by Aubrey Irons
“Madison, I mean here, in your quarters.” She smiles at me, “And you do know they have a movie theater here at the White House, right?”
I groan. “Yeah, not exactly the same thing. I miss people; I miss my friends.”
“Well I believe it was those people and those friends that got you into trouble in Chicago.”
I roll my eyes, “Are we seriously going to talk about this again? Jesus, mom, Harry hit me. I’d have thought standing up for me publicly would do wonders for your stance on domestic abuse or something.”
“Yes, it would have, had you not been drinking drunk and high when the whole debacle happened.”
“You’re being awfully dismissive about the whole thing, you know,” I snap.
“And you’re being awfully naive if you think I’m going to use my daughter’s personal life as some sort of campaign talking piece,” my mother shoots back.
“You know what, let’s go ahead and not talk about this.”
I know she’s on my side, and I know she’s got a lot more on her plate than my messy relationship stuff, but that doesn’t mean I need to hear her talk about it right now. It also doesn’t mean I can go ahead and tell her the reason I’m avoiding doing anything is because I’m trying to avoid being around Hunter.
“I think I’m just bored,” I lie. “I’m spending time in here because at least here I don’t have to deal with security and media schedules and whatever other circus goes on in the rest of this place.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder and rubs my arm as she smiles at me, even if it is a campaign-trail type smile. “You’ll get used to it, honey. This is ultimately going to be a good thing for you.”
“It’s a good thing to be cooped up and denied personal freedom while my life gets scheduled and regimented for me?”
“Madison, this isn’t about stifling freedom, this is about opening doors. Honey, think about what's available to you after this! I’m the first woman to become President, and you’re my smart, confident daughter.” She gives me that look again. “Now stop moping and put your mind to whatever it is you want to do.”
Damnit I hate when she’s right.
There’s something supremely unfair about having an argument with your mom when she’s a trained legal prosecutor and presidential debater. And again, I know she means well, but she doesn’t get that I get all of this. I do want to go figure what I want to do with my life, but I want to make my own way, not just coat-tail off my mom being who she is.
“Well is Hunter taking good care of you?”
I quickly look away to hide the pink that teases across my cheeks at the sound of his name.
Oh, he’s taking care of me alright.
Long after my mother leaves though, with a few more token words of motivation, I still can’t stop thinking about him. Because there’s something so wrong and so illicit about fantasizing about him like this in the secret of my own head that has me hotter than ever.
It doesn’t help that I’m still horribly turned on from last night, because even with the “self-release” after he left, I wasn’t satisfied. It wasn’t what I needed.
Because it wasn’t enough.
“It was good but not great.”
Yeah, well same, ass. And then there was the temptation to just do it, the temptation to just throw everything rational out the door. All those things I try to tell myself when he’s not around are starting to lose their weight.The temptation to yank him into my bed and and let ourselves fall is real, but it can't happen.
I tell myself that a few more times just to make sure it takes.
Later, my mother’s words must have sunk in, because I’m grumbling as I head down to the dining room to have a real meal instead of having something sent up. Which, of course, entails putting on something besides pajama pants and being a real person, but the growling of my stomach is a good motivator.
“Oh, Madison!” I look up from my sandwich made to order later to see Emma smiling at me as she breezes into the dining room. “I was just coming up to knock on your door!”
She holds something small and black up in her hand and waves it before placing it in front of me. I frown at the silver and black phone before I glance up at her questioningly. “What’s this for?”
“It was Hunter’s idea, actually,” she says with her ever-present smile. “It’s a private scrambled phone sort of like the ones the Service uses on duty, to avoid anything like the museum, uh, thing the other day.
I glance quickly from the phone up to her face. No, she doesn’t know. She couldn’t.
“Um, thanks, Emma.”
“It’s for Hunter and me only, so it’s just for emergencies.” She shrugs, almost apologetically. “Or, you know, if you just need something.” She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it, before she takes a breath and looks back at me. “Look, Madison, I know you hate that you’re cooped up here, but if you ever want to talk or need anything at all,” she laughs conspiratorially. “Besides scheduling, I’m here to help, you know.”
A smile creeps across my face. “Thanks, Emma.”
“Any time.”
Got your phone…for emergencies, huh?
I roll my eyes at the new phone as I send the message to Hunter’s pre-programmed-in private number. The response comes a moment later.
Yep, for when you just need me.
I grin as I type a response.
For protection, of course.
Oh, naturally…or if you need me to finish what we started the other night.
I blush as I smile like an idiot at the text before I bite my lip and fire off a response.
Oh, I don’t need your help anymore. I finished just fine without you.
Hunter’s response comes almost instantly.
I’m going to need details on that.
Oh, I think you know.
So you’re saying you finished.
I might be saying that, but that would be extremely un-presidential of me.
Hunter’s reply hits like a delicious shiver up my back.
Were you or were you not playing with your pussy.
His words are so crude, and yet I find myself blushing at how much they turn me on. I quickly put the phone face down on the side table next to my bed as I take a breath.
I need to stop this, right now. I need to put this temptation of a phone down and go for a run, or anything else to get Hunter and this wicked suggestions out of my head. But of course instead, I grin as pick the phone back up.
Use your imagination.
Oh, I am.
Oh, should I use mine as well?
Jesus, what the hell am I doing? This is playing with fire, and I know it. This is beyond flirting with temptation, but I already know I’m way past stopping.
I can help with that imagination.
I’ve barely registered his message before the phone buzzes again in my hand at the arrival of a picture.
A picture of the bulge in his pants.
My pulse skips a little at the illicitness of continuing this wholly inappropriate flirtation. I grin as I hammer out my reply.
Didn’t realize you had photoshop on your phone. Nice editing.
Haha…I think you know better than that.
Like I said, forgettable.
I wait, grinning and looking for a response but it doesn’t come. And for a minute, I find myself frowning as I wonder if I crossed a line from flirting into just being a bitch. But then I’m rolling my eyes at how ridiculous I sound worrying about bruising that man’s ego.
I’ve given up on a response, the phone laying on my lap in my bed, when it suddenly buzzes again as picture message lights up the screen.
And very quickly, there’s nothing forgettable about what Hunter’s packing between his legs, because there, on the screen, is a big, high-definition picture of his cock. His hand is wrapped around the base and it still looks huge, and I’m suddenly wondering how he managed to fit that thing in the frame.
I’m also sudd
enly very, very wet.
The raw need for him is burning hot between my legs as I bite my lip and carefully send my reply.
Nice fake.
My photoshop skills aren’t THAT good, doll.
His first message is instantly followed by a second that has a shiver running up my back as the heat blooms between my legs.
Your turn. I want to see what’s underneath.
And for a second, I’m actually considering it. I can’t even believe who the hell I am around this man that I’d actually consider this for even one freaking second, but it’s there, like a hot coal burning in my head, sizzling straight through the layers of carefully cultivated control I’ve been clinging to so desperately.
That is, until I remember to breathe and shake the absurd thought of sending nude selfies to my damn stepbrother right out of my head.
Instead, I grin as I kick the covers aside, pull my sock off, and giggle as I snap a picture of my foot with the phone. I’m literally laughing out loud as I hit send.
Cute toes, but not my thing.
Oh well, too bad. I had you pegged for weird shit.
You have no idea,
The text back buzzes in my hand, and I bite my lip as the follow-up arrives a second later.
It was actually something further north than your feet I was looking for.
I grin and start to pull up the camera on my phone when he sends another one.
And I don’t mean your knees.
Yeah, no kidding. I know exactly what he wants, and for another brief second, I can’t believe that I find myself actually contemplating it again. What am I, insane? The flirtation and the little games we’ve been playing — not to mention the sordid history — is one thing. But physical evidence of our little indiscretions like actual photographs? Please. I’ve seen enough tabloid headlines to actually shudder at the thought of something like that leaking or being compromised publicly.
‘First daughter Adams sends topless pictures to her own stepbrother.’ It’s cringe-worthy to even think about, and I’m quickly shaking my head at myself, and how inappropriately far I’ve let this get.
Guess you’ll have to make due with toes, time for bed!
And with that, I turn my phone off and pull the covers back up to try and sleep Hunter Ryan off of my brain.
Of course, that last look at his picture message one more time before turning in doesn’t exactly inspire restful thoughts.
17.
At the end of the next day, I’m sitting back in my room, pulling my tie off and still waiting for a response. But I’m not going to get one; not from this girl.
And I’m still sitting there on the edge of my bed just toying with the fucking phone five full minutes later before I angrily shake my head and toss the phone back on the bed as I flop back onto it. What the fuck is wrong with me? There’s literally never been a time in my life when I’ve been that guy; the douche that sits in his room waiting for a girl to fucking get back to me.
Fuck that.
I don’t wait for girls, they wait for me. I don’t sit around like some pussy-whipped loser, ever.
Yeah, except here I am, and it’s all because of her. Before I can stop myself, I’m scowling as I reach for the phone and type out a text to her.
What, I still don’t get anything back after what I sent you last time?
The instant response irritates me, because it means she’s right there by her phone and not texting or calling me.
Aww, you wish.
I grin as I type out a reply.
Hey, I just don’t believe that you are taking care of yourself properly. Can’t blame a guy for wanting to do the right thing and help out.
Lol, and what exactly would a picture do to solve that?
I can feel my cock stir.
Nothing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want a picture of that sweet pussy.
I can practically feel her blush through the phone, as ridiculous a notion as that is. I can imagine that token Maddie look of her lip drawn between her teeth; that pink glow to her cheeks.
My cock begins to grow as I just start to straight-up fantasize about her. I’m picturing the lip bite as she pulls her panties down, looking back over shoulder at me. I tense my jaw as I picture her bending over, spreading that ass for me, her perfect pink lips between her legs so wet and begging for me.
I’m growling as I yank my belt undone and jerk the the zipper down before reaching inside, pulling out my rapidly stiffening cock. I grunt as I wrap my hand around it and start to stroke as I picture innocent little Maddie Adams bent over in front of me, holding her panties to the side and begging me with those fuck-me bedroom eyes to do exactly that.
I picture coming up behind her and teasing her first. I imagine grabbing that ass in both my hands and pulling her against my mouth as I bury my tongue in her honey. I grunt as I jerk my hand up and down my shaft, picturing easing my cock-head against her soft, yielding opening and making her moan as I bury every inch in her tight, wet slit.
The phone suddenly buzzes on the bed next to my head, and I stop the motion of my hand as I turn to arch a brow at it.
No way.
I grab the phone off the bed and open to the text message from Maddie.
It’ll cost you.
She can’t be serious, but something about the long wait before the response tells me she’s been mulling it over a thousand times in her head. She’s probably written out and deleted this very message a hundred times before finally working up the courage to send it.
Needless to say, I’m intrigued.
What exactly will cost me?
A picture.
My cock throbs, and I reach down with one hand and idly stroke it as I type out a reply with one hand.
Bullshit, you’re lying.
Try me.
Even if this is all bullshit, and even if she’s still mulling it over in her head, it’s worth it to push things here, if just to see how far I can get before she clams up again.
What’s the price?
It takes a second, but the phone buzzes a reply.
I get more freedom. I get to move around more, see more of the city and do things like museums without people freaking out. I want to stop being a hermit in this place.
I smirk at the screen. Madison Adams, playing politics and leveraging a deal. Looks like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. So, that’s the tradeoff she wants to make? I mull it over for all of four seconds. Yeah, it’s a pain, but I can make it happen. I can broaden her schedule with Emma, I can make it work with the Director.
Jesus, what the fuck am I saying? Of course I’ll make it work. For her to actually send me what I want to see? Yeah, consider it fucking done. I hammer out a response.
No fucking feet this time.
And she sends back a fucking winky face emoji.
I’m calling her bluff. Minutes tick by and I sit there like a jackass with my cock out and the phone in my hand, shaking my head at what an idiot I am to think that Madison Adams is actually going to send me nude pictures.
I start to drop back on the bed when the phone buzzes in my hand, and I jerk my head up.
Holy shit.
It’s Madison’s tits, encased in this lacy, practically see-through bra. Like, the sexiest bra ever fucking made, to the point where I almost wonder where a girl like her even gets something that hot. Fucking hell, I can actually just see her nipples through the sheer lace, and my cock instantly gets rock-hard again as I reach down to wrap my hand around it.
It’s a start
I type out, hitting send before I scroll back up to the picture of her tits and let my hand slide up and down my throbbing dick.
She sends another winky face and then another minute ticks slowly by. And then another. Four minutes later, I’m still jerking my cock as I groan, eyeing those perfect little pink nipples peaking out from under that bra. I know this is all I’m going to get, but I could come a million times just staring at those tits and thinking of
the girl they’re attached to.
You sitting down?
I frown at her message, and I’m about to ask what she means when she sends another message.
Sure hope so.
And then the picture comes, and I almost have a fucking heart attack right there on the bed. It’s like every fantasy I’ve had of her, only it’s right there on my screen in one perfect high definition picture.
Madison is naked on her bed, hand outstretched above her holding her phone. Her tits are bare, nipples hard and her breasts falling softly on her chest. My cock throbs in my hand as I let my eyes trail down her perfect torso, over her hips to her perfect, wet, pink pussy.
I literally growl out loud.
Her fingers are slipped between her dewy lips, spreading herself open for me with one finger gently pressed against her opening, and it is without question, without hesitation, and without argument, the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
