The Senator S Wife

The Senator's Wife

Copyright Catcher78, all rights reserved

Author's notes: This story belongs to me and may not be used by anyone without my expressed written permission. Special thanks to Leon Brian le Roux for editing. He made it better.

The story is about an election cycle for the election and the life of a conflicted U.S. Senator and long-term politician, as well as his family and friends. It is a true story, with some name changes here and there.

Characters:

Senator Theodore Fitzgerald: former congressman, Presidential cabinet member, Naval Officer, a veteran of Desert Storm, a graduate of the University of Washington, Queen Anne Grizzly. Mary Elizabeth Fitzgerald: wife of the senator, known as Betsy amongst friends. Teri Benedict: Betsy's lifelong friend and mother of Kelli and Quinn.

My name is Mary Fitzgerald. I am married to Ted Fitzgerald, who is the Senator from Washington State. For a long time, he was a Congressman. Before that, he was the U.S. Attorney for the Western District under President Bush (the smart one) and President Bush (the dumbshit). Oh, he was also the secretary of transportation under President Obama.

When Ted became the U.S. Attorney we had four kids, two sons and two daughters and I want to preserve their privacy, as they were innocent bystanders in the shit storm that became our life.

I'm not sure when we drifted apart, my awareness of Teddy's cheating seeped in when the emails started to arrive. No narrative, just pictures of Teddy entering the Waldorf Astoria, with this voluptuous married woman on his arm, she was actually a K-Street lobbyist, and when it all came out Teddy and she had two children, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The next email arrived six weeks later and it was Tilly McRae, who was the wife of the secretary of defense Hal McRae, who was a political appointee and clueless about Tilly, who'd had dozens of men. She was his second wife and was a young widow and they'd been in swinger's groups when her husband died in a plane crash.

I was surprised at my reaction. What's the French word, ennui, well it means, lassitude or languor, but more like my Okie grandma Lola would say bored to tears. Lola had a degree from the Northeastern State Teacher's College.

She asked me at a wedding shower in my head, "Darling are you sure he's not queer," as I looked at the pictures, it seems he was not yet. I missed Lola. I was forty-five now and she passed when I was nine. Seems like a long time to miss someone, but she got me and I could ask her anything.

Elaine and Bill, my parents both moved away when I was in the ninth grade, which in some ways was good. Two self-absorbed people randomly fucking people, other than each other. I had two older brothers and they blamed me because everything was fine before I was born. I have not talked with them in decades.

Dad's mom Grammy Hazel pled with Elaine, to not divorce her son. I was a broken condom baby, they were going to get divorced except I was an oops. We were white trash, poor in the middle of a middle-class neighborhood, in the Ballard district of Seattle.

Daddy sold cars and mom worked for the school district. We lived just off twenty fourth Northwest, on eightieth. I started working at Larsen's Bakery when I was thirteen, after I got home from St. Alphonse's school. I was a good Catholic girl.

In my ninth grade year, all my friends from St. Alphonse's went to Holy Names Catholic Girl's School and I begged mom to go there. She said it cost too much. I went back to the guidance counselor and told her it cost too much, and she told me she could arrange for a scholarship. I was so excited to tell Mom when I got home, but for some reason she was late. I trudged over to Larsen's, put on my apron, brought the trays of the pastry and fritters out to the front cases, and emptied them, making them look just so as I'd been taught.

I noticed that Mrs. Jakobsen and Einar Syvruud were watching me. I caught her out of the corner of my eye, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.

Einar walked out to me and said, "You don't have to stay, you can go home, ", I looked at him like he was nuts.

I said, "I don't want to lose this job, I'm helping out at home," he looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Jakobsen who waved him away and marched towards me.

She said, "Come back here, we need to talk," back here was the little breakroom.

Once we arrived she said, "Sit down young lady."

I blurted, "I can't lose this job, I'll work harder, I promise, tell me what I've done wrong!"

She had the distinct Norwegian accent (Yah sure, you betcha). She decided to rip the bandage off.

"Your mama was caught cheating on your daddy and she's run off with the head of the school district, to Nevada for a divorce and remarry thing."

I pushed myself back into my seat and thought, why now? The truth shall set you free became the phrase that came up, when I remembered the moment.

"Mrs. Jakobsen?"

"Yes, honey?"

"This is going to sound kind of off, and please, know I appreciate your courage in telling me, "I paused sucking in a bushel of air, and resumed, "Mom has had an affair going on with Bob Johnson, for longer than I've been alive. My dad wore a condom that broke, or else I would be black. They were getting divorced. Daddy's relationships seemed to be shorter in nature at the dealership, receptionists, part's girls, and Mrs. Balch whose husband owns the dealership."

"They absolutely detest each other." I asked her, "Can I bring some fritters home, pear or apple is fine."

That worked out well because it seems, he never told me to confirm it and I probably didn't ask, but, he went on a drunken binge and ended up in Taos, New Mexico with a blond floozy, and never came home. I climbed up on the countertop in the kitchen next to the sink, opened the cupboard and there was a flour jar.

Mom had never baked a fucking thing during my sentient life, and I was guessing here, as I'd gone through all of her drawers in their bedroom, bathroom, and cubby holes in the basement looking for money to buy food.

This was all that was left. It was maybe eighteen inches tall, earthenware, with a depiction of a cake on the outside. I set the flour jar down, then climbed down onto the floor and brushed my knees off.

The top of the jar had scotch tape on it, sealing it closed. There was a drawer next to the sink with old spoons and knives, a hammer, carpet nails and there was a box cutter. I pushed the blade out and secured it in place, then traced the line between the top and the base of the flour jar. Putting the box cutter down, I grabbed the knob and cleanly pulled the lid off the top of the jar, and it was packed with money. Loose bills, tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds. There were packs of bills of all denominations, wrapped in brown paper, big paper clips.

Carefully I pulled it all out and stacked it by denomination: Ones, twos, fives, tens, twenties, fifties, one hundreds, and one pack of one thousands. The one thousands were old, the top bill said 1932 on it.

I got a pad of lined paper and a pen, made pages for each bill, and then counted them five times. I got three counts exactly the same and for the other two I was off, within one hundred dollars.

Visually, if Elaine was in an art class, she would be called Rubenesque. When she walked through a room, everything moved. She would sit at a makeup table doing her brows and lashes. The last thing was her lipstick and lip liner. She had her nails done elsewhere. She'd sit in the chair wearing this shelf bra and a half slip, and silk stockings. The bra had to be made of titanium to hold those immensities in place, except the tops laid there covered with freckles and veins on her alabaster skin which ended in large pink areolas that seemed to combine with her nipples making them indistinct.

Underneath the bra, she had five fat rolls, and then as her hips swelled love handles and a jiggly belly. Her ass was so big that a lowland gorilla would comfortably spoon with her.

At the bottom of the jar were two cards with her name on them Tryst and Eros escorts for women, men, and couples. She was 100% ho.

There was one hundred seventeen thousand four hundred and twenty-two dollars that had been in the cookie jar. But she had spent my salary from Larsen's, the fucking bitch.

I looked up locksmiths in the Yellow Pages and found one in Ballard. Locksmith Bright in Ballard. I called them and said, "I need all the locks changed and said we were afraid of hooligans breaking in." Dad always said, hooligans.

The guy said, "Have you thought of bars on the windows?"

I said, "We talked about it and that's what Dad wanted. Let's do it."

He said, "Alarms on the doors and windows for the ground floor of course."

Then I told a whopper, "Mom's afraid of being raped again by those black men. Let's do it. When can you come?"

He said, "Immediately!"

I said, "How much?"

I could hear him working the ten key with the crank handle and he said, "Seven thousand two hundred and seventeen dollars and thirty-seven cents, tax included."

I said, "Is cash okay?"

It was. I got a code for the alarms, it was my birthday, twice without periods. I called Grammy Hazel about a month into this. I told her everything and said I'd forged her name and was getting a scholarship to Holy Names, which was about ten blocks from her place, an old home that had been converted to a duplex, in the nineteen twenties.

She helped me open an account at the Boeing Employees Credit Union (BECU) a joint account. I put in $1,000 and she put in $5,000. I was not quite honest about the remaining one hundred and five thousand dollars. We lied to BECU about the parental unit's location, saying Daddy was in New Mexico settling his parent's affairs, and that he and Mom were divorced so he got custody. I had forged his signature on a note, saying his mother had his permission to open the account. It took months until I had ninety-five thousand into the account. Of which I bought two forty thousand dollar certificates of deposit.

Holy Names is where I met Teri Benedict, it was Teri Moss in those days and I was Mary Duffin then. I had been held back because I didn't regularly talk until I was five years old. I think it was because of all the fighting at home then. Teri's family was from Kirkland and very rich. Software in the eighties, was the place to be and my family missed it.

I turned eighteen the summer before our senior year, Teri was aggressively queer and after one toe-curling kiss, there I went. She was wild. We were by no means exclusive as she fucked, a ton of our classmates, one of the married teachers, and at least one nun. I'm not sure who turned who, the nun or her.

About two weeks before Christmas, our athletic director approached me and said, I could get a complete scholarship to Santa Clara University to play tennis. I was by that point six feet tall and left-handed, and they thought I should join the pro tour as an amateur. I was way far ahead in credits so I could graduate immediately. I called Grammy and told her and said I would come over to see her.

She made pot roast, carrots, and peas. Not super cuisine, but so much better than Elaine ever cooked. Although she was slowing down, her mind was sharp. She surprised me by saying that she had been regularly in contact with Dad. I was not sure what I felt about him any longer and apparently, it showed on my face. "He said he doesn't think he's your dad."

She asked, "Do you know what type of blood you have?"

I said, "AB"

He said, "He's A and your mother is O, therefore you're not his child."

I had just seen Star Wars and it was like Princess Leia saying, 'Help me Obe one, you are our only hope'. Only to be told sorry kiddo, your mom's a skank and you're on your own. I never ever knew who my biological dad might have been.

"So, you're not my grandmother then?"

She reached out and said, "It would be impossible to love you more than I do."

I pitched forward and kissed her hand and sobbed. After a bit I helped her clean up. And we were washing and drying and I bumped her hips and she started giggling. We were alright then, I gave her a big hug. I had the papers and she signed them as my guardian and I hugged her again. She said, "You know you own that house don't you?"

"How could I..." I asked.

She said, "In their divorce, she gave it to your Dad and he bequeathed it to you."

"I want to keep it. It's home."

She said, "I will get it squared away, "and she set it up into a trust, that we both were co-trustees.

I said I would come by after Mass at St. Joseph's on Sunday. Then I was headed south to Santa Clara and after a week of working out, I would enter my first tournament. Teri was not there, and it would be years before I saw her again.

I left in my 1974 green Volkswagen bug, four-speed, with an extractor tube and away I went, heading down I-5. I stayed in the right lanes sticking to 60 mph, with my sun roof open during the day and closed at night. I had some waters and apples, plus thee PB&J sandwiches from Grammy. I stopped and got gas, bathroom breaks, got some wheat thins, and some coffee. Random things I like.

I arrived outside the gate to the University at ten in the morning, there was a guard at the gate and I rolled my window down and said, "I'm an incoming freshman for the women's tennis team, and I'm supposed to meet coach Jenny Smith."

It was really the time of my life. The coach was incredible, really improved my velocity on my first serve, and gave me a wicked second serve, that I could put anywhere so that it would pop up into the body as well as my backhand which, for the first time was a two hand. I was kind of wild that first year a very well-known married player and I slept together all summer long. She was almost done with her career. I discovered what it was like to be a lesbian MILF's fucktoy. She had kids and a hubby (he was fucking some Australian golfer, totally in the closet)

I was so stupid, I'd dream of being her wife. In the last tournament which was in Phoenix, we were supposed to have dinner in her room on a Saturday. This was by far the deepest I'd gone in a tournament. I'd upset this Czech woman on Friday. She played early in the morning and lost love and one. I went three sets and lost to this tall blond from Russia in three sets losing the first 7-5, winning the second 6-4, and losing the final 7-5. My coach was there to watch me and we talked briefly. I thought my lover would be watching me again, but I didn't see her. I raced to the hotel which was across the street and caught an elevator to her room. Two Hispanic cleaners were cleaning the room.

I walked to my room thinking there'd be a note or a call. I called the front desk to see if there had been any calls. Nothing.

Years later I saw her at a reception standing next to Teddy, she was with her fourth husband at that point, and she looked at me with this look like she was trying to place me. I winked at her and bit my lip. Her mouth dropped open and she blushed which caused me to smile.

Moving forward I loved being at Santa Clara, my tennis got better. I never got higher than two, but she went on to win the U.S. Open so no shame there. The best finish I had in a tournament, was one minor tournament in Midland, Michigan, I lost 0 and 1.

The next event was in Austin, Texas, and warming up just soft-hitting serves, I tore my Achilles tendon in my right leg which was my push-off as I'd serve. I had surgery at the University of Texas. Great hospital, great community, great music, food, and women. I spent the better part of a year there rehabbing, I had an affair with a beautiful woman, the wife of a businessman and a sponsor at the tennis club, where I tried to see if I might come back. I had lost velocity and could not get it much over one hundred and ten mph. Serve and volley was my deal.

Like a fool, I fell in love with someone, who could never be someone I could be with, her name was Libby. Which was a pattern.

I moved home, to Ballard, thinking about going to grad school at U Dub (University of Washington) getting my teaching certificate for English literature. Grammy Hazel was gone, she had passed. She left me her home which I held onto as rental property, and moved it into my trust.

Returning home, I had no connections with anyone, and I'd never heard back from Teri, well fuck her I'd had better, a lot better and I ached for Antonia. I'd dm her on Facebook and begged her daily to come visit me and I told her I had never loved anyone like I loved her.

She blocked me.

To get into the whole master's program, my transcript from Santa Clara, showed some gaps and I had to take this base course in micro-economics.

It was an undergrad course and I thought that maybe I could meet someone, nothing serious, I'd been alone for a bit. Walking across campus there were so many stunning Asian women, Chinese and Japanese as well as some Indian women. I could almost trip over someone and get lucky.

My class was in this beautiful old building, Savery Hall. It was in the basement, which meant steep stairwells in red open-toed pumps and I made it into the room. It was like a mini-amphitheater with ten rows or so, the only seat left was smack in the middle of the first row.

There was nothing but stunning young eighteen-year-olds, tall, short, skinny, voluptuous, Asian, Swedish, and me, I was twenty-three. The lecturer was tall and angular, big-shouldered, and handsome with short hair, and huge hands that gesticulated as he talked and smiled. Everybody laughed.

I was rooted unable to sit still, staring at him. He turned and was two feet away from me, he started to say something and stopped, moving closer.

"I know you, you're Betsy Duffin the tennis player. I watched you play against the University of San Diego when you were at Santa Clara. You were incredible."

He stopped talking. My heart was pounding. He was a man. Fuck.

"What are you doing in my classroom?"

Fuck me I was drooling and I was so wet. A man. "Well, I'm getting my teacher's certificate, Seattle's home, I was short this type," my voice petered out, as our eyes locked on.

Without moving he says, "Let's get coffee afterward, okay, this is going to be fun, you gotta sit down babe."

The lecture was about something that didn't register in any level of consciousness for me. Him, he was dynamic, funny, genuine, and his hands. What the fuck, his hands, I liked big hands it seems. He was so fucking beautiful. I had to go to a porn movie and learn how to suck a dick. Did men's cum taste good? I liked getting fucked with dildos in strap-on harnesses. Even some butt play with fingers. I wonder if his dick was big, it had to be with those hands. I looked at his feet, size fourteen if they were an inch.

He was wearing khaki pants with a Warren Moon tee shirt. I'd met him at a tennis tournament, with his white wife and he'd hit on me. His wife was a smoke show. I probably would have done a threesome with her and him fucking her, but that was the day with the in-the-closet MILF tennis player.

I could see the outline of his dick, down the inside of his pants leg. Was he commando? He WAS big. Really BIG. Did I give him an erection? I looked up into his eyes as he talked. When he finally looked at me without conscious thought, my treacherous tongue slid between my lips, to wet my lips. She loved cunts, but now, this betrayal of my innate lesbian status. What was happening?

He stared at me, then I mouthed, 'Fuck me, baby.' I had become possessed by the devil. Randomly, I wondered if the priest at St. Alphonsus could do an exorcism.

He was nodding yes. My thighs squeezed together, and I bit my lip as my face squished together in lust and deep need for him. I knew if I stared at him any more I could make myself cum, because when I was getting hot for a woman, my clit came out to play and she was out, and fuck if she didn't say to me where is she, mama?