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Like last night. I think I may have finally passed out after the sex at around 3 am. I look over to the clock.
It’s 6:45 am. I always wake up at 6:45 am. So what is that? Slightly less than four hours. I can live with that. I won’t be draggy and tired all day. Besides, it was worth it. Sex is always worth it, in my opinion. It doesn’t have to always be toe-curling sex. It can be regular sex, or even sometimes bad sex. It depends what you end up doing with it. It’s like a movie. Even if it’s a bad movie, only rarely do you stop watching it. Or reading. Even if it’s a bad book, you usually finish to the end. I mean, sometimes you just DNF, but that’s not this book, is it? Because you only just met me, hun, and let me tell you, I think you’re going to like the ride I get to go on.
Anyways, back to the sex last night. It wasn’t the best. The guy, what’s his name? I forgot.
I look over to my right. He’s sleeping peacefully. Poor baby. He must be worn out. See, his cock was too small for me. I think it was only about four and a half inches. I swear—no lying. I was actually pretty intrigued. I asked him how big his cock was at the bar he picked me up at when I was having a drink after the Senate adjourned for the day, and he had told me it was ‘big enough to make me scream’.
I guess he meant scream in amazement because whe
n I saw it a few hours later in my apartment, while I did feel a bit cheated, I was also really intrigued. Instead of kicking him out, I told him if he put on two condoms (to maybe make his cock bigger?) and gave me head while I read the latest Simone Sowood book on my Kindle he could fuck me afterward.
He was so grateful I wasn’t kicking him out he did exactly what I asked. That’s right. The guy next to me is a lobbyist for some group or another. Mr. Big Bad Lobbyist, thinking he’s going to go run for Congress. Too bad he has a baby dick and that Alpha Male façade just crumbles like nothing else when faced with a real woman. Like you or me—he can’t handle us.
Seriously, babe. I’ve dated a lot of guys. I’m not a slut; I don’t indiscriminately sleep around. I always want to go with the Alpha. I’ve done billionaires, CEOs, actors, Senators, Congressmen, Mafia lords, highlanders, princes, hell—even a guy claiming to be a fucking dragon.
At the end of the day, two things will happen with any of these so called bad boys or Alpha Males. First, I will crush their spirit because they won’t be able to keep up with me. They’ll end up becoming Soccer Dads, with beige shorts driving a minivan. That’s after they trade in their motorcycle and leave their MC. Second, I’ll get bored with them. Because they couldn’t be man enough to handle me.
It’s a curse, hun. I wish I weren’t so confident. But what can I do? I grew up like this. I’m the youngest Senator in the history of this country at 29 years old. I know I look good; I have blonde hair to my shoulders, I stay in shape by working out every day, I know my boobs look okay and my ass is still perky. I’m a hard worker. I graduated at the top of my class from Princeton and never looked back. When my friends were getting married, I was working. When they were going on vacation, I was working. And look at where it got me; I’m now the junior Senator from New York State and chairwoman of the Senate Commerce Committee. I have an apartment in Washington D.C. at the Watergate Hotel and an apartment in New York City on 39th and Park Avenue. I don’t have billions of dollars, but enough paid speeches to Wall Street banks and the NRA have left me with hundreds of millions of dollars. I can survive on that.
Sure, I grew up wealthy, in a well-connected New England family. We summered in Cape Cod and lived on Beacon Hill when I was growing up. But like any New England family, I was always told that everything I would ever get in life I had to earn. If I didn’t work, I wouldn’t receive any benefits.
No one owns me. Not even a political party. I watch all these supposedly powerful men, out there peacocking and posturing for the camera. They’re all crippled because the parties have them by the balls. I told the Democrats to fuck off a while ago. Then I did the same to the Republicans. I’m an American. That’s my fucking party, babe.
But I’m also a woman. And I’ve just woken up. And I don’t have to pee, so that makes me horny. I don’t waste any time but slowly nudge the lobbyist whose name I can’t remember awake.
He slowly opens his eyes. He looks at me and smiles sweetly.
“Good morning,” he says slowly.
“Babe,” I tell him, “I need you between my legs.”
He blinks a few times, and I give him a lascivious smile. That should get the blood pumping to the right areas. I could go down on him and get him hard, but I’m not really in the mood. Plus, with four and a half inches, how would I go about finding his cock?
Apparently, my smile is enough for him. Men are so easy to fucking manipulate, and within seconds, he’s moved his head down and begun kissing around my folds.
I close my eyes. It’s not super good, but it’ll get the job done. Kind of like buying the generic cereal at the store and not the brand name. Sometimes you just need to budget so you can spend your money on other things.
I pull up my phone and start looking through my emails as Mr. Big Bad Lobbyist starts to lick my clit. My eyes close and I shudder. It does feel good. I let myself go for a bit, enjoying the sensation.
That’s when the phone rings. I sigh. I look at the iPhone as it continues to vibrate and I wonder for a second if I should pick up. It’s an unlisted number. Or maybe just put the vibrating appliance down below too, help out this poor man whose lapping at me now, teasing me and stimulating me, sending small shudders up my body….
Oh look, I got lost in my train of thought and forgot to pick up. Oh well. I keep my eyes closed and bring a hand to my tits, teasing my nipples. It’s too much to ask this guy to take charge. Once you take the reins from the man, they’re loathe to give it back.
And then the phone rings again.
It was an unlisted number before, but this time there’s no mistaking the Caller ID.
It reads: The White House.
Right, so I should probably pick that up.
“This is Vivian Hawthorne,” I say into the phone. Mr. Lobbyist tries to lift his head to see what I’m doing, but I have enough dexterity that I’m able to use his other hand and push him back down between my legs. His tongue rubs and presses hard against my clit. I shudder in pleasure.
“Senator Hawthorne, please hold for the President of the United States,” the White House operator says into the line.
I hold. This isn’t my first call with the Big Man. Rather, I spread my legs out a little bit more. I need to make this quick.
“Viv?” comes the voice of a the boisterous Texan on the other end of the line. “How you doin’, doll?”
