His Honor the Governor

I pray that this being a work of fiction and with everything in this story being made up and not being based on any events, places or persons existing in real life that no parallels or similarities exist. But I have been wrong before.

I wrote this story to be entertaining. It is not a partisan political commentary. All politicians of every stripe are scum. I tried hard to use made up names and details, although the Unorganized Territory of Cimarron did exist north of 36” 30’ until 1887 after the independent nation of Texas was admitted as the 28th United State (spelling not incorrect) in 1845.

As historian Shelby Foote so eloquently said, “before 1865 ‘the United States’ was plural.” The characters are not parodies of any actual persons. The protagonist is an unethical disreputable cad, he uses power and influence to get what he wants, screwing everybody over in the process. That includes his daughter. I did not intend for him to be liked.

You have been warned, please turn back now before it’s too late. Please.

You did not listen to me, now he’s the Governor. Please! Don’t encourage him. If he gets to D.C. we are all doomed.

“I Rahauten Werhmweud...”

“Do solemnly swear...”

“Do solemnly swear...”

“To uphold the duties of my office and the Constitution...”

“To uphold the duties of my office and the Constitution...”

“Of the State of Cimarron, and of the United States...”

“Of the State of Cimarron, and of the United States...”

“So help me God.”

“So help me...”

“God.”

“Huh?”

“God.”

“Oh ... Yes.”

“So help me God,” repeated the Chief Justice.

“So help me God.”

As I removed my hand from the Bible, I thought to myself that they must have had fun finding that book here at the State Capitol. They probably had to send an intern over to B. Dalton. I looked at my hand and laughed to myself. No blisters as my opponent in the election last November, that loser, had famously promised to the media after being so discourteous as to deny me my congratulatory phone call, proof that he lies about everything.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Governor of The Great State of Cimarron,” the voice of the Speaker of the State Assembly boomed from the speakers in the plaza.

Fools say that this state was formed from that part of Texas lying north of 36”30’ latitude because of the language contained within the Missouri Compromise. But it’s really more than that. Cimarron is the ultimate no-mans-land, the second most populous state in the nation. We are both everything and nothing at the same time. A territory not in rebellion we were ignored by uncle Abe’s proclamation of 1863, slaves here today are just called by a different name, resident.

I turn and kiss my beautiful and wealthy socialite wife, respectably, not ravenously as I do before or after massaging the sensitive head of my penis through her neck while it is inside of her throat. We walk past our adoring crowd of supporters in order to board the limo that will deliver us to the Gala Ball at the Ritz-Carlton, a few blocks from the old Spanish Colonial Plaza.

It has been a long time since we had been alone together, my wife and me. I have been very busy as of the last couple of months with my succulent Baby Girl, my resourceful Chief of Staff. In between fucking my gorgeous daughter and receiving really, really, wonderful blow jobs from her talented mouth we have somehow managed to find an hour or three to spend discussing the gubernatorial transition currently underway.

I entered the white limousine with my wife, arguably the hottest fifty-one-year-old piece of ass in the whole United States let alone the State of Cimarron. Once there I handed her a tiny bottle of spring water from the mini fridge separating us saying, “I have a surprise for you.” I turned the radio up slightly as I pressed the little button closing the window and thereby isolating the driver in front seat from us in the rear.

It was the size of a shoebox and wrapped in fancy golden yellow tissue, she removed the paper and stopped cold. Inside of the fancy tissue was a heavy weight brown cardboard box marked in large black letters ‘EVIDENCE Cimarron City Police Department,’ and in smaller in black pen ‘Case number A-3... ‘“

“What is...”

“Open it up, it’s yours. To do with as you see fit.”

The foil tape seal on the box had been neatly cut, so she opened the lid and slowly removed from the inside of the box a folded blue jacket that legal documents are normally contained within. Opening the jacket, she saw that it was three pages of typed affidavits. Each page was dated twenty-nine years ago and said near the top of each page, “Sworn statement of...” It was on top of an old and now slightly rusty tagged Fairbairn-Sykes knife in a plastic bag. The kind of knife that the OSS issued to its operatives during its brief existence. It looked like and it probably was her grandfather’s.

“I thought about just destroying them, but I thought it would mean more to you this way.”

“What do you want Rahauten?”

“I am releasing you from any debt you have to me because I want to make you an offer that I hope you accept.”

“It’s been in there that box, you have had this, holding on to it, for thirty-one years?”

“I have kept it safe.”

“As an insurance policy?”

“There is no statute of limitations on ... Well there isn’t. I don’t think anyone could possibly get a criminal conviction based on that object with it having such a hanky chain of custody, without the tag and box you can frame it and put it on the wall. Those affidavits however could be construed as what we call ‘a statement against penal interest,’ they are likely admissible. They could destroy you and our daughter. Do you see who signed them.”

“My father ... My mother ... Dad’s attorney...”

“I have already burned mine, so like I said, they are yours. But I think you should burn the affidavits, the box and the evidence tag.”

She looked and saw that there were small remnants of the missing sheet retained by the staples.

“What are you up to?”

I had timed it perfectly, my words arrived just as the limo pulled up the front door of the Ritz. “My offer to you is ‘First Lady Wehrmweud.’ Think about it.”

She quickly reached to lock the door as the driver reached for the outside handle.

“You? President Rahauten Werhmweud?”

“Why not, nine years ago I was Councilman Wehrmweud,” I said unlocking the door for the confused driver to open.

“After you my dear.” I said as the driver opened the door. “Give our daughter that box, we wouldn’t want for it to get lost, it cost more than this limo.”

She looked at me. “She knows?”

“Who do you think wrapped it up so pretty?”

We did not see much of each other during the proceedings of the inauguration ball because I had lots of hands to shake and photos to pose for, lies to exchange and people to thank. I was also quite busy doing my due diligence in filling the open position for the Chief of Staff to the new Governor in the room rented for the interview process.

“The Byzantines believed that your pains in hell would be offset by the suffering you successfully endured on earth.”

“What daddy?”

“If God exists, if hell exists my Baby Girl ... Well outside of the third ward where we both already know that it does. Although I doubt it severely, my never having been struck by lightning ... Then you and I are going there. But I can make it easier for you,” I said as I firmly slapped the wonderful round buttocks of my gorgeous and naked twenty-eight-year-old daughter who was bent over my lap. My right hand was giving her hard-stinging blows, left then right, left then right, while my left was fingering her soaking cunt while fondling her swollen pussy lips, and blood engorged clitoris.

“Oh, daddy. Daddy ... Daddy...” She pants.

“You did an awful thing,” I said as I withdrew two and returned three fingers into her oozing wetness, my thumb riding back and forth atop her clit and my little finger on her perineum. I pumped her hard and furious. “You just helped a dybbuk, a soulless ghost to get elected.”

“Th ... That ... Is ... Nu ... Not...” She is trying to argue, but words fail her as I now have all five digits of my left hand inside of her. Squish, squish, squish, it’s such an adorable sound that I am making while I am fist fucking my daughter. “Ahhh ... True...”

“Its OK Baby Girl, daddy will make sure you have a zero-balance on judgement-day.”

“Daddy ... You do ... Do have...” She said gasping and panting like crazy and squirming at the end of my arm like a sock puppet doing the hula. “A soul ... Daddy”

“Yeah, right.”

“But only ... Mom ... And I can ... See ... She said as she coated my slacks in the prettiest smelling substance I had ever encountered. Slick, fragrant and tasty. Ahhhh ... Oh ... Ah ... Fuck ... It...”

“That’s a good Baby Girl,” I said as her vaginal muscles gripped my fist as she came very hard on my lap. Good thing I brought a spare set of trousers, I thought as I took these off.

“You just keep it hidden,” she said before taking my fingers into her mouth sucking her own secretions from them and then just like her mother giving me a long tongue-dancing kiss before finally swallowing our mixture.

Then my Baby Girl went to work taking care of me, throating my penis while massaging it with her right hand inside of her throat while I held the back of her head with both hands and pumped.

“Ahhh, here I...” That always gets me.

Our encore, and the final phase of her interview consisted of my using two fingers of each hand to retrieve her pussy lube and spread it on my penis, and around her anus as she laid face down on the bed. I climbed atop her and with my pubic hair making intermittent contact with her reddened and hypersensitive buttocks I pushed my way in.

“Daddy,” she said as I entered her and began thrusting.

“Yes, my Baby Girl.”

“Fuck my ass really hard.” She was smart, like her mother. “Fuck me hard daddy.” She was twisted like her father. “Harder.” She knew. “Hurt me daddy.” She knew that it... “Pound me daddy.”

“Ahhh...” There and I laughed to myself thinking, “I just fucked those little swimmers too. No eggs for you to find up there.”

Yes, she was smart my daughter, just like my wife. The randier she can get me, the sooner and harder I will come. The sooner it will be over, and blue pill or no, two is about my limit for several hours.

With all three of the previously unfilled openings in the Governor’s new Chief of Staff filled, I went looking for my wife to continue our intentionally interrupted conversation. We were less than a dozen blocks from our penthouse home downtown. But really? What use are fame and position, influence and wealth, if you cannot flaunt them in an twelve-hundred dollar a night room you don’t need. I eventually rejoined my wife and led her to ‘The Presidential Suite’ of the hotel.

“Rahauten, are you serious about making a run?”

“Yes, eight years from now twelve at the most I do truly see myself as President of the United States. Can you see yourself as First Lady? Because I can my dear, Mrs. Wehrmweud wife of one President mother of another.”

“You don’t have to convince me that you walk on water, you did that thirty years ago, but President?”

“You are free. I have a plan, several plans actually. But you get to decide your role.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You can do what you want. I just need to know. I don’t need to know today, so you can take some time to think it through, but if there is a split it has to be choreographed.”

“Are you telling me to leave?”

“No, you are one sweet piece of ass, I am just planning for the future.”

“For a run?”

“For all four of us. For me, which is what you said, for my legacy, for our daughter so she can follow in my footsteps, for you.”