Chapter 5
Greg marched confidently up the steps of the Senate Office Building where Senator Winston Rutledge had been quartered. Several people who knew him nodded or said good morning, and he acknowledged them in kind. He let himself be searched, then walked along the yellowing hallway to the bank of elevators, pushed the button on the one marked "Senators Only", and waited.
The bell rang and the door slipped open, and Greg stepped in. None of the three senators inside contested his presence; two greeted him, and asked what was new on the Tribune. The car stopped on the third floor, and Greg left, walked past the meeting hall of the Senate Finance Committee, and found the polished oak door that bore the name of the late Senator Rutledge.
Inside, Rutledge's staff was busily packing things, sorting through papers, emptying file cabinets, directing the moving of furniture. Through this maze of confusion Stafford walked, waiting for kneeling people to stand so he could see them.
Finally, he found who he had come for. He recognized her by her ass, as he was certain he could. It was round and firm, hugged tightly by designer jeans.
"Pants in the office?" he said. The girl stood up, all six-foot-two-inches of her, and she smiled.
"Greg!" she said. "Moving day. We're out of business, you know."
"So what are you going to do next?" Greg said.
She shrugged. "I haven't thought that far ahead, to tell the truth. What brings you around?"
Greg found a clear spot on the edge of a desk and sat on it, his arms crossed. "I'm sure you've been hearing about all the leaks in Washington lately."
"Ha," she said, tossing her sculptured face back to laugh. Her long, thin red hair danced with the motion, catching the light and holding it. "Who hasn't?"
"What nobody's heard is that Senator Rutledge may have been somehow involved. Beyond the leakage of his deal with the Arabs, I mean."
That stopped her cold. Sharon Redding had been Rutledge's top legislative aide and close confidant. She had known about the deal with the Arabs, and had advised him against it, but she wasn't aware that there was anything else to know. She looked around, and noticed that although the rest of the office staff remained busy at their tasks, the level of talk had dropped off considerably. They were listening.
"Come with me," she said, and he followed her into Rutledge's private sanctum, which had as yet been untouched by the movers. She closed the door, took him by the shoulders, bent down and kissed him, mashing her full, red lips against his. He reached around her, delighting in the size of her, and put his hands on her waist. He shivered slightly when he thrust his tongue inside her mouth and she responded with a gasp. The kiss lingered, then ended.
"Where have you been?" she asked breathlessly, still holding him.
"Busy," he said. "It's not easy being the watchdog of America. I've missed you."
"I can tell. We'll get together real soon," he said suggestively. "Right now I need some information."
She pouted. "I thought you were the one with information."
"I am, but I need to tie up some loose ends. You can help."
Her pout dissolved into a smile, the slyest Greg had ever seen. "Maybe," she said.
"Seems there's a whorehouse outside Washington, specializes in relaxing the sexual frustrations of congressmen and senators. I need to know if Rutledge was one of their customers."
Sharon continued to smile. "I know the answer."
"Then tell me," Greg said, his patience wearing thin.
"Make me." Before he could stop her, she had torn off her work shirt, revealing her huge, creamy breasts. He couldn't take his eyes off her nipples, and the three-inch crown that surrounded them. The nipples themselves were erect, arched upward a full half-inch from the chocolate-colored circles around them.
"Come on, Greg. It's been so long." She had unzipped her jeans, and behind the glistening zipper he saw her bare, shaved pussy, the color of milk and the texture of velvet, hiding in the shadows. "Fuck me, Greg, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"Here?"
She was gyrating her hips, grinding her ass against the desk she leaned on, and her eyes were closed. "Come on. Here. Now."
Greg didn't believe in much-it was his cynical nature that led him to the newspaper business, but he did believe in the respect due an official of high office, and fucking a legislative aide in a senator's chambers seemed the height of disrespect, particularly when you considered the senator was only a few days dead.
"You're a stone fox, Sharon," Greg said suavely. "Why me?"
She looked at him, and while she looked, her hand snaked down inside her pants, and she began to lubricate herself in anticipation of the cock she knew she would soon have violating her impatient pussy.
"The only girls in D.C. who don't want you are either blind or old. Don't you know that?"
In fact, he didn't. He had been laid plenty, never having much trouble, but he had never assumed he could have any woman he wanted, just like that. And if it was true, he wondered, what about Daphne. Daphne had taken his insides and turned them out, made his cock ache from the thought of her, and yet she hadn't expressed the slightest interest in him. Not even a hint.
"I'm short of time, Sharon. Can't you just tell me."
"Fuck me."
Now he was mad at her, so mad he felt the anger rising beyond his control inside him. He pounced on her from across the room, pulled her jeans down with a muscular yank, and shoved her back on the desk, scattering some papers and shoving a book over the side. It smacked to the floor.
Her legs were splayed lewdly in front of him, her hairless cunt offering a clear view of the moist folds of pink, living skin inside her vagina. He unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out. It was throbbing and stiff with anger and frustration. He held it straight by the base.
Sharon was in some degree of pain from being folded backward over the desk, but the only sensations she cared about were flooding through her sensitive cunt. "Shove it in, Greg. Shove it in, do it now, now."
He obliged her. With one hand he held the slippery lips of her pussy apart, with the other he steered his hungry cock between them, and then he shoved for all he was worth. Sharon arched her back as the meat filled her until she thought she could take no more, then he shoved another inch inward. He stroked her belly as he pulled out and shoved it in again, and she lifted her ass from the desk to meet the thrust. When he pulled out again, she slapped her butt down again, then hoisted it up to meet his next thrust, burning to take in as much cock as she could and more.
But her position was wrong. There was no friction against her stone-hard clitoris. Easily remedied, she thought, reached down with her middle finger and began to rub it, vibrate it against her exposed clit. That was better. She closed her eyes as sweat popped out on her forehead, and she licked her lips as she worked herself in time with Greg's expert fucking.
"Harder," she whispered urgently. "Shove it in harder, damn you."
Hating her, he rammed against her with the power of a shotgun, and banged her harder than he'd ever banged a girl before. His gigantic thrusts pushed her away from him, sliding her along the desktop, and she had to kick off her shoes and plant her feet in the small of his back, then use the flat of her hands against the desktop to hold her firmly against the surface. The outside skin of her cunt was alive and sending electric shocks up her spine to fill her head, the lack of hair there allowing her to feel the tugs and pulls of Greg's meaty shaft.
Her finger felt her clitoris grow larger, and her breath was coming now in short rasps, and then she was coming, her cunt filled with heat and itch and fiery explosion. Greg was still pumping her when she was finished, and she pulled herself away just before he experienced his own orgasm. His jet of hot juice shot out of him, splattering against her belly and breasts, and some of it leaking between them, spotting some papers on Rutledge's desk.
He watched her rub the cum into her skin luxuriously, and said, "You bitch."
"That's what I'm told," she said, smiling. "God, you're a fantastic fuck."
"Sure, that's why you used your hand."
"It helps in some positions. Mostly it was your cock. You know I'm available to you any time you want me. Any time."
"That's fine. Now about Rutledge."
"That old goat? As far as I know he was completely impotent. At least," she smiled, "that's what he told me when I tried to seduce him."
"You are a bitch."
"I'm your bitch, Greg." Then a funny look crossed her face. She bent down to pull up her jeans. "Strange thing, though. Just before he died, he propositioned Sondra Atkins, our secretary. Out of the blue. She said he looked ... desperate."
"Men get that way, age or no age. Look, is there anything else?"
She was fully dressed now. "Sorry. Maybe next time." She disappeared back outside, leaving the door open.
Greg realized he was fully exposed to Rutledge's office staff, his pants hugging his ankles, his underwear draped over them, his limp, cunt juice-coated cock dangling in all of its glory. He hoisted his pants up and kicked the door closed, then adjusted his clothes, cursing under his breath.
How could he go back to Daphne, who had found out so much, and tell her all he had uncovered was the fact that Rutledge was an impotent old man with a flash of horniness toward the end of his life?
He noticed his cum on some of the papers on Rutledge's desk, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it away. It left stains after he had cleaned up the white, now-cold globules of semen, but he didn't much care. That could be coffee, or just about anything. Then he stopped. On one piece of paper he was cleaning was written a phone number. No name, no other information, just a hastily scrawled seven-digit number.
It didn't mean anything in particular, but hunches were what made Greg a top reporter. He listened at the door to make certain nobody was coming, then picked up Rutledge's phone and dialed the number.
"Senator Cragg's office," the voice on the other side said. He slammed the phone into its cradle. Cragg! Not exactly one of Greg's best sources of information, but Lord, did Greg know about that old lecher. It had been Crag who had virtually started the Washington trend of sex and politics. He had been caught with two of his office girls in his office. One had been seated on his face, the other had taken his overused cock up her cunt, and the two girls faced each other, kissed and played with each other's tits.
Nothing had come of it, since the person who had walked in on the session had been his party's whip, and had kept things very quiet. But stories got around, and Greg heard all of them.
And on top of everything, Rutledge and Cragg were from different parties, with drastically opposing viewpoints. Why would Rutledge call Cragg?
He wasn't sure, but he had a hunch. He bolted out of Rutledge's office, nearly tripping over a box stuffed with files that hadn't been there before, recovered himself and hurried out.
"Later, lover," Sharon called after him. Maybe, he thought.
Cragg's office was one flight down from Rutledge's-a lucky break, since Greg didn't feel like going out into Washington's wet heat and running to another office building. He caught the senator's elevator, and ran down the hall to Cragg's office, his heart beating with anticipation of cracking this thing wide open. He felt it, he could taste it. He was so damn close.
Many legislators keep their doors wide open, in deference to the old "open door" policy. Fancy trimmings without a lot of honesty or meaning behind it, Greg thought. Cragg was like that. His door was open, for constituents, lobbyists, visitors to the Capitol, anybody who might want to drop in. Greg wanted to drop in.
The receptionist was on the phone, cradling the instrument against her shoulder, using both her hands to paint her long nails. Greg wondered how many times those long nails had raked Senator Cragg's back during coitus.
She looked up and saw him, but made no move to get off the phone, talking to a girlfriend in some other government office.
"Excuse me," Greg said.
She looked at him, annoyed. "One moment, Mr. Stafford," she said distastefully. Newspaper reporters were not well--liked in Cragg's office.
Greg reached over and pushed the button on the phone, cutting her off from her call. "Listen, sweetheart," he said, "I want to see Cragg and I want to see him now."
She smiled cynically at him, "Senator Cragg isn't in ... to you, that is."
"I think he is. Because if he isn't...." He didn't know if he should play his entire hand here, with the receptionist. What the hell, he thought. Go for broke. " ... if he isn't, his name will be splashed all over the front page of the evening edition, in connection with an elite whorehouse of which I happen to know he is a regular customer."
It worked. Her mouth was open to reply, but no words came out. Her wet nails drummed her desk nervously. Finally, she hung the phone up and went back into Cragg's private office. Good, Greg thought. I'm on first base, safe on a bunt. Now let's see if I can steal home.
She came back out, not saying a word, but she left Cragg's door open and jerked her head in that direction, indicating he could go in. Second base, he thought. No outs in the inning.
Cragg, a short, compact man with a head full of thick, gray hair, stood behind his desk smiling wide, his hand thrust out. "Greg, old boy. How ya been?"
Greg shook the hand, then settled into one of the seats facing the desk. "Fair, Senator," he said. "And yourself?"
They watched each other in silence for a moment. Then Cragg said, "So, you seem to know about some of my, er, extra-curricular activities."
Error! Greg could have leapt up and kicked his heels. He'd advanced to third on Cragg's stupid blunder. He should have kept his mouth shut and let Greg flounder around. He could have denied everything. Greg contained himself. 'That's right. And I just want the answer to one simple, straightforward question, and I guarantee I'll keep it quiet. At least, I'll keep it quiet assuming nobody else finds out and spreads it all over town."
"Fair enough," Cragg said. "Fire away."
Ninety feet from home plate, Greg thought. "Did Winston Rutledge call you about that place?"
Cragg's face fell. "I don't know what you're talking about, Greg."
"I know Rutledge was impotent, but I also know he made a pass at his secretary the day he died. I know your office number is scrawled on a pad of paper in his office, and I know his car was coming back from that neck of the woods when he died." Now for his ace in the hole. "And I believe I can tie that whorehouse into the leaks we've been getting."
If Cragg's face fell before, it literally collapsed now. He sunk back into his seat. "That place ... the leaks ... are you sure?"
"Almost. But I need to know about Rutledge."
Cragg remained quiet.
"I'll keep your name out of it, Cragg. I swear it."
Cragg sighed. "All right. Yes, Rutledge called me. He knew I frequented the place; it's no secret among us members. He only wanted directions. No harm in that, is there? If the old fart's heart couldn't handle the girls over there, that's not my fault."
"Nobody's blaming you," Greg said. But he was thinking, home run! And the inning was still wide open. "Thank you, Senator." He rose to leave.
""You'll keep your promise? You'll keep my name out of it?"
"I said I would," Greg said, disgusted. Only in Washington would a man of status like Cragg have to ask for a repeat of a man's word. He left the office.
His fifth cup of coffee was cold, and his ashtray brimmed over with cigarette butts and ashes. Daphne sat across from him, running her fingers slowly through her honey hair. He wished she would stop, because it was making him crazy with sexual stirrings. Sharon had sapped him for the moment, but that had been purely physical-shove it in, rub it and wait for the semen to gush out. He wanted Daphne in a more serious way than that. He wanted all of her, for hours, days, weeks. There was no limit to the scenes his imagination provided. Yet she still displayed no interest in him. She was all business.
"So how do we prove it?" she said as the coffee shop waitress refilled her cup. It was the question they had been mulling over since he had met her there two hours earlier. They hadn't found an answer.
Of course, Greg had an answer. His problem was how to approach her with it. Time was wasting. Every day his deadlines slipped by without a story in the file, and his editor was getting antsy.
"Look," he said. "I've got one idea, but it would involve some ... sacrifice on your part."
"Name it," she said, her ears perking up.
He shrugged, and lit another cigarette. "You could ... get yourself a job there."
It took a minute to register on Daphne, then the indignation rose to her face. "You're out of your mind!"
"Maybe, but do you have a better idea? You get inside, you could learn the whole operation. It would be better than hidden cameras and microphones."
"Aren't you forgetting something? Like what I would have to do to keep a job in a whorehouse?"
He dragged on his smoke, and looked into his muddy coffee. "So you'd have to spread your legs for a few politicians. National security is the issue here, not your prudish pride."
That hurt her, and she didn't say anything. After a minute, he said, "I'm so sorry. That was uncalled for."
"No," she said, and his heart skipped a beat. "You're right. You and I are the only ones onto them, and I'm the only one between us who can get inside. I'll do it. For a price."
Greg grinned. "See? You sound like a hooker already."
Daphne didn't think that was funny, but she let it go. "I want to share your by-line when the story breaks."
Now it was Greg's turn to be shocked. "Impossible."
Daphne stood up. "Then I suppose I'm on my own. See you around."
"Wait a minute!" Greg blurted, grabbing her by the wrist. "All right, we'll share the by-line." He had no choice. Without her, he had no inside track to the whorehouse, and he needed it desperately. He hadn't shared a by-line since high school, but he was backed into a corner. "As long as my name goes first."
She smiled and shook her head. "You men are all alike-egomaniacal. I don't care whose name goes first. As long as mine is there, in black and white.
Deal?"
He held out his hand, smiling in his defeat. "Deal." They shook.