could watch her, and he had come after her because he cared. She felt better. A lot better.
Better enough to pull him into bed, and spread her knees for him the way she had only done it for her ex-fiance. And as Greg came inside her overused cunt in time with her own tremendous orgasm, Greg thought: Yes, I guess they were right.
