That’s all for today, but we’re digging up as much as
we can about this election. Till we hear more, this is Amanda Adams signing off. Keep your ears open, New York.
Jocelyn
Four.
That’s how many months ago Lance Anders set foot into Michael’s Upper East Side townhouse. How many months since I opened that door and set my sex-starved eyes on that gorgeous body of his. That’s roughly the number of months since I tried walking into his room when he was in the shower. Since I almost gave up on the sofa after he rescued me in the Park. Since my birthday. Since I saw him at the gym and went over to touch his shoulder. Then invited him to my dressing room at Saks. Four months since he first put his giant cock inside of me and shot me into orbit. It’s like I haven’t come down since.
Zero.
That’s how many times Michael has asked and wondered why Lance is still here even though the election is just shy of a month away. Lance was supposed to only stay the summer. But Michael doesn’t care about anything except staying as Mayor. Who knows what he has planned after that, he doesn’t tell me.
Zero is also the number of times that Michael has tried touching me. He just doesn’t care about me. I know I’m beating a dead horse and you get it—Michael may not be into me. Michael may be gay. You’re aware. But listen to me, hun, because this is important to me. I need you to understand this. I’m not the kind of girl who goes around cheating on her husband. I’m not some slut who sleeps with her stepson because there was nothing good on television during the day. If Michael hadn’t been cheating on me, and it’s pretty obvious nowadays when he walks in, or if he hadn’t forced my father to give me up for marriage, or even with all that, if he had shown me even the slightest bit of affection I would have never looked at Lance as hungrily as I do now.
OK, well, let me rephrase that. I would have looked at him hungrily. I mean, he’s young. And he’s so hot. But I would have controlled myself. I wouldn’t have flirted at the gym. If Michael had even given me a hug in the six months we were married. Forget about fucking. I don’t even want a kiss. A hug. Or a caress. Even a nice word of affection. Anything.
Can you imagine what it’s like to be treated like an employee in your own marriage? To sleep next to a stranger? And if you wake up with your arms and legs wrapped around them to have your partner look at you with disdain and scorn? So much so that you put a pillow between the two of you so it doesn’t happen again?
When I cum my brains out on Lance’s cock, I’m not just doing it to have sex. I’m doing it because I haven’t found love anywhere else in this world. And Lance gives it to me unconditionally.
Five.
That’s how many points separate Michael’s lead from Jim Jenkins. Everyone is confident it should be enough to carry the day. I don’t really pay much attention to it. Lance and I are usually having sex. But we both know we need to keep this relationship a secret till after the election. The public can’t find out. I don’t think Michael would really care at all if he found out I was sleeping with someone. But he would kill me if he lost the election because of me. Then he’d kill my father. Then Lance would most likely kill him. I can see the fire in both men’s eyes. They may not be related to each other, but it burns brightly the same.
Two hundred.
That’s where I lost count when I try to think of all the times that Lance and I have…been together. Ah, we’re all grown up here, right? That’s the number of times he’s fucked me. And trust me, multiply at least three orgasms for each time and that’s how many times I’ve cum. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced or felt before. There are simply no words. I’ve quite literally become addicted to Lance Anders. I know there’s an opioid addiction problem in the country now, but to me, Lance is my drug of choice.
At least once a day, sometimes two or three. If Michael is travelling, then even more. The benefit of youth I’ve discovered is that Lance is ready to go at a moment’s notice. And once he’s done, he’s only needing maybe another 15 minutes before he’s ready again. And each successive time the sex is longer and stronger.
You name it, we’ve done it. One afternoon, not long ago, he found me lounging next to our pool in the basement. I was wearing a cute new two piece bikini. Lance had just come back from the gym.
“It’s new,” I said to him, looking at his reaction.
He didn’t hide it, but adjusted himself to show me his huge erection that was tenting his sweat pants. “Looks like you like it,” I said to him, feeling lascivious. I don’t know how I get like that but he completely brings it out in me.
He didn’t say anything that time. Just got on his knees and began to lick my tits, moving my bikini top to the side. Then he proceeded to take his clothes off and fuck me so hard while I ran my fingers and my tongue over those chiseled abs. Those pecs. Those 8-pack abs. I must have cum at least half a dozen times by the time he finally told me he was getting close. I still remember that afternoon because he must have cum in quarts, because he spurted for what felt like forever onto my tits. Imagine your tits covered in warm, hot, gooey, cum. Then imagine yourself using your finger to scoop it up into your while he watches and gets hard.
You can guess what we did after.
Thirty.
That’s how many days ago Lance and I basically went from having sex before we realized that there’s something a lot more real to this relationship. It’s not just him fucking me. I mean, that night when I snuck into his room to keep him from going to Europe—we both sort of knew then. But aside from that one time, we never really talked about it. Until a month ago.
“How many women have you been in love with?” I asked him one day. We had just showered together. He had surprised me while I was in there. But I didn’t mind. I lifted my leg onto the wall and he took me while soaping up my tits. It was a good thing he held me, because when I came, my knees gave way. He ended up holding me as he fucked me, completely in control—treating me like a total sex object. I loved it.
But afterwards, as we lay in bed together and watched the sun rise to high noon, I wanted to know more about this young man. I already knew a lot. How his mother died when he was ten. How with no surviving relatives, his stepfather became his primary guardian. The courts allowed it and expedited the process—anything for an up and coming Congressman it seemed. But Lance quickly realized he got a guardian—not a father. His life was a series of boarding schools and visits to New York when photo-ops were needed.
I know about the wild period that Lance had, from high school through college. How he did anything at all to get attention, having been neglected his entire childhood.
“None,” Lance answers my question and pulls me closer to him. “I’m not the falling in love type of guy.”
“Everyone is at some point or another,” I told him. I can’t believe I’m asking him, a man 15 years younger than me. I sound like a teenager! I don’t know why I was so determined to hear him say that. I should be over such things.
“I agree,” Lance said, and looked into my eyes. “I’ve never been in love with any woman.”
I looked back at him, nodding. I could live with the fact that he just viewed this as sex, if it came to that.