Alexander Walton's first few weeks in the West Wing were a blur. He almost wished he was Dwight the Dweeb Boy again, when he was last completely comfortable in his own skin. Ambassador Pliskin, now National Security Advisor Pliskin, threw everything at him, hoping perhaps to burn him out. Somedays he felt like he did during his first few weeks at MIT, an overwhelmed kid, sandblasted by the fast flow of data, granular with detail, and unable to tell which datum was trivial and what was key information.
"That's the job, kid!" Pliskin seemed to love being in the heat of things, and he thrived while Alexander struggled. "It's a fuck load better than being on the outside, not knowing what is going on and wondering how bad the previous bunch of Bozos was screwing it all up! It's never boring. Boring is what scares me."
Alexander was never bored. He was either working as hard and as fast as he could, or he was catching a few hours of sleep. Even his dreams were mostly alternate scenarios from work playing out in his mind. He got to his coat closet sized office at 6 AM, ran ragged all day prepping for and attending meetings, and rarely left before 10 PM. He used to envy the people "in the know" that got the PDB; now he contributed to it and was anxious about the follow up questions POTUS or cabinet members would ask, which usually generated a lot of work for Alexander to research, synthesize and summarize the available data. He wasn't shy about walking around and asking people to explain things to him, meeting a lot of them who did not know him and did not believe he had clearance to hear their answers. But the Ambassador always endorsed his requests, and nobody ever froze him out twice.
Carmencita was proud of his new job, even though she wasn't supposed to talk about it, and very pleased with his new salary, but she was getting tired of spending so much time at home without him. She threw herself into her job, and her reputation for spectacular rehab success continued to grow within the agency. They were cautious about discussing their workdays with each other. Dwight was cleared for hearing about the activity of most of the people she worked on, but compartmentation was the order of the day. She was not cleared for what he worked on.
She became a compulsive exerciser, trying out all the new stuff from her rehab journals as her exercise routines while watching Netflix or network TV each night. She was in great shape, and when Alexander got home, usually during the 10 PM newscast, he worshipped her body properly. That kept her sane, and happy. Barely.
He was walking into Pliskin's office to drop off some of the one-page issue summaries with wide margins for annotation that Pliskin and POTUS both favored, when a familiar voice caused him to pause outside the open door. The Ambassador waved him in.
"Come in Alexander. I believe you know my daughter Suzanne?"
Suzanne smiled warmly, in an almost predatory way, and crooned, "Hello, Dwi..."
Her father interrupted. "Ixnay on the Ightdway, there Suz! I suppose I should formally introduce you to Alexander Walton, my new deputy."
No one else called her "Suz" and lived to tell about it. But her father had always called her that. She felt sympathy for Dwight, er, ah, Alexander. Her father burned through deputies and assistants the way a carpenter's nail gun went through nails. But she knew this one was tougher and smarter than most, and very memorable.
Dwight was frozen in thought, suddenly transported back to that Austin hospital room where he was trussed up after his injury and at Suzanne's tender mercy. He had a big involuntary erection and a small confused smile on his face.
The Ambassador filled the silence. "Suzanne has a new position as an assistant professor at GWU, and she is also going to be doing some consulting work for the administration on developing economies in the third world."
Alexander's instincts for self-preservation finally kicked in. "Perhaps you should meet my wife, Carmencita, in the near future?"
Suzanne's smile faded. "Perhaps."
+++++++++++++++++++
The trip to Torquay was designed to treat my recent Summer Mawn withdrawal symptoms, sort of a self-indulgent prelude to properly training her to reach her sexual potential and carry on without me after I returned to Austin. I had a plan for that, a rather good one I thought, but it was overcome by events quite quickly. What started as a dalliance in Devon became a very unexpected and wild experience for Summer, jump starting her final training in ways I could not have devised.
Our choices for places to stay on the "British Riviera" were limited somewhat by our finances and the desire to bring Mallory along with us. I had never been to the French Riviera, but I had been to the "Redneck Riviera" in Alabama and Mississippi, and the "Texas Riviera" in Port Aransas and Port Isabel, and the dog friendly choices were about the same. We booked ahead and I even got a discount when I supplied my father's frequent flyer number. It's a big data global village now. Summer swapped shifts with other firefighters and I prevailed upon OHH to give me a few extra days off, so we were clear for a Thursday through Thursday vacay.
Instead of tents or sleeping in the van at what I would call a campground for campers and Summer called a caravan park, we had booked a room in an old but still serviceable hotel well past its prime, and several blocks from the water. It didn't quite achieve its former Victorian splendor but was at least affordable and clean.
Once we had stored our stuff in the room, and Mallory had sniffed and approved the area and settled in her double-locked crate for a while, we headed for an early dinner in the dining room, which had a reputation much loftier than the hotel alone. The restaurant was full of locals in addition to tourists like us. The food was surprisingly good, and Summer, a very discerning culinary customer indeed, announced we should come back, in addition to trying some of the other places she had researched.
We went up to our room, took Mallory out for a walk, then returned and shed our clothes. Although Summer and I had been going at it several times each evening since I got back from Texas, my thirst for her juices had returned, and for desert I feasted between her thunder thighs and listened happily to the sweet Suzie music she played as I did so. After her second and surprisingly short refractory period, I turned her over and did her doggie style while her doggie watched. I slammed into her with abandon, and as she got into the rhythm, a stray image popped up on her Suzie carrier. Drummond McFadden, in the romanticized flesh! Shirtless, with hair a foot long and atop a big black horse, no less.
Well, truth is truth, I suppose, my ego notwithstanding. Where is Asa Weltschmerz when you need him? My only available psychoanalyst was always the persona of my mother that I carried with me, and I could hear her now. What is the worst thing that could happen? I would lose Summer to Drummond? I was going to lose her anyway, and Drummond was a good guy, and I know he liked her, too. Perhaps I'll have to modify my plan for Summer a bit.
But if I wasn't careful, I might lose my erection. I looked down on Summer's wonderous backside, and thankfully John Henry the pile drivin' man soon joined in, steeling me to my task. Perhaps it was a little burst of testosterone that prompted my next thought.
"Summer, you slut, before I leave for Texas, you are going to have to show me you can take on two men at once, you know."
Her heavy breathing stopped, she grunted, and came, hard. The Suzie signal image of Drummond dismounted the horse and walked purposefully towards her mouth. Then she took in a giant, gasping breath. I was on a roll.
"Not just in your mouth, either!" I pulled out of her pussy and dramatically entered her perfect pucker. So tight and so right! She began keening, and I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, hard. She came again, just as I finished off too. What a woman.
It took us both a good five minutes to stop the heavy breathing. Summer spoke first, of course.
