Mr. President 1(176)

“Some people don’t like women to be as free as I want them to be. And some people… Well, let’s just say that some people not only don’t understand what I stand for, but they actively oppose it. The commissioner is one of these people.” His answer is a vague one but, for now, it’s more than enough. My fears have been soothed, and I’m back to believing that there’s going to be a way out of this mess I’m in.

“You’ve built something great,” I tell him, squeezing his hand in mine as I look into his eyes. These bright smart eyes of his. “I see it every time I walk in here.”

His lips curl upward into a gentle smile—not a grin, but a true tender smile—and he squeezes my hand back. “It’s not enough to see it, Destiny,” he tells me, “you have to feel it.” With that, he pulls me toward the stairs at the end of the room and walks up, pulling me after him. He isn’t going to make me walk on stage, is he?

“Austin, what are you--”

“Let me show you,” he cuts me short, whispering as he pulls me onto the stage, my heart racing so fast I can’t even think, “the power of Python.”





72





Destiny





The moment Austin steps under the spotlight, everyone falls silent; I guess it’s not every day that Mr. Python himself walks on stage. He pulls me by the hand, leading me right toward the center of the stage, and then lets go of me. My heart is racing, and I can barely think straight; what is Austin going to do?

I narrow my eyes into slits, but I can’t see a thing. The spotlights are focused on both Austin and I, and the bright lights blind me to everything else. I just hear the hushed voices of the women in the crowd, anticipation dripping out of every single word. I don’t think I have ever felt such tension at Python; this is a special event, and not just to me.

“Let’s give them something to remember,” Austin tells me, and then leans into me and, running one hand through my hair, whispers. “I sure am going to give you something to remember,” he says, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Grinning, Austin turns on his heels and walks to the edge of the stage. He opens his arms and looks up and, even though I can only see his back, he looks like a God to me.

Moving slowly, he takes his hands to the collar of his shirt and, grabbing it, he pulls on it harshly. The moment he does it, there’s a loud sound coming from the speakers, the deep rumble of the bass and drums as a sensuous music starts. The crowd buzzes with excitement as the buttons in his shirt pop out, baring his ripped pectorals and hard wall of abs. I can’t help but walk toward him and, before I can stop myself, I’m pressing my body against his, my eager fingers resting right over his abs and slowly running all the way up to his pecs. The crowd cries out, the women trying to live through me as I feel Austin’s body; they’re probably thinking that I’m part of the show. They have no idea that this whole show is meant for me.#p#分页标题#e#

I run my fingers down the side of Austin’s body and, when I meet the hem of his pants, I slide my fingertips over his leather belt and only stop when I find its buckle. My fingers work with precision as I open it and then pull the belt out from its loops. Folding it upon itself, I snap the two ends together with a dry sound, and then hand the belt to Austin. I don’t know why, but I want him to use that belt on me… Exactly how, I don’t know. He takes it from my hands, and then my fingers go back to the front of his pants; I pop out the button on top, but before I can grab his zipper and pull it down, Austin turns on his feels to face me, the folded belt still in his hands. The look in his eyes makes my insides clench, and my heart starts racing at a furious pace.

“Sit down,” Austin tells me, and I raise one eyebrow at him. Sit down where? But I don’t need to ask him that: one of his male dancers—one of his Cobras—steps onto the stage and places a chair right in the middle, one of the spotlights aiming straight at it. I grin, anxiety eating my heart out, and walk toward the chair. I sit down and wait patiently as Austin walks toward me, my eyes never leaving the belt he has in his hands.

Letting go of one end of the belt, he lets it fall until it almost touches the floor. Then, lifting it up, he brushes it against my knee and slides it up until it meets the hem of my dress. Using it to push my dress up, he bunches the fabric up until he manages to get a glimpse of my (completely drenched) black lace thong.

Then, he goes around the chair and positions himself behind me; the end of the belt is on my knee again, but this time he slides it up over the fabric of my dress, only stopping when its leathery end is nestled right in my cleavage. I’m breathing hard now, anxious to feel the warm touch of his fingers on me and not the cold one from his belt, and as if he can read my mind, that’s exactly what he does.