Prologue
Derek Kohn would be President someday. Everybody said so, and Everybody is who would decide. He was the kind of politician the people noticed in a campaign. His open and easy style marked him out at once as someone to be trusted, and his positions, which were always new and fresh, but never very far from what most people thought on the issue, gave the impression that he would always know what to do in any situation.
He had been through the mill, starting when he was in college by working for local candidates, and either doing a good job of helping them or else doing a good job of choosing which ones to help. Then he went into advertising, as a supposedly raw apprentice in a large agency. But with the contacts he had already made, he easily had the pick of a lot of important clients. He personally took on the public relations work for several elected officials, and at election time, the candidates came begging him to take charge of their campaigns. Only one of his clients lost, and that was because he was running both campaigns in that race. He managed to do that without losing anyone's goodwill, which in itself is an indication of how skillful a politician he was.
He left the agency to run for City Council, which he won without any trouble. That was when his personality and his ideas first became well-known. It was also when his taste for women-both the quality and the quantity-became well known. He was once quoted as saying "I never met a woman I wouldn't like." But he never seemed to get anywhere near the bottom of the barrel.
He always brought a woman to any public function he attended, and had her stand where he could look at her if she couldn't be right next to him. He even interrupted a city budget debate one night to tell the television cameramen to move their lights because he couldn't see. He didn't say what it was he couldn't see, but he didn't have to, because the tall blonde he had come in with was there in the front row behind the lights, her silky white slacks so tight against her thighs that you could see the muscles flex when she moved, like arrows pointing up to her crotch. No, he didn't have to say, because everyone in the audience remembered very well the perty little ass see-sawing its way down the aisle when she came in, the two dimpled hemispheres cut off from each other by the seam of her pants which followed her crevasse perfectly down to where it crept between her legs. And the other councilmen had seen her watching Derek steadily, invitingly, and all the time moving in some seductive way, licking her lips, or fingering the buttons that seemed ready to burst over her abundant breasts, or stroking the insides of her thighs, moving her long fingers closer and closer to where the crevasse continued from the rear, in a line that could only have passed between the outer lips of her vagina and chafed the tender pink flesh with even the slightest move she made. And no matter what she was doing with her hands, she continually gyrated her hips in the soft chair and pressed her smooth firm thighs together rhythmically.
They knew she was there all right, and the councilmen seemed restless, squirming around as though their chairs were uncomfortable, and excusing themselves to go to the bathroom. In fact, Derek was the only one who seemed to be able to keep his mind on the budget that night, but then he had the best reason for getting the meeting over with as soon as possible.
Then there was the fund-raising dinner when the foxy, frizzy-haired red-head sat across from the union official. She was wearing a gauzy blouse with a hanging neckline that just covered her tits when she didn't lean to one side or the other. During the whole meal, and the speeches afterward, he couldn't take his eyes off the pale, delicate skin that showed clear down, not to a cleavage, but to where the high, proud softness rounded into perfect shapes, firm, full cones he could almost feel.
She would laugh, or swing her shoulders lasciviously, and the fine material would fall to one side just long enough for the briefest glimpse of pink. All his blood seemed to be pushing to get down to his genitals, and he could feel his pants getting tighter and tighter against his growing bulge, and getting as hot and moist as a tropical rain forest. There wasn't much he could do about it; he could stroke it up, but he couldn't stroke it down.
One of the speakers had slides, and while the lights were dim, she asked him in a sly, conspiratorial whisper, for a light. He obliged, being a gentleman, but didn't make an effort to reach too far, so that she had to lean over the table toward him.
His cock took a sudden leap, and he could feel little drips of fluid oozing out the end, somehow making its way down the twisted tool straining to escape its cloth and elastic prison. For there, in the light of the flame, were her two contoured pyramids, the front of the blouse fallen away from the luscious, ivory mounds, and the two pink nipples standing erect in their puckered nests.
He could feel their hardness on the tip of his tongue, and their softness on his palms, on his chest, on his hairy thigh. Automatically, he reached down with his free hand to the painful throbbing between his legs, but the pressure of his hand through his pants only increased the pain and the pressure.
They say he stayed like that for quite a while, not noticing that his lighter was nowhere near the girl's cigarette. Then she wiggled her shoulders, and he saw the heavenly ripe globes quiver in their naked freedom. His eyes grew bigger, as though they were part of his sex organs, and he looked up to see her smiling at him, knowing he was looking at her exposed breasts, and just letting him look. The story goes that he knocked his chair over getting up and then charged out of the room. People talk about how he must have taken his burning scarlet cock in his hand and pulled the skin from one end to the other as fast as his arm could move, hopping on one foot and then the other all over the lavatory until at last, like a subway tunnel when a train is coming, he felt a rumble start deep inside of him that couldn't be stopped, that kept getting closer and more powerful until, with a violent shudder great gobs of sperm came shooting out of his rigid manhood, probably onto the floor, while all the blood drained out of his face and his fingers and toes felt as though they were collapsing. And people talk about how silly he must have felt to get so worked up over a pair of breasts, though everyone who saw them said they were uncommonly sensual and had seemed to promise him more than they showed. People talk about these things, but as far as anyone knows for sure, he might have remembered suddenly some pressing business, and rushed off to make an urgent phone call. It is known that he was seen with that beautiful, bubbly redhead later, and that Derek's faction had the total support of labor in the next election. But only his political enemies, and in particular the Los Angeles Viewer, claimed it was Derek's doing, or even that anything more improper had happened than a fat, powerful middle-aged man getting into the warm wet cunt of a young and flirtatious beauty.
The Viewer was the tool of a handful of corrupt businessmen and politicians, but trumpeted a shrill moralistic tone to its readers. At a press conference Derek had called to announce an investigation into, the dealings of some of these grimy, money-grabbing barons, he brought with him two women, probably twins, but at least sisters, their long straight hair falling down their backs to the waist, wearing identical shirts with slits open down the fronts far past where the nipples of their full, round breasts were outlined against the stretched fabric. Their oriental features both carried the look of adoration when they looked at Derek.
The photograph the editors of The Viewer ran, along with a shrieking editorial about Derek's loose morals, was of Derek with one hand on the ass of each of the girls as they left the room. Inside the paper, they even had closeups of his fingers nestled in the cracks between the cheeks, and it makes obvious that he was massaging their anuses with his fingertips through their skin-tight pants.
But most people didn't mind Derek's sexual activeness. It was, after all, the Twentieth Century, even as far west as California, and even very high officials openly and unashamedly led the same kind of lives their constituents did, and partook of the various forms of entertainment available to all, acceptable to most, and legal. The men simply admired him, unless they had ulterior motives for their vicious moral attacks. And women loved him-or else he couldn't have been doing what he was doing, and there wouldn't have been a problem-and tended to forgive him, even the old wives who scolded him in front of each other, but one by one, alone with their thoughts, especially in the voting booth, said they appreciated men like him, even if they themselves could never take advantage of him.
He moved up the ladder of offices carefully, not so fast that he risked toppling, nor so slow that he got bogged down, but at exactly the speed Derek Kohn knew was right. From city to county to state office he climbed, cementing alliances, gathering coalitions, making sure of every step before he took it. Then he ran for United States Congress and went to Washington, D.C., and his life changed abruptly.
On his first visit back, he brought his new wife, Becky, from an old Virginia family. Gradually the crowds of young girls with voluptuous, eager bodies and longing eyes that hung around his local offices began drifting away. They still supported him, still worked for him, but there was no reason for them to wait for his caressing hand on their supple, tender breasts, or to reach down in such a way to pick something up that he had ample opportunity to admire and perhaps "nudge" a well-rounded buttocks exhibited to him under the least possible covering. It was no use, because the caresses and nudges didn't come anymore, nor did the admiring, hungry looks and the confident, strong arm across the shoulder and the invitation to come up and see his collection of pillow-cases, which usually got a laugh as well as an immediate acceptance. There were no more precious, wild and ecstatic nights, no chance for the honor and glory of being chosen as escort for an official function.
His offices filled up with earnest and enthusiastic young men who saw Derek as a political force, a national figure of rising importance, a complex of positions, standings, accomplishments and projections, rather than as a person, a man with flesh and blood, with very human needs, and with skills that can best be appreciated on a one-to-one level, or at least in small, intimate groups.
No one was surprised when Derek Kohn announced he was running for the United States Senate.