24 Inches: A MFM Romantic Comedy

by Alexis Angel

  She hits one of the phones along the side of the desk. I don’t know which one. But whatever, she actually feels pretty good. She’s a bit of a slut—at least that’s the word around the West Wing. She’s not tight. I’ll grant you that.

  “Oh baby, I’m going to fuck you so hard!” I tell her.

  Is it me or is she talking in a very low voice? I bend over closer to hear her without breaking my stride.

  “Oh unggggghh, baby, it’s so daaaa….good,” she moans again.

  I close my eyes, and go back to imagining the women I’ve been with. So much I’ve wanted to do with them.

  “Tell me how much you want it,” I tell her. I hold onto her hips and increase my tempo.

  “Oooohh,” Abby coos. “Eeeeee,” she pants. At least that’s what it sounds like. I haven’t opened my eyes yet. Just going by auditory impulses.

  “Tell me how much you fucking love my cock,” I say, getting closer and closer.

  “Khee bhol cho…” Abby says and I have no idea what she’s saying now, but I’m not going to lie – I’m not really paying attention. I’m maybe five seconds away from exploding. A veritable geyser of semen is going to shoot out from my monster cock.

  “I’m going to cum all over your fucking face,” I grunt as I slow down my thrusts.

  “Kheee,” Abby says in a high pitch voice. She’s speaking garbage now. Unintelligible. But that’s just the effect I have on women.

  I finally open my eyes and look at her. Her eyes are wide and she’s looking back at me in fear.

  Three more strokes. Two. One.

  Fuck, no time to turn her around.

  I pull out and whip my condom off.

  “I’m gonna cum,” I say with a nasty sneer of pride.

  The door bursts open.

  I look up.

  It’s the President of the United States. He’s being followed by three Secret Service people.

  But its too late for me. I’m cumming. Bolts of lightning and electricity have seized my body and paralyzed my muscles. My nuts have tightened and twisted and I feel myself spurt. All over his daughter’s ass. I unload rope after rope of thick, viscous white cum on his daughter’s ass cheeks and lower back. Despite the fact that this 22-year-old First Daughter just got caught in the Oval Office with a White House Intern’s cock inside of her, and despite the fact that her eyes tell me she’s afraid of something, which has to be my cock because she can’t help but sigh in pleasure as thick, heavy spurts of hot jizz land on her lower back and ass.

  I grunt like a savage and start looking at my handiwork. The first shot hits the right ass cheek. I moan lewdly as I see it. I can’t help it. The second shot hits the left. The third rope hits her lower back and pools right above her ass before trickling down her thighs. The fourth shot hits right on her crack, dribbling downward. The fifth shot goes and smears the right ass cheek again.

  “Fuck,” I gasp, as my orgasm subsides and my cock starts to dribble cum out.

  In a fog of sex, I’m vaguely aware that the President has rushed to the desk. I’m slowly becoming aware that the Secret Service agents are standing at the entrance to the Oval Office.

  What I don’t understand is why the President doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to Abby and I. Is his daughter that much of a slut that he’s basically given up on her?

  That’s when I notice he’s saying something.

  Fuck, he’s talking into the phone.

  Wait, he’s talking into the phone?

  The phone was on?

  “Dimitry, please understand that this in not a provocation of war!” the President yells into the phone and that’s when I snap back to reality. “America is not looking to fuck you and cum on Russia’s face!”

  Oh. Fuck.

  “Kakvo Kazvash!” the voice yells on the other end.

  “He says the missiles are ready for launch if you’re lying,” a voice says and I notice that the President’s Russian translator is behind him. I didn’t even notice him.

  You remember as I was fucking Abby and her hands were going all over the place as she was squirming?

  Remember the phone she grabbed?

  I’m just realizing right now. It was red.

  “Dimitry, we have no desire for war! I swear to you! The US and Russia have come a long way together. Don’t let two stupid kids cost the lives of billions of people!” the President yells. Beads of sweat are forming on his brow.

  My cock starts to twitch, it’s resting semi-hard on Abby’s ass. We’re frozen, all watching what's happening.

  Apparently, the Russian President got put on speakerphone and misinterpreted my telling Abby the things I wanted to do to her as threats of war.

  There’s a long silence.

  “Daubs Vedanya!” the voice on the other end of the line says and the line clicks as it goes dead.

  The President looks to his translator who nods. He sighs visibly and clutches the desk.

  My heart rate slows. Fuck, that was close.

  I pull away from Abby and start putting on my pants. Abby turns around to look at me. I hastily put on my pants and grab my shirt and shoes, putting them on as I start walking.

  I need to put as much distance between me and the Oval as possible.

  “If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the Executive Building,” I say, almost out the door.

  “Wait just one minute, Lance,” the President says from behind me.

  Fuck. I was so close to getting out of this one as well.

  I turn around to face the fucking music.

  Guess dad won’t approve of me almost starting World War III now to add to the long list of other things, huh?

  Oh well, I hear he’s gotten married. No time like the present to go see who he conned into his fake marital alliance.

  New York Daily Journal

  From the Desk of Amanda Adams, the Professional Gossiper of Page Two.

  Welcome to Page Two Gossip, here’s what we’re hearing around the halls of power:

  Thought you were safe? Had a great day yesterday? Well, how would you like to know that we almost all died? That’s right. I’m hearing that the United States came closer than it has in a long time to a complete and all out war with the Russians. That’s right. Administration officials and the Pentagon are obviously not saying anything confirming something like this, but my spies in the White House tell me that it all started with some nookie.

  You read that right, readers. Someone was getting some in the Oval Office, and accidentally pushed the wrong buttons and got on the phone with the Russians. What was said hasn’t been found out yet, but it was aggressive enough to get the Russian president, Dimitry Belevich, to put his finger on his own nuclear triggers.

  Yup. We didn’t believe it at first either, but apparently the sex was so rough that the Russian president thought it was a prelude to war when he thought he was being spoken to.

  Can’t believe it? Our sources swear up and down that it’s true. What’s more, a few are even telling me who the man with the nuclear libido is, and this you’re not going to believe.

  Turns out the man with the explosive sex in his loins is none other than Lance Anders. That’s absolutely right. Lance Anders—the prodigal son of the Mayor, Michael Anders.

  If you’re reading this on the subway and need to sit down, I’m with you, babe. I didn’t believe it at first. Lance just graduated from Yale this year and he’s only been at the White House as an intern for about a month. He was recommended to the job by both the Mayor and the Democratic Congressman from Manhattan, Vivian Hawthorne. With so much political capital by him, we thought Lance would be a shining star in Washington D.C.

  But if you're having trouble breathing thinking how Lance almost caused World War III, guess who his partner in crime was?

  Now for this, our sources are going deep undercover. If the White House found out they were talking to me, they’d not just be fired, but they’d probably be sued to. They’re telling me it was the First Daughter, Abby,
who was doing the nasty with Lance. And was doing it so loudly and so lewdly that the Russian president who was listening thought our country was getting ready to go to war.

  That’s right. Turns out America’s Sweetheart isn’t so much of a sweetheart but a sexpot. Which just goes to show that you shouldn't believe everything that those in power are telling you. Who knows what deep, dark secrets they could be hiding?

  But fear not, citizens of Gotham, because Amanda Adams is always listening and always ready to spell the juiciest, dirtiest, nastiest secret for your enjoyment and pleasure. And it looks like Lance is going to be coming home to daddy so that means we’re going to be extra busy.

  Which means, batten the hatches, New Yorkers, and hide your daughters. Lance Anders is coming back to town after being away for four years. He and his father have been rumored to not get along; it’s doubtful even that Hizzoner went to Yale for his son’s graduation ceremony, seeing as Mayor Anders was in Moscow at that time.

  So, it’s going to be an interesting summer, to say the least. Till we find more, this is Amanda Adams signing off. Keep your ears open, New York.

  Jocelyn

  I hear Michael come through the door downstairs and I can sense my heart rate increase. It’s been six months since we’ve been married, so we’re still technically a newlywed couple.

  I hear footsteps downstairs. He’s in the foyer. Most likely checking his mail. If I know Michael, he’ll check the mail, throw out to shred what he doesn’t need, and come upstairs. Once he comes upstairs, he’ll come to our bedroom. He’ll change a bit—maybe get out of the suit and tie, or maybe even just take off his coat. He’ll wash his face, put on some slippers and head to his upstairs office. That’s right. Michael has an upstairs office in addition to his downstairs study. This entire townhouse on the Upper East Side revolves around Michael. Once there, he’ll either let me know what our plans for dinner are, or whether he’s eating alone in hIs office. He’ll have people on speakerphone with the television on. God knows what he does in there.

  Like I said, it’s been six months since we’ve been married, but I know his after-work routine like nothing else.

  But tonight, I’m going to be putting a slight dent in those plans.

  I’m lying in bed. I’ve just freshly showered. I’ve shaved my legs. I got waxed a few days ago so I’m all good down there. I have my Elizabeth Arden on. Totally brand new lingerie from La Perla. A very expensive strip of lace black cloth that makes up a thong and barely covers my swollen pussy lips. A matching lace black bra. Stockings and garters. I’m lounging on the bed, my slender legs splayed out slightly, giving myself a wanton air. My face has a smoldering look; my eyes are as filled with lust as they’ve ever been in my life.

  I’m dying for sex. I’m craving a cock. I need to get fucked. If this doesn’t entice Michael, nothing will.

  I look at myself in the mirror. I know I look good. Guys have been telling me that all my life. I mean, I try not to let it get to my head and I really hope I don’t come across as if I’m stuck up, because I’m really not. I was just blessed with some good genes, but it’s hard work. I work out every day. I get on my Peleton and join a global spin class in the mornings. I do yoga, CrossFit, and Pilates. I try to eat well, although I do love chocolate. And wine!

  All that, to keep what I have. Because I’m 35, and I know these looks won't last forever. That I’ll stop turning heads one day. Men won't stare on the street anymore. They’ll be looking; they'll be leering at the next pretty young thing that comes their way. She’ll be 21 years old with nothing in her brain.

  I used to be like that. I remember those days, after I graduated from Dartmouth. Looking to have fun. To party. I used to live in the city with some roommates, and then on my own. I used to model—nothing serious, but enough to pay the bills and buy makeup, champagne, brunch, and clothes as well as pay for rent. Guys came flocking. And I used to have my pick.

  But no one was ever good enough for daddy. And when your father is the Governor of New York State, you kind of have to do as he says. So I waited until he started introducing me to men he considered eligible. Only they were either too old. Like 90. Or too fat. Like 400 pounds. Or married too many times in the past. I much rather preferred my generation, thank you very much.

  So daddy and I fell into a routine. He didn’t like my prospects that I chose, and I didn’t like the prospects that he found. I couldn’t just elope. I had to be the good daughter.

  And then came the day that daddy left the Governor’s Mansion in Albany. And an elder gentleman by the name of Michael Anders came up to the house in Westchester. I know he came over because it was Christmas and I was home for the holidays. Mom showed him to dad’s office and they spoke for a long time.

  When they came out, dad’s face was white as a sheet.

  “I think this will work out to both our advantages,” Mr. Anders—Michael—said, shaking my father’s limp hand before turning to me. I watched as his eyes scanned my lithe body. But he did nothing else but stare. And then he turned and left.

  Over the next three years, it seemed that dad and Michael were close. He called in a lot of favors. His contacts helped Michael raise money for a successful bid to become Mayor of New York City. He helped push through legislation that required state approval by calling in and using old favors. He even appeared as a surrogate for Michael on television. It seemed that dad did everything Michael could ever ask of him.

  Until seven months ago, when dad came to my apartment. He looked older than his years, although he still kept in shape at 61. He sat me down, and took my hand, looking into my eyes.

  “You need to get married, baby girl,” he told me. “I need you to marry Michael Anders.”

  Now, the age difference Michael and I is 15 years. He’s 51. Left to my own devices, there’s no way I would ever consent to do something like that. And sure, I argued. I told him I had control of my own life. That I was my own person.

  At one point, I even asked why he would suggest that I needed to do something as vile as what he was asking. But then I saw the look on my dad’s eyes—fear, anxiety—it was the look of a man who sees everything he’s worked for his whole life on the precipice of being taken away from him.

  Michael had something on my father. Something bad enough that he was able to demand his only daughter’s hand in marriage.

  Always the good daughter, never knowing how to stand up for herself, and also afraid of what saying no would do to my father, I instead said yes.

  That was six months ago.

  But enough about me for now. I can hear Michael coming up the stairs. His footfalls are heavy, but measured and my heart starts to beat with anticipation as I see his shadow on the ground.

  He enters the room and turns his head to see me.

  “How was your day, dear?” I ask with a coy smile. I spread my legs a bit further apart, to give him a better view.

  Michael turns fully to me and takes a few steps toward me. His eyes scan my body. I smile lasciviously, letting my inner desire come through. I don't care if he’s 51 now. I don’t care what he looks like. I need to have sex with my husband.

  His eyes continue to travel my body. I let my one hand lightly brush across the material of my bra, bringing his eyes to my boobs. Let him feast on those. I use my other hand to trace a line from my belly button down to my crotch. I see his eyes travel down with me.

  He’s entranced. Good. I need him to be hard. I want to unbuckle that belt of his and lower his pants. Then take his cock in my mouth and lick the shaft before taking the tip in my mouth. Get him good, hard, and lubed up. Then I want to climb on top of his cock and ride myself to an orgasm.

  Just thinking about having sex—not caring who it's with—is getting me wet. As noticeably as possible, I slip one finger inside my thong and push it down, feeling the folds of my pussy respond to my touch. My lips are swollen. From desire.

  Not just for this man, mind you. But for sex. In general.

  You
could say I’m desperate for a good fucking. That’s what's causing me to lie there in the most vulnerable state I’ve ever allowed myself to be in in front of anyone. Nearly naked, with one hand fingering my pussy willing to subject myself to all manner of sexual objectification.

  Michael’s eyes travel my body back up to my face.

  He looks at my parted lips. I wonder what part of me he wants first.

  He opens his mouth.

  “I have a lot of work to do tonight, Jocelyn,” he says and my heart starts to beat faster and louder. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to do anything tonight.”

  What’s going through me right now is probably what you’re wondering? Ever been rejected for sex before? From a man? It’s almost unheard of for women to be told no. What does that make me feel like?

  Shameful. Discarded. Unwanted. Ugly.

  You name it.

  “But you go on without me,” Michael says coldly. “Looks like you’re doing just fine on your own.”

  And with that he turns toward the dresser, takes the coat of his suit off, grabs his slippers and puts them on and turns back to the door.

  All without a second glance in my direction. I’m lying there like some unwanted sex doll.

  Fuck. This was all a waste. My entire marriage is a waste. My life is a waste.

  But before you go telling me to cheer up, babe, let me just clue you in on why I even did all this. Why I went to La Perla. Why I basically tried to initiate this whole intimate encounter.

  Had Michael succumbed, it would have been the first time in our marriage that we had actually had sex. That our relationship would have been consummated.

  See, it wasn’t bad enough that I was forced into this marriage. What’s worse is that for the last six months, ever since we’ve been married, I don’t think Michael Anders has touched me once in private. Never a kiss unless it's in front of the camera. Never a stare of desire when we’re alone.

  Some couples have their whole relationships based around sex.