Chapter 22

"Let's not be late, Desirée," Mark said dryly as he tied his tie before the bedroom mirror. "Sid Buchanan is the last obstacle to my nomination and I don't want anything to go wrong with this deal. He's got to be satisfied that I'm the man he wants in the legislature. From there, I've got all the funding I need and then the sky's the limit."

"Marvelous," Desirée said softly but without enthusiasm. Mark was still cold toward her and avoided looking directly at her. And since the night with Lobo, he had not shown the slightest interest in making love with her. Not the slightest, and she needed it so much. Not just any sex, but sex with him, Mark, the only man she had ever loved in her life. If only she could now clasp his hot body between her thighs, his penis in her vagina, to milk the creamy, life-giving fluids from his body, to give him the baby he wanted, to make them a complete family! But now he seemed so far away, and her womb burned with desire for him, to make her whole again, to show her that he forgave her for what the vile dog Lobo had done to her. Politics meant so little to her while she was hurting so badly inside.

Desirée applied her usual light make-up so as not to dull the natural healthy pink glow of her skin and lips, glancing frequently at Mark's cold profile. When would he learn to forget so that she could forget?

It was early afternoon and soon they would be leaving to go upstate to see this Sid Buchanan, about whom she had heard so much lately, one of the State's premier fat cats and kingmakers. The tentacles of his wealth and influence spread all the way back to Washington. The influence grew from the money and the money grew from his business interests in banking, defence, food, and real estate. There were few politicians brave enough to tell him no, and Mark was not among those few, not yet. So when his time came to meet Buchanan and do what was necessary to curry favor, he answered the call dutifully. The time had come to show Big Sid how the powers that be would feel about Mark Denning in the state legislature and what prospects there were for his becoming a US Senator some time in the future, near or far.

Desirée looked at her beloved. She really was proud of him, so why couldn't he be proud of her? She had dedicated her life to him; why couldn't he forget something that had been forced on her against her will?

Putting the finishing touches to her make-up and shaking out her thick, blonde, and, for tonight, iron-curled hair, she smoothed the blue satin of her dress down over her perfect figure, her fingertips lingering on her flat belly. Was there, perhaps, a baby in there? Oh, she hoped so. Mark's baby! It would bring them together again like nothing else could, she just knew it.

Mark led her outside and put her into the Mercedes he would be driving. It would be a late night and they would not have to drive back but would stay in a guest room in Big Sid's opulent mansion. They had packed their overnight things. There would be other people there as well, other influential men. Desirée prepared herself for a long night of being on her very best behavior. Glancing at Mark's cold profile, she prayed for respite for the pain and deprivation she was feeling. Oh, Mark, I love you so much! Please make love to me the way you used to!

At that moment, as the big car pulled away from the lovely, new home, two pairs of eyes watched from a parked car a short way down the street. One of them, Billy Canning, lowered his binoculars and spoke through his teeth to his companion. "That's her, Sam," he said, taping on Sam Quaid's knee. "That's the little bitch that got my brother murdered."

"Who, sweet little Desirée Mitchell? She wouldn't hurt anybody. Couldn't even fight us off that night."

"Not her. It was Anderson, that black son of a bitch. John fucked her and Clete found out about it. I saw the wounds at the morgue. No dog could make tears in a body like that. Looked more like a bear. But there's no bears hereabouts, even though somebody-Clete-planted dog hair all around. Any idiot could tell it was all phoney, but Clete was investigating his own crime and that means no one was looking too damn fucking close."

"What makes you think it was Clete," Sam asked. "He's a buddy of ours, and tight with Johnny, he was."

"I know, man, I know." Billy twisted his hair in anguish. "But I know he's got the hots for the bitch. That night, Johnny was taking him some shit to use on her to get her high so he could fuck her. And remember how he wanted us to plant some in her bedroom? That was so he could get her in his power. Didn't work, and he blew his cork. Remember?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, yeah, I think you're right. So what do we do? Take a gun and shoot the bastard?"

Billy shook his head. "No way. I'm not shooting no cops, no way. We'd never see the light of day again. But the bitch, I say we get some revenge through her. Clete's crazy about the bitch, and whatever happens to her he feels quite hard, right in his pants."

"So what? What do we do? Kill the bitch? Cut her up and deliver Clete the parts in one of his sheriff's uniforms?"

Billy smiled. "That's a damn good idea. Let's think about it. That and, maybe, plant some drugs in Clete's office at the local station. Get him sent away for twenty and send him Christmas cards every year. Yeah, good idea." Billy began to laugh. It was the manic laugh of a nervous personality driven by grief for the death of his brother, unobservant of the fact that that brother was a source of misery in a miserable world and worse than worthless in this community of decent, religious people.

When they arrived at the Buchanan mansion in the hills outside the capital, a servant took their bags and showed them to one of the twenty-five luxurious guest rooms upstairs. Mark seemed apprehensive, as well he might be at first meeting the man that might ultimately be able to make him or break him. Of course, the young politician could always run a grassroots campaign against the odds, without special interest or industrial "contributions" and support, but chances of success were virtually nil. Such an effort would be like an ant trying to move a rubber tree plant, without Frank Sinatra's encouragement.

After the long drive, Desirée decided she needed another shower, and while Mark tidied up she went into the gold-plated and marbled bathroom, shed her slightly sticky clothes, and stepped toward the shower stall. She caught a glimpse of herself in a large mirror over the dressing counter and stopped. She saw her body, slightly tanned to a creamy olive, blessed with large breasts, wide at their base and slightly conical near the flushed, pink tips, though globular and heavy but without the fall of gravitational strain. The nipples were distended and glowing with her unfulfilled sexuality, peeking out over her flat belly that flowed smoothly into her fat, lushly-furred labia. She turned and her breasts jiggled in concert with her buttocks, lately now a bit plumper and more loaf-like since her wedding day. She had not had regular exercise since then, and she resolved to get back to the gym as soon as they returned to Pickford's Meadows.

Desirée turned on the shower and started soaping her delicious flesh, her hand lingering at the sticky vaginal crease momentarily before seeing to her breasts and underarms. Hearing the door open, she pulled the shower door ajar and peeked out. Mark was beginning to shave.

"How about coming in here with Dezzy," she said suggestively, pushing her great tits forward.

Mark swung to face her and saw those adorable nipples and the warm muff of her pussy and for a moment his face softened and he smiled, just slightly, with the same old loving warmth. Then, it was gone again, and he turned back to his shaving.

"I'll wait until you're done," he said quietly.

With a disappointed pout, Desirée went back to freshening a young and beautiful body long neglected by her resentful husband.

When they walked into the dining room arm-in-arm, Desirée appeared much happier than she really felt, for she felt like a piece of rotten meat rejected by a straw dog, as low as she could go on the road to low self esteem. While Mark went for some punch for the two of them, she stood like a statuesque icon in her white, satin dress, drawing the stares of every man in the room, while her sharp ears picked up the occasional comment or bit of information.

"They've invited this new pretender, Mark Denning, here tonight."

"Where is he?"

"I've no idea. I've never seen him before."

"Sid's going to feel him out about his attitudes, like he did that other one, that Richard Donaldson, a couple of weeks ago at the last party. Remember his sexy little wife Sarah? Only I hear this Denning fellow is younger and smarter."

"My money's on the younger one then, if he pleases Buchanan."

"But Sid's not easy to please. He likes his politicians docile and obliging."

"Doesn't everybody?"

"What do we know about this Mark Denning? I've got a number of interests myself. I'm with Sid on the food catering for the armed forces business. I'd hate to see that one go down the shitter."

"Is he married?"

"I think so. Pretty sure he's not gay like that other one, Robert Dibbs."

"Well, that's important too. Sid's always got his eyes on the women."

"Yeah, Dibbs had no wife. Nothing to offer."

"I hear she's a real looker with a big pair of tits and a great singing voice."

"Rumors abound."

When Mark turned, she took his arm dutifully again, discreetly turning for a quick look at the four men behind her, who thought their conversation was only between themselves.

Women hear everything, fellas, she thought. We have to.

Desirée stayed with Mark like a pilot fish with a shark as he cruised among the guests. He spoke briefly with a little fat man and his wife who seemed to be somehow involved in some business with Buchanan, something to do with sewing machines and vacuum cleaners. It seemed that Sid Buchanan was into everything and then a little bit more.

Mark was not his usual gregarious self and Desirée knew why. She knew he still carried in his mind the lewd tableau of her jerking and grunting beneath the rutting body of Lobo, that that was affecting his mood, and she inwardly urged him to be himself and make the points he was here to make. But by the time the servants came and informed them that dinner was served, he still appeared to be fighting his nerves and inner demons.

They were escorted to their places at the long banquet table. They found that their place was next to the head of the table, where a lone chair, unfilled, sat promisingly next to theirs.

"I've never seen so many spoons and forks," Mark whispered. "Do you know anything about all this silver?"

"Use the one I use," Desirée said quietly. "Daddy sent me to charm school."

Mark snorted. Charm school, indeed! he thought. Is that where they taught you to hump dogs?

Desirée watched the guests sit down, noting that the four men who had spoken so cavalierly about Mark were now sitting with their wives. When she saw that they now knew who she was, she smiled quietly. All eyes at the table were on here, she noted with more than a mild embarrassment. The men couldn't take their lustful eyes off her, and the women's blazed with envy. It seemed that at least half the room was enemy.

Suddenly, there was a quiet settling over the room, and a big man made his entrance, sitting directly to Mark's left at the head of the table. He was large and heavy-set, his dark hair greyed at the temples, his sun-dried skin crinkly at the corners of the eyes, which were pale, almost yellow. It was plain to see from his body's configuration and his noticeable pot belly that bulged against his belt and white shirt that he was the most comfortably prosperous man in the room. And from the way the other women's eyes were fixed on him, Desirée knew that this big, imposing, overweight, and not entirely unattractive, man was Sid Buchanan, their host.

His third wife, Helen, she had been told, was away upstate at a charity function.

But there was something about him that Desirée instantly disliked. It had to do with his arrogance and total self- confidence, his almost overt contempt for his guests, and for the women in particular. She could see it in the tilt of his brows and the haughty flare of his nostrils as he dipped his head in acknowledgement of one of the women that seemed to know him, the wife of one of the men she had overheard talking about Mark during the before-dinner-drinks time. Quizzically, the husband noted her expression, the way her bosom heaved and her eyes fluttered. Yes, Desirée thought, there was much more going on here that met the eye.

Buchanan sat, shook out his cloth napkin with a sharp snap, and looked up. "Let's get to it, folks," he said tersely. "This is a thirteen-course meal. I hope you like good food."

Buchanan smiled broadly, but Desirée saw it as a Cheshire Cat, or perhaps sabre-tooth cat, smile. The man was dangerous and he frightened her. Anything that frightened Mark-and there was little doubt that Buchanan held her husband's future in his hands- filled Desirée with fear doubly, for no matter how Mark felt, or didn't feel, about her now, he was still her lord and protector and the only man she respected besides her own father.

Trying to shrug off her discomfort, she began nibbling at her starter. It was a delicious, dainty dish with prawns and she tried to enjoy it while she sensed Buchanan's eyes on her.

"I'm glad you could come tonight, Mark," Buchanan said. "It's always good to meet your most important associates at the beginning of your political career. And I assume this beautiful young woman is your wife, Desirée."

Mark smiled and nodded, glancing at her, so that she saw the warmth and light of love return to his eyes very briefly. Yes, she had made him proud. That was what she was here for. Now would he remember as well that she loved and adored him and could never think of ever hurting him intentionally, or unintentionally? Under the table, her hand stole over to his, and, finding it barely responsive, moved over to lightly brush across his flaccid penis. Mark snorted and jerked slightly.

Buchanan went on. "I hear she's a music teacher," he said, quaffing from a goblet of expensive rosé. "I would be delighted if she sang and played piano for us later on."

Desirée squirmed, but replied positively. "I'd love to, Mr. Buchanan." Singing and playing would have been easy in other company, but this whole crowd made her uneasy. If this was a political meeting, how could there be any interest in her music? But, of course, she knew that all these things went into breaking the ice, and that she had now been called on to do her part. She only hoped Mark could find it possible to break the ice surrounding his heart and return once again to the warmth of her arms. She was so aroused now, just sitting beside him. How she hoped she would be able to rekindle his natural desires again tonight so that he would make love to her! Yes, make love to her as he had before Lobo had invaded their bedroom and taken Mark's place within her soft and tender belly!

Mark saw her passive acquiescence to Buchanan's wishes and was glad that she had not decided to be arbitrary in her response. She was such a good girl, and supportive of him in every way. How could he have treated her so coldly these last few days? Lobo had not been her fault. Not at all. She could have made it difficult for him just now, but she had done her best to please Buchanan and left herself exposed in the process. Mark knew that she would be naturally diffident in the company of these people with whom she shared so little.

Dinner went uneventfully, except that Desirée seemed to be receiving more of Buchanan's attention than she really wanted, and making the other women envious in the process. But the food was marvellous, some of the best French cuisine she had ever had, and that at least to some extent disarmed her. Over dessert and after a steady diet of political talk that the intelligent and unaffected Desirée found faintly idiotic, she felt Buchanan's words particularly directed at her, though nominally they were meant for Mark and the other men at the table.

"It's always important for a politician to know where his power and money are coming from, and who has to be ultimately pleased. That's why these little get-togethers are important."

Desirée looked up and found the man's eyes on her, and her mouth moved before she could muster the discretion to curb her tongue.

"I should think that the taxpayers and voters were the biggest contributors of power and money in any political process."

Mark shot her a mute, horrified look and she felt his leg muscles tense beneath his trousers where her hand rested.

Hearing nothing in reply from anyone, she went on to fill the silence. "I mean," she said, "that constituents contribute billions of dollars to the government and thousands and hundreds of thousands of votes to all politicians. How could anything be more important than that?"

And of course, Sid Buchanan could make no reasonable rebuttal to that. Desirée looked around the table slowly, saw the expressions of those convened, and felt a blush of terror and embarrassment sting her cheeks. She glanced fearfully back at Buchanan, whose eyes had hardened to stone.

"That's right," Buchanan said incisively. "You do have to answer to the constituents, but before you can do that, you've got to get elected, and that takes money, lots of it, because taxpayers don't finance campaigns. So, after you get elected, you spend the rest of your time in office trying to remember where you drew the line, the line between debt and duty. We're all here tonight to decide where that line should be."

Desirée sat quietly, feeling all eyes on her.

Clete Anderson felt the sweat running down the backs of his heavily-muscled thighs and increased the speed of his pumping arms. A hundred forty pounds on the bar, he curled it ten times from the front of his thighs to his solar plexus, flexing the massive biceps of his powerful, black arms. Clete liked to work out at the end of his shift, here in the back room of the police station he dominated. He worked out totally naked, rivulets of hot perspiration running from his forehead and neck to his toes, his huge black penis bobbing with his efforts.

Nancy was waiting for him, for his massive, hard cock. Their wedding was to take place in just a few weeks, but he had already made love to her many, many times. Yes, he knew that she had fucked Mark Denning in his Range Rover out by the quarry, but neither Nancy nor her politician paramour knew that Clete was aware of the infidelity. Of course, he had exacted his revenge and it would all come out in due time, when the black sheriff wanted his enemy, Mark Denning, to know that he had enjoyed his little Desirée's tight and tender pussy in a way only a man with a huge male-member like Clete's could.

And he fully intended to repeat the experience.

Clete looked down at the massive, gnurled, ten-inch penis that grew out of his groin like another leg. As he contemplated fucking Desirée again, he saw the powerful member begin to rise and he picked up the leather sling from the table. As the head broadened and deepened in color to a purplish ebony, he fitted the leather hood over the corona and tied a two-pound weight to the thongs it supported. Concentrating, he tightened his bunching- muscled buttocks and flexed the growing erection, lifting the small metal ring, flexing his cock so that it lifted the weight from the end of his formidable prick, his great, potent testicles drawing up, then slapping against his upper thighs as he let the weight drop, then flexing it again. He watched the veins pop into view, the erectile tissue swelling, straining the outer skin, the mushrooming glans expanding beyond the bounds of the leather hood covering it. He did ten repetitions, rested for thirty seconds, and did ten more.

Nancy had begun to notice the increase in his cock's girth. Removing the sling from the wide-flanged tip of his penis, Clete picked up the calipers, watching the pulse of his heartbeat in the taut bobbing of the end of the shaft. He used the calipers to span the diameter of his penis, then laid the instrument against a ruler. Seven centimeters, one and a half more than what he had given to Desirée last week. Two and three-quarter inch. Longer too, and the flanges of the knob were like the head of a king cobra. Nancy, still young and tight, had nonetheless become accustomed to his penile size, but now the exercise was expanding the blood vessels in a way that had made it grow awesomely.

Clete laughed and began to stroke his giant, black shaft, watching a drop of viscous lubricant exude from the ample hole in the end and grow to a long, swinging string reaching for the floor.

With the dinner guests ranged around the room in comfortable Louis XIV chairs, Desirée adjusted the piano seat beneath her voluptuous buttocks and touched the keys, lightly, tentatively. She hated this, playing all alone, without any accompaniment but herself, without a microphone to make singing less of an effort. Singing opera songs in Italian and playing complex runs and arpeggios was something one learned to do easily with time, and Desirée was still young. They would all hear her slightest mistake and one of the songs Buchanan had requested she had not sung for two years, and she was unsure of the words.

Desirée's fingers felt stiff, but, to her surprise, played the opening run of notes flawlessly. By accident, she thought as her mouth opened and her clear, bell-like soprano glided across the air of the conservatory. She smiled, her eyes filling with tears as her lips remembered the Italian words even though her brain could not. As she relaxed, her playing became smoother and the lilting melody her voice delivered caressed the ear of the listeners. Her eyes found Mark's and the look on his face told her that he still loved her, that he was forgetting that time just a few nights ago when Lobo had had his way with her and she had responded mindlessly, before his gaping eyes, in a very unladylike manner.

The second and third songs, following on the audience's rapt applause, were much easier, and by the end of her performance, she felt that she had completely made up for her imprudent outburst earlier. Mark's eyes were glowing, and she berated herself at noticing that her first thought was that he would be fucking-yes, fucking-her tonight. She could see the bulge in his trousers as he sat there, sipping the drink that the waiter had just brought him.

Mark was dazzled anew by the talent and beauty of the girl he had married, and he wondered that he could ever have allowed his feelings for her to be diverted by the unfortunate event of last week. Of course, it was terrible, but it had been done to her. One could hardly blame her too much for responding in her innocent inexperienced way. She was only human after all.

Mark looked at the drink the waiter had brought him unbidden. It had a sweet taste, but by the way his head felt, it must be very strong. He felt distinctly dizzy. Damnit, this was no time to keel over drunk and disgusting! As Desirée stood up and gave a tiny bow, Mark stood and she walked over to him. Taking her hand, he said, "I think it's time we turned in, my friends."

There was agreement all around. It was past two o'clock and they were all tired. Even so, the butler forced a glass of sherry into Desirée's hand and she drank it gratefully to soothe her dry throat. Sid Buchanan sidled up to them and took her hand.

"That was brilliant, Desirée," he said smoothly, his eyes boring into her. "As long as you stick to music and stay away from politics, you'll do just fine."

Desirée held her tongue. She wanted to be with Mark tonight, intimately, and she didn't want her big mouth to get in the way of that. Escorted by the butler, she went with Mark to their room, noting that his walk was increasingly unsteady. Darn! She hoped he wasn't going to be too drunk to do it tonight. She wanted him to do it to her!

As the phone rang, Clete put down the bar and picked up a towel, running it across his sweaty chest.

"Sheriff Anderson," he said quietly, wiping his damp scrotum with the huge, swollen balls swinging heavily inside.

"Nice move, Clete," Priscilla said bitterly into his ear. "I always like to be outsmarted by muscle-brained Afros with six- shooters."

"Glad to oblige," Clete said smoothly.

"So now what?" Priscilla shot back. "I'd got plans for that video tape, and, what the fuck, I don't have it."

"There's a good reason for that," Clete said. "It's because I've got it. Now what did you have in mind?"

"That's my business."

"Mine, too, little lady. It's my black dick that's reaming her." Clete tossed the towel down and stroked his cock a few times. "No, the reason I took the tape was that I figured out what you were into, and it doesn't fit in with my plans. Not having Mark Denning and Desirée's father after my black ass. At this point I don't need that. You wanted to break up her marriage, but that won't work for me, because then I'll never see her again."

"Again? You stupid fucker! You're in love with her, aren't you?"

Clete clenched his jaws and grimaced, saying nothing. He didn't like his emotions exposed, not by anyone. Breaking up the Denning marriage didn't fit in with his plans just now. Clete had his own ideas. He wanted to carry on a long affair with Desirée, behind Mark's back, until she became pregnant. Then it would be difficult for Thurston to alienate his grandchild away from its own real biological father. The idea of enslaving Desirée to his powerful prick, so that her feelings for him changed for the better, and then disgracing Mark Denning with a black baby, would deliver the angel-faced, sweet-bodied little music teacher, and a piece of her father's fortune, into his hands.

"That's it, isn't it?" Priscilla drove on. "You're in love with the little bitch. That's fine with me. I want Mark. I want to destroy him, I want his balls for my door chimes. Still, I want to go to Washington with that two-timing bastard. Can you understand that? He's on his way up and I want the fun of being there with him. I don't want that twat mucking up my action. So we're going to have to clear her off. You can have her, that's fine with me. But I've got to have that tape."

Clete took a long time to reply. Then: "Come on over. We'll talk about it."

Mark was truly groggy when they got to their room, even though Desirée was wildly aroused. Her pussy was itching fiercely, her entire crotch. Her anus twitched with a desire that seemed purely physical. Carefully, she helped Mark undress and get into bed. She watched him frustratedly as his head lolled around on the pillow. She didn't understand it. He had had two glasses of wine at dinner, just as she had, and the after-dinner drink in the conservatory. Other than a nagging desire for sex, she felt pretty well. So what was wrong with her dear Mark?

Dejectedly, she began to undress. She was so turned on, for some reason, yet there was Mark, comatose, paralytic, on the bed, his beloved penis lying soft and slack against his left thigh. Sitting on the bed, she reached out and touched his silky, soft, circumcized cock, and she felt a pulse. Had it stirred? Was Mark coming awake? In a seizure of wanton desire, she bent forward and, without a tiny tinge of revulsion, lovingly kissed the head of his penis. She shivered at the thought of what she was doing. She had never had her mouth near his cock before, nor had his mouth been near her pussy. A few days ago, yes, she had experienced oral sex, but she cringingly admitted that that had not been Mark, nor even any other human male, but Lobo himself, helping himself to her charms. And yes-though she didn't remember clearly-she had enjoyed it with Priscilla at the orgy captured on the video tape with which she feared she would soon be blackmailed in some way and which she had promptly destroyed.

But her strangely burning vagina drove her to try to arouse Mark before she was driven to the unnatural act of masturbation.

She kissed it again, allowing her full, wet, soft lips to spread over the soft corona, and then, daringly, she sucked it into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the flesh she so much wanted thrust up into her belly. Mark moaned and squirmed sluggishly at the contact and Desirée was sure that his cock began to grow firm and larger against her tongue. She worked more eagerly, sucking harder, licking over the length of the shaft, then again swallowing as much of it as she could until the swelling head pressed against her tonsils and she had to fight against gagging. She would do it, she swore. She would bring Mark around to make love to her and rekindle their dormant passions.