Good Communication

I was in Washington, D.C. during the President's January, 2025 inauguration. Not for the inauguration itself, but for business meetings.

I do odd jobs for corporations, with the emphasis on "odd."

Shards of glass end up in the last production run at your baby food factory?

Russian police shaking down your branch office in Moscow?

One of your employees leaking secrets to a competitor?

Call me.

Those are the kinds of odd jobs I handle, work that often intersects with governments, including ours.

I got into it gradually, after handling a couple of unexpected crises while working for a large multinational company with factories and offices around the world.

Professionally, I'm apolitical - I don't take sides, I just fix things. My clients were nervous about the change in Administration, and so I went to D.C. to make some introductions.

Washington was a madhouse. Some might have called it a zoo, but I'm apolitical.

My flight was five hours late, as the private jets of corporate bigwigs and billionaires jammed the airspace. Traffic crawled slowly with street closures, and the sidewalks were clogged with supporters, protesters, vendors, reporters, and the few homeless who hadn't been swept up by the Capital Police.

I had to pass through two checkpoints to get to my hotel room in that big downtown Marriott near the Metro Center, and felt like I was on a first name basis with one of the sniffer dogs - Brutus, a good looking German Shepherd. I would have brought him a treat, but his handler probably would have kicked my ass. With one hand tied behind his back.

By the time Sunday night arrived I was done - tired of the circus, and eager to leave on Monday's first flight. I headed back to the hotel after attending a fancy ball in the hopes of grabbing a quiet bite at the bar, still dressed in my tuxedo.

So much for a quiet bite.

In addition to the inauguration crowd, it was a week of NFL playoffs. The Washington Commanders were in contention, and so there were a amped-up people everywhere, and hardly any place to sit.

I grabbed the last empty bar stool wedged between a couple and a woman typing away on a laptop. This was my regular hotel - I was here at least once a month, and the bartender recognized me - she's a lovely, thick Ethiopian woman - Amara - about my age, with great curves and a pretty smile.

She came over, nodded, and greeted me with her lilting, soft African accent. "Happy New Year. The usual?"

I smiled back at her. "Yes, thank you - like always - straight up and bitterly, bitterly cold, like my ex-wife." It was a running joke between us.

She reached up over the bar to grab the Tito's from the overhead rack and got to work.

"Wow, speaking of 'bitter and cold', SOMEBODY sounds bitter. Not really classy for a guy in a tuxedo."

It was the woman on my right, the one with her laptop open, a glass of wine, and a picked-at plate of something with a mess of French fries and a smear of ketchup.

I looked and her and chuckled.

"Actually, it was just a factual statement - I'm

delighted

to be divorced, not bitter at all. And that" - I pointed to the mess on her plate - "now

that's

classy, right?"

"OK, OK. Ignore that mess. Relationships

are

tough, yeah, I know. My husband says I'm a pain in the ass sometimes."

"Are you?"

"Probably. But I earn more than he does, and so I wear the pants. I've told him - take me as I am, or leave."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a reporter, for a national media outlet in Chicago. I'm covering the inauguration. I travel a lot and he stays at home with the dog and pursues his 'art' while I pay the bills. He's writing a novel. Has been, for, I don't know, ten years now. Or maybe twenty."

"Now who sounds bitter?"

"Not really. We've reached an understanding. I'm dedicated to my career and carry him financially. In turn, I tell him what I want, and he agrees and puts up with me. We saw a marriage therapist after the honeymoon wore off. She encouraged full, frank, and honest communication, so I speak my mind, and he listens. Hah!"

Amara placed my martini on a napkin, and I took a long sip. "Nice and cold. Perfect, thank you Amara." She nodded as she hustled drinks for the crowd.

"And what do you do, Mr. Tuxedo, that brings you to Washington? Or should I call you 'The Penguin'?"

"Not terribly original, but seems appropriate. I'm a consultant."

"What kind of consultant?"

"Well, it depends. The work always changes and is hard to describe, which is why I like it. I travel a lot, and it keeps me busy. I've got no complaints." I wasn't about to tell a reporter about my business, my clients, or who I was meeting with.

She reached up and played with my black bow tie - twisting it to one side, then straightening it. "Is there a girl penguin somewhere for Mr. Penguin?"

"No, no girl penguin. All the travel, living in New York, staying busy - I'm pretty comfortable with things as they are in my little icebox."

She took a sip of her wine, picked up a long skinny French fry, and looked at me as she nibbled at it. "What sort of girl penguin would you want?"

"Like you said, good communication is key - someone who speaks her mind, speaks directly, doesn't beat around the bush. Like the way you said you communicate with your husband - maybe a little less bluntly, but that's the idea."

"Speaking bluntly, you look good in that tux." She ran a hand down the front of my shirt, lingering on the small black and gold studs that took the place of buttons on the shirt placket.

I deflected. "Any guy would look good in a tux, you know? Your prom date probably looked good in his too, even if he had a crop of zits, was captain of the chess club and had rented a purple tux with wide lapels."

"I bet you didn't rent this tux, did you?"

I smiled. "No. Not a rental."

Her hand dropped to my thigh, where she let it rest. "You can take a compliment, right? You look good in that tux, like I said."

"Does your husband know that you compliment strange men in tuxes?"

"Does he know? Of course. Good communication, remember?"

"What does he know?"

"He knows that I'm a strong, independent woman who travels a lot."

"And does he know that you like men in penguin suits?"

"I tell him everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, in detail, and the more detail, the better. In fact, he likes hearing about it. He really likes hearing about it. And I'm a reporter, so I am good at reporting."

She stroked my thigh lightly, and I could feel my erection growing with every stroke.

"And what else do you want from your girl penguin?" she asked as she continued to stroke the black fabric of my tuxedo pants, running her finger down the silk stripe on the side, then over my thigh.

"Enthusiasm. Not just a good communicator...but a vocal one." We had tripped over the line, and now the double-entendres were obvious.

"Vocal, huh? Like a porn star, screaming about how great it is?"

"Yeah, something like that. Maybe not the screaming. That can bother people in adjacent rooms, and then the front desk calls, and that's inconvenient. But verbal."

"Why do men like that kind of thing? You're all the same."

"It's erotic. It's feedback. It's exciting. Good communication is the key, remember?"

She looked at me while she continued to stroke my thigh. "Would you like to see how good I am at verbal feedback? How about if I promise no screaming to bother the neighbors?" And as she said "neighbors" her hand moved inside my thigh, and then crept up.

"I would, but here's the thing."

"Let me guess: you're really gay. I knew it - no straight guy wears a tux if he doesn't have to."

I laughed. "No. The thing is, you're married, and I really don't want to get in the middle of anything. I've done that a few times - and you just never know how it is going to turn out, no matter what anybody says, or whatever promises are made when it starts out."

"OK" she said. She took her hand off my thigh, took a sip of wine, and then picked up another long French fry that she ate while looking at me, her tongue dancing around the fry. She wiped her hands, picked up her phone, tapped a number, and started talking when it was picked up.

"Hey Danny" she said into the phone, "how's it going? Uh huh. Yeah hon, I'm at the bar, yeah, it is noisy, the football game. Did you feed the dogs? Uh huh, good. Listen" and her voice dropped a bit, "I met a really nice guy here at the bar. In a tux." She paused, then laughed. "No, not James Bond." She paused a bit more. "Yeah, I think I might. And if I do, you will get to hear all about it. All the details, the way you like. Everything. Uh huh...yeah...OK, talk later. Love you, kiss kiss."

She hung up and put the phone down. "That was my husband Danny. Any more questions? Because I have just one."

I tilted my head at her, amused, intrigued, and interested. "Yes?"

"What's your room number?"

I was in. I took a pen from my pocket, wrote my room number on a napkin, and slid it to her.

"I need about 20 minutes to drop off my things and freshen up, OK? And don't take that tux off."

True to her word there was a knock at my door barely 20 minutes later. She had changed from the frumpy sweats and overshirt she had been wearing into a blouse with a plunge and a mid-length skirt, a bit of a lace from her bra showing just above her blouse.

"Looks just like my room, but I guess that's intentional." She kicked off her shoes, threw her phone on the king-sized bed, and threw her bag on the floor. "I'm still loving that tux on you" she said, "though I would like to see what's under it."

She sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned, and when I drew near she picked up where she left off when we were in the bar, running her hands along my shirt and along my thighs. She tugged at my black suspenders and pulled them down, and then she unclipped my pants, pushed them down, and traced the outline of my growing cock under my boxers.

"That looks nice" she said in a whisper as she looked up at me, and I felt a shiver that started in my stomach.

I reached down and undid the top button on her blouse, and then the next, and then the third. Her bra was not just lacy but translucent, and I could her nipples poking at the sheer fabric, looking hard and taught. I gently cupped her breasts through her bra and said "those look very nice too."

As I squeezed her breasts she urged me on - "Harder" - so I squeezed her harder, until I heard her sigh.

She reached up and pushed her bra straps down, reached back to unhook it, and threw it on the floor as her breasts shook with each of her movements. When I put my hands on her bare breasts she put her hands over mine and squeezed my hands under hers.

"I like it like this" she said as she looked at me. I let her guide my hands as she showed me how she wanted me to knead her breasts. "My nipples, too," so I pinched her hard, pink buds and she groaned slightly - "yeah, that's it, just like that" and then she pulled my boxers down, freeing my aching cock to bob in front of her face.

She knew what she was doing. She wrapped her hand around my shaft, opened wide, took that fat head into her mouth, and started rubbing her tongue on the underside, that sweet sensitive spot, until it was my turn to moan.

She was deliciously sloppy with her wet mouth and lips, running them up and down my length and then sucking on the head, working her mouth in time with the hand that she stroked me with. I kept squeezing her breasts as she worked on me, until she pulled back and my cock came out of her mouth with a "plop!" "Let's get on the bed" she said. "Leave your shirt and bow tie on."

She really liked that tux thing.

We disentangled for a moment - she unhooked her skirt while I stepped out of the pants and boxers around my ankles. She pulled down the lace panties she was wearing - they matched her bra - and got back on the bed on all fours, facing away from me, her ass in the air.

I got behind her on my knees and wanted to tease her, to hear her moan some more. I rubbed the swollen, aching head of my dick up and down her wet pussy lips; she hissed and tried to push back, and I moved back just out of the grasp of her hungry cunt.

And then I heard it. I was so engrossed in the moment, I almost couldn't process what I was hearing - the sound of a phone ringing, and a man answering - "Hello?"

"Danny" she said, "I'm here with the tuxedo guy."

Her husband. She had dialed him while I was rubbing my cock on her labia, and had put him on the speaker.

"I'm going to fuck the tuxedo guy Danny, listen..." and then she turned her head over her shoulder. "Put it in, I want that big cock in my pussy."

So I did - so much for teasing her. I leaned forward and with one push drove myself all the way home into her warm, tight wetness, and as I penetrated her vagina she called out to her husband at the other end of the phone - "Oh GOD Danny his cock is in me! He's stretching me!"

I still can't say why, but listening to her, and the idea that he was listening turned me on even more. I grabbed her hips, and as if she were writing captions - or writing a story for a blog - she described everything to her husband. "God Danny, he just grabbed my hips, and I think he's going to fuck me hard" - and then, directing the action, she said "pound me, hard, just like you were squeezing my boobs" and so I did.

She was so wet that squishing sounds came from between her legs each time I pushed into her. Her ass was up, her shoulders down on the bed, and she took her phone and held it down underneath her stomach, gasping as she spoke to her husband on the speaker. "Danny, can you hear how wet I am, and the sounds from my pussy - he's stuffing it with his fat cock."

I thought I heard him whimper on the other end when she said that - a high pitched, strangled sound of anguish - she must have heard it too, and even though she had trouble getting the words out as I pounded her, she kept talking to him. "I know you want to play with yourself while you listen Danny, go ahead, stroke it baby, think about me getting fucked right now, god it feels so good between my legs..."

He whimpered a "yes baby" that was barely audible, but I honestly didn't care about any of that - I could only think about emptying my heavy balls in this woman, and as I was thinking I was getting closer she wriggled forward and I came out of her.

"In my ass. I want you in my ass. Put your penguin dick in my ass. Go slowly." I heard her husband whimper again. "That's right Danny, my ass isn't for you."

As much as I wanted to ram it into her, I had to go slowly - my cock was slippery from her sopping pussy, but it was a tight fit. I put the head against her puckered hole and started to push, slowly, letting her push back as she adjusted.

"Oh my god that feels so big in my ass" she said to me, or to him - it didn't matter. "I want you to shoot in my ass until I feel it dripping out of me..." and she moaned loudly as I sunk into her one inch at a time, until I was balls deep and held myself there.

"Oh God Danny, he's in my ass, he's all the way in my ass, Jesus, I can feel his balls on me, ohhhhhhhhhh god..."

I was afraid that I'd cum if I moved at all but she didn't want to wait.

"Fuck that ass, take it, it's yours, slap it!" she said as she tried to wiggle on my cock, so I did - slowly, then faster, until I was pounding into her, grunting and moaning, punctuating my thrusts with a slap that resonated with a "crack!" into the room.

"Danny" she said, between gasps, "I hope you are jerking that little cock of yours...can you hear him fucking me" and I heard him say "yeah, yeah I can" as if he was out of breath.

I reached around and under her to find her clit, and while it took a minute - her wet, swollen pussy lips didn't make it easy - when I did find her pink pearl she was ready to explode.

"Oh shit!" she yelled when I found it, and she started thrusting back on my dick as if she was trying to break it off. I only had to rub her fuck button a couple of times and she came - I could feel her spasms from deep inside, her ass gripping my cock, and she knew I was about to cum, too - "Yeah, cum with me, in my ass, give it to me, shoot it in me, Danny, he's cumming in my ass Dan-eeeeee" and I did, her nasty words helping push me over.

I don't think I had ever cum so hard - over and over as I spurted my jizz into her tight hot ass. I could feel the slick wetness all over my cock, and then leaking out of her, as she yelled "that's it, gimme me all of your cum" and I did until my balls were completely drained.

I collapsed forward on her, my cock still in her ass, breathing hard, and cupping her tits in my hand, her nipples hard as raisins, my heart pounding.

She reached under her stomach and pulled her phone out from under us. "Danny, you can cum now" she said, and I heard him grunt - it sounded feeble through the phone. She heard it too. "Good boy Danny, eat your cum. I'm going to fuck him some more, but that just for us and you can't listen. Talk to you tomorrow, goodnight honey, nice talk!" and without waiting for him to say another word she laughed and hung up the phone.

She wanted me to stay the night - "we can make a video in the morning and Danny will go crazy," but I had an early flight to catch. I went back to my room after we calmed down, packed, and was up at 4am to get to Dulles.

When I unpacked I realized that my tux shirt was pretty much ruined, so I tossed it - but the bowtie was OK, and kept it as a souvenir. It's draped over one of my bedposts, and every now and then when I'm in the mood I jerk off thinking about that night, and wonder if I shouldn't wear a tux more often.