An Act of Congress

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The senator’s silver Lincoln glided to a halt in a narrow side street between 5th and Broadway on Friday evening. To one side steam drifted from the open door to a hotel kitchen, on the other a tall brownstone cast its dark shadow onto the pavement. The senator’s husband, Greg, gave her a wink and said “Thanks honey; the game’s likely to be an all-nighter, I’ll make my own way home.” He gazed out for a moment at the rain pounding the sidewalk then he tightened his silk-wool blend scarf around his throat, turned up the collar of his cashmere coat, and stepped out into the storm, jogging across to glass double doors to the brownstone, which a liveried doorman opened to admit him to a brightly lit foyer.

The senator took a deep breath, released it as a sigh. Dragging her eyes from the apartment block entrance, she allowed them to fall on the rear-view mirror, to meet those of her chauffeur giving her a penetrating look. An edge of irritation in her voice, she asked tiredly, “What? What is it Troy?”

The big black man hesitated for a moment then, his eyes still locked on those of his employer, growled, “Why do you go on with it ma’am? The whole world knows you’re too good for that bum.”

Never before had he spoken the thoughts his eyes so often betrayed, and for a moment the senator felt as though she’d received a stinging slap in the face. She was unsure whether the tears which formed in her eyes were borne of fury or humiliation, but she snapped “How dare you say that to me? How dare you? Are you tired of your job or just plain insolent?” She sank back into her deep leather seat and, one hand shielding her eyes, muttered, “Oh for god’s sake, drive.”

They returned to Westchester in silence, the only sound the rhythmic whap-whap of the windshield wipers. Senator Jennifer Nordstrom gazed sightlessly into the night, lost in thought. From the day she was born she was marked out as special: her grandfather the legendary Justice O’Grady, daughter of a federal attorney general, a former president for a godparent…she’d graduated from Princeton summa cum laude, naturally, at 32 she gave up her successful legal career to take a seat in the Senate and now, ten years later she was a deputy chair of the influential Financial Services Committee and tipped as a future presidential running mate…maybe even more but for the snide comments in the press, the whispers she so often heard behind her back, or just before she entered a room, the whispers that said “Such a pity she has that no-good millstone around her neck.”

Greg could hardly have had a more different start in life. The son of a hard-drinking Jersey longshoreman who’d attracted extended police interest after his downtrodden wife’s mystery disappearance one dark night. Self-sufficient from the age of eight, Greg had left home for New York at 15 and worked his way through nightschool before finding a job as a runner with a Wall Street trading company. He’d displayed a remarkable ability with numbers and within a few years he’d worked his way up become the firm’s star money man. Wily investments, some of them of dubious morality, had seen him bank his first million at 28. That was when 22-year old Jen had met him and, dazzled by his blond mop of hair, his big white smile and, she had to admit, his wealth and his rough edges, she had been putty in his hands. If her papa had still been alive Jen doubted it would have lasted long, but by 24 they were married and, with the help of a couple of puff pieces written by media friends, the Nordstroms were soon seen as one of the Big Apple’s Power Couples.

It had taken Jen a few years to realise the kind of shark she’d married, and a few years more to fall out of love with him. By then it was too late, he had enough on her, the compromises she’d had to make to get where she was, the unguarded comments, the traded favors, to bring down her house of cards in a moment. So through the accusations of sharp trading, the SEC inquiries, the share scandals, the police inquiries, the swindled investors, the rumors of links with Mexican drug cartels, she stood by him; and then she stood by him again through the photos in the Times society pages and the Daily News of him dining out with his latest young, attractive personal assistant, relaxing by the pool with the wife of a friend, all the while insisting he was the innocent victim of jealous business rivals, the faithful and courtly spouse, each time knowing that, Jacob Marley-like, she was hanging another weight around the neck of her political career. There was a certain rich irony to Greg’s straying from the marital bed, given that Jen had been voted GQ’s Hottest on Capitol Hill for three years straight. The people trusted and admired her, her colleagues respected her, the media lauded her, but she knew that at the same time they all also pitied her.

And tonight she’d even driven Greg to his latest liaison with his latest mistress – a prominent charity campaigner and a personal friend of Jen’s ikitelli escort for several years, who she was scheduled to meet for a working lunch a few days from now. She swallowed hard as she tasted bile in her throat.

It was with surprise that she realised Troy was guiding the Lincoln along the gravelled drive of her mansion home. He pulled to a halt at the entrance door and positively leapt out of the driver’s seat to open the senator’s door, his gaze fixedly across the roof of the vehicle rather than on her. Feeling suddenly unaccountably exhausted, Jen rocked herself out of the car, the top of her head level with Troy’s chin. She felt him actually flinch with surprise when she placed a hand lightly on his jacketed bicep and murmured “Thank you.” Studying his face, she saw his eyes momentarily flare in shock as she reached up and touched his cheek, adding “Thank you Troy, for caring.” She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked to the door, stepped through it and leant back against it, feeling so very tired.

It was on Monday, early afternoon, when Troy’s cell next displayed an incoming text from the senator. As far as he could tell, from his cottage beside the garage, she hadn’t left the house at all during the weekend, although the Mister had roared off that morning in his scarlet Ferrari, slamming every door that got in his way. Her message was brief and to the point: ‘Troy, come over, I need your help with something.’

This was unusual. He quickly changed into the black business suit he wore for work and checked himself in the full-length mirror. At 32 Troy Jordan knew he was good-looking: six-three, 195 pounds, wide shoulders, gym-toned, kind eyes, regular face and neatly trimmed Denzel beard, he drew admiring female glances everywhere he went; but since he’d taken this job – since he’d first started driving Her – he found it hard to maintain interest in any other woman, and no girlfriend had lasted more than a couple of months. He sighed and, minutely adjusting the hang of his tie, made his way to the main house.

Once inside the three-storey entrance hall he called out. From the living room she called, “Troy? In here.” A mellow jazz track was playing, he thought Courtney Pine, as he entered the big room for maybe only the third time in his life. The sun glinted through the room-height windows which formed the far wall; the senator was lounging, in a posed kind of way, on one of the couches. She was wearing a loose-fitting flowing knee-length white dress, pale arms and feet bare, toenails painted plum, maybe just a little too much cleavage exposed. Her auburn hair, usually arranged into a business-like bun, flowed loose around her shoulders. She rolled the stem of a cocktail glass between the fingers of one hand.

She waved him to sit in a deep studded leather wing chair a couple of feet from her. Feeling a little disconcerted, Troy perched on its edge and asked what it was she needed help with. With a sly smile she replied, “Well, I could use company in drinking this pitcher of martini.”

Troy tried to conceal his astonishment. It was clear to him she had already made several inroads herself to the pitcher. He wondered the best way, without offending his employer, to make his excuses and leave. Choosing his words carefully, bracing his hands on the arm of the chair to propel himself out of it, he replied, “Thanks ma’am, but I’m more of a beer kind of guy.”

The senator swivelled her feet to the polished maple floor, inadvertently pulling her dress up to expose her slim, milky thighs. Two steps and she was at a cupboard in the wall unit, opening the door to reveal a refrigerator from which she lifted a tall can, sweating with cold. She snapped the ring-pull, took another two steps and placed it in his hand, standing over him, very close. Seeing no elegant alternative, her chauffeur took a slug from the can.

He huffed in surprise as she placed her hand firmly on his chest and pushed him back in the chair. Grinning at his reaction, her voice falling almost to a whisper, she told him “Relax Troy, Rosella and Marisol aren’t here,” – her maid and cook – “Greg won’t be home till late, it’s just you and me, a lonely, needful woman and a devilishly handsome man.”

For a second Troy seriously wondered he was locked in a particularly vivid dream – it wasn’t unusual for the senator to feature in his dreams. But he knew it was pure reality when she deposited herself in his lap, snaking an arm around his neck to support herself. He watched wordlessly, barely breathing, his mouth an O of astonishment, as she took the beer from his hand, sipped it then placed it on a side table. As if on cue the music track had switched to Barry White and he closed his eyes as she started to slowly circle her hips, grinding herself into his groin, without doubt feeling his rock-hard cock seeking out her pussy through their clothes. She chuckled, and murmured, “Well, at least someone’s kadıköy escort glad I’m here.”

Troy had never been more excited, yet at the same time terrified. Lost for words, he spluttered, “Look ma’am…Senator…I…this is…”

She chuckled and placed a forefinger over his lips. She husked “Come on Troy, I’ve seen the way you look at me, the way your eyes trace my body, do you think a woman’s immune to that kind of attention?” Her face moved to within two inches of his, her eyes locked on his. “You know you want this baby, at least as much as I do.”

Her DKNY fragrance filled his head. Pressing his head back into the seat, his voice also husky, he muttered, “Yes, I do, but not this way, not when you’re…” She replaced the finger on his lips with her own lips, her tongue muscling its way through, tickling against his gums. Surrendering to the demands of his body, to her demands, dismissing any possible comeback, Troy wrapped an arm around Jen and crushed her to him, returning the kiss with interest, his tongue caressing hers in his mouth. His free hand slipped down the neck of her dress, closed around a breast, the stiff nipple pressing into his palm.

They kissed for maybe two minutes before Jen delicately untangled herself and slipped to the floor. Still in a state of disbelief, Troy watched as her long slim fingers opened his fly and released his achingly stiff cock. She gazed at it for fully five seconds then murmured, “Oh baby, I’m going to enjoy this.” Eyes still on his, she ran the pink tip of her tongue up his length, from balls to tip, then closed her lips around him, sliding them down his solid flesh then up again, tongue swirling around him like his dick was a popsicle, her long fingernails gently raking his scrotum.

Troy felt that if he died now he would go to the Lord a happy man. He had been in love with this incredible woman for close on five years. He wanted to remember every moment of this, every sensation. Her lips and tongue were like hot torches, setting him on fire. Her bangs tickled against his exposed belly. He wrapped his hands in her hair and pulled her onto him; his cock was so long she couldn’t fit it all in and muttered “Easy baby” – he loosened his grip and just enjoyed the ecstasy of US Senator Jennifer Nordstrom’s hair in his hands, her hand on his balls, her teasing, beautiful mouth consuming his manhood. She sensed he was about to cum and finished him with her hand, his hot juice spattering across her face, her chest, her dress.

He sank back into the chair, eyes closed, chest heaving as he tried to bring his breathing back under control. It was only a minute later when Jen, his lover, pulled him to his feet. Her small hand, sticky with his jism, entered his big one and, fingers intertwined, she led him dazedly out into the foyer, up the wide winding staircase, and into the master bedroom. Slowly, sensually, she undressed Troy, kissing and licking each part of his body as it was exposed. She lay him on the king-sized bed she shared most nights with her husband. She shrugged her creased dress off her shoulders and it slipped down to pool at her feet, revealing her nakedness to him.

Troy took in each element of Jen’s body – the pale skin, the long, swan-like neck he had so often admired, the perky grapefruit breasts, capped with red berry nipples, the slim waist, flowing into the wide hips, the neatly trimmed runway of ginger pubic hair, the long shapely legs. Enjoying his scrutiny, she slowly turned a circle, showing him her slim back, her pert pear-shaped butt – and a fading dark bruise over one kidney. Leaning up on one elbow, Troy asked, “What’s that?”

Turning to face him again she said, almost matter-of-factly, “Oh, that’s from when Greg last lost his temper with me. He always makes sure to hit me where it won’t show in public.” Troy shook his head, his face darkening in fury. Jen leapt onto the bed and cuddled up to him. “Forget Greg, this is just about you and me baby.” She leaned over him, kissing him deeply. It took only seconds for her hand to work his dick back to hardness, then she leant over to a bedside cabinet and retrieved a condom from the drawer. “I’m off the Pill at the moment, and we don’t want to take chances.”

She asked him to do her doggie style, but he told her this first time he wanted to see her beautiful face as he fucked her. She smiled and lay on her back, legs apart, knees raised, feet flat to the duvet. Troy leant above her on his forearms, she drew his cock to her slit and he surged into her. As he fucked her, Jen alternated between obscene grunts with his thrusts and vulgar encouragement: “Fuck, fuck my cunt, oh yeah baby, hard and fast, rip me apart.” Rough sex didn’t come naturally to Troy but he did his best, withdrawing to his tip each time and hammering back into her to the hilt. His length and girth filled her so beautifully, so satisfyingly, so much more than Greg’s wiener. As his climax kartal escort approached she raised her legs, locking her ankles around his back; he felt her snatch tighten around him and she screamed “Ooohhhh fuccckkk, do me good baby, I neeeed this!” They came together, a glorious climax of exploding stars and cannons.

For some moments they lay side by side, panting for breath, glowing with sweat, then Jen peeled off Troy’s rubber, rose and walked to her en-suite. He watched her ass sway into the room then sat on the side of the bed. He was reaching for his briefs when she re-emerged; with a slow smile she shook her head and said, “Hey, where do you think you’re going stud, I’m not finished with you yet.” She lifted his legs back onto the bed, licked his cock clean, returning him to a state of readiness, then took another condom from the cabinet and smoothed it down his length. With a lewd wink she whispered “I think I’m gonna have to buy a bigger size, lover.” Then, unceremoniously, she swung a leg over him, sat for a moment on his belly, then raised herself and impaled her sweet pussy on him.

As she rode him, grunting with each deep downward plunge, Troy gipped her thighs and gazed at her angelic face – not so angelic now with eyes squeezed tight shut, chin raised proud, her teeth biting her lower lip, her titties bouncing and swaying. He couldn’t last long but even after he’d shot his load, his hips bucking up at her, she continued to fuck him until, with a coyote howl, she orgasmed again. Tongue lolling, grinning triumphantly, she stared into his eyes, hands splayed on his hair-stippled chest, then collapsed beside him. As she snoozed, head on his chest, hand lazily curled around his cock, Troy gazed down in wonderment at this astonishing, gorgeous woman who probably half the men in America would love to fuck, as he had. He had loved her for years; now he was enslaved to her – he would do anything for this lady.

For the next couple of weeks Troy Jordan lived his dreams. They fucked and sucked daily; due to Rosella’s presence in the house Jen slipped out to his home, and on several occasions she recklessly had him pull over the car so she could suck him off or, with the rear compartment curtains drawn, screw on the back seat. When Greg was away from home they even managed to spend occasional whole nights together. One afternoon, as they dozed in bed, she raised herself up, a look of concern on her face. “I’m worried about your safety baby.” In answer to his questioning look, she rested her head on his chest. “I think Greg’s getting suspicious. He knows people…dangerous people. When I think about it it scares me.” She was silent for a few moments then, craning her neck to look up at him, murmured, “Can you imagine what it would be like if there was no Greg? If he just…wasn’t around anymore?”

With a grin Troy rolled her onto her back and answered “Like this,” taking one of her nipples between her teeth and slipping two fingers into her ready pussy. Head on a pillow, eyes on the ceiling, Jen permitted herself a strange secret smile.

Days before the new Senate session began Greg claimed to have arranged one of his increasingly frequent all-night poker games in the city. Jen told him, “I have a conference call booked this evening with some party colleagues. Look, why doesn’t Troy drive you into town? It’d save you paying parking fees, and we can arrange for him to pick you up too.” Pleased with the suggestion, her husband poured himself a stiff whisky.

He was considerably less happy a few hours later when the Lincoln juddered – again. Leaning forward in his seat he growled “What the fuck is wrong with this goddamn car?”

Troy’s eyes met his in the rear-view mirror. “I don’t know Mr Nordstrom, I just checked her over this afternoon. I know a 24-hour repair shop not far from here, I’ll take us there. They have a car rental business too so I can still take you into New York, we’ll lose just a few minutes.”

Slumping back in his seat, cursing to himself, it took Greg a while to notice they were passing along smaller and smaller roads, with fewer and fewer lights visible. It was only when the vehicle stuttered to a halt at a deserted roadside that he scowled and snapped, “Troy, what is this? Where are we?”

The chauffeur silently donned the black leather driving gloves he rarely used. Stepping out onto the road he opened the rear passenger door. He grabbed Greg by his collar, dragged him out of the car and slammed him against it. More shocked than immediately angry, Greg spluttered, “Whaddaya think you’re doing you black sonofa…” The utterance was cut off abruptly by the huge fist which smashed into his face, shattering his nose.

The punch was quickly followed by a backhand slap which sent him spinning into the dirt along the road. Instantly Troy was knelt beside him, fists gripping his lapels, face inches from Greg’s, warped into grotesque, demonic fury. Through gritted teeth he snarled “I’m giving you exactly what you deserve, asswipe. He released a lapel long enough to deliver another stinging slap to his semi-conscious victim. Teeth and blood sprayed into the night air. “She’s told me all about you – the way you’ve used her, blackmailed her, beaten her, raped her. Well this is where it ends, motherfucker.”

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