Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 mc: mind control
mf: male/female sex
ff: female/female sex
md: male dominant
ft: fetish (usually clothing)





   DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance
between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.  This work contains scenes of explicit sex between
adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only.  If you are
offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age
of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file.
Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected
sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not
exist.  In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this
work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other
activities depicted herein.

   TALKED THEMSELVES INTO IT by Downing Street Originally intended as a
tribute to "Talked me into it" by the lost, lamented Daphne.  It grew into
something much longer, and with a different perspective than I normally
use. I hope this works.

   -- Downing Street

   PART I Martin sat in the high-backed chair and contemplated the polished
cherrywood desk before him.  That's not a desk, he decided, it's a dance
floor on legs.  Desks should come in sizes, like hats.  This one was far
too big for him.

   Martin was 26 years old.  He had an MBA from a good college, and exactly
11 months work experience on the staff of an old and lecherous city
councillor.  Now, in defiance of all logic or expectation, he was himself
the councillor.  He had been thrust into the position, over all his
protests, when his predecessor and then boss had abruptly died, not one
week into the election campaign.

   Councillor Higgins's corruption had become public knowledge.  His secret
retirement fund, his publicly paid mistress, his liaisons with busty
"government relations facilitators" from ambitious developers had been in
all the papers.  It might have been one of those liaisons that killed him.
Fortunately, the woman had the sense to get dressed and remove herself from
the motel before she called the ambulance.

   The seat was lost, but somebody had to run.  Martin was there, he was
chief of staff, he had a presentable face.  Nobody fully understood what
happened.  "Surprise upset in Ward 4" was all the papers said.

   Martin sat dumbly behind his gleaming desk.  What was he supposed to do
now?  He fingered a small worry stone with one hand.

   The office door burst open.  Priscilla, the former executive assistant
and new chief of staff strode into the room.  She slammed the door, glaring
at him.  "Well, you have it all now, don't you," she spat.

   Martin had worked closely with Priscilla for most of the previous year.
He liked her.  She was shapely and elegant.  Standing in front of him in
her business suit and dress flats she looked as classy and competent as he
knew her to be.  At the moment, she was very upset.

   "Priscilla, what --" Martin began.

   "Oh, yes, you have all the marbles," Priscilla interrupted.  "The whole
lot.  Everything's turning out your way.  It's perfect.  It's all-together
perfect."

   "Uh, excuse me, what are you--"

   "I should have seen this coming.  I should have known.  But you were
clever, weren't you.  Biding your time.  Waiting for smarmy old Higgins to
retire or pass on.  Then pretending -- I actually believed you -- that you
didn't want to run.  Ha!  I should have known better!" She was pacing back
and forth in front of Martin's enormous desk, gesticulating wildly.

   "Then the election campaign.  That was slick, all right.  Caught
everybody off guard.  Nobody expected a Higgins clone would actually stand
up to developers.  But you, you cunning, smart bastard, you started making
speeches about planning and control.  Got people listening.  When you stood
up at that debate and said that McGrath Park should be protected against
all future encroachments -- well, you saw the way the crowd reacted.  You
couldn't go wrong after that.  And now here you are."

   Martin's eyes were getting tired from watching Priscilla stride back and
forth.  "Priscilla, I --" he began.

   She turned to face him, hands on hips.  "So you got the seat, didn't
you. Who am I kidding, you might as well own the thing.  Won by a two to
one margin.  Nobody will dare to even run against you now.  You can do with
it whatever you please.  Welcome to Ward four, fiefdom of Martin Miller."

   Martin looked at her, dumbfounded.  Her eyes blazed and her cheeks were
flushed.  Her anger only highlighted her regal features.  Priscilla was a
fine looking woman.  Martin worked his jaw, trying to think of something to
say.  Before he came up with anything, Priscilla was off again.

   "So what can be done?  Higgins was as crooked as a dog's hind leg and we
never got a solid charge against him.  What chance is there of unseating
you, the golden child of the whole city?  None of course.  Oh, don't worry,
I'm not stupid.  I can see where the power lies now.  You're sitting behind
your big desk, impregnable as Gibraltar, and I'm just office staff that you
can fire on a whim if you don't like the colour of my eyes."

   She took a deep breath, evidently arriving at a decision.  "Martin, I
want you to know that I won't be part of it.  I will not be associated with
the corruption and criminality of this office a moment longer.  You can
keep your stolen councillor's seat and all the perks that go with it.  But
you can't have me as your chief of staff.  I'm tendering my resignation. 
I'll clean out my desk and be gone by the end of the day."

   "Good luck, Martin," she finished.  She marched out of the office.

   "Priscilla, no, wait!" Martin called, jumping to his feet.  He had no
clue what Priscilla was on about, but he didn't want her to resign!  She
was the only one who could tell him what to do.  The door was already
closing.

   Martin sat back down.  He rubbed his face in his hands.  He looked down
at his gleaming, empty desk, then up at the closed door.  His first day on
the job wasn't going well.

   The door flew open again.  Priscilla was standing there, one hand on the
doorknob.  "OK, I'll stay," she said.  "At least until your transition is
completed.  I owe you that much.  Just don't think you can manipulate me
the way you have manipulated the electoral process in this city!" The door
banged closed again.

   Martin studied the closed door, blinking.  He still had no idea what was
going on.  At least Priscilla wasn't leaving.

   It turned out that he had very little time to worry about it, because a
moment later the telephone rang.  One of his constituents was upset about
road maintenance.  The telephone kept on ringing the rest of the day.

   Martin did try to set things straight with Priscilla the next morning.
It didn't go quite as planned.  He had barely sat down at his desk before
Priscilla breezed in, bearing a steaming cup of coffee.  "Good morning
boss," she said.  She set the cup on his desk.  "I can't remember whether
you take cream, or sugar too."

   "What?  Is that for me?  Priscilla you don't have to do that."

   She waved a hand.  "Of course I don't.  You didn't even ask.  That's the
beauty of it."

   She paused for a moment, reflecting.  "Yes, I should think you would
prefer it that way.  You can't order me to do something trivial and
demeaning like bringing you coffee, but if I choose to do it, well, that's
my decision.  It demonstrates your superiority all the more that I do this
voluntarily, because it implies my acceptance of my subordinate position."
She seemed to be explaining it to herself as much as to Martin.

   "Yes, very clever," she finished firmly.

   Martin studied his office manager, perplexed.  Priscilla was wearing a
cheerful, peach-coloured suit.  The skirt stopped a thumb's length above
the knee.  She wore tan nylons and white pumps.  Martin was pleasantly
surprised.  For as long as he had known her, Priscilla had been a
poster-girl for slacks and loafers.

   Martin turned his attention back to the matter at hand.  He fingered the
worry stone in his pocket.  "Priscilla," he began, "about yesterday --"

   "Yes, I know you're probably very upset with me," Priscilla interrupted.
She gave him a contrite look.  "I, I lost my temper.  I'm sorry.  It was
just the shock of it all, you winning by so much.  I . . .  forgot my
place. You have the upper hand here, and I'll just have to get used to
that."

   Martin frowned, puzzled.  "Does that mean you're not leaving?"

   "Well, I, uhm, that, that would be foolish, wouldn't it." Her voice was
nervous.  "I, I know how lucky I am to be working here.  There are young,
single, unemployed women with my qualifications all over the city, and
every one of them would jump at the chance to work for the hottest
councillor in the land.  You could take your pick.  My position would be
filled in twenty minutes, even if you only interviewed big-breasted
redheads.  You could fire me on the spur of the moment if you don't like my
handwriting.

   "You could ruin my reputation too while you're at it, couldn't you," she
went on.  "Sure, make up some twisted story that everybody will believe. 
Make certain that nobody in the city would hire me again.

   "So I guess I'm stuck, aren't I?  I'm going to have to play by your
rules from now on.  You hold all the cards, and I might just as well admit
it." Her tone was one of abject resignation.

   "Priscilla", Martin tried again.  "I don't know where you're getting all
this.  I need your help!  I always thought of us as partners."

   "Partners?  That's a lovely euphemism.  You're the partner that gives
orders and I'm the one that takes them.  Nice partnership." She let out a
sigh.  "Let me know if you want more coffee," she said, before leaving the
room.

   Martin sat back down in his high-backed chair, more confused than
before. He rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.  "Big-breasted redheads?"
he said to himself.

   Priscilla brought in the coffee every morning from then on, and tea in
the afternoon.  Martin couldn't talk her out of it.  She seemed convinced
that Martin had made it part of her job description, to remind her of her
place.  She made very good coffee.

   She also kept wearing attractive skirt-suits with hemlines well above
the knee.  Her well-curved legs were very easy on Martin's eyes, especially
decked out in sleek nylons and the stylish pumps she had taken to wearing.
Martin had always thought Priscilla had splendid legs.  His opinion was
only confirmed by seeing rather more of them.

   Sitting in his office, sipping excellent coffee while he prepared for
his first council meeting, Martin wondered vaguely what was up with his
chief of staff.  Now that he thought about it, the rest of the staff was
pretty much in skirts these days too.  Angela and Summer, the junior clerks
who did more work than they got credit for, had abandoned their youthful
fashions of flared pants and T-shirts in favour of more traditional attire.
Even Joan, the plump and middle-aged secretary had taken to coming to work
in her Sunday dress and pearls.  Martin rubbed his worry stone and
wondered.

   Eventually he asked Priscilla about it.  She came to work one Friday
morning in a fetching new outfit, a black, frill-edged suit jacket and
matching miniskirt, topped off with tall black boots.  Martin gaped. 
Priscilla's long, lithe legs shimmered in smoky-black nylons.  She poured
his coffee as she did every morning, then added just the right amount of
cream.

   Martin decided to approach the subject obliquely.  "Priscilla, I . . .
uhm, I hope you don't mind me saying, that's a very attractive dress -- or
suit, er, whatever."

   She handed him his coffee.  "Thank you," she said.

   "I don't want you to think, you know, that you have to, like dress up
every day.  Not, not that I mind of course, but if you would be more
comfortable --"

   "Don't tell me this isn't good enough!" she interrupted him.

   "Uh, pardon me?"

   "Look, Martin, I'm willing to tolerate your sexist dress code because I
have to, but please don't push me any further."

   "Dress code?  What are you talking about?  There isn't any --"

   "Well naturally it isn't written down!  You're too clever for that.  But
I know what you expect from your staff."

   "Priscilla, that's nonsense.  I don't care what you wear to work."

   "Really?  Then why do you keep looking at my legs?"

   Martin had no good answer for that.

   "Exactly," Priscilla said.  "I'm clever enough to add things up, Martin.
You're in charge here and we all know it.  So that means the office runs by
your rules.  You can have things your way, even if it means we have to
dress a little more flashy than we might like.  There's nothing anybody can
do about it so we decided we might just as well get used to it."

   "What do you mean, 'we'"?  Martin said cautiously.

   "Well, naturally I filled in the others," Priscilla replied.  "I didn't
want them to lose their jobs over something as minor as wearing pants.  I
am still the office manager, you know."

   "Now wait a minute, you don't --" Martin checked himself.  Priscilla was
standing in front of him, one leg extended, waiting patiently.  Her
tailored jacket flattered her sculpted figure.  He could see the slopes of
her breasts curving outward beneath the lapels of the blouse-less jacket.
Down below her legs were a pleasant distraction between the mini-length
hemline and the tight black boots.

   Did he really want to discourage her from dressing this way?  If she had
decided to spruce up her wardrobe and brighten up his office, who was he to
complain?

   "Uhm," he pronounced after a moment, "would you mind getting me the
agenda for this week's Council meeting?"

   Priscilla smiled.  "Certainly Martin," she agreed.  She left the room
with Martin's eyes glued to her nylons.

   Three days later Martin was sitting at the big table in the Council
Chambers, feeling more out of place than ever.  He was at least ten years
younger than any of the two dozen men and women around the table.  Most of
the councillors were veterans; only Martin and two others had been elected
in the latest poll.

   One of the newcomers was Her Worship the Mayor, who had wrested the
position from her predecessor in a close race.  She had her clunky chain of
office around her neck, and two black-suited aides flitting about her
shoulders.

   Martin had not brought any staff with him.  It was just as well. 
Priscilla had come to work that day in a new magenta minidress that quite
upset Martin's concentration.  Angela's and Summer's youthful
interpretation of the dress code included colourful, brief skirts coupled
with diaphanous stretch tops and big-heeled platform shoes.  Martin had
been staring, and smiling, all morning.

   He looked about the chamber.  There was a scattering of onlookers in the
public gallery, taking in the first Council meeting of the year.  Many of
them were reporters.  Martin recognized Calpurnia Scott from the News.  She
gave him a little wave.  He and Calpurnia had enjoyed many sparring matches
back when covering for Higgins's indiscretions had been his full-time job.

   He turned his attention to the agenda.  Item five was "McGrath Park." It
figured.  His very first council meeting, and he was being basted for
roasting.  He fingered the black worry stone in his pocket.  It was the
same stone that, ironically, he had received as a gift after the election
debate about McGrath Park.

   "Good afternoon everyone," the new Mayor said, "Let's call this meeting
to order."

   "You did well at the Council meeting, boss," Priscilla said the next
morning, setting a cup of coffee on the desk before Martin.  He tried to
avoid peering down the front of her low-scooped sweater as she bent over.
After a moment he gave up and took a good look.  Her breasts were full,
round and . . . .

   "Perfect," Martin murmured.  "I mean, uh, perfectly terrifying.  I was
scared to death."

   The miniskirted office manager added cream to his coffee.  "Nonsense. 
You were splendid.  Even the media noticed." She picked up a folded
newspaper from the desk and spread it out before him.  "Look here."

   Martin was looking, but not where Priscilla's finger was pointing.  He
drew his attention away from her lacy bra, and its delightful contents,
long enough to consider the newspaper.  There was an article there entitled
"McGrath Park: New Councillor Sticks to His Guns." It was under the byline
of Calpurnia Scott.

   Martin had said little at the meeting until agenda item five came up. 
It was a motion from a veteran councillor for whom expanding the tax base
was a life-long mantra.  His motion would end the temporary moratorium on
development around the park.  Martin had no choice but to defend the
position on which he had been elected.

   The debate was lively and long.  Martin argued that the moratorium was
the will of the people, not merely that of a few influential builders. 
Many around the table opposed him.  Martin was a competent debater, yet he
felt like a deer cornered by hungry wolves.  He had no expectation of
persuading the council.

   Midway through the debate, something strange happened.  Several of the
councillors decided Martin was right.  Reginald Farcapp, Ward 12, began a
long-winded tirade against the moratorium that wound down five minutes
later with a frank admission that it was a good idea.  A heated exchange
between councillors from Ward 5 and Ward 8 gradually transformed into a
thoughtful diatribe against the motion on the floor.  The Mayor watched all
this silently, her expression puzzled.

   Eventually it came to a vote.  The motion was narrowly defeated.  The
Mayor cast the deciding vote.

   Exhausted, Martin leaned back in his chair and let out his breath.  He
was perspiring.  He cast a glance up at the visitors' gallery.  Calpurnia
Scott looked up from her notebook, grinning.  She gave him the thumbs-up
sign.

   Martin tossed the newspaper aside.  "Well, I'm just glad I survived with
my pride intact," he said.  "We're never going to get anywhere unless we
can make that moratorium permanent." He leaned back in his chair and
admired Priscilla's bust again.

   The intercom buzzed.  Martin pushed a button.  "Yes?"

   "Martin, there's a Mr.  Burculosi on line one.  He sounds upset."

   "OK, thanks Summer, I'll take it." He cast a glance at Priscilla.

   "A real estate developer," she said curtly.  "He owns a fair bit of land
around McGrath Park."

   Martin groaned and picked up the telephone.  "Good afternoon Mr. 
Burculosi," he said, as cheerfully as possible.  Only half listening to the
angry voice in his ear, he admired the rear view of Priscilla as she swayed
out of the room.

   The following morning, Martin found himself subjected to the frontal
view of Priscilla, complete with big-lipped pout, as she stood in front of
his enormous desk.

   She said: "I wish you would stop trying to erode my authority in this
office."

   It was clearly a rehearsed statement.  Martin countered the only way he
knew how.

   "What?" he said.  He admired the way her spandex mini clung to her hips.

   Priscilla pulled down the bottom of her sweater, trying to cover her
navel.  She succeeded only in pulling the material tighter across her heavy
chest.  "Don't be coy, you know what I'm talking about," she said.  I'm the
chief of staff.  The others in the office are supposed to report to me."

   "Well, of course.  They do, don't they?"

   "Do they?  Then why do I have to tell Angela repeatedly not to make your
coffee?  Bringing in the coffee is my job.  Why does Summer always try to
sort your mail before I can get to it?  They both flout the dress code by
not wearing skirts to the office.  Do you know what Angela said when I
scolded her for not wearing a bra?  She said you wouldn't mind.  As if I
had no say at all in office decorum!"

   Martin looked at her blankly.  Was he on Mars?  Was Priscilla defending
her right to bring him coffee?  The only times the clerks weren't in
miniskirts were the days they opted for short-shorts or stretch pants. 
Perplexed, he rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.  "Priscilla, I --"

   "Even Joan is circumventing me," Priscilla interrupted.  "She didn't
even consult me before she started taking those exercise classes.  She
loses an hour or more every day now.  Martin this has got to stop."

   Martin tried again.  "Look, I don't know anything about --"

   "Of course you don't.  Of course not.  There's nothing to tie it to you
at all.  You're a master of subtlety, I'll grant you that.  You work behind
my back, under-cutting my position, making me look foolish and
ineffectual." She was gesticulating again.  Her fingernails were painted
the exact same colour as her sweater.

   "I mean, just look at me," the agitated office manager pressed on, "look
at the way I'm dressed." She spread her hands.

   Martin was looking.  Priscilla's outfit suggested activities other than
work.  Today she wore a foreshortened stretch top in bright fuschia and a
matching mini that clung like paint to her hips and ass.  Her nylons were
sheer and shimmering, topped off with white, wedge-heeled platform sandals.
The broad white belt looped around her waist was just for show.

   "Who's going to take my orders seriously when I look like this?"

   Martin raised a finger.  "Well, you don't have to --"

   "I think I've been very reasonable," Priscilla blurted.  She started
pacing again.  "I acknowledge that you have certain . . .  expectations of
your staff, and since I have been following your rules to this point I
suppose I have tacitly conceded your right to impose them.  So, sure, it's
not on for me to selfishly decide to abandon our understanding when I have
already in effect agreed to it.  It's not like you're being draconian.  You
only suggest that the women in your office make an effort to look
attractive during the work day.

   "And who doesn't want to be attractive?  In a way, you're doing us a
favour, I suppose, by letting us explore our own femininity in an
environment where being a real, sexy woman isn't construed as a liability.
Here we can have our jobs without submerging our sexuality.  It's
liberating in a way.  I'm finding I feel better about myself now that I
have the confidence to wear short skirts and heels.  I even enjoy getting
dressed in the morning.  But that doesn't change the fact . . ."

   She stopped in mid-pace.  She seemed to have lost her train of thought.

   "Doesn't change what fact?" Martin prompted.  He was curious where this
was going.

   Priscilla turned to face him.  "OK, so if I'm the one that has decided
to change my style, I can hardly blame you if other people respond to me
differently.  I accept that.  But this is as far as it goes.  You still
need me to run this office, so I insist on being treated with respect.  All
right?" She was pouting again.

   "Uhm, sure," said Martin.

   "Good." She turned on her elevated heel and strode out of the room.

   Martin watched her go.  He rubbed his worry stone.  What exactly had
that conversation been about?

   It was Tuesday of the following week when Martin strolled into the
office after a working lunch.  He closed his umbrella and tossed it into
the stand.  The lunch meeting had been quite successful.  One of the other
councillors had wanted to negotiate votes for his pet project in return for
support on McGrath Park.  It was the kind of horse trading that went on all
the time in city hall.  Over the course of a long lunch, Thorold had pretty
much come around to Martin's position anyway.

   Martin was in a good mood, notwithstanding the rain.  The office was
humming.  Angela, a petite blonde with a bubbly smile, was sitting at her
desk sorting the mail.  She gave Martin a coy look.  Angela was wearing a
leg-baring miniskirt, of course, and as she sat with her knees crossed the
view of her exposed thighs was charming.  "Hi Mr.  Miller," she sang.

   "Hi Mr.  Miller," another voice echoed.  Summer was over by the endless
row of filing cabinets along one wall.  She wore her brown hair long and
straight.  Her red cotton mini was as short as Angela's.

   At the moment Martin looked her way, she decided to retrieve a file in
the bottom drawer.  She bent over from the waist, letting her little skirt
slip up to the top of her thighs and over the curves of her dandy bottom.
She wore dark, seamless pantyhose with nothing beneath them, and tight
black boots.

   Martin, being a gentleman, looked away.  Eventually.

   Joan, at least, wasn't wearing a miniskirt.  In fact, her plum-red dress
was ankle length, and tight-fitting the whole way.  Joan was looking much
trimmer these days.  Partly that was because she had lost some weight. 
Mostly it was because she had started wearing confining corsets and
waist-cinchers beneath her clothes.  She was sitting at her desk, nibbling
on a carrot and intently studying a book titled "The California Miracle
Diet".

   Martin found Priscilla at her desk outside his office.  She was putting
on lipstick with one hand while holding up a hand mirror with the other. 
She put both away quickly when she noticed Martin.

   "Ah, you're back," she said, looking guilty.  "How was the meeting."

   Martin grinned.  "The meeting was good.  Lunch was good too.  Especially
since Thorold paid." He let his eyes wander.  Priscilla was looking good
too, in a frilly, salmon-coloured suit and red slides.  Martin could see
the top of her lace bodyshirt in the cleavage of her jacket.  Priscilla had
become fond of frills and lace recently.

   The shapely office manager toyed with the lapel of her jacket.  Perhaps
she was aware of where Martin's gaze was lingering.  "Well, you have
another meeting, right now," she said.  "Mr.  Burculosi is waiting in your
office."

   Martin's heart sank.  "Berculosi.  Isn't he the one --"

   "The same.  The moratorium has prevented him from building on prime land
adjacent to McGrath Park.  He seemed upset."

   "No doubt," Martin observed wryly.  He fingered the worry stone in his
pocket.  "Well, not point avoiding the inevitable." With one last look down
Priscilla's cleavage he stepped through the door of his office.

   In fact there were two people waiting in Martin's office.  Berculosi
himself was a big man with a mop of curly black hair and a functional grey
suit.  He was standing by one wall, looking over the photographs and
memorabilia that Higgins had left there.  The other person was a frankly
gorgeous young woman in a chartreuse designer dress, sitting demurely on
the sofa.

   "Mr.  Berculosi," Martin said, extending his hand, "Martin Miller. 
Pleasure to meet you."

   Berculosi didn't shake hands.  "You shoot this?" he said, referring to
the photograph of an enormous red deer lying on a weigh scale.

   Martin shook his head.  "That was Councillor Higgins.  From a hunting
trip in the Black Forest.  We haven't gotten around to taking down a lot of
his things." He gestured toward the seated woman.  "And this would be . . .
?"

   "My wife, Rachel," Berculosi said, without looking at her.  "Look,
Miller, let's talk turkey.  I've known Clement Higgins for over twenty
years.  Contributed to his election campaigns, generously, because I knew
he was a man who understood how things worked.  He was a bridge, not a
roadblock, if you know what I mean."

   Martin nodded.  Higgins had been famous for taking his voting cues at
council meetings from the developers sitting in the public gallery.

   Berculosi pointed at a photograph on the wall.  "See this?  That's your
Councillor Higgins on the left, and the man he's shaking hands with is me.
That was three years ago, at the opening of Towne Parke, Phase I."

   "That was before my time," Martin said evenly.  He glanced over at
Rachel.  She was looking bored.  She had beautiful eyes, as big and gentle
as the deer Higgins had shot.

   "Exactly my point, Miller," the big man said.  "I've worked for three
years to get permission for Towne Parke Phase II.  Three years.  Higgins
was with me on this.  You're Higgins's man so you should be with me too. 
Instead, I'm hearing nothing but grief and nonsense about this blasted
moratorium.  Maybe you've forgotten who supported your election campaign."
He stepped toward Martin as he spoke, until he was standing no more than a
foot in front of him.

   Martin took a step backward.  "I'm not Higgins's man," he replied, "I'm
my own man.  I am grateful for the support you have given us over the
years, but there are reasons for the delays on your project -- not least of
which is the necessity for a zoning variance that would infringe on McGrath
Park.  This is a highly sensitive --"

   "I am sick to here of hearing about McGrath Park!" Berculosi exploded.
"I'm a legitimate businessman trying to make an honest profit.  I won't be
blockaded by a gaggle of grey-haired nannies who like to feed the ducks!"

   Martin took another step backward.  He moved toward his desk.  "Those
grey-haired nannies are voters too," he replied.

   Maybe it was the wrong thing to say.  "Goddamit Miller, smarten up!"
Berculosi thundered.  He slammed his fist down on the desk, rattling an
empty coffee cup.  "You're not the only player in City Hall, you know.  You
got elected, you can get unelected.  We know how to get around deadweight
tree-huggers like you."

   He turned abruptly and strode toward the door.  "Come on, Rachel," he
growled, as if he was calling a dog.

   His trophy wife got to her feet gracefully.  She had an hourglass figure
and splendid legs.  Unexpectedly, she extended a hand toward Martin.  "Nice
to meet you, Mr.  Miller", she said politely.

   "Likewise," said Martin, shaking hands.  He let himself get lost in
those big brown eyes for a moment.  Her hand was warm and soft in his.

   "Rachel," her husband said from the door.

   "Coming honey," she replied.  She turned and departed with her husband.
She paused at the door to give Martin an inscrutable look.  Martin tried to
pretend he hadn't been watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

   When the door closed, Martin plopped into his stuffed chair.  He reached
into his pocked for his worry stone.  Priscilla entered the office a moment
later.  "That didn't go well, did it," she consoled him.  "I could hear the
shouting."

   Martin let out his breath.  "Didn't go well indeed.  I think the man
threatened me!"

   "Really?  What did he say?"

   "Something about me being an obstacle that he would remove."

   "That doesn't sound too serious.  Berculosi's a blowhard but I doubt
that he's violent.  You're over-reacting."

   "Yes, I suppose I am," Martin conceded.  He admired the way Priscilla's
lace leotard displayed her chest beneath her suit jacket.  "The man is
intimidating; I'm as tense as a racehorse.  Maybe you can calm me down a
little."

   Perhaps he should have been looking at her face while he said that,
instead of lower down.  Priscilla apparently misinterpreted what he meant.

   She paused, drawing a deep breath.  "Very well then, Martin," she began.
"I guessed it would come to this soon enough."

   She reached up and pulled out the combs holding her hair in place.  Long
brown locks tumbled down around her shoulders.  She advanced toward
Martin's chair.  She dropped gracefully to her knees in front of him and
reached for his zipper.

   "Wha . . .  ?" cried Martin, too startled to react sensibly.

   She already had a hand in his fly.  "Don't worry, boss.  I'll do it
right." She deftly worked his cock out into the light.  Martin just stared
at her, too amazed to speak.  "Mmmmmmm, anything to keep my job," the
brown-haired beauty sighed, before her lips descended on his shaft.

   Priscilla was right.  She was far more adept than Martin expected. 
Expert even.  She took him in deep, deeper than Martin would have thought
possible.  She used her hands, her lips, her tongue.  By the time Martin
was ready to come, Priscilla was slurping up and down like she was trying
to suck his brains out through his wang.  Abruptly he boiled over, gasping,
as he spewed his load down Priscilla's receptive throat.  She stayed with
him all the way, until his ejaculation had ebbed to a series of little
twitches.

   When she finally let him go they were both breathing hard.  Priscilla
climbed to her feet.  She smoothed down her brief suit.  "Well, I hope that
was enough. . .  to satisfy you . . .  for a while," she huffed, still out
of breath.  She began putting up her hair as she walked out.

   Well, that was . . .  peculiar, Martin reflected as he tucked his shirt
back in.  But very pleasant.  He took his worry stone from his pocket and
rubbed it idly between his fingers.

   He had worked with Priscilla for almost a year.  They had posted long
days and nights side by side during the election campaign.  She had never
hinted that she was romantically interested in him.  Nor was she now,
apparently.

   Somehow she had convinced herself that he was unassailably corrupt and
that sexual favours were now part of her job description.  Wherever did she
get such an idea?  He sighed.  He would have to set her straight about
that. Maybe tomorrow.

   Once again, Martin's earnest attempt to set things straight with
Priscilla took an unexpected turn.  He broached the subject the next
morning, when Priscilla brought him his coffee.

   "Uhm, Priscilla," Martin began carefully, accepting the china cup, "We
need to talk, I think.  About yesterday." It was strange, having to explain
to his office manager that blowjobs were not required.  Priscilla wasn't
making it any easier.  She was wearing the frilly black suit today, with
the tight miniskirt and tighter boots, bridged by black, fishnet nylons.

   She looked at him expectantly.  "Well it's about what you did -- we did
-- after the meeting with Berculosi."

   "Oh, yes, of course Martin," the tall brunette interrupted.  "Here,
scoot your chair back a little bit." Before Martin knew what was happening,
Priscilla was again on her knees between his legs and his zipper was
sliding down.

   Martin attempted a protest.  Priscilla's deft fingers found his
awakening shaft.  His objection died in his throat.

   He should have made more of an effort to stop her.  He should have
pushed her away.  Part of him was curious to know if the mind-bending
blow-job she had given him yesterday was a one-time thing, or if she could
do it again.

   She did it again.

   A few minutes later Martin was sprawled across his big chair, panting
and gasping while he waited for his eyes to uncross.  Priscilla got to her
feet.  She tugged down her miniskirt self-consciously.  She brushed
imaginary dust off her knees.  Martin's eyes followed her hands.

   "There . . .  you go, boss," she said, between deep breaths.  Her face
was flushed.  "Let me know if you want another . . .  cup of coffee."
Martin admired Priscilla's sleek, booted legs as she left the office.  His
trousers were still around his ankles.







   DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance
between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.  This work contains scenes of explicit sex between
adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only.  If you are
offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age
of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file.
Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected
sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not
exist.  In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this
work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other
activities depicted herein.

   TALKED THEMSELVES INTO IT by Downing Street PART II Fellatio from
Priscilla became part of Martin's daily routine.  He couldn't talk her out
of it any more than he could stop her from bringing him coffee.  Usually
she did both at once.  She pretended it was an imposition to which she
acceded only to keep her job.  The panting enthusiasm with which she
engulfed Martin's rod made that a little hard to believe.  So did the
glassy-eyed, sex-drunk look on her face when she finished.  Once, she
walked into a chair as she was leaving.

   Martin felt a little guilty for not resisting her more vigorously.  It
was entirely her idea, he reasoned, much like her novel interpretation of
office attire.  If Priscilla felt more secure in her position when she
spent a quarter hour between his legs every morning, who was he to argue?
On busy mornings he checked his e- mail while she sucked.

   It was on one such morning about a week later that Martin came across a
message that piqued his interest.  The heading was "Interview?" It was from
Calpurnia Scott, the newspaper reporter.  He opened the message.  Between
his legs, Priscilla's head bobbed up and down in a slow, even rhythm,
pleasurable but not yet overwhelming.

   The message read:

   "Hi Martin.  I've talked my editor into letting me run a special series
on the new Council, and the issues facing City Hall.  I've lined up the
Mayor and a couple of the others, but it wouldn't be complete without an
interview with the hottest new Councillor in the City.  What do you say? 
Can you give me an hour some time?  I'd be glad to come down to your
office."

   "Please let me know soonest -- I live and die by deadlines.  CS"

   Martin considered the request.  "Priscilla," he said after a moment,
"maybe you should take a look at this."

   "Mmm-hmmm," Priscilla hummed, without stopping what she was doing.

   Now it was becoming distracting.  Reluctantly, Martin eased her mouth
off his pecker.  "No, not finnnnished," she whined, craning her neck
forward.  Her cheeks were flushed.

   "I, I know honey but -- hey, come on, hold on a minute, this could be
important." With some difficulty he got her to turn a little so she could
see the computer screen.  She read the message.  She stroked him with one
hand at the same time, keeping him hard.

   "So, what do you think?  Should I let her have an interview?  She's a
pretty sharp reporter.  Could make a fuss about the Higgins connect -- oh,
man that's nice."

   The pretty office manager considered, still on her knees.  "I think you
should agree.  A long interview would give you a chance to set your
position on McGrath Park.  Much better than seven-second sound bites." She
apparently had no difficulty splitting her attention between public
relations and pubic fellation.

   "Ah, ah OK then," Martin said, a little distractedly.  "I'll write back
and tell her to come by Tuesdaaaaaaaay." Priscilla had caught him off
guard. Her lips worked up and down his member, sucking harder now.  Her
tongue worked its magic.

   Martin groaned in surrender.  He leaned back in his plush chair.  His
eyes rolled back in his head as Priscilla drove him relentlessly toward his
climax.  He decided to worry about the interview later.

   "I appreciate you taking the time for me," Calpurnia Scott said,
settling into the leather chair.  "I know how busy you must be as a
councillor now."

   She took a small tape recorder out of her handbag and set it on the
coffee table.  Calpurnia was a trim, energetic woman with deep brown hair
and honest eyes.  She was dressed stylishly in a high- necked sweater and
brown suede pants over black ankle boots.

   "Always time for you, Callie," Martin replied.  He took a seat in
another chair across from her.  "What specifically would you like to cover
today?"

   She shrugged.  "Well, to start with, how does it feel?  To be the new
councillor, I mean.  Given your predecessor's record, you couldn't have
expected to win the election."

   The question seemed artless, but Martin knew better.  "Every candidate
expects to win every election," he parried, "otherwise no one would ever
run for office."

   "Yes, but when the election was called Councillor Higgins was facing
multiple counts of corruption and malfeasance.  You were his chief of
staff. Surely you expected that to weigh heavily against you?"

   "Elections should be about the future, not the past.  Clement Higgins
has passed on, so he no longer has to defend himself.  Now that those
clouds have cleared, I think the public is more interested in how we are
going to handle the various problems facing the City."

   So the interview ran, a verbal fencing match of thrusts and ripostes,
lunges and parries.  Martin tried to turn the conversation toward his plans
for the ward.  This proved a difficult task because he didn't have any.

   Calpurnia was clearly intrigued by how Martin had come to win the seat
in the first place.  Did the Higgins electoral machine come to his rescue?
Did Martin have access to levers of influence of which others were unaware?
How was it that, as a junior councillor without experience, he was being so
successful at advancing his agenda?

   Martin had anticipated this line of questions.  He denied that he knew
anything about Higgins's double dealing.  That was true enough.  He also
confirmed that he knew nothing about the rather sizable sums that had gone
missing during Higgins's tenure.

   Martin attributed his early success to hard work and the public's
patience with a newcomer.  Privately, he was as baffled by this as was the
attractive reporter sitting across from him.  He rubbed the worry stone in
his pocket as he talked.

   Inevitably, the conversation came around to McGrath Park.  "What made
you decide to take a position so unlike your predecessor's?" Calpurnia
asked.  Martin remembered that debate clearly.  He had named it the Night
of the Babe.

   The debate had been held at a small community hall, sponsored by one of
the local radio stations.  Civic elections tend to ignite public interest
like a wet match.  Most of the disgruntled people half-filling the hall
were only there to complain about Higgins's indiscretions.

   Naturally, the debate had not gone well.  Martin attempted to continue
Higgins's campaign while at the same time distancing himself from him. 
Martin and Priscilla had worked out neutral, uncontroversial positions on
the major issues.  At least they could lose the election with some grace.
Finally though, one of the radio people asked a question about McGrath
Park.

   Martin looked out over the empty seats and the collection of scowling
voters.  He studied his notes.  The rehearsed answer was a carefully
constructed smokescreen of obscurity and evasion.  Martin genuinely liked
McGrath Park.  He had played there as a kid.

   There was a long pause.  Martin realized suddenly that the hall had gone
silent.  Everyone was waiting for him to speak.  The election was hopeless.
What else did he have to lose?  He set his notes down.  "My friends," he
said, "let's talk about McGrath Park."

   So he did.  He laid out a plan, off the top of his head, for a permanent
ban on buildings that crowded the park.  He spoke with real passion for the
first time in the campaign.  He forgot about his notes.  Off in the wings
he could see Priscilla gesticulating, panicked that he had departed from
the script.  For once he didn't care.

   Martin's opponent was quick to condemn his plan.  A feisty debate
followed.  Martin could not claim to have won.  He did get people listening
though.

   Yet the debate was secondary in Martin's memory.  Another anomaly was
even more remarkable.  Sitting in the front row of seats before the stage
was the most spectacular woman he had ever seen.

   She was blonde.  She was bright-eyed.  She was fabulously well built. 
She was wearing a sleeveless, stretch-fit microdress and shiny white
platform sandals.  She could have walked out of a centrefold for a classy
adult magazine.  Every time she crossed her knees Martin forgot what he was
saying.  She was watching the debate with casual interest while holding
hands with a well-dressed man who must have been her senior by at least
half a century.

   "Martin.  Martin?" Calpurnia said.

   "What?  Oh, sorry Callie, I was uhm, collecting my thoughts.  I'm glad
you asked me about the park.  I stated during the campaign, and I still
feel, that urban parks are an important part of the fabric of cities; they
make cities vibrant and livable instead of cold and stone.  But we must
remember that parks are for all the people, not merely the lucky few that
--"

   He was interrupted by a polite knock on the door.  He glanced at his
watch.  "Oh, that will be Priscilla with tea."

   Calpurnia raised an eyebrow.  "Priscilla brings you tea?"

   "It's quite impossible to stop her.  Come in!"

   The door opened and Priscilla stepped in, carrying a full tea service on
a silver tray.  "I thought you might like some refreshment," she said,
smiling.

   "Thanks," Martin said, "set it down here on the table, won't you." He
looked over at Calpurnia nervously.  He was unsure what she would make of
Priscilla's demeanour -- or her decoltage.

   The office manager was wearing a gauzy, indigo top that showed off the
outlines of her lace brassiere, decorated in front with rows of ruffles
along the plunging neckline.  She set the tea tray down on the low table
between Martin and Calpurnia.  Her silky miniskirt stretched tight across
her derriere.

   "Thank you," Martin said again, "that's all right, we can --"

   Priscilla was already pouring out.  She carefully decanted a cup of tea
for each of them.  Martin noticed that she faced a little more toward him
than the reporter.  The view of her cleavage was unimpeded.  She set down
the teapot and handed Martin his cup.  She left the other cup on the tray.

   "I put out some treats too," she said, straightening.  "Will there be
anything else?"

   Martin kept his voice neutral.  "No, that's fine, Priscilla.  I'll call
if we need anything."

   She smiled again.  "Fine.  Nice to see you Calpurnia." She shuffled out
of the room in her bright red slides.  Shuffling was about the only way she
could walk.  Over the past few weeks Calpurnia's heels had been rising as
fast as her hemlines.

   Calpurnia Scott picked up her teacup and took a sip.  "She's changed,"
she said evenly.

   "Who?  Priscilla?" Martin replied, playing dumb.

   "Yes.  I never imagined Priscilla as the tea-serving type."

   "Oh, uhm, she's just being polite.  Let's get back to that question
about McGrath Park."

   When Calpurnia decided she had enough from the interview she thanked
Martin and left.  Martin watched from the door as she made her way through
the outer office.  He was a little concerned about Calpurnia's impressions
of his office.

   Scott was observant, and sensitive to the nuances of politics.  What
would she make of the formerly cool and sensible Priscilla acting so sexy
and feminine, right down to the seamed nylons slinking up her long legs? 
How could she not notice Angela and Summer, both dressed today in tight
crop-tops and short-shorts, though only Angela had troubled to wear a bra?
Or the ever-docile Joan, squeezed into a corset until her impressive
cleavage threatened to spill out the top of her straining suit jacket?

   When Martin's telephone rang the reporter was deep in conversation with
Priscilla.  Both women were very serious.  Martin's fingers worked the
worry stone in his pocket.

   Martin didn't have much time to worry about the interview for the next
few days.  He was too busy building support for a permanent moratorium on
construction around McGrath Park.  He continued to have difficulties with
his staff.  Especially Priscilla.

   She shuffled into his office one morning looking put out.  She served
him coffee, as usual.  Then, instead of her usual day- starter blowjob, she
launched into another complaint.  "I know what you are up to," she began.

   Martin took a tentative sip of coffee.  "Uhm, pardon me?"

   "I mean I've figured out what you are trying to do, and I won't let you.
You're trying to get me, like, all sexed up.  That's the goal here, isn't
it?  I'm on to you now."

   "Uh, right.  On to what, exactly?"

   "Don't play coy with me, Martin.  I've got you figured out.  You fooled
me for a while, I admit it.  At first I thought you were a typical boorish
male, looking for a bit of flash and skin around the office.  Well, I went
along with that, since you obviously have the upper hand, and besides I had
to set an example for the other girls.  I didn't even see it when you
started raising the ante a little bit, pushing me into shorter and shorter
lengths, and higher heels.  I kind of got used to it even.  Which is
exactly what you wanted.  You played on my self-image, letting me feel good
about myself and my new look."

   She was pacing again.  Her butter-yellow platform slides rendered her
steps dainty and eye-catching.  Martin watched her warily.

   "I should have known better.  I underestimated just how smart you are.
Hey, Priscilla, you look terrific.  You're getting me all excited.  How
about a little head you foxy thing.  To think I actually fell for that! 
You not only talked me onto my knees, you even made me feel obligated:
after all, it's my body in all these sexy office clothes that's getting
your hormones in a knot.  Can't have the boss too uptight to work.  Of
course by that time I had forgotten that it was your idea to put me in
these get-ups in the first place.  Oooh, you're a cunning fox!"

   She stopped for a moment, hands on hips.  She wore big, wooden bracelets
on each wrist that matched her scarlet mini.  Her sweater was tight and
white, like the lace stockings shimmering up her legs.

   Martin tried to jump into the pause.  "Priscilla, I never said --"

   "Exactly!  You never said anything.  You persuaded me to become your
happy office decoration and personal cock-sucker without ever saying
anything.  It's brilliant!  But even that wasn't the final objective. 
There's still more to the plan, isn't there?"

   "There is?"

   "Oh, yes, I see it now.  You figure, get me used to looking super- sexy,
let me get spoiled by all the attention, make me feel goody- good about it,
until I'm so into looking hot I'm wearing club clothes to church.  Not that
I've ever done that!  Of course not.  Maybe once.  Or twice.

   "Then you ramp up the heat a bit more.  You get me down under your desk
with that scrumptious stiffy down my throat and my pussy singing hymns, not
just once, or twice, but oh sweet glory!  every single day, until I start
thinking that is normal, and start expecting it, start needing it, like,
you know, you need a good cup of coffee in the morning, even start looking
forward to Mondays and spending spare time on weekends practising with a .
. .  uhm . .. .  not that I've done that either."

   She paused for breath.  Her breasts pressed against the fabric of her
sweater, as if they were eager to come out and play.

   "So that's the plan.  You're trying to make me oversexed.  You think you
can get me thinking about sex all the time, night and day.  You want me to
think with my pussy.  Then you figure you can manipulate me into going to
bed with you because I'll be so horny and receptive and sexed-up and I've
already blown you too many times to count so what's the difference and that
way I could get off from a nice bone for once instead of using my fingers
in the shower every morning.  Not, not that I do that!

   "But it's not going to work.  I am on to you.  For once I'm one step
ahead of your scheming manipulation.  You can keep that, that awesome woody
in your pants from now on because my days of granting you favours are over.
Are we clear?"

   "Perfectly," Martin breathed.

   "Good." Priscilla walked, or rather wiggled, out of the room with her
chin high.  Martin noticed that she was carefully setting one foot in front
of the other, exaggerating the sway of her behind beneath her slinky mini.
Her stockings had decorative white bows on the back.

   Martin contemplated the closed door.  He rubbed his worry stone.  His
pants were uncomfortable.  Maybe he should feel guilty, but Priscilla's
rant had given him an erection like iron.

   The door opened suddenly.  Priscilla was standing there, looking
flushed. She tottered into the room, closing the door behind her.  "Ohhhhh,
you tricked me again," she whined.

   Martin was speechless.  Now what?

   "Every time I think I've got the upper hand, you unravel another layer
of cunning.  I should have known better.  That was exactly the reaction you
were looking for, wasn't it?  You expected me to say that.

   "Then you were planning to crush my independence a little further.  You
were going to let me think I had won, then remind me what I was missing,
how plain and ordinary the workday is without a dash of dalliance.  Perhaps
a little hint each day, what?  You were going to let me stew in it, let me
get horny and frustrated, until you can make me ask you for sex.  That was
the final power play, wasn't it?"

   Martin was still speechless.  He gaped at her like a beached fish.  The
long-legged office manager stepped around his big desk.  She approached his
chair.  "Well, you're not going to get the chance," she said haughtily. 
She bent her knees and dropped gently into his lap.  "You are never going
to hear me beg for it.  Because you are going to fuck me right here, right
now, and no excuses."

   Martin had a difficult time rebutting such a forceful argument --
especially when he found himself with a beautiful woman in his lap, kissing
him hotly while she pressed her body against him.  She cradled his head in
both of her hands while her lips and tongue danced with his.  Martin's
erection strained beneath her; he was sure she could feel it.  He tried to
say something, anything, but Priscilla simply drowned his protests in more
kisses.

   She took his hand in one of hers and gently guided it downward.  It
landed high on one stocking-clad leg.  These were the same legs he had been
admiring with increasing ardour as Priscilla's heels and hemlines drifted
skyward.  The hand decided to stay.

   "You lil manipulator," Priscilla cooed, between kisses.  "Making me .. .
.  mmmmmmmmm . . .  all horny . . .  so, so you can . . .  fuck me right,
oh god, right here in the office" Her hands worked his tie.  He surrendered
the hand on her thigh long enough to get his jacket off.  Then he returned
the favour by helping Priscilla struggle out of her clinging sweater.  Her
hair fell down in a loose tangle.

   Underneath the sweater he found two uplifting demi-cups posing as a bra.
They offered no real resistance to his quest to liberate her tits.  When
those perfect orbs came into view the last of Martin's restraint
evaporated. He dove downward with a grunt of desire to lick and suck and
nibble.  Priscilla made a keening sound.  Her nipples were hard and pink.

   The office manager began to topple backward.  Her legs lifted high in
the air to compensate.  One garish, three-inch platform tumbled to the
floor.  "No, wait, Martin, not here, let's, let's at least use the oh!  the
s-sofa," Priscilla cried.  A hand disappeared under her red miniskirt. 
"Please, not . . .  oh lord I'm so hot . . .  but please not on the fl --
Oooof!" The pair tumbled onto the carpet, still kissing and licking and
groping.

   Priscilla landed with her legs spread wide, shiny skirt rucked up over
her behind.  Her panties were as immaterial as her brassiere.  They matched
her garter straps.  "All right, I don't care, just hurry," she gasped, as
Martin paused to unfasten his trousers.  "I need you so bad, you li'l
manipulator."

   Martin's underwear followed his trousers.  He collapsed back on top of
her, too aroused for more foreplay.  "Wait, let, let me help," Priscilla
coaxed.  She took his hardness gently in both hands and guided him down. 
Her panties slipped aside, practically inviting him into the pink moistness
beneath.  Grunting, he pressed downward.  Priscilla gasped and arched her
back.

   "Any-anything to keep my job," she panted, as Martin sank into her.

   The two office lovers fucked eagerly on the carpet.  Priscilla raised
her legs and wrapped her ankles around Martin's back, driving him deeper.
She lifted her hips to meet his downstrokes.  She wailed protests about
being forced into sex against her will.  Nevertheless she did manage to
orgasm.  Twice.

   They never did find their way to the sofa.

   A fortnight later Martin was back behind his big desk, surrounded by
papers and files.  His second council meeting was coming up.  He wanted to
be ready.  If the telephone would stop ringing for a few minutes, he
thought sourly, he might actually get something done.

   Martin had decided to introduce a motion to make the moratorium on
development around McGrath Park permanent.  Why not?  At least that way his
tenure as a councillor would mean something.  He couldn't spend the next
two years running in place.  A permanent moratorium would be a hard sell,
but it gave him something to work toward.

   There was a gentle tap on the door.  Now what?  It didn't sound like
Priscilla's firm knock.

   "Yes, come in," Martin said.

   The door opened.  Summer and Angela stepped in.  They looked nervous. 
Angela closed the door behind her.

   There was silence for a moment.  Martin said: "What's up?  You look like
you have something on your minds."

   The girls looked at each other, silently deciding who was to speak
first. Summer said, "Mr.  Miller, we, uhm, we have to . . .  like, talk to
you, about . . .  uhm, something."

   "Yes, of course.  Come on, out with it." He smiled to show he wasn't
angry.

   It was easy to smile when his junior clerks were in the room.  Summer
was decked out in a red pullover and stretchy black miniskirt, the latter
about as short as a summer night in Norway.  Her lovely legs curved down
and down, finally disappearing into bright red socks and black leather
boots.  Angela wore a metallic stretch top and matching hipster pants that
skimmed well below her navel.  The ultra-thin material shimmered over her
youthful curves and completely covered the enormous wedge platform sandals
on her feet.  The girls were behaving more and more like they were
competing to see who could be the more distracting.

   Angela spoke up.  "It's just that, well, I know we're only like, clerks
and that, but, we, uhm, we feel that we should, like, get the same, uhm --"

   "the same privileges as everyone else in the office," Summer finished
for her.

   "OK, I'm with you so far," Martin said.  "What's the prob--"

   "We know you're having sex in the office with Priscilla," Angela said.

   Martin said nothing.  He blushed red.  There was no point denying the
obvious.  He had been having sex in the office with Priscilla: exuberant,
hot, unrestrained sex, almost every day for the past two weeks.

   It was all Priscilla's idea.  She insisted.  Somehow she had convinced
herself that fucking the boss was a requirement of her job, like coming to
work dressed as a beauty queen.

   She wiggled into his office the day after their first frantic coupling,
looking sexy and sullen.  "Here's your coffee," she said, setting the cup
on the desk.  "Don't get any ideas about getting any other favours from
me."

   Martin sensed another speech coming.  He rubbed the worry stone in his
pocket.  "Priscilla," he said carefully.  "I want you to understand that
you never have to have sex with me if you don't want to.  What happened
yesterday --"

   "Was another attempt to seduce me into becoming your personal office
sexpot.  It, it won't work.  I'm drawing the line here, Martin.  I won't be
cajoled into more horizontal dictation -- even if you are the best fuck I
ever had.

   "I guess it was partly my fault, what happened yesterday.  I was the one
that forced you to stop teasing me.  I did insist that you slide your big,
hard wang into me, and it, it felt good, I can't deny that.  Oh who am I
kidding, it felt darn good, better than I imagined, I mean, really, really
good, and when you started pumping in and out and in and out and
mmmmmmmmmm, kissing me like, everywhere and making me hot, hot, oh yes,
soooo hot!  -- and then going faster and faster and I felt so slick and
full and alive and oh yes, darling!  you were so big inside me, stroking
hard and deep and faster, mmmmmm yes, till I was sure I'd pass out from the
pleasure but you went faster still and then I --"

   She stopped abruptly.  She exhaled.  "OK, OK, that's enough.  This is
exactly the kind of oversexed behaviour you're trying to fool me into. 
Well I won't have it.  I'm the office manager.  From here on I insist we
keep fucking on all -- I mean, we keep this on a professional level."

   She was walking toward Martin as she spoke.  She slid gracefully into
his lap.  "There will be no more hanky-panky in this office," she said
firmly.  "Uhm, after like, today."

   "After today?"

   She was facing him, very close.  "I'm, uhm, trying to let you down
easy," she explained.  She stopped to kiss him softly.  "I've given you
(kiss), expectations (kiss, kissssss)...  and mmmmmmmm, I, I have a mmmmmm,
your hand!  No don't stop -- I have a responsibility to -- oh, OK, let's
get the sweater off -- a r-responsibility to (huff, huff), uhm, lower them
gently, otherwise, oooooh, I'd be, be, be -- oh yes, baby kiss my titties!"

   The rest of Priscilla's explanation was lost in a haze of gasps and
moans.  This time they ended up with Priscilla sprawled face down over the
desk, naked but for her lacy stockings and high heels, while Martin
ploughed into her hungrily from behind.

   At least for the second bout they made it to the sofa.

   To Martin's astonishment, Priscilla was back every day that week with
another, different, detailed explanation of why she had to let him screw
her one more time.  Some of the arguments seemed a trifle contrived ("I'm
only wearing a T-thong, and with this little skirt you're bound to see
things that give you ideas, so I may just as well . . .") and Martin didn't
follow some of the others, because by the end of the week Priscilla was
usually pawing at his zipper, panting, before she was half finished.

   She maintained steadfastly that she tolerated the boinking only to keep
her job.  Nevertheless, she never failed to cum, usually loudly.  It was
inevitable that the rest of the office would hear her.

   Martin remembered this situation as he considered the two pouting young
babes in front of him.  He had known all along that he ought to have
curtailed Priscilla's advances -- or at least stuffed her panties in her
mouth more often -- but the sex was too wild and wonderful to resist.  Now
his staff had caught him with his pants down, literally.  He fumbled for
something to say.

   "Uhm," was the first thing he came up with.  "Well, OK.  True.  But
before you jump to conclusions, let me explain --"

   "It's not fair," Angela interrupted.

   "Well, I admit it is unprofessional, and I want to assure you --"

   "It's not fair to us." Summer this time.

   Martin looked at them.  "What's not fair?"

   Summer took a step forward.  "We're part of the staff too," she
explained.  "We should get the same, like, benefits and stuff as
Priscilla."

   "Benefits?  What are you --"

   "We try our best," Angela resumed.  "Priscilla explained how everybody
had to look pretty for you, and we try, we really do.  She even tells us
what styles you like."

   "She does?"

   "Don't you like us?" Summer asked, doe-eyed.

   "Don't you think we're pretty?" asked Angela.  She took a step toward
him, swaying attractively in her preposterous heels.  The little stone in
her navel sparkled.

   Martin's eyes swung from one tempting view to the other.  "Of course, of
course I like you," he said.  "And you're both very pretty.  Very pretty."
They were still stalking toward him like panthers.  "But I, I don't see --"

   "Just cuz Priscilla puts out, doesn't mean she should get all the
favours," Summer sulked.  She tugged down the hem of her already tight
sweater.  "We have a right to, like, defend our jobs too."

   Martin found himself studying Summer's swelling chest.  He felt
distinctly uncomfortable.  It didn't help to look at Angela, whose
spray-painted, silvery pants barely covered her pelvis.

   He tried again.  "Look, girls, you don't have to --"

   "We don't want to, like, lose our jobs because you didn't like us,"
Angela said.  She shuffled around the end of Martin's enormous desk.  She
sat on the arm of his chair.

   "Uh, now girls, I, I don't think you should --"

   Summer settled on the other arm.  "Not when, like, you don't even know
everything we can do," she whispered.  She swung her boot- wrapped legs
across his lap.

   "My boyfriend says I'm terrific," Angela boasted.  "You should at least
give me a chance to prove it."

   Martin wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but his cock
strongly approved.  Trapped by two young beauties who were now stroking his
hair and loosening his tie, he didn't know which way to turn.

   Summer helped him make up his mind.  She took one of his hands in both
of hers and laid it gently on her bare thigh.  "You've never even made a
pass at me," she complained.

   "Or even tried to kiss me," said Angela, leaning over him.  Before he
could protest further she closed the gap between their lips.  She kissed
him gently, slowly, working her lips.  Summer began to lick his ear.

   When their mouths separated a few centimetres, Angela's eyes were
half-closed.  "That was OK, wasn't it?" she asked, concerned.  "Good enough
to keep my job?"

   "My turn," Summer interrupted, dipping her head to take Angela's place.

   The two girls generously let Martin sample the wares, alternating
politely.  His right hand slipped up Summer's thigh.  Angela took his left
hand and placed it firmly over one plump breast.

   "Wow, I'm getting like, really turned on," Angela breathed, between
kisses.  "Just like Priscilla said."

   Martin may have said something in reply but Summer was kissing him now,
squirming on the edge of the chair as Martin's hand moved higher.  She
gasped and broke away.  "Please, Martin," she cooed, "make love to me now!"

   Angela was already unbuttoning his shirt.  "And when your finished," she
whispered, "do me too!"

   "Wha, wait, g-girls," Martin gasped, as the assault on his clothing
continued.  "We can't just-- I, I shouldn't --Aaah!" A delicate female hand
found the hard-on straining his trousers.  A moment later his zipper slid
down.

   "Oh, it's so big," said the brown-haired girl on one side.

   "Just like Priscilla said," replied the blonde on the other side.

   "Dibs!" somebody cried.  A moment later Martin felt soft, moist lips
sliding down his twitching shaft.  He surrendered.

   It is not physically possible for a man to satisfy two women at exactly
the same time.  Martin gave it his best shot.  The girls were willing to
take turns.  They really wanted to keep their jobs.





   DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance
between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.  This work contains scenes of explicit sex between
adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only.  If you are
offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age
of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file.
Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected
sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not
exist.  In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this
work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other
activities depicted herein.

   TALKED THEMSELVES INTO IT by Downing Street PART III A few days later
Martin again found himself seated at the council table, waiting for the
Mayor to call the monthly meeting to order.  He wasn't nearly as
intimidated as the first time.

   For one thing, regular sex with three beautiful women in his office was
keeping him very relaxed.  For another, Martin was beginning to get a feel
for how the gears of city council turned.  McGrath Park was on the agenda
again.  This time Martin had put it there.

   The Mayor had her two attentive aides fussing about and bringing her
things.  Several other councillors also had assistants standing by.  Martin
was certain it was mostly for show; the meetings weren't that complicated.
Still, he had support staff himself this time.  Priscilla was there,
sitting demurely in a seat behind him.  She was creating a bit of a stir.

   Like the Mayor's aides, Priscilla was dressed in basic black.  The
difference was that Priscilla's black was a semi-transparent blouse over a
strapless, uplift brassiere that did more to enhance her tits than conceal
them.  Her slinky black skirt wasn't see-through, of course, but it covered
so little that it hardly mattered.  Her legs were decked out in smoky black
stockings, topped off with dainty black sandals.

   A few weeks earlier, Martin would have been astounded to see Priscilla
dressed so alluringly.  Now, the only thing unusual was that he had
"allowed" her to wear black.  She had pleaded for permission the day
before, when Martin asked her to accompany him to the Council meeting. 
Around the office she wore only cheerful, party colours.

   Martin was about to reply in the usual way, that she was free to wear
whatever colour she liked, but stopped himself.  Priscilla had taken to
interpreting such statements strangely, often with the opposite effect of
what he intended.  Thus, "You needn't ask my permission to wear pants," was
assumed to mean that she need not bother asking for permission that would
not be granted, and therefore she had better stick to miniskirts.

   Martin decided to try a different tack.  He looked at her as sternly as
he was able.  "Very well," he said, "you may wear black to the meeting. 
Just be sure to change when you get back." She seemed more comfortable when
he gave orders.

   Priscilla smiled in relief.  "Thank you Martin." She lowered her eyes
for a moment.  "Uhm, I suppose, uh, I should, like, thank you properly."
She was already falling to her knees.  Martin rolled his chair back,
grinning.  He was beginning to really like this job.

   The rap of the Mayor's gavel brought Martin back to the present.  "Good
afternoon," the Mayor began.  "I'm calling the meeting to order now."
People milling about began taking their seats.  Martin scanned the
visitors' gallery, looking for Calpurnia Scott.  He found her in her usual
place, notebook resting on one knee.  Unusual for her, she was wearing a
skirt.  Martin gave her a little wave.  She waved back.  She uncrossed her
knees and crossed them the other way.

   Martin turned his attention to the meeting.  There was a lot of business
on the table.  When his turn came, he formally forwarded a motion to
declare a permanent buffer zone around McGrath Park.  The announcement
caused a buzz in the room.  But this was a notice of intent.  The real
debate would come at the next meeting.  Priscilla insisted on walking three
paces behind him, carrying his briefcase, when Martin left the hall.

   Given her deportment, and the amount of time she spent checking her
make-up, Martin was beginning to think Priscilla had resigned herself to
her self-imposed role as "office decoration and sexpot." Not quite.  A few
days after the council meeting, Martin again found himself watching his
leggy office manager as she paced back and forth in front of his desk.

   "I know what this is about, you -- you rogue," she declared.

   "Do you," Martin said.  He sensed another speech coming.

   "Oh, yes, I see it now.  It's more than just sex, isn't it.  A lot
more."

   "Uhm, Priscilla, if you're referring to the . . .  uh, blowjobs, you
know you don't have to --"

   "It's about power.  Power and control.  That's what you really get off
on.  You have all the power here.  You don't want me to have any.  So you
make me wear these frilly, silly, girly outfits that make me look like a
bit of sexy fluff and undermine my authority with the rest of the office.
You insist on these wobbly high heels that force me to walk slow and
dainty. Of course you knew that makes me look helpless and dependent --
which only makes you look all the more powerful.

   "You knew I wouldn't be able to handle heels like this without a lot of
practice, didn't you.  You knew I would have to wear them outside the
office too, like when I'm walking the dog, or doing the laundry, or out
shopping.  Of course that makes you all the more powerful because you can
do what you want all weekend while I'm fending off passes from grocery
clerks because I visit the shops in micro-minis and platform high-highs."

   She paused for breath.  She was right about the frilly clothing.  Her
white silk blouse had elongated lace fringes around the cuffs and the
low-cut bodice.  The little orange skirt was flaring and wide, designed to
flash more lacy things whenever she bent over.  Sheer nylons softened the
curves of her long legs.  She had matched the lace on her blouse with
delicate, white lace anklesocks.

   She did look very feminine, Martin conceded.  Especially with the orange
lace gloves.  But he knew better than to interrupt in mid- rant.

   "I've figured out your ultimate goal," Priscilla declared.  She faced
him, hands on flaring hips.  "You want to control me completely.  Tricking
me into being your office plaything isn't enough for you.  You want to have
absolute control so you can show everyone around City Hall how powerful you
are and how you dominate your staff.  You're using flattery and sex to
manipulate me.  You won't be happy until you've transformed me into a
ditzy, subservient tart without a thought in her head that isn't about sex
and service and sucking."

   She gestured with one hand.  Her gloves had white ties on the wrists. 
Martin watched her walk.  She must have practised quite a lot in the high
heels.  The shiny black pumps she was wearing today had slender spikes as
long as a good cigar.  Yet she only wobbled a little as she paced back and
forth across the carpet.  Not exactly pacing, Martin decided; more like
mincing.  Her anklesocks had three ranks of white ruffles.

   "Martin, I, I won't let you do this to me.  Maybe you do have all the
power here.  Maybe I do, sort of, like, enjoy the . . .  fucking and, and,
the uhm, other stuff.  Maybe it is a thrill to walk down the street with
everyone watching me, and uh, kinda fun to pretend I don't notice men
staring at my chest in elevators.  But, but, Martinnnnnn, you can't keep
doing this!  You can't like, control my life this way.  I have to be
myself. I have to be, you know, independent.  I won't let you push me any
further!"

   The next morning, Priscilla came to work with her hair dyed blonde.

   Three days later Martin strolled into his office, shaking the water from
his umbrella.  Immediately Summer was there to take it from him.  "Oh,
you're back!" she said warmly.  "How was the event?" She referred to the
opening of a new library branch Martin had been forced to attend.

   "Not so bad," Martin conceded, "A surprisingly good turnout, considering
the weather.  Oh, thank you." Having dispensed with the umbrella, Summer
was now helping with his macintosh.

   Angela appeared on the other side to take it away.  "Hi, Martin," she
cooed, kissing his cheek.  "Did you make all the librarians swoon?"

   "Um, not exactly." Martin chuckled nervously.

   In fact, the crew of mostly female librarians had listened with
disquieting interest during his brief speech.  One of them had winked at
him.  Another toyed with a gold pendant dangling in her cleavage whenever
Martin looked her way.

   Afterward, the branch head, an attractive woman in her thirties, had
given him a tour of the building.  She thanked him earnestly for his help
securing the funds, even though Martin had very little to do with it.  She
ended by telling him that he could count on her support.  "Feel free to
call on me any time," she said, taking his hand in both of hers.  "Any time
at all." When she let go, Martin found a card in his hand, with her home
phone number on it.

   "We missed you," Summer said, snuggling against him.

   "Do you think there'll be time for tea this afternoon?" whispered
Angela.

   "Uhm, maybe later." Afternoon tea with the girls involved a lot more
than just sipping.  "Did anyone call while I was out?"

   "Oh, lots.  Prissy has been taking messages."

   "Well, let's go see," Martin said.  He put one arm around each young
beauty, encountering bare skin on both sides.  The girls' platform heels
brought them closer to Martin's height.  They walked together toward
Priscilla's desk.

   "Hi Mr.  Miller," Joan said, looking up from her work.  "I have those
cost estimates you asked for." She looked wistfully at Martin and the two
clerks.

   Martin said: "Thanks Joan, you're a rock.  We'll go over those this
afternoon.  By the way, you're looking quite fine today."

   The middle-aged brunette flushed like a school-girl at the compliment.
Joan was indeed looking svelte.  She had lost a good deal of weight.  Her
devotion to her daily exercise regime was fervent.  In her tasteful
wardrobe of fitted silk suits, seamed stockings and strappy high heels, she
was looking more and more like a femme fatale out of 1940s Hollywood.

   Nevertheless, Martin was a little worried about Joan.  She seemed
troubled.  She was unfailingly polite to Martin and zealously conscientious
about her work, despite leaving early every day to go to the gym.  With her
trimmer figure she probably didn't need the confining girdles and corsets
any more.  Instead, she laced them up even tighter.  It was impossible to
be in the same room with Joan without thinking about tits.

   Martin and his two fawning clerks made their way to Priscilla's desk. 
The office manager was looking fine too, in a stretchy mesh minidress
designed to show the outline of her underthings.  Maybe she had forgotten
to put on a slip.  She was on the telephone.

   "-- well, gee, thank you, that's like, so good to know.  Yes, of course
dear, I'll pass that along.  Bye now."

   She rang off.  "Who was that?" Martin wanted to know.

   "A constituent.  He called to, like, support your stand on McGrath
Park."

   "Hmmm.  What's the tally?"

   She consulted some notes on her desk.  She had her legs crossed, with
one delicate slide dangling off her painted toes.  "Well, so far, like,
counting letters, E-mail and telephone calls, it's running maybe 60:40 in
favour.  Really too close to call.  But you know, it seems to me that a lot
of the bad calls have like, a similar ring to them."

   "What does that mean?" He fended off Summer, who was nuzzling eagerly
against his neck.

   "It could be an organized campaign."

   "Ah.  I see."

   When she wasn't serving him in other ways or moaning about her
increasingly vaporous wardrobe, Priscilla was still a crisp and organized
manager.  Yet her hair was done up in bright blonde ringlets and there were
sparkles in her eyeshadow.  God but she's hot, Martin thought privately. 
Maybe he would find time for afternoon tea after all.

   "Uhm, anything else?" he said out loud.

   "There were a number of other calls.  Let me see.  The mayor wants you
to sit on the bus 'n' trolley thingy."

   "The transportation planning committee?  I'd rather play hopscotch in
traffic.  Joking.  Tell her ladyship I would be delighted.  What else?"

   "Three -- no, four high schools want you to speak at their graduation
ceremonies."

   "Why not.  I can use the same speech." He wondered if high school
seniors would listen with the same serene devotion as librarians.  It made
him nervous.  Angela was trying to get his attention by rubbing her chest
against his arm.

   "There were several routine complaints from, like, constituents but I
took care of them.  Oh, and Berculosi is waiting in your office."

   Martin's heart sank.  "Oh no.  Not him again."

   "No, not him," Priscilla agreed.  "Mrs.  Berculosi."

   "Oh."

   Martin decided he had better see what the lady wanted.  He kissed the
girls on the forehead -- except that Angela cheated and arched her neck so
the kiss landed on her lips -- then sent them back to work.  The cute
clerks sighed as they wiggled away.  Martin stepped into his private
office.

   Ms.  Berculosi was standing by one wall, inspecting the row of
photographs and stuffed animals hanging there.  She looked rich and
fabulous in a stretch-fit blue dress that stopped more than half- way up
her thighs.  Midnight blue stockings glistened on her perfect legs, topped
off with navy blue mules with kitten heels.  Martin slipped one hand into
his pocket and rubbed his worry stone.  Did this woman have the same effect
on everybody that she had on him?

   "Mrs.  Berculosi," he said.

   "Are these yours?" She gestured toward the wall of trophies.

   "No, those belonged to Clement Higgins.  My predecessor."

   "They're awful.  You should get rid of them."

   "Well . . .  yes, you're right.  I simply haven't found the time."

   She turned toward him.  Her eyes were as soft and round as Martin
remembered.  "Yes, I'm sure you're very busy."

   Martin could hear his own pulse.  He said: "What can I do for you, Mrs.
Berculosi?"

   "Rachel, please."

   "Oh.  Well, uh, Rachel, how may I --"

   "Do you have anything to drink?"

   "To drink?  No.  Sorry.  Uhm, wait a moment, I may have something, but
I'm not sure --"

   "Please, Mr.  Miller.  I'm very nervous."

   Martin crossed the room and opened the credenza on the far wall.  He
found a bottle of Scotch and a few glasses that Higgins kept there.  He
poured two shots of whisky, while stealing covert glances at Rachel
Berculosi.  The young wife's short dress was designed to flatter her
delicious curves and display her legs at the same time.  Martin almost
spilled the whisky.

   "Here, try this," he said, returning with the drinks.  Rachel took her
glass in both hands and gulped the whisky down.

   Martin raised an eyebrow.  The woman really was nervous.  "Perhaps you
would like to sit down, Mrs.  Ber-- I mean, Rachel." He gestured toward the
sofa along the trophy wall.

   She sat down gracefully.  Martin sat beside her.  He tried not to notice
how her hem slipped up her thighs.  He took a swallow of his drink.

   He set down the glass.  "Now then, Rachel," he said kindly.  "It appears
you have something on your mind.  My guess is that your husband asked you
to --"

   "My husband doesn't know I'm here."

   "Oh."

   She turned to face him.  "Mr.  Miller, I give in.  You win.  I, I can't
fight you."

   He could only stare at her blankly.

   "I knew this was going to happen," she went on.  "My husband thinks I'm
dumb, but I'm not dumb.  I see things.  I figure things out.  My husband
thinks I'm just pretty and not very smart because I'm not one of his loud
business friends that knows all about finance and politics and buildings
and things.  But I still see things."

   She shifted her legs a little.  Martin caught a glimpse of garter. 
Rachel was not the kind of woman to wear pantyhose.

   "I saw the way you looked at me, when I came here with my husband.  You
find me attractive, I know it.  Men always do.  That's why my husband takes
me with him when he goes to meet people, so he can show me off.  His
business friends, they make passes at me all the time, even though they
know I'm married.  They think that just because I'm beautiful I must be an
easy lay."

   She got to her feet abruptly.  "I don't give them the time of day," she
said.  "You, you're something different.  Understated like.  Flattering. 
You know how to make a woman feel appreciated.  I felt it when I was here
the first time."

   She looked wistful for a moment.  "It made me so warm, and like, tingly.
I mean, every time you looked at me I got all -- but hey, I'm married!"

   She ran her fingers through her hair.  "And then, then, you got into an
argument with my husband and you didn't back down even when he threatened
you.  That's when I knew I was in deep trouble."

   "Trouble?" Martin said, not understanding.  "Trouble how?"

   Rachel was pacing back and forth in front of the sofa now.  She managed
her narrow mules elegantly.  Martin memorized the sway of her hips.  What
was it about this office that made women pace?

   "Trouble with you," the gorgeous young wife said.  "I knew right then
and there I was going to fall for you."

   "What!  You can't mean -- I assure you Rachel, uh, Mrs.  Berculosi, I
have never --"

   "Oh, don't try to deny it, Mr.  Miller -- Martin.  I'm not dumb.  That
first time, I could tell you wanted me.  Just being in the same room with
you was getting me up -- it was like, electricity!

   "I can tell you're used to getting your way, too.  You're not like my
husband, who has to shout and shove all the time to bully people into doing
things.  You're quiet and like, polite, because you know underneath that
people will always do what you want without you having to raise your voice
or anything.  That's real power.

   "And I'm sure you know how much of a turn-on that is."

   "Well, actually, no.  I think --"

   "I went home and tried to calm down and I thought about it.  I thought
about it for a long time.  I couldn't stop thinking about it.  Every time I
thought about it I got all worked up."

   She was pacing again.  She made the act look sensuous.  God help me, she
has fabulous legs, Martin thought.  Did she have to wear something so
short?

   Rachel said: "I thought to myself, this man wants me.  He knows how to
get what he wants.  He knows his power turns me on.  He knows I won't be
able to forget him.  He's given me a taste of his charisma, and he knows
I'll be hooked.  He can be patient about it.  He can let it grow on me.  He
can let me think about it while I'm shopping, remember it in the shower,
dream about it in bed at night, remembering the look, the excitement, the
heat."

   She paused long enough to drain the rest of her drink.  "I knew my
husband would want to meet you again, and he would bring me along because
he always does.  That meant I would see the way you look at me, with that
sweet, caressing admiration, but with all that confidence underneath it
because you expect, no, you know that sooner or later you can have any
woman you want.  I would have to be in the same room with you again, with
that, like, aura all around you and every time it would make me hotter."

   She turned to face him, a look of pleading in those big brown eyes. 
"I'm not dumb, Martin.  I can see where this is heading.  You can be as
patient as a cat because you know that I'll come around sooner or later. 
What chance do I have?  I'm an ordinary woman, how could I hope to resist
your charm?"

   She lifted one stocking-encased knee onto the sofa beside Martin, then
folded up gracefully to kneel beside him.  "So I figured, why fight it?  We
both know I'll give in eventually.  Why make myself miserable trying to
resist?"

   Martin stared at her, speechless.  Up close she was even more striking.
Her complexion was smooth and perfect, her lips pouty and red.  Long dark
lashes fluttered over those soulful brown eyes.

   "That's why I've decided not to fight it, Martin," she whispered.  She
stroked his cheek with one hand.  "I surrender.  We both know I can't
resist you, so let's . . .  let's do it, now . . .  and stop .. . . 
pretending."

   She was leaning toward him as she spoke.  She held his chin in one hand.
Her lips brushed his, hesitated, then pressed forward into a deep, hungry
kiss.

   Martin stiffened in shock.  This couldn't be happening.  He couldn't be
kissing another man's drop-dead-gorgeous wife on the sofa in his office. 
She couldn't be working her lips against his so lustfully, turning her head
this way and that while she slid her arms around his neck and her tongue
into his mouth and her exquisite body against his.

   He couldn't let this happen.  He had to stop her.  No matter that the
feel of her lips, warm and wet against his, was a small taste of heaven, or
that her exotic perfume was intoxicating, or that the feel of her breasts
against his chest was rapidly worsening the growing discomfort in his
trousers, he had to do something, or say something, or -- something!

   Finally, the ravishing young wife let enough space slip between their
lips for Martin to protest.  "Rachel, you, you shouldn't --" he sputtered.

   "I know," she replied, eyes closed.  "I can't help myself." Then her red
lips foreclosed any attempt at further conversation.

   Martin's head was reeling.  He had to get this woman out of here before
something more happened.  He had enough troubles with Berculosi already
without trying to explain a tryst with his wife.  No matter how thoroughly
she had convinced herself that a coupling was inevitable, nor how
persuasive the erection tenting his own underwear, he was not going to have
sex with Rachel.  He put out a hand to gently push her away.  It landed
squarely on one plump, swelling breast.

   Eight minutes later, Rachel Berculosi was on her back on the sofa, her
minidress and heels discarded.  She was gasping and mewling words of
encouragement as Martin plumbed her with the energy of a stud racehorse. 
The midnight-blue stockings turned out to be just one part of a matching
underwear set.  The bikini panties were easily pulled aside to give
Martin's stiff cock access to the warm wetness beneath.  The underwired
half-bra offered up her breasts for Martin's kisses.  Rachel squirmed and
bucked beneath him.  She cooed praises and called out his name.  The sofa
groaned and bounced.

   It was too good to last for long.  Martin dipped his head to kiss her
again, while his hips continued to thrust in and out.  He felt his peak
building, loss of control a heartbeat away.  Rachel must have sensed his
hesitation.  She pulled his head down with both arms and wrapped her
stockinged feet around his back, driving him in deeper.  "Yes!  Come inside
me, Martin!" she cried.  A moment later he did just that.  His back arched
and his breathing stopped while he ejaculated like a machine gun into her
pussy.

   When Rachel Berculosi finally sauntered out the door, sighing, she was
much calmer than when she arrived.  There was a run up one of her expensive
stockings.  A few minutes after that first, rambunctious coupling she and
Martin had gone at it again, or several times, depending on whose orgasms
one counted.  Martin had to remind her to put her shoes back on.

   "Martin, that was . . .  you were . . .  amazing," the brown-eyed beauty
said, leaning on the door.  "I'm so glad I decided not to fight you."

   She took a steadying breath.  "I hope you realize that we can't do this
again.  I'm a married woman.  You can't expect me to indulge you more than
once."

   Two days later she was back with a convincing counter-argument.

   "Thanks Earl," Martin said into the telephone, "I'm delighted I can
count on your support.  Come by tomorrow and we'll have lunch.  OK, see you
then."

   He set the telephone back in its cradle.  Sighing, he leaned back in his
executive chair, hands folded behind his head.  He was really beginning to
enjoy this job.

   It was a little over a week since Rachel Berculosi had capitulated to
the irresistible charm Martin hadn't known he possessed.  It was so
irresistible she kept coming back for further capitulation.  Martin had
seduced her, she soon realized, so that he could use her as a mole.  He
wanted her to leak information about Berculosi's campaign to derail
Martin's motion on McGrath Park.  She pouted as she explained this to
Martin, but she accepted it stoically.  She figured that she would succumb
to Martin's sexual persuasion eventually, so why fight it?

   Martin didn't quite follow the details of her reasoning.  Maybe that was
because she had explained it to him in panting gasps while she bounced up
and down on his rod on the sofa.  He had to admit though, she was very
useful.

   Rachel confirmed that her husband was the reason for the negative
publicity surrounding Martin's move to protect the park.  She also gave him
details of each step in the campaign a day or two before it happened. 
Evidently Berculosi did not believe his stunning young wife, so helpfully
serving drinks and eye candy to the businessmen sitting around the den, was
bright enough to understand what was being discussed.  If her husband
didn't mention all the information Rachel wanted, his horny business
associates were easy to pump.

   With Rachel's help, it was equally easy for Martin to circumvent
Berculosi's shenanigans.  His letters to the editor appeared a day after
supportive letters rebuked his arguments.  His calls to sympathetic
councillors went unanswered because Martin arranged his own meetings for
the same time.  His illegal gifts to city hall were "accidentally" opened
in the mail room, and then delivered in the presence of reporters. 
Mortified councillors had no choice but to turn them down and decry the
attempt to buy influence.

   Martin had his own campaign in place to garner support.  It involved a
lot of trading for votes on other issues.  He resolved to keep the debate
honest.  Priscilla insisted on serving coffee though, if the meeting was in
Martin's office, which never failed to soften his male guests.

   The man on the phone, councillor for Ward 11, had agreed to support
Martin's motion in exchange for a compromise on a budget issue.  The
agreement suited Martin fine.  They would fix the details tomorrow, over
lunch, so that Earl would miss a meeting with Berculosi.

   Martin contemplated the stack of reports on his desk.  The
transportation committee was a lot of work.  There was also a fine china
cup and teapot sitting on a silver tray.  It was tea time.

   Martin grunted happily as the lips on his pecker slid up and down.  One
of the pretty clerks had served tea, as usual, then stayed to serve him
further.  He looked down, saw a head of fine brown hair bobbing up and down
between his legs, eyes closed.  It was Summer's turn today.  She had
thoughtfully kept it slow while he was on the telephone.  Now she was
slurping and sucking avidly.  Martin groaned again and stroked her hair. 
He was really beginning to like this job.

   There were sounds of commotion in the outer office.  Martin heard
Priscilla's voice shouting, "Wait!  Stop!  You can't go in there, it's --"

   Then the door burst open and another voice, deep, rough and male said,
"Miller it's time you and I had a talk."

   The man who had spoken was tall and muscular, with a close-cropped head
of red hair.  He was accompanied by a much younger woman in a police
uniform.  Martin froze in panic.  What could he do?  He was getting a
blow-job under the desk.  His pants were around his ankles.  A marvellous
climax was less than a minute away, and two cops had walked in the door!

   Priscilla was still angrily shouting at them.  "It's all right
Priscilla," Martin said, "I'll, ohh!  t-take care of this." What was he
saying?  The newcomers couldn't see Summer, so maybe he could tough it out.
Priscilla closed the door, round-eyed with worry.

   The big man pulled a badge out of his jacket pocket.  He flashed it
briefly.  "McClintock, fraud division.  This is Officer Ridley.  We have
some questions for you, Miller."

   "Questions?  For me?" Martin said stupidly.  He tried to push Summer off
his cock, beneath the desk, without looking conspicuous.  She tended to
zone out a little when she was giving head.  Martin moved his chair closer
to the desk.

   "Lots of questions," McClintock replied.  "Ridley, get notes." The
uniformed officer sat down in one of the stuffed chairs.  She took out a
pen and flipped open a notebook.  McClintock didn't sit.

   "I suppose you know that your predecessor was a criminal," McClintock
said flatly.  "Unfortunately the bastard died before we could lay charges.
Wasted a lot of my time."

   "How thoughtless of him," Martin quipped.  He regretted it immediately.

   "Listen here, Miller," the big cop said, "Higgins is dead and that ends
that, but the case isn't closed yet.  There is still the matter of half a
million in embezzled City funds.  None of it has been recovered.  We're
still pursuing this case.  There are possible charges of malfeasance,
corruption, money laundering."

   "What, what are you getting at?" Martin demanded.  He made another
attempt to disengage Summer from his cock.  She let out a little whine. 
Martin covered it with a cough.

   He wasn't too concerned about the girl being discovered.  The space
under his desk was big enough to park a small car.  The front panel
extended all the way to the floor, so there was no chance of one of
Summer's seven-inch platform bootheels sticking out.  But she was making it
terribly hard to take McClintock seriously.

   "You worked for Higgins before he died, didn't you Miller?" McClintock
continued.

   "Yes, yes I did, for almost a year.  But I have already stated --"

   "Seems awfully convenient, old fart Higgins passing on and suddenly
you're the councillor in his place."

   "There was an election in there somewhere, I think."

   Martin tried to suppress a stupid grin.  He was scared and turned on at
the same time.  Summer used her tongue.  He twitched.

   McClintock placed both hands on Martin's desk.  He leaned over it
aggressively.  "Election or not, something's screwy here.  Are you going to
tell me you worked for Higgins for a whole year, right here in this office,
his chief of staff, and you had no idea what was going on?"

   "Tha- that's right, I, I didn't.  Higgins kept his own counsel.  I knew
he screwed around but that was all."

   "Bullcrap!  I don't believe you for a second, Miller.  I can smell a rat
a mile off and my nose tells me you're in this up to your armpits.  You
know where that money is, you know it and I know it.  You can tell me now,
or you can let me find out myself, in which case you'll be a guest of the
government for about twenty years.  Your choice."

   Martin felt perspiration dribble down his face.  He was grinning
weirdly. He couldn't help it.  Below the desk Summer was pumping up and
down with relish, intent on finishing the job.  Martin gripped the edge of
the desk with both hands.

   "Oh god, I'm going to come," he blurted.  "I, I mean, look, I'm coming
clean with you.  I don't know a unh!  thing about any ah!  m- money." He
laughed crazily.

   "Like hell you don't.  You think this is funny?  You think this is all
some big joke?  Well try laughing at this.  We know Higgins squirrelled the
money away some place.  He didn't put it in a bank, didn't try to move it
offshore.  It's around here some place, in bills, and we are going to find
it."

   "Oh, that is nice," Martin said.  He was barely hearing McClintock.

   "Well I don't believe in nice, mate.  I believe in putting thieves like
you and Higgins in jail.  So you listen to me Miller.  You haven't seen the
last of me.  I'm going to be back, with more questions, for you, for your
staff, maybe with a warrant.  We are going to watch you like a hawk watches
pigeons.  I am going to interrogate every one of those sex trinkets in your
front office until somebody gets smart and tells me what I want to know."

   "No!" Martin shouted, with more force than he intended.  He was on the
brink of orgasm.  He had to get these cops out of the room!  "Look, y-you
can (huff, huff) interrrrrrrogate me all you l-like, but but, I will not
tolerate any hun!  harassment of my staff.  They have n-nothing to do with
this (pant, gulp) so you leave them alone!

   "I'll leave you alone when you're in the dock for embezzling, Miller,"
McClintock snarled, charging out the door.  "Let's go, Ridley."

   "Oh, yes go baby!" Martin shouted.  He came.  His hips thrust forward.
His head slammed back against the chair.  His grip on the desk threatened
to flip it over.

   He looked up to see Officer Ridley staring at him, one hand on the
doorknob.  She closed the door behind her.

   Martin collapsed in his chair, drained and happy.  Summer popped her
head up between his legs.  She was flushed.  "Did I do good Mr.  Miller?"
she wondered.

   Martin smiled at her.  "You did wonderful, baby."

   She leaned against his leg contentedly.  "Thought I heard noises.  Was
there someone at the door?"





   DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance
between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.  This work contains scenes of explicit sex between
adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only.  If you are
offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age
of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file.
Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected
sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not
exist.  In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this
work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other
activities depicted herein.

   TALKED THEMSELVES INTO IT by Downing Street PART IV A couple of days
later, Martin was again sitting behind his big desk, alone this time.  He
rubbed his worry stone in one hand.  There was a great deal to think about.
He had been a councillor for less than three months.  Yet he was
championing a major policy change for city council, regularly screwing most
of his office staff -- not to mention the gorgeous wife of a corrupt
developer -- and being investigated for embezzlement by an aggressive
detective.

   It was all very peculiar.  Especially odd was the way the women in his
office had all convinced themselves that sexual servitude to Martin was
inevitable.  Everyone now seemed happy to work in an office where clothing
with any degree of modesty was considered a violation of the dress code. 
The girls spent a great deal of time making sure their hair and make-up
were always perfect.  Should he have the slightest whim for entertainment,
Martin knew, all he had to do was press a button on the telephone.  Any of
his office staff would be more than willing to offer herself for his
pleasure, or just sit on the desk all afternoon looking pretty.

   Priscilla still complained from time to time about Martin's perceived
domination of her life.  Even those complaints employed some highly
irregular reasoning.  A few days earlier she had come to work in a tight,
white pullover and skintight, canary yellow short-shorts.  The shorts
matched her outlandish platform slides.  Her legs looked endless and
fabulous.  "You see," she told Martin defiantly, "You can't make me wear a
skirt every day!"

   The best way to silence Priscilla's complaints was to unzip and use his
wang as a pacifier.  Once she got his shaft down her throat Priscilla
calmed right down.  "You're tying to make me cock-crazy!" she complained
once, but she was already falling to her knees.

   The idea that her continued employment depended on absolute obedience to
Martin had become entrenched in Priscilla's mind.  Once, when she tottered
into the office in ridiculously flimsy, stiletto-heeled sandals to match
her ridiculously brief minidress, Martin abruptly ordered her to go away
and change her shoes.  He had no complaint about the shoes really. 
Priscilla seemed happier when she was obeying orders.

   So far, Martin had resisted the temptation to give Priscilla further
orders just to see how far she would go.  He was reasonably certain he
could make her sit up and beg if he wanted to.  Somehow, he was sure, she
would convince herself that barking like a spaniel was the logical thing to
do.

   On another front, the campaign to protect McGrath Park was gathering
steam.  The biggest obstacle was financial.  Opponents of the idea pointed
out that a ban on development around the park would mean less tax revenue
for the city.  They had a point.

   Berculosi's more selfish objections had been deflected, thanks to the
ever-helpful Rachel.  The young wife was certain that her affair with
Martin would last only as long as she was politically useful.  On days when
she couldn't come in to be fucked in the office, she called him from home.
She liked to play with herself while she revealed her husband's secrets. 
On days when she could come in, she called first anyway, to get Martin's
approval of her underwear.

   Curiouser and curiouser.  Martin rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.

   The chime of the intercom nudged him out of his reverie.  He pushed a
button.  "Yes?"

   "Mr.  Miller," came Joan's voice, "may I speak with you a moment?"

   "Of course.  Come in."

   The middle-aged secretary stepped through the door a moment later. 
Martin drew in his breath.  For a woman in her forties, Joan was looking
darn good.  Her diet and exercise regime were moving her toward the perfect
hourglass figure that her corsets and girdles presently enforced.

   Today she was wearing a navy blue suit with a single-button jacket that
displayed her upthrusting cleavage boldly.  The skirt was very long and
very tight.  A long gore up the front flashed the entire length of Joan's
legs, dressed in dark, fishnet nylons and patent black high-heels.  She
wore pearls, and white lace gloves.

   "Mr.  Miller," she said again.  "I-- we need to talk." She was clearly
upset.  Joan had been moody and depressed for some while.

   "Of course, of course.  Here, have a seat.  Tell me what's bothering
you."

   He led her to the sofa.  She sat primly beside him.  Martin averted his
eyes to avoid staring at her chest.  He ended up looking up the gore of her
skirt.  He decided to study a photograph on the wall.

   Joan said: "Mr.  Miller, I'm so sorry."

   "Sorry?  Sorry about what?"

   "I, I know I must be a tremendous disappointment to you.  I've tried so
hard to fit in and, and follow all your rules and show you that I'm a loyal
member of your staff.  I've tried Mr.  Miller, you must believe me.  I've
been to the gym every day this week, like you want, and I never cheat on my
diet, I'm really really good.  But I know it's not enough."

   She was near tears.  "Joan, what are talking about?" Martin said gently.
"You're a good data manager.  I depend on you to keep the records
straight." He found himself looking at her chest again.

   "A good data manager, is that what you think of me?" she sniffed, eyes
brimming.  "Someone to keep your records straight?  I know you expect much
more from me.  Please, I've tried to be good, and, like make myself
attractive for you, but I'm not twenty any more like Summer and Angela and
I'll never have legs like Prissy.  I know you're terribly terribly
disappointed because you never ask me to do anything except manage files
and type letters when I should be doing so much more.  I'm so sorry Mr. 
Miller, I really am.  Please don't be angry with me."

   Martin stared at her in shock.  Was he hearing this right?  Was Joan
upset and crying because he wasn't fucking her?  Didn't she have a husband
and two children?

   He stole a glance down at her legs.  Sleek mesh stockings shimmered up
her thighs.  Martin was afraid she would start pacing.  In that dress the
effect would be devastating.

   He handed her a tissue.  "Joan, please understand, I'm not angry.  Not
at all.  I'm very pleased with your performance here.  You don't have to do
anything. . .  uhm, extracurricular, to keep your job, all right?"

   "Oh, Mr.  Martin, you're so kind.  I understand what you mean.  I know
my performance hasn't been up to your expectations, but I am trying,
really." She took a deep breath.  Her boobs threatened to pop right out of
her push-up bra.

   "I was hoping," she said hesitantly, "that you would give me a chance to
make it up to you."

   Martin's eyes hadn't recovered from a moment earlier.  "H-how?"

   "Well, summer is coming -uhm, I mean the summer season is arriving, and
most of the councillors will be taking on summer interns, won't they?"

   "Oh, yes, I suppose we are.  I had forgotten.  But what --"

   She laid a white-gloved hand on his arm.  "You'll need a suitable
candidate for this office then?"

   "I imagine."

   Joan reached into the breast pocket of her jacket and returned with a
small colour photograph.

   She handed the picture to Martin.  "This is my daughter, Tania."

   Martin pulled his gaze away from Joan's chest long enough to study the
photograph.  The girl in the picture was pretty, with long brown hair like
her mother.

   "I was hoping," Joan went on, "that you might consider taking Tania on
as an intern."

   "Oh, I see.  Well, I can only say that her name will be considered. 
We're not supposed to show favouritism and --"

   "Please, Mr.  Miller.  She'll do a good job.  She's in her sophomore
year at the university, business admin, so she already knows the ropes. 
I'll make sure she follows all the office rules, and knows what to do.  She
won't give you any trouble.  She'll take care of. . .  everything you ask
of her.  I'll see to it.  Please, let me make things better between us."

   "Joan, you're not suggesting --" He stopped in mid-sentence.  Joan was
looking at him entreatingly.  Desperate hope shone in her mascara-lined
eyes.  Crushed that he hadn't found her attractive enough, she was offering
her daughter, with the implicit understanding that Martin would screw her
instead.

   "Joan, I, I can't-- I couldn't possibly -- you can't really be
suggesting--"

   "Please, Mr.  Miller.  I'm begging you.  Hire my daughter.  For the
summer, that's all.  Give me one more chance.  Please."

   Martin looked at the picture.  Tania was a shapely girl.  She was
smiling at the camera.  Could he have someone like that in his office all
summer -- young, sexy and available -- and not end up in bed with her?

   He fumbled for words.  "All right, I'll tell you what.  I'll bring Tania
on as an intern -- but only as an intern, nothing more.  She doesn't have
to do anything, you know, that makes her uncomfortable." He seriously hoped
he meant that.  It was not a good sign that the idea alone was giving him a
woody.

   Delight suffused Joan's face like sunlight after a summer storm.  "Oh,
thank you Mr.  Miller, thank you thank you thank you!  You won't regret it,
I promise.  Tania will be the best intern you ever had!"

   Spontaneously, she threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him
fiercely.  Her lips found his.  She kissed him happily.  Martin felt her
heavy chest pressing against his.

   The kisses kept coming.  Joan punctuated each with a little "thank you!"
before returning for more.  Her kisses of gratitude were rapidly evolving
into a make-out session.

   Finally, reluctantly, Martin pushed her away.  He tried to avoid
touching her boobs.  He did not succeed.  "Joan, whoa, hold on, that's
enough.  I get the idea already.  You don't have to -- gaaaah!" One of
Joan's hands had found Martin's erection.

   "Mr.  Miller!" she exclaimed, delighted.  "Is that for me?"

   It took less than two minutes to get Martin's pecker out of his pants
and into Joan's waiting pussy.  She didn't even have to undress.  The slit
up the front of her skirt went almost to the top.  She had conveniently
worn her panties outside her garter straps.

   The sexy older woman and her young boss coupled furiously there on the
sofa.  Joan lay on her back with her legs in the air, high heels pointing
at the ceiling.  "Martin!  You're fu-fucking fabulous!" she exalted,
moments before her orgasm.  "Tania is such a lucky girl!"

   Friday of that week found Martin sitting in his office, reading through
an endless stack of reports and files.  It was all background for the
transportation committee.  The Mayor was looking for ways to increase the
number of commuters taking public transit.

   He was grateful when the intercom chimed.  "Yes, Prissy?" he said.

   "Honey, Calpurnia Scott is here to see you.  She says it's, like,
important."

   Martin wondered.  By polite convention reporters didn't usually drop in
on politicians unannounced.  This had to be important.  "Very well, send
her in," he said.

   A moment later the door opened and Calpurnia Scott walked in.

   "Well, Callie," Martin said, putting on a cheerful face, "what can I do
. . .  for . . .  y-you."

   He stammered in spite of himself.  Calpurnia had undergone a profound
change of style since the last time they spoke.  From the neck up she was
almost the same, except for the big hoop earrings glistening beneath her
dark brown hair.  Below the neck she wore a sparkly red pullover that
strained to cover her darling breasts, a very brief leather miniskirt, and
high-heeled boots.  Martin stared at her in awe.  Who could have believed
the woman had legs like that?

   She closed the door behind her.  "I'm sorry to disturb you," she said
politely, "but we have to talk."

   "Of course, of course.  Please come on in.  Have a seat." He gestured
toward the chairs by his desk.  Dressed like that she could talk to him any
time.

   The shapely reporter approached the chairs with careful steps.  It was
evident she was unaccustomed to the narrow, tapering heels on her flashy
boots.  It was also evident she wasn't wearing a bra.  She sat down
gracefully.  She set her black satchel on the desk.  Martin had hardly
noticed she was carrying it.

   "Martin," she said firmly, "I think I've passed your little test."

   "Test?  What test?" Were there sparkles in her hair?

   "You were testing me, weren't you?  You wanted to see if I could figure
out the situation by myself."

   "I was?"

   "Well, I did figure it out.  I see it all now.

   "I was wondering, you see, how you ever got elected, after the Higgins
scandal broke.  I wrote most of the articles about that for the News.  You
were his chief of staff; everyone expected you to get roasted in the
election.  Instead you . . .  well, you know what happened.  You play the
innocent well, but I could tell something wasn't right.

   "I interviewed you and the Mayor and the other councillors, for my City
Hall series.  I spent a long time studying my notes.  I wrote up my
articles.  I was just about to submit your interview to the editor, when I
realized I was about to make a grave mistake.

   "You did?"

   "Indeed.  You come across as so gentle and innocent, you almost fooled
me.  But I couldn't help but notice the way you totally dominate your
office staff."

   "I do?" The conversation was getting strange.

   "It was Priscilla, she calls herself Prissy now, who got me thinking.  I
hardly recognized her, she's changed so much.  She explained to me how you
control her, how you flattered and pushed and manipulated her with such
clever efficiency, how you outwitted her at every turn, until you made her
over completely into your obedient servant.

   "I was amazed.  To think someone could do that to Priscilla, of all
people, without any hint of force.  She was so independent, so
strong-willed.  She's as tame as a kitten now.  She's madly devoted to you.
So are the rest of your staff."

   Martin looked guilty.  He tried to think of some way to explain to the
leggy reporter that he was as baffled by Priscilla's behaviour as Scott
was. He couldn't come up with anything.  For as long as he had known her,
Priscilla had never tolerated contractions of her name.  He slipped a hand
into his pocket and rubbed his worry stone.

   "That got me thinking," Calpurnia went on.  "What if I had misjudged
you? What if this simple honesty you project is all a facade, with the real
genius lurking underneath?  Suddenly it all made sense.

   "You orchestrated your election from the beginning, didn't you?  You
knew Higgins was going down when you took the job last year.  Of course you
made sure you knew nothing about Higgins's escapades.  You were keeping
your nose clean, waiting for the police to close in.  Then you could step
right in, with Higgins's electoral machine working for you now, and claim
the vacant seat.  The fact that Higgins died instead of going to prison
merely made it easier: no loose ends to clean up."

   Martin was perplexed.  Every time a woman entered his office in a
miniskirt she began accusing him of outrageous things.  He wondered if
Calpurnia would start pacing.

   He tried to protest.  "No, Callie, I never --"

   Calpurnia crossed her knees and leaned on her elbow.  Her nylons
glimmered.  Martin momentarily forgot the rest of his sentence.

   "Now for that plan to work," she went on thoughtfully, "everything had
to be in place beforehand.  You would have to play the election exactly. 
First, you kept a low profile, lulling the opposition into thinking that
you were harmless.  Then, at precisely the right moment, you rose up with a
dramatic, high-profile issue that grabbed the public's attention.  McGrath
Park."

   She was swinging one calf-high boot back and forth as she spoke.  Martin
found it most distracting.  "Look, Callie, that's not the way --"

   "You grabbed an election victory out of certain defeat.  To do that you
must have had a lot of backing behind the scenes.  You must have already
had a lot of important people under your influence.

   "Including, of course, the local newspapers."

   Abruptly she got to her feet.  Her boobs bounced cheerfully.  "Do you
know how long I've been covering City Hall?" she demanded.

   Martin shook his head.

   "Six years.  Six years since I started as a junior reporter.  I built my
career around City Hall."

   As Martin had feared, she started to pace.  Her high-heeled boots made
it look dainty instead of agitated.

   "What was I to do?  A reporter's integrity is everything.  But you
couldn't have won this election unless you had all the newspapers in the
palm of your hand, including mine.  I don't know how you did it, but it
adds up.  There wasn't a single editorial about you during the entire
election."

   She stopped, facing him.  "I realized then that if I submitted my
article to the editor I would be working the midnight shift on the
obituaries column for the rest of my career.  I'm a good reporter, Martin.
I don't want to lose my beat."

   "I passed your little test.  I rewrote the article.  I have it right
here.  All ready for you."

   At last Martin felt he might get a word in.  "You want me to read your
article?  Why?"

   "To make sure it says the right things, of course.  Here, let me get it
for you." She leaned over to retrieve her satchel from the front of his
desk.  She was standing beside Martin.  Her nylons had black seams up the
back.

   She pulled out a sheaf of printed pages.  She turned and settled down
across Martin's lap.

   "Callie!  What are you--"

   "Martin, it's all right.  I know the rules now.  Prissy explained
everything.  What you expect of me.  Positive coverage.  And . . .  other
things."

   "W-what other things?" He could smell her perfume.

   "You've been staring at my body since I walked in the door."

   "Oh.  Uhm, well, Callie, I didn't expect--"

   "I'll tell you what.  Why don't you review the article, and then we'll
discuss . . .  other things." She slid her arms around his neck.

   Once again Martin found himself in the arms of a beautiful and willing
young woman.  Calpurnia's shiny black mini was less than 15 inches long. 
It was cinched up with a wide red belt.  Martin could feel one round boob
pressing warmly against his chest.

   Nervously, he began paging through Calpurnia's article.  The piece was
well-written: it appeared to carry on dispassionate reporting in Scott's
trademark style, yet provided unreserved praise for Martin Miller.  Martin
read it with concern.  Could he really let the News print this?  Did he
have any right to stop them?

   "Uhm, Callie, uh, there is one sentence here," he said tentatively.

   "I'll change it," she replied instantly, without looking at the page.

   "Uhm, and maybe this paragraph--"

   "Strike it out." She was whispering in his ear.

   Martin felt lips kissing his cheek.  "Callie, are you, uh, paying
attention?"

   "Prissy warned me," the hot-bodied reporter murmured, licking his ear,
"about the way it feels.  She said that your control is so subtle, so . . .
masterful, it's . . .  a pleasure to surrender.  It's an irresistible
turn-on.  Knowing that your invisible tendrils of influence surround me;
holding me, molding me, and I can let go completely and let them make me
into whatever you want without a care . . .  it's intoxicating!"

   She kissed him then, quite suddenly.  Her lips and tongue danced against
his.  He pulled her closer.  "M-maybe," Callie gasped, her breath sweet and
hot on his face, "we should . . .  uhm . . .  discuss . . .  other things
now and -- mmmmmmmm -- the article later -- Aye!" She let out a little yelp
when Martin tweaked a nipple through her thin top.

   "I think I know a way we can do both at once," Martin said.  He was
still caressing her breast.  "Here, stand up a minute."

   The turned-on reporter got to her feet, swaying on her narrow heels. 
Martin pushed the newspaper article across to the far side of the desk and
told her to read it to him.  Calpurnia had to lean far over the desk.  Her
tiny mini rode high and tight across the half-moons of her asscheeks.

   "Hurry," she breathed.

   Martin stepped behind her.  He leaned over her back to push the intercom
button.

   "Prissy, I'm doing another interview.  Make sure we're not disturbed for
at least half an hour."

   He gently nudged Calpurnia's legs apart with one foot.  Priscilla
probably heard the "Ooof!" when the reporter lost her balance and collapsed
against the desk.

   "Of course, darling -- uhm, Martin." came Priscilla's voice.

   The term of endearment surprised Martin.  He was too busy to deal with
that now.  He found the zipper running up the back of Calpurnia's mini and
slid it upward.  The straining leather sprang apart.  She wore no
underwear. There was a cut-out around the crotch of her pantyhose.

   "Hurry!" she cried again.

   "Callie, it's a fine article," Martin explained, pausing to fondle her
protruding behind.  He unzipped his pants.  "But it needs to be more
critical.  Readers are expecting your research to be penetrating."

   "Yes, of course, yes, yes," Calpurnia gasped.  "I need to be ah!  ahh!
Ahhhh!  penetrated!" She cried out as Martin slid deep into her waiting
pussy.

   He lay still for a moment, enjoying the feeling of her around him.  He
pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then pushed back in.  "N-now look at
that third p-paragraph.  You can't just say I'm a 'powerful rejuvenating
force -- oh man you are fucking beautiful!  - - on city council' without
some re-reservation."

   Calpurnia Scott had her head down on the broad desk.  She thrust her
hips back to meet Martin's strokes.  Her giant hoop earrings flashed.

   "Yes, you're right baby, yes," she agreed again.  "Look, I'll, oh god
that's good, I'll ch-change it right now."

   Gamely, she picked up a pen and began scrawling corrections on the
pages. Martin made more suggestions as they fucked across his big desk.  He
wasn't at all sure he was doing the right thing.  He wasn't even giving it
his full attention.  Calpurnia made not the slightest objection as he
rewrote her article for her.  She merely copied his changes verbatim while
she cried and groaned happily.

   Toward the end though, when her handwriting had become illegible, she
gave up trying to pay attention and concentrated on the screwing Martin was
giving her.  She reached out with both hands and gripped the front of the
desk.  She bounced forward and back in time with Martin's accelerating
strokes, booted legs spread very wide, her ass jutting upward and her
unbound breasts flattened against the hardwood.

   "Yes, darling, yes yes Yes!" she panted.  Her hair fell over her face.
"Oh fuck I knew I couldn't resist you.  N-nothing I c-could do.  All the
papers. . .  palm of your hand. . .  own them. . .  fucking own them. . .
own ME!"

   Her babbling transmuted into a groan of release as the orgasm swept over
her.  She jerked and spasmed across the desk.  Her pussy creamed.  The feel
of her pulsing and contracting around his cock was all that Martin needed.
With a guttural "Unh!" he came himself.  He blasted hot jism into her like
a cannon.

   Finally, spent and exhausted, Martin collapsed over Calpurnia's back. 
They lay there for a few moments, catching their breath.  Martin looked
down at Callie's newspaper article scattered across the desk.  "There's a
typo there," he whispered.

   "Mmmmm, that's nice," Calpurnia replied.  Her eyes were closed.

   When they had both cleaned up and straightened their clothes, Calpurnia
stuffed the crumpled pages of her article back into her satchel.  Martin
walked her to the door.  She laid a hand on his arm.

   "Thank you Martin," she sighed.  "For letting me keep my job."

   Martin opened the door to the outer office and Calpurnia wobbled away.
Her leather miniskirt barely covered her asscheeks.  The outer office was
silent.  All four women on staff were looking flushed.  Summer was sitting
at her desk with her legs pressed together.  Joan was toying with a button
on the front of her bursting suit jacket.  Martin realized then that he had
forgotten to turn off the intercom on his desk.  He retreated into his
office.

   A few hours later, Martin was talking on the telephone.  "Of course, I'd
be happy to go," he said.  "Not a problem.  Certainly.  Oh, yes, that's
coming along too.  We'll have a report for you very soon." He rang off. 
"Prissy, put a notation in my calendar please.  I have to attend a gala at
the Museum tomorrow."

   Priscilla was perched on the side of the desk.  She had her knees
crossed to better display her legs.  She picked up Martin's calendar and
made a note.

   Priscilla had given up pretending to be anything but a decoration. 
Today she wore a white lace top that was little more than a half- bra with
sleeves and lots of ruffles.  Her lace miniskirt was so transparent the
outline of her white, French-cut panties was clearly visible beneath it. 
She was wearing loose white boots instead of her usual slides, but the
heels were as tall and thin as ever.  She had repainted her nails white to
match the day's outfit.

   "That would be for the collection that rich bloke donated in his will,
wouldn't it?" Priscilla asked.

   "How did you know that?" He looked up from his consideration of her
legs. Instead of nylons she was wearing some sort of lace stockings that
ended in another burst of ruffles just above the knee.  The whole ensemble
was wispy, sexy and ultra-feminine.

   The office door was open.  Martin could hear conversations and
telephones ringing in the busy outer office.  From time to time a member of
his miniskirted staff wiggled by.

   Priscilla giggled.  Her earrings were strings of white bells that
reached her shoulders.  "Do you like, read your mail?  I brought you the
program yesterday."

   She reached into the stack of papers and letters accumulating on
Martin's desk.  She pulled out a small brown pamphlet.  "The Carlside
Collection: Rare Stone Icons" was written across it in gold letters.

   "Ah, right, I had been meaning to read that," Martin said lamely.

   He opened the pamphlet.  The city museum had received a small but
important private collection of little stone ornaments.  Some were carved
into elaborate figures or religious symbols.  Most were naturally shaped.
They were all beautiful.

   The telephone rang.  Priscilla answered it.  She toyed with the white
necklace below her cascading blonde hair.

   Martin paged through the pamphlet.  There was a picture of the donor on
one page.  He was a wealthy man who had passed away recently.  Martin
recognized him.  Carlton Carlside was the well- dressed old man who had
been holding hands with a centrefold on the Night of the Babe.

   Martin turned a page in the booklet.  Some pieces from the collection
was displayed.  "Finger Stones and Charms" was printed at the top of the
page.  The fingerstones had small holes in the centre.  One was once in the
possession of Henry V.  The other pieces were variously shaped, but always
round and smooth.

   Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out his worry stone.  It was
maybe three inches long, flat and smooth.  A shallow depression at one end
fit the thumb.  It was relaxing to rub his fingers back and forth across
it. The stone was black as obsidian.

   Martin had always assumed the stone was simply a bit of polished rock.
Maybe it was more valuable than he had realized.

   Priscilla was still on the telephone, sweet-talking a voter.  She idly
adjusted a strap on her diaphanous top.  If her outfit were any thinner it
would be illegal.  It was not a warm day.

   Martin considered the worry stone.  At the end of the election debate,
where he had first unveiled his spontaneous plan to protect McGrath Park,
Martin had been momentarily surrounded by people.  He was still sweating
from the stage lights.  Most of the audience had only wanted to berate him
for the mess Higgins left.  He bore it as gracefully as he could.  A few
actually congratulated him for taking a stand.

   The Babe was there.  She was breathtakingly sexy in her clingy,
short-short dress and levitating platform heels.  The white clothing set
off her evenly tanned skin.  She managed to look, not out of place among
the ordinary people around her, but somehow above them all, as if she
walked on some higher astral plane where fabulous beauty was the norm.

   The crowd thinned.  Martin found himself facing the Babe's elderly
companion.  "Congratulations, my boy," the man said, extending a hand. 
"You did a fine job up there.  A fine job.  I may not be around to vote for
you, but I give you my best.  Keep fighting for what you believe."

   Martin took his hand.  The man's grip was firm, but Martin could feel a
tremor.  The Babe was standing beside him.  She smiled and the room
temperature went up.  She had perhaps the most beautiful breasts Martin had
ever seen.

   "Th-thank you," Martin said, suddenly tongue-tied.  "I'll do my best."

   The old man let go of his hand.  "Good-bye Mr.  Miller," he said
formally.  "and good luck." He walked away, the Babe close beside him. 
Even receding, she was fabulous.  Martin stared.

   After a moment, he looked down.  The small black worry stone was in his
open hand.

   "Martin.  Marrr-tin.  Helllllooo"

   Martin looked up.  Priscilla was smiling down on him.

   "Oh, sorry Prissy, I was daydreaming." He slipped the worry stone back
into his pocket.

   "You're worried about the council meeting next week, aren't you?"

   "Well, a little."

   "Thought so." She climbed gracefully to her feet.  Martin watched as she
strutted to the door.  She had taken to walking with her hands at her side,
bent outward at the wrist.  He thought for a moment she was leaving. 
Instead she closed the door and locked it.

   She walked back to his desk.  "I know just what you need, honey.  I
can't have you, like, you know, getting all tense and worried." She stopped
beside his chair and sank to a crouch.

   "Prissy, wait," Martin protested, as she stalked toward his chair on her
hands and knees.  "You don't have to . . .  I mean you already . . .  this
morning . . ."

   "I know, I know," the office manager replied, reaching for his zipper.
She giggled prettily.  "But like, sometimes, I still want -- I mean, you
still want, more than that, right?  It's my job to, like, keep you
relaxed." She gently drew Martin's stiffening shaft out of the fly of his
trousers.  She stroked it fondly, like it was a pet cat.

   Martin hadn't made any real move to stop her.  "Well, if you insist," he
said good-naturedly.  He sighed as she took him deep into her throat.

   Martin relaxed in his chair while Priscilla went to work.  He wondered
casually if three blow jobs in one day was indulgent.  Angela's didn't
really count, since she had stopped when he was hard so he could screw her
on the carpet.  That left two from Prissy.  He groaned out loud.  She was
so good.  What the heck, he decided, panting, it was Friday.





   DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance
between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.  This work contains scenes of explicit sex between
adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only.  If you are
offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age
of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file.
Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected
sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not
exist.  In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this
work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other
activities depicted herein.

   TALKED THEMSELVES INTO IT by Downing Street PART V Martin clicked his
folded umbrella against the floor as he walked slowly back to his office on
Tuesday morning.  He was lost in thought.  He fingered the worry stone in
his pocket.

   He was returning from a working lunch.  He had made another attempt to
convince the councillor from ward 10 that a buffer zone around McGrath Park
did not set a precedent for arrested urban renewal.  He doubted he was
successful.

   He made better headway with the pretty waitress, whom he knew a little.
Martin ate lunch there regularly.  When she brought him the cheque, Martin
found her phone number -- and measurements -- written on the back.  He
watched the girl serve another customer, looking good in her white uniform
blouse and short black skirt.  He assessed that her self-description was
accurate.  He insisted on paying the bill.

   Martin had a lot on his mind.  The regular council meeting was tomorrow,
and he was still unsure of support for his motion.  The Mayor was impatient
for a report from the transportation committee.  Monday's meeting of that
group was fractious and long.

   Detective McClintock had been back to his office twice, bullying and
accusing and demanding to see records.  Martin saw no reason not to
co-operate, but tried to protect his staff.  He had no more idea where the
embezzled money was than McClintock did.

   The detective kept threatening an obstruction charge.  Martin was afraid
he might do it.  Officer Ridley took notes and inspected files.  She didn't
say much.

   Berculosi remained an aggravation, even if he was having little success
organizing public sentiment against Martin.  Rachel made sure of that. 
Martin felt a little guilty about the time Berculosi had called him on the
telephone while Martin was fucking his beautiful young wife on the desk.

   It was Rachel's idea to take the call.  Martin had his cock hard and
deep in Rachel's pussy.  He was standing before his big desk, Rachel's legs
wrapped around his waist.  Her breasts bounced with each grunting thrust.
He didn't feel he was in good shape to make conversation.  But Rachel
reached over and pressed the speaker button on the telephone.

   "M-Mr.  Berculosi," Martin said, still thrusting.  "W-what can I...  do
for . . .  yooooo."

   The shouting started instantly.  "Dammit Miller, what the hell are you
trying to pull!" Berculosi's voice roared through the speaker.  Martin had
a stocking-wrapped leg in each hand.  Rachel's ankles were locked behind
his back.  "P-pull?" he gasped, "Wha-whatever do . . .  you mean?"

   "You know exactly what I mean!  I warned you about going ahead with that
damnable moratorium around McGrath Park.  Towne Parke Phase II will go
through whether you like it or not.  I've invested too much time and too
much good money to be fucked over by some half-grown beginner."

   "Oh!  Oh, more than half-grown," Rachel blurted.

   "What was that?" Berculosi demanded.  "Is there someone in there with
you?"

   "No!  No, ah, of course not." He shot Rachel a look of panic.  She
responded with a little mou of her thick lips.  She brushed damp hair off
her face.

   "L-look, Mr.  Berculosi, I . . .  oh man that's good . . .  I mean, it
is good th-that you're uhm, sharing your . . .  uhm, your concerns, but I .
. .  uhm, I think, aaah!  I think this is a ma-matter for the . . .  uhm,
council."

   "Don't hand me that, Miller," Berculosi shot back.  "We both know this
moratorium is your baby from the beginning.  Everyone else on council was
prepared to let it go.  If you withdraw your support the motion would die."

   "But . . .  but I can't . . .  withdraw now.  I'm so . . .  oh god, I'm
so close . . .  almost coming . . .  that is, uhm, the c-council meeting is
coming.  T-tomorrow."

   Berculosi said: "If you take this motion to council it will be defeated.
You will make a cosmic fool of yourself and lose whatever credibility you
have.  Do you really want that, Miller?  I'm telling you, I have the votes
I need lined up."

   Martin looked at Rachel.  She was biting one knuckle.  She shook her
head back and forth.  Martin hoped that meant "no".

   "I . . .  I don't think you d-do, uh, uh, h-have the votes.  I, think,
oh man I, I think you're just unhappy . . .  uhm, because you . . .  uh,
can't have things . . .  your wife . . .  no!  I mean, your way."

   "I want exactly what I'm entitled to!" Berculosi roared, frustration
showing in his voice.  "Look Miller, I know how you're playing this game.
You've got someone inside my organization, tipping you off.  What, are you
slipping them a little something to make it worth their while?"

   "I, I don't know what y-you're talking about."

   "I'm no fool, Miller.  I'll flush out the leak soon.  When I do, both of
you are going to be fucked but good!"

   Martin was barely listening.  Rachel started to make cute, high-pitched
little squeaks that meant her climax was coming.  Martin bent over and
kissed her, afraid that her husband might hear.  He pressed his pelvis
against hers, spreading her silk-encased legs and lifting her heels toward
the ceiling.  He managed only two more strokes before he stiffened,
shuddered, and ejaculated.  He grunted gutturally with each spurt of jism
into Rachel's pussy.  His last thrusts were all the extra stimulation she
needed.  Martin watched her big brown eyes roll back in her head as she
shook and shuddered through her own orgasm.

   They ended up in a heaving, sighing mass.  Rachel sprawled limply across
the desk with Martin lying on top of her.  He heard a voice.  Berculosi was
still talking.  Martin reached over to the speaker-phone.

   "Thank you for your call," he said lazily, and rang off.

   Martin fingered his worry stone as he reflected.  Rachel had assured him
there was no chance that her husband would fathom her complicity.  The
woman was adept at playing dumb and beautiful.

   Martin stepped through the frosted glass door that said "Martin Miller"
on the nameplate.  Inside the office was bustling.  As usual, the short
trip through the outer office to his own desk took fifteen minutes and left
him with a hard-on.  Angela and Summer dropped what they were doing to rush
over and take his umbrella and carry his briefcase.  They showered him with
hugs and kisses, though he had only been gone for a couple of hours.

   When he got to her desk, Joan asked him to sign the papers that would
officially hire her daughter as a summer intern.  She wore no blouse under
her suit jacket.  Martin could see her swelling globes spilling out of her
bustier.

   Martin had not had sex with Joan since that first encounter in his
office.  He didn't count the two enthusiastic tit-fucks she had given him
while they discussed the terms of her daughter's employment.  Joan
rationalized those on the grounds that her boobies were distracting him and
she didn't want him to think she wasn't a team player.

   She had taken to calling him on her cell phone in the evening to get his
permission to have sex with her husband.  Joan's husband wanted sex a lot.
Martin wasn't the only one to appreciate her new look.

   Finally, Priscilla insisted he sit in her chair while she perched on the
padded arm with her legs across his lap, briefing him on calls while he was
out.  His dye-blonde office manager was wearing a pearly grey slip-dress
and glittery sandals with narrow straps that cris-crossed around her legs
up to the knee.  While she talked and stroked his hair, Martin watched the
two pretty clerks, who were now busily transferring files to the filing
cabinets.  Both girls were wearing very brief skirts and platform heels. 
They bent over repeatedly to dig files out of several boxes on the floor.

   "What's all this?" Martin asked.  He watched Angela flash her pantyhosed
behind.  Her thong was thin and silver.

   "Oh, financial records," Priscilla replied, crossing her ankles.  "The
police confiscated them last week on a warrant.  Still looking for evidence
against Higgins.  And you." She touched his nose with one finger.

   "Did they find anything?" Summer's panties were blue, to match her
stretch boots.  It occurred to Martin that the clerks could have set the
boxes of files on a table.

   Priscilla giggled.  "Course not.  They went through those same records
last year.  I think McClintock was hoping they had missed something."

   "He wasn't here again, was he?"

   Another giggle.  Her big earrings flashed.  "Nope.  The junior officer
brought them back.  What's her name, Ridley?"

   "Oh, well, she's not so bad." He tried not to stare at his micro-skirted
clerks.  Priscilla's legs offered a closer alternative.

   She bent close to whisper in his ear.  "Matter of fact, she's still
here. In your office.  Says she has a few more questions."

   "Nuts."

   Martin would have preferred not to have a visit from the police just
then.  Reluctantly, he lifted Priscilla's legs off his lap and got to his
feet.  He hoped his erection would go down before the cop noticed.

   He stepped into his private office.  He closed the door.

   "Hello Councillor," said a soft voice.

   Officer Ridley was sitting on Martin's desk.  She was wearing a
thigh-revealing, turquoise dress of some soft, stretchy fabric.  She was
leaning back on her hands, legs bent, high heels flat on the desktop,
blonde hair hanging long and loose.

   "You -- you're out of uniform," Martin said stupidly.

   "Do you like it, Councillor?" the blonde beauty cooed.  She swung her
feet down gracefully and got to her feet.  "Inspector McClintock asked me
to drop in, you know, to return your files.  I decided to stop by home on
the way here."

   She was walking toward him as she spoke.  Dark nylons shimmered on her
long legs.  "I got the impression, from your staff, that you prefer women
who aren't afraid to be feminine." She slipped her arms around his neck.

   Martin was dumbstruck.  "O-officer Ridley, I, I, you can't --"

   She leaned in and kissed him.  She was soft and slow and very thorough.
When she was finished Martin discovered that his hands were on her back. 
He felt his erection tenting his suit pants.

   Embarrassingly, Officer Ridley did too.  "Oh my" she whispered, grinding
her hips against him.  "I'm getting another impression from your staff."
She kissed him again to celebrate.

   When she finished they were both breathing hard.  Martin said, "But,
but, Officer Ridley --"

   "Monica."

   "Oh, uhm, well, uh, Monica what about, uhm Inspector McClintock?  Won't
he be -- Ah!"

   A gentle hand caressed his crotch.  "Inspector McClintock has been
re-assigned.  He let his frustration about this case turn into an
obsession. He was sooooo upset that Higgins died before he got a chance to
lay a charge.  He tried to take it out on you."

   She paused to kiss him a few times.  "McClintock wanted to keep
searching for the missing money.  He was convinced you had it packed away
somewhere." There was a gentle hiss as Martin's zipper came down.

   Monica made a little mewling sound.  "He, he kept h-hoping we'd turn up
something . . .  big."

   Events were moving too fast for Martin to keep up.  "What are you-- uh!
I mean, w-why . . ."

   Monica had one hand in his pants.  She looked around the office,
searching for a good spot.  "We, we found nothing on you, of course. 
Nothing at all.  Come on, over here!"

   Her hand had found a convenient handle by which to lead Martin to one of
the visitors's chairs in front of his desk.  "You absolutely amaze me" she
whispered, snuggling into his arms again.  "I can still remember the way
you stood up to McClintock, that first time.  He was trying to scare you
into confessing.  He does that to suspects all the time.  You didn't seem
to care.  I, I've never seen a man stay so calm, so indifferent to his
threats.  You just laughed at him."

   She was still stroking his prick with one hand.  Her body and her breath
were warm against his skin.  She whispered confessions in his ear.

   "I saw the look on your face.  You were enjoying it.  It was almost as
if you were getting off on toying with him."

   Technically, it had been Summer's mouth beneath the desk that was
getting him off, but Martin didn't see the need to explain that.  Anyway,
he never got the chance.  The lovestruck cop was all over him, kissing,
stroking, panting.  "I've never met a man with such self-confidence," she
gasped.  "and it gets me so fucking turned on!"

   She let go of him suddenly.  "I want you -- oh god I want you -- I want
you to, to, assist me in f-finishing this investigation." She pulled up her
soft minidress with both hands and yanked down her pantyhose.  It bunched
up around her hips.  She wore no panties.  "Since we have spent so much
time interrogating you," she explained, "it's only fair that you get to ask
the questions for once.  And don't be afraid . . .  to be rough on me . . .
mmmmmm, until I tell you what you want to know."

   She turned around.  She bent over the back of the low-backed chair, one
hand on each arm-rest.  Her bare ass thrust high in the air.  She craned
her neck to look up at him.  "Come on, Martin," she urged.  "Interrogate
me! Make me squeal!"

   For a moment Martin stood there, too astounded to move.  Officer
Ridley's shoes barely touched the floor.  Her legs were spread wide,
straining the dark hose around her hips.  With her tight, heart-shaped
fanny leading the eye downward to the pink lips of her pussy, she was an
unabashed invitation to fuck.

   While his mind hesitated, Martin's cock decided to accept the
invitation. He shucked off his trousers and stretched his shorts off around
his erection.  He took a step forward.  He placed a hand on each plump
asscheek.  He pushed her upward a bit, as if he were adjusting a pillow. 
Officer Ridley moaned in need.  Martin aimed his hardness at her cleft.  It
was slick with moisture.  He pushed into her gently, wiggling his way in
until he was buried to the hilt.  For a moment he hung there, enjoying the
feeling of girlflesh around his cock.  Then he pulled back a little, and
began to stroke in and out.

   It was delightful.  Soon they were both groaning and panting as Martin
thrust into her again and again.  Monica's high-heels skittered on the
carpet, trying to find purchase.  She gripped the arms of the chair
desperately.  "Interrogate me," she cried.  "Ask me anything."

   "Wh-why was McClintock taken off the case?"

   "Oh!  Oh, yes, uh, someone com-complained to the captain.  Said
McClintock was, of god keep it up, you're killing me, said McClintock was
b-bothering a very influential politician.  Kept pursuing the case with no
evidence.  Capt'n decided to close the case.  Inspector is pissed.  Mmmmmm,
I love the way you do that."

   "Someone complained?  Who?"

   " 's a secret.  I'll never tell."

   Martin slapped one inviting asscheek.  "Who!" he demanded.

   "It was anonym- oh!  I mean I don't oh!  I can't ohhh, all right, all
right, I did it.  I sent an e-mail to the Captain.  McClintock is such a
prick.  Mmmmmm, fuck me with your big prick, honey."

   "What about the missing money?" He was thrusting faster now.

   "M-money?  Oh, uhm, oh god so good, so good.  Yes, money.  All written
off.  Here somewhere.  Nobody knows where.  No leads.  Something about,
about 'blackberry'"

   "Blackberry?  What's that?" The chair began to rock.

   "I don't know.  Ow!  No, really, don't know.  Got it ooof, oh my god,
got it off ah!  wiretaps.  M-maybe, maybe a, a, password.  Bank account. 
Don't know.  Fuck me honey I'm going to --aaah, aaaaah Aaaaah!"

   Martin struggled to hold on as Monica bucked and twitched through her
climax.  The chair threatened to topple over.  She buried her mouth in the
fabric to stifle her cries.

   Martin felt her pussy clench and spurt around him.  He gripped her hips
with both hands.  He thrust his pelvis forward and leaned his head back,
mouth open.  He came suddenly.

   Monica was already relaxing as Martin's cum subsided.  She was so slick
he slipped out.  Monica's feet lost their grip on the floor.  She slid
headfirst over the chair, to land ungracefully in a heap on the carpet.

   She lay there for a long moment.  Her chest heaved.  Her turquoise
minidress was rucked up around her waist and her ruined nylons were still
binding her hips.  She had lost one shoe.  She looked up at Martin with
sleepy eyes.

   "I love the way you interrogate," she said.

   "Ladies and gentlemen, this meeting will come to order," the Mayor said,
early the following afternoon.  The buzz of conversation in the council
chambers settled slowly.  Martin was sitting at his designated place, going
over the agenda with Priscilla, when the Mayor spoke.  She squeezed his
shoulder to wish him luck, then sat discreetly in the chair behind him.

   McGrath Park was at the top of the agenda.  Martin still wasn't sure he
had the firm votes to carry his motion.  He was beginning to get a feeling
though, for what was happening in his life lately.  It was enough to form
the base for a plan.  He rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.

   Martin was nervous.  Everyone kept looking his way.  He wished he had
let Prissy give him that stress-release blowjob she had offered before the
meeting.

   Priscilla may have been one reason for all the attention.  In her tiny
dress and sexy heels she was a classic blonde bombshell.  This time out,
his head-turning assistant was accompanied by Angela and Summer.  The young
clerks were so excited they could hardly keep still.  Priscilla suggested
it would raise Martin's stature if he was attended by three assistants.  It
certainly raised something.

   To further the team spirit, all three women were dressed identically. 
Their uniform was a silvery white, sleeveless minidress of rump-skimming
length, with shiny nylons to further advertise the curves of their legs. 
Angela wore pearly white high-heels; Priscilla wore acrylic platform
sandals of smoky red; and Summer wore her favourite black, platform boots.
There wasn't a man in the room who wasn't distracted.  That was part of the
plan.

   Martin looked around.  The visitor's gallery was fuller than usual.  He
located Calpurnia Scott, decked out in her now standard leather micro-skirt
and spike-heeled boots.  She pressed two fingers to her lips and blew
Martin a kiss.

   Calpurnia was very dependable about sending him her articles for
approval.  She let him see everything, even articles about other
councillors that were really none of his business.  He didn't like to edit
her, but sometimes he had to tone down the boosterism to something
reasonable.  "Oh, that passage, I remember now," she said once, "I was
lying on my bed with my laptop, and . . .  uh, I think I was uhm, typing
with one hand, if you know what I mean.  Sorry.  Writing about you . . . 
uh, always gets me excited."

   The Mayor started proceedings briskly.  When the formalities were done,
she let Martin formally introduce his motion.  "You all have the summary
report of the proposed buffer zone around the Park," Martin said.  "To
explain it further, I have prepared a brief presentation."

   At his signal, Angela dimmed the lights.  Priscilla pulled down a screen
at the front of the room.  Summer flipped a switch to turn on a projector.
An image of McGrath Park appeared on the screen, with the words "Protecting
our Heritage" written over it.

   Martin began speaking as he flipped through the set of images.  The
presentation was carefully written.  There were many pretty pictures of the
park, most of which coincidentally contained a pretty girl, or two, or
three.  It gave the mostly male council a reason to keep watching.

   Priscilla, Angela and Summer had not sat down when the presentation
began.  Instead, they stood at the front of the room, smiling and primping
and leaning over to point things out on the screen.  They looked delicious
in their super-short, clingy dresses.  The white fabric shimmered in the
subdued light.

   As the presentation continued, sexy images gradually became more and
more prominent.  A young mother bending over her baby's stroller
accidentally exposed rather a lot of her heavy breasts.  An innocent shot
of young people frolicking in the pool happened to feature nothing but
models in bikinis.  Another shot of a summer day showed a fetching young
thing in a tube top and shorts, seductively licking an ice-cream cone while
she glanced toward the camera.

   Martin narrated the presentation in a slow, sonorous voice.  While
Summer reached high to indicate something at the top of the screen, Martin
looked around the room.  The council was rapt.  The men were watching the
screen, or the leggy vixens in front of it, with keen attention.  Earl from
Ward 11 crossed his knees, looking a little uncomfortable.  Martin watched
Reginald Farcapp lick his lips whenever Summer bent over.

   Martin hoped his hunch was right.  Carlton Carlside had been an
antiquities dealer and small-time collector.  In the last ten years of his
life he suddenly amassed a substantial fortune and married a stunning young
woman who had appeared in a major men's magazine four times.  She was
twenty-four when she abandoned her acting career to marry a man three times
her age.  Martin kept one hand in his pocket, slowly rubbing his worry
stone.

   The highlight of the show was Martin's new scheme for compensating the
loss of tax revenue to the City.  Among all his reading for the
Transportation Committee, he had discovered an old report that suggested
revising the downtown bus routes.  A more rational layout would increase
the number of riders, leading to a major revenue boost.

   To illustrate the point, he showed a picture of Priscilla, smiling back
at the camera as she stepped onto a gleaming city bus.  She was wearing one
of her office outfits, a lacy bra-top and matching mini, spike-heeled black
pumps with ruffled white ankle socks.  She had to step high to board the
bus.  Several more councillors crossed their knees.

   The presentation ended on that delightful image.  Angela raised the
lights.  "Ladies and gentlemen, I think this motion deserves your support,"
said Martin.

   The debate began.  Martin had already negotiated votes from several of
the councillors in the weeks leading up to the meeting.  There remained a
core of resistance, however, mostly from the long-serving councillors, and
many others were undecided.  The arguments rang back and forth.

   Martin's shapely assistants kept the sexually charged atmosphere alive.
They found excuses to walk about the chamber, each woman a showcase of
feminine beauty in their tight, short dresses and extra-high heels.  They
delivered notes, whispered questions in councillors' ears and generally
distracting everyone.

   Martin did not say much himself.  He let his supporters do the talking.
He watched the proceedings carefully.  He sent notes to councillors in his
camp suggesting points to argue.  Delivering them gave his girls
opportunities to soften the opposition with a smoky look, a flash of
panties, or an "accidentally" exposed tit.  The tactic was more successful
than it had any right to be.  Normally unflappable men began stuttering and
losing their train of thought.  Several were more interested in watching
the girls than in listening to the conversation.  Seven of the councillors
were women.  So was the Mayor.  Martin remembered Carlton Carlside and
rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.

   The change in tone of the debate was so subtle that Martin almost missed
it.  Somehow the discussion shifted from the wisdom of the motion to the
inevitability of it.  Supporters started saying "will" instead of "would".
They spoke of a groundswell of public support that could not be denied. 
The tone of the opponents' arguments gradually drifted from opposition to a
bad idea to laments for changes they couldn't stop.

   Martin paid close attention to the women.  He noticed several of them
watching him, including the Mayor.  They looked like they had other things
on their mind than municipal planning.

   One of the women, a thrice-elected veteran in her late thirties, was
visibly upset.  "I, I don't think this motion is a good idea," she
complained, "but I don't know what else we can do.  The public has made up
its mind.  When people get their hearts set on something, there is nothing
you can do to change them.  You can try to resist, try to fight back, but
it's no good.  In the end they always get their way.  There's no point
trying to resist.  No good.  The more you resist, the more you realize that
you can't win and it's so much easier to go along with it and not have to
fight any more but you feel bad about . . .  surrendering . . .  but its a
relief in a way, not to have to push against the tide you can't stop and
it's better to give in and . . .  and . . .  submit to . . .  submit . . .
Excuse me, I must step out a minute!"

   She got up from the table, overturning her chair.  She looked flushed.
She rushed from the room.  She didn't come back for fifteen minutes.

   Another councillor, a well-coiffed, fortyish woman in a dark dress, was
squirming in her seat.  She was watching Martin, hardly listening to the
discussion around the table.  She was giving him a pleading kind of look,
like an innocent schoolgirl begging her cocky boyfriend not to talk her out
of her panties again.

   Across the table, the well-dressed matron representing Ward 9, the
wealthiest part of town, was biting her lip while she toyed with her
pearls. She interrupted another councillor's argument against the motion
with a declaration that they had to follow the public mood.

   "We are public servants!" she blurted.  "We serve the public.  We have
to do what the public wants whether we agree or not.  We have been elected
as servants of the public.  We serve them.  We're servants.  Servants." She
kept repeating the word, shuddering a little every time.  Someone in the
visitors' gallery moaned.

   The man beside the panting public servant, old Reginald Farcapp,
couldn't seem to take his eyes of Summer long enough to make a speech. 
Martin sent her over to him with a note.  His eyes were on her boot-wrapped
legs every step.  She leaned far over to set the note in front of him.  Her
long hair brushed his face.

   The note said "Need a temp?  She's available if you're short-staffed."
Martin could feel the man's temperature rise from across the room.

   Around the table, more and more voices were convincing themselves that
they had to vote for Martin's proposal, for one reason or another.  Martin
felt a great flush of power.  He felt like a general, sitting in the
background, directing his troops while they overwhelmed the enemy with
pressure, persuasion and sex appeal.

   Stubborn resistance remained from a few councillors.  Their leader,
Huxley Smyth-Byrne, was a wiry old-timer.  He was the same man who had
attempted to have the temporary ban on development around the park lifted
months ago.  Smith-Byrne was unpersuaded by anything but economics.  He
dismissed the arguments for the park with logic, sarcasm and disdain.

   Martin decided it was time to step in.  "Huxley," he said, when the
other man paused, "I'm not sure you're taking the long view here." All eyes
in the room turned toward him.  He kept one hand in his pocket, stroking
his worry stone.

   "I agree with you that there would be some displacement of legitimate
builders by the proposal.  And I think you're right that we cannot depend
on increased transit revenues to compensate that loss.  Still, don't you
think we have a unique opportunity here?  This Council can at once protect
an important public amenity, and improve the city infrastructure, all with
minimal cost to the taxpayers."

   He paused reflectively.  "Now think for a moment.  Do you want to be
remembered as the man who prevented that from happening?"

   Martin watched the man's face.  He knew Smyth-Byrne was sharp enough to
catch the innuendo.  Calpurnia Scott was watching from the gallery.  A word
from Martin, and the other councillor would be villainized in the press
forever, or worse yet, ignored.  And maybe not just in the News.  Martin
had seen Callie's counterpart from the Tribune deep in conversation with
the miniskirted reporter, listening intently as Callie explained something
to her.

   Martin was quite sure now that he could influence the council enough to
have Smyth-Byrne marginalized.  He could probably compromise his staff, or
seduce them into sabotaging his work.  He could convince donors to cut off
funding.

   The Mayor was watching the exchange with a far-off look on her face. 
She had one hand beneath the table.  Martin felt confident he could
influence her too.  Pure, unadulterated power hummed in his veins like
strong drink.

   Huxley Smyth-Byrne said nothing for a long moment.  He looked down. 
"No, I don't want to be remembered that way," he said at last.

   A door opened on the side of the room.  The councilwoman who had
departed so abruptly came back in.  She looked much more relaxed.  Her
blouse was buttoned crooked.  She smiled at Martin as she took her seat.

   Martin turned to the Mayor.  "M'lady, I believe we are ready for a
vote."

   The Mayor stirred.  "Hmmm?  What?" she asked, looking around.  "Oh, yes,
the vote.  It's time to vote on the motion.  All those in favour raise your
hands."

   The motion passed.







   DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction and any resemblance
between characters in this work and actual persons living or dead is
entirely coincidental.  This work contains scenes of explicit sex between
adults and is intended for the entertainment of adults only.  If you are
offended by depictions of adult intercourse or if you are less than the age
of majority in your jurisdiction please do not read or download this file.
Because this is a fantasy, characters in this work engage in unprotected
sex in a universe where AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases do not
exist.  In reality sex without protection is unwise and nothing in this
work should be taken as condoning such activity, or any of the other
activities depicted herein.

   TALKED THEMSELVES INTO IT by Downing Street EPILOGUE After the meeting
was done, Martin and his three leggy associates returned to the office for
a few drinks to celebrate.  Anticipating victory, Joan had ordered a
generous supply of champagne.  Fellow councillors and supporters dropped by
to congratulate Martin and his team.  Even the Mayor came in for a moment.
She promised to put Martin's motion into effect at once.

   Later, when the well-wishers had finally gone, Martin and his staff
retreated to his inner office for a private celebration.  Some might have
called it an orgy.  Everyone had consumed quite a bit of champagne. 
Everyone insisted on kissing Martin.  Once they started kissing, no one
wanted to stop.

   Priscilla determined that she had seniority, and therefore should be
fucked first.  Martin had her on top of the desk, long legs spread high and
wide, while he stood in front of her with his pants around his ankles.  She
was wet and receptive.  It felt so good that Martin barely listened when
she started complaining.

   "What-- what are you -- stop that!" she cried, when Summer impishly bent
over her chest.  "Martin!  M-make her stop that!  She's -- she's licking my
-- oh!  and she's kissing my titties.  Martin, wait, stop, ohhhh, please,
stop for a moment so I can -- oh god, what -- Angela!  Noooo, not you too,
ohhhh, god, stop that, I, I don't do girls!  Martinnnn!  Tell them to stop.
You, you can't (pant, pant), you can't make me do -- I don't (huff, groan),
you can't make mmmmmppphhh . . .

   Joan leaned over and stuck a red nipple in her mouth like a soother. 
The helpless office manager could only writhe and twist on the desktop. 
Assaulted on all sides, her first peak hit her before Martin was even
finished.  Summer quickly took her place.

   Some time later, Martin was screwing Angela from behind while she leaned
over the desk to eat out Priscilla, who was helping Joan entertain Summer
in Martin's big chair.  Later still, Martin found himself sprawled on the
carpet, licking champagne off Joan's bountiful breasts, while a pair of
tongues licked and sucked his cock with relish.  Martin was using one hand
to finger Priscilla, who was sort of flopped over top of him with her face
buried in Joan's crotch.

   When the telephone rang, Joan dutifully extracted herself from the pile
of undulating bodies and stumbled over to the desk.  She was still wearing
her cherry-red corset and five-inch heels.  Her panties were long gone.

   "Hello?" she said into the telephone.  "Oh, hi darling.  Goodness me,
you're right.  I forgot about the time." She tightened a garter strap
absently.  "No, we were having a bit of a celebration.  Come again?  Oh,
no, uhm, we have the television on."

   The bodies on the floor re-arranged themselves and Martin missed the
rest of the conversation.  He wasn't even sure whose mouth he came in.

   Eventually, the party wound down.  Joan staggered off to catch a taxi
home to her family.  Martin was unsure whether she put her dress back on.
Summer and Angela, unseasoned at consuming large quantities of alcohol,
fell asleep on the sofa, still in the sixty-nine position.  Angela's right
hand clutched an empty champagne bottle.

   Martin dozed on the thick carpet, listening to Priscilla's even
breathing.  He looked around for his trousers.  Lying on the floor, he
found himself face to face with the stuffed boar that Higgins had insisted
on keeping in one corner of the office.  Jeez that's ugly, Martin thought.
It was high time he got rid of all that stuff.

   He frowned for a moment.  There was something about a black boar.  He
got to his feet, found his trousers and pulled them on.

   "Prissy, come here a moment."

   His semi-nude office manager looked up blearily.  Her hair hung over her
face.  "Wanna do it again?" she asked, a hint of eagerness in her voice.

   "Not right now.  It would fall off.  But come take a look at this."

   Priscilla got to her feet.  Though she was wearing nothing but a few
scraps of underwear, she found her acrylic platform sandals with the
towering heels and slipped them on.  She managed two steps before she fell
heavily to the carpet, laughing drunkenly.  Rather than take her sandals
off, she crawled on her hands and knees to where Martin was sitting.

   "What?  Whutz so important?"

   "I was thinking.  Have you ever wondered why Higgins kept this big
stuffed pig in his office?"

   "Cuz he was an egotishtical boor with no taste?"

   "OK, but this is the only stuffed animal.  Everything else he mounted
the head, or took a picture."

   She leaned against him.  "Darling, do we hafta discush this when I'm
drunk?"

   "You remember that cop, Ridley, that was here a few times?"

   "Mmmmm, yeah, the babe with the great ash."

   "Uh, yeah, her.  She said they tapped Higgins's phone.  He used the word
"blackberry" several times.  I assumed it was a password of some kind. 
Maybe for a bank account or a computer file."

   "Thaz nice." She nuzzled against his neck.  "I wanna fuck."

   "But what if they heard it wrong -- hey come on, stop that.  What if it
wasn't blackberry.  What if the word was "black boar."

   She stopped what she was doing.  "You mean . . . ." She paused for a
long moment.  "You know, I 'member Higgins used t' come back from meetings
sometimes 'n' lock himself in the office.  Told us not to dishturb him."

   Martin was running his hands along the flanks of the animal.  "Yes.  And
you remember that one time he came back with two briefcases?  I'm sure he
left with only one."

   His fingers stopped.  "Well I'll be damned."

   "What?"

   "Some sort of hidden fastener."

   There was a sound like a zipper being opened.  Wads of paper began
tumbling out of the boar's belly.  They kept coming and coming.  They
accumulated in a big pile on the floor.

   Priscilla picked up a packet of bills.  They were large denominations,
neatly packaged.  She looked at Martin, dumbstruck.

   He grinned.  "I think we've found the missing half million,"

   There was a long silence, broken only by a soft thud and a sleepy groan.
Angela had dropped her champagne bottle and then slid bonelessly off the
sofa.  She passed out again on the floor.

   "So, what do we do now?" Priscilla wondered.

   "Wellll, we could keep it."

   "I s'pose.  The police have closed the case."

   "The City has written it off."

   "Nobody even knowsh it 'xists."

   "Wouldn't be right though, would it."

   "No, I suppose not."

   Another long pause.

   "On the other hand, what if we made a donation to some worthwhile
cause?"

   "Such as . . ."

   ". . .  rehabilitation of McGrath Park?"

   "Anonymushly, of course."

   "Of course."

   "You can plant lotta trees for half a million."

   "A lot of trees."

   "Maybe paint the bandstand."

   "New equipment for the playground."

   They were both grinning hugely.  Martin picked up a packet of bills and
tossed them in Priscilla's lap.

   "Wha's zat for?"

   "Call it a bonus.  We don't have to give it all to McGrath Park."

   "I'll jus' blow it all on trampy clothes."

   "I know."

   "You are so vile.  I can't believe I've fallen in love with you."

   "Neither can I."

   She reached up and pushed the unstuffed boar to one side.  "You know
what I've alwaysh wanted t' do?"

   "What?"

   "Make love on a big pile of money."

   They were still grinning like fools.  Priscilla spread out the pile of
cash to make a more comfortable bed.  She left her high heels on.

   Martin pulled off his pants again.  For a moment, he reached into his
pocket and rubbed his worry stone.
   But he wasn't really worried.