by Alexis Angel
“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 appe
ared 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.
Ours revolves around a lie.
Michael stops at the edge of the door right before walking out. Without turning to me, he speaks to me.
“By the way,” he says coldly. “Lance has gone and gotten himself fired from the job I arranged for him at the White House. So he’s coming over to stay the summer with us. I think I want to use him for the re-election campaign.”
I’ve never met Lance. Michael has mentioned him maybe once. When we were getting married and signing the papers. And today. So I guess that’s twice.
“I trust that you’ll act appropriately around him,” Michael says. “We can’t have any surprises like what you tried to pull tonight happening while he’s here.”
And almost as an afterthought, as he leaves, he adds, “I’ll be having dinner in my office. Don’t wait up.”
And with that he’s gone.
Leaving me near naked and horny in my gilded cage.
Remember when I told you I wasn’t stuck up about being told I was beautiful? You probably didn't believe me all the way. Well, this is why I don’t let my beauty go to my head.
Lance
Coming home isn’t supposed to be such a fucking miserable experience, but that’s what you get when you’re fired after fucking the President’s daughter and risking WW III. I’m lucky I’m not in a fucking Guantanamo cell right now, so I guess it’s not that fair of me to complain.
But still, can you fucking blame me? I’ve never been close with my father, and I haven’t even met my new stepmother. Especially after having to read in the newspaper that my father fucking remarried. He couldn’t even pick up the fucking phone to let me know. So, yeah, I’m fucking sorry if I’m not overly excited with the prospect of being around two people who are only family on paper till November comes around. I mean, they’re probably only husband and wife on paper as well. My father isn’t exactly someone who cares about women, if you know what I mean. Knowing him as I do, he probably arranged the whole fucking thing as another power move. For ol’ Michael Anders, everyone around him is nothing more than a fucking pawn to be moved across a chessboard. I actually feel sorry for the poor woman he pulled into that fucking arrangement.
“You can drop me off here,” I tell the cab driver as the silhouette of the townhouse I grew up in emerges at the end of street. I give him a folded fifty-dollar bill and leave the car, carrying just a backpack over my shoulder. I never liked to move around carrying bulky suitcases. Besides, this is fucking New York City. What I don’t have, I can just fucking get.
I walk toward the building and take a deep breath before going up the stairs that lead to the entrance. Balling my hand into a fist, I rap my knuckles against the door, cursing the day I decided to leave my own set of keys in my old bedroom. If no one’s home, I’ll have to wait here as if I were a lost pup.
If you’re from New York, then I bet you’re going to roll your eyes right now. Because you’re gonna ask yourself why I’m not pulling up to Gracie Mansion, where the Mayor of the City traditionally lives.
Well, I got news for you. My dad is so fucking wealthy that he made it a campaign pledge to not move in. Instead, he brought the fucking mansion staff to his own townhouse - which is still located in the Upper East Side in Yorkville.
Yeah, that’s the kind of asshole my Dad is.
Lo
ok…I’m sorry if I sound fucking pissy, okay? You don’t know what its like having to come back with my tail tucked behind my legs. Back to a man who never fucking cared about me in my entire fucking life.
I almost wonder whether I’d want no one to be home.
Luckily, the sounds of footsteps on the other side of the door reach me and the door swings open a few seconds after.
“Lance, right?” a beautiful woman asks me, politely smiling. She looks radiant, in a pair of skinny jeans and a blue silk blouse that’s tucked in. She’s roughly five feet and seven inches, a slender beauty, but she has the most toned legs I have ever seen. They lead up to a sumptuous looking heart-shaped ass that’s framed exquisitely in her jeans and a small tapered waist. Her slender and flat tummy yields the most impressive set of tits that I have ever beheld; these giant breasts are struggling against her blouse and are easily D cups. They don’t sag, and don’t detract from her figure. Even her neck is elegant, long, and smooth. She has a cute face with a pair of luscious lips, slutty eyes, and hair that comes to her shoulders. In two short words: fucking beautiful.
“Yeah… That’s me,” I manage to say rather dumbfounded. “Jocelyn?” I ask, feeling like a complete fucking idiot now that she’s in front of me: I never even bothered to look at a photo of her before coming back home. To be honest, I didn’t do it because… Well, because I didn’t expect my stepmother to be this fucking hot. I just knew based on what my Dad cared about that it was probably some political fake marriage. I knew her name was Jocelyn, and that she was a thirty-something woman from New York, but I had no idea that she looked like a fucking goddess.
“Yes, that’s me,” she replies in that polite tone, smiling gently. I extend her my hand, trying to be as polite as her, but she waves my hand away. Leaning into me, she brushes her lips against my cheeks, laying a simple kiss there. The moment her lips touch my skin I feel my cock twitching, and I have to focus really hard to not pop a boner right here and now. That’d be fucking rich, greeting my stepmother with a boner.
