"I'll drop my panties for you," a voice whispers to me as large breasts push into my back.
Without turning I ask, "Do I know you?"
"No, but we can change that." She molds her body to my backside.
"Do you know who I am?" I ask remaining calm finishing my glass of Dewar's.
"You're a tall handsome man whose presence has stirred my juices all evening. Would you like to stir them horizontally?"
"I'm working right now."
"I think you need some R and R." She slides her breasts back and forth. "Oooah, that makes my nipples hard."
Turning around slowly, I'm face to face with a thirtish red head with green eyes. She's beautiful, half a foot shorter than me, and wearing a purple dress with a high collar that accents her physical assets.
"Are you actually wearing panties?"
"There are several ways you can find out." She says giggling with lust in her eyes.
"My room number is 1713. When you see me leave the room you're invited to join me, but I have several more contacts to make," I say ogling her.
"You'll never leave my sight."
I watch her fiddle back shape walk sensuously away.
* * *
I'm Tom McFerson a field operator for the Democratic Party. It's my job to talk with contributors but especially the wives of possible donors to the party's coffers and or to support Larson Parson's re-election campaign. It's now nine o'clock and I've been charming a large number of little old ladies and a few younger ones. I'm in this position because I am a life-long member of the party, because of my good looks, and because woman salivate at my open-friendly personality.
I usually leave fund raisers tired, a little drunk, and wondering if I'm doing the party any good. It'll be days, weeks, or even months before I find out if any of the husbands or the women themselves have contributed to the party. Tonight isn't the first time I've been propositioned by a possible donor or her daughter, but the only time I've been approached in such a bizarre way.
I wonder if the gorgeous lady in the conservative purple dress is related to a politician, or a date, or a friend. It doesn't matter because I'm not going to turn down an offer from a female of such quality, and one who has a great pick up line.
Three more females are my prey this evening, and I compliment them, ask about their families, get them a drink, introduce them to someone they don't know, but I never leave them until I've asked them to consider making a substantial contribution to the party or in this case a candidate. The first two ladies are obviously submissive to their husbands and have no influence with them; the third one is probably the most important non-official in the crowd, because she married to the wealthiest man in the room, Lance Cabot. Mrs. Cabot is about fifteen years younger than her husband at about forty-five. She's had a bit too much to drink and she clings to my arm and every word. I go through my list of questions and requests and try to leave, but she doesn't let go.
"Mr. McFerson, do you mind if I call you Tom. It's such a pleasure to speak to someone who's not either an old woman or man. What do you do in your free time?" She asks smiling at me with perfect teeth.
"Tom is fine Mrs. Cabot."
"Please call me Margaret."
"Okay Margaret, I don't have much free time because it's late July, and all the campaigns are gearing up for the elections. Of course a large donation from your husband would make my job easier."
"Are you asking me to influence my husband's decision?"
I laugh. "That a little blunt but yes I would appreciate it if you would."
"How grateful would you be if I did so? If I did it for you? Would it help advance your career?" She asks holding me tighter.
I'm thunderstruck by her question. I look deep into drunken blue eyes, but eyes filled with lust. "I would be incredibly thankful, and yes a large contribution would probably get me a promotion."
"Would it help if I made a personal donation?"
I stare at her. "It certainly would. Two contributions from the same family would make my superiors happy--very happy."
"Okay, I'll donate five hundred thousand dollars." She says as though it was a number a hundred times less than that."
I gulp, my heard races, I perspire. "Thank you Mrs. Cabot that's incredibly generous of you."
"You can show me you gratitude by calling the number on this card sometime next week." She hands me an engraved business card with her name and phone number. "I only give these cards to very special people. You will call me won't you?"
I look into her blue eyes again and say, "You're the first item on my agenda next week."
"I'll let you go now because I noticed Mrs. Speakman talking to you earlier, and I believe she's waiting for you," she said knowingly. "I'll await your call." She releases my arm after giving me air kisses on both cheeks.
I walk away trembling. A half a million dollars is a large contribution for which I'll get credit and an offer from an MILF who more than likely wants to have sex. How is it possible that lightening can strike twice in the same evening?
* * *
Mrs. Julia Speakman leaves Tom McFerson standing in the darkened corner of the conference room thinking about the breath-taking slightly younger man. I love my husband, but he's a stud I can't pass up. He's good looking and has the body of Atlas. Being a politician's wife has it benefits. I get to go to lots of parties and to host a number of others. My name gets mentioned in the paper once in a while, and when we enter a fund raiser like this men and women, young and old, come flocking to us and to me. It gives me a wonderful feeling.
The down side of being married to a politician and having three small children is that I don't get much quality time with him. It's either the kids or politics that keeps us apart, and don't get the opportunity to speak with anyone who isn't either a child or an elderly person. Having time to myself is a good thing, but it doesn't do much for my sex life. Neal is either coming from or going to a meeting or a fund raiser, or he comes home tired and not interested in giving me what I want and need.
Looking around the room watching Tom entertain potential contributors with his presence makes me a little jealous. I haven't cheated on my husband before, but my hormones are screaming, fuck, fuck, fuck. I need some intimacy with a gorgeous man. I need a man who can satisfy the itch between my big toes. I hope he doesn't spend too much more time my panties are wet.
I join a group of friends and engage in the chit-chat common to women tied to politicians. As we talk, I keep a close eye on Tom. Right now he's being held in a vice grip by Margaret Cabot. Is she too soused to stand up by herself or is she putting the make on him? They talk on and on and I'm trying to pay attention to the conversation going on around me.
"Julia, Julia, this is earth calling?" Mary Condra asks.
I'm startled out of my revere. "I was just thinking about how long these affairs drag on."
"You know you're going to be here at least another two or three hours like the rest of us. You might have another drink to help you through the waiting." Mary says.
