Chapter 1
Winston Rutledge, United States Senator, sat hunkered over his desk, his tie loose, his head in his hands. His exhaustion was immense; he was an old man, a veteran of three heart attacks, and he tired easily. He had already dissolved one nitrite pill under his tongue. Still, through the waves of weariness that washed over him, his elation lifted him.
The deal had gone as smoothly as the best of them: a contact, a single face-to-face meeting followed by two phone calls, and he was suddenly a millionaire several times over. Now there was no worry about competing for another term, another long, aging six years of back room politics where you survived only if you were strong. And Winston Rutledge knew he was no longer strong.
He ran relatively little risk. Twenty-three years in the Senate as one of the most respected statesmen, with one of the most impressive records; twice he had been sought to run for the presidency, but the weight of the job discouraged him. He had had his ideals, and often fought for them, but he had lived the good life for too long to give it up in favor of long hours and hard work.
And besides, what he had done was not only good for his financial status, it was good for the country. If made public, to be sure, it would be highly unpopular. But what did people know; how could they in their ignorance understand what he understood? In years, when oil began running out, there would be a lot of grateful people, grateful to Winston Rutledge and his little under-the-table deal with one small, insignificant Middle Eastern nation.
Slowly, he relaxed, and enjoyed the rare feeling of a smile playing on his lips. And his joy and relief stimulated another long-idle stirring in him. Deep in his loins, he felt warmth and ache, where there had been nothing for years.
It had been so long, he wasn't sure what to do about it. Certainly, he had heard far more stories than the public about favors secretaries and lobbyists granted their bosses. The way he had heard it, Elizabeth Ray and her little scandal barely scratched the surface of a regular practice of Republicans and Democrats alike.
His head swam with visions as he pushed his comm-linc button, and his secretary answered, "Yes, Senator?"
"Could you step in here, Miss Atkins?" he said.
A moment later, and the door opened. Sondra Atkins," his secretary of the last two years (since old Mr. Rathbone had died), was a tall blonde who wore dresses with long slits up to the thighs, and her breasts rose high and round from her chest. Constantly swollen to the point of near-bursting from the tight clothes she'wore. Suddenly he pained for her, and she saw it immediately in his naive eyes.
"Senator!" she said.
"It's been a long, long time since I've felt like this," he blurted, pleading immediately. "So very long. I.. . I need it."
But she was gone, slamming the door behind her. What had he done?
More important, what was he going to do? His penis, which he had thought forever dormant, was surging with single-minded desire.
Then he remembered. He had heard of a place, a Virginia manor house just outside of D.C. It supposedly provided high-ranking government officials with what he needed. The highest-priced, best-run whorehouse in America, its girls were the cream of the crop, and they serviced only the cream of the crop.
One phone call to another elderly statesman, and he had the address jotted on his official letterhead. Access was his, he was told, by the simple virtue of his face. They had photos of every Congressman, every Senator, every cabinet officer. Anybody whose photo was not in their files required special approval. For special treatment.
He summoned his chauffeur and gave his directions. Judiciously, the chauffeur maintained a passive look, saying only, "Yes, sir."
Rutledge settled back in his plush seat and watched the scenery change from city to rural to country in a matter of three quarters of an hour. He knew he was missing a Senate vote, but it was an unimportant piece of legislation, and the ache in his lap.. .
The limousine finally poked through a clearing, and Rutledge peered over the front seat at the most unique house of ill repute ever established.
It was surrounded by what used to be plantation land, now just uncontrolled, lush, green growth given over to nature. The house itself was from the antebellum period, a thirty-room manor built well before the Civil War, when slaves still provided the cheapest, simplest means to high profits.
The road snaked up to the house, and Rutledge squirmed boyishly in his seat. After they stopped, a servant, an old white man in white tails, opened his door and offered him a hand out, then said, "Follow me."
Rutledge walked behind him, up a set of marble steps and through a ceiling-high set of polished mahogany doors. Once inside, the servant disappeared back to his post, and a distinguished-looking middle-aged woman in an elaborate evening gown took his place. Warmly, a delighted smile highlighting her face, she took his hand. "Senator Rutledge. How nice to have you with us."
Although he had been warned of their familiarity with top-level government men (and a few women), he was nonetheless taken aback. "You know me."
"Come, come, Senator. We pride ourselves on our attention to detail. Surely you've been told that."
"I see what you mean." Rutledge was running the tip of his tongue over his upper lip, his eyes feasting on the woman before him. Thrills choked him as he experienced an erection for the first time in years.
But she only beckoned him to follow her, which he did obediently, his eyes locked on the delicate curves of her swiveling ass. The cling of her dress offered the promise of soft, long, slender legs. His heart pounding, he dared not allow himself think of more. Not yet.
The madam took him into an anteroom, closing the door behind her. "Please, Senator, make yourself comfortable," she said. He settled his bulk into a luxurious leather chair. "My name is Jennifer Diamond, and I welcome you to my house. Can I offer you a drink?"
Rutledge shook his head, and felt the sweat drenching his starched collar.
Jennifer Diamond smiled and pushed a lighted button on the wall. A concealed door in the back of the room clicked open, and an Oriental girl, long black hair cascading down to the cheeks of her slim ass, walked in, wearing only a see-through negligee. She stood inches from Rutledge, and traced a line between her breasts, along her flat belly and finally just touching the top of her pubic triangle. Then she turned, like a model displaying new fashions, and offered a clear view of her ripe, firm butt, then she left, slowly.
She was followed by a blonde goddess, whose pussy, which shown through her silk nightgown, was shaved clean and glistened from some scented liquid she had dabbed there. A black girl with huge tits was next, then a brunette with a tattoo of a limp penis on her shoulder. This one opened her mouth for him and ran her tongue over her glaring-white teeth.
There were others, and then there was only he and Jennifer Diamond, alone.
"That's our line," she said, leaning seductively against a desk. "Which one would you like?"
"Just like that?" he asked.
"Just like that," she said, shrugging and smiling.
Rutledge considered. Each in her own way had made him fill with lust, made him want to shove his reborn hard cock through their delicate curls of pubic hair, and beyond the pink, pliable lips of their pussies. He wanted to fill each of their dark, wet caverns with his newly-generated semen. Faced with Diamond's choice of one-a reasonable offer, after all-who would he pick?
"You," he blurted.
Jennifer Diamond stared at him as though she was certain she had not heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"
"You," he said again. "I choose you."
"I'm afraid I'm not involved in the activities of the rest of the ladies, Senator," she said, firmly but politely. "I am the madam."
But Rutledge had his mind made up. "I'm old," he told her. "Those girls look like . . . like girls. I'd feel I was robbing the cradle. Oh, they're sexy and they stir me, but not like you, Miss Diamond. In you I see passion and experience. In you I see appreciation for the fleetingness of youth, and I see an understanding that allows you to enjoy things and experience things with respect to those years."
Jennifer smiled. "You're quite a speechmaker."
Rutledge grinned back. "Been doing it for a lot of years."
"Well, Senator, you got my vote." She held out her hand, not happy with his age, his wrinkles, his bulk-but she had a job to do. Nobody could leave her house unsatisfied. He took her hand, and its softness and warmth turned his knees to jelly. He let her guide him out of the anteroom and up a flight of curved stairs. It wasn't the wing of the house where the girls entertained their very important guests. She took him through the servant's quarters, and behind them, to her private suite. She led him to her bedroom, done in subdued colors with quiet, unassuming furnishings. A person, two, three, these were the prime focuses of the room.
"Sit down," she told him, and he sat on the edge of her round velvet-covered bed. She reached behind her neck and unsnapped a string of exquisite pearls that decorated her creamy neck.
"I don't usually do this," she said. "It takes money from my girls, and they work hard and deserve it." The pearls were laid on a nightstand, and she stepped out of her shoes, losing two inches of height. She suddenly looked more vulnerable. Rutledge's testicles swelled as his cargo of sperm pushed out a little, anxious to be released through the long-dead, blue-veined, stiff shaft.
Her eyes watched him thoughtfully, and she slowly unzipped the long zipper that ran from her underarm to just below her hip. The gown floated to her ankles, and Rutledge had to catch his breath. She was stunning in a black bra that merely captured the weight of her exquisite bosom; her ripe, round nipples protruded over the top of the flimsy fabric. She wore no panties, and her pubic triangle was sparse, and the curls of the moist hair were tight and trimmed. A black garter belt hugged her hips just above her pussy, supporting stockings with a hint of white in them. Her belly was flat and smooth, and her entire body was without sag or wrinkles. He smelled the scent of musk rising from her ready cunt, and he heard his heart pounding in his ears.
"Do you want me like this," Jennifer asked, "or should I take the rest off?" Her voice had turned husky and throaty, something that happened whenever she became excited. It was a surprise to her. She had fucked so many men as part of her job before she had taken over the reins of the house, and she had sworn she would limit her sexual activities to those she engaged in for personal satisfaction. Yet here was a senator, old and worn, whom she was about to trap between her long, sinewy legs in order to maintain the high reputation of the house. And she felt an itch deep inside her cuntal cavity, a flood of warmth and desire that made the soft, pink lips of her pussy quiver in anticipation. She could feel her lubricants oozing into her vagina, and a bit of the spillover got caught in the curls of her pubic hair. She knew he could smell the aroma, and all she could see of him was the tremendous bulge in the crotch of his pants. She wanted to liberate it, and swallow it in the tight, wet hole between her legs.
Rutledge croaked, "Like that . . . like that." She smiled, a sly, knowing smile, and walked toward him. Her hips swung from side to side, and his eyes rolled back and forth in their sockets as though he was watching a tennis match, zeroed in on the patch, the first he had seen or even contemplated in so many years.
He feverishly tried to ignore the headache the pounding in his ears had created. Suddenly, she was in front of him, standing, her delicious cunt an inch from his sensitive, turned-on nose. He breathed deeply, and his head swam in the intoxicating woman-odor.
"Lick it," she told him.
He looked up at her, at her face beyond the mountainous tits that were suspended above him. She had closed her eyes to narrow slits, and her lips were slightly parted, her face glistening with a fine layer of perspiration. Her hands dangled freely at her sides. Anxious, she had thrust her hips toward him.
His tongue stuck tentatively from his mouth. It flicked hesitantly at air, then the very tip brushed against the lubricated hairs. His taste buds reacted, bursting to life, and he drank the elixir, feeling it glide smoothly and intoxicatingly down his throat. He curled his tongue, and formed a spear that jabbed through the curls of hair and found the soft, pliable lips of her cunt. As his tongue touched her there, he felt her quiver, and her hands came to rest gently on top of his gray-haired scalp. "Ohh, baby," she cooed. He nodded his head so his tongue could slide up and down the length of her wet slit, prying them apart just the slightest bit. It was enough for her juices to flow out, and he swallowed them down like a man dying of thirst.
It all started to flood back to him, the innumerable sexual encounters he had had in his life, how he had satisfied women and they had quenched his burning desire. He remembered how he had gone about it, the different acts, the various techniques. Like riding a bicycle, or swimming, he thought. Once you've done it, you never forget.
Instinctively, he thrust his tongue between her lips and burrowed deep inside her. He heard her gasp and moan a deep, guttural moan, and her grip on his sparse hair tightened. "Do it," she whispered, almost slurring her words beyond recognition. "Come on, do it."
Now his hands had grasped the fleshy cheeks of her ass, pulling her vvaist closer to him. The curl of his tongue found her rock-hard clitoris, and he delighted in the recollection of its feel. Like a small marble, he rolled it in his tongue, sucked on it and pulled at it. Jennifer lost control of her legs, and sunk to the floor, but Rutledge stayed with her, maneuvering to his knees as she settled squirming onto her back. She lifted her knees above her to give his face more access to her aching pussy, and clamped her pillowy soft thighs against his cheeks.
When she came to a shuddering, quaking climax, she actually pulled a small tuft of his thin hair from his scalp, but he hardly noticed. He almost unloosed his own load of semen when he felt her rocking from orgasm, and the rush of liquid escaped her obscenely wide-open pussy and cascaded over his face, drenching him. Her thighs loosened, allowing him to withdraw his head, and he instantly unbuckled his pants and released his throbbing erection.
He looked at his own penis with a large measure of amazement. Like a boy's, he thought. It was stiff and long, mapped with living veins that traced squiggly lines along the meaty shaft. Until now, he had thought of his member as merely a limp piece of flesh, usable only when his bladder was full. Now, he thought with relish, I can use it for what it was meant to be used for.
Jennifer's legs were lewdly splayed, and she panted from the exertion of her climax, unaware that he was about to enter her. He shoved his pants to his knees and hovered over her, his mouth open for her, his tongue lusting for the feel of her own, soft, snake-like tongue.
She opened her eyes in time to see him, his gaping wet mouth inches from her own. She could feel the pulsating cock about to slip between her cuntal walls and fill her, but she knew she couldn't let him do that. Not yet.
She put a hand to her mouth to prevent him from kissing her. "Why, Senator," she said breathlessly. "You've just eaten my pussy."
He looked at her, confused. "Of course I have. And now I'm about to fuck your cunt." He was gasping, and the echoing thud in his brain masked out most other sounds.
She held her hands palms-out to his chest and gently moved him away. "But I like to kiss when a man is inside me. I like all of a man to be wrapped up in me."
"So?" he said, even more confused than before.
"It's just.. . I can't stand the taste of myself. I used to have a boyfriend who like to see me put my finger inside myself, and drench it with my juice, then take it out and lick it."
Rutledge's heart skipped a beat as he pictured the scene in his head.
"I'd always come close to throwing up," she said. "And now, you've got me all over your tongue. Let me get you a glass of water to wash it away."
Disappointed, but still at the peak of excitement, Senator Winston Rutledge agreed. She wriggled out from beneath him and he drank in the sight of her walking to the wet bar, where she filled a glass with tap water and returned it to him.
He kicked his pants free and loosened his tie, then swiftly drank the stuff down. He tasted the thick, heady taste of her cunt wash away, and his mouth returned to its normal state of dryness.
She settled on her knees in front of him. "Now.. . " she said, took his face gently in her soft, caressing hands and pulled it close. Her lips, full and moist, brushed his, then pressed against them. The feel of them warmed him to his usually icy feet. He felt them part, and he opened his own mouth in response, letting her hot, doughy tongue find his, encircle it and play with it.
He almost hit the ceiling when her hand, which he had not been aware of, grabbed his cock. It was ecstasy. Her hands felt entirely feminine as they slid down the length of his shaft and held it in a fist. She pulled her tongue back in her own mouth, kissed him again, and pulled her lips from his. She moved her mouth along his rough face, kissing and licking, until she was at his ear, blowing soft streams of hot breath into it.
"Senator," she hissed, and he moaned as the jet of hot air sent a massive chill along his spine. 'That's some cock you've got, for a man your age. You should be proud." Her hand opened, and traced the soft underside of his penis until it found the swollen testicles. She cupped them in her palm, and tugged gently at them while she breathed exciting words in his ear.
He was hardly aware she was pushing him back, onto the floor. But she was, and when she had him there, she swung a leg over his hip and straddled him. His stiff cock was an arrow, pointing to the slightly-spread pussy just above it.
"I want you," he sputtered.
"And I want you, Senator," she said, settling down on top of him.
He was awake to every shred of sensation, every hint of feeling. His spongy cock head brushed her lips, then, following the same path his tongue had taken, spread the lips apart. With agonizing slowness, she let her cunt swallow his cock a centimeter at a time, and he lifted his head to watch it disappear beyond the now-sopping patch of hair that guarded the entrance he was now violating.
Each inch she took in forced out another gasp or sigh, and she nearly choked when she took him all in, right up to his dangling balls. For an old man, he certainly was huge. She rose up above him, nearly allowing his revitalized cock slip out of her, then jammed it back up inside, hard, falling back on him. Rutledge screamed, and buried his fingernails into the flesh of her hips. She rose again, and he glimpsed at his shimmering shaft, coated in a layer of her tasty lubricant. Then it disappeared again as she fell back onto him, her ass settling on his thighs.
He reached up and took one of her glorious, firm breasts in each hand, and ran his finger over each stiff nipple. It excited him to watch her run her hands through her hair, pulling at it and bunching it up only to release it and let it glide over her face, turning her into a desire-ridden animal. She humped faster, impatient for each thrust for the friction against her clitoris it brought. Then she felt him explode inside her, the hot rush of sticky cum filling her pussy, and the heat of his ejaculation thrilled her, giving her the final boost she needed for her own orgasm. She knew she was probably bruising him with the fitful throes of ecstasy she experienced, but she didn't care. She only wanted her orgasm to keep going on.
It didn't though, and when she found herself gasping down breath, sweaty and spent, she looked down at him. He had gone limp inside her, and he was asleep, breathing slowly and deeply in his childlike slumber.
Quite a lay, she thought as she rose, letting his tiny little cock fall from her. Look how peaceful he is. She smiled.
The black limousine careened back toward Washington. Rutledge had slept longer than he had intended, and there was a key vote he could not miss. "As fast as you can," he ordered the chauffeur.
The chauffeur, upset that Rutledge had been inside with one of the finest fucking ladies in the world while he waited outside with a tempermental Cadillac, gladly floored the car, and flipped the radio on. News. Nothing important, just the usual scandals and wars and deals.
No police bothered with the speeding limo, since it bore the license plates of a U.S. senator, one of 100 elite human beings chosen because of wealth and status to formulate the laws of the nation. The chauffeur screeched to a halt in front of the Senate wing of the Capitol Building-Rutledge had said he had no time to stop at his nearby offices.
The chauffeur leapt from his seat and opened the passenger door in the back. Rutledge, pale and quite stiff, slumped out and spilled onto the street. Later, the chauffeur learned a heart attack had killed him. When he was alone, he had a good, long laugh at that. Old men shouldn't fall in with young whores, he thought. No, indeed.