He gives me one, gently putting me in an armlock that doesn’t hurt, and holding my throat. Hasn’t even taken off his suit coat yet.
I’mwet. “Come on, big boy,” I taunt.” You’ve got more than that, don’t you?”
He yanks my arm up betweenmy shoulder blades, it feels like, puts me over the end of my couch, and with his other hand slides fingers through my now soaked pussy.
Then things getreallyfriendly.
By ten p.m. that night I’ve had my ass expertly spanked, receivedthebest dicking I’ve ever had, and have found someone who would not only kill or die to protect me—because it’s sort of hisjob—but who also has a lot to loseby not keeping secrets.
We set up an appointment for him to drop by late Sunday night for another “threat assessment.”
You heard the finger quotes, right?
Aaaah, sadists. It’s the perfect relationship for both of us, with the caveat that he might eventually have to report that he knows me as a “friend” if forced into that position so he doesn’t get in trouble. Since he’s not officially protectingme at this time, we’re good, for now.
Heck, we’re both from Florida, so I don’t mind the friend descriptor being used. We can explain it away.
We agree to be exclusive, and discreet, and things get pretty damn kinky pretty damn fast.
Like after I ask him to step things up in intensity, he arranges to surprise me one night by basically breaking into my house and overpowering me.
I must havecome three timesjustfrom him dicking me, I was so damn hot by the time we reached that point. And I usually need a little extra assistance to get over like that.
Even better?
He didn’t ask to spend the night.
A girl couldreallyget used to a guy like that. Fortunately for me, he wasn’t interested in settling down.
After that little experience, we meet the next afternoon at my office foran informal debriefing, and he brings lunch, and we talk.
I mean, I’m not a total animal. Idoenjoy talking with him. In addition to how several of our “special interests” align perfectly, he’s a nice guy, smart guy, and pleasant to chat with.
But our time alone isn’t easy to come by. So he instructs me how to use the Signal app on my personal cell phone to keep our texts and calls private,and we keep in touch that way.
We become friends.
Friends who dick. He’s my down-low sadist, he’ll protect my secrets, I don’t have to worry about him giving me something antibiotics can’t cure, and he doesn’t have to worry about me giving him a raging case of child support.
It’s a match made in mayhem.
Hail to the chief, baby.
* * * *
Christopher and I are working on year three of whateverthis is between us when I start seriously thinking about setting my sights higher than the Senate. If I wait too long to run, I’ll start looking like the nation’s spinster aunt, and that’s not a poll-winning image for anyone, I don’t care how you cut it.
He helps me out with vetting people to approach about being my campaign manager, and not once does he ever try to discourage me from running.
I’m thinking if he wanted the job of First Gentleman, I’d be happy to give it to him. I’m sure we could come up with an amicable agreement.
Not that I’ve told him that yet.
Not that he’s asked, either.
In fact, one of the things he told me was that if I wanted anything more with him than what we had, I’d need to be the one to bring it up to him.
Why haven’t I?
