Mr. President 1(227)

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.#p#分页标题#e#

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.”

Now, the age difference Michael and I is 15 years. He’s 51. Left to my own devices, there’s no way I would ever consent to do something like that. And sure, I argued. I told him I had control of my own life. That I was my own person.