"I assure you," she replies, slipping her arms into a hotel robe, "I will do my best to sway the South Korean President toward a more open trade agreement with the US."
"Good," I reply, pressing my lips to hers in a final good bye. "We'll be in touch."
I reach for my clothes, and get dressed.
Another deal consummated. This one will bring back a lot of jobs back to America. Good, solid, manufacturing jobs. Back to the fucking heartland. Where politicians forgot all about the people.
See, I made my billions on Wall Street, but I was already rich.
But I realized, life isn't just about making money and fucking women. Well, that's good, but there's more. I already did the Army after college. But I wanted to give back.
I could run my own charity, or I could actually help people by running for office. Because sure as hell I could see that ordinary Americans were getting shafted by the system. No one was listening to their voices.
It was time to change that.
I promised to bring back jobs to America. To make opportunities come to every American again - not just the token few or well connected.
How can you be against that? How can you be against a President who gets shit done?
I try to discreetly exit the hotel, but with the Secret Service in tow, how discreet can you be? It's like trying to leave this place undetected with bells on my shoes.
So despite my best efforts, as soon as I exit out the back of the building, the press is all over me.
And watch. This is where it's gonna start.
The flash of lights is everywhere and I pull a pair of dark-shaded sunglasses over my eyes, waving off reporters.
"Mr. President, is it true you're having sexual relations with a South Korean ambassador?" asks one red-faced reporter.
Another reporter jumps in, "Could I please have a moment? The people would like to know what exactly you were doing at the Sofitel Hotel. I'm guessing more than work."
I keep walking, looking straight ahead and ignore the question.
Then another reporter jumps forward, waving her arms, "Mr. President! Over here! Just one question-I-"
But Secret Service agents are all around me, and they don't let her finish. Their arms are outstretched, "Step aside," they say. "No questions. Give the President some space."
Just as I'm about to step inside of my limo, a scrawny reporter as thick as a licorice stick manages to weave his way through the crowd and in between the Secret Service agents. He has a microphone in his fist and he's pushing it in my face.
"How does it feel to know you're being dubbed, 'President Player'?" he asks.
President Player? Now he's gone too far. There's only so much slander I can take before I snap, and his comment is the final straw.
I feel my pulse kick into high gear. Who does this scrawny bastard think he is? I love this country, and I work hard.
Enough is enough. I have the urge to put my fist right into the middle of his face.
"Is that what you fucking think of me?" I say, feeling heat building under my shirt collar.
I reach over and try to grab hold of his coat, but two Secret Service agents hold me back. I'm trying to break free of their hold, but they urge me to stop.
"Sir, get in the car," one agent says, guiding me into the limo. "He isn't worth it."
I decide that they're right. These reporters aren't worth it, so I quickly slide into the cool, black leather seats of the limo and slam the door shut behind me.
I try to slow my breathing, as I lean into the seat, remove my glasses, and look up at the roof of the car. But there's no denying it.
I loosen the knot of my tie. As much as I try to shake this feeling, I'm frustrated.
Don't people understand how Washington, DC works?
They want results … I'm getting results.
God fucking dammit. This deal with the South Koreans will bring back at least fifty thousand good paying manufacturing jobs back to America.
But the media?
All they're going to care about is about my 12-inch cock and who I'm sticking it into.
I look out at streets of Washington DC as my motorcade drives by.
Let me just warn you before you start, babe, that this book is designed with one specific purpose in mind.
To get you to forget your problems and make your panties wet.
More than make them wet. To make you cum.
After you finish with me, you better have that significant other or B.O.B. waiting for you. Because I can tell you that you're gonna fucking need it.
Or … if you're a bad girl, go ahead and flip the page and read this in public. But by the time you're done, the person next to you will be able to smell you.
I guarantee it.
So find someplace quiet. Preferably where you can take those panties off.
And follow me for the fucking ride of your life.
2
Ashley
Give a man a gun, and he might win a battle. Give a woman a dress tight enough, and she will win a war.
And tonight … tonight I'm here to win a war.
"You look so fucking sexy, baby," Walter Billingham says, and I can tell that he's mentally undressing me right now, his wide eyes taking in every curve of my body. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his paunch stretching his white shirt.
"Do you think I look sexy?" I ask shyly while, at the same time, I let a devious grin light up my face. I close the distance between him and I, and throwing one arm around Walter's neck, I sit on his lap.
"You do … You really do," he whispers, resting one hand on my naked knee, his fingertips brushing against the hemline of my Saint Laurent dress. I know I could've seduced Walter even if I decided to wear a simple off the rack dress, something equally cheap and trashy, but I don't like to underestimate men. In my line of business, that's a fatal mistake.
"I like how you say it," I tell him, leaning forward and brushing my lips against his ear. I feel something hardening between his legs, and I choke down a chuckle as I realize that Walter's cock is as small as he is old. And he's old enough to be my father-no, make that my grandfather.
CEO of a pharmaceutical conglomerate, Walter has been its leader for more than 25 years. He's 60-something years old now, and one of the most successful businessmen in the US. Thing is, dear old Walter is as successful as he is greedy and immoral. He built his fortune by raising the prices of a few specific drugs, and he has never shown any remorse about it. What happened to the feel-good American Dream, right? But that's the world we live in now; the sociopaths are running the show.
"You know what I find sexy?" I continue, turning around on his lap and opening my legs so that I'm straddling him. Without taking my eyes off his, I hike up the hem of my skirt, offering him a sight of my black La Perla thong. "There's nothing sexier than a powerful man … I just can't resist it," I whisper, running my fingers through what's left of his hair.
"Well, it's your lucky night." His hands trail down the side of my body and, cupping both my ass cheeks, he gives them a soft squeeze. He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and looks at me with an expression of anticipation.
"And why is that?" I ask him with a purr, biting down on my lower lip.
"Because I'm here … and I'm all yours, baby," he continues, and I offer him one mischievous smile. He spent the whole night nibbling at the hook, and now he's swallowed it whole.
Not that I wasn't expecting it to happen. Men are predictable creatures, you know? You just have to figure out which notes to play and they always end up dancing to your tune. With Walter, that was even easier than I thought.
I knew he was staying at the Sofitel, and I also knew that Walter is a man that enjoys his liquor. So all I needed to do to grab his attention was be at the bar after dinner, having a drink by myself. Between showing up and trying to strike a conversation with me, not more than fifteen minutes passed. Usually I'm the one making a first approach, but I guess that, despite his age and looks, Walter is a self-confident man that simply can't resist a woman like me.
Now, don't think that I'm bragging, but men are always attracted to my looks. Pair that with a refined fashion sense and I can cut through a man's soul like a hot knife through butter. Which is a good thing, considering what I do for a living.
Anyway, after having two drinks with Walter, he inevitably invited me to accompany him to his room, and that despite the fact that he has been married for more than 30 years. You'd think that married men would be the hardest to seduce, but the opposite is true. There's no creature easier to seduce than a man with a wedding ring on his finger.
"Let's get you out of these clothes," I purr, softly bucking my hips at him so that my crotch is pressed against his. Loosening the knot on his tie, I then pull it out over his head; my fingers move down to his shirt and I open his collar, popping button after button and revealing his hairy chest.
"Now you're talking," he groans, reaching for my breasts and giving them a hard squeeze.
"Oh, that's good," I moan, swaying my hips softly and rubbing my pussy against the small hard shape under his pants. Well, even though he has a small cock, at least he has no problems getting it up.