This is a minor fantasy, a bagatelle to be taken with tongue-in-cheek if, tent-in-pants, or not at all. I've shut off the voting function in order to deprive the voting vandals of the opportunity to abuse their right to vote. So if you enoy this romp for what it is, i'd love to hear from you.
It was a few years ago, before 9/11; before the presidential election; back when the country was hanging on every prurient newscast, if not the president's zipper. Maybe we weren't grinning with approbation, but we were hardly condemning what we heard. It was a throw-back to the Seventies and Eighties, those juicy days when everyone was screwing everyone else. If the F. Scott Fitzgerald era was the Roaring Twenties, this was surely the start of the Naughty Nineties, the Decade of Debauchery--- an era that petered out, so to speak, with a spot of semen on a bright blue dress and the president's impeachment hearings.
But then again maybe that happy, free sex era hadn't ended after all. Headlines have not been known to alter human nature. Maybe it had simply been papered over, like the fantasy of dot.com wealth we saw last year. And all those years of corporate fraud and accounting abuses, the sewers of which have not yet nearly been dredged, all the juicy history of what the scumbags were doing when they weren't cooking books--- wouldn't that be fun to learn about now? The discovery that while corporate poobahs were not only bankrupting their companies and their shareholders, but were out like Jack Welch plonking other women--- while their trophy wives were plonking other men? And that the biggies in the business press were catching the beat of some cosmic rhythm from it all, and feeding it into some elegant, arcane analysis of the market's slide?
Disregard the paragraph above. I'm a little schitzy now, what with the dot.com crash, and 9/11's regurgitation, and all. I inserted those comments to bore off dummies and make adolescent whankers look for drooling privvies elsewhere. I'm hoping we can get on with this story without pimple-pusses interrupting to ask, "Whuh dat?" See how cool it is with the voting off? You can just come along for the ride, get off where and if you like, and drop me a line if you enjoyed it--- or not.
See, I'm a private investigator, a retired spook. I'm used to shaking people off my tail. And this is too good to waste on pimple-pusses. What happened back then probably couldn't happen today. Not with this Moral Majority, and Warmonger Dimbulb, with his "Betty Crocker" wife, and Cheney in his bunker, and Rumsfeld feeling younger than he has in years but still not able to get it up, and Ashcroft's sniffers poking into our unwashed underwear, and poor Tom Ridge telling us what color today is. Too many eyes on too many people looking for too much hopefully salacious material nowadays. Everybody tries to make history replay itself. It doesn't, of course. But ah! Our recent yesterdays!
I am, as you've guessed, a Democrat. Now please, don't hold that against me--- not unless you're a Republican wife with an eager pussy and an interest in political ecumenicism. In which case, my sweet, press on!
Wise ass, right? Yeah, that's called "character development" in the Literotica authors' forum. I'm your cynic with a heart of gold--- old enough to be a 'Nam vet from the Pheonix program. We killed people in the name of freedom and the expectation that their families would flock to America's side for doing it. 'Nuff said?
Anyway, I was in New York on a case, alone, staying on a handsome corporate expense account at the elegant St. Regis Hotel, and vaguely wondering what sort of action I might find at midtown after a light dinner at a small East Side Italian place (I won't name it because to name it is to spoil it), and had whirled through the gilded revolving doors into a perfectly empty lobby --- when there she was.
I recognized her immediately striding across the carpeting— the casual flip of her short blonde hair, the intensely intelligent blue eyes, the proud, firm extension of her lower lip and chin. Her whole aura of arrogance and, if not control, then surely of certitude. I have to admit, whatever it is--- power, celebrity, her proud encroachment on middle age --- she turned me on. She always had.
But, no, it couldn't be who I thought it was. She was alone. She never went anywhere alone. It was too late to be checking in. Still, a part of me said reconnoiter, check her out. Curiosity never killed this cat. I sidled up behind her at the registration desk, as if I were checking in too. Nice ass. Cashmere clad. A little wide, probably a bit worn, but still meaty. She was asking the manager on duty about a hair dresser's appointment.
"He's open 24/7, ma'am," the manager replied. "You can go right in."
"I don't want to be placed ahead of anyone else," she said. A political humanist, I thought, and admit my cock stirred a bit looking down at her soft, pliant ass, thinking how nice it would be to take her from behind.
"No, no, he's clear now," the clerk said. He grinned an unctious desk clerk grin. "And I must say he'll be delighted to see you walk in."
"Well, I'm late . . . but I need it for tomorrow."
"No problem, madame," he said. "I'm sure he'll . . . we're just not used to seeing you without. . . without your . . . entourage."
She smiled and lowered her voice. "Yes, it's fun for a change. I told them to take the weekend. Late today. . . spur of the moment thing."
"Your husband be joining you, ma'am?"
"My husband is out in the country," she said disinterestedly.
The clerk realized his indiscretion. "I'm sorry . . ."
Her eyes, in the mirror, flickered downwards. Then she smiled: she needed him on her side. "It's fine," she said. "I just needed a getaway. Some time away— some time alone."
"We're honored to have you with us, ma'am."
She hesitated. "I can bill my room, right--- room 703?"
"Oh yes, ma'am. No problem."
She smiled her chipmunk American smile, wheeled and strode off across the empty lobby toward the hair dresser's salon. She never looked at me, but I knew she saw me. She had that way. Her whiskers were up, like a sleeping cat's sensing someone creeping up nearby.
I went straight to the elevator, heart racing. She was who I thought she was! And her room was just one floor above my own. I don't know what I was thinking: loneliness, the thrill of the chase, or maybe some vague recollection of that photo of her, chubby thighs and all, on a beach with her chubby husband. Whatever. It was the kind of rush I'd feel on night raids back in 'Nam: I was eager, half hyped-up nuts, a crackling live wire--- and horny as hell.
Whatever it was, I punched the 7, stepped out into the hallway, and looked for 703. Amazing: it wasn't a suite, just an ordinary room--- another disguise in her persona incognito. The night maid was cleaning and preparing it. I took a chance and walked in, knowing that cleaning maids never know who's staying in the rooms they're making up.
"Will you give me just a few minutes?" I said apologeticaly, as if the room were mine. The little Hispanic lady said, "Que?" I gestured toward the bathroom. She smiled and mumbled "Si--- no problemo." She took her bucket and mop and closed the door behind her.
I locked the deadbolt. Had to be quick. I couldn't know when, or if, the legitimate occupant of the room might return. But hairstyle guys like to keep celebrity women in their chairs --- pull gossipy tidbits out of them with which they can regale their faggie pals and outre women clients. I reckoned I had a minute or two anyway.
I glanced around. There was a reviewer's galley copy of "The Natural" --- Joe Klein's, not the other one--- lying on her bedside table. Beside it on the floor, her attache case bulged with assorted official-looking papers. Her suitcase was on the rack and open: a cashmere sweater, a folded skirt, some undies. She wasn't staying long. A jewelry box with simple pearls, a locket with a loving photo of her daughter (why did I sorrow that the poor girl looked so much like former president Carter? Or was that another untold political story?) I didn't disturb any of it.
But you can tell a great deal about a woman from her bathroom. Hers had Rembrandt toothpaste, Pantene shampoo; a couple of Tampax (still ovulating, was she?), a prescription bottle of Ambien--- trouble sleeping, eh? Beneath it, in a zip-seal plastic baggie-within-a-baggie, a tiny wooden pipe packed with--- I sniffed--- pure Moroccan hash. Great stuff: I'd had it on a case in Tangiers years ago. So, what else was there? A small vibrating dildo tucked beneath her shower soap. Oh my! I felt my dick tingle. I wondered what she fantasized about as she smoked her "get off" stash and slipped her throbbing plastic prick into her wistful, lonely, political cunt.
A plastic laundry bag sat atop the counter, inside it a scented bra that conjured vision of her small, plump tits; a soiled pair of silken panties. I put them to my nose and mouth and breathed in her intimate perfume. Shalimar. My ex-wife used to wear it. Sensual. It was when I smelled it after shaking the hand of a client that I realized she'd been fucking elsewhere. I didn't especially mind. So was I. But it pissed me off because my wife wasn't in the fee arrangement.
My cock began to harden with the urgency that accompanies anything taboo--- in this case, my presence in madame's most private, intimate boudoir, sniffing by proxy her famous, juicy crotch.
There was no time for more. I pocketed the panties, left the room door open for the maids, and hurried up to my own room. There the drinks, my brash triumph, and those perfumed panties, summoning shifting visions of their owner and my hot ex-wife, soon got me off in a flurry of spasms and moans. I inhaled them one last time, then dropped them at my bedside, later to stash in my own valise. And my own spent energies soon lulled me fast asleep.
Next day, I went about my day, suppressing--- at least trying to suppress--- the thought of that luxuriant taste and scent on my mouth and nose last night. I called on NYPD downtown, lunched with an Enron source at Four Seasons, visited a business editor-friend at Newsweek, then walked up to Riverside Park and gazed out over the river to the Palisades, trying to connect the dots of this tangle I called my case--- while all the while thinking of a soft fleshy cunt that must have been warm and excited at the moments she slipped those panties off.
I found myself asking: Excited by whom? Who--- what--- had she been thinking of? For whom had she slipped those panties off? Surely, she had someone other than her husband, and his lumbering, errant prick, on her mind. Someone she had known before, at Wellesley, perhaps? Or on the side, while he was at Cambridge? No. Too long ago. She must have taken those panties off that very day she checked into the St. Regis, else she wouldn't have taken them with her.
So she was fucking someone in Washington, or maybe New York. I mentally scanned the possibilities: Bushie the Shrub? No way. Cheney? How would she dispose of the body? Trent Lott? Don't be silly. Colin Powell? Hmmm--- it's said that southern girls all dreamed of big black . . . no, not him; he's way too light and straight.
I had a burger at the Hickory House and walked back to the Regis in the rain. All the vacant cabs were taken. I took a roundabout route, lost in thought, trudging through the midtown pour, bombarded at every billboard, every blaring radio announcement from every traffic-stalled cab--- the coming election, and over all, there was her face, with her chirpy, confidant smile.
I admit I was horny and not a little high. But silently, in the quiet of my stoniness, I promised her my vote! Our elected officials have to fuck too, else we'll get no more elected officials.
When I walked into the hotel lounge that evening, she was seated at the bar, her coif perfection, her bearing radiantly assured, her posture nonchalant. She seemed confident that people would assume that if she really were the person she resembled, she wouldn't be here alone, sipping a martini. It was a bravura performance. It was early still— but still, my God! Sitting alone, lost in the wilds of New York City!
With a rush of testosterone, I took the stool beside her.
"Don't often see someone like yourself sitting alone at a New York hotel bar," I ventured, ordering McClallons on the rocks. She ordered Tanqueray again, with an extra olive.
