Vetting The Senator

by Alex Elliott

  “Perfect,” he replies, thrusting his fingers into me over and over. Beads of sweat erupt along his brow as he raptly finger fucks me in broad daylight.

  Rivulets of ecstasy weave through my belly, torching my senses, and I’m gone...carried over the crest of lust so sharp and captivating that I do as he says and splinter apart. My muscles quiver as I clinch around his fingers, and claw the padded seat under my palms. I don’t dare look away from him. He’s informed me, breaking eye contact is tantamount to insubordination, and will earn me a spanking of which he keeps track of each and every one of my transgressions.

  His emerald eyes are scorching flames—his pupils dilate into pools of black, and he withdraws his fingers from my pussy, sucking my juices from his manicured tips. He removes a handkerchief from his jacket, and wipes his hand, and then wipes between my legs.

  “Care for a bottle of water,” he asks as though we’re discussing campaign ideas, not spinning post-climax. His erection strains his fly, and I could easily imagine undoing his zipper and climbing onto his lap. He’s right. If we start fucking, we might never stop.

  “No. I’m good.”

  His lips twist. “Better than good. You’ve got the sweetest pussy and nipples. Come Saturday night, I fully intend on sampling all of you. For hours. And we’ll revisit your little act of defiance in full, Ms. Quid Pro Quo.” He removes a bottle of water from the built-in cooler below the console and cracks the cap off it. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he takes a sip, then holds it out to me. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.” Stunned is a better description, but he of all people doesn’t need more fuel for his enormous ego.

  Settling back on the seat, he lifts a folder from his case, and slips on his sunglasses. “Be glad I didn’t lay you down on the backseat and properly fuck you. But I still can, if you don’t watch that mouth of yours.”

  Oliver opens the door and takes the wheel. From the intercom, he asks “Where’s your place, Xavia?”

  Bennett has the slip of—

  “1211 R Street, NW.” He rattles off the address from memory without looking in my direction. “What’s our ETA?”

  “Uh, hold on while I key in the address,” Oliver says, and then replies, “Thirty-two minutes until we get to the Hill.”

  I shake my head. “Aren’t we only five miles from your office? I can be dropped off second.”

  Ben exhales what sounds like a growl of displeasure. He snaps off the intercom, leaning closer to me. “When will you learn? That’s twice in less than ten minutes. Guess you need more convincing. Where you’re concerned, I’m in charge.” He touches my cheek, skimming his knuckle down to my jaw, and over the frame of his glasses, he watches me for a beat. His eyes lower to my mouth. “Repeat after me. “Yes. Sir.”

  A shiver breaks across my skin. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.

  Smirking, he presses the intercom button while unbuckling his belt. “I can tough it out. Oliver, hit it.”

  * * *

  I DROPPED Xavia off this morning and I can’t shake the feeling of coming undone. It’s been nine hours since I sampled her pussy. My pussy as of this coming Saturday. The night when I secure the rights to bind her to me as my submissive. I close my eyes, reliving the mind-obliterating feel of her silky softness, clenching around my fingers, and the scent of her climax filling my head. Her mouth on my cock—sucking me off as we drove through D.C. traffic—fantastic way to begin a soul-selling day on the Hill.

  I was hard then, and I’m harder now seated in my car. I’m outside her goddamn apartment doing what the fuck I can’t even describe. Stalking might be a way to define my actions. Insane another perfectly good term.

  It’s Thursday night, and instead of hooking-up with my business partners at the Clubhouse, I’m parked curbside off Logan’s Circle without a plan. I’ve got a case of blue balls like I haven’t come in days. And don’t even ask about my dick. That fucker is forged steel.

  I’m hungry. I want Xavia riding me until I come inside her, groaning her name, and sampling her luscious mouth.

  She’s upstairs in her new digs...in what I imagine is that window. Apartment 5A.

  I’ve googled the building info, and determined the floor layout. Five stories up and the one I’ve stared at nonstop for the last twenty minutes. If I had a working grey cell, I would have brought a pair of binoculars to get a better view.

  Leaning my head back, I bite into a stick of gum, chewing the piece as I watch the shadows move within her place, casting dark splotches on the walls. So far, Xavia hasn’t come close enough to the windows or balcony doors to give me what I want. A visual of her.

  I can’t go upstairs to her place. She isn’t alone. Lives with some girl who just happens to play a part in how we initially met. The Midtown dance club is owned by Congressman Lowe, her uncle, and the House’s newest member. The reason I requested a full background check to investigate the coincidence factor.

  Brooke Tate. Her roommate is a trust fund princess attending George Washington. Archer, my contact in delivering the down and dirty on anyone I require intel on, has provided me with a comprehensive fact sheet on Ms. Tate. If Kennedy is from old money, then Tate is nouveau riche with a sparkling gaudy diamond tiara. Middle America making good on the American dream for the last two generations. Ms. Tate gets around. Not the best grades at G.W.—fourth year in law school—she took a year off for rehab, and another for blazing a circuit through Europe and strangely enough, the Middle East. Ms. Tate has a thing for drinking, recreational drugs, and older men. She’s done a crown prince or two. Together. Archer’s unofficial note to me—she’s got a ‘daddy’ fixation.

  Her father is Richard Tate, the man behind Datadriven. A Stanford dropout, the genius who revolutionized computer operating systems, and a software king. No small thing. Chairman Rick as he’s known, retired two years ago, and now travels around the globe as a philanthropic nomad after the girl’s mom passed away. Total head case in how he left his only daughter a huge chunk of change while at the moment, according to my info, he’s hunkered down in Lhasa at Norbulingka, the summer residence of the Dalai Lama on a mission to find himself.

  I guess I should be grateful. This place isn’t that far from my condo in Georgetown, and if I wanted to, I could include it in my morning run which might just become my evening jog—and fuck!

  Payday.

  There’s my little intern downstairs at the lobby doors. I shift in my seat, pulling down on the bill of my ball cap, and chomp on the wad of gum to keep from cracking my back molars.

  Kennedy and a dark-haired girl—a young woman resembling the photograph from Archer’s report—exit the building. What is X wearing? A short dress...way too much show of her long legs, and Jesus Christ. I get a load of her shoes and grip my door handle, pressing the cool metal lever under my fingers. I’ve got five seconds—maybe less—to demonstrate how far over the edge I’ve gone.

  What the fuck can I say? I was in the neighborhood.

  There’s no car waiting at the curb. So where in the hell are they off to? Unless they’re going by cab. But they don’t hang around. Shit! I open my door a sliver, and I watch them walk down the block. There’s a massive amount of shops, restaurants, and bars around this place.

  My phone goes off, and I curse the direction my car is facing. Snapping my door shut, I can’t keep track of Kennedy after a couple of seconds of staring. When her blond head fades from view, my gut twists.

  My phone vibrates again. “Yeah?” I growl at my partner from the Clubhouse.

  “Well fuck you too, boy!” Carter cracks back. “I’m at the House. Funny thing, you’re not.”

  “Jax, I’m running late.”

  “You’re not in your office. I called.” Jackson Carter is the U.S. House Speaker, and rides my ass for no good reason—except we’re as close as brothers and own an elite kink club.

  “No fucker. I’m not. What? Are you worried I might not make Ethan’s performance? It better not be anything like the l
ast time. Just tell me no candles are involved.”

  “Naw. He’s done with wax.”

  “So...why are calling?”

  “Got a better question. Are you into collaborating tonight? Ethan’s scouting. You know the drill.”

  “I get your drift.” I hear his message plain as day. He wants to know if I’ll be up for tag teaming—a huge draw for the members to see two Doms go at sub—and I don’t detour in what I’ll tell—same thing I’ve relayed on the subject of ménage involving men. “I’ll be there, but no. Whatever Ethan has on the books, he’s gonna have to bark up another tree.”

  “Can’t blame me for asking. It’s been a while. Since you’re returning to the fold—you might want some action. He’s using P.V., and promises nothing but satisfaction for everyone involved. If it matters, we have some special members on board this evening.”

  Must be special if the pinwheel coupled with a violet wand are in use. Electrostimulation and Ethan equate edgeplay to the max.

  “No member is that exceptional in my book. So who is it?” I ask.

  He exhales and I turn my attention back to the street, memorizing the immediate vicinity surrounding Xavia’s apartment building.

  “The eagle.” He drops the Secret Service’s code name for POTUS, and it lands like a bomb in my head.

  “Ah fuck! When did he reappear?” I turn in my seat—this means some heavy shit is going down tonight.

  “An agent called. Yesterday.”

  “Didn’t think we’d see him back. How are we set for security?”

  “You know he brings his own. So, you still involved with your little unofficial level of excess...for the weekend?”

  Well, fuucckk! “Any special reason you’re asking?” I roll my eyes slowly, feeling the burn that ‘the eagle’ is active. If he’s around—what I’m planning could get dicey. I can’t pretend, I’m not breaking the cardinal rule: no staff. We’ve got only a few House bylaws, yet with Xavia I’ve broken almost all of them. Jax doesn’t even know she’s my intern—he’s not going to if I can help it.

  “Just verifying the schedule is all. You aren’t going to cancel again?”

  “Shut the hell up.” He’s a little pissed and I get it.

  “Just a hunch, I’m gathering the week you took off was worth it.”

  After abruptly extending my last campaign stop to be with X, I’m more than sure this is what I want...what I need. Her as my submissive. Fuck yeah. “Well worth it,” I reply. “You still doing the pickup?”

  This Saturday, he’ll act as Xavia’s keeper. Escort her to the club. Prepare her for me by removing her clothing, binding her wrists, and lead her to a stage where she’ll stand naked, awaiting me—during an auction in which I’ll bid against members present to claim her. Own her.

  “Gave you my word, didn’t I?” he affirms. “The members almost blew a gasket when I had to relay you couldn’t make it after we’d already announced you were coming back.”

  “They’ll get over it. We call the shots, not them,” I grunt, then add. “Matter of fact, I want my guest masked at all times.”

  “All times?”

  “Yeah. I’ll take care of her photo ID, and the file.” There aren’t enough words to describe how twisted I feel inside. I don’t share well, and with my out of control hunger for Xavia, I’m not doing well. The idea of sharing the tiniest, most insignificant morsel about her at the Clubhouse has lit a fire under my ass, and I can’t shake the feeling of being strangled by my own greed.

  “And her location? I never got it.”

  “Franklin Hotel. She’ll be in the lobby. Waiting. Take care of her, Jax.”

  “Ben, I get what you’re not saying. With you going under the wire last week, I hear an edge to your voice that’s...unique. And which is reason enough for me to wonder what’s going on.”

  I’m pulling out the stops in setting X up in a private suite in one of the most exclusive hotels in D.C. A suite the House owns and uses for exclusive submissives and private meetings. There are seven House partners—we’re all congressmen, co-managers, and we’re all hardcore Doms. We don’t openly talk about the hotel. We don’t routinely visit the hotel. I haven’t been there since last year. It’s nearby and when we need it, we send out a message in an encrypted email to each other that’s it’s booked.

  “Just watch over her. Don’t let anyone touch her, or I promise, I’ll deal with them personally. And I don’t care if the Secret Fucking Service is there or involved.”

  “Holy shit. Sounds like you’re way over the line. Since Harvard, on no fingers can I count you ever, EVER willing to risk—”

  Dammit! We’re on cells and I interrupt him, “Carter. You’re not my fucking keeper!”

  “You’re right. I’m not,” he replies in a hoarse voice.

  I’m overreacting and taking it out on him. “Look. I’ll be there soon. And thanks, man.”

  “No problem. Just get here.” Jax hangs up, and I start the engine and put my car into gear.

  Checking out the rear view mirror, I scour the street, looking for my blond bombshell. What I’d give to be with her tonight instead of on my way to Maryland. A House visit after my hiatus, and I’m coming back as the Dom for Saturday night.

  My next night will be with Ms. Kennedy as I command her, discipline her, spreading her for my pleasure, in front of the entire club. I clench my jaw, envisioning her ass cheeks pink, her pussy wet, and her mouth calling me ‘Master’ as I fuck her for hours as others watch us. Inconceivable that I’ll be forced to share her, but it’s the only way I can have my Xavia-flavored cake and eat her too...while in D.C.

  I grip the steering wheel, feeling the burn of the Clubhouse rules. Ones I have a hand in crafting.

  If I wasn’t a club owner, I’d consider doing something supremely insane—like what? Bring her home. Why not take out an ad in the Post and solicit ideas for a scandal involving my need for hard dark brutal edgeplay sex with a woman who happens to be my intern? I can sink my whole career and be free.

  Fuck! I’ve known X nine damn days and I’m spiraling.

  Time to focus on what I need to get done tonight—ignore my frustration. Member file updates are due and Archer sent me everything, if I get my ass in gear. I manage a section of the ‘behind the club scenes’ by keeping tabs on everyone who enters the House. One slip, and we cut a member off. There are no questions if a membership is rescinded—our club agreements are ironclad.

  Everyone knows the score.

  It’s my job to be a discrete cocksucker and I bankroll intel as the means to maintain our secrecy. I know shit on everyone. I’m also more than aware that all it takes is someone saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, and we all could end up as headline news. With a private club that serves as an elite playground for those from the Hill, I don’t dick around. Neither does Jax or any of the other owners. Which is why, when I hang up, I toss my cell phone onto the seat next to me, and reach across, open the glove compartment, and extract the new phone I obtained. Untraceable. Archer assured me. It has one number programmed. Xavia S. Kennedy.

  Swiping my finger across the screen, I toy with the idea of calling her. Checking up on her. Just press the fucking screen! Ask her what she’s doing—I’m so close, but I don’t. Cursing, I set the phone back in the glove compartment, flooring the gas pedal.

  I’ll get my shit done, and then when I’m back at my condo, I’ll call X. Stroke my cock and explode in my hand as she tells me in her seductive voice what the hell she’s done all day.

  Chapter 2

  BEG ME

  LAST NIGHT was stellar—cohesive and what I needed. Bennett was right about taking the day off. Getting settled in at the condo with Brooke, and then meeting Jon at a neighborhood restaurant was just what the doctor ordered. By the end of the evening, we’d moved our platonic ménage à trois to a nearby bar, and were doing shots of Jack with the owners, and a few dozen of the regulars while watching the Red Sox kick some ass as Jon and I chanted, or real
ly screamed “Kung Fu Panda!” each time Sandoval came up to bat.

  By the end of the evening, I was hoarse but relaxed, believing that this move to D.C. was the best decision ever. Jon left in a cab right before Brooke and I came upstairs. Then later as I’d lain alone and tucked in bed, missing Bennett, the chirping of my cell interfaced my longing for skin-on-skin with my senator. I reached for my cell on the nightstand. Answered. After midnight and no one was on the other end. A little creepy until my alcohol soaked brain focused as I lay in the dark. I could have sworn...it was insane.

  “B—” spilled out of my mouth, but I went mute when a siren blared in my head to shut up! Probably a wrong number, except there wasn’t a number displayed. So strange...or just my overactive imagination.

  Now it’s the morning, and I’m crossing the atrium inside the Russell Building where Bennett’s Senate office is located. I stow all memories. Wipe the slate of my mind clean.

  “Miss, I’ll need to see your ID,” the security guard informs me.

  “Sorry. I’m new.” I open my purse, and remove my driver’s license.

  “Step over here. Are you a visitor?” He takes my license and starts writing on a log sheet.

  “Intern. Senator Stone.” I feel the premonition of a shiver build. I bite the side of my cheek to forestall my ridiculous reaction to the mere mention of Bennett’s title. Jesus. I’d better not end up like Brooke. Introduce that girl to a handsome businessman between the ages of 38 and 52, and if he’s top of his capitalistic game in some Fortune 500 company, she’s gone. Eyes glazed, lips parted, and ready to disappear.

  I wait, looking around the lobby as the guard preps a visitor’s badge. There are three guards on duty. One at the metal detector, and another assisting the long line of people who open their cases, purses, bags, and then deposit wallets, cells, keys into baskets. And the one who is dealing with me.

  “You’re all set.” He returns my license along with a visitor’s pass, and directs me over to the queue.