Martin clicked his folded umbrella against the floor as he walked slowly back to his office on Tuesday morning. He was lost in thought. He fingered the worry stone in his pocket.
He was returning from a working lunch. He had made another attempt to convince the councillor from ward 10 that a buffer zone around McGrath Park did not set a precedent for arrested urban renewal. He doubted he was successful.
He made better headway with the pretty waitress, whom he knew a little. Martin ate lunch there regularly. When she brought him the cheque, Martin found her phone number—and measurements—written on the back. He watched the girl serve another customer, looking good in her white uniform blouse and short black skirt. He assessed that her self-description was accurate. He insisted on paying the bill.
Martin had a lot on his mind. The regular council meeting was tomorrow, and he was still unsure of support for his motion. The Mayor was impatient for a report from the transportation committee. Monday’s meeting of that group was fractious and long.
Detective McClintock had been back to his office twice, bullying and accusing and demanding to see records. Martin saw no reason not to co-operate, but tried to protect his staff. He had no more idea where the embezzled money was than McClintock did.
The detective kept threatening an obstruction charge. Martin was afraid he might do it. Officer Ridley took notes and inspected files. She didn’t say much.
Berculosi remained an aggravation, even if he was having little success organizing public sentiment against Martin. Rachel made sure of that. Martin felt a little guilty about the time Berculosi had called him on the telephone while Martin was fucking his beautiful young wife on the desk.
It was Rachel’s idea to take the call. Martin had his cock hard and deep in Rachel’s pussy. He was standing before his big desk, Rachel’s legs wrapped around his waist. Her breasts bounced with each grunting thrust. He didn’t feel he was in good shape to make conversation. But Rachel reached over and pressed the speaker button on the telephone.
“M-Mr. Berculosi,” Martin said, still thrusting. “W-what can I... do for . . . yooooo.”
The shouting started instantly. “Dammit Miller, what the hell are you trying to pull!” Berculosi’s voice roared through the speaker. Martin had a stocking-wrapped leg in each hand. Rachel’s ankles were locked behind his back. “P-pull?” he gasped, “Wha-whatever do . . . you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean! I warned you about going ahead with that damnable moratorium around McGrath Park. Towne Parke Phase II will go through whether you like it or not. I’ve invested too much time and too much good money to be fucked over by some half-grown beginner.”
“Oh! Oh, more than half-grown,” Rachel blurted.
“What was that?” Berculosi demanded. “Is there someone in there with you?”
“No! No, ah, of course not.” He shot Rachel a look of panic. She responded with a little mou of her thick lips. She brushed damp hair off her face.
“L-look, Mr. Berculosi, I . . . oh man that’s good . . . I mean, it is good th-that you’re uhm, sharing your . . . uhm, your concerns, but I . . . uhm, I think, aaah! I think this is a ma-matter for the . . . uhm, council.”
“Don’t hand me that, Miller,” Berculosi shot back. “We both know this moratorium is your baby from the beginning. Everyone else on council was prepared to let it go. If you withdraw your support the motion would die.”
“But . . . but I can’t . . . withdraw now. I’m so . . . oh god, I’m so close . . . almost coming . . . that is, uhm, the c-council meeting is coming. T-tomorrow.”
Berculosi said: “If you take this motion to council it will be defeated. You will make a cosmic fool of yourself and lose whatever credibility you have. Do you really want that, Miller? I’m telling you, I have the votes I need lined up.”
Martin looked at Rachel. She was biting one knuckle. She shook her head back and forth. Martin hoped that meant “no”.
“I . . . I don’t think you d-do, uh, uh, h-have the votes. I, think, oh man I, I think you’re just unhappy . . . uhm, because you . . . uh, can’t have things . . . your wife . . . no! I mean, your way.”
“I want exactly what I’m entitled to!” Berculosi roared, frustration showing in his voice. “Look Miller, I know how you’re playing this game. You’ve got someone inside my organization, tipping you off. What, are you slipping them a little something to make it worth their while?”
“I, I don’t know what y-you’re talking about.”
“I’m no fool, Miller. I’ll flush out the leak soon. When I do, both of you are going to be fucked but good!”
Martin was barely listening. Rachel started to make cute, high-pitched little squeaks that meant her climax was coming. Martin bent over and kissed her, afraid that her husband might hear. He pressed his pelvis against hers, spreading her silk-encased legs and lifting her heels toward the ceiling. He managed only two more strokes before he stiffened, shuddered, and ejaculated. He grunted gutturally with each spurt of jism into Rachel’s pussy. His last thrusts were all the extra stimulation she needed. Martin watched her big brown eyes roll back in her head as she shook and shuddered through her own orgasm.
They ended up in a heaving, sighing mass. Rachel sprawled limply across the desk with Martin lying on top of her. He heard a voice. Berculosi was still talking. Martin reached over to the speaker-phone.
“Thank you for your call,” he said lazily, and rang off.
Martin fingered his worry stone as he reflected. Rachel had assured him there was no chance that her husband would fathom her complicity. The woman was adept at playing dumb and beautiful.
Martin stepped through the frosted glass door that said “Martin Miller” on the nameplate. Inside the office was bustling. As usual, the short trip through the outer office to his own desk took fifteen minutes and left him with a hard-on. Angela and Summer dropped what they were doing to rush over and take his umbrella and carry his briefcase. They showered him with hugs and kisses, though he had only been gone for a couple of hours.
When he got to her desk, Joan asked him to sign the papers that would officially hire her daughter as a summer intern. She wore no blouse under her suit jacket. Martin could see her swelling globes spilling out of her bustier.
Martin had not had sex with Joan since that first encounter in his office. He didn’t count the two enthusiastic tit-fucks she had given him while they discussed the terms of her daughter’s employment. Joan rationalized those on the grounds that her boobies were distracting him and she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t a team player.
She had taken to calling him on her cell phone in the evening to get his permission to have sex with her husband. Joan’s husband wanted sex a lot. Martin wasn’t the only one to appreciate her new look.
Finally, Priscilla insisted he sit in her chair while she perched on the padded arm with her legs across his lap, briefing him on calls while he was out. His dye-blonde office manager was wearing a pearly grey slip-dress and glittery sandals with narrow straps that cris-crossed around her legs up to the knee. While she talked and stroked his hair, Martin watched the two pretty clerks, who were now busily transferring files to the filing cabinets. Both girls were wearing very brief skirts and platform heels. They bent over repeatedly to dig files out of several boxes on the floor.
“What’s all this?” Martin asked. He watched Angela flash her pantyhosed behind. Her thong was thin and silver.
“Oh, financial records,” Priscilla replied, crossing her ankles. “The police confiscated them last week on a warrant. Still looking for evidence against Higgins. And you.” She touched his nose with one finger.
“Did they find anything?” Summer’s panties were blue, to match her stretch boots. It occurred to Martin that the clerks could have set the boxes of files on a table.
Priscilla giggled. “Course not. They went through those same records last year. I think McClintock was hoping they had missed something.”
“He wasn’t here again, was he?”
Another giggle. Her big earrings flashed. “Nope. The junior officer brought them back. What’s her name, Ridley?”
“Oh, well, she’s not so bad.” He tried not to stare at his micro-skirted clerks. Priscilla’s legs offered a closer alternative.
She bent close to whisper in his ear. “Matter of fact, she’s still here. In your office. Says she has a few more questions.”
“Nuts.”
Martin would have preferred not to have a visit from the police just then. Reluctantly, he lifted Priscilla’s legs off his lap and got to his feet. He hoped his erection would go down before the cop noticed.
He stepped into his private office. He closed the door.
“Hello Councillor,” said a soft voice.
Officer Ridley was sitting on Martin’s desk. She was wearing a thigh-revealing, turquoise dress of some soft, stretchy fabric. She was leaning back on her hands, legs bent, high heels flat on the desktop, blonde hair hanging long and loose.
“You—you’re out of uniform,” Martin said stupidly.
“Do you like it, Councillor?” the blonde beauty cooed. She swung her feet down gracefully and got to her feet. “Inspector McClintock asked me to drop in, you know, to return your files. I decided to stop by home on the way here.”
She was walking toward him as she spoke. Dark nylons shimmered on her long legs. “I got the impression, from your staff, that you prefer women who aren’t afraid to be feminine.” She slipped her arms around his neck.
Martin was dumbstruck. “O-officer Ridley, I, I, you can’t—”
She leaned in and kissed him. She was soft and slow and very thorough. When she was finished Martin discovered that his hands were on her back. He felt his erection tenting his suit pants.
Embarrassingly, Officer Ridley did too. “Oh my“ she whispered, grinding her hips against him. “I’m getting another impression from your staff.” She kissed him again to celebrate.
When she finished they were both breathing hard. Martin said, “But, but, Officer Ridley—”
“Monica.”
“Oh, uhm, well, uh, Monica what about, uhm Inspector McClintock? Won’t he be—Ah!”
A gentle hand caressed his crotch. “Inspector McClintock has been re-assigned. He let his frustration about this case turn into an obsession. He was sooooo upset that Higgins died before he got a chance to lay a charge. He tried to take it out on you.”
She paused to kiss him a few times. “McClintock wanted to keep searching for the missing money. He was convinced you had it packed away somewhere.” There was a gentle hiss as Martin’s zipper came down.
Monica made a little mewling sound. “He, he kept h-hoping we’d turn up something . . . big.”
Events were moving too fast for Martin to keep up. “What are you—uh! I mean, w-why . . .”
Monica had one hand in his pants. She looked around the office, searching for a good spot. “We, we found nothing on you, of course. Nothing at all. Come on, over here!”
Her hand had found a convenient handle by which to lead Martin to one of the visitors’s chairs in front of his desk. “You absolutely amaze me” she whispered, snuggling into his arms again. “I can still remember the way you stood up to McClintock, that first time. He was trying to scare you into confessing. He does that to suspects all the time. You didn’t seem to care. I, I’ve never seen a man stay so calm, so indifferent to his threats. You just laughed at him.”
She was still stroking his prick with one hand. Her body and her breath were warm against his skin. She whispered confessions in his ear.
“I saw the look on your face. You were enjoying it. It was almost as if you were getting off on toying with him.”
Technically, it had been Summer’s mouth beneath the desk that was getting him off, but Martin didn’t see the need to explain that. Anyway, he never got the chance. The lovestruck cop was all over him, kissing, stroking, panting. “I’ve never met a man with such self-confidence,” she gasped. “and it gets meso fucking turned on!”
She let go of him suddenly. “I want you—oh god I want you—I want you to, to, assist me in f-finishing this investigation.” She pulled up her soft minidress with both hands and yanked down her pantyhose. It bunched up around her hips. She wore no panties. “Since we have spent so much time interrogating you,” she explained, “it’s only fair that you get to ask the questions for once. And don’t be afraid . . . to be rough on me . . . mmmmmm, until I tell you what you want to know.”
She turned around. She bent over the back of the low-backed chair, one hand on each arm-rest. Her bare ass thrust high in the air. She craned her neck to look up at him. “Come on, Martin,” she urged. “Interrogate me! Make me squeal!”
For a moment Martin stood there, too astounded to move. Officer Ridley’s shoes barely touched the floor. Her legs were spread wide, straining the dark hose around her hips. With her tight, heart-shaped fanny leading the eye downward to the pink lips of her pussy, she was an unabashed invitation to fuck.
While his mind hesitated, Martin’s cock decided to accept the invitation. He shucked off his trousers and stretched his shorts off around his erection. He took a step forward. He placed a hand on each plump asscheek. He pushed her upward a bit, as if he were adjusting a pillow. Officer Ridley moaned in need. Martin aimed his hardness at her cleft. It was slick with moisture. He pushed into her gently, wiggling his way in until he was buried to the hilt. For a moment he hung there, enjoying the feeling of girlflesh around his cock. Then he pulled back a little, and began to stroke in and out.
It was delightful. Soon they were both groaning and panting as Martin thrust into her again and again. Monica’s high-heels skittered on the carpet, trying to find purchase. She gripped the arms of the chair desperately. “Interrogate me,” she cried. “Ask me anything.”
“Wh-why was McClintock taken off the case?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, uh, someone com-complained to the captain. Said McClintock was, of god keep it up, you’re killing me, said McClintock was b-bothering a very influential politician. Kept pursuing the case with no evidence. Capt’n decided to close the case. Inspector is pissed. Mmmmmm, I love the way you do that.”
“Someone complained? Who?”
“ ‘s a secret. I’ll never tell.”
Martin slapped one inviting asscheek. “Who!” he demanded.
“It was anonym- oh! I mean I don’t oh! I can’t ohhh, all right, all right, I did it. I sent an e-mail to the Captain. McClintock is such a prick. Mmmmmm, fuck me with your big prick, honey.”
“What about the missing money?” He was thrusting faster now.
“M-money? Oh, uhm, oh god so good, so good. Yes, money. All written off. Here somewhere. Nobody knows where. No leads. Something about, about ‘blackberry’”
“Blackberry? What’s that?” The chair began to rock.
“I don’t know. Ow! No, really, don’t know. Got it ooof, oh my god, got it off ah! wiretaps. M-maybe, maybe a, a, password. Bank account. Don’t know. Fuck me honey I’m going to—aaah, aaaaah Aaaaah!”
Martin struggled to hold on as Monica bucked and twitched through her climax. The chair threatened to topple over. She buried her mouth in the fabric to stifle her cries.
Martin felt her pussy clench and spurt around him. He gripped her hips with both hands. He thrust his pelvis forward and leaned his head back, mouth open. He came suddenly.
Monica was already relaxing as Martin’s cum subsided. She was so slick he slipped out. Monica’s feet lost their grip on the floor. She slid headfirst over the chair, to land ungracefully in a heap on the carpet.
She lay there for a long moment. Her chest heaved. Her turquoise minidress was rucked up around her waist and her ruined nylons were still binding her hips. She had lost one shoe. She looked up at Martin with sleepy eyes.
“I love the way you interrogate,” she said.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this meeting will come to order,” the Mayor said, early the following afternoon. The buzz of conversation in the council chambers settled slowly. Martin was sitting at his designated place, going over the agenda with Priscilla, when the Mayor spoke. She squeezed his shoulder to wish him luck, then sat discreetly in the chair behind him.
McGrath Park was at the top of the agenda. Martin still wasn’t sure he had the firm votes to carry his motion. He was beginning to get a feeling though, for what was happening in his life lately. It was enough to form the base for a plan. He rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.
Martin was nervous. Everyone kept looking his way. He wished he had let Prissy give him that stress-release blowjob she had offered before the meeting.
Priscilla may have been one reason for all the attention. In her tiny dress and sexy heels she was a classic blonde bombshell. This time out, his head-turning assistant was accompanied by Angela and Summer. The young clerks were so excited they could hardly keep still. Priscilla suggested it would raise Martin’s stature if he was attended by three assistants. It certainly raised something.
To further the team spirit, all three women were dressed identically. Their uniform was a silvery white, sleeveless minidress of rump-skimming length, with shiny nylons to further advertise the curves of their legs. Angela wore pearly white high-heels; Priscilla wore acrylic platform sandals of smoky red; and Summer wore her favourite black, platform boots. There wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t distracted. That was part of the plan.
Martin looked around. The visitor’s gallery was fuller than usual. He located Calpurnia Scott, decked out in her now standard leather micro-skirt and spike-heeled boots. She pressed two fingers to her lips and blew Martin a kiss.
Calpurnia was very dependable about sending him her articles for approval. She let him see everything, even articles about other councillors that were really none of his business. He didn’t like to edit her, but sometimes he had to tone down the boosterism to something reasonable. “Oh, that passage, I remember now,” she said once, “I was lying on my bed with my laptop, and . . . uh, I think I was uhm, typing with one hand, if you know what I mean. Sorry. Writing about you . . . uh, always gets me excited.”
The Mayor started proceedings briskly. When the formalities were done, she let Martin formally introduce his motion. “You all have the summary report of the proposed buffer zone around the Park,” Martin said. “To explain it further, I have prepared a brief presentation.”
At his signal, Angela dimmed the lights. Priscilla pulled down a screen at the front of the room. Summer flipped a switch to turn on a projector. An image of McGrath Park appeared on the screen, with the words “Protecting our Heritage” written over it.
Martin began speaking as he flipped through the set of images. The presentation was carefully written. There were many pretty pictures of the park, most of which coincidentally contained a pretty girl, or two, or three. It gave the mostly male council a reason to keep watching.
Priscilla, Angela and Summer had not sat down when the presentation began. Instead, they stood at the front of the room, smiling and primping and leaning over to point things out on the screen. They looked delicious in their super-short, clingy dresses. The white fabric shimmered in the subdued light.
As the presentation continued, sexy images gradually became more and more prominent. A young mother bending over her baby’s stroller accidentally exposed rather a lot of her heavy breasts. An innocent shot of young people frolicking in the pool happened to feature nothing but models in bikinis. Another shot of a summer day showed a fetching young thing in a tube top and shorts, seductively licking an ice-cream cone while she glanced toward the camera.
Martin narrated the presentation in a slow, sonorous voice. While Summer reached high to indicate something at the top of the screen, Martin looked around the room. The council was rapt. The men were watching the screen, or the leggy vixens in front of it, with keen attention. Earl from Ward 11 crossed his knees, looking a little uncomfortable. Martin watched Reginald Farcapp lick his lips whenever Summer bent over.
Martin hoped his hunch was right. Carlton Carlside had been an antiquities dealer and small-time collector. In the last ten years of his life he suddenly amassed a substantial fortune and married a stunning young woman who had appeared in a major men’s magazine four times. She was twenty-four when she abandoned her acting career to marry a man three times her age. Martin kept one hand in his pocket, slowly rubbing his worry stone.
The highlight of the show was Martin’s new scheme for compensating the loss of tax revenue to the City. Among all his reading for the Transportation Committee, he had discovered an old report that suggested revising the downtown bus routes. A more rational layout would increase the number of riders, leading to a major revenue boost.
To illustrate the point, he showed a picture of Priscilla, smiling back at the camera as she stepped onto a gleaming city bus. She was wearing one of her office outfits, a lacy bra-top and matching mini, spike-heeled black pumps with ruffled white ankle socks. She had to step high to board the bus. Several more councillors crossed their knees.
The presentation ended on that delightful image. Angela raised the lights. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think this motion deserves your support,” said Martin.
The debate began. Martin had already negotiated votes from several of the councillors in the weeks leading up to the meeting. There remained a core of resistance, however, mostly from the long-serving councillors, and many others were undecided. The arguments rang back and forth.
Martin’s shapely assistants kept the sexually charged atmosphere alive. They found excuses to walk about the chamber, each woman a showcase of feminine beauty in their tight, short dresses and extra-high heels. They delivered notes, whispered questions in councillors’ ears and generally distracting everyone.
Martin did not say much himself. He let his supporters do the talking. He watched the proceedings carefully. He sent notes to councillors in his camp suggesting points to argue. Delivering them gave his girls opportunities to soften the opposition with a smoky look, a flash of panties, or an “accidentally” exposed tit. The tactic was more successful than it had any right to be. Normally unflappable men began stuttering and losing their train of thought. Several were more interested in watching the girls than in listening to the conversation. Seven of the councillors were women. So was the Mayor. Martin remembered Carlton Carlside and rubbed the worry stone in his pocket.
The change in tone of the debate was so subtle that Martin almost missed it. Somehow the discussion shifted from the wisdom of the motion to the inevitability of it. Supporters started saying “will” instead of “would”. They spoke of a groundswell of public support that could not be denied. The tone of the opponents’ arguments gradually drifted from opposition to a bad idea to laments for changes they couldn’t stop.
Martin paid close attention to the women. He noticed several of them watching him, including the Mayor. They looked like they had other things on their mind than municipal planning.
One of the women, a thrice-elected veteran in her late thirties, was visibly upset. “I, I don’t think this motion is a good idea,” she complained, “but I don’t know what else we can do. The public has made up its mind. When people get their hearts set on something, there is nothing you can do to change them. You can try to resist, try to fight back, but it’s no good. In the end they always get their way. There’s no point trying to resist. No good. The more you resist, the more you realize that you can’t win and it’s so much easier to go along with it and not have to fight any more but you feel bad about . . . surrendering . . . but its a relief in a way, not to have to push against the tide you can’t stop and it’s better to give in and . . . and . . . submit to . . . submit . . . Excuse me, I must step out a minute!”
She got up from the table, overturning her chair. She looked flushed. She rushed from the room. She didn’t come back for fifteen minutes.
Another councillor, a well-coiffed, fortyish woman in a dark dress, was squirming in her seat. She was watching Martin, hardly listening to the discussion around the table. She was giving him a pleading kind of look, like an innocent schoolgirl begging her cocky boyfriend not to talk her out of her panties again.
Across the table, the well-dressed matron representing Ward 9, the wealthiest part of town, was biting her lip while she toyed with her pearls. She interrupted another councillor’s argument against the motion with a declaration that they had to follow the public mood.
“We are public servants!” she blurted. “We serve the public. We have to do what the public wants whether we agree or not. We have been elected as servants of the public. We serve them. We’re servants. Servants.” She kept repeating the word, shuddering a little every time. Someone in the visitors’ gallery moaned.
The man beside the panting public servant, old Reginald Farcapp, couldn’t seem to take his eyes of Summer long enough to make a speech. Martin sent her over to him with a note. His eyes were on her boot-wrapped legs every step. She leaned far over to set the note in front of him. Her long hair brushed his face.
The note said “Need a temp? She’s available if you’re short-staffed.” Martin could feel the man’s temperature rise from across the room.
Around the table, more and more voices were convincing themselves that they had to vote for Martin’s proposal, for one reason or another. Martin felt a great flush of power. He felt like a general, sitting in the background, directing his troops while they overwhelmed the enemy with pressure, persuasion and sex appeal.
Stubborn resistance remained from a few councillors. Their leader, Huxley Smyth-Byrne, was a wiry old-timer. He was the same man who had attempted to have the temporary ban on development around the park lifted months ago. Smith-Byrne was unpersuaded by anything but economics. He dismissed the arguments for the park with logic, sarcasm and disdain.
Martin decided it was time to step in. “Huxley,” he said, when the other man paused, “I’m not sure you’re taking the long view here.” All eyes in the room turned toward him. He kept one hand in his pocket, stroking his worry stone.
“I agree with you that there would be some displacement of legitimate builders by the proposal. And I think you’re right that we cannot depend on increased transit revenues to compensate that loss. Still, don’t you think we have a unique opportunity here? This Council can at once protect an important public amenity, and improve the city infrastructure, all with minimal cost to the taxpayers.”
He paused reflectively. “Now think for a moment. Do you want to be remembered as the man who prevented that from happening?”
Martin watched the man’s face. He knew Smyth-Byrne was sharp enough to catch the innuendo. Calpurnia Scott was watching from the gallery. A word from Martin, and the other councillor would be villainized in the press forever, or worse yet, ignored. And maybe not just in the News. Martin had seen Callie’s counterpart from the Tribune deep in conversation with the miniskirted reporter, listening intently as Callie explained something to her.
Martin was quite sure now that he could influence the council enough to have Smyth-Byrne marginalized. He could probably compromise his staff, or seduce them into sabotaging his work. He could convince donors to cut off funding.
The Mayor was watching the exchange with a far-off look on her face. She had one hand beneath the table. Martin felt confident he could influence her too. Pure, unadulterated power hummed in his veins like strong drink.
Huxley Smyth-Byrne said nothing for a long moment. He looked down. “No, I don’t want to be remembered that way,” he said at last.
A door opened on the side of the room. The councilwoman who had departed so abruptly came back in. She looked much more relaxed. Her blouse was buttoned crooked. She smiled at Martin as she took her seat.
Martin turned to the Mayor. “M’lady, I believe we are ready for a vote.”
The Mayor stirred. “Hmmm? What?” she asked, looking around. “Oh, yes, the vote. It’s time to vote on the motion. All those in favour raise your hands.”
The motion passed.
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