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by Jay Hughes
Category: Erotica/Taboo Erotica
Description: Politics Have Never Been Sexier! Harborough has been in the hands of old man Gruntz and his gang for longer than Debra Martin has been alive. That's too long. Deb and her gang of misfits have no campaign treasury, no issues and no outside support. Using a platform that supports the wet tee shirt contest as a fundamental human right, the most unconventional mayoral campaign in Harborough history is about to take off. Deb's assets are obvious, but will the voters turn out? Girls, give early and give often. Harborough is about to de-Bra its mayor.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: May 2009
1 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [165 KB]
Reading time: 96-134 min.
Debra ran her hand across the car window as we waited out the red light. She peered through the little hole she had made, watching the old man in the brown overcoat. "Is that Gruntz?" she muttered into the window.
I craned my neck for a glimpse of the man who had caught Deb's attention. "Show some respect for our mayor," I grumbled. A honking horn let me know the light had turned green.
"He looks about dead," Deb giggled.
"He is," I laughed as we moved forward in traffic. "Gruntz has been in office for twenty-some years."
"All my life. Don't they make people retire from being mayor?"
I looked over at Deb's round face and smiled. "Since when do you care about it?"
"I'm a voter!" Her blue eyes sparkled and her grin broadened.
We pulled into the parking lot at the bank where Deb had a job interview. "Want me to wait?"
She fumbled for her bag and umbrella, wiped something off her left shoe and ran her hand up her stocking, showing me just enough leg to catch my attention. "Come back in an hour, if that's all right."
I looked out into the gray afternoon and tapped on the steering wheel.
"An hour?" She repeated it for affirmation.
"I have no clue where I'll spend an hour."
"Then, wait." She got out and dashed across the lot into the lobby of the bank.
If she'd been my wife, I'd have gone somewhere. If she'd been my lover, I'd have waited. She was neither, dammit. I waited.
Afternoon radio sucks.
I dozed off and struggled back to life when the car door opened. "Hi," I think I said.
"Home, James. You don't mind if I call you James, do you, Jay?"
"Call me honey." I pulled out of the parking lot, wondering if I should ask her how the interview went, but she sat silent. I presumed it had not gone well. Either that, or the bank manager was one of those bore-asses who alerts you to the reality that the entire process is being shoved downstream to the human resources department.
"I need a drink," Deb said as we passed the supermarket and turned onto Grand Boulevard.
She smiled over at me and twisted herself into a sort of sexy position that showed off her bust line in spite of her raincoat. "Not bad, not good."
"Human resources, right?"
"How'd you guess?"
I smiled. My ex-wife was a human resources person. She walked around a lot, carrying a briefcase, clicking her heels. Always had a coffee cup in her hand. Always busy. Tired at night. Long lunches can do that to a woman.
We cut right at the bottom of the hill, eased up toward Soapy's, a bar that serves decent burgers, big fat fries and a whole array of boiled crap that makes you belch.
We found a spot not far from the door and I sort of helped Deb out of the car. I caught a glimpse of her panties as she turned to get out and I think she noticed. As she straightened herself and gave me an even better shot. By then, I was convinced she'd noticed.
"Stop looking up my dress."
"Stop showing me your..."
"It's called a snatch."
Snatch (n.) A word women use when discussing the female anatomy with men who don't know what it's called either; also see: beaver, clam, pussy, furburger.
"That isn't what I call it," I said as we walked toward the door.
"What do you call it?" she said, turning to me with that little glazed look in her eye.
"With the right woman," I said, "I call it heaven." I realized by now I was offhandedly trying to seduce Deb and would have, just as soon as she agreed. I decided to let that game play itself out. She had suggested the drink and I surmised that she wanted to talk about something. Fucking her was high on my wish list, but low on my reality scale. I wondered if she was a natural brunette.
I'd known Deb Martin for about a year, as an adult. The family lived across from us and I'd watched her grow up, finish school, head off to college and come home, itching to take on the world.
The bank interview was her first foray into the employment gig. I think she studied something else in college. The ride downtown was my treat. I consult for a living and Deb was sure I'd be of help to her on her first interview.
As it turned out, the only thing I got out of it was the hots for her. Damn, that girl grew up in a hurry.
And, here I was, talking about her snatch as though it were heaven. She didn't seem to mind.
"You keep staring at me like you want to fuck me," she said over her Mai tai.
"If you insist," I whispered. I flicked something imaginary off the edge of the table and looked into her eyes. "I'm too old for you."
She shrugged. "That's true."
The rock that hit me in the head was like, well ... a rock. Reality check, Jay. You ain't fuckin' Deb Martin.
"But I could still fuck you," she said.
"Where do I go with this conversation?"
She flicked her wrist. "How old is Gruntz?"
"You want to fuck him, too?"
"No, silly. I want his job." Deb Martin wasn't completely cured of college.
"He's at least seventy," I said. "Since when are you interested in politics?"
"I just need a job."
"Deb, get a real job."
"Like, at a bank?" She shoved her drink around. "Who says I want to sit at a desk and flaunt my cleavage all day to a bunch of horny old men and fat women?"
"Who says you have to flaunt your cleavage?"
"Because I do that." She flaunted her cleavage to make her point.
"Well," I stammered, "it is nice cleavage."
"I like it when a guy tit-fucks me."
"Huh?" I shook my head for effect. This girl wanted Merle Grunstein's job. Grunstein, the mayor forever. "Deb, stay on Earth with me."
"Be my campaign manager, Jay."
"Great. When do we start?"
"I'm serious." She smiled at me with a look that would melt the balls off the Thomas Jefferson statue in the town square.
"You can't be mayor," I said, not knowing exactly why Deb couldn't be mayor, except that she just ... well, couldn't.
"I am eligible," she said. "I live here, and I vote."
"You need a party."
"Great, let's have one. You bring the beer."
"No, a political party."
"You hold the party, I'll bring the beer."
I laughed. It was that simple. "Do we announce your candidacy that night?"
"Sure." She smiled again. "How about two weeks from Saturday?"
"Why not?" At least it was a party. I had no idea who to invite or why, but the way things were going, I expected I could fill Deb full of liquor, then lick her.
"We can't be lovers, you realize."
I shook my head again. "We were planning to be?"
"No, I mean ... if you're my campaign manager, you and I have to maintain a professional relationship. We can't be fucking each other."
I nodded. "Makes sense. What if I don't take the job?"
I ordered two more drinks. This was getting better. "What makes you so sure?"
"Because if you do, I'll let you tit-fuck me."
"I thought you said..."
She held up a hand. "After ... after you take the job, I'm off limits."
This sounded fishy to me. "What's my salary?"
"We have to raise funds."
Again, she made sense. I decided to get her loaded, take her home, get her out of that tight blue dress, have my way with her and convince her that flaunting her cleavage at a bank was far more profitable than trying to oust old Gruntz, who had given no indication he was finished being mayor of Harborough. I agreed with Deb that somebody else needed the job, but no one I knew had come forth.
"I'm running for mayor, Jay. You in, or out?"
I grimaced. "If I say in, I'm screwed. If I say out, then what?"
"If I'm in, you don't screw me, though."
"Strictly professional arrangement."
I coughed into my fists and took a long sip of my beer. "I'd say I'm fucked."
She tapped me on the little finger. "In or out?"
I smiled. "Let's do some research first."
She was right.
And that flaunted cleavage was looking better every minute. * * * *
I managed to get Deb out of Soapy's before she got completely plastered on rum and pineapple juice. Of the million thoughts that ran through my mind as we walked to the car, spending a lot of time with her was somewhere near the middle of the list.
She didn't say much as we drove through the valley, past the bare trees and the mounds of dirty snow that seemed to defend themselves well against the ugly February afternoon. Mostly, she fiddled with the dashboard. "Radio sucks," she said.
I said nothing.
We pulled into her driveway just as darkness began to paint away the paltry afternoon sun. She got out, said thanks under her breath and beat it for the house. It meant only one thing: she had to use the bathroom.
I barely had time to get my coat off and sort the afternoon mail when the phone rang. "Hi, what took you so long?"
"I had to use the bathroom."
"Does this mean we're lovers?"
Deb seemed taken aback. "If I decide to have a lover, I'll put you on the list. That's not why I called."
I twirled the phone cord and kicked off my shoes. My socks were wet and my toes felt like prunes. "It's unrealistic, girl."
"Deb, take the job at the bank, save a few bucks and work your way up the corporate ladder. That's what women do these days."
She blew hard into the receiver and, while I tried to decipher the act, she flat-out told me to fuck myself.
"All right," I said after a pause. "What do you want me to tell you?"
"You'll be my campaign manager."
I laughed. "I don't like politics."
"You like me."
She had me on that one. My problem was, I didn't know whether I liked her for her tits or for her ideas. In either event, liking her had nothing to do with helping her run for mayor. "We need a plan."
"You busy tonight?"
"Not if you aren't." And, through it all, the two of us made a date to meet at my house at eight o'clock to discuss how, when and why Deb Martin wanted to run for mayor of Harborough. I expected it would, at worst, keep me from being bored for the evening. At best, I'd get her naked and ball her, knowing I'd have to live that down the rest of my life.
I flopped down in the chair and went over the dozen or so reasons I had for hating politics. Actually, only one came to mind and her name was Ruth.
My only experience with politics at the grass-roots level came at the beginning of my senior year in college when I volunteered to work for the campaign of our erstwhile state senator, Vyron Victor. If the name Vyron doesn't evoke the word sleaze, the word senator ought to do the trick.
But old Vic seemed a worthy candidate and he was out for re-election. College students, all full of piss and vinegar, like to work with people who can change things. Vic had made that promise.
So, I fucked around at his headquarters after classes during the fall campaign and got to know Vic on a drinking-buddy level.
Through the course of it all, he suggested I could help his campaign immensely if I could somehow take a sophomore named Ruth Parker out someplace, bang her brains out and report back to him.
I asked why.
Vic confessed to me that he wanted to fuck Ruth as bad as the next guy. "But I don't like virgins," he told me.
"How do you know she's a virgin?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Can't be sure, but if you screw her, I'll know for certain."
I never really followed his rationale for having this particular fetish, but I went about balling Ruth all the same. It turned into a regular thing between us and old Vic never did get into her panties.
Vic got re-elected and Ruth and I dated steady until spring.
Two weeks before graduation, I met Connie Hall at a party, had the chance to screw her, and did. Two secret dates later, Connie and I became lovers, Ruth was history and I ended up marrying Connie.
I have no idea what happened to Ruth, but Vic died last year and Connie ran off with the milkman or some other degenerate. I blame the entire episode on Ruth, who should have kept me.
Now I'm left here alone, counting the moments when I can grope the hell out of Deb Martin, a sexy young woman with a masters degree, a yen for tit-fucking and a peculiar notion that she can somehow become mayor of our city.
All without ever going to the bank.
Speaking of which ... does a campaign manager draw a salary?
I specialize in helping companies get more profits out of fewer people in longer hours. In other words, I'm an asshole. It pays well and I don't have to stick around to see the blood flow.
The problem is, I don't think political campaigns work quite the same way, with the possible exception of the bloodletting.
I might have to suggest, in vague terms, that I take Deb up on that offer of the tit-fuck. I don't think this adventure is going to benefit me otherwise.