Poor Candidate
By LilDean.
“Tell me again,” I say, not looking up from my phone where the latest poll numbers glare at me.
Helen Myers is breathing down my neck, her approval rating climbing like she’s got jet fuel in her campaign budget.
Leah’s heels click against the hardwood as she paces behind me. “We’re up by two points. That’s within the margin of error.” She stops, exhales sharply. “And she just got the firefighters’ union endorsement.”
The ice in my glass cracks—a tiny sound, but it feels like gunfire in the silence. I toss back the rest of the whiskey, wincing as it hits my throat. “Perfect. The woman who’s never stepped foot outside a penthouse gets the blue-collar vote.” The bitterness tastes worse than the liquor.
Leah’s fingers tap against her tablet, restless. “Hans,” she says, softer now, “you need to sleep. Or—” She hesitates, then looks me dead in the eye. “Something else to take the edge off?” The question hangs there, loaded. The subtext is neon-bright.
I rub my temples, exhaling through my nose. “Yeah. Get out of here for a bit.” My voice sounds rough, too honest.
Leah nods once, businesslike, but there’s a flicker in her dark eyes—disapproval or curiosity, I can’t tell. She grabs her blazer from the chair. “I’ll make the call,” she says, and the door clicks shut behind her.
The silence settles thick. I thumb through my phone to the last text from my wife: ‘Don’t forget the fundraiser tomorrow.’ No kiss emoji. Three years of marriage, and we’ve never once talked about the things that coil tight in my gut after midnight—the way I like hands pulling my hair, teeth on my throat, the sharp sting of humiliation that makes my blood rush south. Sarah’s all soft edges and vanilla. I love her. But Christ, I ache.
A knock—three sharp raps—and then she’s there, haloed by the hallway’s dim glow. Pink hair twisted up in something complicated, lips painted the same shade. The dress is black, snug at the waist, slit high enough to show a flash of thigh when she steps inside. “Mayor-to-be,” she says, grinning. Her voice is syrup over gravel. “Or should I say ‘sir’?”
The door shuts behind her, and suddenly the room feels smaller, charged. She smells like jasmine and something faintly metallic—hairspray, maybe. Her heels sink into the carpet as she walks toward me, deliberate, unhurried. “Your manager said you needed…” A pause. Her blue eyes flick over me, assessing. “Distraction.”
I nod, throat tight. The whiskey’s warmth is gone; my skin prickles with something sharper. “I need—” The words stick. I swallow. “Not just distraction.” My pulse jumps when her eyebrow arches. I’ve given stump speeches to hostile crowds, but this admission scrapes me raw: “I need you to take control.”
She doesn’t laugh. Her gaze darkens—not judgment, but calculation. She steps closer, the slit in her dress parting to reveal a stretch of smooth thigh. “Oh?” A single syllable, weighted. Her fingers trail along the armrest of my chair. “Big-shot politician wants to be told what to do?” The mockery is velvet-wrapped. My breath hitches.
She moves past me, hips swaying, and perches on the edge of the sofa like it’s a throne. Crossing her legs, she taps one stiletto against the carpet. “Kneel,” she says, playful but edged. Not a request. The corner of her mouth quirks up when I hesitate. “Or are you all talk, Councilman?”
My knees hit the carpet before I’ve fully processed it—the plush pile scratching through my slacks, the way my pulse thrums in my ears. “Your name,” I manage, fumbling with my tie. It’s silk, expensive, but my fingers feel thick and stupid. “I should know who’s—”
“Sloane,” she interrupts, stretching the vowel like she’s savoring it. Her stiletto taps my sternum, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to still my hands. “And you’re not undressing me, Councilman.” The laugh in her voice curls around me, warm and dangerous. “Show me what you’re working with.”
My fingers tremble on my belt—not from nerves but from the electric jolt of being watched so intently. The buckle clinks loudly in the quiet room as I undo it, then the button of my slacks. Sloane doesn’t move, doesn’t help, just watches with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. The zipper sounds obscene as I pull it down.
The silk boxers do nothing to hide the truth—I’m already half-hard, straining against the fabric. “Ohhh,” she coos, dragging the sound out like she’s found something fascinating in a museum. Her stiletto nudges my crotch, pressing just enough to make me suck in a breath. “That’s it? That’s the big, bad politician?” The teasing lilt in her voice makes my cheeks burn hotter than the whiskey ever could.
She leans forward, resting her chin on her palm like I’m a particularly underwhelming exhibit. “You’re blushing,” she observes, delighted. Her pinky finger hooks into my waistband and tugs down—slow, torturous—until my cock springs free. The giggle that escapes her is bright and cruel. “Look at you. Barely thicker than my finger.” She demonstrates, wrapping her thumb and forefinger around me in a mockery of a grip. “Do the voters know their future mayor’s packing a cocktail straw?”
The humiliation burns, but so does the throbbing heat between my legs. I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper as she traces the vein along my shaft with a manicured nail. “God, you’re leaking,” she marvels, smearing the bead of precome with her fingertip. “All this for little ol’ me?” Her breath ghosts over the tip as she leans in, close enough that I can smell her cherry lip gloss. Then she pulls back abruptly, wrinkling her nose. “Nuh-uh. Hands behind your head, Councilman. You don’t get to touch yet.”
She stretches out her legs, crossing one ankle over the other. The stiletto dangles from her toes—black patent leather, sharp enough to draw blood. “Kiss them,” she commands, wiggling her foot. There’s amusement in her voice, but her eyes are dark, assessing. I don’t hesitate. The leather is cool against my lips, the faint tang of city sidewalks lingering on the sole. I press my mouth to the arch, then the pointed toe, worshipping like it’s holy ground. Above me, she exhales sharply—surprised, maybe, by how eagerly I debase myself.
“Good boy,” she murmurs, and the praise twists in my gut, sweet as poison. Her other heel nudges my chin, tilting my face up. “Now the other one. Slower.” I obey, tracing the curve of the shoe with my tongue this time, tasting salt and the ghost of her skin. The buckle digs into my lower lip, but I don’t pull away. Her laughter is soft, private, like she’s discovered something deliciously pathetic about me.
I swallow hard. “Can I—” The words stick, thick with want. “Can I take them off?” Her grin widens, slow and feline, and she wiggles her toes inside the patent leather. “Mmm. Only if you worship properly,” she says, dragging a fingertip down her own throat. “Knees wider.” I spread them instinctively, the carpet rough against my bare thighs. She leans forward, gripping my hair suddenly—tight enough to make my scalp prickle. “And you don’t get to come until I say.” Her thumb strokes my temple, mocking. “Understood?”
I nod frantically, fingers trembling as I unbuckle the first stiletto. The strap slips free with a whisper, and the scent hits me—warm leather, sweat, the faintest trace of her perfume clinging to the insole. I press my nose against the arch, breathing deep, before dragging my tongue along the damp curve where her skin touches. Sloane exhales sharply above me, her thighs tightening around my shoulders. “Fuck, you’re desperate,” she mutters, half to herself. The second shoe drops with a thud, and I dive for her bare foot before she can tease me further, sucking two toes into my mouth like a man starved.
She laughs, high and bright, twisting her fingers in my hair to yank my head back. “Look at you,” she coos, wiggling her painted toes in front of my face. My cock twitches pathetically against my thigh, already leaking. “Such a good little pet for my feet.” Her sole presses against my lips, smearing them with the salt of her skin, and I groan into the contact. Her other foot slides down to stroke my erection—languid, mocking, the arch barely grazing my tip. “God, you’re tiny,” she breathes, curling her toes around me like she’s testing a piece of fruit for ripeness. The contrast is obscene: her flawless pink pedicure against my ruddy, straining cock.
Her heel digs into my thigh as she leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tracing my slit with her big toe. “Does your wife know you’d rather lick feet than fuck her?” The question punches the air from my lungs. I shake my head, panting, and she clucks her tongue. “Pathetic.” The toe drags lower, pressing hard against my balls, and I whimper. “But cute.” She shifts suddenly, swinging a leg over my shoulders, and shoves my face into the crease of her thigh. The lace of her panties is damp against my cheek. “Now earn it,” she orders, grinding down just enough to let me feel the heat of her through the fabric.
I lick weakly at first, clumsy with desperation, until she fists my hair and yanks. “Harder, Councilman.” The command rasps against my ears, and I obey, dragging my tongue in firm strokes until the lace darkens. She tastes of salt and expensive perfume, and the moan that escapes her when I suck at the seam of her folds sends a jolt straight to my cock. I can feel her thighs tremble, her breath hitching as I find a rhythm—long, wet passes that make her hips jerk. “That’s—” She cuts off with a gasp, nails biting into my scalp. “Keep going.”
Time blurs. My jaw aches, saliva dripping down my chin, but I don’t stop. Not when she grinds against my face, not when she curses, voice breaking. The room smells of her, heady and raw, and the wet sounds of my mouth on her drown out everything but her ragged breathing. She comes with a shudder, thighs clamping around my head, her cry muffled by the hand she slaps over her mouth. I lap at her through it, greedy, until she shoves me away with a groan.
Her chest heaves as she slumps back against the couch, legs splayed. A bead of sweat slides down her throat. “Jesus,” she pants, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re fucking relentless.” Her gaze drops to my cock, still untouched and twitching against my stomach. “Look at you,” she murmurs, toeing my hip. “Still hard as a rock.”
I swallow hard, throat raw from panting. “Please,” I croak—the word scrapes out like gravel. “Let me—”
Sloane giggles, high and bright, kicking her foot idly against my shoulder. “Ohhh, the big, bad politician begging?” She drags the word out like she’s tasting it. Her toes curl under my chin, tipping my face up to meet her gaze—her eyes are dark, amused, her lips swollen from biting them. “Fine.” She pats the couch cushion beside her. “Up here, Councilman. Sit against my chest.”
My knees crack as I scramble up, the rough carpet leaving angry red marks on my skin. She spreads her legs wider, guiding me back until my spine presses against her breasts—warm and soft through the thin fabric of her dress. Her arms snake around my torso, one hand splaying across my stomach while the other dips lower. Her fingers are cool when they finally wrap around me, her grip loose at first, just teasing strokes that make me buck into her palm. “Shhh,” she murmurs against my ear, her breath hot. “Let me take care of you.”
Then her phone appears in front of my face, screen glowing. The video is crisp, high-definition—a close-up of a woman’s pussy stretched obscenely around a thick black cock, each thrust glistening with slickness. My stomach clenches. “See that?” Sloane purrs, her thumb swiping to zoom in further until all I can see is the way those lips struggle to accommodate the girth. “That’s what real men do.” Her fingers tighten around my cock—suddenly, cruelly—and I whimper. “Does this help you understand how small you are?”
I nod dumbly, my throat dry. The woman on screen moans, her body arching as she takes every inch effortlessly, and something hot and shameful coils in my gut. Not disgust—envy. I imagine her slick heat, the weight of it, the fullness. My own pathetic erection twitches in Sloane’s grip, leaking pathetically against her fingers. “Pathetic,” she murmurs, but there’s no malice—just amusement, like she’s watching a kitten fail to climb a couch. “You’ll never fill a woman like that, will you?”
The angle shifts, the camera pulling back slightly—just enough to catch the curve of a hip, the jut of a collarbone. I frown. The mole above her left breast is familiar—my pulse stutters. The sheets—dark blue, rumpled—are our sheets. The headboard is ours too, the one Sarah picked out last year. “Wait,” I croak, but Sloane just giggles, her fingers tightening around me as she clicks the volume up. Sarah’s voice fills the room, breathless and high, nothing like the careful, measured tone she uses at fundraisers. “Fuck, yes—right there—”
The screen tilts, revealing the man’s hand gripping her thigh—broad, tan, a silver ring glinting on his pinky. Our campaign’s lead donor. My stomach drops like a stone. Sarah arches beneath him, her nails digging into his back, her face flushed with pleasure I haven’t seen in years. Sloane’s lips brush my ear. “Surprise,” she whispers, her thumb circling the head of my cock in slow, cruel strokes. “Your wife loves getting properly fucked.”
I jerk away, my skin crawling, but Sloane’s arms tighten around me like a vise. “Uh-uh,” she chides, nodding at the screen where Sarah’s moans crest louder. “You wanted to see, didn’t you?” Her fingers twist around my shaft, squeezing just shy of pain. “Look how full she looks.” The video zooms in again—Sarah’s lips stretched taut, glistening around the man’s girth as he pounds into her. A ragged noise escapes my throat, half-groan, half-sob. Sloane laughs, low and delighted. “Oh my god, you’re harder now?!”
Sarah’s head tilts back, her brown hair sticking to her neck with sweat, and for the first time, she looks directly at the camera—right at me. Her lips curl in a smile I’ve never seen before, lazy and cruel. “Hans,” she purrs, her voice husky with pleasure, “you should see yourself right now.” The man grunts above her, driving deeper, and her breath hitches—but her eyes stay locked on the lens, mocking, alive. “Always pretending you’re some big, important man,” she gasps, arching beneath him. “But we both know the truth, don’t we?”
Sloane’s fingers twist around me, her nails digging into my thigh as she giggles into my ear. “She’s laughing at you,” she whispers, gleeful. On screen, Sarah’s fingers trail down her own stomach, cupping her breasts—the ones I’ve barely touched in months—and moans as the man’s grip tightens on her hips. “You like watching, baby?” she coos, her thumb brushing a nipple. “Maybe I should send you more videos while you’re out campaigning.” The word drips with venom, and I flinch like she’s slapped me.
Then the screen splits—Sarah’s flushed face shrinking to one side as another feed flickers to life. Helen Myers sits behind her mahogany desk, crisp blazer unbuttoned just enough to reveal the swell of her cleavage, her grey-streaked hair perfectly coiffed. She’s smiling—not the practiced politician’s smile from debates, but something slow and predatory. “Councilman,” she purrs, lacing her fingers together. “I wondered when you’d finally see this.” Behind her, the city skyline glows through floor-to-ceiling windows, her office high enough to make me dizzy.
Sloane’s fingers are still around my cock instantly, her grip loosening but not letting go—just holding me there, throbbing and exposed, as Helen leans forward. “Stop stroking him,” she commands, her green eyes locked on me through the screen. Sloane obeys with a mock salute, but her other hand stays tangled in my hair, keeping me pinned against her chest. Helen’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. “I want him to cum untouched,” she says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Just from my words. Just from knowing who really runs this city.”
“Do you know how many times I’ve watched your pathetic little speeches?” she asks, arching one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “How many times have I sat in my office, legs spread, thinking about how easy it would be to break you?” My breath hitches. “You tremble when I correct you in debates,” she continues, her voice thickening. “Your hands shake when I walk into a room. And now… now you’re going to cum for me like the desperate little boy you are.”
Sarah’s moan crescendos on the other half of the screen, her body jerking as the donor’s hips slam into her. “Fuck, yes—just like that,” she gasps, her fingers twisting in the sheets. Her gaze flicks to the camera again, dark with amusement. “Hans,” she breathes, rolling her hips to meet each thrust, “you should see yourself.” Her laughter is breathless, drunk on pleasure. “Red-faced and leaking—just like always.” The donor grunts above her, his grip tightening on her waist, and she arches with a whimper. “God, you’re pathetic,” she moans, but it’s not anger in her voice—it’s bliss, pure and dizzying.
“Do it,” Helen orders, her voice cracking. “Cum for me, Councilman. Show me how weak you really are.” My hips jerk involuntarily, my cock twitching against nothing—no touch, no friction, just the unbearable heat coiling in my gut. Sloane’s fingers tighten in my hair, her breath hot against my ear. “Oh my god,” she giggles, high and bright. “I’ve never seen a dick cum alone before.” Her teeth scrape my earlobe. “I can’t wait.”
Sarah arches beneath the donor onscreen, her moans spilling into the room like honey, thick and sticky. “Hans,” she gasps, her fingers twisting in the sheets—our sheets. Her toes curl, her back bows. “Look at me,” she demands, and my traitorous eyes obey. Her cunt clenches around him visibly, her thighs shaking. “I’m cumming,” she announces, as if I couldn’t tell. As if the flush spreading down her chest, the way her body seizes—as if any of it could be missed. The donor groans above her, his thrusts turning erratic. “She’s so tight,” he grunts, his fingers digging into her hips. “Tighter than you, Councilman.”
Helen chuckles from her side of the screen, her fingers working between her thighs with slow precision. “Oh, Hans,” she sighs, shaking her head like I’m a particularly disappointing student. “You thought you could run this city?” Her laugh is low, rich, as her fingers disappear beneath her skirt. “Look at you. Your wife’s getting railed by your biggest donor, you’re humping air like a dog in heat.” She grins, her head tipping back. “Sloane isn’t even touching you.” Her green eyes lock onto mine, gleaming with victory. “And yet here you are, about to cum from sheer shame.” Her teeth flash in a grin. “Isn’t that right, Councilman?”
I open my mouth—to protest, to beg, to deny—but all that comes out is a choked whimper. Sloane’s nails dig into my scalp, her giggles vibrating against my back. “Ohhh, he’s trying so hard to hold it in,” she coos, her breath hot on my neck. Helen’s hips jerk forward on screen, her blazer gaping to reveal a flash of lace. “The more you squirm,” she pants, “the happier I get. Every pathetic noise you make—” She laughs. “Every time you try to resist—” Her hand slams against the desk. “It just proves how weak you are.”
My entire body trembles, sweat dripping down my temples, my cock twitching wildly against my stomach. Sarah’s eyes gleam with cruel amusement on the other half of the screen, her fingers pinching her own nipples as she watches me struggle. “Look at him,” she gasps, her hips rolling beneath the donor’s thrusts. “He wants to cum so bad—” She moans, arching. “But he also wants us to laugh at him.” Helen’s fingers still, her gaze locking onto me through the screen. “Is that true?” she murmurs, her voice dangerously soft. “Do you want us to mock you while you cum?”
Sloane shifts behind me, her breath tickling my ear. “Ohhh, he does,” she giggles, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Look how red his face is.” She nips at my earlobe, her free hand sliding down to cup my balls—not stroking, just holding, like she’s weighing them. “Councilman,” she whispers, her voice dripping with false sympathy, “you’re dripping.” Her thumb swipes over the head of my cock, smearing precum across my stomach. “Does it hurt?” she coos. “Being this close?”
Sarah’s laugh rings out from the screen, sharp as broken glass. “Of course it hurts,” she pants, her hips jerking beneath the donor’s thrusts. “He loves it.” Her fingers trail down her own stomach, pausing just above where they’re joined. “Remember our wedding night?” she murmurs, her voice syrupy with mock nostalgia. “You came before you even got inside me.” The donor groans above her, his grip bruising on her waist, and she moans—loud, exaggerated. “God, Hans, you should feel how full I am right now.”
Sloane’s fingers tighten in my hair, her breath hot against my neck. “Wait, wait—” she giggles, her free hand hovering just above my twitching cock. “I wanna see his face when he breaks.” She leans forward, her pink hair brushing my cheek. “Come on, Councilman,” she coos, her voice dripping with faux encouragement. “You can do it—oh!” Her eyes widen as a thick drop of precome beads at my tip. “Look, look! He’s so close!”
Sarah doesn’t even glance up from the screen, her fingers lazily tracing circles around her nipple as the donor fucks her harder. “Oh, who cares?” she sighs, rolling her eyes—but there’s a smirk playing at her lips. “He always cums too fast anyway.” She arches beneath the donor with a theatrical moan, her toes curling. “Just do it already, Hans,” she adds, waving a hand dismissively. “God knows you’re useless for anything else.”
Helen’s smirk sharpens as she leans back in her chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. “Go on, Hans,” she murmurs, voice thick with victory. “Let it happen. You know you can’t win—not against me, not against this. Cum for your mayor,” she orders, her green eyes locking onto mine through the screen. “Show me you know your place.” The command slams into me like a fist, and my hips jerk helplessly, my cock twitching against the air as if begging for permission.
Sarah’s laughter rings out from the other screen—bright, cruel, edged with pleasure as the donor’s thrusts turn brutal. “God, look at him,” she gasps, her fingers twisting in the sheets. “He’s gonna cum untouched—like a fucking virgin.” The words lance through me, hot and shameful, and my stomach tightens. My cock pulses, untouched and aching, precome dripping down my shaft in thick, sticky strands. Sloane’s nails dig into my scalp, her breath coming in giggles against my neck. “Oh my god,” she whispers, delighted. “He’s whimpering.”
Helen leans forward onscreen, her lips parted, eyes dark with triumph. “That’s it,” she purrs, fingers tracing idle circles on her desk. “Let it happen.” Her voice drops, low and commanding. “Cum for me, Councilman.” The order hits like a switch. My hips jerk, my back arching off the couch as my orgasm rips through me—no touch, no friction, just the unbearable heat of humiliation coiling tight before snapping. Cum splatters across my stomach in pathetic, twitching spurts, my voice breaking into ragged, gasping moans. Sloane whoops behind me, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Holy shit,” she crows. “He actually did it!”
Onscreen, Sarah rolls onto her side, propping her head on one hand as she watches me tremble through the aftershocks. Her smile is slow, satisfied—the kind she used to give me after a successful fundraiser, back when she still believed in me. “Aww,” she coos, her thumb brushing the donor’s come as it drips from her thigh. “Looks like we both got what we needed tonight.” Her phone buzzes beside her; she glances at it, then back at me, her smirk widening. “Don’t come home too late, Hans,” she sing-songs—and the call cuts before I can even choke out a reply, her laughter ringing in the sudden silence.
Helen’s sigh pulls my attention back to her screen. She’s adjusting her blazer, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders with the practiced ease of someone who’s already won. “Hans,” she murmurs, shaking her head as if disappointed in a particularly dim student. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for one evening, don’t you think?” Her fingers tap a pen against her desk—once, twice—before she leans forward, her green eyes sharp as broken glass. “Drop out of the race by morning,” she says, voice soft but final. “Or I’ll release that footage to every news outlet in the city.”
The words barely register at first—my brain still fogged with shame, my body limp against Sloane’s chest—but then they sink in like teeth. My mouth opens, closes, opens again. “I—” The protest dies before it forms. What could I possibly say? That I’ll fight? That I’ll win? Helen’s smirk widens, her manicured nails clicking against the desk as she waits for my inevitable surrender. “Okay,” I whisper instead, the word tasting like bile. “Okay.”
Helen’s laugh is velvet wrapped around a blade. “Good boy,” she purrs, leaning back in her chair with the ease of someone who’s already counting her victory speech. Her fingers tap a final, dismissive key, and the screen goes black, leaving me stranded in the sudden silence with only Sloane’s giggles and the sticky mess on my stomach for company. The room smells like sex and salt and my own humiliation, thick enough to choke on.
Sloane exhales sharply through her nose—half laugh, half sigh—as she shoves me forward onto my knees. I barely catch myself before face-planting into the carpet, my arms trembling. Her pink-dyed hair swings into view as she crouches in front of me, her blue eyes crinkling with amusement. “Awww,” she coos, poking my limp dick with a manicured finger. It twitches pathetically, still slick with my own cum. “Look at wittle Councilman’s wittle peepee,” she babbles, her voice syrup-sweet. “All tuckered out after his big, messy oopsie!” Her fingertip circles the head, feather-light, and I shudder.
She straightens abruptly, her stilettos clicking against the hardwood as she strides toward the door. “Fun fact,” she tosses over her shoulder, snatching her purse off the armchair, “your wife tipped me extra to record your face when you saw the video.” My stomach drops. Sloane pauses in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other dangling her heels by their straps. “Also? Helen paid me triple to make sure you came untouched.” She grins, sharp as broken glass. “Best. Gig. Ever.”
With a wink, she steps into the hallway—then pivots back, her pink hair swinging. “Almost forgot!” She digs into her purse and lobs something at me. A wet wipe smacks my chest, sticking to the cooling mess on my stomach. “Clean yourself up, baby boy,” she coos. “Wouldn’t want Mommy Sarah to smell another woman on you.” Her laughter echoes down the hall as the door swings shut behind her, leaving me kneeling in the silence, the wet wipe slowly peeling off my skin like a bandage ripped too soon.
The door clicks open again before I can move—Leah’s familiar kitten heels tapping against the hardwood. I don’t turn around. Her shadow stretches across the carpet, long and thin, before she steps into view, her tailored blazer perfectly pressed, her dark hair sleek in its usual ponytail. She surveys the scene—the abandoned stilettos, the paused video still flickering onscreen, my nakedness streaked with shame—and smiles. Not the professional, reassuring grin she wears at press conferences, but something slow and knowing. “Well,” she murmurs, “that went better than expected.”
She crouches beside me, her fingers plucking the wet wipe from my chest with delicate precision. “Helen offered me deputy mayor,” she says conversationally, dabbing at the drying mess on my stomach. Her touch is clinical, almost bored. “If I arranged this.” Her fingertip brushes the tip of my flaccid cock—just a graze—and I flinch. She laughs, low and delighted. “Tick-tock, Councilman,” she sing-songs, her nails trailing feather-light up my shaft in a mockery of tenderness. “Guess which candidate keeps her promises?”
Leah’s phone buzzes in her blazer pocket. She pulls it out with one hand while the other continues its cruel, teasing strokes—barely there, just enough to make my breath hitch. “Mm-hmm,” she murmurs into the receiver, her eyes locked on mine. “Yes, he took it exactly as predicted.” A pause. Her fingers tighten around my cock suddenly, squeezing just shy of pain. “No, no—he came untouched. Like a good boy.” Her thumb swipes over the head, smearing a fresh bead of precome. “Mm. Still twitching.”
She hangs up, tucking the phone away with deliberate slowness, her smile widening as she watches my face. “That was Helen,” she says, as if I hadn’t guessed. Her nails trail down my shaft, tapping against my balls like she’s counting change. “She wants to know if you’ve reconsidered her… offer.” The word drips with amusement. Her other hand digs into my thigh, her grip turning bruising. “Though I suppose the answer’s pretty obvious.” Her laugh is light, airy—the same one she uses when reporters ask about my polling numbers.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. Her fingers tighten briefly in approval before sliding up to pat my hair, the gesture almost maternal if it weren’t for the way her thumb presses into my temple—hard enough to hurt. “Good boy,” she murmurs, her breath warm against my ear. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—cloys in my nose, mixing with the stale sweat and come still clinging to my skin. Her knee brushes my thigh as she shifts, the crisp fabric of her blazer rasping against my bare shoulder. “Though I have to admit,” she adds, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I expected more of a fight from you.” Her fingers trail down to trace the edge of my jaw. “Pathetic.”
She stands abruptly, her kitten heels clicking against the hardwood as she steps back to survey me. Her lips purse—mockingly thoughtful—before she suddenly arches her back, her hips jerking forward in an exaggerated thrust. “Ohhhh,” she moans, her voice pitched high and breathless, her fingers fluttering against her throat in a pantomime of ecstasy. “Oh god, yes—just like that, Councilman!” Her hips stutter, her shoulders tensing as she mimics the way I came—spasming, messy, untouched. The performance is grotesque in its accuracy, right down to the way her toes curl inside her pumps. “Fuck,” she gasps, collapsing forward with a giggle, her hands braced on her knees. “That was almost as sad as the real thing.”
Leah straightens, smoothing her blazer with practiced ease, her smile sharpening as she watches my face. “Helen will be so disappointed,” she muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “She wanted footage of you begging.” Her phone buzzes again; she glances at it, then back at me, her eyebrow arching. “Though I suppose this will do.” She holds up the screen—a video of me trembling through my humiliating climax, my mouth slack with silent pleas. My stomach lurches. Her thumb swipes left, revealing another file: Sarah, splayed across our bed, the donor’s hands gripping her hips as she grins at the camera. “Smile, Hans,” Leah coos, her voice syrupy with false cheer. “You’re going viral.”
She pockets the phone with a wink, her kitten heels clicking toward the door. The scent of her perfume lingers—something expensive and floral, cloying enough to make my throat tighten. At the threshold, she pauses, her fingers drumming against the frame. “Oh, and Hans?” she adds, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Sarah’s changing the locks.” The door clicks shut behind her, the sound final as a guillotine.
*****
One year later, Sarah still sends the videos—every Thursday, like clockwork, her name flashing on my screen with the same cruel predictability as her moans used to echo through our bedroom. The first one arrived the day after the divorce papers were signed: her arched over the donor’s lap, his fingers tangled in her hair as she smirked at the camera. “Miss me?” she’d purred, rolling her hips with deliberate slowness. I came untouched that night too, my fingers gripping the edge of the sink as the shower ran cold.
Leah’s captions are worse. She doesn’t just send clips; she annotates them like a particularly vicious film critic. “0:43—listen closely, that’s the sound of your old donor’s belt buckle,” she’ll text beneath a close-up of Sarah’s reddened ass. Or: “Helen’s favorite part! (Hint: it’s when your ex chokes on his cock.).” The videos always cut off right before Sarah climaxes—Leah’s idea of a punchline, I guess. The joke’s on me either way.
Helen’s messages are shorter. Cleaner. Just five words this time, glowing on my lock screen like a brand: ‘Still touching yourself to us?’ The taunt lands like a knee to the gut. My fingers freeze mid-stroke, my cock twitching in traitorous acknowledgment. The shower stall feels suddenly claustrophobic, the steam thick with the scent of cheap soap and my own shame. Water sluices down my back as I squeeze my eyes shut, but all I see is Helen’s smirk—the way her manicured fingers had drummed against her desk while I unraveled.
Leah’s follow-up arrives with a cheerful ping: a selfie of the four of them crammed into a booth at some dimly lit bar, their glasses clinking in a mock toast. Sarah’s lips are smudged with pink gloss, her arm slung possessively around Helen’s shoulders while Sloane blows a kiss to the camera, her pink hair vivid against the shadows. But it’s Leah’s caption that makes my stomach drop: ‘Good luck with your little fap session, Councilman!’
The End.
*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.