Something Afoot In Washington

Author's Note: This story takes place on the same day as my other story, "Getting Ahead in Washington."

*****

B's voice greeted Claire energetically, but also sent her straight into her office. No time to waste. Got to hit her morning quota.

"Welcome back. Gary from GetAhead Cash on line 2. I promised him ten minutes this morning, first thing."

Claire threw her overstuffed purse down to the side of the huge desk that dominated her office. She'd never quite gotten used to it. Six long strides all the way round to the wooden swivel chair with the leather cushion. During her first term in office, especially her first month, she'd enjoyed the power it conveyed. It fit well with her motto: Be twice as good, work three times as hard. Get the prize. The giant power desk was one of her tangible prizes.

Now in her third term though, she knew how fake that power and prize felt. Eight hours a week, minimum, stuck here on the desktop phone, dialing for dollars. Line 2 blinked. It never stops.

Claire settled into the wooden and leather swivel, legs stretched forward, crossed at the ankles. She punched line 2.

"Gary! Claire here! So great to hear from you!"

As she listened with half an ear to one of her oldest supporters, she looked down at the desk surface.

Now enormo-desk had become a mocking symbol of how much life had changed in just six years. She didn't own all this space under her desk, it owned her. She no longer spent her days managing people, building the brand, or wielding power. She spent her days begging for money.

So different from her decade and a half building up Olympic Sportwear.

She tapped the keyboard spacebar to light the monitor.

::Network Browser Not Connected::

Damnit. She pressed mute while Gary bullshitted on and on.

"B, my internet's down again!" Claire shouted towards her open door.

From the other room: "I already told one our interns to fix it. Don't worry, I'll find him."

***

25 minutes later and on to her fifth call, Claire began to relax into her practiced patter and groove.

She kicked off her one-inch heels. Stretched and flexed her aching legs out to full length. Nude pantyhose covered up the knee surgery scars nicely. Reinforced heel and toe for the brutal walk as fast as possible up and down the Capital steps, avoiding the press mob.

"Listen, Isabel, my supporters at GetAhead Cash are organizing a small luncheon next Friday afternoon just for my oldest friends in District 1, and a few new faces too. To keep it lively I need you to be there."

Of course her donors and supporters couldn't see her in her office, but the fact that she looked so well put together helped her phone voice. Blue skirt, white blouse. Her signature Olympic rings pin holding the red scarf in place.

Claire leaned back deeply in her chair, letting her eyes wander over to the right and her wall of photos. George H.W. Bush, looking proper and bored, extending his hand to the 24-year-old Claire, gold medal around her neck, two weeks after they all returned from Spain.

"Listen, I will not take no for an answer. Also, remind me when I see you Friday, I really need your input into the downtown East Hartford economic development panel we're putting together."

Confidence begins from within. Still no SPANX needed, and Claire's a bit proud of that. Just medium control top hose for Claire. Her weekly running regimen would still exhaust most college athletes. If she has any complaint about her 49-year-old body, it's just her toes and calves that cramp spontaneously more than they used to. The pounding DC pavement tenderizes her poor soles.

Claire's toned and muscular legs parted in a V under her desk. She flexed her thighs, pointed her toes, then curled her aching feet. Point, flex. Point. So much soreness.

"Look, the mayor needs you, too. I'll have B email you all the details on the event. You would be perfect for the committee."

During the next call she rested her feet without thinking about it on the stool underneath. Grateful for the softness. Still focused on her call, she became vaguely aware that the stool was slightly uneven.

"Angus, you know this session is going to be the toughest fight we've seen yet and I'm counting on my oldest supporters to dig deep. Will you...can I count on...you will? I knew you'd be up for a fight. That's who we are! That's who YOU are, Angus. A fighter."

B brought her second mug of coffee as reward and encouragement, hot with generous cream, as she dialed the next name on her list. Muting the receiver with just her hand, "fucking internet" she whispered, gesturing at her screen. Still showing

::Network Browser Not Connected::

"Working on it," B mouthed back. "More fuel for you," B whispered, nodding at the mug. "How many miles this morning?"

"7 and a half."

"Beast mode."

"Ok, Angus, I gotta let you get back to work, I know you're busy!" Claire chirped into the phone, "but best to Cindy and woof to those gorgeous terriers. Ok, bye!"

Next name on the list. Mid-dial, Claire felt a nagging thought, and then, with B still standing on the side of her desk, she felt movement and an extra warmth on her nyloned feet.

Warmth, like someone's hot breath kind of warmth. Movement, like someone's hand movement. It shocked her so much her mouth opened, wordless. B looked expectantly.

"Yes?" B queried.

Before Claire could speak or even close her mouth, a most delicious massage began of her soles, ankles and calves.

"B?" Claire whispered dryly, in shock. In a flash she realized that whoever was under there has been trapped beneath her desk for the last 45 minutes, at least. Silently. Probably mortified with embarrassment, terror, and tension waiting for her to leave.

But she hadn't left. Too many names to cross off her list this morning.

In fact, the under-the desk lurker was probably the same someone who was supposed to fix the fucking internet, but had tried to wait her out, once she sat down and spread her legs. Had tried to wait her out in order to avoid embarrassing everyone all around. Oh god. Just awkwardness from every angle.

"B, um, what I wanted to ask is, when do I get to stop for lunch?" was the only nonsense question her mouth could form, her thoughts shut down. That terrified person under the desk has been looking up her skirt all morning.

Ugh. But also, poor thing.

"You have the 1 o'clock with banking and finance, but I ordered a chicken pesto half-sandwich for you to eat on the walk over there."

Unseen hands, pressing now on her soles. A wave of pleasure rode from sole to calves, then straight to her brain, as her knotted muscles received the deep pressure they craved. She hadn't known pleasure like this since...since...shit, it had been a long time.

He - Claire assumed it was a he, given the strong hands now around her calves - must have been overwhelmed with a combination of lust and insanity to become this bold. She did not dare look down, which would only cause him further embarrassment. She hesitated between causing a scene in front of B or just staying calm. Calm, and frankly grateful for the relief from soreness and foot cramping.

Claire chose to pretend, at least above her desk, that this wasn't happening. One lesson from six years of elected office: Plausible deniability. If she doesn't look down or even acknowledge this situation, then as far as the world knows, it never happened.

And then there was this: her legs and feet felt so good. She decided she preferred not to know. Her eyelids drooped from the pleasure. And anyway, she reasoned somewhat illogically, he would not have been able to look entirely up her skirt. Her nude hose and panties would have blocked much of the forbidden view.

"Thank you B, you think of everything." She leaned her head forward, catching her temple with two fingers. Eyelids drooped. Slow exhale. It felt so so fucking good.

Amidst the delicious attention down below, her eyes fluttered back open, scanning other pictures on the wall.

The photo from five years after Barcelona, Claire's proud smile next to her first run of factory-produced Olympic Sportswear.

This unsought-for massage of her legs, from an unknown person without her permission, brought Claire intense pleasure. First, muscular pain relief yes, but also now an intensity that she recognized as frankly sexual. Although the touch remained on her feet and calves, the tingling wasn't confined only to there.

She brought the heel of her left hand down to her lap and pressed firmly through skirt, pantyhose, and panties. She focused the pressure on that point just above where her pussy lips parted, pressing on the tingling for both manual relief and heightened intensity. She felt a little swollen, a little bit damp, and her heart raced.

But now, however, she needed to return to her calls. Focus, Claire.

Shen gently kicked her feet free of the hands, in a firm but not unfriendly way, and dialed the next name on her list.

"Alan. It's Claire. Listen, you're going to want to tune in C-Span after lunch..."

After a few moments the unknown massager seemed to have settled into a kind of footstool position under her desk, which suited her just fine. As she got wound up with Alan promising new crackdowns on high-interest payday lenders, her nyloned feet kicked unconsciously back and forth on top of her new footstool. A low but intense moan reached her ears. Loud enough so she could hear, but not loud enough to risk Alan hearing, on the other end of the phone.

Alan began to urge toughness on those predatory lenders. "Claire, you and I both know these payday scums need to be crushed under your feet like the disgusting bastards they are!" he argued passionately.

Claire found herself distractedly agreeing. The balls of her nyloned feet rolled back and forth along the length of something hard underneath her. Another moan, this time with greater urgency. She was pretty sure she knew what. But still: plausible deniability.

"But let me ask you this - is now really the time? Senator Warren has this position already staked out, and obviously we don't have the votes in the House to lead here. Don't get me wrong, I want to put them firmly in their place as much as anyone."

And with that, she cupped her soles down together around the unseen, long, hard shape. She kicked back and forth along its length, as if by a combination of vigorous stomping and sliding she could stamp out high-interest lending in Connecticut's District 1.

"Congresswoman, at the very least your committee should absolutely call them out for their behavior and put them on notice!"

"Alan, that's why I like talking to you - you give me strength and conviction." With that, she ground her feet down hard on the long, hard, shape. "Watch me this afternoon show those disgusting vultures!" she gasped with real passion as she leaned forward over the edge of her seat and flicked her soles fast and now a bit rough below her.

The idea of exercising power like this in committee later today, plus the warm physical manifestation of those disgusting lenders crushed under her soles, filled her with a heady mix of strength, efficacy, and pleasure. What a relief for her feet and boost to her confidence.

Nobody should ever mess with Claire. Not at the Barcelona games, not in the banking and finance committee. Not here at her desk. Be twice as good, work three times as hard. Get the prize.

Unseen hands grabbed her feet, joining the fast rhythm and then she felt a rough bucking thrust, and heard a drawn-out sigh from below.

With the heel of her hand Claire pressed again downward on her skirt, lighting up pleasure centers in her brain. And In her cunt. Glancing nervously but excitedly over at the open door, Claire couldn't resist slipping hers fingers inside the pantyhose waistband. Her feet rubbing quickly and pleasurably up and down. Just needing to reach her pussy for a moment. Fingertips inside the panties, seeking relief. If she could just...

"OH! Alan!"

"Yes Congresswoman?"

"I'm going to rub them out so hard" she gasped, as her own pussy flooded under her fast rough touch. Stars filled her vision and she came suddenly. Her fingertips thrust into her sopping cunt. Oh god rubbing so fast. Her feet flicking nonstop, unseen below the desk.

The hands suddenly halted her fast foot movement. Her downward foot pressure subsided to a gentle grind. Something clearly had happened. She enjoyed a few more moments of sliding her soles up against the friction, which felt absolutely great to Claire. The unseen shape shrunk and softened. She slipped her hand back out of her pantyhose waistband, and lifted it to her nose casually. Glancing back at the open door. So much relief. So much released.

Now just one more grind with the heel of her hand on to the top of her skirt to draw out her own pleasure a bit longer.

Still on the phone, Alan speaking in the background. Claire returned to professional focus.

"Alan, I'm going to do it, so be sure to tune in later, C-Span after 1. I'll talk to you later."

While replacing the receiver with her left hand, still not looking down, she reached to gather her right foot at the ankle, tucking it into her lap. Her right thumb, grasping the bottom of her foot, felt wet as she lifted it. Oh. Messy.

She hitched up her blue skirt all the way to waist-level to avoid the wetness on her foot. Tucking her left foot up as well, she now sat with soles together and knees pointing out, in her leather-cushioned chair. B better not walk in right now.

Blue skirt gathered up high around her pantyhosed waist, she assessed the damage, using her hands to point her nyloned soles upward and away from each other for closer inspection. Smeared wetness from the balls of her feet to the arches. But nothing really visible on the top of her feet. As long as she wore her heels, she wouldn't need a change of nylons before the 1pm committee meeting. Nobody will see anything different.

Claire knew the polite thing now would be to release whatever poor soul was trapped underneath her desk, by taking a break from her office. That should give him enough time to disappear and remain anonymous. Claire put her feet back down below her chair and slipped on her heels. She could feel a bit of smeary cum sliding up into the inside lining of her shoe. Her own little secret. Plausible deniability. She pushed away from the desk, stood up and smoothed her skirt, and walked to the door.

"B, I need a break, let's go outside and look at the sun for a while. Help me review what I'm to say at the 1pm meeting."

Without looking back or down, she strolled around the desk, and out the door.

-

Later that afternoon, returning from committee.

"Congresswoman, it's Gary again, on line 3. Shall I tell him you're out?"

Claire tired, but also made giddy from her performance, "No, it's fine."

Punching line three. "Hello, It's Claire. Three times in a day, that's a new record Gary."

Hopefully he'll get the hint. Knowing him, he won't.

"Lucky comes in threes, your committee is my number one focus, Congresswoman, as you know.

And listen, I've got to tell you, since I've known you a long time, I'm just going to be blunt. your little soapbox performance was not a great look this afternoon, Claire.

Are you trying to embarrass me on purpose? I'm putting together this event Friday, and now I've got to go back and tell all my industry guys to just ignore what you said? I've told them you are all business, you're an entrepreneur and that you get it. You're not Elizabeth Warren. You're the gold-medalist winning, pro-business, Claire McIntire. But I've got to tell you, to be frank with you, it didn't look like you get it today.

Listen, Claire, one other quick personal thing. On a happier note. I wanted to just tell you how much I appreciate you taking Chip under your wing. It means a lot my family, and this sets him up well for the job market. As he's probably told you, he's a senior next year."

"Um, Chip? Who's...?"

"My son. Your Chief of Staff B said he started this week interning in your office. Let me know if he gives you any trouble and I'll knock him into shape for you."