Chapter 2
Daphne Rogers would have normally found the day to be exhilarating. It was that precious time of year, when the flowers and trees are in full bloom, and the air is crisp but not cold, and the humidity that permeates eastern summers had not yet invaded the Capitol.
But Daphne's mind was not on the weather. She, like all other legislative aides in D.C., was worried. For three months now, information had been leaked from a variety of government offices, and nobody could figure out where the leaks had come from. Political careers were being ruined. Deals that had been painstakingly set up were erased in hours as soon as the news people got hold of the information.
Soe of the leaks were about private, illicit deals, and to be sure, Daphne believed those people had what was coming to them. The press had surmised, for instance, that old Senator Rutledge had had his heart attack when the news of his deal with a Middle East nation had been announced on the radio news. His name had not been tied to the scandal yet, but he had known. And it had been too much for his weary heart.
Daphne felt sorry for Senator Rutledge. She had met him on a number of occasions, and liked him. He was a harmless old man, and reminded her of her grandfather. She had met him, like most high-ranking government people she met, through her boss, Senator Will Roland. He was middle-aged, and considered something of a maverick. He championed lost causes and represented the little guy, like all other politicians claimed to do. He was without a doubt, the most sincere, hardworking, honest politician she had ever met.
It was nice that he never came on to her, as well. Six years of college had prepared her for hard work in the political field, but not for the pawing and groping she had found her first year in D.C., working for an oversexed Congressman.
Roland, unlike the rest of them, was happy at home. His wife was a sensuous redhead who obviously kept him satisfied. So when he leaned close to Daphne, she knew he was reading her work and not breathing in her perfume, or trying to sneak a look down her dress at her swelling cleavage.
Lately, Roland had been distracted. The damned leaks. "It's not that I'm against freedom of information," he ranted to her one day. "But there is such a thing as privacy, and national security. If an old fart like Rutledge gets caught with his pants down, that's his problem. But whoever's behind this has no interest in discriminating. They'll leak private deals and top-secret government plans in the same damned breath."
Daphne had listened with growing horror at the possibilities posed by the leaks. Nobody knew where they came from; nobody even knew what motive led these people to make their leaks. There were no patterns, no clues. And then Roland told her what was really on his mind. For months, he had been sweating out a defense appropriation bill, and now it was about to come to fruition. "But too many people are involved," he fumed. "If just one of them opens his mouth to the wrong person, the whole thing could go up in smoke. There've been too many backroom deals and compromises to make the bill stand up under that kind of scrutiny."
It would be too bad if somebody leaked one of the slightly corrupt actions that had been taken to get party support for the legislation, Roland lamented. The country needed more sophisticated arms. "We've got to stop farting around with this missile and that missile," he said. "The Russians have too big an edge on us. We by God need to get to work on defense that will work, rather than offensive systems we'll never use." Her heart swelled with pride when she heard him talk. So much different from Congressman Waxman, for whom she had worked her first year in D.C.
She recalled it vividly. Fresh out of school and destined to change the world, she had decided not to bother with state or local politics. She had enough money to see her through a few weeks of job-hunting in D.C. If she couldn't turn anything up, she would just go home and start at the ladder's bottom rung. But she had to take a chance. Yes, she was young, but there was so much to do and, in the overall scheme of things, so little time.
One of her professors, a former Congressman, had forwarded her name to Waxman, and her first night in her hotel room he had called.
"Understand you're looking for a job, sugar."
She related her education and her sparse experience, and he chuckled. "Well now," he drawled, "Y'all come on down to my office in the Longworth Building and we'll have us a chat about what you can do for me."
She spent a sleepless night, visions dancing in her head of revised bills and intricate investigations, like the work done by legislative aides who had lectured her class. In the morning, she slipped into her smartest dress and took a cab to the Longworth Building, where some Congressman kept their offices. She tipped the driver exactly 10 percent of her fare, wanting to keep her expenses to a minimum.
With awe and reverence, she had mounted the Longworth Building steps, and freely submitted to a search of her bag by the bored guard who sat just beyond the doors that led inside. Then she was directed up an elevator and down a long, ancient hall to a polished set of doors featuring a plaque that read: "James T. Waxman". His state and congressional district were underneath his name, and beside the plaque hung the seal of his state.
Waxman's receptionist ushered her into Waxman's office, and closed the door on her way out. Daphne wasn't surprised at Waxman's appearance, since she had seen him a number of times on television. He did appear somewhat shorter than she had imagined, though just as trim and muscular. He smoked a long, brown cigar and clenched it between his teeth as he grinned and rose to pump her hand with his.
"Pleased ta meetcha," he said. "Ol' Bill Watson had some mighty kind things to say about you." Professor Watson had been the teacher who recommended Daphne to Waxman.
She sat in her chair confidently, and crossed her trim legs. She didn't notice that his eyes kept darting down to her exposed knee. Nor did she know his gaze kept trying to see farther up her legs than her dress permitted. She simply smiled and answered his questions.
"When they had been talking for half an hour, he abruptly said: "Well, now, Miss Rogers, I do believe you just might have yourself a job."
She bubbled with happiness, assured now that she had made the right decision in coming to D.C. Then he had hit her with it. "Just one thing you might have to do now and again that doesn't, er, fall in the job description." He winked behind his grin.
Her smile fell, even though she wasn't sure what he was talking about. He stood and pointed to the crotch of his pants. It was swollen with an erection, and she flushed bright red. "You're a right attractive lady, if I do say so myself," Waxman said, and laughed. "You might just find yourself getting along real comfortable in Washington if now and then you was to slide your lips over this here cock for me."
Her hands shook as she reached down for her bag, and her knees shook as she tried to stand. It had been the last thing she was prepared for. Waxman continued, nonplussed. "We all might even ask you to spread your knees once or twice for somebody else. That's the way politics works, darlin."
She started for the door, and he said, "Hey, girl. Ain't no way you're going to get a job around here with no experience. Me? I was just doin' old Bill Watson a favor. But you'll starve before anybody but me would hire a kid fresh out of school for a legislative assistant. Y'all hear me?"
"I'll manage," she croaked, and slammed the door behind her. She had walked back to her hotel room, trying to exercise away the feel of filth that had filled her. That did no good, so she stood for a long time under a hot shower, washing and soaping and washing and rinsing and then soaping and rinsing, over and over again. Exhausted, she fell on to her bed, but could not sleep.
She tried to picture herself sucking Congressman Waxman's southern cock. The image would not conjure. She had sucked only one penis before, her fiancee's back home. She had, in fact, done everything with him, but that was different, she told herself. That was love. And besides, we were going to be married.
The reminiscence warmed her, and made her feel cozy. Sex with him had been joy and happiness, a sensation of security mingled with lusty excitement. She had loved feeling his long, strong penis slip between her legs and stuff itself inside her pussy, and she loved wrapping her legs around his ass when he was inside her, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper. She had never much cared for oral sex, but he enjoyed it and she did it for him, whenever he wanted and sometimes on her own initiative. She always gagged when he came in her mouth, the salty warmth of his sticky cum catching and not going down her throat as it should. But she choked back the noises of her gags, because she did not want to disappoint him.
She didn't mind, with him, having the tight button of her rubbery asshole toyed with, even prodded and entered a little with the red crown of his rigid prick. But she loved his meaty staff inside her cunt; because that made them one, it meant they were in love, and their love was consummated again and again.
Only he hadn't felt as deeply as she thought he had. When she finished her undergraduate studies and he insisted on getting married then and there, she had blanched. Not that she didn't love him; but she had plans. Of course she wanted a family, a husband, a house in the suburbs. But she also wanted to be somebody.
He threatened to break off the engagement if she opted for graduate school. She tested him; he failed.
And now she was here, lonely and near-broke and frightened. She rented a typewriter since she knew nobody from whom to borrow one, and that gouged deeply into her reserves. She typed a resume, discouraged at its brevity, and printing 25 copies cost another few desperately needed dollars.
At first, she thought the resumes were the answer to her problems. She was called for several interviews-all for secretarial work, it turned out. She moved from her hotel to a cheap boarding house. When she had only enough money left for another couple nights, she considered going home, defeated.
But she could not do that. Because he would see her, and claim he had been right all along.
So on the last day of her money, she returned to Congressman Waxman's office.
"Y'all back?" he said when she was ushered into his office. She sat heavily in the same chair, and said nothing.
"Y'all find yourself a job?"
She shook her head. Waxman laughed. "I'll start you at $16,000 a year. That suit you?"
She shook her head out, as though she had heard wrong. "That's a lot of money," she said.
"Don't you worry, sugar," he said, his face red with the delight of victory. "You'll earn it."
"I need some ... some of the money ... now."
Waxman grinned a sinister and lascivious grin. "Then you earn some, now."
She took a deep breath and rose. One thought ran through her mind: she needed the money, she needed the job. She shed her light coat and let it fall on the chair, then unbuttoned her dress; it was one she had chosen carefully for this meeting. It fell apart from the center when the last button was plucked, and beneath it she wore nothing.
Waxman drew air in sharply at the sight of her slender hips. Shadows coated her waist, cast by her delicate bone structure, forming pointers that aimed at her silky-soft pubic mound, of a color that caught, diffused and reflected light. The dress hung loosely over the outer perimeters of her pear-like breasts, nipples mounted on the upper half of her firm, fleshy globes, and pointed slightly upward.
She advanced on him, walking around his desk slowly, crossing one leg in front of the other as she moved. When she was in front of him she reached across him, her erect nipple brushing against his face, and pushed the comm line.
"Yes, Congressman?" a voice said.
"The Congressman wishes you to hold all his calls, and does not want to be disturbed," Daphne said.
She released the comm line, and pushed his chair back to make room for herself, and dropped to her knees. She went through the process of unzipping his pants and fishing for his penis through the maze of underclothing. When she found it, it sprang out at her, and she saw the premature drop of cock juice that had formed over the hole of his prick. It nodded at her, begging for her mouth to engulf it.
She parted her lips and took hold of his shaft base, and guided it between her wide-spread jaws, until she was sure it was deep inside. Then she clamped her lips around it as hard as she could. In response to the feel of her full, wet lips around his sensitive meat, he jerked, and slammed his lap into her face, forcing the cock deep in her throat.
She lifted her head from his lap, then dove back down on it, taking his erection as deep willingly as she had when it was forced on her. Her head came up again, and she strained the muscles in her face to increase the friction between mouth and cock.
She realized she was holding his gorged balls in her hand, and was squeezing them delicately. Suddenly, they contracted in her palm, and in the next instant her mouth was full of hot, salty semen, released from the testicles of the writhing Congressman beneath her.
Later, she was assigned to her desk, and given a week's pay in advance. She studied a few office manuals, and at five o'clock, she rushed home, where she was sure she would spend an hour retching violently. But she didn't. Instead, she lay down and sucked on her finger until it was pruned from the moisture in her mouth, then she dipped it between her itching legs.
After a while, she learned to accept her job without reactions at home, but she lost a lot of sleep over it. Particularly on the days she had to entertain Waxman's guests. There weren't many of them, but one was more than enough.
Her work, though, earned her the attention of Senator Will Roland, who eventually hired her. And she had slept soundly ever since.
Roland had a three o'clock appointment, and Daphne reluctantly left him alone and returned to her desk. A mountain of work awaited her; not the kind of work she had envisioned herself doing in school, but that was a kid's dream. This was the real world, and if the work was not exhilarating, it was at least important.
The issue she was working on today was oil. There was a bill calling for the oil companies to be dissected, split into hundreds of smaller companies. Her job was to research and analyze the proposal, and advise Roland of the facts. One Senator has only 24 hours in a day, and simply cannot be on top of all the issues at once. For that, he needs his legislative staff.
She had been at it for an hour when her phone rang.
She picked it up and, to her surprise, it was Roland, calling from his office not twenty feet away.
"Please come in to my office," he said, "and don't tell anybody I called you." He sounded distressed.
She picked up a pad and pencil and walked into the ladies room in case anybody was watching her. She didn't know what all the secrecy was about, but why take chances? When she finished checking her makeup, she left and went into Roland's sanctum.
"Sit down," he said. She sat. "I'm telling you this because you're the only person in this office I really trust," he told her. "I just got off the phone with Larry Whitlock. He's got trouble."
Larry Whitlock was a junior congressman from the same state as Roland. The Senator had always been impressed with Whitlock, with his sense of style and timing, but mostly with his ability to champion an unpopular cause because he believed in it, and turn it into law.
"Larry comes from a poor family," Roland explained. "I know it sounds like an old story, but his mother's in the hospital, lingering toward death, and his father died a few years back leaving the family penniless and in serious debt."
Daphne put down her notebook. No notes would be required from this session.
"So Larry, about two years back, became a silent partner in a small business. Nothing immoral, just enough extra money to care for his mother and keep the farm up. The business was above-board, but of course, as a legislator, Larry should have divested himself of it. He couldn't afford to, so he conveniently forgot about it altogether."
"Somebody else found out?" she guessed.
"Bingo. And they want $1000 a month to keep it quiet."
"But if what you say is true, he can't afford that kind of huge money."
Roland slammed his fist on the desk. "He can't afford it and wouldn't pay it even if he could. By Holy Christ, what's going on in this city?"
Daphne sat silently. Roland gazed absently out his window, at the garden behind the Senate office building complex. "Something's going on," he said, more to himself than to her. "Somebody's got this whole thing pretty well organized. Who is it, dammit?"
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Daphne offered.
Roland looked at her and smiled. God, but she's beautiful. What I wouldn't give to be able to stroke her velvety cunt and have her latch on to my cock. But he dismissed the thoughts as mere fantasy. Rutledge was more the type of man to carry that all the way. But he was a legislator. He had a duty to perform. And a wife at home.
Daphne had never told him about Congressman Waxman.
"I just needed somebody to talk to," he told her. 'Thanks."
She picked up her pad and left the room, her mind abuzz with conflicting thoughts. If he needed a confidant, he could have spoken with his wife, as he usually does. Why would he tell me all this, and not give me a reason?
She pondered it into the night, while she watched television, while she rubbed cream into her face, while she stared at the dark ceiling from her bed. Why?
He must want me to look into it, she thought. He couldn't ask me officially to do anything, so he couched it in vagueness. That must be it.
Where to start? She knew nothing of investigations, nothing of the intricate web of networks in Washington. All she knew were facts, how to assimilate them, how to twist them, how to use them.
All right then, she told herself. What are the facts? There was Rutledge, who reminded her of Santa Claus when he didn't remind her of her grandfather. Rutledge had made an under-the-table deal and it had got out. He had died, probably when he heard it on the radio. He was an old man.
There was Larry Whitlock, whom she had met only once or twice at parties. A nice guy, family man, whose private holdings were discovered and used for extortion. A political deal and a private matter, both revealed through leaks.
Where were they coming from? Was there even a connection? Deep inside her, she felt there was. Like her boss, she felt some sinister force motivated the whole thing. And she would find out who it was. Or what it was.
Satisfied, she slept.