Fifteen More Minutes Of Fame

(This is a continuation of Fifteen Minutes of Fame. If you haven't read it, I heartily recommend you do so now, as this story may not make much sense otherwise.)

The phone rang. Not the desk phone, not her official work phone, but her private cell. Only a few people had the number, and they knew not to call, except in actual emergencies. She didn't recognize the incoming caller, but that wasn't surprising; if one of her associates needed to contact her, they used whatever phone was closest, whether or not it belonged to them.

She flipped it open. "Go ahead."

"Ma'am, I just sent you an email with something you need to see." It was Paulsen, one of her senior staff members. No preamble, no wasting time with pleasantries or greetings. She liked that. Time was money, and she had very little of the former to spare. "It's about your children."

Her children. She hated being forced to think about them. Better that they'd both died in infancy. "Is it time-sensitive?"

"Very much so, ma'am. It's supposed to be out in two days, and we're leaning on the network to hold off on airing it, but—"

"I'll deal with it." She ended the call and looked at the phone for a moment, thinking quickly, making a mental list of who to call, and how to handle this, but... First things first. She needed to know exactly what "this" was. It's always more difficult to fight a war when you don't know what you're dealing with.

The text of the email was a copy-pasted transcript, incomplete and poorly edited, of an episode of... but no, surely there had been some mistake. It couldn't actually be from that farce of a confession show. That sick, twisted excuse for entertainment. A joke, perhaps, made in extremely poor taste. If so, someone—probably several someones—were going to get fired for it.

There was a file attached, too. A short video. She opened it.

The image was small, shaky, and low-resolution. A cell phone camera, surely. The clip was less than a minute long. She started it.

By the time the clip had finished, her fists were clenched so tightly that her perfectly manicured nails dug deep into her palms. The gouges in her hand dripped blood across the desk as she reached for the office phone, her hand shaking with barely suppressed rage.

"Diane."

"Yes, Senator Farrington." Prompt and polite, as always. A good hire, that one. Just out of college, still fresh-faced and optimistic. It wouldn't last long. It never did.

"I need to see Roger. Now. Call him, and then get in here." Charity Farrington, Illinois Senator and the self-described last line of defense for conservative family values, looked down at her blood-smeared hand and gritted her teeth. "And bring a wet towel."

Soon, she promised herself. Soon it would be her children's blood on her hands instead of her own. They'd pay for this.

They would pay dearly.

***

"I'm home," Pam sung out, slamming the door behind her. "Why isn't dinner on the table, you miserable fucking excuse for a domestic servant?"

I smiled, hearing the playfulness in her voice. "Eat a dick, sis." I stood up and stretched the kinks out of my back before heading towards the front door. "Work go okay?"

"The usual soul-crushing emptiness. The sort of thing you always feel, but I only get it six or eight hours at a time, which means I'm marginally less pathetic than you are." She pulled off her jacket and lobbed it at the open closet. "So yeah, work was fine." Pam leaned over, apparently aiming for a quick kiss; I had no intention of just brushing lips like that. Eight hours without touching her was way too long for my liking. Instead, as our mouths met, I wrapped one arm around her waist and planted the other on her back, and I made damn sure she wasn't getting away without some tongue.

She didn't seem to mind. Quite the opposite, really. It'd only been a week and a half since we'd taped our television debut, and only a few hours more since we'd started this whole "fucking-each-other" thing, but I'd learned pretty quickly what her little physical quirks and mannerisms meant, and the fingers scraping a path down the back of my neck told me I'd made the right call.

We broke off for air, eventually, and she shoved me away, but without any real force. "Horny little bastard. Let's eat first, assuming you didn't already inhale whatever the fuck was in the fridge."

"Not really hungry." I followed her into the kitchen. "You know, in most of the world, people don't eat dinner at five."

"Yeah, well, in most of the world people don't fuck their siblings, either. Might as rebel against all sorts of things, now that we've started with one."

"Would making a joke about eating out—"

"Yes."

"Forget I said anything, then."

"Done." Pam tossed a couple slices of week-old pizza onto a plate and leaned against the counter. "Anything exciting happen in your shitty existence for a life? And I already know the answer's no."

"Won the lottery."

"Oh yeah? How much?"

"Like ten bucks. Blew it on a bottle of piss-poor gin."

"How you can stomach that shit is beyond me. Makes your breath smell like you brushed your teeth with rubbing alcohol and a pine tree," Her words were barely audible through her half-chewed mouthful. "Save me any?"

"Might be a third of it left, over by the microwave." I watched her grab the bottle and start drinking straight from it. "Hypocrite."

"Don't fucking judge me, you alcoholic piece of shit. Three assholes catcalled me at lunch and my fucking boss keeps leering at me and I'm on the verge of ripping off their off their cocks and making 'em choke to death on their own—"

"No, no, not the drinking part. The fact that you were just talking shit about gin, and now..."

"I finished the vodka this morning. Nothing else around."

So that's where it had gone. "You know, I think both of us might have a drinking problem."

"Yeah, no shit, because once I finish this we'll be out of alcohol."

"That's the oldest fucking joke—"

As it turned out, the cheap gin tasted even worse when mixed with tomato sauce. The fact that I was tasting it secondhand made it a bit better, though.

***

The door handle turned. She did not look up. "You're late, Roger."

"Barely, Senator. I was waiting for your secretary. She seems to have run off somewhere." Roger Stallman, a short, balding, heavyset man with a perpetually bored expression, dropped into the chair opposite hers without being invited. She took the impertinence without blinking. This was not the time to insist on ceremony, and Stallman had been with her since her first campaign. He'd earned the right to be informal. "Heard the news, then?"

"When was it taped?"

"Twelve days ago. Standard turnaround for these things is usually two weeks, so we caught it just in time."

"Not fast enough for my liking, Roger."

He shrugged. "We don't usually monitor these things, Senator. I can honestly say this has never happened before, not for anyone I've worked with, and we're damn lucky we caught it before it actually aired."

"Fine. What can we do?"

"Not much, really. We have to eventually let them air it, or else we'll be the bad guys for shutting down one of the nation's most inexplicably popular shows. The network won't pull the episode or even delay for much longer; they're not too fond of you, Senator, for some of the things you've said about what the media does to families."

"And they're proving my point by doing so."

"Focus, please, Senator. Once we've navigated through this mess you'll have plenty of time to write speeches attacking whatever innocent things you want, but first let's make sure you'll be able to stay in office long enough to do so."

Her nails dug into her palms again, reopening one of the just-closed gashes. "Your concern is noted. Again: what do we do?"

"Prep for damage control, mainly. Run a press conference immediately after the show where you can publicly decry the accusations. Dig up a couple of people who can make statements on how your kids were always insubordinate and rebellious in the face of your impeccable maternal instincts."

"'Impeccable,' Roger?"

"I didn't say they had to be truthful statements. Just statements. We need to build you a safety net. Something that will back up your side of the story. This'll blow over eventually, but we need to make sure you're still standing when it does. My career depends on it as much as yours, I'd bet, and I'm not rich enough to retire right now."

She nodded curtly. "I'll see who we can round up to take my side. Let me know if we can squeeze another day's delay out of the network; the more time we have to prepare, the better."

"Righty-o. I'll get to work on my end. Lots of calls to make." He heaved himself to his feet; she did not rise to see him off, but instead turned back to her computer. He paused with his hand on the door. "Out of curiosity, Senator, how much truth do you think there is to it? Do you really think you screwed them up that badly?"

A lesser man would have run from the expression on her face. "Roger—"

"I mean, you're no paragon of moral purity yourself, you know. If—"

"Get out of my fucking office."

He chuckled as he left, closing the door behind him.

"Diane."

"Mhmmff?"

"No, don't stop. Not until I specifically tell you to. Remind me to dock Mr. Stallman's pay for the next quarter. And your aim is off. Bring your tongue up a little bit higher."

"Mmff, mhmm."

She sighed. It was so hard to find competent help these days.

***

"You know, there's this thing called a bed."

I didn't look up. "Never heard of it."

"It's a great invention. Covered in blankets and shit. More comfortable than the fucking kitchen counter, that's for sure."

"What's wrong with fake granite?" I slid my hands up under her skirt and brushed a knuckle against the front of her panties, feeling her shiver slightly.

"It's cold as balls. If you're gonna do it, just fucking do it and stop trying to tease me, because my ass is freezing out here."

"Hmm." I leaned forward, a hand on each thigh, and kissed the growing wet patch between them, inhaling her scent. "No." Still, I had to admit that she did have a point. My legs were starting to hurt, and I'd only been kneeling on the linoleum for a minute or two. Not that I'd give her the satisfaction of knowing that. This was war, after all.

"Fine. You win. We'll stay here. Satisfied, asshole?"

"Not even close." Pam's panties wouldn't go down very far, as her legs were spread barely far enough to accommodate even me, but they went far enough. I kissed the same spot as before, feeling the slick wetness beneath my lips. "So before I said that we could eat out-"

There was a yank, and I abruptly found myself buried in her crotch, her legs pinning my face in place against her pussy. Her snarled insult faded off into a hissed breath as I started exploring with my tongue, running it in gradually tightening circles. Well, technically they were ovals, but I wasn't particularly concerned with the finer points of geometry.

I took a breath, held it, and went in even deeper, pushing my tongue in between her lips and inside of her as far as it would go. Admittedly, it wasn't very far, but judging from her tightening grip on my neck and back it was working pretty well. My eyes were closed, my senses trained on the bits of Pam I could feel with my mouth and hands, her scent and taste filling my awareness.

"Hey." Her voice was a bit breathless, and there was a playful lilt to it. "You wanna know the worst euphemism I've ever heard for this?"

I shook my head slightly, not willing to stop and answer properly.

"Too bad, because you're hearing it anyway. 'Plundering her cave of wonders.'"

Up until that point, I'd never been able to say that I'd choked on pussy. It wasn't an experience I was keen on repeating; the mixture of laughter and coughing took a few seconds to subside. "Christ on a stick, that's awful. Who would... no, I don't wanna know. I really don't wanna know."

"Actually, some people-"

"I really, REALLY don't wanna know."

"Suit yourself." Pam cleared her throat. "Um. Can you do something else for me?"

I sighed, trying to look sufficiently exasperated. "Anything for you, my radiant goddess."

"Can you pretend to not be a fucking asshole for like two minutes? That's not the request, by the way, but it'd be a pretty nice fucking change for once."

"No."

"Fine. The how 'bout this: talk dirty."

"You mean like Poison? Down the basement, lock the cellar door-" She didn't pull her punch this time. "You bitch. That's gonna bruise."

"I'm trying to be serious here, you prick. Focus. Talk to me. Tell me... I don't know. Say something engaging. You're down there, and there's a disconnect or some shit, and I want you to talk to me."

"Right. I have no idea how to do that, by the way. And I can't really do that and work down here properly at the same time."

"I don't care if you're total shit at it. I still want you to try. And of course you can do both--you've got hands, right? You don't need those to talk. Stop jerking off and start using them."

I cocked an eyebrow. "For your information, I haven't jerked off in at least ten minutes." Resting my chin on the counter, I thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to handle this. "Seems like I'm stalling, doesn't it."

"Look, if you really don't want to-"

"No, no, I'm getting to it." A thought struck me--a plan of attack, so to speak. It made me smile. "Okay. Most of what I know about dirty talk comes from porn, but that doesn't really work for me." I ran a forefinger gently down from her stomach, barely brushing the skin and coming to a halt right above her sex. "Just saying 'oh god I wanna fuck you' or 'your pussy is so hot' is... well, it's fucking stupid, is what it is."

"Are you really-" Her breath hitched as I started to slide my finger in. "Are you really giving a fucking lecture on how to dirty-talk?"

"Both of those things are true, though." I kept on talking, ignoring her words and listening to her breathing. She felt tight even with just one finger inside; slowly, deliberately, I began moving. "You're absolutely fucking beautiful, and having sex with you is basically the best thing in the world. When I'm with you there is literally nothing else I can think about. Just you." I laid my other hand on her lower belly, letting my thumb rest close to her clit--but not directly on it. Not yet. "How're you doing?"

"Not... not bad."

"Oh good." I stretched upward, craning my neck and head towards hers; she leaned down, as I'd hoped for, and kissed me. As our lips touched, I planted my thumb; she jerked back slightly, as sensitive as ever, and then pushed forward harder into the kiss, her tongue meeting mine.

I had to break off first, as my legs didn't really want to cooperate with that position. "I wonder," I said, my thumb now moving rhythmically on her clit. "Do you like the way you taste as much as I do?"

She blushed.

I was so surprised that I actually had to take a second and remind myself where I was and what I was doing. Pam had actually blushed. A full-fledged, red-cheeked, slightly-ducked-head blush. I had never, ever seen that before. Time to seize the moment.

I dove back down, lips encircling her clit, tongue navigating the skin around it as best I could, forefinger curled inside her pussy and stroking her inner walls.

And it was maybe ten seconds later that she grabbed a fistful of my hair, forcing uneven breaths through her teeth, hunched over me in the throes of her orgasm.

When she was finished, I finally let myself fall back into a normal seated position on the floor. My legs would be complaining about this for days. I sure as hell wouldn't be. "You okay?"

Pam nodded, clearly concentrating on getting herself back to normal. "More than okay," she eventually said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Not just for the eating-out. For putting up with my shit."

"I should be the one thanking you for that, I think."

We fell silent, staring at each other in the brightly-lit kitchen.

She smirked. "You've got something on your face."

"Someone's something, more like. And you've got that same something on your thighs." I stood and stretched. "Shower?"

"Sure. You first."

"I, uh, I meant together."

"Pff. Fine."

***

Roger Stallman—and not just 'Roger' when he was working, no matter what his boss said; he was a professional, more or less—was tired of this shit.

It was the same thing, over and over, year after year. Whoever he was working for fucked something up, and they called him to fix it, and they expected him to break the laws of the universe to make everything nice and neat and perfect again. And when the world didn't work out exactly the way they hoped—and the world never worked out like that—he got slapped with a pay cut. Or chewed out in front of some company's board of directors. Or he just got fired.

The Senator'd always been a bitch, even from the start of her first run for office, but she'd only grown more angry and bitter since then. Stallman didn't have much hope that he'd be working for her much longer. A shame, really. She was obscenely rich, and she paid well. Maybe, if he came up with some sort of genius plan, he'd be able to placate her long enough to get him a retirement fund; he wasn't as young as he used to be, and the political game was starting to get stale. He'd been in the industry way too long.

But when he really thought about it, he knew there was no way he could hush this up. Those kids, those maddeningly determined kids, had blown the kneecaps off of the Senator's career, and nothing he could do would fix it.

Unless he went to the kids themselves, of course, and found out what they wanted. But that was probably the stupidest idea he'd had in years. One picture of him with them would sink his career right alongside the Senator's. Hell, they might take the photo themselves and sell it to whichever tabloid offered the most. It's what he would do in their shoes. And if the Senator herself found out, he'd be lucky if he woke up the next morning. There were lots of rumors about how that young idealistic fool of a candidate had actually died before the elections last year; nobody outright accused Farrington of putting a hit on him, of course, but the rumors were there.

He'd have to think of something else. The network wouldn't budge, most of the press was already trying to tear the Senator's policies apart, and there was only so much spin he could pull off on his own. But he couldn't just go talk to her children. He'd be risking more than his job doing that. The very idea was absurd. Completely unprofessional. Insane, even.

Roger was on a plane to Massachusetts within the hour.

***

The doorbell made us both jump. I pushed myself up into a sitting position and muted the TV. "Jesus, it's like eleven thirty."

"Probably a crack whore. Or someone trying to rob you, maybe. They'll just stab you as soon as you open the door." Pam, curled up on the pillows like an oversized cat, smirked up at me. "You should go open the door. Live life dangerously, motherfucker."

"Die in a fire." It rang again. "Okay, fine, I'll get it. Christ."

I jogged to the door and glanced through the window. A short, fat guy, mostly bald, stood there looking bored. No camera, no tape recorder, so he wasn't the press; no knife, and he looked pretty clean, so he wasn't a crack whore or a murderer. Probably. And he looked familiar, somehow, but I couldn't place him.

I unlocked the door and stuck my head out a few inches, wishing I'd thought to put on a shirt. "Um. Can I help you?"

"Hey there, kid. Carl, right?" He held out a hand. "I'm Roger Stallman. I work with the Senator."

Oh fuck. That's how I knew him. He was lurking somewhere in the background at every press conference. He was always there. This was bad. This was really bad. This was...