Chapter 10
By the time Lisa was seventeen, she had turned into one of the great sexpots of the South. Her figure was nothing short of sensational, with wide splendid hips, a flat belly, long gracefully-shaped legs, and the most magnificent pair of boobs ever to be a feast for a man's eyes.
She had long since learned that sex was the ultimate fun game, and that once her desire was aroused she could be the horniest girl on the block. She tried, of course, to keep that her secret, and outwardly looked like a prim, innocent girl, ready to swoon at the sight of a rambunctious cock. The swoon, in truth, would have been the result of lust more than of fear, but who would know that?
Greta, who knew a good thing when she licked it, had kept in touch with Lisa, and invited her up to Washington after she left school. Poor Lisa was not the greatest student in the world. Her focus was more on pleasure than on intellect. When she came to Washington, she was overpowered by the magnificent buildings and by the beauty of the city. She thought it might be a nice place to work in, but unfortunately she had little training for anything.
Greta, who had not seen Lisa for almost a year, was delighted at the way she had developed, becoming sexier in every way, and she insisted that Lisa stay with her until she could find her own place. Greta was working for one of the top congressmen, a man of great dignity and robust lust. He had discovered early that she was a better "suckertary" than a typist, but that was all right. After all, it was quite important, he figured, for a congressman to be kept happy so that he could do a decent job for his constituents. If you didn't have peace of mind, it sort of screwed your thinking. Anyway, that was how he justified his use of Greta, who knew exactly what to do when Congressman O'Toole asked her to come in for a little dictation.
He dictated, of course, that she give him a blow job, and take her time about it.
O'Toole did a good job politically; he was immensely popular with other politicians, and could do a lot to help them in important little ways. He was a benefactor to them, especially when it paid off, and he knew how to manipulate the world pretty damned cleverly.
He did a conscientious job for his constituents, for he knew that the voters somehow paid off at the polls if he worked hard to see that government profited them a bit. After all, that was democracy. He did his bit for your county, just as the other politicos did it for theirs, and in the long run it all evened out.
So O'Toole never felt the least bit uneasy if he got a good chunk of the "pork barrel" for his constituents—or for himself.
So when he first discovered Greta, a voluptuous hussy with the sort of boobs that beat him over the head, he hired her instantly, to discover later that she was not the world's greatest typist. But it scarcely mattered.
After all, she was a great cocksucker, as he discovered quickly enough. He discovered it when they had to work late one night. He had some booze in the office, and poured a bit for them both while they were taking a break.
They were sitting together on the sofa, and just by accident she let her hand brush over his pants. He had been thinking about the housing bill, to which he wanted to make some contributions on the floor next day; but the touch of her hand on his cock was like the touch of a flame.
He couldn't concentrate anymore on business; instead he stared at her tits. The way they pushed against her dress was a crime, and he had the wildest urge to open the dress and nuzzle on her tit.
He wondered what would happen if he did such a thing. There was a soft, permissive quality about Greta, an low-key attitude that made him think she would not be shocked if he were suddenly to open his zipper and bring out his truncheon. She was a cool doll, and he had had secret lusts for her in the middle of the night.
But naturally in his position, he could not afford to get lightly involved.
He would have loved to get his dick heavily involved, though, if that were possible.
He began then to talk about the heavy responsibilities of his job, and how they left so little time for him to find a way to ease the burden. He needed, he said, someone who could understand him, who appreciated the burdens of office, and who had a sense of playfulness, so he could occasionally shed the cares of his position.
Greta understood instantly what he was talking about, for she was a woman of wide experience, and in her time she had confronted a whole barrage of cocks that needed relief from the cares of the world. She understood what to do about them, and she smiled charmingly at O'Toole.
"I think I understand what you mean," she said, and her tongue slipped out of her mouth to lightly lick her lips.
O'Toole was positively enchanted at the sight of her tongue, and he suggested they have another drink. Anyway, he said, it was silly to overwork at this time of the night.
"The night," he said, "was made for fun. We ought not to overdo our obligation to the citizens. If we work too hard, it will lower our efficiency."
"Yes, Congressman," she said. " 'The night was made for fun.' How well you put it. You have, if I may say so, a knack for the right phrase. I have noticed it before."
He smiled at her. This girl had a fine potential for passionate appreciation, he decided, and he would cultivate her.
He poured more drinks, and they sipped and loosened up a bit more. He was looking at her tits now with much more confidence, aware that there was a good chance that he might be licking those luscious lumps shortly.
The thought made him drool, and he drank some more.
As for Greta, she liked the virile-looking O'Toole, whose red face she took for a sign of a hot nature. If she appreciated anything, Greta really enjoyed a stud, a man who believed in the good life, who liked to fuck, liked to eat, liked good living. Greta had a very simple philosophy of life: Enjoy thyself. And wherever she found herself in life, she tried industriously to live up to that dictum. It took a hell of a lot of discipline to stay with it, too, because so many earnest people were fascinated with the work ethic in this country.
But she knew well enough how to steer a clear passage to pleasure, and when she had been hired by Congressman O'Toole, she had deliberately pushed her tits at him, so that he would get the idea that there was more to her than just a working partner. She believed in communicating very clearly the promise of pleasure to someone who was important.
In that way she could enjoy the pleasures of the bed, and the good things of life: good food, comfort, luxurious surroundings. Greta was not a pupil in the school of self-denial.
So when O'Toole, flushed with bourbon, laughingly patted her thigh, she smiled at him, letting him know that his touch was most delightful to her, and strongly to be encouraged.
And when he put his arm over her shoulder, she leaned into him a bit, and turned so that her heavy tit made contact with his chest. O'Toole felt a bit of a burn where it touched him. And then he felt his tool respond, lazily stirring, aware that there were erotic possibilities very close-by.
And there surely were, for when he turned to face her, he found her face close to his, looking warm, affectionate, and expectant. So he planted a kiss on her lovely mouth, and felt her answering pressure. He put his arms around that buxom body and kissed her more fervently, especially when her tongue slipped out like a quick snake and probed his mouth, sliding over and around his tongue.
Before he knew what was happening, she had let her hand fall upon his pecker, which was pushing hard against his pants, as if trying to get a straight look at the choice morsel that was doing such enchanting things to him.
This excited O'Toole more than ever, and he boldly reached inside her dress to cup his hand against her bare tit, finding her nipple plump and erected. He pinched it playfully, then pulled the breast out and went for it like "an arrow to its mark, taking the nipple firmly in his mouth and licking up a storm.
Greta was delighted that the congressman was not too slow. To encourage him still further, she reached down, unzipped his pants with practiced fingers, and reached in for the political pecker that was straining to get a glimpse of the world.
It was not a bad hunk of meat, she thought and fitted it firmly into her palm. She looked down at it, and its blind head gaped up at her, all flushed with passion, its one eye staring steadily at her, its veins pumping beneath the flesh.
At the sight of the cock, Greta's motor turned on full-blast, for she had always loved the sight of cock, and her craving now was to tuck this one into her hot pussy. But O'Toole was not a man to rush these things. He pushed her head down to it.
"Give it a couple of licks," he coaxed her.
Some nice loving licks, she thought, as she bent down to the pecker, which waited anxiously for a bit of caressing. She got her tongue on the head and licked it gently, then moved down the shaft, meanwhile balancing his balls in the palm of her hand. She held his balls so that his cock curved up toward her mouth, and she began to give him some fantastic head, sucking, licking, kissing, nibbling—a long, lingering, loving treatment that made him slide back on the sofa, hypnotized with pleasure.
When she got him way up there, way high on the mountain, just waiting for the devastating blast to sweep him up to heaven, Greta came to a screeching stop.
"Don't stop.!" he pleaded. "Not now'."
"My poor darling," she said in a warm affectionate tone, as she pulled her clothing off. "I know exactly how you feel. However, we're going to take good care of him. We're going to put him exactly where the brute belongs."
By this time she was totally nude, and her voluptuous body was a feast for his eyes, and her honey-cunt was spread in front of him. She raised his tool, and sat on it, letting it impale her cunt, wiggling until she had taken the whole weapon deep into her.
"Ahhhh," she sighed rapturously, for it surely was a moment of joy for her. She had built up his prick to its most splendid development, and the heat and hardness of it in the depths of her cunt was pure pleasure for her. She had no intention of letting Mr. O'Toole fire his load, and leave her wandering in the depths of misery with a hot empty cunt. Not by a long shot. A girl like Greta always thought of the ultimate goal, and that was for her to get her big blows, her orgasms. She understood very well the reason why men were born —to turn her cunt on to the big 0!
So she jiggled her ass up and down on his cock, while he lay on the sofa, his hands going to her tits to caress their heavenly heaviness.
He didn't even have to move his rump, for she did her thing above him, bouncing energetically and squeezing her cunt muscles on his cock. It was the warmest, coziest feeling he had had for a long time.
It was even better than delivering an eloquent speech in the House to the applause of the galleries.
This Greta was a find, he was thinking, as she kept up the long sweet stroking of her cunt over his cock. He would certainly keep his head clear of the worries of office as long as he could tempt her to give him head on those days when he suffered the pangs of a frustrated prick.
A guy needs to get his balls worked over, he thought as he watched her splendid young body work marvelously over his cock, squeezing small droplets of juice out of it, tokens of what was to come. She knew how to give a guy a good time, all right. He leaned back luxuriously on the sofa, letting her do the work.
After all, a conscientious congressman had to save his energy for the nation. And if she did the labor of love, he would have that much more energy for running the country.
Congressman O'Toole smiled to himself, He had the best of two worlds, the world of politics and the world of pleasure. He couldn't ask for anything better. It didn't cost him a nickel, either, because the girl's salary came out of the national treasury.
It was a terrific system. The girl got a fine salary, and he got his balls cleaned out, so that his mind could work better for the sake of the country. Everything worked out beautifully for everybody.
Her cunt was squeezing his cock hard, and the delicious sensations were piling up. She was not a quick screw, for she knew when to slow down and when to speed up, as she pumped her haunches over his cock and balls.
It was a lazy kind of fuck; and he enjoyed that once in a while. Of course, later, he would show her some more sophisticated pleasures. He liked, for example, to paddle a girl's butt. It gave another dimension to the enjoyment of sex. To beat her ass would be nothing short of delicious, he thought. They would get to that sort of thing eventually.
But now she was still riding him, and he was about to reach the promised land. He grabbed her buttocks ferociously and began to pump his cock into her in rhythm with her bouncing movements. They both went off at the same time, and her spasming cunt milked his cock of its juice. When it was over, she leaned forward to plant a sweet, gentle kiss on his nose.
The congressman was enchanted with his discovery of Greta. He soon found that she was something of a nympho, with an insatiable cunt; so rather than be a hog about her, he slipped her to a couple of his intimate friends occasionally. She never minded, for she was quite greedy for cock, and naturally the boys in the back rooms didn't mind either.
She had proved to be a discreet little hussy, so everything was okay—quite perfect, in fact.
The political boys never felt that they were doing anything wrong. Congressmen were just as human and as horny as anyone else. Why shouldn't they be allowed to indulge in a bit of playful poontang when it didn't hurt anyone?
That's how they figured it. They congratulated themselves on the good life they had, and were naturally quite discreet about it.
So things were going nice and harmoniously in the arena of political sex when Lisa came to Washington for a visit.