Normally I’d stand just offstage for this, but on this night, with this election, I want to be in the crowd, feeling its energy, savoring the night to come. I’m afraid, afraid of what might happen if I’m standing too close to him up there.
I have a front row seat, of course. Although I’m standing ass to elbow with every blue-haired Republican in the party, I’m front and center, just the same; after all, I didn’t get to where I am without putting a few elbows in the right necks.
Behind the empty podium a giant screen blares the final election results: GNN calls it for Governor Elect Trent Carter! The reporter squeals with the crowd, hands raw from clapping as balloons and confetti erupt from the ceiling and spill all over them.
And still, after minutes of applause, the man of the hour is nowhere to be seen. An eerie hush falls over the crowd and, despite my best intentions, I take up the chant: “Governor Carter! Governor Carter!”
I’m not alone for long; the crowd goes wild and suddenly, he bounds from behind the curtain, making me gasp. He does not look like a governor, despite the election results. Barely thirty-four, tall and fit with his trademark curly brown hair and crooked smile, Trent Carter takes to the stage and blushes; sincerely, legitimately blushes.
I do too.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is late and you are brave to stay with me so long through this fight!”
The crowd erupts, but none more so than myself. Having started as a campaign volunteer earlier in the year, I’ve had my eye on the future governor since the first day he strode into campaign headquarters. Apparently, I wasn’t alone. Four months ago he’d made me his personal assistant, and we’ve been side by side ever since. But tonight? Tonight is a special night, in more ways than one…
“…So for all you’ve done for me, for this campaign, I thank you,” he was saying, loosening the garnet and gold tie I’d picked out for him earlier that morning in the hotel lobby. “But it’s late and I have a very important phone call to make to my opponent, so…I’ll let you all go home and we’ll start work bright and early tomorrow morning!”
Not if I can help it, I think with a devilish smirk, slinking through the crowd and racing to the ladies room. I beat the mad dash, but not for long. Locked in the corner stall, the seat down and my oversized handbag on top of it, I slide out of my khaki work pants and into the pleated maroon skirt I’d bought earlier that week, just in case he won. My victory skirt, I’ve been calling it.
My long legs feel freed after working all day and, feeling naughty, I slide out of my white cotton panties and into a tight, black thong. Already, sliding it on, I can feel the first mist of anticipation on my glossy black pubic hair.
I strip from my blue cotton work shirt, a must during the entire campaign, and free my small, A-cup breasts from their generic white bra. From my bag, I pull a black lacy bra, silky and smooth, on my nipples as I pull on a black turtleneck sweater over it. I trade out my campaign approved brown flats for small but sexy black heels and stride, clickety-clack, onto the bathroom tiles to pull my hair out of a ponytail and finger comb it down to my shoulders, applying a fresh coat of glossy maroon lipstick before striding out of the ladies room, a brand new person.
The campaign hall is quickly emptying, and no one is going toward the elevators except the campaign staff, who’ve been staying at the Biltmore Arms since earlier in the week. I ride up alone, dabbing a mist of body spray onto my throat just before the bell dings on the penthouse suite.
The hall is alive with activity, and I make energetic faces and tight embraces with the rest of the governor elect’s staff, from his burly security staff to his overbearing campaign manager — my former boss! — to well-heeled well-wishers and hangers on.
At last I tap on his door. Three quick rats, our secret signal. I hear his good-natured bellow and walk in, sneaking a quick peek at the hallway behind me. Still locked in passionate embraces, no one thinks twice about the mousy little personal assistant knocking on her boss’s door.
“Mr. Governor, sir,” I call out, just in case any of them are listening. “You wanted me to take some notes on tomorrow’s press release?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, tie undone and hanging on either side of his stiff white dress shirt. “Please, come in.”
I bolt the door the minute it shuts behind me, and he smiles, still on his cell phone.
“Yes, Governor Peterson, I think that statement reads just fine. All set for tomorrow’s press conference? I’ll see you there and, sir, thanks for running a damn clean campaign.”
He ends the call and switches off the phone, tossing it with a clatter onto a bureau covered with three more just like it.
“Congratulations, sir,” I purr, still hovering by the door. I want this night to last, and if he touches me now, it will be all over.
“Why thank you,” he oozes southern charm, pointing to the chilled ice bucket on the coffee table. “I’m glad I didn’t jinx myself when I ordered this earlier.”
I note the two room service glasses and push my rectangular reading glasses, his favorite, up my nose. “For me?”
His eyes, at last, are sincere. “Who else?”
We stand, a room apart. He is so tall and handsome, and now…the governor! I. Am about. To fuck. The governor! I inch toward him, my body alert and alive as he reaches for the champagne bottle.
The cork pops, spraying foam onto his white shirt. I am near him now, close enough to reach for his buttons with a trembling hand. “Here,” I say, “you’re all wet.”
“Not yet,” he whispers, pulling me close. His hands are between my legs, gently testing the temperature of my tight black panties. “But we will be.”
“Promises, promises,” I croak, voice tight with desire as I push him away. “But I am quite thirsty and I know we have a lot of…work…to do tonight.”
We sit down across from each other in the suite’s sitting room as he pours us both heaping glasses of the fizzling bubbly. “Yes, quite right,” he chuckles, sitting back in his chair and admiring my new getup. “I see you’ve come dressed for the occasion.”
I drop my oversize bag to the floor, kicking it away and making a frown. “Now that the campaign’s over,” I sigh, “I hope I’ll never have to wear khaki and blue cotton again.”
I take a sip of the bubbly, too big, and sneeze.
“Bless you,” he says. “Well, you might want to save it for next year’s re-election campaign. You might need it.”
I groan, tossing back more of the champagne as he undoes another button. “God, I hope not! I mean, not that you don’t get re-elected but that I never have to wear…” He’s chuckling, sitting back, his long legs splayed out, his narrow waist begging to quiver beneath my maroon fingernails. “Well, you know what I mean.”
He drains his glass and refills both of ours. “That’s what I like about you, Sara Perkins, you always say just what you mean.”
I nod and sit back as well. My whole body is tense, skin on fire, the material of my maroon skirt rasping across my thighs. He watches me, not moving except to sip from his glass. He swallows even when he’s not drinking, and I notice the outline of his thickening shaft in his gray slacks.
He’s enjoying this, too. The anticipation, the calm before the storm.
“It’s hot in here, don’t you think?’
“God yes,” he cracks, knowing where I’m going. “You must be on fire.”
“Maybe, sir…do you mind terribly if I take this sweater off?” He nods energetically. “I mean, it won’t interfere with our…work?”
“I’m good with it,” he says in a clip, shifting down in his chair as if he was sitting at a strip club.
“I’ll just take these off,” I say, reaching for my glasses, but he stops me with a gasp. “No,” he says, eyes growing heavy with desire. “Leave them on, Ms. Perkins.”
My thighs quiver. “As you wish, governor.”
I reach down around my waist and pull the sweater up, slowly, until it’s covering my face. I peel the fabric off slowly, enjoying its crispness as it slides across my skin. I fling it onto the edge of the blue couch I’m sitting on, smiling as he ogles me appreciatively.
“I love your tits,” he says, filling my glass. I reach for it too eagerly, feeling slightly tipsy already and enjoying it after the long campaign slog.
I take a sip and replace the glass, using some of the champagne foam from the side to lubricate my finger. “I kind of like them, too,” I say, reaching inside my bra and slathering my already taut nipple with the cold, fizzing liquid.
“That looks refreshing,” he says dryly and, when I look back, his crisp white shirt is unbuttoned and lies on either side of his hairless chest and narrow waist.
“It is,” I say, unclasping my bra and tossing it aside, nipples erect and eager for more. I tease them, and him, bringing the champagne glass to my throat and drizzling it, lightly, onto each breast. The sudden cold is both shocking and exhilarating, as is the blossom of heat and moistness between my legs as they spread reflexively.
I moan, teasing myself, glasses and skirt still on as I hear his belt unbuckle. The sound is intoxicating as I watch him unzip his pants, stiff cock thick against his black boxer briefs. “Don’t stop on my account, Ms. Perkins.” his voice is husky and thick, but playful.