Chapter 4

Daphne had a bad habit: she was constantly drawing comparisons between her ex-fiance and other men she met. Not sexual comparisons-just a first impression sort of analysis; the way a man's initial impact made her feel, versus the way he had made her feel.

So it was in the city room of the Washington Tribune as she followed the pointed finger of a receptionist across the cavernous room to Greg Stafford. He was hunkered over his typewriter, his white sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His ratty tweed coat hung gracelessly over the back of his swivel chair and his narrow black tie had been yanked loose and the top button of his shirt undone. His hair was disheveled, and he wore a frantic look of deep, urgent concentration.

His hair was sandy brown, and his looks were boyishly handsome, down to the dimples that creased his mouth as he frowned. From his seated position, he appeared to be unexercised, but otherwise in very good shape.

She approached his desk and stood for a few minutes in front of him, waiting to be noticed. Finally she cleared her throat, and he looked up.

She was a knockout, he knew by looking at her, but he didn't have time for any of that. "Look, lady," he said, "I'm very busy and I don't need any Avon products."

"My name's Daphne Rogers, Mr. Stafford, and I work for Senator Will Roland."

That caught his interest. He pulled out the chair beside his desk and invited her to sit down. He couldn't help following the sturdy outline of her figure as she sat, his gaze ending at her smooth, sexy knees. "What can I do for you?"

"I think perhaps we can do something for each other. I'm trying to find out who's behind all the leaks that have been going on."

Stafford nearly jerked out of his chair. When he recovered himself, he stood and asked her to follow him.

She walked behind him as he led her to the vacant city editor's office, and closed the door. .

"Isn't that a little heavy for a pretty lady like yourself.' You realize you're probably dealing with some pretty rough customers."

"I figured that much out," she said. "I was hoping we could work together."

"Maybe," Stafford said, calculating the plusses and minuses. "First, tell me what you know. Like, for instance, how did you find out I was working on the story? I've tried to keep that a secret."

She could find no harm in telling him, so she said, 'There's a press secretary out there with loose lips."

"Not usually," Stafford counted. "What did you give him to make him talk?"

Daphne smiled. "I just scratched his back."

Stafford smiled back, and she liked his smile. It was warm and intelligent and honest. "I like you, Daphne," he said. "What else have you got."

"Off the record?" she said.

"Agreed."

She told him about Congressman Whitlock, and his connection with Senator Roland. She told him about Whitlock's business, but left out what she already knew about Rutledge. She figured he already knew more than she about that.

"Whitlock, eh? He's a real goer, you know, very popular in political circles. Maybe we should talk to his wife. She's a regular D.C. socialite, isn't she?"

"I.. . already talked to her," Daphne said, trying not to show her discomfort with the subject. "She doesn't know anything."

"All right, then. Who would want to nail Whitlock, and why?"

Daphne stared at him, confused. "Listen, people don't go around leaking confidential information for recreation," he said. "There's got to be a reason."

"Money," Daphne said. "They told him they'd keep quiet if he paid up."

Stafford drummed his fingers on the city editor's desk. "That's a new twist," he said. "All the other leaks have been done to ruin careers, not make a buck. Maybe it's not related."

"Maybe it is," she said.

He drummed his fingers some more. "All right, Daphne, you're in. I know this guy who's pretty tight with Whitlock and a couple other members of the liberal wing. I think we should go have a chat with him."

Daphne grinned. Now she was getting somewhere.

Stafford, two-time Pulitzer winner, drove a shabby Fiat down the streets of D.C. and out into the woods. After a few minutes, he turned down a bumpy dirt road that wound up to a stately two-story house surrounded by an electronic fence. Stafford pulled up to a two-way speaker, and announced himself. The gate swung open automatically, and the Fiat sputtered up to the front door of the house.

Daphne followed him up the marble steps, and waited with him for the door to open. When it did, she was confronted by a monster of a man, close to seven feet tall and weighing perhaps 300 pounds, all of it rock-hard muscle. He was definitely an Arab.

"Mr. Stafford," the man said, "how nice to see you. Mr. Hassan is unfortunately indisposed at the moment, but he asks you to wait in the drawing room."

Stafford grinned widely for some reason, and led Daphne to a large room with a stone fireplace and walls lined with thousands of books.

"Mr. Hassan lives well," he told her after the hulking servant had closed the door, leaving them alone.

"Apparently. Why are you so happy to be in this room?"

"Come on. I'll show you."

On a far wall, between two lavish, rosewood bookshelves, hung a curtain. "Two-way mirror," Stafford said, pulling the chord on the curtain. "Hassan knows I'm here, and he knows I'll be watching." He laughed. "Hassan likes to be watched. He's a real performer."

Their view through the mirror was crystal-clear. Hassan was the only man in the room, a short, muscular fellow with a rich Arab coloring to his skin-all of it, Daphne could see, because he was naked.

So were the three women that worked on him. He lay on several floor pillows covered in satin, spread out on his side. One of the woman, a black girl with chocolate-colored skin, had Hassan's thick, blood engorged member in her mouth, and Daphne's eyes widened as she saw just how thick it was. She could see it protruding through the girl's cheeks, and her mouth worked with serious concentration on the cock. Another girl, this one a white girl of Amazon proportions, straddled Hassan's face, and Daphne could see his mouth working vigorously on her sopping cunt as she gyrated, stroked her breasts and moaned above him. He was gripping her ass with his chubby fists, and his long index finger had vanished deep inside her puckered anus.

The third girl, Oriental, lay behind him, her tongue wedging up inside Hassan's own asshole.

Daphne turned away. "Wait," Stafford said. "You've got to see the finale. Always the same. Arabs have bizarre sex habits, you know."

"No," Daphne said hoarsely. "I didn't."

After a minute, Hassan suddenly jerked his face away from the pussy on which he had been dining, and pushed the lips away that had been feasting on his cock. He rolled over on his back, pulling his wet, tongue-worked rectum away from the tongue that had been there.

The black girl, who was blessed with monstrously large tits that sagged just a little of their own weight, but still stood firm and erect, lay on her back, although nobody had said a thing.

Hassan straddled her belly, and eased his rigid, veined cock past her breastplate and through the cleavage of her two massive fleshy mounds. She pressed her breasts together, trapping the cock there, and Hassan began the first of many slow, luxurious thrusts that saw his cock-head poke through near her chin, then withdraw slowly back to her breastplate.

Meanwhile, the Oriental girl settled her sopping cunt over the black woman's face, and rested on her knees, her eyes closed and her tongue licking her lips as her pussy was eaten expertly. The white Amazon positioned herself between the black's quivering knees, and went to work on her pussy.

Everything inside Daphne told her to turn her back, but she couldn't. She was enthralled, and deep inside herself, she wished she was the Amazon eating the black girl's beautiful, shiny pussy.

Hassan bellowed suddenly, and a jet of white hot cum burst from his penis-hole, leaving its wake on the huge black breasts and splattering violently against the belly of the Oriental. The black girl shivered, trapping the Amazon's head between her chocolate thighs, and the Oriental, an agonized look of orgasm masking her face, reached in front of her and grabbed the black's tits in the tightest fist she could make; the hugely erect nipples protruded between her taut fingers.

They all fell back limp, and Hassan looked at the mirror and through his exhausted expression, he smiled.

Stafford smiled back. Then the room went dark. A few minutes later Hassan, wearing an expensive silk smoking robe, came into the study through the same doors Daphne and Stafford had passed. His hand was extended in welcome.

"Ah, my dear Gregory, and how are you? And who, may I ask, is this vision of beauty?"

Stafford took Hassan's hand and shook it congenially. "I'm fine, you old goat. And so are you, I see." He jerked his head in the direction of the two-way mirror, which he had recovered with the curtain.

"This is Daphne Rogers, a friend of mine. We're working on a story together."

Daphne started. It hadn't even occurred to her that her assistance in this matter would aid Stafford in his story, and possibly another Pulitzer. She suddenly wondered if she had made the right decision coming to him for help.

"Miss Rogers," Hassan said, grasping her hand in both of his. His palms were moist and warm, and Daphne felt distinctly uncomfortable. "A true pleasure. You would be a most welcome addition to my harem."

Daphne bristled, but Stafford patted her shoulder and whispered, "It's a compliment. Thank the man."

Gutting it up, Daphne said, "I'm honored."

Hassan smiled widely, showing brilliant white teeth marred by many gold caps. "Now, my friends. May I pour you some wine?"

He poured a sparkling, clear white wine from a crystal carafe, and handed out glasses brimming with the fluid. They drank, and Stafford praised Hassan on his excellent taste in liquors. Only when their glasses had been drained and refilled did Hassan ask them about their business.

"This story of yours, Gregory. I imagine I can be of some assistance?"

"I don't know. Right now, though, you're the only lead I have. You do have the uncanny knack of knowing what's going on in this town."

Hassan grinned nastily. "I make it my business." He looked to Daphne. "Perhaps you would like to tour my humble home?"

Daphne started to say no, she was here on work, but Stafford pulled her aside brusquely and whispered to her: "Take a tour. Arabs don't talk business in front of women, and besides, you might find something out that I can't learn in here."

She nodded, even though she believed the wool was being pulled over her eyes. Again, she gritted her teeth and said, "I'd be honored."

Hassan clapped his hands, and the Oriental girl Daphne had seen through the two-way mirror entered the room. "My dear," Hassan said to her. "Miss Rogers would be most interested in a guided tour of our humble residence. Would you be good enough to show her around?"

The Oriental girl bowed deeply, took Daphne's hand and led her out. Daphne strained to hear any words that might pass between Hassan and Stafford, but they remained silent until the thick double doors were closed behind her.

Reluctantly, she followed the girl up a winding staircase, down an ornate hallway. 'This is your first visit here?" the girl asked in perfect but accented English.

"Yes," Daphne said.

"My name is Kim."

Daphne told her her name. "Exactly what is it Mr. Hassan does?" she asked.

"He is a man of business," Kim said coyly. "What is your work?"

Daphne realized the Oriental was playing an inscrutable game, and decided to play along. "I find things out. And you?"

Kim batted her lush eyelashes, and looked at the floor, where her dainty feet padded along the expensive antique carpeting that ran the length of the hallway. "Ever since I was a little girl, I have been trained to satisfy the desires of men. Important men."

"Mr. Hassan is important?"

"You are very clever, Miss Rogers," Kim said. 'This is my master's bedroom." She pushed open a finely-polished rosewood door, to reveal an ornate bedroom done in whorehouse red velvet. Expensive but tacky, Daphne thought.

They wandered about the room, Daphne fingering antique pieces and putting them back where she found them without interest.

"Have you always been with Mr. Hassan?" Daphne asked after they left the room, headed for the sauna.

"No," Kim said, unhappiness filling her delicate, trained voice. She said nothing more.

"Then you worked for some other important man before you fell into Mr. Hassan's employ?"

"No, madam," she said. "I worked for an important man several months ago, but he retired and returned to his native country. Since I had no money, I had to take other employment."

"Where?"

"I am sorry, madam. I am not permitted to speak of it." She pushed the door to the sauna open and they were greeted by a tall, dark Arab whose body rippled from oft-exercised muscles. "This is Rumak, and he is Mr. Hassan's personal masseuse. Perhaps you would be interested in a massage?"

"I don't think so," Daphne said.

"You wouldn't object if I availed myself of Rumak's special services?"

Perturbed, Daphne said, "Of course not."

Kim wore a loose-fitting Oriental robe, and she tugged gently at the sash that held it together. It fell daintily to her ankles, leaving her naked. Daphne had to concentrate to keep from gazing at her ripe, small body. Her experience with Carolyn still fresh in her mind, she felt her mouth go dry, the moisture instead replenishing itself in her tight pussy. She pressed her thighs together.

Kim stretched luxuriously on Rumak's massage table, and the hefty Arab began expertly massaging her shoulders. "He is most excellent at the art of massage. You must give it a try." Kim hesitated, then asked, "Am I not beautiful?"

Daphne was unprepared for the query, but responded instinctively. "Yes. Very beautiful."

"You, also, Miss Rogers, although you remain encumbered by your clothing. Won't you undress?"

She thought about refusing, but remembered her primary objective was information. Still, she was uncomfortable. Kim noticed her looking at Rumak. "Oh, don't worry about him," she said with a flowery laugh. "He is most accustomed to the sight of unclothed women." Daphne looked at Rumak, but he continued to concentrate on Kim, having moved his hands' now to the small of her back, which he chopped at with his raw, powerful hands.

Daphne thought about her boss, about Rutledge and Whitlock, and about Greg Stafford. She had to find out what she could. Shaking slightly from nerves, she shed her clothes.

"Yes," Kim said, her eyes drinking in Daphne's form, her rosy tongue-tip tasting her own lips. "You are indeed more lovely than I thought."

My God, Daphne thought. She's lesbian, just like Carolyn. And then a thought popped into her mind that was new to her. She could use that.

She stepped closer to Kim, close enough for Kim to smell the musk of the fluid that had flooded her itchy cunt. "Where did you work before, Kim?" she asked.

The Oriental's voice had begun to shudder with excitement, but long years of training prevented her from speaking that which she had been forbidden to speak. "I cannot," she said.

Daphne inched closer. The tight silky curls of her pubic hair brushed against the end of Kim's nose. "You can tell me."

Through a gasp, Kim said, "I am sorry."

Daphne's mind raced as she re-evaluated her strategy. She looked up and her eyes widened. Rumak had parted his own robe, and it hung from his shoulders and over his side. Muscles rose from beneath the skin of his smooth, tanned chest. It sloped down to a flat belly, under which lay the largest cock Daphne had ever seen. It jerked and quivered, the thick, brown crown of it pointing upward, over Kim's head, at Daphne. It was mapped with thick veins that pulsated, making the prick like a living being of its own. The shiny surface thickened immensely as the shaft got closer to the thick, impenetrable mound of hair. And beneath that, Daphne watched the two huge testicles swinging free and limp.

"What is it?" Kim had looked up and seen Daphne's expression. She had no time to answer. Rumak roughly spread Kim's legs with his meat-like hands, and holding his cock in his fist, he drove it into Kim's tight, rubbery asshole.

Kim's face contorted with agony, her mouth opened and she gulped down a lungful of air. Her eyes screwed shut, but she held back the scream that was obviously welled up inside her. Daphne watched amazed as Rumak forced the length of his swollen shaft deeper into Kim's violated anus. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes. Then her face calmed, and then a gentle smile could be traced on her lips.

Rumak withdrew his erect penis, and Daphne was amazed again at its size. And this time when the massive masseuse thrust inward, burying the erect member back into Kim, the Oriental girl moaned with pleasure.

Daphne was sure she had heard wrong, but Kim moaned again as Rumak shoved his cock in and out of her, his heavy balls slapping against her lubricated cunt.

Daphne started when she felt Kim's hands on her hips. Kim was holding her, trying to pull her close, her mouth open and her tongue extended in anticipation of contact with Daphne's pussy.

Daphne resisted, but did not pull away. Kim's hands continued to dig into her.

"Where?" Daphne said.

Kim looked up at her, her tongue wagging in desperation to reach her pussy, her eyes filled with confusion. "Where did you work?" Daphne said.

Her pussy hairs continued to brush and caress Kim's nose, and her cunt was so filled with feminine fluids the scent would surely drive the girl insane. And Rumak was now pumping her contracted rectum with the speed and power of a jackhammer, mercilessly pounding into her, his paws covering her ass and squeezing them like dough.

"I.. . ah . . . worked for a whorehouse. Ohhh!" She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her head between her arms and Rumak's sex ripped at her.

"What about it?" Daphne said, keeping her vagina hairs-breadth from Kim's head.

"Exclusive, mmph . . . only government men. Very . . . ah . . very private."

"Where?" Daphne demanded. Kim told her. Daphne thrust her hips forward, and Kim immediately wrapped her hands around her cheeks and began eating her, using long quivers of her lips and deep strokes with her exquisite tongue.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a shiver swept her body, inside and out, and she realized she was near orgasm. Kim's expert lips had trapped her tiny clitoris, and she was rolling it between her lips and flicking at it from inside her mouth with her tongue. Daphne felt her body filling with heat, and with itch, and then she burst, the warmth spilling within and without her, scattering her mind into a million different orgasm-filled places.

The sight of Daphne's orgasm sent shivers of excitement through the stiff spear of Rumak's cock, and his testicles bloated, then drained their sticky cargo through his shaft and into Kim's asshole. It gushed, gallons of it, so it seemed, and spilled out from the spaces between cock and anus. Kim's body contorted in its own climax, but still she did not cry out.

Later, as they lay spent in the sauna, Rumak having disappeared, Kim told Daphne about the whorehouse. The secrecy was simple: if it was ever even hinted at that a whorehouse operated within a short distance from D.C. that catered specifically to government officials of power and influence, it would create the biggest scandal in U.S. history.

"Yeah," Daphne said. "It would make Watergate look like a kid stealing candy from the dime store."

Not to mention Congressman Whitlock, she thought.

Then it clicked. It fell into place like a ball in a cone, spinning around and around until it dropped easily, effortlessly into the hole. Whitlock had a secret he wanted kept secret. But he also had a weakness. Whores. Carolyn Whitlock had told her. Her husband had loved to go whoring.

"Excuse me," Daphne mumbled, and quickly toweled the sweat from her body, and dressed.

"Have I offended you?" Kim said. Daphne looked longingly down at her.

"No," she said, bent and kissed her lightly. Then she ran, recalling the route that had brought her to the sauna. She passed the bedroom, found the stairs and bounded down them. Then she calmed herself, waiting until her breath was steady and slow. Then she opened the double doors to the study.

Hassan and Stafford were sitting, holding empty glasses and chatting. "Ah, Miss Rogers," Hassan said. "You have enjoyed your tour?"

Daphne smiled. "Very much," she said. In more ways than one.

Gregory rose, putting his glass down and taking Hassan's hand. "We were just finishing our talk," he said. "Your timing couldn't have been better." He turned to Hassan. "Thank you, old friend."

"I am only sorry I could not have been of more assistance."

"Next time," Stafford said. They shook hands, and Gregory guided Daphne out into the foyer, and then outside.

"Nothing," he said as soon as they were alone. "I've got something," Daphne said. "You did? What?"

She told him. He remained silent as he started the car, and guided it out of the Arab's expansive property. Once they were out on the road, he said, "It's not much."

Daphne frowned, feeling deflated.

"But it's something," he said. "Now all we've got to do is tie it in to somebody else."

"It's too bad Senator Rutledge is dead," she said.

Then Stafford smiled. "Rutledge. I think I can find out about old Senator Rutledge."