One
The fuck-phone rang.
It might seem odd for a respectable, forty-eight year old, conservative, female Senator to own something called a fuck-phone , and, being truthful, it was odd. Actually it was a lot more than odd, it was a god damn nightmare because, you see, I didn’t own that phone, it owned me!
“The Senator is very busy right now,” Trisha, my chief of staff, told the caller. She listened with only a ‘Yes’ or ‘Uh huh’ of agreement as the caller talked. Finally, she said, “I will make sure she gets the message.”
This nightmare started six years ago. The blackmailers had been very clever in the timing of their demands, or they had been very lucky, but my money was on clever. They didn’t approach me right after I narrowly won the election, they waited until mid-February after I’d moved to Washington, had my committee assignments, and was well on the way to establishing myself as a force within the body of the Senate. If they’d done it sooner, I might have simply resigned. I’d thought about it anyway, but I just couldn’t do it. Looking back, I’d gotten a taste for power, and power is the drug of choice for a politician. It’s hard now not to think that God was punishing me for the deadly sin of Pride.
I’ll never forget the day it all happened. Trisha, who wasn’t my chief then, but just a staffer who helped process incoming mail tried desperately to get in to see me. My current chief tried putting her off, but the young lady was insistent, and I finally agreed. Berk brought her into my D.C. office. She looked nervously over her shoulder at him.
“I … I need just a minute of your time … uh … alone, Senator,” she’d said.
I could tell the young woman was close to tears. It was the beginning of a very busy day, and I teetered between telling Berk to just deal with her and acceding to her wishes. I’ll always wonder what might have happened if I’d made the other choice. “Give us a minute, Berk.”
“But Senator …” he began. I gave him the look and he stepped out and closed the door.
“What is the matter, Miss Baxter?”
“I work in the mail-room …”
“I know you work in the mail-room!” I said too sharply. “Get to the point.”
She looked close to a melt-down and my fears started to run away with me. Was she the victim of some sort of abuse by someone on my staff? A scandal four weeks into the term was the last thing I needed. My fears turned out to be justified, but not in the way I’d thought, with her as the victim.
“I got in early…,” she began, and I was about to get really angry, but there was something that stopped me. Perhaps it was her youth. I remembered being that young once. “… there was no one else around, thank god, and I thought I’d just get to it since there was a lot of stuff in the morning bag. The envelope was bulky and I thought it would just be some kind of junk mail and easy to handle, so I opened it first. Then I saw these.”
She dropped a stack of photos on the desk in front of me. The top one was of Alan, my husband, with another woman. She was too blond, too tanned, with too much eye make-up. Her lips were full, no doubt from some sort of cosmetic surgery procedure, and painted a dark-red that tagged her for exactly what she was: a whore. To top it off, she had huge breasts, possibly also augmented, with rings pierced through her nipples. The point of view of the camera had her in the foreground with her face and breasts taking up most of the shot. The rest was along her back and up to where Alan stood behind her, screwing her from behind like some kind of animal. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was dressed in a red-headed wig with his own whorish eye make-up, painted lips, and some pretty convincing fake breasts inside a bra around his chest. He had a riding crop in one hand and was obviously using it on the blond. At first I thought it might be digitally altered, but the appendectomy was all too familiar.
I flipped to the next photo, expecting to see more of his antics, and so I was surprised to see my son, Reggie, instead. The picture turned my stomach. He was kissing another man. The shot was taken just as the kiss broke off and their tongues were touching, a silver string of saliva connecting their mouths. The other man was a few years older than Reggie, who was twenty-three. This man was well-muscled, dark and tan. Someone you might think of as a lady-killer, except in this picture he was obviously a fag. Reggie’s hand gripped the other man’s erect penis which was in the process of ejaculation. The white semen, like tiny pearls, caught in mid-air before it splattered across my son’s chest. The final frightening piece of the puzzle was the glass-topped table in the background. There rested an amber-colored vial with black screw-top. Next to that was a razor-blade and several lines of white powder. Cocaine or meth, I thought.
I was less surprised that the next photo showed my daughter Gayle than by the innocuousness of the subject. It was just a slightly grainy head-shot that showed her outside somewhere wearing a dark jacket. Her long blond hair, blown back by a strong wind. She’d been caught with her mouth in mid-shout. Puzzled, I flipped to the next photo, which was the same subject, but at a greater distance. No, I thought, The first one is a blow-up of this one. There was a building in flames behind her. I could see that she was dressed in black and carried a gasoline can. The next shot was the nail-in-the-coffin. It was a shot from further out still, or the source of the other two blowups, and then I knew what it was. The Three Pines Subdivision eco-terrorist attack! I realized.
That was the last photo. I looked up at Trisha. I could see her concern and pity, but that just hardened my resolve. “Was there anything else? A note of some kind? Demands?” By way of answer she took a high-end smart-phone out of her purse and pushed it across the table toward me. I pressed the power button, tapped the contacts app, and saw only one entry. It said simply, God! I’m not a religious woman, but I do play one for the media and my constituents, so this wasn’t shocking or blasphemous to me, just a twisted joke. I pressed the three-letter name, the screen slid over to the contact info, which just had a phone number. I tapped that and held the phone to my ear. It rang five times and then I heard the message greeting, God is very busy right now, but if you leave a message, he will return your call as soon as possible.
After the beep, I said, “If it’s money you want, you can have it…, within reason.” I wasn’t thinking. I should never have been so explicit on the phone like that, but I was still reeling from the betrayal by my entire family. I pressed the End Call button and switched off the phone. Before I could set it down, it vibrated. I looked at the screen and it showed that the phone had received a text. I clicked the SMS app. The text was just an attachment when I tapped that, the phone said, “If it’s money you want, you can have it…, within reason,” using my own voice. Then it buzzed again. The new text read, Send me a headshot of yourself. I couldn’t believe what I was reading.
“What?” Trisha asked, seeing my confusion.
I held the phone out to her and she read it. Then another text came in, DO IT NOW, BITCH!
“What could it hurt?” Trisha asked. “It will give you time to think.”
I handed her the phone and sat back for her to take the picture, and she sent it out. A minute later, Come on, Olivia. You can do much better than that. You’re still an attractive woman. Make it sexy for me. My stomach did flip-flops. I knew right then that we were dealing with some kind of mentally disturbed individual rather than the run-of-the-mill black-mailer. “What am I going to do?” I said, not really to anyone, but more as just an expression of my growing despair.
Berk poked his head into the room. “You have a meeting in ten minutes that I need to brief you on.”
I collected myself as best I could and said, “Can we cancel it?”
“No, Senator. It’s the Transportation subcommittee.”
“I’ll be out in five then,” I said. Right after the door closed, I fell apart. I was shaking and tears were collecting in my eyes.
“Stop it!” Trisha said. “Pull yourself together, Senator.” She handed me a tissue. “I can get you through this if you do exactly as I say.”
A glimmer of hope returned. “What do I do?” I asked, dabbing at my eyes.
She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a lip-stick, then came around the desk and ran it carefully around my mouth. It was red. Really red. Red like the whore in Alan’s picture. “No!” I snapped.
“Yes,” Trisha said, soft but firm. “There’s no time. We have to get this right on the first go. Take off your jacket.” I undid the buttons automatically, still in daze, and slipped out of it. She reached out and undid the top button of my blouse, then stepped back and looked at me critically. She came back and undid the next one, and pushed open the neck of my blouse. When I looked down, there was quite a bit of cleavage and the edge of my beige bra was showing. I reached to up to hide it and reduce my exposure, but she slapped my hand away.
Anger surged inside me. “You over-step yourself, young lady!” I barked.
She set the phone on the desk and picked up her purse. “Resign then,” she said as she stalked to the office door.
“Wait!” I said. “Please, Trisha, I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.” This was as close to begging as I’d got since I was twelve.
“Okay, but you must do what I say for the next few minutes.” As if to underscore her remark, the phone buzzed in another text, I’m waiting, you cunt!
“Oh, Jesus! Just do what you have to do, Trisha.”
She gave me instructions that I followed like I was her robot while she watched me in the screen of the phone. “Run your fingers into your hair.… Flare your elbow.… Cock your head to the left.… A little more.… Part your lips.… Put your tongue out just a little bit.… Imaging that I’ve ripped open your blouse and got a knife at your throat.” My eyes widened and the phone clicked.
“I’m sorry about the last remark,” she said as she sent the picture. “You’re expression was too wooden, I had to shock you out of it.” She handed me a tissue. “Get the red off your lips and do up your blouse, Senator.” She said, and then helped my with my jacket.
The phone buzzed again, Nice! I think we’re going to be great friends.
She read the text over my shoulder. “What now?” I asked.
“Let me hold the phone. You won’t be able to answer texts in the meeting. I’ll do what I can to hold him off. You should give Berk some reason why I’ll be working closer with you,” she said.
Berk opened the door. “It’s time, Senator.”
Two
I called her into my office late that night and sent Berk away. I’d given him some story about her have some valuable insight into young female voters that I thought could help with the re-election campaign. I really was already looking that far ahead, which Berk knew and so it wasn’t that strange.
Trisha came in and sat, eyes downcast, and close to tears. “What’s happened?” I asked. “He’s released the pictures, hasn’t he?”
“No,” she said. “I managed to …” She was wracked by sobs.
I stood and came around the desk, put a motherly arm around her and patted her head. “There, there,” I whispered. “Just tell me what’s happened.”
It took a bit of soothing, but she eventually settled down, and began speaking, “He texted again a little while later. I told him that you were in a meeting. He said that is very unfortunate that your promising career as a Senator is to be so short. I pleaded with him to be reasonable. Oh, how I begged him. You could read the texts.”
She was talking, and I thought that might help, so I said, “No, dear. Continue. You’re doing fine.”
“He threatened to send out the pictures, and I asked if there was anything I could do? He demanded that I send him a picture of myself. I knew he wanted sexy and I did my best but nothing seemed to satisfy him until …” She started sobbing again.
“Until what?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“I … I sent … sent him a picture of me, naked, up here.” She waved vaguely toward her chest.
“Oh, my god. You poor dear.” I was rather overwhelmed at what she’d done on my behalf. “And that appeased him?”
“Sort of,” she said, shaking harder now. “He said it would do until I got him a picture of the real things. He gave me until midnight to get it.”
I knew what she was talking about. I didn’t want to understand, but I did. It was after 11:30 now, so there was less than thirty minutes until the deadline. “Give me the phone,” I said, and took it from her when she dug it out of her purse. I reviewed the texts. He’d been angry and she’d had a very difficult time getting him settled down again. She’d explained that there were serious demands on my time, and that I couldn’t get away easily. It was then that she offered to do what she could do. He demanded she send pictures of herself, and she’d sent several head-shots taken with the phone held backwards, tapping the screen without being able to see what she was shooting. That didn’t look very easy, and she’d done a rather good job. She’d put the lip-stick on and unbuttoned her blouse like she’d done with me. Nice, but more cleavage! He demanded. She’d complied, but he demanded more and more. Finally she’d said, Anymore, and I’ll be flashing you my tits! His response was, Yes. Show me your tits now, cunt! And she had, several times, with each picture demanding more. The last had her twisting her nipple savagely with her long whore-red painted nails. She didn’t have those nails this morning, I thought.
She noticed my attention on them and, embarrassed, she hid them in her fists. “He made me go out and buy the polish and the nails,” she said. “Two boxes.”
His last text was, Get exactly that same shot from your bitch-boss by midnight or her life is over!
“What are we going to do, Senator?” she sobbed.
“First, you’re going to start calling me, Olivia,” I said. “Second, get the nails and the polish and help me get my claws on.” I waggled my fingers. There was part of me that couldn’t let her sacrifice be in vain.
“I put them on with white-glue. They should soak off easily. I only kept them in case he wanted another picture.”
“Smart,” I said. “Let’s get started.” She took out the other box of Luxury Long Length nails, and began gluing them on. She wrapped clear tape around each finger to hold the nail in place while it dried. We both watched the clock, wanting to give the glue the maximum time, but still leave enough to time paint them, let them dry, and take the photo before the deadline.
We had only three minutes left. She helped me out of my jacket and then started unbuttoning my blouse. I want to help, but stopped me and said, “We can’t risk screwing up the nails, Olivia.” I felt extremely self-conscious baring myself before this twenty-something girl. More so because she was undressing me, like we were lovers or something. “My god, Olivia! I had no idea.” She’d just unhooked my bra behind my back and pulled the straps down onto my arms. She’d stopped and dropped her hand into my lap, trapping my wrists in the bra straps. She was staring at my chest. She was small. Maybe a 34B, but I was bigger, much bigger, 38E.
“Focus, Trisha.”
“Sorry,” she said, freeing my hands. “They’re beautiful.”
“I could have been a stripper or porn-star, if I hadn’t gone into government,” I said.
“Okay then, channel your inner porn-star and give that nipple a good hard twist!” she said, clearly trying to make light of a rather dreadful situation.
I was really glad that I didn’t have to hide the expression on my face. Equal parts self-disgust and panic that my life was spinning out of control. She shot the picture and quickly sent it.
That was just in the nick, cunts, was his reply and a moment later, Hey! Nice rack, Senator!
Three
I couldn’t possibly carry the phone, and Trisha volunteered to hold and monitor it for me. I made her my P.A. which raised eyebrows, but she was competent and quickly made herself indispensable, then everyone started saying that I clearly knew talent when I saw it. She seemed very grateful for the serious bump in pay, but politicians are experts in rewarding those who are good at keeping their secrets anyway, so by being truly useful too, she’d acted above and beyond the call of duty. Every morning I’d ask, “Anything?” and she’d shake her head. A week went by, then two, and I was thanking my lucky stars that this pervert had got tired of this game and moved on.
I’d kicked Alan out of the bedroom and told him to be much more discrete, got Reggie in rehab and warned him what his peccadilloes could cost us, and confronted Gayle with the pictures, telling her that she could get twenty-five years in prison. I told all three that I was hiring a P.I. to keep an eye on everybody, and set it up so that he would report to Trisha. Anyone who wanted to move out could just f-ing do so. I don’t normally use language like that, but this situation had driven me a short way around the bend and I was feeling testy.
Trisha was in my office when I arrived, and she’d been crying. “Oh, god, Trisha, it’s him again, isn’t it?” I said, putting my arms around her. She nodded and buried her head against my chest and sobbed. Painfully, between her sobs, she told me the story. Nothing happened for a whole day, but then she’d got another text. It was all pretty innocuous at first, How are you doing? … This weather sucks, doesn’t it? … And so on, but then, slowly, it started to take on a more sinister tone, What are you wearing? … What color are your panties? … Granny pants? Bikini? Thong? She admitted that she wore black briefs. Then he brought me into the picture, What about the bitch-boss? Find out what she’s got on under there. She refused for a while and he cajoled, but didn’t threaten. Eventually, she made up, Beige briefs, which was a good guess. I couldn’t recall what I’d had on that day, but more than half of my panties were beige briefs, so, as I said, it was a good guess. By the end of the day, he’d got her to send him a picture of her panties. Pathetic! I’ll send you something better.
A package arrived the next day addressed to her attention. Inside were a pair of scarlet panties of the type known as butt floss , just a couple of spaghetti straps over the hips that held a tiny triangle of nearly see-thru fabric over the crotch. Did they come yet? He began texting, hourly, to a steady stream of her denials. By early evening, he was becoming more and more abusive and Trisha relented. I want a picture, slut. She’d sent him one. Ick! Your hairy cunt spoiled my dinner. Get a Brazilian and send me another picture. I’ll give you 48 hours.
“You should have come to me, Trisha. You are not to hold any of this back from me anymore,” I scolded and she nodded her downcast head.
She’d done as he requested, and the difference in the pictures was striking. In the first her rather thick and dark patch of hair spilled around and showed through the filmy fabric. In the second picture, the tiny triangle sat below a smooth expanse of pale skin and I could clearly see the line of her cleft through the material. He relented for another day.
Are you wearing them? he’d asked.
No, she’d replied.
You stupid fucking, cunt! Go home and get them this second! He’d demanded. She had done so, and he made her send a picture to prove it. Later that day, another package arrived, sent to Trisha’s attention. Inside were a pair of tiny stainless-steel clamps, like tiny woodworking clamps, except the two screw-threaded tensioners were right at the ends and the middle had a little curved depression on each side where the fleshy nipple would get squeezed. He pestered her until she admitted they’d arrived. Then insisted on getting a picture of her wearing them. I want a picture of you in your slut-uniform everyday from now on, bitch! He’d sent.
The next day, she’d sent that picture. She’d worn a dress that buttoned all the way down the front and taken the neck to crotch picture in the bathroom mirror. He gave no response that day, but later the next day, after she sent him the second picture, he sent a long series of instructions that she was to verify at each step before he sent the next. Sometimes with a picture.
Go into the bathroom.
Get into a stall.
Open your dress and put on the clamps (picture).
Take off the panties.
Stick them in your mouth (picture).
Stick two fingers in your pussy (picture).
Move them around and get them really sticky.
Finger-fuck that cunt hard, bitch (picture)!
“My God, Trisha! You should have told me right then!” I cried.
“I almost did, but he was leaving you out of it and I thought I could protect you by getting him interested in me instead,” she sobbed.
I hugged her for a while before going back to the phone. Two days went by, each one with a picture of her in ‘uniform’, before he started asking if she’d received another package. When it arrived, she took it to the restroom and opened it in the stall since she suspected it was from him. It contained a fat black silicone dildo. The fingering episode got repeated twice that day using the dildo instead.
The next day, after she sent in the daily picture, he sent, The clamps aren’t working for me anymore. Get your nipple pierced, slut! There was a lot of back and forth arguing over that and in the end, he sent, Do this or the bitch-boss gets outed and you loose your cushy job, and I want before, during and after pictures of the whole thing getting done! That evening, there was a series of seven pictures. The first was the before picture. Next a shot of the nipple being swabbed with disinfectant. Then a shot of two small ink dots that marked the path the needle was to follow through the tissue. In the next shot, the nipple was clamped with forceps that had an opening through the jaws, a needle was pushed through the hole in the clamp and through tissue, then the ring was threaded onto the needle and pulled back through the nipple. Last, the retaining bead was screwed onto the ring.
“My god, Trisha, this was you?” I whispered.
By way of answer, she unbuttoned her blouse and there, through each nipple was a tiny ring with a small bead on it. I was captivated by the sight and much less horrified than I should have been. I reach out a finger. “Don’t,” she said, closing her blouse, and starting to button it. “They shouldn’t be touched at all without gloves until they heal.” Then she broke down again and said, “Read the last text.” After this morning’s picture of her in modified uniform, he’d sent, Now it’s time for that fucking cunt bitch-boss of yours to get caught up with you. New cunt-wear will arrive in the mail. Make it happen, bitch, or else!
“I’m not sure I can do this anymore, Olivia,” she sobbed.
“I’ll try to make it so that you don’t have to,” I said, and sent, I’ll comply with all of your demands, but please, I beg you, don’t do anything more to Trisha.
Agreed, but she will still be our go between, and you will have to figure out how to fit me into your day.
I sent back, Very well, but I do have limits.
I sure hope not, slut, because if you refuse me anything, your life ends! I expect a picture of your pierced melons by tomorrow.
“Would they be discrete where you got yours pierced?” I asked her.
“I got a friend of mine to do it,” she said. “She’s a professional. I could get her to do you, too.”
Four
Trisha’s friend did my nipples that evening at Trisha’s apartment. The young woman, Melanie, seemed apolitical and didn’t seem to recognize me. She was short like Trisha, but thinner except she had a bigger chest and hips. She practiced what she preached, that was for certain. She had a whole host of visible piercings, multiple holes in both ears, but also lip, nose, and eyebrow. I wondered what she had under her clothing.
It hurt quite a lot. I thought I’d read that they normally used lidocaine, but none was offered. I gritted my teeth, screamed a bit, but got through it, and we sent the pictures. Melanie explained the after-care and gave me a printed sheet of instructions. These were going to take six to eight weeks to heal.
“I thought you’d get her to remove yours now,” I said after Melanie had left.
“No,” she sighed. “They’re already there. I’ll keep them. I can always take them out later if I don’t like them.”
I got the impression that she was really doing it in solidarity with me, and that gave me a very warm feeling toward her. She offered me a glass of wine and we talked forever, like long-time girl friends. Finally, and somewhat reluctantly, I said my goodbyes and took a taxi home.
The next morning when I got in, Trisha looked like she needed to talk. We went into my office and she closed the door behind her and handed me the phone.
I expect to see her in slut-uniform today. Use the red panties I sent for now, and she better not flash me a hairy pussy or somebody’s going to suffer for it.
“Oh god, Trisha, I can’t get away for a waxing today! I’m screwed.”
“Don’t worry, Olivia,” she said. “I’ve got it covered.” She took out a home waxing kit. It took us several sessions spread throughout the day to find enough time to get me completely bare down there. I questioned that we needed to get it all, but Trisha insisted that he might want a full open-leg shot, and it would make him angry if there was any hair. He was getting impatient as it was and his texts were becoming increasingly threatening.
I’m trying to get her perfect for you, she replied, but she’s a busy woman. Just give us more time.
Very well, but she’d better be an absolutely perfect slut for me, little-bitch!
Later that evening, she helped me get the nails glued on, did my lips, and helped me undress for the photo shoot. I was very nervous. “Drink this,” she said handing me a healthy glass of scotch. I slammed it down and my head got a little bit fuzzy.
“Where are the panties?” I asked.
“Oh, right,” she said. “I forgot. This came today.” She took a small black bag from her purse and from that she pulled out the strangest thing I’d ever seen. It was a central piece composed of purple crystal and gold metal with three elastic straps.
“What is it?” I asked.
“He said we’d be getting new … uh …cunt-wear. This is it. There were two. I put the other one on and it’s really very … well … nice, really.” She said passing a hand between her legs. “I think he’ll be more pleased with this than the panties.” She knelt down in front of me, and lifted my foot. I staggered and almost fell, having to brace myself against her head.
“Sorry, Trisha,” I said, “I’m a little drunk.”
“It’s okay, Olivia,” she said. She looked and up at me and smiled, then looked down at what she was doing again. She got the triangle of thin tubular straps around my ankles and pulled them up until they ran over my hips and between my cheeks in back. I bent down to see what she was doing.
The crystalline piece was a gently curved cylinder that flared to a knob at each end. The one in back maybe an inch in diameter and the other a little smaller. I wonder where that’s going? I thought, and then she put knob between my lips and it slid inside me, filling me in a most thrilling way. The other knob rested against my clitoris and the metal piece acted like a shield that covered the cleft. “Oh, god!” I sighed.
“Yeah, just wait until you walk around with it,” Trisha said, grinning.
As took a few experimental steps, the crystalline piece wiggled in my vagina, but more especially, it rubbed gently across my clitoris. “Oooo,” I sighed and started to run my hands across my breasts.
Trisha grabbed my wrists. “Not the nipples,” she warned, and guided me past them and then stroked my own hands down across my stomach and between my thighs where she let them go. “See, kind of nice. Right?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
The phone buzzed with another incoming text, Time is up bitches! I want a picture. Now!
“Take the picture, Trisha!” I urged.
“Stand with your feet apart, clasp your hands behind your back, straighten your arms, and pull your shoulders back,” she ordered. When I did, my large breasts lifted and pushed out provocatively. If I hadn’t been drunk, I wouldn’t have been able to make myself do it. “Tilt your head to the side, turn away slightly, look right into the camera, and give me a pout. Perfect,” she said as she snapped the picture and sent it.
A short time later, he sent, Wow, hot! But I can’t see the nails. Send me another one.
She had me do basically the same pose, but with my hands on my hips, and sent that.
The finger fucking is out with those nails, so let’s do the dildo next.
She knelt and removed the sexy not-panties and had me lay back on my desk after clearing it. She lubricated the dildo, handed it to me, and helped me get it inserted. I held the end and said, “Shoot the picture, Trisha.”
“I doesn’t look right, and it’s going to piss him off,” she complained. “Work it in and out and try to feel sexy or excited or something,” she urged.
I moved the thing in and out of myself trying to catch the right mood.
“Touch your clit,” she suggested.
I brought one long nailed finger down and rubbed the ball across my clitoris without enthusiasm.
“This is not going to work,” Trisha said. She set the phone down and took the chunk of silicone from me, pushing my hands out of the way. She slipped the thing almost out of me and then pumped it into me quickly and withdrew it slowly. She ran the head around my lips in a circle and then pumped it in again. With her other hand, she stroked a light circle around my clitoris with occasional darts closer and some right across.
“Oh god, Trisha,” I gasped after a minute or two.
“Okay, take over and I think I’ll be able to get the shot.”
I tried to emulate her strokes and made some modifications of my own that felt good. I’d never been all that sexual, but this was driving me wild. I started moving the dildo in an out rapidly and rubbing my clit furiously and then I arched, my throat seized in mid-gasp and my eyes flew wide as a wonderful tension flowed out from between my legs and into my body. It was actually the best orgasm I’d had in my entire life.
I felt Trisha take the dildo from me and she resumed using it in me in a slow and gentle way while she ran her fingers around my clitoris once more. I was building toward a second orgasm, when the phone buzzed.
She handed it to me and I read, You’re such a filthy slut, Senator. I’ll expect to get pictures to prove you are wearing the non-obvious parts of your uniform at a moments notice. I’ll accept that sometimes I’ll have to wait, but if I don’t get some immediately … well, you know what that will mean.
Five
That’s the way it started. One day I was my own woman and the next I was the virtual slave of some man I’d never met. It went on just like that for almost a year without much change. The slut-uniform evolved slightly, adding first a leather collar. Later, ridiculously high heeled shoes, and next leather wrist- and ankle-cuffs. The fancy crystal insert between my legs became, everyday slut-uniform wear immediately, but later was often replaced by a heavy leather, locking chastity-belt. And some time after that, he added small dildos to the belt both front and rear. Over time, these grew larger and larger. In later developments, the belt became metal and leather and then just metal.
Just as the uniform slowly evolved, so too did his desires. He started requesting videos instead of pictures. The phone was inadequate for that and was replaced by a high-end camera that we used on a tripod as often as possible. He wanted to see me being walked like a dog, or pulled along by chains on my nipple-rings while my hands were locked behind my back. An occasional slap across the face from Trisha. A spanking. Deep-throating a dildo that she held while I was bound. Everything happened glacially slow, I was like the proverbial frog in water on a low-heat.
Even so, every new request was like a real slap in the face to my shredded dignity, and yet my career as a Senator took off like a skyrocket. Somehow, being owned like I was really helped me concentrate. It made me fearless and able to take all the shit that anyone wanted to dish and eventually make them swallow down every last bit of it and then thank me for it. I may have been his bitch, but I was also the queen-bitch of the Senate.
That is not to say that everything went smoothly. There were times when I thought it was all more than I could stand. Through it all Trisha was by my side, lending me her strength. I could never have managed without her.
There were two things that caused the most problems. The first was when he demanded that I get my labia pierced. I remembered the nipple rings and balked at first, but then Trisha said she’d get Melanie to do them and she’d get whatever I did. Again this increased my feelings for her. She was rarely harsh with me unless I was being a cunt .
Oh yes, I did start to use works like ‘cunt’, ‘prick’, and ‘bitch’, but that wasn’t his doing. I picked that up from Trisha. Once I was comfortable with it though, he did start wanting me to swear for him on camera. Always when I had an orgasm now, which was quite often, I would swear a blue-streak while coming. Vile, blasphemous, scatological, with references to piss and come, and all sorts of bodily fluids.
The other thing that caused problems was when he insisted that Trisha take part in the games in ways that were more sexual. He wanted me to lick her pussy or her to lick mine. She said it was okay, that she was really attracted to me and the she loved me. She’d do those things anyway. The only thing she was adamant about was that she didn’t want to be fucked by me. The strap-on was only one way for her. We kept that from him and it never did come up.
Everyday I waited for Trisha to come to me with whatever new indignity the fuck-phone had for me. It made me shivery, weak in the knees, and wet between my thighs. I’d started having thoughts of my own, and some those were really scary. I was very glad that he wasn’t in my head, because if he were.…
Six
The fuck-phone rang.
It might seem odd for a respectable forty-eight year old conservative female Senator to own something called a fuck-phone , and, being truthful, it was odd. Actually it was a lot more than odd, it was a god damn nightmare because, you see, I didn’t own that phone, it owned me!
“The Senator is very busy right now,” Trisha, my chief of staff, told the caller. She listened with only a, ‘Yes’ or ‘Uh huh’ of agreement as the caller talked. Finally, she said, “I will make sure she gets the message.”
It wasn’t until much later that we were alone in my office with the door locked. I was stripping down and getting into uniform for the daily picture and whatever else he desired. “What did he want earlier?” I asked. I finished up and stood on my towering heels with my collar and cuffs. The little weights dragging down on my nipple rings had become a comfort to me by now. I loved that little bit of pressure on those sensitive nubs. The chastity-belt with its long fat inserts opened me up and caressed my aching holes as I moved. Trisha was too quiet. “What is it, Trisha?”
“There’s a set of instructions,” she said nervously.
This had happened before. It was like with the finger fucking those long years ago, but for some reason, Trisha seemed very nervous about it. “Okay. What I have to do?”
She consulted the phone. “Kneel here,” she indicated the floor at her feet. “I’m supposed to send out a live-video feed of you while you listen to something he wants to say to you.”
“He’s going to talk to me?” I said, as I got to my knees and looked up into the camera. He’d never done that before.
She tapped the speaker button on the phone. “Well, well, well,” he began. The voice was disguised by a voice-distorter rather than computer generated. “Look at you in your slut-uniform you filthy, fucking, nipple-pierced cow. I love what I’ve made of you. A dildo sucking, cunt lapping, taking a strap-on up the ass, pierced slut, and you love it, too. Don’t you, Senator whore?”
“Yes. I do,” I whispered.
“I’m afraid I’ve been way too easy on you. You weren’t supposed to actually like being degraded by me. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to finish you. Actually, you are going to finish yourself. Tomorrow in the committee meeting you will tear open your clothes and show the slut-uniform to the world.”
“No!” I gasped. “I’ll be finished as a Senator!”
“Yes, you will, but we’ll just say you cracked under the pressure and you can slink away in utter humiliation. You’ve got enough money to live comfortably and that will give us more time to finish your transformation. I’ve got ideas that just aren’t going to work with you being so in the public eye.”
“No, please, don’t do this,” I begged up into the camera.
“I love you like this, bitch, whore, cunt, slut!” he jeered.
“No…, no…, no.” Then I couldn’t keep it up anymore. The laugh began really small and slowly grew. I think Trisha thought I was crying at first. I reached over and shut off the phone.
She lowered the camera. “What’s so funny, Olivia?” she asked.
“You!” I roared. Getting up onto my feet and towering over her on my heels. “You really thought I was so fucking stupid that I didn’t know it was you behind this all along,” I got out past my laughter. I was practically hypoxic by now and I sat down heavily behind my desk.
“Shut the fuck up, you cunt! ” she screamed. “Stop laughing or I’ll release all of it. All the pictures and videos and you’ll be finished!”
“No,” I said. “I’m just getting started. I really have got to thank you, Trisha. I’ve never had so much … jesus, fun doesn’t cover it by a long way. It was,” I shivered and moaned like I was about to come. “Being your slut was fucking hot, but I have to say, recently, you started to lose that spark you had initially. I think it’s time that we changed things around a bit.”
“You bitch, you are finished!” she screamed again. She grabbed her purse and started for the door.
“Trisha?” I said and she turned. “Do you know what Extraordinary Rendition is?” A look of fear across her face told me that she did know. “Imagine. When you least expect it, a bag over your head, cuffed, stuffed into a van, military transport plane to Egypt, Syria, or lovely Afghanistan. Then there’s the torture. Not this sex-play stuff,” I said waving at my rings and uniform. “No. Real torture. I hear they start by keeping you awake for a week. That doesn’t sound too bad, but I’ve heard that it really is hellish. Then there’s the water-boarding. Now that sounds bad. The really sad part is, you don’t have anything to tell them, so it will just go on and on.”
“But the pictures?” she sputtered.
“It’s all already being collected by my P.I. He’ll be here shortly with that little fucking cunt friend and co-conspirator of yours, Melanie. You two are going to make such lovely pain-toys for momma. Now get your ass undressed and spread yourself across my desk. I thought I’d start by giving you a proper fisting. If you’re an obedient little bitch for me, I’ll see to it that you enjoy it … this time.”
She started undressing, and I could see the fear in her. It was glorious. She climbed onto the desk, sprawled out on her back, and watched in horror as I slipped my hand into a surgical glove and covered it in lube. I stroked her gently mixing the lube from the glove with her own juices. “I think you must have known.”
“What?” she said.
“That I am, and have always been, a major fucking sadist,” I said and jammed my hand into her savagely, ripping a scream from her. I eased up then. “I did say you’d enjoy this today, and I keep my promises. Now, let’s start discussing your slut-uniform. I was thinking a sort of trailer-trash whore motif: big bleached blond hair, cosmetically enhanced lips, and big boobs. Shall we start with the boob job? What do you say?”
“No, please,” she begged, and it was music to my ears.
“I heard there was some bimbo who got herself to a 38KKK? Maybe that’s what I should make you do.”
“Please, don’t,” she moaned, fear, pleasure, and pain all blending within her.
“On your small frame they’d look enormous, but that would be fitting because you are going to be my enormous slut. Aren’t you?” When she didn’t answer, I jammed my hand into her again. “Aren’t you?” I growled.
“Yes. I’ll be your total slut!” she gasped once she finished screaming.
“And you’re going to convince that other punk-bitch to go along, too. Or you two are going to have adjoining cells in the torture block.”
“Yes, Olivia, whatever you say,” she groaned, getting close now.
Having a couple of little slut-whores was going to be much better than being one, though that had been a thrill. It was looking like my second term was going to be even more amazing than my first one. Life is good!