You read that right, readers. Someone was getting some in the Oval Office, and accidentally pushed the wrong buttons and got on the phone with the Russians. What was said hasn’t been found out yet, but it was aggressive enough to get the Russian president, Dimitry Belevich, to put his finger on his own nuclear triggers.
Yup. We didn’t believe it at first either, but apparently the sex was so rough that the Russian president thought it was a prelude to war when he thought he was being spoken to.
Can’t believe it? Our sources swear up and down that it’s true. What’s more, a few are even telling me who the man with the nuclear libido is, and this you’re not going to believe.
Turns out the man with the explosive sex in his loins is none other than Lance Anders. That’s absolutely right. Lance Anders—the prodigal son of the Mayor, Michael Anders.
If you’re reading this on the subway and need to sit down, I’m with you, babe. I didn’t believe it at first. Lance just graduated from Yale this year and he’s only been at the White House as an intern for about a month. He was recommended to the job by both the Mayor and the Democratic Congressman from Manhattan, Vivian Hawthorne. With so much political capital by him, we thought Lance would be a shining star in Washington D.C.
But if you're having trouble breathing thinking how Lance almost caused World War III, guess who his partner in crime was?
Now for this, our sources are going deep undercover. If the White House found out they were talking to me, they’d not just be fired, but they’d probably be sued to. They’re telling me it was the First Daughter, Abby,
who was doing the nasty with Lance. And was doing it so loudly and so lewdly that the Russian president who was listening thought our country was getting ready to go to war.
That’s right. Turns out America’s Sweetheart isn’t so much of a sweetheart but a sexpot. Which just goes to show that you shouldn't believe everything that those in power are telling you. Who knows what deep, dark secrets they could be hiding?
But fear not, citizens of Gotham, because Amanda Adams is always listening and always ready to spell the juiciest, dirtiest, nastiest secret for your enjoyment and pleasure. And it looks like Lance is going to be coming home to daddy so that means we’re going to be extra busy.
Which means, batten the hatches, New Yorkers, and hide your daughters. Lance Anders is coming back to town after being away for four years. He and his father have been rumored to not get along; it’s doubtful even that Hizzoner went to Yale for his son’s graduation ceremony, seeing as Mayor Anders was in Moscow at that time.
So, it’s going to be an interesting summer, to say the least. Till we find more, this is Amanda Adams signing off. Keep your ears open, New York.
Jocelyn
I hear Michael come through the door downstairs and I can sense my heart rate increase. It’s been six months since we’ve been married, so we’re still technically a newlywed couple.
I hear footsteps downstairs. He’s in the foyer. Most likely checking his mail. If I know Michael, he’ll check the mail, throw out to shred what he doesn’t need, and come upstairs. Once he comes upstairs, he’ll come to our bedroom. He’ll change a bit—maybe get out of the suit and tie, or maybe even just take off his coat. He’ll wash his face, put on some slippers and head to his upstairs office. That’s right. Michael has an upstairs office in addition to his downstairs study. This entire townhouse on the Upper East Side revolves around Michael. Once there, he’ll either let me know what our plans for dinner are, or whether he’s eating alone in hIs office. He’ll have people on speakerphone with the television on. God knows what he does in there.
Like I said, it’s been six months since we’ve been married, but I know his after-work routine like nothing else.
But tonight, I’m going to be putting a slight dent in those plans.
I’m lying in bed. I’ve just freshly showered. I’ve shaved my legs. I got waxed a few days ago so I’m all good down there. I have my Elizabeth Arden on. Totally brand new lingerie from La Perla. A very expensive strip of lace black cloth that makes up a thong and barely covers my swollen pussy lips. A matching lace black bra. Stockings and garters. I’m lounging on the bed, my slender legs splayed out slightly, giving myself a wanton air. My face has a smoldering look; my eyes are as filled with lust as they’ve ever been in my life.
I’m dying for sex. I’m craving a cock. I need to get fucked. If this doesn’t entice Michael, nothing will.
I look at myself in the mirror. I know I look good. Guys have been telling me that all my life. I mean, I try not to let it get to my head and I really hope I don’t come across as if I’m stuck up, because I’m really not. I was just blessed with some good genes, but it’s hard work. I work out every day. I get on my Peleton and join a global spin class in the mornings. I do yoga, CrossFit, and Pilates. I try to eat well, although I do love chocolate. And wine!
All that, to keep what I have. Because I’m 35, and I know these looks won't last forever. That I’ll stop turning heads one day. Men won't stare on the street anymore. They’ll be looking; they'll be leering at the next pretty young thing that comes their way. She’ll be 21 years old with nothing in her brain.
I used to be like that. I remember those days, after I graduated from Dartmouth. Looking to have fun. To party. I used to live in the city with some roommates, and then on my own. I used to model—nothing serious, but enough to pay the bills and buy makeup, champagne, brunch, and clothes as well as pay for rent. Guys came flocking. And I used to have my pick.
But no one was ever good enough for daddy. And when your father is the Governor of New York State, you kind of have to do as he says. So I waited until he started introducing me to men he considered eligible. Only they were either too old. Like 90. Or too fat. Like 400 pounds. Or married too many times in the past. I much rather preferred my generation, thank you very much.
So daddy and I fell into a routine. He didn’t like my prospects that I chose, and I didn’t like the prospects that he found. I couldn’t just elope. I had to be the good daughter.
And then came the day that daddy left the Governor’s Mansion in Albany. And an elder gentleman by the name of Michael Anders came up to the house in Westchester. I know he came over because it was Christmas and I was home for the holidays. Mom showed him to dad’s office and they spoke for a long time.
When they came out, dad’s face was white as a sheet.
“I think this will work out to both our advantages,” Mr. Anders—Michael—said, shaking my father’s limp hand before turning to me. I watched as his eyes scanned my lithe body. But he did nothing else but stare. And then he turned and left.
Over the next three years, it seemed that dad and Michael were close. He called in a lot of favors. His contacts helped Michael raise money for a successful bid to become Mayor of New York City. He helped push through legislation that required state approval by calling in and using old favors. He even appeared as a surrogate for Michael on television. It seemed that dad did everything Michael could ever ask of him.
Until seven months ago, when dad came to my apartment. He looked older than his years, although he still kept in shape at 61. He sat me down, and took my hand, looking into my eyes.
“You need to get married, baby girl,” he told me. “I need you to marry Michael Anders.”