Mrs. Branchbaum Fucs

They were lying on the floor, quiet, spent, totally relaxed and satisfied. In the background, hardly audible, was the officious murmur of talk radio blather.

"My pussy is going to be sooooo sore," Hedda Branchbaum said.

"Oh, let me soothe it a bit," said Orenthal Jackson.

He eased his body closer to hers and moved his mouth over her sore pussy, slowly lowering his lips to hover over her bush-covered pudenda. He breathed in the sweet pungency from her cunt. He inhaled again. "Smells good."

Hedda smiled. She spread her legs to offer him better access.

He looked up. She looked down. Their eyes met. His eyes held hers while he slid his finger into her wet cunt. A finger from his other hand replaced his tongue on her clit. He lifted his head. "You really get off fucking the help, don't you?" he said.

"Just you, not all the help."

"And Moses."

"Yeah, and Moses. But not all the help." Hedda gently urged his head down with her outstretched fingers, "But right now, shut up and keep doing what you are doing. It feels sooooo good,"

He began to burnish the slightly swollen lips of her pussy with his tongue, smoothing the tender lips. He spread the oily lubricant of mingled pussy juice, semen, and saliva evenly over the entrance to her cunt. When he heard her coo in pleasure, he inserted his tongue past her now partially opened cunt lips and into her vagina.

"Oh, ooooh," she moaned. "Oh my, oh my." "Good?"

"You needn't ask."

He moved his tongue in and out of her slit and then up against her clit, all the while using his lips to add pleasure to her tingling cunt. He continued to do that for another minute or so and then looked up again." You doing this, 'fucking the help' to get back at Swift, ain't you?"

"I assure you," Hedda Branchbaum said, "That I am fucking you because you fuck me very well." She kept her fingers on the top of his head exerting their slight downward pressure, "You've got a nice cock and a swell tongue, a very swell tongue. Yes, yes, keep doing that. Look, if I wanted to get back at Swift, there are a dozen ways I could do it. I could tell him his program stunk today. I could hide his oxycontin."

"So, why you fuckin me then?"

"It's getting back at Swift, yeah, but like I said, you sure do know how to fuck a lady."

"You want to be having big black cock?"

"O, get over it. Do I look to you like I don't know about Big Black cock?"

Orenthal looked at Hedda Branchbaum. He considered her question. "I would by lying if I didn't say that right now you look like a woman who knows a thing or two about B.B.C."

"Thank you," she said.

He bowed his head.

"Look. Truth of the matter is that I'm a slut. I'm also a whore. To Swift, I'm a cunt. Oh, and when I'm hanging on to his arm and we walk into a party or to a speech he is giving, he's the man, the testosterone soaked hunk who fucks like a member of the Hells Angels, Macho man." She thought for a moment then decided to continue talking.

"I'm a whore. I knew what I was selling. I knew what he was buying when I married him."

"What I don't get, what you getting back at him for then?"

"You know what Orenthal, I didn't know the extent of his fuckin hypocritical stupidity. He is stupid about himself. He really thinks he's the man. He really thinks he's Mr. Macho stud. He really believes every lie he says even when he knows his lies are lies." Hedda paused. She looked at Orenthal. "You been working for Swift for six years now.

"Six-and-a-half years."

"What do you think of him?"

"He's my boss. I don't gotta think nothing about him."

"Okay. Don't you care that he's an idiot and he owns this mansion and owns you for however hours a week?"

"He pays me good bucks."

"Doesn't it bother you that's he's a fool?"

"Not my business," said Orenthal. "I am not going to go postal over some fat white guy! He says stupid lies. To me, it's water off a duck's back" Orenthal waited for a second. "I'm fucking his wife and she's as good a piece of ass as I've ever enjoyed."

"No you're not. Right now, you aren't fucking, you're talking to his wife." She moved her body so that they were now face to face. She could smell her pussy juices on his lips. "Okay, buddy," she said, she reached down, "let's get that nice little cock of yours hard and ready to fuck his wife some more. We don't have that much time."

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. In the control booth, six people were busy. The call screener was on the phone. The director was watching the sweep second hand on the clock. The Engineer was managing the mic levels. The researcher was busy on the computer. The audio man was checking the order of commercials and tapes to play. The intern was busy trying to stay out of everyone's way in the crowded control room.

And Swift Branchbaum? Swift Branchbaum spread his legs wide, just a bit more apart than they had been, to make his heavy thighs more amenable to his girth. He rolled his chair (Chairman extra-large by Era, top of the line, really comfortable) on its well-oiled wheels a few inches from the microphone. That was better. He was ready now. He was doing what he was born to do. He was educating his public.

"Have you checked yet?" Swift was yelling at the people in the booth. The commercial would be over in a second or two. There wasn't that much time left. Swift coughed to clear his throat. Swift's engineer raised his hand, finger extended, then quickly lowered his hand and pointed at Swift. His Microphone (ShureSLX Beta, top of the line, set to ad timber to his voice) was live.

Swift Branchbaum was on the air! And he still wasn't sure about his caller, Holly Poppa.

Holly, who said she was an eighteen-year-old high school student and a Swift Branchbaum fan for five years now, had called because one of her teachers at Southwest Upper High School was a liberal. He had told his class and Holly that labor unions had a purpose, that they helped workers in their struggle for better wages, more safety, and more security on the job. The call was right up Swift's alley. Unions, teachers. Innocent high school girl on the phone. It was almost too good to be true. And that was why the people in the control booth were so busy making sure that Holly Poppa was real. Vigilance was their byword. Paranoia their friend. Swift Branchbaum was NOT going to allow people who disagreed with him an opportunity to use HIS airtime, HIS program to spout their propaganda. The only propaganda allowed on his program was Swift Branchbaum propaganda.

"She's legit," the message on his studio computer read. "We've got her Facebook page up." And the page was displayed on Swift's computer. A pretty young girl. Sweet and innocent. Swift Branchbaum's kind of caller.

So Swift imagined himself bent over, close to young Holly's ear, inhaling the smell of her herbal shampoo, speaking to her in an almost whisper, avuncular, earnest, feeling. He wasn't going to pat her head or touch her ass. He wanted to do those things, but he worked hard to ignore those impulses.

He was proud of his ability to convey sincerity and empathy. He was proud of how he could inspire his listeners. Getting too close physically was a no-no. Swift had gotten in trouble for that in the past, and he was very careful now.

"Holly," he said, " please call me Swift. Mr. Branchbaum is much too formal." He felt that by demeaning himself, by putting himself at an equal level with the hoi polloi, his listeners, he was creating an aura of intimacy.

Swift ran his tongue over his lips. He put his mouth closer to the microphone.

And he began his rant about teachers, unions, liberals, and women. He told young Holly that she needed to be wary of her teachers. They had an agenda and their agenda was to destroy her verities, the wisdom of her church, her mother and of Swift Branchbaum

"Oh, I know," said Holly. "Lucky that my mother took me to the Creation Museum in Kentucky last year. Otherwise I might have believed our teacher in biology about Evolution. Oh, oh," the girl continued, "We saw in the museum how the world was created in seven day and how the scientists are fooling us."

"Six days, the seventh God rested," Swift interjected. He was proud of his knowledge of theology. "Yes, God created the world and he would never have created people in a way that they would harm the world. So you don't have to worry about global warming." Swift was feeling good. He was in a teaching moment.

Swift could feel his cock fluttering towards a full erection as happened often when he spoke with a young listener.

Deep in the folds of his smooth silk boxers, his cock was beginning its struggle, Viagra-less, to stand at attention. He spread his legs apart another inch. His cock was extended; he could feel its four-and-a- half inch length touch the quivering fat of his thigh. He lifted his ass off the chair for a second and twisted his body with a shake, managing to get his cock to lie against the seat of his chair. When he sat his ass back down on the chair, his cock was underneath his thigh, wedged between thigh and chair, ready to be stroked every time he moved his leg. It kept his cock hard to sit this way. But he knew it kept him alert, took his conversation past smart into brilliant.

Comfortable now, Swift continued explaining the ways of the liberal to Holly. He was in his best attack mode, free association running rampant. He explained how Eleanor Roosevelt (Rosenberg was how his parents had referred to her) had meddled in the coal mines and about women's rights.

He was unable to hide the contempt he felt for that former first lady. Swift didn't remember how they had begun speaking about Eleanor Roosevelt. He didn't really have many facts about her at the ready. But Swift never let facts get in the way. She was a communist, look at the clothes she wore. She had buck teeth, probably a lesbo. She was ugly and that was why she was for women's rights. Swift was on a tear. He moved to his other favorite topics. The unions just wanted their worker's money so they could elect democrats. Corporations would take care of their workers without the union's interference, blah, blah, blah.

Swift stopped to take a breath and Holly jumped in, "Yes, I really learned from you how the liberals really are trying to control the people so they can turn us all into atheistic communists."

Swift felt that tinkle of a flutter again, that slight movement deep in the recess of his silk boxer shorts where his cock was snug and comfy. He pushed his thigh forward, creating smooth pressure for his cock. It felt good.

Swift glanced at Holly Poppa's Facebook page for inspiration. The picture of her in a bathing suit was really hot. Her tits were nice and round, firm. Swift rocked back and forth over his cock, driving it along under his fat thigh, sliding it along the ridge of his seat.

"You make everything so clear," Holly affirmed. "I am soooo proud to be on the radio and to be talking with you. It is such an honor."

Swift felt that tinkle of a flutter again, that movement deep in the recess of his silk boxer shorts. It happened. He ejaculated. Perfect. He felt free now to once again show his feeling, his understanding and his earnest sympathy for even the youngest of his listeners, and, by extension, to all of his listeners and all of mankind, even liberals.

"You sound as if you are an intelligent, well-informed young woman. Eighteen years old, are you? I am sure you are a pretty young lady, too."

"Oh thank you. Thank you Mr. Birchbaum. I really try to learn stuff.....I mean Swift, Swift......I really try to learn stuff about everything from you. My Mom says that you are so smart."

His caller had only mentioned her mother. His researcher had contacted the mother's minister as part of the hurried anti-liberal vetting process in the seconds before Swift spoke to Holly on the phone. The minister had vouched for Holly and for her mother, sort of hinting, to Swift's mind at least, that he had fucked the mother.

Swift wondered how this girl's mother, who he imagined as being a bit sexier than the innocent girl, a bit rounder at the hips and, of course, lonely, would react if a warm hearted person like Swift himself was would offer succor.

But his control room was gesturing. It was time to make money, time for his commercials.

"You are a person who is brave and not afraid to speak up." He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, "Keep educating yourself. Don't let the main stream newspapers or the teacher lackeys of the liberals poison your mind. You will go far."

Swift's microphone was off. He relaxed. He let his mind wander. He was imagining fucking young Holly when a voice from the control room interrupted Swift's reverie: "Beautiful, Mr. Branchbaum. You handled that young girl with great aplomb. You are the greatest."

Swift smiled at the confirmation of his talent. It came from his own people, but he was sure it was sincere and heartfelt, just as sincere and heartfelt as his conversation with the young listener had been.

###########

Hedda Branchbaum held the long, wet cock in her hand. It was slimy, coated with his and her cum and finally soft. "I am going to go upstairs and wash up. Mr. Branchbaum will be home in a couple of hours."

"Mister Branchbaum. That is so cold.You really don't like him," Orenthal said. "How come you married him?"

Hedda stood up. Man, she was a looker, thought Orenthal Jackson as he let his eyes search her body. Long, shapely legs, nice firm ass, lovely tits with prominent nipples, flat stomach, and that sweet, pretty face with lips that announced they existed for fellatio.

"I needed the money," she said. "I told you I was a whore."

Orenthal said nothing but apparently was not happy with Hedda putting herself down.

"I had to do something after Broward died. He was rich enough to piss away two fortunes, but pissing away three fortunes was just two much. When he died I was left with a Mansion I couldn't afford the upkeep on, debts I was just about able to cover and nothing much else. I was exactly the woman Swift was looking for after his last divorce. I had travelled in the circles he wanted to join. I had been a member of the club since I was born. Rich dad, society mom, cotillion babe. I fit for him. He was super stud with me, the nympho slut, on his arm. In college, I was a Kappa, President of the sorority. When I was a junior, I was ass fucked by both the presidents of the Beta Nu's and the Lambda Gamma's. My rep as the major slut of my group was made. Broward could care less. He was a generous, loving husband. Too bad he was a stinker of a business man. Ol' Swift, the limp tool fool is a lot of things, but bad businessman is not one of those things. Look, Swift, my husband, your boss, will be taking me out for dinner. Tomorrow, we visit Scott Landsford."

End of Chapter 2. In Chapter 3 Hedda is seduced by Scott (if seduced is the right word) while Swift, no cuckold he, doesn't know what is happening. Stay tuned.